Tuesday, February 24, 2009
Sunday, February 15, 2009
The [February] winds lament around the castle of [Edinburgh]
Disclaimer: Camera's battery is dead. Will be stealing pictures soon.
So Roberto and I went to the castle yesterday. Oh, hey, America, that's all you're really lacking. Castles! Barack should build castles. That would stimulate the economy, and offer us fortifications should the Canadians ever decide to invade. We could employ all sorts of masons and architects to build the castles, and if we went back to the huge guns -- like Mon Megs -- then we would employ carpenters to follow the troops around, building and repairing the wagons for said huge guns. Plus, just imagine -- we'd be able to say, "Check out our huge guns!" Caleb would love that, I think.
So I love Robert. He's hilarious. (He's such a cross between Wisconsin and DC and I don't even know what to do with him.) We took pictures of each other in front of the castle, including in front of the big guns that I mentioned. I took his picture with some swords and he took my picture with a man dressed for living history. The castle is cool, but the weather wasn't ideal. Not really drizzly, but threatening, and cold. We waited in line -- oh, about that.
Robert wanted to leave early so we wouldn't have to wait in long lines. Nine AM. Fine by me. I even went to bed early! And set my alarm! I woke up at ten, horrified. My alarm had not gone off, because my phone was still on silent. I was ready by 10:18 and went down to his flat and apologized. He was wrapped in a blanket and looked... well, I interpreted it as irritated, but apparently, it was "sleepy." He muttered "That's okay," and began shutting the door. I got really confused and didn't know if he meant "That's okay, too late now, though," or "That's okay; hold on a second." I waited for a minute before I felt like a creep and went back to my flat. I figured if he still wanted to go, he'd come up and knock. Well! I forgot that I can't hear the door from my room when my door is shut. So at quarter past eleven I got a text from him asking where I was.
And we finally headed out.
Good advice: there is a "one o'clock gun." If you want to see them fire it, be near the entrance at one o'clock. Wear argyle. You'll be so glad you did when you stumble upon Argyle Tower. Susannah knows what I'm talking about. Will would love Argyle Tower, I know, as would J. Crew. The crown jewels were a delight, and an unexpected delight. Moving through the exhibit felt a bit like moving through one of the Salem witch museums, with the figures frozen in a moment and piped-in audio dialogue. There is a nifty family tree, but if you're going to look at the family tree please understand that James V was the father of Mary, Queen of Scots. And her son was James VI, I -- aka the best king ever, besides Bonnie Prince Charlie. The crown jewels gift shop was awesome. They had plastic crowns and tiaras that would have made sixteen year old Ashley freak right out. Margaret's Chapel, built in the 12th century, was tiny and beautiful. The prisons were... unsettling. Though there was a bit of an American Pride moment, when we read about Washington and the most glorious war ever fought. (American Revolution, what?)
It was trippy being in the room where James VI, I was born. I had just done a presentation on him and everything, so it was overwhelming, historically speaking.
This castle is a bit more expensive than you might expect -- if all the museums, or "galleries," are free, the castles are not. It's about ten pounds (not bucks) to get in. If you want a self-guided audio tour, it's another 3.50, and for a guide book in addition to the audio guide, it's even more. They have an extensive gift shop, I'll give them that. The array of Scotch is impressive for a gift shop, as is the selection of whiskey armor they offer. Robert the Bruce not your type? Go for William Wallace. Oh, still too noble for you? Choose the piper! Coming from a place where alcohol is not sold within two feet of children's foam swords, it was, let's say, a revelation.
I went to mass today, at the University's Chaplaincy. Nine AM. I had imagined that it would be entirely older people, but also, that it might be three students and no one else. Well, it was a pretty full mass, for an early morning mass in a city whose official religion is "not Catholic." I guess that just means that all the Catholics go to the same couple of churches. It was such a small room, without pews or kneelers. You decide beforehand if you want to accept the host or not -- someone actually confronted me about this today.
"Excuse me," he said, meaning well. "You forgot your communion."
