rabbitchasing

October moon

2010-10-22T22:18:00.000-04:00

It was Juliet who entreated her Romeo not to swear "by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb."

I couldn't help but disagree with Juliet tonight. I was driving around that big sweeping curve of Lookout Mountain, I glanced over to the side, where the lights of greater Chattanooga spilled out into the valley. The lights were flickering--fizzing--fading in and out in a fever burn.

The moon, the constant moon, was still and steady and quiet above it all. Solid as a new egg, a wind-worn rock, a coin on the floor of a fountain.

Blogspot dictionary, round 3

2010-06-07T20:29:00.000-04:00

lymulst--(n.) the thin lip of the top curve of one's ear

"Kevin knew he could not look Wendolyn in the eyes when he asked her to the 6th grade dance, so instead he concentrated very hard on the lymulst of her right ear as he proffered the fateful question."

mondlesi--(v.) what happens when spaghetti noodles get gummy and stick to eat other in a very unappetizing fashion.

"Giacoma knew she had blown every chance of impressing her mother-in-law when the old lady peered over Giacoma's shoulder into the spaghetti pot, shook her head, and muttered, 'Bah. Mondlesi.'"

ousectuab--(n.) a rare and delicate crustacean found in the marshes of Mississippi.

"As if ousectuabs aren't already hard enough to catch, they are nearly impossible to cook. Only 8th-generation-locals are equipped with the proper knives to remove the critters' shells, and the proper salt to season them with once they are boiled and red."

resestet--(adj.) the resonant quality of the outer rim of a high-hat.

"The concert fell to shambles after the drummer put a large dent in his high-hat, destroying the delicate resestet necessary for his 45 minute solo."

The 5 Songs I Hate With the Most Severe and Burning Hatred I Can Conjure

2010-05-26T16:06:00.004-04:00

Not that it's ever going to happen, but one of my great fears is that one day I will be asked to be that person decides Top 5 Best Songs of All Time for Rolling Stone. It would be miserable. I would mull endlessly, and as soon as the results were published I would realize that I missed the Big Duh Song that is most obviously the best.

However, I have no problem listing the Top 5 Most Hated Songs of My Life , which are:

5.
"Celebration"
by Kool & The Gang

The first thing that bugs me about this song is its usage of "WAAHOO!!!!" Otherwise, the main reason why this song bothers me is the inevitable conga line of half-drunk grownups it incites.

4.
The collective repertoire of
Nickleback

I can get away with counting all their songs as one because, as everyone knows, all of their songs are the same song. If I ever find the girl who first broke up with Chad Kroeger and sent him spiraling into the never-ending cycle of rage and predictability and rage and predictability and rage and...well, I'm going to take her by the shoulders and say, "Couldn't you have just stayed together for the rest of our sakes?"

3.
"Tik Tok,"
by Ke$ha

I admit, there is some marvel to the way Ke$ha uses her voice during this song. During that "oh-oo-oh-oo-oh-awh" part she sounds remarkably like a sea lion. And during the rest of the song she manages to sound uncannily like a 13-year-old white boy impersonating a white girl pretending to be black. The first time I heard "Tik Tok" I thought it was a parody ("the po-po shut us down-down!!"); and then , to my horror, I realized...it wasn't.

While I'm at it, I might as well say that I pretty much can't handle anything that comes out of her mouth. There very well may be one day in the future that she takes up every number on the list, or I'm just going to have to lump her whole list together like Nickelback (see above).

Also, my brother and I have this theory that one day Ke$ha will just spontaneously combust. "E'REBODY CRUNK!!!! E'REBODY GETTIN' DRUNK!!!!! E'REBODY FLIPPIN' OFF OF THE ROOF!!!!!"....and then BOOM!

Sometimes I just wish I could stroke her back and say, "Shhhh. Shhhhhhhh. Calm down."

2.
"Carry-Out"
by Timbaland and Justin Timberlake

From that little jingle lead-in, you know this is going to be bad. Then Timbaland says, "I have you open all night like you IHOP," and it's over. What I can't figure out is why girls can tolerate this song, much less love it. A guy is trying to tell you your body is like carry-out! That's like...China King! Or Taco Bell! Or Dominoes! Do you really want your body compared to these?? If I'm going to be compared to food, I at least want something a little more dignified. I mean, even TGI Friday's would be a little more bearable.

I do have this extreme hope that JT just signed onto it so he could make fun of himself later on SNL...but I'm beginning to worry.

1.
"Centerfield"
otherwise known as
"Put Me in Coach (I'm Ready to Play...today...)"
by John Fogerty

If anything will make me snap, it is this song. As soon as it comes on the car radio, I usually just want to drive into something. The tune and Fogerty's tone are enough to drive me crazy. But I think my main problem with it is that John Fogerty KNEW it was going to be played in every ballpark, Little League to MLB, for eternity. It's not like "Eye of the Tiger" which evolved into the go-to sports song. It was just so contrived and calculated from the very beginning. He knew he was going to make millions. He knew he didn't have a prayer after CCR was over.

I just hate that the song tries to make me feel some tailored emotion. I'm at the ballpark and it comes on, and it's like someone is trying to force me to pretend that my life is a Great American Baseball Movie.

Apparently "Centerfield" is George W. Bush's favorite song. It's probably a really good thing I was never voting age when he was running for office, or I think my vote would have been a bit too swayed by this revelation.

Out

2010-05-12T13:01:00.003-04:00

I returned to Oxford for four days after tramping through Greece and was happy when the bus rolled into Gloucester Green. I was back in a town I felt on good terms with. We were on a first name basis at this point--I knew my way around. I knew where to buy the cheapest eggs, the best beer, and the post office with the shortest lines.

But everything was different once I began to walk around. I left Gloucester Green and…where should I go? I was no longer permitted at the Crick House, the place I’d learned to call home over the past 5 months. I had surrendered the key to my college, and my Bodleian card was expired. Everyone I had lived and studied with was gone. I had some British friends around, but they were all crazy busy with Trinity term, now in full swing—and exams.

I booked a room at a hostel and then went back out to improvise my next four days. I went and spent hours at museums I had only brushed through during term. I lazed in benches in the parks. I spent a good bit of time reading Tintin at Blackwells. I wandered.

I went back to say goodbye to the Crick House, but it was a bit like being caught walking on your ex-boyfriend’s street. You’re familiar and you know your way around—but really, you have no business being there.

I suppose that was really the trouble—I had no valid reason for being back at Oxford. I was no longer a student. I was not a resident. I was not a tourist. How did I fit into this city?

Things felt better when I got to spend time with the few friends who were still in town. I ran into one of my tutors, Jonathan, in the grocery store line and we ended up getting coffee. I told him my sense of bewilderment with being back in the city where I no longer belonged. He nodded and smiled.

“Of course, that’s Oxford. When you’re in, you’re in. But when you’re out, you’re definitely out. It’s kind of a sick place like that.”

(I guess this has going on for about a thousand years or so, then)

I snuck into some lectures in the EFL. One was Seamus Perry on Wordworth’s “The Ruined Cottage.” Wordsworth, Perry taught, was fascinated by the power given to place once it has been endowed, or imprinted by a human act. The idea that even if all the people who were once living and acting in a particular place are gone, there is still a kinetic echo of sorts in the place—traces of people. The power of memory, no matter how fresh or aged.

I realized during the class that this was part of my problem. Corners all over the city were still buzzing with the memory of experiences shared with people who were suddenly gone. Walks shared, books read, groceries lugged, laughs released, beers drank, snowballs thrown, tears dropped, coats pulled close, arguments dueled, signs and wonders beheld.

This group of people, who most of my friends back home will never know, were once a part of my 24-hour-everyday and suddenly they were gone from the place I was supposed to be able to attach them to. It was all magnificently confusing. Was it Oxford the place I loved? Oxford the studies? Or Oxford the people? What was Oxford when I--for a very brief time-- belonged to it, and what was it now?

I kind of wish I had just left with my first goodbye to Oxford—the goodbye I said to everyone at the Crick House when I left for Paris, with everyone hanging out the door, and with bittersweet sense of love and of loss and all that.

But my final goodbye didn't resemble anything of the sort. Nothing ceremonious about it at all. By the fourth night, I could not stand it anymore. I was sitting next to a guy from Amsterdam who was trying endlessly to explain the pros and cons of legal weed when suddenly I just looked at him and said, "Sorry, I have to go catch a bus."

I went to the luggage room, hauled everything out, and violently shoved it down two flights. I let the door slam behind me. I ended up leaving the city at 10 o’clock the night before my morning flight, which wasn’t until 9. Sleeping in the airport sounded better than sleeping in the hostel at that point.

On my way to the station I passed two guys I had met at the hostel who had just moved to Oxford to study for three years. They were still trying to find their way around the place.

