Confessions of a Modern Gentlewoman

2012

2012-01-12T21:30:00.002Z

So, a few things have changed:

Failing to go into detail regarding my current progress with my doctoral dissertation, my familial situation and my current hemisphere of habitation, let it suffice to say that the concluding quarter of the Year of our Lord 2011 was a tumultuous one.
Let it also go unquestioned that anyone gives even one-sixteenth of an airbourn rump of rodentia what I'm getting up to these days.
So, what to talk about?

Well, let me set forth, unknown readers, a hypothetical small town in which one Gentlewoman may have just arrived. It's going to be her home, though the town is, as of yet, unaware of this change in designation. So far, it had only been a weekend destination.
It's a pleasant small town, though the brick-and-mortar downtown was recently deforested, the empty little squares of earth sectioned off amidst the brick and concrete still visible to passing feet. Doing better than many such nearly-identical gatherings of homes and houses, this small town still has a Sears appliance store downtown, keeping the windowfront from going vacant, chasing the phantom of soap white abandonment a little further down the block. There's also an Ace Hardware that sells everything Sears doesn't, and that's terribly handy. A smattering of antique shops may or may not be going out of business, a Zenith television shop clings to life by its fingernails, the chain Hallmark shop is most definitely shut, a soy candle and looseleaf tea joint appears to be inexplicably thriving, and a bicycle shop is yet to be explored. The topography of the town is gently rolling, as a placid but deep sea left in the wake of retreating giants of ice, secretly hoping in its cold blue-green heart that it's blanket of ice might one day return and lay silence and stillness across its smooth belly for another ten thousand years. The Gentlewoman may give some thought to learning to ride a bicycle proficiently in this landscape devoid of major hill and obstacle in the coming, more temperate months, but she might not, who knows.
An early morning in the biting wind freezes her hair, still wet from a scalding shower and festooned with snowflakes packed like polystyrene in the clearing house of stratus clouds. It's bitterly cold and gusty as a workman's complaint, but the slant of neon coming from a coffee shop on the corner holds a promise of warmth and caffeine-- soldier on. It is indeed warm and there are tables; she spots one adjacent to an outlet and sets her oversized handbag down to claim her perch. It's a good one, a corner table with views out both windows and her back to the exterior wall pillar. She can see the counter, the door, and views down both streets. A good call. The chai latte, at first so fully of frothy milk promise, was not. The taste was hard to identify, perhaps too sweet? Almost citrus, but not, somehow. Unfortunate, regardless. The hot cocoa ordered later was far more pleasant, once one averted singeing off one's taste buds.
The other clientele are a peculiar blend of stall town stock and trade: older men, not yet truly ancient, sitting and reading print-offs of unknown provenance which support their bound and tied belief that the Lutherans will be the death of this country and the current Administration is somehow mixed up in Sharia Law. Somehow. They were a little foggy on the details. They were joined in adverse but jovial discussion by the longer-haired youthful man with impressive sideburns and a very young son, who looked a little greener with all his mixed textiles. A smattering of businessmen, no ties or wool coats (those aren't the type of businessmen who make it around here) but sporting button-downs and chinos and drinking strong coffee, talking important talk. Farm wives segregate from the in-town ladies, who have clearly patronized the local beauty shop-come-salon-sometimes-called-spa for a trim and some dye and perhaps just a little plucking. These women are artists, designers, painters, maybe a florist? They're quite nice once introduced, but our Gentlewoman is still making her way and has not yet made way of introductions, so they'll just have to go about their strategically just-into-earshot conversations in peace. The lunch crown comes and goes, all well meaning and meaning to get out of the cold.
So, the town has a coffee shop and a Gentlewoman. The little carnations in the clear glass bud vases are dying, and one might offer her expertise to brighten the tables, but when queried the only slightly balding fellow behind the counters smiles and says that an old man takes care of them once a week, doesn't know where he gets the flowers but it does a lot to brighten the place up. It certainly does.

Saturday Sweet

2011-04-02T21:01:00.000+01:00

I love Saturdays. Invariably there are hooligans mucking about on the street into the wee hours of the morning, but by the time I roll over and hug my feather pillow in the sunshine of the morning, they've deserted the streets and the only noises from opposite my windowpane are the pigeons, who coo and cluck in general good-naturedness.

This Saturday was a particular treat. The postman brought my recent purchase from The Exotic Teapot for which I was quite grateful, and the door buzzer was all it took to finally get me up for the day. I sprayed down my entire bathroom with Dettol to beat the encroaching damp and mold, and with the scent of bleach and productivity freshening up the air, I stepped freshly showered into my Saturday!

I'm a lover of tea. I haven't always been, but I'm a devotee of the heart now-- there's simply nothing better than a nice cup of tea precisely when you need it. Morocco brought fresh mint tea into my life, but my current fancy is this: my new glass teapot!

I will shamelessly admit, I like flowers. Yes, I'm a girl/woman/feminist/professional and I LIKE FLOWERS. I like the way they look, they way they catch and play with light, the way they sway in a breeze, the scent in a room, the softness of the petals and the expression on the face of the man immediately before he pushes a bouquet of them into you arms. I like flowers.
This tea combines my love of both TEA and FLOWERS! It's display tea, or blooming tea, and it's fabulous. You see, dear reader, why the acquisition of the glass teapot was necessary?!
Purchase of the actual tea is at the moment entirely through the tinterwebz, but I'm hoping that somewhere around here will start stocking it soon. Here's what it looks like pre-teapot:

A little like a tea tampon, I'll admit.

They come in about eleventy-billion different varieties, and you can buy a sampler pack off ebay.co.uk direct from China for not very much. This does mean that you get a good variety of different ones to try and no idea what any of them are! It's fine, it's tea, you won't be disappointed. Next, introduce tea-pon to hot water:

It starts to open...

...And opens a little more...

In the meanwhile, I ate my delicious omelette with
onion, grated carrot, mature cheddar and various herbs.

And here we have it! I think this one is Lyrics,
though I could be wrong-- I'm going by the
picture on the ebay description!

See-- Flowers AND tea!

My little Moroccan tea glass, not filled with
mint this time, but rather the mouthful of
petals which is blooming tea.

Still going into the evening.

The nice thing about this type of tea is that you just keep topping up the hot water-- each bloom will give you at least two full pots of tea. I sprang for the teapot warmer stand, pictured above, and powered by a tealight. This I can get behind-- pretty, and keeps my teapot hot!

All in all, quite pleased with myself on this front. I've another teapot to fuel my quest to write up my dissertation and it's pretty to boot! Next instalment of Ikebana and the rest of the Marrakesh posts soon, dears, promise!

Marrakesh, Pt. II: The Souks

2011-03-30T18:07:00.000+01:00

The title is a bit deceptive-- I didn't actually take a single picture in the heart of the souks, despite traipsing through them time and again. You see, dear readers, the stall-holders will fleece you for just about anything, including photographing their heaping tables and glittering Aladdin's Caves. To avoid being nickel-and-dime'd to death, I abstained. What follows, however, are a smattering of the shots I did snap.

Minaret of the central Mosque--
you can see it from nearly everywhere in the Medina,
which can be damn useful for navigation

Gardens adjacent to the Mosque

My travel companions, Lulls and Alpha

Oranges and Orange Blossoms--
The air was so heavy with the scent of orange blossom,
you could taste it. I doubt I'll ever use orange blossom water
in the kitchen again without some small part of my mind back-tracking
to the moment I took this picture. Love it.

A view of the mountains from the gardens

The dyers--
A very helpful man (who did successfully sell us some scarves in the end)
appointed himself as our guide and brought us around and showed us all the
bubbling vats of dyes and hanging skenes of wool and silks.

Most of this is sheep and camel wool for rugs.

Lulls, in the properly tied cactus silk scarf--
yeah, silk made from cactus fibre. Awesome.

Alpha and our friend.
All the jars behind them are minerals and such to make the dye.

Alpha, humouring me.

Another time we found ourselves being guided about without asking for it: the Berber Tanneries.
The pits are full of lime and pigeon poo ("to makes the soft leathers")
and all sorts of foul smelling hides.

The man who led us through gave us clumps of mint to hold over our noses
to combat the smell, calling it a Berber Gas Mask.

I'd seen these discussed in nature documentaries, but to see them
first-hand was a fabulous experience!

The main tannery for the city of Marrakesh (as opposed to the Berber Tannery)--
This place is massive. According to our guide, 200 men can work the hides here side by side.

2 men working side by side, rinsing the hides.

After being given to tour, we got the old soft sell by the Berber elders who were, to be honest, really good at not pressuring us into buying anything. Well, not pressuring me into buying anything I didn't already want to, that is. Alpha kinda caught it in the teeth-- they changed the colour of a bag she'd expressed moderate interest in, and then she really felt like she needed to haggle for it and it was all a done deal from there. But prior to that, they brought us into a room lined with bags and deflated ottomans and showed us the differences in texture between goat, sheep, camel, cow and calfskin leathers, as well as the different designs and embellishment made by tribes and families of different women. Then, in a side room, they sat us down on a low bench and served traditional mint tea while laying out rug after rug after rug. Geometric designs from the Low Atlas mountains, "picasso" rugs positively saturated in colour and jammed with pattern from the High Atlas, silk rugs with sparse line designs from the Sahara to the south, brought in on camels from the desert. One of the men produced the ubiquitous bic lighter from his pocket and, turns out, the way to tell if a rug is really silk rather than imitation synthetic is to hold an open flame to it. If it does nothing to it, it's real silk. If the shop owner freaks out, it's a fake. Handy tip, eh?

We'd made pretty clear that we couldn't really afford to buy anything (despite the fact that all three of us left with something) and they were up front about acknowledging that. Frankly, I think the tourist population in Morocco has been depleted by all the unrest in Tunisia and Egypt and they were rather keen to simply show us what they had, interact rather than sit idle.

Once you decided to haggle for an item, there was only one man to see-- the eldest gentleman there, and clearly the one in charge. None of this petty discussion of price: he had a wee ledger on which he drew boxes, one for his price, one for yours. You go back and forth until he shakes your hand, and the price is the number in the last box. They're tough, and you've got to hold your ground, but the camel leather weekender bag I bought will last the rest of my natural life and be my carry-on bag for-absolutely-freaking-ever (that's the technical term for such a long unit of time, by the way). It's incredibly light, solid leather, has pockets and I love it. Lulls bought a gorgeous light green silk rug and Alpha now has for perpetuity what's become known as "the stinky goat bag" due to the smell of the oil.

Kitten napping in sunshine--
This little guy was in a doorframe enjoying some sunshine.
What you can't see are the motorbikes and scooters zipping past
inches from his head! The whole medina is full of cats, some waiting for
bites to drop from the butchers' tables, but most lounging about being cats.

View down from our perch on the terrace at Cafe Arabe to the street below.

After hacking our way through what must have been a comparatively deserted run in the souks (I think they must be easier to navigate when they're busy--hear me out on this one-- because despite the increase in people to navigate around, it wouldn't be possible for every shop owner in the history of ever to hail you with their wares) we needed a bit of respite. A trio of sprites on the terrace of Cafe Arabe was just the ticket, and the breeze was fabulous.

Terrace of Cafe Arabe.

View of a bit of wall art visible from the Terraces de Espices.

Giant woven rooftop teapot? Yes, please!

Sunlight through the shade umbrella.

Oranges in the tree and a motorcycle = fabulousness!

Our third venture into a cafe, this one called Bouganviellea, can you guess why?

Not a rooftop terrace, but a delightful courtyard oasis is a nice escape as well.

Still to come: Jardin Majorelle, Musee de Marrakesh, the Main Square, and the FOOD!

Marrakesh, Pt. I: The Riad

2011-03-26T12:48:00.001Z

Hello, invisible readers all! Sorry it's been a wee while since we've last spoken, but many things have been afoot here at La Casa de Melville. Amidst a flurry of distinct unpleasantness (which I see no reason to get into here), two good friends and I finally put up (rather than shut up) and took a trip we've been talking about, quite literally, for YEARS.

When I first moved to Aberdazzle for my MLitt at the University, I fell in with a lovely and lively group of geologists (not as hard as it sounds in the oil capital of Europe) and during the endless nights of drinking too much and laughing too loudly, a plan was formed. It wasn't much of a plan-- in fact, all the plan consisted of was going to Morocco. Marrakesh, we figured, was a good bet as it wouldn't be as political at Rabat or as religious as Fez. Someday, we promised each other, someday we'd go and drink tea and eat couscous and buy scarves.

Someday just happened to be last Saturday. Alpha picked me up outside my door at a quarter to ten in the morning and we zipped speedily down south to Edinburgh Airport (a nice little place and decidedly more full of useful shops than the Aberdazzle Airport) where we mutually confessed never thinking this trip would actually happen. Especially with all the unrest in North Africa in the past few months, each of us figured one of the other ones would get cold feet and pull out and then the whole plan would flop like a house of cards. Apparently emboldened by each other's waiting and general game-ness, this never came to pass and thus we found ourselves boarding a Ryanair* flight direct from Edinburgh to Marrakesh. Handbags shoved in cabin baggage, we sat and chatted about what we actually wanted to DO once we got there. Turns out, we were essentially as laid back as the next person. See what I meant about the plan? Alpha and I had mentioned on the drive down that, for as long as we've been talking about this trip, we'd not actually done any research or planned anything to do while there. So, splitting two guide books between the three of us (the Lonely Planet Morocco (Country Guide) being one of them) we perused perspective restaurants and cafes and museums and gardens and utterly unpronounceable streets. This passed most pleasantly the majority of the 3.75 hour flight.

Upon landing, we cleared customs and then faced our next two hurdles almost simultaneously: exchanging currency and finding the person sent to meet us from our Riad. Alpha and I had figured on changing money via a cash machine at the airport while Lulls had gotten a few hundred Dirhams at Edinburgh Airport. Therefore, she scouted about for someone holding a sign for Riad Les Trois Palmiers while Alpha and I waited in line for what turned out to be the only functioning ATM in the entirety of the airport. Our flight had arrived early, and thus we waited anxiously in the main hall of the airport for someone, anyone, to hold an appropriate sign. We found a man holding a sign simply saying "JESUS" but he'd been waiting there even long than we had.

Lulls, who had been the one to confirm all the details with the people at the Riad attempted calling and eventually found another Riad guide who informed us that we had the wrong number for ours but that they were on our way. Not a terribly auspicious start, but as soon as we relocated to the foot of a large sign, a gentleman with just what we'd been looking for walked up, smiled, and welcomed us to Marrakesh. He then walked us directly to a microscopic tan taxi with no seatbelts and a driver who only spoke French who drove us with great speed and skill into the Medina: we'd arrived.

There were motorcycles, motorized bicycles and scooters a'go-go, driven speedily by men in business suits, boys in joggers and women strapped with infants alike. The window was rolled down, and the late afternoon sunshine air played havoc with my hair and I felt myself grinning like an idiot. There was a scent of orange blossoms heavy on the breeze and I giggled involuntarily. It was better than I had imagined.

We were rather unceremoniously off-loaded at the mouth of a street we would later learn was Dar al Bacha. We'd also later learn that the reason there was a stand of police there as well was because the Royal Abode was right there on the corner as well. We waited nervously with our bags at out feet for someone to tell us what to do next. Turns out, ours was but one of the parties being collected from the airport that afternoon, and once we were all together we headed off to the Riad.

Down Dar al Bacha past shop windows and stands selling fabulous wares, left at a convenience stall which seemed to have a small selection of everything under the sun, and then into a maze of tiny, bending streets between towering walls of pink clay. Later we'd navigate them on our own, but I'm endlessly thankful to the staff of the Riad that, for the first time getting there, we had a guide. But then we were at a door flanked by two metalwork lanterns and the door opened to us.

Night-time and the moon on the rise from the rooftop terrace of Riad Les Trois Palmiers

We set down our bags and took in this gorgeous new setting in which we'd found ourselves. One of the members of our new-found excellent staff gave us a tour of the premises and afterwards I scampered back down to the room, fetched my camera from out my handbag and beat feet back to the rooftop to drink in the skyline and the night air. The minaret you can see in the photo, dear reader, is that of the old school of the Ali ben Youssef Medersa. Once we'd found the air a bit cool, we headed back inside and down to dinner.

Upstairs hallway overlooking central courtyard.

Door to our bedroom

There were several different bedrooms around the establishment, mostly with double beds, some even in little private and secluded rooms on the rooftop. Ours, however, was on the ground floor and through these impressive doors. The deadbolt you can see, dear readers, is completely and totally functional.

Three beds for we three tired travellers

The mattresses were firm, the sheets cool and the pillow cases of excellent thread count. To say I was pleased would be a massive understatement.

Ceiling of the bedroom with this nifty and highly illuminating lamp

Bathroom, complete with Boots bag from the shop in the airport

The shutters open onto stained glass and metal work, but for privacy and decency we kept them shut. Just out of frame to the right was the enormous open shower which had phenomenal water pressure. Much, much appreciation.

Les Trois Palmiers... makes sense

The central courtyard had these three substantial palm trees, beneath which we sat and had both dinner and breakfast on a few occasions (though not at the same time). Off this was the kitchen and various sitting rooms with low slung chairs, benches with many, many cushions and the french-speaking television, I think.

Beautiful seating in the atrium

Everything was crisp and clean and cool and intricately carved. I could have sat here for an age, honestly.

Looking up

The view looking up at the internal hallways from the aforepictured seating. Our door is just barely visible beneath the arch.

Plunge pool and mosaic backsplash

The most I did was dip a foot into it, but this little plunge pool is fully functional, and a godsend I would imagine for the summer visitors. Imagine floating about in comfort while the staff furnish you with endless pots of sweet mint tea... le sigh.

Further mornings saw us venture out and do all sorts of shopping in the souks, but here's a selection of further images from within our gorgeous habitation:

In the entryway-- how stunning are the gladiolas?! And umbrellas for guest use? Perfection!

Fountain with basin and mosaic backsplash on an upstairs landing.
No water in it now, but something tells me, come summer...

The tops of Les Trois Palmiers

How fabulous is this stairwell?!? The soft, curving lines of the plaster against
the geometric patterns of the lampwork and rugs was fantastic.

That upstairs hallway again, but in daylight this time.
Isn't the snug at the end the most comfortable place to share a secret in the history of secret-sharing?

Rooftop terrace

A lemon on a lemon tree? Yes, please!

Another fabulous snug where we drank mint tea one afternoon and played gin rummy.
Yeah, we're that cool.

Detail of the gin rummy snug ceiling

Another ideal spot for confidences

"What are you doing?" "Sneaking." Sneaky Lulls!

Watch this space for further details on the grand henna adventure, dinner, gardens, souks and museums galore... oh, also FOOD!

________________________
*: Please don't take this as an endorsement of this particular budget airlines-- They've screwed me over in the past and frankly, you get what you pay for, so... not a whole lot. They're bastards, but they'll (most of the time) get you from one place to another.

In memoriam

2011-03-11T12:56:00.000Z

Sunday last was an unusual day, and it's taken me this long to get my head around it.

My mother, a sweet if indelibly broken individual, has long collected other broken people around her. She's a caring heart, and a bit of a soft touch, so her menagerie of unusual human beings is always a bit of a circus. One of the fixtures in her life for the past twenty years has been a woman names Erica Brown. That's her real name, dear readers, not some sort of code-- and the tale unfolding is no unkind fiction. That's the hardest part for me to comprehend.

Erica was a brilliant chef, made master chef at 17 and married by 19, I believe. She made absolutely beautiful food and was utterly incapable of simply following a recipe. I remember her bringing pots of the world's most delicious potato chowder (made largely with the world's supply of heavy cream) when my youngest sister was born. Specatular gingerbread snowflakes, braised roasts, her kitchen was always whirling with bubbling pots and stacked with dirty dishes. The last time I saw her she was making delicate filigree horn cookies with a fluffy maple filling which she packed us off home with and I ate with gleeful abandon. The things she made were always delicious and her freeness with them bespoke her freeness of spirit, of generosity.

That spirit, however, was broken. Then generosity was always for others and not herself. Or perhaps too much for herself, I don't know. Six children, too close together for her health, and a continuing battle with her weight and self image proved a terrible cross. When, as a result of a botched bit of anaesthetics, she was diagnosed with tic douloureux (or trigeminal neuralgia) which left her with constant, electric facial agony for years, things really began to fall apart. There were pills to deal with the pain, pills to overcome the fog of the pills for the pain, pills for nausea, pills for more pain... they carved out the person we knew as Erica one gel-capsule-ful at a time.

Then her husband was less of a support to her than he should have been. He and their kids were her life, and he threatened to cut her out if it. I would like to say that I can't blame him, that her self-destructive cycle was understandably too much, but I just can't. But I wasn't there. He was unfaithful, she took him back. He threw her out of the house, she came crawling back. he threatened divorce, may actually have divorced her, she did his laundry and struggled to simply continue.

Their medical insurance was inconstant. A doctor would take her on, get her into a regimine and then speak to a previous doctor who would label her Erica a junkie and then the whole thing would fall apart, they'd stop dealing with her. And then there was the drink. I can't hold this against her, either-- to do so would make me a hypocrite. The comfort to be found in the bottom of a bottle, the temporary release, cost her so dearly but, in living with such unremitting pain, no, I can't fault her for seeking it.

