Ideas: The Gathering

Eesh, "The Gathering" sounds like the title to an atrocious video game sequel. All video games aside, unfortunately, I've been thinking ahead to what I want to do. Firstly, there's thesis, which has taken a back seat to this other idea I'm working on. It involves New Zealand, and I'm at a point where I'm reviewing how creative other people have been.

I want to be creative, too. I want to be intelligent and intellectual, too. A while ago, I felt I had cracked intellectualism and creativity (there's a post about it somewhere); I still think I have got it, but I'll need a lot of practice.

Hmm. Ideas. Not ideas, half-baked ideas. Fledgling ideas, is more like it. And it just takes time and concentration, loads of energy, and a little luck.

hmm, enigma

Allison Krauss in Connecticut

A ticket to the Allison Krauss and Union Station concert came my way, so I nabbed it and headed to Connecticut with my sister and an acquaintance of hers. I'd never listened much to Allison Krauss, and typically I don't care for female vocals, but her voice was so sweet and clear, that it was a pleasure to listen to live.

As an added bonus, I discovered Union Station! If you live under a cultural rock like me (which is a running theme of this blog and should be made its subheading), then you may have heard - or even seen! - the popular film O Brother, Where Art Thou, with George Clooney, Morgan Freeman, John Goodman, etc, and directed by Joel Coen. Well, Union Station are the real Swampy Bottom Boys! The lead singer, Dan Tyminsky, introduced himself as the singing voice of George Clooney.

The songs, though twangy, were refreshing. When I was younger, I told myself that the only kind of country-honky-tonk-bluegrass I could listen to happily would be the type sung by the musicians from O Brother, Where Art Thou (this has been revised for some time). I enjoyed the concert, and from the first chords my pulse quickened a little bit. As the concert went on, some of the songs started to sound the same.

But when the group took a break and let Jerry Douglas play his stringed instrument, the dobro (it looked like a guitar turned on its back), the concert changed for me. He didn't sing but plucked at the strings so rapidly it was like he created a waterfall in sound. The music moved me; I could see a future for myself in the music he created.

Most of the concert sounded like bluegrass to me, but they shifted to a few gospel songs and two songs from OBWAT. It was beautiful and chilling to hear "I am a man of constant sorrow" and "Down to the river to pray" in-person, and another song written by Rob Block about suffering.

Overall, the concert was a good time, and a good investment at a beautiful location (Ives Concert Park near Western Connecticut University) in the midst of trees and nature. I couldn't imagine a more wonderful concert.

Things I Have Learned so Far, Part Four

Anytime is a good time for reflection, and I was reflecting on some of the things I've learned and which have been on my mind. This is my New York City version. Read my first or second versions of what I learned in Madrid, and then my non-site-specific summary of things I've learned.

• There will always be Shakespeare. Especially in New York City, especially in the summer.
• Never turn down a glass of water. Especially in 90+ degree heat. You can bond over glasses of water - just like anything else, really, that you have in common.
• I'm in an apprenticeship, and have been for some time, actually - only I just recently found out what kind of apprenticeship it is.
• Always carry a not-empty water bottle, a book, and something to write in.
• We meet some people for a reason. Believing in people and being interested by their passions opens the pathway to possibility.
• Walking home through the city after a play or concert means enlightenment.
• Columbus Circle is magical at night, with the lights and the water.
• I've found that I am happy wherever I am at the moment. The patch of grass beneath my feet is transportable. People are very important, but time and distance matter less because I'll get to see them again someday.
• I've been reminded that I need better support for the balls of my feet. The blisters are returning for round 48, it seems.
• I can fit lots of activities and commitments in - even a concert in Connecticut - but not everything.
• Honey goat cheese or Crunchie candy bars make any day better. Crunchies especially help the work day go faster.
• The world does not have to remain in the same state it appears. It won't look the way I will envision it, because nothing works out perfectly, but it can be changed for the better.
• People. Are. Important.
• God is very aware and active in our lives. I had forgotten that.
• I allow myself too many attractive distractions here. The plays, the lights, the food, the music, is all too much. I need time, lots of time, to think about thesis and grad school and whatever else is coming down the bend.
• I need more sleep.

