I'm still not used to the fact that I live in the desert, in one of the most popular holiday destinations in the world. When I fly in and see the sun beating down on the mountains, the tall saguaros dotting the sparse expanse of desert, I still feel like I'm going on vacation, not coming home. Which isn't a bad feeling to have. Ali said that when she first flew into Tucson, she thought that the cacti landscaping was "so cute," until she drove out past the airport and realized that the same stuff grows wild along the roads. This is big sky country, and tumbleweed does occasionally blow across the road as you drive.
I am home. The night of graduation, I decided to go with Sorina to the airport, catching the bus at 2 a.m. We didn't sleep (this is getting to be a habit with me--I'm just waiting for all the sleep deprivation to kick in), watched a three hour Bollywood film with Reshma and Pat that had us laughing and crying and dancing over the sofas in Lincoln College's rec room. Then with their help, I dragged some extraordinarily heavy suitcases across Oxford to the bus station. (I was going to mail all the books and papers back - The Riverside Chaucer alone probably weighs 10 pounds - but even slow mail would have cost 54 pounds, so that wasn't happening!)
The idea was to drop off Sorina and my luggage, then head into London for the morning, hitting the British Museum again (I can't think of that place without a sigh), then coming back for my afternoon flight. I am rather impulsive. I don't always check out the options thoroughly, so didn't find out that they wouldn't let me check my luggage until 3 hours before the flight, and the storage place would charge me 24 pounds (48 dollars). So I stayed at the airport, took naps on top of my luggage, and looked like the Bride of Frankenstein by the time I climbed on the plane.
Rolled off the plane and school started the next day. I just heard this morning in the staff meeting about the liquid bomb terrorist plot - I missed that one by two whole days. I flew direct to Phoenix. I went straight to the Langs' pool and took a swim. There are worse things than coming home to a pool surrounded by mountains, lying on a raft and staring up into a cloudless sky. Yesterday I got in my car and drove, windows down, across the desert, back to Tucson.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Last Week in Oxworld
This week - my last in Oxford and England - the sun was shining, and while the paper occupied most of my waking (and dreaming) hours, I did manage to explore. There are a few things I never did get around to - piking on the Thames (that's similar to pushing along in a Venetian gondola), wandering through Blenheim palace, where they filmed Branagh's Hamlet, going back to the orgasmic British Museum. But all in all, I covered a lot of territory.
Tuesday I saw The Tempest in Stratford upon Avon, with Patrick Stewart portraying Prospero. It was a ticket I had procured on my own, not with the school, and so I had my first experience in the nose-bleed seats of the RSC Theatre, where I, the poor student, would have sat if I weren't in this masters program. All six of the productions I'd previously attended were tickets bought by the school a year in advance, so we were front and center, able to gauge shoe sizes and the viscosity of actors' spit. The balcony seats were a whole other experience. We were so high that at points the actors, walking forward on the stage, were cut off from vision. Having attended numerous balcony productions in the past, I hate to say, it does make a difference to the theatrical experience if you can only see the tops of performers' heads.
The performance was excellent, though, I could tell. :) The Tempest is set on an island off of Africa, and as such is usually imagined as a warm, even tropical island. This one set it in the Arctic/Antarctic, apparently based loosely on the Shackleton expedition to Antarctica 1914-16 expedition, in which their ship was crushed by pack ice but, despite lack of supplies, all the men survived. So this production had most of the characters bundled up, although, interestingly, only Caliban wore animal skins - and Prospero's magic cloak was made of animal skin. For those not familiar with the play, Caliban (of African origin) is enslaved by the Italian ex-duke and magician Prospero; Caliban is referred to as a deformed monster. But is he deformed, or does he just look different than the Europeans? That depends on the production. You can see the post-colonial issues this would raise.
The last day of class our professor, John Fyler, took the six of us to London to the National Gallery, British Museum, a cheese shop, but most importantly, the British Library, where we drooled over the oldest manuscript of Beowulf (circa 1100 a.d.), the Magna Carta (1215), a 15th century edition of the Canterbury Tales, Shakespeare's first folio, and original hand-written manuscripts or scores by Woolfe, Joyce, Austen, the Bronte sisters, Mozart, Handel, et al. English teacher candy.
Every spare moment I worked on the paper...through dinner and breakfast, then with Sorina over my shoulder telling me to hurry up so we could go see Stonehenge. So I reluctantly emailed in an imperfect version that wouldn't get more perfect in the next few hours. We caught the train for Salisbury and a bus from there to Stonehenge.
