Back in Toronto

Today I showed up late for my drawing class because when I got off the train at Queen station I saw these two men playing music. They played beautifully so I gave them some change and stood and listened to a whole song (quite a long, complicated, and varied waltz). I wished there was someone I could dance with just then. I emptied the rest of my change in their money box.

I'm trying to give myself reasons to like living in Toronto again. Moving back is not quite the same as moving to a new place. Expectations of familiarities have not been fulfilled in the way I had expected - though whether that is good or bad is really a matter of perspective.

Luckily it's not hard to find reasons to like Toronto. I picked up some canvas trainers at Kensington Market for a tenner. I see good musicians busking in the subway, like these two gentlemen. I eat marvellously good Chinese food at very reasonable prices...

I try not to think too much about what I have left behind.

No one ever said starting a new life was to be easy!

For the Record

Right now I am not happy where I am, and I think a lot about how things were...

Once Richard baked an absolutely perfect loaf of bread at Walton street. It looked exactly like the picture in the recipe book - and it was his first loaf of bread ever too.

Another time we followed the instructions on the Smitten Kitchen blog and made Blueberry Boy-Bait. But due to an absence of blueberries we used frozen raspberries from the Co-Op instead. It turned out (once more) exactly like the pictures on Smitten Kitchen. Nothing pleases me more than when baked goods turn out as pretty as photographs from the recipe book. Then it transpired that I don't like sponge cake, at all, and so I didn't eat any boy-bait. But Yukie, Robbo and Rich loved it.

Some bait was left out on the counter and Bob saw it in the morning when he came into the kitchen while brushing his teeth. He wanted to eat the bait but half of his mouth was full of frothy toothpaste. So he ate the bait with the other half of his mouth whilst brushing.

Those were happy times. I can't wait to be that happy again.

p.s. Robbo drew a picture of his favourite pudding on the miniature blackboard in the hopes that it would be a pretty enough pictures to entice me to make his favourite pudding. It didn't really work. Robbo Pudding (I think it was spotted dick?) looked a bit like Mount Fuji, but mouldy.

Sinead's Hand

Instant Reactions

I saw some decorative fonts on a site and immediately thought 'textura semi-quadrata.'
Almost brought tears to my eyes (not really).

In Edinburgh? Good, in that case I recommend...

The Interminable Suicide of Gregory Church
by Daniel Kitson.

'Gregory had fifty seven letters to write. He'd never written that many letters, not in one go. In fact, he'd never written a single letter and it was taking significantly longer than he'd anticipated. He'd started, full of optimism, curiously enough, at 9 am and now here he was 8 hours later half way through letter twenty four. He glanced at his watch and then at the noose hanging over his head.

Gregory sighed.

Had he known how long suicide letters take, he thought, he wouldn't have cancelled the milk for the morning.

A story of death postponed by life.'

... I've always liked stories, particularly a certain type of story. Stories like those from my childhood copy of The Complete Fairy Tales of the Brothers Grimm, or One Thousand and One Nights and the Chinese folk-tales in my 12 volume hardback edition of Chinese folk-tales for children. At some point though these stories gave way to novels (one of the earliest novels I read and loved was Jean-Christophe by Romain Rolland, can you believe it?), but I really never stopped liking stories of the other variety. It's difficult to define just what's so different between a novel and what I consider to be a 'story' and really, the boundaries are ill-defined, but I know a 'story' when I see one.

Daniel Kitson is undoubtedly a fine story-teller and I was mildly surprised when I saw him for the first time recently in Regents Park, performing the first in a series of three Stories for the Starlit Sky. I had been told that he's a stand-up comedian and I expected something of a cross between male-confession, airing of dirty laundry, whacky sound effects that some humans seem to be able to accomplish with the aid of a microphone, maybe political commentary (if I'm lucky) and maybe self-pity or out-right whinging (if I'm unlucky). Instead I was treated to a story about love. Yes, that's right, a love story.

Does that sound horribly naive and/or passe to you? But since when did love go out of fashion? (around the same time that SEX came into fashion? surely not).

The story I heard that night in Regents Park was a story of bittersweet unrequited love - that and many secret passions and acts of love - of the grand variety (Taj Mahal) and of the lesser, more mundane variety (watching a lover as he/she sleeps). Whatever the kind of love or acts of love, however, it was Kitson's ability to bring out the extraordinariness of ordinary lives through his particular brand of enthusiasm, extremely rapid speech, and the combination of resignation, amusement, and exasperation in his narration that made this story stay with me for a long time. Oh, and the fact that it was simply a GOOD story, the kind that makes no beans about being clever or complicated or post-modern or any of that crap but simply stands out for being a well-constructed, neatly-polished, and expertly-delivered story.

