caveat and extension

To Begin: I left a very cyptic sentence in my latest post, and I should not do things like that. I do not want to pin my heart on this blog's sleeve, or portray my infrequent emotional turmoil as important, which it is not. It is my goal that this work be the product of concentrated effort and sober reflection, teach me a little about forming and presenting thoughts, and record my thoughts for future use. While emotional turmoil may be interesting for about five seconds, it will not last longer than a unique taste. If it does last longer, and must impact what I record here, I will see to it clearly and temperately. There now.

I spent a half hour last week actually ordering some books for a class, and added in some for just-me. On Friday, I received my copy of Crane Brinton's Anatomy of Revolution, and I am looking forward to some little presents in the mail for the next two weeks. I love getting books in the mail; more precisely, I love getting books.

To come:
1.) Between Past and Future: the Revolutions of 1989 and Their Aftermath, by Vladimir Tismaneanu
2.) Reflections on the Revolution in France, by Edmund Burke
3.) Crises of the Republic, compilation of Hannah Arendt's

I will not list the ones I bought for class, but I am excited about those, especially the one on Polish poetry.

I've never been able to put my finger on what it is that I like so much about those Slavs. Theories have included their bizarre histories of decadence and survival, their ability to turn out world-class writers and artists and composers and etc etc with no visible means of doing so, and their habit of doing nothing by halves. I do know I enjoy a good revolution.

~~~

Didn't post that last night, so I can add on now. I received two textbooks today, and tempered enthusiasm ensued. In other book news, I noticed www.bookcrossing.com in a magazine a couple of days ago, and will soon participate. The website makes it sound less cool than I think the actual idea is, but maybe that's just me with my conservative-closet-underground taste in web design.

Today I had a chance to read some of Emerson's poetry. I particularly liked one, To Rhea, and might try to recite it this week at the Wash this week. His stuff rhymes, and is written originally in English, which makes it a better poetry beginning than Neruda, for me at least. At any rate, they both appear to like "Nature," which I can get behind. Pablo is now back on the reserve bookshelf, awaiting the day that I become fluent in Spanish or comfortable with poetry. I think good poems that rhyme are cooler than ones that don't because they're like puzzles- not only is it a marvelous collection of ideas and rhythms, it all fits neatly and in order, and that seems like it would take a greater command of word smithing to produce.

The State of the Union is this evening. I've been meaning to open a bottle of wine for a while, and this is a better excuse than most.

vir-tue? I don't even know you.

It was a very full Thursday-> Sunday, complete with oddities, hopes, bellyflops, and victories. To begin, I lead a successful negative to the resolution: there is too much ice in this world, and am quite satisfied with my new-found ability to maintain inanity. I want to work on my oratory, and offering myself thus as a sacrifice to the humorous debating gods (the laughing public) was an excellent exercise, and all the more satisfying for being won. I was able to maintain the inanity until early Saturday morning, through the Deuce party, where it has been generally agreed that a good time was had by all: at least as far as we recollect. Saturday night I wandered over to the Range and talked to some old people, then called some of my personal favorite old people on the way home. Sunday I worked, met, and worked out, then remembered I hadn't anything to do for tomorrow. Interlace all of this with some very satisfying conversations with friends new and old, and I've had a lot to think about.

I won't discuss the obvious concern, because those who ought know, do, and all I can conclude on the point I knew before anyway: it just didn't hurt then, and I've had worse dentist appointments anyway.

I will discuss The Modern Mephistopheles, insofar as to explain that it is by Louisa May Alcott, who wrote moral tales for children, upon which I was raised. I used to be a very moral person, and I'm sure it's because of this- I admired ascetics and heroes who could deny themselves everything for the principle of one thing. Somewhere things got a bit more gray, and it appears that I today have about 2.5 unbreakable morals that serve me fine. I kind of want to quit a job in righteous indignation at an ethical breach on the part of management. I sometimes pick up other people's litter. I definitely speed and jaywalk. I watch too much TV. And I do several things with regularity which would have been most shocking and improper for anybody 100 years ago. I do try to be a better person. But it occurs to me that how to be a better person isn't really discussed these days- virtue is boring, and I'm not sure why that is. Morals seem to be changing so rapidly that discussions of the way to live a good, happy, useful life seems very important and interesting to me, if we can pin down such a system.