Ah, Stonehenge.
You drive along the highway, come up over a hill and there it is - directly in line of view, just off the highway. Enormous. The stones are much taller and larger than I'd imagined. They won't let you walk within the stones or touch them anymore. Conflicting reports as to why: tourist destruction, the Druid/new agey congregations who descend on it for summer and winter solistice. It wasn't built by the Druids, who apparently came to England 1,000 years after building began in 3100 B.C. OLD.
Friday evening and Saturday Paul came to visit from Birmingham, and I dragged him all over Oxford, to the top of St. Mary's cathedral, past the ancient Egyptian arefacts at the Ashmolian museum, to the dark oak-paneled walls of the Eagle and Child, where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien met and smoked pipes.
Saturday evening was graduation, and I sang soprano (!) with the madrigals. Sort of glossed over the high F, but otherwise, we sounded fine. It was an easy crowd, most of them just glowing with the knowledge that they'd finally completed a five-year master's program and were going to drink Pimms in the rector's garden (normally off-limits to us plebians). They knew they'd made it when they got to walk on the grass - the green, green grass that the master lawnsman would cut every other morning and lovingly smooth with fertilizer. I put my toe on it, and it was soft and spongy like moss on a faery hill.
Tuesday I saw The Tempest in Stratford upon Avon, with Patrick Stewart portraying Prospero. It was a ticket I had procured on my own, not with the school, and so I had my first experience in the nose-bleed seats of the RSC Theatre, where I, the poor student, would have sat if I weren't in this masters program. All six of the productions I'd previously attended were tickets bought by the school a year in advance, so we were front and center, able to gauge shoe sizes and the viscosity of actors' spit. The balcony seats were a whole other experience. We were so high that at points the actors, walking forward on the stage, were cut off from vision. Having attended numerous balcony productions in the past, I hate to say, it does make a difference to the theatrical experience if you can only see the tops of performers' heads.
The performance was excellent, though, I could tell. :) The Tempest is set on an island off of Africa, and as such is usually imagined as a warm, even tropical island. This one set it in the Arctic/Antarctic, apparently based loosely on the Shackleton expedition to Antarctica 1914-16 expedition, in which their ship was crushed by pack ice but, despite lack of supplies, all the men survived. So this production had most of the characters bundled up, although, interestingly, only Caliban wore animal skins - and Prospero's magic cloak was made of animal skin. For those not familiar with the play, Caliban (of African origin) is enslaved by the Italian ex-duke and magician Prospero; Caliban is referred to as a deformed monster. But is he deformed, or does he just look different than the Europeans? That depends on the production. You can see the post-colonial issues this would raise.
The last day of class our professor, John Fyler, took the six of us to London to the National Gallery, British Museum, a cheese shop, but most importantly, the British Library, where we drooled over the oldest manuscript of Beowulf (circa 1100 a.d.), the Magna Carta (1215), a 15th century edition of the Canterbury Tales, Shakespeare's first folio, and original hand-written manuscripts or scores by Woolfe, Joyce, Austen, the Bronte sisters, Mozart, Handel, et al. English teacher candy.
Every spare moment I worked on the paper...through dinner and breakfast, then with Sorina over my shoulder telling me to hurry up so we could go see Stonehenge. So I reluctantly emailed in an imperfect version that wouldn't get more perfect in the next few hours. We caught the train for Salisbury and a bus from there to Stonehenge.
Ah, Stonehenge.
You drive along the highway, come up over a hill and there it is - directly in line of view, just off the highway. Enormous. The stones are much taller and larger than I'd imagined. They won't let you walk within the stones or touch them anymore. Conflicting reports as to why: tourist destruction, the Druid/new agey congregations who descend on it for summer and winter solistice. It wasn't built by the Druids, who apparently came to England 1,000 years after building began in 3100 B.C. OLD.
Friday evening and Saturday Paul came to visit from Birmingham, and I dragged him all over Oxford, to the top of St. Mary's cathedral, past the ancient Egyptian arefacts at the Ashmolian museum, to the dark oak-paneled walls of the Eagle and Child, where C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien met and smoked pipes.
Saturday evening was graduation, and I sang soprano (!) with the madrigals. Sort of glossed over the high F, but otherwise, we sounded fine. It was an easy crowd, most of them just glowing with the knowledge that they'd finally completed a five-year master's program and were going to drink Pimms in the rector's garden (normally off-limits to us plebians). They knew they'd made it when they got to walk on the grass - the green, green grass that the master lawnsman would cut every other morning and lovingly smooth with fertilizer. I put my toe on it, and it was soft and spongy like moss on a faery hill.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
Still Writing
It occurs to me that part of the problem with writing papers is that coming up with a thesis is still mysterious.
