time for a post?

I had a dream last night that I had posted to my blog, and somebody - can't remember who - commented and said, "that was wonderful, I loved reading it... This is why you should post to your blog!"

But, alas, I cannot remember what I wrote so effectively about... my dreams are of limited guidance, I'm afraid. (But did I ever tell you about my "Mean Year" dream? and the call number I can almost remember?)


William's countdown clock to our departure is down to a day and change.

Soon we're going to go try to sell back some books now - and then I will try to resist buying more books - and I'm afraid I am already anticipating failure. And then abbey road, and then -

Then stripping down four months from the walls and packing them back into suitcases. It's strange that time passes, but stranger, I think, to think that such a thing is strange.

I was reading the other day of a new upstart idea in physics, possibly the start of a new debate where the disputed territory is time itself. If I recall correctly, and we all know brains are leaky things, multiverse theories suggest that time is not essential - we can view all things as coexisting, with time not necessarily a fundamental property of the universe. But some dude was arguing that maybe we should instead pursue the idea that there's just one universe, and that time - passing by, whoosh, there it goes - is an inherent component of this universe, part of its warp and weft. Everything that's real is only real for a moment, and the laws of physics themselves, being tied to time, could change over time (because what doesn't?)

Everything real just for a moment, and not preserved in some eternal timeless coexistence of all things - whoosh, there it goes. Strange, but stranger to think it strange - isn't this the world we all know?


All the thing's we've missed, that we didn't see when we blinked or missed a turn or stayed home with a cough, make William say, "We'll have to come back!" but - knowing how way leads on to way - well, really, it's impossible, you know. It's not simply that the place is different, always changing, but that you're different. Always changing. And seven years later if you trace your footsteps, you're a new person following the path of a vaguely-familiar stranger. And your eyes are new and the stones are that much older, and you've read new things, and thought about new things, and the infinite information before your eyes, you sift it in new ways. What you see, what you think, is different - what you feel is entirely different...

So, yes, don't ever count on coming back. But it's nothing to be sad about - not really. What good would a world be where every step took you back where you'd been before? Where all your breaths were taken as one, simultaneously, where you were everybody you ever had been and ever would be - stagnating eternally - or oh, splitting infinitely, how much worse to be everyone you ever could be?

(sorry i could not travel both/ and be one traveler, long I stood...)


What was I saying? Four months have gone by quickly. And five years, for that matter - and seven - but then again, perhaps they haven't gone by quickly at all. They've just gone. And here I am, and it's time to sell back books I've already read (can you read the same book twice?)

And my tea is cold (entropy in a porcelain cup). Time to stop typing.

Is Amazon.com this polite?

I emailed Amazon.co.uk about a package that never showed up - it was dispatched over two weeks ago, and the mail here is very prompt, i guess because they're such a small country - and here was the reply:

It appears that something may have gone awry with the delivery of your order #202... - the package should have reached you by now. Please accept our sincere apologies.
We have now placed a new order for the same item/items to be sent to the same delivery address.

We will post it to you as soon as possible at no additional charge."

>

"It appears that something may have gone awry..." haha love it!  It doesn't quite have the evasiveness of a passive voice "mistakes-were-made" kind of reply, but it gets close!

two observations

(now that final papers are starting to come due, you'll probably see a lot more posts!)

Okay, so first of all, there seems to be a tendency in British advertising and media to use puns in very unfunny contexts.  Is it a result of the pun-heavy style of the tabloids?  Do they not think puns are necessarily jokes?  Maybe "puns" is the wrong word, because a lot of the ads don't technically use puns, but wordplay for sure.  Here are two examples of ads that struck me as off - one really disturbing one about rape and minicabs and one about road deaths.   Both have been hard to avoid on the tube, and both are graphic and upsetting.  And use wordplay.

I'm not saying American ads don't use puns for serious PSAs - and maybe I just see more ads here - and maybe I'm reading too much into it.  Do either of those ads bother anybody else?

Secondly, I was reminded of my objection to this serious use of wordplay when I read the final line of this Guardian article, about the Afghan woman who was featured on the cover of Time after her husband and the Taliban disfigured her for attempting to escape her marriage.

The article had several moments that made me do a reading-stutter - you know, where your eyes skip back up a few lines and try again - including one passage that made me almost want to write my postcolonialism final paper on nationalism and feminist postcolonialism:

In an obvious sense Aisha's story conforms to a traditional feminist reading of the struggle of women against patriarchal society. Consigned to the status of a domestic slave, she rebelled and felt the brutal force of male-dominated tribal society. And there is no doubt that this is the context in which this vicious crime against a teenage girl took place.

However, it's not the only context, and for many critics of the Time cover, it's not the most significant context. Because, of course, Afghanistan plays host to tens of thousands of foreign troops, most of them American, and as such any efforts to remove the troops are seen by critics of the occupation as all part of a legitimate anti-imperialist cause. From this perspective, to put it crudely, national liberation always trumps female emancipation.

Oh, yes, the feminist reading is obvious and undoubtedly true but WHATEVER, not interesting!  Let's talk about nationalism instead!

Anyway, the article actually featured two separate bits of wordplay that I found inappropriate.  The first was a pun that, as an act of journalistic impropriety, wasn't too - well, wasn't too bad -

She had been given to her husband when she was 12, as payment to settle a dispute – a practice in Afghanistan that goes by the fitting name of "baad". 

I mean, if, say, I were writing an essay on the subject, I would put a pun like in a rough draft for sure, but guess what?  I would take it out during my first rewrite, because one of the first things I do during revision is remove the wordplay that I think is amusing but doesn't add anything substantive.   Unless I think it is splendidly good.  Which, obviously, this isn't.  And especially if I'm discussing a serious subject.   Which, obviously, this is.

But whatever, this appears to be a feature/column-style story - although linked under World News - so that can certainly be excused as wry irony rather than somebody taking the piss.  But - but!!

The Taliban, who have minimal support in Afghanistan, understand the deep yearning for peace in the country after decades of fighting. That's why they are prepared to commit the most monstrous violence, particularly against women, to force the Afghans to submit to their order.

Anyone who is serious about challenging misogyny in Afghanistan is required, at the very minimum, to acknowledge this depressing reality. Equally, regardless of whether the troops stay or are withdrawn, it's important, if only for the sake of honest debate, to state clearly what's at stake. Aisha's experience is not the whole story, but it does symbolise a critical subplot that ought not be neglected. That much, at least, is as plain as the nose that is missing from her face.

All right, let's set aside the idea of women's rights being a "critical subplot" because obviously that's the thing to do...

As plain as the nose that is missing from her face?


You wrote that, Andrew Anthony?  And you published that, Guardian and Observer?

I am, as the kids say, "shaking my head."  smh.  smh.  smh 'till it freaking falls off.  But by the way, I wouldn't write that if we were discussing decapitation.  When murdering groups of soldiers rip somebody's organs out, like, say, their heart, you don't call that "a heart-rending act of crime" in a news story in a major newspaper.  Electrical torture should never be intentionally referred to as a "shocking act."  The fact that women set themselves on fire to escape agonizing marriages?  Not "an issue of burning importance."

Common decency, people.

[But is it a British thing?  Do they not find this incredibly disrespectful and distasteful?  Or is it even just a me thing?  Surely not!  Somebody back me up here!]

pilgrimage poilane

This morning: snow on the immaculate gardens of Versailles, white light reflecting down the hall of mirrors and a bitter wind whipping along the courtyards

This afternoon: soggy feet and frozen cheeks and a map falling apart in our hands, we wound our way through the thoroughly confusing roads around St Sulpice metro station until we finally made it to the Rue de Cherche-Midi.  We thought our weary feet would rest, but not quite - then we wandered up and down, blinking and slipping on the slush.   At last we found the shopfront - sign much smaller than the others - and finally, finally slipped inside the warmth with a sigh of relief.  We met the first shopkeeper/cashier who spoke no English, and I pointed and she wrote down prices and wrapped up my massive half-loaf for me, and the crowd of people in the tiny space pushed us right out the door, and I laughed and pulled the paper open and right there, on the side of the street, ripped out my first chunk of Pain Poilâne and ate.  Flour covered my gloves and crumbs fell on my scarf, and the snow fell on the streets of Paris in big, downy flakes, and was it the best bread I've ever tasted? was it really?  there are so many different kinds of bread, after all, it seems a hard thing to say, but...

Do you know, I think it was.  I really think so.  It really was.  Worth soggy feet and ripped maps, oh, definitely.  worth a trip to paris?  maybe!!

And then the snow turned into rain, and we got lost again, and we ordered lunch then didn't have enough cash for ut, and my toes turned past numb back to painful, and later we were just barely too late to get into the catacombs, and I guess the moral of the story is that perfect moments don't last for long.  but while they're there...!

