Rome-Assisi
“ROME-ASSISI” is EXTRACT ONE — PART THREE: EPISODE ELEVEN of tales told “out of school” and (intentionally) out of order: i.e., extracts from /S/4: Ego-histoire, an anti-memoir of a PhD project, written across the years 2021–2023, and ending with the (un)timely discovery of the mysterious phenomenon (agency) of THE EDITION OF ONE.
For a summary, plus DRAMATIS PERSONAE, see https://medium.com/@agencex/ego-histoire-85b118e1b986 …
EXTRACT ONE — PART THREE: EPISODE ELEVEN
A journey to Rome and Assisi, an absurd academic conference, and yet another timely escape from the EU to the UK (and the USSA) before running out of Schengen Days. Includes a visit to a Franciscan convent in Rome and the Upper Church of the Basilica of Saint Francis of Assisi.
SAINT ISIDORE’S
I arrived at the gates of Saint Isidore’s in Rome at roughly 5:45pm, on May 22, having agreed to meet “JD” (a Slovene Franciscan) there at 6:00pm. (I had arrived in Rome that morning from London at about 1:00pm, promptly checking in to Domus Helena, where I was staying for one night, and then launching out into Rome to first acquire a train ticket to Assisi for the next day and then to make an appointment with destiny set a week or so ago.) I rang every combination of numbers on the intercom at the gate of Saint Isidore’s to no avail. I then circled the block to see if there was another entrance. There was not.
St. Isidore’s is on Via degli Artisti. I had walked westward for about 30 minutes along the narrow sidewalks of several avenues, dodging tourists with suitcases, after acquiring the train ticket to Assisi at Roma Termini. I marched across the neighborhoods from Esquilino to Trevi (i.e., along Via Agostino Depretis, Via delle Quattrofontane, and Via Sistina), stopping only briefly for a salmon sandwich and a glass of white wine, to reach the Franciscan compound on time. I got slightly lost at Via Francesco Crisp (the name threw me) but circled back in time to ring all numbers on the intercom at the gate. Two cats watched me from within the walled and gated compound, wondering who the hell I was, and why I kept pushing all the buttons on the intercom.
I thought I had missed the boat when a friar suddenly appeared to my right. “Can I help you?” he seemed to want to know. I explained that I had agreed to meet “JD” at 6:00pm, which it now was, and he went inside to find him, leaving me outside as some sort of precautionary measure. A few minutes later the buzzer on the gate set off and I pushed through, throwing a just-lit cigarette on the ground outside the gate. There stood “JD” … We spent ten minutes or so talking in the drive about my interest in Franciscanism. I was being interviewed. It was subtle, but it was also clearly a test. I perhaps passed. We went inside to see the two libraries. They were full of Franciscan literature, lore, and historical detritus (e.g., Papal Bulls, Archivum Franciscanum, etc.). But they were also glorious in the sense that they had an edge of antiquity about them, even if they were assembled from numerous libraries across several centuries. Yet the core library that was astonishing was called Wadding, a library named after the Irish Franciscan (Lucas Wadding, 1588–1657) who had brought his scholarly-historical operation to Rome in whatever year he did so — i.e., four or so centuries ago, but with the intention of establishing a research center for Franciscanism that still held till this day. It was not pure. It had additional works added over the years. For example, I saw a shelf devoted to the English Romantics. Obviously, Wadding had not brought such books along. It held tomes of literary and philosophical merit that transcended or post-dated the hard-core Franciscan historical record-keeping.
Yet it was “JD” who held the upper ground — as it was technically his ground. He gave me a tour of the two libraries all the while hammering away at how the Franciscans today had become subject to manipulation by greater academia. They got pocket money for doing slave labor for the machine. He was not so much brutal as honest. Lady Poverty was apparently not held in such high regard any longer. I described my project in terms of overcoming that very machine and he sort of got it. But he had disparaging remarks to make about scholarship that was not “philologically” sound. He was more historian than exegete. He wanted to acknowledge everything else only if it was based in historically sound philological research. Or so he pretended. Because, as we were finishing up in the Wadding collection, he then whipped out his cellphone and showed me an image of one of El Greco’s paintings of Francis in Meditation, from an exhibition I had just seen at the National Gallery in London, before departing for Rome, and which we had discussed in the drive, before I was permitted inside the libraries. All of a sudden, as we stood there about to depart the Wadding Library, he showed me, in an instant, the cover image of Agamben’s The Highest Poverty. What in the world was he up to? Quick to the draw, he was suddenly affirming that there were Franciscan games at play beyond hard-core Franciscanism. It was the first moment yet in years and years where I got a sense of how the Franciscans might have looked at interlopers such as “I”. He was correct, and “I” was gently reprimanded. Yet what transpired was golden, and amidst the various asides and pseudo-apologies for irony on his part, he was absolutely correct. Interlopers needed to be interviewed at the gate before entering Paradise.
