Tuesday, October 19, 2010

Eye of the Storm

A poem I wrote for my Writing in the City Class about Hyde Park






Peace. Comfort. Breath.
Verdant green. Soothing chocolate. Calming colors.
Walking along the path, the chaos of the city disappears.



People walk past, in twos or threes, alone.
A gentle noise. A peaceful hum. A silent purr.
Listening to the quiet, the chaos of the city disappears.

Children play, ducks swim, dogs run.
Across the congested road, around the crowded corner, below in the Tube, 
Buzzing activity is all around, but here, the chaos of the city disappears.



Cool grass. Gentle breeze. Nature’s perfume in the air.
Breathing in, breathing out, eyes closing 
With the rhythm of the park, the chaos of the city disappears.



Forget work. Forget worry. Forget whatever.
Being one, being there, being part of it,
Here in the Eye of the Storm, the chaos of the city disappears. 
A bench placed in a particular spot in Hyde Park
by the Serpentine because Rudolf loved it.




Monday, October 18, 2010

Random List 2: Literary BFFs


One of the blogs I follow had a guest spot asking “Who Would be your Literary BFF?” so that got me pondering (shocker, I know). So, rather than working on my novel, as I should be (in all fairness, I’ve written 11,000 words in the past 10 days, so that’s not too shabby, but still), I made up my own list.

1. Elizabeth Bennett from Pride and Prejudice by Jane Austen – Lizzie and I might be too much alike to get along, but I think we could have great fun together. We both enjoy reading and going on tramps around just to enjoy the solitude of it (I’m particularly fond of the latter activity now that I live with five other people). I also appreciate someone who can be snarky with me, especially about ridiculous people.


2. Anne Shirley from Anne of Green Gables series by L.M. Montgomery – In my head, Anne and I have been friends for the past 13 years or so. We go on rambles through the Haunted Woods and let our imaginations run wild. I think of Anne as my dreamy alter-ego. When I’m feeling particularly fanciful, I’m channeling my inner-Anne.


3. Skeeter Phelan from The Help by Kathryn Stockett - Again, a snarky friend. Skeeter can only put up with so much B.S. from stupid people and I can TOTALLY sympathize. On top of that, she’s a writer too, so we could sit around and talk about the trials and tribulations of writing.


4. Ella from Ella Enchanted by Gail Carson Levine – Again, another long-term literary BFF. Ella’s sassy patience has always made me smile. She’s bright, funny and knows what she wants. I hate indecisive people.


5 Claire Beauchamp Randall Fraser from Outlander series by Diana Gabaldon – I don’t know if we would necessarily be BFFs, but she would definitely be an interesting person to be friends with. Between the time-traveling and her knowledge about herbs and such, there would never be a lull in conversation.


6. Honoria  Cynster from Cynster novels by Stephanie Laurens – I love the no-nonsense, quiet strength of the Cynster matriarch. She deals with a family full of stubborn, opinionated men without batting an eye. I would love to learn her ways from her, because God knows I need all the help I can get.


7. Margaret Hale from North and South by Elizabeth Gaskell – Sometimes I already think I am BFFs with Margaret in real life. Her quiet, but fierce personality reminds me of my BFF Katrina.


8. Jo March Baeher from Little Women trilogy by Louisa May Alcott – Jo probably would have gotten me in a lot of trouble, but she would’ve been a great BFF. We could stay up late together writing and bounce ideas off each other.


9. Ellie Harrison from Avalon High by Meg Cabot – Another sassy, no-nonsense girl. She also loves to read just as much as I do. I don’t know about the whole running thing, but being friends with a reincarnation of the Lady of the Lake would be fun, right?


10. Lucy and Peter Pevensie from The Chronicles of Narnia by C.S. Lewis – Peter, well, quite honestly I would want to be BFFs with him and possibly date him. Mostly I would want to be friends with Lucy because she thinks like me and is into the whole believing is seeing thing. She’s a strong personality, which I like, but she’s also very philosophical.




Who would your literary BFFs be? Are they life-long friends or new ones you just met?