It's true that you can train your mind to look for certain patterns, ask certain questions and think more critically about genre, style, narrative chocies, etc. There are key themes that occur throughout literature (and life): public versus private modes of behavior, the search for and construction of identity, individual vs. society, questions about the function of text, and of interpretation and misreading. But when it comes down to it, what makes a great thesis is the mind making a connection when you're staring out into space. Magnitudes of brilliance aside, it's really not all that different from the scene in A Beautiful Mind when John Nash sees patterns in the people around him in a bar. You've been poring over the material and made lots of lists--every time the word "chaunged," "exchaunge," or transfigure comes up in a book, for example--but nothing makes sense until the brain goes 'Aha!'
Of course, sometimes it never does. Then you write a paper that is mostly trite and boring, hoping that your painstaking research and your brain-bashing come across anyway.
Try explaining this way of coming up with theses to a high school student.
I don't. I demystify as much as possible with all the above tricks about themes and patterns and word usage. But I understand why so many of my students struggle writing papers or coming up with theses (although it is so incredibly easy to come up with ideas for them...easy to do for others...). I think (don't tell them!) that I'm going to go a tad easier on the grading this coming year. I was a hard ass last year, and they came to respect me for it, but...when I think of some of the work my students have done this last year, I remember my own (much less accomplished) writing at the same time in high school, and am so proud of them.
Now back to my own paper. Here is the introduction, first paragraph, and conclusion, for those of you willing to struggle through the Middle English quotes.
* * *
It's true that you can train your mind to look for certain patterns, ask certain questions and think more critically about genre, style, narrative chocies, etc. There are key themes that occur throughout literature (and life): public versus private modes of behavior, the search for and construction of identity, individual vs. society, questions about the function of text, and of interpretation and misreading. But when it comes down to it, what makes a great thesis is the mind making a connection when you're staring out into space. Magnitudes of brilliance aside, it's really not all that different from the scene in A Beautiful Mind when John Nash sees patterns in the people around him in a bar. You've been poring over the material and made lots of lists--every time the word "chaunged," "exchaunge," or transfigure comes up in a book, for example--but nothing makes sense until the brain goes 'Aha!'
Of course, sometimes it never does. Then you write a paper that is mostly trite and boring, hoping that your painstaking research and your brain-bashing come across anyway.
Try explaining this way of coming up with theses to a high school student.
I don't. I demystify as much as possible with all the above tricks about themes and patterns and word usage. But I understand why so many of my students struggle writing papers or coming up with theses (although it is so incredibly easy to come up with ideas for them...easy to do for others...). I think (don't tell them!) that I'm going to go a tad easier on the grading this coming year. I was a hard ass last year, and they came to respect me for it, but...when I think of some of the work my students have done this last year, I remember my own (much less accomplished) writing at the same time in high school, and am so proud of them.
Now back to my own paper. Here is the introduction, first paragraph, and conclusion, for those of you willing to struggle through the Middle English quotes.
* * *
‘The yerde is bet that bowen wole and wynde’:
(The stick is best that will bow and wind...rather than the one that breaks)
Worldly Mutability and Spiritual Constancy in Troilus and Criseyde
The end of Troilus and Criseyde seems to advise young lovers to reject the mutable world for immutable heaven:
And of youre herte up casteth the visage
To thilke God that after his ymage
Yow made, and thynketh al nys but a faire
This world that passeth soon as floures faire. (v.1838-41)
Yet this is less of a rejection than an acknowledgment that the world is lesser than heaven, transient but at times beautiful as “flowers fair.” All things in the created universe are subject to time and thus to change; empires fall and are built again. Troilus and Criseyde, in its celebration of romantic love and its depiction of love’s tragedy, recognizes that change is often part of a greater cycle of creation and destruction. Only God and, through him, heaven are constant. But while constancy of faith in God is the spiritual ideal, fixity of purpose, when affected by the mutable circumstances of the temporal world, can become entrapment, leading to stagnation or death. Within the confines of a poem, fixity of language shuts down meaning, and stories can become repetitive, flat, and eventually obsolete. Chaucer’s poem demonstrates the necessity of flexibility in a world in which external forces can overturn man’s attempts at immutability and immortality.