Review: The Silver Tassie

Lincoln Centre's The Silver Tassie, performed by the Ireland-based Druid Theatre, hit home on many levels. Though the play does not have a solid plot line - it is more a series of brief snapshots of several characters from an Irish town during World War I - it managed to draw out feelings I had not felt for quite some time. With my very casual and brief knowledge of expressionist theater, where the play is supposed to express a feeling, the scenes certainly created a mood and tone for these events. Like all good theater, and good art, it helped me to glimpse into the head of someone else and feel for a moment what they might be feeling.

We are introduced to the inhabitants of a small Irish town, where Harry the rugby player has just won the prize cup (silver tassie), celebrating with his friends, best girl Jessie, family, and neighborhood wife-beater. No, not the shirt.

The play almost felt like a musical, particularly in the second act. Every few minutes, the dialogue was punctuated with songs, short scraps of folk songs and music. Many of the songs, sung by soldiers waiting to be sent to the front, asked "Why are we here?", while others memorialized the dead or made fun of a prissy soldier. Without the music, the play would have not had the same force in any degree.

The play was a hodgepodge of what can only be very true snapshots of real life. There were contradictions, such as a chilling prayer sung to God and to the larger-than-stage tank which took the scene. In the aftermath of the war, the protagonist was left in a wheelchair and the wife-beater blind; their roles and positions in society were completely reversed, yet none of the fellow characters sympathized with them as broken - but still full, feeling - people. The play was very, very bitter.

Sound like a lot to take in all at once? At times, it was, particularly while getting used to the words and cadence of the Irish tongues, but the play's pacing was slow enough to let a thick audience member like me follow. And indeed, some heavy themes were casually thrown on stage. Because the characters took such things in stride, the audience was forced to, too - rather unwillingly.

But from the mother holding her son's empty coat in front of him before he goes to war, to the dismissive cruelty of a former lover, to the final scene where the blind man wheels his paralyzed friend home away from the swinging party, this play elicited a sense of injustice, suffering and pain. Of course, there were the lighter moments, too, of soldiers knocking cups on their helmets and rear ends making fun of war, but I thought this play gave me a cold, hard look at who and what humans are: careless, selfish, broken, and contradictory.

It was painful, beautiful, ugly, and brilliant all at once.

Shakespeare in the Park Round II: Measure for Measure

Yesterday, (instead of going to Philadelphia or Rochester, as I had planned) I fulfilled a youngling New York City experience: wait in line for tickets to Shakespeare in the Park on a hot summer day, hang out, and then go to the play later that evening.

I already wrote a hasty post on the other Shakespeare in the Park play, "All's Well that Ends Well," but in that scenario, two wonderful friends of mine waited in line and got me a ticket. This time, however, I joined them at 10 am, waiting in the line that already curved through Central Park.

And let me tell you, at a blistering 95 degrees Fahrenheit, it made the three-hour wait until tickets were given out arduous. The shade didn't do much in the 60% humidity, but I'd certainly and gladly take it over being in the sun. We talked, and secretly I would have liked to talk more - or shut off completely and read my book - but my friends used the three hours in part to catch up with their family members (which is important), and I kept getting distracted by sounds and conversations around me. I would have liked to enter into the discussion with the group of intellectuals behind us in line or the couple who was playing Scattergories in front of us, but I didn't.

Lessons for next time.

After getting our tickets, we headed to the American Museum of Natural History, saw the brain exhibit (super neat, possibly pictures to come), and then ate at Spice, a Korean fusion restaurant, and then headed over to the theater. I saw the play in its entirety, spending a grand total of 16 consecutive hours away from the apartment in the day, and arrived home absolutely beat and sweaty, because the heat did not let up for a moment once the sun had gone down.