Sunday, October 17, 2010

Touching Greatness


Anyone who knows me knows exactly how big a Jane Austen fanatic I am. I can’t really remember a time when Pride and Prejudice wasn’t my favorite book. If I could write six books that are half as good as hers, I will be able to die happy. I’ve posted numerous entries about my adoration of Jane, a woman before her time who still confounds literary scholars as far as categorization goes.

At the very top of my To-Do list while I was here (Ok, really my To-Do list for life) was to visit Jane Austen’s House in Chawton and on Thursday, I checked that off the list!!!! My friend Susan and I hopped a train out to the little town where the British branch of the Mommy Mafia (Tara) lives and she drove us down into Hampshire to make our pilgrimage to visit Jane. Hampshire itself is beautiful. When you think of stereotypical English countryside, you’re probably summoning up images of Hampshire.

Susan and Me in front of Jane's House
Jane’s house is wonderful. They’ve done a wonderful job of preserving the cottage she lived in with her mother and her sister up until a few months before her death. If the furnishings weren’t original, they were reproductions or furnishings that belonged to some member of Jane’s large family (she had 6 brothers and a sister). Along with a ridiculous amount of memorabilia once owned by the Austen family, they also had a very cool collection of hand-stitched dresses that are reproductions of Regency fashions.




But the best part, it must be said was The Desk. Set off to one side of the dining room, they have Jane’s actual writing desk where she wrote ALL of her novels. It’s positioned next to a window that overlooks Winchester Road, a major coaching road at the time. So Jane would sit there every morning and write. Or, if she had writer’s block (because I’m sure even Jane got writer’s block from time to time – it’s actually a known fact since there’s little evidence of her writing in the 10 years between leaving her childhood home at Steventon and settling in Chawton), she could look out on the road and the pub across the street and observe the people that went through. I can just see her sitting there, making up little stories about the strangers she saw, or gathering up gossip about the people she knew.


Back to the best part- I got to touch The Desk (!!!!!!) It was so cool to get to touch the desk used by one of my literary idols. I’ve only ever done that once before (Laura Ingalls Wilder’s desk at Rocky Ridge Farm), but I was quite honestly too young to remember it very vividly (sorry Mom and Carrie). In fact, we may have just gotten to see the desk. At Jane’s house, you can touch it. It was so awesome! Amazing! Wonderful!





Afterwards, we went into the little shop they’ve made out of one of the outbuildings that came with the house and, after MUCH deliberation, I got a coffee mug and a copy of Persuasion (which is now tied with P&P as my favorite book), as well as a key chain and magnet to remember my pilgrimage. Once that monumental decision was made, we went and had lunch at the pub across the street which has been there since the 1600s.


I must say, it was one of the best days I’ve had since I’ve been here (Thank you, Mommy Tara and Susan!).



Mommy Tara and Me in front of Jane's House!



P.S. Just noticed this is my 27th post- my lucky number! SOOO fitting :) 

Wednesday, October 13, 2010

Memories, at the corners of my mind!!!!!


