tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-90546877613176466452024-03-13T16:08:38.508-04:00The Culture Wars.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.comBlogger210125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-61666215176089035612012-04-02T21:29:00.000-04:002012-04-02T21:29:44.276-04:00To other places...Really. I promise. I am now posting to this blog <a href="http://ordtime.blogspot.com/">here</a>.<div><br />
</div><div>(Occasionally, I will take Mr.<a href="http://brackenworld.blogspot.com/"> JackArt </a>to task. I'm sure his lovers and detractors will enjoy or not enjoy this.)</div>m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-48517982048503116022010-12-31T15:43:00.000-05:002010-12-31T15:43:27.915-05:00I'm trying again.Apparently, I didn't do so well with the other format of the new blog. So back to blogger for me:<div><br />
</div><div>http://ordtime.blogspot.com/</div>m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-41295381123337630992010-10-31T21:51:00.000-04:002010-10-31T21:51:53.112-04:00I promise.To update the following site more often:<br />
<br />
http://moderntravels.tumblr.com/<br />
<br />
But I think that The Culture Wars and I have to part ways. Let's be honest. I was doing a crap job with this anyway. <br />
<br />
Thanks for reading. m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-75303210638723697182010-08-29T19:25:00.000-04:002010-08-29T19:25:41.451-04:00Tea Party Weekend.I avoided the crowds in the 'safe' areas of DC. <br />
<br />
There are so many things about this movement that I find so very very frightening. <br />
<br />
The Culture Wars are here in full force, my friends.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-10802747619909937832010-08-18T21:05:00.001-04:002010-08-18T21:06:58.587-04:00That's it.I can't take it anymore. There doesn't seem to be a forum for me to ask questions or make comments about the state of the way boys dress in my neighborhood.<br />
<br />
I would like to scream to the heavens. WHY? Or at least look up in askance.<br />
<br />
Why is it that bird chested, shirtless, youths with cigarettes hanging out of their mouths insist on wearing their trousers well below their rear ends showing their underwear to the world?<br />
<br />
I, for one, do not wish to see this.<br />
<br />
I don't care if I am considered it old fashioned or unhip or unsympathetic to today's inner city youths, or at least the ones on my street dressed (or not dressed) in the way that they are. <br />
<br />
They look like hoodlums. They act like hoodlums. Ergo, they are hoodlums. One of them told me that he would slap me for not holding open a door for him to my building. He doesn't live in the building. Were I a big burly man, that crap would not have come out of his mouth. <br />
<br />
To these miscreants I write the following:<br />
<br />
Wear a damned shirt. Pull up your damned pants and go to school. I pay for your education. Use it, damn it. Use it and become productive people, or I will kick your ass.<br />
<br />
I'm tired of you. I'm just tired.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-45150907165781680932010-07-27T11:04:00.000-04:002010-07-27T11:04:12.263-04:00Where I've gone.Dear Friends:<br />
<br />
The Culture Wars is on hiatus--obviously--but I have not given up on it. For right now I am working on some travel writing and if you're interested in seeing what trouble I'm getting myself into, please check it out here:<br />
<br />
<a href="http://moderntravels.tumblr.com/">The Aesthetic of Lostness. </a><br />
<br />
I'm so glad to have had to opportunity to write and get to meet so many of you.<br />
I do hope that you're all well.<br />
<br />
Best,<br />
<br />
MA. m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-20386156414228518092010-04-18T21:56:00.000-04:002010-04-18T21:56:43.674-04:00Something that scares me.I have no problem with people wanting to own guns. I don't want to own one, but I do not want to stop anyone from owning one. <br />
<br />
However, that being said, this open carry demonstration rally being held a few miles south of DC in Northern Virgina tomorrow scares me. I don't believe that all of the people gathering together are angry about so many things. So much more than a right to carry a weapon into a city or on an airplane.<br />
<br />
They are angry about the economy, and the fact that they now have to pay for healthcare, and that they have to pay taxes on things that they always had to pay taxes on. They also seem to be profoundly uncomfortable with educated people who have differing views.<br />
<br />
I would love it if a conservative with a clear, concise message would explain his or her problem with healthcare or taxes or the constitution for that matter would speak in a language that made sense to me. m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-70706170814227176612010-03-26T00:17:00.002-04:002010-03-26T00:31:56.168-04:00The Wire.After I finish watching the fifth and final season of <i>The Wire</i> on DVD, I am going to write about it. There are so many things to say.<br />
<br />
So many things to say. Not the least that it was, indeed, the best damned show on television. <br />
<br />
(I cried a lot during season four. I couldn't handle all of the sadness with the children.)<br />
<br />
Best quote of Season Five: After an older newspaper reporter explains to a rookie that people cannot be evacuated, but buildings can be. He says, <i>oh so righteously</i>, "At the <i>Baltimore <i>Sun</i></i>, <i>God</i> still resides in the details<i>." </i><br />
<br />
<i><br />
</i>m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-78163894708356125602010-03-17T17:52:00.003-04:002010-03-17T18:01:44.482-04:00Let the Great World Spin on St. Patrick's Day.Let me start by writing that I am not Irish, nor will I pretend to be on this day. I've never felt a particular kinship to this day of celebration, wearing green and drinking to excess, and I have only ever looked across the Irish Sea with a faint interest of what happens there.<br />
<br />
Sure there may be a bit of Irish blood coursing through my diverse American veins, but it's not strong enough to illicit a calling to that land or people to which an overwhelming number of Americans claim ancestry. (And even if there is some of that blood there, its involvement in my life is awfully complicated.) I don't long to enter Dublin's pubs and I don't feel the pull of the music; for me, there is no kinship to Joyce or Guinness, and the history of violence in Belfast and Northern Ireland neither intrigues nor incites me to choose a side, no matter how much my faintly Irish-Catholic parish encouraged us to tentatively support Sinn Fein. Even then, at thirteen, I remained, in essence, a neutral, professing a greater interest in political struggles more endemic to the United States, or to me personally. <br />
