Two days ago, I finally returned from a vacation in the UK of nearly three weeks. Our flight was a 7 1/2 hour affair on a Boeing 777 Continental Airlines jet. It's a huge plane, with three sets of three seats on the left, right, and center of the aircraft (in coach--"Economy" class). My parents and I were in the middle cluster of seats, midway back in the cabin. Long before we boarded the plane, I noticed an always-amusing sight--a Hasidic Jewish man of only 30 years or so in full dress--long black coat, white undershirt, hat and tightly curled strands of hair (called "peyot") on either side of his head (look up "Hasidism" on Wikipedia or do a Google image search if my description wasn't too good). He was sitting in front of my father, in the left seat. To his right (directly in front of me) was a dark-skinned young man with a shortish, ragged beard which indicated that he was a Muslim. To this man's right was a woman, also a Muslim (though these two were not acquainted with one another). What transpired between these three gave me a spark of hope for civility in a world that seems to be fleeing civility at an alarming pace.
From about ten minutes after the plane took off, the Hasid and the two Muslims engaged in what sounded like a cordial but at times quite animated discussion of their respective faiths and how they factored into world politics. Unfortunately, I can't be any more specific about the conversation as I didn't hear it very well and didn't want to eavesdrop. Simply noticing this discussion got me thinking about a tangential term that I learned in my sophomore year (high school) European History class--the term "tavern culture."
From what I understand, tavern culture developed fairly early on in Europe. Taverns served as an alternative meeting place to churches; a place where people of a wide range of socioeconomic classes would eat, drink, and socialize. What resulted was a rise in lively debate of all matters of life--religion, politics, culture, etc.
As we hurtle deeper and deeper into the iPod age, people tend to close themselves of from others when in public. Walking down the streets of London, the amount of people wearing iPods was as awe-inspiring for negative reasons as for positive. On the good hand, the product market-share Apple has created in the last five or six years is simply astounding. They've allowed music to flow from creator to consumer as never before. But now that everyone seems to have an iPod or some such (myself included), there emerges the tendency to descend into music and ignore all others around. It makes us as societies look like hoards of individuals, rather than an interdependent whole. Thank goodness the Hasid and the Muslims didn't wall themselves off with iPods. As nice as music is and can be, they wouldn't have been so enriched as they were when they left the plane had they put themselves in the iPod cocoon.
No lyrical selection this evening.
Saturday, June 28, 2008
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
New Look
I've decided to do a new template for my blog. One main reason for this can be divined from reading the next post down.
Cheerio.
Cheerio.
Turnover
Even though it has now been over a year since I graduated high school--Westminster School in Simsbury, CT--I have continued to read emails on the Westminster email network, both personal emails (updates from Facebook, banking, and other assorted alerts) and school emails (general Westy news, sports information, etc.). A few days ago I was notified that on June 30, my email account would be deleted from the system. While most of my graduation class has totally cut the cord, I have lingered on in the hallways of the electronic Westminster for 13 months. Next week, I will be evicted from it indefinitely, and will have to rely on my Washington & Lee University (my current site of academic misadventure) email address in terms of academic-based emails. Most people wouldn't so much as sniff at this fact, but being the sappy overthinker that I am, I would like to reflect and take you, dear readers along for the (brief, I promise) ride.
As a sappy overthinker, I am grasping at a meaning in this seemingly routine event. My deeply beloved high school alma mater is kicking me out into the real world (which is only ever-so-slightly more real) of college life. The only way for me to keep up with Westminster happenings for the next couple years will be through my sister. I have spent so very much time spent browsing emails on that server in the past five years (far less this year, but still a little bit). All those emails as a single oeuvre have contributed to my mental and social shaping. They (and what they represent) have had an immeasurable impact on my present and future character. At the risk of sounding a braggart I consider myself a generally decent, intelligent, socially-viable (that last bit will probably raise the most disagreement from some of you, dear readers) chap. I owe a large amount of that to jolly old Westminster. It's a shame that I cannot thank emails, and I did my share of thanking 13 months ago, so I'll have to fade into the Westminster West as I rise in the Washington & Lee East.
