Dark have been my [waking] dreams of late.

"Man is the indestructible. And this means there is no limit to the destruction of man."

--Maurice Blanchot, The Infinite Conversation, p. 135

This is basically my thesis. Man, in being man, cannot be destroyed, but only infinitely afflicted in the attempt to obliterate him. However, despite the endless use of force and torture which forces him into non-existence, no one can undo his existence-- you can never make him un-be, and therefore he is indestructible. However, the seas of pain and endless anguish can force a split within the mind/soul/heart/whatever you want to call it, which is the only thing that allows one to perhaps survive in some small way if indeed your body is not dismantled. In order to have some relation, some sense of being human, one must have a relation to another, literally an other, and in times of extreme and prolonged trauma, the only one available to bear witness is the afflicted themselves. And so we create our own other, remove ourselves from the explicit situation. But if we do survive, how does one go about reconciling these two selves?

The only option is Language. (Yes, Language with a capital L.) If one can find the place of speech, the act of speaking will engender a re-living of a trauma that was sectioned off in the radical other self, and perhaps bring about an experience in the present of the past, not necessarily healing-- you can't heal some wounds, just not going to happen-- or reconciliation with it. Things like the genocide resist to their core these obscene efforts of rationalization and contextualization, the smoothing touch of history. Instead the raw pain and unending anguish must be felt, again and again, and bleed onto the listener, the attentive receiver of the words of the other, so that the wails of that tortured, mutilated other don't fall on barren ground.

This, and all the pages recounting first-hand testimony from on the ground in Hiroshima, comprise the multitudinous hues of my nightmares.

And I'll be doing this non-stop until Monday, but it's not like the Ph.D. is going to be any more cheerful. Le sigh. Still, I think this is really, vitally, critically important to the human condition, the contemporary plight of the wounded many. So, there's nothing else I could be doing, really.

And that is a heartening thought.

Out with a bang and a whimper

So, my masters' dissertation is due on Monday. This Monday. By the close of business Monday.

Ohgodohgodohgod.

Why didn't I get more of this done sooner? Why didn't I finish all the stupid books and articles months ago? Because I'm an idiot, that's why.

12-15k words. Currently at 4,251 and that's all just quotes. Shouldn't take much to string them together, right? Oh, that's not even half the books and articles entered yet? Oh... dear. Well, that is a problem.

I've stocked up on black tea and the requisite frozen pizzas. Here's to no. sleep. ever. (Until Monday, then it has to be over, it just has to be.) My remaining coursemate is apparently in a similar position. This is a small and admitedly shallow comfort.

What has two thumbs and a research assistantship?

Answer: This Girl!

Needless to say, I'm absolutely over-the-moon happy about this. According to the Guru, as a direct result of my "unflagging and dogged persistence" he's decided to help me out. I will be his Johnny on the spot when he needs something researched or photocopied or whatever, and in return he'll make up the difference for half of my fees.

Check? Check.

I called home nigh-on instantly, and my mother freely admitted that she'd stop "quibbling" with me over my decision to stay, which I had only just recently made. Thank goodness.

This week has been jam-packed with Alpha staying in my flat, seeing old Geo pals, working furiously on the masters' diss (read: facebook) and a lovely little wine and cheese party that I'll tell you more about on a night when I'm not overwhelmingly exhausted from how awesome and respectable I've become.

*cue cheeky grin*

Really, I'm just relieved that future-me won't be crushed senseless by college debt. I'll still be crushed, mind you, just with a little sense to rub together. I hope.

Nairn Highland Games, 2008

... otherwise known as a highlight of my life!

Honestly, one of the best. weekends. ever. Not only was the weather on Saturday absolutely brilliant, but the company was smashing, the drinking delightful and the locale unmatched. But to tell the story...

Alpha and I drove up with Pandy on Friday afternoon as soon as I got out of work. After loading two crates of tennents (the local brew of paupers' choice) and the tent into the boot, we hit the road. A rather severe thunderstorm threatened to slow us down, but we would not be deterred. Friday night saw the construction of the tent village, some lovely homemade lasagna by our host, let's call him the Dear Scotsman (DS), and a lovely sunset over the Northern Highlands.

Saturday morning brought further arrivals as all prepped for the Games. Our little tented village, see below, added a few more neighbors and general conversation sprung up between the old friends and first-timers as we munched on various cereals and began tossing about the tins of brew. It was really quite refreshing to once again be amongst those hardy souls who do not smirk at the notion of the breakfast beer.

