Saturday, March 31, 2012

"Folk Bloodbath" Josh Ritter with Punch Brothers


I found this on Tumblr just now.  COME ON, guys.  TOUR TOGETHER ALREADY.  This is perfection.  It's like... I don't know.....  peanut butter and Nutella blended together?  (I'll let you sort out which of you wants to be which nutty spread, darlin' dears, but understand that this is the highest of all the possible praises.)  You look so happy and it sounds so grand!  (Even Noam.  Who almost never seems to smile.  But he's lovely anyway, the solemn, witty god of the banjo, and I wouldn't have him any other way.  Not that I'm asked, but still.)   How nifty (Yes.  I did deliberately use that word.  It's just possible I have had too much sugar tonight.) to find this little clip, but then the let down that it was over, that it was only a mere 5:30 and all that beautiful sweetness was gone.  Sigh. Mutter, mumble, murmur....  (casts longing glances. shuffles feet.  exits stage left.  tries to use proper punctuation and things not sentence fragments in next post.)

Raku and Other Reactions

I went back to Moundville today for their Fusing Red Earth pottery exposition.  The day started off fairly grim and nasty, but by the time I finally dragged myself out of the house and made the long drive over, it cleared out and was lovely for it.  The handful of potters and artisans came from all over, really, to show their takes on traditional Native American pottery and other crafts with iconography linked to the Southeastern tribes.

There was a potter who was doing raku pieces on site.  One of my friends and colleagues who does pottery is sort of fascinated by raku and longs to make his own raku setup.  I watched for awhile as pieces were "born" right there, outdoors, in the middle of the grassy space in front of the museum.  That was pretty amazing.  Raku itself is pretty amazing.  If you don't know anything about it, you can read more here.  Every piece is a one-of-a-kind.  Every time, the reduction firing creates something magical.  There's that moment when the piece is revealed, and every one is beautiful.  Even though I don't do vessels when I do make pottery since I prefer to handbuild figures, I can understand my friend's love of the form.

I didn't stay very long, just a couple of hours, maybe.  The mounds were too busy with the glorious sunny weather to provide much tranquility today.  I sat near the river for awhile and wrote, and then I decided to head home.  I have information about another pottery show opening later this month, this one dedicated just to tea bowls, so I guess I'll be trekking back that way again later on.

Thursday, March 29, 2012

Laughter

I graded like a madwoman today.  I turned out a set of essays and two sets of essay tests.  I was the queen of the red pen.

While this meant I got a lot of stuff done and felt a great deal of satisfaction from clearing the paperwork, I can't say it made me very happy otherwise.  I was feeling very depressed with the end-of-the-year results of the grading until I came across one paper in particular.  The student apparently had just decided to have fun with the answers he didn't know.  By the time I was in the middle of it, I was laughing out loud.  It made me feel better.  I'll take humor and absurdity over desperation and despair any day.

When I left, I'd finished all the work, recorded the grades in the book, and gotten everything ready to return to the students tomorrow.  I hope they will find something amusing in their grades.  I sort of have my doubts, but, well, who knows?  I guess it's always possible.

Wednesday, March 28, 2012

The Wizard of Oz


Cowardly Lion: Courage! What makes a king out of a slave? Courage! What makes the flag on the mast to wave? Courage! What makes the elephant charge his tusk in the misty mist, or the dusky dusk? What makes the muskrat guard his musk? Courage! What makes the sphinx the seventh wonder? Courage! What makes the dawn come up like thunder? Courage! What makes the Hottentot so hot? What puts the "ape" in apricot? What have they got that I ain't got?
Dorothy, Scarecrow, Tin Woodsman: Courage!
Cowardly Lion: You can say that again! Huh?
~The Wizard of Oz, 1939 film
________________________________________________


This came today from Out of Print Clothing.  I've been waiting almost a month for it since I pre-ordered it when they first announced they were going to make it.  When they first brought out the design, it was only in their children's tees, and needless to say, I could not quite see myself fitting into one of those.

I love the design of the shirt.  It has everything I admire, vintage charm, my beloved books, famous art, archetypal characters, nifty colors.  More than this, though, while I've never been a hardcore WoO fan, I realized lately this work has started to sneak into the corners of my life while I haven't been paying attention in unexpected ways.  I reflected on how pervasive it is today as I unfolded my shirt.

Dorothy's Shoes
National History Museum
First and foremost is the famous pair of red sparkly shoes.  Dorothy's shoes have become an item of fascination for me.  I finally got to see the real thing (or one incarnation of them, anyway, since multiple pairs from the film exist) in the National History Museum when I was in DC.  To me, they represent the idea that we have the power to make the changes that we need for ourselves, power that we don't even know we have, magic if we would only recognize it and employ it properly.