MM presented a scenario wherein people are either innocent and thus strong- flowers growing towards light naturally- or weak and uncertain. It wasn't just the language that was old fashioned, it was the ideas. This was intended to be a book for grown-ups, too, not just lessons in morality for children. I found it intriguing, not for the prose, but for the implications of her story. I'm betting most people would just find it boring, so I recommend it with extreme hesitation.

At any rate, the best conversation I myself have had about virtue was with Rach, and was productive and rewarding, and not at all ironic, like the most recent conversation I have had about virtue, which occurred a couple hours later at a party, and was certainly louder.

Current Reading: Selected Poems by Pablo Neruda. I am diving in.

Also: I saw the last half of Red Planet today. I'm not sure what it is about Val Kilmer, but he certainly is entertaining.

about last night

Last night I had a dream that I was signed up to take a Russian Politics class, but it was one I'd already taken, so I wanted to drop it. (Today is, by the way, the first day of (the last) classes). I wanted to pick up another concurrent class taught by Val Kilmer, about Spanish Poetry. The assignment due the first day in that class was to translate fifty short Spanish poems- like four lines each or something. Actually, I'm not even sure the class was about Spanish Poetry, but I went to talk to Prof. Kilmer about getting in and he gave me the poems as a challenge- all like, "Show up if you want, but make sure you have these translated." It seemed logical to me that for whatever subject it was, Val Kilmer would require me to translate Spanish poetry to gain entrance to the kingdom of knowledge of it, etc etc. My Russian Politics professor, meanwhile, seemed slightly disapproving that I wasn't going to take his class, but again, I'd already taken it. (I actually have already taken it.) I felt this immense desire to please Prof. Kilmer, and show him I was capable of learning Spanish and translating poetry for him, but I'm not sure if I did do it in my dream.

We are, of course, talking about the Val Kilmer of the "Saint" era, or maybe a little older, but with the personality of the Val Kilmer of "Real Genius."

On this, the first day of actual classes, I would like to think that I have it in me to translate those fifty short Spanish poems, and really go all out for Prof. Kilmer this year. Speaking metaphorically, of course.

To Right: Val Kilmer in "Real Genius."

I finished a Modern Mephistopheles, but I'm not really sure what to say about it. I will consider it carefully first.

recent literary efforts

I would like to post my interesting and insightful commentary on the recent books I've read, but for the last few days I've mostly been watching MacGyver and Monk. So I will talk about that instead.

I got back to C'ville for good Friday, after a long dinner with some old friends. Got home a couple hours later than I expected in an horrible mood, thanks to the effects of Dijon mustard and unexpected poignancy of "You've Lost that Lovin' Feelin'" on the radio, then promptly locked my keys in my car. 'If you would only love me like you used to do,' indeed. Due to the setbacks of the evening it made sense to give up and start the DVR'd Monk marathon the next morning.

I've only watched about 10 episodes from a few different seasons, but I like what I see. Tony Shaloub manages to make annoying and neurotic amusing and adorable, and the four main characters work well together. At first when they compared his work to Sherlock Holmes I was bothered, because their methods seemed to me different (Monk goes on 'hunches' more often than I figured Holmes would) but as I've seen more, the comparison makes sense. Holmes once said that when you eliminate the impossible, what's left, however improbable, is the solution; assume that's the hunches, combine it with incredible attention to detail and categoric knowledge of dates and poisons and other useful murder-solving-stuff and you have the later Holmes' technique well replicated. I've liked Tony Shaloub since he was in Wings, and I'm glad to see him doing such a fun show.

