Confessions of a Modern Gentlewoman

The Gentlewoman Remains.

2014-08-15T02:40:00.002+01:00

Voila! A puff of dust, a rubbing at your eyes... and here I am.

But god, what has become of this space?

There are still followers? That seems hard to believe. Are you still out there? Have you not suffocated in the void? Moved on to greener digital pastures?

And what could I still have to say, after such a deafening silence? This goes back to my basic aversion to the inherent narcissism of blogging, but maybe there's something...

I've started a little poetry blog as well, but that is strictly for poetry-- a pursuit which I'm owning up to more and more these days. Who would have thought? I think I will take back up this space as a site of reflection and general spleen-vent. Sound good, cold world?

A little sign of life

2012-09-28T17:50:00.000+01:00

Here it is: a little sign of life. A flickering in the incandescent world of the digital that there might still be someone twitching at the end of this tin can string.

Life is fast and patchy roundabouts this place. Your favourite Gentlewoman has two new gentledogs who are the spring in her step and the chew marks on her shoes. Pictures forthwith.

Watch this space.

Born to dis-satisfaction?

2012-03-07T17:01:00.001+00:00

"There is no passion to be found in settling for a life that is less than the one you are capable of living." -- Nelson Mandela

At the outset, let me set a few parameters: I am a very big fan of Nelson Mandela and all that he has come to stand for in South Africa and the world at large, that the work that he did and the establishment of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission are inspirations to me and have inspired an awful lot of my academic work. That said, this quote bothers me.

And here's why:

How do we know what kind of life we are capable of living? What ever happened to the societal paradigm where we were born into a community, we did the best with what we had but did not necessarily seek to enlarge our lot, only to improve it through reasonable means, and died snug in a faith we didn't challenge? Now, I'm clearly not for this sort of thing-- I've been hopping international fences and taking classes in existential philosophy for too long now to pretend that I espouse this belief, but whatever happened to it and why do we have to doom ourselves to a lacklustre life if we fail to live a life which fully tests the limits of our capacity?

From birth in the First World we are pumped full of rhetoric regarding our capabilities; we are each destined for greatness, there's nothing we can't do if we set our minds to it, reach for the stars, aim high, genius is in the eye of the beholder and other such platitudes of bullshit. It's not really true. Yes, there are those among us who have the grey matter to make an impact upon the lives of others and maybe the social consciousness of our time, but they have to have the ambition to do so, the funding to procure the education which will enable them to do so, the luck to acquire either good health or the money to buy it, and the sheer roulette of fortune to make the connections and favourable impressions which will open the proper doors and the opportune times. That's more than any one person can control all by their lonesome, and yet we tell our children all these lies and dress them up as encouragement. We're not all capable of finding a cure for cancer. Not all of us are cut out for rocket science. In fact, a fair few of us aren't really college material.

Controversial? I suppose, but we're not all created equal in any way but rights and possibly the eyes of a benign creator if you go in for that sort of thought. If not, this all gets a lot bleaker. If you do, then the hope which is chalk and pinion to existence remains.

We aren't all brain boxes, but we can work steadily and heartily to the best of our ability. Is that what Mr. Mandela meant? That we can only find passion in pushing the boundaries of our lives and intentions wherever we find ourselves rather than offering another quote to the halls of high school graduation platitude? Can we not enjoy the passion of fulfilment at the end of a day of honest labour, of a cold drink on a hot day and the trembling of exercised muscles and a quiet mind? Can't we be happy with a quiet and ordinary life, or must we always be plagued by the creeping, whispering sprite of malcontent that we could have done better, that we might have dressed in silks and ermine and led a life of greater height?

And what precisely is this passion which we're supposed to want in our lives or else be doomed to live in the diminished lack? Google provides the definition of the noun as "1. Strong and barely controllable emotion; 2. A state or outburst of such emotion. Synonyms: rage, ardour, ardor, anger, love." Now, not to play the Gentlewoman card too heavily, but it would seem that our lives would be a little easier if the persons in control of nuclear arsenals and crude oil reserves had a little less passion in their lives. Does that mean I've condemned them to not living up to their capability?

Now, in all honesty, I've never been much of a fan of passion as such. I find it frequently involves too many fluids, but I am for satisfaction. I am pro-joy. Can we have those fulfilments in a quiet life? Might one gentlewoman find happiness and a piece of sky teaching average students to write simply and occasionally take a holiday to a distant place? Maybe that's why the above quote struck such a sour chord with me this morning, but let me put it to you, gentle and unfamiliar readers:

Must it be settling if our lives are not pushed to the brink? Is passion the aim? Can we be happy without it?

