Suffering Unto Truth

I haven't written in a long, long while because work has eaten up all my time. It is a really lame excuse, really, because work is never-ending, and if you commit yourself to it, you'll never find that you have time. But this week's situation was made worse by the coincidence of the Philadelphia trip (which was a cut in productivity that I willingly undertook, and it certainly proved to be worthwhile), the NOMADS scriptwriting deadlines and the due dates of two essays. Nevertheless, not writing for ten days has really had a toll on me, I think: I feel like there is a lot pent up that needs to be recorded. Every morning I wake up and memories flood my consciousness, and that post-sleep peacefulness is all too fleeting. Here, in this journal, I have the chance to release my memories, which is the first step to both immortalisation and forgetting. In other words, I find that I need to have a private channel in which to simply write for no one else but myself.

Anyway, I'd like to get a rant out of the way first. Have been rewriting the script for NOMADS over the last week, and I'm on the third rewrite. It has gotten rather frustrating, because it seems like they don't like what I write. Not just in the sense of finding it distasteful; I am made to understand that they simply won't act in it. Now, in a normal theatre production I would just let matters lie and simply let the play remain unperformed; but, in this reverse-engineered process, we have a performance date but we don't yet have a play, so I am obliged to produce something performable. So, to make matters easier, I let the actors craft out characters that they would like to act, thinking that I would then be able to string them together into some kind of plot. But I should have known that we would end up with a bunch of caricatures and extremities, and that a plot would just be a cosmetic device, an excuse to put these characters onstage.

So what we effectively have is a bunch of zany characters who don't really have a compelling reason to be put on stage at all. I mean, there is the definite entertainment value, and these characters surely capture the actors' abilities more completely than anything I can probably come up with myself, and one can always resort to the convenient escape clause of labelling the play an absurdist or post-modern piece. But I take issue with the fact that the play has no real meaning behind it. I can still write it, but it's really at this point just stringing words together. There is no real reason at this point why this play should be performed at all, why we should compel an audience to sit through all thirty minutes of it.

And without this function of communicating a meaning, the play is really just a technical exercise, an opportunity for self-aggrandisation and self-indulgence. It is not drama; it is only theatrics. And while there is no denying that the technical prowess of everyone involved in this project is beyond reproach, it seems to me to be such a waste to simply use it to preen on a stage. I am not saying that I can write a good enough script that will capture their abilities; I am willing to bet, though, that their abilities are not well captured by this kind of reverse-engineered play-acting. And for me, this is not really play-writing, but a variation of functional writing. Essentially, this is secretary work.

And quite frankly, the degree of self-indulgence that theatre people get into here (a gross generalisation, but indulge me) is repulsive, nauseating. There are times when I just want to shout at them to grow up and behave professionally, and now I find myself dreading our rehearsals, not because I cannot contribute but because I have to sit through hours of that kind of ego-massaging. It seems that we approach this task from fundamentally different viewpoints; whereas it is a feel-good exercise for some, for me, there is something that I actually want to communicate. I can see where they're coming from, but my personal perspective does not permit me to participate in it.

Anyway, that was refreshing, but ultimately unhelpful in the real world, so I'll leave it here for the time being.

*

Throughout this week, I've had moments of wistful nostalgia for the weekend trip to Philly, not so much because I miss Philly (though I really like the place and the people there), but because I just want to escape all this work, and Philly's the only other place I know something of at this point in time. Anyway, it was a great trip, and I felt like I really needed it. In fact, I probably didn't have the correct impression of how much I needed it till I actually left Manhattan on the bus. The smooth, wide highways, the easy cruising through the New Jersey countryside, and the wide open sky suddenly drove home how crowded Manhattan really is, how little sky we can actually see. And on the bus, I couldn't do any work, and so I indulged in two hours of music from the good old iriver instead, and realised that since arriving in the States, I've not had the chance to really do nothing but think and reflect, since before this bus ride every waking moment was taken up either by work or by some new experience that occupies all my senses.

Anyway, Philadelphia appeared on the horizon suddenly, rising out of the countryside like a fairytale kingdom. This is a city of glass towers: all its modern office buildings use glass curtain-walls, and downtown Philadelphia gleamed in the sunlight. The downtown section is also more open than Manhattan, the buildings having been set back further from the grid of streets. Throughout downtown are also scattered many handsome parks, especially the one near Independence Hall, which is the most peaceful place I've encountered since arriving in America. And, most intriguingly, the people there are detectably nicer than Manhattanites. People there walk more slowly, take their time more, are more courteous. I mean, when we were walking around on the streets, all we had to do was to stand still for a minute and look in all directions, and some stranger would approach us and offer to give us directions. I actually feel safer in Philly as a stranger than in Columbia as a student (though, partly, of course, this has to do with the fact that I must bear the consequences of my interactions in Columbia more than the consequences of random encounters on Philly's streets).

The University of Pennsylvania itself is also a beautiful place. It is more of a campus than Columbia is, with ornate architecture, sweeping paths along and across great expanses of lawn, little nooks in the dorms that only residents know about, and many, many places to eat (and the food is better too, to boot!). The ovewhelming impression is one of space, as the rooms are bigger, the libraries emptier, the ceilings higher in the big halls, and if you want to get across campus, it actually is a chore that requires ten minutes of hard walking.

Met many great people there, from the other Singaporeans in UPenn (there are more than 15 of them in the Class of 2012, which means that the Singaporean community there can form a viable clique of its own) to international students and Americans alike. And once again, the people there are palpably nicer, less in a rush. It veritably makes Columbia people seem like they're always on edge, with urgency permeating their every move. And in between bleary-eyed bouts of studying, the students there get up to some pretty reckless things. I didn't plan in advance to arrive on a party night, but both night I was there involved alcohol, and the first night involved a person getting so drunk he had to be hospitalised (which, now that I look back at it and I know the guy's alright, seems pretty darned funny - especially the antics he got up to!). The other night had a big birthday party for one of the Singaporeans, involving much dancing in one of the larger dorm rooms we had at our disposal (I simply bobbed my head, having no real envy of embarrassing myself in another school), and bouts of singing such classic songs as Home and Where I Belong (and I have the videos to prove it!). And this was followed by thoughtful conversation (aided by alcohol) into the wee hours of the next morning, the first of its kind since I came to America. There was only time for a nap before we had to start studying again.

But all this notwithstanding, it was simply good to see Joel again, and to get back into our old pattern of interaction and our old antics. Exchanging notes about college life, revisiting old threads of conversation, even reviving old half-forgotten jokes, I managed to recapture some of the old sense of security. I am ashamed to admit this, because I know that philosophically, this shouldn't be the case: but I was really happy to see a familiar face that predates the whole long goodbye and long wait, and to return to a state of being and interaction in which so many more things can be taken for granted.