"Oh, I'm not taking communion," I replied. "I haven't been to confession."
I didn't add "in seven and a half years." Though, the idea of accepting communion without having gone to confession didn't seem to bother him too much. But the mass was quick, without singing. I missed Father Mark's booming "How are you, my children?" and his glorious "Through him, with him, in him." Does it occur to anyone else that he has the perfect voice for being a priest?
Anyway, no kneeling, no singing, no procession. It's the ritual of Catholicism stripped of its pretty. I think, for the most part, I loved it. Except for not understanding most of what they were saying during the prayers. Every time I thought I had figured out what part we were at, they tossed in something new or there was a collective mumble and I lost it. Alas.
The chapel is an old drawing room, and sparse. There was an iron crucifix over the altar, done in avant garde style, and no other decorations at all. Large windows, lots of light, sunny yellow walls. And aside from missing Father Mark (and Father Paul, for that matter...) it was a really lovely ceremony. It was a ceremony without the ritual, I guess. Without the fetishism a more well-funded Catholic church, like Saint Joe's, can afford. The pretty embossed wafers -- though they did have simple wafers, at least, and not pita bread -- and crystal chalices of my youth were nowhere to be found. It actually sort of felt like Catholicism wasn't a huge denomination throughout the world -- which, compared to its prevalence in eastern Massachusetts, especially the South Shore (or, the Irish Riviera), it's really not.
Here's a fun fact: my classes end MARCH 26TH. Yes, you read that correctly. My classes are over March 26th. And then I come home in the first week of June. Chyeah. Three finals spread out over that time, of course, but, really now. What on Earth will I do with myself? Having all that time to write, and to read, and to explore. If you want to come visit me in April or May, please do!
So Roberto and I went to the castle yesterday. Oh, hey, America, that's all you're really lacking. Castles! Barack should build castles. That would stimulate the economy, and offer us fortifications should the Canadians ever decide to invade. We could employ all sorts of masons and architects to build the castles, and if we went back to the huge guns -- like Mon Megs -- then we would employ carpenters to follow the troops around, building and repairing the wagons for said huge guns. Plus, just imagine -- we'd be able to say, "Check out our huge guns!" Caleb would love that, I think.
So I love Robert. He's hilarious. (He's such a cross between Wisconsin and DC and I don't even know what to do with him.) We took pictures of each other in front of the castle, including in front of the big guns that I mentioned. I took his picture with some swords and he took my picture with a man dressed for living history. The castle is cool, but the weather wasn't ideal. Not really drizzly, but threatening, and cold. We waited in line -- oh, about that.
Robert wanted to leave early so we wouldn't have to wait in long lines. Nine AM. Fine by me. I even went to bed early! And set my alarm! I woke up at ten, horrified. My alarm had not gone off, because my phone was still on silent. I was ready by 10:18 and went down to his flat and apologized. He was wrapped in a blanket and looked... well, I interpreted it as irritated, but apparently, it was "sleepy." He muttered "That's okay," and began shutting the door. I got really confused and didn't know if he meant "That's okay, too late now, though," or "That's okay; hold on a second." I waited for a minute before I felt like a creep and went back to my flat. I figured if he still wanted to go, he'd come up and knock. Well! I forgot that I can't hear the door from my room when my door is shut. So at quarter past eleven I got a text from him asking where I was.
And we finally headed out.
Good advice: there is a "one o'clock gun." If you want to see them fire it, be near the entrance at one o'clock. Wear argyle. You'll be so glad you did when you stumble upon Argyle Tower. Susannah knows what I'm talking about. Will would love Argyle Tower, I know, as would J. Crew. The crown jewels were a delight, and an unexpected delight. Moving through the exhibit felt a bit like moving through one of the Salem witch museums, with the figures frozen in a moment and piped-in audio dialogue. There is a nifty family tree, but if you're going to look at the family tree please understand that James V was the father of Mary, Queen of Scots. And her son was James VI, I -- aka the best king ever, besides Bonnie Prince Charlie. The crown jewels gift shop was awesome. They had plastic crowns and tiaras that would have made sixteen year old Ashley freak right out. Margaret's Chapel, built in the 12th century, was tiny and beautiful. The prisons were... unsettling. Though there was a bit of an American Pride moment, when we read about Washington and the most glorious war ever fought. (American Revolution, what?)
