Keeping it light, here are some of the things I did this year:
1. Ate medjool dates for the first time in my life.
2. Went on an accidentally long bicycle tour of 30ish or more kilometres in the early morning in May. Let's finish retracing the former course of the Berlin Wall! my mother told me, inclined as she is to heroic feats of endurance upon the two-wheeled vehicle. (In past years she had followed the Berlin Wall almost all the way from Spandau to the east and back to Potsdam; we were doing the last stretch through Babelsberg, Sacrow, Kladow, etc.) As it turns out, the distance and time duration had been grossly underestimated.
3. Saw the Vienna New Year's Concert.
4. Began reading a Hungarian book via translating machine and picked up the vocabulary és, ház, and száz.
5. Did an admittedly lousy presentation for a Byzantinian literature class in January, where I felt so tired that I was practically 'floating' up the stairs in the Fehrbelliner Platz subway station on the way there.
6. Picked out the violin concert repertoire (Paganini, Wieniawski, Kreisler etc.) on the piano with one hand, whilst housesitting for uncle and aunt in the country in October.
7. Ordered tons of books from family shop over the year, e.g. Principles of Classical Ballet by Agrippina Vaganova, Erste russische Lesestücke, Long Walk to Freedom, Greek textbook, autobiography of Morrissey etc.
8. Listened to all of the National Public Radio's list of 'Heavy Rotation' and '100 Favorite Songs' music in 2013, on YouTube.
9. On January 19th, had holes and ladders in all of my tights but wanted to wear Scottish skirt to university anyway, and thus decided to wear a pair of tights which required clear tape in three places, and employ book bag and coat as shields. Most awkward and silliest day ever.
10. Watched Oxford vs. Cambridge boat race for the first time in my life, on television in March; and went to Potsdam for a solitary walk as snow still lay on the ground even though it was already Good Friday.
11. Kicked myself out of university in July.
12. In April, went nuts with a cleaning schedule and overhauled the entire household with daily dishwashing and garbage-emptying, weekly window-cleaning and vacuuming and toilet-scrubbing, heroic cleaning of the refrigerator, etc. Since it was in the spirit of journalistic inquiry I only kept it up diligently one week, but for that week I timed it and everything.
13. In May, concocted chicken broth for the first time in my life. If I recall it correctly, it was destined for a chicken pot pie after a Pioneer Woman recipe. Later in the year, I made fattoush and a raspberry cranachan and a vegetable stock with white cabbage.
14. These past weeks, began reading Japanese manga in a sweeping degree: all of Skip Beat! released so far, Fruits Basket, Natsume Yuujinchou, etc.
15. Eggnog. It was a little overpowering in its freight of Scotch whisky and rum; very well received by the family.
16. Was assembling Ikea shelf. Floppy backboard of shelf had slid out of place after first nail had been affixed. Gouged scissors into hand whilst prying nail out of the Ikea bookshelf. Went pale as a sheet. Slathered injury in iodine salve, imbibed sugary tea and lay down to mitigate shock. Have a lovely scar there now. Also, perforce, tickled the ivories with the right hand only for a time.
17. Began watching Africa's Next Top Model. Liked Australia's again, too, but feelings of shame and dismay interfere with watching America's any more.
18. Read The Portuguese Revolution: 31st of January (Oporto 1891) in Portuguese.
19. Bought a year's worth of Guardian Weekly issues in paper. Answered perhaps one King William's College Quiz question correctly in the latest issue, but have left a sudoku game entirely unfinished in an old issue . . .
[N.B. Dec. 28th: It turns out that I had numbered these things incorrectly, so there are only 19 curiosities after all!]
Friday, December 27, 2013
Monday, December 23, 2013
Lofoten Stockfish, M' Antoinette and Microfibres
Yesterday I devoted a few hours to documentaries on television, and greatly enjoyed it.
FIRST there was an itinerant culinary series that, having explored the cassoulet, the Breton mussel from its spiralling ropes, etc., in the past, had landed in the icy, northerly islands of Norway. When we strayed onto the channel, dark phalanxes of fish writhed in the wind as they were hung in bunches above snowladen earth looking over the seaboard. Everything looked lovely — brightly painted weatherboard homes, ink-dark ocean, floes and snowfall and rock at the water's edge — and so bright that it couldn't imaginably be filmed in winter months. As for the fish, I don't think that they were alive despite appearances, because the stockfish might be unflavourful if it is strung up with its innards remaining in situ.