This past year, Erica wasn't eating anymore. She lived on coffee and kool-aid. Sometimes she'd nibble something to appease her children. My mother begged her to hold on long enough to see her eldest son, a mild autistic boy with wide features, kind eyes, a shy smile and an unbelievable talent for the clarinet, graduate from high school. Her eldest daughter was denied the opportunity to go to University because her mother, her siblings all needed her at home, and now they need her more than ever.

My mother is relatively sure that it wasn't because Erica felt isolated or alone. They spoke on the phone, at least briefly, nearly every day for the past twenty years. My mother thinks it was more Erica's belief that she and her illness, her infirmity and distraction, were holding her family back. They'd be better off without her frail and trailing weight. This breaks my heart, even as I type it.

She'd tried to end her existence before. This time, she made sure it stuck. She got up from bed late last Saturday night, took 50 or 60 sleeping pills, sat down on the couch, drank a six-pack of beer and a pint of whiskey. Her eldest son found her hunched over on the couch in the morning. He tried to revive her before noticing that her face, hands and feet were blue and cold. She'd done it.

The memorial service is Saturday. My mother is supposed to speak but doesn't know what to say. She wants to blast the medical system which left her so unsupported and vulnerable, but this isn't the time. Unfortunately, I don't really know what this is the time for, in the end. The first thing I thought when my sister called to tell me the news was, "Well, shite. I never sent those chicken-flavoured crisps to her. Now I won't." It was something we'd talked about the last time I saw her, two christmas' ago. She'd mentioned being particularly partial to these chicken-flavoured crackers, Chicken in a Basket or something like that. Peculiar flavours of british crisps always being an amusing subject of conversation, I told her about walkers and whatnot and said I would send her a bag. But how the hell do you send a bag of crisps through the post?? So, I never got around to it. And now I never will. This is perhaps the most serious crisp-based guilt I've ever felt.

So, I clearly won't be at the memorial. Here's my offering to the cosmos in lieu of flowers:

Potato Chowder a la Erica
Ingredients:
Potatoes, peeled & diced
1 Onion, chopped
2 Links of kielbasa
1/2 c. Butter
1/2 c. Whole milk
1/2 c. Broth or potato water
2 Tbsp basil, dried
Cornstarch
Salt
Pepper

Boil potatoes and onions in a little water with cut up kielbasa. Cook until potatoes are tendre. Pour in whole milk (or half milk and half broth), butter, cornstarch and water to thicken. Season with salt, pepper and basil. Note: Add more milk for a bigger batch of soup.

Rest in peace, Erica. I hope you've found it. Finally.

For Our Lady

2011-02-27T17:49:00.002Z

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...

2011-02-25T19:24:00.000Z

Wild croci outside the University Office!

Slowly but surely, the signs are everywhere.

Lingering Recommendation from a Stellar Monday Night

2011-02-21T22:37:00.001Z

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

2011-02-20T18:15:00.001Z

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

2011-02-19T13:34:00.001Z

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

2011-02-18T11:49:00.000Z

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

2011-02-17T22:06:00.003Z

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!

2011-02-15T21:02:00.001Z

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.

Ow.

2010-05-19T13:08:00.004+01:00

So, again, it's been a little while. Sorry. I've only recently managed to scratch my way out from under a pile of grading and genius level self-sabotage. And what greeted me in the free and rarefied air?

A tooth extraction.

Now, I've needed to get this sucker yanked for the past year. It's not that I've got bad teeth (best my parents' orthodontist could provide) and I do take care of them, but I have a small jaw. A VERY small jaw in a rather round face. I also inherited my father's enormous teeth, and they just don't fit. My roots poke out through my gums, become infected, and I want to die of pain. Ergo, I had my lower back molars root canaled ages ago. It might have been six or seven years now (holy shit, am I really that old?!) and once the root is gone, the tooth is dead. This effectively means that no matter how precious you are about what you chew and how well you brush, they become brittle and crumble like chalky cement. It's no fun, and if you'd like a story, ask a friend of mine what it's like when yours truly turns to you just before holy communion and holds out her hand with a visible chunk of tooth in it and smiles, leaking blood from the corner of her mouth. Yeah, I have good friends.*

This whole matter is complicated by the fact that I've still not managed to get registered at a dentistry here in the UK. It is almost entirely covered on the NHS, but the demand far outstrips supply. Additionally, I don't have a car, so if I can't easily get there via bus (wherever there might happen to be) I don't go. Luckily, there's the Dental Information and Advice Line and the kind people there sorted me out an emergency appointment at the dentist office here on campus. This is where this gets unfortunate.

The dentist was a tiny little polish woman who clearly knew her stuff but just couldn't generate the leverage or strength to RIP THE MASSIVE, DISINTEGRATING MOLAR FROM MY ACHING HEAD. Pliers only crumbled it further, and even with a very kind, soft-spoken hygienist holding my hand the pain and pressure was dizzying. Eventually the dentist had to cut it out and that's where the trouble lies-- in addition to using the rest of my jaw for leverage, tearing the corner of my mouth with just the pressure of trying to twist it out, and bashing the rest of my teeth to get to it in the first place, I have a raw red cavity where the tooth finally gave it up.

They prescribed me an antibiotic, the most interesting thing about which being the repetitive and numerous strongly-worded warnings from everyone who mentioned it not to drink any alcohol at any point whatsoever lest I be instantly violently ill (and maybe cause a fleet of Chinese mathematicians to divide by zero and end reality as we know it). What they didn't mention was that a FULL WEEK ON I would still be awoken at night by searing, stabbing pain. I've now finished my course of antibiotics and, while shivering in agony in bed in the wee hours of this morning, I decided to call the emergency help number on the paperwork with which they sent me home and see precisely what was up. I get an appointment at 11 this morning. If this is socialism, sign me up.

The good news is that it isn't infected and it seems to be healing well. She referred to it as a "very traumatic extraction" and apparently the gum around where the tooth used to be bore the brunt of the assault and that's what's causing the stabbing pain in what feels like my ear canal. I'd never felt like I'd been shanked with a stiletto in the ear before, and the lance of pain down my neck/throat was a new and exciting twist to the devil's grab-bag of masochism I'm collecting. The dentist flushed the socket for me, repacked it with more antiseptic gauze (half of which has already fallen out) and sent me on my way with an antiseptic mouthwash to use twice daily for the next week or two (but not any longer because apparently it stains the teeth... fantastic).

It's not infected. It's healing well. It may very well and in all likelihood continue to hurt this badly for the next week. Awesome.

Thoughts on those who keep badmouthing public health care

2010-03-24T18:56:00.002Z

I found this reposted on Facebook this afternoon. I have no idea who wrote it or where it came from, but I feel like it pretty much makes the point.

"This morning I was awoken by my alarm clock powered by electricity generated by the public power monopoly regulated by the US Department of Energy. I then took a shower in the clean water provided by the municipal water utility. After that, I turned on the TV to one of the FCC regulated channels to see what the National Weather Service of the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration determined the weather was going to be like using satellites designed, built, and launched by the National Aeronautics and Space Administration. I watched this while eating breakfast of US Department of Agriculture inspected food and taking the drugs which have been determined as safe by the Food and Drug Administration.

At the appropriate time as regulated by the US Congress and kept accurate by the National Institute of Standards and Technology and the US Naval Observatory. I get into my National Highway Traffic Safety Administration approved automobile and set out to work on the roads built by the local, state, and federal departments of transportation, possibly stopping to purchase additional fuel of a quality level determined by the Environmental Protection Agency, using legal tender issued by the Federal Reserve bank. On the way out the door I deposit any mail I have to send via the US Postal Service and drop the kids off at the public school.

After work, I drive my NHTSA car back home on the DOT roads, to a house which has not burned down in my absence because of the state and local building codes and fire marshal's inspection, and which has not been plundered of all its valuables thanks to the local police department.

I then log on to the internet which was developed by the Defense Advanced Research Projects Administration and post on freerepublic.com and Fox News forums about how SOCIALISM in medicine is BAD because the government can't do anything right."

... Take that.

Something for Myself

2010-03-23T14:35:00.003Z

I know it may not sound like much, what with all the novel posting on here lately, but it's been a damn long time since I've done something for myself. Because I wanted to do it. Independent of the opinions of whims or schedules of others.

So what did your embattled heroine do, you ask?

She went to a concert.

The BBC SSO (Scottish Symphony Orchestra) were playing the Aberdeen Music Hall (see below) to the tune of Overture and Venusberg Music from Tannhäuser by Wagner, a selection of songs by Strauss, and the real draw of the evening: Beethoven's 7th Symphony. It was fantastic. It was everything I could have hoped for-- the venue, my cheap ticket, my seat, my ability to listen, all of it. It was a fantastic evening.

I'd been to a ceildh or two at the Music Hall, and saw Buena Vista Social Club there with Alpha 6 months ago, but to see a Symphony which performs with such surgical precision, which plays so cleanly and responsively, was an unaccountable treat. The conductor, Donald Runnicles (below), danced and capered on the stand, his leonine hair bouncing and knees bent to the militantly happy strains of a symphony which can simply be described as a race of endurance.

The Wagner was well done. Now, I'm not the biggest fan of Wagner (certainly not a fan of the man, but the music must be considered independently) but this staging was clean, crisp and entirely well-turned. There was a riff about 4 minutes in which brought tears to my eyes and that symptomatic swelling in my chest that indicates just how visceral my reactions to this kind of music can be. It's not unlike the pinch I get for the strains of patriotic tunes or the pitches of bagpipes-- I'm conditioned for this response, I refuse to either apologise for it or deny it.

As far as the songs (Allerseelen, Wiegenlied, Cacilie, Ruhe meine Seele, Befreit and Zueignung), the soloist did a lovely job. I was a bit disappointed by the smirking of a fellow audience member who I later recognised from my Monday reading group-- these pieces require a bit of the gusto and wild vibrato and pulling the Brumhilde face isn't clever. Regardless, Christine Brewer has a set of pipes she's not afraid to use and I'm glad for it.

Now, what could I possibly say about the Beethoven? Other than that I love it, naturally. The massive opening movement was appropriately bright and bombastic. The second was held to precisely the right pace-- too slow and it's a dirge, too fast and it misses the tenderness of the motifs-- and the full section of double basses set my heart atwitter. There a glimmer of major in the minor movement that hits you like a ray of sunshine between cold buildings: not enough to break your stride, but with just enough weight for you to involuntarily turn your face towards it. The third and fourth movements were a delight, with the latter being held to just that hair short of breakneck. The look that passed between Runnicles and his first violinist was priceless as she lowered her shoulder and prepared for the onslaught. It's militantly, defiantly joyous-- a snow shovel of happiness to the face, one might say.

All that said, it was a lovely night. I walked back to the nest and basked in the rounded tones ringing in my ears the whole way.

Hey, look-- I can read!

2010-03-15T14:29:00.003Z

... Yay, literacy!

So, after struggling with deep philosophy for the past, I don't know, it feels like forever, I'd become convinced that it was no longer possible for me to read more than a few pages of anything in a sitting. 6 pages of Blanchot and I have to get up and do some dishes, pick at my face, iron my bedsheets, anything to keep from passing out in a sludge of drooling intellectual stupor. 20 pages seemed to be my daily limit, between Blanchot, Nancy, Hallward and Hegel. Ack.

It was in a furious bout of charity shop shopping that I picked up two gently used books. The first was purchased simply to get people off my back. To all of you who have asked: "Miss Melville, have you read the new Cormac McCarthy book? You know, the one they're making/have made into a movie? The one starring Viggo?" The answer is now: "Yes, you bastards, now leave me alone!"

The book, needless to say, is The Road. The Times Literary Supplement says it's the best book of the past 10 years. I don't know about that. It is, however, a terrifying read.

I'm not much of one for zombie movies, and not because I teach film and I think they're all hack jobs. Quite to the contrary: they scare the absolute piss out of me. Anything post-apocalyptic gives me the most severe anxiety. So, thanks to all you miserable sons of whores to harassed me into reading this.

All that said, it's a brilliant book. The literary merit is solid, and I do appreciate the way he plays with a lack of punctuation to further underscore the lack of possession in the novel. It's powerful stuff. Redemptive? I don't know. Parts of it quite reminded me of King a la Cell. The description is vivid and chilling, the characters bleak and torn, the setting unsettling. The cannabalism is a horrific touch, but not overdone. All that taken in, I liked it. If anyone has a copy of Blood Meridian they'd like to loan me, please go ahead.

I read The Road in a day. Yes, that's right: ONE DAY. I started it on the bus in to Uni in the morning and finished it in the dark of night (considering I'm in Aberdeen where the sun is down by 6pm, this isn't that impressive). Inspired by this success, I moved on to another work.

More about this after the break!

Books

2010-03-09T10:46:00.003Z

So, I finally bought the book that we've been discussing in my Monday reading group since last September. Yeah, I've still not read it and yet participate in every discussion as we go along. I love half-assed intellectualism on my part.

Anyway, I suck no more! Amazon.co.uk will deliver onto me the most recent addition to my Blanchot collection: The Step Not Beyond. Woot, fair reader, woot indeed.

I've also ordered The Unavowable Community and a few other gems off of Amazon.com (because the exchange rate blows) which will be delivered to a friend's house (also because international shipping blows). I'm hoping they love me enough to ship them to me in a padded envelope of acceptable dimensions. That would be great.

But anyway, I'll have the major text before the massive conference here at the Uni at the end of the month. You know, the one with the major international scholars on Blanchot all in attendance. I've basically read it over Sergi's shoulder, but now I can apply my own soft lead pencil to it. I officially declare this a win.

Grading

2010-03-05T14:45:00.002Z

So, my film students (all 8 billion of them) had their first assessment due yesterday my 3pm. It's a shot-by-shot analysis of a scene of their choice from one of the films we've screened thus far on the course. Simple? Absolutely. Straight-forward? Couldn't be more so. Or so I thought...

Where did I go wrong? I read the handout to them in class, pulled it up on the computer and projected in front of them, showed them where it was on the website. I begged them to email me if they had questions. I brought it up ever class for three weeks. How did they still manage to cock it up?

They were supposed to submit a chart of the shot breakdown and then 2-3 pages of analysis in paragraph form with complete sentences. The interpretations of "chart" are truly awe-inspiring. And half of them just didn't do one. Turned in the analysis without a chart or list of bullet points or ANYTHING.

*FACE/PALM.

YAY!

2010-03-01T14:16:00.002Z

So, Yours Truely did, in fact, peer desperately at her laptop screen in breathless suspense for the duration of the Canada-USA Mens Ice Hockey match yestereve. Needless to say, I was rooting for the Canadians (I mean, honestly...) and my viewing experience would have been vastly improved had my internet connection not COMPLETELY freaked out midway through the second period and left me hanging onto every posting on the LiveTwitter portion of the BBC Sport website. Apparently I just wasn't good enough for iPlayer to not screw me over. There was much gnashing of teeth. MUCH GNASHING.

Regardless, hang on I did, and text in twice. Here's what the BBC wrote at the conculsion of the overtime period:

1503: Sidney Crosby was already a legend, at the age of 22, coming into these Games. Every young Canadian wants his name on their jersey. Every young Canadian wants to be him. He was always going to have a hard time living up to that reputation and, in the early games of this tournament, he was just another name on th...e roster. 'Sid the kid' was quiet. Now, with millions from Kampala to Baghdad to Vancouver to Aberdeen watching (and I know that, they've all been texting me), he has enshrined his name in Canadian folklore. Sidney Crosby has scored the biggest goal of the biggest game of the biggest tournament, for the biggest nation in the sport.

Yeah, that's right!! I texted in and Aberdeen gets the shout-out! Properly chuffed, thank you very much. Oh, and Canada winning is pretty cool, too.

Christ, how long has it been?

2010-02-08T14:17:00.002Z

Honestly, this is ridiculous. I keep meaning to put things up on here, but the combination of ragged Internet and epically low sustainable enthusiasm has left me bereft and fruitless. Also postless. Sort of the same thing.

Anyways, NO MORE. For neither love nor money will I let this continue (not that I have either of these things to wager, but that's a technicality, right?).

So, it's a Monday... time to start something new and repeatable. Like a post and a time to write it:

Here I sit, working my fingers and tail to the bone as a receptionist at the Student Union where I tell people I don't know the answer to their question and that they should come back tomorrow when someone else is behind this desk. And I get paid for this. It's brilliant. I answer the phone and take messages and get paid above the minimum wage. All this counts in the plus column for the day.

I also taught my first tutorials for the term-- they've got me back on Intro to Film again this spring, but it's an entirely revamped syllabus. SO many new shorts and artsy, cutting edge films which are not Braveheart... it'll be lovely. I've got at least one student whom I failed last year, but she didn't show up this morning anyway, so that's off to a brilliant start. There are also a few carryovers from the Intro to English tutorials I led this past fall (not that I told you about them, my poor, neglected, invisible readers). The one is a pretentious prig of a gent, but who isn't at 18, right? Especially one who wanted to go straight into film school but didn't make it? Yes, these are the young minds with which I have been trusted.

I'm still living in the same old flat, though perhaps not for long. It is the scuttlebutt around here is that the owner will be back in the Granite City on his next rotation and me and mine will have to find a new hole in which to hide. The rub lies in that this may happen in April, which is dash inconvenient. You see, housing here in Aberdazzle is extortionate. Honestly. On par with London. Aberdazzle is NOT LONDON. And in mid-April, there's nowhere to move. If it could wait until the end of May when the plague of undergraduates lifts, then maybe something might be had, but April? I shudder to think. Additionally, it's not just me I have to worry about, as there is the Flatmate. It's no longer DangerMuffin, she's moved on down to the Kingdom of Fife where she is making her own way in the postgraduate-dom in St. Andrews. No, the new girl took the room in September last with the understanding that she'd have it for a year... oops. She didn't sign a contract or anything, but that was the understanding. I haven't mentioned anything to her yet so as not to borrow trouble, but I don't have a superbly positive feeling about this.

Not that I do about most things, though. It's a happy thought.

I'll backdate the entries regarding Teitur and Lil' Jimmie Reed, which were both amazing. I promise to be better about this!

Ugh...

2009-06-08T14:13:00.001+01:00

Two nurofren (the bastard cousins of tylenol) and an ice lolly (otherwise known as an orange popsicle)... the breakfast of champions.

What the hell happened last night? Your guess is as good as mine. I'll issue a review of an nice Italian restaurant and a chummy local bar as soon as I dredge my brain. Owww.

Upcoming Excitement!

2009-05-27T15:26:00.003+01:00

So, I'm obviously working hard for the Students' Association, skimming iGoogle and leafing through a booklet of local fine art acts that I found in reception, and what do I see??

Teitur will be at the Lemon Tree here in Aberdeen on 8 June and the tickets are only £7 each!

I immediately hit the internet, sure that there wouldn't be tickets left, that once again I'd be a quid late and 2 weeks short... but no! I was able to purchase 2 tickets (one for myself, one for Danger Muffin) and we are GOING.

*Breathless with antici...pation*

If you'll recall, dear invisible reader, I went on and on in prase of him back a while ago. And now I get to see him live... So, so happy!

And so, in conclusion, if you're in Aberdeen on the night or can manage to align your position relative to the sun so as to catch a different leg of The Singer tour-- DO IT.

All for now.

Where to start...

2009-05-27T15:01:00.003+01:00

... so, it's been a while. Let's move through this as quickly as possible:

I returned to the native land of snow and family-type quality time over the winter holiday season, returned to the Lovely Land of the Dean and found myself offered a job running a tutorial for the Film Department here at the University. Needless to say, me and my skint little wallet JUMPED on this opportunity. Funnily enough, I still haven't gotten paid for this position (paperwork issues) but I've found teaching my two sections of Intro to Film to be wildly, thoroughly and completely unexpectedly fulfilling. Who knew. I've tutorials that I lead on Friday mornings, a film screening in the afternoon, and compulsory lectures on Tuesdays and Thursdays. We show mostly decent, mainly interesting films like Apocalypse Now!, Vertigo, Once Upon a Time in the West and, (naturally) Braveheart. This last one I had managed to dodge seeing until this course. How is this possible, dear Miss Melville? you ask. Well, as I'm living in Scotland, I see no reason to muddy the waters with Mel Gibson's atrocious accent. I mean, really. Anyways... we'll talk about specific movies another time. My students run the gamut from Sid Vicious to Nancy Drew, but there are a few gems-- one young lad compares every (and I mean EVERY) film we watch to Die Hard. At first, I was mystified. Then, slightly annoyed. But then, honestly, it takes some work to draw the link between Rear Window and that Rickman classic. At this point, I figure it must have been a bet, and I'm totally giving him extra points for the legitimate effort and attention. I am now hip-deep in astonishingly sub-par essays and all of my grading is due in tomorrow... riiiiiiiight.

I'm still holding down my jobs with the Student Association and the Gentleman's Club. I'll leave it to you, dear reader, to guess which one I prefer. Again, more on these in separate posts.

Danger Muffin just got her acceptance letter to a masters' program at St. Andrews University yesterday, but I haven't seen her yet to take her out for a pint. I know, I'm an awful flatmate... This means I will be looking for a new flatmate for August, I'd imagine, but somehow I know that there will never be another quite like Danger Muffin.