[…]
The Franciscan Guest House, Domus Helena, at Via Ferruccio, 25, was glorious, but expensive. The rate of 170.00 EUR per night went up to 191.00 EUR after taxes. And that was the so-called reduced rate for booking directly through their website versus an intermediary. It was basic fare, with breakfast, and a fourth-floor smoking terrace. I had more less decided upon arrival to cut to the chase and run as early as possible the next morning to Assisi when the ticket agent at Roma Termini made a favorable error and sold me a ticket to Assisi for 2:28pm versus the early morning option I had asked for, which would have required skipping breakfast at Domus Helena, which launched at 7:00am, and dashing to the train station and wandering its cavernous interior until I found the departures’ area that would announce the platform. I never noticed the “error” she made until I returned home from the encounter with “JD”, via Via Sistina, Via delle Quattrofontane, Via Agostino Depretis, Via dell’Esquilino, and Via Carlo Alberto to Piazza Vittorio Emanuele II.
I had begun “walking Rome.” It was a modest start. And as much as I wanted to cut and run, I also wanted to stay.
[…]
When I finally returned to Domus Helena, I found an email message from “JD” sent at around 5:30pm. He was inquiring as to whether I was in the vicinity. Apparently, he had 24/7 email access and phone service, confirmed by his accessing images on his cell phone while we were in the Wadding Library, whereas I did not. As soon as I stepped outside the door of wherever it was that I was staying I was incommunicado, unless I was willing to turn on my Verizon Travel Pass and pay 10.00 USD per day for the privilege of “roaming” … “Who was the real Franciscan here,” I thought? “He was,” I said to myself, even though I could have been presumptuous and said “I was.” I also had somehow appeared at the gate of Saint Isidore’s at the exact hour agreed upon, on the day of my arrival in a city I had never visited before. I realized that even Franciscans suffered from the “idea” that since everyone had 24/7 cellphone service, agreements might be broken or changed at the drop of a hat. It was something that continued to plague my arrangements to meet people at the “appointed hour” … The presumption of changing things at the last moment in this case, however, had been projected onto me via the silence. He must have assumed when I did not answer his 5:30pm email that I was not going to show up after all, at 6:00pm, as planned. Yet, “There I was …”
[…]
Dinner was taken at around 9:00pm at Tempio di Mecenate on Largo Leopardi. I presume the street was named for Giacomo Leopardi, the great poet. The bill was 29.00 EUR, including “Servizio” of 1.50 EUR, a modest “table charge” compared to Venice. I had Tonno ai ferri, Spinaci, and ½ liter of Vino Rosso Casa, plus “complimentary” bread. It was a total indulgence for a would-be Franciscan … I justified it by telling myself I had “earned” it, and that it would help me sleep.
May 22, 2023
[…]
ASSISI
I reached the dining terrace at Roma Termini on Tuesday, May 23, at 12:22pm, roughly two hours before my two-hour, 182-kilometer-long journey to Assisi would begin. I wound through the streets, broken, litter-strewn, muddied and cobbled. Along the way I saw a middle-aged woman sleeping on the sidewalk, leaning against a building. I dropped a two-euro coin in her cup and she did not bat an eye. She was fast asleep, off in dreamland, and hopefully somewhere else, even beautiful. I had lingered at Domus Helena well past check-out time, i.e., 10:00am, working last email and backing up working documents to a flash drive. I worked from their “TV room.” They had given me permission to hang there until I needed to head to the train. I had sent out a preliminary report on Rome the night before and a few comments had been returned. “N” wrote “Lucky man” again and then added that she would write to “JD” to thank him for meeting with me at Saint Isidore’s. They knew each other from “wherever” and “whenever” … I then told her about the project to re-open the library at the Church of the Annunciation, the Franciscan redoubt in Ljubljana, and how SAZU could help with cataloguing the collection in COBISS, the Slovene national library database. “JD” had told me about this in the context of the dereliction of duty by the Slovene authorities, which he considered socialist. The project required funding, and thus far they had found very little or none. It all dovetailed with our earlier conversation in the drive of Saint Isidore’s about the funding of scholarship and capitalist exploitation of academia. We had discussed patronage as one possible way out of this stalemate — but, also, that most patrons were/are capitalists — “then” (in the Renaissance) and “now” (in the ever-deferred next Renaissance).