(Oh, and we ALSO got Pierre Herme macarons.  Yes, it has been that kind of day.  And by "that kind of," I mean glorious.)

bonjour

William can be a hard person to be a tourist with... sample quotes from a visit to the Tower of London:

"Well, that's a lot of rocks." (That would be referring to the castle itself)
"They're big and shiny, I guess" (That would be the crown jewels)
"It's really cold."  (Well, yes, it was, I'll give him that)

Oh, and here was his remark on Harrods:

"You know, this all seems excessive."

And Big Ben:

"It's not as big as I thought it would be."

I'm not making these up!  He is just plain hard to impress!

[William would like to interject here and say that it is not that he is hard to impress, but that he just says the first thing that comes to his mind.  Also, that he thinks "that's a lot of rocks" is the only reasonable reaction to the sight of a large castle.  He would also like to reassure my reading audience of 5 people that he is happy to be in London.  But if he wants to tell his side of the story he can start his own blog, so I'll be maintaining that he is a difficult man to impress]

Even William, however, has been wowed by Paris.  We visited the Notre Dame last night, after breathing a sigh of relief for having reached Paris at last (for the Eurostar was brought to its knees by a few inches of snow), so we saw the massive, massively creepy cathedral at its best - on a dark, cloudy and eerie night.  William was flabbergasted.  I will grant you that his reaction was more along the lines of "that must have taken so incredibly long to make!  Why would they do that?  Oh my gosh," than "Oh my, how ethereally beautiful," but at least he was awed, which is rare indeed.

And when we approached the Eiffel Tower, he said - and I quote - "This is so exciting!"  CONGRATULATIONS PARIS!  You have awed the unaweable.

(speaking of the eiffel tower - 704 stairs, people.  I am going to be so sore tomorrow)

In other news: why doesn't Hums have a field trip to Europe?  It should totally be part of the course.  Today I was in the Musee d'Orsay looking at Courbet's painting of himself in his studio - and needless to say I saw oodles of enormous French history paintings throughout our speedy tour of the Louvre - and suddenly I said, "OHH!"  Seriously, out loud in the middle of the museum, and I must have sounded like a prime idiot.  It all clicked and I dragged William over to say "Dr Smith was RIGHT, this IS an important painting - see, he's making this statement-- even the size is a challenge to the old institutions and conventions of art--"

A field trip.  Definitely called for.  Maybe it would also increase enrollment?

Also, I ate 4 meals today and all of them consisted primarily of butter, except for one that was all chocolate.  Ahhhhh paris!

a dog's heart

went to a curious opera today, A Dog's Heart, based on a satirical Soviet novel and portrayed with grating music, creepy puppets and three different singers for the dog/man at the center of the show.

William and I debated it afterward, both of us handicapped by a lack of deep knowledge about soviet history in the 20s, I'm afraid, but even if we couldn't quite map all the political arguments, there was a fundamental question accessible to the least russophilic:

What's so great about being human?

I thought the production was pretty straight-forward: it would be an act of cruelty to turn an animal into a human, because what creature, however miserable and doomed, would want to know the darkness in a human soul?

But William noted the ambiguous final lines of the opera, after the dog has been transformed back into his original, happy state as a food-eating, warmth-loving creature of mean appearance - after an interlude as a crude, cruel and vicious man.

"I was lucky," he sings, "We must remember that I was lucky."

Was he lucky to be transformed back into a dog?  Or lucky to have gotten the chance to be human?


It was a Complicite production, like A Disappearing Number, which you might have heard me rave about, and therefore visually stunning.  Never before has a graphic surgical operation made me simultaneously so disgusted and so fascinated.  The entire set was comically immense, making the human characters seem like dolls in a too-large dollhouse.  The dog was skeletal in its hunger, and only slightly more solid after weeks of being fattened; with a human face and suit jacket, it became monstrous indeed.  Projections transformed the same wall into an exterior, the terrifying face of tyranny, the mental landscape of a dying animal or an emerging human, a prison or a religious choir of atheist scientists.  Absolutely engrossing.  And the swirling snowstorm at the beginning was one of those fabulous bits of stagecraft where the strings were visible - as it were - but the illusion completely convincing.

Stay warm, be kind to stray dogs, and don't think too highly of yourself just because you can call yourself human - not terrible lessons to take away -

dull would he be of soul

dull would he be of soul who could pass by
a sight so touching in its majesty -
the City now doth wear, like a garment,
the beauty of the morni-

well, sorry, Wordsworth, it was evening, actually.  We did go up in the Eye at sunset and the views were pretty spectacular, although the spectacle of the tourist trap was uninspiring.  but hey!  the views!  you'd have to be dull of soul indeed to complain about a tourist trap with a sight like that!

Before that lovely sight, we also went to the Tower - yep, we're touristing it up, before we quite run out of time (and before the finals crunch starts!)  It was extra fun because I'm reading Wolf Hall - which is AMAZING and I don't even LIKE historical novels much these days, but SERIOUSLY ya'll tackle it over winter break or something.  Cromwell is the action star of the 15th century and Hilary Mantel is talking to his ghost, I swear.  Anyway, I'm reading Wolf Hall so right now Anne Boleyn and Crazy Henry VIII and all their friends and victims feel like my bffs.  And I went and hung out at one of their favorite spots to get beheaded!  It was cold!


In other news, Wordsworth reminded me of something.   As I think I mentioned a few weeks ago, I've been memorizing poetry lately - a few apps on my ipod, a few emails-to-self, and I've got a portable library that I've been transplanting into my brain.  I learn a new, short one every day, and I'm working, stanza by stanza, through The Raven - quite appropriate, and not just because of the Tower's ravens:

Ah, distinctly I remember!  It was in the bleak december/
when each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor

And it is about to be a bleak december here, too - except we have radiators now, of course, which are less ghostlike although they, too, tend to die.

So the question is, why now?  why here?  I've thought about memorizing poetry before - Emily and I had a little contest for a while (by the by, i'm now kicking your butt so hard, you wouldn't believe...).  But I've never before tackled it with nearly this much vigor.  Is it the timing, or is it the place?  Is there something about London that has turned my mind to literature in a way it's never turned before?

Hmm.  I'll tackle that more later.

Got a problem with Americanisms? Let's duke it out.

"I regard the use of the term 'authorities' as an dreadfully ugly American import from the land without style"


Ouch!!


(We have style, thanks very much!  AMERICAN-STYLE that's what's what.)

music

so last week we went, back to back, to two very different musical events, the kind of variety that makes me sigh happily and say "oh the joys of big, culturally rich cities!"

well, I didn't actually say that, but you get the point.

Thursday night we went to the opera and saw La Boheme, the first opera we've seen in London that put me on the edge of my seat.  As a musical performance, par excellence - for its type, of course - a few small figures on the stage, feigning shivers and raising their voices to compete with the full orchestra, the massive coliseum filled with carefully constructed, finely polished sounds.

And then Friday, down to the Blues Kitchen for their array of bourbon and the band on their tiny stage, the long narrow room - what fraction of the coliseum's space, a thousandth? - filled with the fashionably dressed young people of Camden town.  And the reward for our wait was blues like I've never seen it before - four people flooding our ears with sound, a drummer in the shadows, a dorky keyboardist lost in his own world, an aloof guitarist and at the heart of it, the lead singer, alternating shots and gulps of ale between songs, then leaning towards us with his arms embracing his double bass, growling and screaming into the mic.  dirty, raw, pulsating, overwhelming, that amplified bass making the whole building throb.  we were lost.

And then we caught a few hours sleep - then a train - then a plane - a pleasant day in aberdeen, another train, a few more hours sleep, then up to the highlands for the silence and the wind and a wide-open sky, instead.

visions of

I passed an apocalyptic landscape this afternoon.  It was a startling sight, one that made me stutter to a stop and step backwards to stare again.  Mountains of rubble, cold steel, concrete, wire, stormy sky - my warm and idle thoughts, of dinner and hot chocolate and cryptic crosswords, fell out of my head and landed in a heap on the cold pavement.

It's all quite easily explained.  They are building a biomedical research facility across from St. Pancras train station, and I know, because we've had the fliers slipped under our door urging us to stand up and protest before our children die from deadly viruses leaked into the air.  But to be precise, they aren't "building" it yet - the site is a messy, barren brownfield with some tentative jabs made towards flattening and cleaning.  Yellow backhoes and graders sit frozen in the of heaps of rocks and concrete chunks and dirt and metal.  2011 they think they'll start the foundations.

For now the field sits empty, except for the detritus and the unused machines, surrounded by a high fence of narrow bars with a few optimistic signs depicting a clean and glowing building.  But where I walked I didn't pass those pretty pictures - just the sharp steel fencing.  And behind this ugly scar, in the distance, a few squat, rectangular office buildings, dull gray in color, no warm lights twinkling from their windows at this moment, so that floor after distant floor looked absolutely empty.  And behind those blocks BT tower loomed: an alien, an unsettling shape.  It was hard to imagine humans building such a structure, surreal, cylindrical, studded with satellites and antenna - it seemed unfathomable to picture a human inside the windowless, neon-glowing tower.