So I was particularly interested in seeing him again in the Edinburgh Fringe since I didn't have tickets to the remainder of his three Stories in London. I managed to book four tickets for The Interminable Suicide and I went there with Richard, Iain and Danuta. I'm happy to report that we all walked away chattering happily about how much we had enjoyed the show. So, if you happen to be around right now, go for it, get yourself a ticket.

I hope that some time in the near future Kitson will consider releasing his material in the form of video/audio recording or better yet, as a collection of stories in book format. I know it sounds really 4th grade to say that I learned something from a story but honest to God I feel like I did. It's very rare for me (the big-head pretentious pseudo-intellectual that I am) to go away from a night's entertainment now feeling like I've really gotten something out of it that I can take away with me and keep warm with, but this happened on both occasions when I've seen Kitson. And you know, recently some friends of mine, for various reasons, have been going through difficult times. I often think that hearing these stories would do them good and sometimes I draw a little bit of comparison by telling them a part of the story and it seems to cheer them up. But of course my personal rendition is woefully inadequate and I wish I could buy my friends copies of Kitson stories as Christmas present instead.

Did I mention how much I like stories?

Sonnets, more of.

Time does not bring relief; you all have lied
Who told me time would ease me of my pain!
I miss him in the weeping of the rain;
I want him at the shrinking of the tide;
The old snows melt from every mountain-side,
And last year's leaves are smoke in every lane;
But last year's bitter loving must remain
Heaped on my heart, and my old thoughts abide

There are a hundred places where I fear
To go,—so with his memory they brim
And entering with relief some quiet place
Where never fell his foot or shone his face
I say, "There is no memory of him here!"
And so stand stricken, so remembering him!
-Edna St. Vincent Millay

[via The Writer's Almanac and Sonnets.Org]

Sonnet

I listen to The Writer's Almanac religiously and repeatedly, though I hardly ever remember anything I hear and am often (rather too often) surprised by my own ignorance in my supposed academic field. Once in a while a line or an image will stick and if I don't look it up at the time and make a note of it, going back through all the podcast episodes to find it again can prove difficult - depending on how much detail my sieve of a brain has preserved.

Anyway I'm glad I was able to dig this one up, because I'm a fan of meta-textual poetry (I'm sorry if that makes me sound like a ponce - what I mean is poetry which talks about the act of composition), of playing with form, of Petrarchan love, and of anything which briefly brings the Middle Ages to life. The Almanac gives a rather good introduction to the sonnet, which explains some 'inside-jokes' for anyone unfamiliar with its history and devices.

Sonnet
All we need is fourteen lines, well, thirteen now,
and after this one just a dozen
to launch a little ship on love's storm-tossed seas,
then only ten more left like rows of beans.
How easily it goes unless you get Elizabethan
and insist the iambic bongos must be played
and rhymes positioned at the ends of lines,
one for every station of the cross.
But hang on here wile we make the turn
into the final six where all will be resolved,
where longing and heartache will find an end,
where Laura will tell Petrarch to put down his pen,
take off those crazy medieval tights,
blow out the lights, and come at last to bed.
- Billy Collins

[via The Writer's Almanac and Billy-Collins.Com]

*incidentally, thank you, Billy Collins, for putting your poetry online. I'm not sure if you make all your poetry so freely available but I sure am glad that this one is there.

Can't win'em all.

The results of my MSt dissertation came back last Friday. I found the news waiting in my in-box when I was in the MCR, about to look up some London restaurants in preparation for going there with Rich. So it turns out that unlike what I expected, I came in with a low two-one (64, to be precise. In our system distinction is what's known as a first, and requires 70 or above, and a second, or two-one is anything between 60 and 69).

I think I let out some kind of terrible howl like a dying/enraged animal and everyone stopped in the TV room. I heard DJ and Sarah ask me what's wrong and I rushed in, fell onto Oli's arm, and told them (in what was undboutedly a rather choked and dramatic voice) that I didn't get a distinction.

And I had tried so hard. GOD DAMN IT.

This put a little bit of a damper on my London trip but it was still nice to be in the big city, eating good food, hanging out with Richard's friends (and never having to look at the map because everyone else knew where we were going!). We went to the Tate Britain's late opening, had some promotional free drinks, ate lovely Thai food and then had some more drinks at a small chilled out bar which looks like someone's living room, hastily converted (I'm sure the effect is intentional). Then Rich and I headed home.

So, back to that non-distinction.