<br />
This is not to say that I take issue with the day, the people or the country; for I do not. It is just not a part of who I am.<br />
<br />
However, on this day, this absolutely beautiful cloudless St. Patrick's Day, I am lucky to have had the day off from work. As such, I walked to a local coffeehouse and finished reading the last hundred or so pages of Colum McCann's <i>Let the Great World Spin. </i>He is an Irish writer who has written a novel that encompasses so many things and so many people, one would think that he has all of us coursing through his veins, from the spindly legged funambulist who haunts the the opening pages of the novel, to the black prostitute facing her fortieth charge of solicitation in a courtroom to the Park Avenue housewife who loses her only son in the Vietnam War. He seems to understand so many different people--or at least he imagines and writes them without judgment or malice. He doesn't try to dissect or essentialize the psyche of any of his characters, and for that, I find that I have a great respect for both him and his writing.<br />
<br />
So, I sat there on the front porch of the row house coffeehouse in Petworth soaking in the sun and reading while trying to imagine the New York that McCann had created, one that was as real and as true as the New York I've seen and about which I've heard. However, during my reading I was a bit distracted at times. <br />
<br />
There is a large building project going on across the street from the coffeeshop. A big orange crane is hoisted in the air, and for the first time ever, I saw a crane's legs (or perhaps a blue heron's?) in that metal contraption. I'm not even sure if I am supposed to see that metaphor, but I do. I used my hand to cover my eyes from the sun so that I could get a better look at the construction and the crane itself. Of course, one of the workers thought that I was flirting with him, and he waved, convinced that I could see more than the hardhat and bright yellow vest that pressed against a steel railing. <br />
<br />
How funny it is when we think we are the center of the universe.<br />
<br />
But I digress.<br />
<br />
It is St. Patrick's Day and I am not in a bar, but I have celebrated a writer of its lands, one who writes with a worldview that I find compelling and one who has made Ireland and the Irish a little less foreign to me. <br />
<br />
Lá Fhéile Pádraig Sona Daoibh.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-11931417055968727832010-03-14T21:54:00.001-04:002010-03-14T21:54:46.506-04:00Spring Break?!!Work has been quite eventful, and I find myself on Spring Break. I'm quite excited. I have to do work, mind you, but I don't have to go in to do it.<br />
<br />
I have these really grandiose plans. If I get half of the list finished, I'll be thrilled.<br />
<br />
I can't seem to get into gear with writing, but I will. Soon.<br />
<br />
I hope that it's sunny and warm wherever you are.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-9035839881049412062010-02-27T23:34:00.003-05:002010-02-27T23:46:53.406-05:00Realizations or Realisations.Preparing for change can almost be as daunting as the actual event.<br />
<br />
I've started moving in a direction that could radically alter my life in several ways. Well, it would be radical for me. I'm not sure how everything is going to work out in the end, but I think it will. This is going to involve my working a lot more in the next several months. I have to set out all of my responsibilities at work on paper. Every last thing I do and every last thing I have done in my four and half years on the job must be accounted for and put into an easily digestible form.<br />
<br />
Universities aren't really stable places anymore. They haven't been for years.<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I went to an academic talk on Friday and was both surprised and disappointed by the material being presented. I know many lovely people who are doing cutting edge and thought-provoking work. This work presented was far from cutting edge and even further from compelling. To be completely honest, I was also a little unsure about how I would feel attending the talk as I am truly unsure of my own connection to my former department and a discipline which I have claimed to love.<br />
<br />
I won't bore you with the details of the talk, but I will say that I reacted strongly to claims that I found troublesome and misleading, and then I thought, "In the world that I know, maybe fifty people will read this stuff if it ever gets published. So who cares?"<br />
<br />
And yet, I still did. I still cared that the work was sloppy and uninteresting.<br />
<br />
So I thank the speaker for making me care enough about her work to think it was craptastic, but I still remain extremely skeptical of everything she did.<br />
<br />
One thing is for sure. I will always be interested in work about Christopher Marlowe. He remains my 16th century friend (not in a creepy, stalker way--on my end--of course).<br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
I think that I've not done as well this year with setting goals and accomplishing them as I hoped to have. Quite frankly, I've never been a goal oriented person. I've been motivated by fear of failure, fear of disappointing other people, and this bizzare need to be nice and accommodating no matter how much it inconveniences or upsets me. I'm through with that. Failing doesn't really hurt that much, people have disappointed me more than I care to admit, and I'm quite through with being accommodating all of the time.<br />
<br />
I know that I wouldn't be myself if all of a sudden I just checked out on everything, but it is so tempting. Sometimes I wonder if people would even notice if I just sort of stopped communicating and pulled a Thoreau. If they didn't, then I guess my experiment would be successful, eh? <br />
<br />
I have set out a few short term goals for myself. I've never really done that. I've never been a list maker, and I've never tried to push myself towards anything in particular. <br />
<br />