And behind it all the sky.  I woke up this morning to a London full of fog, low and white and almost as thick as in the old paintings.  By this afternoon the fog was gone, but it left behind a slate-dark sky, swirling - no, frozen mid-swirl - with bilious clouds.

There were no people in this landscape, no warmth, no brightness of color, no sign of cheerful survival.  And as it happened, my personal soundtrack - that is, my ipod on shuffle - had through its dumb mechanical insight landed upon the Decemberists "When the War Came."  So as I was struck dumb by this stark vision, Colin Meloy was whining in my ear: "and the war came with all the poise of a cannonball," and I was shivering in the cold.

And war came to this city more than once, Boadicia burnt it down and the peasants tore it up and the bombers blew it up down and sideways.  And this could be a bomb site, here or anywhere. And even when wars the wars have been kept firmly abroad an infinite iniquities have passed along these streets, and this is a problem with living in a city too full of history - the charming cobbled alleys and noble monuments live beside a multitude of darker ghosts.  And how much does it help to remember these shades of horror, and how much more does it hurt?  Plague and conscription and executions and the gin-soaked destitute, and what can all our words do for you now?

And it's all quite easily explainable, because in my classes, this cold week in November, we are discussing death and brutality - trying and failing to remember how many millions died in the first world war, arguing with careful words around how and why and whether one should teach the Holocaust, debating whether evil ever arrives in the form of Black Dogs and what a single murder means and whether graveyard conversations with the dead fit former characterizations, watching on-stage cannibalisms and reading about failed revolutions, reading memoirs of massacre and rape and reciting the war poems and just this morning on the tube I idly memorized Dickinson, I learned by heart that

success is counted sweetest
by those who ne'er succeed.
to comprehend a nectar
requires greatest need

not one of all that purple host
who won the flag today
can tell a definition
so clear of victory

as he, defeated - dying
on whose forbidden ear
the distant strains of victory
burst agonized and clear!  (a cruel exclamation point, I think)

Ah, it's took the flag, not won -  but I was close, and defeated, dying was on my brain.

(And sometimes I long for the clarity of chemistry classes, where debating the nature of grief and death and the immutable logic of genocide never arises as an academic responsibility - but it's not quite that simple, I know, froth-corrupted lungs could tell us as much.  But for political science classes, then, sociology, or philosophy!  it might be quite as fruitless - discuss the historical causes of atrocities, why they happen, how we can prevent them, sure, as unanswerable as asking how we express them and how words can cope with the strains of our moral demands - but at least it might feel more productive.  because I still can't believe the right words will fix the world.)

So yes, perfectly explainable, quite easy.  With these broken worlds in all the words I've been feeding to my brain, and the discordant murmurs of warfare in my ears, and the cold, nasty weather and brutishly short day, so short at 4 pm the sun was already setting in a colorless haze; with the hulking machines in the midst of detritus, the squat buildings as empty as corpses' faces, the communications tower a gleaming robot outlasting all the rest - no wonder that I was arrested by a vision of destruction.

and I stopped and stared and shivered for a moment, lost and empty.  And then a mother and child passed, this kid in a stroller and a Gap jacket staring in exactly the same direction as I was, out at the broken field and foul sky.  And I wondered, does he see what I see, is he gaping in shared wordless horror? Or does he see three big-treaded yellow caterpillars with diggers lifted to the sky?


And I burrowed deeper into my coat and walked past leafless trees up to our flat.  And here I've sat, for whatever my words are worth.  And now it's time for dinner, and hot chocolate, and a cryptic crossword, and some scraps of happier poetry.

proposed definitions: a good book...

... is one where you struggle to suppress the urge to read out extracts - paragraphs or pages - to anyone in hearing distance.  and of course, with a great book you can't hold back any more, and bug all your friends with "no listen to this--"

and literature? how do you define literature? one of my current professors likes to say "thoughtful writing," which seems inadequate.  "whatever's in the canon" is certainly inadequate.  "inaccessible" is worse than inadequate.  definitions based on style or content are shallow...

so far the best i've got - inadequate, of course, of course - is "words that are trying to do many things as once."  maybe??  putting aside "making money for their author" or "get read," words often try to be informative, inflammatory, titillating, fun to read, insightful, original... but it seems to me that the texts that are considered, or that I consider, "literature," are all shooting to do many things simultaneously.  I have heard people talk about literature as texts that make us think about the human condition, but many non-fiction books on religion or philosophy do the same - but if that's all the words are trying to do, and not delight the eye and ear, surprise, be consistently interesting, inspire an emotional response, whatever - then it's hardly literature.  but I do think that non-fiction writing can be literature- just that most isn't. books that are only fun aren't literature.  books that are only complicated aren't literature.  books that are only trying to "be literary" generally aren't.  and many books try to do two or three things - have a moral, be funny, and be interesting; be informative and be allegorical; be easy to read and suspenseful; but "literature," for whatever the designation is worth, shoots for so many meanings and effects at once that one cannot easily list them all.

oh, but it's problematic.  "words" or "authors" trying to do many things as once?  and what is this "trying?" but if not "trying," how does one define success?  but for that matter, how does one define "trying?"  and what marks the division between the different things words can do - and does the intended audience matter? can things be literature without trying to be?  how many is "many?"  i think at some point we have to agree that some words pretty well defy concrete definition.

but even if a thing is undefinable, we can't just leave it at that, can we?

can we?

western wind when wilt thou blow

the small rain down can rain
christ, that my love were in my arms
and i in my bed again

anon., 16th century, reading anthropology texts in bed totally doesn't count

Winter has arrived in London, suddenly and surprisingly.  Just last weekend, the streets were friendly -- cool breezes swirled bronze-colored leaves along the pavement, the occasional mild drizzle passed briefly by, all was autumnal and with a bit of mulled wine, rather cheery.  But we rolled out of bed on Monday to face a dreary land.   The thermometers resided ten degrees colder (20 for us heathen fahrenheitists).   The evening's dismally early darkening was made far worse by soaked streets and sad leaves in the gutter, rotting rather than scattering along.   Days later, the cold and damp continues unabated, and glancing out the window makes me shudder

Cold in the morning, cold in the night, and even in midday, a wind that puts the lie to the weather reports (how can they call this 10 C, when I need a hat and two scarves? and at night, how can they say it's as high as 5, when I'm so painfully huddled in my winter coat and two sweaters? )

I think we are now witnessing the London that inspired generations of imperialists to leave this great city for warmer climes... I am growing more convinced that not only was the "white man's burden" pure bull, but so were all the other claimed excuses - money, scientific knowledge, proselytizing, political power, bull, bull, bull.  The Brits just wanted some sun to thaw their bones - or failing that, some snow to justify the cold - anything but this soul-numbing, ear-biting, shoe-soaking gloom and gray!

strikes!

So, good news: the firefighters decided, at the last minute, that they would NOT be striking today - so the good people of London can light fires, wave sparklers and set off fireworks with no more worries than usual.

Next in line to take off work in protest: BBC journalists and announcers!  Apparently tonight and tomorrow will be all reruns on TV and radio, and the strikes might go on until Christmas!  Hey, at least it's not the doctors...

on dealing with mountains of data

Sorry, can't talk now, PIVOT TABLES ARE TRANSFORMING MY LIFE

also, blowing my mind.  I thought I was pretty good at Excel but I am just drowning here.  Ack I'm going to miss dinner

and some british politics!

Brothers David and Edward Miliband
For Labour's sake fought hand-to-hand.
"Well then, I"ll just leave" huffed loser Dave,
Making Mother England sigh, "Boys, behave!"

another clerihew

Inspired by the recurring theme in my contemp. novel class:

These bloody English novel writers
seem to be lovers, rather than fighters;
instead of depicting wars - world one, two, or others,
they write about sisters getting it on with their brothers.

A clerihew!

So I learned about clerihews in my stylistics class the other day, where we contrasted a clerihew with a biographical entry in an encyclopedia as an example off text conventions in different genres. I've been amusing myself with them since, and so, in honor of yesterdays elections:

Barack Hussein Obama
despite begging for "no drama"
is now the villain in a play
written by Beck and his Tea Partay.

London Strikes (Not Once, But Twice!)

yeah, i know, the song's about New York, whatevs.

So, here's the deal:  the British government is kinda broke.  How broke?  Roundabouts £960 billion national debt.  That works out to somewhere near $1.5 trillion.  For comparison's sake, the US has a national debt of $13 trillion plus... but we also make a lot more money than the British do (and don't they know it).  So to make the comparison more fair, we can look at debt as percent of GDP, in which case it's about 65% for the Brits, and... 93% for us.  um, yay? we're winning?

The current US position is that this is not exactly our preferred situation, but that in our extended economic slump continued borrowing is necessary - and at any rate, sharply increasing taxes or decreasing spending will really just make everything worse.  Cue heavy sigh.

The current UK position, on the other hand, is WE ARE ALL GOING TO PERISH IF WE DON'T CUT SPENDING.  There's a lot of complicated stuff about coalition governments (somehow one party with "conservative" in the name, and another with "liberal" in the name, have joined forces and are trying to get along.  How that worked out I'm still not clear on) but at any rate, they're cutting spending like... like... like a man trapped under a giant rock might cut his arm off, I suppose.  Messily, painfully, and with much protestation.