It was trippy being in the room where James VI, I was born. I had just done a presentation on him and everything, so it was overwhelming, historically speaking.
This castle is a bit more expensive than you might expect -- if all the museums, or "galleries," are free, the castles are not. It's about ten pounds (not bucks) to get in. If you want a self-guided audio tour, it's another 3.50, and for a guide book in addition to the audio guide, it's even more. They have an extensive gift shop, I'll give them that. The array of Scotch is impressive for a gift shop, as is the selection of whiskey armor they offer. Robert the Bruce not your type? Go for William Wallace. Oh, still too noble for you? Choose the piper! Coming from a place where alcohol is not sold within two feet of children's foam swords, it was, let's say, a revelation.
I went to mass today, at the University's Chaplaincy. Nine AM. I had imagined that it would be entirely older people, but also, that it might be three students and no one else. Well, it was a pretty full mass, for an early morning mass in a city whose official religion is "not Catholic." I guess that just means that all the Catholics go to the same couple of churches. It was such a small room, without pews or kneelers. You decide beforehand if you want to accept the host or not -- someone actually confronted me about this today.
"Excuse me," he said, meaning well. "You forgot your communion."
"Oh, I'm not taking communion," I replied. "I haven't been to confession."
I didn't add "in seven and a half years." Though, the idea of accepting communion without having gone to confession didn't seem to bother him too much. But the mass was quick, without singing. I missed Father Mark's booming "How are you, my children?" and his glorious "Through him, with him, in him." Does it occur to anyone else that he has the perfect voice for being a priest?
Anyway, no kneeling, no singing, no procession. It's the ritual of Catholicism stripped of its pretty. I think, for the most part, I loved it. Except for not understanding most of what they were saying during the prayers. Every time I thought I had figured out what part we were at, they tossed in something new or there was a collective mumble and I lost it. Alas.
The chapel is an old drawing room, and sparse. There was an iron crucifix over the altar, done in avant garde style, and no other decorations at all. Large windows, lots of light, sunny yellow walls. And aside from missing Father Mark (and Father Paul, for that matter...) it was a really lovely ceremony. It was a ceremony without the ritual, I guess. Without the fetishism a more well-funded Catholic church, like Saint Joe's, can afford. The pretty embossed wafers -- though they did have simple wafers, at least, and not pita bread -- and crystal chalices of my youth were nowhere to be found. It actually sort of felt like Catholicism wasn't a huge denomination throughout the world -- which, compared to its prevalence in eastern Massachusetts, especially the South Shore (or, the Irish Riviera), it's really not.
Here's a fun fact: my classes end MARCH 26TH. Yes, you read that correctly. My classes are over March 26th. And then I come home in the first week of June. Chyeah. Three finals spread out over that time, of course, but, really now. What on Earth will I do with myself? Having all that time to write, and to read, and to explore. If you want to come visit me in April or May, please do!
Thursday, February 12, 2009
I still prefer Vincent...
Today, I watched The Passion of the Christ. I feel, now, that I owe him something. Not Mel Gibson (though I'd give him some things for free if he ever came knocking) but Jesus. Which I think was the intent. And for the most part, despite a few hokey moments and a bit too much gore, I though the film was a visual success. The opening scenes in Gethsemane were especially captivating. Though, the end had a sort Saturday morning CCD feel. I was also glad he included "My god, my god, why have you forsaken me?" because that's my single favorite line in the entire Bible. Was that a very weird thing to say? I don't really know. (Alan Hodder might.) But I do know that the entire time I was watching I was also thinking, "I met the man with the thorny crown; I helped him carry his cross through town." Especially when that man actually helped him carry his cross through town! One more: "Blinding me, his song remains, reminding me: he's a bandit and a heartbreaker. My Jesus was a cross-maker."