Eating in New York: Khyber Pass

An interesting little joint in the East Village, Khyber Pass serves up some very tasty Afghan cuisine. I had some pumpkin kourma, which deliciously fell apart in my mouth, as I'm learning pumpkin is wont to do. I had some of my friend's butter-and-garlic pasta, which was a bit runny and slimy; flavour-wise, her entree beat mine, but texture-wise, my pumpkin kourma took home the prize.

We split some Afghani baklava, which was more like a crunchy, sweet, honey pastry, opposed to the less-sweet millefeuille-like pastry you find at Greek festivals. I was pleasantly surprised.

In terms of decor, the restaurant was close and cozy, filled with sultry red light against the red-brick walls, deep rich tapestries, and drawings that reminded me of the Bayeux Tapestry. Seating was largely at tables, but there were two window nooks where you could sit cross-legged on pillows and admire the passersby: great for a party with your twenty-something friends.

Overall, a good restaurant, which I would happily return to. The only drawback is that they allow hookah. For a non-smoker like me, that's fine so long as the hookah's on the other side of the room. It's not so fine when the table next to you lights up and fills the air with cloying smoke. We were there pretty early, and I imagine that hookah-smokers would appear later in the evening as more of an aperitif, so if you're ever in the East Village area looking for food off the beaten path, specifically on St Marks Street, give it a go.

A Virginia Jaunt: Luray Caverns, Shenandoah Bluegrass Festival, and Washington DC

I'm finally catching up to what happened the weekend of the 4th of July. My sister and I took a wonderful trip down to Virginia, travelling through six states in one day to the Shenandoah Valley. We arose early in the morning, took the train from Penn Station out to Newark airport where a rental car awaited us. Getting the car in Newark - my sister's idea, and a brilliant one - made getting out of Manhattan an absolute breeze and then continued drove the six hours to Virginia.

Meet our trusty caravan, the Pearl.

She took us down the road, singing the songs from "Muppet Treasure Island" and listening as we tried to impress each other with our knowledge - or lack thereof - of our nation's states and capitals. 

Our first day of three on the road, I ate more at McDonald's than I would ever like to again: once for lunch and then again to grab snacks. The rolo-McFlurry was thrust upon me because of the situation; though I was full, I had to get one because of the sheer rarity of the dulce delicacy. As the sweet caramel dribbled down my gullet, my innards wept with joy.

Not Central Park, if you catch my drift.

Onward. We passed through six states (New York, New Jersey, Delaware, Pennsylvania, West Virginia, and Virginia), and arrived at the KOA we had reserved. 

Note to self: never stay at a KOA. It's obviously not real camping. There were flush toilets, showers, laundry - which are tolerable - and a swimming pool, lodge to play billiards, buy popcorn, and rent movies, plus organized events like juggling and pancake breakfasts.

Worst of all, it wasn't very private. The place was packed. Couldn't commune with nature a whole lot.

After the tent was pitched, we took a jaunt over to the Luray Caverns, which I'm going to gloss over right now, just saying that it was beautiful. If you don't believe in God, believe in the power of nature and let holiness into your soul for a little while when you visit this natural cathedral. 

Dream Lake

 Note: if you want to become a real custard aficionado, forget a place like New York City. Go out into the country, drive around, and stop at every custard place you see. My sis is the real custarphile, and although she hasn't driven around on trips specifically for custard, her opinion is that the best places are in the country.

Addendum: my sis is a smart cookie. Trust her advice, especially when it comes to custard.

Stalacpipe organ

Afterwards, we went to the First Annual Oak Leaf Bluegrass and Mountain Music Festival in Luray, Virginia. It was my first time hearing bluegrass live! They can really get you going, make you feel the music in your blood. Some of it was much twang, other was not.

