Literotic asexstories – California Conference Connections by yowser,yowser
Not only was she so much more detail-oriented than I, who could barely keep the simplest spreadsheet organized, but she was on the tenure-track, so motivation to do well would hardly be an issue.
“Oh, you’re plenty detail-oriented Morris,” she would tease, “just only for certain things.”
“Right. Oxford commas, relative clauses, the Seventeenth Century. William Harvey. Everything else is a disaster.”
She laughed, that silvery, running-brook sound that would be sure to charm some fellow’s life somewhere along the line. I halfway wished that it would be me in the queue, but the university would take an entirely dim view of this, as any such connection would violate half the rules in the Title IX extrapolations the campus had developed. Imbalance of power, age differential, the fact that I would likely to be on her tenure/promotion review committee, all of that. And I was surely not her type anyway.
She was tall and lithesome, while I was just north of forty, head hair still there but fighting a rear guard retreat. She would wear long floral or pastel dresses and skirts to work, and the way her hips moved whilst walking would set the Aeolian harps to a trembling quaver. Our History department was tickled to have her.
Emerald College, three hours north of San Francisco in coastal forests a couple miles from the Pacific Ocean, was hosting the annual LAP (Liberal Arts of the Pacific) conference for the first time, and my whole department—whole departments, plural, across campus—were hoping for a good showing. So far almost seventy-five papers had been accepted, from seven distinct states and six international academics. A half dozen from our own tiny campus with its tiny faculty. As chair of the conference planning committee, I was thrilled.
Even the EC groundskeepers, with the spring rains just ending, were busy, and the college in late March would look as good as it ever did, the campus entrance road framed by redwoods, then winding past meadows green with fresh California grass and yellow splotches of rapeseed and grand clumps of California poppies.
The only big hotel in town, the Ozwald, would host the event and had given us a good deal on a block of rooms, where most of the visitors would stay. The local B&Bs were also pleased with the occasion, extra business for them well before the summer season.
And I would have my own chance to give a quick welcoming talk that first day after lunch on the topic of my own obsession. I’d given careful thought to the title: William Harvey, the Discovery of Blood Circulation and the Flow of Academic Discourse in the Seventeenth Century.
I’d speak of blood circulation, how Harvey, through dissections and empirical experiments, had upended the medieval medical canon, deduced that blood flow was a closed system and that pathways of exchange enriched the blood with oxygen from the lungs. I’d then extrapolate it all to academic research discussions, the broadening of knowledge, the value and rejuvenation academic research involved. I’d set up the conference attendees for a grand two and a half days of spirited interaction.
My early career monograph on Harvey had gotten me tenure and promotion to associate. The conference would be a stunning opportunity to further my ambitions, provide another feather in the old academic cap, and with some feedback from my talk, maybe give me the final motivation to finish off my next book on the “Sultan of Circulation.”
The Arcata room, set aside for breakfast that Friday early April morning at the Ozwald, was just starting to fill. Dark wood wainscoting, high ceilings with tall windows overlooking the redwoods on the north side of the hotel, the Ozwald oozed 19th Century robber baron retreat charm.
I chatted with a group from Berkeley, then a pair of old manuscript guys down from the University of Washington. One of the aspects I most enjoyed about LAP conferences was the interdisciplinary nature of them. Historians, linguists, literature and rhetoric folks all congregated and shared their latest ideas.
After nabbing some sustenance at the buffet, I spied a side table where I might get a moment’s quiet and sat down with my morning tea to look through the program. The printer had been so late in delivery that department chair Rothchild had thrown quite a fit.
I had barely taken more than a glance at the program, but Hixley on the review panel had said there would be some good offerings.
I began with the first day’s list, spread the program out in front of me with my morning scone and a cup of Assam tea, strong and dark, right to hand.
The titles alone sent little shivers of anticipation through me:
Freudian Orthography: Conniptions in Unethical Epigrams
The Post-modern Polarization of English Faculty in Higher Education
Anti-semitism in Aquinas: Textual Ambiguities
The Colon in Academic Conference Paper Titles: Universal, Essential or Just Plain Pompous?
Yiddish Witticisms: Dark Humor from Degraded Communities
Strange 19th Century Book Titles: A Longitudinal Survey
Allomorphic Supersymmetry: the Collision of Physics and Linguistics
“This one looks good.”
