Why do I always end up talking to clinical psychologists at 3:00 AM? Or a better question, why did I end up singing American Pie at top volume with aforesaid psychologist without missing one single word? The answer is simple: there isn’t anything better to do in Cambridge!
I tried to lurk about in the garden and contemplate the question posed by the song (can music save your mortal soul?). My answer: No, because I don’t believe in the concept of a soul. Though a song could save your life, if you let it.
Then I was dragged back into the party, where I exercised my vestigial conversational skills for several hours. I am generally the only civilian at academic parties and last night was no different.
Rachel coaxed me to talk about my career but I resisted for the most part. It amuses me to inform snobbish people who care about status that I am just hanging out.
The psychologist, as they tend to, managed to extract a more complete answer, including a synopsis of Lessons in Taxidermy, and my standard lecture about how horrific tragedy is just another learning opportunity. Or something along those lines – we were drinking champagne, after all!
Then I met this fascinating fellow who studies blood. The title of his book/thesis (these things are never clear to me) is Veins of Devotion, which I think hilarious. The wealth of Williams were present and I chatted with one extensively about how this town is so strange and perverse and riddled with sexual scandals.
Jean and Peter showed up at midnight and at least one of them has figured out that I know some gossip, though I just put my finger on my chin and stared at the ceiling rather than sharing:
The party was a final hurrah for Rachel, who goes back to Canada to be a professor and grownup and whatnot. I know that our friendship will continue, but life here will be substantially different without her particular sort of genius.
Goodbye, Rachel! I’ll miss you!