I stopped with all my luggage and told them in a flurry of words to make sure to get lamb pies at David John’s, and the best view of the city was from the tower of St. Mary the Virgin and, and the best milkshakes in the whole entire world were from Moo-Moos, and that Old Speckled Hen was really the best ale, and Old Hooky was overrated, and the best stationary was at Scriptum, and the Rose and Crown had the best terrace, and make sure to spend summer evenings outside at the Perch.

I loaded all my things hastily onto the the bus. And as it pulled out off High Street and into the darkness I felt the mixed relief and sadness of someone skirting out the backdoor of a party where she had long overstayed her welcome.

Darling, darling clementine

2010-04-11T10:34:00.000-04:00

I have had an all-consuming passion for clementines for the last 4 months. It's been for many obvious reasons--they are beautiful, and cheering, and succulent---but I think I've finally figured out the main force that draws me to them. I think it's because they are so distinctly un-British. Clementines are such a relief from this British, British world.

To help you get my drift, here are the top 5 foods the British are good at:

1. ale
2. cheese
3. meat pies
4. cream
5. bread

Yeah. Good, but---all brown-esque or white. Not much color. Not much fresh. Not much spice.

I just wrote a scintillating paper on British national identity during the first half of the eighteenth century (please, don't everyone line up at once! You can each have your turn with it!). As I researched, I did a lot of reading about what what "Britishness" is.

Many historians think "Britishness" was developed during the wars with the French and the imperial age, because Britain learned how to define itself in contrast. Basically, it figured itself out not just by what was, but by what it WASN'T.

Clementines have been a good tool to help me understand the British. I still don't quite get what Britishness IS, but the little fruits help me know what it is definitely NOT.

Top 5 clementines are, which British-ness isn't

1. juicy
2. tangy
3. sunny
4. pocket-sized
5. squeezable

I'm not quite sure how I would have made it through the winter without them.

Now that spring is coming, the clementines are actually beginning to wane in their vividness. Lately they are more yellow than brown, and kind of half-hearted looking in the grocery crate.

But I don't depend on them quite so much anymore because the sun is actually making its way over here from time to time, and spring-infected Brits are surprising me with some passable examples of joie de vivre.

Still. I owe clementines a lot, for playing that healing role in my diet and that reviving power in my soul during my sojourn on this wind-beaten, all-too-brown-ish British isle.

Sharing

2010-04-10T11:46:00.004-04:00

My favorite shop in Oxford is Scriptum, a lovely nook in the Turl selling fine stationary and old, yellow-paged books.

Walking into Scriptum the first time was like that scene in "Swiss Family Robinson" when the Swiss Family Robinson creaks open the door to the abandoned captain's quarters on their old ship. The glass. The globe. The drapes. The desk. The books. The treasure of it.

At Scriptum the treasures are thick paper, and dark ink, well-bound notebooks, and postcards...you leave the place wanting to live your life with more dignity. You especially want to write your words with more dignity.

Opera is usually playing on the shop's radio. About a month ago I was in there and I heard the most gorgeous aria sweeping through the shop. I don't know much about opera, but this song was betwitching. I felt like I had dreamed it somewhere, sometime long ago.

Sometimes I think that particular kinds of art (opera, for example) are too huge and grand and mysterious for me to even begin understanding. They belong to an insider's circle, and require an insider's appreciation. If you weren't suckled on it at birth, you've missed out.

But where would we be if we let the ultra-mysterious, and ultra-intimidating nature of some art or culture or economic principle keep us from asking questions--the basic (sometimes painfully basic) questions... "What is this? How does it work? Is this a man or woman singing? Or what?"

You must always start from where you're at. This has become a motto of mine. Obvious, right? Amazing how I often want to bypass that first little step. That first basic question.

Most fortunately, I asked the shopkeeper what the aria was. He nodded as I marvelled, and promptly informed me that it was "O mio babbino caro," of Puccini's short opera Gianni Schicchi.

He wrote the name of the aria in deep black ink on the back of his business card, and pushed it into my hand. It was all done with this benevolent demeanor, that: "I don't know you, but as a fellow human being I think you definitely need this in your life" demeanor.

I have been listening to it at least three times a day since.

What would the world be without this kind of sharing? The shopkeeper did not scoff at my ignorance. He hastily gave me the card with the inky-black opera on the back: an invitation. This business card was my ticket to opera, and it has opened my world.

I've since learned that as arias go, it's one of the most well-known. But I will continue to do my best to spread it, as it if it landed on the radio last week. "O mio babbino caro" is one of those things I feel like is my duty to share forever with the rest of humanity.

If you haven't heard it before, I can think of no better introduction that this: the great diva Maria Callas, circa 60s-something.

Breathtaking.

My best teachers

2010-04-02T21:14:00.000-04:00

Roan Mountain, N.C.

Chipping Camden, Cotswolds

My parents are very big on their children knowing their roots, but they have also worked hard to turn us into explorers. They have always encouraged us to poke around the next corner, to turn over the next rock, to nose out that hole in the wall where you'll have the freshest oysters or juiciest burger of your life. They've always been willing to stop in some po-dunk town to make sure we have a look around and see what it's all about.

Somewhere in Florida

The older I get, the more I appreciate their intentionality to show us how wide and weirdly wondrous the world is. They shook us awake at midnight to watch meteor showers or to set out on late night expeditions on Hunting Island to look for sea turtles laying eggs. One night, we watched a big mama loggerhead spill dozens of perfect white eggs into a hole in the sand, bury them, and shift her way back to the ocean.

(I must add that a very, very serious park ranger named Patty held a roseate flashlight on the loggerhead whole time, and she has since become immortalized in Harrison memory as that epic turtle lady).

Trips have always been important our family. Not necessarily elaborate trips; more of trips down unbeaten paths. When I was twelve, we took a month and went camping across the west. A few weeks ago I mentioned how important this trip was to my dad and he responded dryly,

"I exposed you to the Corn Palace. Now that is really something."

Yes, but the Mitchell Corn Palace (in Mitchell, SD) is exactly it.
The Corn Palace (self-explanatory, but for those bewildered: Palace. Made of corn) is one of the strangest spectacles I've ever seen (yes, we made a special trip). I feel blaspehmous for comparing it to Half Dome in Yosemite (which my parents also made sure we experienced), but they are similar in this: they evoked awe.

Because of my parents' persistence to find these places and taste them, I will always seek them, too. To hunt for the hidden and stunning beauties of nature; the genu-ine and bona-fide parts of a town or city; and the kitschy, the off-beat, the strange--the plastic animals on top of rooftops. I will always look for the campsite near the stream, the rock shops on the side of the road, the old one-room school houses, the secret beaches, the catfish fry hosted by the local Pennsylvania firemen. I will always love veering onto the country road.

(I think my brother's full, full flickr embodies all of this: http://www.flickr.com/photos/jamesmurrayharrison)

I remember at one point, on that same month-long camping trip, my dad pulled the car over in this giant field of sunflowers and said, "No one in the whole world knows where we are right now. Isn't that something?"

I remember that feeling of awe, and the feeling of how special it was to be with my family.

All this to say, my parents visit to England a few weeks ago and made me realize how grateful I am for all of this.

London

It also renewed my admiration for what a great team they are. As usual, my dad managed to find some random tower on top of some random mountaintop because it looked interesting. As usual, my mom mom managed to clinch the best sunset there for us.

Broadway Tower, Cotswolds

As usual, they made me take a new look at my world over here; they always think of the questions I'd never ask. They always find those spots I didn't even see on the map. Most importantly, they teach me to sit back and enjoy it. Not trying to hoard memories and experiences--but taking a place as it is, with a steady eye and plenty of wonder.

And at the end of it all, they've made me love best the moment I crest that hill, or make that turn, and I see those mountains--which I miss sorely, sorely now--and I know I'm coming home.

Getting around

2010-03-04T12:06:00.009-05:00

You know you must be mastering your new environment when people begin to ask you for directions.

I don't know how you begin to look like the "ask-me-directions" type. All I know is that the Kate now sharply contrasts with the Kate-of-two-months-ago. The Kate-of-two-months-ago: slipping on the ice lining Cornmarket, hestitating before--and in the middle of--crossing streets, stopping abruptly to stare at some random building, and stopping abruptly to figure out where I was and where I was trying to go in the first place.

Maybe these days I just look more intentional, or less saucer-eyed, or less terrified of big red buses--but I've had five people (most of them Brits--schwing!) ask me for directions around Oxford this week.

One of them was a woman, who rushed up to me out of nowhere this afternoon. She was draped in a long fur coat and had a large fur hat perched on the crown of her head. She looked to be in her seventies--she was heavily made-up, but her bold eyeliner strayed into a few of her many wrinkles. She was very thin, but teeming with energy and authority. Somewhere, at some point in history, she was the queen of something.

"Oh I am just all topsy-turvy darling, can you tell me where Lincoln College is?" she asked breathlessly.

So much for knowing what I was doing and knowing where I was. I told her I didn't know.