When we were in London, we saw The Wizard of Oz musical, and something else about the shoes struck me for the first time.  Dorothy sees the shoes as a burden while the Witch is trying to get them.  The thing she is trying to get rid of, the thing she hates about herself, actually turns out to have been the solution to her problem all along.  She couldn't understand what was important or enviable about the gift she'd been given.  I wonder how often the rest of us are in that same situation about the gifts that we have.

The other thing I seem to be surrounded by without it being intentional is character references.  They keep coming up in odd places.  One of my best friends and I have long said, "Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain!" as one of our little in-jokes for when something stupid has occurred and we need everybody to look away.  I have an intermittent conversation/joke with somebody about the Tin Man.  The bit of song concerning the Scarecrow, "If I only had a brain," has been used as a codephrase more than once with my friends and family for acts of great "brilliance," personal or otherwise.  I have thought several times about getting one of the signs about the flying monkeys to put in my classroom.

Palladium Theater, London
Everybody has a favorite character, I guess.  I'm not much on Dorothy despite the shoes.  I enjoyed it in Wicked when she gets turned into the enemy, in fact.  It satisfied something I'd felt since I was a child; all that wide-eyed innocence and checked gingham just can't be trusted....  I love the trio of guys.  I go back and forth between the Scarecrow with his wonderful loyalty, humor, and secret cleverness and the Tin Man with his backstory and his brave actions motivated by feeling he doesn't even know he has as my favorites.

Just as everyone has a favorite, I think everybody probably recognizes themselves in one of the characters to some degree or another, too.  I personally am not a singing-ingenue Dorothy or a head-scratching Scarecrow.  I can't say I'm a hollow-chested Tin Man, either.  I see myself in the Cowardly Lion.  When they sing their songs, his is the one that resonates with me.  I have "the heart" and the "brain."  Too often what I think I need to grasp what I want in life is "the nerve."  I think too much (like my beloved Hamlet) about the consequences, the what-comes-next, and I do not take the opportunities that are put in front of me.  Not in everything, in so many things I have no fear at all, but in the really serious things, the issues of the heart, I am just like the Lion, looking for a hiding place, quaking in fear.

Maybe someday, I'll have his epiphany, realize that the courage I need is inside me all the time, "be a lion, not a mowess."  That is, after all, the overarching message of the entire work, that everything you need has always been there waiting for you the whole time to discover:  your true home, your true inner strength, your intelligence, your courage, your love.  That thing you think you never had or had lost was actually just waiting with love and patience for you to wrap your hands around it and take it up again.  It was never lost at all.

Perhaps that is what makes all incarnations of The Wizard of Oz intriguing and delightful whether it's Syfy's Tin Man, that musical in the West End, the 1939 film, or the original book.  This is what makes it such a rich source for reinterpretation and myth of its own.  It's so strong that it can even be deconstructed, rebuilt through a different lens and survive.  Take a look at Wicked (both the book and the musical, two very different creatures) for proof of that.  (I find it interesting that even though the focus character changes completely with Wicked, so much of the message stays remarkably the same....)

Tomorrow, I'll wear my new shirt happily.  Maybe it will give me some additional fortitude to face whatever challenges the day might bring me.  There's no way that could possibly be a bad thing.  I'll take any help I can get.

Tuesday, March 27, 2012

Various


  • At some point last night, I woke up with Yoda, my aged black cat, more or less sitting on my head.  She likes to curl around the crown of my head as I sleep, I suppose because of the body heat loss thing, but it was an odd sensation to wake up to, I must say.  Usually she stays on the pillow.  I don't know if I got too rambunctious in my tossing and turning or she got too cold, but she sort of draped herself over me a bit.  I think we're both hoping she doesn't choose to repeat it.  I didn't exactly respond well to being pinned down in that way.  She didn't exactly respond well to being thrown off in such an undignified manner....
  • I'm much better today, Topamax-wise.  The fog has backed off, and I'm able to process the world as clearly as I ever can.  Everything seems a little bit too bright today, but that may just be because it is an incredibly sunny and lovely day and I have the blinds open.  Or maybe it's my photosensitivity.  Who the hell knows?  It's a neverending funorama over here. 
  • Good thing with students:  I gave a bellringer prompt today asking them to write as if they were 70 or 80 years old and fuss about the "kids today."  It wound up being a riot.  They did voices.  They did "slang."  I laughed a lot.
  • Bad thing with students:  Several of my AP students decided just not to come yesterday because there was a test that they weren't ready for.  I am soul-sick.  And disappointed.  And tired.  Very, very tired.
  • I want a Fiat 500 Abarth.  Why?  Because it is small, cute, and fast as a bat out of perdition.  Also because they give you a day of training with a professional driver when you purchase one.  I want him (or her) to teach me how to powerslide.  Yeeeeeah.  
  • I'm going to have something sweet tonight with dinner.  My fortune cookie Sunday told me I deserve dessert; by gum, I'm going to have it tonight.  I crave something ridiculous, maybe cheesecake-y?  I have had nothing of the sort for days and days.  TODAY, I MAKE ALL MY FORTUNE COOKIES COME TRUE!  (well, that one at least.  if anybody would like to volunteer for the others, let me know, particularly the ones concerning insane wealth, lasting happiness, or tall blue-eyed guys who are devoted to me)
  • Saturday and Sunday I reread the first two books of The Hunger Games series.  I almost got through book three again, too.  I should finish it tonight.  I had forgotten how good they were.  For what they are, YA Fiction, they're well-done.  I don't know if the movie is as good, but I wanted to reread them before I think about venturing forth to see it.  And, believe it or not, I just might venture forth.  (that sound you heard?  that was the foundations of the earth cracking open...)
  • I'm headed back to Moundville this weekend.  There is a fantastic show Saturday of Native American potters.  I can't wait to see it.  Si Dios quiere, I will be there doing what I love the most, taking pictures and reveling in first-class craftsmanship.  It should be amazing.  I've never seen an exposition of just Native American pottery, much less live demonstration.  Add the setting, and, well, how could I NOT go?
I think you're up-to-date.  Unless you're helping to make my fortune cookie come true, I think that's all you need to know.  If you're that guy who's volunteering for that, well, click below, darlin'......