I'm thirty three years old. I suppose now is the time for all of this. Lists? Here I come.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-83324473753707062162010-02-22T19:39:00.001-05:002010-02-22T19:43:12.608-05:00A moment of Olympic fun.During the summer of 2008, my Olympic boyfriend was the <i>oh so wonderful</i> <a href="http://sicfaciuntomnes.blogspot.com/2008/08/jason-lezak-jason-lezak.html">Jason Lezak.</a> How I loved him! But as you all well know, summer infatuation soon fades and here I find myself nearly two years later with a brand new Olympic boyfriend, one <a href="http://www.aksellundsvindal.com/">Aksel Lund Svindal</a>.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcMwaCrIFlAi5U-uEJ9Ndd1edr0wBzEz0ritpaTGhqKAuAKDQhxYBoq8IJqJvse3QtgiBUTwH2wSeHB8_8gmGrQ24vQr1-F2O7F7q04Jra1-9MZ8pyXFggTU18UlVenoMTad6oTFg2igw/s1600-h/aksel" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgcMwaCrIFlAi5U-uEJ9Ndd1edr0wBzEz0ritpaTGhqKAuAKDQhxYBoq8IJqJvse3QtgiBUTwH2wSeHB8_8gmGrQ24vQr1-F2O7F7q04Jra1-9MZ8pyXFggTU18UlVenoMTad6oTFg2igw/s320/aksel" /></a></div><br />
<br />
He's from Norway, he's a downhill skier, and I fancy him quite a bit.<br />
<br />
What's not to like about a Viking who hurls himself down snowy mountains at unbelievable speeds? Yes, yes, Americaphiles, Bode Miller is a great skier as well, and he bested Lund Svindal in the Super G combined, but Miller's antics in 2006 in Turino left me a bit unimpressed. Don't get me wrong, I appreciate the whole "party-guy maverick gone good" story, and Miller is a very handsome man too, but Aksel Lund Svindal is my 2010 Olympic boyfriend.<br />
<br />
I know that you'll end up with some kind of a supermodel with a medical degree who will take care of you, Aksel, and you totally deserve it, but for rest of the Olympics, I'm glad, nay excited, to give you the moniker of my Olympic boyfriend! Congrats on the gold medal and the silver medal.<br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><br />
</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Arial,Helvetica,Sans-serif; font-size: small;"><b>Du er det best, Aksel!</b></span><br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHbT_DfXJxgHqVYflUHup9-cPeMGcYevA1_XBNzJiltHphtLtzf0VAcOzzGGEY273hII2BtXzj8jOypU4GskT_mmxHccdx4IANKZ22HjU4CaS0qtQ1anGpT7KxyMUGxtIgAuCaJRdwp0/s1600-h/aksel2" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIHbT_DfXJxgHqVYflUHup9-cPeMGcYevA1_XBNzJiltHphtLtzf0VAcOzzGGEY273hII2BtXzj8jOypU4GskT_mmxHccdx4IANKZ22HjU4CaS0qtQ1anGpT7KxyMUGxtIgAuCaJRdwp0/s320/aksel2" /></a></div>m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-17249168426144261552010-02-21T17:37:00.001-05:002010-02-22T12:09:24.844-05:00Reading in the so-called electronic age (Part one).This is just a formative post about this topic.<br />
<br />
In the end, I hope to have written a couple of entries about the e-book and what I perceive to be its impact on 'reading culture' (something with which I have struggled for years to try to define) because so many people have asked me what I think about e-book readers including the Kindle, and I have asked many people the same questions.<br />
<br />
As a type of preparation for my writing (in a sense, this is a type of foray back into a world of academic writing that I cannot seem to break up with for good), I have pulled Sven Birkerts <i>The Gutenberg Elegies </i>from its spot on my bookshelf in the dining room. I will certainly have more to say about Mr. Birkerts' (now sixteen year old) book later this week or this month, but I will say one thing about it for now: I am not as seduced by its monastic litany, the Kyrie Eleison, the prayers asking for the return of the old ways. <br />
<br />
I am not a Luddite, nor am I so enamored with technology that I fail to stop to ask questions about its impact upon me and my fellow humans. Since I work in an academic department with people for whom technology and its continued advancements are an integral part of life, I have grown much more appreciative of their intellectual missions and how their accrued knowledge very much contributes to my own growing sensibilities about what it means to read in 2010 as opposed to 1610 or even as far back as 1510.<br />
<br />
It is not, I think, a bad thing for us to evolve and change as readers. <i>How </i>we evolve and change as readers, writers and thinkers fully informs us how we used to (and still do in some cases!) read, write and think.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-85195361783139282862010-02-12T21:58:00.000-05:002010-02-12T21:58:57.546-05:00An Early Valentine's Day and Chinese New Year Post.A lot changes in a year.<br />
<br />
It's amazing and reassuring that stuff that used to be difficult to ponder truly does get relegated to the annals of the past somehow. Time can be restorative, a quiet analgesic that slowly heals all sorts of discomfort--emotional or otherwise.<br />
<br />
I'm glad that Chinese New Year and Valentine's Day are interconnected this year. I am reminded that there is a whole world out there to see and to write about.<br />
<br />
I will tell the people I care about what they mean to me, and I won't wait in awkward silence for them to return the sentiment. It is enough that I love them.<br />
<br />
And I'm going to think of the great snowstorm of 2010 as reset button. A week to think about what I'd like to do in the next year, where I'd like to go, and with whom I'd like to spend time. <br />
<br />
Sure my apartment needs to be tidied and it's time for me to go back to the gym and to stop rolling my eyes at the annoying runners who can't take one or two snow days off from running around on DC's streets, and I could use a better job title, but mostly, I am happy.<br />
<br />
So Happy Valentine's day to you, my dear six or seven readers, and Happy Chinese New Year.<br />
m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-21900529637676282982010-02-08T23:24:00.000-05:002010-02-08T23:24:09.692-05:00The Prisoner of Petworth (in haiku).I.<br />
<br />
Because of the snow<br />
I sit alone in my flat<br />
wondering what's next.<br />
<br />
II.<br />
<br />
Four blocks of Petworth<br />
here is where I feel confined<br />
soon, I will leave<br />
<br />
III<br />
<br />
Metro cannot run<br />
above ground and so we wait<br />
for the snow to clear<br />
<br />
IV<br />
<br />
Yes. Snowblivion!<br />
We are supposed to get more<br />
the weatherman says.<br />
<br />
V.<br />
<br />
There is The Wire<br />
It has kept me entertained.<br />
I LOVE Baltimore.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-66727502238337564492010-02-06T12:29:00.001-05:002010-02-06T12:33:52.667-05:00Snowhere to go. Thanks, Snowblivion.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Myi9Sk7YKgGjsQSNQ4nOCP97kE7Ic55auRJZ5nIJFdWRLBoJD1LqdwRdQHd7f5y1sdd1nMcTaDM1r5-z2GlGE9v4-424KK4eY27opw_P_ERn-mP3jRbYsQ3iOFmllJNGHTyvV80xi1I/s1600-h/snowblivion" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6Myi9Sk7YKgGjsQSNQ4nOCP97kE7Ic55auRJZ5nIJFdWRLBoJD1LqdwRdQHd7f5y1sdd1nMcTaDM1r5-z2GlGE9v4-424KK4eY27opw_P_ERn-mP3jRbYsQ3iOFmllJNGHTyvV80xi1I/s320/snowblivion" /></a>Lest I continue on with terrible puns and jeux de mots, I will go ahead and say that this snow storm would be much more interesting if I had the right kit to go out into it properly. (That and if I didn't manage to catch some kind of a cold on Thursday.) There's a circle not too far from my apartment and I'd love to see what it and the rest of my neighborhood looks like now. Perhaps I'll go tomorrow when the snow stops falling.<br />
