Theophrastes (![[info]](http://p-stat.livejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} pameladean) wrote,@ 2006-09-25 12:59:00 |
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The jumble of recollection -- John M. Ford
For those who just walked into the theater, the very bad news is that John M. Ford has died. I type that and it simply makes no sense. Oddly, or perhaps not so, a lot of my recollections are in the same state. I think that might partly be shock, but mostly it's that Mike was his own footnotes, his own exegesis, his own backdrop. I believe it was said of Richard Feynman's teaching that, while he was explaining things to you, they made sense, but when he left, you were in the dark again. Mike's explanations, like his glorious and multilayered writing, carried their own light, but the more mutable, complex, and delicate levels of his humor and erudition, whether you were looking at the incandescent sun, a fireworks display, some flittering marshlights, or a lightless pit -- all of which he evoked, in many forms, many times -- the more delicate expressions of his nature, as I was saying, needed him to provide the backdrop. I used to fall out of my chair laughing at "Ask Dr. Mike" and be unable to recall it a week later, unless I saw Mike, when it would come back whole.
Only on subjects where I already knew what he was talking about have I whole memories. This is one of my favorites. He and I had made our separate ways by bus to see a performance of Cats Laughing, and had been promised a ride home with Will and Emma if we were willing to go the long way round to drop off the equipment, which was being stored in somebody's basement. We were perfectly willing to carry some of the equipment, too. It was stashed in the back of an ancient and rickety van. The driver told us sternly not to open both back doors, because the one on the right had a dicey hinge, and the door would fall off and be difficult to put back on.
Somebody approached with the obvious intention of opening that door. It was four in the morning. "Don't do that!" I cried. "The hinge will fall off, the hinge will fall off!" This nonsensical utterance did stop the person in question from doing anything while Mike explained the actual situation. I was covered with confusion and very much embarrassed. The only light was a distant street lamp, but I could see Mike's face take on the wicked and delighted expression that preceded a terrible joke. There was always something reminiscent in that expression, too, as if all the past terrible jokes and the ones not yet made were all briefly present in his head. "It's all right," he said. "It was just metonymy. Suspender for the thing suspended."
I laughed so much that I had to sit down in the street.
P.
For those who just walked into the theater, the very bad news is that John M. Ford has died. I type that and it simply makes no sense. Oddly, or perhaps not so, a lot of my recollections are in the same state. I think that might partly be shock, but mostly it's that Mike was his own footnotes, his own exegesis, his own backdrop. I believe it was said of Richard Feynman's teaching that, while he was explaining things to you, they made sense, but when he left, you were in the dark again. Mike's explanations, like his glorious and multilayered writing, carried their own light, but the more mutable, complex, and delicate levels of his humor and erudition, whether you were looking at the incandescent sun, a fireworks display, some flittering marshlights, or a lightless pit -- all of which he evoked, in many forms, many times -- the more delicate expressions of his nature, as I was saying, needed him to provide the backdrop. I used to fall out of my chair laughing at "Ask Dr. Mike" and be unable to recall it a week later, unless I saw Mike, when it would come back whole.
Only on subjects where I already knew what he was talking about have I whole memories. This is one of my favorites. He and I had made our separate ways by bus to see a performance of Cats Laughing, and had been promised a ride home with Will and Emma if we were willing to go the long way round to drop off the equipment, which was being stored in somebody's basement. We were perfectly willing to carry some of the equipment, too. It was stashed in the back of an ancient and rickety van. The driver told us sternly not to open both back doors, because the one on the right had a dicey hinge, and the door would fall off and be difficult to put back on.
Somebody approached with the obvious intention of opening that door. It was four in the morning. "Don't do that!" I cried. "The hinge will fall off, the hinge will fall off!" This nonsensical utterance did stop the person in question from doing anything while Mike explained the actual situation. I was covered with confusion and very much embarrassed. The only light was a distant street lamp, but I could see Mike's face take on the wicked and delighted expression that preceded a terrible joke. There was always something reminiscent in that expression, too, as if all the past terrible jokes and the ones not yet made were all briefly present in his head. "It's all right," he said. "It was just metonymy. Suspender for the thing suspended."
I laughed so much that I had to sit down in the street.
P.