On Saturday night, we went down to South Street, which is apparently the happening place in Philly in the evenings. Walking down the street was like walking through Jane Jacobs' version of the Lower East Side; the place was chock-full of people and vibrance. We popped into a multi-storey carpark, following a sign promising free music, and found a garage band playing on the roof. We bypassed a lot completey covered by cut-up beer cans and glass bottles, and some huge murals that are apparently a Philly trademark (something like the murals of Lyon). There was a flea market on the street; among the bricabrac was a computer that had a 3.5" floppy drive. We popped into a hat shop and a comic shop, and finally ended up at a great Greek restaurant for dinner, finishing with a divine Greek dessert, a supersweet pastry stuffed with dates whose name escapes me now.

One of the really cool thing about Philadelphia, though, is that these streets tie into my coursework. South Street, which is presently the hip street in town, used to be the boundary of the old black ghetto, back in the day when WEB Dubois wrote his seminal sociological account of the plight of The Philadelphia Negro. Closer to UPenn itself is another neighbourhood, Powelton Village, that is mentioned in my Urban Studies class; in fact, UPenn itself is mentioned in the assigned reading. So, as I walked those streets, I was also looking out for signs of what I'd read about in class. And there is a special kind of satisfaction in looking at something on the street - a house, a street interaction, anything - and suddenly realising you have the terms with which to explain it.

*

Anyway, speaking of sociology, I was out for two afternoons this week doing field research for the paper. Well, it really isn't rigorous, academic-grade research, because all I did was to ride the Staten Island Ferry back and forth and observe how tourists behaved. Heck, there wasn't even a field in sight (except for the minor league stadium near the Staten Island terminal for the ferry)! Anyway, though two short afternoons of observation is nowhere near enough to draw any concrete conclusions, there were some interesting phenomena, like how tourists communicate with each other more readily in an environment that is clearly tourist-friendly, how locals are more indulgent of tourists in this environment, and how tourist and local negotiate the cultural barriers that are highlighted through their proximity on the ferry.

One of the quotidian satisfactions of sociology, though, is that you are better able to read ambient conditions and predict the behaviour of groups of people. Here, for example, we are just passing by the Statue of Liberty, and predictably, the whole row of tourists decide to snap a picture of the lady at the same time. It makes for a cute photo, but it also makes a sociological point, that people tend to behave in predictable ways given the same stimulus, and that even though each person may exercise individual will, collective order still emerges out of the aggregate result of all the effects of the individual exercises of will.

*

And a last note about the weather. Woke up today with the campus shrouded in fog. Throughout the whole day, the fog did not really lift, but hung around, clinging to the tops of the skyscrapers. It has been a damp day, but oddly enough, it has been warm enough that I can open the window of my room and enjoy a bit of a breeze. In fact, I could swear that it's gotten warmer at night. But anyway, my astronomy professor would have me know that the autumn equinox occurred at 11.44am on Monday, and that moment marked the official beginning of autumn. And on campus, the first of the trees have started to turn colour.

Time passes. The seasons change. And it has already been a month's worth of school.

One Month Mark

Had a special event today. After classes finished at 4pm, I made my way down to the New York Public Library again to attend a forum on the role of the written word in today's media-rich environment, involving two literary critics, James Wood (author of the newly published How to Read Fiction) and Daniel Mandelsohn. But the real reason why I went was because Pico Iyer was mediating the talk.

When I got there, though, the tickets to the event had already been sold out, and I found myself in a standby line, wondering whether I'd wasted a trip downtown. However, New York hasn't disappointed me yet, and this time was no different, because I managed to strike up a conversation with another elderly lady who was lining up in front of me. Firstly, she very kindly informed me that there was a waiting list on which we had to put our names; without that hint, I would have been standing uselessly in the line. And then we struck up a long conversation to pass the time, talking about magnificent libraries in the world, college life and even US politics. I count it as a minor achievement to be able to carry out a reasonably coherent and substantive conversation with an American about the elections; and of course, last week's ServiceNation event came in useful too.

Then, as luck would have it, someone with a ticket shows up at the beginning of the line, and offers to sell his ticket at a discount to my new acquaintance. And to my utter surprise, she declines the offer and asks him to sell it to me instead, saying that she was already second on the wait list and was thus almost certain to get a standby ticket. It was an offer that was too good to refuse, and I took the ticket off his hands. I have to say that I was really touched by the gesture; here is a degree of generosity that I have never come to expect from a stranger, and what are the odds that I would be the lucky recepient of such a gesture?

So, after offering to wait with her anyway (which she graciously declined, telling me to go get a good seat instead), and thanking her profusely, I made my way down to the basement auditorium of the library's new wing, and it wasn't long before the conversation began. And it is an interesting setup, this kind of public conversation, for although the proceedings were definitely not scripted, there was a distinct feeling of theatricality. As the three of them talked, they were always aware of the audience who was also listening in, and they also frequently broke the fourth wall, much to our delight. There was that special self-consciousness when you know that your conversation is being eavesdropped upon; there was an edge of contrivance and conscious self-censorship (or at least spontaneous self-editing). This is clearly a dimension of conversation that can be successfully investigated by a piece of theatre.

Anyway, the important thing is that their self-consciousness did not stop them from making very good points. Two of them are professional critics, so the topics ranged around the role of the critic vis-a-vis the author and the reader. One good point that came up was about the motivations of critics, that they see themselves as sort of gatekeepers of the literary canon and the defenders of that canon's integrity and quality, and because they feel possessive about this canon, they can be rather vicious with pretenders to literary greatness. In other words, the nastiness that critics may display towards a literary piece is not personal, but stems from the defence of a higher ideal. And it also follows that it would be unprofessional to temper their words out of consideration for the author's feelings.

Another interesting point was whether critics should also be masters of the medium before they criticise works in that medium. Basically it is the argument that only writers have the right to criticise writers, because then they know the hardship of writing. And Mendelsohn made a great point about how this viewpoint tends to belittle the audience, effectively denying that the audience has any right to criticise or even appreciate a piece of art, because surely an audience member cannot write or paint or compose like a master. There is certainly a place for admiring the technical mastery of the creator in his medium, an admiration that will surely be enhanced by one's own visceral experience of operating in that medium. But I think these people rightly place the emphasis on effectiveness of communication rather than technical excellence, for at the end of the day, a work of art is not meant to showcase technical skill as much as to communcate an idea.

And they also spent considerable time decrying the proliferation of opinion through new media, especially the internet. They made a rather good point about the act of commenting, actually (as in what you do when you tag a tagboard or add a comment on the end of an article). In it, they characterised commenting as an evil, basically throwing words around cheaply and disrespectfully (both to the writer and to the use of language itself). They rightly point out that commenters (and most online content producers, like this journal's writer, for instance) are exempt from the standards of rigour and responsibility that professional critics subject themselves to. Consequently, it would be premature to assign authority to these unchecked, anonymous opinions, as opposed to the rigorously regulated expressions of a critic or a writer. This is not to say, of course, that there is no good material on the internet and in mass media; indeed, the panel agreed that there are probably more good pieces of writing out there now than ever before, due to the artistic liberation enabled by technological and social changes that only occurred recently. Rather, it is to say that the amount of rubbish has also risen dramatically, and the scope of information that anyone reading this journal is likely to be exposed to is probably also too wide for him to accurately get an impression of what is valuable information and what is not. So, relatively trivial works get undue emphasis while relatively worthy works are underrated.