<br />
I walked down to the lobby to see what the snow looked like just from the front steps. All of the shoveling that was done has already been covered up. <br />
<br />
I know that my friends way up North, out West and in the Midwest think that this snow is a good amount, but nothing to panic about. I know that my friends across the pound would be horrified if this amount of snow were ever to grace (or curse?) their land. <br />
<br />
Right now, I'm watching the snow spiral outside of my second floor window, which looks out into an alley--ah, yes, city living-- and it is hypnotizing. I don't really have the focus to watch a movie, but I seem to have no problem staring at what amounts to a visual representation of white noise.<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzYr4_4gHWORQ6l7S8HuF8xE2Y0MDDGmWBKtbAUbGFOMptxCHsvyAC6qYN8nNb7V5trC6uor5ywEnHEFis2zYrpUQMeQgV7WpEhDf9YNhnWgvhl8WrbDRhjgPjUzN4OD0rnvcKdTy8_XA/s1600-h/snowwheretogo" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgzYr4_4gHWORQ6l7S8HuF8xE2Y0MDDGmWBKtbAUbGFOMptxCHsvyAC6qYN8nNb7V5trC6uor5ywEnHEFis2zYrpUQMeQgV7WpEhDf9YNhnWgvhl8WrbDRhjgPjUzN4OD0rnvcKdTy8_XA/s320/snowwheretogo" /></a></div><br />
<br />
<br />
I couldn't really capture the white noise effect well, because I am too lazy to pull out a real camera. The 3 megapixel one will have to do for now, folks.<br />
<br />
Love it or hate it, the snow makes you slow down, even if you have to get out there and go to work or save a life or something. Since I have none of those things to do, I'll sit with tea and honey and continue to watch the snow spirals until I come up with something better to do. I will likely rest and think, write and think, read and think and perhaps later, do dishes and think.<br />
<br />
Watching the city clean up from this mess will be fun. I don't miss my basement apartment this winter. Not at all.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-36814756469054606892010-02-02T20:22:00.002-05:002010-02-02T20:25:06.959-05:00Back to the Wars.I suppose that in order to resurrect the long neglected purpose of my writing, I decided to give the blog a slight makeover. Hopefully the photographs of neoclassical and classical warriors will illicit in me a desire to start addressing that which is socially, politically, intellectually or culturally compelling to me.<br />
<br />
I was once told that I don't look for conflict in anything. Lately, and today especially, I seem to be looking for conflict in everything. So don't mess with me! <br />
<br />
Right now, I've decided to conquer that which is only slightly annoying. <br />
<br />
Mr. H said that all of my posts are 'adorable.'<br />
<br />
Occasionally, I admit, my posts can be cute or sweet and maybe, sometimes, they can be adorable. But all of them? I find it difficult to believe that all of my post are adorable. Some of them are witty, some are charming, some are clever and every once in a while they are serious.<br />
<br />
Lately I've been feeling on the periphery for a variety of reasons. The adorable periphery. <br />
<br />
I don't want to be there anymore.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-30640542461247589602010-01-31T01:03:00.008-05:002010-01-31T18:35:51.406-05:00Twelfth Night.They who predict the weather told us that today we would not have to worry about the snow. They said that we would only be slightly annoyed by the accumulation on the street, but that it would amount to nothing more than a small inconvenience.<br />
<br />
They were wrong this time.<br />
<br />
I didn't care. Today, the snow was beautiful.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBlKsWg3OjO9G4s8NAaBmbyBhKE-lKpN2rTzFmG9SP2mEDehEvS_xF7a2nW0GErV8rLrpLkPvaa3-lJZ8c43u4KLuQKJ7Dpc_mPed8dFhTKfQlg7baEwwH0cTuiyPrTTmi51SnB4yGVY0/s1600-h/today.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBlKsWg3OjO9G4s8NAaBmbyBhKE-lKpN2rTzFmG9SP2mEDehEvS_xF7a2nW0GErV8rLrpLkPvaa3-lJZ8c43u4KLuQKJ7Dpc_mPed8dFhTKfQlg7baEwwH0cTuiyPrTTmi51SnB4yGVY0/s320/today.jpg" /></a></div><br />
I walked to Columbia Heights mid-morning as the flakes were falling from the sky. My thoughts turned briefly to Mr. H. This snow would have halted the day to day activities of his country, and perhaps that is not necessarily a bad thing. I was not allowing my day to come to a halt, for it was a celebratory one. Another friend is having a baby and attending her baby shower was order of the day. <br />
<br />
In my travels through the snow, I thought back to my first evening on my holiday. It was then, after a few visits to England, that I finally got to see the Royal Shakespeare Company perform what is not normally a favorite play of mine, <i>Twelfth Night</i>. The RSC did its job splendidly; for now, I am obliged to reread this play and rethink what it is exactly that turned me off to it in the first place.<br />
<br />
During the play, Mr. H and other tall men and women folded themselves origami-like into chairs made for smaller, shorter Victorian people. As others fidgeted about in their chairs, a girl and her mother scribbled notes furiously during the performance. The pair were transfixed and observant, seemingly aware of all things occurring on stage. I learned later that they had come in all the way from Scotland to see this comedy so that the girl could prepare for her national high school exams. Mr. H engaged them in conversation and charmed them (particularly the mother) at every turn; he even offered them some of the candy he purchased at intermission.<br />
<br />
I envied his ease with strangers.<br />
<br />
*** <br />
<br />
Ice and snow covered the theatre district and I was stupid and chose to wear inappropriate shoes. As a result I moved quite gingerly worried about a fall. I suppose I thought that the area around the theatre district would have had less ice. Lesson learned. <br />
<br />
Mr. H. offered an outstretched gloved hand to my mittened one in an attempt hurry me through the ice and snow to make the curtain. Even as we cantered, I noted to myself how kind and comforting it was to move hand in hand with someone through the streets of any city, let alone one that is so ancient and familiar feeling, yet ultimately strange to me.<br />