AFTERWARDS a German-dubbed French film explored the premise that one could, through a three-course repast, answer the question, 'What did Marie Antoinette like to eat?'. In an unnaturally serene and rustically shadowy kitchen, a proper French chef de cuisine prepared oysters on the half shell bedded on spinach and pine nuts and gratinated with a hint of cheese, followed by the main course of pink-cooked duck that had been fried in a pan and then given into the oven and then rested so that the meat was as tender as possible.
(There was an orange sauce and segments of the fruit to provide the counterpoint of sweetness to the savoury duck that was apparently much prized before the triumph of home cooking in the 19th century, or something of the sort; but I think an argument was also that the duck itself has its sweet aspects in its flavour and, of course, that the orange itself is sour, too.)
In company with the duck there were served little metal dishes with napkins or kitchen towel of some sort, in which pale golden balloons of pomme soufflé were nested. Achieving this form of potato, 3 mm rounds which are deep fried twice and launched with care on swelling, bubbling oil so that the air pocket in them can form and then tucked beneath the surface, is (it seems) a tour de force of talent or of luck.
For dessert, the chef served glasses of mousse au chocolat, poached pears in their whole shape, crème de Chantilly (or so I think; the German dubbing announced as one heard the French soundtrack which seemed to include these words, that it was 'Schlagsahne' i.e. a common or garden variety whipping cream), pouring cocoa; the entire dessert was subtly spiced with cardamom.
APART from that I considered yesterday a good time to clean the apartment. Since in winter the orangey coal ash settles everywhere, and there have been hordes of dust bunnies lately, I went on the town with the microfibre cloth, dishwasher, brooms, vacuum, a towel, etc.
OUR Christmas tree is ready, too. Altogether Christmas has been more fulfilling this year than in past years, or so I think because I haven't been in university as much and therefore have had more time for non-secular thoughts and activities. Besides it feels nice to be able to buy what we like, though of course it's nicer to think that this is peripheral. So we had bowls of Spekulatius and gingerbread and so on to entertain us while we did our usual things, and even Omama's Advent calendar has been filled and emptied this time around. In Ge.'s and J.'s room, which has a tile stove that is highly agreeable at this time of year, we listened to Christmas CDs; on the piano and cembalo I've tried out versions of Nutcracker Suite extracts, Tchaikovsky's Seasons, Christmas carols, Händel's Messiah, and Bach's Christmas Oratorio; and Mama has been playing songs on the French horn.
FIRST there was an itinerant culinary series that, having explored the cassoulet, the Breton mussel from its spiralling ropes, etc., in the past, had landed in the icy, northerly islands of Norway. When we strayed onto the channel, dark phalanxes of fish writhed in the wind as they were hung in bunches above snowladen earth looking over the seaboard. Everything looked lovely — brightly painted weatherboard homes, ink-dark ocean, floes and snowfall and rock at the water's edge — and so bright that it couldn't imaginably be filmed in winter months. As for the fish, I don't think that they were alive despite appearances, because the stockfish might be unflavourful if it is strung up with its innards remaining in situ.
AFTERWARDS a German-dubbed French film explored the premise that one could, through a three-course repast, answer the question, 'What did Marie Antoinette like to eat?'. In an unnaturally serene and rustically shadowy kitchen, a proper French chef de cuisine prepared oysters on the half shell bedded on spinach and pine nuts and gratinated with a hint of cheese, followed by the main course of pink-cooked duck that had been fried in a pan and then given into the oven and then rested so that the meat was as tender as possible.
(There was an orange sauce and segments of the fruit to provide the counterpoint of sweetness to the savoury duck that was apparently much prized before the triumph of home cooking in the 19th century, or something of the sort; but I think an argument was also that the duck itself has its sweet aspects in its flavour and, of course, that the orange itself is sour, too.)
In company with the duck there were served little metal dishes with napkins or kitchen towel of some sort, in which pale golden balloons of pomme soufflé were nested. Achieving this form of potato, 3 mm rounds which are deep fried twice and launched with care on swelling, bubbling oil so that the air pocket in them can form and then tucked beneath the surface, is (it seems) a tour de force of talent or of luck.