Am I disappointed? FUCK YEAH. Crushed? No, not really. This is, however, the first time in my life when I've gotten anything less than what I aimed (academically) to achieve. Ok, ok, technically it's the 2nd time it's happened - I applied for Oxford as an undergraduate, botched the interview (but got a trip to New York with my brother out of it), and was rejected - so I guess that's the other time. Funny how both of them have to do with Oxford. I'm starting to think that it's a bit star-crossed for me.

But hey, it would have been just as disappointing, I suppose, if I had come here and not found Oxford challenging at all?

Back in April when I received the offer from Keble I blogged: "... part of me is afraid that I'll get there and realize that everyone is: A. 10 x more erudite and B. 100 x more intelligent" [via The Pseudopod]. Well, it has transpired that my fears are partially justified. I wouldn't say that absolutely everyone is more erudite and more intelligent - but hell, most of them are really intelligent and the majority also better prepared (god damn it x 2).

The most interesting thing to me though, is this: up until now I have always been fairly confident of being the 'smartest kid in the class,' as it were. This is of course not in the absolute sense, and I certainly didn't walk around with an overwhelming sense of superiority. But it was also something that kind of propped up my self confidence. If I wasn't the smartest, I was still certain of being not too far off. The fact that I graduated from Edinburgh University with the class prize (highest average grade in my undergraduate cohort) kind of underlined that - and when I received my offer from Keble I was feeling pretty good about myself.

Then I came to Oxford and lo - where the hell did all these smart people come from!?!? (insert shock and dismay). I went from not really ever having to ask questions (except questions which touch on ideas not already covered) to really, really wanting to hit the panic button all the time (hello, Ralph). From feeling really on top of my work (whilst feeling like I was working hard - but not too hard), to feeling like I couldn't possibly work hard enough even if I entombed myself with books in the Bodleian.

But on the plus side, I found myself surrounded by really really cool people! (ok, that's a mild exaggeration. Some of them are dull as sticks, though undoubtedly intelligent. But I'm really lucky to have found lots who are both intelligent and interesting). Being in such a intellectually stimulating environment for me is like taking the best conversations from fifty or sixty parties, stringing them together, then re-setting the lot in the Keble MCR or somewhere else in Oxford.

The first couple of times I got this feeling I thought that it couldn't possibly last - then we had this dinner in hall, for St. Mark's Day (also college founding celebration), where Rich and I sat across from Ouldo, a mathematician. Throughout the meal he gave us a pretty invigorating (both in terms of content and manner of delivery) lecture on the beauty of mathematics. It was entropy for starters and mathematics as a system of representation for main course. We followed it up by talking about pornography (both in terms of what we individually prefer, but also our ethical quandaries) over dessert. Looking back, our conversation pretty much proves (to me, at least) that being in this place means that there is always stimulating conversation to be had - whatever the subject. The fact that people are generally quite willing to talk about their research and not at all bothered by having to pitch it to a layman means that I have info-tainment in its best form (personally tailored rather than mass produced by the Discovery channel) all the time.

So I'm pretty grateful for that.

On a more personal level though there is something good about being surrounded by people who I am (secretly) certain are more intelligent than me. All of a sudden I discovered that I don't have to be defensive any more (because I've already lost). I've always been stupidly competitive and often need to (surreptitiously) feel like I am better than people around me in one way or another in order to buoy up my self confidence. Well, here I am - not the prettiest (not that I ever thought I was), not the coolest (didn't ever think I was that either), and definitely not the smartest (two-one! I tell you!).

And miraculously, I'm still me. My friends are still talking to me (I do occasionally fear that they think the less of me because I didn't get a distinction, but I sincerely hope that it's only my inner fears talking). In fact, never in my life have I ever been part of such a loving and close cluster of friends (I used to think that I'm more a satellite - circling around different social clusters). I've also never been happier.

Speaking to others about my recent academic failure has helped me put things into perspective (that's usually the case with me, I'm a talker). The other day Chava and I were walking down the road just by Acland Lodged and I told her that I didn't manage a distinction. She said (very matter-of-factedly): 'But you'll still go on to live a worthwhile and productive life' - I had to agree (and hope fervently that she's right!).

So I'm going to leave Oxford feeling deeply humbled rather than on top of the world, but that's really not such a bad thing. I've found that what makes me me to me is not necessarily a product of being brainy or being the best. Like I have tried to convince myself (with varying degrees of success), it's not a competition - and thank fuck for that, because if it were a competition, there's just no damn way that I'd be able to win'em all.