COMPOSED A FEW MILES ABOVE TINTERN ABBEY, ON REVISITING THE BANKS OF THE WYE DURING A TOUR. JULY 13, 1798
Tintern Abbey 
      FIVE years have past; five summers, with the length
      Of five long winters! and again I hear
      These waters, rolling from their mountain-springs
      With a soft inland murmur.--Once again
      Do I behold these steep and lofty cliffs,
      That on a wild secluded scene impress
      Thoughts of more deep seclusion; and connect
      The landscape with the quiet of the sky.
      The day is come when I again repose
      Here, under this dark sycamore, and view                        
      These plots of cottage-ground, these orchard-tufts,
      Which at this season, with their unripe fruits,
      Are clad in one green hue, and lose themselves
      'Mid groves and copses. Once again I see
      These hedge-rows, hardly hedge-rows, little lines
      Of sportive wood run wild: these pastoral farms,
      Green to the very door; and wreaths of smoke
      Sent up, in silence, from among the trees!
      With some uncertain notice, as might seem
      Of vagrant dwellers in the houseless woods,                     
      Or of some Hermit's cave, where by his fire
      The Hermit sits alone.
                              These beauteous forms,
      Through a long absence, have not been to me
      As is a landscape to a blind man's eye:
      But oft, in lonely rooms, and 'mid the din
      Of towns and cities, I have owed to them
      In hours of weariness, sensations sweet,
      Felt in the blood, and felt along the heart;
      And passing even into my purer mind,
      With tranquil restoration:--feelings too                     
My friend Jon and Me at Tintern
Summer 2006
      Of unremembered pleasure: such, perhaps,
      As have no slight or trivial influence
      On that best portion of a good man's life,
      His little, nameless, unremembered, acts
      Of kindness and of love. Nor less, I trust,
      To them I may have owed another gift,
      Of aspect more sublime; that blessed mood,
      In which the burthen of the mystery,
      In which the heavy and the weary weight
      Of all this unintelligible world,                              
      Is lightened:--that serene and blessed mood,
      In which the affections gently lead us on,--
      Until, the breath of this corporeal frame
      And even the motion of our human blood
      Almost suspended, we are laid asleep
      In body, and become a living soul:
      While with an eye made quiet by the power
      Of harmony, and the deep power of joy,
      We see into the life of things.
                                       If this
      Be but a vain belief, yet, oh! how oft--                       
      In darkness and amid the many shapes
      Of joyless daylight; when the fretful stir
      Unprofitable, and the fever of the world,
      Have hung upon the beatings of my heart--
      How oft, in spirit, have I turned to thee,
      O sylvan Wye! thou wanderer thro' the woods,
      How often has my spirit turned to thee!
        And now, with gleams of half-extinguished thought,
      With many recognitions dim and faint,
      And somewhat of a sad perplexity,                               
      The picture of the mind revives again:
      While here I stand, not only with the sense
      Of present pleasure, but with pleasing thoughts
      That in this moment there is life and food
      For future years. And so I dare to hope,
      Though changed, no doubt, from what I was when first
      I came among these hills; when like a roe
      I bounded o'er the mountains, by the sides
      Of the deep rivers, and the lonely streams,
      Wherever nature led: more like a man                            
      Flying from something that he dreads, than one
      Who sought the thing he loved. For nature then
      (The coarser pleasures of my boyish days,
      And their glad animal movements all gone by)
      To me was all in all.--I cannot paint
      What then I was. The sounding cataract
      Haunted me like a passion: the tall rock,
      The mountain, and the deep and gloomy wood,
      Their colours and their forms, were then to me
      An appetite; a feeling and a love,                            
      That had no need of a remoter charm,
      By thought supplied, nor any interest
      Unborrowed from the eye.--That time is past,
      And all its aching joys are now no more,
      And all its dizzy raptures. Not for this
      Faint I, nor mourn nor murmur, other gifts
      Have followed; for such loss, I would believe,
      Abundant recompence. For I have learned
      To look on nature, not as in the hour
      Of thoughtless youth; but hearing oftentimes                   
      The still, sad music of humanity,
      Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power
      To chasten and subdue. And I have felt
      A presence that disturbs me with the joy
      Of elevated thoughts; a sense sublime
      Of something far more deeply interfused,
      Whose dwelling is the light of setting suns,
      And the round ocean and the living air,
      And the blue sky, and in the mind of man;
      A motion and a spirit, that impels                             
      All thinking things, all objects of all thought,
      And rolls through all things. Therefore am I still
      A lover of the meadows and the woods,
      And mountains; and of all that we behold
      From this green earth; of all the mighty world
      Of eye, and ear,--both what they half create,
      And what perceive; well pleased to recognise
      In nature and the language of the sense,
      The anchor of my purest thoughts, the nurse,
      The guide, the guardian of my heart, and soul                 
      Of all my moral being.
                              Nor perchance,
      If I were not thus taught, should I the more
      Suffer my genial spirits to decay:
      For thou art with me here upon the banks
      Of this fair river; thou my dearest Friend,
      My dear, dear Friend; and in thy voice I catch
      The language of my former heart, and read
      My former pleasures in the shooting lights
      Of thy wild eyes. Oh! yet a little while
      May I behold in thee what I was once,                          
      My dear, dear Sister! and this prayer I make,
      Knowing that Nature never did betray
      The heart that loved her; 'tis her privilege,
      Through all the years of this our life, to lead
      From joy to joy: for she can so inform
      The mind that is within us, so impress
      With quietness and beauty, and so feed
      With lofty thoughts, that neither evil tongues,
      Rash judgments, nor the sneers of selfish men,
      Nor greetings where no kindness is, nor all                    
      The dreary intercourse of daily life,
      Shall e'er prevail against us, or disturb
      Our cheerful faith, that all which we behold
      Is full of blessings. Therefore let the moon
      Shine on thee in thy solitary walk;
      And let the misty mountain-winds be free
      To blow against thee: and, in after years,
      When these wild ecstasies shall be matured
      Into a sober pleasure; when thy mind
      Shall be a mansion for all lovely forms,                       
      Thy memory be as a dwelling-place
      For all sweet sounds and harmonies; oh! then,
      If solitude, or fear, or pain, or grief,
      Should be thy portion, with what healing thoughts
      Of tender joy wilt thou remember me,
      And these my exhortations! Nor, perchance--
      If I should be where I no more can hear
      Thy voice, nor catch from thy wild eyes these gleams
      Of past existence--wilt thou then forget
      That on the banks of this delightful stream                    
      We stood together; and that I, so long
      A worshipper of Nature, hither came
      Unwearied in that service: rather say
      With warmer love--oh! with far deeper zeal
      Of holier love. Nor wilt thou then forget,
      That after many wanderings, many years
      Of absence, these steep woods and lofty cliffs,
      And this green pastoral landscape, were to me
      More dear, both for themselves and for thy sake!
                                                              1798.