Monday, March 26, 2012

Back in the Whirlpool

I had forgotten, I guess, what it's like to tinker with the Topamax dosage in a significant way.  Joy indescribable.  There is a reason you have to wean your body from it.  I cannot even imagine what it would be like to stop suddenly, to go from 200mg to nothing.  I think I would probably and quite literally shut down.

I'm writing this because I literally can't focus on anything else right now.  I hate this stuff.  How can anything be such a dual-edged sword, at one moment cutting through the pain in my head and letting me function and at the next slashing my most basic ability to process the world around me with any sort of reason?

Maybe I sound okay as I'm typing this to you, but you would not believe how much the little normal everyday words look wrong, how often I'm getting errors, and how frequently I'm having to stop to pull my eyes away from things in my classroom that suddenly just look....I don't know...miraculous?  Out of place?  Startling as if I'd never seen them before.  And this is when I can get my eyes to focus through the dim halo everything has, that lovely refraction that usually presages a migraine of epic proportions but today, just thanks to the damn Topamax, everything is graced with, a heavenly glow as if angels went around last night and rimed the whole world with rainbows just for me.

And then there are the long lost moments where I come to myself and I've simply been...away.  Someone walked by me this morning and asked me if staring at a particular spot on the hallway floor was a good way to make the day go by faster.  I don't know how long I'd been there in that pose.  Long enough to be noticeable.  I was not daydreaming.  I was just...not.  Perhaps my mind is in there somewhere, slamming bleeding hands against a thick glass wall and screaming, but all I'm hearing is echoes....

I suppose this is some sort of free psychedelic experience maybe, and I should be a good poet and enjoy it, but I don't.  I can't.  My mind is not in good order and not fully under my control.  Some portion of it seems to be out of focus like a lens that needs to be adjusted just slightly to get the picture clear again, but I can't find the right way to do it.  If you've never been in this situation, and really, I'm hoping for your sake you haven't, I don't know if I am getting the frustration of this across to you.  I need to be mentally sharp to do this job well, to feel myself.  My brain is not working, and I can't fix it.

The only consolation I have right now, my only mantra is, "Three More Months."  If I can make it three more months, and I can already tell they're going to be fantastic ones, if I can make it with a minimum of headaches (only 6 in a month!  I was having 2 per week...), then I don't have to have this crap in my life anymore.

Sunday, March 25, 2012

Keeping or Cutting Loose

It's hard to let go of something you know you should when part of you wants to keep it.  Which part of that internal struggle should win?  Do you go with the little voice that tells you to cut your losses and get out before some melodrama filled with ridiculous words occurs, or do you listen to the part of you that insists that if it continues to bother you, then something remains worth salvaging?

Be damned if I know.

I just don't want to do this or feel this or think this at all.  It is so much easier to let it all fade into nothing, mist before the morning sun, something that wasn't strong enough to last, after all.  Everything has a natural lifespan, and when it is done, then it is time for it to die.  Human relationships are no exception.  Right?

Right?

Because I won't be the one holding on this time, the last one to leave the party. I just can't be.  I think instead, just for once, just for the sheer novelty of it, I'll go ahead and collect my coat, make my polite apologies and thank the host for a grand evening, get out ahead of the crowd.

And if I keep telling myself it's the smart thing to do long enough, maybe I'll even believe it.

Saturday, March 24, 2012

Live from the Back Yard

The day was too glorious to stay in, and I brought the hammock out to enjoy it. Now I have sun and a million shades of green and dog companionship as the wind sighs through newly unfolded leaves. It's all good. I think I'll probably be here a good long time today.