[…]
The café/bar I chose at Roma Termini’s dining terrace was appropriately called Antica Focacceria San Francesco. I had spied it shortly after exiting the escalator to Terrazza Termin, as the second level was called. The terminal was cavernous and raucous. A glass of white wine and a bottle of Cottorella water (0.5 liters) cost 6.50 EUR. Anywhere else it would have cost twice that — e.g., London or New York. I had two hours to nurse both, inclusive of stepping outside to smoke. The tobacco I had bought in London costing 25.00 GBP cost 7.50 EUR in Rome. In the USSA, it was close to 20.00 USD depending on where you bought it. Clearly the UK was so broken since Brexit that they had no way to pay the piper than to punish citizens with the high cost of everything. That certainly included transit as proven by my costly few days there, after NW Wales. The apparatuses of Big Capital in collusion with the State were circling the landscape looking for last-ditch resources to mine and exploit. Depending on country, that included the working class and anyone else who may prove easy prey. In the case of academia, of course, it was a global operation, and now I actually had proof that the Franciscans were being milked for tribute, in the form of poorly compensated labor, to feed their centuries-old tradition back into the machinery of the so-called knowledge commons.
[…]
The train to Assisi came up on the departures’ board (Regionale Veloce 4730) and there was a mad rush to Platform 1 East. The entry to the platform was closed and a long detour through an underpass and a very long march to the far southeast end of the station was required. The train awaited us as we streamed in the direction of the platform, weaving in and out of obstructions along the way. Departing promptly at 2:28pm, any stragglers would surely have been left behind. Its ultimate destination unknown to me, it dropped “locals” at various stops along the way to Assisi. Inaudible announcements on the PA system made it necessary to spot signs on the platforms as we approached each station. I checked with two Italian twenty-somethings across the aisle from my seat to make sure there was only one stop in Assisi. I then simply watched the time go by on my cellphone to be ready to jump off the train at Assisi. Assuming quite a few others would as well, I moved toward the front of the train as 4:28pm closed in. We zipped through tunnel after tunnel as we reached the hills and dales, lovely forested and sparsely populated countryside. Speeding through the tunnels created an ear-popping vacuum and the train creaked and swayed.
[…]
Well into the Umbrian Hills, we finally reached Assisi. I stood on the platform for a while, after everyone else vanished into and through that station, smoking and staring at the hill-town of Assisi from a distance of a few kilometers. It rose into the landscape like a mirage with the Basilica di San Francesco clearly its crowning glory. I did not feel compelled to rush to Domus Madonna delle Rose, where I would spend the night. Instead, I took a bus for 1.50 EUR to the edge of the city (Porta S. Pietro) and hiked up into the first inner streets looking for a map to buy. Having found one, and dawdling to open and examine it, I spied a small hotel called Minerva Assisi at Piazzetta R. Bonghi. I was already collecting cards and reconnaissance for Wednesday and Thursday night. (I had also done this on my walk to the train station that morning, in Rome, collecting cards and making intermittent inquiries to scope out the chance of returning to Rome for the conference. Many hotels simply had a sign posted saying “Full.” Others that I would ask about were either full or grotesquely overpriced for a three-star hotel. None in that neighborhood (i.e., Esquilino) were luxurious in any sense. In one case the room rate was 300.00 EUR a night, if they had a room to spare. Few offered single rooms anyway, and any fool willing to stay would end up paying for a double. Domus Helena looked better and better as I went window shopping.)
[…]
Then the damn burst in Assisi. While collecting the card at Minerva Assisi, and asking the woman attending the check-in desk if she knew where Domus Madonna delle Rose was, I decided to ask about rooms. “Yes,” she said. “Single or double?” “Single,” I answered. “I have one available,” she announced. “It is 50.00 EUR a night,” she added. Stunned, I booked it and then booked for the bus station to catch a cab to Domus Madonna delle Rose, which the Madonna of Minerva Assisi had found by hunting around online on my behalf. It was outside the city center. The cab cost 15.00 EUR. It seemed wise to close up my “arrival” promptly. It was getting late. I thus checked into a second Franciscan Guest House, this one only 70.00 EUR a night. But I was taken by the Madonna(s) who had opened the door to Assisi for me — i.e., Minerva plus Madonna delle Rose.
