Week one St. Catherine’s and I’ve signed up for college drama, art committee and rugby. At Oxford I’m up for speaking at the Union and reporting for the weekly Cherwell. Marks on a blank slate.
A dozen of us sit in a circle on sleek leather swivel chairs, designed by Arne Jacobsen to complement his college architecture. Michael suggests an act from TS Eliot’s Family Reunion, with himself as director. “Sure” we say, and I audition for Harry. The character, Michael says, is emotionally taut. I deliver a shrill demented monologue. Clattered in second team rugby, silenced by swagger at the Union. A slow-writing journalist, finding my feet in art-world. Michael admits that directing a play is his gambit to meet girls. “I’d like to show you around our art exhibition we’ve organised with a London gallery” is effective, too. Especially on opening nights. Wine is part of the deal.
trying sunglasses
mirror and girlfriend at odds
who is the right me
“What are you doing here, Mr. Freedman?’
It’s a good question. If “here” is this room, the home study of our Milton tutor, I am here to achieve a pass in Prelims. It’s not because of love for John Milton. I plodded through Paradise Lost and Regained, two ultra-marathons, while lying on Greek island beaches.
If “here” means, Oxford, it is attaining the unattainable, a family first, fuelled by Shakespeare, Shelley, and treasures still to find. If “here” means Planet Earth, I am, for now, at a loss.
I want to ask
“Are you especially drawn to Milton because you’re both blind?
”Do you know the unsettling effect you have on first year students?
”Have you accepted the dying of your light?
”Are you angry at me, at you, at your maker?”
I keep silent.
Those sightless eyes, behind dark, round lenses, see right through me.
here to find
the best me
i hope to be
You brought it all back, Mike. Thank you.