Hey,
I know that many of you won't notice that I've posted this because I'm not going to send an email update. No need for such a short post. I'll be in France until next Sunday, so expect some sort of communication indicating that I'm alive sometime on April 4th.
So here's to an incredible week in France, may Dan and I arrive there safely, may the weather smile upon us, may we travel with full stomachs and avoid blisters and such cantankerous inconveniences, and may we return better, wiser, and more alive than when we left.
I can't resist the opportunity to include a poem that takes place in France...hopefully I'll have my own when I come back:
along the brittle treacherous bright streets
of memory comes my heart singing like
an idiot whispering like a drunken man
who(at a certain corner suddenly)meets
the tall policeman of my mind.
awake
being not asleep elsewhere our dreams began
which now are folded:but the year completes
his life as a forgotten prisoner
-"Ici?"-"Ah non mon chéri;il fait trop froid"-
they are gone:along these gardens moves a wind bringing
rain and leaves filling the air with fear
and sweetness....pauses. (Halfwhispering....half
singing
stirs the always smiling chevaux de bois)
when you were in Paris we met here
-ee cummings
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Tuesday, March 23, 2010
Oxford: Need for Tweed
Ello Ello,
Fancy that, you think, he's not dead after all... Yes, I know, I've done a less-than-stellar job keeping up my end of the communication bargain lately. So I come to make amends! In my defense, I have been quite busy writing papers, taking long, British strolls from town to town, giving tours at Bath Abbey, battling Gettysburg College Res Life, and trying to get my courses for next year all set. Oh, and did I mention that I'm in Oxford. Yes...I suppose that is a necessary detail. I arrived on Saturday last, and will be here until this Friday, at which time I will pack up, head back to Bath, and get ready to depart for my mid-semester break in France.
I'm staying at University College, which is the oldest college at Oxford University (picture Oxford University as the United States, and each college within the university as a separate state--that's the easiest way to look at it). It was established in the 13th century and is still going strong today. Oxford, on the whole, is a gorgeous city: a must-see if one ever travels to the UK. It is referred to as "The City of Dreaming Spires," and if you do a Google image search of the city, you'll understand why. The architecture is old and grandiose, the food is amazing (if pricey), and I feel steeped in history when I walk out of my room in the morning. This is something that one simply cannot feel anywhere in the United States. Here, history stretches back on a far larger plane. Great men at Oxford taught the next generation of great men, and on and on in a similar manner since the High Middle Ages. Yesterday, I had a pint in the pub where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein frequently shared ideas for their writing. Today, I was given a tour by a man who had once fined Bill Clinton for an overdue library book when they were both students here at University College in the 60's. Robert Hooke discovered cells right across the quad from where I sleep every night. This is no normal place. It is a place of great academic reverence and rigor (in the good way, not the stiff, dead way), and I feel both small and very comfortable within its walls.
One nifty little excursion that my programme made available for us was a punting trip on the Thames. As I refrain from making jokes about kicking small people long distances, I shall explain that a punt is a small, flat-bottomed boat that is very similar to Venice's gondolas. It is propelled by a long pole that is both pushed against the bottom to move the craft, and used as a rudder to steer it. The technique takes a bit of getting used to (especially in moving water), but I managed to catch on quickly. I dressed up in some classy British clothing for the event in order to get a good photo op for all of you back home.
This is the only picture I've managed to wrangle from a friend, since I left my camera cord back in Bath, so you'll have to wait a couple of days until I can get the rest of them uploaded to my flickr account.
Also, if you have razor-sharp vision, you may just be able to make out one of the other things that has been keeping me busy recently: growing a beard! (At this point, ladies everywhere shed a mournful tear, men wish to pat me on the back, and my uncle Joe knows that it will never be anywhere NEAR as good as his) Yes, it is a fine looking, fuzzy thing. I'm growing it in anticipation of not being able to shave while in France, being confined only to a backpack for 6 days of travel. I'd rather have the beard than look like a bum the entire time. But not to worry, I promise to shave it off before I return home (unless it grows on me, which it already seems to be doing...). You knew that I couldn't resist doing something nifty with my facial hair while I have no one in particular to impress. Boys will be boys, you know.
As you can see from the punting picture, I've managed to pick myself up a messenger cap for pretty cheap, and I'm really looking high and low for a nice tweed jacket to go with it. Alas, it seems like only the British chaps with short arms bring their old coats to the thrift shops I've been looking in. So if any of you know a good place to go for such a thing either in Bath or Oxford, please give me a heads-up. I've got the need: the need for tweed.
