Currently forced abed (or perhaps more accurately, achair) for the day by a mysterious stomach virus, I decided it was the perfect time to make an addition to my blog. There's a lovely pea-soup fog blanketing the campus at the moment, making it a perfectly miserable day to be outside, and yet a perfectly splendid day to be inside.
(vicious germs and viruses attacking my insides like Caesar's troops at Pharsala)
Thankfully, what little time it took to set up the website for the International Affairs Provost has already passed. I didn't have to do most of the work - I left the intensely technical stuff to Ross, the RTA - but what little I did do had a very down-to-the-wire, Jack-Bauer-on-24 feel to it. The goal was to get done and out before being overwhelmed by the legions of germs and other nasty microbes wreaking havoc with my insides. Having trudged out through the pea-soupiness of the morning, I planned on only a half-hour's-worth of work before slinking back pathetically to the comfort of my bed. Of course, my technical ineptitude stepped in to trap me in Kline's office for an extra half hour adjusting the picture files for his website. The battle won with minimal casualties, I slinked off the field of honour to enjoy the relative comfort of a plush chair and pyjamas.
I've decided that I'm having something of a tiff with technology in general lately. I discovered last night that Seb's computer, in particular, seems to have it out for me. You see, after hours'-worth of conversation on skype, the computer in all its maternal (and slightly Manchurian Candidate) instinct decided to repeatedly kick him off the wireless connection. This was the computer's not-so-subtle hint that I was flouting the curfew it was trying valiantly to impose upon him. I think that next time I may have to worry, though...technology gone awry isn't very kind to those who try to countermand its orders...
(creepy...really creepy. Nothing's wrong, HAL; nothing at all...)
I keep my fingers crossed that my lovely uni-issued Lenovo POS doesn't decide to turn on me before I can back up all my files on an external drive. I think the real solution here is just to save everything in a Pensive and send my messages by owl courier: Dumbledore had the right idea. Of course, barring a trip to Olivander's, the current system will have to do.
All finished. The International Flair event went off quite well. During multiple trips to buy decorations and food during this weekend, Michael and I commiserated about how busy we would be until late Sunday night and how wonderful it would be to get into the week and away from the weekend.
The university's budget plan for student groups needs to go under some serious revision. Making students pay out-of-pocket and then be reimbursed? If we had the money, we wouldn't be asking for it until after the fact, would we? Needless to say, this was the subject of much griping between Michael and myself. All I have to say is that I have about $300 worth of decorations that the university owes me for. Not to mention this weekend's record-breaking 23 hours of labour to put the room for the event together. Thankfully it all came together in the end. Approximately 250 attendees turned out for the inaugural fashion show - equipped with free food from local restaurants to bribe people into staying to the bitter end. Our DJ, Jonathan, was an absolute god-send. Many thanks are due him for stepping in at the last minute to help us out with this. I don't know how many times yesterday he heard me tell him the words, "I'm sorry this is so disorganized!" Even our models, dancers, and actors thanked me for my Nazi-like leadership over the weekend. I was the model of German efficiency: inflating and constructing two towers of helium balloons, designing a photo collage board for the food table, putting together the centrepieces I designed with Nneka, hanging flags all over the room, running dress rehearsals for all the performing groups, and being that person you always see on the Victoria's Secret fashion show who stands backstage with the clipboard and headphones to shove the models forward at the right time, whispering furiously, "go now! Go!" Of course, we were low-budget enough that I went sans headphones...and my clipboard was more a stack of construction paper and a scribbled on copy of my schedule for the evening. The scribbles I had so hastily fitted all over that schedule I printed out ran the gammit of details: the lighting for each part of the show, props needed for skits, the order and names of each organization's models, my mandated protocol for the changing room and general backstage area...I have new-found empathy and respect for event planners of all stripes. (Except, of course, those who can't get the job done.) It was funny to hear all the other students come up to me with smiles on their faces and say, "thank you so much for doing all of this!", "we couldn't have done this without you!", "I can't believe you're leaving; that's so sad!" It made me feel pretty good, really. It was nice to be thanked and congratulated after channeling Albert Speer and Dwight Eisenhower all weekend.
I have officially become the master of gratuitous mass emails. I feel like an e-mail stalker.
I've been sending messages and requests for information to people nonstop since yesterday in preparation for the International Flair fashion show I was put in charge of all those months ago. I've nagged people about submitting lists of the models who will be appearing on behalf of their organisation, scheduling trips to go shopping for decorations, checking to make sure that food has been ordered and posters have been hung. I think the woman in charge of renting us the room in the university centre has gotten tired of hearing from me and my several cohorts about whether or not we want 4 or 6 tables or ordering another platform piece for our runway or what sorts of decorations we're allowed to use in the space.
(of course, in this scenario I am Daniel Craig, and the others are all my loveable but slightly deficient henchmen. Don't I look gorgeous?)