<br />
"Are you holding my hand because you don't want to fall over," he asked with a smirk, "or are you holding it for another reason?"<br />
<br />
I knew, but I didn't feel like replying. <br />
<br />
Throughout our walks that night, I grasped and let go of his hand at my leisure, and he didn't seem to mind.<br />
<br />
Perhaps I wasn't the only one who liked kindness and comfort.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-18370163386765518402010-01-27T22:13:00.003-05:002010-01-27T22:15:47.810-05:00Free Hugs.There he was, standing in my old neighborhood in the middle of a busy sidewalk in Columbia Heights.<br />
<br />
He had a sign that read,<b><i> Free Hugs. </i></b><br />
<br />
I didn't hug him as my arms were full of groceries, but I smiled.<br />
<br />
He caught my eye and said, "You have great evening."<br />
<br />
As I walked away, I heard a woman approach him and ask, "Honey, are you that lonely?" She then exclaimed, " Let me give you a hug!"<br />
<br />
And she did.<br />
<br />
Sometimes, even when things seem kooky, weird and strange, they are also kind of magical.<br />
<br />
I send all three of you readers a big giant FREE HUG.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-84755221197648575772010-01-26T22:11:00.003-05:002010-01-26T22:17:32.760-05:00One more sinuous turn before Twelfth Night<span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">(You will forgive me, as I am very much out of my element here. )<br />
<br />
I am fascinated, nay, preoccupied with the Supreme Court's recent </span><a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2010/01/22/us/politics/22scotus.html?scp=2&sq=supreme%20court&st=Search" style="color: #196b7b;" target="_blank"><span style="font-family: inherit;">decision to block bans by the government</span></a><span style="font-family: inherit;"> on corporate spending limits during elections. I am not going to write about whether or not I think that the lifting of this ban will result in the desolation and utter destruction of the American political system. I say nothing because I am not exactly sure what will happen as a result of this decision. </span></span><br />
<span style="font-size: small;"><span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><br />
</span></span><br />
<span style="border-collapse: collapse; font-size: 13px;"><span style="font-family: inherit;">I have had neither the time nor fortitude to read the ruling nor the dissenting opinions for this case. As a matter of consequence, I regret not doing a degree in Political Science and not taking Constitutional Law with Dr. HD or Dr. U because a decent background in the First Amendment would be non-trivial here.<br />
<br />
The First Amendment reads as follows:<br />
<br />
"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."<br />
<br />
Naively, I suppose I always thought that the clause limited to 'abridging the freedom of speech' was left to the domus or oikos of the individual. I never really thought about a corporate entity being granted the same (or similar?) rights surrounding speech.<br />
<br />
To me, at least, a corporation is a multitude of voices and opinions, with a variety of shareholders who may not always support or accept the mission statement or goals of that corporation. The only similarity that a corporation seems to have to an individual is the Latin root of the word, (corpus, corporis trans body). I suppose that we could think of a corporation as a unified single body--like a body politic, but absent the King or Queen's body, I find it confusing. I suppose some free market economist will think that I am silly for wondering if corporations believe in unified speech.<br />
<br />
So when a corporation speaks, can that speech be wholly different from the majority or minority shareholders and the employees of that company? What about spokesmen or spokeswomen hired to speak on behalf of a company in other venues? Once any given speech is made are unwilling participants folded into the body whose head decides to say something? Again, what if the head says something with which the arms and legs are profoundly uncomfortable? And is it always in a corporation's best interest to invoke freedom of speech by making commercials or ads in support of a particular candidate?<br />
<br />
I have no intentions of trying to do anything but attempt figure out what it is that I think about this ruling. I don't know if most people even care about this ruling or its ramifications, but it seems to me that if a nonagenarian and longest serving judge in the highest court in this land wrote nearly 100 pages expressing his dissent and dissappointment over the ruling, I ought to take notice and do some thinking about it. </span></span>m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-60785050431040189302010-01-26T16:44:00.007-05:002010-01-26T16:53:02.853-05:00What my blog is about, apparently.Thanks to the <a href="http://blonderthanyou.wordpress.com/">Blonde</a> and <a href="http://wordle.net/">Wordle.net</a>:<br />
<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2oSc38SDoEW3RJAMw64cCfKgWcPnjmMl9kf_gi1uXCalxEjY6b4XeyhLuBIOCCj2sf-J_0pT-Rp_TBnDVokfcBZ3g0mnMPulzcZV25PKSgQXkY16U62oWUndg_877octsAggpZBwlIRg/s1600-h/wordle.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2oSc38SDoEW3RJAMw64cCfKgWcPnjmMl9kf_gi1uXCalxEjY6b4XeyhLuBIOCCj2sf-J_0pT-Rp_TBnDVokfcBZ3g0mnMPulzcZV25PKSgQXkY16U62oWUndg_877octsAggpZBwlIRg/s400/wordle.JPG" width="285" /></a><br />
</div>m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-7560763033066669082010-01-24T18:47:00.004-05:002010-01-26T22:02:46.673-05:00Harfordshire and Herzog leading up to the RSC.Very much inspired by a former blogger's sharing of a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7T8y5EPv6Y8">Werner Herzog reading of Curious Georg</a><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7T8y5EPv6Y8">e</a>, I thought that I might attempt writing about one experience in Hertfordshire in that very voice.<br />
<br />
My apologies to Mr. Herzog and his followers for my wretched interpretation--I break into a wee bit of positivity here and there, but, in any case, I thought that this might be fun. <br />
<br />
***<br />
<br />
It was only after marching her through the cold of his small town and into a pub and asking her to drink a beer that forced their very sorrows to the depths of their spines, that he reminded her:<br />
<br />
"We should return back to the flat and get ready. We do have a train to catch if we want to get to the theatre on time."<br />
<br />