Anyway, the past week and a half have been busybusy. That's not even true. I've just been hanging out. Saturday, I got my hot chocolate to-go and hit the National Galleries of Modern Art. Exhibits featured "Blind Hollywood," which Sara might appreciate for its irony. The artist took very famous promotional material and cut out the film stars' eyes, replacing them -- or not -- with mirrored paper, black paper, or nothing. Both more and less creepy than carrying Sean Biggerstaff's eyes in your pocket, right S? I wandered through "The Islands" by Charles Avery. Wandered, well, that's a stretch. Stopped and read it all, and there was a lot to read. Curiouser and curiouser. (Does that make anyone else think of Mrs. Lewis? And poor Mr. Lewis, for whom death was surely a glad release?) Avery really thought it all out; it's exceptionally detailed. I stood in awe. No grinding up chalk and calling it art for him, nosir. No throwing paint at a canvas and seeing what sticks. I liked it, really, much more than Jackson Pollock. I'm not buying the print of it -- not even if that were possible -- but I liked it. Made more sense to me than a plain white canvas or some of the stuff Punky and I saw back in Dublin in tenth grade. But van Gogh, well, he's just how I roll, son. Him and Cezanne. Post-impressionism is what's good, children. Remember that.
Then I got to Steve McQueen.
I have a rule. It's a simple rule, and one I had, until recently, never had to enforce. Well, Steve McQueen, congratulations! You've won. Here I was thinking, "I didn't know Steve McQueen made art other than movies!" Which was terribly naive of me, I'm aware. But it's where my mind went. There, and to Harrison Ford, but I miss someone's bright baby blues, I guess.
Anyway, my rule: as soon as a museum makes me cry, I'm done.
Drawer upon drawer of faces the size of postage stamps. Name, age, rank. "If you ask them, they'll tell you." The exhibit is called "For Queen and Country." You're smart; do the 'rithmetic yo'self.
And obviously, the only thing that cures a broken heart is chocolate. So I got some. By which I mean three. I think if Vincent had hot chocolate available to him, he might have been happier.
But I forgot about the three men in kilts. And the bead shop. Oh, dear.
The bead shops. I've found... both of them. Which is to say, the two tiny bead shops that, area-wise, are about 75% of Gemstar, Gemstone -- together. Severely disappointed. And their nicer beads look like cast-offs from America's bargain bins. Which is rough, let me tell you. I'm a bit let down, but now I know why no one on Etsy responded to my pleas for the names of good bead shops in Edinburgh. They don't exist.
Kilts? Yes, please.
Walking toward Stockbridge down a turnpike covered in snow -- and the 'burgh seemed dreamlike on account of the frosting -- I encountered three young, fairly attractive men in kilts. Being rather unashamed of who I am, the girl who takes pictures with Freedom Trail guides for kicks, I asked one of them if I could take his picture.
"Guys, guys! A tourist wants to take a picture!"
He must have said it four or five times. And my question is, why should I be ashamed of being a tourist? I mean, have you seen what they consider to be American culture? Navajo Indians and the Blues Brothers. If I was walking down Boylston Street in full Red Sox super-fan regalia and some Scottish guy asked to take my picture, I'd totally understand. And it wasn't even the kilts, so much as it was the people wearing them. Because I had seen loads of old-timers wearing them. (Old-timers, you know, my fan club?) But young guys with styled hair? Now that's exciting!
Anyway, I took the picture as quickly as possible because, despite being kinda judgmental, they were kinda nice, too. And they stopped despite being late for a bus. So I leaned in close as I walked by -- and I swear to God this is the coolest I have ever been and will ever be -- said, "The kilts aren't even in the picture."
And away I walked, the American Tourist.
