2010 Man Booker Prize

Also - congratulations to Howard Jacobson for earning the 2010 Man Booker Prize!

right to choose

I cannot let this week pass without at least tipping my hat toward Banned Books Week.

hiatus

As classes have begun and food and sleep are necessities, I must take a hiatus from banks.of.harle.

Cheers for now!

a merry rant: desperate measures of christianity

Friday night my friend Hannah and I traveled to the wilds of Chattanooga intent on The Book of Liz. When the box-office receptionist informed us that the play was sold-out, we rearranged our plans, ultimately perching ourselves at Rembrandt's Café - a lovely coffee house/bakery in Chattanooga's Art District.

As usual our conversation covered a ridiculous range of topics, from the respectable merits of genre novelists to the Augustinian revival through the Calvinist Reformation (bleh) so that our empty cups and cleaned plates must have collected a bit of dust before we surrendered to the 11pm closing chime.

One topic we wove through considerably is the Christian movement of pop/hipster culture integration (endorsed by the magazine Relevant and movie-theater-turned-church billboards that boast "a different kind of church"). As a student at a Christian liberal arts university, the topic is especially visible and, well, relevant.

Despite the claims of secular cultural integration, secular remains acceptable only when it's made applicable to the religious. This is delusional. No matter how much internal tweaking you do to make out the Gospel of John in Ok Computer, Radiohead in its un-processed form is not made of the same stuff as Christian spirituality.

Reality is a braid of innumerable strands, and one strand does not become more universally prominent by translucently (i.e., philosophically) shading over the others. The 'strand' has to become unavoidable, and ideological rehashing is very, very avoidable.

Anyway, rather than allow internal transformation via secular influence, a "reformed" follower ends up simply filtering for herself the world through already-imbedded religious worldviews, and yet Christians' lack of autochthonous ingenuity legitimizes the secular culture's dominance.

Regardless of ideological foundation, action and creativity are unavoidable forces.

Of course to propel these forces for the good of spirituality they must emanate from a strong spiritual center. Spirituality is essential. But the energy Christians use to prove cultural relevance perpetuates Christianity as a religion that focuses on identity rather than spirituality.

book beauty: american sea writing

Wonderful book design effectively shapes the atmosphere of a work. This particular anthology, American Sea Writing, exemplifies that beautifully as the translucent jacket, old-world graphic face and classic cloth spine evoke the organic smell of New England sea.

Published in 2000 by The Library of America

Designed by Bruce Campbell

Hemingway, Thoreau and Twain are among the writers whose stories comprise this lovely edition!

response: the joy luck club

The Joy Luck Club collected dust on my shelf for almost a year, but during a wave of hunger for Chinese culture (that has stricken consistently since Shan Sa's Empress), I finally cracked the spine of Amy Tan's 1989 novel. (Penguin Books Ltd, 288 pages)

"I will use this sharp pain to penetrate my daughter's tough skin and cut her tiger spirit loose. She will fight me, because this is the nature of two tigers. But I will win and give her my spirit, because this is the way a mother loves her daughter." Ying-Ying St. Clair, 252

The novel is divided into vignettes, each dedicated to one of eight women - four first-generation Chinese-Americans and their four immigrant Chinese mothers. Opening from the perspective of Jing-Mei Woo just after her mother's death, Tan introduces to the reader the old Chinese women who alternate between Chinese and poor English, wear mismatched clothes and impart superstitious advice, introducing the women through the narrative critical eyes of the typical westerner (such as their prevalently American daughters).

Yet the narrative interweaves throughout the unfolding stories of their youths in China, from exotic adventures of wealth to arranged marriages escaped through clever deceit, and these tiny Chinese women - their complexity formerly veneered by their awkward foreign customs - are revealed as women of regal strengths and arcane depths.

The theme remains wonderfully complex as their daughters are also portrayed with grace and sympathy. Exasperated by their mothers' superstitions and displaced values that are contentious with the American society in which they're expected to succeed, they also earn our empathy as Tan leads us through the unique circumstances of their lives.

In the final chapter, Jing-Mei Woo treks to China with her father, and we see her gaze in astonishment out of a train's window as they ride through the countryside. Looking across to her father who's joyful homecoming tears contrast to her wide-eyed wonder, there's a poetic beauty in both sentiments of parent and child.

The disconnect-yet-enduring-bond between mother and daughter transcends cultural themes. We perceive that as Woo unlocks the beautiful dimensions of her mother that had been distanced farther than the width of the Pacific, so do those dimensions unlock in her own spirit, eclipsing contexts and expectations.

just a note: the man booker prize

Longlist released today!

(As an indecisive and slightly obsessive compulsive individual, I like lists.)

uk: stratford, then london

I looked forward to Stratford-upon-Avon (for obvious reasons), but I was disappointed by the level of tourism that had taken over the town. Trinket shops were on every corner, and tourists invaded the streets! I had hoped that I would find some wonderful bookshops, but the only stores I happened upon, at least in my limited free time, were corporate.