And as for me... well, I turned 24 on Saturday last. It's strange, I don't know why this one is hitting me quite so hard. I've been aware, once or twice before, of the passing of time. Of wanting to slow it down to a bare minimum crawl-- looking at my parents, my siblings gathered in the kitchen, seeing how old we've all grown... it's strange. I tried explaining my feelings on the issue to Danger Muffin with the tired old perfume bottle metaphor: it's like you have a bottle of your very favorite perfume, you know full well that you will never acquire another bottle and yet you wear it every day because you love it so. And now you look at it and see the sum of all those little morning spritzes, liquid halfway up the little tube, the vacuum in the top of the bottle, and you know that it will never be full again, that you will reach the bottom. But you're going to wear it every day. See what I mean about a tired metaphor? I turned 23 on the 23rd last year and it was a bit of a show-- Kaypea was in town, it was quite the do. This year-- far more sedate. I don't feel like a kid anymore. I think, without consciously realizing it, I capped my youth and childhood with that Golden Birthday year, and now I'll never be 23 again. Not that I'm really lamenting this, not that I'd do anything differently with it. It's just the knowledge that I'll never have it back again. Strange. And a little disjointing.

That's enough for now. Ask me about Norway, the Club, the Dirty Diss, M3, Boston, the Almighty Mobile, fiction and Subliminal Unicorns in the near future.

Radio Silence Over

2009-05-04T13:40:00.002+01:00

... And I'm back.

It's been a long couple of months which have been a combination of ass-kicking and wound-licking. However, spring is nearly over, so I'm hoping my mental condition evens out. I will be back to update further once I make some strategic drink and carrot-cake acquisitions from the local bakery. I love having a functional office on campus!

Will update/back date soon.

2008-12-17T00:24:00.006Z

Right now, I just need to get this out of my system:

Everything I'm feeling right now, the being pulled by tides I thought I'd slipped, stretched ane torn along old fracture lines, all of it can be summed up in easy chords in this song.

Caledonia
by Dougie Maclean

I don't know if you can see,
The changes that have come over me.
In these last few days I've been afraid,
That I might drift away.
I've been telling stories, singing songs,
That make me think about where I come from.
That's the reason why I seem
So far away today.

(Chorus)
Let me tell you that I love you,
That I think about you all the time.
Caledonia, you're calling me,
Now I'm going home.
But if I shall become a stranger,
Know that it would make me more than sad,
Caledonia's been everything I've ever had.

Now I have moved and kept on moving,
Proved the points that I needed proving,
Lost the friends that I needed losing,
Found others on the way.
I have kissed the lads and left them crying,
Stolen dreams, yes there's no denying,
I have travelled hard sometimes with conscience flying,
Somewhere in the wind.

(Chorus)

Now I'm sitting here before the fire,
The empty room, a forest choir,
The flames have cooled. don't get any higher,
They've withered now they've gone.
But I'm steady thinking my way is clear,
And I know what I will do tomorrow,
When hands have shaken, the kisses flowed,
Then I will disappear.

(Chorus)

Now please, let's not be melodramatic. However, it's late at night, you'll have to forgive my musical penchants. And honestly, I'll explain it all later. For now, just reread the pretty song and flex your fingers to the repetitive chords.

Kelvingrove

2008-11-21T13:21:00.002Z

Oh, what a fantastic place. The Kelvingrove Art Gallery and Museum-- everything about it is wonderful. The exterior of the building, the lavishness of it, the ornate quality of the place from paneled ceiling to marbled floors. And then there's all the stuff in it! Simply fantastic... le sigh.

Here are some of the highlights:

The aforementioned exterior of the building.

Just inside the front doors.

Giant Irish Deer... Yes, I like skeletons of dead things,

and this dead thing is nearly a full 8 feet tall, which makes it inherently nifty.

If there is a dinosaur in the place, I will find it and photograph it.

It's this neat party trick that I do.

Much like the Hunterian, this place is almost a cabinet of wonder.

Yes, that is indeed a bomber plane and an elephant. Also a giraffe.

It's fine, that's why we love places like this.

Yeah, it's John Locke. Yay, philosophy!

A Highland Funeral by one of the Glasgow Boys, James Guthrie.

Yay, car! Second version of a car built by James Anderson,

which was wildly popular with the Bertie Wooster set.

This little baby could reach speeds of up to 100 mph-- pretty zippy in 1924!

Dashboard of revolutionary zippiness.

The spotted kiwi, left in the picture, lays the egg which is to the right in the picture,

being the largest egg to body mass ratio in the animal kingdom.

Damn. Poor kiwi.

Grouse, meet the Famous Grouse.

A Haggis-- totally what every haggis I've ever seen looks like, no joke.

I love you, Scotland.

Curators have a sense of humor here.

And the peoples rejoiced.

Supposedly the key to Mary, Queen of Scots' cell in Loch Leven Castle.

You know that scene from Bedknobs and Broomsticks?

To me, the one on the far left is saying, "Hey, yeah, just hanging out with my rifle..."

The one in the middle something like "Who's called shotgun now, bitches!"

The one on the right is ignoring the other two.

Soay Sheep (Ovis aires) from St. Kilda.

I'd really like to visit St. Kilda one day...

Field mouse of St. Kilda, which are supersized compared to their mainland cousins.

It's sitting next to the bones of a cat which, after everyone evacuated from the island,

were left but then later shot. Go, mice.

The oldest spinning wheel from St. Kilda... le sigh. :)

Motherless, by Geogre Lawson.

Supposedly the wife and mother of these two has just died,

and there is an undeniably haunting quality to it.

Detail of Motherless.

Large silver thing...

Awesome detail of large silver thing.

Modesty by Giosue Argenti.

Victor Hugo by Rodin, 1883.

Masscre of Glan Coe, by James Hamilton.

The 1692 masscre of Glencoe was so shocking that it has become legendary.

THough the murders were carried out by an army at royal request,

the Campbell clan is still blamed today for this atrocity against the Macdonalds.

Detail. The girl's eyes are so compelling.

Detail.

I found it!

The Auchendrane Portrait of Robert Burns.

Execution of mary, Queen of Scots by Robert Herdman.

Ann Pattison, Mrs. William Urquhart by Henry Raeburn.

She is what I picture when I think of Scottish beauty.

Detail of a painting by Seurat.

Detail of The Man in Armour by Rembrandt. This is totally the wallpaper on my little phone and a print of which is in my living room courtesy of the gift shop. *snifs* I love you, Rembrandt!

Yes, those are floating heads. Thanks, contemporary art.

So, these are just a sampling of the goodness and delight to be found at the Kelvingrove. I'd rate their cafe pretty well, too-- just avoid the caesar salad. They do, however, have a Fraoch lager called Heather Ale, which is delicious and delightful.

Go forth and view if you can! Glasgow wins again!

If you're in the neighborhood...

2008-11-13T22:52:00.004Z

Danger Muffin and I just stumbled into the Drawing Room in Glasgow, across from the Kelvingrove which is lit beautifully in the nighttime hours, and had a ridiculously lovely dinner. She highly recommends the sticky toffee pudding. I recommend the chicken fillet with wild mushrooms. We both recommend the live music that sprung up next to our commandeered couch.

As I'm writing this, there a middle-aged man with a wicked guitar and a cabbie hat turned backwards on his head growling out a version of Lay Lady Lay while kids in skinny jeans and plaid shirts skitter in and out the door, moving between vices, outside for cigarettes and inside for half-price pints of fosters.

Earlier a pair of youngsters who look younger than I can ever remember being strummed out some inventive and original works, one on the guitar and the other on a wee, one octave argos-alumni keyboard. Pretty much adorable. I think one of their opening lines ran something like "Woke up with a headache, afraid to consult my phone." Hahahaha, oh dear. Just lovely.

I wish for all the world that I'd remembered to grab my trusty little camera out of my day purse and relocate it to the laptop bag. I guess you'll just have to take my word on this one, this place is worth the visit.

And the wireless which has enabled this posting is FREE! :)

Cinema: Quantum of Solace

2008-11-09T21:46:00.001Z

Right, so the time has come for a bit of an embarrassing confession: I enjoy the Bond movies.

*sighs*

Yes, it's true. The humble and ram-shamble author of the modern feminist partakes in liberal doses of ridiculous testosterone, minimal plot, fast cars and faster women, chiseled men and stilted dialogue. From my youth, I can remember the seemingly endless marathons on cable television of View to a Kill, Octopussy, Goldfinger and Thunderball. Oh, yes. Roger Moore was my mother's favorite, until she remembered Timothy Dalton (like anyone else remembers him, let's be honest). Sean Connery seemed like the essence of everything suave and cool in the universe to me at the age of 8 (just for reference, Cary Grant was the essence of everything romantic and wonderful in the universe-- catch me on the right night and this might still be true). Dad liked the cars and the gadgets and the guns (at least, I think he did-- it's not like he spoke from his recliner in the living room, so who knows) and my brother and I would run around the yard later pretending to be assassins. Good, wholesome fun.

Now, with this out of the way, let's talk about the latest installment: Quantum of Solace. I'll confess to have been hesitant about Craig at first, just like everyone else. A blonde Bond? I wasn't sure. Casino Royale counted as a good movie in my book, but a good Bond film? There were moments of genuine tenderness, and I wasn't sure how this was going to wear in a tradition with such touchstones as Diamonds Are Forever. Still, as time trudged on, I like it more and more. And who would have guessed, slightly bloodied and sardonic men are wildly sexy regardless of follicle pigment.

A while before going to see the film, I was exposed to the theme. Now, being a good Michigander, I have great affection for the White Stripes and Jack White, but I just wasn't sure. In fact, I fairly hated it the first time I heard it. However, I listened to it again, and then I found myself wanting to listen to it yet again. Long story short, it grew on me in an astoundingly short time, and now I quite fancy it. Something about "a man on your side/ a person that you trust/ is just/ another way to die" that really appeals to me. And it's got a great beat to pump into your ears as you stride down the street. Try it, I dare you. You'll feel like a badass, I promise.

So, I went to see the film, and I'll tell you, it was worth it. Technically, it's a lovely film to watch, the production values are astronomically high. It's beautiful. And all the different locations sure as hell doesn't hurt. The scoring is fantastic. I'll go out on a limb and say it's the best score yet (specifically for this beautiful little bit they do with Tosca-- don't want to spoil it for you it you haven't yet seen it, but it's fantastically done). My tender ears make me hypersensitive to movie scores (not that you have to be, the levels they play the movies at nowadays will rattle your fillings) and this one is particularly effective. Subtle, that's not what one usually associates with Bond, but in the score, it scores.

As far as all this criticism over a loose and rolling plot, the stretches without dialogue, the departures from the original short story-- shove off. I mean, really, what did you expect? It's a Bond film. Seriously-- You Only Live Twice. 'Nuff said. What one should look for are girls (this one has two), gadgets (a bit thin on Bond, but check out the office and M's comm skills, that's madly interactive) and chase scenes. This one converts in all three mediums of chase-- car, boat and plane. Check, please.

Daniel Craig is lightly bleeding within the first minute of the movie. That's what I'm talking about.

Some of my friends in real time have said that it feels like the middle movie in a trilogy. Fair enough. I personally just think it did a fine job of tying up loose Vespa ends. Well done.

And really, this is all that I wanted:

Thank you, Mr. Bond. Shall we do this again in a few years? Oh, yes, please!

HOLY SHIT, WE WON!!!

2008-11-05T06:35:00.001Z

THANK WHATEVER GODS MAY BE, BARACK OBAMA IS GOING TO BE PRESIDENT OF THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA! HE'S THE PRESIDENT-ELECT! IT REALLY HAPPENED!!

Oh my goodness. It's stupid o'clock in the morning, I've stayed up the entire night to watch with mu knuckles in my teeth, hoping against hope that we wouldn't screw this up. Hoping so freverently, so terrified that it would all go down in flames. That my poor, beleaguered. bleeding country wouldn't be able to overcome the years of fear and manipulation and misguidance and abuse-- but somehow, oh, somehow...

Danger Muffin and I hosted an Election Night Party at the Abode, and we had a regular grab-bag of nationalities present. The dedicated Election coverage kicked off on the BBC at 11:00 pm, and I hunkered down on one end of the leather brown loveseat and bared my poor little soul to the exit poll results. At one point, D-Muff had her laptop, I had mine and an Aussie friend had hers out as well, all of us monitoring different news-network websites, searching for different calls, calling out percentages, waiting for television to tell us how it all unfolded.

There were hot dogs and hamburgers and two delightful apple pies as made in our postage-stamp kitchen by D-Muff herself. All of this lay mostly forgotten on the table as the points finally began to break in Obama's favor, steadily rising in in the face of the once-solidly republican south. Could it really be so?

Everytime a state was called for Mr. Obama, we actually cheered. In our tiny flat in northern Scotland, we tuned in and tensed up. I watched with disbelieving eyes as the point count crossed the line of demarcation, the victory line-- but years of watching these fiascoes unfold had taught me all about concession calls and how bitter and long these things will sometimes be.

The bbc cut to McCain's speech, not a word about a phone call being made. "My friends, we have -- we have come to the end of a long journey. The American people have spoken, and they have spoken clearly. A little while ago, I had the honor of calling Senator Barack Obama -- (boos) -- to congratulate him -- (boos) -- please -- to congratulate him on being elected the next president of the country that we both love."

Oh. my. god.

Really? REALLY? You made the call?!?! It's true-- you've recalled that spark of fairness that first endeared you to me all those years ago when you were sensible and moderate and not shackled to the religious right and sponsored a bill against torture!! You're not going to drag this out because you can't pallate loosing after such a long fight. You really are putting the country first.

"Tonight -- tonight, more than any night, I hold in my heart nothing but love for this country and for all its citizens, whether they supported me or Senator Obama -- whether they supported me or Senator Obama, I wish Godspeed to the man who was my former opponent and will be my president."

This was the first time in the night that I started to cry. I think this might have alarmed the Englishman seated on the floor to the right of the sofa, but I was pretty far past caring.

The bottom banner on the screen shifted to MCCAIN CONCEDES. The Aussie confirmed that Fox News had shat itself and was no longer reporting anything on its website. Gore Vidal made us all laugh and I waiting for what I knew was soon to be coming from Grant Park.

And then it happened. He took the stage. I gripped the pillow in my arms and stared through the shimmer I couldn't rub out of my eyes.

"If there is anyone out there who still doubts that America is a place where all things are possible, who still wonders if the dream of our founders is alive in our time, who still questions the power of our democracy, tonight is your answer. It's the answer told by lines that stretched around schools and churches in numbers this nation has never seen, by people who waited three hours and four hours, many for the first time in their lives, because they believed that this time must be different, that their voices could be that difference. It's the answer spoken by young and old, rich and poor, Democrat and Republican, black, white, Hispanic, Asian, Native American, gay, straight, disabled and not disabled. Americans who sent a message to the world that we have never been just a collection of individuals or a collection of red states and blue states.
We are, and always will be, the United States of America."

Right about there was where I began to cry in earnest.

"The road ahead will be long. Our climb will be steep. We may not get there in one year or even in one term. But, America, I have never been more hopeful than I am tonight that we will get there. I promise you, we as a people will get there. "

And sitting here, at 6:30 in the morning, I can tell you now, on a gush of expelled air and a sniffle I can't hide, that we as a nation have dared to hope. We can hope.

I can hope.

Thank you, Mr. President(Elect) for one of the best nights of my life.

Book Review: The Audacity of Hope

2008-11-01T21:17:00.000Z

You know how people throw about that line, the one about laughing and crying and being moved? Yeah, I'm not throwing it lightly-- I mean it. I just hope this guy does as well.

Now, I know I've kept quiet on here about the presidential election. It's a devisive topic around the dinner table at the old family homestead, but I'm coming to realize in my quarter-life age that I'm trending democratic. Mostly it has to do with a belief in solid foreign policy and emphasis on higher education. So shoot me. I also don't think the government should have anything to say about specifically moral issues and that we should keep people alive who want to die, but that's an entirely seperate post.

ANYWAY, this book. Oh, this book. I've been a fan of Obama for a while now, considering I've believed for a long time that there was no way for Hilary to win. My native country might agree in theory if not in act that a black man and a white man are equal. It will be another century before they'll say the same for a woman. No way in hell would the home of the brave elect a woman as commander and chief in the midst of a foreign campaign, no matter how ill-advised and ill-executed. It just won't happen. And so I found myself taking interest in a young senator with the oratory skills of a preacher.

His charm is undeniable. There's no beating around the fact that he is wildly charasmatic. Not that such is a bad thing-- in fact, I think the White House desperately needs a little tact and smooth-handedness-- but what's behind it? He's preaching change, which I'll agree that we need, but what does his variety of change look like? A straight answer on this was hard to find.

Until I bought his book. Yes, I walked into Waterstone's on Union Street and bought a full-priced book. Incredibly unlike me, but I'm glad that I did. I found his writing style to be easy to read, his chapters well-defined and his points clear, and the whole experience refreshing. But more than all of that, I found out what his change for America would mean. And I couldn't be happier.

A whole chapter on education reform? The world beyond our borders? Race? Religion? REALLY?!? He thinks we should be investing in retooling our struggling work force and investing in our people rather than slashing taxes in a wild bid to keep the dying industries we should have out-moded thrity years ago. He thinks that we need to listen to the rest of the world, regardless of the frustration of sitting in meeting after meeting, consulting the non-specifically involved, asking our old allies and our new colleagues on the global scene what they feel would make the entire planet a safer, friendlier, more-sustainable nest for humankind? He thinks that racism is still a problem that we can no longer talk about in mincing, antiquidated terminology or pretend to be a war of another generation? Again, REALLY?!?!

This, my friends and invisible readers, is a book everyone voting in the election should read. EDUCATE YOURSELF. Don't take my word for it. And see if you don't choke up just a little bit on the last page. I did, I won't deny it.

Here's a man who actually respects and loves the constitution as a living and historic document, not as one or the other. A man who understands the necessity of the separation of powers, who respects the singular importance of congress. A man who isn't going to speak to me like I'm an idiot or patronise me by pretending that truly complicated situations have simple and perfect solution. Thank whatever god you like, I am.

Hell, I'm thrilled at the prospect of simply voting for someone with the chops to write a book, let alone the utterly terrifying and exhilirating prospect of respecting my president again. Lo, how things just might change...

I'm giving this the full five flying flags. Take that.

Right, bullet time!

2008-10-27T20:58:00.000Z

Okay, so I'm sorry, I'm a shit blogger and have been remiss in my updating. SO MUCH TO TYPE! Ergo, the wonder of spot editing!

I'm living with a wonderful, delightful woman named Danger Muffin-- D-Muff for short-- and she's fantastic. She moved here from MI and, despite a failure to communicate for 6 years, has clicked back into my life like she never left it. We originally met through the MSF and have a mutual unhealthy relationship with Shakespeare and Arts Organizations in general. As it is, we're living at approximately the same speed. Which is the speed of light and sound. Together. Amplified.
My student loans still haven't come through. This makes me a sad panda.
I'm working too many different jobs. I can't keep them straight. And I haven't been in my office in ages. I'm sure I'm supposed to be doing something for the Ph.D., but for the life of me I don't know what. Good sign?
I haven't heard from DS in ages. Again, sad panda.
I've been cast in a production of Miller's Crucible at the University. And which character is little Miss Melville portray? The "death-haunted, embittered 45 year old woman" of course. Type casting? Please say no, I only look 35.
My crossword addiction has hit record levels. The careers office is enabling me by saving all their old copies of the Herald and the Guardian. I still buy the Times on a daily basis and hit up the Washington Post online. Sick, sick puppy.
I've rediscovered my love of white russians. They're delicious and way kinder to my tummy-lining. For a change up, I will order a vodka and cranberry, but only because I believe in the fight against UTI. I also drink gin and tonic because malaria is a bastard. Ergo, all my cocktails serve very strategic purposes.
I think that Scotland is currently underutilizing my generous and nurturing side. I'll expound more on this at a later date if I get the time.
Damn facebook. Yes, I use it and I love it and it's the only way people who know me in real time can reach me on a consistent basis, but it keeps telling me all sorts of disconcerting things. What things, you ask? Apparently everyone I used to know is either getting married or spawning. No joke. Entire photo albums of engagement rings, ultrasound pictures or tiny humans fresh out of their wrappers-- they're everywhere. I used to think my being perpetually between boyfriends wasn't that unusual, but apparently I'm a piraha. Still, better than being perpetually between husbands, right? Right?!?
I really miss playing the tuba. Unfortunately, there appear to be very few of them in Scotland, and even fewer that belong to me. That number being zero.
The roses down near the beach ballroom are still blooming.
I still love Scotland.
It no longer strikes me as strange that I'm here. What does seem strange is that I was never not here. Is that odd?

Enough for now. I'll finish writing and then backdate the rest of the Wedding entry, it's just too much for my less than nimble little fingers at the moment.

One for the Ages, Part I: The Run-Up

2008-10-06T15:53:00.004+01:00

Sorry for being so remiss in my writing. I promise, it hasn’t been for lack of thought or lack of material, but rather the presence of too much—too much to do, too many places to be, too many jobs and too few hours. All that sort of thing.

But first things first: The Wedding.