"Oh well that's alright, I forgive you," she replied, magnanimously fluttering her hand in my direction. Getting that out of the way, she continued.

"I'm from Cambridge myself. Much nicer. Nice and flat and small. Much better for biking."

An image of this old woman swaddled in her furs and vigorously pedaling a bike came fleeting across my imagination, and I released an inadvertent grin.

She continued. "But you're in Oxford, you're biased of course. Now where are you from? America, I'm sure?"

"North Carolina."

I saw that haze--which has become quite familiar to me now--move into her eyes upon the mention of North Carolina. Most British people have a very vague idea of where North Carolina should be. And even if they do know, they often struggle to find a relevant remark about it. I saw her mentally fishing in her bag of associations for a moment, and then throw her hands up.

"Oh yes. Well I went to Yale for a year, darling, it was really something. Right after the War, you know, and I was just a-ston-ished because people weren't eating everything on their plates! Sending back new potatoes with rosemary! After all that rationing and scarcity...Can you imagine? I guess not. Wild!"

I half-shook, half-nodded my head. She readjusted her fur hat and grasped my hand.

"Well, darling, I must run find Lincoln College, for the both of us. I just hope you have a smashing time here, really. Good luck!"

I wished her good luck finding Lincoln College, and we began to go our separate ways. Suddenly she turned around and called after me:

"If there's one thing I can tell you, its this: don't find a British husband! Believe me--not worth the trouble!"

She threw her hands in the air, laughing to herself. Then she sauntered away, her fur coat brushing the curb.

Surprise

2010-03-03T19:37:00.001-05:00

WE like March, his shoes are purple,
He is new and high;
Makes he mud for dog and peddler,
Makes he forest dry;
Knows the adder’s tongue his coming,
And begets her spot.
Stands the sun so close and mighty
That our minds are hot.
News is he of all the others;
Bold it were to die
With the blue-birds buccaneering
On his British sky. Emily Dickinson

Negotiations

2010-02-28T18:55:00.000-05:00

Each week in Oxford, an antiques market is set up in Gloucester Green. Vendors sell old Persian rugs, Bristish army men, musty furs, and and the other loot foraged from the forgotten corners of Oxford attics.

I have become attached to one vendor who primarily sells old coins and stamps, but who also has a large shoebox filled with vintage postcards. I generally spend a good ten minutes combing through his stash each week. The seller is an old man in a windbreaker with large glasses and a tweed hat.

The other day I was flipping through the postcards when a elderly Chinese mother and her very pregnant daughter came up and began asking the merchant about some random set of coins from 1972. It was apparently set they have been looking for, for they ardently asked about what other sets he had like it.

They began haggling, both wielding that double-edged weapon of guilt-tripping and charm to wear each other down.

"I only want to buy this set for this price if you include the other set that goes with it," the young woman said firmly.

"Well you can come back next week and I'll bring the other set and you can buy them together then," said the coin seller.

The woman tried to explain, pointing to her bulging belly, that next week she would be preoccupied with giving birth to a human being.

"Oh okay then. Well...I'll sell this one to you for fourteen pounds."

The young woman's mother protested, shaking her head angrily and making emphatic hand motions, speaking feverishly in Chinese. Her daughter translated. "She's trying to explain that in China, fourteen is a very unlucky number."

The old man looked dumbfounded, tugging on his ear. The girl cleared her throat.

"What about for thirteen?"

The old man furrowed his eyebrows and threw his hands up.

"I can't very well do that now, can I?! Thirteen is unlucky for ME!"

They looked at each other for a long time. The coin seller rubbed his ear some more and finally gave an exasperated sigh.

"Fine," said the old man. "Thirteen-fifty."

The woman agreed and was about to put the bills in his hand when her mother interjected again in Chinese.

"She wants to know why you can't do twelve."

"Twelve?! TWELVE?!" the man shouted and suddenly doubled over laughing. When he recovered he vigorously shook his head before shouting and laughing some more. "TWELVE? Hah hah! Twelve!"

The women finally gave him thirteen-fifty, and he handed over the 1970s coin set. The mother and daughter left amiably enough, saying they'd be back for the other set.

I was next in line with my postcards. The old man wiped his forehead and laughed some more. "I could have offered it to them for free and they would have still wanted it wrapped," he said to no one in particular. Then he looked at me, reached over the table, and took the postcards out of my hands, putting them directly into the front pocket of my purse.

"You just take these, love. There can't be anything too unlucky about free, eh?"

Two Years

2010-02-22T16:49:00.016-05:00

Comparatively, it's not a very long time, but...

(Pancakes, right around the time we started dating. This picture reveals what most attracted me to Drew: A. The back of his head was on the cover of View, B. He had mad recorder skills, C. His hair was much longer than mine.)

(Getting ready for Mad Hatter summer bash)

(Visiting our old school, where we played four-square and built forts together, but would never have dreeeeeamed of....ew..."DATING?? A BOY???????")

(Rescuing me from a giant skull mouth, one of his many heroic deeds)

( )

(Broke Chris's car handle...Spring Banquet 09)

(Discovered ghosts on the walking bridge)

(Early autumn at Rock Creek pond)

(Jazz [not] on the Overlook)

(New York City 09)

...a lot can happen in two years.

Some benediction

2010-02-21T16:38:00.013-05:00

Tonight I attended evensong at New College Chapel with my friends Mary and Nick. The light was fading, and the brilliantly colored stain glass in the windows was dimming into greys and deep blues. The chapel was lit only by white candles and the lamps for the organ player, who was lofted high above us. His bent frame was silhouetted by yellow light.

The choir was made up of men and boys. I do not know what creates that special quality in a boy's soprano, which differentiates it so from a woman's soprano. I've heard people say that there is a "silvery purity" to it, more concentrated due to its temporariness. (What happens the first time a choir boy's voice cracks?)

Their singing was glorious--the Magnificat swelled and swooped along the grand Gothic arches of the chapel, filling that vast space with ephemeral glory. Music like that is so penetrating, so powerful--and yet so fleeting.

Across from me were sitting five young boys, aged between seven and ten, each dressed neatly in a blazer and a striped tie. They were very attentive and engaged. They knew the Lord's Prayer and Apostles Creed by heart, knelt when it was time to kneel, bowed their heads when they were supposed to bow them.

I soon realized that the boys were ushers, as they dispersed among the congregants with little velvet bags to take up the collect. They quietly and expertly did their duty; I could tell they were very intent to get the whole process right. I admired them as they lined up in the back of the chapel and then proceeded in orderly lines to the priest in the front.

And there, in the middle of that hushed and holy moment at the end of the service, one of the boys walking towards the priest looked over at me, cast me a sly smile, and gave me a big wink.

The kingdom of heaven belongs to such as....these.

Rivulet

2010-02-19T17:03:00.007-05:00

The other day while on the bus to London, I found myself sitting behind a grandfather and a grandmother who were taking their two little granddaughters, about 5 and 7, into London for the day. I was trying to read Middlemarch, but found myself distracted, as the grandfather was pointing at all the sights we drove by and telling stories.

GRANDFATHER: "See that there, that's Magdalen College, the very best college at Oxford. They have a deer park there."
GRANDDAUGHTER: "What do they do with the deer?"
GRANDFATHER: "I suppose they eat them sometimes. It's called venison, then."
GRANDDAUGHTER: "That's gruesome!"
GRANDFATHER: "That's life."

It was a nasty, rainy day, with fat drops pounding against the windows. The littler girl pointed out a long stream of water running down the pane.

"Now that, Victoria, is called a rivulet," her grandfather explained.

The way he said it was magical. Riv-yu-lette--a slippery downwards-dip and a slight tap of the tongue. It is one of those words that sounds exactly like what it describes. It is also one of those words which sounds infinitely better when seasoned with a British accent. Little Victoria imitated him cautiously.

"Rivulet. I do like that word," she said.

"Well, darling, if you're going to learn English you're going to need to learn about 30,000 whole words," explained the grandfather. "And then if you learn French, Spanish, or German you're going to have to learn all of those words, too. Water, for example. In French is l'eau...in Spanish it's agua...and in German its Wasser."

Victoria stared out the window and replied, "That's so many words."

"Indeed it is," nodded her grandfather.

I turned back to Middlemarch and quickly skimmed the pages with my thumb, like you would with a flip book. All that black ink--all those scratchy marks. Each of those words suddenly seemed full to bursting--precious with history, loaded with power, pulsing with their unique nuance.

I wonder how conscious we are of learning words when we're very young. Is there delight involved? Utter relief? Awe?

Surfacing

2010-01-18T19:01:00.013-05:00

It's been over a week now, since I got into the cab at Gloucester Green and was suddenly hit by what it means to leave--and to arrive.

Goodbyes are always hard, but they are not exactly the moment when everything changes. It's difficult to know exactly when you have left your old world behind, and when you have entered the new world.

It isn't when you get on the plane. And by the time you board it, the journey is out of your hands. Your destination has been set for weeks. The plane's nose is inevitably pointed in the direction of the city on your ticket, and there it will go.

