tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-84785256566958963782024-03-19T06:09:57.995-07:00Stuck in a RhymeKatherine's travels to Cambridge in the UK and the aftermath of the journey.Unknownnoreply@blogger.comBlogger19125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-85909215615919829292013-07-25T07:19:00.001-07:002014-05-07T18:53:44.127-07:00My Ideal Writing Self<br />
Fiona Sampson asked a small group of us yesterday to write about our ideal writing selves, whatever that may mean to us. I guess many writers have this fantasy where we live in the mountains, away from responsibilities and distractions and write for hours on end until our manuscript emerges, perfect. The writer also emerges, probably smelling gross. I've often thought about this idea, and decided to post my thoughts on it.<br />
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The thing is, I already <i>am</i> my true writing self. That person--she is me. I work when I can because life requires a lot of attention. I'm a linguist, a barbershop quartet singer, a best friend, a sister and a daughter. I don't have time to write for eight hours a day, and I wouldn't even if I had it. I love writing, though. Rae Taylor, Diesel Soaring, Carolina Marlborough, Gideon Strong, Satoru--these characters have secrets worth uncovering. But even at the most writerly, the most focused on my pen, I <i>remain </i>a linguist, a singer, a daughter, friend and sister. These do not change. How could they?</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPlLNCt9gjgqjQcwjZAGndelRmjuIAd51suRtUDkHiiY6HOh5BFs4hp2QzNDxjp1g-CfQsTIHzK-AcrfeGvPybSPmfxo_5ecicHvLKsJe4pqH5y1gU4oq1ToUB3KXQY25y9-yeVRN1nscp/s1600/P7191114.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgPlLNCt9gjgqjQcwjZAGndelRmjuIAd51suRtUDkHiiY6HOh5BFs4hp2QzNDxjp1g-CfQsTIHzK-AcrfeGvPybSPmfxo_5ecicHvLKsJe4pqH5y1gU4oq1ToUB3KXQY25y9-yeVRN1nscp/s320/P7191114.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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So I'll make myself some tea, bring my laptop to the group table in the dorm (or window ledge at the cafe or my lap on a train) and write. Because I love it. Because Diesel needs to get over the addiction, because Gideon has to fall in love, Rae must <i>be</i>come and<i> over</i>come her secret past, and Satoru--like all villains--must meet his end.</div>
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The ideal persona is the one you put on everyday and make.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-91118382755967548732013-07-25T07:01:00.000-07:002014-05-07T18:54:59.885-07:00Let Me In!<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjynMza_rbfT1u2y4uWbIp3bgUKsEdiBDvM3YdodXJfroPBTOaX10Zbm4ivt3sE8XD9uIDa8hjllJlE_pQlEyOrJXI2FII_toc_X04bzRq9eCiCfusY5Mu2f9Kgvn6YdnYm2ZHt3Fhu3EYG/s1600/P6261042.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjynMza_rbfT1u2y4uWbIp3bgUKsEdiBDvM3YdodXJfroPBTOaX10Zbm4ivt3sE8XD9uIDa8hjllJlE_pQlEyOrJXI2FII_toc_X04bzRq9eCiCfusY5Mu2f9Kgvn6YdnYm2ZHt3Fhu3EYG/s200/P6261042.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a>Over the past four weeks, I've studied linguistics of all kinds at the University of Michigan for the <a href="http://www.linguisticsociety.org/" target="_blank">Linguistic Society of America</a>'s <a href="https://lsa2013.lsa.umich.edu/" target="_blank">Summer Institute</a>. I think perhaps most people would be bored by my discoveries, but they amount to an exciting conclusion. In graduate school, I want to pursue one of two paths in linguistics:<br />
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The first is ASL sociolinguistics. Sociolinguistics studies how variation in lexicon, pronunciation, and other linguistic features helps create and constantly renegotiate our personas in different social situations. For example, think of the words you use and how you speak in public at a presentation or with your romantic partner. Why do these different social situations present such different manners of speaking? What are we trying to communicate about ourselves? So I want to do the same thing many linguists do with English or other languages, and apply that to ASL. For example, how do Deaf speakers identify themselves as "Deaf from New York" or "Deaf and gay" in their speech?<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWFrso0p94gmBE_WEeTsLd5ICUCrDfMftAkO_fcvD5Yg0y7JfRjo1vIvAe5UK2X6fsQtHjUi9jIoHcWukJm2AdsTfH_dJ0KEk_iCUSdgO-lDULjUNgajoKf84zJ7K-LAZxSNfKMWIaCcOz/s1600/P6241028.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWFrso0p94gmBE_WEeTsLd5ICUCrDfMftAkO_fcvD5Yg0y7JfRjo1vIvAe5UK2X6fsQtHjUi9jIoHcWukJm2AdsTfH_dJ0KEk_iCUSdgO-lDULjUNgajoKf84zJ7K-LAZxSNfKMWIaCcOz/s200/P6241028.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Believe it or not, this is Michigan. Not England. </td></tr>
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The second interest I discovered at the Institute is forensic linguistics. I want to specialize in speaker identification and linguistic profiling. I have some ideas about how to conduct research in this field that I don't think anyone else has considered, so I hope to explore that quite a bit more.<br />
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In any case, the point is that I had a wonderful time at the Institute. I met some wonderful, intelligent, quirky people who never once asked me how many languages I speak as a linguist. They taught me new ASL signs, gave me insights to the Russian queer community, and taught me about speaker identification in calls of distress. They all deserve to become prominent in their fields.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjniwdz7owcsD_N5ygpUjr2MIruSK3Jq9ZKeKbZYMBEIl8xiWVcdAB5dKQEFekfdILwknuEQ26dPVNyNDF8kvjFMwec7Hr63aT9HetUmf4yjTMWxlwqEkxYfXDpy_kgVj36CfvgEiiWRylR/s1600/P6251036.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; font-size: 13px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjniwdz7owcsD_N5ygpUjr2MIruSK3Jq9ZKeKbZYMBEIl8xiWVcdAB5dKQEFekfdILwknuEQ26dPVNyNDF8kvjFMwec7Hr63aT9HetUmf4yjTMWxlwqEkxYfXDpy_kgVj36CfvgEiiWRylR/s200/P6251036.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">What talk of Michigan is complete without some graffiti?</td></tr>
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Like all good things, however, the Institute ended. I got a ride to the airport, obnoxiously large orange suitcase in hand. I had a layover in Chicago, and then off to London!<br />
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Or so I thought.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIoosU_COlPdg_CnRzZCFFByTBQPMX0G-yVw1GDgXVeCAlPJeeY95vn9g0kEaSG2HtEtxkkuiIJhAwFtVDahT7PtZZr5FxYWeQ2qxZwcIUoD1ZZKVxEYmBVdmbi86GmsPUIvq-oZ16te-z/s1600/P7211117.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIoosU_COlPdg_CnRzZCFFByTBQPMX0G-yVw1GDgXVeCAlPJeeY95vn9g0kEaSG2HtEtxkkuiIJhAwFtVDahT7PtZZr5FxYWeQ2qxZwcIUoD1ZZKVxEYmBVdmbi86GmsPUIvq-oZ16te-z/s200/P7211117.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></div>
Once I got to Chicago, I was informed that my next flight was cancelled due to mechanical issues. On the bright side, they paid for my food that evening, a cab, my hotel room that night, the next morning's cab, and food while I waited for the rebooked flight. The down side is that I didn't get to go to London a day early like I'd wanted.<br />
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They eventually let me into the country, though. That's gotta count for something.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd7bW201y-NyLrUfYUKAJPKI-xIE_9w716WSC9QGmafcwcHZKAFwmND6hNLq3nc6O2l1XWWcQxZ8dV4fhAK8gFHweCFNJYlu5PF-qgEoUAcyBngAvRAx_WfEy4sL5tSy4G62X0PLBU22oX/s1600/P7211118.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd7bW201y-NyLrUfYUKAJPKI-xIE_9w716WSC9QGmafcwcHZKAFwmND6hNLq3nc6O2l1XWWcQxZ8dV4fhAK8gFHweCFNJYlu5PF-qgEoUAcyBngAvRAx_WfEy4sL5tSy4G62X0PLBU22oX/s320/P7211118.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a> </td></tr>
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Returning to England felt like coming back to my room after being in college for a few months. Most of the things I remember are in their proper place--King's College, Benet's Ice Cream, my old flat on Thompson's Lane--and others have changed. A woman I used to chat with at the Market wasn't there when I visited, and some other buildings are now under construction. But it's so similar to my memories that I'm shocked. I remember where most of my favorite clubs and restaurants are.<br />
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<tr><td><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_WWN71o9Mf9DILPG5SCJHAzxDasQahfxtfa5LU_NRhX1vbp1hJh7BsQqDUdHk10KTOFR0viTiPuzUIjNagP7dbxN3HQkXBocrSe98dpuNTPMwewQ3B0CFRLb5oJEf-p54xnTLgf4dOq9/s1600/P7270232.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgk_WWN71o9Mf9DILPG5SCJHAzxDasQahfxtfa5LU_NRhX1vbp1hJh7BsQqDUdHk10KTOFR0viTiPuzUIjNagP7dbxN3HQkXBocrSe98dpuNTPMwewQ3B0CFRLb5oJEf-p54xnTLgf4dOq9/s320/P7270232.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 13px;">The lovely King's College facade, forever one of my favorite landmarks to photograph in Cambridge.<br />
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On the other hand, this program differs from PKP in many other ways. First of all, we only have about 25 people this year. We come from all over: Malaysia, France, Norway, and Australia at least (though of course Americans remain the majority). So far, they seem like talented, thoughtful individuals with great writing potential. We have guest lectures by prominent editors, biographers, and others twice a week. We meet for supervisions to workshop our work biweekly as well. We have key themed lectures as well, from the program coordinators Richard Beard and Fiona Sampson. So far, the lectures have given me valuable insights on my writing.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWjtfZjibZOvyKd6eilrOPU-CiwuE27a3SmrIa9nuLi60UgPITgR516fWOLC4d35uwHeiWSPIpKNxNhke8y4OVbJeLLcAW2DW1IXuANrNgZ0gFVAM3HMHinIXVOkifcJpOByOL-WFuZXHf/s1600/P7211129.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWjtfZjibZOvyKd6eilrOPU-CiwuE27a3SmrIa9nuLi60UgPITgR516fWOLC4d35uwHeiWSPIpKNxNhke8y4OVbJeLLcAW2DW1IXuANrNgZ0gFVAM3HMHinIXVOkifcJpOByOL-WFuZXHf/s320/P7211129.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">My lovely room! It's large, just like last year :)</td></tr>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQOq6FK4GPAAPkTOkoz9P3WhKy7o5TRx3KzLelj3Ir7ioCA-xf5qEujIpFEXymklPVxWvNYTUMYEe2XKKtu5gqNmENm3cZsl5VT1J4v0JN7WkzygSJVK4XL6GGMYJqwX4D9tKo-0N9ARWy/s1600/P7231133.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQOq6FK4GPAAPkTOkoz9P3WhKy7o5TRx3KzLelj3Ir7ioCA-xf5qEujIpFEXymklPVxWvNYTUMYEe2XKKtu5gqNmENm3cZsl5VT1J4v0JN7WkzygSJVK4XL6GGMYJqwX4D9tKo-0N9ARWy/s320/P7231133.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">A picture of The Anchor bar on the Cam, taken from La Granta bar. You can't see the mosquitoes, but they were all over.</td></tr>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-25923770027348331662013-03-05T12:37:00.001-08:002014-05-07T18:54:27.648-07:00The Art of Asking<a href="http://i2.listal.com/image/4323508/600full-amanda-palmer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="http://i2.listal.com/image/4323508/600full-amanda-palmer.jpg" border="0" class="decoded" src="http://i2.listal.com/image/4323508/600full-amanda-palmer.jpg" height="200" width="133" /></a><a href="http://www.amandapalmer.net/" target="_blank">Amanda Palmer</a> came out with a <a href="http://www.ted.com/talks/amanda_palmer_the_art_of_asking.html" target="_blank">video </a>this week on TedTalks on the art of <i>letting</i> people pay for her music instead of finding ways to <i>make</i> them. Her talk reminds us that throughout history, musicians have mostly been local artists, not celebrities we watch and adore from afar. 'Passing the hat' to make money didn't amount to begging back then, and she argues that it doesn't now. While her <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=3&cad=rja&ved=0CEkQtwIwAg&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DYAnyYTjjhJ0&ei=jho2UaXlDunWygHK14HoAg&usg=AFQjCNGNvVd4_y2ofYlxjmP7FvH62f_MCw&sig2=UAB8kN3rV0mlrwtGybCnQg&bvm=bv.43148975,d.aWc" target="_blank">music</a> passes as an odd mix between punk and avant-garde, her fans call almost every continent home. She often travels with the band and couch-surfs when touring. She says that it lets her fans have a connection with her she wouldn't otherwise get.<br />
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And her fans pay for her music even though they don't have to.<br />
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Her <a href="http://www.kickstarter.com/projects/amandapalmer/amanda-palmer-the-new-record-art-book-and-tour" target="_blank">Kickstarter project</a> received over $1.2 million in donations. She learned how to pass the hat and make connections with those who love her music. You hardly see her begging for money. More than that, her product didn't lose any value from this venture.<br />
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Of course, artists fear loss of value more than death. Palmer asks us to consider what this might mean for our own craft. Chuck Windig spoke about this TedTalk and its ramifications for authors on his (very funny and irreverent) <a href="http://terribleminds.com/ramble/2013/03/03/the-art-of-asking-for-writers-and-storytellers/" target="_blank">blog</a>. He asked if trust could pay his bills, or feed his family. As artists, we all need to ask the same questions. Does it really matter how much of a connection craft has with people if the creator can't pay rent?<br />