Oh yes. Articles intended.

For many reasons, CB’s wedding is THE Wedding. Mostly because she named me as a bridesmaid. Also mostly because she’s a wonderful, lovely friend. And mostly for the fact that this was, bar none, the most labor intensive bridesmaid-stint I’ve ever completed, for no other reason than The Cake. But I scamper ahead…

CB got married to her Pirate on a gloriously sunny day in Bristol. All joking aside, the weather really was lovely (about damn time, Britain!) and the whole thing was sunshine and flowers and free wine and happiness. The day before? Not so much. But it could have been a lot worse. And let me go on record as saying I’d do it all again, in a heartbeat.

And with all that as a disclaimer…

I caught the train down to Bristol on the Wednesday morning, leaving my warm, warm bed for the cold, cold train station at 5:30 am, and dropped CB a text to let her know I was finally underway just after 6. I’d picked up my dress from the seamstress just the evening before, as there had been some last-minute pinning and tucking. Assuming she had her phone turned off, LIKE ALL NORMAL PEOPLE, I settled down and pillowed my head on my arms from Aberdeen to Burgh of Edin. I there changed trains for Birmingham, settling in for the longer leg of the journey with my needlework and picnic bag accessible.

I was working on a little piece of craft-mastery of my own design, though the inspiration is well documented on the internet. What was Miss Melville sewing so painstakingly, you ask? I’ll tell you later. What matters now is that I was seated next to an older woman named Evelyn, and despite my moment’s trepidation on her arrival due to her heavy scowl and less-than-bemused air, she turned out to been overwhelmingly chatty. So much so, in fact, that she talked ALL THE WAY to Birmingham. She told me about her family, that she was turning 77 the same month her granddaughter was turning 7 (an endless source of amusement for the granddaughter), that her father had been abusive and her mother emotionally distant, her grandmother manipulative but loving, and a dizzying number of aunts, uncles, cousins, great -grand relations and obscure pets. Needless to say, she was lovely. We helped each other find our next train, as she was bound for Exeter and I for Bristol Temple Meads, and said our goodbyes on the platform as we boarded different coaches.*

The final leg of the journey was standing room only and dearly uncomfortable. Let’s just be clear when I say that I was quite happy to roll into Bristol, take out £100 for upcoming expenses and drop myself into the nearest taxi. I know it doesn’t compare to scrubbing down an apartment kitchen, but the trip was its own form of special.

All told, I arrived at my reserved Bed and Breakfast relatively unharmed and unharried. The place itself was positively LOVELY. Quaint, charming, well-staffed, warm, clean, comfortable—all in all, all for which one might ask. I called CB to let her know that I had arrived and where would she like me to be/what would she like me to do/what should I be doing? Her response was somewhere between a laugh, a grunt and a frustrated howl. Apparently I wasn’t the only one who’d been asking such things. As it was, I watched a few episodes of Top Gear (Oh, Dave channel, how do I love thee…) and waited to be instructed about dinner arrangements.

Showered, napped, spot-ironed and with a pint down in the pub, I began questioning the busing schedules of Bristol. Roughly one on the hour, the barmaid told me. Turns out, they’re about as predictable as the ones here in the ‘Deen. I eventually caught one, laid down a ridiculous amount of money for a day ticket and tripped the light fantastic into town, where I met the whole maiden CB family.

Well, ‘met’ is a bit of a misnomer. I’ve met them all before, being great friends with CB’s mom and referring to her as my boss for more years than I like to remember. CB’s brother, his wife, the Aunt, the parentals… a lovely family. A lovely pub. Good food, fast talk, CB making entirely inappropriate comments about my chest, and I realized in a flash that all things with this wedding were really going to be just fine, so I ordered a stoli and tonic, crushed my lime and smiled. Good times.**

The next day saw me up and moving about with good speed, trying to get to the Chaplaincy to help bake a cake. No, I’m sorry—to help bake THE CAKE. The Cake to end all Cakes. The truly important, dear god don’t ruin this for everyone cake. Yeah, that one: the Wedding Cake.

CB had decided a while back that she was going to bake her own wedding cake. Well, g’donnah as the Aussies say, and I didn’t think a whole lot more about it until that morning. Good thing CB had, as she had all the ingredients, the recipes, the pans and pots and measuring cups aplenty. After stumbling about the top of Park Road for a bit (I’m useless with directions, sorry, CB!) another charming and nigh-on disgustingly perky bridesmaid, CW, met me and guided me into the dark heart of the University of Bristol. Somewhere between the gleaming Ivory Tower which is the Wills Building and eventually stumbling on the Chaplaincy, CW and I bonded. All things good. Once in the kitchen, I unloaded the requisite bottle of red wine from my purse and met the delightful Family Wally: Mama Wally (MW), Papy Wally (PW) and Beta Wally (BW). As CB had previously told me that MW is the only person other than myself within the circle of her acquaintance who listens voluntarily to sea chanties, I figured we'd get along just fine. In that, I was right. :) BW is actually a godzilla in a blonde, curly wig. He's utterly adorable and occasionally rampages. This mostly made for good entertainment as PW attempted to reign him in while we four womenfolk busied ourselves in the kitchen. I made a ribbon bouquet, complete with stem, out of the ribbons from the bridal shower, and all was happy and hectic but controlled.

By the time we had to break camp to leave for the rehearsal, the bottom tier and top tiers were finished baking. All the carrot (ALL THE CARROT) had been grated, lemons zested, and all that really remained was to bake the rest and frost. No problem. CW and I trucked it on back to her apartment to collect CB's dress, the delightful creation of satin and organza and embroidery which had been the subject of so many evening conversations. Once we finally got in the taxi, dress across laps, I noticed I had smudges of frosting all down my front and no time to do anything about it. So much for the yellow dress I'd purchased for the occasion, time left no time for such considerations! Dropping the dress off with the vastly capable door staff of the hotel, we hot-footed it over to the church, which was conveniently located just across the street.

At this point, I thought things would calm down and the overwhelmingly brisk pace of the day would be checked. Not so much. Apparently, they'd double-booked the church, and we had something like 15 minutes to go over the practical "You stand here, you walk over here," bits of the service. So far as I could tell, our job was to walk in ("Slowly!" hissed the mother of the bride, "You've got to make sure you leave six paces/enough space/you're going too fast/smaller steps!/feet together/don't rush!"), sit in the front pew, and then walk out. Awesome, I can handle that.

Post-rehearsal, I had a brief chat with the father of the groom, who is a lovely man with an accent which I can only describe as the one I would pull should I want to mock the ultra-posh Brits of yesteryear. But it's his actual accent. And I couldn't laugh, because that would have been terribly rude. Oh yesquiteratherhmmmm. All in all, I think I pulled it off.

As a small sidenote, apparently the rehearsal dinner isn't a tradition over here. Convenient for the parents of the groom, but less than conducive for getting we happy few fed and back to the kitchens. As it was, the parents of the bride fed me yet again at a lovely restaurant right on the waterfront where I had cheese and leafy things before legging it out of there and into a taxi to meet up with CB, who had rushed out even earlier to get back to the cake.

When we eventually got there, all things were relatively as they should have been, with the small exception of a party of observant Islamic men who had also booked the kitchen to cook for Ramadan. I feel this part of the story is best captured by CB herself: "when I got back there were 3 Muslim blokes there cooking a feast for Ramadan for about 50 people. I wasn't able to get in the door. They said they would be gone in 10 minutes. An hour later they were still there so I just started working around them as best I could.They finally left but the place was a mess. I was able to work around the mess, but when they came back to clean up it really go hairy. I needed the sink to keep washing mixing bowls and utensils as i changed back and forth between carrot and lemon cake and frosting, but they were using the sink. That killed another 45 minutes of valuable time.Then at one point one of them TURNED OFF THE OVENS!. Thank GOD the Cake noticed and we turned them straight back on so there was no damage done. If she hadn't seen that happen 2 tiers of my cake would have been ruined.And then finally one of the batches of frosting didn't turn out. For some reason it was complete soup. It wasn't usable. So we weren't able to get the whole cake frosted that night."

Confession time: I was the one who made the cream cheese frosting-flavored soup. It was me. I nearly destroyed ALL. The thing of it is, I didn't do a DAMN thing differently between the two batches. The first one set up, the second one didn't. Maybe it was that the kitchen was too hot from all the other cooking. Maybe the cream cheese was softer. Maybe the refrigerator was warmer due to being opened so much. I DON'T KNOW. All I know is that the frosting did. not. work. I felt awful. CB assured me that it would be okay, that we'd get duncan heines frosting from painsbury's in the morning and all would be well, but after going to such lengths to make this cake from scratch, I felt terrible about compromising the integrity of the homemade cake.

In the end, we got the remaining cakes baked, the first layer frosted completely, the bottom layer assembled, and CW's boyfriend to our location (more difficult than it sounds). The poor chap had worked a full day up in York and then taken the train down for a few hours to Bristol. He as tired, road weary (or track-weary, rather?) and hungry. Still toting his luggage, he shows up to help us transport the cake, as we were a woman down. We'd sent MW and the rest of the Family to the bed and breakfast-- same one I was booked into, actually-- to get some much needed rest. The little tyke didn't know what time it was supposed to be, and his parents weren't much better. The merciful thing to do was to let them shower and sleep, but it left us a lap short to transport the boxes of cake via cab to the hotel where the reception would be held and where CB was staying. Enter CW's boyfriend, who from here on out will be referred to as Captain Cake. Once we'd cleaned out the kitchen and loaded all the boxes with their precious cargo, the real fun began.

We lined the boxes up on a low rock partition along the driveway to await the taxi driver. Captain kept trying to talk to CW about the day, how he was feeling, answering the questions she casually flung at him, but after asking she'd scuttle away to check for the cab or check on CB, leaving him with a mouthful of words which would trail off in a Walter Mitty-esque sense of resignation. Something about this struck me as absolutely hilarious, a fault I can only chalk up to exhaustion and overwrought nerves. The bit of road which led to the chaplaincy is a squidgy, and in the age that it took the cabbie to find us, we milled about and generally lied about how tired we were. CW went to pick up one of the boxes of cake to move it closer to the curb, and as I stood talking to CB, she screamed. Actually screamed. Oh god, I thought, please don't have dropped the cake. Then she screamed something about slugs. Oh NO. You see, my dear reader, it's been a very wet summer here in Britain, and there are slugs EVERYWHERE. And not the little slugs that nibble cabbage in a garden. These are big, slimey fuckers to leave visible trails all over the sidewalks. And all I could think was that one had managed to squirm its way into the box and onto the cake. The mental image of the little frosted tier over which we had labored so lovingly absolutely covered in giant, olive drab slugs glistening in the street light filled my mind. Ogodohgod, NO!

As it was, CW had gone to pick up the box and put her hand on a slug quite safely on the exterior of the box. She even had the good sense not to drop the box. She's a winner, that CW. However, she did cause me a small bout of cardiac arrest.

Once we FINALLY got into the taxi, we three girls in the back with boxes of cake and Captain in the front with the bowl of soup-frosting on his knees, we let out a collective breath and asked the cabbie to drive very, very carefully. As we went along, we quickly realized that we in the back were fine, but Captain was in serious danger of slopping the sugary sludge over the edge of the bowl and all over his lap. "I feel like I'm in the third leg of some sort of perverse triathlon," he said quietly, inducing a fit of near-hysterical giggles from the back seat. Once at the hotel, CB oversaw the unloading of the cab and put CW and Captain back into it and packed them off to CW's flat while I went to find a trolley to transport the various boxes to the commercial refrigerator in the kitchens where the hotel had has we could store it all overnight. With a vague prayer to nebulous powers that the sustained cold of the fridge would bring my soup-creation to frosting-firmness, I followed like a pup at CB's heels. We both realized at roughly the same time that the buses had finished running for the night and I was effectively stuck in Bristol unless I wanted to shell out for a taxi. Ugh. CB offered quite gallantly to just curl up next to her in the enormous yes-it's-a-honeymoon-suite-but-we-want-a-bed-so-big-we-don't-actually-have-to-touch-while-we-sleep bed, but after watching her print off the readings for the next day, I soberly considered my options and figured that it would be cheaper in the long run to take a nighttime taxi rather than wake up in town and have to fight my way back to the Inn to gather my bridesmaid dress and assorted necessities. CW and I had worked out a shopping list with nibbly-bits for the lunch the next day, useful things like band-aids and Tylenol, and the ever-necessary hair drier. Leaving all this for the night, I said goodnight for the last time to Miss CB and caught a cab.

And this is where, for me, the whole thing went pear shaped.

When the cab rolled up to the Inn, all was dark. No lights in windows, no busy downstairs pub-- nothing. Not only was the front door locked, but it was also chained and padlocked. So, on a scale of locked, it was very locked. I knocked and knocked, I tapped at windows, and shouted hello in the hopes of raising a reply, all to no avail. The cabbie, bless him, hadn't immediately driven off, and asked if I needed help. Did I have the number for the inn? Maybe I could call and someone would answer who could then come down and let me in. No, I didn't have the number. So he called his dispatch and had them track it down for me-- amazingly kind, eh? In the meanwhile, I went around back and shook the gate. Deadbolted. DAMN. Whyohwhyohwhy. It was 1:30 in the morning, I had soupy frosting in my hair, I smelled noticeably of carrots, and my friend was getting married in less than 14 hours. I went around the front again and in desperation POUNDED at the front door. By that time, the cabbie had been waiting well over 15 minutes, but had a number for me to call. I pulled out my mobile and dialed.

Only to be met by the robotic voice of a woman telling me I didn't have enough credit on my phone to complete the call. [*Mentally drops to her knees and wails wordlessly*]

"There's nothing for it," my patient cabbie sighed, "I'll take you back to the Hotel if you'd like?" For the moment, it looked like my only option. But I didn't want to wake up CB who had surely FINALLY gone to bed for some desperately needed sleep. I didn't want to bother her the NIGHT BEFORE HER WEDDING. I wanted to be competent and adult and get into the bed reserved for me, dammit! I sighed and said I'd try the back gate just one more time. Shoving my hands in my pockets in the cold, my knuckles already bruising from pounding on the door, I felt the ribbon I had stashed there, the one I hadn't looped into the bouquet. "Could I...?" I leaned all my weight against the gate, buying a few millimeters and enough to loop the ribbon through the gap, hook it onto the nub and pull it up, springing the gate. Success! Once inside the yard, I started trying the doors. The downstairs was definitely locked, complete with a yale lock. The upstairs door, however, adjacent to the iron rose trellis, had just a regular lock, and an older one at that. Right, time to put the skills to the test... I rattled the door with all my furious, mentally-exhausted might and then YANKED it open. The bolt sprung free and I was IN! I left the door open and went back to inform the cabbie, who wished me a good sleep, and I locked the gate back behind me. A good night indeed. I don't think my head hit the pillow before I switched off.

For what happened when my eyes opened again, stay tuned.

*There is something so strange about train conversations. I know the film-loving few among us can cite numerous cinematic examples of what I’m describing, but parts of it sadden me. Evelyn at several points marveled about how she was telling me all of these unpleasant but true things about people had loved, her parents and their parents, but never told her own children, much less her grandchildren who are mostly my age. I told her, in my honest opinion as a grandchild whose grandmother withheld all manner of information until it was far too late, that they would want to know. It’s far too important to just tell a stranger on a train. I hope she does, and I hope her grandkids have the decency and the sense to stop and listen.
**Good times made even better by the drinks tab being picked up by CB’s Aunt, who is a Sister (not in the “Help a sister out!” sense, but rather the “I’m sorry, Sister, I have no idea how that rosary wound up there” sense) which effectively means that the Catholic Church bought my booze. I repeat, GOOD TIMES.

Bus-Stop Encounters

2008-09-15T02:30:00.001+01:00

I don't know what it is. When my friend HPC first pointed it out, I didn't believe her, but I've come to accept that it's true: people just walk up and talk to me.

I can't really explain it. I've been told that I'm intimidating-- really, honestly scary at times. And yet, if I'm standing in line at the grocery store, if I'm filling my car with gasoline, riding in an elevator or on an escalator, maybe browsing books in a store, just minding my business and strolling through the park, people seem compelled to talk to me.

At first, I thought this happened to everybody. If there's somebody else waiting at a counter in the cheesemonger, don't they make polite chit chat about how they just love orkney cheddar? Or if you're standing around on the train platform, make some dig about how public transportation is so unreliable? I mean, I never actually initiated any of these conversations, but I responded cordially and went about my business.

It turns out, apparently this is not the case.

For all this, I can't really explain the phenomenon. It just happens. Take today for example: I was perched at a bus stop on Union Street, the main drag through the city centre. It was around 7pm and I sat with my two bags of groceries and played around with my new mobile, trying to figure out how to change the ringtone. I still haven't figured it out, but in the meanwhile an elderly gent shuffled up and sat next to me, and asked me the time and if i was looking forward to my tea. he was kindly enough, with his pageboy cap and tweed jacket, and he walked with a cane, which I find automatically endearing. I said I was looking forward to fixing some supper, and he told me about how he'd been out for the day in Inverurie to visit his brother-in-law, and the two together had gone to visit yet another brother-in-law who is in hospital. Now, bear in mind that all of this information was completely unsolicited.

Now, I've got a Midwest accent that you can spot at a 150 yards, there's no denying it. Frankly, it grates on my own ears nowadays, and I don't really know how anybody can stand listening to me-- my own voice annoys me, let alone anybody else. And there's no pretending I'm from 'round these parts, either: my Scottish accent is still appalling, despite my best efforts. Le sigh. So when he asked where in America I was from, I wasn't all that surprised. I told him Michigan, and he began to tell me about how he knew where that was because he'd been driven in a military convoy along the Trans-Canadian Highway for his flight training out in British Columbia during WWII. He told me about taking the ship over, how they docked next to the Queen Mary, how he saw the Statue of Liberty for the first and only time at 4 in the morning, how women had laid out the best breakfast he's ever tasted on the docks upon their arrival, the fresh fruit, eggs and meat they had only dreamed about while on the steamer from Ireland. All the while, I smiled and nodded, laughed at the appropriate moments and genuinely marvelled at what he was telling me.

Telling me, a perfect stranger.

I guess it's the same way women hand me their infants while I'm working as a photographer's assistant. I even once had a woman thrust her newborn into my arms at the local grocers so she could have both hands free to paw through her purse in search of an elusive debit card. Who does that? People have handed me dogs on leashes as well, told me about their caring husbands, cancer scares, family vacations and housing plans. Mostly I just nod and smile, half-bemused and half-bewildered.

So, is it just me, or does this happen to you as well, my dear invisible readers? Do you have bus stop encounters with charming old gents who make you wish that your bus was five minutes late like it usually is?

While You Were Out...

2008-09-10T16:09:00.003+01:00

Big changes upon which I will expound in due time (read: not now). Best to bust out the bullet points for this one, methinks!

Got a new job on campus, that basically means I'm on campus every day, breathing the academic atmosphere and shifting my focus back away from shift work to intellectual work, despite the fact that I basically do office work. Regardless, it pays and it's fewer and better timed hours. Baby gets her evenings back! *woot woot*
Quit the wine shop, which was good fun and good viniculture education, but not so related to my life as I want to be living it post-phd. That, and the basement where all the wine is stored had a ceiling so low that even I couldn't stand up straight. This is shocking if you know how tall I actually am in flat shoes. That, and hauling the cases of wine about was doing my back in on a repetitive basis.
Came to the sad realization that I have an abusive landlord. This requires a whole backstory that I really don't have time to write at the moment, so I'll just leave it at this.
Found a new flat! I'll be letting it from the parents of a friend, and it's b-e-a-utiful! The rent is a £100 more than I'm paying now per bedroom, and it's just a two bedroom place. This is a good thing because...
A very dear friend of mine, let's call her Jen, is moving here from the US! YAY! She's basically fleeing the country, for many reasons I'm sure. But I've just secured a two bedroom apartment for us, and she arrives towards the end of October! And since it'll just be the two of us, no more sharing a bathroom among six people!! Exclaimation points for everyone!
On the short list for providing a new home for a lovely pup-- Bonnie. She's a bonnie wee lass, an older Scottish Terrier who really needs a new family to love and adore her, but I need to double-check that the new landlords would be cool with having a fully-trained smallish dog in their flat. I really, really, really hope they are, as I've been wanting a dog for a while now.
Booked my train tickets down to Bristol for this woman's wedding. I've not been that far south on this lovely island yet, so seeing the countryside from the train should be nice. However, it's going to take ELEVEN HOURS to get there. No joke. Even for me, that's a lot of countryside. Here's to hoping the train has wireless-- some of them do, so stop laughing.
On the way back from the aforementioned wedding, I'm stopping in London. There are some bride's maids committments that I've got to fulfill on Saturday morning, and that means that I can't leave Bristol early enough to get back to the 'Deen the same day. So, it'll be Miss Melville in London: One Night Only! I'll be spending Saturday night in the fully capable care of Aplha, who's living down there nowadays, and crashing on her floor if there's any crashing to be had. I have a sneeking suspicion that we'll just stay out until she pours me back onto the train at Kings Cross and then I'll have 8 hours to sober up before changing in the Burgh of Edin. I'm anticipating carnage and shinanigans.
My welcome and orientation meeting the the Ph.D. of DOOM is slated for the 25th. Holy shit.
I get my own office. Or, at least a desk in a cupboard somewhere. They were a little hazy with the details. Regardless, I'm putting my name on the door, even if I have to whittle it there myself, Old Red-style.