But all these valuable insights aside, I actually got to talk to Pico Iyer himself! It wasn't for very long, but it is immediately apparent that this person is cuttingly insightful, acutely sensitive and deeply considerate. This is not a person with a big stature, but he fills the space with serenity and enthusiasm for interaction. When one speaks with him, one is aware of great intelligence, and one is accorded a courtesy so great that one feels unworthy. I mean, he actually took the time and effort to converse with me, rather than simply throwing a few perfunctory phrases around, which was what I expected, and which is the most one can really expect for some of the artists and writers from home. Maybe it has something to do with worldview; maybe conceit and self-satisfaction are incompatible with a wide experience of the world.

And, like I said exactly a month ago, The Lady and The Monk was the only old book that I indulged myself in bringing over here from home (for my old students, reread the passage I extracted from it for our Travelogues worksheet; for G in London, interestingly, he says that this is his favourite book among his own works). It represents my favourite Iyer book so far; and as luck would have it, I was able to personally meet its author. And I was able to get a signature on it, thereby making it the most valuable possession in my room at the moment - at least on a symbolic level.

*

And after I came back from the Library, floating in a haze of incredulity and euphoria, I reread the last part of that book, where Iyer describes his leave-taking from the city of Kyoto. And for one breathless moment, I thought of where this book had accompanied me on the travels of the last year, and how I had been introduced to Iyer in the first place, and the people I know who are now in Japan, and - by implication - all the people I know. It was a moment that stunned me, that awakened a powerful yearning in me. These are people that I want to meet again; more importantly, these are people who I think deserve to have a chance to experience what I am able to experience now.

Scriptwriting

I would have written something here yesterday, but there was a NOMADS (New Original Material Acted and Directed by Students) meeting yesterday. This was our first chance to get together as a group, us meaning a writer, a director and five actors. And, as mentioned before, there was a stunning amount of talent on display. I mean, by the standards of home, I think these people would be eligible to perform professionally. It is with incredible ease, gameness and confidence that they slip into the theatrical realm, that special state of mind when you are self-aware without being self-conscious. And it certainly is a daunting task to write something that will do justice to the talent of all these people.

So, instead of writing here, sat down to write the beginnings of a script instead, basing the premise on the old monastery joke that is one of the few jokes I've ever memorised, partly out of social necessity, but also partly because it elicits such priceless responses from listeners. And once the situation was identified, the issue defined and the characters enumerated, the composition of the stage action itself came much more easily. Partly, I think, it is the dialogue and the interaction developing naturally and logically from a scenario and a set of social norms, but also it was because I haven't written anything fictional in a long time, let alone something meant to be staged. I wouldn't say that the material is good; I would be mad to expect it to remain unchanged in its present form. But I am at least glad that it came easily, without too much trouble.

And now, we have something of a nucleus of a script, and I feel much better, having a better idea of what I can do and who are the people that I am working with. The rough effort of setting a foundation has begun, and soon, hopefully, we will transit into the phase of creating actual architecture, in crafting the symbolism and the stagecraft, and creating meaning in action. Already, there are viable ideas coming out, and we seem to be heading somewhere productive, even (dare I say it) epiphanic.

And the other day, after auditioning the actors, we stepped into the black box that will be the scene of our plays. It is a magnificent black box, able to seat about 100 people comfortably, and infinitely customisable, from the reconfigurable bleacher seating to the splendid lighting grid. The imagination can run wild in a space like this, expand to fill it, to tap the potential that saturates the space to create a memorable means of communication. It is good, after all these years and despite all the nervousness and insecurities, to be involved in stagecraft again.

*

On Sunday, hoping to repeat Saturday's good study trip, went out again on a mission in the subways. Originally, my intention had been to go to Washington Square, around which the urban campus of NYU is arrayed. But on reaching the place, I found that half the square was closed for reconstruction, and the other half was more or less filled to capacity. So, instead, I wandered away through the unnumbered streets, and inadvertently made my way from Washington Square to Canal Street, on the way passing through Greenwich Village, SoHo, Tribeca and Chinatown.

I will say this much about NYU: they really are in the thick of things. Washington Square doesn't even come close to producing the effect of Columbia's South Lawn. Rather, walking from building to building on the campus, you are constantly aware of being part of the fabric of the neighbourhood, through small signs like the pedestrians passing through and the community notice boards mounted beside NYU campus information. And NYU students study under the shadow of the Empire State Building; a more poignant reminder of one's place in the city cannot be found. And while Columbia still is able to offer a degree of shelter from the city around it, there is no escaping the city in NYU; I don't even think that they try to escape the city. And, honestly, for a while, I found it hard to return to Columbia, because NYU seemed so much more involved in urban life.

Anyway - we've all heard the stories of the charms of the small, unnumbered streets of New York's component villages. Well, I am as surprised as you are to report that the stereotypes are true. The streets are a tad too well groomed, too neat and tidy, but there is no denying the charms of cafes opened onto sidewalks, the leafy canopies trees enmeshing with wrought-iron fire escapes, and pristine parks and plazas with murmuring fountains, a sculpture or two, and the elderly playing chess. These are places in which one wants to get lost in, so one can encounter by chance the spontaneous epiphanic moments and people that one sees so often in movies and reads so often in travelogues. In these streets, this fantasy of the sublime chance encounter seems realisable; and I do find myself hoping that it is realisable.

*

Also, J called on Sunday, and we spent a half-hour catching up, trading notes about our first weeks in the States. It really has been a long while since I've talked to him, or to any of my old circle of friends, for that matter. In the last two years, I have come to depend on them a lot, taking for granted that a sympathetic ear or sporting stomach would be up to a night of beer and philosophy at the drop of a hat. Now, continentally dispersed as we are, the old certainties have changed.

Anyway, J suggested a trip over the weekend to Philadelphia, and I am determined to take him up on that offer. It seems that due to the work distribution among all the subjects, every week that passes will make it even harder to get away, so I should take the chance now, regardless of the work that I may have to do this week. And there really is no reason why I can't simply read my books in Philly - and I expect J also has his own work to do, so we won't be spending nearly enough time in a drunken stupor, if at all.