[Interesting side note: the British are primarily worried, it seems, that the debt could work its way up to 100% of GDP.  Did you know that after WWII, their national debt was almost 250% of GDP???  250%!  I mean, I remember learning that Britain was suffering after the war, but I really never appreciated just how insanely in debt they were - or how much it impacted them.  Especially compared to the US' post-war boom - crazy stuff].

Anyway, as the UK welfare state is rather well-entrenched and beloved (and hated, simultaneously, by the same people - it's all very complicated) cutting spending is quite difficult indeed.  Nobody likes it, but the cuts are being branded - rather skillfully, really - as "austerity measures" which are "tough but fair," and generally sold with a heavy sigh and a "we'll get through this together, chaps" spirit that seems to hearken back to the post-war bootstrap-pulling bonanza.  And aside from some student protests, which everyone mostly ignores (disruptive drum-banging aside), most people are shrugging and tolerating it all.

This is all background.   The main point is that there is a fair amount of "time to put up with being broke again" happening right now. But when the City of London tries to cut some superfluous transport jobs, the transport workers are having NONE of this "austerity measure" nonsense and are, instead, marching out of their jobs to protest - over and over again.  So the tube lines stop running, and the buses fill up, and people walk to work - anecdotally, I've heard they'll walk for hours.  

Side note: British people = crazy?  Maybe so.  I think they want to prove they could still have the stubborn resolution necessary to handle another Blitz, if necessary, and in the absence of a Blitz, they survive these strikes.  So the surprisingly unhostile public response to this massive inconvenience might, in fact, be gratitude for the fact that the tube workers are giving everybody a chance to prove their quiet endurance.  Too much?  I dunno, what I've learned so far is that everything in the modern British psyche is due to WWII.  Either "losing the empire," as they put it, or being broke for ages.  But back on-topic.

Tonight and all of tomorrow, there pretty much isn't a tube system.  The funny thing is, though, they're mostly arguing over cutting the jobs of ticket agents... and, true story, nobody buys tickets from ticket agents any more.  I mean, I do, but that's just because the machines won't take my 20th-century American credit card (the British are very proud of the fact that their credit cards have a "chip and pen" system that's cooler than ours or something, whatever).  But aside from helping the occasional cash-strapped, very annoyed American like me, basically they aren't doing much.  

Now, I'm not saying the tube workers are all in the wrong here.  I think the city should keep the same number of workers total, but move those 800 jobs to signal-workers. because the signals fail all the freaking time, I swear.  "Signal failure" this, "signal failure" that, and whaddaya know, no central line today.  But I digress.

The point: EVERY MONTH there is a day when London is just in shambles because the union and the management can't agree on these freaking station agent jobs.  Just GET IT OVER WITH ALREADY FOR THE LOVE OF MERCY.

And this weekend, on "bonfire night," full of - you guessed it! - bonfires, as well as loads of fireworks, the firefighters are on strike.  This one doesn't even make sense.  They're striking because management wants them to change their shift schedule so they can check more fire alarms during the day or something.  Seriously, that's one of the reasons.  And they don't want to, because they wouldn't be able to put their kids to bed.   They aren't talking about firing anybody, or cutting wages, or cutting hours or increasing hours - just changing the shift schedule!

Now, I'm not saying that neither side has a point.  I'm sure they both have points.  And I'm sure they could both find SOME way to compromise.  Instead, management has threatened to sack EVERYBODY (yeah, fire every firefighter in London, GREAT PLAN GUYS) and the firefighters have responded by deciding to just sit out the night with the most fires each year.

all I have to say to that is:  PEOPLE DIE IN FIRES.  can you really not find any other day to strike?  really?  none at all?

This week in London, London's public services are on strike.  Up next:  NHS doctors refuse to do surgery, will stand back with their arms crossed and shout insults at the 3rd-year med students who are trying to take their places.

I wouldn't be much surprised. 

ghooooooooosts!

Last night, in honor of Halloween, William and I went on a "Ghost of the West End" walk, subtitled "Apparations, Alleyways and Ale."  It was a rather pleasant evening, not too chilly and no rain at all (downright paradisiacal for London this time of year!), and we wandered all around the theater district and into St. James' Park.  Our guide was an enthusiastic woman who was very fond of "atmosphere" - every little street we went down, it seemed, was "the most atmospheric in all of London!"

The spookiest ghost we heard about, by far, was the ghost of Sellis, the Duke of Cumberland's manservant, who died a grisly death in St. James' Palace.  As luck (or strategic vandalism by the walk guides, who knows?) would have it, the two streetlamps across the street from the palace weren't working, so we were standing in nearly pitch-black darkness, staring at the silhouette of the palace, as this woman told the story... the Duke of Cumberland called for help late one night, screaming that he was murdered, and guards rushed in to find him covered in blood.  After a good deal of panic they discovered that his wounds were only superficial, and he said he had woken up to find a blade stabbing him repeatedly, and as he raised his hands to ward it off, the attack suddenly stopped.  After his wounds were treated, he said, "But where's my manservant, Sellis?"

The guards rushed in to Sellis' room, and as they approached the door they heard a strange gurgling noise.  (Now you have to imagine William going "oooooOOOOoooOOOO!" in your ear to get the full effect.  He did this at every remotely spooky moment.  And sometimes just crossing the street.)

They came in to find him on his bed, throat slit - nearly decapitated, in fact - blood gurgling up from his throat.  Dramatic pause.

The official story was that Sellis had tried to kill the Duke, but halfway through his conscience kicked in and instead he went back to his room and committed suicide.

The unofficial story was that the Duke had impregnated Sellis' teenage daughter, and that the poor girl had committed suicide.  When Sellis confronted the Duke, the Duke killed his servant, and then stabbed himself a few times to make it look like it was the other way around.  Or did the Duke sleep with Sellis' wife?  Or did Sellis catch the Duke in flagrante delict delicto of the homosexual variety?  Those are all rather different explanations, but at any rate,  most people supposed there had been some sort of a coverup.

And now - so they say - the ghost of Sellis walks the corridors of St. James' Palace after dark, his arrival always signaled by a gurgling noise and the sickly sweet smell of fresh human blood...

oooooOOOooooOOOOoooOOO!

William's favorite ghost was the ghost of William Terriss, a hugely popular actor who was brutally killed by a jealous competitor.  While there's supposedly an always-cold spot where he was stabbed (40 times! seems excessive), his actual ghost is spotted standing on the platform at Covent Garden tube stop, but never boarding a train.  The tube stop wasn't there in his life, but the story has it that his favorite bakery stood on the spot where the platform is now, and his ghost is actually just waiting for some buns before rehearsal.

My favorite ghost lives in the basement of Samuel Pepys' house, No 14 Buckingham St.  Pepys is supposed to haunt there, too, but that's pretty boring.  But a few painters also lived there in later years, and supposedly there's a pretty young woman in a blue dressing gown who runs laughing down the hallway and vanishes into the drawing room - ready to pose as a nude model for a painting.

Happy Halloweeen!

Speaker's Corner on a sunny day

This afternoon we headed down to Speaker's Corner - working our way down the London check-list we drew up - and were surprised to find glorious weather waiting for us in Hyde Park.  It was hard, to be frank, to listen to the orators when the sun was shining, footballers and frolicking children were enjoying the green open spaces, and deck chairs were waiting out beneath the white fluffy clouds.

But we tried - Speaker's Corner, after all, is a grand statement on the importance of free speech, and what good is free speech if nobody is listening?  So we can report that there were, of course, proselytizers from all three religions of the book (I had never seen a Jewish street proselytizer before - I thought Judaism wasn't quite so expansionary - but hey, what do I know), as well as an impassioned atheist, loudly mocking the Bible's math (crucified on Friday, rose on Sunday, how is that three days and nights? ha, ha! he said) and a fervent nationalist belittling her hacklers (you are all just foreigners, why don't you go back where you belong)

but the sun was shining on the green grass so we went and sat in striped deckchairs and looked for shapes in the clouds.  Freedom of Speech was buzzing behind us - boisterous but not violent - while a toddler chased pigeons and rollerbladers circled the trails.

How do you think you can come here and be British - you don't belong here!  and how can you leave your own people in your own country, leave them there all by themselves --  she was white-haired and slightly trembling, eyes intimidated by the crowd but voice strong.