Obviously, I didn’t write that. But Wordsworth’s poem about visiting Tintern Abbey with his sister Dorothy five years after his initial visit is a great description of how I felt returning to Oxford yesterday with my friend Susan.

My friends Ben, Jen, and Jon
outside the Eagle and Child
Summer 2006
For those of you who don’t know, I spent three weeks in Oxford the summer before my senior year, studying at the St. Hugh’s Summer College. It was one of the best experiences of my life. I lucked out and got to go on the trip with one of my best friends and we met some really amazing people from all over the country (Georgia and Pennsylvania specifically). I now consider one of the best times of my life. I fell in love with the city, in love with the freedom I felt studying in a country I loved with a great group of friends around me.






Susan on the Harry Potter Stairs
at Christ Church
Ever since, I’ve wanted to go back to that time. When I would get annoyed with life or the people around me, I would draw on those memories to lift my spirits. College wasn’t as scary because I’d experienced it before (right down to the uber scary Oxford don who served as my tutor). But when the time came to go back, I was a little scared. Would it be different? Did I build it up to be better than it really was? Could I go there without my friends?

Going to Oxford yesterday with Susan was definitely a bittersweet experience. I couldn’t go back to those wonderful memories and relive them, but I did get to make new memories. I got to see Oxford through Susan’s eyes and really enjoy experiencing the city for the first time because she was. I got to play tour guide and share my memories with my friend. Much to my surprise, I still remembered how to navigate the town. I could still find my way to The Eagle and Child (where I finally got to eat in the room where the Inklings met). I hadn’t forgotten where Blackwells bookstore was. I got us to Christ Church without getting lost. Oxford was just as I remembered it.

Oxford Group 2006
I first read “Tintern Abbey” by William Wordsworth in preparation for my time at Oxford. They assigned it to us, presumably because we would be visiting the Abbey itself. But now it’s taken on a whole new meaning for me. We can never go back to those perfect moments in time that we love to cherish, but we can move forward and build on those times. They become integrated into who we are and how we see things. Memories, like friends, become a part of us, even as we become further separated by time. 



Thursday, October 7, 2010

Memorials

It's midterms week here in London, so I haven't really been on many adventures. To show you that I haven't disappeared entirely, here is a poem I wrote for my Writing in the City class.

Memorials

Ghosts look on at the cold, cold stone
Leaders lauded for skills money honed
Faceless names, nameless faces, forgotten in the mist

Lonely graves scatter the world
Never to be thought of, honor never paid
Granite statues of the few, the overly proud
While blood-stained fields enfold
Those who gave their lives for others glory-sake
           
Frozen marble reminds those left
Allows them to forget the price of war
Behind the victorious valor prized by power