Another reason is that, in my Urban Studies class, I am reading this sociology book about black people in the pseudonymous "Eastern City". There is a quirky tradition among sociologists to use flimsy pseudonyms in their papers, which prove to be no disguise for people in the know (i.e. people who actually live in the real-life "Eastern City" will recognise it straight away from the descriptions). To cut a long story short, the professor informed us that "Eastern City" is really Philadelphia - and that the neighbourhood under consideration is actually right next to UPenn. So, a happy coincidence now enables me to take a look for myself. Talk about contextualising one's findings in the real world...

And incidentally, my Urban Studies professor sometimes quotes from a book written by my Sociology professor, and both of them quote from material written by another professor in the Sociology department. Sometimes, the two courses use the same reading material, and the ideas raised in one may be echoed in the other with eerie synchronisation. It goes to show, of course, how interrelated these two fields are, and how good sociology is about being observant for connections and patterns wherever they may occur. It also serves to lighten my workload somewhat. And it is rather cute that professors quote one another, and may name-drop colleagues like celebrities; it shows that the world of academia is very small.

The Twin Lions

So, last weekend, I went out to Union Square in to study, and it was a great chance to explore the city and get work done. Building on that good experience, today, went down to the New York Public Library bearing books and homework.

I realise now that I realy do like simply riding the subway. The people that one may meet in the subway system no longer seem threatening, and are only amusing for the most part, and certainly harmless. Similarly, the old infrastructure, the open tracks, leaky ceilings, screeching brakes, jerky cars, worn staircases, graffiti-ed walls and general grime in the system are also essentially harmless. Once you get to that realisation, then you start to appreciate the character of the system; the diversity appears colourful rather than threatening, and the deterioration is quaint rather than dangerous.

I am repeatedly struck by how the sounds of the subway get at me. The tinny service announcements in the carriages, the echoing clanking as the train passes through the tunnels, the screaming of metal on metal that can penetrate through layers of concrete right up to the sidewalk; and I daresay there is no sound that quite has the quality of anticipation and seduction as the building rumble of a far-off train approaching in the tunnel. And then, there are the sights as well: the barely-made-out graffiti on the tunnel walls, the lights and coloured signals flashing past as the train speeds along the tracks, the spectacle of a car full of people, and other people on the platform trying to cram their way in. It is a veritable circus; it is a subterranean society thathas its own rules, its own conventions, a society that is ephemeral and transient in nature, but which leaves an indelible and persistent mark on the rest of the city.

And it strikes me how elegant the system really is. The key is to realise that the trains operate like buses, so there can be more than one train line on one train track. Once that is realised, then all one really needs besides that is a practical level of literacy. The principles of the system are easily deduced from there: express trains only stop at stations with four platforms, local trains open their doors on the right when stopping at a local stop, and above all, follow the signs when unsure. And once these principles are deduced, the system is easily navigated, and the principles prove to be reliable even when one needs to extrapolate a response to a novel scenario (for example, a service stoppage between stations). The subway is thus like a complex logic problem, and its solution delivers the amount of satisfaction appropriate to the solution of a good riddle.

Anyway, I digress - so, I went to the Public Library today. And it is an amazing building. The entrance hall itself is breathtaking, a room clad entirely in marble. All the hallways are lined with marble as well, and they are high-ceilinged and wide, and lined with portraits or sculptures, and echo pleasantly as one heads purposefully down them. There are elaborate ceilings worked with heartwrenching intricacy. There are antique water fonts set into the walls that are no longer functioning. The stacks of books on the open shelves extend impressively the length of two city blocks, and I am told that seven storeys of bookstacks are hidden in the bowels of the library. There is a particular alcove with a particularly stunning sculpture of a young girl balanced on a log crossing a stream, entitled "Water Nymph"; its beauty and purity seizes you as you walk by. And there is the breathtaking Rose Reading Room, which is what is pictured above. An enormous room filled with long, solid wooden tables, reading lamps and lined with shelves of books, and topped with a plaster ceiling made to look like wood, and framing three massive murals of a sunset sky. That room is my new favourite place in New York.

Halfway through the afternoon, broke my reading to join a free guided tour of the library, and learnt a bit about its workings. About how some collections are meant to be accessed by special permission from an approving board only. About how to request a book from among the endless stacks, and how the Library has the fastest book retrieval system in a reference library. There were interesting histories of the various benefactors who donated to the Library's trust, biographies of philantrophists who donated impressive collections to the Library, and a short summary of the unimaginable range of materials available to the public.

And that is what you immediately realise, after you spend enough time in the building to get over the initial shock at how splendid it looks. You realise that this is a real working library, a real valuable resource to people looking for information; in other words, it is not merely a nice architectural gem, but a social environment, a venue for activity. Sitting in the Rose Reading Room engrossed in my own book, I am particularly moved by the notion that I am sitting on the tip of an iceberg of knowledge, of incredible volumes of things to know just waiting for me to ask for them. And then I look up around me, and watch other people read for a while. Someone will occasionally make notes on a notepad, type something into a laptop, flip a page, get up to find another book, or simply stare off into the distance. Everyone is engrossed in what he is doing, and no one talks to another person, and yet, there is a certain sense of camaraderie, a sense of community even, in being in this place together, and being here with a purpose that is common in that it is a quest to know more.

Where Things Happen

Over the last few days, I've come across another problem: what do you do when you know more than you're letting on?

Of course, the ideal situation would be for you never to know more than you're letting on. After all, this is called being frank, and being generous with your ideas. But there were times over the last few days when I saw something and then felt I could not offer it for consideration. It just didn't seem appropriate or useful to interject to submit a new idea for discussion. It seemed inappropriate because it would undermine the social convention of the class (i.e. I would look like a smart aleck poking holes in other people's arguments), and it seemed useless because sometimes, you can tell when people are not amenable to considering new ideas. Comfort is a strong incentive, and provocation does not sit well with a sort of intellectual inertia.

What I find really disturbing is how, sometimes, people get away with saying things without substantiating them. It just seems like laziness to me. And yet, people get away with it, taking away a feeling of self-satisfaction and calling it good thinking. Inasmuch as making your views known is a self-serving enterprise (and I have to admit because it's true that this is usually the case at least for me), it is wholly understandable to like things that make you feel nice inside. But then again, this is a university, and when we use words in class we should be more careful, and value meaning and rigour over hazy feel-good ideas.

But it is also true that people don't take kindly to having this pointed out. This is not to say, of course, that one should not point it out, but rather, if your objective is to provoke a reconsideration of the validity of ideas, then one should wait for the appropriate time to point it out, a time when people are more amenable to listening. And sometimes, that means refraining from saying anything.

*

Anyway. I find myself part of the Nomads Theatre Workshop. It's not so much a theatre troupe as it is a theatrical experiment, it seems to me. How it works is that it brings together a director, a writer, a group of actors and a producer to come up with a production from scratch. The model seems to be a collaborative one, in which the writer tailors a script to fit the peculiar strengths and personalities of the actors he works with, and the actors can suggest directions to the director, and the director can adjust the script as he goes along. This is another level of improvisational theatre, I guess, taking the improvisation techique out of its usual place in onstage comedies and infusing the entire play-producing process with its ethos.