The plane ride itself is sort of this surreal in-between stage, a vague dream. You know you're flying over Greenland, but it is all dark and black down there. Tray table comes down, goes up--and you're back on another runway.

Arriving at the airport doesn't strike you with that fresh blast of newness, either. The airport is simply the place you stay and wait while the scenes are changed all around outside. New trees must be planted, new bridges spanned, new billboards put up, new people rotated in. Nothing really changes inside. You could be in the airport of New Delhi or Dublin or Detroit, and find the same sorts of chairs, the same kind of carpet, the same men in suitcoats rushing with suitcases.

To connect to the bus at the airport is so simple it also feels inevitable. You wait for the one you want to pull up to the curb, and you are soon borne away in the belly of a very punctual, very purposeful whale. It picked its destination long ago, you just chose to ride along. It will go whether or not you're there. You wait. You peer out of the window. It's dark.

It didn't really hit me til I hailed the cab in Oxford and got into it. "So, miss, where do you want to go?" the driver asked.

For the first time of the long journey, I decided the destination. I gave him the address, he hit the gas, and it finally hit me: "I've left everything familiar. I am going to live somewhere new. I am about to make friends with people I've never seen or heard of."

It suddenly became real. And I sat, deeply astonished, as the cab turned up quiet, snow-carpeted Crick Road and stopped in front of a tall brick house, with frost on the roof and warm yellow lights glowing from the inside.

A thousand little forms

2010-01-04T00:23:00.003-05:00

I sat in my chair. I went online.
I filled out a couple of forms and hit "submit"
I asked a few other people to do the same
which they did
I made a photocopy of my health insurance and mailed it
I got some papers signed
I received some papers in the mail
and mailed out some more
I went online, my dad typed in "Charlotte" and "London"
Clicked a few more buttons, typed in some numbers, got an email or two.
I got some more emails, and I responded to them. I clicked a few more buttons, hit "submit."

Click, click, click, a few papers and a small collection of signatures---and somehow in three days I'm getting on a plane to fly across the Atlantic, to take a train from London to Oxford, to study there for four months.

I'm still not quite sure how that happened. I barely even left my seat.

Advent

2009-12-03T21:24:00.008-05:00

Christmas trees hold such a presence in a house. Somehow the mood of the place alters after we haphazardly squeeze it through the door and anchor it in our living room.

There is something strange about the fact that we bring a tree inside our house every year. But the tree is never imposing, never inconvenient, never obnoxious. On the contrary, it seems to be the hospitable one--welcoming us into our own home. Somehow, its arrival simultaneously always fills me a with an ants-under-your-skin thrill and a deep, soaking peace.

My dad set up our tree the other day. The rest of us were all doing work around the house, running around--and then all of the sudden, there it was. We all had to stop.

My dad worked to get the tree straight, and carefully wove the multicolored lights around its taut branches. He had to wind and rewind, loop and untangle. It was a bit like watching a parent try to dress an ornery child.

But he soon fitted the tree, and stood back to make sure the gaps were filled. He turned off the downstairs lights, and the computer lights, and we all stood and looked at it. It pulsed brightly with the slow, silent aura of expectancy.

A glowing Christmas tree in a dark, quiet room is one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen.

But there are few things more sacred than creeping downstairs late at night after everyone has gone to bed--after the strings of lights have been turned off--and standing under the still tree in the dark living room for a few moments.

The faint scent of pine. The hush.

41 days

2009-11-28T13:31:00.001-05:00

not quite used to the idea yet.

Blogspot dictionary, round 2.

2009-10-29T22:58:00.000-04:00

revin: (n.) a body wax that competitive swimmers slather on before a race. Supposed to make your skin perfectly slippery.

"Unable to lower his time any more during practice, Raul knew that the only way he could beat Victor in the freestyle was if he covered himself with a double-layer of Revin--and if the refs didn't catch him doing it..."

placsecc: (adj.) the position many sleeping people acquire when stuck in the backseat of a car between two people--hands in lap, head slightly back and to the left, neck strained with tendons visibly protruding.

"Not wanting to send the wrong message by leaning on either Joey or Jim's shoulders, Kelsey was forced to sleep placsecc for an entire hour in the youth group van."

crega: (n.) the little rim of your inner eyelid which you accidentally scrape eyeliner across sometimes.

"Margery may have gotten permission to wear a strapless dress to prom, but she realized she was still just a girl when she accidentally smudged purple eyeliner in her crega."

Boulder's big day

2009-09-21T23:07:00.000-04:00

Over the past week, endless rains have loosened the dirt that makes up this mountain. This morning, the dirt behind the chapel loosened so much that it let go of a giant boulder, which tumbled down the side of an embankment. It brought with it a small avalanche of sludge and trees and rocks. The mysterious vascular system of gas and water lines beneath our school took a few blows, too.

Worried about exposed gas lines, the powers-that-be called for the evacuation of two buildings. My French class was in one of them. Monsieur Shaw hadn’t even started assigning the daily devoir before the étudiants started traipsing out the door—vainly inhaling deep breaths to see if they could detect gas. Those odd, faint pangs of disaster-lust we have...

The rest of my classes canceled for the day, I put my boots on and trudged down to Scenic Highway. Bright brown mud was slathered all over the pavement, and the corpses of trees and bushes were lying askew in the muck. Yellow trucks and backhoes were rumbling around. Men in orange vests were hacking the mess of branches with chainsaws.

The giant boulder that had just finished its short ride was now hesitantly settled on a lower part of the bank, catching its breath. In its pause it looked half proud and half scared, like the little kid who—determined to run away—has just reached the bottom of his driveway.

I asked one of the workers if they thought the mudslide would happen again anytime soon.

“There’s no telling,” said one orange-vested man. “That rock has probably been in that spot for a couple hundred years. It might wait right at that spot for a couple hundred more. Or it could tip in five minutes.”

Suddenly I had visions of all the ancient, colossal boulders of Lookout Mountain, free and hurtling down the sides of the mountains into unsuspecting St. Elmo kitchens and bathrooms.

“That’s why we’re going to try to get it out of here,” the orange-vested man finished.

We surveyed the muddy bank. The backhoe was now pawing at the boulder, trying to coax it into its bucket.

I had to leave before they hoisted it into their truck and drove it away. I do not know where misbehaved boulders go, but I’m wondering if it is laying awake now, breathing in the new air of new dirt and new permanence.

I wonder if it feels it was worth it—if it will dream about its fifty-foot run of freedom tonight, and sigh.

Just a little bit louder

2009-08-06T13:46:00.001-04:00

There are always those days, those evenings that epitomize a season. I had that evening a few nights ago. My parents and I ate under the covered porch while a summer thunderstorm moved in. There are few things I love more than that, but tonight it was a disappointment because my dad and I had been trying to find an evening to go golfing for a while.

When the thunder backed down and the rain slowed a bit, we decided we should still head out to the course. There was only a light drizzle and a few stubborn golfers out on the course when we got there. Dad showed me some putting techniques, and we worked our way around the practice green.

The best way to teach, of course, is by example. What an example then, for my dad to sink a perfect putt 40 feet from the hole. I couldn't even see the hole from where I stood.

The rain quickened again, so we headed to Best Buy because my dad wanted to buy Stevie Wonder's new "Definitive Collection."

We got back in the car and soon 12-year-old Stevie's 1964 hit "Fingertips" came blaring over the speakers.

I don't think I can explain what it did to me. You probably just have to hear it yourself. On full volume.

If this doesn't make your blood pump and your booty shake in your office chair and make you want to cartwheel into a pool --well--take some human lessons.

NPR has been having a regular special where they ask someone they are interviewing what their quintessential summer song is. Selections have included Paul Simon's "Kodachrome," The English Beat's "Save it for Later," Looking Glass's "Brandy (You're a Fine Girl)," and The Osmonds' "One Bad Apple."

For the most part, the people said they picked these because the songs were deeply attached to memories of sun, sunscreen, grilling, baseball games, and JOY.

That is what "Fingertips" sounds like to me--pure, undiluted summer joy.

The Power of Pants

2009-07-31T13:40:00.000-04:00

Yesterday, when writing about Amelia Earhart, I mentioned that one of the things I admired about her was that she insistently wore pants (not to mention sweet leather jackets) in the age of the A-line skirt.

It took an amount of stubbornness and guts for Amelia to do that, since she might have been somewhat stigmatized by society--but she never faced 40 lashes for it.

Lubna Hussein is.

Hussein is a Sudanese journalist who works in the media department of the U.N. Mission in Sudan. Early in July she was among 13 women arrested a raid by members of the public order police force on a Khartoum. Their crime: wearing pants. A strict interpretation of Islamic law (which the Islamic regime of Sudan abides by) determines that pants are indecent for women.

The AP reports that all but 3 of the women arrested were flogged at the police station as part of their punishment.