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Neil Gaiman also discussed what it means to be an artist in today's world in his <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=video&cd=1&cad=rja&ved=0CDYQtwIwAA&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DikAb-NYkseI&ei=nz02UbWzEbOHyQGA44GgAQ&usg=AFQjCNE8e_WvEnqdoDezetL19IeiEDzLKw&sig2=u7-SJXU15-S42ks5yuKJog&bvm=bv.43148975,d.aWc" target="_blank">commencement speech to the University of the Arts</a>. Just twenty minutes long, this speech inspired thousands of <a href="http://www.tumblr.com/tagged/make+good+art" target="_blank">artists</a>, <a href="https://www.google.com/search?q=make+good+art&hl=en&client=firefox-a&hs=Eed&rls=org.mozilla:en-US:official&tbm=isch&tbo=u&source=univ&sa=X&ei=Gj42UbTGIcrCyQHlqoCYAQ&ved=0CEIQsAQ&biw=1440&bih=797" target="_blank">writers</a>, <a href="http://www.google.com/url?sa=t&rct=j&q=&esrc=s&source=web&cd=12&cad=rja&ved=0CHYQtwIwCw&url=http%3A%2F%2Fwww.youtube.com%2Fwatch%3Fv%3DNHsSd3vk5jk&ei=Gj42UbTGIcrCyQHlqoCYAQ&usg=AFQjCNFxk4qvKFQUxdW1VmSWjt8Sn0R0Vw&sig2=k2aLJFkdB_WYjOGskDL3sA&bvm=bv.43148975,d.aWc" target="_blank">filmmakers</a>, and <a href="http://goodart.maker.good.is/" target="_blank">bloggers</a> to follow their passions. I think back on his words often, especially when I need the reminder to "make good art." I don't know whether Gaiman made any money from this talk (although I hear they're going to make his speech into a book). The impact that he made spans far greater than a paycheck.</div>
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Is that point to inspire others, then, or to make money? If we had to choose, which one is more important? And how do we live these decisions?</div>
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So what does that mean for me, as a writer? Does it mean I blog for free and post up my novels? I don't know. But making good art and letting people pay for it because it's good sounds like a higher value of exchange than mass-producing something quick-n-dirty and forcing money into my wallet. <br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-65349292554477139362012-08-25T10:05:00.000-07:002012-08-25T10:05:06.923-07:00It Is Never The EndI cannot say that I am overly fond of goodbyes. It is more important, I think, to remember what was good, what made us laugh, what took us by surprise, than to dug ourselves in the realization that those times are gone.<br />
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That is not to say I'm not sad. It isn't everyday that you meet people like those who have grown dear to my heart over this short period of time. And it is enough of a burden on me just now that I'd rather not write about all my feelings just yet. I can, however, provide some pictures:<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5d_Sx1AFD44PnKvi8tZ9jDa_U8X6_3xVhe26TDUExxp5nrJAlvksBj1LvJvW8O0_cZ1e3ebDLPoAFgb5V1RYmupONuXNZi8rRLelIpxXZ0ouun69SsZ48praU2GT929N5Ythmh3cefmHn/s1600/P8160607.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5d_Sx1AFD44PnKvi8tZ9jDa_U8X6_3xVhe26TDUExxp5nrJAlvksBj1LvJvW8O0_cZ1e3ebDLPoAFgb5V1RYmupONuXNZi8rRLelIpxXZ0ouun69SsZ48praU2GT929N5Ythmh3cefmHn/s320/P8160607.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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The back gate entrance to Trinity College. It is lovely.</div>
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King's College entrance at sunset</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUsJOwCP3mk0c4fCgghyyJ6qh89MwWqrBbtMCOK8YxflrcJba2OwF0TLJ8PXgZugnWy4_hx8FpwnBE9sy7nK9JKx-L8k0p8289RIFEZyEnQKe0WMiEc5TF5nbbAzFRCJiZBP2q5W-doxl/s1600/P8190621.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhtUsJOwCP3mk0c4fCgghyyJ6qh89MwWqrBbtMCOK8YxflrcJba2OwF0TLJ8PXgZugnWy4_hx8FpwnBE9sy7nK9JKx-L8k0p8289RIFEZyEnQKe0WMiEc5TF5nbbAzFRCJiZBP2q5W-doxl/s320/P8190621.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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There are no words. Just a sigh of contentment.</div>
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A library - lovely books and that great musty page smell</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhW54JrdXFnynZG1AWfByx5Wohk1BCiKv5bG5334DxLM1f9Nuhe8RVXNpoS4UwqZlyLgd1888_pwbH9UMZ3S1d-6tlqV9h7tLtiVbDmxykCTSBuwMuJDimHX-grXL5h5ghhe11yBOjpqn1/s1600/P8210640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhW54JrdXFnynZG1AWfByx5Wohk1BCiKv5bG5334DxLM1f9Nuhe8RVXNpoS4UwqZlyLgd1888_pwbH9UMZ3S1d-6tlqV9h7tLtiVbDmxykCTSBuwMuJDimHX-grXL5h5ghhe11yBOjpqn1/s320/P8210640.JPG" width="320" /></a></div>
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My creative writing class! In the middle are Anne Rooney and Brian Keaney, two very lovely and helpful authors. I will not soon forget this class.</div>
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Mulberries we found while walking back from Grantchester! That's right - all the ripe ones were picked.</div>
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<span style="background-color: white; color: #333333; font-family: 'lucida grande', tahoma, verdana, arial, sans-serif; font-size: 13px; line-height: 17px; text-align: left;">Bidding farewell to Cambridge is like hugging a new friend for the last time. You know you'd like to see it again, but you can't guarantee anything. No matter, though. The memories stay, the connection has been felt. We might be going our separate ways, but it means so little in the grand scheme of things. The world is small, and I will see you again.</span>
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-36183255351209232582012-08-20T05:49:00.000-07:002012-08-20T05:49:53.374-07:00Porter's Prophesy: A Poem by a ColleagueThis weekend, we had a talent show. There were many fun, entertaining, and frankly surprising performances. I heard some people sing that I didn't expect to; there was harmonica beatboxing, stand-up comedy, and line-dancing. It was an altogether fun night. But one of the performers did a great job of summarizing what this program has been like for us. He's posted his slam poetry on his <a href="http://poisonpub.wordpress.com/2012/08/19/camrbidge-slam-porters-prophecy/" target="_blank">website</a>, so please go visit it and read more of his stuff.<br />
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The background to this poem is that Cameron spoke to a few of the porters during his time here, and they said that they can generally tell within a week who's going to be successful at Cambridge and who isn't, so this is called Porter's Prophesy:<br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I enter the lodge head down, the porter looks up…frowns.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">No need to say, I’m totally nude but for a towel anyway.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I can hear him rant, ‘Prior, proper, preparation</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">prevents poor performance,’ but I can’t help but wonder,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">beyond this blunder, Can he fortell or spell out my time</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">here, in Cambridgeshire?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">‘Porter Prophet, Prophesy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">oh please, on one of your rings of keys</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">you can appease, abate, my curiosity of late</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">to see what I’ll undertake and what’s at stake</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">these next eight weeks…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You have hundreds of keys, thousands, galore!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Can’t one unlock a crystal ball? That’s all</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I ask – from your aged eye, can you spy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">what is in store for me?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He leans in close. Was I too verbose?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Look’s like he’ll beat me</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">with brass knuckles</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and chuckle as I buckle. But wait–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He strokes his white whiskers…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">‘I see…I see, a crown. Yes. A King.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">A Pembroke King you shall be,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">from module one to module three.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In college shall feel like royalty.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">You have flown from afar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and some customs you’ll find bazaar</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">on your cultural radar.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Baked beans for breakfast,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">punting, here, is done on a punt</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">not on a football green–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">in fact, football is soccer,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and don’t make a scene</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">getting run over on the wrong side of the road;</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">or a common mocker-ry</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">of the great English tradition of afternoon tea:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">thou shalt remember: ‘Jab <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">after</em> cream.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I see you spinning fast with a Scottish lass</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">twirlin’ fast in a keeley dance.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Are you wet from the sweat or the rain?</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Unclear… and yet, I see, I see</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">you will come to call Cambridge ‘Home.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes, returning from highland heights, and castle sights,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">both fog, and bog, and green feilds with a lonely lamb</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">back home to the gentle river cam.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He grows silent, my towel’s still wet and damp</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Is that it!? A cultural summer camp?!?!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">So I implore, ‘But Mister, what more’s in store?’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Again he strokes his white whiskers–’I see…I see–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Music will litter the streets with their beggin’ beats</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and a home strung songs will carry you along</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">past Great St. Mary’s and the Market Square’s berries</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and fruit stands. Oh how long can you stand</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">the spinoffs of ‘keep calm and carry on.’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">On to your classes; don’t mind the masses</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">of tourists; every day you will hear a ‘tchau mi amici,’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">‘Je t’aime,’ ‘felicitations amigo’ or ‘mutter mit arbieter,’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">if not a Chinese kid asking, ‘Take my photo please’</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Remember, thou shalt honour your PKP parents,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">don’t peg grinning Greg and carful Carlos</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">with his mutton chops – they call all the shots.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">with the PA too, they know their job,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">but Beware! Beware the mob!</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Woe! Woe be unto you,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">if you get stuck in that stretching queue,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">at the CUS cafe, almost e-ver-y day</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">before and after<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> lunch</em> you want to <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">punch</em> the guy</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">that took your last grilled panini of the day–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">probably from BYU anyway,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">or Hong Kongo, or Cal-i-for-nia-ah.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Remember remember this hidden treasure/greatest pleasure</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">will endure as the cure for your thirst,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and I dirst not speak too loud for it’s frailty,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">the secret is: Commensality</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I think, That’s a fancy word but I have never heard</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">that term before or what it’s used for.