The most physical representation of entrapment comes in the form of characters from Ovid’s Metamorphoses. Procne, Philomela, Niobe and Myrrha all enter Troilus and Criseyde as part of the natural world, the animals, plants or objects they have been metamorphosed into. Identifying these non-human objects by the women’s names provides a strong sense that the women themselves are still trapped within the forms, still reliving their respective tragedies:
The swalowe Proigne, with a sorrowful lay,
Whan morwen com, gan make hire waymentynge
Whi she forshapen was; and evere lay
Pandare abedde, half in a slomberynge,
Til she so neigh hym made hire cherterynge
How Tereus gan forth hire suster take. (ii.64-69)
Procne (“Proigne”), as a swallow, can fly but cannot escape her tragedy, of which she has become a perpetual reminder. The nightingale recalls Philomela, the victim of rape; sweating marble recalls the unceasing sorrow of Niobe; and the myrrh tree’s oils recall the tears of Myrrha. Ironically, the transformations have caused these women to become fixed symbols, often for the tragedies they hoped to escape. So too will Criseyde’s name become a symbol for falseness in love, and the real motives of the person Criseyde will cease to exist.
The paradox of mutability is inherently due to perspective. This includes not just that what one person views as fortune another views as misfortune—as when the narrator refers to Troilus’ first sorrow (falling in love) as “Blissed” (i.308)—but the concept that humans’ limited perspective might not see that the mutability is part of the natural scheme of things. “[When] Chaucer’s characters, including ‘Boece,’ the type of the prisoner of Fortune, complain of nature or the stars or Fortune as the determinant of their plight, they are wrong, and simply do not have a large enough vision to get at the real causes. … [T]he failure to perceive causes beyond the natural scheme and Fortune is that ignorance of providence which is pagan and can be damning” (Barney 448). Seen from a distance—of emotion on Pandarus’ part, of time on the author’s and reader’s, and of spiritual ascendance on Troilus’—mutability itself is part of a cycle that is fixed, like fortune’s wheel. What Troilus and later both lovers view as disaster is perhaps winter in the cycle of their lives, and necessary for spring to come again.
Monday, July 31, 2006
Paper Writing Hell
Reporting live from the depths of paper writing hell: it's raining here. It is 3:10 a.m. on my birthday, and I cannot sleep; thoughts of Ovidian tragic heroines and their possible relationship to Chaucer's Troilus and Criseyde are dancing through my head.
I did get my first birthday present at around 11:30 p.m. A thesis! An honest to god original, interesting, I-actually-want-to-write-about-it thesis. Unfortunately, I have to scrap 10 of the 12 pages of well-written but disconnected crap I spent all of Saturday and Sunday doing. BUT. It was all in a higher cause. My slow brain was apparently percolating all that time and I didn't know it.
I often think that by this time in my life, I should be the expert at paper writing. I'm in my second semester of graduate school, and an English teacher, for pete's sake. I should be able to pop these babies out like mentos freshmints. Instead, (in a phrase quoted from a fellow Bread Loafer sitting beside me in the computer room), I feel like I'm giving birth to a hippopotamus. One painful word at a time.
Yes, I can rationalize it and say that the papers are longer--12-20 pages, or more, depending--and require more research in graduate school and that the whole point is to challenge myself, as a scholar, to find something new to say. And it is difficult to get a new word in about guys that have been around for 500+ years. Still, there really shouldn't be four people here in the computer lab watching the sun rise together and filling the wastebasket with handfuls of yanked-out hair.
On the good news front: It's cool today! Almost chilly!
England has been wilting under the heat wave that is also apparently swee the U.S. (Mom - did you really say it hit 100 in Minnesota?) This is apparently the hottest summer England's had on record since 1656 or so. So pretty much since...ever. It's been a pretty special summer. Actually, other than the humidity, I haven't minded it, except that air conditioning isn't so common here. But I am now reveling in my sweaters and enjoying my tea.
I did get my first birthday present at around 11:30 p.m. A thesis! An honest to god original, interesting, I-actually-want-to-write-about-it thesis. Unfortunately, I have to scrap 10 of the 12 pages of well-written but disconnected crap I spent all of Saturday and Sunday doing. BUT. It was all in a higher cause. My slow brain was apparently percolating all that time and I didn't know it.
I often think that by this time in my life, I should be the expert at paper writing. I'm in my second semester of graduate school, and an English teacher, for pete's sake. I should be able to pop these babies out like mentos freshmints. Instead, (in a phrase quoted from a fellow Bread Loafer sitting beside me in the computer room), I feel like I'm giving birth to a hippopotamus. One painful word at a time.
