The Eternal Vagaries of Dwinelle Hall and That Green Bescherelle

This is a very precious Southernism:  I'm having me a day.

I could just leave it at that.

But really, continuing with the leitmotif made famous by elle est belle la seine la seine elle est belle, "whose blog is it, anyway?" -- I feel like telling you the gist of one of my recurring nightmares.  The gist, that's all.  Were "gist" a word favored by Joe Friday, you'd be reading:  "All we want is the gist, ma'am."

Ladies and gentlemen: the story you are about to hear is true. Only the names have been changed to protect the innocent.

So I'm sleeping the sleep of the innocent when the past hijacks my brain and I'm strolling down Telegraph Avenue toward campus.  having just opened a lucrative checking account at the Bank of America, I swing a right onto Bancroft, wiping out an entire Street Vendor Free Enterprise Zone [SVFEZ] with my various forms of rolling luggage.  By the time I hit Piedmont and climbed the steps to the International House, my face is bright red and my curls are fetchingly damp.

There's no rest for the weary, however, so I leave my bags with a pleasant young Arab and head over to Dwinelle Hall for an orientation meeting with a 1970's version of Fabio before teaching my first scheduled Very Important Class on the fourth floor of that austere educational edifice.

You need to know that:

Dwinelle houses the departments of classics, rhetoric, linguistics, history, comparative literature, South and Southeast Asian studies, film studies, French, German, Italian studies, Scandinavian, Slavic languages, Spanish and Portuguese, and gender and women's studies.

Who knows, that might be important to the plot.  I run a tight nightmare.

Yeah, that's how I roll.

[Oh, God.  Yes, I'll stop.  For once, the Reader on My Shoulder prevails... and has gone in search of something for stomach acid.]

[Oh, and, he says, "...and for a headache, for a GD headache..."]

There are a few new details in this recurrence of the nightmare, most notably that I've also stopped at a hair cuttery along the way and am inexplicably blonde.  I'm also carrying a tennis racket and am obsessed with detailing a return of service plan for some tennis match that the dream doesn't yet allow me to fully envision.

Blonde.  I am blonde.
Wait!  There were those odd under hair highlights, of a color yet to be determined. My memory hazes over and my eyes cross when I try to recall the hair of this recurrent nightmare.  But blonde, yes, I was blonde, with something extra twerking below my shimmering outer locks.

[Reader on My Shoulder just left.  Slowly, leaning on the bedside table, grabbing at the wall as if it had handles.  Oh, wait, it does!  "Twerking?  Are you shittin' me?  Twerking?"]

Well, screw my readership, then!  No, not YOU!  Just HIM!  And all of you born-blondes with naturally occuring RHYTHMIC underhair color schematics?

Eat my grits.

I knew I was a little dehydrated, but I didn't think it was that bad. Or is this chronic, degenerative, neurological pain disorder in control of my keyboard, mwa ha ha ha ha haaaaaaaaaaaa!?

Anyway. This is still bothering me, this walk back down the hill, head half full of pedagogical mneumonic lifesavers, but the other half teeming with tennis strategies and freaked out by the fact that I'm now carrying, as I should be, a Brunello Cucinelli triple gussetted briefcase, in which I've that well worn, much loved, long gone, green Bescherelle, and a David Oscarson "Lily" fountain pen... plus a Snauwaert Ergonom (graphite) which ought to be universally, galactically, against the rules of sporting decorum.

Wow.  I had no clue any of that was going on between my ears.  I haven't thought of that Bescherelle, certainly haven't even uttered the word "Bescherelle," in eons.  And do I really care about briefcases or fountain pens?  And tennis rackets?

Well, yes.  But not like THAT!  Except for maybe the tennis racket part...

Much more important? Extra- super- galactically important?

How far behind the damned service line do I need to be?  Or is this a really lousy player, maybe some famous dreamy person competing in their first oneiric tennis competition, who is just going to dink it over the net, then jump up and down, laugh and throw a party?

Yes, well, yeah.  Okay, so I get through the nightmare orientation session, which seems remarkably short (don't you LOVE dream versions of tedious crap?), and get my teaching assignments.  French literature in various forms, mostly, plus a remarkably important French One Grammar class. 

