An anecdotal reflection of Myrdene’s openhouses

I heard about semiotics and the University of Tartu at one of Myrdene’s openhouses. I don’t remember his name or where he was from, but a graduate student once came to an openhouse with a present for her. Myrdene was beside herself with delight upon his arrival. They went into the kitchen, where she had to sit down while he shared what appeared to be incredible news. She had her hands to her face in sheer joy. They came back into the larger room, where she shared that he was accepted to present at a zoosemiotics conference at the University of Tartu. Lively chatter proceeded. Later, when Myrdene happened to be in my vicinity, I asked her what semiotics was. She laughed, “Oh ho. Well! Everyone is a semiotician. Semiotics defies definition, as does everything interesting, but for now I’ll just say that it is the study of meaning-making.” I had never thought of meaning as something being made, so this led into a very funny metalogue in which she deconstructed every question I asked to the point where I felt like I had taken the red pill in the Matrix.

The first time I visited, I passed her place a few times because the garden was pleasantly overgrown. Rumor had it that she fought an ongoing battle with the city to keep it that way.

Myrdene’s house wasn’t the most functional in a physical sense for the openhouses. You walked in and there was less than a square meter of space to prop yourself up on the walls while you wrestled off your shoes. It would be an adequate entrance for just one person but with a pile of shoes there it was tricky. Presumably, Myrdene wouldn’t have cared in the slightest if I stepped a bit into the living room to get my shoes off (or even if I didn’t take my shoes off at all). For whatever reason, I always endeavored the balancing act of remaining within that one square meter.

Myrdene’s living room, where most of the socializing took place, was occupied by a table in the center the size and height of a ping pong table (it might have actually been one but it was covered by a table cloth that Myrdene would brilliantly clean her hands with after eating). There was about a yard of space around its perimeter which ended at the bookshelf-walls that extended from floor to ceiling, popping with books nobody had ever heard off, like No five fingers are alike: cognitive amplifiers in social context. Myrdene lent me that book to write my paper on math as a language for her linguistic anthropology course. She made sure I knew that she doesn’t normally lend out her books and that I should not tell a soul. She gave it to me covertly, eyes darting around the party to make sure no one was watching. She had known exactly where it was after she had exclaimed that she had the perfect book for me. Once someone had asked her how her bookshelves were organized and she said that once she had a couple of Chinese students, who were in need of some money, come clean up around her house. They did a less than adequate job so she gave them a more specific task of cleaning her bookshelves. The students noticed that the books had no organization and asked if they could arrange them in order. Myrdene agreed and they wound up organizing them from Z to A. This reminded Myrdene of a brilliant solution to dusty books that she had witnessed at another academic’s house: tiny curtain-like fringes hanging from the shelves above each row of books, extending just past the tops of the books, so that they would automatically dust the books as one pulled them off the shelves.

People awkwardly stood around Myrdene’s ping pong table, which was decked out with snacks and alcoholic beverages. The snacks were always spread out but the alcoholic beverages always sat in a tight group, as if we feared one might get left out.

People also wandered into the kitchen, which was a much smaller room but had an open enough space to hold a circle of five or six people. I remember standing in a circle about that size and suddenly noticing that a graduate student who studied anthropology of music in Brazil was calmly observing my knee, which was subconsciously wiggling at a rapid but rhythmic pace. I stopped suddenly when I noticed his gaze and he met my eyes without changing his expression. I hoped I didn’t reveal anything about myself that I was unaware of. 

There was also a small square room with pale red carpet that was usually closed off, as it was used as a guest room to house anyone who was passing through. Myrdene always treated them as the guest of honor, introducing them at the openhouses. One of the guests that I remember was a dog trainer.

One time the guest room was empty and I saw it for the first time when I peeked in on a three year old boy, who was playing in there. His parents, from one of the Scandinavian countries, were in the living room sitting on a couch crammed between the ping-pong table and the wall, so tight that in order to pass around it you either had to crawl underneath the table or over the couch, so they must have done one of the two to get on the couch. The mother was a well-advanced horticulturalist, while the father did post-doctoral research in medicine. They had a seemingly genetic calmness and small, elegant features.

When I spotted their child in the guest room, I found him talking to his reflection in the tv screen, which was turned off. He pointed at his reflection and said, “Look, I’m on tv.” We shared some small talk, or rather, he narrated his proceeding playful actions in a half-audible voice, before he politely asked me to leave so that he could dance. I stepped out and he closed the door. I shared this information with Myrdene and his mother, who were chatting in the kitchen. The mother’s eyes brightened and she said, “He’s very good at dancing.”

Nobody ever ventured up the steep and narrow wooden staircase, which led straight into darkness. A few stairs at the bottom were bathed in the light of the living room. Usually the cats hung out on the stairs, though one time a Finnish student studying anthropology of dance in Canada sat there. We shared a very awkward conversation until we bonded over how boring anthropologist Marvin Harris is.

Later, the little boy stood on a chair with his elbows resting on the ping pong table, occasionally popping cheetos into his mouth. I sat next to a woman from Africa, who sat on a chair slightly higher than mine. She told me she was a Ph.D. student. Her master’s degree had gone smoothly, but for reasons unknown to her, her Ph.D. was a very chaotic, non-linear journey. She got distracted by the child and asked him to come over to her. He stared at her silently, then went back to the cheetos. She asked him why he wouldn’t come over. “Because I just don’t,” he responded.

Myrdene has said more than once that children are the greatest philosophers. She appeared to be profoundly amused when that same boy pointed to a small stool and asked if it was a step-chair. “Why, yes it is! It is a step-chair!” she exclaimed. I approached and asked him what his name was. Without hesitation, he replied, “I don’t have a name,” then wandered off.

Hope this paints a better picture than my responses via speech (which usually only paints a picture of my awkwardness).