Ian
And do you remember, liebchen, days with hot lunch and dinner?
Days of running in sprinklers spray up and
turning the Lone Ranger’s many gunfights down?
But since we are here with hammer and nails
chisels and pain, to do the work of our lengthy,
lengthened lives, let me work in the sun
sweat patiently in the heat
that will one day reduce me to the small cinders
which represents nothing.
In my dying fire, clothe me in that heat
as I am multiplied into ashes and light.
And you, remember to leave the window open
to hear our far-away cries
and let light in.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
Halloween
London weekend was absolutely righteous. We stayed at a hostel called "The Clink" which of course led to a plethora of Hogan's Heroes jokes – shows you the kind of people that are studying on our program – and after the last week a little R & R was exactly what we needed.
But there was little rest to be had. Arriving on Friday night we found our way to a Mexican restaurant in the Euston area which IFSA had booked for a group dinner. I was, of course, immediately skeptical. This is not Mexico, nor did we have any business in Mexico, but I had an immense hankering for enchiladas which drove me to accept the invitation. The food wound up being delicious, and hot. At last, something spicy in this country which seems to have been abandoned by chili peppers of any and all varieties. The margaritas were tasty as well, a nice complement to the chicken mole, black beans, and other dishes on the buffet.
Soon, however, one had to make a decision: stay, and sample tequila, or go forth and sample the tantalizing fruits of the city at night. Tequila not being my favourite beverage, I decided to head off to Astor Hall where a good friend from high school happened to be staying. Astor is a dormitory for University College London students, and just the other week Allie and I realized that we were both in England at the same time. The stage was set: now all that remained was for Fate and her minions Alcohol and Happenstance to intervene. And did they ever.
At Astor, I meet Allie and Bryant (the boyfriend) and we make our way along with Sarah, Julian, and Zehava to an Indian restaurant. The mood is light. I talk about Latin among other things with Zehava as they eat their evening meal. I mention "Underground Rebel Bingo" and then explain the phenomenon to the group – I would do so here, but I'll save it for another entry. They finish eating, we leave, and Happenstance intervenes.
Let me start with Oliver. Oliver is a Brit, a friend of Allie's, who is going to meet us at the UCL student union (one of two). We show up about 30 minutes after speaking to him, and he is already quite drunk at which point he loudly insults Allie and doesn't even notice that I am there while we make our way back outside so Ollie can smoke. Ollie says something I can't understand and we're off to the other UCL union.
We arrive, and the place is ridiculous. There are goofy costumes, music and lights, and a bar which we all sidle up to and dive right in. The world is a good and decent place here in this moment: Ollie has cashed in some sort of token at the bar and received a large witches hat which he smashed onto his head and wears proudly. We sit about and talk for awhile, and I watch as a giant banana serves snakebites to two girls that probably don't need them. But what am I saying, of course they do. The bar is full and costumed drunks wander in and out. Halloween seems to be a multi-day affair here in Britain confined not to the 31st, but celebrated for two or three days beforehand. Soon though, a few hours have past. I walk back to Astor with Ollie, Allie, and Zehava. There's a little more chat and I eventually find my way back to Der Clink in time to slip into bed by 3:30, just ahead of Zach, my roommate, who stumbles in from bowling with several eastern Europeans just minutes later. So ended the Friday evening.
I awoke Saturday with the little hammer-men pounding on the backs of my eyeballs. Too much whiskey, clearly. I will go on to refine the recipe later that evening, but just now, I'm not exactly happy with said little men. After a small breakfast, our little clique of Americans decides to head out for Camden Market and get whatever we need for our costumes that evening. I buy a belt made out of .50 bullets, a leather jacket, and some leather hobo-gloves along with some shitty jewelery to complete my ensemble for Billy Idol. Zach purchases the gear necessary to look like a cross between Waldo and Ira Glass. We eventually agree on Waldo, as long as he talks with Ira's voice.
After our Camden adventure we go back to Der Clink to lick our physical and financial wounds and prepare for the evening's festivities. The hour draws nigh and I don a wifebeater, the bullet belt, and gel my hair to look ridiculous. I now regret not bleaching it, but the choice has been made. I feel like a complete pussy.
