For Our Lady

Another lovely Sunday, and here for your delectation and delight are a few snapshots of the day.

I decided to go with big old gerber daisies and daffies for the Lady Altar in St. Peter's Church as it's only a little bit yet until the start of Lent, when everything will be appropriately stick-tastic and twiggy in expectation of Easter. Until then, she said, let there be colour!

Sensei happened to forget her books and tools at home so there wasn't formal Ikebana as such, so we just played around and ate some delicious sweet potato soup. *drools, both from fabulous flavour and the severe burn on the tongue.

There was no boat waiting for me, so the Sunday feature will have to wait in hope for next week. I will, however, leave you will a handful of appropriately bleak shots of not-yet-budded branches and grey skies the likes of which I've never seen anywhere but Aberdeen.

It's coming...

Wild croci outside the University Office!

Slowly but surely, the signs are everywhere.

Lingering Recommendation from a Stellar Monday Night

Normally, my Monday nights are without particular interest. I've plodded home from the goat rodeo which is my hourly employment (not to be confused with teaching, more on this at some point), slapped an egg on some toast and called it a day. Not this Monday. I mean, yes, the pigmy goats and their three ring exploits were all in full attendance earlier, but my life took a nice little upswing at 3pm today.

Intrigued? You should be.

I told my good friend and Ikebana sensei into going with me (and thus, catching a ride with her car-owning boyfriend) to scope out this flower warehouse I'd heard about only yesterday. This was a spectacularly good move. They've got fabulous glass vases of multitudinous sizes and shapes, fresh stems at really reasonable prices, and a whole warehouse full of silk flowers, notions, floral ribbon, everything you could possible think of with which to construct an arrangement. And it's CHEAP. Very, very impressed. I forgot to ask when they get their flowers delivered, thus to go when they have the greatest selection of stems, but we'll get there.
BoyShoes (the ka-driving boyfriend) gave me a lift back to the Eyrie, where I discovered a mail slip saying I had a box waiting for collection just around the corner with the friendly local post office. Turns out, it was a collection of things I'd left behind from my sojourn with Coco and her peoples-- a cardigan, a skirt, some socks, useful things all. Lovingly enclosed as well was a box of store brand wheat thins and some miracle whip. It was inaccessible food nirvana. It means I can make a tuna salad with carrots and celery and onion and actually ENJOY IT. In short, I have the best friends in the whole. entire. world.
So I whipped up a lovely dinner completely devoid of mayonnaise (a fact for which I can scarcely express my unbound joy) and looked up the times for the Chamber Music Concert tonight at Cowdray Hall. Recently returned skirt straightened and stockings checked, I ambled forth into the night.

