Before I completely forget....

Have some pretty daffodils!

Here is the meme that CB hit me with:

1. Grab the nearest book of 123 pages or more.

2. Open it to page 123.

3. Find the first 5 sentences and write them down.

4. Then invite 5 friends to do the same.

So here are mine:

"To all that which you are, and, for our language, are not, I add a consciousness. I make you experience your supreme identity as a relationship, I name you and define you. You become a delicious passivity. You attain entire possession of yourself in abstention. You give to the infinite the glorious feeling of its limits."(I've only got one room-- my bedroom-- where I get to do all my reading for my course, so cut me some slack.) This little gem comes from Thomas the Obscure by Maurice Blanchot, translated by Lydia Davis, and collected within The Staion Hill Blanchot Reader: Fiction and Literary Essays. Deal with it.

I don't think five people actually read this, so-- if'n you do, and you've got a blog somewhere (I'm looking at you, Katey and Charlotte and Hannah) please do pick this up. :)

Oh!

And just in case you wanted to see what I saw, here's a link to the BBC iPlayer, which will yield unto you, my dear friends, commerical free BBC One coverage of the match. It does expire soon, so jump on it.
http://www.bbc.co.uk/iplayer/page/item/b0094yn2.shtml

Enjoy!

I *heart* Rugby!!

After my abyssmal Friday, which even beyond getting mauled by the Guru was not stunning, I needed a pick-me-up. I'd gone out for a few with the coursemates and we'd tried to go to the Bobbin, a very near-campus studentie bar, but when I went to order my soda (I wasn't even after a beer, as I've given up such for lent-- not all booze, never you fear, just beer) they carded me! ME! I can count on one hand the number of times I've been carded. I asked the bartender (who looked like he was about 15) what form of ID he wanted, drivers' license, student card, etc., and handed him my somewhat battered Michigan drivers' license. Not good enough. He wanted my passport. Now, I don't carry my passport around with me-- I don't think that's particularly bright, to keep it on you so if you get mugged you lose it-- so I was bounced. Not for ordering booze underage, not for being unruly, no. For ordering a diet coke and not having my passport. Thanks, Bobbin.

ANYWAY. on Saturday-- as most of us know, my dear invisible readers, it is the height of Six Nations Rugby. Italy, France, Endland, Wales, Scotland and Ireland all battering at each other to win the tournament, and it's heaven for the rugby fan. Multiple matches on a Saturday, cheering and jeering, and lots of good reasons to drink. Beautiful things. Through an incredible stroke of luck, Alpha was able to obtain four tickets to the Scotland v. England match down at Murrayfield in Edinburgh. WOOT WOOT! So, Spunkin and Loz (a couple who really shouldn't be a couple anymore but that's a whole seperate story) and I jumped in Alpha's car and chatted the whole way to Edinburgh. A quick pub lunch where we caught the beginning of the Wales v. Ireland match, and then off to the stadium to collect the tickets and bask in the glory of a live rugby game.

Things took a decidedly negative twist when, upon rocking up to the ticket counter, the powers that be informed Alpha that the tickets had been cancelled and we could one purchase two currently. WHAT. She had a bit of a spaz and tried to work it out, but the gentleman behind the counter was spectacularly unhelpful. We regrouped outside the booth, tried to figure out what to do, and had partially decided to just hike back into town and find a pub where to watch the match when Alpha decided to give it one last go-- while she was in working with a far more helpful manager, Spunkin and Loz met an enderly couple from near Inverness. Their two friends hadn't been able to attend and they had two extra tickets. We explained that we'd love to buy them, but didn't have any money on us, really, as we'd been expecting to purchase nothing more than beer at the match itself. "Well, I'm an old man," he said, "and this would make me happy." And he just HANDED THEM THE TICKETS. Alpha and I bought the two remaining tickets available from the booth, and Loz threw her arms around the lady wife of the generous farmer. So, a 120 pound gift of tickets later, we were IN.

It had been gloriously sunny all afternoon up to that point, but as Alpha and I purchased a beveridge a piece and sprinted to our exceptionally good seats, it began to POUR. No worries, nothing could dampen our spirits-- we were IN! As we sat down, two fighter jets flew over and literally as we took our first sip, Johnny kicked the ball and the match began.