Toodles for now-
The Wandering Wordsmith
Fancy that, you think, he's not dead after all... Yes, I know, I've done a less-than-stellar job keeping up my end of the communication bargain lately. So I come to make amends! In my defense, I have been quite busy writing papers, taking long, British strolls from town to town, giving tours at Bath Abbey, battling Gettysburg College Res Life, and trying to get my courses for next year all set. Oh, and did I mention that I'm in Oxford. Yes...I suppose that is a necessary detail. I arrived on Saturday last, and will be here until this Friday, at which time I will pack up, head back to Bath, and get ready to depart for my mid-semester break in France.
I'm staying at University College, which is the oldest college at Oxford University (picture Oxford University as the United States, and each college within the university as a separate state--that's the easiest way to look at it). It was established in the 13th century and is still going strong today. Oxford, on the whole, is a gorgeous city: a must-see if one ever travels to the UK. It is referred to as "The City of Dreaming Spires," and if you do a Google image search of the city, you'll understand why. The architecture is old and grandiose, the food is amazing (if pricey), and I feel steeped in history when I walk out of my room in the morning. This is something that one simply cannot feel anywhere in the United States. Here, history stretches back on a far larger plane. Great men at Oxford taught the next generation of great men, and on and on in a similar manner since the High Middle Ages. Yesterday, I had a pint in the pub where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkein frequently shared ideas for their writing. Today, I was given a tour by a man who had once fined Bill Clinton for an overdue library book when they were both students here at University College in the 60's. Robert Hooke discovered cells right across the quad from where I sleep every night. This is no normal place. It is a place of great academic reverence and rigor (in the good way, not the stiff, dead way), and I feel both small and very comfortable within its walls.
One nifty little excursion that my programme made available for us was a punting trip on the Thames. As I refrain from making jokes about kicking small people long distances, I shall explain that a punt is a small, flat-bottomed boat that is very similar to Venice's gondolas. It is propelled by a long pole that is both pushed against the bottom to move the craft, and used as a rudder to steer it. The technique takes a bit of getting used to (especially in moving water), but I managed to catch on quickly. I dressed up in some classy British clothing for the event in order to get a good photo op for all of you back home.
This is the only picture I've managed to wrangle from a friend, since I left my camera cord back in Bath, so you'll have to wait a couple of days until I can get the rest of them uploaded to my flickr account.
Also, if you have razor-sharp vision, you may just be able to make out one of the other things that has been keeping me busy recently: growing a beard! (At this point, ladies everywhere shed a mournful tear, men wish to pat me on the back, and my uncle Joe knows that it will never be anywhere NEAR as good as his) Yes, it is a fine looking, fuzzy thing. I'm growing it in anticipation of not being able to shave while in France, being confined only to a backpack for 6 days of travel. I'd rather have the beard than look like a bum the entire time. But not to worry, I promise to shave it off before I return home (unless it grows on me, which it already seems to be doing...). You knew that I couldn't resist doing something nifty with my facial hair while I have no one in particular to impress. Boys will be boys, you know.
As you can see from the punting picture, I've managed to pick myself up a messenger cap for pretty cheap, and I'm really looking high and low for a nice tweed jacket to go with it. Alas, it seems like only the British chaps with short arms bring their old coats to the thrift shops I've been looking in. So if any of you know a good place to go for such a thing either in Bath or Oxford, please give me a heads-up. I've got the need: the need for tweed.
Toodles for now-
The Wandering Wordsmith
Sunday, March 7, 2010
Flapjacks Aren't Just for Lumberjacks
Hello Everybody,
I'm pleased to inform you that I am writing this blog post upon the completion of my first of three papers that are due within the next couple weeks. So this is kind of a pleasant study break for me. I feel like I have a lot to share, however.
First and foremost, I would like to announce my plans for the summer. I GOT MY MELLON GRANT! This means that I'll be in Gettysburg for the majority of the summer working with kids in the Gettysburg High School summer program to establish a pilot curriculum for the writing therapy research I plan to do in the fall. It's fairly complicated, but it's really interesting stuff, so if anyone is interested in hearing more, please send me an email or request en-masse for a a full-fledged blog post. (Yes, I take requests) Unfortunately for me, this grant means that I will not be working at the Edward J. Madden Open Hearts camp in Great Barrington, MA again this summer. My heart and my best wishes go out to David and the rest of the staff that will be returning this summer. It is a place that has had a big impact on who I am and the type of work I want to do in the future.