As they sat there, sitting shoulder to shoulder like phalanxed soldiers, a springer spaniel shuffled up to her, put his nose in her hand for a moment, and then went off to find his owner. She wondered if the dog's life, which was limited to inside the pub, his owner's house and the medieval town in which he lived, was somehow more satisfying than hers.<br />
<br />
She put that thought on hold.<br />
<br />
Earlier on their walk, she and her inimitable host had encountered a group of boys enjoying every bit of their adolescence with a snowball fight that ended in a bloody nose, but fortunately all was still well. The boys laughed and played, their coats and scarves covering their neatly pressed uniforms. They must have gone to the preparatory school in town. These lads had such wonderful manners.<br />
<br />
Most school-aged teenagers, unfriendly and tied to their machines of madness--cell phones or video games--would not have stopped to play in the snow, nor would they have stopped to engage in conversation with a man in a tailored coat and his ill-dressed American woman guest.<br />
<br />
Her excuse for her attire was simply this: She changed out of her relatively smart travel clothing into more comfortable exercise wear as she had always planned on taking a nap that afternoon. Her host kept thwarting her attempts to have a lie down and rest. It was all a part of his great scheme to force her into the mother country's time. And eventually, it worked. <br />
<br />
She noticed that these friendly young men were different from the ones in America whom she so often wanted to expel to an island off the coast of Bali. These boys were boisterous without being troublesome and their joy was infectious. Indeed they brightened a day already made luminescent by all of the white on the countryside. <br />
<br />
And then, she arrived.<br />
<br />
Hair wrapped in a scarf and shuffling to keep from falling in the snow, an elderly woman walked up to her, the only woman in a group of happy men, the only foreigner and stranger to the town. The woman asked <i>her</i> what <i>she </i>would do to keep the boys "from playing about and doing dangerous things like allowing a boy (who by the way only weighed 8 or 9 stone) on an icy riverbed (which was only calf deep)."<br />
<br />
At first, the younger woman was worried, not knowing that the riverbed was as shallow as it was, but then silenced that thought for others: why had this grandmotherly figure chosen to fuss at her for the apparent rowdiness of the children? First off, the boys were nothing but lovely, and secondly, what made her think that the only other woman there should have been the voice of reason, the one who brought punitive order to carnavalesque fun? Why didn't she address the adult male there? He was after all wearing a hat that marked him as some sort of responsible figure.<br />
<br />
But no. The lecture about the irresponsibility of children and their nonsensical behavior was unleashed on the visitor who would love to see American youths as fun and polite as this lot was. <br />
<br />
What she wanted to say was this:<br />
<br />
"Madam, you're assuming several things here. <i> One</i>, that I am some sort of an authority figure in this situation. <i>Two</i>, that if I were to have children that I wouldn't want them to be anything like this group of really terrific lads, and<i> three</i>, that I fully agree with whatever disparaging thing you feel the need to express."<br />
<br />
What the foreigner actually did was much more polite, non-confrontational and somewhat respectful of her elder by mumbling that she wasn't sure it was so bad and that she ought to get back to the gentleman in the hat. <br />
<br />
The boys were not Curious George. They were not agents of chaos--although the woman found them to be exactly that. They were young, expending nervous energy that precedes GCSEs and exams that American students need not worry about--though perhaps it might be good if they had to.<br />
<br />
The American rather liked these boys, or young men, or whatever they were. And hoped, that were she lucky to have a son of her own one day, that he would be much more like the ones in the medieval town and nothing like most of the ones in her own neighborhood.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-68150916227225338552010-01-21T20:35:00.005-05:002010-01-21T20:42:08.711-05:00And for a moment, back to the States.I seem to have the ability to choose to live in real estate that people need or want to sell.<br />
<br />
My apartment building is in the process of being sold, but a few intrepid people in the building (I include myself in the bunch) wanted to turn this building into a condominium or a co-op. I'm not sure what our chances are anymore--given the current real estate market and the fact that many of our neighbors are very elderly.<br />
<br />
I am prepared to deal with whatever happens. I would rather not move because I really, really like my apartment. Sure, my kitchen and bathroom could use a redesign with new appliances and fixtures, but the bones of my apartment are, in fact, excellent.<br />
<br />
I am a member of the apartment's board and we have contracted attorneys to help us through the process--either of buying the building or dealing with the future buyer of the building. I know that I'll be fine whatever happens.<br />
<br />
That seems to have become my mantra for twenty-ten. "I'll be fine whatever happens." And I'll be fine with a smile on my face, damn it. <br />
<br />
I hosted a meeting last night in which we invited our attorneys, one of whom might be one of the most attractive men I've ever met in real life. I'm sure that he is considering running for office. With those looks? He should.<br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztzOox2uz4jrRWfBvJa5dKSFE9erM3V_qAcUK1nyBm3DLI5c_SOZMFBAnQWX1yBBCpkpu-1BUWpjZ3_9pjSBxwXmBfRJglz0aO-Yj_XogssmjaDJIj3k4d2hGCk_gRS-GwpZ3ZYGYFgo/s1600-h/apartment" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiztzOox2uz4jrRWfBvJa5dKSFE9erM3V_qAcUK1nyBm3DLI5c_SOZMFBAnQWX1yBBCpkpu-1BUWpjZ3_9pjSBxwXmBfRJglz0aO-Yj_XogssmjaDJIj3k4d2hGCk_gRS-GwpZ3ZYGYFgo/s320/apartment" /></a><br />
</div> (this is my place.)<br />
<br />
Because I live in what in polite circles is called an "up and coming neighborhood," I do believe that the lawyers were expecting that our meeting would take place in an apartment that was lacking in style or character. You could see the utter surprise on one of the lawyer's faces when he walked into my great space.<br />
<br />
"Oh my!" he said. "You have a GREAT apartment."<br />
<br />