Quite frankly, I don't knw how this will turn out. Firstly, and perhaps foremost, I haven't had anything to do with a stage for almost three years now, which means that my most recent involvement was with G's TSD production in J2 (incidentally, G, if you're reading this, remember the Akami script I wrote for your production on a lark? I submitted it to Nomads, and it landed me this spot - so credit goes to you too!). And, up till now, the one production that informs my entire impression of theatre is still the 2002 production of The Road Less Travelled, which was done for the SYF competition. As you can probably tell, my exposure to this medium of expression has not been exactly wide, and has not been exactly up to date.

And secondly, what little theatre I've done has been rather rigid and well-defined, following a clear path from the writer's conceptualisation, through the director's guidance till the actor's performance on the stage. I guess, theoretically, I can appreciate how a more fluid, collaborative process can work, but I've never done anything like this for real before, and in my experience the lack of a rigid structure leads to a potentially lethal lack of discipline in the production. The theory, I guess, is that freeing everyone involved from the rigid process will also liberate creative energies that are outside our normal conception, and make everyone more involved in the final product, enhancing the feeling of ownership. I would really like that to happen. It would then prove that theatre does not need to be a technical profession, but can happen anywhere with the most basic set of preconditions. But my hope is tempered by the suspicion founded on limited experience.

At any rate, I find myself utterly overwhelmed by the range of talent that I've seen in this troupe. This is not a big operation at all, and I haven't by any means met every member yet, but the directors, writers and producers all seem to have stellar talent. They spout jargon effortlessly, lapse into moments of self-expression (singing, dancing, monologue - you name it), and they know that they're good. Here is a group which can namedrop the pantheon of theatre carelessly, and come across as if they know full well what they're talking about (because, surely, they really do). And they take the process so seriously, getting worked up and passionate when defending their creative space and fending off the apparently tyrannical intentions of the producers. Against all this, I can only sit quietly and observe with a mixture of incredulity and amazement. On the one hand, I can hardly take all this seriously - there is a certain absurdity in how I had managed to sneak in on an operation that is so tight. On the other hand, I also cannot see how I can conceivably contribute, except through doing the actual brute work of writing the damn play. Quite frankly, therefore, I wonder what I've gone and gotten myself into; I feel out of my league.

*

But on a lighter note, today was the 7th anniversary of 9/11. 9/11 - it is one of those moments in history when everyone remembers where they were. I happened to be sleeping that fateful morning, and I never quite figured out why my parents did not wake me when the planes hit, so that I only found out the truth the next day, staring disbelievingly at the horrifying photos on the front page of the Straits Times. I remember how, the next day at school, every lesson was permeated by discussion of this event, how every radio show and every TV channel had minute-by-minute updates. How each moment was infused with the acute awareness of being on a historic threshold. How moments of heartwarming togetherness and solidarity were contrasted with heartbreaking examples of callousness. How 9/11 affected all of us, and how we all decided to deal with it in our own ways.

And now that I think back on it, it is quite possible that 9/11 was the first real instance of New York touching my life in a palpable way, and thus 9/11 also formed the kernel around which I built my fictional and vicarious impression of this city. Would it be too callous, too presumptious to say that 9/11 made me a New Yorker at heart? Well, at least it made me start thinking of whether I wanted to be a New Yorker. But who knows about these things, eh? Who know if, for example, I would have come here even if 9/11 had not happened? The fact is that I remember 9/11, and now I'm in New York City, and my mind would like there to be a link, because such a link would be elegant and intriguing. And in that sense, maybe I find a link that is not really there.

Anyway, to commemorate the anniversary, Columbia hosted the ServiceNation forum organised by TIME Magazine. Among the speakers at the forum were Columbia's President Lee Bollinger, New York's new governor David Patterson, Tobey Maguire (aka Peter Parker), and the two presidential candidates. It's an example of the fantastic opportunities that simply being here makes available to us. This thing, this chance to be where things happen, to be at the very point of breaking news, just fell into our laps without us having to do anything or put in any more effort than that which was required to turn up. And to think that, only a few months ago, I was using Obama's Iowa victory speech to teach public speaking skills to my English classes. And just now, I was within a hundred metres of the guy, listening to him talk live. It's a mind-blowing thought.

The actual event was held in the Roone Arledge Auditorium, which, while being the biggest room in Columbia, still could only hold at most 1,200 people. Most of those seats were filled by 9/11 victims or their families, and only 100 students were picked by lottery to attend the forum itself. The rest of us made do with a big screen set up in front of Low Plaza.

So there we were, among thousands of students and staff, sitting on the steps leading up to Low Library and waiting for the speeches to begin. The atmosphere was festive; people had brought dinner out to eat on picnic mats, people were sprawled on the grass, and people were chatting in high tones about the virtues of Obama (predictably). And among all these people were news anchors, radio journalists and reporters weaving in and out and trying to get a good soundbite out of all the hubbub. On the periphery, Columbia's private police force and officers from the NYPD patrolled the grounds, with black-suited Secret Service men standing guard outside the building housing the Auditorium. I felt certain that, somewhere on the roofs of the campus, snipers had been positioned too.

We had gotten excellent seats through one of our CUE friends, which put us almost right in front of the big screen. And I was simply enjoying the vibe. Although I didn't rightly know what was going on in the speeches, and though I don't have the right to vote anyway, it was nice to lose oneself in the masses, to cheer and jeer and shout and applaud together as the sky darkened from blue to orange to navy, and the images on the big screen shifted. This is something that you will almost certainly never see back home.

So, I leave you with a short video of the proceedings, picturing (variously) the big screen with Butler Library in the background, and cheering crowds on the steps of Low Library. Who knows, maybe this little segment will appear on the news soon? It's a humbling and exhilarating thought.

Knowing More

There is a lot of work to be done nowadays, but this is enjoyable, engaging, intriguing work. Now, I feel as if I am plumbing the boundaries of my experience, both in terms of knowing more, and in terms of knowing more deeply. From rudimentary astrophysics to the philosophy of sociology, from discussions in genetics to issues raised in the classics, everything seems now to be cloying and seductive. I haven't been so fully engaged on so many fronts in a very long time, and it feels good to be challenged once again to delve deeply into ideas and concepts, to live the life of the mind.

My Sociology and Urban Studies classes are, of course, deeply intriguing. I feel like these classes speak my language, or rather that the language I speak happens to coincide with the terms that are used in the class. It is a beautiful thing, to find harmony in wavelengths, and to understand things deeply, or at least to feel as if one has the key to open the metaphorical door to understanding. There are moments of epiphany, of ideas that nudge my perspective to see a phenomenon in a novel way, in a way that yields previously unconceived notions. Through these new angles of viewing, a particular aspect of the world suddenly makes a whole lot more sense. Rarer are the moments when discussions in class articulate an idea that I've had for a long time, but have not phrased as precisely or as technically. Suddenly, an impression becomes an idea, moves from the shady world of being just a suspicion to becoming a testable, observable hypothesis about how the world works. There is a great sense of empowerment in these moments, when you feel like you are suddenly given the tools to articulate what you think, and to test in a rational and structured way whether this idea is an accurate representation of reality.