Are you born again?  [No...]  Well, what's your problem?  (and old man, and his listeners shying away from him) I'm serious, what's your problem?  You - do you know the Lord Jesus Christ?


but there's no MONEY back there, a skinny, brown-skinned man shouted up at her.

that's two days, tops - two nights, not three - (the biggest crowd by far, for this charismatic man in a winter hat) so, what, can God not count?  (loud laughter)


And you are only allowed in here temporarily, you won't be staying here forever, because that's not the way of things - things can't stay like this - even on her stepstool she's barely taller than her audience-

what I don't understand (an American accent, in a sequined jacket) is why we're here talking about details - why you're going on about three days, two days, three nights, two nights - when what we should be doing is arguing, discussing, putting our opinions out, celebrating that we disagree and learning to live side by side-

But I like it here!  I'm comfortable here!  I'm not going anywhere - I'm staying here forever! (loud laughter)

Are you going to listen to me?  Are you?  (painfully polite tone of voice from this man the charismatic atheist calls 'Minister') Or are you just going to talk - I'm telling you, this "three days" thing, you must understand that the Bible is metaphor, is allegory, is parable...

As the afternoon crept on, the clouds got a little darker, the wind a little colder - it would rain soon, but not before we were safely within the walls of the Oxford St department stores.  The voices stayed surprisingly strong.

"It feels so safe here," William mused.  "Did you notice how the maintenance vehicle slowed down when it got near all the children?"  Like clockwork, a man came by to politely request payment for the chairs.  People were eating picnics, playing with their babies.

There was murmuring behind us, and a cluster of synchronized motion.  Men across the park laid out prayer mats on the grass or gathered on the bare asphalt, kneeling down for salat al-asr, the evening prayers.

Go back to where you came from, shouting the white-haired woman, still going strong, and her audience replied in a loud voice: NO!

Angela Merkel has declared multiculturalism to be dead, but the prayers in Hyde Park continued unabated and undisturbed, groups of men facing Qibla- reciting, Allahu Akbar- bowing, prostration, and again.  The soapboxers and the hecklers didn't pause for a moment.

The atheist had changed his tactic, preaching now on the unjustly low salaries of police officers and teachers, this time to no rebuttals.  We walked by, the wind a little too chilly, now, as he talked of cuts and government responsibility, and we left the public park, walked past public art and under public monuments, back into the British public space where debate is, while legal, considered rather uncouth.  And maybe I'd have some thoughts about that but I've put off my homework long enough.

cuts, veils and gypsies

These are interesting times to be living in England - or in Europe - but then again, is every place, always, an interesting time to be living there, if you look hard enough?  I suspect so... though I am hardly convinced... but at any rate, one needn't look hard here and now.

Today, during my anthropology class, we were terribly distracted by the sounds of protest in the streets outside as a march slowly gathered strength, furiously decrying the brutal cuts that were finally announced today.  They've been prognosticated for years, and the coalition government has been bracing the British people for them for ages now, using language strongly reminiscent of the Blitz: we're all in this together, sacrifice for the sake of the country, buckle down and we'll make it through, that sort of thing.  "Tough but fair" is the rather well-crafted slogan they've chosen, but some folks seem hesitant - but based on my observations, despite the protests, most people here seem to think that, unpleasant though they might be, something is necessary, isn't it?

So the cuts are inevitable, just like it's inevitable that unless a miracle is flying our way, at some point America, too, will have to tighten our belts... but it sure isn't fun, and students are disruptively banging on drums to mark their disapproval.

Of course, this is nothing compared to what's happening in France - here in London I've yet to see a single car on fire, a single violent battle between hooded youths and cops, a single freeway incapacitated by furious lorry drivers.  No, the protests in London - protesting massive cuts across almost all areas of government expenditures - are NOTHING compared to how Paris reacts to a threat to raise the retirement age from 60 to 62.   Yes, you read that right.

But how do Britons respond to this difference?  A flatmate, a professor and a newspaper columnist all agree: "We have a lot to learn from the French."  I kid you not!  They wish that they had the gumption to set a few cars on fire to express their displeasure - figure that if they were willing to go quite that far, maybe they'd get the amount of time off the French do - but I suppose it's just not in the British character.  They don't think it is, anyway, and maybe that's all that matters.

Meanwhile, of course, a deeper conflict seems to be brewing - yes, even deeper than this very meaningful encounter between socialism and capitalism, the welfare state and the deficit, the bleeding hearts and the empty wallets of the state - even deeper than that, there is a serious crisis of liberalism all across Europe.

Did you know that Angela Merkel has declared multiculturalism to be dead?  That France - having already banned the niqab in public areas - has proceeded from alienating Muslims to directly ejecting the Gypsies?  The Roma have been cast out of France, and if that seems like a headline from five hundred years ago, well.  Welcome to modern-day, liberal, tolerant Western Europe.

In Sweden, the neo-Nazis have broken into parliament.  The Danes beat them to it.  In the Netherlands, Geert Wilders is being put on trial for vicious anti-Muslim speech - protecting free speech vs. punishing a xenophobic demagogue, and half the populace doesn't seem to know which side to root for.

Did I mention that Angela Merkel has declared multiculturalism to be dead?

Meanwhile, the Guardian asks, "Whatever happened to the good Europeans, those nice folks in small northern countries who liked to think of themselves as the world champions of liberty and tolerance?"  But I would argue that Britain has not yet decided where it will fall on the spectrum - the immigration laws have been tightened, Americanized, even, and while the country rallies behind a reality TV star of questionably legal presence, it also debates the death of a deportee and how much responsibility the state bears towards new arrivals, and - of course - the headscarf, the niqab and the burqa.  Britain debates with less vitriol, fewer bans and much more politeness than the Continent is displaying - once again, no cars on fire here - but not, I would argue, with a clear impending verdict.

It's as though Western Europe is asking: Do we continue the grand cultural experiment of liberalism, multiculturalism, religious tolerance and polyglot international cities?  Or do we throw it aside, kick out all Muslims (if you think I'm exaggerating, you haven't been reading enough about the Geert Wilders trial) and brace ourselves for war?

Keep an eye out - the public's fickle opinion could yet fall either way.

hello how are you

i know, i know, I'm an embarrassment.

OKAY so the british don't really do formalities like we do.  Isn't that strange?  We think of Brits as formal but - well, I'm confusing my words here, I did say formalities, and what I meant was - hello, how are you, thanks, I'm sorry, you're welcome, a smile and a nod of appreciation - and it feels rather cold and awkward at times, and rude, because why would you ignore me like that,

so it's funny to read a British perspective on the idea of forced friendliness from servers (which I miss, I truly do!)


"All of it - the whole highly-trained, slightly clammy and cultish-feeling "hi-I'm-Danny-and-I'll-be-your-server" business seems cynical, false and utterly un-British. That level of intimacy with a complete stranger makes me feel profoundly uncomfortable anyway, but the idea that it may have been taught, drilled and rehearsed by professionals in "the art of conversation" makes me feel exploited."


http://www.guardian.co.uk/lifeandstyle/wordofmouth/2010/oct/15/flirt-waiter-waitress


And now I have to run off to class - i know, shamefully short and shallow,


I apologize!  Sorry about that, a smile and a nod, and I'll say hello when I see you again because I'm American, punks.




(I did meet an extremely friendly waitress the other day - she smiled at me and EVEN asked how my evening was going.  It warmed me to the soul)

true confessions

I was GOING to write a post about brick lane, but the Guardian cryptic crossword is killing me.  Killing me dead.  Like no crossword has ever killed me before.  I might well follow in the steps of one of my heroes, the great Frank Lewis, who grew so obsessed with these dang things he started writing them for Americans (and retired to the Caribbean, must be a pretty good deal!)   But I could sometimes solve Mr. Lewis' puzzle, and the Guardian's are leaving me completely bewildered.

So if you'l excuse me, I'm goig to try to figure out how on earth to decode "Title: 'Took offence ... just" (5-6)

gah!

contrasts

I'm sitting in one of the reading rooms in Senate House library - an enormous, stone-clad tower in Central London - surrounded by worn wood shelves and dusty old art folios.  I like to work here because of the terrible wifi (which rather effectively discourages me from getting distracted) and the massive windows, which show off the gray skies about as well as anything can.  It's another chilly day, and from this window it looks like the trees are feeling rather windswept and rain is on its way.  In short, I am a long, long way from the islands!

And yet I am immersing myself in my endless pages of transcriptions - yes, I'm still working on this dang article, don't judge!  there's so much material and I'm so busy and so easily distracted and yes, okay, judge away.  I can almost feel the oppressive heat of a Manila summer and see palm-covered mountains rising out of the sea.

Almost.  But not quite.  It's still rather chilly.

I am hearing voices, though - not literally, as I've misplaced my headphones, but reading over the interviews is bringing up memories so vivid I'm almost looking over my shoulder to see if Ana or Anamaine or Bernice or Catherine is standing there.

I'd tell you more, but as you can see, I'm only up to the C's!  Much to do!

they CALL it English pt 2

and I quote:

"I want to get blootered and dance like a wazzock."

Printed in the Evening Standard.  I mean, you think I could make that up?

prescription for a difficult day

Start with a good cry.

Breathe deeply.  Wash your face.  Follow with a hot cup of tea and some chocolate.

Fill your day with work, and even if yours is the fairly minor task of discussing plays, do it well.