On the fourth floor of Dwinelle Hall.
There is no fourth floor of Dwinelle Hall, a building which anyone who knows it will describe as "bizarre." 

I suppose continuing the narration might take forever, and subject my more devoted Readers, as well as the bevy of forensic psychiatrists analyzing my texts in the name of "national security," to mind-numbing ennui.  So I'll give you what is called the "short" version:

I got kicked out of the International House, and so hit the streets of Berkeley again, bags in tow, searching -- in a daze of nocturnal lighting -- for an apartment, but only finding offers to take in a roommate, which, sadly, I had to turn down.  (For dream reasons unaccessable at the present time.)

My students were unable to be taught, as they were unable to be found, since the fourth floor of Dwinelle does not exist, in my nightmare as in every day University of California life.

My hair required some touch-up trimming and dye action, so I returned to a hair salon.  It was located, not on Telegraph or Durant or Bancroft, but on a Vegas-like section of Shattuck.  Upstairs, the chic salon, where not just the hair stylists consulted on my case, but even hair stylist interns vehemently opined in the large group meeting that ensued... before I did a quick change job and headed downstairs, where there was, of course, a huge installation of tennis courts, styled after the All-England Championship venue, Wimbledon.

Nota bene:  The Wimbledon championships are known, in our neighborhood, as "Wimpleton," a typical variant of the English pronunciation in Tête de Hergé, particularly west of the Lone Alp and when the speaker is in a singularly imperative mood.

My first round match was a breeze, and left no dream impact. However, the beginning of my second round match, which turned out to be the quarterfinals, was marred by the tragedy of the huge hole in my graphite bit of grotesquerie, that twisted Snauwaert Ergonom.

One of the hair stylists saved the day by loaning me an autographed mint condition Wilson Jack Kramer... meaning that I had the smallest head on the courts, both literally, and even more literally, in terms of racket size.  Given that it was a true nightmare (remember the savagely separated and lost professor and students? my eviction from the I-House?), I got to "relive" one of the tragedies of my UNDEFEATED high school tennis career -- being in a USTA regional doubles final and choking, developing back spasms so vicious I could not serve to save my life.  (Or my friendship with my doubles partner.)

The nightmare slowed to a snail's pace during my quarterfinal match, each service fault magnified in my experience, and highlighted for the partiers and hair salon patrons of Shattuck Avenue's hottest night spot.

Interspersed throughout these events were encounters with students, some as I remember them, some now grown to a middling age, on steps, in libraries, Sproul Plaza, at poetry readings, and a few smiling and nodding as we sat together in audiences, listening to important people, smart people, some of whom changed my life...

Except when I am at the mercy of a somnolent past, a hearty ego, and the eternal vagaries of Dwinelle Hall.

It was nice to feel the tiny heft and the equally tangible huge significance of that green Bescherelle *.

From Our Island Home

*****  **********  *****  

* Louis-Nicolas Bescherelle (10 June 1802, Paris – 1883, Paris) was a French lexicographer and grammarian.

With help from his brother Henri, he wrote "Le Véritable Manuel des conjugaisons ou la science des conjugaisons mise à la portée de tout le monde", a reference guide to French verb conjugation, in 1842. The book became so important that his last name is used as a noun to refer to any French conjugation book.




© 2013 L. Ryan Follow my blog with Bloglovin

Mirë se vjen, Welkom, Bienvenue, Welcome!

I know none of them are surfing the web, hungry for word of The Manor, Tête de Hergé, la Bonne et Belle Bianca Castafiore, Fred, or even the humble profderien...

But a big, warm welcome to the 500 new residents of the International House at UC Berkeley, best known world over as "the I-House." Students from 58 countries, cells any monk would envy, and the best Sunday Brunch in existence.

Their backs are sore from lugging luggage, their eyes are gritty from long flights, their stomachs are talking from hunger... and excitement.  All these faces, all the colors of these skins, the shy eyes, the laughing, outgoing eyes, all these faces.

You are in for an adventure -- and you've chosen to live in it!

