malaise |məˈlāz; -ˈlez|noun

a general feeling of discomfort, illness, or uneasiness whose exact cause is difficult to identify : a society afflicted by a deep cultural malaise | a general air of malaise.ORIGIN mid 18th cent.: from French, from Old French mal ‘bad’ (from Latin malus) + aise ‘ease.’

A general feeling: nothing specific to point to, although there are always candidates, and we usually point to them because it is easier than dealing with a general feeling. We like to identify causes because they help us to provide explanations, and explanations are stories that help us get through the malaise. “Oh,” we say to ourselves, “I’m feeling this way because of x that happened last week or y that didn’t happen.” When this happens on a cultural level, myths are made. Stories evolve to explain causes that “are difficult to identify,” and we like them so much we use them even if at some level we do not believe. It is sometimes more important and easier to be the victim of circumstance than to have “a general feeling of discomfort.”

Work is work, by which I mean not play, as it sometimes is. We have had some serious issues to deal with at the Buffalo Center, and we have risen to the occasion every time, but at some point you want to have a break, to be free of care rather than careful, to be afoot and lighthearted. There are moments that make things bearable. Friday I had cleared my schedule and planned to plow through the one hundred plus emails that had accumulated during the week, hoping to get my box back down to zero, which is my usual practice. Some of these messages required a few moments thought and few more moments writing; others, like the one I wrote earlier tonight, require careful crafting and can take up to a half hour. But I was not to get through any messages on Friday, and that was a good thing.

First of all Frank stopped by. He has been at the Buffalo Center for a long time, and we keep meaning to connect because we seem to have a lot in common. We spoke for about an hour about administration, students, gender, and The Grateful Dead. It was one of those nice and easy conversations that flow naturally like a stream and leave you refreshed and lighter. We decided to see a Dead cover band at the beach sometime soon, not because I am a Dead fan (I’m not) but because it is not work, and it is rare for two men to be able to simply hang out and have a good time. Following upon Frank is Yukio, a former director of the Buffalo Center who never gets out, but he turns up in my office just to talk. I had to cancel a lunch with him last week, and I think he is a bit worried about me. We talk easily as is his way, and I introduce him to some new buffaloes. They have heard his name and are pleased to meet him. We have a lot of myths here at the Center, and it is good to see one of the gods come down to visit. I turn back to my computer then I remember Sappho, a Buffalo Center senior, needed a car today to run errands, and I had offered her Penelope. I called her and told her I was on campus if she needed Penelope. “Are you in your office?” she asked. I said yes, and she was there in a matter of seconds. We all live and work together, so my office, like the others, is in the residence hall, so it was only a matter of her coming downstairs to see me. It turns out she did not need Penelope, but she wanted to talk. We, too, had one of those amazing conversations where you feel not only lighter and happier but also that you have learned something. Sappho spent last semester in Argentina, and she is now working on a paper on the cultural significance of the tango. It is a brilliant concept, using this dance as a site for the negotiation of all kinds of gender and political issues, and Sappho is exactly the right person to do it because she always brings everything back to the reality of experience. She is brilliant, and we talk of home and other good things. She, too, is a wanderer who is restless. Now I have spent over two hours at my desk and not answered a single email, but I have had three really good conversations. I turn back to my computer and Lisa comes in smiling. Lisa is my co-teacher for my class this fall, a second-year buffalo who is smarter than she should be at her age and just too cool for words. We have been teaching together for about four weeks, but we have never really sat down and talked. We finally did and agreed, among other things, to go to Canada if Obama does not win this election. We are not going to move to Canada; we are just going to drive to the border and take a photo of us holding a sign that reads “We protest.” Then we will come back to the Buffalo Center and be sad, you betcha.

Today I went down to the coffee shop to work, and Sappho came in shortly thereafter. She was frustrated working on a paper, and I was frustrated trying to get through my emails. Sappho sat next to me, and we frowned. Scout called and needed help with a web site, and it was great to hear her goofy voice. At one point I was chatting with a friend in Europe, emailing Monique, and talking on the phone with Scout. It was almost technology overload, but it was fun to be connected. Sappho broke through and started making slips of paper that had her main points for her paper. She laid them out on the table at the coffee shop and showed me. “What does it mean?” I asked. “I don’t know, but I feel like I have accomplished something,” she said happily. So we were both happy and smiling and decided it was time to leave. I came home and actually answered a number of emails, finally.

Just as I am about to go out to dinner to the best place in town, Casa Guatemala, Marsha calls. She is my advisee and is working on her “contract,” the narrative and course listing that will be her education at the Buffalo Center. “I think I’ve finished it,” she says happily. “Wonderful,” I say, genuinely pleased for her because this is a hard thing. Imagine not having an undergraduate curriculum and having to make your own then run it by a committee of faculty and students, and you have to do all of this by the first semester of your sophomore year. This is a big deal. She tells me she will bring it in tomorrow. I smile and hang up. As I open the door to Penelope, I call Marsha back. “We should go to Casa Guatemala to celebrate, don’t you think?” I say. She agrees completely, and when I go by to pick her up, I see Angie and Carson along with Carson’s roommate, a graduate of Prestigious University. As we get back in the car the iPhone rings, and it’s burningsteady. She leaves me a message castigating me for not returning her call for seven months. It has not been seven months, but it has been a while. So I call her back, and she sounds wonderful because she is wonderful. And she says “Why aren’t you writing?” I tell her about malaise as I sit down at the table with four other buffalos, and we laugh like buffalos, and one of us smells like a buffalo. So here you are burningsteady. Thanks for making me laugh. Thanks for making me write. That general feeling of discomfort is still there, but things are a little brighter now because I got to tell this story. And it helps that my belly is full of enchiladas.