Thursday, March 22, 2012

All Good Things....

“If you want a happy ending, that depends, of course, on where you stop your story.” ~ Orson Welles

I went to see my neurologist today, and since things are going well, he decided to start the process of taking me off the Topamax.  I couldn't be happier.  Topamax is a very mixed blessing for me, something that gives with one hand and takes with the other.  I have been on it so long now that I'm not sure what I'm like off it anymore.  It's been about five years (I think), and they've been long ones full of forgetfulness, language difficulties, weariness, and words that go missing at inopportune moments.  I cannot wait to get it out of my system if my poor stupid head will allow it.  If I can manage fewer than six headaches a month, I can stay off it.  We'll just have to see how it goes.

As of today, I have also decided not to fool with something else that I've found frustrating lately.  It's a more personal issue, but it has made me feel ridiculous and bad, and I decided a long time ago that I don't have to be stuck with situations of that type.  I'm not going to "talk it through."  I'm not going to "voice my concerns" because I don't think they matter, and so I won't waste the time doing it.  I'm just going to wash my hands and walk away.  The end.

It's odd to think of these endings coming.  I can only do what I can to follow the advice of Welles above.  I guess we'll just have to see if I stopped these stories at the right time to get happiness out of them after all.

Expectations

If you look up quotations about expectations online, you will find a million very encouraging snippets about how we become what we expect of ourselves.  I am not quite sure that is absolutely the truth, or at least the whole truth.  It's very nice to think that, but there's another ingredient in the mix that can't be ignored.  At the very least it has to be overcome:  the expectations of others.

Why do these matter?  Why am I writing about this on a gloomy rainy morning?

An email got me thinking about it, a petition from change.org concerning Trayvon Martin.  Expectations, what somebody thought he could be, determined his fate in the worst possible way.  No matter what he thought of himself or what his parents thought of him, he could not overcome the outside world's expectations of his behavior or his race.

The judgments we make of each other do matter.  When we look at each other and only see huge strips about which we have preconceived notions, we injure both the individual at hand and ourselves.  That's the best scenario.  The worst?  Well....I think we've seen it recently.  It involves snap decisions and funerals.

It's easy to say that we should just ignore the way others see us, rise and overcome, but the weight of it sits on us, molds us.  I see it every day in my classroom.  Students who have parents who expect them to do well generally do.  Students who have parents who berate them or ignore them frequently are lost or struggling.  This is simplistic, and of course, there is internal motivation in every case.  Some of the students who have parents who expect them to do well suffer from too much pressure, expectations that are unreasonable or too high.  Some of the students who have no expectations at all succeed because they create goals for themselves.   By and large, though, like water wearing away stone, the judgments of others can shape an individual.

I've experienced it myself.  I was a foreigner in a place where foreigners were dangerous, and despite my general lack of threatening-ness (not a word, but you get it), I was still treated like I might explode into violence at any moment.  Mothers pulled their children away.  Old women watched me warily or moved away on the train.  At first I was embarrassed.  Then I was confused.  Later I was angry.  I found myself wanting to react in the way they were fearing.   If you think I am a monster, well, then....  This was only after a couple of years in this place.  What would it have been like to grow up with these expectations surrounding me?

Of course, I never gave up who I was inside.  I had a strong grounding in who I was to support me. My own expectations for myself were always stronger than theirs for me, my own internal motivation was supreme, but I can't say I didn't feel it.  We have to be careful, I think to look at people as individuals and not stereotypes.  I guess that's harder, more time-consuming, but look at what can be prevented.

Tuesday, March 20, 2012

The Couch Got Me

Yesterday was tough, the getting back into the school routine, the adjusting all my internal clocks to the external realities of time zones, time shifts, and early morning alarms.  I had slept too little and worked too long by the time I'd gone in early to deal with whatever was waiting on me after a three-day absence and then stayed over late to tutor after school, and with an added trip to the funeral home on top of that, something that is always exceptionally difficult for me, I hardly knew where I was when I got home.

I microwaved something forgettable, paired it with pickle chips (which may be responsible for the dreams I had later), ate, and I think I was watching Top Gear when the couch got me.  I don't really remember.  Suddenly, I jerked awake, and amazingly enough Top Gear was still on.   Different shouty cars were being maxed out, but it was still Hammond, May, and Clarkson.  (Just how much TG DOES BBCA show on Mondays?  Wow.)  It was almost midnight.  Groggily, I forced myself off the couch, staggered around through my nightly routine of crating dogs, taking care of teeth and meds and pajamas and so on, and fell down again into the waiting arms of my own sweet bed.  I was unconscious almost before I got my iPhone into its dock.

Yeah.  So.  I guess sleep needs to be a priority and not an afterthough, huh?  When my body has had enough, it will just get me close to a flat surface and flip that off switch.