I think that's about all for now. Needs must run to the mobile store to try to get someone explain to me why the new phone I bought is doing a fantastic impression of a rock.

Dissertation = Done.

2008-09-01T17:11:00.001+01:00

It'll go to the bindery tomorrow, and is completely and totally out of my hands. I won't say that it's perfect, or the very best that I could have done, but I kinda maybe feel like it's good enough?

Whatever, it's over.

Dark have been my [waking] dreams of late.

2008-08-30T09:15:00.005+01:00

"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

2008-08-29T11:09:00.000+01:00

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?

2008-08-21T23:32:00.003+01:00

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

2008-08-19T16:32:00.001+01:00

... 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

2008-08-04T13:22:00.003+01:00

... 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...

2008-08-02T14:34:00.002+01:00

... 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.

Happy Birthday, Ms. Potter!

2008-07-28T01:47:00.008+01:00

Thanks to Google and their lovely vaguely-pastel logo art for alerting the vast internet population to this delightful day!

Here's to a hip hip for the creator of the iconic gluttonous bunny and shovel-weilding, heartless farmers!

Here's the woman of the hour, walking her beloved pet rabbit, Benjamin Bouncer

No, honestly-- who didn't love her tales as a child? Mrs. Tiggy-Winkle and Jemima Paddle-Duck are still household favorites around here. Mutie has a miniture boxed set of selected Beatrix Potter works that I coveted as a child, and upon my most recent homecoming read to my youngest sister, the esteemed Badger.

I didn't know that she had visited Scotland on family holidays, though thinking back on her illustrations, I can't say that I'm surprised. Likewise, I was unaware of her work on lichens and status as an expert on mycology. Crazy.

To celebrate this lovely lady, I suggest we all dust off your old childhood companions and be alright with a moment of literary softness, so much like rabbit fur, and smile blissfully-- it'll make a delightful change of pace!

No worries, Benjamin, you're right on time!

A Pretty!

2008-07-28T00:49:00.005+01:00

Considering all the bad news and whinging

I've been doing on here recently,

here's something to compensate:

These are in my neighbor's front garden, right up by the sidewalk(pavement) and everytime I walk past, I bury my nose in one. I know it's hard to tell, but these blooms are basically the size of a salad plate. *Sighs* I adore this city/country/season.

What to do?

2008-07-25T23:35:00.000+01:00

This is my life. This is my life in debt.

What with all the talk about the credit crunch and bankruptcy and Mutie in my ear about howmy student debt will keep me from ever being able to finance a house, ergo I will never have a home, ergo I will never get married, ergo I will never have children, ergo I will never be happy (you think I'm joking, this is PRECISELY her logic and it always has been-- remember, sweet but broken), I'm in a hell of a spot trying to make up my mind about how I'm going to spend the next three years of my life.

I've been accepted here at the University of Aberdeen for my doctorate, and I really really really want to stay. I love this city of granite and mist and roses, I adore the Centre, and I finally feel like I've got the right project at the right time with the right people advising me-- I feel like I might actually do something that will have an effect outside of my tiny corner of academia (worthwhile as I've always contended it is) and maybe help out the general human plight. That's heady stuff, ladles and gellyspoons. More on that later.

Anyways, I've had a hell of a time justifying driving my poor little self even further into debt. It's 9k british sterling to stay here, so roughly $18,000 a year for three years. Let's round that up and say $60,000 for the whole kit and caboodle. On top of the $45,000 I already have (I think that's right) that would bring the total up to a gut-wrenching $105,000.

Some of the other schools with programs going in what I'm interested in are Princeton, Yale, Emory and Columbia. Then there's the old favorites of the University of Chicago and Notre Dame, along with Dalhousie and Memorial. I've been checking these out, and here's the hard facts:

Princeton: $29,910 per annum
Yale: $26,800
Emory: $27,770
Columbia: $30,532

These are the schools doing work in my specific area. Just for the sake of argument, here are some more numbers:

University of Chicago: $31,680
Notre Dame: $28,970
Dalhousie: $15,452
Memorial: roughly $14,000
(and just for the hell of it) U of M: $27,124

The killer about most of these is that they're FIVE YEAR PROGRAMS. That isn't for a masters-and-doctorate degrees, that JUST for the Ph.D. I'm not 100% sure if that's the way it is at Yale and Emory yet, but I just got confimation of that for U of Chi., ND and U of M. So, even if I were to get considerable funding, it's likely to cost more for the degree over five years than the three years at Aberdeen. The two schools in Canada don't have programs in my area, but they do have a general catch-all called an Interdisciplinary Doctoral Program. What this basically seems to mean (as I'm gathering through correspondence with both schools) is that I'd be on my own, with support from two of three faculty members but without a department. What I'm woried about is how it will read on my CV when I do have a Ph.D.-- is it a bit like a Liberal Arts degree for an undergrad? I don't want to pay for a degree that nobody's going to respect.

As for as the continuing pursuit for funding here at Aberdeen, I can give you the list of peace and justice institutes that I've contacted if you'd like, but I think it might bore you, dear invisible reader. I've learned that the UN has funds for the third year, or "write up" of the doctoral candidacy, but nothing before that. Still, good to know. Even the Rotary in Jackson wrote back and said it sounded like a fine project but they only fund international business ventures. :( I've gotten a few helpful hints at other sources to check into, but these groups seem to be pretty stretched for cash all over at the moment. But so am I, so I keep looking.

With the job(s) that I have right now, I can cover my own room and board. Not a problem. It just all boils down to fees. I haven't heard anything about the ORSAS grant, the one that would pay the difference between International and UK fees, and The Guru seems to think that's not entirely a bad sign. Apparently they're pretty quick to reject you here and slow to hand out the acceptance letters. Either way, I'm feeling a bit shakey on that one.

I've been looking around to see what else I could do with the degree that I'm earning now, and if I were to come back to the States and teach at a Community College, it wouldn't be in what I've been sharpening my claws on-- there are merits and rewards to teaching remedial english to 20-somethings, but compared to what I COULD be doing, it all just seems to pale.

It's taken me a long time to feel confident enough to admit that, but I guess there's no disputing it anymore-- I really want to do something with my life, and I'm done questioning whether or not I'm good enough or intelligent enough to do it. So far as I can tell, the only thing holding me back is money.

To quote somewhat darkly from Shakespeare, "I am now steeped in blood so deep that would be as tedious to go back as to go o're," and I'm afraid it's true. Aberdeen seems to be the least expensive and most prestigeous of some very, very expensive options.

So... thoughts?

Right-- On a Personal Note

2008-07-23T22:57:00.000+01:00

So, it's a time of upheaval and indecision in the life of moi, and so I'm going to vent on here for just a minute. I know, I was doing so well being non-dramatic and anti-egocentric, but it looks like we're going to try to strike a balance here... imagine that.

My family are a right cast of characters, let me just lay that out first of all. The best way to describe Mutie is to admit that she's sweet, but broken. I think that there are several elements that went into breaking her, but that's another discussion. Regardless, she's a sweet, lovely, loving and old-fashioned mama and I do adore her. My father and I have a more combative history-- only recently have he and I been able to have a decent conversation about the weather without digging into each other. As it is, so long as we avoid religion, politics, ethics, economics and climate change, we're okay. Yeah... we're okay. That said, I'm experiencing a new set of emotions at the moment-- I feel sorry for my father.

My father has never been the sort to inspire sympathy. In fact, I've spent most of my life spiting him and doing everything I could to alienate him. Not that he helped matters, but we all begin to realize our errors as we age, right. Well, it looks like Dad's been let go by his employer of 15 years. And the severance package they offered him, an overweight, balding, slightly deaf 50-something white man? A percentage of his insurance.

Now, Dad is an automotive engineer in Michigan. Nobody's surprised that he's in this position, least of all him. He was just hoping against hope that he could stick it out just a few more years-- maybe until his middle daughter graduated from high school. My sister, Weasle, is a lovely, bright 17 year old with an eye for changing the world. Honestly, she's one of two people I know personally who I truly believe will change the face of humanity. However, she's currently staring down the barrel of campus visits and standardized tests and all those attendant costs. Then there's also Badger, my baby sister-- a charming 12 year old with a number of years left in a really expensive private school system. Ouch. So, Dad sticks it out and waves the pink slip aside, hoping to last out just one more year and then give it the old heave-ho? Well, there's one more complicating factor that needs some explanation.

My father is one of four children: his older brother, Vaughn, his younger sister, Ciotka, and then my godmother, Yenta. Now, Vaughn and Dad were only 14 months apart. I say were because Vaughn died of complications from his chronic lymphocytic leukemia three years ago. (*Holy shit, it's really been three years?) Now, both their parents had various forms of cancer, as did their grandparents. Bobcia and Jodic died in their early fifties, as did Vaughn. Dad's now pushing mid-fifties, and it's not like he's in peak physical condition. He's borderline diabetic, overweight, hypertension-ridden and has high cholesterol along with bleeding ulcers, high blood pressure and a bad back and knees. Well done, there. The kicker is that Yenta's just been diagnosed with the same variety of cancer that eventually laid Vaughn in the grave after a long and debilitating struggle.

Can he afford to gamble and keep his job with the possibility that he could be flat out let go in December and have no health insurance at all?

And yeah, I'm sure losing his job and finding out about Yenta within three days of each other has been great for his ulcers.

Like I said, I'm not used to feeling badly for my father, but this tips the hand, I think.

So cute it hurts...

2008-07-21T00:59:00.003+01:00

So, I finally broke down and went to the movies. Yes, that's right-- Miss Melville went on an outing to the talkies. Only this one didn't have so much talking as beeping and whistling. Are you catching on yet?

A dear friend thought is might have been too much beeping, what with my supersonic hearing and all, but I'm happy to report (despite the deafening volume of cinema sound systems nowadays-- seriously, does it have to be that loud?) that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. Well, all except the part where they showed the trailer for High School Musical 3. That's just gross and wrong.

Anyways, as I'm sure you have probably guessed, I went to see Wall-E, and it was everything I wanted from Pixar-- cute, visually engaging, wholesome, a bit tongue in cheek, packed with little side-jokes, and chockabock environmentalist propaganda. *sighs contentedly*

He's just so damn cute! I know, I know, robots with personality are generally a bad idea [see: Hal] but this one goes about collecting little things he finds interesting and generally being constructive and cleaning up the earth which has been abandoned by its consumeristic human infestation, who have fled to space to escape their own waste. (Read that last line out loud, it so totally inadvertently rhymes!)

There are some other key members of this little robot cast who deserve a shout-out-- Eve, the pretty girl robot who helps Wall-E live out his Hello, Dolly! hand-holding fantasy, and Mo, also voiced by Ben Burtt who did sound design for the Star Wars movies and a bit of Indiana Jones as well. Non-robots who retain loveable status is basically limited to Wall-E's pet cockroach, who first bridges the gap between Wall-E and Eve, like all good pets do.

While I'm always an advocate for staying in your seat through ALL of the credits (for various reasons-- first of all, show some respect. Those best boys and third set lighting men and women worked hard on this movie, so have the decency to watch as their names blip past on the screen, it's literally the least you can do. Secondly, movie tickets cost so damn much nowadays, I'm going to make it last for as long as humanly possible. Third, there might be a little something at the end! Made all the difference in that last X-Men movie, now didn't it!) it's especially important for this one. With the clever use of art history, the viewer gets a glimpse of the recolonization effort and the reaclimation of mankind. From cave paintings to mosaics to oils, these credits have it all! Plus, the track from Peter Gabriel doesn't hurt. ;)

All in all, I give it the full five corroded and personable robots.

Like Nothing Else Going...

2008-06-30T00:56:00.001+01:00

I've been a bit heavy on the place recommendations lately, so let me pass along a singer/songwriter whose work has been exclusively on shuffle on the old iPod for the last week and there's no sign of it letting up-- I adore him, and he goes by the name of Teitur.*

Credit for this discovery goes to a very dear friend of mine-- let's call him Adam-- and to be fair he told me about him back in March. However, it took me ages to get my act together and really give it a listen. Needless to say, I wish I had been more attentive ages ago.

Originally from the Faroe Islands**, he was first part of a little band known as Mark No Limits, but has met with much wider success for his solo work. He's got one album out in Faroese (which I think is pretty outrageously cool) and another two in english. Despite Celan's statement that poetry is not bilingual, I've got to say that Teitur proves him wrong with well-written, subtle and delightful lyrics and a brilliant orchestration.

Albums include Poetry and Airplanes (July 2003), Stay Under the Stars (September 2006), Káta Hornið (May 2007), and The Singer (April 2008). Poetry and Airplanes contains such gems as the song that first hooked me, Sleeping with the Lights On. Other personal favorites include Rough Around the Edges and the title track, though I don't know who I'm kidding, I'm basically addicted to this entire album. The lyrics are just so damn perfect, and if you don't find his voice genuine, then sir, you have no beating heart within you.

Stay Under the Stars has it's fair share of memorable lyrics as well-- "May our minds lose the battle / May our hearts win the war" for instance, from Don't Want You to Wake Up, and several others.

Despite the fact that I don't know what he's saying, Káta Hornið is very much in heavy rotation on the Baby. If anyone knows what he's saying, I'll bake you a whole batch of orange shortbread if you enlighten me!

*His name, in Old Norse, means 'happy' and that is precisely what his songs make me--how lovely is that!
**Equidistant from Iceland, Scotland and Norway, I think my perfect summer house might be in the Faroe Islands, and if the men are as lovely as Teitur's lyrics, I might stay for a winter or two as well.

Elgin!

2008-06-10T23:22:00.000+01:00

Or: The Day That Never Ended.*

For the money, Elgin is not a bad idea. In fact, if you're into really interesting, ruined cathedrals with atmosphere and history spilling out of every nook and cranny, Elgin is for you! Just make sure you know what time the train comes and goes. In fact, you might want to tattoo it somewhere on your body, just to be safe. Especially if travelling on a Sunday. Just take my word on this one.

It isn't so obvious on a modern map, but for much of recorded history Elgin was isolated from the rest of Scotland; with the Cairngorms to the south and protected by two unbridged and often uncrossable rivers, the Spey to the east and the Findhorn to the west, Elgin really is in the middle of nowhere. This is a fact you will become keenly aware of should you miss the aforementioned trains.

Historians say that Elgin "probably" existed in 1040 when King Duncan's army met and lost to the infamous macbeth at Pitgaveney, a mile north east of the modern city. It was definitely a well-established hum for humanity by the time it was Chartered as a Royal Burgh by David I in 1136. By 1230 Elgin had also acquired a Royal Castle, built on the foundations of an earlier defensive structure, possibly the one in which Duncan died of his wounds in 1040. On the royal line, Richard I stayed in Elgin Castle when he visited the city in 1296 during one of his tours of suppression. For more on the Castle, stay tuned-- but for now, let's talk a little (or rather, quite large and ruined) cathedral!

Anyways, the Cathedral is a decent walk through a residential bit of Elgin, past some large palm trees in the center of a roundabout and then, poof! giant honking ruin. The first church on the grounds dates back to the 1200s, and was a cross-shaped building much smaller than the currently visible ruins. It was enlarged later in the same century, possibly following a fire, which yeilded the main church, 280ft in length, taller than the original and with a new choir and an octagonal chapter house. After St. Andrews it was the second largest cathedral in Scotland.

Some badly judged local politics led to the burning of the Cathedral (and much of the rest of Elgin as well) in 1390, by the Wolf of Badenoch, otherwise known as Alexander Stewart, the younger son of Robert II. Bishop Alexander Bur had apparently caused him to to be excommunicated for marital infidelity, and this was his way of getting even. If you ask me, burning a church isn't the best way to get back in with the church, but whatever.

The destruction was followed up by two hundred years of off-and-on rebuilding and adding-on. More work was needed after the collapse of the central tower in 1506, and the west front and chapter house both had some work done around the same time.

Sadly, the Lantern of the North, as Elgin Cathedral is still affectionately known, was one of the many casualties of the 1560 reformation. Unfortunately, it was a blow from which the mightly old building would never recover, as the cathedral fabric soon began to suffer. The lead roofs and the cathedral bells were pulled down and in 1637 the choir roof blew down in a gale. The cathedral still saw occasional use, but it was never enough to justify any repairs. Much of the inside was robbed out, including the destruction of the rood screen for firewood, which breaks the heart if you think about it for long enough.

In the early 1800s there was finally some interest in preserving what hadn't already been lost forever. In 1807, John Shanks, "a drouthy cobbler" was appointed keeper of the cathedral and his single-handed efforts in the clearing of collapsed masonry led to the preparation of a report seeking to highlight the steps required to stabilise the ruin and improve the cathedral grounds.

Modern visitors are left imagine what the cathedral must have looked like in its day. However, there's still plenty to marvel over. Sadly, little remains of the nave, though the ruins of the inner walls are of full height where they abut the towers, showing that it was two stories high. The two transepts represent the most complete part of the first church, and they also had two stages. Nothing remains of the great central tower, but two stone figures, one of a bishop and another of a knight are now on display in the south-east corner of the nave. They originally sat in large niches high up on the western angles of the tower.

Of the cathedral church, the choir and presbytery are the most complete parts remaining. These were rebuilt in the late 1400s. The aisles and chapels flanking the choir have been altered, but the vaults that cover them are still essentially as built after 1270. The tomb of Bishop John of Winchester, lord bishop of Moray which is found here, is the most complete in the cathedral. There are some truly unusual tombstones, take your time and look closely!

Even if you arrive after the cathedral is officially closed for the day, there are pleanty of sights to be seen and photos to be gleaned by a walk around the perimeter. While I'm pretty happy with most of the pictures I took of the place, they comepletely and totally fail to capture the sheer SCALE of the place. I suppose you'll just have to see it with your own eyes! ;)

If you've still got some time to kill while in Elgin (and considering it's Elgin, you just might), take a walk over to Lady Hill Monument. There's not a whole lot left of the castle today, though Lady Hill on which it stood remains a prominent viewpoint. Since 1839 it's been the home of the 80ft high Duke of Gordon Monument with a statue of the fifth duke glowering down on Elgin. Maybe he missed his trains as well.

The base of Lady Hill is perfectly semmetrical and really quite lovely, and you could totally pull a Rocky up the steps if you really want. To the right of the undeniably phallic Gordon tower...... one will find some rocky, castley bits. Feel free to impersonate a mountain goat on some really, REALLY old castle. I certainly enjoyed it! Just remember, you've got to walk back down the hill you climb. :)

*-- If you want the FULL story on why this epic day was the "day that never ended" you'll have to find me in person, soften me up with at least three pints or two double whiskey and lemonade, and then-- and only then-- ask me about it.

Huntly Castle

2008-06-04T22:40:00.000+01:00

If you're ever in the area, and you want to see a decently well-preserved castle with incredible history, let me recommend Huntly:

It's a few stops down the line if you take the train out of Aberdeen, the day return is less than you'd pay for a nice bottle of wine, and if you ask me it's a pretty good way to spend a day. Some may disagree. On this particular day, a friend of mine (who just happened to be buying his ticket down to Glasgow for a Lads' Weekender at the same time we were in the que)-- let's call him Dear-- asked where we were going. The conversation ran a little like this:

Dear: "So, where are you ladies off to?"

Me: "Huntly, just for the day."

Dear: "... Why?!"

KayPea: "There's a castle there!"

And so there is. It's a comfortable walk through the very quaint town of Huntly to the Castle from the station. The approach is lovely, and as the Castle grounds butt up against the other great Scottish landmark-- a golf course-- there's lots of pretty green spaces about. Large parts of the Castle are labeled with helpful little signs, and there's clear distinction between the different ages of renovation within the grounds.

Some of the highlights include a fragment of the medieval road leading to the old gate:

The very unique frontispiece:

The remains of the stable (the differentiation in the floor shows the size of the stalls, and the very small size of the horses bred in the region at that time):

The labeling along the front of the "recent" addition:

The intricately carved mantlepieces, some of which are remarkably intact:

Here's a lovely shot of KayPea doing what she does best-- recording her stay in Scotland frame-by-frame with her lovely camera! ;)

Though, to be fair, the view from the very top of the round tower was definitely worth snapping for posterity...

For a modest fee (even more modest if you join up for a year-long membership in the Heritage Trust) you gain entry to the grounds and this lovely chunk of history. So do it!

What a glorious Tuesday!

2008-05-07T00:21:00.010+01:00

For those of you not in the British Isles today, let me tell you-- you missed it. Sunshine like silk, a light breeze, fresh air, blooming flowers, sunlight on water... people live for days such as these.

So what did Miss Melville do with it?

Took the train to Inverness and a bus and a boat out to Loch Ness!

