The story of Cain and Abel, Cal and Aaron, Charles and Adam

Dear God:

How come what Cain offered you wasn't enough? How come you were so much happier with Abel's sheep than you were the wheat offered to you by Cain? Why did you then punish Cain for the actions of his jealousy, which you so forcefully created?

Cain is the evil one and thus his sacrifice is not enough. Nothing he does will ever be good enough to make up for the fact that his father is the serpent that led Eve astray. He killed his brother because God drove him to it, drove him absolutely heathen with jealousy. Abel was no better than Cain, no more true or pure or honest or loving or devoted.

In fact, I think Abel was a little bit of a bitch.

You said to Cain: "If you do right, won't you be accepted? But if you do not do right, sin is crouching at the door. Its desire is for you, but you must master it."

Tell me what Cain did wrong in offering you what he pulled from the Earth. How was his gift to you wrong, how had he not done right by your exacting standards? If anything, Abel was a murderer who killed lambs to satisfy his Master's needs. Cain offered an alternative to murder, but was rejected. He was rejected for sins he had not yet committed and that is WRONG.

I don't blame Cain for his actions; I blame God for driving him to extremes. All Cain ever wanted from God was acceptance and seeing that he could not receive it, even when he had committed no sins, he acted out.

Abel is not a martyr. He did not die due to his own faith or fidelity to the Lord but as a result of God's indifference toward his far more emotional brother. Abel has always seemed cold to me, the detached but beloved brother, a prototype for the prodigal son, whose sins are forgiven because they happened and is favored over those who committed no sins because he has repented, and repentance is critical to earning God's love. (Perhaps, but is it not more impressive and godly to never need repent?)

I'm not a biblical scholar by any stretch of the imagination. But I know sibling rivalries like the back of my hand. I know the color and the taste of parental favoritism and I know what motivates the forsaken. I know better than God what is in the hearts of people rejected for the possibility of sins, and of how it drives them into the arms of sin as opposed to righteousness.

If you believe me a sinner before I have sinned, I have no motivation to prove you wrong. The worst has happened already and I have survived. Your mind will not change over time, when you notice I have not transgressed, but instead I will grow frustrated and increasingly defiant. If you tell me, before I have committed an evil act, that I have evil within me, you grant me permission to be evil and deny me the right to be otherwise.

I am Cain. I am the rejected child whose sacrifices will never be enough, who can never be anything but a sinner. I cannot master my lower nature because I was never given a chance and because you never had faith. Every man is capable of change except for Cain. Except for me. I am unalterably bad.

³⁸And Cain said unto the Lord: Satan tempted me because of my brother's flocks. And I was wroth also; for his offering thou didst accept and not mine; my punishment is greater than I can bear.
³⁹Behold thou hast driven me out this day from the face of the Lord, and from thy face shall I be hid; and I shall be a fugitive and a vagabond in the earth. . .

I don't know what I'm doing wrong, but I know I shall never be truly forgiven. So why bother even trying? I'll start over somewhere else, with someone new, and perhaps they will expect nothing of me. I wonder what I might be, if I ever truly had a blank slate on which to draw myself. (You say that you forgive me, that you would recognize if I had changed, but you have not and you do not. I am not the same girl that I was yesterday and I try so hard. Perhaps some day you'll notice, but it's already too late.)

London Calling...

You know what they say? Well, some of it was true. (Maybe not the bit about "I'm updating tomorrow." But I tried! Honestly, I did.)

Back from London (baby!) and back in one piece. Mostly. My wallet is aching just a little and I'm not sure my dawgs will ever stop making a horrible racket. Which is to say, Londontown is expensive, son.

Twelve and a half pounds to get into the city from the airport, and then it occurred to me that this weekend was going to be hitting where I couldn't take the pain. Anyway, we got in town, to Kennington and all was well. We had to ask for directions to the hostel since Robert forgot them. It was cool. But, uh, the directions were "Go to the end of this street and take a left." Which was do-able, except for the fact that the station emptied kitty-cornered onto two streets. We walked up and down the first street for a long while, finally stopping at a post office and asking for directions to the hostel. The only one they knew about was down by the Imperial War Museum. Cool. We've got a heading, captain! And they promised it was nearby, so we were okay with that.

Bear in mind that Robert hates walking. And his bag was a very heavy duffel bag. And he doesn't own a single pair of comfortable shoes. And he'd been up since 3 AM.

It wasn't close. It was a long walk. And the hostel wasn't jumping out at us. So he made me go into a bakery and ask a very nice Vietnamese woman if she knew where the hostel was. She did! Success! Except, it wasn't our hostel. It was a very cheery place filled with boys from Boston, called "The Steam Engine." One of the people who worked there used to work at the hostel we had reservations at. Ok. Well, at the very least, they'll know where our hostel is. He did, and he was from Oklahoma. And he walked us very kindly to the tube and drew a map so we'd know how to get to our hostel.