Yes. I do.<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5wlzubwu3n0dNRFpaudNbzFlYjf78nXzwvpUhFCfkYH9QAC0Zeca5pxEQjrMDCXUhwaZDrIvtwBWFmHupNqb3jDLNhjtS1MkOmHvvtHgUBdppDq-zx1p79Jl28OY6Ztb6eIYpBIv1RIA/s1600-h/diningroom.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5wlzubwu3n0dNRFpaudNbzFlYjf78nXzwvpUhFCfkYH9QAC0Zeca5pxEQjrMDCXUhwaZDrIvtwBWFmHupNqb3jDLNhjtS1MkOmHvvtHgUBdppDq-zx1p79Jl28OY6Ztb6eIYpBIv1RIA/s320/diningroom.jpg" /></a><br />
</div> (blurry iphone photo.)<br />
<br />
I have a lot of space to hang paintings; I can move from room to room. I can throw a party for forty of my friends. My neighborhood isn't perfect, but it's not bad either. I have had less trouble here than when I lived in Columbia Heights. <br />
<br />
I had food and drinks at the meeting because if we were going to host our lawyers, I figured the least I could do was have decent snacks. I didn't go over the top as I had no desire to impress them, just a need--thank you Southern College--to have something for them. They weren't going to be hungry or thirsty at my house.<br />
<br />
The meeting was actually quite enlightening and I also think that it was good for two of the three attorneys to think about paradigms and expectations they had about the sorts of people who live in my neighborhood. <br />
<br />
And at the end of the meeting that same lawyer told me that my apartment was beautiful.<br />
<br />
I appreciated his compliments, but I thought, imagine what I could do if I owned this place?m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-32837581962521287702010-01-21T00:19:00.003-05:002010-01-21T09:59:38.028-05:00Labour or Conservative: A Break from the Action."Oh, so that's David Cameron? He's lovely. Much handsomer than your current Prime Minister." <br />
<br />
For a moment, I was reduced to an interested party who cared only about good looks and a better speech. The BBC was televising Mr. Cameron's latest remarks on the state of education in Britain and I must say, I was quite engaged. He addressed the iniquities that some poorer British children have suffered in the face of poor education and poorer educational institutions. He then numbered the difficulties plaguing the primary and secondary educational systems in the UK. I must admit that the problems he listed are endemic to the US school system as well. He then made a terrific rhetorical turn, softened his demeanor a bit, and emphasized both the government's and family's role in educating the young of that country.<br />
<br />
He talked about his own role as a parent, and admitted that he has been more fortunate than most citizens in his abilities to provide for his children, but encouraged his audience to believe that that with reducing the suffocating and ineffectual help from the state, families of Britain could certainly produce brilliant, capable children who will go on to have productive lives within the country.<br />
<br />
And I was beginning to be sold. <br />
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlHBQk9g5f-MOyeo78Qe_-qFK956ziqBDoLbqdESrw88gS6MwkABzI_rlK_nkL3O64Vc3UXO9o-yGx-azQgrobu4nTvGBx3gOEe-GlKtmiQcCeXCACRRog0hFRXBYjniS73W0qaHLprUU/s1600-h/1960bath.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlHBQk9g5f-MOyeo78Qe_-qFK956ziqBDoLbqdESrw88gS6MwkABzI_rlK_nkL3O64Vc3UXO9o-yGx-azQgrobu4nTvGBx3gOEe-GlKtmiQcCeXCACRRog0hFRXBYjniS73W0qaHLprUU/s320/1960bath.jpg" /></a><br />
</div> <span style="font-size: x-small;">(Another of my photos from Bath. Edited 1960s style.)</span><br />
<br />
<br />
I knew that Mr. Cameron is a Member of Parliament (MP) and the Leader of the Conservative Party and The Leader of the Opposition. I could see that he was handsome, articulate and seemed to have a genuine interest in the welfare of the people in his country.<br />
<br />
I know that I liked Tony Blair--but most of that liking was the result of my watching of <i>The Queen</i>, my cursory comparisons of him to George Bush, and my love of his partnership with his wife. But then I thought about some of the programs he initiated that I might not necessarily support now that I would have years ago. <br />
<br />
At that very moment, I realized that perhaps, at times, I am more conservative than I am willing to admit to myself.<br />
<br />
But then, dear readers, I breathed a little easier and remembered that there are fundamental differences between British and American Conservatives, and it was perfectly acceptable that I was slightly infatuated with the terrifically educated, wonderfully articulate David Cameron. I was drawn into Modern British political theater. Before my visit this year, if it happened after 1660 in Britain, I wasn't terribly interested. <br />
<br />
Mostly decent man that he is, Mr. H revels in all things political. He spent a lot of time asking me questions about President Obama, what I really thought about him, why I voted for him, what Americans see in him...ad nauseum. I answered him to the best of my ability without really engaging in a full argument. I was on holiday after all. At times, I think that Mr. H enjoys casting me as the Other--his complete opposite in all things so that he has a foil against which to espouse his agenda. Even though he may call me a Socialist or Lefty or some other name in an attempt to inspire rage in me, I'd think (and hope) that Mr. H has a healthy respect for my political outlook--however naive he claims to find it to be. (At least I'm not doe-eyed and in my early twenties telling him how damned clever he is all that time. I have that, I suppose, right?)<br />
<br />
Every moment that it was appropriate, Mr. H found it important, nay, necessary, emphatically to inform me about the state of Britain today. He listed what he found to be utter failings, he seethed about the Labour Party, and he explained to me how much better the world would be if it simply embraced truly Libertarian values. <br />
<br />
And I must say, I am terribly grateful for his lectures and blustery rants. These occasions gave me opportunity to begin seriously to consider and reconsider my own political philosophy. I know this much after hearing Mr. Cameron's speech: I would like for every person who wishes to have a fantastic education enjoy that opportunity, and I think that it would be interesting to see what would happen in the American education system if public schools were given the autonomy that private schools have. As for my own political leanings, I think that I am an Independent for now because I can't ascribe to any party line. And I'm not sure that will change. I do not and will never regret my voting for the current President of the US. (Mr. H, I do hope you read this part especially.) <br />
<br />
Escaping from the world of American politics was rather refreshing, but I clung to my own citizenry when asked my political affiliation after several minutes of talking with Mr. H's adorable and politically saavy 98-year-old grandmother.<br />