[…]
When I opened the shutters in Room 21 at Madonna delle Rose, there was the “citadel” looking back at me. I wept briefly, overwhelmed by its beauty from afar. (At the check-in desk before collecting the key for Room 21, Saint Francis was also weeping. An image on the wall showed him in tears, wiping his eyes with a handkerchief.) I would relocate “there” (to the “citadel”) the next day, but only after visiting the Portiuncula, Francis’ homebase, which is now actually buried inside of the Basilica di Santa Maria degli Angeli, a stone’s throw from Domus Madonna delle Rose. The Madonna of Hotel Minerva Assisi had actually recommended it …
[…]
Having checked in at Domus Madonna delle Rose, I took a shower, attempted to use the wi-fi, to no avail, and decided to walk the short distance into the village of Santa Maria degli Angeli and have something to eat. I checked every establishment along the main thoroughfare and chose the modest Caffè Biagetti dal 1860 at Piazza Garibaldi. A thunderstorm broke out while I was there. The sky since my arrival looked as if it was straight out of an El Greco painting — i.e., dark but luminous. As I stepped outside Madonna delle Rose to wander into town, I noted a busload of friars had just disembarked and were standing in a disorderly queue waiting to check in for the night. Were these the “44 friars” that had haunted me since Venice? The bus was from Croatia, no less. Where they were going or where they had been was anyone’s guess. Or, perhaps they too had reached their destination. They were mostly young or young-ish. It almost seemed a message of the kind that wished to state our preconceptions of monks being old and worn out, with the various orders slowly dying off, was a lot of nonsense. The mix of fairly dark-grey and brown-ish habits suggested they were from different orders.
Later that night, after returning from Caffè Biagetti dal 1860, at about 10:00pm, I went outside of the Franciscan Guest House for a last smoke and noted that the sky had finally cleared. A crescent moon was dancing with Venus once again. A circle had been closed. Its last dance with Venus had occurred one month ago, when I was in Ljubljana. The Moon was now at about 12 degrees Cancer, and Venus was now at about 16 degrees Cancer, with four degrees being close enough to call it a conjunction. My arrival in Assisi coincided with numerous sigils, most of which I was still working on regarding their significance. One thing seemed quite clear though. Rome was most likely behind me now — for now. I could not fathom how I would make it back for my Thursday conference session unless a miracle occurred. As much as I thought I might like to at least drop in, there was no clear way forward regarding accommodations. If Domus Helena pulled a rabbit out of their hat and had a cancellation, I might consider it. They had agreed to contact me if this occurred. I now had roughly 24 hours to work out a solution for returning to Rome or charting a new path. The new path seemed metaphor as much as itinerary. Something was at work that I could not see. I felt no compulsion regarding the academic danse macabre any longer. It was fading. I would stay engaged, if it worked. But I had no interest in struggling with it any longer.
May 23, 2023
[…]
The morning of Wednesday, the 24th, after rising with the sun, I took breakfast with 18 friars — two tables of nine. I did not sit with them because the protocol was that you sat where your room number was displayed. Mine (Room 21) was missing, so the young nun tending the breakfast bar went to fetch it and placed it at a table where my back was to the two tables with 18 friars. They were from a monastery in Bosnia Herzegovina. And they were all Franciscans. I had spoken with one of them, a young-ish Croatian, on the smoking terrace just outside the entryway to the Guest House. He was also smoking. After breakfast, I returned to the smoking terrace and there were several others smoking and waiting to board their bus. Most of them also had cellphones in their hands. They were on a tour of sites associated with the “legend of Saint Francis.” Two or three elders were in charge of the troupe. I would guess the majority of the young friars were thirty-ish …
[…]
THE BASILICA
Look within = Love
Look up = The Highest
Look beyond = Life
Thus began my conversation with Francis at the Saint Michael Chapel at the Basilica of San Francesco …
I had moved from Madonna delle Rose to Hotel Minerva Assisi on the afternoon of Wednesday, May 24, after visiting Santa Maria degli Angeli. Checking in, I headed for the Basilica, which was just up the way along Via Frate Elia, which I assumed referred to Brother Elias, who had been thrown out of the early order for making deals with Mammon.
I paused in the Piazza Inferiore di San Francesco, mostly to gaze at the Basilica and to let a tour group pass by. I would be dodging them for the next several hours. I entered the church and was disoriented, having studied it in plans and drawings, and in images in libraries. I finally realized I was in the Lower Church and followed the “signs” to the Upper Church. Along the way I saw the entrance to the tomb of Saint Francis. I let it pass, for “the time being,” as I went looking for the way upward — to the Upper Church, where I wished to confirm the various intuitions I had during my library-based, telepathic visit in late 2022. Entering the Upper Church through the Apostles’ wing of the transept, I saw the Saint Michael altar and a massive tour blocking access. I waited, and they left. A few stragglers remained, perhaps not part of the tour and also waiting for a moment of solitude before Cimabue’s great (deteriorating) frescoes. Damning any possible judgment by these unknown soldiers, I knelt at the altar of Saint Michael, the Archangel privileged by Francis and the Franciscans, and went through the three-step meditation I had developed when making the telepathic visit in late 2022 …
Kneel with me, and look within
Kneel with me, and look up
Kneel with me, and look beyond
[…]
I headed for the tomb, ignoring the rest of the Upper Basilica … The art-historical nightmare of the “Legend of St. Francis” by Not-Giotto did not interest me, even though I did glance at it from a distance. Entering the subterranean neo-Romanesque crypt through the Lower Church, I tiptoed along the pavement in totemic file with the stream of tourist/pilgrims. I then stepped out, by sitting down on a small pew just before the tomb proper. Everyone else just kept going. I observed. They circled the tomb and wandered out. Some stopped and placed their hands on the outer stones, heads bowed. I took out my notebook and began to record an imaginary “poem” from Francis.