I've racked up working hours like points in 3D Space Cadet Pinball. My fingers have flown over the keys on my laptop as if I were attempting to play some convaluted piece of work by Liszt. (That would be fun...) Constantly I check my email to make sure that the DJ has been contacted, a playlist has been compiled, videos have been completed, models have been coordinated, and that everyone will indeed show up for dress rehearsal on Saturday evening. If living in a cardboard box with the pitiful salary of a college professor doesn't pan out, at least I know now that I have the kahonies to plan events for the rich and famous. As long as I have a slew of minions to send on errands, I could tackle anything. Well...reliable minions, anyway.
My one disappointment in the midst of my manic messaging today was that the t-shirts I so lovingly and painstakingly designed have been scrapped. No good reason, either: they just took too long getting around to putting in the order. The money was there, and everyone was excited to have commemorative shirts - me most of all - and then by the time my contact had figured out how to place the order - the shirts would have come a week after the event. I don't think she tried hard enough. I scowl on the inside and wonder if she even bothered to consider forking out the extra cash to get the shirts delivered to us double-time (only 1 week rather than 2). I'm inclined to think not. I mourn the death of my lovely paintballed-globe design. (Tear)
It's a good day. NCAA basketball is picking up, we're watching a movie in history, the sun is shining, and there are puppies on the Mag Quad! After class, it will definitely be time to go see the puppies. Oh...1942 British newsreel time. (Back to paying attention in class.)
One of my many songs for when I'm absolutely and irrefutably knackered. And I am certainly that. The SFAC is fantastic - I practically live there and have done the past 3 years. Art department work study, theatre classes, a ballet class, and enough music credit hours to have minored had I chosen to. However, 4 hours of 3 different rehearsals is enough to take it out of anyone. Virtuously (though with regret at the other activities my virtue precluded) I scampered off to quintet rehearsal just before 6pm. I was so virtuous that in my precipitous push out the door to practise I managed to leave behind my music for the second of my three rehearsals. So from a productive quintet rehearsal it was straight on to wind ensemble. The agenda for the evening was a particuarly sinister-seeming trombone concerto...a modern trombone concerto. Bits of it are reminiscent of the good days of John Williams' score writing (Jurrasic Park, Star Wars, Indiana Jones, ET, Empire of the Sun, Superman, Harry Potter...) and those are fun. Actually, considering that we played it at about 2/3 tempo, it went over much easier than was expected after listening to a recording.
Onwards, then, to a cappella rehearsal. (Tangent: according to the spell checker, my spelling isn't nearly so atrocious as I thought...) Innuendo was fab tonight - as it was last night. We're currently working on perfecting our repertoire in order to cut a CD for the first time in ages! Certainly the first time since any of us seniors joined the group. Excited then, as we are, the room had enough energy that it felt like a good dose of ritalin was order at times. Who knew that discussions about which syllables to use in a chorus versus a verse could yield such exuberant silliness? Never mind; I should have known that after 3 years. (The musically-themed inside jokes from rehearsals nearly tally with the inside-jokes rife with sexual innuendos...in fact, some times they overlap...) Thus far our nearly perfected playlist runs as follows:
Apologize (Timbaland and OneRepublic)
Accidentally in Love (Counting Crows)
Wagon Wheel (Old Crow Medicine Show)
Push (Matchbox 20)
We All Need Saving (Jon McLaughlin)
Viva la Vida (Coldplay)
Lonesome Road (James Taylor)
Crash (Dave Matthews Band
It's quite the upper to come out of a successful rehearsal at the end of the evening...but not enough of an upper to keep my eyes open much longer. Any chance at further productivity is now shot, and I will reward my very long day with oatmeal raisin cookies and Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows. It's been far too long since I've read any of the Harry Potter books as I left all mine at home. I'd shake my fist in anger at the weight restrictions on the aeroplane which forced me to abandon about half of my personal library, but if even half the passengers packed the way I do the plane would never leave the ground.
You know: if this guy were dancing on the inside, perhaps it would be loads safer. As it is, I'd be terrified to be on the highway with him, and I know how I drive. (This is the point where I would smile at my mother and pretend not to have incriminated myself.)
(cockpit for competent and careful carriageway cruising, or Eastern European-disco-fueled dance floor? You decide.)
Anyway: I owe this one all to Seb. I got the link from him through the Google feed reader, and found it amusing enough to share further. Sort of like (but more innocuous than) bad chain mail that you get from that friend/relative who seems oblivious to the buttons in their email client other than "read" and "forward." The "forward" button, of course, must be used gratuitously to send well-intentioned spam to everyone they know. And I do mean everyone. Their co-workers, siblings in other states, friends from church, children who are married or off at college...the list goes on. That last entry, though, seems to heavily implicate those mothers everyone affectionately terms "empty nesters" as the main culprits of this inane form of internet entertainment: they are not the only malefactors! Just think of it in other, equally insideous forms:
I once worked at a museum for a semester, and I really liked my boss there: he's a great guy. However, he discovered Facebook some time last year and since then I have not been safe from invitations to join his "mafia wars", "knighthood", "lil gren patch", "plastic horses" obsessions. Internet Truth #99: Facebook applications = insanely aggrivating.