Yes, I can rationalize it and say that the papers are longer--12-20 pages, or more, depending--and require more research in graduate school and that the whole point is to challenge myself, as a scholar, to find something new to say. And it is difficult to get a new word in about guys that have been around for 500+ years. Still, there really shouldn't be four people here in the computer lab watching the sun rise together and filling the wastebasket with handfuls of yanked-out hair.
On the good news front: It's cool today! Almost chilly!
England has been wilting under the heat wave that is also apparently swee the U.S. (Mom - did you really say it hit 100 in Minnesota?) This is apparently the hottest summer England's had on record since 1656 or so. So pretty much since...ever. It's been a pretty special summer. Actually, other than the humidity, I haven't minded it, except that air conditioning isn't so common here. But I am now reveling in my sweaters and enjoying my tea.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
High Table and Awards
Hot and Sweaty at High TableAn event unique to the Oxford Bread Loaf campus is High Table. Every breakfast, lunch, and dinner, we eat in the Lincoln College dining hall, which looks like a smaller version of the dining hall in the Harry Potter movies (those scenes were filmed at Christchurch College, which is just across the street from us): long wooden tables with benches, high cathedral ceilings and windows, long hall adorned with oil portraits of past students or deans. One table is raised on a dais turned perpendicular to the rest where the professors and VIPs sit - hence, High Table.
On High Table nights, we are treated to a lecture from a distinguished scholar. The last two were Christopher Ricks, Warren professor at Boston University and Professor of Poetry at Oxford, and Harriet Walter, who played Cleopatra in the Royal Shakespeare Company production we saw; you may have seen her as Fanny Dashwood in Ang Lee's Sense and Sensibility. Dad asked what Ricks discussed, so here goes: Ricks, who is a noted scholar on everything from Milton and Keats to Bob Dylan, talked about the difficulties facing an editor of a writer's works, particularly if the only copy of a work is in poor handwriting and partially damaged. He has a knack for figuring out what the author probably meant and being able to make it seem obvious. He then proceeded to share with us a number of mistakes that were published in scholarly editions of authors' works, particularly Samuel Beckett, Samuel Johnson, and Tennyson. Some were hilarious. He was a bit like listening to a brilliant, British scholarly version of Bob Dylan, if you can imagine that.
This evening was not High Table, exactly, but was a special event honoring the visit of Jim Maddox, Bread Loaf's Director. Madrigals (including yours truly) sang, and then he presented this year's academic achievment awards. I was under the impression that the awards were only for the senior class (I'm a sophomore), but apparently there were a few exceptions, because, as I was sitting there sweating and twirling my spoon, my name was announced! Don't ask me what particular award it was, because I have no idea! I'm stunned!
Before each award is announced, a brief evaluation/commendation is read about the (still anonymous) student, so that everyone is looking around wondering who could possibly fit that glowing report. I hope they send me a copy, because I wasn't really paying attention until my name was announced - oh yes, they just posted it on our website. “[She was] one of the intellectual stars of my classes at Bread Loaf this summer. She places a great deal of pressure on herself to excel, and excel she does. . . . [Her] writing can be quite lyrical at the same time that it is precise and incisive.” Not too shabby, eh? Since I was only in this program for one summer previously, only one of two teachers could have written that, and I know who: Heather James, who taught the toughest class I've ever taken - Vergil, Ovid, and Shakespeare - the one for whom I was writing a 15 page paper while apartment hunting in Tucson and creating syllabi. Wow, am I glad those days are just a memory.
Friday, July 21, 2006
Bodleian Library
Sorry for the hiatus...my computer screen died and so I will no longer be able to use the laptop; might even have to replace it entirely when I get home. It's just two stinking years old, and for those of you in the know, this is the least of the problems I've had with it. Also, end of the term is coming up and everyone looks pale and exhausted from late night paper-writing. I finished my 14-pager, "A man woot littel what him shal bityde: Astrology and Human Ignorance in the Canterbury Tales," and launched immediately into another 15-pager on Metaphorphosis, Change and Exchaunge in "Troilus and Criseyde." This entailed spending three hours in a sweltering library reading Claude Levi-Strauss' "Elementary Structures of Kinship," which is, to put it simply, a lot of sociological jargon about incest taboos. Yup. That's right. (This so I could write about the exchange of female bodies between the Greeks and the Trojans in the Trojan War.)