I speak through the stones
In words as whorls and worlds.
I rest in calm, unagitated
By wind, waves, or wandering.
What was has always passed
Into places beyond stones or wood.
What will be is the wildest dream,
The question and answer as One.
Life turns on the slimmest chance
Into an immeasurable quest.
The heart rises with moon and stars,
And clouds drift over inner seas.
He was, after all, a Romantic and a troubadour. It was only the Church that made him a saint.
[…]
As I was writing this poem, a rope was suddenly affixed at the head of the small chapel and a service began. The stream of tourist-pilgrims was halted. Plain song was countered with various exhortations. We stood, sat, stood, sat. I then noticed something very peculiar. I saw faces in the reddish paving stones of the underground chapel. The first was a full-frontal portrait, blond with downcast eyes. Male or female. Leonardo’s Christ. The young, blonde Francis of various portraits. Two other faces then appeared, in profile, whispering (lips pursed, eyes alive or aflame with sorrowful or pensive intention and beauty). The short service ended and the pilgrim/tourist stream recommenced, stepping on the faces in the reddish paving stones. I waited for a chance to enter the fray, to circle the tomb, nod “Hello,” and exit. I suppose I, too, might step on a face or two that I would not be able to detect in time. It would be all but impossible to leave, stepping only on the white paving stones …
I circled the tomb, speaking within to “Francesco,” asking him how he dealt with the spectacle. He was resigned to it. There was no point in objecting. I did manage to exit without stepping on any red stones. I am sure that anyone just behind me witnessed my amusing and mannered dance. Perhaps it made sense to them, in some bizarre but inexplicable way. And perhaps it made the bones of “Francesco” dance with delight inside of his crypt …
[…]
In the Lower Church I spied a fresco of the six-winged seraph of Mount Alverno. Instead of holding a cross, he was holding a heart. I studied it from different angles and then took out my cellphone to take a picture. A young man passing by waved his finger in the air and said, “No photos. Not allowed.” It was slightly amusing, given I had just taken a series in the Saint Michael chapel in the Upper Church, waiting patiently for a tour to disperse. I ignored the Not-Giotto cycle in the Upper Church nave, the so-called “Legend of Saint Francis.” It still struck me as absurd that these frescoes were attributed to Giotto.
While wandering out of the Basilica via the Lower Church, I asked Francesco if I should return to Rome. I think he said “Yes,” but could not be sure. I was almost out of earshot … I exited the Basilica and noted a restaurant and bar on Via San Francesco. It was called Bar San Francesco, of course. Next door was a three-star hotel named Hotel San Francesco. I ordered a glass of white wine for 4.50 EUR. It came with a large glass dish of peanuts. It would suffice for lunch. It was just after 1:00pm. I would need to go back to Hotel Minerva to attempt a booking for a room in Rome, if I was to go to Rome in the morning. I had checked trains, and there was a 7:00am departure to Rome that could work, if I managed to finesse a hotel.
May 24, 2023
[…]
Something strange then happened. I recalled that Delta had sent me a promotional email for travel, with links through Expedia to hotels — “deals,” plus “points.” I returned to Minerva to see what might be possible in Rome via Delta. Upon entering city, date, etc., up popped Domus Helena, and for a reduced rate … Was it for real? They were supposedly full … The only way to know was to book it. I entered all details, including Amex card, and hit “submit.” Success. Maybe. I had been charged in advance and the reservation indicated that there was no reason to confirm the booking. Really? I promptly wrote to “D” at Domus Helena to ask her if the booking was for real. She promptly answered “Yes,” and explained that they had had some cancellations at the last minute. Voila! Thank you, Saint Michael, if it was You. Problem solved, I headed by bus to the train station to acquire a ticket for the 7:03am train to Rome the next morning.
[…]
THE CONFERENCE
I returned to Rome on the morning of May 25, a Thursday. I lucked out and ended up on the Intercity line, which took only two hours. At Roma Termini, at 9:00am, I headed for Domus Helena to drop off my luggage. On the train I had a reserved seat in Carriage 7, with a small “workstation,” one of those shared, narrow plastic trays that serve as “desk” for passengers. I worked via laptop on my voice-over for my afternoon workshop presentation. At Domus Helena, I inquired about the possibility of printing it out. The kind woman at reception gave it a try, but her computer was not connected to the printer. There were IT problems, she said. No worries, I said. I could always read it from my laptop, though I would not be able to wander around while doing so, which is my preferred modus operandi. I had no illusions about stepping into the projection of the two videos I would show because in almost all cases in lecture halls the projector is mounted on the ceiling. What I did wish to do was superimpose word-based visual media over the spoken word, or vice versa. I would have to make it up on the spot, though all media was more or less in hand.