Even more well-intentioned are the friends who constantly invite you (and everyone else they "know" on Facebook) to join their latest Facebook "Cause". Ranging from support for Congressional bills to TV boycotts to saving kittens in Biafra, this is the most insideous of all spam because it is in fact, so well-intentioned. Bringing political awareness into all the fori of 21st century technology and all that. Be that as it may, I don't think those kittens in Biafra are gaining much by my support of their cause via joining a Facebook group.
Of course, ever-present are the classic chain-mail/viral notes. You know...those things that get titles like, "25 Random Facts about me! Send to all your friends!", "Survey! Only Real Friends Send This Back" or "A Quiz for All Muh Girlz". For the truly hypocritical you can resort to a title such as "I can't believe I caved..." or "Fine, so I jumped on the bandwagon..." as an informative opener to your latest indulgence in the world of mindless pointless surveys. Do 15-30 of your "closest friends" care that you were wearing green pyjama trousers as you wrote this? Or that the first thing you ate today was (shamefully) a Dunkin Donut with a can of Dr. Pepper? Not a chance. They probably don't even care that your middle name could be anything from Lynn to Lunsford. Let us face the fact of what these email/facebook note surveys really are: a forum for everyone to be shamelessly self-obsessed and then encourage their friends to do the same. Be serious: how much time do we really spend perusing our friends' answers to such questions as, "# of siblings?", "what shoes do you have on now?", or "how many people will send this back?"
Perhaps I'm being too harshly critical, you may say. In truth these mindless diversions do have a place (much like my recently celebrated diversion of dolphin olympics...); however, they should be confined to a more modest sampling of one's e-acquaintences. Think about it: your freshman roommate to whom you haven't spoken in at least 3 terms doesn't care that your first pet was a turtle named Sparky. Really.
(sorry Sparky, but the truth hurts.)
To conlcude, I must say that there are many other mindless diversions afforded by the internet. (Or interweb, if you will) Some are much less vocally narcissistic, and others are just absolute unmitigated time-wasters (which, unlike facebook applications, don't require you to send an invite to 15 uninterested friends to continue in your pursuit of procrastination!) Enjoy.
YouTube Videos. Some are quite priceless. Others, inexplicably compelling.
Text Twist on Yahoo. I found this particularly diverting for a whole term of Intro Philosophy. (urgh)
Sporcle. Trivia-lovers beware. This feels less guilty than some other diversions since it requires you to use knowledge you may or may not have acquired in school. This will suck hours out of your life.
Addicting Games. Something for just about everyone if you need a mindless break from projects, textbooks, research, or paper-writing.
So the blissful laziness that has been spring break thus far is continuing on both blissful and lazy to the appropriate degree. The only downside has been that today the lovely weather of days past has faded into foggy greyness and a general chill. Don't get me wrong: it isn't snowing like it was a week and a half ago, so I'm not complaining...much; I just want the 80-degree weather back. The sort that entices you outside only to lure you to sleep in the sunshine-bathed grass. And of course, the warm sunshiny day will always triumph in this contest between its relaxing charms and your will to remain conscious: defeat is inevitable, resistance is futile...the whole nine yards. It doesn't matter if you come out armed with lunch, Aeschylus, and an iPod: all will turn on you in an instant like Brutus against Caesar. Well, perhaps slightly less violently, but certainly the general idea is there. Of course, with very little else to spend the day doing, it's not exactly the most costly of defeats.
But no, today is much chillier. The jog to the gym was nice thanks to the cooler weather, though I could do without my hands freezing after a measly quarter-mile. The only thing that would make it more perfect running weather (to my mind at least) would be to heat up about 7 degrees and then rain. There's something strangely entertaining about running in the rain: it makes the whole process less arduous-seeming. But yes: freezing hands are something that must be contended with when running in cooler climes. Earlier in the term I would combat with this annoying phenomenon by wearing the woollen Peruvian mitten-gloves that Krystle got me while she was abroad in the summer. They're what my sister would affectionately (yet still derisively) call "hobo gloves". There's a mitten flap attached to the back of the glove that fits over the exposed bits of your fingers, but each finger is only gloved up to the half-way point, allowing for the perfect balance of hand-warmth and manual dexterity. Brilliant.