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The Porter Prophet fortells and dispells my doubts:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">‘It means to converse over a meal,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">like: breakfast or supper, or upper-class</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">formal halls: with suits,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">and</em> bowties, <em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;">and</em> gowns<em style="border: 0px; margin: 0px; outline: 0px; padding: 0px; vertical-align: baseline;"> and</em> wine</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">you’ll think you’ve reached cloud nine to dine</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and find new fast friends</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">that last long beyond the programme ends.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What’s more, I see I see…</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thou shalt respect those dastardly dons</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">even when their reading lists go on, and on.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Love words. love books, love the 24 hour libraries too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Read ‘em, learn ‘em, love em all,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Thou shalt not forget that corpus clock</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">that ticks and tocks, hiccups, and locks</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and eats every minute away of every day</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Don’t let it rob a moment of your 56 days</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">–</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Love the classes and the grasses,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">even if you cant walk on them.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Keep these words in faith without a lie,</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">and I can clearly prophesy:</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">that your heart will flicker hot with fire</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">whenever you remember Cambridgeshire</span></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-86304977591370954702012-08-14T05:22:00.001-07:002012-08-14T05:22:58.895-07:00Telescopes and Henry VAt about eight o'clock, Cambridge awakens to the sound of bells from churches which ring from across over thirty colleges. You can hardly escape it--and if you can, the glare of sunshine in your bedroom takes care of the rest of your chances of sleep. People begin to appear along the lonely streets, sweepers shuffling along the edges of the road. A lone runner passes, iPod plugged in. People begin to gather round the cafes, where the smell of caffeine and cocoa beans float in between the snatches of pasties at the marketplace. They don't say much, just move around each other, sluggish and quiet. A wind passes, sending morning chills through them. Footsteps, and a young man sniffs as he walks by. If people do talk, they gather in couples to do it, prearranged paths. So when I say "we woke up early to go to London," I mean that the city actively conspired to bring us to consciousness. The bus ride would take about two hours.<br />
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The best way to do it is in chronological order, but know that there is so much I just can't cover.<br />
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The bus dropped us off at the British Museum, a name which I have been told is simply code for "stuff the British stole." And certainly, for being a "British" museum, there were few to no British artifacts. We saw some from China, Japan, Korea, Thailand--Buddhas, statues to gods and spirits, guardians to temples that stared accusingly at me, teeth bared. We saw Egyptian mummies and their coffins, decorated and adorned. While this was fascinating, it was a temporary sensation. We had other things to do. My companions and I left quickly, headed for 221B Baker Street.
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A fire spirit</div>
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A painting of Venice by a Japanese artist - I love the style put in a European location</div>
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Tokyo burning in a great fire, with a spirit watching from above.</div>
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I took many pictures of the interior of the Sherlock Holmes Museum. The 1800s are fascinating. And who knows, I may need the information later, if I decide to give into the historical fiction push I've been feeling recently. The technology emerging at this era very quickly changed how we view the world, ourselves, and of course, the "not-ourselves," the Other. </div>
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221B is a bit of a townhouse, all stacked up on itself with small rooms but many floors. Everything creaks and alerts you to the presence of the others milling about. Despite the fact that Sherlock Holmes and John Watson are completely fictional characters, you do get the sense that someone could have lived in this flat. Watson had a room very much filled with the tools of his trade, and Sherlock's was... well, it was Sherlock's. Varied interests, messes everywhere. In the different rooms, they had allusions to different cases. I couldn't tell you which is my favorite, but a few of the top five or so were put together with artifacts, wax figures, and in one case, the head of a dog mounted on the wall.</div>
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Sherlock's book on beekeeping</div>
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The living space for the 221B boys</div>
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The victim of the Redheaded League, copying words from the dictionary in his finest handwriting.</div>
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We walked to Hyde Park, and Speaker's Corner. On Sundays, you can come and speak about whatever you want. Certain speakers had crowds of spectators and participants, and others none at all. There weren't any that particularly interested me, but that wasn't the point. The point was to stand in a crowd, and feel the blood rushing through their veins, to hear the intake of their breath. To be alive in a crowd of the living.</div>
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We sat at the edge of a river in the middle of the park, watching the geese and the swans. We shared knowledge and asked questions.The sun beat down on us gently, so we could watch the paddle boats on the water, and hear children feeding the birds, dogs occasionally chasing after them into the river. I realized that the friends I've made on this program are people I want to keep, knowing full well it will be difficult as soon as we aren't in the same time zone. </div>
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Next came the Science Museum. There was so much to see. On the first floor, steam-powered engines. Gift shop. Cafe. We saw an exhibit on what the internet sounds like. Words popped up on a series of small screens arranged in a square. The room was dark, and there were five speakers in front of and behind us, so every sound came from a certain angle. It had different movements, like a symphony. A program searched for "I like ____." It displayed the search results on the screen, and a computer program spoke the words out loud. It was beautiful and fascinating. The words were from live feeds, Facebook and such. </div>
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Later, we saw the history of timepieces. There were such interesting ways of keeping track of our day. It began with sundials, progressing to hourglasses, and eventually compasses and pocketwatches, which were so expensive and difficult to produce that only the very well-to-do kept one in their vest pocket. But later on, I saw more modern Grandfather Clocks, wristwatches, and even a microwave. </div>
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Time and the stars as interconnected.</div>
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Wall of telescopes</div>
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Display of hourglasses.</div>
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Ivory compass.</div>
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We saw energy, made gas, witnessed a hologram that would have made Houdini proud. There was a brief history of medicine. In the gift shop, I saw the name of a man we've read in my In Sickness and In Health class, Bynam. </div>
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We left. Took the tube to the Globe. I thought of Kevin, a young man I met on my first day in London, who walked me past the Tate Modern and the Globe. Henry V was on that night. We stood for the whole show, and did so without lights or sound equipment. Period costumes and bodies reciting memorized falsities on a stage. They sang for us, more than once. I was surprised by complex harmonies and "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dfaFhR24c5M" target="_blank">Hey Ho, Nobody Home</a>." The "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mKEA-l6sShM" target="_blank">once more into the breach dear friends</a>" piece made me cry. Jamie Parker (who played the King) was as talented as he was lovely to look at. He brought the stage to a dead quiet when he spoke of St. Crispin. The play was funny, too. It made me think of a wars fought by the common man for the petty wishes of the mighty. It made me think of linguistic barriers, of leeks worn on hats, of gloves and challenges. Band of brothers. It was a great play, with a lot of music.</div>
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I love a city at night. lights come from all over. Offices, street lamps, houses, flats, businesses. And in London it is better than most. The Eye stares out over the tumultuous Thames, and lights reflect on the cold waves. Big Ben is a beacon over the city, a reminder that you are <i>here</i>, in this great and glorious city, won't let you forget for even an hour the history and grandeur of the ground you stand on.</div>
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Lights change from red to green. Headlights guide the way through darkened streets. The city refuses to relinquish its sovereignty over the sun--no, it isn't time to sleep yet! Eventually it will give in. Not like home, where neon doesn't surrender to the night until it flickers out in death, exhausted.</div>
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There are areas of darkness, too. Equally as beautiful as the lights. Walls of stone that refuse to be replaced by another pub. There is black, defined by shadows. it is a place you can explore, but only if you're prepared to meet the unknown head-on. Only if you can hold your head high against the muffled voices, the crunch of gravel a few steps too close. </div>
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They love the shadows, the light that screams rebellion against the stars. The spice of success, art, royalty so rich it poisons. The rotting smell of murder and scandals, of tourists losing themselves in the mazes set up just for them.</div>
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Bikes, colleges, another Tesco. Lights all over. Churches, warehouses--the darkness between them, separating in a way the daylight never could. This is a world that believes it is fine, perfect, rubbish. Both proud and self-loathing. It is a city that hardly notices your presence, no matter who you are.</div>
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Memories of good, strong harmonies, rounds and roars of the city give me chills. Or maybe that's just London, whispering her tempting offers in my ear, while I am helpless to avoid the call of the wind over the Thames, the spicy aroma of possibility, the inviting feel of London in my lungs.</div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-90024086067200311982012-08-09T09:59:00.004-07:002014-05-07T18:52:52.788-07:00Dublin: The One DetailSo the plan was this: after finals, we would pack, watch the Olympic Opening Ceremony, then grab the last train to London and get to the airport for Dublin.<br />
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I've mentioned I <i>always</i> miss my train when I buy the tickets in advance. At least this time it wasn't just me. There were four of us going: two California natives, and a friend from Hong Kong (one of whom we sadly had to leave behind at the very last minute). We took too long watching the opening ceremony and didn't have enough time to grab our suitcases and run to the train station. The train was just disappearing from sight as we approached, and the next one wouldn't leave for at least five hours... which would give us nowhere near enough time to catch our flights. So we pooled our money together, and got a cab at 11:30 pm, headed for London. It took two hours.<br />
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I didn't bring my laptop or my iPod, so all I had for that drive was my journal and my mind, still discordant from the day's events. Which began with my first honest "I'll-never-get-this-done" all-nighter. I was writing the proposal to a study which would examine linguistic profiling and attractiveness; it had to be about ten pages, sans bibliography, and I was scrambling to get it done. Just as the sun rose, I found my paltry revisions complete, and slept for an hour and a half. After a quick shower and breakfast, I attended my first Cambridge exam.<br />
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We sat in a long, quiet room on tables built for only two students at a time, but extending back about twenty tables. The test waited for us as we filed in silently, four different classes at a time. We started directly at 9:37, and weren't allowed to leave until the first half hour was through. It was quiet, and felt much more high-stress than perhaps it needed to be.<br />