Lawd, what a lovely day! The ride out along the rails took about 2.25 hours, delivering unto our happy eyes field after pasture of woolly, wonderful sheeps and sheeplings. These little balls of fluff munched sweet green grass or frolicked as we passed stone fences and small creeks. Genuinely enjoyable. After arriving in Inverness, a pleasant town all on its own-- though about 10 degrees Fahrenheit cooler than our point of departure in Aberdeen-- we wandered down to the tourist information storefront, where my traveling accomplice, let's call her M, purchased some Scottish swag and cards of the post persuasion. Then it was off to a woollies shop for more touristy purchases, and then the bus depot where we ate sandwiches in the aforementioned sunshine and shared a chocolate bar. Yes, I packed a little "mom bag" as M called it, with sandwiches and green grapes and granola bars and some chocolate and dried cranberries (unsweetened, of course) and a totally unnecessary umbrella and some band-aids, but these last two weren't needed. I can't seem to go anywhere without these provisions, much to my mother's delight-- she's infected me with the travel-provision-worry bug, and I must admit that I don't really mind.

ANYWAYS, M and I caught a coach out to Loch Ness itself, following along the River Ness, the shortest river in Scotland and the only outward bound waterway from Loch Ness. Apparently many rivers flow into it, but only Ness relieves it. It's a lovely, shallow affair with well-groomed banks for the most part.

Our tour guide was a pleasant old fellow who'd grown up in the area and relayed to us loads of interesting facts about the area, the buildings we passed on the way and the Loch itself-- apparently there's more fresh water in Loch Ness than in all of England and Wales combined. Also, regardless of season the water temperature remains a steady 3 degrees centigrade. Holy frigid, batman. Lovely, dark and deep indeed.

And then we saw it-- Loch Ness. Shimmering in the rare Scottish sunshine, lightly misted at the far end, and utterly stunning. All those late-night cheap television specials had totally failed to prepare me for actually seeing it. However, the silly monster-chasing specials had prepared me for one thing:

Giant plaster Nessie!

This was about as close as we came to seeing a monster, but it was good enough for us. Onto our boat and off for a cruise on the glistening water. The boat wasn't overly full, and we were able to scamper up to the top deck and fully enjoy the fresh water breezes. Looking down into the water, one could really see just how black it it-- all the peat sediment that washes down out of the highlands reduces visibility to mere inches. The mist steadily faded away, but the effect was breathtaking.

Eventually we made our way to Urquhart Castle, an old fortress of the Jacobites and therefore ruined during a campaign which happened before America was even a twinkle in her papa's eye. The approach was fantastic, giving a good view of the ruins from the water. After alighting from our boat, M and I bee-lined it for the waterline, so as to put in our feet. Admittedly it was an incredibly warm day for these northern climes, but I swear the water wasn't THAT cold. In fact, I'd say that it was Lake Michigan-cold rather than Lake Superior-cold, and certainly not North Sea a la two weeks ago-cold. Regardless, it was refreshing.

Urquhart Castle itself was interesting and a good clamber. Signage told of how, after the bombardment which left the place in a sea of rubble, local farmers had made use of the stone to build barns and other useful things, and so all that's left is the skeletal remains of what was one a large and complex castle. However, the spiral staircase in the tower (all five stories of it) and several of the windows, arches and lintels are still intact. In fact, you can still see the soot on what would have been the inside wall of the chimney of the smithy's. I think things like that, living signs of habitation, are more remarkable than the scale, though the bulk of the place was certainly impressive.

The Smithy.

According to our learned tour guide on the coach, the digging of the Caledonian Canal, which we passed on the way in and looked remarkably unremarkable, lowered the lake level by almost 3 meters, dropping the lake surface to just 3 meters above sea level. (He claimed this also gave evidence to the incredible staying power of the cold in the water.) In doing so, the moat which used to encircle the castle has given way to some lovely, carpet-like grass:

On the walk up, M and I passed another remarkable sight-- an unusually shaped little guard hut. There was something about it that positively arrested the eye.

In addition to the numerous arrow slits and high windows which would have given decent protection to the archers inside the fortress, Historian M took the opportunity to enlighten me as to the usefulness and history of the "murder hole" from behind which one could lance, skewer, shoot, stab or douse with boiling oil or tar anyone moving up the entryway. As it is, I think it was dead handy to take my own personal historian and literati with me on this little foray into entrenched history.

Parts of the Castle were remarkably intact, considering how much force had been leveled against it in the name of English domination. As a side note: anyone in the northern climes is more than welcome to start vociferously proclaiming the merits of the English army or government at any point, and I've got a fiver that says you'll be "corrected" by a "friendly" Scotsman in record time. Regardless, the stairwell leading from the inner close to the outer close was one of the remaining bits of the old outpost.

The outer walls of Urquhart Castle as viewed from the high ground within the Keep.

After clambering around like billy goats for the better part of our tour time, M and I headed up the path to the proper modern museum, auditorium, gift shop, cafe and all important water closets when something caught out eye. Something large, wooden, forceful-looking standing out from it's surroundings... "Is that what I think it is?" I asked in a voice both hesitant and mirthful. "What do you think it is?" M returned my query. Together, we dared to ask, "Is it... a trebuchet?!?"

Oh hells yes. A trebuchet.

Complete with stone balls to hurl with medieval destructive force. I positively giggled. The historian in M was greatly pleased with the whole venture and after some more strategic acquiring of postcards and literature in the gift shop, we caught a coach back into Inverness and puttered about until we were able to board a train back to Aberdeen.

All in all, a thoroughly rewarding day. I heartily recommend it to anyone who has the chance. I hereby bestow on Inverness and Loch Ness the full five out of five Miss Melville rating.

Book Review: The Oldest Orphan

2008-05-04T18:14:00.000+01:00

Written by Tierno Monenembo as part of the Duty to Remember project coming out of the Rwandan Genocide, this is not a particularly light read. This is not to say that it’s not a quick read, topping out at 96 pages, or a well-written piece, but it is certainly not easy. The narrator is accessible, but deceptive and debatably monstrous. And, frankly, any book written about genocide should be difficult—if it’s easy you’re doing it wrong.

The narrator, Faustin Nsenghimana, is 15 years old at the time of the narration, making him a newly-minted 10 year old boy at the time of the actual genocide. His story is one of brutal survival, of what he felt he had to do to continue to exist in his world, be it as it may. By alternating between reflection, memory and flashback, the story unfolds with such tact that one is never able to forget that Faustin is a victim, but becomes monstrous himself. Perhaps this is the cruelest consequence of war—the living casualty.

At the outset, the reader knows that Faustin is living out the short remainder of his life awaiting a death sentence in the Kigali central prison. What one doesn’t know until the bitter end is what first set him on his path—the manner of his parents’ death and his mutilated survival. By constantly pulling the reader back and forth between being horrified by Faustin and heartbroken by his plight, the author skillfully evades the temptation to make a saint of his narrator and with the same hand deepens the reader’s understanding of the tragedy.

In a number of marked ways, the work thematically resembles Camus’ The Stranger. Beyond the fact that both narrators are ultimately sentenced to death and they both death with the death of the mother, there are certain other elements that pull out a comparison. However, Monenembo’s descriptions are infinitely more graphic and The Oldest Orphan lacks the sense of release of tension that one gets at the end of The Stranger. While this is quite possibly deliberate, as the genocide has not gone away or been dealt with, it leaves a lasting effect on the reader.

While I would certainly recommend this short yet heavy piece of fiction, I would do so with a cautionary air—don’t treat it as a summer read, beach book or rainy afternoon solace. It is certainly none of these things. As such, it is absolutely worth a read.

Ergo: 3.5 on the 4.0 lps (literary point scale)

A new leaf.

2008-05-01T18:13:00.000+01:00

Alright, so… Miss Melville is making a few changes in her little online life, dear friends—less with the ridiculously self-centered, uninteresting posts, up with a new era of far more interesting things! This is not to say that my various exploits won’t crop up now and again, but there will be other segments as well…

And so, in this new vein, I offer book reviews, whiskey ratings, musical and visual artist appraisals, and informal guides to visiting the many beautiful sites on our green and growing planet.

Enjoy!

Before I completely forget....

2008-03-19T14:07:00.003Z

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!

2008-03-10T13:15:00.002Z

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!!

2008-03-10T12:01:00.006Z

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?

2008-03-07T11:56:00.001Z

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?!"

2008-03-06T16:48:00.003Z

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.

2008-03-05T16:44:00.000Z

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. :)

New Years in Stockholm!

2008-01-10T02:21:00.000Z

When sitting around, twiddling my thumbs sometime in November, my friend (let's call her... Alpha) said, "Let's go somewhere for New Years?" and I responded, "Okay!"

And, somehow, we wound up in Sweden.

We let RyanAir pick where we went by means of setting a budget, and so we booked flights from Glasgow-Prestwick to Stockholm-Svaska for the holiday. From there on out, it was decided. For those of you who haven't had the luck to fly from Glasgow, the motto for the airport, as plastered in huge letters across the front of the building, is "Pure Dead Brilliant!" I understand it's a bit of a regional phrase, but I'm not really okay with the word 'dead' in the slogan for my choice of transportation, sorry. Regardless, we got out just fine, and arrived in the land of the Swedes unharmed. After a bus ride of 80 minutes, as the Stockholm airport we flew into isn't actually anywhere near Stockholm, we legged it to our hostel, Langholmen.

Now, when I say hostel, what comes to your mind? I was thinking something along the lines of what I'd encountered in Montreal-- rooms with lots of bunks, maybe a partially furnished kitchen, institutional bathrooms and cold showers. This one? Nothing like that. It's actually a converted prison, and it's the poshest place I've ever stayed as a young adult. The "cells" had two bunk beds apiece, televisions, a desk and wardrobe, and a private tiled bathroom with a nicer shower than I've ever encountered. No joke. It was beautiful.

Alpha and I met up with a friend of hers from her undergraduate days, Face, and Face's sister, Page. Introductions were made, and then we hit the streets in search of dinner... at 11:00 pm. After a vain search for a pub that still had the kitchen open and wandering all over the city center, we finally buckled and at at... I can hardly bring myself to say it... McDonalds. *shudders* It was wretched, but we were also starving. Even with that, I couldn't bring myself to finish the chicken sandwich that I'd ordered, and they'd drowned in a uniform inch-thick layer of yellow mayo. Deeply unfortunate. However, post-dinner we did a bit of pub-crawling and chatted, the girls catching up and myself occasionally learning a bit of lingo. The pick-up of the night was definitely 'to pash'-- it's equivalent to 'snogging' or 'making out' or 'eating face', but comes from the root 'passionately kissing' so it seems perhaps a bit less carnal, and I always thought that snogging sounded like something you did when you went fishing, I don't know why.

Day 2 was New Years Eve itself, and we visited Gamla Stan, the Old Town, and walked perhaps hundreds of impossibly narrow cobbled streets laid out like a spiderweb over the island.

When we started out, the street were totally deserted, but then we turned a corner and it was literally wall-to-wall people. Oh! and I almost forgot-- upon waking up that morning, Alpha and I stumbled upon the Sweden-Russia hockey game, but I only got to watch the second period. And just so you know, 'power play' is the same in any language. It was good times. Anyways, we saw the changing of the guard at the Royal Palace, which was complete with a marching band which played the appropriate sounding yet unfamiliar marches, a lovely rendition of their national anthem which the guards sang in incredible harmony, then an ABBA medley. Yes, ABBA... but, well-- when in Sweden...?

We lunched at a lovely little underground cafe, CafeArt, which lived entirely in a medieval cellar but sold sandwiches, foiccacia, wraps and really horrible hot chocolate which was more like tepid chocolate. However, my food was good and the ambiance amazing...

The old city of Stockholm, perhaps learning from incidents in Paris and London, outlawed construction with wood, and so the whole city was built of stone and brick. The massive cellars still exist and are havens for these little shops and restaurants. It was a tad chilly, but enjoyable. We wandered on, eventually leaving the island of Gamla Stan (all of Stockholm is a series of different islands all huddled together along the shore) and made for the shopping district. Down by the waterfront we stumbled on an open-air photo gallery which I'm sure would have made a lot more sense if we could read the textual bits, but they were all in Swedish. There was also a chronic shortage of handsome Swedish interpreters at our disposal, but we muddled through. The images seemed a tad random, but some were really beautiful and you knew they wer epoingant but you couldn't have said why... I was actually trying to take a picture of the waterfront, but the giant picture of the Governor of California snuck into the frame all the same. He was one of the random, not-so-poignant ones.

"Ah-nold endorses the city of Stockholm"

Eventually, after running out of other options for dining reservation-free on NYE, we got a table at a Pizza Hut. American-owned food that I ate in Sweden that I wouldn't have had in its native land: count 2. Regardless, it served the purpose and we high-tailed it back to the hostel to get suited and booted for the evening of clubbing and general debauchery.

We'd pre-booked tickets to a place called Le Roi. Somebody, I think it might have been Face, said that occasionally the young Swedish nobles had been spotted there... yeah, okay. We got there, got in after being eyed coldly in the que by a fleet of bouncers, and managed to get in at 11:45. Alpha bought the first round of drinks as Face checked our coats and then, "five, four, three, two, ONE!"

And so the New Year dawned.

The rest of the night was a tad downhill from there, to be honest. On the plus side, depending on your standpoint, it was easily 5 men to every girl in the club, and each of us, for various reasons and with various judgement, ended up pashing someone at sone point. Face, Page and myself all got picked up by Italians, who seemed to make up the majority of the crowd, and Face certainly won that race-- 'Davide' was apparently an architect/model, and had the business cards and chiseled looks to back it up. He also spoke very, very little english. But, as Face put it, "He didn't need to, we were speaking the language of lurve!" Alpha got a bit bent out of shape, as is her wont, when the American she pashed drifted away from her before she drifted away from him, and there was a small bout of tears. I attempted to remedy this by buying shots. Shots make me feel better, why wouldn't this work?? Eventually she did buck up and we wound up dancing with two germans who were either from Frankfurt or Hamburg, none of us can remember save for that it was one of the german cities that sounds like a food. Yeah, we're citizens of the world. It was at this point where Face handed Alpha a can of Carlsberg, and as soon as she cracked it, a female bouncer came up, grabbed me by the wrist, and threw both of us out of the club, screaming about how we'd not bought that can from the bar and where were out tickets (which they took at the door) and so on. Alpha puffed up her chest and said something, I don't know what, and then a GIANT man-bouncer stepped up and she stepped down. "But we don't have our coats!" I tried to reason, "Our friend, who is still in there, has the tickets in her purse." The lady-bouncer grabbed Alpha again by the wrist and escorted her back into the club to find Face and grab the coats, leaving me on the street, were I quickly made friends with an exceptionally tall, dark-haired Parisian who said I looked cold and decided the best way to remedy this was a posh... okay. Alpha came back with the coats, all of them, and in a high temper. Tall-dark-Parisian and his friend tried to reason with her, but she was of like a bolt for the underground, and I attempted to follow. One lass kiss and a well-meaning wish for a nice life, I left him and tried to follow Alpha, carrying Face's vintage fur coat in my arms and tottering along in the black heels where were previously pictured on here.

Now, the adventure really began.

I just missed the train she caught, so I sat down on the bench to await the next one. And was immediately joined by a man in a turban and full beard who kept telling me how much of a shame it was for him to be alone in his hotel room on New Years. He inched closer and closer until I couldn't laugh it off anymore, pretended to see someone in the crown, and bolted to the other side of the platform. I got on the very next arriving train, heading along the right track but in the opposite direction of the hostle. Oops. Once seated, I was found by a man who said he was from Ghana and kept touching my knees... Apparently the look on my face read in any language, and at the next stop a group of Greek youths pretended to know me and swept me away into a different part of the train. Unfortunately, my newfound friends weren't a whole lot better-- the one was apparently an auto mechanic and wanted to know if he'd be able to find work and how hard was it to get a visa? What is Boston like? Is New York a good place to live? Does it get cold in Miami or is it more like Greece? Another one kept stroking Face's coat and asking me how much I wanted for it. A third kept trying to run his fingers through my hair: not a good scene. Eventually I was able to tear myself away and bound off the train... and found myself back at Ostermalmgatan, where's I'd gotten on to escape creepy turban-man. Oh well, just await the next train, right? I flopped down and realized I was still a bit more than a bit tipsy.

I took a picture of the subway grafitti... those are caricatures of Einstein and Sartre in black spray paint on the walls of the underground... I love it.

I also realized that the sign was telling me that the next train would be through at 6:06, and it was only 4:05... I'd just gotten off the last train of the night. Damn... but maybe I could just stay on the bench, sober up, wait for the train to take me home... no, security was through two minutes later, telling me to get a bus or a cab, they didn't care, I just had to leave. I eventually made it up to the street and hailed a cab, but, you see my dear reader, Swedish is not my native tongue. I know I butchered the pronounciation the entire trip. But this particular episode, I went one better. The train station where I would have gotten off to walk the rest of the way to the hostel was called Hornstull. The hostel was Langholmen. When asking the cabbie for a ride, I said I needed to get to Langstull, and they looked at me like I was out of my mind. Apparently it doesn't exist, and they pulled up to the next group and took their money instead. On about the fourth try, I just said, "I need to get back to a hostle, it used to be a prison?" and the cabbie told me to get in. As my luck would have it, my cabbie was a displaced Iraqi refugee and called me out on my American accent immediately. He, for one, was in favor of getting rid of Saddam, and peppered me with questions about US Foreign Policy and the conflict in the Middle East and we sped along darkened streets and I felt the streetlights swim past in the river. He then told me the fare would be 500 kronars. For those of you playing the homegame, that is (according to current exchange rates) $77. I told him that I only had 220 kronars on me and that was all I had the possibility of getting, but if he would just take me as far as the money got me and then point me in the direction I should head, I'd appreciate it. Funny enough, he took the money but never dropped the hammer on the tab. I kept complimenting him on his driving and his english, which really wasn't all that broken, and he took a shine to me. Yes, I stroked the cabbie's ego and he actually took me to the right island. The problem came when he dropped me off at an unfamiliar bridge and I jumped out, thinking I knew where I was. After he pulled away, I wandered around a little bit, suddenly realizing that I had NO IDEA where I was, I had NO MONEY, no working cell phone, no pepper spray, no map, and no companion. I whimpered a bit and spun around in circles, trying to think of a plan when a friendly group of natives wandered down the sidewalk. After frantically explaining where I wanted to go, they pointed down the road to the left and told me to take that road to the end and I should recognize where I was. I told them I could have kissed them in my gratitude and ran down the street. Five minutes later, I was on familiar ground with tears of relief in my eyes. I walked up to the rooms, knocked on Face and Page's door and told Face I had her coat. She threw open the door and pulled me inside. Apparently, the two german boys Alpha and I had been dancing with at the very end had accompanied Face and Page back to their room, then proceeded to get sick, and so the girls had removed them down to the lounge, were they were currently wretching into the potted plants. I guess they'd turned up in Stockholm with nowhere to stay and had expected to hop into some girl's bed along the way. Not quite how it turned out. I related the tale of my quest to get back to the room, and they were both appalled that Alpha had bailed, but none of us were particularly surprised-- it's what she does. It seems like I'm destined to have friends to, when drunk, bail. And I guess I'm just supposed to be the sober chaser. I collapsed on my bunk, sans shoes but still in the dress, at 6:00 and passed out to Alpha's snores.

New Years Day I spent in bed. I didn't think my feet would ever be the same. The other girls were leaving that day, and had to check out by 11:00, so they came over and we all chatted about the night and compared notes and in general were hungover. The two took off, Alpha and I took turns hauling ourselves into the shower, and eventually went out to find food... eventually settling on another pizza place, but his one was at least family owned, and Alpha got a banana, curry and leek pizza... she said it was good and I did have a pleasant bite, but I stuck with cheese and onion. After a stretch of the legs and some fresh air, we walked back to the hostle and, despite our intentions of finishing off the copious amounts of yagermeister that we had left, we both fell asleep to a Billy Crystal/Robert DeNiro movie neither of us could remember the title of... yeah, we were uncommonly lame.

The last day we were there, the 2nd, Alpha and I checked out and decided that we needed at least a little bit of culture while we were there, so we trucked off to the nationalmuseum. Yes, all one word: nationalmuseum. There were a number of really interesting exhibits, but all the information and tags were in Swedish, so we saw a lot of really cool stuff but have no idea what it was. There was a huge wing devoted to really super-ornate urns and other decorative pottery. Someone had donated an absurd number of medieval russian holy icons to the museum recently, so those were all on display. There was a pop-art-esque exhibit which looked like they'd just pulled things out of the local Ikea. There was a large conglomerate sculpture-type-thing suspended from the ceiling and made mostly of lamps, and upon closer inspection several of the small lamps still had their Ikea price tags on them. I wasn't so much a fan, but the nationalmuseum more than made up for it with these:

Portrait of an Old Man and Portrait of an Old Woman by Rembrandt.

By Rembrandt. F-ing REMBRANDT. I sat down in the available chair and just gazed at them. I've always loved portraits of non-traditionally beautiful people. Pictures of the elderly, the poor, the dirty, the un-Roslin, if you will. And I've always been fond of Rembrandt in particular-- his use of dark light, of shadow in the wrinkles on the faces of his subjects, the dark backgrounds, the expressions in their eyes... I got a little choked up, just sitting there and looking at them.

I was actually quite surprised at how many of the piece in the museum I had been made to memorize for my HU 251 exams... and then to see them in person, to see the flow of the granite, the brush strokes... my education was totally inadequate. One of the portraits really did take me by surprise, and I said out loud: "George Washington? What are you doing in Sweden?"