Of course, it doesn't matter if I'm outside or inside, so long as the temperature hovers anywhere below 70 degrees Farenheit, my hands - and feet - will turn into little olive-toned blocks of ice, complete with fingers or toes. It bothers my mother to no end: if I try to curl up on the couch and my feet happen to touch her I am greeted with a short facetious reprimand of "Girl! Get your cold feet away from me!" for my trouble. The only person who appreciates my frigid appendages is Gunnar (also affectionately known as Dad). For some reason - I here blame his Danish/Dutch heritage - this man loves the cold. It's unnatural. Don't get me wrong, I'd rather freeze than boil myself given the choice, but Dad keeps the house like an ice box! I recall over Christmas break we'd had yet another blizzard-like day in Provo. Being the virtuous and strange child I am, I ran outside around 11 that morning to shovel the drive. I say strange because I deny anyone else the opportunity to engage in this wonderfully mindless chore: shovelling the snow is my privledge and my domain upon which no others may encroach. So the frozen precipitation lowering the temperature significantly, you would expect the inside of our house to be warm, wouldn't you? Oh no, you have been cruelly decieved: after sitting in the basement family room swaddled in blankets in sweats and a heavy jumper, my mother came home around 6 in the evening incredulously asking us why we had been sitting in the house with the thermostat reading 55*? A mere 23 degrees warmer than it was outside. I felt rudely cheated for having sat around all day freezing and thinking that I was just abnormally cold when in fact, the fault lay entirely with the heating system. Perhaps this is what it was like to be an extra in Doctor Zhivago.
Gunnar then, loving the cold as he does, thinks it's fantastic when I come up and put my subzero hands on his face or neck. Everyone else just gets annoyed and yelps and swats my hands away while I cackle a bit maliciously. Of course, there is the misconception that I should find this uncomfortable: in fact, I don't even notice it. My hands could be a full 20* colder than the rest of my body and I can't tell unless I touch my face. The same goes for my feet. I think Sebastian found that entire state of affairs to be quite strange, and seemed constantly confounded. Example:
[we are watching Blackadder and sitting on the couch. He takes my hand.] Sebastian: (quite surprised) Why are your hands so cold? Me: Dunno. (I shrug my shoulders. This doesn't phase me anymore) Sebastian: Aren't you cold? Do you want my hoodie or something? Me: Nope. I'm fine. (Insert cheery smile) Sebastian: Are you sure? Me: Yup. They [my hands] are always like that.
Having just checked again after recalling that generic exchange: yup, my hands are once again crisp and cool. I have no good explanation for this absolutely rubbish circulation of blood to my extremities, though all things considered I'm not too fussed about it. I won't worry until they start turning colours.
I have to say that I have an affinity for that song since it reminds me of last spring: something that always makes me smile. Certainly it was the best spring term I've ever had...not least because of the travelling. Edinburgh, Copenhagen, Rome, Venice. It was absolutely fantastic. Of course, my week alone in Venice yielded mind-numbing boredom at times. There are only so many walks that one can make between the Piazza San Marco and Piazzale Roma, useful though it was to learn how long it would take me to walk from my hostel to the bus station so I didn't miss my flight (as I had done trying to leave London via Stansted). I had also stopped counting at that point how many times people had mistaken me for being a native over my two weeks in Italy. Of course, my meagre stock of Italian is confined to terms such as accelerando, fortissimo, and andante, so shrugging my shoulders and shaking my head with a pitying yet clearly confused expression was my most elloquent means of communication. I dared not venture bravely into the realm of any real Italian lest I wind up foundering in the fathoms of fluency.
A prime example: d'ove la Chiessa della Santa Vittoria? I know what I'm asking here - unfortunately, I'm not just asking to go and be a tourist in a church...I'm asking to look up a Bernini statue, my knowledge of which must be credited entirely to Mr. Dan Brown. (Shame) Of course, knowing the question is only half the battle. No: to make this conversation your Austerlitz, you must fully comprehend the answer your friendly local provides, nodding with understanding and gratitude every time they tell you to turn just past the church of an obscure saint onto a street named for (to you, the helpless foriegner) an equally-obscure national hero. (I here witness the number of times I had to find sites in Rome by navigating through Via Vittoria Emmanuela.) Needless to say, my navigation was never to be supplimented by pitiful queries of the local authorities or other seasoned tourists. Much like the quintessential American father from every summer-release-date family comedy, I refused pointedly to ask for directions of anyone: I relied wholy upon the city map of Rome provided by the hostel in which we were staying. That the map was entirely in Italian didn't matter...I could fake my way through reading it well enough to identify the easy things (which also happened to be the essentials): Trajan's Forum, the Colosseum, Caracalla's Baths, and the Via Appia Antica which led us to the catacombs outside the city.