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I rewarded myself afterward with my first Doctor Who episode since landing in the UK; there are some serials that are not available in the US, but I can easily find on Netflix here. I settled on <i>The Planet of the Dead</i>, which had a great premise but was executed like a first-year screenplay writer. What they tried to do was replicate the <i>Smith and Jones</i> episode, where Martha's character is replaced by some international thief, or something. It's hardly worth the time, honestly. On the bright side, I also watched the pilot episode to BBC's <i>Life on Mars</i>, which was heart-wrenching, mind-boggling, and beautiful.<br />
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The story revolves around Sam Tyler (played by John Simm, easily recognizable to any Whovian). He is a cop in 2006 who gets into an accident and finds himself in 1976. The show is in part a police procedural, detailing the differences in policies between the 70s and the early 2000s. But more than that, it makes commentary on how we define ourselves. Sam is a DCI in 2006, but is essentially just another cop. In 1976, what he considers to be the norm of policework is seen as a radical set of new ideas. Throughout the episode, though, we get the sense that he may actually be in a coma in 2006, with an overactive imagination whisking him away to 1976. At the end of the pilot, Sam is about to jump off a building, in the hopes that it will wake him from his coma and he can return to the present day. Another character, Annie, stops him at the last minute. She grabs for him, and he notices the grit on her hand. He thinks, "Why would my mind include that detail?" It strikes him as so authentic that decides not to jump as a result.<br />
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I left for lunch afterward, wondering what detail would convince me I was in the real world... and to be honest, there isn't much. I'm feeling privileged out here as a temporary student of Cambridge, validated in my interests (even the low-brow ones) and grateful to experience a study abroad program in this way.<br />
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I digress. Dublin.<br />
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We arrived at 7:45 in the morning, and after that all-nighter I mentioned, it was safe to say I hadn't gotten a whole REM cycle in about twenty four hours. But we only had a short time to explore the city, so no sleeping yet! After dropping off our suitcases and such at the Isaacs Hostel, we walked to Trinity College, Dublin and got a short tour before being let loose in the Old Library.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxNrvlCmwkJG0Gq5Z_ovX8rwbquyyLcJHtK4qLKzO3I3EtUUR47tRlHI9sPBKPwClFOVXZGTBaWEpTsP4jI0ECaujVgadDsolpx73QPkelRl3YuZNCwj7mREr3VQtg_4VkuoFgduaU5yWH/s1600/2012-07-28+15.23.27.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhxNrvlCmwkJG0Gq5Z_ovX8rwbquyyLcJHtK4qLKzO3I3EtUUR47tRlHI9sPBKPwClFOVXZGTBaWEpTsP4jI0ECaujVgadDsolpx73QPkelRl3YuZNCwj7mREr3VQtg_4VkuoFgduaU5yWH/s320/2012-07-28+15.23.27.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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This is the College Green of Trinity College. On the left going on past the frame is the largest sample of an oak tree in the UK, apparently. It was given to the college by the United States. Trinity was founded with only four areas of study: medicine, theology, math, and arts, but now has many available majors. Our tour guide had a very good grasp of the college's history and included some great anecdotal stories.</div>
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We got to visit the Long Room of the Old Library, just after seeing the Book of Kells, neither of which I was allowed to photograph myself, but here are some sanctioned pictures:</div>
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<a href="http://www.teachertravelsblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/chi-ro-page-from-the-book-of-kells.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://www.teachertravelsblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2010/11/chi-ro-page-from-the-book-of-kells.jpg" height="320" width="241" /></a></div>
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This is the Chi Ro page (Chi Ro being a Latin form of <i>Christ). </i>The Book of Kells is not the only illuminated text of the New Testament, nor is it even the oldest. However, its story is quite remarkable, and deserves your research... or a single viewing of <i>The Secret of Kells</i>. Whichever.</div>
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<a href="http://notesfromaculinarywasteland.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/The-Long-Room.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://notesfromaculinarywasteland.com/wp-content/uploads/2012/07/The-Long-Room.jpeg" height="320" width="226" /></a></div>
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This room here is one of the most beautiful libraries I've ever seen, known as the Long Room. I stayed in here as long as I possibly could, before my friends found me and dragged me away. </div>
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After my companions convinced me to leave the gift shop (which, let me say, took just as long as the Long Room), we went in search of a fabled marketplace which was around the Temple Bar District. This is not only close to the college, but also within easy walking distance of our hostel, and would have been a very easy walk, therefore, if not for one thing.<br />
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You see, Dublin's weather is a bit like a child just old enough to throw around words like, "Yes" and "No." So for about fifteen minutes, we would get hard, heavy rains and strong, cold winds that would leave us hiding beneath whatever cover we could find, which is where the below picture was taken.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEY50bpvEqO4OM1oCm2CHTs_O_j1yQj3oqZWJd7RQ9TlO0sy98vM99tviEz1vPfRVnjMOcNqMw68aWVG6k4NVxwb_0UOk2hhtET_wzEfSXSwWd_gpBBhfjda631hWy_gFQFQQ42zmgVwgc/s1600/2012-07-28+17.06.55.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEY50bpvEqO4OM1oCm2CHTs_O_j1yQj3oqZWJd7RQ9TlO0sy98vM99tviEz1vPfRVnjMOcNqMw68aWVG6k4NVxwb_0UOk2hhtET_wzEfSXSwWd_gpBBhfjda631hWy_gFQFQQ42zmgVwgc/s320/2012-07-28+17.06.55.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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And then, the rain would disappear, and we would have to scramble out of our sweatshirts and heavy raingear because the weather would get so warm so quickly. In the other half of Dublin's fantastic weather tantrums, only t-shirts and sunglasses are welcome. We thought the electric box below was appropriate, given that all the locals shook it off and said, "Yeah, it's always like this." </div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVtSPvXtwH5FMYhpCi7TCrXzrXOamPhYrvYH2YQD9Fxn3e89uNKxJihA0WddrLCukIVHuyqML1k850icHbDlK8S9xQfAW0O3o9NcQITZyFlCc-wgU689Otj9LMD42TCyQ1Z_lepY-NQX9O/s1600/2012-07-29+11.43.14.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVtSPvXtwH5FMYhpCi7TCrXzrXOamPhYrvYH2YQD9Fxn3e89uNKxJihA0WddrLCukIVHuyqML1k850icHbDlK8S9xQfAW0O3o9NcQITZyFlCc-wgU689Otj9LMD42TCyQ1Z_lepY-NQX9O/s320/2012-07-29+11.43.14.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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At the end of the day, I did finally get some sleep. It felt glorious. I dreamt of villains and warm winds, parallels to events I could only begin to grasp, slipping rather quickly into that great minefield of forgotten dreams once I awoke.<br />
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We visited St. Patrick's Cathedral the next day.<br />
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I only have one picture here, because there is no way any number of them could give you any sense as to what it felt like to be inside this sacred space. It was cold within the stone walls, but also felt full somehow. It was potently filled with history and ritual and ardent worship. From the windows on the right of the picture, the sun streamed through the stained glass windows and parted into separate rays of brilliant light, to be covered up only moments later by the ever-present looming storm clouds. People milled about--photographers ignoring the sanctity of the chapel (separate from the church proper). They snapped photos of saints entombed and decaying beneath a stone replica of their image. They grabbed pictures of a huge display of flags, and of the pews where quiet prayers were whispered into the full, cold church. In the front of the chapel, the choir rehearsed, and they were nearing a point where entire songs could be sung without breaks. I heard that perfect "<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zC0o723hb0M&feature=related" target="_blank">Amen</a>" chord just as I reached for a rosary to give to my mother.<br />
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We did quite a bit of exploring. Visited a flea market, and I found two books, only one of which I enjoyed. It was "The Devil's Ladder," by Graham Joyce, whom I had the great pleasure of meeting just a few weeks prior. Written for young adults, it is properly frightening and inspiring. I wish I had had it around when I was in middle school.<br />
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The next day, we got on the train to the Irish coast, to Howth. Debate reigns over how to pronounce this, but the two biggest contenders I've heard are "how + th" and "goat with an h." It was a lovely summer day. Clouds passed us overhead, as if waiting to drop their heavy loads on Dublin rather than spoil it for us. One of us had a bike, so she got to see the cliffs of Howth, but those of us without the cycle went and found this abbey:<br />
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After a long trip through dodgy alleyways, we found the entrance, and it was surprising to see what lay beyond the wall.<br />
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We walked among the gravestones, catching names and snippets of history that few can retell. The only sound was a seagull, aggressively attacking a tin can for whatever lay within. Our footsteps barely disturbed the gravel, and we felt both guilty for and obligated to photograph what we saw. Someone has to remember this place. After that investigation, we all met up for a luncheon, and then headed back to the coast.<br />
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At the end, we sat at the edge of the sea, and breathed in the salty ocean air, before getting on the train again.<br />
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We packed up the last of our things, and returned to the airport, landing in London late in the evening. It took us until nearly two in the morning to get back to Cambridge, but was well worth the hell it worked on my sleeping schedule. The land is enchanting in a way nothing else can be. When I returned, I thought back on all the events of the weekend, and wondered if somehow, the whole trip was that one detail, the thing that could remind me that the world is real, it is beautiful, and it is worth exploring.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-35576735948293559582012-08-04T09:39:00.003-07:002014-05-07T18:52:44.385-07:00Crown JewelsIt's surprising how much the time flies when you're traveling! So I promised last time that I would tell the tale of meeting up with my first roommate, Kit, and our adventures at the Tower of London.<br />
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Well, for starters, I should say that I am terrible at coordinating the national rail system. Every time I have purchased a ticket before the trip itself, I have missed said train. It's much better for me to just show up and hope I can buy a ticket there, honestly.<br />
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That being said, I of course missed my train. The next one didn't leave for another hour. I didn't have any way to let Kit know about this, because while I picked up an international phone, she did not. So I just sort of hoped that she would get to see it even if I was late.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT6nVorhCbMhg3PyOREsruIpdXyLrTCotSSwhH6I9TLz0yVTcmgd_mKTrSDanW-VDwV8X09KJUG2pW25oy1b4lBNrPvCxXtvGLObtuHzXrU2-preTN2jZ9n0XFbojSNLJGd07bxo3XuLBs/s1600/2012-07-21+10.37.41.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiT6nVorhCbMhg3PyOREsruIpdXyLrTCotSSwhH6I9TLz0yVTcmgd_mKTrSDanW-VDwV8X09KJUG2pW25oy1b4lBNrPvCxXtvGLObtuHzXrU2-preTN2jZ9n0XFbojSNLJGd07bxo3XuLBs/s320/2012-07-21+10.37.41.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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As always, however, the English countryside made me contemplative. I realized that the American southwest has a beautiful countryside of its own. I never forgot this necessarily, but I sure was good at taking it for granted. It hit me that I miss the Sandias in New Mexico, all champagne-colored as the sun set in the west, the taste of green chili and the feeling of "home" that comes as naturally as breathing when I am in the desert.<br />
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Two hours late, I saw a familiar face pop up from the growing crowd of Central London.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfB7hukOtnHGcDr3tDicFbF5nHJquZ_UgosLVQcsJW6Q1ffu4lhvExy0muw52BUNjwPbsY8ERRbJCn7bJe_SCeLH7TSi15IwWC8XlfObK1JaWVejFxPoWwHZ43P4ASgQQtPHhNnY3cUZE/s1600/2012-07-21+13.04.30.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiCfB7hukOtnHGcDr3tDicFbF5nHJquZ_UgosLVQcsJW6Q1ffu4lhvExy0muw52BUNjwPbsY8ERRbJCn7bJe_SCeLH7TSi15IwWC8XlfObK1JaWVejFxPoWwHZ43P4ASgQQtPHhNnY3cUZE/s320/2012-07-21+13.04.30.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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Kit and I went to school together for only one semester, but it felt as if a lifetime of memories were packed into that time. She's just graduated with a degree in Awesome, and I think she might continue to get a Master's in "Be Jealous of Me." She is the first person that I have ever seen on more than one continent.<br />