A trip that ought to have taken 80 minutes total: 4 hours.
Plane tickets to London: $100
Bed in a hostel: $30
Day-pass on the Tube: $8
Keeping a smile on my face despite it all: Priceless.

We finally made it to our hostel and left our luggage with the clerk. Then we hit the British Museum. Don't trust maps, yeah? I've found the old trick of being cute and looking lost works in London as well as in Edinburgh. I'm fond of the British Museum. I wish that old Daly and Sabra had thought it worth more than a half-hour in the gift shop. In fact, I wish Daly had thought London was worth more than some cursory shopping trips. Here I was thinking I hated it for the same reasons I hated New York -- shopping is not a reason to love a city, methinks -- and really it was just that I was shown the city by people who pandered to materialistic teenaged girls with no souls. Go figure.

I wonder what Italy might be like if I wasn't on one of his culturally vacuous tours? Which isn't entirely fair because the Italy trip was about a billion times better than the England trip. Maybe, just maybe, that was the company I kept, as well. Because I had a blast in Dublin while I traipsed about with Punky, not caring that we were flouting the rules by venturing off on our own. Whatever.

To the Embankment on my aching pegs. We walked from the Embankment to Westminster, very pretty. And crossed the Thames, observing, if you will, Big Ben and Parliament at sunset. Then we had dinner at this trendy sushi place called Yo-Sushi. Yes, the food was good. Overpriced, but good. The food comes to you on a conveyor belt and you just take whatever you like. All the plates are color-coded so you know how much they cost. At the end, they tally up your dishes. For a girl like me, this is dangerous beyond reason. Spent more than I could afford. Was not satisfied. Left hungry, tired, poor, yearning for refuge, even. But in good spirits.

From London

From London

From London

Then we got the London Eye out of the way. Seventeen pounds for a giant, enclosed Ferris Wheel ride. The view was nice, if hindered by the Eye itself, and the chance to sit for a few minutes was welcome. But I'm not sure it was worth going into debt for. Just saying. It wasn't something I felt the need to do before and it's not something I feel enriched my life. It was something I would not care about losing, basically.

Give me back the money and I'll give you back your Ferris Wheel. No? Not an option? What.Ever.

From London

Then we went back to the hostel and, oh! I'm glad I've been brought up blue-collar and around people who work in the service industry. I'm glad I know what sort of day these people have generally had. I'm glad I was raised not to blame the person on the other end. (Except for the whole, "That's because they're liars, ma'am" incident. That needs to be told over and over again.) Basically, they didn't have our reservation. Ten o'clock at night and they didn't have our reservation.

Robert: I got a confirmation email!
Lady: I'm sorry, there's nothing I can do.
Me: Do you at least have two beds for tonight?
Lady: Tonight? No, I'm sorry. I can help you find something.
Robert: You need to give us beds here.
Me: You don't have anything?
Lady: Wait, it's not Saturday; it's Friday. I have two beds left for tonight, and some for Sunday, but nothing for tomorrow.

So we found another hostel online that night. I thought Robert was going to explode and I was trying to keep from getting any of his bad mood on me when it happened. I knew it was better to just back off and let him fume and do his thing. Let him book whichever hostel he wanted, I didn't really care how far outside the city we were so long as I had a place to dump my bags during the day and to lay my head at night. But he's more of a four-star or bust sort, Robert is.

Another thing I think is essential in a hostel-visiting experience, is meeting new people. We're only young enough to stay in hostels once and it's really just a chance for broke travelers to talk about places worth visiting, right? So while Robert booked a new hostel for Saturday and Sunday nights, I played Jenga with some drunk English boys. I think their names were "The guy in the pink shirt," "The guy who kept making jokes about wood," and "The quiet, polite one." The guy in the pink shirt asked me first if Robert was my boyfriend.

No.

Then he double-checked that I was a girl.

Yes.

Age?

21.

Nuh-uh.

Yes-huh.

I played a couple rounds of Jenga with them, then Robert sort of hovered after he finished booking the hostel but I could tell he was miserable so I gave up and we went to bed. There was notable tension in the air as we did so, and I tried not to cry thinking about where I was supposed to be that night.

Festival theater. Jackson Browne. I left the city just as he entered it. Counter-intuitive, I know.

I failed, of course, but I fell asleep somewhere in the middle of his encore, "My Stunning Mystery Companion" so I couldn't keep crying, at least. And it's not like Robert noticed.

What a joke.