I now realise that I have run off on a tangent again (Hugo, eat your heart out). In recounting the spring break of last year, I have to say that it is once again spring break. My last one as an undergraduate. Relaxing though it is to stay on campus with my sister and do nothing but laze about in the sunshine and read and go to the gym, nothing can compare to a week in Rome. Or even a week avoiding pigeons in Saint Mark's Sqaure. (uurrghh) The weather, though, has been wonderfully oblidging the whole time. Even though I was used to the backs and forths of spring on the East Coast for the vast majority of my life, I must admit that I'm still mildly weirded out by the fact that this time last week I had just enjoyed a late night engaging in vicious snowball skirmishes. Now, the windows are wide open, the sun is shining, and I'm preparing once again to head outside in shorts and a breezy top to read some Aeschylus in the warm afternoon. I have, of course, committed to spend some time writing my history paper on Napoleon in Egypt at some point this week. Considering my other committments once I'm back, I really ought to make good on that, though there is also virtue in catching up on my reading for Classics.
On that note, I really ought to start being productive at all today and get back to Aeschylus. Or perhaps Sivan or Englund...(this trailing off ought to be capped with a long-suffering sigh and slump of the shoulders, as if the prospect were particularly arduous)
In preparing for my Sunday School lesson, I have gone back to my card-making binge. It's like a recreational drug: something I do when I don't really want to get any of my actual work done because it's mildly overwhelming and slightly boring all at the same time. It's something that I can pass the time with and enjoy...but it's a little habit-forming. I've even pulled my roommate into the arts and crafts abyss (thankfully here I don't mean that dreadful song, with the nearly-as-dreadful music video) with my fancy cardstock and paper-cutter and silver metallic Sharpie marker. The thing is, it started with Sebastian's Valentine's card, and - back to my recreational drugs metaphor - has since spiraled into harder, more intense crafty things. The cardstock, paper-cutter, fancy lime green envelopes, photo stickies, and sharpie are all recent investments. In fact, there may be another experimental plunge into paper-making at some point. (Gasp!)
I now digress into a link to what I hope will be a clip from Reefer Madness. Something about it seemed highly apropos here. Hilariously enough, the narrator sounds like he could have jumped into Sid James' place from this Look at Life clip. Love it.
But yes: arts and crafts-like activities are highly entertaining. The fact that I've made this little book markers for my Sunday School class' lesson this week on personal revelation just proves that I belong back in Primary. I taught the CTR 5 class and loved every minute of it. I made them little cotton ball/paper clip sheep for one lesson on Ammon at the waters of Sebus protecting King Lamoni's flocks. They loved that one. There was a week before that when I made them little candy-filled paper bags that they decorated with me in class. It was the scripture about, "though your sins be as scarlet, I shall make them white as snow." Of course, scarlet and snow were both blank spaces and we glued red fabric flower petals and cotton balls into the space...and then tried very hard not to eat the candy until after closing exercises were done. I think I was the only Sunday School teacher in the history of my home ward to come for my lesson each week armed with my guitar. It was fantastic. I suppose something has to take the place of the fact that I haven't gone out to buy muffin-making ingredients lately. Pumpkin muffins, in particular are the weakness. Of course, if decent blueberries or cranberries weren't so deuced expensive, I'd go in for some of those as well. I may need to make a last-minute run before everyone leaves for Spring Break and just sacrifice for my berried muffin craving. And a strong desire to bake.
College has domesticated me...I now find myself trolling the kitchenwares aisles in Target or getting excited to pass something like Pottery Barn Furniture or Williams-Sonoma. I've always had a fondness for window shopping (and actually shopping) in IKEA, but this has grown in the years since I've been away from home for such long stretches. I can only imagine what it'll be like when I have a flat come autumn (or summer...fingers crossed for the NMM internship!): resurrecting my rusty-yet-servicable sewing skills to make curtains (definition: I can sew a straight line and piece together a pattern, but I can't cut it out and I'm horribly impatient working with satin), or buying a cast-iron skillet to make cornbread. The real goal to test my domestic wings is that I want to orchestrate a full-fledged expat Thanksgiving Dinner. Make the turkey, bake the pies, make the cranberry sauce, gravy, stuffing, etc. It's a mission. A mission of the same calibre as trying to drive across the whole of Botswana for an hour-long TV show, or race a bike, boat, car, and public transport across rush-hour London.
...and now I have been sucked in by the lure of watching Top Gear on YouTube. Curses, interweb: you win this time.
So this post's song is thanks to one of those random Utah Mormon bands. Something you never hear of (and generally for a reason) unless you live near the Wasatch Front or attend one of the BYUs, that is. This peppy little number is a marginally educational tune that would be right at home in a hoe-down. Nonetheless, it's become quite the viral song for me lately. I have a habit of doing this with some pretty mediocre songs (see: "Leavin" by Jesse McCartney as another shameful example), but for some reason, this one is a great pick-me-up during a running session. Not to mention that I can now remember the order of all the presidents for the first time since junior year of high school. Though, of course, I play it in my mind to a tune that wouldn't be out of place in Gint or O Brother Where Art Thou?