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Turns out, her group was also two hours late. Serendipitous and unlikely as it was, I was really relieved to see her. We entered the Tower of London, a place filled with memories, histories, and stories.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRLcZSyJZEnIQPqLJcIXEkjehnxUWn7xQkihfJ1-HJL_Iznw-R6E01zpOOqppxsdg28UHlXZbLFoRHUxfT3oCIRYj4SR_hnw5GXg-QWgWtyk7MZKP4ckTSMTlOBZdrew7QamvSxc2ZtQb/s1600/2012-07-21+13.09.22.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjWRLcZSyJZEnIQPqLJcIXEkjehnxUWn7xQkihfJ1-HJL_Iznw-R6E01zpOOqppxsdg28UHlXZbLFoRHUxfT3oCIRYj4SR_hnw5GXg-QWgWtyk7MZKP4ckTSMTlOBZdrew7QamvSxc2ZtQb/s320/2012-07-21+13.09.22.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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These are the ravens of the Tower, who are kept here because it is said that if they ever leave, the Tower will fall. And we can't have that.<br />
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I can't share original pictures of the Crown Jewels, because it wasn't allowed. But this is a faraway and not-nearly-as-cool-as-the-real-thing picture:<br />
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<a href="http://subversify.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/crownjewel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://subversify.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/12/crownjewel.jpg" height="188" width="320" /></a></div>
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It's amazing how dazzlingly bright those diamonds are. They sparkle with every color, blues and purples and greens and pinks. The setup was different than I expected, mostly because I expected what I saw in the BBC Sherlock show:<br />
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Instead, there were two moving walkways we could stand on to gaze at the power and wealth of a great and might monarchy. I went on both, and wanted to do it more than once. But Kit had other things she wanted to show us. So we also toured the Bloody Tower, the White Tower, and a few other colors of the British rainbow. It was fascinating to learn so much about English history all in one go. A bit overwhelming, to be honest. But it was a good tour.<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAuhLjzPxiYWxuo3Q30njebOSqAyQyUJOF5G1EO4RDJcbxOQlDyhO-9SKhho6WgesSSeT4CGRC3AWEIS06TAGJIj1vqiapi-7Q6Lp9Q8h_kD4It9yOlf-8VblHYbEdFJJCJ58MRCha3Fsd/s1600/2012-07-21+14.26.46.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiAuhLjzPxiYWxuo3Q30njebOSqAyQyUJOF5G1EO4RDJcbxOQlDyhO-9SKhho6WgesSSeT4CGRC3AWEIS06TAGJIj1vqiapi-7Q6Lp9Q8h_kD4It9yOlf-8VblHYbEdFJJCJ58MRCha3Fsd/s320/2012-07-21+14.26.46.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCR-a5pqohBgZoWpLuNs_K3uJHu-1DVCzDirG0isSCS2XMNvxmywFClRAbtvQMUqE_4ZZeRURrdzkhkxI-DJYmzu-M6CqY0MgfYowjzwifPLZXoUwXcRYoOaeemqGxicJuGqKb_VXL5Dpi/s1600/2012-07-21+15.33.56.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhCR-a5pqohBgZoWpLuNs_K3uJHu-1DVCzDirG0isSCS2XMNvxmywFClRAbtvQMUqE_4ZZeRURrdzkhkxI-DJYmzu-M6CqY0MgfYowjzwifPLZXoUwXcRYoOaeemqGxicJuGqKb_VXL5Dpi/s320/2012-07-21+15.33.56.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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(He's my favorite: a dragon made of weapons and coins)</div>
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Overall, it was an inspiring day. I feel as if this post doesn't do it justice. But it's been so long ago now. Soon, I'll let you know about my trip to Dublin!</div>
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-55053584045330683232012-07-22T08:44:00.003-07:002014-05-07T18:51:14.904-07:00King's ChapelThe night of our first Formal Hall, the Chaplain Richard Lloyd Morgan told the attendees that we were welcome to set up an appointment with him, and he would bring a group to the roof of King's College Chapel. This is not only a huge privilege of being a student of King's College, but also an honor to be invited to explore something that few members of the public will ever see.<br />
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Henry VI started the construction himself on July 25, 1446. That is, the first stone was placed by him. The rest of it was done by a myriad of architects and workers, who dragged each stone from a quarry, cut it perfectly, and then hoisted it to its new position in this beautiful building. It's a very long building, though not very wide. Here are some pictures of the exterior and interior:<br />
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<a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/fd/KingsCollegeChapel.jpg/800px-KingsCollegeChapel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/fd/KingsCollegeChapel.jpg/800px-KingsCollegeChapel.jpg" height="231" width="320" /></a> <a href="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/5/53/Kings_college_cambridge_ceiling.jpg/258px-Kings_college_cambridge_ceiling.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/5/53/Kings_college_cambridge_ceiling.jpg/258px-Kings_college_cambridge_ceiling.jpg" height="320" width="138" /></a><br />
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I pass this building on my way to classes, each day. I cannot tell you how many times I have just glanced up from the cobblestone when it is rainy and unpleasant, only to be struck still by the beauty and majesty of it.<br />
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To say this building 'reminds' me of where I am is nowhere near correct. It is far more accurate to say that it looms over me no matter where I stand in this town, and presses its presence down on me. <i>You are here</i>, it booms from every angle.<br />
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The Chaplain met us inside the chapel while tourists writhed around us, trying to get the best angle to take in the architecture. He gave a few of us flashlights, and we left our bags and coats at the bottom of a long stairwell. He said there were 85 steps, but it felt as if that couldn't possibly be right. We got to the top much faster than I expected. That could also have been my anticipation. The walls were cool here, and we saw by the light of periodic windows: thin little things, but illuminated so much more than expected.<br />
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Up at the top, we passed through another thick wooden door, and entered the space just <i>above</i> the ceiling. At its thinnest, the rock there is only four inches thick. <span style="background-color: white;">There are occasionally small holes where you can peek through to see those below you. Despite a lifetime of height-anxiety, I wasn't frightened of what I saw through that small hole. I felt safe standing on the firm stone. </span><span style="background-color: white;">This space is massive; it spans the entire length of the chapel, and is only lit by two grated windows at either side. It's very dark, but after the climb, we all felt rather warm. A breeze came through the windows, rustling our hair. For just a moment, I was hoping we would all stop moving and exist in the minefield of silence that awaited us, just below the surface of rustling clothes and camera clicks. </span><br />
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I did not take any pictures of this place. I couldn't tell you why.<br />
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We stepped carefully, using our torches to light the way from one end of the chapel to the other, and exited yet another ancient door. Up yet more steps, and we found ourselves on the rooftop of King's College Chapel. What follows are photographs I took, because I don't know if I could find the words to describe the experience that won't come out as a prayer or expletives.<br />
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Looking down at the Hall, where we eat each day.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOePc04HI153U2HiRg5Y-zRiEn7dyNiH87oM8H4tPB88b9vDEAMVaw49SRyaIMjCbt5hPXnRkae0vprDEP3P4LVNyK4FquQFUJYFsGeyOo9RUwLtNWHzDzqVdiRvl627qC4mRzpVtb217d/s1600/2012-07-18+13.24.19.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOePc04HI153U2HiRg5Y-zRiEn7dyNiH87oM8H4tPB88b9vDEAMVaw49SRyaIMjCbt5hPXnRkae0vprDEP3P4LVNyK4FquQFUJYFsGeyOo9RUwLtNWHzDzqVdiRvl627qC4mRzpVtb217d/s320/2012-07-18+13.24.19.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJZWVeFFi_Hw-wAghQZvC7wpvumnNqEzymUft_LajT9wj94x0Hrfn7rP6Tmx5I6fy33CEEQIsJdyrfCbhCjleSV-EI9Vf1pb5Z88iv4Hk8PljTCye24AmEvwZ597-mzAOFo9AdNBba5j9/s1600/2012-07-18+13.30.38.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTJZWVeFFi_Hw-wAghQZvC7wpvumnNqEzymUft_LajT9wj94x0Hrfn7rP6Tmx5I6fy33CEEQIsJdyrfCbhCjleSV-EI9Vf1pb5Z88iv4Hk8PljTCye24AmEvwZ597-mzAOFo9AdNBba5j9/s320/2012-07-18+13.30.38.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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The most beautiful (and arguably one of the most unique) views of Cambridge.</div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rGoWsRr3uAZg3CIf5Y33gCwzoy5lNyBILfc4xIOirtcG2TnSMRmQ7Rxa_vR2XZIrMYREe39HwuU8XLVzgCPQqJEM8439RoT4SFxMO7koh00vGPA9m7ZGv5fJBBA1LOvKOFJzTjs7_-4g/s1600/2012-07-18+13.26.49.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7rGoWsRr3uAZg3CIf5Y33gCwzoy5lNyBILfc4xIOirtcG2TnSMRmQ7Rxa_vR2XZIrMYREe39HwuU8XLVzgCPQqJEM8439RoT4SFxMO7koh00vGPA9m7ZGv5fJBBA1LOvKOFJzTjs7_-4g/s320/2012-07-18+13.26.49.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
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A story goes that for Christmas one year, students climbed to these points, and hung Santa Hats from the lightning rods on this and many other chapels in the city. They were left on King's College Chapel, because it is a chapel of the Virgin Mary and St. Nicholas.</div>
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Also, do you see where the roof angles from one side to the other? We climbed that twice, as you'll see below.</div>
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Us climbing the ladder from one side to the other. You can see the Chaplain in the bottom left.</div>
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At the dead center. How beautiful is this?</div>
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Looking down on the grass that no one is supposed to walk on.</div>
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Directly after this, we had to rush down and split up. Most of us had lectures and seminars within ten minutes of the tour ending, and the Chaplain had an appointment. We rushed out with a series of thank yous and promises to stop by again. </div>
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This was an honor. It made me so grateful that this is where I am, that the chapel can loom over me with its big booming reminder, that I am not letting fears or anxieties stop me from making the most of this trip.</div>
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-57357430398248441252012-07-15T07:36:00.001-07:002014-05-07T18:50:05.230-07:00Boring Academic StuffSo not a whole lot happened this week, as far as travels to countries and suchlike. The real work began this week, and that's why I haven't posted. There's not as much to tell. But I've promised to keep you up to date, so here we go:<br />
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I'm taking two classes, currently. The first is Varieties of English, with Dr. Bert Vaux, a big deal in linguistics. His specialty is dialects of English, so much of what we learn is directly from his research. Which is pretty cool. I love the class. It's really fun to hear what marks a person as a Scotsman or an Irishman (because they're similar but not the same). We get to sometimes hear speakers of different dialects, as well. We've heard a <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pkYAiKHnFoY" target="_blank">Welsh accent</a>,<a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5s8V-RqBxEQ&feature=related" target="_blank"> Received Pronunciation</a>, and <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VP5ILgKxapI" target="_blank">South African</a>. My professor and I got to talking (since I sent him <a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=IucBp1yrr7A" target="_blank">this clip</a> about the "Albuquerque accent"), and he mentioned that Sign Linguistics (what I love and want to study) is the future of linguistics, since they're fully fledged languages that aren't going away and haven't been studied properly. Talk about validation.<br />
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Then, I met speculative fiction author <a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Graham_Joyce" target="_blank">Graham Joyce</a>, who is a great writer and also a good speaker. We discussed how stories work, on an organizational level. For example, how can you play with plot? What the necessary rules for plot, and how can you bend them to your favor? I got one of his books, and it is fantastic. His writing comes highly recommended.<br />
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Also, here is a picture of a few of the people in my group out here. I haven't asked their permission to give any information, so I won't talk about them too much. But in this group, there is a person from Sweden, Hong Kong, and one person who likes to take creepy pictures just to mess with me.<br />
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I've also been working on a story this week, the one I mentioned in an earlier post. As per usual, the plot has deviated away from what I originally thought it would. The life it's taking on is so much more character-driven than before.<br />