The three other women--including Hussein--decided to take the issue to court. And Hussein, using her connections, has made sure that diplomats, human rights workers, and journalists will be there to see it.

Their presence gives the women added confidence to their defiance. Some of Hussein's women friends ever showed up in court wearing trousers for support.

What's devastating, however, is that most women arrested for breaking dress codes in this regime do not have these connections, and thus the added protection. Hundreds of women are flogged without question.

And to think I complained about detention for breaking dress code in high school. "I should have some kind of freedom of expression!" I would rail, insisting I should be allowed to wear multicolored stripe tights with my navy/white/& maroon uniform.

This is about more than freedom of expression. This is, as Hussein has put it, way more than about pants.

"This is not a case about me wearing pants. This is a case about annulling the article that addresses women's dress code, under the title of indecent acts. This is my battle. This article is against the constitution and even against Islamic law itself."

This woman is daring to go "against even Islamic law itself" ??? THAT is guts for you. Today I am wearing pants, and it means something. Not just freedom of fashion, freedom of expression--freedom. Find more here.

The not-so-wild blue yonder, the not-so-deep blue sea

2009-07-29T15:59:00.000-04:00

When we were in second grade, Amelia Fletcher and I were determined WE were going to solve one of the greatest mysteries of the 20th century: what had happened to Amelia Earhart when she disappeared over the Pacific Ocean in 1937.

I'm not sure what sparked it. The name probably had a lot to do with it, to be honest. That year we were assigned book reports on famous Americans, and Amelia and I both picked our people on a purely egotistical basis. Me and Wikipedia are probably the only two beings in the world who know who the heck Katherine Lee Bates is: (her ->)

She wrote "America the Beautiful," but I didn't choose her because of that. I picked her biography off the shelf solely because her name was KATHERINE. And Amelia chose Amelia Earhart because, well, duh.

Amelia Earhart, of course, made for a much more fascinating book report than Katherine Lee Bates. Soon, with Amelia F.'s coaxing, I was reading the Young Americans biography on Amelia E.--and then checking out every book on her I could find in the library.

She was our heroine. She was a daredevil, a limit-smasher. She wore pants. She learned how to fly a plane when many women weren't even driving cars. She wasn't satisfied to cross the Atlantic--she wanted to circle the world. She was the one who said, "The most effective way to do it, is to do it." She had guts, as we kept saying to ourselves.

But her mysterious disappearance--and assumed death--probably captivated us just as much as her life did. We couldn't get enough of the search stories, the hypotheses, the conspiracy theories. We kept a notebook of all the possibilities:

Went down in the Pacific (too easy. too boring. too likely)
Went down in the Pacific BUT swam to Gardner Island, where she and her navigator Fred Noonan set up camp. Where they hung out...indefinitely...
Crashed on Saipan. Held hostage by the Japanese under the impression that she's a spy. Executed there. (Dramatic, yes...but we still wanted her to end up ALIVE. So we scratched that one).
Crashed on Saipan. Held hostage by the Japanese under the impression that she's a spy. Actually still lives there on a mysterious mountain, the locals calling her the Flying Witch or something like that.
Crashed on Saipan. Held hostage by the Japanese under the impression she's a spy. Actually WAS a spy, and the U.S. got her out secretly. And now she lives in New Jersy under the name Irene Bolam. Don't know why Irene Bolam, but that's what the book said. (I remember so vividly us saying things like "But what if we could just get Irene to meet with us? She would maybe tell us." "If we could figure out where Irene gets her groceries and we could follow her." "Yeah she'd be old but 101 isn't TOO old!!!!")

We mulled endlessly over her last words to come over the radio transmission: "We are running on line north and south." What could that MEAN!!!!!!!!!!????????

We would get together, setting up shop in the woods with the sole purpose of poring over our "research." It was before either of us had any conception of the internet, but we exhausted our libraries, evening venturing up to the ADULT SECTIONS to find more.

Notebooks, lists, pictures--we were determined it would somehow be enough to solve it all. It was merely a puzzle, waiting for our solving.

Over ten years later, investigators and scientists believe that it likely is just a puzzle, on the brink of being solved.

According to this piece by ABC, The International Group for Historic Aircraft Recovery has announced that they are returning to Gardner Island, armed with DNA samples, forensic investigators, and a slew of 21st century whizzabanggadgets to search for DNA evidence of Earhart there. And they actually have some strong leads to start with. They have already recovered artifacts (like glass from a compact mirror), found on in the island on a 2007 TIGHAR expedition.

Amelia's story is gripping--absolutely intriguing. It has captured the minds and millions of dollars of scientists and historians from all over the world.

But dawned on me when reading this article how strange the search is at this point. Why do we need to know so bad? She is more than likely dead at this point, no matter where she ended up. Most of the people who were close to her are now dead. What is driving the people who will people never rest until she is found? They do not miss her. They have no debt to pay.

The weird truth, as TIGHAR's Executive Director Ric Gillespie put it, is that it's not really about Amelia at all.

"The volunteers are really bright people who are just fascinated by this mystery, and we are all motivated by the same thing ... and it is not to honor the memory of Amelia Earhart...We are investigation junkies. We love the thrill of the search and scientific process."

Ego-trip, anybody?

The confidence that comes with technology is vaulting. What were once the deep, dark, unfathomable mysteries now only require a little time, a little poking around to be revealed. "Time is one our side and technology is on our side. It'll be found," Gillespie said of Earhart's plane.

New York Times writer Donald G. McNeil, Jr. touches on the development of this attitude when writing about the relatively quick search and discovery of Air France 447 earlier this summer off the coast of Brazil:

If anything looked fated for a cliche Bermuda Triangle ending, with the deep refusing to yield up its secrets, this was it. But this was 2009, not 1937, and after just one false alarm over some errant flotsam, the Brazilian Navy had a verifiable piece of the jetliner and more than 40 bodies. Not to deny the sadness of so many lives lost, but the abyss suddenly looked more like a subway grating — you might or might not be able to reach the silvery gleam below, but you knew what it was.

At one point in the article, McNeil asks, "Doesn't anyone just vanish at sea anymore?"

Not that vanishing at sea is something we should be nostalgic about--just like no one goes around lamenting, "Hey remember when people used to die of polio?" The science and technology we have to probe the depths of the galaxies, the seas, our bodies--is a gift.

And I, along with everyone else, am still secretly obsessive about wanting to know where Amelia ended up. I want them to find her plane. And then I want them to determine that it WAS tricksy Irene Bolam all alone.

But I don't want this to be all about us. Us showing up the mysteries and the strange forces of nature, putting it all on a grid, making demands, getting some fix off it all.

I honestly don't know why I say it, but I want the deep to remain deep.

And yet I take one more look at Amelia. It's funny--she actually sounds a lot like Gillespie at times. She never claimed to have some noble reason for her pioneering the skies. "I do it for the thrill of it," she said.

So is there a place where respect for the mystery and majesty and the absolute human thrill of pioneering meet? I hope so.

To close out--another rediscovery of Amelia Earhart will be taking place later this year--on the silver screen. Hilary Swank is starring as the Lady Lindy herself, in the upcoming film "Amelia." The trailer is enough to make my gut turn with, well, the thrill of it.

PS: If anyone knows how to resize videos to fit blogs, please throw me some pointers!

Stopped some presses

2009-06-18T16:14:00.000-04:00

A fierce thunderstorm is battering downtown right now. Rain splashing against the windows of the newsroom, water pouring in wide streams down the street. The full-bellied, sometimes brutish growl of the thunder mixing with the sound of tires on wet pavement. Quick shattering blows of lighting-- although I don't know how it shows up because I've never seen the sky so blank white.

Out the window, people are sprinting down the sidewalk, not holding their umbrellas above them, but in front of them like jousting shields. And trees are reeling, reeling--whipped around by the rain-driving wind.

"When winds take Forests in their Paws / the Universe is still--"

Emily Dickinson caught something here, because I witnessed it in the newsroom today. When the storm started getting angry, people began to look away from their computer screens to the windows...and one by one, people stood up to have a look outside. For a minute the room was filled with people at the windows, with their hands knotted behind their backs.

And then the scanners started sputtering, phones started blaring, and people rushed back to their keypads. Powerlines down, split trees, transformers exploded and traffic clogged--not a moment to waste.

Me and Blogspot -- Working Together to Build a Better Language

2009-06-09T21:57:00.000-04:00

Every time I comment on someone's Blogspot blog, I am given a random word I need to verify. This word is always something automatically generated by the Blogspot robots, made up out of thin air.

Except---most of the words Blogspot makes up are BRILLIANT. They are such great sounding words, it is a complete shame they aren't real.

So I have taken it upon myself to make them real words. Below is the beginning of my new dictionary. These are all words I have encountered lately while commenting, and I just helped Blogspot figure out what they really mean.

chingus - one of those little nicks you get in your skin along the rims of your fingernails.

magonsch- a exclamation that is used to describe someone getting owned. Particularly used by sportscasters. "Oh...there LeBron goes for the layup...and....MAGONSCH!!! Can you believe it? Kobe just smashed that ball right back into his FACE!!!! Look at all that BLOOD!!!!"