After a little pre-gaming we ride the tube to Tower Bridge, the location of our party. We're taken up an elevator by the security guards and step out into the bridge itself. The view is ludicrous: London at night is beautiful, but when the lights stretch out in such a way, it is breathtaking. We enjoy a reception before dinner, figuring out who everyone else is dressed up as, and then make our way to dinner. Braised chicken with an onion-shallot something I don't know on a bed of mashed leeks, with a gravy I can't really explain. Very good. We then proceeded to dance/karaoke with the best of them, my own offering being a startlingly good rendition of "Danger! High Voltage!" which others seemed to enjoy. I would have done "Rebel Yell" but there was no Billy Idol in the karaoke machine. Miffed, I was.
The party at Tower Bridge ended around 10:30, so I found my way back to Astor for what was nothing short of a drunken war zone. I will not attempt to elaborate in this medium, as I will not do any of it justice. I stumbled home late. Thus ended Saturday.
Sunday started rainy. We got soaked walking from the hostel to the hotel for brunch, but brunch was tasty. The train came on time, we boarded, and headed home.
Now I transcribe the poems for tomorrow's tutorial, update on my machinations in England, and eventually hit the hay. More to come, and hopefully some photos of the Halloween madness. Enjoy the week.
-M
But there was little rest to be had. Arriving on Friday night we found our way to a Mexican restaurant in the Euston area which IFSA had booked for a group dinner. I was, of course, immediately skeptical. This is not Mexico, nor did we have any business in Mexico, but I had an immense hankering for enchiladas which drove me to accept the invitation. The food wound up being delicious, and hot. At last, something spicy in this country which seems to have been abandoned by chili peppers of any and all varieties. The margaritas were tasty as well, a nice complement to the chicken mole, black beans, and other dishes on the buffet.
Soon, however, one had to make a decision: stay, and sample tequila, or go forth and sample the tantalizing fruits of the city at night. Tequila not being my favourite beverage, I decided to head off to Astor Hall where a good friend from high school happened to be staying. Astor is a dormitory for University College London students, and just the other week Allie and I realized that we were both in England at the same time. The stage was set: now all that remained was for Fate and her minions Alcohol and Happenstance to intervene. And did they ever.
At Astor, I meet Allie and Bryant (the boyfriend) and we make our way along with Sarah, Julian, and Zehava to an Indian restaurant. The mood is light. I talk about Latin among other things with Zehava as they eat their evening meal. I mention "Underground Rebel Bingo" and then explain the phenomenon to the group – I would do so here, but I'll save it for another entry. They finish eating, we leave, and Happenstance intervenes.
Let me start with Oliver. Oliver is a Brit, a friend of Allie's, who is going to meet us at the UCL student union (one of two). We show up about 30 minutes after speaking to him, and he is already quite drunk at which point he loudly insults Allie and doesn't even notice that I am there while we make our way back outside so Ollie can smoke. Ollie says something I can't understand and we're off to the other UCL union.
We arrive, and the place is ridiculous. There are goofy costumes, music and lights, and a bar which we all sidle up to and dive right in. The world is a good and decent place here in this moment: Ollie has cashed in some sort of token at the bar and received a large witches hat which he smashed onto his head and wears proudly. We sit about and talk for awhile, and I watch as a giant banana serves snakebites to two girls that probably don't need them. But what am I saying, of course they do. The bar is full and costumed drunks wander in and out. Halloween seems to be a multi-day affair here in Britain confined not to the 31st, but celebrated for two or three days beforehand. Soon though, a few hours have past. I walk back to Astor with Ollie, Allie, and Zehava. There's a little more chat and I eventually find my way back to Der Clink in time to slip into bed by 3:30, just ahead of Zach, my roommate, who stumbles in from bowling with several eastern Europeans just minutes later. So ended the Friday evening.