As I was about to leave Domus Helena an email message came in from “RK”, the workshop head. He had printed it out for me. I had sent a working copy to him the night before, as back-up plan. That plan involved “AP-M” doing the voice-over on my behalf, should I not make it to Rome. Both “RK” and “AP-M” had links to the two videos as well. My performance could be done in my absence — a great irony that in no way worried me. One way or another it would “take place” … (How naïve this idea was would only become apparent later, when I actually tried to pull off the performance on my own …)
[…]
It did “take place,” in the afternoon sessions … I slipped into the gigantic Antonianum in the late morning, checked in to collect the program and a name tag, and made my way to the morning session for my workshop already underway. I listened to two or three presentations, slipped outside to smoke during a short break, and listened to a few more presentations before the scheduled performance of “Real Law” by “AP-M” in the auditorium of the Antonianum. During one of the less-comprehensible, morning-session presentations, actually delivered in Italian, with two gentlemen acting as translators, I took out my notebook and prepared a “map” of my afternoon presentation.
Dedication to “IJ”
Introduction of PhD project, Franciscanism and “No Rights”
Comments on Paul de Man’s “Intentional Structure of the Romantic Image” and Hölderlin’s concept of “origination”
Video One — Red Birds, 13:33
Video Two — Venusian (Non-)quest, 07:11
Voice-over — Rome-Assisi
May 25, 2023
[…]
After the performance of “Real Law,” I headed to lunch. At lunch, held in the upper corridors of the Antonianum, I ran into two members of the Critical Legal Theory network I had danced with previously; one from Australia, and one from Scotland. We exchanged pleasantries. I saw “AP-M” arrive and went over to greet him. He was exhausted from the performance in the auditorium. He mentioned all of the technical glitches, most of which we (the audience) probably missed, as the staging was so complex that any of the glitches could have been mistaken for part of the theatrical chaos of the presentation. I told him I was going to change his name to Mephistopheles. His performance had been a total take-down of the entire Critical Legal Theory juggernaut; the self-importance and narcissism, the language games, the fact that Law was more or less utterly Kafka-esque, and the unrelenting punishment endured by anyone engaging in a critique of Law.
[…]
Lunch ended and I went looking for Aula 3, the room for our session. I could not find it. I had to ask several people where it was. Eventually I was escorted there by one of the several people enlisted to help with the technical side of running the conference proceedings — i.e., the “staff” of this particular circus.
My session was one of those classic moments courtesy of academic conferences where the room and the IT (computer, projector, screen, sound system) was not “up to it.” Upon entering the room, I noted a PPT presentation queued up that resembled my own — i.e., a black background with red text and images, montage style. The text was illegible due to too much light entering the small classroom through floor-to-ceiling windows with diaphanous curtains. I mentioned it to “RK”, nominal head of the workshop, and he shrugged it off saying, “You’ll have to read over the slides.” Huh? I stepped out of the room to look for help and saw a solitary Franciscan monk sitting in an anteroom. I asked him if he knew what we might do and, without hesitation, he entered the room, fished around for a hidden cord that controlled hidden inner blinds, and solved the problem no-one else seemed to think important. I thanked him and said, “Hail, Francis.” “RK” shrugged. He was obviously already worn out from two days of this non-sense — plus shepherding his squad (“us”). Yet, most likely his responsibilities had earned him a “free” junket to Rome from the USSA, where he taught. The conference was taking in something like 34,000.00 EUR. Two hundred conferees had paid 170.00 EUR per head, and now “this” …
[…]
The presentations launched — i.e., a mix of au courant reports on migration, legal lexicons, and various “turns” toward identarian politics. It was all very PC. My turn arrived and I cut to the chase. I opened with a few remarks on why I was appropriating Franciscanism to demolish IPR, dedicated the presentation to “IJ”, and then screened the video, “Venusian (Non-)quest.” I had dropped the idea of screening “Red Birds” when the video file failed to open on the computer, even though it was an MP4 file and VLC was present to facilitate showing it. The video otherwise known as “Venusian (Non-)quest” was a seven-minute, eleven-second summary of the agonies of academia. “IJ” had made it from our collective archive — the OOI-MTA archive built across the years 2017–2022. (Strangely, “Venusian (Non-)quest” was also an MP4 file but did “open.” Perhaps “Red Birds” was not meant to be screened.) I then read the report on my visit to Saint Isidore’s in Rome, from three days earlier, to illustrate how problematic my position was vis-à-vis my (un)timely appropriation of Franciscanism. I closed by saying, “And then I went to Assisi … But I will not bore you with that.”