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<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-8007662917795788862012-07-10T05:01:00.000-07:002014-05-07T18:49:35.499-07:00The Lady EdinbraI got back from Scotland last night.<br />
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We left early in the morning on Thursday. I packed a small suitcase of clothes, knick knacks, and a map of the city.<br />
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The clouds out here look listless and grey to a casual observer, or a pessimistic one. But really, they span many shades of the non-color. Light and dark, tumbling and still. But moving ever onward. Trees on the side of the road prevent some of the sightseeing, but other times you're surprised by a sight from window to horizon of <i>green</i>. Purple flowers line the road, reminding us how close we are to Nature's wilds. I found out later that those purple flowers are Scotland's national flower, the Scottish Thistle.<br />
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I spent most of the drive writing a terrible romance in my journal (no really, it was horrendous). But the idea was an interesting one, so maybe I'll pursue it a bit later. In general, we made more stops than I would have liked. But I am accustomed to long driving without stops. There was one stop that was well worth it though. We went to Richmond, England. It's a town with winding streets and steep angles. Towering over it all though is a castle. My first castle, to be exact.<br />
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To enter is free. As I approached it, I had to wonder what life was like within its walls. The gate is perpetually raised now, but how would you beg for audience with the king from outside the iron bars if it's been raining all day? But say you are admitted, and you take those first feeble steps into the courtyard. I can't imagine what have met my eyes back then, but I find a field of grass green enough to write home about. Flowers of purple and bright orange grow from the stone walls, which are crumbled and falling apart. But we traveled up, to the keep where king and court assembled each day. The view of the town from up there was breathtaking. What could you say but expletives or prayers?<br />
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The town and its winding streets, the rushing river, the miles and miles of greenery on every side, the echoes of 12th Century footsteps... and then quick march back to the coach. long way to go yet. I wrote, and then read, and then slept.<br />
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And when I woke, we were in the land of the Scots.<br />
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(This is the view from the University of Edinburgh, where we had accommodations)</div>
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The next morning, we got up and hiked to Arthur's Seat (pictured below). It wasn't quite <i>raining</i>, but the mist and the wet and the cold were pretty much constant. The hike was more intense than I expected, and I realized I had a long way to go to being in shape. But it didn't matter once I got to the top--Arthur's Seat conquered.</div>
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Afterward, my group and I headed to the city proper. We headed down from the hill and ended up at the National Gallery, where a professor from Cambridge was giving a talk on how to look at art. It was so informative for me, because I've never known <i>why</i> some works of art are considered 'great' or 'masterpieces.' <span style="background-color: white;">I still don't know why I love Van Gogh so much, or why Renoir makes me feel settled and at peace inside. But now I know what to look for to explain it to myself.</span><br />
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That night, there was a Scottish party thrown for the students. We had a live band with members all in traditional kilts who tried to teach us how to do some Scottish dances. We had a blast. Afterward, a few of us went searching for another pub to hang out at. We walked for an hour and a half, and saw <i>many</i> pubs. But apparently none that everyone was happy with. By the time we sat down, most places were closing and we realized we didn't want to drink, we were just hungry. So off we went, searching for fish and chips.<br />
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The next day, I was supposed to go on a hiking trip to the Highlands. But I was tired and wanted to explore the city a bit more. Of course, that was made rather difficult by the misty rain and general coldness of the weather. People all across the UK have told me this is the worst summer they've ever seen, so I won't blame Edinburgh for its lack of sunshine.<br />
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On the way back, we stopped by the Fountain Abbey.<br />
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Fountain Abbey used to be the biggest abbey in England, and the most powerful. It is truly a place of sacred ground and beauty. I feel like I say that about a lot of places in England, but I cannot be more genuine than when I speak of the ruins here. They transport you to a very specific kind of splendor. Where you see the divine in every blade of grass, but also in the buildings which surround you in cold stone.<br />
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And if you continue walking away, just a bit, you come to the water gardens. A man and his son decided to divert a river and transform a huge plot of land into another place of beauty. I only have a few pictures of them, but imagine the warm summer air and the hum of quiet conversations in the background:<br />
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It was a trip to remember. I am so grateful that I got to see these pockets of true beauty, and the history which surrounds them.<br />
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When we returned, a Program Assistant got on the intercom and said, "Welcome home."<br />
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And, to a certain degree, Cambridge <i>is</i> home. It's a community of thinkers and writers, where I'm being treated like a true scholar. I deserve respect and have responsibilities as well. That line of simultaneous thinking is what drives this amazing institution forward. For good work, you are rewarded. But it must be good work. I fully intend to produce.<br />
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... also, I found Jelly Babies, for anyone who knows and likes Doctor Who. It kind of made my day, although they don't taste nearly as good as they appeared in the show. The lime ones are horrendous, but black currant and strawberry are the best.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-77327516916598504332012-07-04T03:33:00.001-07:002014-05-07T18:47:13.413-07:00Classes BeginI have spent the last few days running around Cambridge, being amazed at the glory and magnificence of it all... and completely forgetting that part of that honor and privilege includes the responsibility of studies.<br />
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I am taking Varieties of English, a creative writing supervisory, and In Sickness and In Health (which doesn't start for another few weeks). Varieties of English is taught by Mr. Vaux, a linguistics professor from Texas. It's very interesting being surrounded by men and women with very British accents, and then to hear him refrain from using the term "y'all." He's a very intelligent man, and knows his stuff. But you have to know your stuff too, before you go answering any of his questions. Which is good. It forces you to do more research than just the assigned reading.<br />
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Right now, we're covering varieties of English dialects, and how they were influenced. Of course, much of the influence came from "settlements" (i.e. invasions) by the Vikings and other Norsemen, as well as Germanic, Roman, and even (less violent) settlements by the French. It explains how exactly we get such interesting terms as "cow" and then "beef," as opposed to "cowmeat."<br />
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My creative writing supervisory is taught by two writers: Anne Rooney and Brian Keaney. They are both fascinating people with very interesting things to say about writing. Before the program began, I did some research on them both. I was really excited to see that Mr. Keaney and I had a lot in common as far as our philosophies on writing. I don't discount Mrs. Rooney at all, because she is equally as fascinating and helpful. But Mr. Keaney said some things on his blog that I definitely knew I agreed with. I fashioned my proposal to the supervisory based on him, hoping he would choose me as one of his students in this process. I must have done something right, because it worked.<br />
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I have an assignment already, and that is to work on something by next Monday and bring it in. I'm going to try something a bit different, and you guys are getting a sneak peek at my idea.<br />
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There is a story of the gods Thor and Loki, and how Thor had to fight the giant Geirrod. In the story, Loki is held captive in the form of a falcon for three months until he reveals who he is, as it's obvious he isn't a plain falcon. The giant Geirrod forces him to swear he will bring Thor without his weapons to Geirrod' lair. Loki has to agree, and so tricks Thor into accompanying him on this trip. To make a long story short, Thor defeats the giant by throwing a ball of red-hot iron straight through him. The two gods walk away, wary of each other and on shaky ground.<br />
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Well, I thought it would be a good idea to fashion a story with characters I already have based on the basic formula of this myth. A is forced to betray B because C will kill him if he doesn't. So A brings B to see C, but then B beats the daylights out of C, and A and B need to have a serious sit-down afterward. Or something.<br />
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If the story is any good, I promise to post it up here and take any comments.<br />
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In any case, I will have pictures in my next post. Last night, we had our first Formal Hall, which was very much like what you see in Harry Potter. One large room with an enormously high ceiling, in which everyone takes their seats at a table and the staff brings out the meal, one course at a time. We had the most amazing chicken I've ever tasted (and lemon tart for dessert!). Needless to say, we all wanted pictures of each other in the little group I've joined, so I'll post those up soon and introduce you to some of the people I've met so far.<br />
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Also, I plan on putting up a video soon, because I realize just how little the pictures do to serve justice to this place.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-78366863474337340192012-07-02T14:10:00.000-07:002014-05-07T18:46:22.536-07:00Cambridge At LastSo last time I updated, there were a lot of pictures and talking about a journal (that I'm sure no one really cares about), and not a lot of my feelings about the place. And there is a lot to speak to, so I apologize in advance that this post will not be brief.<br />
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In case you <i>did</i> care, I found a very nice journal at the Covent Garden market, by a young man whose brother makes them in Turkey. It has a charm on the front, and very nice, smooth blank pages. I am very excited, and couldn't wait to sit down and write in this new one when I bought it a few days ago. This was my first entry:<br />
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<i>I write this from a garden, next to Westminster Abbey, that rings with the echoes of Big Ben's last announcement. A child laughs into the grass beside me, and then promptly falls into it, simply reveling in the aliveness of it all. I don't blame her. </i><br />
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<i>The pictures of Big Ben never show how much it glistens. Gold reflects off its surface. I didn't realize just how much I considered the clock to be the symbol of "I did it," until I turned the corner, and there it was. Beautiful, majestic, hard-working, and constant. Surrounding me, there is grass. I have seen it as green before, but never felt it so soft. A bumblebee sits beside me in the shade of a leaf. We share a laugh about my utter amazement at the place, and then he leaves, his break over.</i><br />
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The day was just so gorgeous. I can't begin to talk about the blueness of the sky or the freshness of the breezes without first citing the works of other great authors. It is, truly, one of the most beautiful places in the world. I am eternally grateful that I've gotten to see it.<br />
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Things were not all wonderful, however, and that is the sad truth. That evening, there was a huge party of some kind at the bar below the hostel, and the bass bled upstairs to us travelers trying to sleep. I realized as I tried to find sleep among all the noise just how miserable I was there. There wasn't a place for me to brew any tea, which is a surprising stress reliever I've developed. No place to write postcards to friends and family, no place to journal while at the place I sleep. And did I mention they tried to kick me out of my bed at one in the morning? Something about my bed was changed and wasn't I made aware? I told them pretty sternly no of course, and they didn't ask again. Which was weird.<br />