The Bodleian Library is Oxford University's main library, which since 1602 has received a copy of every book published in the United Kingdom. The catch is that you are not allowed to borrow books. We had to recite and sign an oath before receiving our library cards, which are only used to get into the buildings. No books can leave the library; you must order all books at least a day in advance, and you can't read them anywhere except the part of the library where you specified you wanted it delivered. Since none of the library reading rooms are air conditioned, and most rooms are on the second or third floors, I am often found in the one available basement room in the three-block library system. The chairs are hard wood with spoke-backs, probably the most uncomfortable reading experience I've had outside of airplanes and buses. Gah. Despite that, I catch myself falling asleep there midafternoons in the 90+humidity heat. The kind that makes your legs stick to the chair and your forearms leave sweaty spots on the table. I can't imagine things are much cooler back home, so I'll just go shower again and pray for rain.
The Bodleian Library is Oxford University's main library, which since 1602 has received a copy of every book published in the United Kingdom. The catch is that you are not allowed to borrow books. We had to recite and sign an oath before receiving our library cards, which are only used to get into the buildings. No books can leave the library; you must order all books at least a day in advance, and you can't read them anywhere except the part of the library where you specified you wanted it delivered. Since none of the library reading rooms are air conditioned, and most rooms are on the second or third floors, I am often found in the one available basement room in the three-block library system. The chairs are hard wood with spoke-backs, probably the most uncomfortable reading experience I've had outside of airplanes and buses. Gah. Despite that, I catch myself falling asleep there midafternoons in the 90+humidity heat. The kind that makes your legs stick to the chair and your forearms leave sweaty spots on the table. I can't imagine things are much cooler back home, so I'll just go shower again and pray for rain.
Monday, July 17, 2006
Serenading Jeb Bush; Standing to Tony and Cleo
Is there to be no escape from the Bushes? Must they follow us here to delay our dinners and rap at our minstrel meetings?
Yesterday evening Lincoln College had the dubious honor of hosting yet another small group of Americans, these hailing from Florida. Jeb Bush is in town, apparently to see some Royal Airforce something or other, and elected to dine at our college because the chef here is rumored the best at Oxford. (I don't believe he was told that the chef is on vacation; or that this is English food after all. How good can it be?) Nothing too exciting to report, other than the number of white men in suits wandering about, lots of sleek black cars out front, and the fact that the madrigals almost weren't allowed to practice for fear that we'd disturb the lawn party. They did bang a bit on our windows, but otherwise left us alone.
Yes - I have dug out my inner diva and joined madrigals. It took a lot of courage to get over my stage fright, but I'm a decent alto, and I've discovered that singing study breaks are more refreshing than naps.
Back on one of my favorite subjects: food. All our meals are part of the tuition here, and I wish they weren't, because there is a covered market down the street that sells scrumptious-looking sandwiches and salads. Healthy things! Vegetables that haven't been boiled until they taste like water! Salads that don't contain mayonnaise. Fish not covered in a suspicious cheese sauce. I give them credit, I do think they make an effort to be creative, but they seem to only be creative in so far as what kind of cheese or cream sauce would work best, and whether to boil or fry the food until it's tasteless.
Lunch and dinner are always three course meals, and always start with soup or mayonnaise-smeared veggies. Sometimes the food is good, just because something with that much calorie-content MUST have taste somewhere. And the desserts are unbelievable: giant slices of blackforest cake, blueberry cheesecake, lemon tarts, raspberry mousse, baked apple.
Yes - I do go jogging every day in Christchurch Park, but there's a gym membership with my name on it when I get back to Arizona. Yikes. I will remember these meals for weeks to come.
* * *
Just got back from Stratford and the RSC's version of "Antony and Cleopatra." Everything about it was magnificent. We were at the Swan, which has been constructed something in the manner of a 16th century theatre, in a horseshoe shape. We were almost on stage with the actors; people in front could almost see under the Roman togas. Patrick Stewart played Antony such that you forgot he was famous; Cleopatra was not beautiful, but you would have described her as so when she walked across the stage with such presence. I fell in love with her. Which is good, because she's coming tomorrow to give a lecture at Lincoln College and then join us for a reception and dinner - "High Table," an event I'll talk about later.
There was dancing, shouting, singing, chanting. Color was used cleverly to contrast the decadence of Egypt--bright pinks and yellows and greens--with the stoicism of Rome--grays and purples and browns. They used all of the stage, including the walkways off to the side, and chased each other around the back. It was an ensemble performance, where they fed off of each other and the audience. We called them back for a standing ovation.