Another very exciting thing that happened this week was a visit from my friend Rachel, who is currently studying in Copenhagen. She just happened to be in London for the week, and her program just happened to take a trip to see Stonehenge this past Wednesday, and then just happened to stop by Bath for lunch and a tour, so it appeared as if the stars had aligned perfectly. Just as we had planned a few nights earlier, I met Rachel in front of Bath Abbey at 12:30 and we had my version of the classic Bath lunch: a pasty and a flapjack. For a total of about 3 pounds apiece, we purchased lunch and dessert, and that's a great deal! (Now, I have another very important thing to mention about Rachel's visit, but I must first stop to say that I will come back later in this blog post to explain exactly what a "flapjack" is...)
After lunch, Rachel and I strolled casually over to Queen's Square to check out the little gold medal parade that was being held that day, and after that, we headed back to...WAIT!! GOLD MEDAL PARADE!? you think, YOU CAN'T JUST MENTION SOMETHING LIKE THAT LIKE IT'S NO BIG DEAL AND KEEP ON TALKING!...okay, okay, so maybe it was kind of a big deal...I'll explain.
Amy Williams is Britain's first female individual medalist in like a billion years, so when she won the Skeleton event in Vancouver, everyone was quite excited. Just so happens that Amy is from Bath, so we decided to throw her a little coming-home-parade on Wednesday. And so, at about 1:30 people came out of their work places and lined the streets to watch the open-topped bus with the gold medalist and her entourage pass through the streets. I have included a quick video from the second time the bus came around Queen's Square. But the First time (oh, the first time) there were a few sparks flying...let me paint the picture for you:
The bus turns the corner, and there's not a lot of people lining the parade route so Rachel and I are right on the street. I see the gold medal glinting in the...well...it was actually pretty cloudy...Anyway, the bus approaches slowly, majestically, and Amy looks down at me, looking very generic in my jeans and black North Face fleece, AND SHE WINKS! Now, there are some parties who might be so silly as to propose that the breeze was blowing briskly (not balmily, like in the Berkshires) and that small bits of debris were flying. Now, I WILL ADMIT, it is possible that she might have gotten something in here eye (which could explain the strange face she made simultaneously, now that I think about it...), but we're just going to go on the faith of my good looks and magnetism and say that she actually did wink at me. It will make a better story to tell my grandchildren, so humor me, I pray thee.
Now, back to the flapjacks. A flapjack is the functional equivalent of a cross between a rice-krispy treat and a Nature Valley (granola) bar. It is buttery, it is heavy, it is sweet as sweet can be, and it melts in your mouth. I would like to give a shout-out to my grandmother, who tried out a flapjack recipe the other day, and claims that they came out pretty tasty. I'll be the final judge, but the reports that are filtering in seem to indicate a success, so great job Mem!
Finally, I suppose I will paste in a rough version of the poem that I hinted at last week. I haven't had time to edit it, so it's not very good, but I know that some people are expecting it. I guess that's what I get for making promises about future blog posts...It's called The Onion of Thought and was partially inspired by the fact that all of the knives in my house are terribly dull and hard to work with. Don't worry, I still have all 10 fingers. Enjoy:
The Onion of Thought
Working with a dull blade is foolish, they say—
because one slip of the hand, the eyelid, or the steel,
one extra pump of the adrenal gland, will feel
the bloodying of an innocent leek, or worse,
a primrose path that paves itself redly across the board,
dribbling inch by inch through the asparagus sward.
Every thought, an onion, is homicidal; it squats plotting
and naked on the block of wood—“how to slip,” it ponders,
“and escape when the mind’s blade wanders.”
And while the synapses chop and dissect, and the onion
is whittled down to its stump, it sees its chance to strike disaster:
a quarter inch, and the mind will abrade its master.
That's all for now. I will write again when the rest of my papers are finished, so until then, be well.
-The Wandering Wordsmith
I'm pleased to inform you that I am writing this blog post upon the completion of my first of three papers that are due within the next couple weeks. So this is kind of a pleasant study break for me. I feel like I have a lot to share, however.