When you've come home, and the sun is sinking, and the chill is setting in, cover your hands in flour and start kneading bread.  I can think of few better ways to confront the dark than standing in a warm and cozy kitchen, a favorite song in the background and dough beneath your fingers.   And don't forget to breathe.


I'll be traveling a little more for the rest of this week - I am flying home for my grandfather's funeral on Friday.  I have already mentioned my Lolo a few times on this blog, but if you'd like to learn a little more about his extraordinary life, his obituary is online.  A few short paragraphs for such a long life!

And now I'm thinking of the way he would greet my sister and me -- "Ah, how great it is to see you," he would say joyfully, "your faces shining with the glory of the universe!"

That's all I've got for you today.

TO DO

SO MUCH

THERE IS SO MUCH TO DO

even if we limit ourselves to free events in central London, it is downright overwhelming.  just plain overwhelming.  Time Out is a regularly-published instrument of terror for me.

It's delightful and fun and all, but I mean, really - every day I struggle with the fact that there are far too many books for me to read in one lifetime, and now I have to face endless lists of fun and interesting and exciting events I could easily attend but will have to miss?

oh, it's all too much... I'd write more, but we're going to run off to see a pyrotechnic tango show...

borough market

Next week, if it's nice, I'll go back and take pictures... but for now, I'll just say three things:

- While I thought we lived in a nice place, I now realize that we should have located ourselves south of the river to shorten our commute to this freaking amazing food market;

- My noble self-restraint in the cheese department has been broken... I did restrain myself to only 4 types of cheese, but I won't tell you how much I spent for them.  And while for the past two and a half weeks we managed to buy barely any alcohol at all - seriously, aside from the requisite pint at the occasional pub, nothing! - that noble chain has now been broken, too.  but the wine shop in Borough has refillable bottles, and you come back each week and fill them straight out of the barrels, and it's eco-friendly, and it's cheap, and it's so cool!

anyway, we just had crisp white wine with some margherita pizzas - yes, I managed to make pizzas with a marginally-functional stove and no measuring cups or spoons; my second-greatest achievement of the day* - featuring amazing fresh mozzarella and I have NO REGRETS.

Furthermore, I think I displayed equally admirable self-control when I didn't buy ANY wild mushrooms.  Not any!  And there were endless basketfuls;

- and finally, I am generally firmly behind the local foods movement.  Very firmly!  Local foods are amazing and you should most definitely support your local farmers.  And there is an impressive amount of British-grown produce available here, and I buy it!  I do!  

But if you are thinking that a trip to the Borough market carries the moral weight of a trip to the local farmer's market, I must caution you that you will find yourself falling in love with olives and oils from "our small organic farm on Sparta" (said in a charming Greek accent) and cheese shipped in massive wheels from the south of France, and a thousand different bottles and cans of ingredients from a hundred countries and every populated continent.  And when you try to persuade yourself that Spain is 'practically local," just stop.  Because you're not there for virtue, you're there for cheese, herbs, kangaroo burgers and Turkish candy.

oh man, maybe I'll go back tomorrow...

*My greatest achievement today was solving this puzzle:



I was stuck on it for two whole days.  Drove me crazy.  But I got it!

Conspicuous not-quite-consumption

I am not a shopper.

When I think of a fun way to spend an afternoon, I do not think, "Oooh!  Let's go buy something!"  When I am in the midst of a massive mall, I feel less exhilarated and more overwhelmed.  Rather than jumping at the chance to go browsing, I agonize over whether I really need a new rain jacket/a hard drive/sneakers without holes in them anyway.  Spending money makes me queasy, and wandering around stores full of things I can't buy anyway usually fills me with furious jealousy or, occasionally, vague disgust.  With the exception of food products and two-dollar thrift shop shoes, I simply do not enjoy shopping, even of the window variety.

And yet, I present to you three scenes, united by excess:

1.  Camden Market on a Saturday morning - thousands, if not tens of thousands, of people.  Tiny alleyways and corridors, a hand on my purse as I push through crowds to find fresh air and a new block of shops and market stalls.  I lost William along the way somewhere, and stupidly left my phone, so with a shrug turn more or less randomly down another aisle, slipping from a food court (four pounds for indian, five pounds for thai, two pounds for a bag of donuts, fresh orange juice for three, free samples of chinese chicken, a man dressed up like a seventeenth-century soldier ringing a bell and advertising, bizarrely, the japanese place) through a door and past a "GOTHIC/PUNK/LOLITA" shop and another leather workshop and an all-things-pot store to yet another vintage district.  I stick my head in the "Dandies" shop to see if William is trying on suit jackets, but nothing, so I shrug and head next door, find a sleek red-and-black dress that would surely fit me - which is a great reason not to try it on, because I'm still not sure how much money we have and I can't go building up a dress collection just yet - and quickly move on.

There's too much - much too much.  Too many shoppers, salespeople, stalls, t-shirts, belt buckles, incense, food, leather jackets, statues of horses, too much of everything.  William tried on a hundred hats before we lost each other, and he's probably found a hundred more.  I am not panicking, but I step outside.  Fresh air, and a t-shirt stall with beautiful printed tee shirts, hand-drawn surreal scenes on the front and I'm keeping note in my head of all the things to come back for once I know how much to spend, and this is soothing - but I'm sure William is back in the warren of stalls, so I throw myself back into the fray and head towards the signs declaring "ANTIQUES," admire the old leather suitcases, and stop in awe at a stall full of elaborate hats and headwear.  They are jumbled in pile like nothing special, but each is different, vibrant, faux-retro and fund.  And I fall wholly and irreversibly in love with an explosion of black feathers and lace that perches delicately on the side of my head.  I put it on and stare at myself in the mirror, remember that I would never have a reasonable excuse to wear it, immediately pu that aside.  Forty pounds.  That's  over sixty dollars.  And I think I... no, no, I can't.  And yet...

But how would I get it home?

But how can I leave it behind?

I turn around to see William at last, across the hall and behind a few horse statues, trying fruitlessly to call me, and I shout - "William!  William!  Don't I need this in my life?"

(The answer, friends, is a definite yes... and it's a wonder that I didn't buy a thing)

2.  Harrods on a weekday afternoon - I drag William around, up the Egyptian-themed escalator, through the scented halls, under carved ceilings and over marble floors, down to the bustling food halls of caviar and lobster and ludicrously expensive cheese, twenty-dollar chocolates and a thousand neatly dressed and ever-smiling salespeople.  He protests that it all seems excessive, and I pout, but, well... there's really not much you can say to that, is there?

What is Harrods?  Well, it's a luxury department store... an exercise in human folly... an enormous waste of resources and energy... a masterpiece.  It started as a small grocery, and is now housed in a truly enormous and extraordinarily intimidating building.  How enormous, you ask?  Try five acres.

The motto: Omnia Omnibus Ubique—All Things for All People, Everywhere.  And they sure do try.

The owners: currently, the country of Qatar.  Price paid: $1.5 billion.  If you ever find yourself staring, bewildered, at Harrods, and wondering how it makes any money at all when 90% of its visitors appear to be tourists, picture a sea of Arab oil wealth, and perhaps it will make more sense.  Also, remember: you say you won't buy something, but step into that food hall and...

Harrods has sold live lions (including Christian, the lion of tear-inducing Youtube fame) and used live cobras to guard shoes.  The story of Harrods is intimately entwined with Princess Diana's death - the owners son was her lover, who died with her - and in the store is a memorial to them both, featuring a lipstick-smeared wine glass.  Harrods does nothing in moderation.

Quote from the former owner:  "This is not Marks and Spencer or Sainsbury's. It is a special place that gives people pleasure. There is only one Mecca."  Yes: an Egyptian businessman just compared a store to MECCA.

And we pass through every level, sink into $12,000 sofas, resist the temptation to touch cut-crystal vases I'd have to mortgage my life to pay for, stand outside the cafes and champagne bars and gape at the prices and savor the smells.  I linger in the jewelry section, gaping like a proletariat at a jewel-incrusted tiger the size of my head, when a salesman - playing at the ludicrous charade that I would be capable of purchasing such a object - kindly explains that it is both a necklace AND a detachable brooch, and what do I think?  I laugh, and tell the truth - it is stunning.

Hours later, starving, we flee - and yes, you must flee Harrods, at some point, for that much concentrated wealth and pretension and sheer ridiculousness starts as overwhelming but ends as oppressive.  But I tell you: if you are here in this city, ride down to Knightsbridge and take a look.  Give yourself time to be shocked into silence by the scale of it.  And think all you like about wealth and inequity and the vestigial benefits of empire-building and the strange allure of expensive names, but also confess: the Egyptian escalator is fantastic, and the fine-crafted jewelry is beautiful, and the food hall must surely smell like Heaven.