... It was wonderful. The Gould Piano Trio were absolutely stellar. They played to perfection three pieces, the first a set of ten variations by Beethoven which I'd never heard before; the Kakadu Variations are really a tour de force on the part of the composer, playing with various moods, trying them on with the main theme like a woman donning scarf after scarf in a shop window. The tone goes from dreamy and languid to skittish, almost shy, playful at points, and the contrapuntal variation was spot on. An appropriate flourish ending brought heartily deserved applause.
Second up was the Dvorak Piano Trio no.1 in B flat op. 21 (catchy, right? rolls right off the tongue) and the common thread became evident. Vacillating back and forth, sometimes wildly, between moments of tremendous lightness and powerful dark, this set had undeniable folk elements, rippling introductions, a dancelike quality and the paired-octave unity and unison for which I love Dvorak so well. Again, the playing was marvellous. I found myself completely absorbed in the curve and pale of the cellist's cheek and the quickness of her fingers-- simply marvellous.
During the interval I popped out to my favourite store in all of Aberdeen: Peckhams. And what did your fair heroine acquire there? Orchard Cola. Fabulously delicious, it's really what cola should be. Wow.
But the best touch of the night came next. The Shostakovich Piano Trio no. 2 in E minor op. 67. Heart-stopping. The whole arrangement of piano/cello/violin naturally lends itself to memorial, and this one is apparently dedicated to the brilliant polymath and musicologist Ivan Sollertinsky (so says the programme note). The real action is in the concealed homage to Shostakovich's pupil, Viniamin Fleischmann (gee, might he be jewish?) who was killed in the Battle of Leningrad. The piece opens with an astronomically high introduction on the cello, which the aforementioned cellist did not disguise or pretty-up in any way. This is not to say that it wasn't artistic and graceful, because it was, but as only a cello can sound when taken out of its normal range, the rasp and scratch of the notes shone through as sunlight and bone shards. Perfection. The creaking and teetering cello was joined eventually by both the piano and violin, outdoing both their registers. The pairings were exactly balanced in fugue. The whole piece sways with foreboding, the piano with one hand high and the other low, enfolding the strings between the hammered octaves. The scherzo was garish, flung quickly into the dances of the dead, dying and forever haunted, like a posey sprint through a crematorium. False gaiety laid aside, the third movement almost sounds like an ancient passacaglia, the same movement of eight scant piano chords repeated six times each, with the strings lamenting in overtones before the nightmarish violence of the work finally realises itself. The twisting danse macabre swirls through motif after motif of jewish dances, forming a grieving dialogue with no discernible answer before evaporating into but a puff of ash and echo.
I was left sitting mute in my folding chair, eyes unwittingly bright with tears I had no power to conjure nor dissipate. That, that, my dear reader, is what chamber music should be.

And how to end such a made-to-order Monday? Flower arranging! I'm hoping to take this little creation with me to sit in front of either the statue of St. Francis or the shrine to Our Lady of Aberdeen tomorrow after morning mass.

Not bad for shoving stems into a bit of water-logged foam.

Now, all that's left for today is a little Coco-cam and a hot cocoa nightcap. I say it, once more and with emphasis: Marvellous.

Sunday, Sunday

After a fabulous* Saturday here in Aberdazzle, Sunday made for a brisk and busy change of pace. There will be photos, so just wait a minute.