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In any case, I was glad to check out the next morning, even though it meant lugging around 50+ pounds of luggage for the next few hours. It's surprisingly easy in London, though. I took the national rail from New Cross to the London Underground, which eventually brought me to King's Cross. While I failed miserably to take a picture of Platform 9 (or the unofficial 9 3/4 they've put up), I did manage to get to the train rather quickly.<br />
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The countryside... I never wanted that train ride to end. For one, it was every bit as picturesque as you see in the movies, and for another... I realized I was scared. Logistically, I had no idea where I needed to be next, and had no internet access to find out. And then of course, there's the programme itself. I am ever afraid when it comes to making friends, though I seem to do all right in the end. But back to the sky--it is impossibly blue. As if the blue feeds from how green the earth is. And though the green goes on forever, you continue to hunger for it, especially as a desert-bred lizard like me.<br />
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I came to the station, took out my cumbersome luggage, and waited in line for about twenty minutes while storms formed dramatically overhead. I let the taxi cab driver know about where I needed to go (Trinity Hall College), and he took the circuitous route there of course. To be fair, it only about 7 pounds. But still.<br />
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I'm going to make the next bit brief, because it included a good deal of waiting, small-talking with the porters, and eventually making it to my room.<br />
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It could not be more beautiful. I have seven separate window panes which open to the street, from which I can see another set of rooms directly across from mine. To the west, the sun set lazily, like even he did not want this first day to come to an end. To the east lay the college. I have a sink in my room, and two mirrors. Two chairs. A couch. A wardrobe, a desk, a night table, and two bookshelves. The light is a Chinese lantern hanging in the center of this enormous room. I might have cried when I saw it, considering how cramped quarters were at the hostel.<br />
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After checking in, I made my way to King's College, for a brief orientation and then dinner. I walked past buildings made of stone that have been here since before America won independence. Not all the roads are cobblestone like I had half-hoped, but they are still impressive. Clouds loom overhead pretty much as a given, and the rain is constant. It is light, though, and umbrellas are only necessary if you're bothered by it hitting your face at irregular intervals.<br />
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I got to the main courtyard of King's College, and walked in past porters in long black robes. Many of the buildings are open to the public, and many are not. Many of those which are not... are open to us.<br />
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The main courtyard... God, the size of it is fantastic. You have no idea what it's like to be dwarfed by these grand buildings until you're there. Seeing the pictures is one thing, but to watch the spires change in depth as you walk by them is another entirely. The grass is so green you're afraid to look away for fear it will disappear, just like this one, perfect moment. The green bit of the grounds is even bigger than I imagined, and untouched save for the feet of those holding a Ph.D. Clouds stare down absently, and you wonder if they see you among the other beautiful scenery which surrounds you. Every stone whispers of a time soaked in majesty and antiquity. Kings, queens, Nobel Prize winners and other Greats have set their feet upon this ground. And here you are, somehow lucky enough to set your footprints beside theirs.<br />
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The day was not particularly long after that, but it certainly felt like it. I made friends quicker than I'd anticipated, and a few of us went to a nearby pub to watch the Italy v Spain game. I left before it was done, but Spain won, 4-0.<br />
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This morning, we had orientation at the Cambridge Union Society, which was a society created in 1815 to allow students free speech and debate, set apart from the University. It has a long history of fantastic speakers and thinkers, and some very controversial ones as well. Different men and women introduced themselves to us while we sat in comfy leather chairs and let us know who we contacted for different needs. We met the Lay Dean (aka Dean of Discipline, who's also a Fellow of Stalin's Russia), the Dean of Chapel, head of the King's College porters (they are all quite lovely, and only drink tea, so I hope to stop by and bring them all a brew at some point), head of catering, IT, Academics, the Bursar... so many people who welcomed us completely.<br />
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I learned that this is only the second year the programme has been open to non-Ivy League students. I am even more honored to be here.<br />
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<span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;">This is a </span><i style="background-color: white; text-align: center;">very</i><span style="background-color: white; text-align: center;"> long post, and I'm so sorry. I've gone on long enough. Feel free to ask questions, I guess, if I've left anything important out. </span><br />
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Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-62635330865266426622012-06-30T12:33:00.002-07:002014-05-07T18:44:17.539-07:00IndulgencesMornings happen early here. Many of you know that I don't like to rise until after most people have had lunch if I can help it. But this is the second morning I've woken up early... not quite in time for the breakfast downstairs, but I only missed it by about fifteen minutes.<br />
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For the past few days, I've come to see how inappropriate my "England Journal" is, which is quite a shame, because I like it. But it's got these little ridges on the paper, which makes it (somehow even more) impossible to write in straight lines. My handwriting looks horrendous, and that makes it hard for me to want to write your standard artistic and pretentious journal entries (which we all know is the reason why anyone owns a journal).<br />
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Also, I'm an avid writer. Half the joy of it is owning a different set of blank pages and just knowing that the next few months of your life will be chronicled within it.<br />
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I'd also decided I wanted to buy tea in England. Y'know, be a tourist. But I wanted <i>good</i> tea. So I went back to Coven Garden, where I'd seen a few tea shops. The one I kept walking by when it was closed was The Tea House, and I returned at a reasonable hour. The other day, after the Englishman dropped me off in the middle of London, I'd wandered into a tea shop and enjoyed a cup of Rooibos Earl Grey, which was a fantastic combination idea. So I bought some plain rooibos tea and "Supreme" Earl Grey of my own. I just can't wait to have it, guys. You have no idea.<br />
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My camera broke yesterday. I plugged it into the adapter to charge, and forgot that different sets of voltage can be fatal to beloved appliances. But fear not! I got a new one. And without further ado:<br />
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One of the many stops on the London Underground, but my favorite, every time I hear it.</div>
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I made it to Trafalgar Square, where they were celebrating Canada Day. The amount of people here was just breathtaking. I sat at the fountain for fifteen minutes just overwhelmed by it all.</div>
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Ah, yes. The Big and Beautiful.</div>
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... simply my favorite view of London thus far.</div>
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You can't see it, but Victoria Tower is right in front of me. I sat with that view for about twenty minutes. I wrote in my journal, and marveled at how truly spectacular it is to be royalty in Great Britain.<span style="background-color: white;"> </span></div>
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Ah, the windswept hair. A good look.</div>
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There will be more pictures, I'm sure. But my feet are unused to this amount of travel, and they whine at me to soak them or something.<br />
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Maybe I just need a good cup of tea.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-51632034187851230152012-06-29T09:57:00.000-07:002014-05-07T18:42:46.983-07:00Paradise Lost: Frankenstein in Covent Gardens<br />
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<iframe allowfullscreen='allowfullscreen' webkitallowfullscreen='webkitallowfullscreen' mozallowfullscreen='mozallowfullscreen' width='320' height='266' src='https://www.youtube.com/embed/5ceOFTjHUQA?feature=player_embedded' frameborder='0'></iframe></div>
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I had tickets to see <i>Frankenstein</i> filmed from the theatre production, with Benedict Cumberbatch and Jonny Lee Miller as the headliners. It was directed by Richard Bean, and adapted from Mary Shelley's book by Nick Dear. I mention all these names because while all the others received the credit they deserved, Nick Dear was not mentioned in the programme, though I feel he also should have his name mentioned. Also, I love writers and am always on the lookout for more people to be a fan of. Mr. Cumberbatch played the Creature in this encore performance, although he alternates that with the part of Victor Frankenstein with Miller.<br />
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The play opens with the Creature being born. We see the struggle to get out of a placenta-like womb. Lights that hang from the ceiling like a thousand volts of lightning blaze, and we see how it electrifies the Creature, who jolts in response. An arm twitches independently of the body, and then a leg. He is covered in bruises and cuts, huge gaping holes in his head that are stitched up poorly. You see the struggle of a grown body and adult brain discovering life once more. While his muscles are strong, they are uncoordinated. Slowly, he learns to stand, and later to crawl. By the time he's walking, ten breathtaking minutes have passed. The only sounds are the Creature's occasionally groans and squeals of excitement. He looks like a stroke victim recovering very quickly and remaining unfinished.<br />
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And yet, he does learn to walk, and to speak. He is taught by the blind man in the mountains how to read, and does quite a lot of it. He wonders about God, and heaven and hell, and his own fate. He asks where he was born, why he has no name. He speaks in long fluid sentences that go from statements to questions without pause, like, "I have a request Victor Frankenstein what do you say." Again, this brings to mind stroke victim speech.<br />
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The theme of <i>paradise</i> plagues us through the entire piece. It is the first word the Creature learns, and it is somehow what he wants, knowing full well that it is out of his reach. All the Creature desires is love--that of his creator's, that of a mate's... even that of humanity's as a whole. And he cannot have it. It is not just because he is ugly, it is because he is different in many ways. He is terrifying to behold, and uncoordinated. He speaks in broken sentences, his head sometimes rolls to one side and stays there. His speech is slurred and labored. But perhaps it is <i>because</i> we are imperfect that we seek paradise. He is well-educated, quoting numerous pieces of literature.<br />
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Simultaneously, we see the young doctor, Victor Frankenstein, who has everything the Creature could ask for. He has a family that loves him and respects his interests. There is Elizabeth, a young and beautiful lady who loves him even though he has made her wait for six years before he will marry her. His father cares deeply for him and struggles to understand his brilliant son. And Frankenstein, with paradise at his fingertips, is bored. He breaks ties and breaks promises. He does not know what to do with himself, so tries to play god.<br />
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It is remarkable how jealous he is of the Creature's ability to love.<br />
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And I think that's an important question to ask ourselves, in a way. Do we love as deeply as we can? Is there a paradise right here, in front of us, that we are ignoring? And how do we change our fate, to give us the happiness we deserve and desire? How do we love like the Creature, who fought to live--and live like the doctor, who fought to love?Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-73450649304279214522012-06-29T09:24:00.002-07:002014-05-07T18:40:19.691-07:00You're Doing it WrongThe hostel bed was very comfortable last night. This is surprising for a few reasons. The first is that I didn't think I'd ever find my way back to that bed, and the other is that it contains twelve people total, including one very avid snorer.<br />