Clarifying, confusing, challenging, and never-ending discussions in every nook and cranny, at any hour of the day.  Smiles ranging from new-found to ruthless, friends to the right and to the left of you, homesickness all around (and understanding comfort, teas, tisanes, beer, wine, and shared packages from home).

You'll either have a view of stucco and a red-tiled roof, or one of the best vistas in town of the hills and the bay.  Either way, you're going to love your time at the I-House.

A warm and jealous welcome from an old alum,
Prof-de-rien

P.S.  Sunday mornings, wear an old oversized shirt with big pockets (line several with plastic baggies) and bring your own mug.  Catch up with your friends, eat your fill.  Then wrap the bagels in napkins, stash them in your pockets, and fill your mug with frozen yogurt.  Be sure to saunter on your way out.

Re-post in honor of tomorrow's Big Game: The Berkeley Campanile

I've been gazing at this lovely photo for a good quarter-hour. From the right window of the International House, where I lived for a year before shacking up with The Great American Writer, this was the view. Well, okay, sure, you might have to wait for the perfect silver-wash effect and the absence of fog.

And you'd either want to be alone at your window, or -- perhaps -- at most -- you'd want the person you loved most in the world at your side.

Three years later, I'd left The Great American Writer and moved into a room, yes, a room of my own, up on Kentucky Avenue, in the Berkeley Hills. If you shift the point-of-view in this photo -- over to the right, on the other side of the pier -- then you, too, could curl up in your rocking chair and gaze at five counties, letting the Cantilène de sainte Eulalie fall to the old linoleum floor.

TEXTE ORIGINAL
1. Buona pulcelle fut Eulalia ;
2. Bel avret corps, bellezour anima.
3. Voldrent la veintre li Deo inimi ;
4. Voldrent la faire diavle servir.
5. Elle non eskoltet les mals conselliers,
6. qu'elle Deo raniet chi maent sus en ciel.
7. Ne por or ned argent ne paramenz,
8. Por manatce, regiel, ne preiement,
9. Neule cose non la povret omque pleier
10. La polle sempre non amast lo Deo menestier ;
11. Et por o fut presentede Maximiien,
12. Chi rex eret a cels dis sovre pagiens .
13. El li enortet, dont lei nonq chielt,
14. Qued elle fuiet lo nom chritiien.
15.Ell' ent adunet lo suon element.
16. Melz sostiendreiet les empedemetz
17. Qu'elle perdese sa virginitet.
18. Por o s'furet morte a grand honestet.
19. Enz en l'fou la getterent, com arde tost.
20. Elle colpes non avret, por o no s'coist.
21. Aczo no s'voldret condreidre li rex pagiens ;
22. Ad une spede li roveret tolir lo chief.
23. La domnizelle celle kose non contredist,
24. Volt lo seule lazsier, si ruovet Krist.
25. In figure de colomb volat a ciel.
26. Tuit oram que por nos degnet preier,
27. Qued avuiset de nos Christus mercit
28. Post la mort, et a lui nos laist venir
29. Par souue clementia.

TRADUCTION (d'après L. Petit de Julleville)
1. Eulalie était une bonne jeune fille ;
2. Son corps était beau, son âme plus belle encore.
3. Les ennemis de Dieu voulurent la vaincre,
4. Et lui faire servir le Diable.
5. [Mais] elle n'écoutait pas les mauvais conseillers
6. [Qui voulaient] qu'elle renie Dieu qui demeure au ciel.
7. Ni pour de l'or, ni pour de l'argent ou des parures,
8. Ni pour des menaces, des caresses ou des prières,
9. Nulle chose ne pouvait forcer (plier)
10. La fille à toujours n'aimer le service de Dieu.
11. Et pour cela, elle fut présentée à Maximien,
12. Qui était en ces jours-là le roi des païens,
13. Il l'exhorte, sans qu'elle y prête attention
14. [à ce] Qu'elle fuie le nom chrétien.
15. Elle en rassemble ses forces.
16. Mieux [valût ?] qu'elle soutînt les tortures,
17. Qu'elle ne perdît sa virginité.
18. Pour cela elle mourrait en grand honneur.
19. Ils la jetèrent dans le feu pour qu'elle y brûle.
20. Elle était sans pêché et pour cela ne brûla pas.
21. À cela, le roi païen ne voulut croire,
22. Avec une épée, il ordonna de lui trancher la tête.
23. La demoiselle ne contredit pas cela,
24. Et accepta de quitter ce monde, si le Christ l'ordonnait.
25. Sous la forme d'une colombe, elle monta au ciel.
26. Tous prions que pour nous [elle ?] daigne prier,
27. Que le Christ nous ait en sa pitié,
28. Après la mort, et qu'à lui il nous laisse venir
29. Par sa clémence.

