This week I'm being asked, along with some 5 thousand other employees at Roskilde University to fill in a questionnaire regarding conduit, and atmosphere at work. I fill in the blanks, and all is well. That is, until I get to a series of questions inquiring: does the president, or the head of department, keep anything secret from his employees? Do the employees keep anything secret from each other and the leadership? Does anybody keep any secrets from anybody? I'm gaping. The only reaction to such questions is to gape, precisely. You cannot answer either yes, or no. If things are kept secret, there's no way in which anybody would know about it. This is logic 101. On a more sophisticated level, however, in poststructuralist parlance, or to be more precise about it, in Jacques Derrida's words, a secret must be told, not revealed. So for a brief moment, it occurs to me that whoever drafted the questionnaire must have made the subtle assumption that if the leadership or the employees keep secrets, they must also make sure to tell the rest about it, as if to say, 'we have a secret to keep, and we let you know about it, because it gives us power.' On second thought, it also occurs to me that this already involves too much thinking, so I conclude that the drafter is daunted by deconstruction. It's more likely that what's at stake here is psychology 101. What the person really wants to ask, is, do you keep any secrets? The only problem with this question is that it's bound to fall outside anybody's interest - at least on a large scale. So I conclude again that for the 'questioneer' the secret series of questions doesn't have to do with potentially interesting answers, but with confirming that people correspond to types. Thus people's answers are anticipated to reveal nothing new. They are anticipated to reveal something old. Or something that has just been learned and that has a general character. This old banality is then passed off as new information. And lo and behold, we appreciate the effort.This is no different than TV programs about so-called life-style experts who follow in the footsteps of a person whose identity is kept secret until the end of the program. The spiel is to reveal, by reading clues about the secret person's life (often by looking into his or her fridge or bedroom), what type he or she belongs to. I like the irony of these programs, an irony which is however lost on the ones involved in making them. The secret person is supposed to be interesting, but in the end is usually not. If the person turns out to be more interesting than anticipated, it always comes as a surprise. This is not very gratifying to the ones that are supposed to know types and what makes them. In other words, it's very how annoying whenever the banal is transcended. The success of the program is not contingent on discovering the underlying tone of a type, as a different tone would not be in tune with the typical lot. The greatest irony is thus that the experts pass off most expertly as experts at the moment when they show least expertise, by delivering the most rehearsed clichés. We are meant to gape and be amazed at their conclusion arrived at through clever deduction when they decide, for instance - and quite rightly at that as everybody already knows - that in the Danish context, most often than not, those interested in neatness, especially where gardens are concerned, vote with the fascists. I'm thinking of sending a couple of letters, both to the Danish television and journalists, experts in questionnaires, with a note that entices them to change the tune, typify less, and intone to Robert Frost's poem: "We dance round in a ring and suppose, but the Secret sits in the middle and knows".
Two consecutive days this week people have called me a magnet. The first occurrence was when I had summoned, on short notice, two high ranking male compatriots for coffee in Copenhagen. Since the two men had tried unsuccessfully to see each other on previous occasions for a similarly trivial activity, such as drinking coffee without having an agenda, they concluded that it must take a magnet materialized as a woman to facilitate such reciprocal encounters. I took it as a compliment without thinking that other things than magnets have a way of attracting things (just think of flies). The second occurrence happened while eating my lunch at the University's cafeteria. The place, which can seat approximately 150 people, was absolutely packed, so I took one of the few available seats left, somewhere in the back. I said hello to my right, and ignored the empty seat next to me on my left. Not for long though... Five minutes into my