Now, religion and I go way back. Way, way back. My mother hauled me in to have individual sessions with a morbidly obese lay minister at St Anthony's when, just before my first communion, I told her (in a bit of a heated argument) that I wasn't even sure I believed in the concept of God, let alone the tenants of an organised religion. It was the subject of much questionable poetry during my (only slightly) more self-absorbed undergraduate years while I was warring with the conflicting stances of philosophy and organised religion. There was lots of whinging about the comforts of tradition and the possible betrayal of my own intellect by adhering to the line and letter of a specific dogma. It's not that I've laid this to rest entirely, but it's more a question of keeping my realms suspended, frankly.
Religion, specifically Roman Catholicism, is something in which I take tremendous comfort. This is the church of my youth, not the organisation of child-sex scandals and subsequent cover-ups, not prohibitions against condoms in Africa, none of that. We didn't talk about that. What we did talk about was the catechism, the clause in which stating that all are saved who are seekers of truth being the touchstone to which I perennially return. Like a club-footed pigeon, I limp in when it gets too cold. It's the smell of the incense, the warmth of flickering candles in tiers before the icons, familiar strains warbled by ancient women in their best scarves and brooches, babies babbling in arms, and community in a vibrant, living sense. The church was always about hope, trust, quiet contemplation of one's own soul and no one else's-- the rest of it, it seemed, belonged to someone else.
Since moving to Aberdeen, I've really struggled with a number of things, religion not really one of them. I just didn't go to church that often. And by 'often', you might as well read 'ever'.  I almost fell into a pattern of attendance at the University Chapel (which is beautiful and has a last-chance mass on Sunday evenings) but it didn't feel like a coherent community. For those involved in the Catholic Society or in the choir, those dedicating much of their time to the Chaplaincy, sure, but for me? No, though the singing of Salve Regina at the close of mass does always tears to my eyes-- something about 600 years of history within those walls does that to me.
I went to the Cathedral for a decent chunk of time, especially while residing in the Nest, but it's a massive and not altogether aesthetically pleasing place and no one ever spoke to me. Not once. So much for community.
But the story today is of today, and so to the point: St. Peter's here in Castlegate. It's not really much to look at, and finding it means stepping through a little alley and into a courtyard currently under construction. The altar is pretty, the stained glass is nice, the pews are wooden, the kneelers unpadded and the floors beneath them seemingly unfinished. There's not much money, not much fuss-- but when I burst into tears while praying after mass a few weeks ago, crippled under the weight of unbudgable homesickness, a woman named Angela came, sat down next to me and hugged me. She hugged me, a perfect stranger, and I wept on her shoulder. She then went into the vestibule and made me a cup of tea (I'm not joking, not one word of a lie). Deacon Tony prayed with a gentle hand on the crown of my head for enough comfort and clarity of mind to complete the work for which I'd returned, and then, after mopping my face, Angela introduced me to a half dozen little old folks and insisted I have a sausage roll and tell her what I was doing in Aberdeen. Her keen, wrinkled eyes and quirked mouth, bobbing brown and grey hair, powder soft hands and wool coat all turned to me and asked if I'd be back next week, she'd be looking for the poor wee lass who'd been weepin'. Yep, that's me.
And a few weeks on, she does still look for me. This is an actual community. While scurrying out the door and back into the light of the rest of my life, Fr. Keith stopped a conversation he was having with several other people, hailed me, and said he hadn't seen me before, what was my name? I've never experienced this kind of welcome anywhere. He'd announced after communion the birth of a new baby and the entire congregation sang happy birthday to the bundle of blankets one could only assume contained a tiny human. Isn't this what church is supposed to be?
Well, this morning saw me darkening their doorway yet again. I can see this becoming a regular thing. Thing is, I've already got a regular Sunday gig in the Ikebana at the Coffee House, and I didn't much fancy the trek back up the stairs to the Eyrie to fetch my flowers before hoofing down Union Street, so I packed them up and took them with me. I walked into mass with my reusable shopping bag slung over my shoulder and the tips of several pussy willow branches  peeking out like a quiver of arrows. I opted to leave the bag tucked, I thought, discreetly beside the door to the church proper. Upon collecting it, I was instantly beset by no fewer than three women, all wanting to know what I called the branches, where I'd gotten them and what the devil I was going to do with them! (Wanting to know what I called them isn't such a ridiculous thing-- only a few weeks ago did I learn what I knew from the 80s as a "fanny pack" is no such thing in Britain but rather a "bum bag"... whatever.) I told them and the riddle was solved, but apparently it had been the single prevailing topic of conversation throughout mass. Who knew. One of them also gave me the name of a flower wholesaler I have every intention of investigating this week.
Once again, while making my bid for freedom (and a fine misting of rain, as chance would have it) Fr. Keith stopped me and asked about the flowers. "Well, if you're into flower arranging, the ones we've had near the altar have been there since the woman who used to do that for us passed away..." REALLY?! I mean, the silk flower arrangements are lovely, but clearly silk. With Lent coming up, flowers should probably be pretty minimal, but I just might, maybe, possibly be putting together flowers for Easter. BAM, community. I'd be lying if I didn't say I loved it.

Ikebana was charming, as always. Here, a small teaser:

Pussy willow, poppy, hyacinth, tulips

Detail

Daffodils and a dried bit of something else, I forget what, but I really liked this one.

Another thing I'd like to make a feature: Boat of the Week. You see, fair reader, my little street upon which the Eyrie is perched leads directly to the harbour. Directly. If you don't stop at the bottom of the hill, you will crash through the fence and land in salt water. Or impale a large boat, whichever. This week, it's the Odyssey Explorer being completely overshadowed by the Northlink Ferry:

What a cheery colour for a hull and how kind of them to have the anchor perfectly posed.