With a year behind me at dear Washington & Lee (stay tuned for a more focused reflection on this past year), I have had time to transition into a college student. But to this day I find myself reminiscing often on my four years at Westminster. As many say about things that are behind them, I regret the times I took the place for granted because some days all I want to do is project back to my time there, if only for a moment. Don't get me wrong; I loved my year at Washington & Lee and look forward to three more just like it (and better, hopefully). But it's just not the same. Even though W&L is small (~1800 students, about 450 in each grade), I'll never know who everyone in my grade, much less my school. I found such comfort in recognizing every face I saw on a daily basis. That will never happen again, no mater how many people I meet at W&L.
I realize what this nostalgic flood, and its concomitant melancholy means. I need to finally turn the page, to acknowledge the fun I had at Westminster, but to set it aside as the irrevocable past. Before I return to Lexington at the beginning of September, I need to turn my attention more fully to the fun ahead of me. The stripping of my Westminster email account ultimately represents a final warning for me to move on. Otherwise, it will become harder and harder the further and further I get from May 27, 2007 to turn my attention fully towards the present and future. If I do not heed this final call, I run the risk of becoming a person who is constrained to look back an mope on missed opportunities, an uncontrollable "what if?" machine. It's time to bid a fond fare-well to Simsbury and to look Lexington, Virginia in the eye, smile, and become properly acquainted.
No lyrics this evening (it's 18:30 here in London), just one of my favorite poems, symbolic of my struggle. It is "On Turning Ten," by Billy Collins.
"The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed."
As a sappy overthinker, I am grasping at a meaning in this seemingly routine event. My deeply beloved high school alma mater is kicking me out into the real world (which is only ever-so-slightly more real) of college life. The only way for me to keep up with Westminster happenings for the next couple years will be through my sister. I have spent so very much time spent browsing emails on that server in the past five years (far less this year, but still a little bit). All those emails as a single oeuvre have contributed to my mental and social shaping. They (and what they represent) have had an immeasurable impact on my present and future character. At the risk of sounding a braggart I consider myself a generally decent, intelligent, socially-viable (that last bit will probably raise the most disagreement from some of you, dear readers) chap. I owe a large amount of that to jolly old Westminster. It's a shame that I cannot thank emails, and I did my share of thanking 13 months ago, so I'll have to fade into the Westminster West as I rise in the Washington & Lee East.
With a year behind me at dear Washington & Lee (stay tuned for a more focused reflection on this past year), I have had time to transition into a college student. But to this day I find myself reminiscing often on my four years at Westminster. As many say about things that are behind them, I regret the times I took the place for granted because some days all I want to do is project back to my time there, if only for a moment. Don't get me wrong; I loved my year at Washington & Lee and look forward to three more just like it (and better, hopefully). But it's just not the same. Even though W&L is small (~1800 students, about 450 in each grade), I'll never know who everyone in my grade, much less my school. I found such comfort in recognizing every face I saw on a daily basis. That will never happen again, no mater how many people I meet at W&L.
I realize what this nostalgic flood, and its concomitant melancholy means. I need to finally turn the page, to acknowledge the fun I had at Westminster, but to set it aside as the irrevocable past. Before I return to Lexington at the beginning of September, I need to turn my attention more fully to the fun ahead of me. The stripping of my Westminster email account ultimately represents a final warning for me to move on. Otherwise, it will become harder and harder the further and further I get from May 27, 2007 to turn my attention fully towards the present and future. If I do not heed this final call, I run the risk of becoming a person who is constrained to look back an mope on missed opportunities, an uncontrollable "what if?" machine. It's time to bid a fond fare-well to Simsbury and to look Lexington, Virginia in the eye, smile, and become properly acquainted.
No lyrics this evening (it's 18:30 here in London), just one of my favorite poems, symbolic of my struggle. It is "On Turning Ten," by Billy Collins.
"The whole idea of it makes me feel
like I'm coming down with something,
something worse than any stomach ache
or the headaches I get from reading in bad light--
a kind of measles of the spirit,
a mumps of the psyche,
a disfiguring chicken pox of the soul.
You tell me it is too early to be looking back,
but that is because you have forgotten
the perfect simplicity of being one
and the beautiful complexity introduced by two.
But I can lie on my bed and remember every digit.
At four I was an Arabian wizard.
I could make myself invisible
by drinking a glass of milk a certain way.
At seven I was a soldier, at nine a prince.
But now I am mostly at the window
watching the late afternoon light.
Back then it never fell so solemnly
against the side of my tree house,
and my bicycle never leaned against the garage
as it does today,
all the dark blue speed drained out of it.