stuffed peppers a woman sits down. I let her get comfortable before I turn to also acknowledge her presence. Unlike many these days, I still believe in courtesy. I discover that it's another Romanian who lives in another city and whom I haven't seen in a year. While I'm certainly surprised, she is freaked; and since she can't account in rational terms for the bizarre coincidence, she decides that it's because I exert magnetic powers. As I am pondering to what extent the theory of magnetism is interesting where I am concerned, a Canadian joins us. My friend and I disclose after two seconds that we come from the same country. This information, we think, could not garner anything but normal reactions, yet, as it turns out this is not the case. So after surprise and freakish bewilderment there is space for astonishment. The Canadian just says firmly: no! That can't be possible because we look nothing like each other. Oh, I ask, where would you say I come from? Chile, she replies. Definitely Chile. I look so Latin, she insists. My friend gives me a sideways glance. The Romanians were Latin, last time she checked. After another round of interrogation I feel compelled to come up with something that will satisfy her curiosity. I disclose that I'm Jewish. Ah, says the Canadian, that explains it. I give my friend a sideways glance. The Jews were not Latin, last I checked. And so it goes. Being a foreigner in a foreign country can be both liberating and frustrating. To this day, to the Danes in Denmark, I'm definitely Spanish. To the Arabs in Denmark, I'm definitely from the Middle East. To the Romanians in Denmark, I'm often either a Gypsy (though this suspicion doesn't get to be articulated loudly) or a Hungarian. Or an aristocratic intellectual whose mother wrote on Marx (in the Romanian context you can get a long way with exhibiting mannerisms or expressing opinions). I liked it the best though when I was living in New York for a short while. There I could pass for all these ethnicities at once. The most wonderful ethnic moment I experienced there came one day when a couple stopped me in the street and asked if they could take a picture of me. They so wanted to capture a real New Yorker, they claimed. I said yes, of course. At least it saved me the trouble of having to fix other people's relatively negative image of Romania. Or having to tell them that, yes, while I may come from Transylvania, no, I have never met Dracula. In my first years in Denmark, I used to tell people that I came from New Zealand. I would usually get the desired exclamations: oh, wow, that's interesting, followed by no further questions. Certain places, it helps to say that you come from a country that conjures no concrete images in people's heads. Better yet, introduce yourself, or just say your name on the phone to people who try to sell you something. They'll probably ask you whether your father is at home, and whether you can go and fetch him, so that they can sell him something. I always say yes and pass the phone over to my husband to handle the subsequent swearing. Accented voices separated from a face may just be the next mask we can wear at the carnival of othering the Other.
One of my favourite Indian sayings is this one: "when the pupil is ready, the master will appear". I like the idea that the guru won't just drop in, but will appear. In biblical contexts, the notion of appearance has to do with seeing at a distance; it is mystical and it has the flavour of a secret about to be revealed. From afar, one is bound to see unclearly. But one sees, nonetheless. So the anticipation of what comes while seeing it coming is great. The combination of non-materialized feeling with the visual contributes to a state which allows both for guessing, and also for theorizing. Taken apart, in theory, guessing is redundant and not taken seriously. In guessing, there is no need for theory. It occurs to me that if we want the two to converge we have to be ready to balance the stretch between readiness and its consequences. Perhaps it is the convergence of readiness with appearance that made particularly masterful playwrights make statements such as Eugene Ionesco's: "You can only predict things after they have happened." My guess is that what the master will say when he will appear is that the conflation of unusual things - unusual only at first (unclear) sight - brings about a decision to relax. So theoretically speaking Antonin Artaud is right in advising: "Don't tire yourself more than need be, even at the price of founding a culture on the fatigue of your bones." It's certainly good to know that we can leave it to the stage to play a role.