<br />
"Are you Labour or Conservative?" she asked directly.<br />
<br />
"Well, madam, I am an American. I don't have to choose." <br />
<br />
"I suppose that's a good answer." <br />
<br />
It was also at that moment that I realized that however much I love Britain and could certainly live there for a long time, I could never become one of the Queen's subjects and renounce my US citizenship. Because being a citizen of this country is a ticket to awesome.<br />
<br />
But that, my dear readers, is an observation for another post.m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-9054687761317646645.post-64003338426534910922010-01-20T00:00:00.008-05:002010-01-20T00:12:28.527-05:00On the way to Bath."I do hope that you brought something with you to read on the train to Bath," Mr. H went on, "I don't want to spend the whole time talking. I prefer to read on train journeys."<br />
<br />
I assured him that I did, indeed, have something to read. I always have a couple of books with me whenever I go away. It's a habit. Most of the time I don't even read those books as I end up buying others in random bookstores. He needn't have worried. For this train ride I also brought a diary along. It is electric blue and lists the date and gives the writer several lines to express something. It's actually more of a appointment diary, but I use it not only to record meetings and other outings, but also to make observations of things that are both consequential and terribly insignificant.<br />
<br />
Mr. H saw the diary at some point and asked about it. I could tell he restrained himself from asking more pointed questions about its contents; so he was of course left to wonder how big of a part he played in the notes I was taking. He watched me write as we sat in a pub waiting for the train to Bath be called.<br />
<br />
I wrote a brief entry about how I had trouble keeping up with Mr. H in our walk through London to get anywhere. Museums. Train stations. A play. He was his own Ares and Hermes rolled into one. And I was often left in the dust.<br />
<br />
That day, on the way to Bath, he had a singular path in mind and marched me through the cold and wind and snow to get us to Paddington frightfully early. He would walk quickly forward complaining that I couldn't properly keep up and that our relative walking speed had nothing to do with our height difference and everything to do with me, and my relative fitness. This comment was first uttered while I was racing along in heels (albeit small ones) on my first night in town. I restrained my urge to kill him a few times and I even told him I hated him once after I climbed one hundred ninety three steps in those same heels. I was sure to point out that I was not always sure of where I was going, and didn't feel as comfortable jaywalking in that city. My instinct is still to look the wrong way on London streets, and I recognize that instinct as a somewhat dangerous reflex. <br />
<br />
Although he would bound ahead from time to time, he was easy to spot, and so I eventually felt no inclination to fight to keep up with him especially if his lead or he had become annoying to me. I knew that I was neither a needy teenager, a puppy, nor was I one of his mates. And with that, I happily resumed a fairly normal pace.<br />
<br />
He continually pointed out that he'd do his best to slow down, but it wasn't in his nature to walk so slowly--which in my defense, really wasn't that slow. And yet, he would turn around to make sure that I wasn't lost or missing, "because I worry about you," he insisted. <br />
<br />
But again, at Paddington, when the train was called, he darted off again, leaving me to chase him through the station and through the train to our seats.<br />
<br />
Once I sat down, I was marvelously happy to be against the window.<br />
<br />
"Do you want tea or fruit or a sandwich?" he asked before we got settled. <br />
<br />
Mr. H got up extra early that morning to make his famous bacon sandwiches and a thermos full of tea. Watching him make preparations for our outing was quite endearing. He assured me that we'd be hungry on our the way and explained that travel always made him hungry. "It is simply Pavlovian," he insisted. He attributed this to journeys he'd made as a child with his family, and to his mother's efforts to make the travel as easy as possible. <br />
<br />
It was small moments like these that reminded me how much I had yet to learn about Mr. H.<br />
<br />
"No thank you. I'm not that hungry. We just ate."<br />
<br />
"I know, but are you sure? Do you need anything else? Would you like my copy of <i>The Economist</i>?"<br />
<br />
"No, really. I'm fine."<br />
<br />
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In his effort to make me feel comfortable, Mr. H attempted to engage me in conversation for a good part of the train ride. At first I didn't have the heart to tell him, that for me, train rides are as close to a spiritual journey as I take in any given year. I may read or write, but mostly, I enjoy watching the countryside blow past me while I listen to music. I had a set list all picked out. And because I was there during England's big snow, there was so much to see. A land covered in white and ice.<br />
<br />
"You know that you're a very handsome man," I offered, "but you're even handsomer when you're quiet."<br />
<br />
I knew of no other way to get him to let himself and me enjoy the contemplation that accompanies the rails.<br />
<br />
"Am I talking too much?"<br />
<br />
"Yes."<br />
<br />
And then after a brief conversation about his shirt and sweater and its relative attractiveness there was finally a contented quiet.<br />
<br />
We reached Bath, after nearly missing the stop because the train ride was so enjoyable. There was more ice and snow and cold than anything I've ever experienced in England. At the entrance of the train station Mr. H announced, "Should we get separated, let us meet here at half past six before the train departs."<br />
<br />
"What makes you think we'll get separated? Are you worried that I'll get annoyed and run away?"<br />
<br />
"I <i>am</i> talking too much."<br />
<br />
"There's no need to worry about that now. This should be fun."<br />
<br />
<br />
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<b>photo: <span style="font-size: x-small;"> (streets of bath. taken by me, but mostly thanks to a wonderfully edited holga-ish photo. Brava to Jenni's suggestion that I look at picknik.com)</span></b>m.a.http://www.blogger.com/profile/08662030747760941919noreply@blogger.com2