This is the beginning of sadness, I say to myself,
as I walk through the universe in my sneakers.
It is time to say good-bye to my imaginary friends,
time to turn the first big number.
It seems only yesterday I used to believe
there was nothing under my skin but light.
If you cut me I could shine.
But now when I fall upon the sidewalks of life,
I skin my knees. I bleed."
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Social Concerns
At the abode in which I have spent the last seven nights, the television is equipped with only five stations. One of these, the apparently trendy “4,” (think UK’s answer to MTV/Spike/VH1/etc.) carries as its current showcase programme (sic) “Big Brother”—the UK version. Now, as I am an ardent opponent of reality television, you can be sure, dear readers, that I have much to say on the programme (again, sic). But I will confine my complaint to one region of 21st century social interaction.
I turned on Big Brother the other night to find the “housemates,” as the overly official-sounding narrator describes them, having a house meeting of sorts. They seemed to be airing some petty grievances fairly calmly amongst themselves. No one was screaming obscenities (“fuck” is fair game on the telly over here) or wrestling. Needless to say, I was intrigued by the apparent break from sensationalism and obvious excitement. Unfortunately, this bit of good feeling on my part was short lived, as soon after the meeting concluded amicably, the camera flashed to one of the housemates, a young lady, who was being interviewed in the “Diary Room” by Big Brother herself (yes, HERself…gender bender?). She was apparently not satisfied with the sweeping apologies that had been made by others in the house. She was especially peeved about another girl, who she claimed was “always talking behind other people’s backs.”
Which brings me to today’s topic: the annoyance with “talking behind other people’s backs.” First of all, I’m not even sure I’m clear on the definition of “talking behind other people’s backs.” My best guess is that it’s a 21st century term among the angst-laden to cover unwanted gossip and rumor-mongering. And apparently, it’s a big freakin’ deal to a great many people. I am quite sure that my eccentricity of personality does not resonate with everybody, and therefore certain people have been moved at times to impugn my character to others, out of earshot of me. I suppose, then, that people have talked behind my back (perhaps it’s the case that I am kidding myself, that I am really not so special as to warrant discussions about me amongst others, but I try at least to delude myself of the falseness of that notion in order to keep from becoming a hermit) in the past. For some reason, I have come to accept this as part of human nature, and don’t let myself become upset by it. At the same, I am quite sure that I myself have dished unneeded dirt on somebody behind that person’s back, contributed to the circulation of false and potentially damaging information about him or her. I hope I have not done so to the extent where that girl would have railed against me as someone who is “always talking behind other people’s backs.” But that is up to my peers to decide.
The most telling aspect of this girl’s rant to Big Brother was that by accusing the other girl of “always talking behind other people’s backs,” she was herself talking behind someone’s back, right? Wouldn’t it have been consistent with her complaint to take Girl B aside and try to determine Girl B’s motives for “always talking behind other people’s backs”? Ah well, I suppose that would be asking too much of someone who wanted to be on “Big Brother.”
In conclusion, I think it would be wise for those of us who take “always talking behind other people’s backs” so seriously to examine why we are so disturbed by it. Since we are all guilty of it at times, perhaps it bothers us because we loathe that behavior of ours. Personally, I feel that anyone who hasn’t the decency to clarify with me rumors that they have heard second- or third- or fourth-hand isn’t worth my worry anyway. The detractors will always think what they will, and no amount of eloquence or reason on my part will dissuade them from their comfortable error of opinion. Therefore, I don’t worry about such people. I would feel horribly restricted if I cared so much about the opinions of unreasonable folks that I could no longer “be myself” (I hate that phrase, but you know what I mean). So, I don’t care. That’s not to say that I am eternally stubborn—I strive (often in vain) to fix flaws—but I will forever refuse to be molded by what I fear people might say behind my back.
No lyrical selection today. If you’ve gotten this far in the post, you have my thanks; you’ve read enough of my drivel for one day, I think.
I turned on Big Brother the other night to find the “housemates,” as the overly official-sounding narrator describes them, having a house meeting of sorts. They seemed to be airing some petty grievances fairly calmly amongst themselves. No one was screaming obscenities (“fuck” is fair game on the telly over here) or wrestling. Needless to say, I was intrigued by the apparent break from sensationalism and obvious excitement. Unfortunately, this bit of good feeling on my part was short lived, as soon after the meeting concluded amicably, the camera flashed to one of the housemates, a young lady, who was being interviewed in the “Diary Room” by Big Brother herself (yes, HERself…gender bender?). She was apparently not satisfied with the sweeping apologies that had been made by others in the house. She was especially peeved about another girl, who she claimed was “always talking behind other people’s backs.”