Visiting Shakespeare's grave, however, was truly a transcendental experience. I was overwhelmed by the idea that the dust of Shakespeare lay closer than the letters of his sacrosanct name on the cover of an indispensable play. The nebulous idea of the playwright became flesh and bone! (Well… bone.)

That night I had the honor of attending King Lear at the Royal Shakespeare Company. The production incorporated set and costume design from the nineteenth century and even World War I, displacing the conventional vision of the play so that its themes of cold power-grabbing and dark chaos made fine impressions.

The next day we made our way to London - our final destination. I'm sad to say, though, that I became sicker than I can remember ever feeling (food poisoning!) and consequently lost out on the London experience! I could've been devastated, but I was so exhausted by then that I could not have enjoyed the city to the fullest anyway, and I'm very confident that I will return.

Nonetheless, I did manage to take these pictures at Windsor and then the Tower of London (just hours before I became officially bed-ridden).

Kara, with whom I sat in many-a-pub!

And finally, a picture from my hotel room.

(Victoria Plaza Room 350, your ceiling will forever be burned in my memory!)

This trip was with my university's history department, but I look forward to a future visit in which I'll make the plans! To show for this adventure, I have a healthy stack of books (so that by Stratford others were placing bets on whether a newly acquired book was tucked in my bag).

So here's to my first experience of the fair British Isles! (May there be many more to come!)

uk: lake district

Lord Tennyson, Sir Walter Scott, Robert Southey, Beatrix Potter, Thomas Coleridge, William Wordsworth: these writers cherished the Lake District - a region dubbed by many as the most beautiful place on Earth. Unlike the shocking raw beauty of Scotland, the pastoral beauty of this land inspired a placid spiritual peace.

18 May 2010 - Today in Grasmere I visited Dove Cottage, the greenery and flowers visible outside every window. The garden behind the cottage was lovely – the lake visible between cobblestone buildings from the top of the rise that was carpeted with flowers. At two I began a hike through the path that Wordsworth himself walked more than two hundred years ago. There was an opening in the trees that looked upon a pasture dotted with sheep, twisted trees scattered in the perfect arrangement. The romantic art that I’d assumed to be exaggerations of beauty became absolutely appropriate to what I saw today.

19 May 2010 - I’m sitting on a boulder beside the lake, an icy wind that’s freezing my fingers and ears into numbness also blowing the water into choppy crests, lapping jagged, black rocks at the shore. Nature is a most direct communiqué of God, which is why if we listen to nature we just might hear Him.

These pictures are from Keswick. As my only camera was a dysfunctional SLR, I left it behind for the Grasmere hike. Keswick was certainly beautiful, but Grasmere made me want to sit in the grass dedicate my life to Lyrical Ballads!

“And from the blessed power that rolls

About, below, above,

We’ll frame the measure of our souls,

They shall be tuned to love.”

(Wm. Wordsworth)

uk: edinburgh

My favorite city has become Edinburgh.

I felt at home there, walking through the streets without a map, naturally finding my way. I didn't have an itinerary for two full days, and I let myself meander through the beautifully old buildings into wonderful places, including the city's ancient University and The Elephant House - where JK Rowling wrote much of Harry Potter! I didn't have any intentions of ending up anywhere particular, and I loved this freedom of spontaneity. I felt the energy of the city, allowing this to prod me.

My camera began to have technical problems just before I reached Edinburgh so that I didn't take a single picture. Nonetheless, this allowed me to experience Edinburgh more than merely see the city, and when I encountered something beautiful I considered it rather than lifted a camera to my face.

In fact, I loved this enough so that - as strange as it may seem - I didn't bother searching for a camera shop. Even though I generally enjoy photography, not having this option was liberating in many ways.

But here are some snippets from my journal.

12 May 2010 - I’m sitting in Edinburgh’s La Café Royale anticipating a “Traditional Scottish Scone” and a “White Coffee.” I don’t know what exactly these are (which is why I ordered them).

As I crossed the bridge, I scanned the line of old, old buildings. I feel at ease in this city; the place seems genuine, and sincerity puts one at ease. There’s an organic feel to the atmosphere of Edinburgh.

It turns out that a Traditional Scottish Scone is a soft strawberry jelly-filled scone, and white coffee is (as I’d suspected) simply coffee with cream. Perfect.

14 May 2010 - Sitting in The Elephant, “The Birthplace of Harry Potter,” sipping a drink. There’s no sign of the franchise within the café, a gimmick they could have easily exploited and yet I only saw a small subheading on a sign outside. I imagine that were a place in the U.S. attached to such a phenomenon the commercialism would have erupted throughout the entire street. America's cultural roots are shallow, and its society follows currents with little resistance

- - -

After The Elephant I continued walking down the street for the university. The shops became less refined and more hip, the style less polished – telling signs of collegiate culture. Nonetheless, as I turned a corner there were less people and the buildings hid the sun, deflating my confidence. I saw a tall man about my age carrying a backpack, so I got some directions from him which I followed until I approached a square, the “hideous modern building- you can’t miss it” on the left and the Student Union, a cathedral-like building, towards the right. A large man of about thirty, dressed all in black, interacted with each of the students at the door. A student union bouncer?

