Scenes from a conference

James McIntosh Patrick, The Striped Scarf (1932)

The image is, obviously, a painting of me just before my first conference session.

The Society for Medieval and Renaissance Philosophy held its first-ever stand-alone conference this week. I am actually not much of a conference-goer, and I didn't have anything on the program myself, but this was a chance to see lots of people I haven't seen in a while. Plus, it was held at Notre Dame, where I did my graduate work, so there was a nice opportunity for some nostalgia as well.

Dinner the first night was at an Irish pub with a couple of old friends. There was a larger gathering at an upscale bar two blocks away, and I protested feebly (and not altogether sincerely) that I really should get back to the hotel and get some sleep. OK, fine, I'll go for half an hour.

"Are you Thomas Williams? Can I give you a hug?" That from a scholar I've interacted with in print and on email but never met before.

Lots of lively conversation with lots of lively people. The medieval folks really are a good crowd.

Pretty soon two hours had gone by, and it really was time to get back to the hotel.

*****

I push myself to go to as many papers as possible, which I find exhausting, but it's tacky just to show up for one or two. Still, a nice walk around St Joseph's Lake is a good way of getting fresh air (the conference venue is stuffy and a bit overheated).

At the luncheon a young Franciscan scholar wants to talk to me about a paper I published twenty-five years ago. Do I have to? Who knows what kind of crap I was writing back then? But it reminds me that if I'm going to get out from the shadow of my fresh-out-of-grad-school take on Scotus, I have to write that book. September 30, 2022: that's my goal.

*****

"What did you think about X's comments?"
"I thought they were long stretches of 'duh' punctuated by alarming flashes of 'WTF?'"

*****

The conference ended, I attended mass at the Basilica of the Sacred Heart. Back in my grad school days I played one daily mass there each week. I couldn't exactly be nostalgic about the organ, because the shrieking Holtkamp we had back then was replaced long ago with a Paul Fritts & Company instrument. Nostalgia wasn't the point anyway: I wanted to worship. Turns out it was the commemoration of Saint Bruno, whom I had to look up afterward.

One thing you notice in the nave that you can't hear in the loft is that no one sings except for the cantor. I was the lone exception. The opening hymn was to the tune of Saint Thomas (Williams), which pleased me no end; the Communion hymn, all about our unity in Christ (a somewhat challenging thing to sing about when I'm unable to receive Communion because that unity is fractured), was to Thaxted. Well, if I can't receive, I can at least blast the hymn and let it resound against the stone and pray for those who can.

****

I have time for one last walk around campus before I pack my things and head home. St Mary's Lake, this time.