(And while it's no marvel that I didn't buy a ludicrously expensive suitcase, shirt or scent, I think we must all admire my self-restraint in purchasing no cheese)

3.  Selfridge's, late at night, after getting lost on Oxford St and tumbling in to the nearest tourist destination.  Selfridge's is  London's second-biggest shopping destination, and one which mostly pales to relative sanity beside Harrods, but for one exception: the Shoe Galleries.  Where I found myself with astonishing rapidity, and from which William vanished even faster, and where I happily wandered

35,000 square feet.  55,000 shoes in stock. 4,000 on display.  Prices from a mere $40 for flipflops up to thousands that I didn't even bother to convert.  A dozen rooms - each with entirely unique architecture and interior design- and the requisite army of salespeople (here, beautiful and beautifully shod).  

I have one piece of advice:  Milk that word "galleries" for all that it is worth.  Do not, by any stretch of the imagination, think of how those seven-inch stilettos would feel beneath your body weight.  Don't wonder what the slouchy-boot silhouette would do to the line of your legs.  Don't think of the relationship between your bank account and the price tag.  And don't - unless, of course, you are supremely wealthy - even start to entertain the idea of buying those stunning silver-and-black heels because "compared to the Burberry boots, they're a bargain"and "I don't REALLY need a computer" - no, no, stop right there.

Galleries of ART.  Pieces of art cleverly designed around the theme of things that could conceivably fit on a human foot.  Pieces of art couched in elegant rooms, bathed soft lighting, surrounded by bright-colored sofas and resting on clever, subtle shelves, clean design at every turn and each gallery carved out into its own little world - a version of reality where everyone is beautiful, tall, impossibly wealthy, and never has to walk anywhere.  Worlds of camel and cashmere, or hot pink with silver studs, or black silk and endless pearls, or leather and steel and a blunt, urban aesthetic, but whatever the scene, pure fantasy.  Ridiculous fantasy.  Absurd and ludicrous and unnecessary - but stunningly creative, and astonishing, and beautiful, as art - often absurd, occasionally ludicrous, surely as unnecessary as any other form of beauty - can  often be.

It's an art gallery where you can touch the pieces, and even - if you have more guts than I do - walk around in them.  How wonderful!  How magical!  How strange!  How... how fun!

(Yes - wandering around a store I could never afford to shop at, just for fun!  Does... does this make me a shopper?)

they CALL it English...

... but the bag of ham we bought came embellished with the bold statement, "still bigs up a bap!"  to which I say: these people invented this language, don't they know that big is an adjective and bap is... what the heck is a bap?

(incidentally, since "bap" - as discovered after some research - refers not only to soft bread rolls but also, affectionately, to breasts, there might be a hidden meaning in that ham packaging.  women of the world, take note)

5. Timelines

I suppose, technically speaking, we all have the same amount of history... the billion-year-old-earth (or 6,000 years, if you like), the birth of humanity, the various exoduses, the rise and fall of cultures - as humans, I guess we can all lay claim to our collective history.

And the history of humanity in the Americas is, of course, a long one - nowhere near as long as humanity in Africa, of course, but still a long and fascinating and often tragic history.

But for me, personally, I have a sense that the historical context for my own life began sometime in the 1700s... maybe the 1600s, but no earlier.  Beyond that, it is the history of other people, and unfathomably long ago.

So I am having to adjust to the scale of history and time in this city, where CaerLudein/Londinium/London has sat at this spot on the Thames for thousands of years, and where a professor says casually "It wasn't much more than 500 years ago when..." and I miss the rest of the sentence for shock that a half-millenium is dismissed as barely any time at all.

(He also said, and I quote, "I have detained you for somewhat longer than I had expected.  I now recommend that we stop for 20 minutes or so."  Oh, British formality!)

4. What's a girl gotta do...

... to get a newspaper delivered around here?

I could get the Independent delivered. THEY do home delivery. But I don't WANT the Independent. I want the Guardian! And hours (seriously... sometimes I get obsessive about things) searching the Guardian's website (sometimes I hate calling people) has persuaded me that they simply don't do daily delivery to individual houses. They don't do it. End of story.

And that it's not JUST the Guardian - it's a British thing!

You can subscribe, of course... in which case you get a pack vouchers to hand to your newsagent! like, OUTSIDE! after you have gotten dressed and gone out in the cold and walked to the tube stop and might as well start your whole day.

So, apparently, some newsagents will deliver papers for a fee. But to find out how that works, I'll have to ask a newsagent. And our local newsagent kind of intimidates me. Also, is usually on his mobile when I walk by.

Okay, and I hate sounding like a stupid American, which is how I imagine I will sound when I say, "sooo, do you deliver? papers? to houses? like, in the morning? every morning? maybe?" So I guess what I have to do is risk sounding like an idiot in front of somebody intimidating. And also pay lots of money. Cultural experience, here I come!


I just would like to read my morning dose of depressing without having to put my shoes on. Is that so much to ask?

3. William's favorite thing about where we live...

is their recycling program. No, seriously.

It IS quite impressive. Camden recycles pretty much everything. They even recycle food waste - so we get the good feeling of composting, but without any work!

Anyway, he's wild about it. Recycling. William's a fan. Now you know.

1: Where we live

We live in Camden Town, in London's Northwest area code, but generally considered part of Central London.  Fortunately, where we live is actually a few blocks south of the Camden Town you mostly see in pictures - the Camden of the bustling markets, canal locks and willow trees, punk attire and raucous nightlife.  Not that it would be a bad thing to live in the heart of that madness, but we're a bit closer to the center of London and while we can walk to Camden Town proper, we get to enjoy somewhere slightly quieter.

Not that where we live is a peaceful little suburban flat or anything... we have a pub across the street and a live-music venue a few doors down (which provides great entertainment even from the sidewalk - one night it will be a glaring delegation of sulky punks, another night too-cool-for-school scene kids, and then some unassuming indie fans.  We never know what sorts of looks we'll get from the sidewalk!).  A bit farther away, there's another music venue - where JANELLE MONAE played shortly before we arrived, my goodness!  if only we'd had better timing!

Besides the access to music, our location is pretty great - it was the clincher when we were deciding between flats.  The library is literally right next door to our row of flats, and the tube stop only seconds away.   Better yet, we're just off of the Camden High Street - High Road is British-talk for Main Street, I hear - and can walk to a wonderful, wonderful range of stores.  Food, of course - two big grocery stores, a Thai market, several street greengrocers, a few discount shops - but also tools, lighting and electronics (which it doesn't SEEM like we'd need, but British light bulbs threw us for a loop), about six thrift shops, pharmacies, hair salons, a gazillion pubs, cafes and restaurants, and even more music venues.  It's a cute little street, with a big random statue in the middle of it and all.

London Blogging, to the faraway towns

Well, I certainly have been terribly remiss in posting... we've been here for almost two weeks, and nothing!   

So let me start:

We're in London!

In the next stage of my 2010 adventures, my boyfriend William and I are spending the fall semester in London with the University of London's study abroad program, taking classes at the London Met as well as courses with other American students.  We just finished our first class (theatre, as they spell it here) today.  We'll have an easy first few weeks, as our Met courses (the ones we'll take with British students instead of with each other) don't start until October, so we'll be doing a lot more exploring of the city over the next few weeks.

 Now, I COULD try to cover all of the last week and a half in one epic-length blog post, but really, who wants that?  So instead, I'll go for the shotgun approach, and try to fling out a bunch of short posts.  I am bad at writing things that are short, and sometimes (read: every month but november) I am bad at sitting down to write  anything at all, but I shall give it the old college try.

True story: I used to think that "the old college try" meant a cursory, half-hearted attempt.  This is the opposite of what it actually means.  Does this reveal something about my own associations with the word "college?"  Or is it just easy to confuse words and phrases for their opposite if you are too stubborn to get a dictionary and try to use context clues?

But already I've digressed.  Let me start again.

yumz

get ready for adobo and sisig to hit the big time!

Filipino food's new wave

Abortion and sin

Wow, a nice, non-controversial title, huh?

So I'm working my way through the interviews (and dang did I take a lot of interviews!) annotating them and transcribing bits I want to quote, and I just got to a really interesting conversation I had almost forgotten about.  My interviewing techniques completely broke down - yes, I am asking yes and no questions here, and yes, that's awful.  what can I say.  Actually, I was not only asking poor interview questions, I was also asking really insensitive ones - I had several times been told not to ask about abortion at all, because the taboo on talking about it was too strong, and when I asked about it in the past I had, indeed, had a few people just shut down on me.  So it was wise advice I received, but I think I was also wise to disregard it sometimes.