Kevin-from-New-York and I went to see The Double Life of Veronique, which was a little too deliberately provocative for my tastes. And it took the first idea -- of Veronique's double-life in Poland -- and dropped it completely halfway through in favor of something entirely new. Arbitrary shots of Veronique pining over pine trees and her father pausing as he works on something made of pine. Creepy marionettes. Gratuitous nudity. Eh. Interesting concept, disappointing film.
I went to the Elephant House for the first time. Uh, yeah. That one. Where that book, about the boy, with the scar, was written.
I gave a presentation in my class today on Alexander Montgomerie and James VI. Apparently, James VI was a great poet. That makes one of us. Truthfully, though, he was pretty rad.
Robert and I got dollhouse sushi today, but we paid people-sized prices. Koi -- be aware. They also don't have any koi at all. Afterwards, we ate ice cream. Robert also informed me that it is very weird that I have a crush on certain doctors. By which I mean Lloyd Lewellyn Jones, our Hollywood epic professor. It's not a real crush, like others I might have. It's like the kind of crush unnamed friends have developed on lit professors. It happens.
Apparently, you can ski indoors in Glasgow. This is upsetting on so many levels, I hardly know where to begin. So instead I just.... sputter.
I went for a one-pound pint on Monday with Susannah and her friends. Nice people. I had fun. Really dislike beer. And pretension. Just throwing that out there. I wish she wasn't going to London for a week.
Oh, and Kristin: Reel Big Fish is playing out here.
Anyway, the past week and a half have been busybusy. That's not even true. I've just been hanging out. Saturday, I got my hot chocolate to-go and hit the National Galleries of Modern Art. Exhibits featured "Blind Hollywood," which Sara might appreciate for its irony. The artist took very famous promotional material and cut out the film stars' eyes, replacing them -- or not -- with mirrored paper, black paper, or nothing. Both more and less creepy than carrying Sean Biggerstaff's eyes in your pocket, right S? I wandered through "The Islands" by Charles Avery. Wandered, well, that's a stretch. Stopped and read it all, and there was a lot to read. Curiouser and curiouser. (Does that make anyone else think of Mrs. Lewis? And poor Mr. Lewis, for whom death was surely a glad release?) Avery really thought it all out; it's exceptionally detailed. I stood in awe. No grinding up chalk and calling it art for him, nosir. No throwing paint at a canvas and seeing what sticks. I liked it, really, much more than Jackson Pollock. I'm not buying the print of it -- not even if that were possible -- but I liked it. Made more sense to me than a plain white canvas or some of the stuff Punky and I saw back in Dublin in tenth grade. But van Gogh, well, he's just how I roll, son. Him and Cezanne. Post-impressionism is what's good, children. Remember that.
Then I got to Steve McQueen.
I have a rule. It's a simple rule, and one I had, until recently, never had to enforce. Well, Steve McQueen, congratulations! You've won. Here I was thinking, "I didn't know Steve McQueen made art other than movies!" Which was terribly naive of me, I'm aware. But it's where my mind went. There, and to Harrison Ford, but I miss someone's bright baby blues, I guess.
Anyway, my rule: as soon as a museum makes me cry, I'm done.
Drawer upon drawer of faces the size of postage stamps. Name, age, rank. "If you ask them, they'll tell you." The exhibit is called "For Queen and Country." You're smart; do the 'rithmetic yo'self.
And obviously, the only thing that cures a broken heart is chocolate. So I got some. By which I mean three. I think if Vincent had hot chocolate available to him, he might have been happier.
But I forgot about the three men in kilts. And the bead shop. Oh, dear.
The bead shops. I've found... both of them. Which is to say, the two tiny bead shops that, area-wise, are about 75% of Gemstar, Gemstone -- together. Severely disappointed. And their nicer beads look like cast-offs from America's bargain bins. Which is rough, let me tell you. I'm a bit let down, but now I know why no one on Etsy responded to my pleas for the names of good bead shops in Edinburgh. They don't exist.
Kilts? Yes, please.