MacGyver is Macgyver. Saw him in an episode where Jack Dalton wasn't overly annoying, and he had a ponytail. I admire his ability to wear his hair differently in every single episode- it's a rare gift to make it stick out in so many different directions. Combine that with his unique abilities to politely and nobly save orphans, nuns, oppressed peoples (citizens of the soviet bloc, central American freedom fighters, etc) and he's quite a catch. But he'd probably conduct all home repairs with bubble gum and toothpicks, and the house would end up functioning fine, but looking like a junk drawer had exploded all over it. Nobody's perfect. Also, I think he might be short.

I'm reading The First Socialist Society (Russian History again? Yes.), History of the Present by T G Ash, and A Modern Mephistopheles by Louisa May Alcott (struggling authors, depraved invalids, drugs, moral fiber!) I'll report as it is warranted. Next up, Open Letters from Vaclav Havel, and maybe poetry of some sort. I should definitely read more poetry. I'm just not sure where to begin.

lull

To left: Wall, Tree, and Light on La Fortaleza in San Juan.




For those of you waiting with baited breath (smelling, I assume, of worms?) for me to expound on that trip to Puerto Rico I took a couple weeks ago, this is it.

So, I went to Puerto Rico with my family (mom, dad, Ricky) after Christmas for three whole days. My parents do not take vacations like this. They do not decide to go somewhere nice when the weather is pleasant and there are interesting things to do and see and then actually go and do and see those things. Alex was playing basketball down there with his college team, though, and mumsy and daddums decided to make a week of it. Imagine our surprise when they got a rental car and promised to sightsee. Imagine!

I like to go places and to see things. When I do that, I keep journals of the things I did and saw, thought, and ate. Now, I've never been a big reader of travel writing. I like histories, and I like guidebooks, but whenever I read bone fide travel writing I catch myself wondering why I am not, instead, traveling for myself, which makes the whole reading experience uncomfortable. I also am uncomfortable reading plays. Some things are not meant to be just read. Plus, "travel writing"? What's important: the travel, or the writing? Am I reading it because of the experience it relates or the quality of the observant mind as reflected in the words, or just the quality of the words themselves? Also, do I have enough time in my busy schedule of watching MacGyver and eating candy to sort through the mounds of chaff to find the wheat of this genre? The answers to all these questions hardly matter, since, ultimately, good books are self-evident and hard to find, and seeing something is more important than reading about it. But I like to keep my own notes of what's gone on where I am, since I have a very slippery memory. Among my first foray into travel jotting, as it were, and let me assure you, it's only the observant mind I'm trying to test (words and experiences will wait.)

Anyhow, I went to PR with my family, after reading the lonely planet guidebook for the same (PR, not the family) and making a few notes. The pictures are posted here.

The main gist of the trip is that I went in an unhappy mood, had basically no time to myself for a full week, spent the first three days not pleased with most of what I saw, and the last two wishing that we had done the trip mostly differently. But, the Arecibo Observatory is cool (totally sweet), plaintains are pretty good (I thought they'd taste more like bananas, which they do not), and Puerto Rico is very beautiful and green, at least when you're not in the cities. Well, the cities are about as green as the suburbs of LA, which is heartening, but still.

San Juan is a large tourist attraction disguised as a quaint old city. Think Williamsburg and add cruise boatloads of people searching for beaches, rum, and sales tax-less shopping. I liked the cobblestones, and Ponce de Leon's home (but, due to family, spent no time in the latter.) The rainforest at El Yunque national park is also a tourist attraction, complete with lovely views from the visitors center and cement hiking trails.

To the right: Cobblestones in Old San Juan. The place was renovated about 15 years ago- these stones may not be much older, but they sure are nice-looking.