I adore being able to see boats from my window. It makes me really, really happy. And so will my cup of tea, which I will go and fetch... now.

Saturday Sweet

I picked up this decanter a while back for an absolute song from the charity shop just down the way, and only just got around to emptying a bottle of Ponche into it. Here's to slowly emptying it, my friends, slowly but surely.

The etched bottom of the decanter.

Nearly Spring

It must be spring-ish somewhere 'round these parts-- the British-born Daffies are 99p at Markies, and that's the surest sign of the season's approach. Soon there will be little bunches of daffodils in every corner Tesco, every Spar and Cooperative up and down the country, and for this, I am grateful. I've missed watching them open in the thin Aberdonian sunlight, the vase on my windowsill guarding my elbow and gradually filling my office with the scent of freshly opened petals. Anything to dispel the lingering sense of the uncanny generated by my reading of Bataille's The Tears of Eros. Absolutely anything. More on this book at some later point.

To sum up... DAFFIES ARE COMING! That is all.

Notebook

From my notebook, written in my inexpensive but nicely refined fountain pen blue:

"My attunation is now obvious: that the whole of my attention, the full spectrum of my hearing instantly reorients to the cry of the child and the murmur of the mother. There is no understanding, cognitive sense left to remain attentive to the academic, the ontology and the asoteric dialectic. Nothing save my gaze, left on the figure of intelligence, not yet capable of calling forth into being a human, a child. What hope do I have of writing with my eyes? What can I bring forth thus split? The bandwidth of my brain remains devoted to the baby, the scribbling nib of my pen quiet between my fingers. What to do, in the arid fecundity of appropriation?"

... And let's reinvigorate!

Aaaand, we're back! I know, it's been so long. Truth be told, part of the absence of new text resulted from me losing my login details and thus being foxed out of the dashboard. Oops.

So, what's new? New year, new abode, new shoes, new classes, new hobby, same old me.

The New Year: 2011 is set to be the year in which I complete my doctoral dissertation in contemporary philosophy and visual culture (read: general humanities bullshit) whether I'm ready or not. Honestly, I'm not ready-- so many things I've only skimmed when I should have read, listened when I should have noted, gotten up and made dinner when I should have written. But now it's down to the wire and I must put up or shut up, and shutting up won't get me a job. And a job is unquestionably what I want out of this whole melange of marginalia and tea stains that I'm calling my dissertation. More on that at some point, it's unavoidable.

The new year also saw me falling in love. What? you say with great distress, You, in love? Yes, it's true, but not with a man. Not even a woman. A little girl actually, named Coco. She's the daughter of a dear friend and the close of this past year heralded in her existence outside the womb and into my arms. I was lucky enough to be hanging about for her first month of soft cooing, bottles, nappies and evenings in the rocking chair, and the word 'privilege' doesn't even begin to cover it. She's beautiful: big blue eyes, tiny mouth, exquisitely long fingers and, best of all, she giggles in her sleep. Leaving Boston at the end of January and knowingly walking away from her was one of the most counter-intuitive things I've ever forced myself to do. I'm lucky enough to have a near daily dose of Coco-cam through skype, which is essentially what's keeping me sane. Holy hell, broody, Batman.

New Abode: I've relocated to the Eyrie! It's a top floor flat in the older section of town, which is both for better and for worse. I miss the period details of the old Nest (the high ceilings, the plaster internal walls, the paint, the ceiling embossing and roses) but the Eyrie is the whole top floor of an old granite building with a view of the North Sea and the mouth of Aberdeen Harbour from the kitchen window. Pretty spectacular. So is how cold it can get. Being in such an old, though disgustingly central, quarter of the city means there's no gas-- everything is electric as they can't just put in a main. Electric heat, electric cooker, electric shower, the works. It's not been as pricey as I had feared and we've got a meter that we top up as we go (so no surprise bills, which is BRILLIANT) but the storage heaters are something to be reckoned with and the storage hot water tank makes showering an adventure. Will you have enough hot water to finish shaving your legs AND rinse the conditioner out of your hair? WHO KNOWS! Yes, living life on the edge, that's me...