The only saving grace this song has going for it is the peppy beat and clever - though elementary - educational value. My largest personal grievance with it comes in the form of poor punctuation, You see, madeningly, the song appears on iTunes as "President's". (Scowling Face) What is the President going to do? (President's going for a run; he'll be back in an hour.) What does he own? (President's cat died the other day: First Lady ran it over.) Which singular president are we discussing here? For the last time: a word is never pluralised with an apostrophe! Grrr! (As you can see, OD and I do not care: poor grammar and punctuation are disgusting.)
I have also made a discovery: snowballs are quite violent. Particularly when wielded by brawny baseball players. The sundry snowball fights of Sunday evening apparently took their toll. Since I tend to exercise by the philosophy, "go hard or go home" I assumed that the pain along my ribs on the right back side was just a pulled muscle. Not difficult to assume, really: lots of upper body weights lately. Oh no. Turns out that it's a massive bruise...from a snowball. Wielded by one of the aforementioned brawny baseball players. There's a matching blue-greeny splotch just over my left hip. Also from a snowball. Nice to know, though, that I didn't just weirdly pull a muscle in my back somehow.
And of course, exercise brings along another tangent (which, I promise will yield yet another tangent). The second one first: tangents are a literary art form. Don't believe me? Read Dumas; read Hugo. The art form of the pages-long, or even at times full-chapter-length tangent was brought to its height by 19th century French novelists. Though to be fair others like Emily Bronte did a servicable job as well. Only Dumas could go on for pages at length about the history of so obscure a character like Jacques Seguiers. The Chancellor of the Royal Seals appears in only one chapter of The Three Musketeers, and his entire backstory is given to justify one sentence that Dumas wished to use: "no doubt at that moment Seguier looked for the famous bellrope that was to save him from temptation, but not finding it, he stretched out his hand to the place that the Queen admitted the letter lay." (I also take this moment to point out that I quoted the previous sentence with no help from the book...which I've read now about 25 times since high school.)
Here he is: master of the superfluous tangent. Love it.
The exercise-related tangent was this: I have discovered anew the power of Disney songs in raising one's energy and levels of motivation. The fun-factor of climbing miles-worth of stairs is greatly increased when one can drum along to the beat of such wonderful childhood classics as "Under the Sea", "Kiss the Girl", "Friend Like Me", and "Prince Ali". It's good to switch it up.
There's something about snow that just creates a larger sense of camaraderie than one normally sees. The weather's been pretty schizophrenic lately - warm one day, freezing the next - but yesterday evening was, quite literally, the icing on the cake as it were. After an absolutely miserable day full of nothing but frigid rain and nasty howling wind the day managed to cool off just enough to create about 6-inches-worth of heavy snow. The snow was a quaint novelty all through the evening. At least it was until about 11pm when Nadine came bounding down the hall and then proceeded to bang on my door as if she were taking point on a dangerous police raid. Four very loud and enthused seconds later she was bouncing up and down in front of my door like some weird hybrid of a rubber ball and a hyperactive child screaming, "school's been canceled! School's been canceled! Come and play in the snow!" About half an hour later I was outside with my roommate and several other people from the hall building a giant snow monster and running around like little kids.
It was a fantastic throw back to being 6 years old. Everyone was building snowmen and sliding down the various hills on campus on makeshift sleds made of everything from trashbags to laundry baskets. We had races rolling down the hill until we couldn't see straight. I rolled down the hill racing my roommate and felt like I got to spinning down that sope at about 20 mph. It was brilliant.
In making our way down to the Quad in order to see the snow there, our group managed to get embroiled in several vicious snowball fights. It didn't matter if we knew the people who were bombarding us or not; everyone was having such a good time. Our first skirmish involved a group of football players and their friends. In the end we realised that we knew a few of them, but initially it didn't even matter. Several stupidly heroic charges were somewhat reminiscent of "Charge of the Light Brigade"...none of the other girls could keep a straightly aimed, high-velocity trajectory over more than 8 feet.
The best fights were on the Quad itself. Several suicidal charges were led against a group of baseball players. I stayed behind with the guys and provided long-range cover as the girls went in. My aim and range improved significantly over the course of our time outside. I even managed to score a few good hits on the athletes: one face-shot in particular was highly satisfying to watch from about 30 feet away.
The best bit of it all was that no one cared who they were starting a snowball fight with. There must have been five simultaneous fights going on and everyone was having a fantastic time tiring themselves out and slowly freezing appendages. (I conceded defeat by the cold when I had to work to make a fist.) People with whom you would probably never talk or hang out on a normal basis were suddenly fair game to become targets for frozen projectiles or to be tackled full-speed into the slushy snow that had been churned up by everyone's boots and shoes. Two hours later, just after 1 in the morning, it was definitely time to admire our winter wonderland from afar. It took a while to warm up enough so that the most moderate of showers didn't feel scalding hot on my nearly frostbitten flesh.