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If you don't get lost within 24 hours of visiting a new country, you're doing it wrong. So obviously I did something right.<br />
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I went up to my room in the hostel, which I may not have mentioned before is a mixed room. There are men and women from many countries sleeping just feet from me, some of whom are avid snorers. So when a man followed me into my room, I was not shocked. We got to talking about art surrealism and Shakespeare's most intelligent characters, which of course struck my fancy just fine. I enjoyed our conversation a lot, and it seemed it was mutual. He asked if I wanted to have a drink when I came back from my show (which I will soon talk about), and we agreed that it sounded like a fine idea.<br />
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I left the theatre around ten that evening, and made my way back to the Covent Gardens station, to take the Underground to Greenwich. Once there, I did not know how to get back to the hostel, but I knew it was close enough that I shouldn't require a taxi as I did the day before.<br />
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Perhaps I should have taken it. I walked around for nearly two and a half hours, asking strangers directions every few minutes. Some told me to go to this station, or get on that bus... but finally, I walked into a pub that was open thankfully late. It was nearly two in the morning and I did not want to walk anymore. The taxi took me there in about five minutes, and cost about five pounds. But five pounds well-spent on peace of mind and a warm bed.<br />
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Obviously, the Englishman I spoke to earlier was already in bed by the time I showed up, so I just climbed into my bed and fell asleep. The sounds of London lulled me there quite quickly, considering my exhaustion. Good thing, too, because mornings happen early around here. Breakfast ends at nine am. Though I tried to be up on time, it didn't happen.<br />
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Kevin (the Englishman) woke up around the same time as me. He said he had the day off before he had to head back to Kent (and then Brighton?), so he took me to St. Paul's Cathedral. We grabbed a coffee and sat on the steps to this grand and beautiful piece of architecture and history, culture and spirituality. It was a calm morning. Clouds rolled over us fast enough that we couldn't decide if we were in the shade or not. There was a light drizzle, but nothing to be worried about. We chatted about the cultural differences between our countries--he asked about cowboys and I tried to explain the wild west as it truly was. I asked about Scandinavians, and he tried to explain their hair color. I started thinking in a British accent somewhere during this time, and he left me near London Bridge.<br />
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After exploring more of the city, I decided I was finally exhausted, and came back to the hostel. Maybe I'll go out again tonight.<br />
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But not before I memorize the route back. Because if I get lost twice within 24 hours of entering a foreign country, maybe I'm doing something wrong.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-69002061915657537612012-06-28T08:10:00.000-07:002014-05-07T18:38:47.709-07:00The Trip There"<i>If I take one more step, it'll be the farthest away from home I've ever been."</i><br />
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Never were those words more true for me than today, as I stepped off the plane into London, United Kingdom. While that one more step was still on an airplane technically, I felt as if the ground shook just a bit as I grabbed my carry-on and stepped over the hearth into Heathrow airport.<br />
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But I'm getting ahead of myself.<br />
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The air is stale; slightly warm, and though I've never tasted the tepid tang of recycled air before, I believe I may have found it. Beside me, some loud family that's getting ready for a reunion munches on almonds, and I hope that no one has a terrible allergy that keeps the flight from departing. But that's the periphery. The forefront of my mind is occupied with gratitude. I'm actually getting on the plane to go to London, a trip I've dreamed about, but never honestly thought was possible. I am very lucky.<br />
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Not only am I filled with wonder, I am very tired. Last night, I spent time with a good friend who I hope will become a better one. Amazing how goodbyes are really more like hellos.<br />
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I was so tired that I decided to travel across the world in my very comfortable Doctor Who shirt, a gift from my brother's girlfriend. Already, two people have commented on it. While I maintain that fandoms create community, I agree with the Texan security officer that I'm sure to get teased for it once I'm in the UK.<br />
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At least I didn't bring the sonic screwdriver.<br />
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By some great miracle, I see my mother during a three hour layover in Minneapolis. She takes me to a restaurant, where they serve walleye BLTs and hot dishes (only in Minnesota). It is so good to see her that it's almost hard to leave. But she takes a picture of me going through security, and we wave across a sea of confused people who watch us and roll their eyes.<br />
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The flight is not as long as I expected; it's faster to travel around the world than it is to drive from Albuquerque to Las Vegas--only seven and a half hours. I sleep most of the way, but find it impossible the closer we get. When we do finally land, it takes me a moment to realize the heavy sensation I feel isn't just anticipation and wonder... it's the water in the air.<br />
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London air is warm and wet. It makes your clothes stick to you in strange places and I'm actually sweating (which rarely happens back home since the air is so thirsty). I understand the use of handkerchiefs much better now... and luckily, brought some.<br />
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The Underground, I hear, is the fastest way to Greenwich Village. I get on after buying an Oyster Card. Then, I head to the subway system. It's dark inside, but there are windows open which brings in a nice breeze because this thing is <i>fast</i>. Then suddenly, there is a burst of light and color. The color is green--there are trees of every kind. Bushes, grass, flowers of purple and yellow... I think to myself, <i>This is the land that legends came from</i>, and cannot be more in awe of the city. It spans over a huge space, but also centuries of history as well. There are apartments for sale, and signs that have American celebrities. And houses that I thought for sure were only real in Doctor Who and Sherlock. I take the train from Heathrow all the way to Piccadilly Circus, and from there to North Greenwich. Names pass by me that I am only vaguely familiar with: King's Cross, London Bridge, Canary Wharf, Baker Street... many of these are places I want to see before I leave.<br />
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Once off the train, I take a cab the rest of the way. <span style="background-color: white;">I'm staying at the Journeys Greenwich Hostel. There are lots of international travelers here; I am in the minority both as an American and a woman. </span><br />
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I got my first lewd gesture already! When I got off the Piccadilly train and transferred to Jubilee to get to the hostel, I took the lift because my luggage was too much to take down the stairs. An older gentlemen joined me, and while he continued to talk, I understood absolutely nothing. I nodded occasionally and smiled politely. He seemed to be asking me a question. When I turned to him, he did this odd pelvic-thrust-belly-out movement, and I just turned away like I didn't hear. But yep, you guessed it--he followed me after I got off the lift. He stood next to me. The train came and I asked him if it was Jubilee, and he shook his head no. So I didn't get on.<br />
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And then he said, "Sex." It wasn't a question. I mustered up my best bewildered look and replied, "Sex? No." He gave me the thumbs-up and walked away, muttering and probably saying some disparaging things about me. I wasn't sure if I should be offended or laugh at the difference in gestures between cultures.<br />
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In any case, I am here.Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-3365381990283691182012-06-12T01:34:00.001-07:002014-05-07T18:36:04.416-07:00Two Weeks Till TakeoffSo here's where we stand. It is sixteen days until I leave. Little more than two weeks. This is my first time traveling abroad anywhere, much less alone. It's going to be such an exciting trip. I leave Las Vegas tomorrow morning to return to Albuquerque. An eight hour drive and I'll be back in my apartment with the grumpy old man who lives downstairs. And then I get on a plane!<br />
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My list of essentials include:<br />
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<ul>
<li>Connection to Netflix.</li>
<li>Tea (I have lots of new Teavana stuff that I plan on taking with me and using up while buying new brands of Earl Grey and Lady Londonderry)</li>
<li>Notebooks for drawings, musings, and plottings</li>
<li>Pens for the aforementioned nonsense</li>
<li>Map of England so people can tell me where they're from and mark it on the map for me</li>
<li>Textbooks</li>
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I'm looking forward to some of the textbooks, too. <i>Cambridge Encyclopedia of the English Language</i> for one. It's nice to know that I'm not the only one who sits and compares Welsh accents to Minnesota ones, and watch British television until I'm even thinking in Received Pronunciation. </div>
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When I found out they have a creative writing supervisory Cambridge's Pembroke-King's College Programme, I was sold. It meant making some serious sacrifices, but it is absolutely worth it. It means I don't get to go to World Choirs Games with my barbershopping girls, but I know they will do an amazing job without me. </div>
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I have a list of things I want to do in the first two days I get to spend in London, and they include:</div>
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<ul>
<li>Buckingham Palace</li>
<li>Tower of London</li>
<li>Big Ben (which I've heard they want to rename in honor of the Queen?)</li>
<li>See a West End show (possibly Frankenstein, starring Johnny Lee Miller and Benedict Cumberbatch)</li>
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There are a lot of other things I might be able to do as the program goes on, but I just don't know what kind of schedule I'm going to have.</div>
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One more thing on my must-bring list: a <i>camera.</i></div>
Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8478525656695896378.post-61002104777673780012012-06-08T19:09:00.002-07:002014-05-07T18:33:26.580-07:00Studying Abroad: PreparationThe thing about getting a visa at the airport in London is that there's always the chance they can turn you down. They might not like your paperwork or your face. You could say something stupid and get kicked out of the country and have to work for weeks to try again.<br />
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All because they didn't like your face.<br />
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I don't really like that idea. On the other hand, it's free, as opposed to the $500 charge you incur by sending your paperwork to the embassy in New York and waiting for their 10-100 day response. Still, the chance is kind of a risky one. I hope luck (and my face) is on my side.<br />
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Getting all the right paperwork in is stressful. I need letters from both Cambridge and UNM saying I'm allowed to go to England for this program. I need bank statements from my parents to prove I can finance this little expedition. I need transcripts.<br />
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Well, <i>need</i> is an awfully strong word. But <i>strongly recommended</i> is basically the same thing. So I'm pretending like I just plain old need them, and can walk in there with a huge folder of private information, along with my passport and suchlike. All for a stamp.<br />
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But on the other side of the road... Cambridge University.<br />
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I'll be studying three classes there, and two of them I must honestly say I'm far more excited about than the last. The first is <i>Varieties of English</i>, a linguistics class. The second is a supervisory class on creative writing, which is like an independent study with someone who actually knows what they're doing. The last is a class studying how disease such as AIDS, the Black Plague, and cancer affect western culture.<br />
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It's going to be a brilliant two months.<br />
<br />Unknownnoreply@blogger.com0