At one point there were two rainbows literally IN THE STADIUM, and the rain was intermittent, but it didn't bother us any-- our seats were in the West stand, under the roof bit. In fact, our seats were amazing. We were close enough to the pitch to recognize the players not by their numbers only, but also by their faces and hair. Absolutely incredible.

A line-out won by England, but was quickly turned over to the boys in blue...

Maybe the rugby itself wasn't spectacular, but being there was INCREDIBLE. Even Alpha had to admit that she'd never been to a better match, simply on account of how supportive and upbeat the crowd was, the songs that were sung, the whole general atmosphere-- positively brilliant.

The stadium was packed and I know it's difficult to tell from the pictures, but the amount of blue and white in the crowd was a sight to see.

A veritable feast for Scottish eyes...

With only one serious injury (stretcher and hospital required) for a nasty knock to the head, the match was surprisingly not as bloody as it could have been. Scrappy seems to be a word a lot of people are throwning about to describe it-- I just say, perfect.

There were a few tense moments, but all in all the boys carried the day. One of the things I truly love about Scotland fans is that they, like so many of the fans at home, cheer when the other team screws up! I love it! It's not just we Laker students who cheer when the other team bobbles a pass, oh no-- when Johnny missed a kick, the stadium positively roared! To be honest, he is an impressive player, I'm sure England is justifiably proud of him, but it did happy things to my heart when he fell over post-kick. *insert meniachal giggle here* Also, I would just like to take this moment to point out that our very own Chris Patterson hasn't missed a single kick since LAST AUGUST. If this holds out through the end of the Six Nations, I will seriously consider bearing his little rugby babies.

At the end of the day, neither team had a try, but this scoreboard was a dear sight:

Just in case you can't read it clearly (CB, this is for you and your old english eyes) it says: Scotland 15, England 9

What does this mean? It means, as the gentleman in the row in front of us loudly proclaimed: "See thar, ye English Bastards! Ye can tek your chariots an' shove em up your arse!" Well said, good sir, well said. It also means that we're not shoo-ins for the wooden spoon, the consolation prize for whichever team comes in dead last in the Six Nations. And, perhaps most importantly, it means that Scotland won the Calcutta Cup! Take that, England!

That big, shiny, cup-shaped object? Yeah, it's OURS!

After a rousing rendition of Lock Lomond, and the Flower of Scotland, and I believe 500 Miles as well, we made our way out of the stadium and met back up with Spunkin and Loz and hiked back to the car. Alpha completely lost her voice by the time we rolled back into Aberdeen, but I think we all agreed-- absolutely and competely worth it.

I plan on spending about 12 hours in O'Neils next Saturday watching three seperate matches, and anyone who wants to join is more than welcome. I believe the lineup is Scotland v. Italy, then Ireland v. England, rounding out with Wales v. France-- title match-- and I plan on indulging myself and watching all three. Maybe a pub lunch before the first to stake out a prime table, and then let the games begin.

ps-- I love my life right now. I'll write something more reflective on why I think I enjoy sports so much, probably focusing on the equalizing nature of cheering, community unification and an approximation of a just society. But not now. Right now, I just like watching men smash each other in pursuit of a ball. :)

You know that last post?

Yeah, the one where I thought I had a plan for my Ph.D.?

HAHA-- the Guru took fifteen minutes at the most to BLOW IT APART. It's dead in the water, totally not going to work, and I think I may have competely and utter shattered the illusion that I know what I'm talking about even half the time. Oops. *winces in intellectual pain*

On the upside, we sorted out a masters project, which is really more in the order that I should be doing things. Le sigh.

"I want to dedicate the next three years of my life... to THIS?!"

Here's a nebulous little rant that I would like to turn into a dissertation. Any and all input would be greatly appreciated. Especially if any of this makes you think, "Hey, that sounds like [insert reputable author here]!" I'd like to flesh out the literary merits of this project, you see, and not drive myself mad in the process.