And today, reading Homer's Iliad, I finally had a big-idea moment. Today's big idea: the dilemma over choosing a short, glorious life or a long, unremarkable life is not what primarily motivates Achilleus, at least at the end of the book. Rather, he is motivated by fellow-feeling for Patroklos, particularly a thirst for vengeance for his fallen companion. The winning of immortal glory and renown for himself is secondary to the objective of avenging his friend. And with this idea, suddenly Achilleus' unheroic behaviour and philosophising fits in with his characterisation as an Achaian hero. And suddenly, the work makes a lot more sense, and really starts to speak to me. And with that, one is not so caught up with trying to figure out what the patterns mean, and one can devote more attention to appreciating the aesthetic excellence of the composition, and one can better realise that this is really a poem, a work of art, and an elegant work at that.

My science classes, too, are interesting. Today, we talked about genetics, and how the genetic diversity in humans points to a single ancestor who came to exist somewhere near Addis Ababa in Ethiopia, deep in the shadows of the past. The really interesting point for me, though, is not that these differences exist and point to a common ancestor, but that the differences are so slight that they produce no significant speciation among humans: for all our biological differences, we are one species. Thus, the big idea is not so much that we all came from a common ancestor, but that as a species, we have the potential to head towards a common descendant. In other words, genetic knowledge is one thing, in that it makes clear the chemical potential that is available in our genomes. Using that knowledge towards an end, good or bad, is another thing entirely. The potential is there; it is up to us to tap it.

And just came out of an astronomy lab class. Being an astronomy lab, it's scheduled at night, but today we were just doing introductory-level experimentation techniques: dealing with uncertainties in measurements. Yet, there was a certain amusement to be had with the notion of me taking an astronomy class; along with the image of looking through telescopes at amazing celestial objects, I also have the image of Harry, Ron and Hermione heading up to the Astronomy tower for Divination. Sitting under the eaves of the roof of the Pupin Physics Labs on campus devising experimental procedures therefore had a parallel poetic meaning for me.

What really gets me among all this, I think, is how elegant understanding is. How elegant the process of inquiry, evaluation and recording is. Comprehension is a beautiful thing to behold in action. These lessons, I feel, contain information that I can access, that I know how to read, and this ability is also an empowerment, allowing me to be a participant rather than just an observer in the daily business of learning. It spurs me on; I seek to know more so that I can see more of the beauty in knowing.

*

Of course, then, there is also the energy of this place. The people here are very diverse, but you also realise that among the diversity is a certain unity of purpose. People come here looking for something, and though what they're looking for covers a wide range of human experience, they go about their search with comparable dedication and eagerness. The directions may be divergent, but their sense of direction is there, along with their momentum. Direction combines with energy to produce velocity. And the diverse velocities of the people here make this a very engaging, participatory and surprising environment.

And by the way, that's the view from the bathroom down there. If even bathroom windows can take your breath away, what wonders must there be available in places that one frequents more often?

Observing

At night, the lights beckon and seduce. This is near Times Square, looking down Broadway at 50th Street. The building where the ball is dropped every year is somewhere to the left, and since we're looking southwards, the famous north-facing facade can't be seen. A few streets up, the billboards blaze outside the Broadway theatre houses. And even though the place has become plasticky out of touristification (I take the word of New Yorkers on this, since I have no idea what the original, gloomy, gritty Times Square was like - though the particular pattern of contrivance that panders to tourists is obvious even to the untrained eye), the flashing lights still seem to flash some morse-coded promise. Songs have been written about this visual siren song.

*

After classes ended on Thursday (oh yes, it is true that most Columbia students have 4-day work weeks; I've even encountered people in the lifts who have insane 2-day weeks), went down with a group of friends to the MoMA again, this time to catch one of the many film screenings there. After all, for the price of a return trip on the subway, we could get a week's worth of cultural inculcation (among other things, the Columbia ID gets us free or highly discounted access to many of the city's major museums). We were trying our luck, and ended up watching Spike Lee's She's Gotta Have It. It was a really fun movie, about a girl who's a polygamist, and how her multiple boyfriends/partners, who are caricatures in themselves of the range of black stereotypes, react to her so-called unfaithfulness. There's even a lesbian element, one that our protagonist (I use the term descriptively, rather than positively) repeatedly refuses.

The film's done in something of a documentary style, with characters reflecting on each other and confiding in the camera, while flashbacks (or, more accurately, stylised reenactments or dramatisations) intersperse these personal accounts. Technically, there are a range of interesting techniques and devices, such as the camera zooming in on a character's face, and then the screen blanking out as the character's name is flashed. There is a part of the film that is projected in colour, a dreamlike dance sequence that, contrasted with the rich monochrome shades of the rest of the film, burns with bright colours and beauty. And Lee uses slow motion to excruciatingly, lovingly extend and linger on the most physically intimate moments of the film, and while there is a lot of sex, there is surprisingly little vulgarity.

There were certainly a lot of cultural and thematic pointers in the film that I missed, but one idea that stood out for me was how it may be perfectly legitimate to enjoy the physical aspects of sex so much that this aspect is regarded as primary, rendering all other considerations, moral, emotional, social and otherwise, secondary to the ultimate objective. Especially, love is portrayed as at best secondary, and at least peripheral to the physical aspect. At most, love is a means to the ultimate end. Most of the time, love is something that is distinct from sex, is only tenuously connected to the physical act. The protagonist, I think, subscribes to this view, to the incomprehension, revulsion and even fascination of her partners.

Anyway, philosophising aside, it was great fun to go down to MoMA and to indulge in some cultural enrichment at the end of the week. This should occur more often, I think; we should make it a point to do something like this at least once a week. After all, with so many opportunities for us to take advantage of here, it behooves us to put in the effort to put them to god use, in order to justify our good fortune in ending up in this place.

*

Anyway, speaking of good fortune, here are two more things to make yourheart flutter in incredulity:

Firstly, the Columbia Arts Initiative, an agency meant to source out good cultural deals for students, somehow managed to secure free tickets for the freshmen to watch the Broadway musical Wicked. That's certainly more than $50 per ticket, and each freshman only needs to pay the $5 booking fee, and we get two tickets apiece! And so, it seems, by next month, I will be able to fulfill one of my objectives of watching show on Broadway, with the really nice surprise that it will cost me next to nothing!