I awoke Saturday with the little hammer-men pounding on the backs of my eyeballs. Too much whiskey, clearly. I will go on to refine the recipe later that evening, but just now, I'm not exactly happy with said little men. After a small breakfast, our little clique of Americans decides to head out for Camden Market and get whatever we need for our costumes that evening. I buy a belt made out of .50 bullets, a leather jacket, and some leather hobo-gloves along with some shitty jewelery to complete my ensemble for Billy Idol. Zach purchases the gear necessary to look like a cross between Waldo and Ira Glass. We eventually agree on Waldo, as long as he talks with Ira's voice.
After our Camden adventure we go back to Der Clink to lick our physical and financial wounds and prepare for the evening's festivities. The hour draws nigh and I don a wifebeater, the bullet belt, and gel my hair to look ridiculous. I now regret not bleaching it, but the choice has been made. I feel like a complete pussy.
After a little pre-gaming we ride the tube to Tower Bridge, the location of our party. We're taken up an elevator by the security guards and step out into the bridge itself. The view is ludicrous: London at night is beautiful, but when the lights stretch out in such a way, it is breathtaking. We enjoy a reception before dinner, figuring out who everyone else is dressed up as, and then make our way to dinner. Braised chicken with an onion-shallot something I don't know on a bed of mashed leeks, with a gravy I can't really explain. Very good. We then proceeded to dance/karaoke with the best of them, my own offering being a startlingly good rendition of "Danger! High Voltage!" which others seemed to enjoy. I would have done "Rebel Yell" but there was no Billy Idol in the karaoke machine. Miffed, I was.
The party at Tower Bridge ended around 10:30, so I found my way back to Astor for what was nothing short of a drunken war zone. I will not attempt to elaborate in this medium, as I will not do any of it justice. I stumbled home late. Thus ended Saturday.
Sunday started rainy. We got soaked walking from the hostel to the hotel for brunch, but brunch was tasty. The train came on time, we boarded, and headed home.
Now I transcribe the poems for tomorrow's tutorial, update on my machinations in England, and eventually hit the hay. More to come, and hopefully some photos of the Halloween madness. Enjoy the week.
-M
Monday, October 26, 2009
So Clarke liked my Lear essay - I essentially described him as an existential hero in Camus' estimation. We had a really excellent conversation, and now I'm onto my next play: Hamlet. Going to have a lot of fun with it.
Things are starting to speed up. We're over a quarter done with our time here, and I barely feel like I've started. But the poems keep rolling off the pen. Met some wonderful people so far as well, been going to Poetry Soc. And I'll be making a few humble submissions to "The Folio" which is an Oxford poetry journal.
Have a good week, all.
Things are starting to speed up. We're over a quarter done with our time here, and I barely feel like I've started. But the poems keep rolling off the pen. Met some wonderful people so far as well, been going to Poetry Soc. And I'll be making a few humble submissions to "The Folio" which is an Oxford poetry journal.
Have a good week, all.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Saturday, October 17, 2009
Well, it's been a productive week here, despite some challenges: I wrote 9 poems for John Ballam, which I need to type into the computer-machine and edit by Monday. Also, I'm working my way through "King Lear" at the moment for Shakespeare. I'm hoping I think up an essay topic soon.
The challenges were mostly of a physical nature. I've been quite ill all week, functioning with the help of dayquil and a lot of tea. My respiratory tract is all messed up, I think I have a sinus infection, and to top it all off, I woke up this morning with conjuctivitis. Pink-eye. So I'm finding out where the closest clinic is. I suppose it wouldn't have been a trip to England without some sort of brush with the NHS.
Today I go to sing a concert, though I'm not really sure for whom or why. I've gotten emails from some dude who's recruiting singers for today event. There's only 16 of us, and we're doing a bunch of stuff I've never heard of before (though it is VERY British). Stanford's Magnificat for double choir and his "Eight Partsongs", "Songs in Honor of Queen Victoria" by Stanford, Stainer, and Parry, and Parry's "Songs of Farewell". We rehearse for two hours this morning, three hours this afternoon, and perform tonight. We're about to find out just how well I sight-read. Wish me luck, I'm a little concerned about my ability to sing while I'm this sick. But whatever. "The spirit is willing..." and all that garbage.