After the bluegrass festival, we spent a night on the hard earth - amidst the rain - then drove in the morning through Shenandoah Park and took a few hikes. Neither of them were very arduous, despite all of the waring about "strenuous mountain hikes" surrounding us.

We climbed the highest peak in Shenandoah Park, the Hawksbill. The short but steep trail was about 1.7 miles, and the round-trip was expected to take two hours. Intrepid, proud little me, I did want to see how quickly we could get up the hill. Armed with the knowledge that we've done in the West whatever the East has to offer, the sis and I started up. Twenty minutes later and through vast hordes of gnats, we arrived at the top.

It was awesome, except for the gnats. When the winds were still, the air was still thrumming with their sound. Multiple decibels were discernible to the sensitive ear; the closer the swarms were, the higher the pitch. Listen long enough, and your skin would start to crawl, but you cannot escape from the noise or the knowledge that there are so many insects in such close proximity to you, seeking you out and swarming around you.

After a rainstorm

The pictures above are misleading. They are not from the top of the Hawksbill. The pictures below, however, are from the Hawksbill! A portion of the longer, easier trail to the top actually joins up with the Appalachian Trail. Did you hear that? I hiked part of the Appalachian Trail! No, I wasn't pulling a Mark Sanford and secretly popping down to Argentina. I hiked the Appalachian Trail for about a mile! 

I also learned on that trip that the Trail is very, very long. Difficult to do the whole thing in a season.

It took us a good few hours to drive the 100 miles through the park, seeing as we stopped at every other turnoff to take pictures.

Once through the harrowing camera-trap of the Park, we started cruising up to DC, where we spent the night with my sis' friend, woke up late, went to lunch with another friend of hers, and then drove home just in time to watch the 4th of July fireworks on TV.

Oh, and something about diet Coke, rooftops, and bottle rockets. Perhaps mints of an unknown brand were also present.

Why Do I Blog?

Blogger Buzz recently asked the question, "Why do you blog?" My answer has nothing that is life-changing in it. It's not like Post Secret, which has saved lives and erases the loneliness inherent in being human. But my answer is meaningful to me, my answer is as complex as my blog, my thought processes, my personality.

I started blogging back in 2009 because I was talking with my friend Max about his blog; he told me that I should record my thoughts because he thought they were worthwhile. Based on his recommendation, I started blogging, too. In the beginning, it had no direction, no theme - it was just a place to record my thoughts.

My backyard, 2009

I went through periods of activity and inactivity. In one of my more creative and feeling-inspiring moods, I thought the blog needed more direction, so I started two social experiments as a sophomore in college. Inspired, undoubtedly, by things I was reading in my classes and discussing with my peers.

I stopped shaving my legs and covered my mirrors so I wouldn't have to look at myself. I wanted to think and feel like myself, not see what other people saw me. I never cared so little about my appearance - but I have never been less vain about my appearance. The no-shave experiment lasted about four months, and the no-mirror experiment about a week. Nothing revolutionary happened, my blog did not gain a hundred thousand hits in a month, but I gained a few social insights. And realized that some intellectuals and theorists go too far: I realized and understood in a more profound way than ever before that many theories have little practical application to real life.

Albion Basin, Utah, 2009

Then, I got an internship in Madrid, Spain, and this blog suddenly had a different purpose. I shaved my legs because my mother disapproved and said that though it was fine for an American at a women's college not to shave, it would be different in Spain. Note that I could have gotten along fine; giving in was not one of my braver moments) In Spain, I used my blog as a way to keep touch with the folks back home, to hone my writing skills, and to make up for the fact that I was quite lonely. I was in a country where I didn't speak the language. Aside from my bumbling attempts at Spanish while at church, my fellow interns, and some of the language-class people, I didn't make any friends.