And secondly, there was an announcement on Friday that Barack Obama and John McCain will be coming to campus. At the same time. On September 11. Apparently, they will be giving speeches on the role of national service in America, the importance of citizens contributing to the national interest. They will not actually be talking to each other; they are giving separate speeches. But it will still be the first time they appear on the same stage (if I'm not mistaken). And what wouldn't one give for the chance to hear these two speak, live, in person, and at this crucial juncture, a juncture that feels historic even before it becomes history?

These chances are being given to us even without us putting in any additional effort to get them. I mean, where else in the world will opportunities like these be given away for free? We live, here, on the cusp of a wealth of incredible opportunities. The atmosphere is charged with chances. It keeps you on your toes, because you don't know what to expect at every moment, and yet you know you can expect something that will be worthwhile.

*

And this place's beauty still carries me away. Yesterday morning, went on a school run with G. It was a 5-kilometre route that took us out of our small campus and through nearby Riverside Park, winding our way along the Hudson shore. We had an NYPD escort across busy road junctions, and there were hundreds of people running at the same time, but all this could not override the joy of jogging in the crisp morning air, the sight of the mist lingering across the river, and the New Jersey skyline, barges and a bridge slipping in and out of sight among the foliage. The sheer pleasantness of the scenery is reason enough, I feel, to run that route again.

And today, went out on my first solo trip into the city. Carried my work with me and made my way down to Union Square, at 14th Street and Broadway. What I found at the other end of the subway ride was a farmer's market set up along the outside of the park, and a green space filled with benches and picnic tables, statues and fountains, set among tall and stately townhouses. Walking among the stalls selling everything from fresh vegetables to cheese and poultry, enjoying the sights and sounds of spontaneous commerce, it felt like such a pity to have to begin my work. And yet, when I had my paper and laptop out, it felt like such a privilege to be able to work in such a pleasant environment. It makes a difference that you can look up when you're bored or tired, and just watch the people going by, with their secret intentions and destinations, or just scare off the gathering pigeons, and feel the breeze as dozens of wings beat the air at once.

And in my solitary moments, I feel as if I can properly listen to this place, and comprehend what it is saying. This city sings as well: from the sharp and echoing sounds on the subway, to the sedate clicking over of the traffic lights that change in succession, one street after another on a wave that runs the length of Manhattan, to the buskers and artists that surprise you on street corners and in tunnels, to the occasional blaring of sirens that accompany the rush of flashing lights among the maze of Manhattan streets. And when I'm alone, I feel like I can pay full attention to this spontaneous, unselfconscious symphony. I can interpret it, I can read it, and I can act on it. When I'm alone, I feel more in sync with the city as a whole, more a part of its fabric.

If only you could hear what this city sounds like...

*

And outside, now, a noisy game of ultimate frisbee is in progress, echoing all across the quad. At first, I have to admit (and rather regretfully, at that), I had assumed that there was alcohol involved - an assumption based wholly on prejudice and ignorance. But it seems like they're really just intoxicated with the night, with the notion of the first weekend after the holidays.

I guess I really should be putting more effort into getting involved in these kinds of activities. After all, isn't this meant to be part of the college experience, or at least part of the ideal that everyone comes to college carrying in one's imagination? But it is rather tiring, I find, to keep putting in this effort. It is particularly hard to talk to people who are culturally American. I lack the social awareness, the cultural markers to carry out a proper conversation. I find that I am prematurely distracted by cultural differences, and thus am unable to concentrate on what they're saying. And at the same time, I don't know enough about ambient culture (like TV, politics, sports, even the weather) to make small talk, meaning that conversations tend to peter out rather quickly. This is a problem, I guess, that will dissipate with time. But in the meantime, people are making friends in this crucial period of transition. This is something, I think, that I cannot simply wait for; I cannot wait for it to simply take care of itself.

But at the same time, I remain essentially a conversation-ender, if you will. I tend to be an observer; I watch, I see, I hear, I listen, I feel. And then sometimes I write, and even more rarely, I draw. Talking does not come into it as something central or fundamental. Or, if it does, it comes in as a means to communicate the meanings that I find in the observations. At this point, though, it doesn't seem like the communication of this type of meaning is of central interest to anyone. And, having nothing to say, I simply don't say anything.

At the end of the day, I certainly want to make new friends here, if only for the self-interested motivation that I will need the support of a vibrant social network in the months to come. But at this point in time, I want to see more, and to know more. This objective, unfortunately, is not something that is widely shared, I think. People come here to look for different things, and it turns out that I am looking for something that is quite different from what most people are looking for.

The question, then, is whether I should just get with the programme, and look for what they are looking for as well.

By the Way...

I love these new classes.

I have to admit that, previously, I had been rather skeptical of the idea of a core of required classes. Although the premise that a student should be well informed in all aspects of knowledge (from science to art, from literature to global cultures) is valid - and indeed is laudable - I had not bought into the notion that every student should take the same course, cover the same content, read the same books. The validity of the restricted range of content relies on a somewhat paternalistic belief that the makers of the core curriculum know what the students should learn better than the students themselves. This may actually be true, even if it is philosophically repulsive; but the point seems to be moot, now that I've actually tried out some of the courses. There appears to be a real common ground, in terms of common questions that interest (or at least should interest) everyone. As K said, it may actually turn out to be worthwhile to go through material that I would not have normally chosen to go through.

I am taking a literature course, a basic science course (Frontiers of Science, which resembles a philosophy and statistics course rather than instruction in the laws of the hard sciences) and (hopefully, for I am still trying to apply) a course in art humanities, which is concerned with "visual literacy", or equipping students with the necessary vocabulary to interpret and explain works of visual art. And so far, the courses have been engaging and intriguing. They aren't really content-heavy, with the possible exception of Literature Humanities, which purports to go through twelve books in fourteen weeks. They seem more concerned with methods of discourse and argument, rather than the content of the course. In other words, the content (the books, the artwork, the principles of science) is used as a tool to teach how to think and how to express oneself. The core courses thus seem to be much more concerned with fostering analytical abilities and facility of expression rather than familiarity with the content. At any rate, the courses are so general that the content covered would hardly impress a real specialist in the field. No - these courses are much more an intellectual frolic, an environment in which thinking methods can be practised in relative safety.

On top of that, I am taking one Sociology class and one Urban Studies class. Both courses started today with lectures, and I must say I have been utterly carried away with them. The greatest attraction of these courses, to me at least, is how they incorporate the city into the instruction, drawing on the urban context around the classroom as a valuable empirical source that evidences the abstract principles and ideas discussed. The Sociology class examines how sociologists use their methods in an urban setting, examining issues such as crime, the family, culture, immigration and politics. The Urban Studies class seeks to examine the experience of race, ethnicity and immigration in American cities, particularly New York, and even incorporates two field-research opportunities (for a first-year, something that is quite frankly intimidating!), one that aims for us to examine a social phenomenon like religious rites or the black market in the context of a New York neighbourhood, and the other that sends us out on Election Day to polling stations to examine why some people do not cast their votes (due to reasons like long lines or intimidation, for instance).