Walking toward Stockbridge down a turnpike covered in snow -- and the 'burgh seemed dreamlike on account of the frosting -- I encountered three young, fairly attractive men in kilts. Being rather unashamed of who I am, the girl who takes pictures with Freedom Trail guides for kicks, I asked one of them if I could take his picture.
"Guys, guys! A tourist wants to take a picture!"
He must have said it four or five times. And my question is, why should I be ashamed of being a tourist? I mean, have you seen what they consider to be American culture? Navajo Indians and the Blues Brothers. If I was walking down Boylston Street in full Red Sox super-fan regalia and some Scottish guy asked to take my picture, I'd totally understand. And it wasn't even the kilts, so much as it was the people wearing them. Because I had seen loads of old-timers wearing them. (Old-timers, you know, my fan club?) But young guys with styled hair? Now that's exciting!
Anyway, I took the picture as quickly as possible because, despite being kinda judgmental, they were kinda nice, too. And they stopped despite being late for a bus. So I leaned in close as I walked by -- and I swear to God this is the coolest I have ever been and will ever be -- said, "The kilts aren't even in the picture."
And away I walked, the American Tourist.
Kevin-from-New-York and I went to see The Double Life of Veronique, which was a little too deliberately provocative for my tastes. And it took the first idea -- of Veronique's double-life in Poland -- and dropped it completely halfway through in favor of something entirely new. Arbitrary shots of Veronique pining over pine trees and her father pausing as he works on something made of pine. Creepy marionettes. Gratuitous nudity. Eh. Interesting concept, disappointing film.
I went to the Elephant House for the first time. Uh, yeah. That one. Where that book, about the boy, with the scar, was written.
I gave a presentation in my class today on Alexander Montgomerie and James VI. Apparently, James VI was a great poet. That makes one of us. Truthfully, though, he was pretty rad.
Robert and I got dollhouse sushi today, but we paid people-sized prices. Koi -- be aware. They also don't have any koi at all. Afterwards, we ate ice cream. Robert also informed me that it is very weird that I have a crush on certain doctors. By which I mean Lloyd Lewellyn Jones, our Hollywood epic professor. It's not a real crush, like others I might have. It's like the kind of crush unnamed friends have developed on lit professors. It happens.
Apparently, you can ski indoors in Glasgow. This is upsetting on so many levels, I hardly know where to begin. So instead I just.... sputter.
I went for a one-pound pint on Monday with Susannah and her friends. Nice people. I had fun. Really dislike beer. And pretension. Just throwing that out there. I wish she wasn't going to London for a week.
Oh, and Kristin: Reel Big Fish is playing out here.
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Cocaine's for roadies, not for men
I have shamed Michael Lesy and for this I must repent.
The blog that once stood in this place was the emotional equivalent of packaging all the letters and emails Jacob ever wrote me and sending them with a nice little bow to that girl who is not me.
Fun to scheme with friends, but I don't actually want to hurt anyone. Which this might have done. And can you imagine if RICHARD had read it? Oh, dear! I ought to have left it at this:
I love the Young Dubliners and Friday night was an adventure that reminded me just how much I love Bren, that goofball bassist.
So you can beg and plead, but no, I won't tell anyone who hasn't already read it what was here once. Except for this:
The boy who works at Juice Monkeys is named Paul. And if he finds this blog via google, well, I'm sure that will make Monday morning awkward.
The blog that once stood in this place was the emotional equivalent of packaging all the letters and emails Jacob ever wrote me and sending them with a nice little bow to that girl who is not me.
Fun to scheme with friends, but I don't actually want to hurt anyone. Which this might have done. And can you imagine if RICHARD had read it? Oh, dear! I ought to have left it at this:
I love the Young Dubliners and Friday night was an adventure that reminded me just how much I love Bren, that goofball bassist.
So you can beg and plead, but no, I won't tell anyone who hasn't already read it what was here once. Except for this:
The boy who works at Juice Monkeys is named Paul. And if he finds this blog via google, well, I'm sure that will make Monday morning awkward.
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