Resolutely I walked to the foot of the stairs and looked up to the man.

“Excuse me. Would I have to be a student to go in there?”

He smiled slyly down his nose, “Technically.”

“Oh. Technically?”

“Mmhmm.” He paused. “Do you want a look around?”

I perked, “Yes! Please.”

He stepped aside and nodded toward the door.

Honestly, before I stepped inside I’d expected a reserved atmosphere, students of this prestigious, ancient university sitting intently over books at their tables. Founded in 1583, Edinburgh University is ranked as one of the world’s top twenty universities, boasting a long list of prestigious graduates from David Hume and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle to Edward Abbey and Gordon Brown. To my surprise, however, loud music, voices and laughter erupted when I opened the door. Merriment is the best word for what I heard.

The Library Bar – the loudest – was full, several pint glasses, mostly empty, covering each of the tables that was surrounded by students. Other students ran (literally) in and out of the halls, some making eye contact and smiling. I felt comradery in their expressions, however deceptive this was on my part.

After a round through the other rooms, also raucous and littered with empty pint glasses, I made my way back to exit. The man in black was closely examining a student’s ID when I walked out.

When he saw me he smiled, acknowledging our secret, and once again stood aside.

uk: oban to the isle of iona

I took this photo to record the first moments of my first morning in Scotland.

We stayed in the fishing village of Oban at the Regent Hotel - decorated with 1940's furniture, art-nouveau lettered signs and faded prints. At most hours in the small lounge, even into the night, a scattering of people with white hair, old-fashioned dresses and soothing brogues sat around little wooden tables, sipping whiskey from the bar.

I loved my room with the warbled glass windows, the narrow creaking bed, the porcelain bathroom (with a hot-water generator at hand). The room looked out over a scattering of buildings and the sea, more Scottish hills visible in the distance - gray shadows through the morning fog. The ratio of Oban's pubs to other buildings is impressive, some pubs garishly colorful and others, like The Cellar, only accessible through a narrow stairway.

The day after our arrival we ventured to the Isle of Iona. To journey there we road a ferry to the Isle of Mull across which we drove for over an hour to yet another ferry, the final ride to one of the world's most sacred places.

A sacred legacy resonates from the scattering of ancient celtic crosses and roofless, centuries-old buildings. I felt in awe that so much of the world's spiritual fate emanated from this tiny, isolated island, from the order that exists today to St. Columba's landing from Ireland to ancient Druid rites; I believe that there are some places, like this, that are inherently spiritual.

uk: arriving in scotland

I try to be a bit cynical when I travel to different cultures. I remind myself that the portrayals in art are usually romantic hyperboles, and I anticipate commercialism to have polluted the society into a level of artificiality.

In Scotland, however, I found the villages to be genuinely quaint, the landscape shockingly beautiful, and the people robustly amiable. I wasn't disappointed in the least! When I walked out of the Glasgow airport, the air was cold and, to my personal delight, the sky was gray with gloomy clouds.

I love the rain. And I love the cold. Scotland certainly fulfilled both of these loves as it misted or sleeted most days (and the temperature remained below freezing in the north).

I find that many introverts like these conditions; they encourage us to find comfort within ourselves - creatively and intellectually. Also, we're given a perfectly legitimate excuse to remain bundled inside with delicious hot drinks and wonderful, wonderful books (or what have you)!

That first day we drove through the Scottish countryside, the sky was patched with misting clouds while sunlight shone crisp and golden onto the steep crags.

My first impression of Scotland was of epic natural beauty. As we drove through the countryside, I decided firmly that this place came closer to magical than anywhere I'd been - no hyperboles necessary.

a new series

In May I spent three weeks traipsing throughout the United Kingdom, exploring medieval castles, ancient ruins, quaint pubs, centuries-old cities and falling very much in love with it all!

The cathartic atmosphere of Celtic art became real through the epic beauty of the Scottish Highlands and the sacred isolation at the Isle of Iona; the stories that to me had seemed entirely fantastical - such as Rowling's parallel magical world and even Doyle's rainy conundrums - became well-founded as I walked under the dark architecture in Edinburgh and sat in the yellow warmth of its pubs. In England the poetry and the paintings of Romantics became absolutely appropriate to the pastoral beauty in the Lake District, and a balance of modernism and old-world mystery created the sense of endless potential in London.

The next few posts will concern these adventures, including snippets from my journals and (of course!) a sampling of photos!

REVIVED!

After months of neglect (just look at the date on my last post!), I've decided to go a new direction with this little journal - one that's a bit more casual and a lot less cerebral!

Many of the most beautiful moments of my life have been the simplest - the "every-girl" experiences.

So - here's to life's "simply sublime" indulgences, confessions and musings!