Back to that distinction (insert string of expletives here) - I tried. Maybe if I had done something different, such as not writing about something I've previously written about (having 'done' flytings in undergrad I found it hard to keep things fresh for myself), not joining the Kebelles (Keble MCR women's fun crew and subsequently, by accident, Keble Women's 2nd crew), or not socializing as much (hello, Trinity MCR Exchange, MCR black-tie, President's Port, and drinks for so many other reasons on so many other occasions) - well, maybe then I would have done better.

But that's really rather beside the point.

Now I have July and August to spend in Britain. Most of that time will be spent down south in Oxford, with my new found family, many of them friends who are going their separate ways after what has seemed like such a short time together, followed by a week back up in Edinburgh catching up with old pals, tying up a few loose ends, and then a one-way ticket back to Toronto on the 31st (insert mild panic).

As ever, the only way to go is forward.

Please stop doing this, BBC.

Just idly watching BBC news, and I know it's late at night (11 pm) but that's no reason for the quality of journalism to take a nose dive. Item about Michael Jackson supposedly having had a heart attack - ok, fine, I give you that lots of people care about Michael Jackson.

But when the announcer started talking about how according to a fan website Michael Jackson has died, and that this piece of information cannot be confirmed, it hacked me off.

I thought it was specifically the property of Taiwanese media to report hearsay which they found on some joe-blow's website, but apparently I was being unfair. The BBC seems to have jumped in on the act as well.

Why would I need journalists/journalism when all they are giving me is something they read on the internet? What the hell happened to REPORTING?

Don't get me wrong. I'm into twittering and citizen journalism and user generated content - but it's when a media channel tries to straddle that bridge that they wobble and fall into the mire.

Questions, by Stephen Dunn

If on a summer afternoon a man should find himself
in love with only one woman
in a sea of women, all the others mere half-naked
swimmers and floaters, and if that one woman
therefore is clad in radiance
while the mere others are burdened by their bikinis,
then what does he do with a world
suddenly so small, the once unbiased sun
shining solely on her? And if that afternoon
turns dark, fat clouds like critics dampening
the already wet sea, does the man run—
as he normally would—for cover, or does he dive
deeper in, get so wet he is beyond wetness
in an underworld utterly hers? And when
he comes up for air, as he must,
when he dries off and dresses up, as he must,
how will the pedestrian streets feel?
What will the street lamps illuminate? How exactly
will he hold her so that everyone can see
she doesn't belong to him, and he won't let go?

"Questions" by Stephen Dunn, from Local Visitations. © W.W. Norton & company, 2003. [buy now]

[via The Writer's Almanac]

Bye bye, MSt

I've just emailed my dissertation and all peripheral documents to be printed off by Dan at the computer lab (saves me 100+ pages of cost in printing). These 9 months have gone by so fast. It's been a terrific slog, and I hope that I get an overall distinction so I can come back to Oxford if I want. But if I don't get a distinction - well, I tried my best.

Looking forward to going home and packing up my things, and a celebratory dinner tonight.

I'm so grateful for all the help that people have given me. Dr. Sally Mapstone for her unending support and words of encouragement (plus her minute attention to mistakes on my bibliography and her suggestions for ever more reading). Ralph for his ingenious advice which leaves me so baffled that I decide to stop whinging and just get on with it (???) - and for answering my miscellaneous questions about absolutely everything (from paeleographical questions to queries about architectural features at Keble). Maria for being my fairy godmother and producing hugs and cups of tea at all the right times, reading and proofing my outlines/drafts, and sending me home to rest when she knows that's what I really need. Sergi for doing the same - but also for his patience and understanding because of all people he knows my strengths and weaknesses best (and is probably heartily sick and tired of my split infinitives). DJ for always abusing the com-lab's resources and printing off my papers and for scrounging for envelopes for me at the very last minute. Alison for her time and energy spent on giving my papers a last once-over and advice that makes me think if only I had another 3 days my paper would be perfect...

and of course all the friends I've made on the course and my MCR family... and the anonymous but familiar faces I always see in the Upper Reading Room and the Keble Library, who make me feel like I'm not a loser for spending ALL my time in such places...

It's been good.

A short novella?

Champagne & Canapes
~
Asparagus tips with hollandaise sauce
~
Seared scallops with a ginger anise sauce
~
Carpaccio of fillet steak encrusted with peppercorns, coriander seed,
and rosemary
Potatoes dauphinoise
~
Dark chocolate fondant with vanilla ice cream
~
Gourmet cheese selection, with water biscuits and oatcakes
-----------------
No, not a short novella - the menu at Walton street's black tie dinner tomorrow night. If I'm going to be stressed, I'm going to be stressed out in style.

Wher's the fun?