My office was next to the library, next to the campanile. Good weather and good times dictated that I not be there too often, or for too long. I'd duck in, though, when I wanted to be alone to prepare for one of my own seminars -- and because I thought of Ste Eulalie, I thought of Suzanne Fleischman. (Sometimes, truth be told, I held pre-class vigil at the Bear's Lair, with a beer. They keep 40 beers on tap...)

Suzanne died of leukemia in 2000.

She liked me exactly to the extent that I liked the work she assigned. More precisely, to the extent that I completed the work assigned. It's a weird and not-good feeling to be the only person in a class who has come prepared. It happened in her class out in Berkeley and it happened in Tetel's class, and Thomas' as well, at The Gothic Wonderland -- each an advanced seminar full of post-graduates. You'd think such folk would understand the value of hard work but you'd be wrong. Also wrong? My sweeping generalisation! Still, having seen it up close and personal, and in three different instances? I'm inclined to be suspicious.

Suzanne was a linguist, a philologist. A person who grew excited over the French suffix -age! Really, though, she could bring what most would consider Total Dullsville alive. She was able to tease out cultural and political influences behind the most benign of topics. And she was an absolute stickler when it came to (annotated) translation.

I am weird. I love patterns, I love knowing why patterns break. I love the overarching rules that shrink our human whims down to size. Grammaticalization.

I wonder sometimes if I ought not be considered autistic. I'd have been happy to spend eternity with lots of clean notebook paper, sharp pencils, and an algebra book.

She was pretty. She liked bright colors. And hats. She was precise in her erudition. One of her last works? “I am…, I have…, I suffer from…: A Linguist Reflects on the Language of Illness and Disease,” in the Journal of Medical Humanities and Cultural Studies. She was quite the smartass!

What else rises at the sight of the clock tower? It was my most basic point of orientation, no matter where (or how) I was. The day I sat in the rain outside the library, at the base of the campanile -- having just discovered how cutthroat academics could be. Readings that had been put on reserve had been cut from their bindings. A librarian showed me how to search for items that were intentionally misplaced by frisking the top shelves, by checking the carts. You'd need to take sabbatical and get a degree in forensic science just to avail yourself of the reserve readings on hold for the French Department.

It was where I sometimes met up with The Great American Writer, who would go on to break my heart.

Just kidding!

In the area between the campanile and the direct trek to the International House, in that walk, one meets many visual artists. I don't know why. Maybe studio space? Yes. I think so. Studios nearby. Stones with moss.

I once had a long conversation with a woman who also lived at the I-House, was also in the French Dept., who was leaving the university to study wicca. She wanted me "to explain" it to the others. I remember staring at mossy rocks while she poured out her heart. I remember glancing up, the clock tower a reassurance. I remember wishing she would just shut up.

She had wild, curly, red hair, and offered to channel spirits, to read my aura.

All around the shade and mossy rocks, the air was cool and quenched my thirst.

I remember the day of one of NASA's worst disasters. Looking at that morning's blue, blue sky as if it might reveal its reasons.

From my rented room up on Kentucky Avenue, where I could rock 'n read in front of 5 luminous counties, I walked the winding road down to campus, down to its' theolological side, down Holy Hill, a wonderful way to pray. There I wasted a coffee in a very quiet café, and followed an imaginary piece of string across campus to the campanile, walked down beside the library, hung a left, then a right into Dwinelle, left, left, and began to teach.