Crunch Time
I can’t believe it’s already December! And so, the countdown begins. I have just a little over two weeks left in Scotland and each day is filled with the things I’ve been meaning to do, but haven’t had the chance i.e. essay writing.
Last week was Thanksgiving. Our professor arranged the event, hiring a catering company to set up a dinner of turkey, mashed potatoes and carrots. I made a white chocolate, hazelnut pumpkin cheesecake, which people really enjoyed. My mom sent a few of the ingredients to me. To my knowledge, the US is the only place that sells canned pumpkin. Also, since Thanksgiving isn’t celebrated here, it was difficult to find a few of the seasonal items. Being away from my family for Thanksgiving was strange, but I had time for reflection. I have so much to be grateful for. And though my family was thousands of miles away, I enjoyed the comfort of my Dartmouth/Scotland family. Thanksgiving was filled with all of the usual mayhem and laughs, though I had to excuse myself early to attend a poetry event. Mono (hosted by Wendy and Lorna) was holding their first year anniversary. I should have written her name down, but one of the feature poets is also a comedienne. She read some hilarious excerpts and was enjoyable to watch. As I mentioned previously, I can’t quite pinpoint the vibe of Mono, though I like it. It reminds me a bit of the vibe at the Mercury Cafe in Denver, but the atmosphere is very different.
On Friday, I had my first taste of Scottish whiskey. It tasted surprisingly smoky and rich. My friend, Piotr, insisted that I have some before leaving the country. Based on my facial expression after the first sip, he surmised that I didn’t like it, which isn’t completely true….ok, it is.
I spent the rest of Friday evening in the library since I knew I’d be out on Saturday.
On Saturday, Tawona’s event, Seeds of Thought, was held at the CCA. I’m really sorry I missed it the previous month because it was a wonderful event. The room had a proper stage, four mics and theater seats, so it was a little more formal than usual. I enjoyed the diversity of performances: musicians, singers, story tellers. Unfortunately, I had to leave early to catch my friend, Dave, perform. Dave’s band, Talking to Strangers, says they play “polite rock”. That description is pretty accurate. Their sound is reminiscent of The Killers. I really enjoyed their set; their style includes everything I love about good alternative rock: lots of feedback and distortion, bass runs, and drum solos. They just finished compiling a new CD, which will be available this weekend. I’m looking forward to picking up a copy.
Sunday-Monday, I fell into a black hole. I had an essay due on Monday (about causation of the Second Persian War in Herodotus’ account), but it took me forever to sit down and write it. I don’t think I’ve gone to bed before 5 am these last four days, so I’m looking forward to a good night’s rest after the essay deadline of Dec 11th.
Monday night, after waking up from a quick nap, I went over the Rio Cafe. I was late and groggy, unfortunately missing Bryan O’s poetry. Robin arranged an incredible line up. Donny O’Rourke was the headline poet. He had a wonderful way of using humor to highlight the beauty in every day things. His work was very impressive, particularly when he spoke about his Irish background. Because Monday was St. Andrew’s Day, Donny decided to focus most of his work around Scotland. It was a strong set.
Dennis Oliver read poems from his newest publication, “Voices”. Marc Sherland, who is the chainman of the Federation of Scottish Writers, alternated reading pieces from “Voices”. He also did a poem of his own about his childhood, which was followed by a poem on the same topic by Dennis. Both poems had very different tones, but were equally well-crafted.
I also performed at Rio, but as I said, I was a bit groggy. My voice started to go in the middle of a poem (I wasn’t speaking above a normal level, but I’m fighting what wants to be a cold, but is more like a couple of coughs every now and then). Normally, I wouldn’t mind, but this time I was on film. Murphy’s Law.
As expected, I am back in the library, in a carrel, so that if people do decide to sit next to me and make out, I can’t really see them. I’ve swapped my Donne for Marvell this week. The poem below, which I was reading just before creating my blog name (hence the reference), is one of my favorite pieces of work. Not only is it very witty, but it’s elegantly crafted, especially when the message is simple: I’m young, you’re hot, let’s get together right now. Marvell is doing a lot more with the poem in his exaggeration of a common theme starting in the classical tradition of “carpe diem” or “this is our only opportunity to get together so let’s make the most of it” (despite the validity of that statement). I also heard that bits of the poem was used in the recent film, The Time Traveler’s Wife. As much as I love Eric Bana, I don’t know if I could bear to watch the movie. Or at least pay to watch it. If it’s playing on the flight back, I guess I could bother to stay awake. Anyway, that’s a glimpse into my current happenings.
To His Coy Mistress
Had we but world enough, and time,
This coyness, Lady, were no crime
We would sit down and think which way
To walk and pass our long love’s day.
Thou by the Indian Ganges’ side
Shouldst rubies find: I by the tide
Of Humber would complain. I would
Love you ten years before the Flood,
And you should, if you please, refuse
Till the conversion of the Jews.
My vegetable love should grow
Vaster than empires, and more slow;
An hundred years should go to praise
Thine eyes and on thy forehead gaze;
Two hundred to adore each breast,
But thirty thousand to the rest;
An age at least to every part,
And the last age should show your heart.
For, Lady, you deserve this state,
Nor would I love at lower rate.
But at my back I always hear
Time’s wingèd chariot hurrying near;
And yonder all before us lie
Deserts of vast eternity.
Thy beauty shall no more be found,
Nor, in thy marble vault, shall sound
My echoing song: then worms shall try
That long preserved virginity,
And your quaint honour turn to dust,
And into ashes all my lust:
The grave’s a fine and private place,
But none, I think, do there embrace.
Now therefore, while the youthful hue
Sits on thy skin like morning dew,
And while thy willing soul transpires
At every pore with instant fires,
Now let us sport us while we may,
And now, like amorous birds of prey,
Rather at once our time devour
Than languish in his slow-chapt power.
Let us roll all our strength and all
Our sweetness up into one ball,
And tear our pleasures with rough strife
Through the iron gates of life:
Thus, though we cannot make our sun
Stand still, yet we will make him run.
In the gallery: The inside of Oran Mor (with a multilingual floor), some shots from Thanksgiving fun, Talking to Strangers concert, a group of singers at Seeds of Thought and Dennis reading at the Rio Cafe