More poetry to come when I finally get this week's crop typed in. I haven't been taking many photos, mostly because I prefer night photography and the town itself has amazingly poor lighting for such an enterprise. But I'll see what I can do.
Enjoy the weekend. Cheers.
The challenges were mostly of a physical nature. I've been quite ill all week, functioning with the help of dayquil and a lot of tea. My respiratory tract is all messed up, I think I have a sinus infection, and to top it all off, I woke up this morning with conjuctivitis. Pink-eye. So I'm finding out where the closest clinic is. I suppose it wouldn't have been a trip to England without some sort of brush with the NHS.
Today I go to sing a concert, though I'm not really sure for whom or why. I've gotten emails from some dude who's recruiting singers for today event. There's only 16 of us, and we're doing a bunch of stuff I've never heard of before (though it is VERY British). Stanford's Magnificat for double choir and his "Eight Partsongs", "Songs in Honor of Queen Victoria" by Stanford, Stainer, and Parry, and Parry's "Songs of Farewell". We rehearse for two hours this morning, three hours this afternoon, and perform tonight. We're about to find out just how well I sight-read. Wish me luck, I'm a little concerned about my ability to sing while I'm this sick. But whatever. "The spirit is willing..." and all that garbage.
More poetry to come when I finally get this week's crop typed in. I haven't been taking many photos, mostly because I prefer night photography and the town itself has amazingly poor lighting for such an enterprise. But I'll see what I can do.
Enjoy the weekend. Cheers.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
A Painted House
He still wear the paint on his nails
the little bits in cracks and curves
wanting to be up on the ladder
with work that the boards of him drink in
work that coats a hundred-year house with love
something more human coating the worn boards
quieting the soul of the owner with ample rest.
Scraping at the worn chips and crocodile skin of the old paint
and hearing the throaty ripping
followed by the ring of the blade as it tears away the puckered latex
and he lays on the new
the new coat
or is it a new life?
Yet every conversation leads back to that old office
that old place where you painted the boards that shored up younger souls
and when you were found guilty of treason
to a law not worth living, Thaddeus, you flew
and now build a new home.
I worked in that building. Gave little bits of me
that the wood still wears
and hope that somehow
the love placed there
still shines, ever so lightly
in the cracks and curves
of your new future
He still wear the paint on his nails
the little bits in cracks and curves
wanting to be up on the ladder
with work that the boards of him drink in
work that coats a hundred-year house with love
something more human coating the worn boards
quieting the soul of the owner with ample rest.
Scraping at the worn chips and crocodile skin of the old paint
and hearing the throaty ripping
followed by the ring of the blade as it tears away the puckered latex
and he lays on the new
the new coat
or is it a new life?
Yet every conversation leads back to that old office
that old place where you painted the boards that shored up younger souls
and when you were found guilty of treason
to a law not worth living, Thaddeus, you flew
and now build a new home.
I worked in that building. Gave little bits of me
that the wood still wears
and hope that somehow
the love placed there
still shines, ever so lightly
in the cracks and curves
of your new future
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Smash Palace
where you can break anything
take the shingles off the roof
put a foot through a window,
shatter the pane.
Take a door by the lintel,
tear out the frame
break and break and break
until the knuckles open into a lattice
that gleams
and the fingers
toes chest lungs and breathing body
are a
Smash Palace.
Make something new of it.
Place pieces in
inconsistent places.
Put the door into the windowframe
hinges erased.
Make foot
prints
in the dust
covering a floor
composed of a wrinkled glass sheet.
Here, where shingles complete countertops
and bedboards make basementfloors
here
begin building
a new heart.
where you can break anything
take the shingles off the roof
put a foot through a window,
shatter the pane.
Take a door by the lintel,
tear out the frame
break and break and break
until the knuckles open into a lattice
that gleams
and the fingers
toes chest lungs and breathing body
are a
Smash Palace.
Make something new of it.
Place pieces in
inconsistent places.
Put the door into the windowframe
hinges erased.
Make foot
prints
in the dust
covering a floor
composed of a wrinkled glass sheet.
Here, where shingles complete countertops
and bedboards make basementfloors
here
begin building
a new heart.