Among the legions of amazing, beautiful paintings we saw, there was one that stood out for another reason... ridiculously inappropriate facial expressions on the subjects. It's called The Lamentation, I don't remember the name of the artist. Regardless, it's a fairly standard topic for a painting-- Christ has just been pulled down off the cross and is obviously dead with the look of agony still on his face. Supposedly his body is laid into the arms of his grieving followers, but look at their faces:

MAYBE youcould make a case for the floating face all the way to the right being passable, but the rest of them?? What the hell? The one in the dark clothing three in from the left looks like she's doing her best Billy Idol impression! It's insane!

And then there's this one, from the free exhibit on illustrations from Ovid... this one is of Perecles (or is it Percius?) turning his enemies to stone with the severed head of Medusa:

His facial expression clearly says, "Heeeeeeey, guys, duuuuuuhhhh, look what I got!" I like it. :) I'm also an ass. I don't think we were allowed to take pictures of any of these things, but I chanced it. I had to have something of those Rembrandt paintings, and I nabbed a handful of others, getting a bit bolder as I went. It was worth it.

After the museum we walked a bit more, got a hot chocolate, and headed back to the luggage room of the hostle to grab our bags. We arrived at the T-Centralen just a breath too late to catch the 7:00 bus back out to Svaska. There was quite the que of us, the fellow behind us a mix of Scot and Kiwi. The 7:20 bus arrived and filled, but there were still easily 30 people who were still in line. "We're sending for more buses," they said. Okay. But no buses showed up. I was getting a little anxious, seeing as I still had to check in at the airport (RyanAir won't let you check in online if you have a US Passport... EU Passports are fine, but not mine, oh no) and we had the last flight out of the night. As it was, the bus company hired a bunch of taxis, and we threw our bags into the first one to pull up in front of us, que be damned. As it was, we got to the airport in time, everything worked out, and despite a delay in takeoff for deicing, we were back tha through customs by 12:30... unfortunately, we still had to catch the shuttle to the carpark and drive back from Glasgow, but Alpha was a CHAMP. We got back at 4 am in the pouring freezing rain, and in the time it took me to walk from the car to my building I was soaked through. I looked up and muttered, "Thanks, Aberdeen, I missed you, too."

The end.

Some food for thought...

2008-01-05T15:12:00.000Z

(I'll write about the mini-trip to Sweden soon, but now is not the time. In the meanwhile, I couldn't pass this up.)

"Every people should be left free to determine its own policy, its own way of development, unhindered, unthreatened, unafraid, the little along with the great and powerful… These are American principles." --Woodrow Wilson

... How times have changed, eh? Something about this makes me want to cry in frustration.

I put my new shoes on, and suddenly everything's right...

2007-12-28T23:19:00.000Z

If you, my charming invisible reader, have not acquired the musical stylings of Paolo Nutini, I would strongly suggest it! Regardless, I hereby deliever to you the fruits of a particularly long bout of city center shopping: the new shoes.

I've been without a solid pair of black heels since the death of my last beloved pair in October. Yes, I have a penchant of stilletos, but these are the usual ice-picks that I pick up. And the good news is that I spent what converts to about $20 on them. I'm a relatively happy girl. I've really been trying to keep my consumerism to a minimum in this time of financial screwedness, but a girl needs black heels. I mean, honestly. I also tried on several coats that were on sale but didn't find one to my liking. I've still got a couple other stores to scout before I call off the search, and I want to try to take advantage of the post-christmas sales as much as possible. So after prowling the markets and making a quick trip to the supermarket, I returned home with hommus, cherry tomatoes, youhgurt, and two cadbury creme eggs and did this for a while:

Yep, just stared at them. It's a cheap thrill.

What a craptastic day.

2007-12-26T23:38:00.000Z

Seriously. There were several occasions when today could have gone well, but decidedly did NOT. On the short list of things not going well, there was the Great Key Escapade of 2007 and the Kiesh Incident. Let me explicate...
The day already wasn't going all that well when I set out from my apartment, dog in tow. Muki and I have been getting along alright, but I get the feeling that her owners aren't all that up on discipline. Or maybe she's just taking advantage of the fact that I'm not her usual walker, I don't know. Regardless, I had her on the retractable leash, you know the kind-- plastic handle, cord which winds out to 15 feet, standard leash material up near the clip that attaches to the collar-- all very standard. This comes in as important later, so bear with me. Now, it takes about 25 minutes to walk to my student accomodation from the house I'm currently minding. This route takes us through Seaton Park, a bit of a shortcut, and with lots of big green spaces and interesting smells for the pup. However, Muki has dominance issues. They'd said that she didn't react well to other dogs while she's on a leash, maybe something happened to her when she was a puppy, they were pretty hazy on the details. But no worries, she's a good dog, we'll all be fine. And we are fine. However, she nearly took my shoulder out of its socket lunging at red squirrels on the walk to the student abode. I was heading back to my place to take a shower (as all the soap around here has bit of kelp and hippie in it, at which the jew-fro outright scoffs) and grab some different clothes, even trade in the long grey wool coat for the shorter blue wool jacket. I take my shower, Muki growls at my one remaining roommate, I grab the newly chosen coat, cell phone and keys out of the door and head back for the house, thinking I might still have time after the walk to get to the grocery store (oh wonder of wonders). We'd made it past several other dogs on leashes without a major confrontation, mostly done because I pull her in so tightly when I see another dog on the horizon and try to point her nose in another direction until they get past. However, we were almost out the park, and I thought the coast was basically clear. Coming down the hill at the far end of the park, near Wallace Tower where the path curves to the street, Muki had out about 12 feet of her leash as a man appeared from around the corner. Now, he wasn't on a bike, he wasn't running, he didn't have a dog with him on a leash or even one off a leash, he was JUST WALKING. (They'd told me that sometimes Muki is attracted to runners or bicycles because of the rapid movement.) It was at this point where she growls, barks, and LUNGES AT HIM. I yell, try to pull up the now fully extended leash, and watch in horror as she continues barking ferociously. I grab at the cord with my right hand and pull back, but Muki is a rather strong beastie, and the cord literally burned through my hand. I'm not sure how, but within 30 seconds she was back at my side, rolled on her back at my feet after several menacing words on my part. I held her on her back until the man walked past as I appologized profusely for what had just happened. He passed without further incident, and we struck out for home. It was at this point when I noticed the blistering burns across the pads of three out of four fingers on my right hand, the palm itself, and the ripped cut on the inside knuckle of my index finger... OW. ow, ow, ow.

It's hard to see, but she totally ripped off the skin in a burn-blister sort of way. So, I kept the leash fully rolled in for the rest of the walk home. We'd made it through the gate without further incident when I put my battered hand in the pocket of my blue coat... and realized that I'd grabbed my flat keys, but forgotten to grab their house keys out of the pocket of my grey coat. There was nothing doing but to walk BACK through the park where she'd just tried to eat a walker, all the way to my flat and get the key. Damn, damn, damn. We head back, myself refusing to allow her more than 5 feet of lead, and all the while cradling my right hand and holding the leash in my left. We were alright until we approached the fountain near the north side of the park, when some stupid chow mix comes vaulting out of nowhere, straight at Muki. I quickly try to turn Muki away from the oncoming, obviously over-friendly flying ball of fur, only to have Muki growl and snap, wrenching the leash nearly out of my hands. Unfortunately, my handedness was against me here, and I transferred the leash to my dominante right hand, despite the now oozing burns. Eventually the chow decided that it wasn't going to make a new friend and took off. We eventually made it back to my apartment, grabbed the key out of my pocket, and I collapsed on the bed for a good three minutes to regroup before walking back across the park for the FOURTH time. After rummaging through every drawer in my room I remembered that I'd loaned my bandaids to a flatmate who is currently in her native land, I swore profusely and struck out once more, patting my pockets repeatedly, trying to ward off any more stupid, stupid mistakes. On the walk back, version 4.0, we were AGAIN hailed by the chow, with similar results. Le sigh. Once we finally got back to the house and through the door, Muki and I weren't really on speaking terms. That didn't last long, I can't really hold a grudge against a dog, but I did try. With all possibility of a grocery run out of the question, I decided to pop over to the local co-op and just grab something simple and probably dreadfully unhealthy. This I found in the form of a kiesh which I bought and summarily placed in the oven. Then my mother called, telling me that I had recieved calls from a financial institution, telling me that I have an account in default and to please call, and Sallie Mae who also needed me to call. After getting all of the information, I called about the account. You see, I only have the one checking account with this particular financial institution, though I did formerly also have a credit card through them. I'd closed the card back in September before leaving for the UK. Only, I guess not. Somehow there was a $2.50 charge for "credit protection" which went on after I'd closed the account but before their records has "matured." And so, through non-payment, it had snowballed to $60-some dollars. Qua? Excuse me? After a bit of talking, they decided to waive the fees and ACTUALLY close the account. Why, thank you. Then I called Sallie Mae, only to have her tell me that my loans from my undergrad had gone into collection. WHAT. "But I sent in my in-school deferrment form that I'd requested from you. You are currently paying my way through my graduate program," says I. "Hmm, I see that. Well, we never got the form back... Oh, wait, I see here that it was recieved but not entered. We're going to need you to print such-and-such form off from our website and have your university back-date it. We'll suspend all action on the account right now and await this new paperwork," says they. Oh, well, thank you so very much. Le sigh. At least I don't have to repay right now, I guess that's a mercy. So, then I call back the parents and let them know that I'm not a deliquent, that everything is alright, and then I smell my keish. Oh, no. I run to the oven, pull it out-- the whole top of it is blackened. On any other day, this wouldn't have reduced me to level of non-verbal rage that I hit, but my hand hurt, my legs hurt, and the only thing I had to eat in the entire house that wasn't organic pumpkinseed loaf made without eggs, dairy or wheat or elderflower juice had just burnt under my nose. "Why are you snapping at me?" asks my mother when I retort that I'll call the bank back and get them to send out a letter confirming the closing of the account. "Because it's been a rotten, rotten day, okay?" I half-scream into the skype headset, "please, just leave me alone!" We quickly made up, I peeled away the burnt layers of egg and cheese, and Muki sat on my feet until I forgave her everything. She can be quite convincing when she's not trying to eat people.

At the end of the day, just glad it's the end of the day.

Christmas Day

2007-12-25T23:14:00.000Z

As opposed to the immediately previous post, I would like to contend that I am NOT a whiny, mewling mammot. Honestly.

Today passed almost effortlessly. I didn't do a damn thing to celebrate, except for opening a handful of cards that my flatmates had shoved under my door before they took off for their respective homes. I think by doing absolutely nothing to mark the day actually made it easier. I called home in the morning before the crew left for mass, and they called back at two seperate points subsequent. All in all, a good day. I'm no longer filled with angst or homesickness, and the previous post seems disgustingly melodramatic. However, it was certainly how I was feeling at the time. Embarrassingly enough. Oh well.

Time to let the pup I'm sitting out one last time and then hunker down with the last few hundred pages of War & Peace. Expect a tender review when I finally finish it. :)

Christmas Eve

2007-12-25T00:58:00.000Z

So, I'm still here in Aberdeen. For the holidays. Thousands of miles from my family and native home and snow and people I love and warmth and pine trees and my mother's kitchen. Needless to say, I'm having a bit of a tough time of it.
I've never been one for homesickness-- I went away to college, missed a handful of holidays and birthdays for assorted and various reasons, some of them good and some of them not. This isn't the first time I've been a long way from home, but I've never had such a hollow feeling in my heart as I do now.

Christmas music makes me irrationally hostile. My lips compress, my eyes narrow, and I dig my fingernails into the underside of the table before I even recognized the tune. If I hear Mariah Carey one more time I may smash something. Why? I was never a huge fan of modern christmas music, but I used to really enjoy hymns and traditional carols and some solid 1950s holiday ablums... now I subconsciously avoid street corners with loudspeakers, shopping plazas and the walks behind the chapel on campus where groups seem to be perpetually singing. Now that I think about, it seems simple enough-- it all reminds me of home, but I'm not at home and can't get myself there, so I'm ignoring the problem. Fair enough.

But why is this so hard now? Is it because, for the first time in my adult life, I've put myself in a situation where I can't physically get myself home via my own means? Before I always had my car, I could have just hopped into the driver's seat, put the fuel on the credit card and driven through the night, clawing my way from rest stop to rest stop if necessary. Now I don't have that luxury, and I'm just now beginning to realize what a luxury it was. I've always been conscious of my attachment and fondness for my cars (all two of them that I've ever had) and my dependance on them, but this just opens up a whole new level. They were my mobility, my freedom, my escape pod. I could always get myself back home.
Now there's a big ocean between Munith and myself, and there's not a whole lot I can do about it. I called home a lot in the past couple of weeks, and I even called today without crying. I've cried more in the past moth than I have in the previous 12 months combined. I'm not a weepy person by nature, I don't think, but everytime I would get an e-mail from home or I'd hear the girls laughing in the background as I talked to mom, I couldn't get around the catch in my throat. I'd muscle through the rest of the call, not wanting to make the pain more acute for my mother, who has been rather querrelous this season as well, if my sisters' accounts are to be trusted, and I know that me not being home at this time of year is as hard on her as it is on me. However, once off the phone, I'd curl up on my chair or bed and cry like a little girl-- I'm not okay with this. Seriously. Not okay. I'm a grown-up, and grown-ups are sometimes alone on national holidays. These things happen and nobody dies. So why do I feel like my heart is breaking?

I'm currently house-sitting for a lecturer of mine from this past semester, watering plants and keeping company with their dog, Muki, who is a lovely, loyal creature if there ever was one. As I write this she keeps pacing back and forth in and out of the room, sitting now at my feet and gazing up at me. She follows me from computer to couch to window to kitchen and then back to the couch again. We've been going on walks and she gets me out of bed in the morning-- all in all, a very good thing. I'm infinitely grateful not to be the only beating heart in this abode.

I called home again this afternoon, and the crackle in the connection only emphasized the distance. I didn't cry, and somehow that was worse. I spoke to M3, and his sister is visiting him for the season. He's surprising her with a two-day trip to Paris for New Years, and they sound so happy. He finally got the package I sent him with a copy of Anna Karenina and a collected works of Shakespeare that I mailed 6 weeks ago, so I suppose that works as an inadvertent christmas present. He said he was sorry that I didn't have any family with me. I shrugged it off. How could I possibly explain?

My sister put up pictures of the tree and the decorating process at home, the making of pierogies, general festivities on the homefront, and though I begged her to do it, I didn't tell her how they pain me. They all look so happy and I just feel cold, even in my sweater. But I keep going back to them, sort of like the way you rub at a bruise and make it bigger in spite of yourself. To spite your self.

I walked down the block and found a little corner store run by a family of loud Pakistanis, and on a tip from a friend, found some polish pierogie. I bought two packages and fried up the one for dinner this evening. You see, dear reader, this is one of the traditions that I just can't replicate in my single solitude. It takes a whole day and every member of my family to pull of the hundreds of cheese and potato pierogie that we make, then fry up with onions and eat on christmas eve and christmas morning. The smell and spattering grease get into everything, like laughter and snowflakes. These are the trappings that I miss. The pierogie that I fried this evening were cottage cheese and raisin, and despite not being anything like what I'm used to, were just fine. Very filling, and as close to home as I could really expect on this island. I'll save the other for tomorrow evening, which I'm sure will be equally delightful.

I didn't even really realize that today was christmas eve until I sat down at my computer and looked at the date. I remember driving home from midnight mass by myself in a recently past year, stopping to buy gas, and think that, without all the human interaction, there was nothing in the air that would have told me it was christmas. Nothing that seemed special or unique or out of the ordinary. I was utterly devoid of the "spirit of the season." I guess I still am, but now I'm also without the driving human forces of home. I didn't put up a tree or even a bush, no boughs festooned my door, no smell of pine, no lights in the window. I thought about buying a string of lights and hanging them over my desk or maybe in my one window, but then I thought about my deminished funds and the general lack of outlets. I decided against it for these very practical reasons without delving into the impractical, embarrassing reasons of lonliness and disenchantment.

I didn't find a vigil mass to go to this evening. To be honest, it's been a really, really long time since I've gone to church. Even longer since I genuinely prayed. I think I've read too much philosophy to pray well anymore. I almost tried a few nnights ago, but just couldn't bring myself to make an honest try. So I rolled over and manhandled my pillow into a new shape and tried to sleep.

But I brought two different red sweaters, grey pants and a pair of stilletos with me for tomorrow, google-searched a church that will be open. I think mass might be at 10 down near the city center, which means I need to leave here around 9. I'm going to try. At least I've made the effort so far, the lead up to actually going, so I can't use that as an excuse. If I decide against it later, it's a decision and not a consequence.

I need to go to sleep. Muki has given up on me. In the process of writing this, it's turned from christmas eve to christmas day. No one will come wake me up in the morning, no hurrying of little-girl-bare-feet-over-carpet, no jumping on my bed to wake me up and haul me downstairs, no mom in her robe turning on the coffee pot and christmas lights, no stocking over the fireplace. There's a fireplace here, in the house I'm watching for the season, and I've lit a fire the past two nights, but it's long out now. Muddy Waters sings to me through the speakers, I've got a cheap bottle of white wine and somebody else's dog leaning heavily against me.

So this is what it feels like to be a grown-up.

Forget your wild Irish roses...

2007-12-22T00:07:00.000Z

... What I have for you are some hardy Scottish flowers!

All of these pictures were taken within the city of Aberdeen, Scotland. I took them within the past week on various long walks that I've been taking since the colsure of classes. Please bear in mind that we here on the coast of the North Sea have been withstanding gale-force winds that I would put up against anything I ever encountered in Sault Sainte Siberia. The sleet here is as common as snow back home, and yet these amazing doric flowers continue to bloom... I'm living in an enchanted land, that's all I can figure.

This lovely orange-yellow almost-peace rose bush is between the Queen Mother Library and a carpark on campus. The one bloom looks like it's been hit by a hard frost, but the others somehow withstood the nightly hoar-frosts.

This little pink flower is just one of a large bed on Gallowgate, heading towards the City Center.

White roses in Seaton Park, on my walk to Uni-- these have apparently magical greenskeepers who tend to them on a weekly basis, but mostly just nip dead flowers off the bushes and topiary-type trees.

A close-up of the white roses... I was impressed firstly by the flower and secondly by the thirty seconds of NO WIND that allowed me to take the picture... *gasp of shock and happiness!*

And what really gets me is that these are not old blooms that have been frozen and thus look fresh-- oh no. They're still budding and blooming!

A bed of pink roses, just to prove that these are not isolated, freak occurances!

Another cluster of white roses.

A pretty pink one on the far end of the formal gardens.

Amazingly red rose in the middle of December... you know, like you do.

One last pink rose just as you get to the top of the hill and are exiting Seaton Park.

A yellow rose on Tillydrone Avenue, I was astonished at how bright the yellow was, but the surrounding grey granite glistening under a hard frost and a bit of ice probably helped the overall impression.

In somebody's yard on Hayton Road. What you can't see are all the crushed beer cans and forgotten children's toys in the rest of the yard. These roses are definitely continuing to exist with no help from the human coinhabitants, and all this amazes me. Back home I wouldn't be able to get roses to look like this if I spent hundreds of dollars and 12 hours a day coaxing them. Here, people ignore and even trample them and they blossom all the more fully-- I love it.

Help!

2007-12-13T16:00:00.001Z

So, what do you think??

What do you think?

2007-12-13T14:08:00.000Z

Click on the title and help me out!

Not long at all...

2007-11-02T06:42:00.000Z

Just a tiny little update. It's 6:44 in the morning here, I have yet to fall asleep. At midnight I decided to start a book I picked up a while back, called Water For Elephants. I just finished. This makes the second book in a month that I've read in one sitting... I don't know what that means.

In the past few days I've acquired a UK cell phone, or 'mobile' to sound authentic, and the peasants rejoiced. Here's to being able to text like the rest of the civilized world.

I had a meeting with Dr. Fynsk today-- the chair of my department-- to talk about Ph.D. work and what he thought about the general scope of my aptitude within the Center for Modern Thought. He seems to think I'm a bright, ambitious and scholarly kid who could do very well indeed. When asked about funding, he said that there might be some money in the department, but I should check out the Fulbright, the AHRC, and whatever else I could find online. Well, the application deadline for the 08-09 Fulbright is already past. I'm not eligible for ANY funding from the AHRC (Arts and Humanities Research Council (?) is the main source of funding around these parts) as I'm not a resident. Well, damn. I wish I were a resident... does that count? Somehow, I think not. I very much need to scout. I also bemoaned my lack of steady job, and he mentioned about being in need of a research assistant-- erm, yes. yes. and yes. please. He'll e-mail me the details. "I mean, it won't be all that much, not more than 10 pounds an hour..." I've gotten quite proficient in currency conversions in my head, and the idea of making roughly $20 an hour made me want to cry with relief. My credit card is basically maxed out at the moment and my bank account here STILL hasn't gone through. Ergo, I can't cash the $1500 worth of excess aid checks that are sitting on my desk. Buying groceries is an exercise in masochism. Dr. Fynsk offered to spot me a hundred quid, but I just can't do it. However, if goes on for much longer, I don't see as I'm going to have a choice.