Which brings me to today’s topic: the annoyance with “talking behind other people’s backs.” First of all, I’m not even sure I’m clear on the definition of “talking behind other people’s backs.” My best guess is that it’s a 21st century term among the angst-laden to cover unwanted gossip and rumor-mongering. And apparently, it’s a big freakin’ deal to a great many people. I am quite sure that my eccentricity of personality does not resonate with everybody, and therefore certain people have been moved at times to impugn my character to others, out of earshot of me. I suppose, then, that people have talked behind my back (perhaps it’s the case that I am kidding myself, that I am really not so special as to warrant discussions about me amongst others, but I try at least to delude myself of the falseness of that notion in order to keep from becoming a hermit) in the past. For some reason, I have come to accept this as part of human nature, and don’t let myself become upset by it. At the same, I am quite sure that I myself have dished unneeded dirt on somebody behind that person’s back, contributed to the circulation of false and potentially damaging information about him or her. I hope I have not done so to the extent where that girl would have railed against me as someone who is “always talking behind other people’s backs.” But that is up to my peers to decide.
The most telling aspect of this girl’s rant to Big Brother was that by accusing the other girl of “always talking behind other people’s backs,” she was herself talking behind someone’s back, right? Wouldn’t it have been consistent with her complaint to take Girl B aside and try to determine Girl B’s motives for “always talking behind other people’s backs”? Ah well, I suppose that would be asking too much of someone who wanted to be on “Big Brother.”
In conclusion, I think it would be wise for those of us who take “always talking behind other people’s backs” so seriously to examine why we are so disturbed by it. Since we are all guilty of it at times, perhaps it bothers us because we loathe that behavior of ours. Personally, I feel that anyone who hasn’t the decency to clarify with me rumors that they have heard second- or third- or fourth-hand isn’t worth my worry anyway. The detractors will always think what they will, and no amount of eloquence or reason on my part will dissuade them from their comfortable error of opinion. Therefore, I don’t worry about such people. I would feel horribly restricted if I cared so much about the opinions of unreasonable folks that I could no longer “be myself” (I hate that phrase, but you know what I mean). So, I don’t care. That’s not to say that I am eternally stubborn—I strive (often in vain) to fix flaws—but I will forever refuse to be molded by what I fear people might say behind my back.
No lyrical selection today. If you’ve gotten this far in the post, you have my thanks; you’ve read enough of my drivel for one day, I think.
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Aye Like!
Well it's been a very nice week-and-a-half in Scotland so far. I was in Edinburgh from last Sunday to last Thursday, and have been staying with my dad in Crail, a small town in Fife, in a house devoid of Internet connection (hell, there are only five television channels, so I've had to watch an unhealthy amount of "Big Brother: UK"...more on that in next post). We leave for a few days in London with mother, sister, and aunt's family on Thursday.
Scotland is quite an interesting place. Some assorted observations/anecdotes.
- My last night in Edinburgh, the four of us (mother, father, sister, yours truly) went to an Italian restaurant. My dessert was rather naughty, by my standards. It consisted of a couple scoops of vanilla ice cream topped with sliced oranges, chocolate sauce, and a healthy amount of Grand Marnier, an orange-flavored liqueur. And I thoroughly enjoyed said dessert. No, I did not get drunk. But there you go: Gavrich has had a bit of the silly stuff, and he enjoyed it.
- The general Scottish accent is fascinating. However, I could never see myself romantically involved with a Scottish girl because while the accent is fascinating, it is rather guttural (apologies, lasses)
- It would be indubitably baller to have a family tartan and kilt, but the colors of clan Gavrich have been conspicuously absent from wool and cashmere stores.
- I've been amused to hear the accents of people here who hail from other countries altogether. In other words, Chinese-accented Scottish English is a sight different from Chinese-accented American English.
- Links golf is fun. Try it.
- Seeing ample daylight at 10:45 PM is far-out.
- The Scots love American country music. Go figure.