First and foremost, I would like to announce my plans for the summer. I GOT MY MELLON GRANT! This means that I'll be in Gettysburg for the majority of the summer working with kids in the Gettysburg High School summer program to establish a pilot curriculum for the writing therapy research I plan to do in the fall. It's fairly complicated, but it's really interesting stuff, so if anyone is interested in hearing more, please send me an email or request en-masse for a a full-fledged blog post. (Yes, I take requests) Unfortunately for me, this grant means that I will not be working at the Edward J. Madden Open Hearts camp in Great Barrington, MA again this summer. My heart and my best wishes go out to David and the rest of the staff that will be returning this summer. It is a place that has had a big impact on who I am and the type of work I want to do in the future.
Another very exciting thing that happened this week was a visit from my friend Rachel, who is currently studying in Copenhagen. She just happened to be in London for the week, and her program just happened to take a trip to see Stonehenge this past Wednesday, and then just happened to stop by Bath for lunch and a tour, so it appeared as if the stars had aligned perfectly. Just as we had planned a few nights earlier, I met Rachel in front of Bath Abbey at 12:30 and we had my version of the classic Bath lunch: a pasty and a flapjack. For a total of about 3 pounds apiece, we purchased lunch and dessert, and that's a great deal! (Now, I have another very important thing to mention about Rachel's visit, but I must first stop to say that I will come back later in this blog post to explain exactly what a "flapjack" is...)
After lunch, Rachel and I strolled casually over to Queen's Square to check out the little gold medal parade that was being held that day, and after that, we headed back to...WAIT!! GOLD MEDAL PARADE!? you think, YOU CAN'T JUST MENTION SOMETHING LIKE THAT LIKE IT'S NO BIG DEAL AND KEEP ON TALKING!...okay, okay, so maybe it was kind of a big deal...I'll explain.
Amy Williams is Britain's first female individual medalist in like a billion years, so when she won the Skeleton event in Vancouver, everyone was quite excited. Just so happens that Amy is from Bath, so we decided to throw her a little coming-home-parade on Wednesday. And so, at about 1:30 people came out of their work places and lined the streets to watch the open-topped bus with the gold medalist and her entourage pass through the streets. I have included a quick video from the second time the bus came around Queen's Square. But the First time (oh, the first time) there were a few sparks flying...let me paint the picture for you:
The bus turns the corner, and there's not a lot of people lining the parade route so Rachel and I are right on the street. I see the gold medal glinting in the...well...it was actually pretty cloudy...Anyway, the bus approaches slowly, majestically, and Amy looks down at me, looking very generic in my jeans and black North Face fleece, AND SHE WINKS! Now, there are some parties who might be so silly as to propose that the breeze was blowing briskly (not balmily, like in the Berkshires) and that small bits of debris were flying. Now, I WILL ADMIT, it is possible that she might have gotten something in here eye (which could explain the strange face she made simultaneously, now that I think about it...), but we're just going to go on the faith of my good looks and magnetism and say that she actually did wink at me. It will make a better story to tell my grandchildren, so humor me, I pray thee.
Now, back to the flapjacks. A flapjack is the functional equivalent of a cross between a rice-krispy treat and a Nature Valley (granola) bar. It is buttery, it is heavy, it is sweet as sweet can be, and it melts in your mouth. I would like to give a shout-out to my grandmother, who tried out a flapjack recipe the other day, and claims that they came out pretty tasty. I'll be the final judge, but the reports that are filtering in seem to indicate a success, so great job Mem!
Finally, I suppose I will paste in a rough version of the poem that I hinted at last week. I haven't had time to edit it, so it's not very good, but I know that some people are expecting it. I guess that's what I get for making promises about future blog posts...It's called The Onion of Thought and was partially inspired by the fact that all of the knives in my house are terribly dull and hard to work with. Don't worry, I still have all 10 fingers. Enjoy:
The Onion of Thought
Working with a dull blade is foolish, they say—
because one slip of the hand, the eyelid, or the steel,
one extra pump of the adrenal gland, will feel
the bloodying of an innocent leek, or worse,
a primrose path that paves itself redly across the board,
dribbling inch by inch through the asparagus sward.
Every thought, an onion, is homicidal; it squats plotting
and naked on the block of wood—“how to slip,” it ponders,
“and escape when the mind’s blade wanders.”
And while the synapses chop and dissect, and the onion
is whittled down to its stump, it sees its chance to strike disaster:
a quarter inch, and the mind will abrade its master.
That's all for now. I will write again when the rest of my papers are finished, so until then, be well.
-The Wandering Wordsmith
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