However, I did get an e-mail response to a CV that I sent out some time ago, asking me to come in and meet with them. Unfortunately, I don't really remember who 'they' are and it's not so explicitly stated in the e-mail. I'll figure it out though, I'm sure.

I also got a call from M3 this morning, and we had a nice little chat. I have a copy of Anna Karenina to drop in the mail for him, and I even bought it at the Oxfam bookshop here in town. We were talking a while back, and he mentioned how he was really kicking himself for not picking up a collected works of Shakepeare that he'd seen on sale at a bookshop back in the Sault. Well, I also found a collected works at Oxfam, and got both tomes for the paltry sum of 5 pounds flat. I figure it will make a nice surprise for him.

On other fronts, I'm thinking about offering the olive branch one last time to the fellows in the flat adjacent-- it's Guy Fawkes Day on Monday, and the city of Aberdeen is hosting a bonfire down on the beach with a fireworks display and general good-timeiness for all. After all, we must remember remember the fifth on November... the anarchist within my skin wouldn't have it any other way. Also, Peter and the Greek showed up at our door on Tuesday with half a cake and an apology for being so lame last Friday-- I guess there were some ungodly long and important presentations that needed the full sum of their attention. Well, fair enough.

Well, it's no 7:00 and I should probably take a shower or something. Maybe I'll finally get registered at a doctor's surgery today... but most likely not. Leave that adventure for at least one more week.

Too Long

2007-10-28T12:42:00.000Z

So very, very much has happened. Now when I sit down to think about it, it's hard to remember all the little bits that I wanted to recall here... where did I leave off? Where's my cast of characters? What the hell has been happening to me?!?

Well, let's start off with the basic dramatis personae: the girls with whom I live. There are seven of us now, all beds are occupied and you couldn't fit another stick of celery in the fridge if you tried. Our latest resident, Naimee, arrived from Nigeria two weeks ago now, and she seems quite sweet. She always speaks in a husky sort of whisper, but always comes by my door and waits for me to acknowledge her greeting before moving on. Being from Nigeria, she's basically surrounded by her fellow countrymen-- I really don't think there's anybody left in Nigeria, they're all in Aberdeen. Most seem to be studying things having to do with oil and gas, and the rest of the girls aren't so much a fan. But we'll get to that later. Okay, so, there's Naimee, Josephine (from Uganda? I think), Loretta (from Ghana), Elena (half Nigerian, half English), Nicolina (from Oslo, Norway) and Christine (also from Norway). Josephine and Loretta are both in law of some kind, and Loretta looks like she just stepped out of a premiere London firm-- she's always immaculately dressed, hair perfect, face pristine. I have no idea how she does it, and her english is amazing. Elena is married with two small children, and she misses them dearly. She reminds me a bit of my mother when she was younger. Nicolina is probably the friendliest out of all of us, as she bounces from room to room, visiting, complaining with good humor and generally commiserating. She's so pleasantly plump with amazingly clear skin and very dark hair. Christine is in the room immediately next to mine, and she's perhaps my favorite. She's this tiny little slip of a girl, blonde hair and blue eyes like the quintessential Norwegian, but when she was young lived for a year in Teaside, so she honest to god sounds like she's from Newcastle-- it's about the most bizarre thing possible, watching the native English try to grasp the fact that she's actually Norwegian.

Apart from the girls who live with me, there's Arrlah, Dawn, Raj and Sabrina. Arrlah is on the same course as Christine, also from Norway, and also amazing. Here english isn't quite as good, but she's so funny that it doesn't matter. She's incredibly tall and thin and gorgeously Norwegian anyways, but a lightweight. Dawn is from the Lake District, has a car (!) and lives with Arrlah. She's a bit more abrasive than the rest of us, but a good pub chum nonetheless-- she's also in Geology and keeps sweeping us along on her department's post-grad pub crawls, which makes for a good time. Raj is this tiny little Indian girl on the course with Christine and Arrlah, originally from London but went to Uni in Liverpool. Sabrina is from Berlin, she's 27 with white-blonde hair and the softest voice ever. We all went out clubbing exactly ONCE and i think we scandalized the hell out of poor Sabrina. Now, Raj is dating Jerry, who is from Ireland (Cork, to be precise) who seems like a genuinely nice guy. Both he and Nicolina are studying International Relations, but he doesn't come out with us much as he is inevitably the only guy. Poor thing.

Kids in my class: there are only FOUR OF US. In the entire program. Nowhere did the University of Aberdeen admit to the MLitt being so small. I mean, there are about 30 people in total, if you combine the MLitt in Scottish and Irish Studies, MLitt in the Novel, MLitt in English Literature, Masters in Visual Culture, and we few MLitt in Comparative Literature and Philosophy. Of there four, there's Warren, who is the only boy. He went here for his undergrad as well, but took Hispanic Studies, so he's a little rough on the philosophy. Siobhan also went here for her undergrad, but she was in English and French. Lena makes four, and she's from Germany. I'm not exactly sure of the details, but she told me that she's not actually finished with her undergraduate degree back in Germany, but that she'll take the last year when she heads home after completing this program. *scratches head* But then how did she get in? Who knows.

I'm enrolled in three courses currently, two of them being combined with all the other MLitts and the lone Visual Culture guy. Two of them are basically worthless and alternate Wednesdays-- Research Methods and Scholarly Writing and Presentation. For the past few classes in Research Methods we've been learning all about citation-- medieval manuscripts, the short title catalogue, calendar of state papers, database of national biography, the whole nine yards. Now, I know that citation is crucially important, but two hours of it is mind-numbing. And it's so ridiculously nit picky that I can't bring myself to feel confident in it. Our very first graded assessment was over just this bullshit, and lord only knows what they'll deduct points for, as the directions were a tad less than clear. Regardless, it's done. Unfortunately, Scholarly Writing isn't much better-- last week we spent two hours in a computer lab learning how to use PowerPoint. Yes, that's right. PowerPoint. I was slightly less than enthused. I mean, if you don't know how to put together a few slides, you probably shouldn't be in grad school. And there's a tutorial built in to the program! The single saving grace of this entire class would have to be the lecturer, let's call him the Academic Aussie (A2 for further reference). He's brand-new to the UK and the University this Fall, and he got the class dumped in his lap when the faculty who was supposed to teach it withdrew for unknown reasons. He didn't write the syllabus, he didn't pick the grading criteria, and he has the common decency to accept that most of us could skate backwards blindfolded through it. His field of specialization is medieval Icelandic and viking poetry, which I think is awesome. He's just young and awkward enough to be endearing. We have to submit a PowerPoint of 10 slides to him, along with a 5-minute presentation next week on the scholarly topic of our choice. I e-mailed him, asking if he wanted us to submit our topics to him "so as to avoid subjecting you to 30 presentations on the existential tendencies of Emily Dickinson's poetry," to which he responded, "Ahhh, the existential tendencies of Emily Dickinson! I can hardly wait! If you're worried about it, feel free to ask me or come by my office. You could come by the office even if you're not worried." And THEN, during that interminable course on PowerPoint, he kept pulling ED as the example topic, and I'd grin compulsively each time. After offering up that frequently it's easier to read white text on a black background in low lighting, he announced that his "esteemed colleague in the back corner..." and then told them exactly what I'd told him. *blushes furiously* He then quasi-walked me to my next class, and I say quasi- because I didn't realize where he was bound for, but then saw him walking back precisely the way we'd come after opening the door for me. I think he's probably just a genuinely nice guy. I'll drop by his office hours on Tuesday and ask if there's ever going to be an opportunity for him to talk to the class about how to locate and submit to reputable journals, how to tell that they're reputable, and how to find the good conferences, considering that's what I was hoping the class would be about anyway.
My third and by FAR the best class I've got is called "Encounters: Literature and Modern Thought," and despite the hokey title, I love it. We started out reading a new defence of the Humanities which I think every administrator and professor back at LakeState should read like gospel. What made it even better is that the man who wrote it, Dr. Chris Fynsk, was the one leading the class! There's just the four of us in the class, and so discussion is more like conversation, and the whole setting is just to intimate, I love it. Dr. Fynsk is the Head of the School of English, and also the leading authority on Maurice Blanchot, who was next up on the reading list. I'm coming to realize that I have a natural affinity to post-war French philosophy. I was the only one of the four to have read Hegel, who was heavily quoted in the text we read, Blanchot's essay, Literature & the Right to Death, and I felt a little special. Next we moved on to a new reading and a new lecturer: Jonathan Israel's Radical Enlightenment and Dr. Nesbitt. I like Dr. Nesbitt, he has the same vocal quality as Dr. Gadzinski back at LSSU-- all whispery and slightly hoarse. He's also fresh off the boat from the University of Miami-Ohio, and he called me out on my accent almost immediately. His concentration has mostly been on the Haitian Revolution, and he just sent his manuscript off to the publishers after 5 years of work. Needless to say, he's been in a good mood since then. They also just asked him to edit some new translations of the key figure in the Haitian Revolution (proves how closely I was listening, I don't remember the guy's name-- Toussant L'Ouverture, perhaps? I don't remember) and he's been floating since then. Anyways, we just finished up with Spinoza's Theologico-Political Treatise, and I was left questioning how we never read him in any of Dr. Swedene's philosophy classes? He's a RADICAL thinker, and basically dismantles Cartesian dualism, Hobbes, Locke and all of the Bible in a coherent system which is still impossible to completely refute. He postulates necessary mutation ages before Darwin boarded the Beagle, claims God OR Nature in his argument before Nietzsche announced the death of God, presented a singular essence of substance and postulated that motion is inherent in matter, in direct opposition to Newton, and we never even read an excerpt! I don't get it. And next week we're on to Diderot. I'm looking forward to it. What a sensation-- I can't remember the last time I was actually stimulated by what I needed to read for class.
On other fronts, we've made friends with the gentlemen who live in the flat directly next to ours. I guess this is going to require a little more naming... There are only 5 in their flat, all studying law, I'm told: Allistair is an older guy, I'd put him at just over 40, maybe? Grey hair, he was in the royal military for years and years, and he's got some crazy stories. His wife is holding down the fort in Glasgow, and he frequently slips away for the weekends down to visit. Peter is from Warsaw and vaguely fish-faced, his english is rather brutal, and he loves the Pixies. What an odd mix. Then there's Jack, who is not JUST French, he's Parisian. Lord, he's so, so Parisian. He's in real estate law and kept on about how he's really a citizen of the world-- yeah, okay. Alessandro or Alex, he's from Athens and is working on the first year of his Ph.D., but he received both his undergraduate and his masters here as well. For the sake of reference and continuity in most parts of my life, let's refer to him as The Greek. I have yet to actually meet the other guy, Allistair says he's from Egypt or perhaps Saudi Arabia, he doesn't really know. What makes all of this quite fun is that their kitchen window forms a 90-degree angle to my bedroom window, and while they can only really see the corner of my room and the side of my wardrobe, I can always hear when they're about. I keep my window open because I like to keep my room nice and cool, but the shower is also right on the other side of the wall, and there's a faint smell of moisture and mildew when the room is shut up tight. Occasionally I'll actually sit beside the window as there is a chair there (as it was when I moved in) and it gets nice afternoon sunlight. Yes, CB, there is sunlight in Scotland, it's our best-kept secret. But when I do sit there, I look almost straight into their kitchen. Just the other day, Allistair leaned out the window and, seeing my light on, called to me. We then had a very pleasant chat whilst leaning out our respective windows. It's a little strange and occasionally a little invasive, but I like it.
We first met them during a fire drill when some of the freshers in the flat below us decided that garlic bread would be AMAZING, but then proceeded to pass out without pulling it out of the oven... stupid drunk 18 year old boys. Anyways, Christine took the initiative and invited them over for drinks one Friday night, but they never showed! Well, at least not until we'd polished off all the wine and opened the door to head out to the clubs. Allistair then came over and begged forgiveness later the following week, explaining that Christine had talked to Peter, whose english isn't quite up to par, and he didn't tell them about the invite until an hour or so after she'd knocked. Well, no hard feelings, we'd try again. I decided to make some bruschetta and truffles, serve some hummus with celery and tomatoes and we'd all drink wine like proper adults. Allistair, Peter and the Greek all made it this time, and a lovely time SEVERAL bottles of wine were had. Somebody suggested heading out to the clubs, it was only 1 in the morning-- sure, why not? (Allistair later claimed that it was my idea, but I KNOW that it was not, Christine thinks it was the Greek, and I'm apt to agree.) We'd also picked up a girl named Bruna who is here doing her semester abroad from Brazil-- she's petite, charming and has an unusual lip piercing, in addition to being friendly with Jack. Well, the rest of the girls hung back because we'd made plans to head out to Braemar the next morning for a small weekender, but what the hell, I'd go. Then I found myself in a cab with people I'd known for about 3 hours-- Peter, Jack, Bruna and the Greek. We went out, danced, Jack and the Greek kept buying me drinks, all was well. Then the bars closed down and we headed home. The Greek slipped a small glass marble in my jacket pocket and left his arm around my waist-- Allistair had mentioned something about his having a girlfriend earlier in the evening when the Greek stepped out to answer a cell phone call, but I decided to ignore it. A nice thing to do? Certainly not, but it's what I did. We eventually caught a taxi and scavenged through their apartment and mine of cans of assorted beers and 1 1/2 bottles of white wine, and then headed out to the woods behind the housing so as not to disturb sleeping roommies. Jack brought his new Polaroid camera and took several pictures of trees in the dark, claiming he would put them in a frame and their juxtaposition would create beautiful meaning. Like I said, he's uber-Parisian. The rest of them gradually drifted away, and the long and short of this is that I wound up fooling around with the Greek while sitting on an old downed tree in the woods behind the residence. He's a talker, and just prior to kissing me told me that he and his girlfriend, Frederica, have been together for a year but he doesn't love her anymore, but it's so familiar and comfortable that he doesn't know how to leave her, and that it was she who had kept stalker-calling him earlier because she didn't want him in another girl's flat. With good reason, I suppose, in hindsight.
The thing is, the Greek reminds me a LOT of Luther. They have the same basic build and coloring, though Luther was a bit more pale. They shrug the same way. Their hands are startlingly similar... and I don't know what that means. I was also quite drunk, so try not to judge too harshly. He walked me to my door, kissed me goodnight, asked me to keep all this under my hat, and walked to his own door.
I woke up the next morning to go to Braemar, still drunk, leaves in my hair, and giggly as all hell. Christine took one look at me and squealed.
Braemar was beautiful. Dawn drove, and I must say that the Highlands are everything people say. I'm in love with this place. We walked around the village, saw highland cows, pronounced 'hey-lin coo', traversed shallow rivers, and basically had a smashing time.
Since then, life's been pretty quiet. My iPod, my baby, is sick-- she shivers and grinds and won't play, and I can't quite figure out how to remedy the situation. I finally got into town and found out the technical support number for Apple here in the UK because the website helped me not at all, so hopefully I can send the baby off and they'll fix her up right. My speakers also died, and I'm not so happy about that. I finally got my excess aid check, but it's going to take another 3 weeks to open a checking account so I can cash it. NOT HAPPY. *le sigh* It's just that it's taking so long. I also still don't have a cell phone, or a mobile as they call them here. Everyone is completely confounded by this-- how do I survive?? My loan officer called it "barbaric." I just shake my head-- it's not like I'm living on raw meat at the back of a cave, I just lack the ability to text-message. I think I'll finally break down and get one of the little pay as you go jobbies from T-Mobile, they seem to have the cheapest phones that will do everything I want. I have no desire to pay what will translate to $100 for a damn phone. Lord. I wince at paying $20 for groceries.
Speaking of groceries, I'm living on celery, cherry tomatoes and hummus. No joke. And I think that, in combination with all the walks up and down hills to school and back, is vastly helping my figure. I'm a fan of this. I also live on the third floor of my building, and that can't hurt.
I watched L'Auberg Espangole yesterday by myself, and both winced and laughed. I first saw it with Luther on his recommendation, and bought myself a copy a while later, but that was nearly 3 years ago. I hadn't seen it since then, and to watch it now, I realize that I'm living in my own spanish apartment. I don't know how it's going to turn out, but I'm okay with that,
Regarding my next bold move, I went to a wine and cheese reception with the College of Arts and Letters and had a very interesting exchange with Dr. Fynsk. He introduced me to the heads of the schools of Law and Business as one of the "excellent students" which I take to be quite the compliment. Dr. Fynsk is the one responsible for the creation of the Center of Modern Thought, which is on the cutting edge of interdisciplinary exchange here, and I think it's absolutely brilliant. There's no doing anything about the really big, important issues if you stay pigeon-holed in philosophy and refuse to talk to the earth science people, who in turn scoff at the economists, who discount the sociologists-- we've all got to talk together, and that's what the Center is all about. There's a big meeting on Energy here in the Spring, and I'm outrageously excited about it, but more on that in a different post. Anyways, Dr. Fynsk asked where I was from and I murmured something about it being a little, no name university in Michigan. He said, "What, like the University of...?" No, I didn't go to the University of Michigan. Bitch, please, they wouldn't let me in. He went on to say that I seemed most excellently prepared for the kind of discourse he wanted to foster and had I considered staying on for my Ph.D.? It seemed to him that someone like me could really flourish here at the University of Aberdeen.

SAY WHAT.

I'm in the process of scheduling a suggested meeting with him to talk about precisely this. The thing is, I hadn't thought to stay here for another degree-- you're supposed to go to a bunch of different schools, maximizing the number of people you know in academia and therefore vreating as large a network as possible. However, as the Greek put it, if you're happy here and they've got the best department around, why would you leave and go to a lesser institution? Why, indeed. It would depend on funding, honestly, as I can't really afford to say here for another three years, but the idea has more and more appeal the longer I think about it.
Speaking of the Greek, he was supposed to come over for another round of drinks with his flatmates just this past Friday, but I guess they just found out about a huge presentation they all need to work on and so bailed out. Unfortunatley, none of them thought to tell us... like Allistair says, their concept of punctuality is fluid. Time is irrelevant. We're still experiencing some gaps in culture, but I'm getting more and more used to it. The Norwegians are getting more and more frustrated by it, though-- their classes are dominantly populated by Nigerians who don't so much adhere to western ideas of courtesy or respect. I don't know about any of this personally, as I'm not in class with any of them, but their stories are pretty wild.
I'm getting used to my united nations spanish apartment. Starting at about 5 in the evening, people open their doors, there's a rotation of people in the kitchen, talking about your day, asking about lectures, relaxed visiting... I like it. There are still some shocks to be had-- Naimee apparently brought several whole dried fish with her from Nigeria, and she made one up the other night. They're all wrapped in newspaper, but she dunked it in a tupperware bowl full of water and popped it in the microwave. The fish, eyes, guts and all, reinflated and then popped, at which point she knew it was done. The smell of fish in the apartment was overwhelming... and she casually picked the meat off the bones. I was a little startled, but to each their own. Christine attacked the kitchen with a can of air freshner as soon as Naimee was back in her room, and all I could do was laugh. Also, I still hate the smell of fish.
Ohh, there's so much more to tell-- a disasterous tapas dinner with Dawn and her friend, Bosh, my first encounter with chips and cheese, mysterious bagpipes and drums on a Saturday morning, my new brown shoes, a box from home that made me cry-- but this post is too long already, and when you live at the speed of light, by the time you slow down to talk about everything, it seems so long ago that it can't be interesting. It was all just last week, but I'm already a different person than I was then.

I'll try to update this more often, I think that will help.

Confessions of a Modern Gentlewoman

2012

Saturday Sweet

Marrakesh, Pt. II: The Souks

Marrakesh, Pt. I: The Riad

In memoriam

For Our Lady

It's coming...

Lingering Recommendation from a Stellar Monday Night

Sunday, Sunday

Saturday Sweet

Nearly Spring

Notebook

... And let's reinvigorate!

Ow.

Thoughts on those who keep badmouthing public health care

Something for Myself

Hey, look-- I can read!

Books

Grading

YAY!

Christ, how long has it been?

Ugh...

Upcoming Excitement!

Where to start...

Radio Silence Over

Will update/back date soon.

Kelvingrove

If you're in the neighborhood...

Cinema: Quantum of Solace

HOLY SHIT, WE WON!!!

Book Review: The Audacity of Hope

Right, bullet time!

One for the Ages, Part I: The Run-Up

Bus-Stop Encounters

While You Were Out...

Dissertation = Done.

Dark have been my [waking] dreams of late.

Out with a bang and a whimper

What has two thumbs and a research assistantship?

Nairn Highland Games, 2008

Working Girls and Girls Who Work

She sings for her supper...

Happy Birthday, Ms. Potter!

A Pretty!

What to do?

Right-- On a Personal Note

So cute it hurts...

Like Nothing Else Going...

Elgin!

Huntly Castle

What a glorious Tuesday!

Book Review: The Oldest Orphan

A new leaf.

Before I completely forget....

Oh!

I *heart* Rugby!!

You know that last post?

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

Not dead yet.

New Years in Stockholm!

Some food for thought...

I put my new shoes on, and suddenly everything's right...

What a craptastic day.

Christmas Day

Christmas Eve

Forget your wild Irish roses...

Help!

What do you think?

Not long at all...

Too Long

I heart Rugby!!