So sorry for taking forever with this post, but things have been a little hectic here, what with all the parties, and the essays coming in, and the whole cultural adjustment thing.
This past week is what Oxford students call "Freshers Week", which is exactly what it sounds like. The JCR (Junior Common Room) leadership, sort of a student council-esque group, put on events all week long to help freshers get to know each other, the older students, and generally have a good time. There is some sort of themed party in the bar every night, and discounted nightclub tickets were sold to allow students to go out on the town. Needless to say, this is slightly different from GAC. I do believe the Ohle administration would shit itself at the idea of a bunch of 18-year-olds being not only encouraged but practically required to drink copious amounts of alcohol on a nightly basis. But this is not Gustavus. This is Oxford.
The truly beautiful thing about the afore-mentioned bar is that the English government subsidizes all of the alcohol and food we consume. The British taxpayer buys approximately half of every pint and drink, and I eat lunch for around £1.85 every day. That's about $3.50. Dinner is £3.43, and involves a grand nightly affair in which we are all seated in the Hall here at Catz and served a three-course meal. This meal is aptly referred to as "Hall". For those on the run, "Scaff" is served starting at 6 PM, and is more along the lines of a regular cafeteria-style dinner. Everything served is delicious: last night we had a curry soup for the first course, curried beef over rice with roasted vegetables for the second, and a chocolate mousse for dessert. Not bad.
All in all, the adjustment has gone very well and I never want to leave. With just seven short weeks to go, however, I am diving in as much as possible. I've written my first essay and have another to write today, in addition to singing with a choir of my choosing later today. I need to decide, and quickly. Lincoln, Keble, or Pembroke. Problem being Pembroke hasn't actually told me whether or not I've gotten in at this point. It'll all work out, I'm sure.
With all that said, I'm off. Need to get started on that essay. Ta.
This past week is what Oxford students call "Freshers Week", which is exactly what it sounds like. The JCR (Junior Common Room) leadership, sort of a student council-esque group, put on events all week long to help freshers get to know each other, the older students, and generally have a good time. There is some sort of themed party in the bar every night, and discounted nightclub tickets were sold to allow students to go out on the town. Needless to say, this is slightly different from GAC. I do believe the Ohle administration would shit itself at the idea of a bunch of 18-year-olds being not only encouraged but practically required to drink copious amounts of alcohol on a nightly basis. But this is not Gustavus. This is Oxford.
The truly beautiful thing about the afore-mentioned bar is that the English government subsidizes all of the alcohol and food we consume. The British taxpayer buys approximately half of every pint and drink, and I eat lunch for around £1.85 every day. That's about $3.50. Dinner is £3.43, and involves a grand nightly affair in which we are all seated in the Hall here at Catz and served a three-course meal. This meal is aptly referred to as "Hall". For those on the run, "Scaff" is served starting at 6 PM, and is more along the lines of a regular cafeteria-style dinner. Everything served is delicious: last night we had a curry soup for the first course, curried beef over rice with roasted vegetables for the second, and a chocolate mousse for dessert. Not bad.
All in all, the adjustment has gone very well and I never want to leave. With just seven short weeks to go, however, I am diving in as much as possible. I've written my first essay and have another to write today, in addition to singing with a choir of my choosing later today. I need to decide, and quickly. Lincoln, Keble, or Pembroke. Problem being Pembroke hasn't actually told me whether or not I've gotten in at this point. It'll all work out, I'm sure.
With all that said, I'm off. Need to get started on that essay. Ta.
Thursday, October 1, 2009
So I made it safely. I will put up a long post with pictures when I am not restriced to expensive hotel internet.
All I can say is that tea at the Poetry Cafe is as good as ever, and The Crown still serves up the best beer I've had in all the world. I do miss the Joyce Crew, but I am getting over it. Finding a new crew. It's a small world after all.
More to come, rest assured.
Cheers.
All I can say is that tea at the Poetry Cafe is as good as ever, and The Crown still serves up the best beer I've had in all the world. I do miss the Joyce Crew, but I am getting over it. Finding a new crew. It's a small world after all.
More to come, rest assured.
Cheers.
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