Sunday, March 18, 2012

Claddagh Again



"The Claddagh's distinctive design features two hands clasping a heart, and usually surmounted by a crown. The elements of this symbol are often said to correspond to the qualities of love (the heart), friendship (the hands), and loyalty (the crown).

The way that a Claddagh ring is worn on the hand is usually intended to convey the wearer's romantic availability, or lack thereof.

Traditionally, if the ring is on the right hand with the heart facing outward and away from the body, this indicates that the person wearing the ring is not in any serious relationship, and may in fact be single and looking for a relationship: "their heart is open."  

When worn on the right hand but with the heart facing inward toward the body, this indicates the person wearing the ring is in a relationship, or that "someone has captured their heart".   

A Claddagh worn on the left hand ring finger facing outward away from the body generally indicates that the wearer is engaged.

When the ring is on the left hand ring finger and facing inward toward the body, it generally means that the person wearing the ring is married." ~ from www.claddaghring.com
___________________________

One of the main things I wanted to be sure to get while I was in Ireland was a Claddagh ring to replace the one I had bought last time that had gotten damaged to the point of being unwearable.  Really, that was such a metaphor for so many things in my life since that last trip...

The article I posted here kind of makes the Claddagh sound like a dating ring, a "hey, I'm single" or a "no, I'm not" sign.  I didn't want it for that reason.  (Although, as you can see from the picture above, I do have mine on in the correct manner.  Yeah.  That is mine and my "dainty little hand.")

I wanted the Claddagh for the same reasons I wanted it before.  Symbolism is in almost every piece of jewelry I buy, and I don't think you could ask for much more symbolism in a piece than there is in this one.  It's also symbolism I believe in.  Love, loyalty, and friendship.  This is what I'm looking for, and until I can find it all in one package, my ring will very much stay crown-down on my right hand, thank you very much.

This ring is heavier and simpler than the one I bought before, more durable, less likely to be damaged and lost.  That's as it should be.  Life is rough, and I'm not careful with my hands.  Let all my symbols be strong ones.

I'm happy to be able to look back down at my fingers and see that silver heart and crown again.  It is something that probably doesn't mean anything to anybody else, but it means something to me.  I can carry memories of Ireland with it and hope for the future that I will someday be able to find the person who will fit the three parts of its meaning, too.  Not bad for a bit of metal molded into a circle.  Not bad at all.  Symbols have all the power we're willing to give them, for good or for ill.  This one, then, for me is powerfully rich and positive. Spero, indeed.

Idle Fancy

Standing on the grounds of Oxford, I felt two things simultaneously:  overwhelming admiration for and desire to be a part of this center for learning and incredible intimidation.  One of the students from another group made the comment to me as I was photographing details on one of the buildings that all the structures looked like castles.  I told him that they were.  They were castles dedicated to knowledge instead of warfare.

What would it be like to be a part of that rarefied air? Those heavy layers of tradition?  To have the right to walk those grounds like one who belongs instead of a tourist?  Could that ever be me?  Could I ever be a part of that culture of knowledge?

Both Trinity College and Oxford made me feel that way, that same yearning, but could I hack it at that level?  Those schools call to me in ways that no university on American soil seems to be able to do.  I have never been intrigued by Ivy League prestige.  Maybe it's the age of TC and Oxford.  Maybe it's those I know have been through them.  Maybe it's where they are, those locations that pull me like iron filings to their great magnetic hearts.  

I wish I could have the opportunity to prove myself in one or the other, to take something other than photographs, postcards, and t-shirt souvenirs away.  While I know this is just an idle fancy, something improbable and shiny to turn over in my mind from time to time, it is one I can't quite bring myself to let go of just yet.

Saturday, March 17, 2012

Rugby

So we're in this pub in Dublin for dinner, and the Six Nations Rugby Championship is on.  I'm vaguely familiar with the concept of it because it comes on BBC America every year, but I've really not paid that much attention to it.  Mostly, I've always associated rugby with two things: this t-shirt guys at State used to wear that said "Donate Blood.  Play Rugby" which amused me, and my absolutely drop-dead-gorgeous, sweet-as-pie neighbor from the Cotton District who helped coach football at MSU and played rugby for "fun."  He could also sort of lift large pieces of furniture with one hand...

I'm sorry.  I think I got distracted.  What was I saying?

Oh yeah.  Rugby.  Dublin.

We watched the game while we ate, but we didn't get to see it all. I realized pretty quickly that the game was more interesting than I had thought.  Today I watched the championship game between England and Ireland from the comfort of my own couch, and I confirmed that I really might be into this game for several reasons.