Matricus- Windows' next operating system, to replace Vista. It will be even more impossible to use than Vista. But it will look cooler.

Cingalla - the newest singularly named pop sensation, in the tradition of Madonna, Beyonce, Pink, Shakira, Fergie, Ciara, Rihanna...

Chagopli - a new boardgame that involves a bunch of little rubber balls.

There are certainly more in the works. You should contribute to the effort by working on your own Blogspot words too. Let me know if you come up with any good ones.

Jilly's Haunting

2009-06-02T23:54:00.004-04:00

Below is a piece my friend Josiah and I collaborated on. We read Guy Talese's "Frank Sinatra Has a Cold" for class, and were intrigued by the mention of Jilly's saloon, Sinatra's favorite hangout in New York.

We ended up hunting for it one night, and discovered that the space is now occupied by the Russian Samovar, a joint that attracts many from the Russian community, along with many writers and theater people. The Samovar infuses their own vodkas there--cilantro, pomegrante, peach--and they draw a steady line of faithful customers.

The first night Josian and I went, the Samovar was empty --except a for two or three shadowy figures working through a few last shots at the edge of the bar. The bartender graciously showed us all the Ratpack spots: their favorite red leather booth, the lowlit back room, the peeling wall where they had signed their names. He said many customers have no idea of the history of the place.

Although the first night we went was quiet, our second night at Samovar a few weeks later was lively and crackling as a guest pianist played everything from "Bohemian Rhapsody" to "Moonlight Sonata" to "I Will Survive." A lively group of students sang and danced along.

At one point (or two...he started to repeat...) the pianist played "New York, New York," and something came full circle.

At the end of the night, the bartender turned off all the lights, except for one table where his lover was sitting. She was listening to one man who was still playing the piano--a soft, haunting piece.

And even if you don't believe in ghosts, you know that something kinetic is happening in the room. The place requires music, and when it is played, something is complete.

Jilly's is Quiet Tonight

Kate Harrison and Josiah Ryan

The memory of Frank Sinatra's New York City headquarters, located in the back room of a circa 1960's saloon called Jilly's, has faded along with the memories of so many other relics from that roaring era.

The room was immortalized in journalist Guy Talese's “Frank Sinatra Has a Cold,” featured in Esquire magazine in 1966. However, Jilly's has since been replaced by Russian Samovar, a vodka bar. It is occupied by Russian natives, celebrity artists, and drunks who pass their days and nights drinking herb infused vodkas, wholly unaware of the glorious past of their surroundings.

As recounted by Talese, Sinatra once considered the barroom his throne room. Soaking in bourbon and Lucky Strike smoke, the Chairman presided over the minions who worshiped him from that dark room on 52nd Street.

“[Jilly's Saloon] is where Sinatra drinks whenever he is in New York,” said Talese. “There is a special chair reserved for him in the back room against the wall that nobody else may use.”

“A rather strange ritualistic scene develops,” writes Talese describing a typical Sinatra night at Jilly's. “Dozens of people, some of them casual friends of Sinatra's, some mere acquaintances, some neither, appeared outside of Jilly's saloon. They approached it like a shrine. They had come to pay respect.”

Sitting in the booth in Samovar, looking around the empty, low-lit room, Talese's vivid descriptions are easy to envision. Loping jazz melodies, amber liquid being poured into glasses. People edging around each other, craning their necks for a glimpse of him. And he, Sinatra, subdued and yet tense, scowling from the back.

It is easy to leave out one character from this scene, however: Guy Talese, who was probably sitting a few booths away. Talese, watching as closely a spy, with eyes as attuned to details as a portraitist.

Because Sinatra repeatedly refused Talese interviews while he was working on the profile for Esquire, he was forced to shadow him, to observe him on both sides of the coast and talk to the people in orbit around him.

There is something preposterous about trying to capture someone's life in words, especially when that person refuses to open up to you personally. But there is something very critical about Talese's mission to show Frank Sinatra, the man.

At one point in the profile, Frank Sinatra, Jr. vents: “Here is the great fallacy, the great bullshit for Frank Sinatra is normal, the guy whom you'd meet on a street corner. But this other thing, the supernormal guise, has affected Frank Sinatra as much as anybody who watches one of his television shows, or reads a magazine about him…”

One of these television shows plays an important role in Talese's account. From the beginning of the profile, Sinatra and his crew are worried about a CBS special about Sinatra's life that is soon to air. He needn't have worried: “It was a highly flattering hour that did not deeply probe, as rumors suggested it would, into Sinatra's love life, or the Mafia, or other areas of his private province.”

The show serves to contribute one more element to the glowing myth of Sinatra, and it is this very myth Talese strives to strip away. CBS may not have probed, but Talese does. He does not do so in a sensational, scandal-mongering way, but in a manner that re-humanizes him.

With his vivid storytelling and magnification of detail, Talese pulls down the “supernormal guise” of magazine covers and golden cigarette lighters, to examine the man with the firefighter father, the man with intense mood swings, the man with a cold.

Talese does not diminish Sinatra by showing his fears and flaws. Rather, he elevates him by showing that Sinatra is something bigger than a celebrity--he is a man.

This must be the goal of any journalist covering a celebrity. It would be irresponsible to dismiss the fact that celebrities--singers, actors, artists--are an integral, iconic part of our culture.

But coverage of celebrities has become a bloated, self-sustaining industry. It splays pictures of celebrities' affairs, newborns, grocery lists, and cellulite across grocery store magazines and gossip shows.

Because celebrities have become a commodity, celebrity coverage “serious journalists” tend to avoid, wishing to distance themselves from the trashy, exploitative paparazzi. Yet a deeper, more human perspective needs to be seen of these important men and women than E! and People give.

To adopt Talese's approach and seek to give an honest, fair, and deep look at celebrities does not only benefit the culture--it benefits these stars themselves by bringing them back down to earth.

After CBS's Sinatra special aired without incident, Sinatra received a telegram from Jilly's reading, “WE RULE THE WORLD!”

But tonight, just 43 years later, Jilly's is quiet.

Its 1:30 am now and the party then would have just been starting. But tonight it's just the barman and three or four suspicious figures huddle in miasmas of cigarette smoke whispering through a haze of alcohol.

Not a single photo of Sinatra adorns the walls and there is no neon sign blinking over the corner where the Chairman once presided over the Rat Pack.

Though Jilly's address, now occupied by Russian Samovar, sits just a couple blocks from major tourism thoroughfares, this bar is not even really for Americans anymore.

How does Frank Sinatra, a name that has come to define an era, a look, even a mood, evaporate from the very temple in which he was once venerated? Why is Jilly's quiet tonight?

Could it be that Frank Sinatra was a man-- just as the Russians slumped on the bar are men, and just as the tourists who stroll down 52^nd street tonight are merely men?

Typing doesn't ruin your pants

2009-06-01T20:34:00.000-04:00

Which is why I should probably do some more blogging. Despite my lack of updating on here, I have been writing a lot more with my inky black pens...and have subsequently inked up a pair of jeans, a dress, a skirt, a blouse, and the elbow of a sweater over the past month.

Some were saved (washing my skirt in the sink at the Taxi Workers Alliance Union was fun...). Some, I fear, have been permanently tattooed.

I wish I could say, "That's part of the territory. Mark of a bonafide writer."

But really I can only say...that's what comes with the choice to walk around all over town with the pen cap removed.

Learning. Learning.

Pause

2009-05-22T22:05:00.000-04:00

For reasons too long and complicated to explain, I found myself sprinting down 5 blocks today in heels. Running down 34th Street at 5:30 pm is never a good idea in the first place. 5:30 is the time people are trying to get places. So I did a lot of stopping and starting and weaving and ducking. And I yelled quite a few "oh sorry--excuse me--AHHHhgHH--on your left"s.

At one point, the walkway was so congested, I just ran into the empty bus lane. Hardly any people were using it, so I could fully extend my stride.

Running from the opposite direction was a businessman. He was dressed in a suit, and his red tie was flying over his shoulder as he, too, took advantage of the empty bus lane. The look on his face reflected mine--an expression of "WHAT-AM-I-DOING-WHERE-AM-I-GOING-AM-I-GOING-TO-MAKE-IT-HOW-DID-THIS-HAPPEN-EVERYTHING-IS-CRAZYYYY!!?!?!?"

But when we passed each other, we both burst out laughing for a second. It was a wonderful moment--commiseration; a realization that as serious as we felt, we both looked completely ridiculous; and a reminder that things--at the end of the day--would be just fine.

spent a week at a dusty library / waiting for some words to jump at me

2009-05-21T01:14:00.000-04:00

Those who penned "French Navy" for the lovely Camera Obscura say it for me. After only a few visits to the New York Public Library, I feel like I am now utterly dependent on it.