The presentation mapped earlier that morning, thus now looked like this:
Dedication to “IJ”
Introduction of PhD project, Franciscanism and “No Rights”
Video — Venusian (Non-)quest, 07:11
Reading — Rome
The voice-over had become a stand-alone “reading” — read against a blue image of the computer’s desktop — after the video, instead of atop the video. I thought it somewhat appropriate, given the meltdown of technical means to ends. It all transpired without a drop of anxiety, which I only noted upon reflection later. I had simply carried out the minimal requirements to introduce the project. My tone had been earnest but defiant. The Introduction included reading out loud a short passage from the PhD thesis and/or book manuscript on why IPR resembles slavery, and why the rites of passage for the abolition of IPR resemble the rites of passage for the abolition of slavery and serfdom in the nineteenth century. (At the moment it was my favorite provocation to both alarm and startle otherwise disengaged interlocutors.)
Questions followed, none of much value, other than that they gave me a chance to introduce the two “poignant” aphorisms now attached to the W4W2 project.
1/ “Walk away from illness.”
2/ “Pick up thy bed and walk.”
A mini-argument/debate then broke out about IPR and AI. It was another PC moment. AI was the new cool thing. We then labored on through two or three more presentations to finish at about 6:30pm. To be polite, I sat through all of them even though I wished to leave. “RK” gave a lovely conversational summary (actually a soliloquy of a Shakespearean type, as from Hamlet) on his work on Critical Race Theory — i.e., defending it against right-wing American take-downs. Aye! “Once more into the breech …”
The workshop finally ended and I headed back to Domus Helena to check-in and take a shower. I actually staggered away (“homeward”) and got somewhat lost in the side streets, before resorting to my map. I was exhausted, but the academic box had been ticked. The conference was never the real reason for traveling to Rome. Assisi was the real reason for traveling to Rome, plus Saint Isidore’s. And I had more or less delivered my message to academia on behalf of “Francis and Saint Michael” — or so I told myself.
Having had no real conversations with anyone at the conference, I then sat on the smoking balcony at Domus Helena and invented some in my head. The key issue almost discussed was why it was all-but-impossible to escape the capitalist dictates of academia other than through pseudo-critique and PC operativity on behalf of the mechanisms of power that sustained and permitted both due to the fact that pseudo-critique and PC operativity had no real agency. A subtext, never engaged, was why only PC issues held sway and just why they were supposedly au courant. It all seemed to indicate that to do anything truly “useless” and “wayward” did, indeed, require walking away from illness — e.g., walking away from academia. I defended my position to myself. I was truly only arguing with myself. My criticism of the conference and of academia were criticisms of myself — of my continued engagement when it seemed a “lost cause.” I was aware as well that I had left Ljubljana “as if” I was quite possibly walking away from the PhD, just before its closure in September. I still had no clue if that was actually the case, given that I had opted for an executive decision to travel to Rome versus stay in Ljubljana and pay another round of tuition, plus run out of Schengen days and be effectively trapped there waiting for a student visa that might never arrive. That decision was yet to produce any known results. Whether I was “excommunicated” or not would depend on ZRC-SAZU and — to a certain degree — Fate and Grace. ZRC-SAZU was silent. Yet Fate and Grace had spoken quite clearly and quite resoundingly in their dual agency across the mystery tour of Rome and Assisi.
May 26, 2023
[…]
CHAOS IN THE UK
I returned to London from Rome on Friday, May 26, skipping the rest of the conference. It was “chaos in the UK” again. The train connections to Victoria Station from Gatwick Airport required sorting out options via the Southern Line or Gatwick Express, queueing up with other confused travelers, asking attendants which line would work with Oyster (the so-called Tube card I used for most London travel on buses and subway), buying a top-up at one of the two or so ticket machines that took cash (if they were working), and dashing to catch the train before it departed and left us all on the platform staring at the arrivals’/departures’ screen. I caught the Southern Line train I had my eye on and arrived at Victoria, semi-victorious. Inaudible and multiple messages on the PA system in the stations and on the train permitted no respite for non-Londoners. Of course, everyone else had their cellphones in hand to catch alerts and to entertain themselves during the trip into Victoria. At Victoria, I switched to the Victoria Line, hopped off at Green Park, caught the Jubilee Line to Bond Street, negotiated the huge underground labyrinth to the Elizabeth Line, and then was whisked to West Ealing via Paddington Station without further incident. The several routes of the Elizabeth Line required paying close attention to the arrivals’/departures’ screen on the platform at Bond Street. The Elizabeth Line passed through or stopped at Paddington — “through” meaning on to Heathrow, “stopped” meaning terminated, or such. As long as you read the “signs” (visible and invisible), you might actually make your destination, albeit with “serious delays” … Conferring with fellow travelers had also helped in several instances in the past week — in London, in Rome, and in Assisi.