The whole of the weekend has been quite nice. Had a lovely time at my friend Brittni's 21st birthday. She went with a goth/emo theme which was just oodles of fun to dress up for. Really, I''ll take any excuse to break out some black fingernail polish again. Of course the Eva Green a la Casino Royale eye makeup and the black lipstick were just an amusing departure from reality altogether. Not to mention that this snow day afford an extra week to practise the Telemon canonic sonatas and Nel Cor Piu for my flute teacher. Mostly, though I think today will be spent finishing my Aphrodite paper for Greek Myth. The great tragedy is that the gym is probably closed. I could definitely do with spending an hour trying to distract myself from the reality that I'm climbing 3-miles-worth of stairs by focusing as much brain power as possible on a fashion magazine. We have to keep low standards here, anything with real substance will require too much brain power and defeat the purpose of helping me to ignore the exertion to which I am subjecting my body. For now though, it'll take some Ben Folds and perhaps the Dark Knight soundtrack to distract me from the fact that I'm spending an hour deciphering and passing judgment on Hesiod and Homer's portrayals of the goddess of love.
I wanted to go with "London Calling" by the Clash originally, but it seemed too cliched. I like the song well enough, but it's just far too overused, you know? When everyone thinks they're Johnny Hard-Rock and they're just starting to get into all the good old rock music, liking the Clash is a status symbol. Of course after that, when you've delved into things beyond the Sex Pistols and the Ramones more in the realm of Wreckless Eric (1 single highly recommended) or the less-than-popular tracks by Johnny Cash (the early days), Elvis, Bob Dylan, or even (go for the gold here) Beatles songs featured on albums before The White Album...that's when it's the mark of a middle-school music taste to only know the words to "London Calling" or "The KKK Took My Baby Away." Deeper cuts into the realms of good music must be made.
Of course, for those looking to spice up their music collection's vitality the boundaries of genre and age must be strictly ignored. Sort of like, though in a much less corny fashion, the end of Michael Jackson's "Black or White" music video where Cindy Crawford turns into Michael Jordan turns into some petite Asian girl. I definitely remember Cindy Crawford...not so much MJ. (Sadly, I have revealed my age by the simple fact that I remember when that music video still got TV air time. Wow...where have the 80s gone?)
As a public service (and because I am now rambling and will feed my own vanity about my music tastes) I've compiled a list of several songs that either fall into the category of "must" or simply "think of it like a new type of curry and give it a try."
Via Con Me - Paolo Conti (Highly enjoyable for those who don't require their songs to be in English)
I'd Love to Make Love to You - Nat King Cole (Classic. Nice to get into things his daughter didn't remix as well)
Lily, Rosemary, and the Jack of Hearts - Bob Dylan (Long. Not Achilles' Last Stand long, but close. My current favourite of his, actually, and not one that you hear ALL THE TIME)
Growing Up Falling Down - Paul McCartney (greatest of his new stuff circa Chaos and Creation)
The Other Side - Pendulum (A tribute here to Seb; drum and bass is fantastic for a burst of speed whilst on the treadmill)
Steam - Peter Gabriel (more good gym music, actually)
Walk Like an Egyptian - the Puppini Sisters (Because one must respect 3 women who can turn a vapid Blondie hit into a '40s swing-style cover.)
Rhythm of My Heart - Rod Stewart (This track has pure nostalgia value. On no musical merit of its own, it has won a place in my iTunes library. Perhaps this is because, like many an 80s song, it will inspire off-key warbles and shouts of the chorus at the top of ones lungs)
Hold On, I'm Coming - Sam and Dave (See Blues Brothers. Listen to Sam and Dave. Life is beautiful with good music...and sunglasses, a full tank of gas, and half a pack of cigarettes)
Moi Je Joue - Bridgette Bardot (Ignoring the incredibly sexually explicit moans at the end of the track, it's otherwise quite enjoyable for all that I speak no French whatsoever. Catchy tune.)
More - Bobby Darin (Old jazz and big band is a requisite part of any collection)
Rain - The Beatles (I believe this needs no explanation. A lovely single that deserves more attention)
Get Rhythm - Johnny Cash (Coming from someone who has an almost nonexistant tolerance for the current state of country music, I do love early Johnny Cash. See Walk the Line)
Wake Up Call -Maroon 5 (Really, anything by this band. Actually The Sun from their first album is just as highly recommended.)
Time of Your Song - Matisyahu (A Hassidic rapper from New York only mildly reminiscent of Bob Marley in his accent. Absolutely wonderful.)