Rose Main Reading Room

After being in the reading room only once, I came to the conclusion that I would never be able to write anything remotely good unless I was sitting at one of the long, lamp-lit desks in there. I think that from now on this is the only place the words will consent to "jump at me."

I think I see why people get snobby about their wood paneling and engraved molding. Once you're surrounded by it all, you start hear this funny voice...

"How can you possibly write anything worth reading if it has not been written in one of those rooms? What's the point of reading if you're not going to do it surrounded by the navy,brown, black and scarlet spines of old books? Give up now."

Oh, I am in trouble.

New York just one more pin the map for this wanderer

2009-05-14T09:12:00.000-04:00

May 14, 2009, New York, NY--Once again, Sinisha Jovanovic is sifting through the wares of a souvenir shops. On Thursday afternoon, Jovanovic, 28, is looking for the perfect shirt for his friend among the rows of Empire State Building mugs and Statue of Liberty key chains in a 34th street tourist stand.

A native of Serbia who calls himself a “serial traveler,” he is constantly buying souvenirs. He has friends all over the world and can never stay settled too long in one place. In the past three years he has lived in Montreal and traveled all over the U.S., and even jetted down to Cuba for a few weeks.

“In my mind, travel is what shapes one the most,” says Jovanovic.

His life is once again in flux. Having just broken up with his girlfriend of four years, he came to New York to “take a break” and revisit the city he hasn’t been to in six years. He’s not sure what he will do after this, although he has applied for jobs in Peru and southeast Asia.

Today he is outfitted for trekking, wearing well-worn sneakers, a light jacket and a scarf looped around his neck. He has two-day stubble on his cheeks and a backpack strapped snugly on his back.

Jovanovic is not an aimless vagabond. He has studied international law and dreams of using it to possibly help nonprofit groups. He says, however, that he has become so disillusioned by the dirty politics in the courts that he doesn’t know if he could tolerate the job day in and day out.

Now his goals are simply to “live life, enjoy it as much as I can, and meet random people as I go,” he says. He says he thrives off of the encounters he has had with strangers.

“Very random people have affected me,” he says. “I meet people on my travels, sit down for a cup of coffee with them. They tell me stories, tell me about places I should go. I was just in Memphis before this because a person told me I needed to go.

Jovanovic attributes his life as a rolling stone to being uprooted when he was young. When he was ten, his parents moved the family to Vienna during the Kosovo War, which raged in the Balkans from 1998-1999.

“The war definitely affected me, because I was there for part of it,” says Jovanovic. “I was just old enough to realize what was going on.”

Jovanovic’s parents originally thought they would move to Belgrade, but decided instead to move to Vienna to give their children exposure to a new country and a new way of life. They left behind their entire extended family to do so.

“All my life my parents have fought for my sister and me, trying to give us the best opportunities possible,” says Jovanovic.

He says his parents particularly wanted their children to learn another language. Jovanovic now speaks five languages: Serbian, English, French, Romanian and the German he learned as a boy in Vienna.

His next attempt is going to be Spanish, as he hopes to live and work in Peru this summer.

“Learning more languages allows you to do more traveling, doing more traveling allows you to learn more languages,” says Jovanovic.

He has been able to use his language skills and globe-trotting smarts in a four-year stint with the People to People International, leading trips of students across western and southern Europe.

Jovanovic’s travels provide ample material for writing, which he says is another one of his favorite pastimes.

“I like to write about cities,” he says. “I like to write about the people I meet in cities, I like to put people in different situations, switching people to different places and situations. Maybe when I connect all those stories and those pictures I’ll publish it.”

When asked where he would go next, he says “I guess the moon would be a nice shot.” But with no interesting people on the moon to meet, he may settle on Southeast Asia instead.

In a YouTube culture, NYPL Live continues to enlighten, challenge

2009-05-12T08:58:00.000-04:00

Alex Ross in conversation with Frank Gehry PHOTO: Peter Foley

Manager of Public Programs at NYPL describes the draw of live events

New York, N.Y., May 11, 2009--By nine o’clock Monday night, things began to close down in the Celeste Bartos Forum in the New York Public Library. Volunteers were lowering lights, folding tables and winding up cords, but the atmosphere was still kinetic.

The library has just been energized by another session of NYPL Live, seasonal series of public debates, discussions, and performances open to the public. The setup of NYPL Live encourages an iron on iron effect, and sparks fly during sessions.

Some nights, the Forum takes on the function of wrestling ring as speakers face off to debate a slew of topics, as Rev. Al Sharpton and author Christopher Hitchens did there in 2007. Other nights, it has the chemistry of a fireside discourse, as seen between President Bill Clinton and historian John Hope Franklin in 2005.

This night, Architect Frank Gehry, New Yorker music critic Alex Ross and Barbara Isenberg, author of Conversations with Frank Gehry, had held an animated discussion before the packed room.

Though the major dialogue was over, hundreds more had ignited between audience members as they meandered out the door. Witnessing this bustle of activity and quiet buzz of discussion brings great satisfaction to Kim Irwin, Associate Manager of Public Programs at NYPL. If this continuing conversation is sparked, then NYPL Live has fulfilled its goal, said Irwin.

Irwin is a strong believer in the power of conversation. The setup of NYPL Live encourages an iron on iron effect, and sparks fly during sessions. Irwin notes the chemistry between President Bill Clinton and historian John Hope Franklin in 2005, the explosive debate between Rev. Al Sharpton and author Christopher Hitchens in 2007, and the inspiration she received from journalist Bill Moyer in 2006.

Though public forums have long been held at NYPL, NYPL Live has existed in its current format for the past five years. Director of Public Programs Paul Holdengräber, who directs NYPL Live, came from Los Angeles to breathe new life into the event in 2004. Since then he has redeveloped the program to attract people of all ages, and many sessions have been sold out.

“I think what Paul tries to do here is really create a strong, vibrant energy in the room. It becomes more of an interactive situation,” Irwin said. “He believes strongly that the library should be a place where ideas can be bandied about.”

Celeste Bartos Forum

Irwin came shortly after Holdengräber, arriving from Durham, NC in 2005. Previously she had worked as a visual and performing artist. Although she is still committed to her art, Irwin said the unique demands of her job make it harder to pursue.

Irwin has to wear many hats in her role. She supervises interns and volunteers, works with contacts and publicity, constantly brainstorms for programs, and even has to work on graphic design and flyers. Because the program’s budget has been significantly cut due to the economy, the NYPL Live staff has had to become extra creative.

“You just try to do what can be done. It’s really a challenging kind of thing, but very interesting. Every day is something new.”

While it is very busy job, Irwin also finds it inspiring.

“I just was very interested in this program because I’ve always done projects on my own to bring people together and do something that’s dynamic,” she said. “You don’t know where its going to go, whether its going to flop or to be brilliant -- but you take the risk.”

Irwin says that the strength and energy of the event ultimately lie in it its spontaneity. She believes that this feature is what will continue to draw audience members away from their televisions and computers and back to the library.

“Live events are always going to be unedited, straight from the horses mouth,” she said. “By the time we hear stories from the media, everything is so manipulated and skewed. When its live…anything can happen.”

The NYPL Series is open to the public, and is a prime opportunity for locals and visitors to engage in stimulating cultural conversation. Topics run the gamut, so check the schedule at www.nypl.org/live. Tickets are $25, available at the library in advance or on the website.

Blogs, Messages in bottles, Golden Records, Ancient Frisbees---and the Literature of Self

2009-05-09T02:53:00.002-04:00

I was first introduced to the world of ancient Minoa through my teacher’s warped illustrations on the whiteboard in Ancient History.

Mr. Foreman made full use of that board, covering it with vague maps of the isle of Crete, bloated illustrations of Minoan ceramics, crooked-columned temples, and, in one particular case that got him in a bit of trouble, a very-well-endowed goddess of fertility.

Mr. Foreman was no artist, but his drawings captivated me--particularly his drawing one morning of a large circle with a maze spiraling through it. He began to scrawl out hieroglyphic-looking characters in blocks curving through the circle, and asked us what we thought the drawing was of.

No one could come with a decent answer. A few hesitantly lent a few possibilities, like shields and burial markers, but he responded to each of us with a shrug. “You don’t know what it is?” he asked. We responded with obligatory silence. “Neither does anyone else. No one has decrypted the ancient Phaistos Disc for hundreds of years. No one.”

[The Phaistos Disc]

That resounding “No one” continued to ring through my ears as he described how the disc had been found on Crete one hundred years before, and how countless scholars had poured over the scratched symbols to no avail.

I remember riding home with my brother that day, imagining what could possibly be written on those tablets. That afternoon I went straight to the library to find whatever I could about the disc. Usually only a footnote in books about Minoan culture, the disc stared at me from the pages--and all I could hear was “Read me! I have not been read for so long!”