Due to our location, we had a lovely walk up along the shoreline, and arrived just in time to see the combined pipe and drum band march along the perimeter. Thus the games began! (To be fair, I spent a fair amount of time talking to DS's other guests in a beer garden directly adjacent to the games field, but I caught the major events.)

The atmosphere was far from lacking. While there were the requisite carnival rides and attendant riffraff, along with the requisite jokes and movie quotes pertaining to such folk, there were also stands selling highland tablet (how to describe?... if fudge and maple sugar candies had a love child? I think that's about right) and hand-knit sweaters, kids and dogs running about on leashes and free, completely unintelligible announcing, and this guy:


I know it may be hard to see, but there's an additional neck on that there guitar, and it kinda sounded like a ukulele. Translation: awesome.

There were several events that I'd never really seen before, and while I'm sure they're all part of a proud and useful tradition (as is everything in Scotland) I couldn't really tell the precise use of this giant game of tug-'o-war.



For me, the highlight of the Games themselves had to be the Caber Toss. I'd been looking forward to actually witnessing this for so incredibly long, I was giddy as a schoolgirl the entire time.

A caber mid-flight!

The action was intense, I can totally understand why DS felt the need to look away! Additionally, he looked quite dashing in his full kit, well done!

The rest of the weekend was spent drinking and laughing so hard my sides hurt, eating grilled burgers and toasting bits of bread over an open flame. Apparently there were bugs about, but they decided to pass on biting my flesh-- perhaps the gin and tonic therapy I've adopted has really and truly put them off! To be fair, I wasn't the one swilling the gin, I left that up to Clarkie. I did, however, sample several glasses of this:


The conversation ran a little something like this:
Alpha: What's that?
Miss Melville: Looks like sangria to me!
Queen of the Brew: I don't know if I'd go that far... let's call it punch and leave it at that.
Miss Melville: (takes a deep pull from her mug) Either way, works for me!

To be absolutely fair, the entire weekend came off without a hitch due mostly to the efforts of one man: our Dear Scotsman. Always moving about, seeing to things, popping in and out of conversations, finding flashlights, leading the way to the pub and back again, taking care of all the organizational pitfalls that plague large gatherings like this one-- he did it all with aplomb and skill. Hats off to you, kilted grillmaster! Please note the tankard: again, well done!



I was the last one standing come the end of Saturday Night into Sunday morning, and beyond seeing the last of the drunks to bed and tidying up a little bit, I gazed at one of the most memorable and spectacular sunrises of my young life:






We drove back to the 'Deen, slightly sunburned and very happy, later in the morning on Sunday. Le sigh. Back to the everyday worries of rent and submission deadlines, but I lived the dream for one full weekend, and that's pretty good by me. If you ever, EVER, EVER get the chance to go to the Highland Games, any of them, don't think twice. Don't even blink. Just go! And if they're in Nairn, look for me-- now that I know that they're there, I will be doing everything in my power to get back. :)

Working Girls and Girls Who Work

... There's a difference.

So, as most know, it's hella expensive to live in Aberdeen, as opposed to the States. On the surface, it looks like things cost the same, but then one must take into account the exchange rate, and if you happen to consider this while grocery shopping, your joints will grind to a halt and you'll find yourself completely unable to move, much less place that wedge of cheese in your basket.

Ergo, I work at just about every random job you can imagine, dear reader-- not because I like playing with cats or shepherding drunks, but because I need the money. Rent, groceries, the occasional pint: it all takes funding. Right now, I've got four basic part-time jobs, one of which is primarily seasonal. Firstly, (and most infrequently) I'm a house-sitter/child-minder/dog-walker/cat-feeder extraordinaire. No joke. However, it's only recently that I've been paid to house-sit, and that was a welcome improvement. I mostly provide these services for my faculty and related members of academia, and it provides a little pocket cash every once in a while, but it's hardly possible to depend on it. Secondly, I work with a photography firm that does graduation services around the north of England and Scotland. Again, this is all dependent upon when the services are and which contracts the company snaps up and all that. There will be another spate of them in the fall, but we're pretty quiet at the moment, which is too bad because it really is a good daily wage. Thirdly, we have the club. Now, there are two different establishments in this particular building, four bars in total with two seperate cash desks. I was originally hired to work the upstairs desk, the one leading to the 80s music review which allows teens and 40-somethings alike to dress ridiculously and groove to Prince and other vintage tunes. It's only open on Friday and Saturdays, and I only worked Saturdays-- this left Friday for general carousal and debauchery when I could afford it. More on this turn of events later. My fourth soucre of employment is at a wine shop. It's a nice little place, about 50 paces from the door of where I'm currently living, and all in all a good fit. I get on decently well with my co-workers and apart from once issue haven't had any problems with the manager (who is wound so tight, I think he irons his socks). The best part of the job is that it's close to the house and there's a staff discount. No joke.