Madrid, Spain, 2010

Immediately after, I studied in Edinburgh, Scotland. Naturally, I continued to use this blog as the way to communicate with my family. It morphed into a public journal and repository for a lot of things I found to be interesting. It turned into a way I could promote my church. Quotes and ideas found there way onto the blog column. Have you seen how many quotations I kept in November/December while I was writing papers? My posts were fewer and shorter because I had more to keep me occupied in Edinburgh than in Madrid.

Sterling, Scotland, 2010

For the past six months, I've blogged less because I haven't been out of my element. I've been happy and content at college. Some of my thoughts may have been caught like dreams in a dream catcher, but in no way systematically.

And now, I'm in Manhattan for the summer doing another internship. I've tried to use it as a public journal and to keep my friends updated as to what I'm doing.

Roosevelt Island, Manhattan, 2011

That answers what I've done with my blog, but not why I keep it. I keep it because a blog lets me be indulge my narcissism, lets me share things I think are worth sharing. I keep a blog because it's a place to keep my thoughts - when I have them.

Sagrada Familia, Barcelona 2010

So here we are, back at the beginning. This blog has no point or theme other than to be a repository for what I'm doing and thinking, possibly to help the stray who comes across what I write, and to expand and change as my needs expand and change. I will always need writing, and I will need to share what I write - do - am - so congratulations, spoony driftwood, it looks like you'll be in business for a while yet.

On Reading My First eBook

I'm reading my first eBook for pleasure. I downloaded Craig Cliff's A Man Melting a few nights ago, and am proceeding to read it via Kindle's program for PC.

And I hate it. I hate that I can't turn the pages, that I have to use the Highlight tool, that I can't scribble little notes in the margins,that it tells me what percentage I am through the novel - like I'm back in college, counting down the number of pages until I can stop.

I hate the formatting (because there is no style! It is lifeless!), I hate how staring at a glowing screen is making my eyes go cross-eyed, and how my fingers mechanically hit Ctrl + t when I need to look up a word I don't know. My mind turns off instead instead of savoring this new word for my vocabulary, enjoying not knowing what it means and pondering what it might mean, not stretching my memory to see if I really do know what it means.

I balk at the aspect of having an eBook most particularly because of having to read it via my computer. Maybe having a real Kindle would change my experience, but I loath reading it on my laptop. I stare at a laptop for eight hours a day at my internship. The last thing I want to do is get on my laptop again to enjoy reading a book.

Accessing the book, though, was a breeze and I cannot complain one whit. Mr Cliff is from New Zealand, and although his book is available in NZ and Australia, but living in the US makes it a little difficult. With one click, I got the book instantly. Perhaps getting the novel instantaneously is worth not having it in paperback-form. Enough talk about the technology, though.

The novel so far? Spectacular.

Drive-by Floral Spotting

On my way home from work, I passed a flower shop on 46th Street, between Park and Madison. It was a small nook of a place, its window crammed with flowers. It was a sunny, bright, organic splash in the heart of grey Midtown.

And it was completely suspicious.

I won't publish the name of the place in order to avoid slandering it, but it looked like the perfect cover-up for shady business dealings. Behind the counter was a large, tough-looking man talking to another large man. With tattoos. I'm sure they're perfectly nice people, I just wouldn't want to test out my theory and be wrong. Despite my education against stereotyping and my continual quest against it, I still draw vague conclusions from the little television I've seen about mafia or shows where the young, naive protagonist thinks they've uncovered some of the mafia's activities. It's too good an opportunity to pass up for imagining some vague, noir story involving the poppy trade and a son who really only wants to be a florist (throw in a girlfriend who wants to be mob boss, a Jewish mother who's not really Jewish, and a few orcas, and you have a pulp-fiction smash hit).

The flower shop was about as unassuming as this zoo...

...or this old Wilson-esque picture of me in Belgium. Suspicious Belgium, I'm on to you. And your vanishing fishermen.

Ahh, how I love saying outrageous things on the internet. In this post, I have successfully channeled the outrageously funny tone of the Oatmeal. Whoo.