View of the Avon river and the back of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford
Yesterday evening Lincoln College had the dubious honor of hosting yet another small group of Americans, these hailing from Florida. Jeb Bush is in town, apparently to see some Royal Airforce something or other, and elected to dine at our college because the chef here is rumored the best at Oxford. (I don't believe he was told that the chef is on vacation; or that this is English food after all. How good can it be?) Nothing too exciting to report, other than the number of white men in suits wandering about, lots of sleek black cars out front, and the fact that the madrigals almost weren't allowed to practice for fear that we'd disturb the lawn party. They did bang a bit on our windows, but otherwise left us alone.
Yes - I have dug out my inner diva and joined madrigals. It took a lot of courage to get over my stage fright, but I'm a decent alto, and I've discovered that singing study breaks are more refreshing than naps.
Back on one of my favorite subjects: food. All our meals are part of the tuition here, and I wish they weren't, because there is a covered market down the street that sells scrumptious-looking sandwiches and salads. Healthy things! Vegetables that haven't been boiled until they taste like water! Salads that don't contain mayonnaise. Fish not covered in a suspicious cheese sauce. I give them credit, I do think they make an effort to be creative, but they seem to only be creative in so far as what kind of cheese or cream sauce would work best, and whether to boil or fry the food until it's tasteless.
Lunch and dinner are always three course meals, and always start with soup or mayonnaise-smeared veggies. Sometimes the food is good, just because something with that much calorie-content MUST have taste somewhere. And the desserts are unbelievable: giant slices of blackforest cake, blueberry cheesecake, lemon tarts, raspberry mousse, baked apple.
Yes - I do go jogging every day in Christchurch Park, but there's a gym membership with my name on it when I get back to Arizona. Yikes. I will remember these meals for weeks to come.
* * *
Just got back from Stratford and the RSC's version of "Antony and Cleopatra." Everything about it was magnificent. We were at the Swan, which has been constructed something in the manner of a 16th century theatre, in a horseshoe shape. We were almost on stage with the actors; people in front could almost see under the Roman togas. Patrick Stewart played Antony such that you forgot he was famous; Cleopatra was not beautiful, but you would have described her as so when she walked across the stage with such presence. I fell in love with her. Which is good, because she's coming tomorrow to give a lecture at Lincoln College and then join us for a reception and dinner - "High Table," an event I'll talk about later.
There was dancing, shouting, singing, chanting. Color was used cleverly to contrast the decadence of Egypt--bright pinks and yellows and greens--with the stoicism of Rome--grays and purples and browns. They used all of the stage, including the walkways off to the side, and chased each other around the back. It was an ensemble performance, where they fed off of each other and the audience. We called them back for a standing ovation.
View of the Avon river and the back of the Royal Shakespeare Theatre, Stratford
Friday, July 14, 2006
Westminster Abbey and Trafalgar Square, London
July 8, 2006
Westminster Abbey
Today David, Josina, Ketlen and I just decided to hop a bus and go to London for the day. London! It takes on a whole new aspect to me, now that it's the local "big city." It's shed that surreal veneer; when I first visited, I felt as though I were looking out of a postcard. It is real now.
Today we did the tourist thing, spent two hours exploring Westminster Abbey. Stones, thrones, bones, poets, princes and priests. My favorite spot was Poets Corner, where we sought out grave markers and memorial stones to our favorite poets - Chaucer (who, unlike most, has an actual tomb); Auden; Milton; Marvell; Dryden; Tennyson. William Blake had a frightening bust with a massive forhead and glaring eyes. Elizabeth I
and her sister, Mary I ("Bloody Mary") are laid in the same tomb; William of Orange and Mary II just have stones in the floor; Henry VII has a spectacular chapel that he naturally built for himself. Down one of the many stone paths lies a museum with wood and wax effegies of many past kings and queens, made from death masks for verisimilitude.
David in Trafalgar Square
We wandered up to Trafalgar Square - somehow I always end up there - and spent another hour at the National Gallery, and some time in front of the Botticelli "Venus and Mars" and Leonardo's "Virgin and Child with St Anne and St John the Baptist." I saw many, many crucified Christs.
Lord Nelson's memorial is under construction, so the already unfortunate "dude on a stick" looks more uncomfortable than usual. We then drifted through St. James Park, down to Buckingham Palace, through Hyde Park, and caught the bus home, so I could continue to work on my paper on astrology in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. I'll let you know when I've solved the problem of free will with regards to predestination. It's taking some thought...