The Nebulous Truth Project: or, Why humans are definitively incapable of telling the truth.
When an event occurs, the subjectivity of the observer is a point of interest. Perhaps the observer is the recipient of the action of another or indirectly related to the recipient, but never the individual taking the action (the one perpetrating the action is aware on some level of his or her motives, despite the level of self-honesty and engagement with motive), but the action is still something that happens to, the victimization is already inherent. If the observer is removed, the witnessing and relay of victimization follows with perception. [Insert Kant here.] This perception, prior to reception, is the starting point.
In that first second when seeing something startling, one does not immediately process the images and sounds with language—there is a moment of thought without words, and this is as close as we as humans with human language can get to the truth of the experience. [Insert Sartre here, garden reflection from “Nausea”] The instant we begin to think about what we are seeing, hearing around us, we do so in a two-dimensional language which mauls and limits meaning and experience to its death. [Insert Blanchot here.] Language distances us from the truth of experience but imposing limits and creating a space for rationalization, reflection and interpretation. When we choose words to relate the experience, even in striving for honesty, we give only our interpretation through word choice and only our (by definition) individual point of view. Did the man “run” down the street? Did he “hurry”? Or maybe “race”? The subtle connotations of these variants for what may be a unitary action is the main point of this third turn of distancing, the first being seen with our two fixed eyes and hearing with our limited range, the second being thinking in language, the third the choosing of specific language. [Truth Commissions here?—the closest they can get is step three.]
The reception to these words (note: not perception—there is no truthful input, only hearsay) is effected by the style of delivery, the environment, prior bias of the receptor, all this on top of the distance from the truth already established in steps one through three, and is step four (step zero being the happening-truth, the absolute truth of what really happened—ground zero you might say). [O’Brien and “The Things They Carried” goes in here somewhere]
Perhaps this account, this witnessing is heard by someone who has been trained in the production of literature, someone who knows about foreshadowing, character development, alliteration and so on—and they are the willing receptor of the story, and from it create in deliberately literary and chosen language the story. Maybe they even call it fiction. With the production of a document, we are now at step seven (four is the witnessing, five the second reception, six the thinking in the writer’s brain, and seven the writing out) if not step eight due to the input of an editor. Then, if the book is read by anyone, it is received a third time, and we’re now eight or nine steps from the truth. Is there any truth left in it at this point? The steps continue if a report is generated from the witnessing, and then later a fiction is created by a word smith, and at every turn more steps are added—the stage adaptation, the film script, the eventual interpretive dance and new age symphonic movement in the event’s memory. But by this point, the event is nearly unrecognizable.
Those not feeling the blow or seeing it land have little to do wit the truth of it. We assume the suffering of others, we take on their pseudo-experience and hijack their story—is this ethical? Perhaps more constructive—is it useful? By the time an event becomes literature, we have (by definition) interpreted it and drained the happening-truth out of it. What takes its place in the void? Is it only the falsehood, the lie left by the removal of the primary truth, or is there something to the literary-truth which gives literature its worth and universal truth which may be exhibited in particular with happening-truth manifestations but exists outside of that? We cannot know the truth of an event, even large-scale events, and history is littered with others wrongful assumptions and assimilations, and while contemplation on the great events of the human past may prove of some small use, the overall certainty of anything is impossible. [Insert Tolstoy’s epilogue to “War & Peace” here]
If one accepts that truth and beauty are inherently linked [Insert Aristotle and Plato here] then the beautiful works of art, of literature which are representations, interpretations, must have their own truth. [Insert Heidegger “Origin of the Work of Art” and Benjamin “Art in the Age of Reproduction”] This is the story-truth, not the happening-truth. [Reintroduce O’Brien to the argument] Through literature, worlds we have never known become more real than the far side of town [Blanchot] and what is essential in truth is called to the fore/ [Insert Heidegger here—a lot of Heidegger, “Poetry, Language, Thought” etc.] The removed experiences of others, admittedly fictional or not, enable us to vicariously experience with none of the bodily risks, and allow us to access truths perhaps otherwise unavailable. [Insert Sontag here, mostly “The Pain of Others”]
So, what does all of this mean? What is it worth?
Beats the hell out of me.
Please, help.

Not dead yet.

Sorry for the giant and unplanned leave of absence-- January was not a particularly stellar month for Miss Melville.

I'm occasionally palagued by what some might describe as an epic intellectual inferiority complex coupled with brutal self-loathing. Frankly, I couldn't fathom why anyone would want to read this tripe I write, and just thinking about how self-centered it was for me to write about myself made me physically ill.

However, radio silence over! Baby's back in town. :)