- Haggis: (wholeheartedly and wholestomachedly) Gavrich-approved foodstuff.
- Alcohol is far more important here than food.
This morning's lyrical selection: "Let's Drink to our Next Meeting," written by Hew Ainslie (1792-1878). Without providing a glossary of old-timey Scottish word translations, I take it that you'll either look up foreign-looking words or divine their meaning from context (after all, living in the SAT age as we do, we're all well-versed in reading strategies, no?)
"Let's drink to our next meeting, lads,
Nor think on what's atwixt;
They're fools wha spoil the present hour
By thinking on the next.
(Chorus)
Then here's to Meg o' Morningside,
An Kate o' Kittlemark;
The taen she drank her hose and shoon,
The tither pawned her sark.
A load o' wealth, an' wardly pelf,
They say is sair to bear;
Sae he's a gowk would scrape an' howk
To make his burden mair
(Chorus)
Gif Care looks black the morn, lads,
As he's come doon the lum,
Let's ease our hearts by swearing, lads,
We never bade him come.
(Chorus)
Then here's to our next meeting, lads,
Ne'er think on what's atwixt;
They're fools who spoil the present hour
By thinking on the next.
(Chorus)"
Scotland is quite an interesting place. Some assorted observations/anecdotes.
- My last night in Edinburgh, the four of us (mother, father, sister, yours truly) went to an Italian restaurant. My dessert was rather naughty, by my standards. It consisted of a couple scoops of vanilla ice cream topped with sliced oranges, chocolate sauce, and a healthy amount of Grand Marnier, an orange-flavored liqueur. And I thoroughly enjoyed said dessert. No, I did not get drunk. But there you go: Gavrich has had a bit of the silly stuff, and he enjoyed it.
- The general Scottish accent is fascinating. However, I could never see myself romantically involved with a Scottish girl because while the accent is fascinating, it is rather guttural (apologies, lasses)
- It would be indubitably baller to have a family tartan and kilt, but the colors of clan Gavrich have been conspicuously absent from wool and cashmere stores.
- I've been amused to hear the accents of people here who hail from other countries altogether. In other words, Chinese-accented Scottish English is a sight different from Chinese-accented American English.
- Links golf is fun. Try it.
- Seeing ample daylight at 10:45 PM is far-out.
- The Scots love American country music. Go figure.
- Haggis: (wholeheartedly and wholestomachedly) Gavrich-approved foodstuff.
- Alcohol is far more important here than food.
This morning's lyrical selection: "Let's Drink to our Next Meeting," written by Hew Ainslie (1792-1878). Without providing a glossary of old-timey Scottish word translations, I take it that you'll either look up foreign-looking words or divine their meaning from context (after all, living in the SAT age as we do, we're all well-versed in reading strategies, no?)
"Let's drink to our next meeting, lads,
Nor think on what's atwixt;
They're fools wha spoil the present hour
By thinking on the next.
(Chorus)
Then here's to Meg o' Morningside,
An Kate o' Kittlemark;
The taen she drank her hose and shoon,
The tither pawned her sark.
A load o' wealth, an' wardly pelf,
They say is sair to bear;
Sae he's a gowk would scrape an' howk
To make his burden mair
(Chorus)
Gif Care looks black the morn, lads,
As he's come doon the lum,
Let's ease our hearts by swearing, lads,
We never bade him come.
(Chorus)
Then here's to our next meeting, lads,
Ne'er think on what's atwixt;
They're fools who spoil the present hour
By thinking on the next.
(Chorus)"
Saturday, June 07, 2008
Sojourn
I returned home from school for the summer six days ago, and was not able to muse up the inclination to do a knee-jerk recap post. Mea culpa. I have a ~7 hour plane ride from Newark, NJ to Edinburgh, Scotland ahead of me, so maybe I'll be able to draft a little something-something.
I'll be on the old sod for the better part of three weeks, during which time I will have limited internet capabilities. So instead of not blogging while I've got a strong wireless signal, I guess I'll be not blogging without any signal whatever for a few days.
Sorry for the lethargy folks; I've really got to do something about all that.
Cheers.
I'll be on the old sod for the better part of three weeks, during which time I will have limited internet capabilities. So instead of not blogging while I've got a strong wireless signal, I guess I'll be not blogging without any signal whatever for a few days.
Sorry for the lethargy folks; I've really got to do something about all that.
Cheers.
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