The New Abode has also brought a new flatmate, and she couldn't be lovelier. She's soft-spoken, not an axe-murderer AND she cleans! It's amazing. I didn't know her before moving in, but I couldn't have pulled a luckier draw. Her girlfriend has recently relocated from Denmark and now there's pleasant, chirpy Icelandic spoken in our kitchen on a regular basis and it makes me really happy. Somehow the sound of people speaking kindly to each other, regardless of my lack of comprehension, is enough to brighten my mood.

New Shoes: Trivial, but there's nothing that makes me walk taller (quite literally) than a new pair of shoes, and I've recently acquired two pairs. Office clearance sales are dangerous places, especially when chronically skint, but I'd recently had the misfortune of discovering at the most inconvenient of times that my pair of Primark lace-up flats had come apart at the seams and I couldn't fault myself too heavily for dropping a tenner on a pair of blue velvet and leather wingtips. Additionally, a girl can never have too many black stilettos, and the satin was just divine, so they came home with me as well. They are undeniably reminiscent of my very favourite pair of shoes EVER, which I bought a few years ago from Jones Bootmaker (also on sale) and have worn very selectively to things like my masters' graduation ceremony, but alas, the cobbles round these parts destroy pretty heels with single-minded ferocity. Thus, the new pair has been acquired. The dress heels are dead, long live the dress heels.

New Classes: This is a bit misleading. They are technically new in the same sense that the polluted river is always new everytime your wellie slips into it. The students are new, but the overwhelming majority of the syllabus and films contained in the screening list are not. This is just fine by me as it means that I have less to scramble to prepare as virgin material. I've got four sections of Intro to Film this half term and couldn't be happier about it. These, with the two screenings I'm running weekly and the hour of prep time for which I'm being paid should mean that I'll be financially solvent, if only for a little while.

Then, there's new close reading group and seminars for the coming months, new discussions of old books and all the other joys of academia. I sat in on a one-off lecture by Martin Crowley this evening and was simultaneously daunted and exhilarated. There, sitting plainly before me with his heavy-framed glasses and sky-blue socks was the soft-spoken man whose reading of Antelme has so influenced my doctoral work. And then, at the pub afterwards, he thanked me for attending and encouraged me to email him and strike up a correspondence. At what point is it appropriate to ask an academic to sign some part of ones' skin? Just askin'. If the rest of the seminars are half so interesting, it'll be the best time here yet.

New Hobby: So, with the patient instruction of the old flatmate, I've taken up Ikebana. It's the Japanese art of flower arranging, and I adore it. We meet on Sunday afternoons, and it's simply the most calming thing possible. I'm decided to go back to attending Mass regularly (which is a post for another time) and once I've had my cup of tea in the vestibule, I wander casually across the Castlegate, stop at the Markies' flower stand (they have a flower loyalty card, isn't that great?!) and then into the steamy warmth of the Coffee House on Gaelic Lane. The attention to the faces of the flowers, the angles of trajectory and the gentle bending of stalks is as restful as meditation and doesn't take nearly as long to achieve. Here's a sample of my latest work:

Poppies and Brush Roses, January 2011

I'll try and keep this up to date with a little Sunday flower treat. It's nice to go and tread gently with the transience of cut flowers without having to drag Heidegger back out into the light. Well, at least, not until Monday morning.

Same Old Me: Well, that about sums it up, doesn't it? I'm still living in essential intellectual quarantine until I self-actualise into a Doctor of Philosophy. I'm still drinking too many cups of not-quite-hot-enough tea. I'm still a little lonely in the evenings as I wash up my single plate, fork and knife. I'm still falling asleep to the dulcent tones of David Attenborough as he narrates the natural world for me via BBC iPlayer, and I'm still occasionally lucky enough to have him provide the voiceover for my dreams. Long may it remain so.