The voice arrived from my right, a hand extended about table height, an index finger pointing to a title on my program.
“Nabokov and Kierkegaard: Odd Bedfellows with Ontological Overlaps,” I read aloud and looked up.
The voice did not go with the person. An alto clef register, confident and assertive, was matched to a woman in a blue blazer and lavender skirt.
Her wheelchair meant that her face was the same level as mine. Her companion was a small compact woman, round and Hispanic, maybe just over five feet in height, holding a tray with rolls and coffee mugs.
“Don’t mind Ms. Intrusive,” the companion said, “she’ll point out the full moon to you on the off chance you hadn’t noticed it.”
“I don’t think I ever would have put Nabokov and Kierkegaard in the same title, let alone the same sentence.” I am sure I sounded skeptical.
The wheelchair woman’s smile was wry and sideways.
“It’s not the only odd-sounding paper in the mix. A lot of neo-post-realist textual criticism here, seems to me. Do you mind company?”
I hadn’t even begun to issue a welcome before the companion was pulling away the chair next to me to make room for her friend slide in.
“Clare Smirkov,” she said, extending a hand, firm for any woman, not quite Texan in aggression. “This is Angela Dominguez.”
“Morris Finkelstein,” I answered. “Pleased to meet you.” Eyebrows went up on both woman.
“Ah, the conference planner himself,” said Clare. “Should have read your nametag before barging in on your morning coffee.” They squinted at my badge as if verification was needed.
“No trouble,” I waved a hand, hopefully not in a patronizing or self-aggrandizing way. “It’s actually tea, never could stomach the black-belt grade of caffeine.”
Clare gave a thin laugh, and as I involuntarily replayed my last sentence in my foggy morning brain, I wondered if I sounded as lame as I feared. Was this awkwardness just early morning nerves at the start of the conference?
“Where are you both coming from? I’m not on the registration group and the printers only just barely got the program out in time.” I did not recall either of their names or affiliations.
Clare answered. “We’re rivals, Arizona State for me, University of Arizona for Angela. Not quite Oklahoma-Oklahoma State or Ann Arbor vs. Michigan State for sheer institutional rancor, but you get the idea. I’m the blue collar, academic unionist in Mesa, she’s the Ivy League wannabe in Tucson.”
Angela made a face. “Just another way to claim you’re an overachiever.”
“So why this paper?” I glanced at the abstract, which included themes of ontology, juxtaposition, aesthetic frameworks. “Nabokov and Kierkegaard?”
“Why not?” said Clare. “Can’t you imagine a nice, friendly fireside discussion between the two?” Was her smile provocative or just ironic?
“Hardly. Nabokov hated the theater, Kierkegaard would attend every show he could manage. Completely different mindsets, arenas. Fisticuffs would break out between the two halfway through the first brandy snifter of the night.”
Clare’s eyes gleamed. “Right. You know more about the two than many. What’s your area?”
I looked at the program again. Clare’s name was listed as the author of the Nabokov/Kierkegaard paper. Of course. She was pointing out her own efforts. Cheek.
I eyed each of them more carefully. Clare’s wheelchair was a sleek, pared-down affair, a gun-metal gray and black chariot with flashing silver spokes on her wheels. Her skirt was narrow, tucked in under her legs. Her face was moon shaped, a haircut out of French cinema, bangs and shortish, barely down to her shoulders, dark and wavy. Pointed nose, easy smiling lips.
“I’m history, intellectual history. Specializing on the scientific revolution in the 17th Century. William Harvey to be precise.”
I found out a bit more about them, Clare was the more talkative. She was two years out of grad school, in the philosophy department at ASU. Her specialty was Kierkegaard not Nabokov, and she taught critical thinking courses every term. She complained about the limited funding opportunities for research.
“Welcome to the Humanities.” I hoped I sounded neither cynical or pessimistic.
“I don’t know how it is for philosophy folks, but you’re not a historian proper until your first monograph is out. Luckily, one can do that without much funding, mostly you just need access to a good library or a suitable archive. Maybe rework your dissertation into a marketable book.”
We chatted briefly until it became time to make my departure and prepare for the conference greeting. I excused myself and as I made my way across the room, I caught the usual snippets of conversation from each table of attendees, some energetic, some quiet, some pointed. Almost like hearing an orchestra tune up before beginning a concert.
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