But back to the club. Now, your friend Miss Melville has never denied being a bit of a prude. I like to think of it as being classy, but whatever. And I've been known to toss a few back in my day, I won't deny it. However, the number of drunk, lerching folk I've seen tumble in and out of the door of the club has been enough to really put me off the cheap booze recently. And then they went one better: I got transferred to the other cash desk. You see, children, the downstairs of this building, all owned by the same to men, is a strip club.

I'm going to let that sink in for a minute.

I know take a 6-pound cover from men who want to enjoy the poffered goods of what claims to be the premiere lapdance club in Scotland. Ah, goooooo, good sir. On the up side, I'm learning an awful lot about the industry and how it functions and a new subculture of foreign girls who barely speak english trying to make it here in the UK and sending money back to their families. As a sidenote, apparent the sharks to do send the money to Romania won't accept Scottish bank notes, and this is a perpetual issue. Inga is constantly asking me if I have English notes, and at first I was simply annoyed because it disrupted my counting system. I finally asked the assistant manager/bouncer about it, and he told me the deal. Now, I set them aside.

I've worked pleanty of scummy jobs in my young life-- most noteably, the third shift at the gas station in Michigan's Prison City. I chatted with hookers, brewed awful coffee, swept the lot, gave away day old hot dogs to bums and generally held down the fort through the long dark hours. But this is a whole new level of sleeze. I sorta understand the young bucks who come in for a stag do or with a bunch of buddies. It's the ones who come in by themselves, collar up and sober, who creep me out the most. Then there's the older guys who are in by themselves every day of the week. I was told yesterday that this place is open every night of the week, 365 days a year. Which means that good old Donna from Down Undah is bending herself around the pole on Christmas Eve, New Years Day and Easter Sunday. There's something that I find cripplingly sad in that.

Now, I just sit behind the desk and take money. I don't dress like one of the girls-- in fact, I pull my hair back and wear a fleece because it's cold by the open door. Yet, I still get harrassed. On Saturday night, the best man in one of the stag parties leaned over the desk, clasped my face and full-out laid one on me, and before I had time to react was out the door. Stunned. Who does that? Then there's the older guys to persist in asking if I'll walk them home. Usually the bouncers shuffle them along, but they usually have more dangerous things to see to, and I can normally take care of myself. But if they harrass mousey old me this much, what are they saying to the poor dancers? The manager, who is a proper hard nose, asked me how I felt about working behind the bar. Now, while I think it would be a useful thing to have some bar experience on my resume, I'm not sure that I want it at a strip club. And it would mean different hours AGAIN, and I'm sure the level of harrassment would only increase... I don't know.

And on top of all this hourly work, I'm supposed to be writing my masters thesis/dissertation. I'm not even done reading for it. Fortunately, I was talking to a fellow coursemate this past week and she's in pretty much the same spot, but anyways... Yeah. Let me tell you just how impossible it is to read Blanchot while listening to Back in Black by AC/DC and telling Veronicka once again that she has to have her commission money to Craig by 2 am. I finally finished the essay in response to Hersey's Heroshima Saturday night, but the combination of depravity in the club and the image of trying to pull washerwomen from a rising tide and having their skin come off like gloves in your hands was too much for me. I don't know how I'm going to balance this. Normally I'd have a drink and walk it off, but I don't have the time...

The work at the club desk is now both Friday and Saturday, and while the additional money is nice, I'm not sure how much longer I can do this. But I have a feeling my rent is about to jump, and I'm barely making it as it is. Le sigh... dammit.

She sings for her supper...

... but baby's got to work for her rent!

I worked 4-10 at the wine shop yesterday, then literally RAN home, threw on a different shirt and ran back out the door with narry a second to spare to catch the bus into town so I could work 10-4 at this club where I hold down the cash desk. Lovely. More on that in a later post.

As it is, I'm now back on to work the weekend wine tasting at the shop from 2:45-7:15, leaving me 45 minutes to get maybe a quick shower and grab a bite before having to be back at the club to work 8-4 once again. Then Sunday it's back at the wine shop to work 5-10, our closing time.

Not a happy panda. If you don't hear from me, this is probably why.