Exiting the Elizabeth Line at West Ealing, I noted a sign stating that a transit strike was due on Wednesday, May 31st, the day of my scheduled departure to New York from Heathrow. Further reconnaissance would be in order — later …
I was now more or less resolved to return to the USSA on May 31st to escape both the EU and the UK. I had six Schengen days left, if I had calculated properly, and could probably have ducked back inside the EU via Ljubljana, but I did not feel comfortable doing so. I would be back inside what appeared to me as a form of “limbo” once the six days ran out. I had traveled to London from Ljubljana to escape academia, only to return to academia via the Rome conference. And I had traveled from Rome to London, to escape academia, after the Rome conference. Why would I run back to Ljubljana and re-embed myself in “all of that” just now? I was “on the run” … Or so it seemed (felt). Where I would finally catch my breath was an open question. Rural NW Wales had given me a short respite, after Ljubljana, and before Rome. Perhaps rural NW Massachusetts would provide the next respite … In the back of my mind, and after several glimpses of something I still did not yet fully comprehend or understand, was a plan to begin the “true” escape from academia — i.e., to wrap up the thesis, if I was still a student, and if I could manage the last rounds of tuition and get to and through the submission and defense of the thesis in late 2023. The alternative was to let it all go and simply “walk away from illness” … I was awaiting some sort of signal from both ZRC-SAZU and Upravna enota. On the morning of May 28, I had received a message from “dreamland,” one of those visual cues that often make sense only through the auspices of inner confusion and anxiety. I had “seen” a message (an email) in my sleep that stated, “Your visa is ready …” I could only hope that it was a premonition or message from the wild blue yonder, versus an example of simple, pre-conscious and wistful “wishfulness” … The escape plan also now included the intention to return to the USSA to set up an LLC — a literary agency for literary-artistic scholarship. It continued to haunt me, insofar as it seemed a valid way to formalize everything already underway. It also struck me as highly appropriate, given everything I had endured and everything that might arrive out of everything I had endured.
On the morning of May 29, I also suddenly decided on a working name for the LLC. The name dropped out of the blue sky of London … I would name the literary agency “X” Group — if the name had not already been eaten by a robotic octopus squid in order to then sell it to someone who actually wanted to use it. And I would only undertake it collectively. Perhaps “X” Groupe would be better — and less likely to have been gobbled up by the octopus squid? Or, that would be the intention. Far from enforcing the “No Rights” status for works of literary-artistic scholarship, I would offer that status to authors and see where it led. They could still revert to copyright and the scholarly academic presses, if they chose to. What I proposed to myself to do was shepherd them through the waxworks, serving as guide and editor, for books and articles. I had been doing it since 2007 anyway, off and on. Thus “X” Group. Agence “X” had, after all, been established in New York, in 2007, for just that purpose. At the time, however, it had been formulated as an artists’ and architects’ re-representation bureau. It had worked, off and on, as both advisory and as service bureau — i.e., with both pro-bono and paid services provided. The next step had perhaps arrived. Yet, hidden in the shadows of this vision was another plan. That involved setting it all up in the USSA and then taking it back to Slovenia … Returning there under other auspices was the primary agenda. Lodging the LLC in Ljubljana would also, possibly, give me the means to stay in Ljubljana without feeling stranded there.
I decided to send “JŠ-R” a report on Rome-Assisi, and to inquire if I was still “her student” at ZRC-SAZU. It seemed to be time to find out … I also went down to the West Ealing train station to inquire about travel to Heathrow on Wednesday. The kind attendant there gave me a run-down on options. It was Great Western Railway (GWR) that would be on strike, not the public transport. He outlined two escape routes for me: 1/ The Elizabeth Line to Heathrow; and 2/ A bus and subway route (via Northfields Tube station) to Heathrow. The latter was a fallback plan, should something go haywire with the Elizabeth Line, which he indicated should be running as normal. He told me he actually took it to work — i.e., where he now stood explaining to me the options. “Normal” was, however, relative to “chaos in the UK,” and the penchant for disruption to lines at the last minute, otherwise known as “serious delays.” I could, perhaps, escape the UK after all, as planned. I would also remain on high alert, and head for the airport early enough on Wednesday to accommodate Plan A or Plan B. Perhaps I would also look into a possible Plan C …
May 29, 2023
[…]