First and foremost, it always moves.  One of the dullest things about American Football is all the waiting and setting up of plays.  There are flashes of brilliant and glorious motion, but there is a tremendous amount of everybody just standing around, too.  Rugby is 80 minutes of almost continuous motion.  The ball touched the ground?  Big woo.  Bunch of big guys jump another guy?  Yay.  Keep going.  There are certain things that are bad sportsmanship that stop the game, but other than that, pick up the damn ball and keep playing.  What kind of sissy are you that you need to stop every five seconds?  Love it.  Love it.

Second, the kicking game is strategic.  Everybody is a kicker, and kicking is not just a way to score.  It's a defensive weapon, too.  It's a way to screw the other team.  To a certain degree, this is true in American football, too.  A good kicker can pin the other team far back in their own territory, and then your defensive line can annihilate them, but it's much more than that in rugby because kicking doesn't happen only as a beginning or last-ditch option.  It can happen at any time.  That makes it more important to be good at it, precise and accurate at where you send the ball when you do it.  Foot chess.  Heh.

Then there's the scrum.  I don't even know where to start with this.  The psychology of this and the brute force.  Let's just get everybody in a big wedge and run into each other.  Oh.  And let's throw a ball in the middle.  Yeah.  It reminds me a little of sumo, only with a LOT of guys.  There's that same sort of mental thing going on before they smash into each other and start shoving.  It's really cool.

I dig the referee (that may not be the right term for him; I'm still learning terms and rules and whatnot), too.  He's only one guy out there running around yelling at them and fussing at them like somebody's mom.  He was cracking me up.  I actually saw one screw up today and ADMIT IT.  You never see that in other sports.  They're always like gods, pissy and untouchable.  Control of the behavior (adherence to the rules) was of paramount concern, and what he spent most of his time talking to them about.  And when he fussed at them, they pulled their act together.  I kept thinking about the difference between American football players with their endless attitudes and that.  It was not a balance that came out very positively for football, if you want to know the truth.  I mean, I know there was probably all manner of nasty crap going on out there, and egos that had their own gravitational pull, but you just didn't get that impression as they played.  It was sort of nice.

Then there were the players themselves.  They were...lovely.  Yeah.  Built just a little heavier than soccer players but mostly lighter than American football players, and I would have to say possibly (God forgive me) smarter because of all the decisions going on and the tactical analysis needed to succeed in a constantly shifting game of that type.  Yeah.  I'd gladly have picked one of those up on my trip, but oddly, they didn't have them in the shops.  Go figure.

Well, it gives me something else to pursue, anyway.  (The sport.  Not the players.  They run too fast.)  I need to learn more about the rules.  I guess that's what God made Google for, though right?

Friday, March 16, 2012

Shakespeare Land

Tuesday, I got to go to Stratford-upon-Avon, or as I grew to think of it, Shakespeare Land.  Although I had been before on a flying trip through, this time I got to see several things I had long wanted to see.  It was a strange, but good trip.

Our wonderful EF tour director, Hadleigh, prepped us for arrival with a detailed lecture about Shakespeare's life.  It sort of kills me how casual the English are with their famous people, even their monarchs.  I love it.  Everybody is like a member of the family, deserving of a nickname and the loving scorn you'd give a cousin or brother who gets into trouble but is still loved.  I guess this is a Southern thing, too, because I totally understand that.  Anyway, he called Shakespeare "Shakey."  Love it.

Our first stop in "Shakey" Land, then, was at Anne Hathaway's Cottage, a place I had not been able to go last time.  It was lovely.  The gardens were just coming into bloom, and had we been there even two weeks later, I think they would have been stunning.  It is always so bizarre to be walking through those rooms and across those floors and realize that someone you read and study, someone so important like Shakespeare, was there, too.  It seems so improbable even though everybody had to live somewhere.  It just doesn't sink in, somehow, that it could actually be here, this place where you're standing at that present moment.

We went from the Cottage to lunch, and then from there on to the Birthplace.  I had been to the Birthplace before, they've done extensive renovations there, adding multimedia at the beginning, and more than ever before, it really did feel like "Shakey" Land.  It was grand, though.  They also had about a million guides inside who were very chatty.  I didn't remember that from last time.  It was nice, but it took a lot of time.

That meant that the last stop in the "park," Holy Trinity Church, was going to be a scramble in the time I had left.  But I was BY GOD GOING TO HOLY TRINITY.  I missed it on the last trip because of a kid and his meds, and this time, I was going to see the grave.  I teach that inscription every year, and to have to stand up in front of another class full of students and have to say, "Yeah....I've been there twice now, and no, I haven't seen it yet," was not going to wash with me.   One of the other teachers on the trip and I booked it across town.

It was amazing and powerfully moving.  Even though I've seen photos of it for years, I don't know.  Standing there in that space before the altar was incredible.  There is a huge bank of stained glass and five graves, one of which is Shakespeare's.  To finally see the resting place and the famous epitaph of the man who wrote all those words that make up so large a part of my life was a very personal thing to me.  It is hard to explain.  It was in many ways something like a holy moment.