Living in NYC 101: Cockroaches

Our apartment I live in is fairly clean (especially when we, erm, clean it), and so far in my stay we've only had ants, but the other day I had another experience entirely: the cockroach.

My sister had been warning me against finding cockroaches; the other day when I was sweeping under a chest of drawers, she said that last time a cockroach had scuttled (I always thought scuttling was slow, like a crab walk - can cockroaches scuttle if they move at the speed of light? can they hyperscuttle?) from underneath it.

Well, I came back on Thursday from an activity and was about to enter the bathroom when I stopped dead. Just underneath the sink was a flat, black-and-red cockroach. It was supine, its disgustingly long antennae flat and its many feet sticking up in the air.

Eep.

I let K come over and "deal with it" by putting down the WSJ and then Popular Hikes Near New York City. She stepped on it and cleaned it all up (she's so so so nice, isn't she?). The cockroach, if not dead before, was now no more.

And promptly put in the trash. There will be no more cockroaches, I hope.

New York City Tasters

Because everyone knows pictures are easier to look at than text. So much has been happening, and it's a lot to digest and contemplate.

Mermaid Parade, from three weeks ago

It's an amenemone, amenome, anenome...

Artistic photo

Me at a Yankee's game! Obviously I didn't get the memo about what you're supposed to wear....

The beloved Bubble Battle, same day as the Mermaid Parade

Nat'l Parking it, "Melmouth" pose

See a resemblance to Caspar David Freidrich's "Wanderer above the Sea of Fog"?

Living in NYC 101: Staying Sane

A key element to living in a highly compact city is knowing when to leave. Stepping onto the street is incredibly exciting; there is something undeiniable in the air, an energy, a vivacity. It perks you up like a shot of java at 3 pm. There is always movement, always people, always sights and lights and things to see.

And it can be exhausting.

After the first week, I think I was exhausted without knowing it, which is why for the past few weeks I've slowed down a little in all the places I've been trying to hit - though I must admit, I've been busy in other ways. (And there are a few more directions which I need to be busy in, like where my future is headed... eep. But enough of that.)

And what better way to keep sane in New York City than reminding yourself that there is a world beyond it (which does not start on the other side of the Atlantic or in California)? That's right, we left the City, pretending to be like other good New Yorkers who clear out of the city each weekend.

Read more about what I did here (link pending)!

Not your concrete jungle.

New York Observations: Sweatshirts

One of these things is increasingly becoming like the others.

During my second week living in New York City, I noticed a habit which had been steadily becoming more solid. I had gotten a lovely green cardigan while I was at Home, and considered it as a dressier article of clothing which spiffed up my wardrobe. I had been wearing the cardigan fairly frequently since arriving in the City, and so it had become quotidian. It wasn't quite as dressy anymore; I needed to keep wearing it to maintain a certain standard of presentation.

As I was running out the door one day, instead of grabbing my IFSA-Butler sweatshirt as I thought I had been wont to do, I intentionally grabbed the cardigan,my new-found favourite article of clothing. It struck me that I hadn't seen anyone wearing a sweatshirt, really, since arriving in the City, unless they were blatantly a tourist. It is indeed summer, and sweatshirts are too warm right now, but I don't think that is the only reason for this dearth of nylon and polyester blends.

My sweatshirt has lain forlorn and forgotten on my chair, buried deeper and deeper beneath my more frequently-donned, dressier articles of clothing (well, I took it camping, so it's received some love). This is a City which appreciates the put-together and the eclectic, eccentric. And what about those who like sweatshirts? Being passed by-the-bye - but hopefully in favour of more adventurous options. Not like these jumpsuits, though.

As time passes on, though, almost unconsciously, I've adjusted myself to fit my surroundings. If it's possible, I'm increasingly becoming like the other people around me.

Well, only becoming like the others by so much.