A small smile

2012-02-22T14:48:00.000+00:00

Having very recently lugged myself through the application process for several prospective places of employment and faced with the looming tax deadline, the following quote resonated with astounding clarity.

"We can lick gravity, but sometimes the paperwork is overwhelming." --Werner von Braun

... And thus we say, amen.

What to think

2012-02-09T15:28:00.000+00:00

... a Gentlewoman might wonder. What to think about a great many things.

As previously discussed, the Gentlewoman has recently found a new home. Well, almost. They're in the process of drawing up the paperwork, and then there's a fair bit of construction which will need to be done to renovate the attic space and convert it into a bedroom, bathroom and a sitting room (which she has no doubts will be colonised by childrens' toys and media equipment as soon as the flooring is down). Until then, the hobo life is all the rage these days.
No, really, there is the coworker of the Gentlewoman's Gentleman-Friend who happens to have two completely unfurnished bedrooms in his nearly unfurnished house where they can sleep on air mattresses and she can continue to wage her war on cobwebs and that particular species of thin-legged and beige-bodied spider that seems to live in all ranch-style house bathrooms. She hates them.
Living in such forced minimalist zen surroundings has given our Good Lady a bit of time to think. And what has she thought about? That living in a town where nobody locks their doors if they can see the door to their neighbours, in a town where a car can be left running while the driver runs in to the dry cleaners, where the library has a cat who wanders indiscriminately in and out of the front door and nobody worries, where all these comfortable safeties continue to exist everyday, how mean and hard-scrabble has life been previously and elsewhere?
Is this really a place where people get along? Can it be?

2012

2012-01-12T21:30:00.002+00:00

So, a few things have changed:

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

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

Saturday Sweet

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

It starts to open...

...And opens a little more...

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

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

See-- Flowers AND tea!

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

Still going into the evening.

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

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

Marrakesh, Pt. II: The Souks

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

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

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

Gardens adjacent to the Mosque

My travel companions, Lulls and Alpha

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

A view of the mountains from the gardens

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

Most of this is sheep and camel wool for rugs.

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

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

Alpha, humouring me.

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

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

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

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

2 men working side by side, rinsing the hides.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Terrace of Cafe Arabe.

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

Giant woven rooftop teapot? Yes, please!

Sunlight through the shade umbrella.

Oranges in the tree and a motorcycle = fabulousness!

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

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

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

Marrakesh, Pt. I: The Riad

2011-03-26T12:48:00.001+00:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Upstairs hallway overlooking central courtyard.

Door to our bedroom

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

Three beds for we three tired travellers

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

Ceiling of the bedroom with this nifty and highly illuminating lamp

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

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

Les Trois Palmiers... makes sense

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

Beautiful seating in the atrium

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

Looking up

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

Plunge pool and mosaic backsplash

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

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

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

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

The tops of Les Trois Palmiers

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

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

Rooftop terrace

A lemon on a lemon tree? Yes, please!

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

Detail of the gin rummy snug ceiling

Another ideal spot for confidences

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

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

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

In memoriam

2011-03-11T12:56:00.000+00:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

For Our Lady

2011-02-27T17:49:00.002+00:00

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

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

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

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

It's coming...

2011-02-25T19:24:00.000+00:00

Wild croci outside the University Office!

Slowly but surely, the signs are everywhere.

Lingering Recommendation from a Stellar Monday Night

2011-02-21T22:37:00.001+00:00

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

Intrigued? You should be.

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

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

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

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

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

Sunday, Sunday

2011-02-20T18:15:00.001+00:00

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

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

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

Pussy willow, poppy, hyacinth, tulips

Detail

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

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

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

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

Saturday Sweet

2011-02-19T13:34:00.001+00:00

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

The etched bottom of the decanter.

Nearly Spring

2011-02-18T11:49:00.000+00:00

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

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

Notebook

2011-02-17T22:06:00.003+00:00

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

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

... And let's reinvigorate!

2011-02-15T21:02:00.001+00:00

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Poppies and Brush Roses, January 2011

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

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

Ow.

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

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

A tooth extraction.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thoughts on those who keep badmouthing public health care

2010-03-24T18:56:00.002+00:00

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

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

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

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

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

... Take that.

Something for Myself

2010-03-23T14:35:00.003+00:00

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

So what did your embattled heroine do, you ask?

She went to a concert.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Hey, look-- I can read!

2010-03-15T14:29:00.003+00:00

... Yay, literacy!

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

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

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

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

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

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

More about this after the break!

Books

2010-03-09T10:46:00.003+00:00

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

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

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

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

Grading

2010-03-05T14:45:00.002+00:00

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

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

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

*FACE/PALM.

YAY!

2010-03-01T14:16:00.002+00:00

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

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

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

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