The last time I wrote about The Flyting of Dunbar and Kennedy I remember having a lot of fun. Maybe it's bound to be less fun the second time around - I keep asking where the fun has gone.

Right now it's just past 11 am and I am sitting at U216 in the Upper Reading Room again. The sun is shining. I want to be lying on the lawn in Pusey Quad, with my straw hat over my eyes, napping gently.

It's not that I don't enjoy what I do - I do - or I wouldn't do what I do. But I'm just absolutely exhausted; not the kind of exhaustion that recedes after a good night's sleep. This one will take a week to wash over.

Thinking about moving is stressing me out. Not that I don't want to move. I am looking forward to moving on. It's just that there will be no turn-around time. Not for another 2 days, at least. Hand in on the 15th, then go home, and pack. Get rid of things I'm not shipping on the 16th, arrange for the shipping company to pick up my things. Ship out on the 17th, pick up my suitcase and a rucksack, put my hat on, and walk away.

I need to focus on the walking away part. One step at a time.

You are not forgotten.

[via The Boston Globe]

Been meaning to tell you

[see my Flickr]

So I've been meaning to tell you... that I shaved half of my head.

Things have been quite busy recently - so much so that I haven't blogged. But one of the reasons why I haven't blogged is because I recently joined Twitter, which has proved surprisingly (or unsurprisingly, for anyone who follows my gmail status) addictive.

Recently the (pa)Rentals came to visit - at a time when I had literally no time to spare, which was a shame. But we still got a few things in - they came to watch me row, and we went for high tea together at the Grand Cafe. They also brought me a new camera, hence the proliferation of photographs. As much as I love Toph's DSLR, it's a little to precious for me to take around every day. Now you can frequently find me crouched by Keble's flowerbeds keenly snapping.

Flowers are good like that, tireless models. People are much, much trickier. I don't think I've graduated to photographing people yet. Whenever I look at the Sartorialist or any other street style photographers I wonder how they approach their subjects. My guess is that each one has their own little schtick they drag out. I'd quite like to know what it is. Also, portrait photographers (or street style photographers) must have a knack of making their subjects seem relaxed. I once read somewhere (maybe from the Sartorialist) that it's the gift of anticipation. In a way I can see that - people's expressions are so fleeting. I wish my eyes were cameras, then I'd always get very good pictures.

Tonight's graduate discussion evening went well. I think my talk was well-received. Some interesting questions came up afterwards - and everyone appears to have enjoyed my example of 'flyting' from Waiting for Godot (fast-forward to 1:57). It's the first time I've done a proper presentation with powerpoint and projector and all that, so I'm glad it all came off nicely. High table dinner beforehand and Ralph told me that he won't be able to make it. To be honest I was quite glad - if no medievalists are present I could say whatever I want. I thought of emailing him to ask him NOT to come - but then he would have made a point of coming. So turns out my reverse psychology (of not saying anything to him) worked out quite well.

So recently Sally and I had a meeting and she reminded me that I really can't afford a day off. I don't remember if I mentioned to her that I'd joined a rowing team. We (the Kebelles) are the Keble fun-crew. But some people tell me that if you have erg (indoor training) sessions, you are no longer fun. So I guess we're the kill-joy crew. So, we qualified for the Summer Eights - and guess what - we won blades!

In Oxford we do what's called bumps racing. To win blades (an honour granted by the college), you have to bump 4 times in 4 days (that is, the definition according to Keble) - which we did. So, we get to buy ceremonial blades with our names on them, including when the race was and who we bumped etc - and we get to chalk up our names in one of the stairwells at college. I'll definitely have some pictures of that when it happens.

But for now, a picture of my new sandals will have to do. Weather has been so beautiful.

[see my Flickr]

Oh and also, I accidentally exfoliated myself with the gravel at college. I'm recovering from...

[see my Flickr]

But it's ok, because life here is really quite good. Here's a picture of what Oxford (especially Keble) is all about in the summer time.

[see my Flickr]

Occasionally I find myself in strange places.

[see my Flickr]

But usually I recover myself quite quickly again. Except the time when I went to Port Meadow to take pictures of buttercups - thinking that we were going to row at Godstow. Then it turned out that we were rowing at the Isis, so I had to haul ass down the river. Then I didn't know I had to park at Head of the River so I was on the wrong side and I had to double back. But the photos turned out really good...

[see my Flickr]

and it made me realize that even something s simple as buttercups can be really, really beautiful.

Now I have to go to bed because tomorrow I'd like to get up at 7 am and eat breakfast in hall. Then work all day on my dissertation in the library. The fun never stops, you know.