Every child-like fantastical fiber in me cried out that it gave the instructions to a portal into another dimension, or directions to the lost isle of Atlantis. I must admit, I dwelled on the possibility of aliens. Ancient wizards were not far out of the picture, either.

I then tried to look at it less dramatically. Maybe it was a special plate, as the archaeologist who discovered it originally thought. Maybe it was an ancient discus-Frisbee-thing, to be flung across the wide Minoan fields for sport. Maybe it was an ancient board game of sorts. Do not pass go, do not take 200 bone beads.

Then I would try to be especially realistic (boring). It was probably a tablet of laws, or a celebrated ballad. It seems like 90% of all ancient artifacts are related to cooking or religion, so I could always settle on that.

But I could not settle. The Phaistos Disc made me want to be a philologist, an archaeologist, and Greek. Indiana Jones-like fantasies popped into my head. I would get my hands on the disc. I would gently blow the dust off the disc in a dimly-lit room, trace my fingers over the scrawled signs--maybe make a crayon-rubbing or two.

And one fine day, something would click. I would make an ingenious connection and the code would unravel. I would then be the first to read an ancient script in over 3,000 years. The mere idea of being the first person to read a message carved out thousands of years before was exhilarating.

What is lost when a culture’s words go missing? In one history class, my professor explained what historians call the “puzzle of interiority.” This is the problem we have when trying to read into a culture’s personality and value systems using the scant fossils of civilization we have left. Unless we find relevant script of some kind, or significant evidence of ritual, we have no idea what was important to people.

My professor remarked that the majority of cuneiform writing samples found in the ruins of Babylon regard two topics: beer and slaves. In Babylon’s case, Time selected what was important for posterity.

What would the Babylonians have selected, if they had known they needed a few good tablets to leave behind for our perusal? Would it have been their greatest literature? Their most successful laws? What would theMinoans have included? Would they have left behind some kind of a key to the Phaistos Disc?

This sense of intentionality and the hope to be remembered is what drove NASA’s Golden Record project in 1977. When the Voyager lifted off that year, it clasped a large gold-plated record that contained thousands of earth-noises and images. Carl Sagan chaired the committee that gathered and selected the bits that would be included.

On the record are human voices saying hello in hundreds of languages, and the eerie singing of blue whales. There are the sounds of kissing, thunderstorms, and symphonies by Bach. A bit of earth and a bit of humanity were transposed onto the disc and blasted off into space with the purpose of introducing ourselves to…anyone out there. The following message was fixed to the record case:

We cast this message into the cosmos…

Of the 200 billion stars in the Milky Way galaxy, some — perhaps many — may have inhabited planets and space faring civilizations. If one such civilization intercepts Voyager and can understand these recorded contents, here is our message: We are trying to survive our time so we may live into yours. We hope someday, having solved the problems we face, to join a community of Galactic Civilizations. This record represents our hope and our determination and our goodwill in a vast and awesome universe.

[The Voyager Golden Record]

When I first heard about this venture on a radio show, I had dueling reactions: utter scorn and total inspiration. I kept laughing as I was hearing about this grand effort, shaking my head at the futility of it all. Never mind if you believe aliens exist or not.

Let’s assume for a moment that they do. They will never stumble across a tiny little spider of a probe in all the massive, infinite light years of space, I can guarantee that.

But suppose they do. And just suppose that right before the eight-eyed green men deem it another piece of interstellar compost, one of them has an epiphany. “Oh, DUH we’re supposed to LISTEN to it, because of course we have lots of record players up here, not to mention ears. How lucky of us! Hey lets give them honorary membership in our community of Galactic Civilizations!” Chances are it will get sucked into a black hole before this opportunity arrives.

Oh, but my heart also lept at this proposition. As silly as it sounded, it was so inarguably hopeful and ballsy for our little planet that I wanted to get out a banner with “GO HUMANS” emblazoned across it and hang it from my own rocket ship. We just wanted to throw ourselves out there, and we did.

It makes me wonder if anyone’s thought about the Phaistos Disk being a magic record. “We are trying to survive our time.” I get that. Lone survivors of shipwrecks cast bottles with rolled up messages out to sea. Emily Dickinson wrote letters to the world that never wrote to her. And volumes of personal essays keep getting published.

I marvel that we have reached a period of time in human civilization where the personal essay is a possibility. We live in a plush 21^st century world. We don’t have to worry about carrying water from the river two miles away. We don’t have to stay up all night keeping a lookout for saber-toothed tigers or battering rams.

We’re at a point where we’re worried about saving the environment--not worried about surviving the environment. We do not have to partake corporately in huge projects involving chisels and stones in order to record our histories, laws, and beliefs. We can each do so on our glossy blogs and Facebooks.

We live in an age where individuals are their own civilizations--their own planets. We each encrypt our stones of remembrance, and record the sounds from our world. This is not to say that humans haven’t always been complex and filled with a universe of words and wonderings and revelations--it’s just that now we have the time, ability , and space (especially with the advent of the mysterious internet) to and celebrate and use that more than ever before.

My roommate and I were talking about the possibility of future Internet archaeology.

Will there ever be a time when there is just so much information that we have to conduct full-scale digging operations to excavate sites and documents from the past? It’s hard to know what the touchstones are for our age.

The same crotchety side of me that scoffs at NASA’s attempts to introduce our globe to the aliens periodically scoffs at the idea of the blog, and the memoir, and even the personal essay. Kuisa Korhonen’s questions proffered at the beginning of the essay “Textual Friendship: The Essay as an Impossible Encounter” are mine, too:

…When Montaigne described his own Essais, he frequently and explicitly denied his work’s cognitive and aesthetic value, claiming that his work was neither dulce nor utile. Why, then, should the reader bother? Why should one spend valuable time on a book which claims neither to educate nor to entertain its reader; which, as a source of knowledge; is openly unreliable; and which, as an aesthetic source of knowledge, is strikingly disjointed, unfinished, and out of proportion?

The utilitarian in me cries, “Come on--if you’re going to take the time to write something, go chisel an ode into a tablet for the good of mankind! Let’s do some thinking about posterity here. Why cram more space with your personal mind-meanderings?”

And then--inexplicably--I find myself staking flags, claiming space for my mind to colonize, cramming much more than my share of space with marginalia. I have to write all my letters to the world. I make a blog.

I have to throw my bottles out to sea, even if I expect that the only ones who will notice them are a school of brim and some indifferent algae. I rocket my opinions into space, even though there is a good chance that that probe will float through hushed, unbroken space…blinking a lonely little red light for all eternity.

That is why there is something really intriguing about the personal essay. It is an attempt. It’s not about anticipating legacy, or hoping to reach audiences in the future--and yet it is built on a hope to connect.

Writers must write to present reality--but in a strange way, they’re also writing beyond that. We talked in class about how essay-writing was both so selfish and oddly selfless.

Carl Sagan responded to critics of his record with the following statement: "The spacecraft will be encountered and the record played only if there are advanced space-faring civilizations in interstellar space. But the launching of this 'bottle' into the cosmic 'ocean' says something very hopeful about life on this planet."

The act of writing and reading essays seems irrepressibly hopeful, too, like encrypting and decrypting our own Phaistos discs. As Korhonen writes, “A text is a trace of someone I do not know…In other words, in a text I can discern evidence of an Other who has passed through the same world that I occupy, evidence of time that is forever gone, time that has not (and never will be) mine.”

We endlessly try to justify the necessity of the essay. I get mixed up when I think about the Phaistos Disk and the Golden Record and attempt and decay and mystery and value and means to ends and the vital act of humans writing things down.

With Word creation was formed from void--and I think the conversation continues. The disc still waits to be deciphered. The Golden Record is still chugging into the void. Countless bottles are sitting on the murky ocean floor. And essayists will continue to write.

The Argument of Her Blog

2009-04-25T01:49:00.000-04:00

The following Robert Herrick poem sparked some inspiration in me today. Herrick put it at the beginning of his book of verse Hesperides, to give a preview he would write about. It has plenty of great ideas--maybe I should blog about some of these things.

__________________

The Argument of His Book

I sing of brooks, of blossoms, birds, and bowers,

Of April, May, of June, and July flowers.

I sing of Maypoles, hock carts, wassails, wakes,

Of bridegrooms, brides, and of their bridal cakes.

I write of youth, of love, and have access

By these to sing of cleanly wantonness.

I sing of dews, of rains, and, piece by piece,

Of balm, of oil, of spice, and ambergris.

I sing of times trans-shifting, and I write

How roses first came red and lilies white.

I write of groves, of twilights, and I sing

The court of Mab and of the fairy king.

I write of hell; I sing (and ever shall)

Of heaven, and hope to have it after all.

________________

April, May, June, July -- it'll all spill out here. There will definitely be some bridal cakes to write about. Don't know about the hock carts yet.

Growing season

2009-04-24T00:06:00.000-04:00

It seems somewhat approproate to plant a blog in the spring. We'll see what pops up.