Of course, I had one thing left to do....  I needed my own picture of the Black Fool that stands in the middle of town.  How could I, your very own Dancing Fool, not take a picture of that?  I was running so late that I did not have time to line up shots properly and from all the right angles.  I barely had time to point the camera and release the shutter.  I did get a couple of shots, though.  I guess that counts for something.  I really wanted to work that statue, though.  I guess that will have to wait for the next trip.

Yeah.

Right.


Sunday, March 11, 2012

Ireland

We’ve seen a bit of everything so far, the ancient and picturesque and the urban and modern. In all its forms, Ireland feels very familiar to me, much more so than can be accounted for by the simple fact of my having traveled here before.

I noticed this phenomenon before. There are pieces of it that just feel like home. The area we toured around Killarney, despite its great hills and mountains, felt like Mississippi. Maybe it was the rurality of it, the farm country of it, the out-of-the-way-ness of it. Maybe it was a slant of light through the trees. I can’t explain it, but I know I felt it.

Killarney was good. I got to see things I’d already done again, revisit them, refresh old memories. We did the jaunting cars again. That was lovely. I had forgotten how nice that was. It wasn’t good before. I don’t know why. This time around, though, I could just relax and enjoy it. In the evening, I got to have a glass of Guinness, too. I haven’t had alcohol of any shape, kind, or color in five years, and although I felt this and probably won’t have any more for a long time, just having that here in Ireland where it is so much better than anywhere else was wonderful. I bought a stupid postcard today of Mona Lisa holding a pint with a foam mustache to commemorate the occasion. It’s going in my journal when I get home. Heh.

Now we’re in Dublin. For all its size, this place always feels so small. It does not feel like almost one third the population of the entire nation lives here. It does not seem possible. And then there’s the age of most of them. It’s like a giant college town. We did a walking tour today, and we started it in front of the Bank of Ireland where the Occupy Dublin movement was. There wasn’t much to it, to be brutally honest. I guess it hasn’t taken off here like it has in NYC or other places, but I just looked around at all the teenagers making out, playing hacky sack, and standing around trying to look important and cool, and thought, “Yeah. I believe it now.” Our students were a little shell shocked, I think, to look around at all the blue hair and skin-tight clothes. It was sort of funny. I kept thinking, “Oh my children. You ain’t seen nothing yet.”

Sure enough, as we wandered, the Six Nations Rugby match that was on let out and the Scotland and Ireland fans filled the streets headed to the pubs (or from the pubs) in various states of despair or ecstasy. Then it got really good. We got greeted, high-fived, happily jostled, and one person learned what the Scots wear under their kilts. (A question you know you should just never ask.)

Tomorrow is the part I’m waiting not-so-patiently for, Trinity College. The Claddagh I bought today to replace the one I’d damaged and Trinity College are my two big Irish things. Oxford and Stratford are my two big ones in the UK. Past that, everybody else can do whatever they like. I don’t really care. As long as I can have mine, I’m good.

Thursday, March 08, 2012

Ireland Again

After a seven-hour layover in Newark, NJ, of all places, here I am again.  I'm still stuck in an airport.  We have a bit of a layover here, too, waiting on things to open and other tour groups to arrive.  Doesn't matter.  The bad part, the flights themselves, is over.  No more knees in seats.  No more people I don't know stuck way too close to me.  As much as I love to travel, I do hate to fly.

Well, of course, except for that one moment when the plane leaves the ground and suddenly you're not a part of the earthbound anymore.  That has always been and will always be magical to me.  I look for it in every flight, the time when Bernoulli's principal takes us and makes us free.  It always makes me smile.  I guess it's as close to bird-dom as I'll get.

I'm going to go find some breakfast now, take my missed pills.  I am looking forward to a wonderful day.  More bloggage to come.

Tuesday, March 06, 2012

(freaking) Packing

Is it wrong that I no longer even care what is in my suitcase?

Yeah, yeah, yeah.  I know.  I'll care lots and lots tomorrow....

Today was the longest day EVER.  I got up at the usual time (or ten minutes after the usual time, truth be told), and I haven't stopped running since.  I have produced two letters of recommendation, graded three whole sets of bonus projects, issued makeup work, refrained from destroying those who blithely danced a jig on my last good nerve, possibly imparted something useful to my classes, made a Wal-Mart and a bank run after-hours, activated international services on the bank and the cellphone so I don't get stranded with them as I have done on previous trips through my own forgetfulness that they DON'T just work when you take them to other places, did laundry after stripping off what I was wearing into the machine because it needed to go into the suitcase later tonight (sigh), and pulled out the suitcases to start the process of actually putting crap into them.

I just sat down a minute now because, basically, if I don't, I think I'm going to vaporize and blow away.  Even the dogs have stopped following me around.  They're just lying in the floor looking at me like, "Stop it.  Really.  Now.  You're making us tired."  This is from a Pit and a Pyrenees who run in circles until they drop.

