I need to take a break from drawing parsimonious phylogenetic trees and hating myself for not developing a steadier, more strategic method for studying science. Current method: begin studying for an exam worth 1/3 of my grade a week before the exam. By twenty two years of age and after eighteen years of schooling, one would think that I’d have defeated procrastination by now.
Still, procrastination is embedded in our psychology, which, in my case, is tied to existential despair.
I thought and thought and thought today.
It is not Dr. Vescio’s class on Modern poetry that directly reminds me of my existential despair, but I have recognized a pattern in my Tuesday and Thursday thoughts; they are significantly deeper and vaster. I consider my enrollment in this class to be a gift and a privilege.
I thought about the fact that I am still so sensitive to this world, and I wonder if I always will be. Everything was so vivid today–the autumn leaves of morning, the Spanish of Hugo Salcedo, the various heights of old buildings, the beauty to the inherent youth of a college campus, my hyper-awareness of my existence, Dr. Vescio discussing “In A Station of the Metro” after I already blindly submitted my interpretation of it to his dropbox.
In the copy room of the English Department, this poem is written on a chalkboard, and beside it, in different handwriting, is written, “-Nazi sympathizer, but a good editor.” The class had a good laugh at this this morning, and later I internalized the meaning of it. Pound spent a portion of his life in exile, and he sympathized with fascism in particular. He was also, unmistakably, a flaming misogynist, as were Yeats and Eliot.
I do not have enough time or energy tonight to develop these thoughts, especially because the library will close in twenty minutes and I am out of tea, but I must ask, “How can I love the poets who lacked warmth?”
I thought so much about warmth today. There are people, just brilliant genius type people, who are cold and detached, who produce explosively influential works and movements of art, who slave over their creations or perhaps do not, and sometimes I feel that their souls do not transcend the ink on the page of my textbook, however great the words may be. I read the Cantos and I think, “Pound, who made you dinner on the nights you wrote this? And did anyone ever kiss your forehead and if so, did you feel it?”
Sleep, embrace me. Morning, see you soon.