Me and Mrs. Jones - Michael Buble (Don't hate. He does the song all the justice it deserves)
My Rights Versus Yours - The New Pornographers (Don't let the band name throw you. It's one of my few consessions to the slightly yuppy, though still anti-Starbucks, culture)
Motel in Memphis - Old Crow Medicine Show (from the lovely kids who brought you Wagon Wheel, this is for anyone who enjoys meaningful lyrics. I also suggest Ohio by Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young)
Von Hier an Blind - Wir sind Helden (German music is wunderbar, so I must promote it. A bit punk/pop, though not in an obnoxious way, I can't think of much to compare it to auf English.)
So that list became much longer than intended, though I have to say that I've definitely left quite a bit off. It shall have to be updated at some point. Just not now. That actually wasn't even the point of my writing at the moment! It just turned into a massively long tangent with a mind of its own. A bit like a rogue sheep straying from the flock, it wandered with a mind of its own over metaphorical hills and dales until twenty songs later I discovered that I had let my tangent run away with itself like the atomic fizzion at Chernobyl. (Okay. Bad example.)
The point was actually that while going through many an old .doc file on my computer, I stumbled across some of my writing - including a bit I did walking around London one day that was then converted to electronic format at a later date to "save for posterity" and all that. I suppose I'll actually stick those in now, since I do still like the style I wrote them in.
The Tube to Charing Cross
Rocking back and forth, swaying side to side, the underground train pulled out of the station. The man opposite dozed gently, his head rocking side to side on his shoulders, hands folded – looking penitent except for his closed eyes. His brow furrowed as if in concentration as the thick lines of his eyebrows came down from the dark line of his knit cap. Deep breaths roll the shoulders; rustle the paper as the train waits to depart.
Names, faces, and adverts begin to flash by the windows like an old movie reel picking up speed. Suddenly, you can’t read the names anymore. CamdenTown, Mornington Crescent, Goodge, Tottenham, Leicester-Cross, Emb… The train stops at Kennington. That much I know.
The rattle, hum, rattle of the tracks and the rumble of the train in the tube drown out all but the most obstinate notes of my music. The earphones are almost just for show.
We stop again. Matisse is behind the sleeping man… “The Dancers.” An apropos juxtaposition. Now we’re hemmed in on all sides as the car fills with people. A man with a pointed nose searching through his pockets, bunching up his black, belted, leather jacket. The woman rubbing her thumb and index finger together as if her skin were too tight, or too dry. The woman in black flats next to her beats her foot in a nervous tattoo against the floor. Four jerky stops now as the driver slides and slams us to a halt each time. The man opposite has woken up to remove his cap. He’s bald.
Horse Guards
Sitting in the gravel is awkward. It feels like a windy day at some east coast beach, but really I’m in the city’s centre. Ella Fitzgerald’s singing in my headphones and the breeze blows my hair into my face. A man just walked by in a suit…maybe he thought I was crazy.
The gravel yard here is almost as impressive as the building it sits in front of. I drink in Sharpe and Aubrey and Hornblower…the Admiralty isn’t too far.
I’ve just sketched my shadow and taken off my sunglasses. There’s something to seeing the city unfiltered. It’s shinier, bigger, closer, more live. As if I’m here in a more germane sense if I don’t take the sights in through a tinted plastic filter. But as the sun is just behind and to my right, I ought to put them back so I don’t go blind in one eye.
I love all the Georgian architecture. The red brick, brown brick, grey granite, and stone. The gold clock face above the central arch – columns, pilasters, Corinthian capitals, balconies, balustrades, bas-relief seals and scrolls; garlands and white gossamer curtains. The shadows are long and cool cast onto the wall behind the hedge. It’s the shadow, not the six-foot hedge, which makes that corner appear so private. Though the cannon sitting before the gate pointed at the yard and the street beyond does help…
St. James’s Park
There’s nothing so tranquil in the same way as the Park. All sorts of birds are here, not just the city’s dirty pigeons. Steam rises from the cups of the old people beside me on the bench. The shadows have grown long now and so the dying sun shines clearly through the steam.
Fountains bubble up here – just as energetic as the Square, but not in such a defiant way. Birds sail along the water calmly. It’s not a mirror of a lake; it always ripples.
Even Bob Dylan and Led Zepplin are peaceful to a new degree here. The later afternoon is the perfect time for the Park. The grass, trees, flowers, and reeds nestle the ground; not in defiance of the granite and concrete, but as a compliment to it. I feel like I should be able to go home now and curl up in a cabin by a fire. Maybe play the acoustic and dream of a beach house. One with a glass wall to look out on the sea and cast these same long shadows on hardwood floors.
(vicious germs and viruses attacking my insides like Caesar's troops at Pharsala)
(creepy...really creepy. Nothing's wrong, HAL; nothing at all...)