And as if these were not enticing enough, the professors started speaking in terms that I feel as if I've been waiting to hear for the longest time. They talked about social constructs, structural factors that are created by people and that then affect how people behave to each other. They talked about implicit social conventions, and how their subversion by "fringe" elements could reveal so much about the nature of those selfsame social conventions. These are ideas that I find eerily familiar. And I am reminded of how I wrote in my applications that people spontaneously generate social organisations when placed into political, economic, geographical and social contexts, and how from the cumulative chaos of countless individual free choices there can emerge patterns that are consistent across cultural and physical barriers. These courses seem to me to offer a tantalising glimpse at how to approach the task of examining and describing these patterns, and how they come about. And I feel as if my previous thinking and ideas that I've come across before have found an echo, or a home, here. I feel as if these are precisely the courses that I should be doing. There is that sweet sense of harmony from feeling that one is in the right place at the right time.

And of course, a big part of why these classes have proven enjoyable is also because, beyond the good teachers and the intriguing content, the students too bring and offer so much in class. There are small classes in which people compete for speaking time. Even in large lectures, students take turns to converse with the professor. The ease with which standards of communication are established between student and teacher is unprecedented in my personal experience; and it is very exhilarating to be a part of this exchange, charged with the urgency of having something worthwhile to contribute to the discussion. In an environment like this, I believe, one really delights much more in the ideas that are produced, and it really does not matter who says the idea. One may even find that stepping back to observe the synthesis and expression of ideas is worthwhile and interesting. And I do expect that there will come a point when other ways of participation besides raising one's hand in class will be investigated. At this point, though, I am quite content to enjoy the foment of views and opinions.

I feel like I have been set free again. My mind has something really substantial to chew on now. And it is good to be operating once again in an academic environment, to think well and to speak well, and through these interactions to generate ideas that are beautiful in their elegance and truthfulness.

*

And, parallel to this, I continue to marvel at the remarkable fact that I am here, in this city. In the mornings, I go down to the corner of 114th and Amsterdam Avenue, where there is a cart selling bagels and coffee. I buy a cup and a bagel, and then stroll down to Riverside Park, or up to Morningside Park, and slowly munch my way through this simple breakfast while enjoying the views and the crisp morning light, the sharp and fresh air and the people who go by. I think of how R is already auditioning for an acapella group, on the second day of classes. I think of A, J and K, who are still looking for the perfect mass at the right church in the neighbourhood. I think of a prospective trip to the MoMA tomorrow after classes to watch whatever that they happen to be screening in their cinemas at that time. And I realise that, here, in this city, and in this particular place in Morningside Heights, the academic element is only a small fraction of the vast range of opportunities that are available to us, a range that is so big that it positively demands that one puts in the effort to make full use of them. I must do justice to the remarkable circumstances that I find myself in.

Columbia

I just wanted to add a brief note today, because tomorrow marks the start of classes, and the actual return to the work of formal learning. After the long wait, two and a half years after the last formally academic pursuit, I am finally about to resume that particular task. I have already been here for a bit more than two weeks, but the time has been largely passed as if I were a visitor, a tourist wowed and amazed by everything that I happened to encounter around me. Indeed, I daresay some of the locals are rather fazed by my quickness to resort to the telltale tourist tools of map and camera. But all this is, of course, part of the settling-in. As departing was a process, involving the long goodbye, so arrival too is a process, a process that, I think, will begin to end as classes start, and a schedule asserts itself. Now, then, is the time to start to live here properly, and to participate.

Took the chance, too, to visit a few more places over the weekend, popping down to Times Square again to explore Midtown. Walked past the New York Public Library (which was closed for the weekend), visited the opulent and far too expensive Grand Central Station, and then went on to the United Nations Headquarters. Being able to go into the complex and explore the public areas was mind-blowing. This was the place that I had read about in history classes; this is still a nexus of global power. And, for a moment, I could not believe that the glass-encased tower really was the UN Headquarters, that the concrete podium really housed such august chambers as the General Assembly and the Security Council, and that, come a weekday, the empty flagpoles will be aflutter with the flags of all the countries of the world.

We went on from there back to Rockefeller Centre, walking through the plaza and seeing the golden Prometheus. This is the place that will play host to the magnificent and renowned Christmas trees and skating rink come winter. And after that, made our way out of the expensive district to the Museum of Modern Art, using our Columbia IDs to get in for free. I had actually done a bit of research on the MoMA for URA - and anyway, who hasn't heard of the MoMA before? Nonetheless, seeing the nondescript facade, and the residential tower that rose above it, and knowing the story of how these structures came to be built together, was a moving experience. As was seeing, in person, original artworks from Salvador Dali (the melting clocks guy; the MoMA is currently hosting an intriguing exhibit of his paintings, photographs and films), Pablo Picasso, Duchamp, Monet and Hopper.

New York, I find, is filled with experiences like these. This place is so deeply infused in the collective imagination of the world that you encounter New York even before you set foot in it. As such, the borders of New York lie not along the Hudson, but in every city on the planet, and in our imaginations. Conceptually, at least, it is thus possible to start to live in New York long before you cross through Immigration. And the thing about New York is that it offers you the originals to these imagined and vicarious moments - and then lives up to all the hype. It really is as great, as enticing, as intriguing, as gritty, as risky, as people make it out to be. In fact, it may be even more so, because how can any caricature of a place really capture the full texture of its complexities and layers of significance?

And so, as we walk through the streets and avenues of Manhattan, I find myself utterly carried away by even the smallest details: the subway saxophonist, streetside food vendors, traffic signs, fire trucks. The various props that populated my imaginary New York, no less magical for being real. And sometimes, looking at other people (especially American non-New Yorkers) react to this place, I wonder at why they aren't utterly carried away as well. It is still true that very few people look for the same things as I do when we come to a new place. It may also be true that I should, as they do, pay more attention to building the critical social relations that will form the scaffolding for the college experience, and grasp the time now to do it, for the city will always be there, but this opportunity is transient. It may yet be true that they just express their fascination in a different way, a way that I am not yet adept at accessing or interpreting. But nonetheless, sometimes their blase reactions strike me as incomprehensible. This is New York, after all.

But these concerns are about to become secondary. Classes start in about ten hours' time. On the lawns of the campus tonight, students are encumbered with books. Some are actually reading them, while others are too caught up in catching up with friends after the summer holidays. Small groups sit on the steps leading up to Low Library; some perch on plinths that jut out over the stairs, enjoying the view and the cool evening air. And above the hubbub of chatting voices, carrying conversations that are soothing because they form an uncomprehended buzz, a Christian group of about fifty was singing to the accompaniment of one guitar, all sitting on the steps and gazing at Butler across the lawn, as if staring at something personal, but singing in unison. So this is collegiate life. It is starting to get underway; and I find that, on this penultimate evening of my arrival, I am ready to begin.