Tomorrow, it will all be worth it.  Tomorrow, also, I will get to sleep for 12 hours on a plane in something like a seated position after I make human origami out of myself.  And I'm sure that whatever makes it into my suitcase, as long as my camera and at least one change of clothing are some of those things, will be sufficient unto the trip at hand.....

Monday, March 05, 2012

The Perfect Blue

I'm taking a quick break from what I'm supposed to be doing to eat a cup of lemon Greek yogurt.  I feel icky.  Maybe my blood sugar dropped.  I don't know.  It's happened twice today.  Maybe I just stayed up too late last night.  I was exceptionally reluctant to get up this morning, for sure, but that might not have had anything to do with anything other than the fact that it was a Monday.

I'm looking out the window and into a sky that makes my heart sigh.  It is that color that makes everything inside you feel as though it is being pulled irresistibly upward into the gorgeous curve of the heavens.  For a moment, all those childhood fantasies of flight we indulged in with blankets tied off around our necks don't seem so foolish after all.  It seems as if I could simply step outside, rise up on my toes, and wings would emerge at last, hidden all my life, but free now to take me back into the element in which I must naturally belong.

It is also the blue of his eyes.  Maybe this is because he has the wide open spaces I need inside him to stretch my wings.  Maybe it's because I can trust him not ever to try to make me stop flying.  I get that same feeling under the heart, that same lift-off when I look into them.  If he'll keep keep carrying the sky for me, even when there is rain, I can always soar, safe in that perfect blue.

Saturday, March 03, 2012

Athena Looks at the Body of Paris

EDITED -- 3/5/12 -- added a stanza -- it's a work in progress...what can I say?


So we’ve come to this at last.

I wish I could tell you that I feel
some surprise and not see you
as just another incarnation of loss
another turning of a wheel
that has spun too many times before.

See, I knew I’d be standing here
studying your shattered perfection
the day I knocked on your door
made you the offer I’ve given
to grateful heroes and wandering kings
to semi-divine legends and epic-fodder
and you hesitated.

If I’m honest
(and I like to be)
I knew you’d turn me down
even before I laid my hand
against that which separated us.

Like so many before you
something lush and blonde
that comes just to your shoulder
wears scanty silks instead of armor
gives no clever answers
cares more about her manicure
than great mysteries
and makes war only in your bedroom
was more important to you
than anything I could give.

Your graceless futile drama has unfurled
a tattered faded flag unraveling in tempest winds
and you have had all the pleasure one could expect
of your particular pursuit.

Everything that could have been is done now.
The last of you spills across the sands
a drink offering to the deity you enthroned
one who is not now moved
could not rescue
even if she were.

Stupid, wasted, poured-out princeling.
What made you believe
that ridiculous gilded apple
was ever the thing I was trying to save?
________________________________

By me, today.  This idea won't leave me alone.  I don't even rightly know where it comes from.  There is no story about Athena coming back to Paris after the whole Trojan War is over and done with.  For some reason, though, this particular conversation, or bits of it, have been kicking around in my head for days.  I am booting it here to make it leave me alone.  Comments would be very much welcomed, even the anonymous ones.  

Coffee and Roses

Thea Gilmore.  This song.  I posted the video so you could hear it.  I'm putting the lyrics, too, so you can read along. Her voice first caught my attention through her version of "I'll Remember You" on the Chimes of Freedom compilation.  It's gorgeous.  Today, when I had my iTunes on spin-it-all, another song of hers I didn't even know I had played, and I remembered my resolution to get more of her stuff.  I got Murphy's Heart, the album on which "Coffee and Roses" appears, and although I'm only about 2/3 of the way through it, it's a good thing.  Her writing is solid, and that voice.  That tremendous voice.....
_____________________

My baby loves coffee and roses
A rebel stand and a poet’s heart
A guilty moon and suburb soldiers
Those boys can't erase the mark
My baby breaks the chain of reason
Calls the card and rolls the dice
For everything a time and season
Turning tides and breaking ice
And I will be your last call honey
Yeah I will be your downfall baby
It’s strange the way the song goes honey
We’re dancing in the wrong clothes darling.

My baby sings of old tomorrows
Spider hands September eyes
And I'm the architect of sorrow
The girl in minor key disguise
My baby leads me to the water
Wraps the sun inside his coat
And while the days are getting shorter
My baby sets the light afloat
And I will be your shadow honey
The crooked way the wind blows baby
The singing of the steel honey
The loser in the deal darling.

Yeah I will be your lover honey
Come break me under cover baby
The razor on the mirror honey
The way the smoke will clear darling
My baby loves coffee and roses
Hold the flower brown and red
The lost companion autumn shows us
My baby will not turn his head
My baby will not turn his head
My baby will not turn his head.