I'm watching TV. In the Danish context, that's bad. Especially if you watch bits and pieces that are supposed to enlighten you about this or that. I'm afraid to say that apart from one journalist who does gardening programs - and I hate gardening - everyone else is utterly incompetent. Tonight I'm watching Louise Wolff and Jens Blauenfeldt pose questions to the new, 'made in England' - that is, made by the public - star Poul Potts - who has just flown in straight from London to give a public appearance and sing the number that catapulted him to fame in the context of the English equivalent to the American Idol, Brits Got Talent. Louise is excruciatingly bad, going from one totally insignificant question to the next. After the cliché question: "what does it feel like when you see him, that is you, on the stage" (in bad English and worse accent), she moves randomly to the next out of context question: "were you mobbed in school?" I would change the channel if only I weren't on the floor doing my regular session of Iyengar yoga before dinner - so I concentrate on that. The event sparks some thoughts apart from sheer indignation at the Danish journalists' stupidity. It occurs to me that it is completely unfair that Potts cashes in on an opera number, while thousands of talented and serious artists in the genre can declare themselves satisfied if they ever get to sing with the Berliner Philharmonisches Orchester as a consequence of winning a major competition that pays nothing compared to what Potts has just earned. Potts's newly found luck is due to the incompetence and ignorance of the jury that let him go ahead in the competition that otherwise caters to the needs of teenagers suffering from the urge to express themselves. Potts is enjoying his 5 minutes of fame and history due to the sentimental tears that were shed by the female member of the jury, when he first sang Nessun Dorma. The first rule of melodrama, cry at the right moment, provides Potts with unbeatable publicity. Never mind the motivation. While Potts has a good voice - at least he stays in tune, which is something 99 percent of pop singers can't do - his technique is far from what it takes to call yourself an opera singer. But this subtle difference between voice and skill escapes the British judges. I suspect that what hits them as unusual, and therefore ensnaring is this fact nr 1 (voice in tune) along with fact nr 2: opera is capable of something pop music will never achieve. So Potts wins, because the judges are incompetent and the public has no critical sense. This perpetuation, if not of stupidity, then of mediocrity, can be seen in the Danish context, when at a national level, we are made to feel the excitement of our televised encounter with Potts in the same way that the two interviewed old ladies in their 60s experience it while waiting for Potts to materialize in the flesh (and less voice as it turned out, alas). Where audiences are concerned, we all want to express ourselves in one way or another - this is part of our realization that life is short - but while some are satisfied with looking at the cake, others want to eat it too. Looking at the cake is however easy, as it involves no effort, while eating the cake involves training the palate so that you can taste different flavours. It would be good for gate keepers, such as judges in competitions, journalists, and the uneducated public to start listening to Pavarotti's Nessun Dorma, Mario del Monaco's Nessun Dorma, or Jussi Björling's Nessun Dorma, so that the rest of us would not fall asleep from boredom and from eating too much air. One has to remember that in music in general, and opera in particular 'seeing and then believing' goes first through the stomach and then the ears. Meanwhile, I hereby dis-kvellify the gushing hoi polloi.
My summer vacation ended with an evening with my sister and her husband who were visiting from Romania. To make up for the regret of having left our favourite holidaying spot in Norway, we were watching The Life of Brian... again. I have as yet to meet somebody who can laugh like my sister. Every time, and time again. And that in spite of the fact that her proficiency in understanding Monty Python's English is somewhat limited. This prompted a reaction from my husband, who was trying to figure out what my sister, Mana, was laughing at exactly. This went for Mana's husband too, only the reason why he was wondering had to do with the movie itself, which he didn't think was funny. His loss. My husband, who is wit incarnated, made a comparison. Said he: there are two types of people who resemble either cats or dogs in their approach to happiness; when the owners of dogs give them something, the dogs don't know what it is, but they want it - when the owners of cats give them something, they don't know what it is, but they don't like it. This is shown in the animals' body language: dogs wag their tails; cats frown. Once that opinion was articulated there was no need to understand Mana's motivation. Although she made sharp observations about the film - she always does - it became clear in our subsequent analysis of it that the genius of The Life of Brian is precisely to illustrate that we religiously follow what we don't understand and that we do that because we either do or don't like it. The film operates with a circuitous style that orbits around our fascination (I don't know what it is) with binary opposites (but I do/don't want/like it). Fascination is Medusa's laugh, and Mana's. Monty Python is the flying mother. 
The first day of every month usually has the privilege to be a deadline. In generic logic that means that as soon as the first of September, for example, hits you, you find yourself on the way to drowning in a stack of papers, most often materialized as notes awaiting eloquent formulations for upcoming conferences. But the notes have to go and meet their maker, so that their maker can meet her deadline. The first, in other words, is a deadly day. Advice to writers who want to make it alive: start with a pun. My conference proposals have just been sent off and they have the following titles: "Crossing and Busting: Transfigurations of Translated Knowledge in Andrei Codrescu and Allen Ginsberg" and "Sesame Undone: Negotiations of Virtual Space in Federman’s blog [the laugh that laughs at the laugh…]". Unless the organizers of the panels for which these paper proposals have been made will drown in e-mails from interesting scholars, there should be a good chance that after the first deadline crossing and after having busted others out of the competition, hopefully, the opening up for a new space for writing will be enabled by the cry sesame! The job is done. The first of September is undone.