Westminster Abbey
Today David, Josina, Ketlen and I just decided to hop a bus and go to London for the day. London! It takes on a whole new aspect to me, now that it's the local "big city." It's shed that surreal veneer; when I first visited, I felt as though I were looking out of a postcard. It is real now.
Today we did the tourist thing, spent two hours exploring Westminster Abbey. Stones, thrones, bones, poets, princes and priests. My favorite spot was Poets Corner, where we sought out grave markers and memorial stones to our favorite poets - Chaucer (who, unlike most, has an actual tomb); Auden; Milton; Marvell; Dryden; Tennyson. William Blake had a frightening bust with a massive forhead and glaring eyes. Elizabeth I
and her sister, Mary I ("Bloody Mary") are laid in the same tomb; William of Orange and Mary II just have stones in the floor; Henry VII has a spectacular chapel that he naturally built for himself. Down one of the many stone paths lies a museum with wood and wax effegies of many past kings and queens, made from death masks for verisimilitude.David in Trafalgar Square
We wandered up to Trafalgar Square - somehow I always end up there - and spent another hour at the National Gallery, and some time in front of the Botticelli "Venus and Mars" and Leonardo's "Virgin and Child with St Anne and St John the Baptist." I saw many, many crucified Christs.Lord Nelson's memorial is under construction, so the already unfortunate "dude on a stick" looks more uncomfortable than usual. We then drifted through St. James Park, down to Buckingham Palace, through Hyde Park, and caught the bus home, so I could continue to work on my paper on astrology in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. I'll let you know when I've solved the problem of free will with regards to predestination. It's taking some thought...
Thursday, July 13, 2006
Midsummer Night in London and Caesar at Stratford-upon-Avon
Regent's Park, London
July 6, 2006"A Midsummer Night's Dream" at the Open Air Theatre in Regent's Park, London, was one of the best experiences I've ever had at a theater. We had seats almost on the stage - second row, centered and at the height of the actors - and were entertained with unbelievable physical comedy. They had brilliant comedic timing, and the audience so in the palms of their hands that they could say unfunny lines and have us laughing. There was slapping, screaming, crawling, tugging; at one point, Lysander, trying to demonstrate to Hermia that he'd stopped loving her, takes her to the bushes and smacks her on the forehead, pushing her back into them. The faeries were creepy - a combination of childish innocence and maliciousness. Absolutely perfect for the roles. They were all bald, men and women, and wore Victorian punk: torn white chemises, black hose and Doc Marten boots. Tattoos.
Hampstead Heath and Camden Town
Before the play, Josina and I had tried to get to Keats' House, up by Hampstead Heath. The house had closed by the time we arrived in the area, so we walked through Waterlow Park, then over to Hampstead Heath and up Parliament Hill in the heath. The park is enormous; there are
bike paths everywhere, and it is less carefully cultivated than the other London parks I've seen. Despite consulting our guidebook, we got lost, and spent twenty minutes conversing with a very kind young man, known to us as "the father of Alex," as he held an extremely puzzled-looking baby on his hip. He proceeded to give us unbelievably detailed directions. Eventually we ended up in Camden Town (see picture), which, as the father of Alex described to us, smells like sandwiches.Stratford-upon-Avon
The first week of school here, the entire student body went to see "Julius Caesar" performed by the Royal Shakespeare Comany in Stratford-upon-Avon (Shakespeare's home town and where he is buried). The play was mostly brilliantly acted, except for Mark Anthony - who has the best speech in the play, so that was unfortunate. His diction just wasn't clear, and somehow he wasn't as engaging or charismatic as the other actors: he kept losing my attention, whereas Brutus had me riveted. The murder of Julius was extremely bloody - fake blood flying everywhere. They smeared it on their faces and wore it that way for part of the next scene, which added a pagan, ritualistic feel to it. Otherwise, it's not one of my favorite plays, and despite Brutus and Cassius' passion and charisma, I was ready to leave when it was done.
Before the play, we wandered for a few hours around Stratford. Masha and I walked along the Avon river up to Holy Trinity Church. We were the last tourists able to enter before evensong, and I snapped a photo of the famous gravestone, which lies beside Anne Hathaway, Shakespeare's wife, and Thomas Nash. We then stopped to have ale, fish and chips at the Dirty Duck, a popular hangout for RSC actors since the 18th century. Since we came before the play, we didn't run into any of the troubadors (no Patrick Stewart, of StarTrek fame, who is in The Tempest), but the ale was rather tasty.