Arecibo on Thursday of the week was a different story. It's got an Observatory set in the mountains of the karst region of the island: a beautiful drive through mountains or at least big hills, with flat-topped rainbow houses (white and hot pink, sky blue and yellow, peach and lime green) all fenced in beside each other on hillsides and red flowers in the treetops and green stuff everywhere. I've never seen anything like it, which is unusual for PR (they've remade beautiful Borinquen as a little America in Spanish, and I am reminded of the seedy sections of LA and even Southside Richmond down some of the highways). The Observatorio is awesome, with a great visitors center that features everything you ever need to know about the universe in interactive exhibits, a movie, a viewing platform, and pina coladas on the way to and from the parking lot. The picture above does not do it justice, of course. You can see the dish, the crazy aiming stuff hanging over it, one of the three towers supporting everything, and moi. It is sponsored by 7-Up and several other corporations, and the giftshop is unparalleled. Goldeneye and Contact were filmed here. One day I'd like to hang out with the scientists who stay and work here. Scientists being cool and all, and humoungous radio dishes on tropical islands being even cooler. Maybe join the cook staff for a year or something.

So, knowledge that the west of the island was wonderful made up for the rest of the trip, and made me want to try it again, later, in a small villa overlooking the mountains where I can sit on a veranda drinking rum for a week listening to the coqui (tiny local frogs)- without the family of course. They are very nice and mean well, but are not the best of traveling companions, and have no idea when silence is preferable and personal space is called for, etc. It would have been nice if anyone else had read the guidebook in preparation besides me, also- no one had any opinions on what to do or background information to share. Thank goodness for visitor's centers.

Traveling with them did lend itself to better food, though- we did have some delicious meals on dad. I would have stuck to plantain and Medalla Light had I been alone, and been satisfied, but as it was I ate many other things (tuna steak, squid and rice, shrimp and coconut rice) and they were delicious- coconut rice sounds scary, eh- it was in Spanish when I ordered it, and I was nervous upon translation, but it really was the best dinner I've had in a long time. Funny, this restaurant of delight was in a horrid little parking lot right across from the 7-11 (!) right beside our hotel, and very close to the Condom World and Tattoo parlor on the street.

Those are the dominant impressions two weeks later. I'm not sorry I went, just because I know how to go again and actually enjoy it.

happy new year

I was driving home from C's last night and the road was really foggy. Thick fog some places, and little wispies others, but I don't like driving through any of it. First, I'm afraid something creepy will loom up out of it. It's not like something creepy couldn't loom out of a normal clear night, but the fog makes it easier to scare myself into feeling like something creepy might happen really soon. Second, it makes the road hard to see.

New Year's as a party was a bust. When you have a plan in your head for a great evening, and it just fizzes- Life is about human contact and all, but a lot of human contact is just empty, and I don't feel right saying it's all the same. Not trying to say I don't like people, but I do really like some people, and I occasionally feel my time is wasted when I'm with people who are not them.

But I got my job today. Yes, my job- the job I wanted, and the level I wanted, and everything. I accepted it over the phone and I'll get the paperwork later in the week. Mom and Dad took me to a mexican restaurant (Mexico, the Arroz de Pollo hits the spot that desperately needs delicious mexican food) to celebrate, and a clown with a flaming card-holder (I want things that set harmless fire to themselves.) made me a penguin out of balloons. He wore an apron full of different balloon colors, and he could make anything, and would break the ballons like nothing to get the right size. I named the penguin Ducky, since it looks like one, only black and white. His feet sqeak together like he's actually walking. Reminded me that when I was little I really wanted to go to clown school, and last week I wanted to be a cook at the Arecibo Observatory, and I still want to run an inn/alpaca farm. But now I have a career, and maybe that's going to be ok, but gosh, I hope I don't like it too much.

Finished so far this break: Lady Chatterly's Lover (it grew on me), buncha TH White's short stories (he's wonderful), Challenge (V Sackville-West- not the book I thought it was, but still good in that other direction, though crazy), PR guidebook (!), Death in Cyprus (again, I forgot who the bad guy was), Death in Kashmir (really creepy- all sorts of people hiding in dark rooms waiting to murder you, but handsome capable hero saves you anyhoo), and Figes' Natasha's Dance: A Cultural History of Russia (worth every page, though a bit helter-skelter.)

In the Middle of: Age of Revolution (Hobsbaum), Women travel anth (see below), Pocketful of Dreams: Bing Crosby in the Early years.