Anyway, I am not presenting this as an example of camila being an awesome interviewer. But I thought despite my incompetence, the result was interesting  With hemming, hawing, and some translating from tagalog cut out, it looks like this:

Me: What kinds of questions do you get the most?
Gladys (teenaged RH activist/youth educator/general badass): Mostly girls asking about missed periods and pregnancy.
Me: What information do you have for them?
Gladys: We can give them counseling [talks a bit about early-pregnancy counseling]
Me, diving headfirst into cultural insensitivity: Do they ever ask about abortions?
Gladys: Sometimes we get girls who inquire about abortions, but then they decide to continue the pregnancy.
Me, surprised that she answered calmly, and that they talked about it at all: We talked earlier about the taboo on talking about sex - are the youths who are open to talking about contraceptive use generally open to talking about abortion, too?
Gladys: Yes.
Me (continuing to be surprised): Are they open to the idea of actually having abortions?
A pause.
Gladys: When the contraception fails, they are open to do abortions.
A pause.
 Gladys: There are young pregnant women who are open to having abortions when they get pregnant, but as long as their parents don't know they are pregnant. But that's only 10%.  For the young pregnant women whose parents know about her pregnancy, she'll still continue the pregnancy.
Me: Are the parents opposed to abortion?
Gladys, looking at me like I'm a complete idiot: Yes, of course. They believe that abortion is a sin.  And that it may cause harm to the child-bearer.
Me: And the young people don't believe this?
Gladys: They have the same beliefs.  They both think that abortion is a sin.  It's still quite a sin to them.Me: Can - can you explain a little more?  They agree that abortion is a sin, and have the abortions anyway?
Gladys:  Sort of.  They agree with their parents on abortion, that abortion is a sin
Me: But...
Gladys: If the knowledge about pregnancy - if only the boyfriend and the girl knows about the pregnancy, then they push for an abortion.   They may go for an abortion.  The barrier is - I mean, the thing that stops them from getting an abortion - is the parent's knowledge.
Me: so in the percentage where the parents don't know, and they do have an abortion, do they still believe it's a sin? Or is it - I mean, is it only a sin if their parents know?
Gladys: They think it is still a sin, but that they lack a choice.  They still consider it as a sin, but they still prefer an abortion.  And if the parents know about the pregnancy and about the abortion, well... if the parents will know that she had an abortion, she's dead.


So - the way I parsed this conversation - everybody agrees that abortion is a sin, but it's not actually moral objections to abortion that cause teenagers with unwanted pregnancies to continue their pregnancies.  It's not even the high risks involved in cheap, illegal abortions. It's their parents' moral objections - or more specifically, the punishment (and "she's dead" might sound like an exaggeration, but by this point in my trip, I made no such assumptions) that their parents would enact if they knew about the sin.

Either way, Gladys describes teens who feel like they have no choice.  If the parents don't know, then they have to abort; and if their parents do know, then they have to continue (and get married, in many communities).

And look back at the start of the conversation - these young people, if they are lucky enough to have an RH advocacy group active in their area, only seek information AFTER they think they might be pregnant.

Sin?  The idea of sin's not preventing abortions, or causing them.  It's knowledge that's determining these kids' actions - their own knowledge about contraception, and their parents' knowledge about their actions. 

Then again, the original sin was the pursuit of knowledge, so maybe I'm reading it all backwards...

transcription

thanks, Julie, for your tip! 

she had great advice that enabled me to make a poor life decision.  for instance, by combining F4 and NaturallySpeaking, I have developed a system that allows me to make pretty accurate transcriptions - with time stamps!  - using a headset and 2 keys on the keyboard.  pretty quickly - faster than realtime, actually, as long as I am taking cliff-notes for most of it and only fully transcribing the bits i want to quote.

this, in turn, allows me to transcribe while lying down with my eyes closed on a comfy couch.

which, in turn, uh... well... i'm sure you can fill in the blanks...

WHY DID I ASK SO MANY QUESTIONS

WHY

I could have said, "so, why did you become an activist?  can you explain a little more?  great, thanks!" and had 60 15-minute interviews... instead I have HOURS and HOURS and HOURS to go through!  somewhere north of sixty hours of audio!  I'm only transcribing a fraction, and even so I want to rip my hair out!

WHY DID I PUT THIS OFF UNTIL NOW

WHY

nuts and bolts

Soo, does anybody with more experience in grant-receiving have any advice on taxes?

Because I'm strictly bound to only use the money I get to pay for my trip, right?  Which I have done.  But I still have to pay taxes on that money, but because I can't use the grant money to pay for the taxes, I'm left kind of in a bind.

Of course, if those grants were my only income, then my deductible would cover it and everybody would be happy.  But I also have the scholarship funds that pay for my college education... and yes, Virginia, I pay taxes on those, too (everything that isn't tuition).  Add in the fact that I'm getting money to go to London in the fall, and I am fairly positive that my tax bill will be larger than my total non-grants-and-scholarships income for the year, and certainly larger than my savings account.  And not just a little bit larger.

I've been thinking, but I don't think I can possibly budget tightly enough to save that money out of what my scholarship will cover in London - there's not a lot of wiggle room there to being with.  My current plan is just to spend the grant and scholarship money as I was instructed to do, and then borrow money to pay for the taxes.

I'm not complaining - it's a great problem to have, and if I have to take out loans to cover the taxes on my grants and scholarships, well, it's still a great deal.  But I was wondering if anybody out there who has done this before can reassure me that this is standard practice for grant recipients?  or is it an unusual side effect of being personally broke, but in strictly-regulated-possession of large amounts of other people's money?

(Confidential to Jenny:  I love taxes!  Taxes are great!  My taxes cover lots of wonderful programs!  I don't mind paying taxes as it is my duty as a citizen benefiting from the services provided by this great country!  WHOO TAXES)

The journey is my heartbeat in this plane

I read this poem early in my trip, and thought of it again in a plane heading to Davao - a flight in some ways more daring and profound than my long haul across the Pacific, and yet an utterly prosaic trip.  I looked in my emotions and found not a trace of profundity, wondered at the absence, stared out the window, checked my watch.  Was I feeling what I ought to have been feeling?

A funny question, no?


The Journey is Everything

Montaigne believed the journey, in itself,
Was the idea.  Yet from this moving plane
I look down on the dazzle of the world,

Conscious of his words but wondering
When, when shall I be here, at journey's end?
The journey, said Montaigne, is everything.

Two hours ago the setting out began
With words of love.  It is too soon to be
In love with landscape, altering below --

The flight upriver and the dwindling hills --
As if I came for this, a traveler,
And every wisp of cloud were an obsession.

It is too soon  The journey is myself,
Concerned with where I was, where I must go,
Not with the clouds about me (what of them?),

Not with the morning skies -- nor would Montaigne
Have noticed them, his mind on other things.
The journey is my heartbeat in this plane.

Yet with more time?  Were the excursion longer
to the Cote d'Azur et d'Or, perhaps, La Mer,
the hyacinth fields of Haarlem, Tanganyika,

The river Lethe or the Serpentine,
The fortunate Isles or Nepal -- anywhere,
I might discover what his words still mean:

The journey, in itself, a thing apart.
But no.  These words are older than Montaigne's:
The sky is changed.  I have not changed my heart.

Helen Bevington

home again home again

I do have some more posts to write and put up, but I don't think I'll get around to them any time soon... alas, the to-do list awaiting my return is painfully long.  but i do have more thoughts to think my way through, no worries.

music

So when I first got here in Manila and was listening to the radio in the taxi, I actually thought that they were live-broadcasting videoke (that's karaoke for everybody in the world but Filipinos).  I knew that videoke was a huge thing here, and after hearing, over and over again, songs by Jason Mraz, The Black-Eyed Peas, Akon... but sung by lovely, lilting female voices over acoustic guitar... i was just super confused.

Turns out that cover songs are just a really big deal here in the Philippines.  How big of a deal?  You ever heard of a band named Journey?

Their current lead singer was from a Filipino band that did covers of Journey songs... did them so well that Journey HIRED HIM.  And while that might be unusual, every Filipino artist, it seems, releases at least one album consisting entirely of covers of Western bsongs.

Why?  I hear it's cheaper than hiring someone to write cheaper songs.  I hear it's safer to choose a song people already know and like, rather than risking something new.  Mostly, though, I hear that it's an expression of colonialism

Anyway, whether you're a filthy colonialist or not, I suggest you support the Filipino economy by buying Princess Velasco's "Addicted to Acoustic" albums.  They are awesome.  Based on my highly scientific acoustic survey (by which i mean, i listen to the radio sometimes), she is the currently undisputed qu- uh, Princess - of Filipino acoustic covers.

I hear it's really hot back home... put on this album, sit outside, and have someone blow cigarette smoke in your face, and you can totally pretend you're hanging out in Manila in the summertime.

It's... it's more fun than it sounds like.  I promise!

Anyway.  Have some Princess in your life.  You're welcome.














(haha i love the pictures selected for this video... "American woman" vs "Filipina woman."  Classic.



On another note, I feel like mentioning it places me firmly within the sex-negative and mean-spirited celeb gossip world, but Princess made her way to fame through a sex scandal... a doozy of a sex scandal.  And surprisingly enough all the women involved (oh there were many) seem to have moved on to fabulous careers, while the (male) asshole at the center of it all pretty much got kicked to the curb by pop culture.  And the medical board.  Yeah, he was a doctor, I don't know why he was a celebrity, it was weird.

Anyway, how does this relate to the maria clara model for filipina behavior?   are filipinas liberated from the old cultural rules valuing chastity above all, or equally confined by new rules that value sexuality instead?

Discuss!  With the acoustic cover of tik tok in the background!  Seems fitting, right?