Saturday: visibly tense continental breakfast with Robert. At one point, I asked if he had both the keys to the room and he answered, "I have both my keys." 'Kay, Dad. Are you going to turn this car around, too? By that point, I was determined to have a blast with or without his permission. We were meeting Byron at the Tower of London at noon, so we had to get to New Cross Gate, leave our luggage at the new hostel, and hot-foot it back into the city. I noticed that the Hobgoblin look like a rad little joint, the kind of hole I could get my kicks in good, and Robert rolled his Midwestern eyes. We got confused walking from the tube station to the Tower, but as soon as I got the map in my hands, it was allllll good. It took us less than ten once I had some power in the duo.

Hey, Tower of London, you cost a lot of money, but you're oh-so-worth-it.

Byron looks like Jesus and I think he's one of my favorite people in the history of the Panthers. It was really spectacular to get to spend time with him and catch up. Sometimes, I think we had conversations that there was no way for Robert to enter so I felt badbadbad. But then, when we did have conversations he could enter into, like about music, he was just mean to me. And I'm sorry, but you can't say you know a lot about music if when I say "The Clash" you ask me if that's an STD. Just throwing that out there.

So we did the Tower, and the crown jewels were about the sexiest cuts of diamond I've ever seen. Lies, actually, since it wasn't the nice cut I've ever seen, but thanks so much for your condescending "I know more about diamonds than you, Ashley," tone when you explained that it was cut to emphasize size and eliminate flaws.

By flaws, I'm assuming you're referring to inclusions since the color was flawless anyway? I couldn't get close enough to notice if there were inclusions or not, but I'm pretty sure there weren't. However, I wasn't referring to style of the cut but rather the quality of the cut. I've seen diamonds cut with more precision and perfection than. That was all I was saying.

I could have schooled him, but I was too tired. Anyway, it's not good manners to be constantly correcting people or lecturing them or interrogating them. (Sorry, I was just the tiniest bit frustrated. He just has moments, but mostly it's perfectly awesome hanging out with him.)

We tried to taunt the beefeaters at Buckingham but they were too far away and had guns.

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From London

Then we saw Canada's memorial. (What happened? Did Canada die?)

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From London

From London

Sat among the daffodils...

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From London

From London

And headed to Soho. Where we went looking for the place called Le Ho Fook's. BOUT THAT.

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From London

It's closed down. It's the Golden Harvest now. Whaaaaaat?

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Then we ate at Garfunkel's, because if you can't have Warren you might as well have Art... GARFUNKEL. (Sorry, that was pretty much exclusively for KJax. "Stop trying to analyze me...")

Then we went back to the hostel, checked in, got Byron a room, and headed to Hobgoblin because Byron totally agreed with me that it was a cool place to be. The bartender noticed we had Scottish money and asked if we had been up north. "Holla," I think he said, in American vernacular. We got high-fives for living it up old-school style in Old Town. Then Robert said he'd give me a pound if I asked the eighteen year old sops sitting beside us if it was closing time, as the lights were extinguished. I did it and we all had a good laugh over that.

Like I said, The Hobgoblin, place I could be content with in my town.

Sunday we went to a service at Westminster and each did our own thing at the National Galleries. I didn't realize there would be a quiz afterwards, but apparently, there was. I spent most of the time in a daze shocked by my mere proximity to The Yellow Chair. (You know what I'm talking about, Mom.) There were some Saint Remy moments that about broke my heart. He totally knew his time was running out and I love that he didn't even completely cover the canvas. I also sort of gave a lot of time to Degas. Young Spartans, yes. National Galleries, you get a check plus!

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I also got eaten by a lion.

From London

Then I was chastised and lectured for not liking Monet. Because "YOU LIKE VAN GOGH!"

As Byron pointed out: "But they're not even remotely similar."

To which he replied, "Yes, they are!"

No. No, they're not.

Monet was far too cerebral when he painted. He looked at it like a science, not an art.



Westminster's service was a bit of a letdown. For such a renowned Abbey, you would expect something ethereal, something earth-shaking, something faith-creating. It's cool, though. The choir was gorgeous.

Then we went to Hyde Park and chased down some pina coladas at Trader Vic's. Amazing.

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From London

From London

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Then I asked some kids if they knew where Peter Pan was. Blank stares. The statue? Oh, that. No. An older gentleman gave us directions and we found it just in time to be silly and get kicked out of Hyde Park because it was closing. These things happen.

From London

From London

I made friends with a seventeen year old soldier while we ate a quick dinner at the tube station.

Monday, we did the Tate, went shopping, and caught our flight back to Edinburgh. By this point, I was nothing but tired and wanted nothing more than to pass out. Shetland tomorrow was about the only thought I managed as I drifted off to sleep in my own safe bed.

From London

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!