For dessert, the chef served glasses of mousse au chocolat, poached pears in their whole shape, crème de Chantilly (or so I think; the German dubbing announced as one heard the French soundtrack which seemed to include these words, that it was 'Schlagsahne' i.e. a common or garden variety whipping cream), pouring cocoa; the entire dessert was subtly spiced with cardamom.
APART from that I considered yesterday a good time to clean the apartment. Since in winter the orangey coal ash settles everywhere, and there have been hordes of dust bunnies lately, I went on the town with the microfibre cloth, dishwasher, brooms, vacuum, a towel, etc.
OUR Christmas tree is ready, too. Altogether Christmas has been more fulfilling this year than in past years, or so I think because I haven't been in university as much and therefore have had more time for non-secular thoughts and activities. Besides it feels nice to be able to buy what we like, though of course it's nicer to think that this is peripheral. So we had bowls of Spekulatius and gingerbread and so on to entertain us while we did our usual things, and even Omama's Advent calendar has been filled and emptied this time around. In Ge.'s and J.'s room, which has a tile stove that is highly agreeable at this time of year, we listened to Christmas CDs; on the piano and cembalo I've tried out versions of Nutcracker Suite extracts, Tchaikovsky's Seasons, Christmas carols, Händel's Messiah, and Bach's Christmas Oratorio; and Mama has been playing songs on the French horn.
Sunday, December 22, 2013
Hobbitish Peregrinations
Last afternoon six of us went to see The Desolation of Smaug, without the high frame rate or anything, but still satisfying. The theatre was not too full, so the audience was sprinkled over the room and the first three rows were empty.
*Full of spoilers*
First came the trailers and commercials, of course, from a household electricity provider, through anecdotes of the powers of the internet that were intended to humanize a certain search engine company, to all sorts of cars. As for the films advertised, they were Pompeii, Noah's Ark, and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty amongst others.
(— Noah's Ark, where I hadn't quite realized that the point of the story was that people were killed as-well-they-should-be. But its graphics were so strikingly Lord of the Rings that they introduced the Hobbit decently well.)
*
Everything was delivered in superlative decibels, which were an assault on the ears, but I thought that maybe the fact that I rarely go to see films has oversensitized me to this.
*
Then, at last, the film itself unfurled. We were privy to a meeting between the wizard Gandalf and Thorin Oakenshield, king of Tolkien's dwarves, at the Prancing Pony on a drizzling night, under the mistrustful eyes of two emissaries sent to remove Oakenshield from the seat of power by assassination. Gandalf, less of a pacifist than one should think he would be from the book, urges Thorin to march on Erebor in order to seize his power and take over as king, which he had not previously known that he was, and to defeat a foe which I imagine is the Orcs. Or something of that ilk.
But by some transition which I fail to understand, the action then leapt to a forest where the dwarves and Bilbo Baggins are fleeing the pursuit of steroidal animated wolves bearing Orcs upon their backs, taking refuge in the hall of Beorn.
They enter Mirkwood on the next morning. Gandalf has been aware of the stirrings of a Necromancer, which are distantly also the stirrings of the Orcs — so at the forest's very entrance, he must part ways with the forlorn dwarves, setting off himself to meet the wizard Radagast.
Mirkwood is a consistent tangle of cyclopean tree trunks twined by clawed creepers, leafed in reddish splendour by crowns of oak, and pervaded by an atmosphere of confusion that leads the dwarves and the hobbit into a Dalian species of absurdity. It is when they are met by the inhabitants of the forest, just as Bilbo had managed to espy the Lonely Mountain and the Lake from the pinnacle of one of the oaks, and engage in a combat, that their muddled miasma in mind is cut finally.
Wood Elves reluctantly rescue the dwarves. Then, at their arrow tips, the elves escort their tinier visitors forcibly to the halls of the Wood-Elves. The king of these elves — himself an arrogant and selfish patrician — argy-bargies with Thorin Oakenshield, who having climbed onto his high horse repudiates compromise. In the meantime the lowlier dwarves hobnob with Legolas and Tauriel, the friendlier elves, through their prison bars.
The dwarves flee their prison, however, as Bilbo Baggins releases them. They are set upon by Orcs at once, and elves die in the slaughter, too, but at last they spiral and bob and rush along the river toward the Lake.
After interrogating one of the Orcs, the elves figure out that the dwarf Kili has been poisoned by an arrow and so Tauriel trots away after him and Legolas duly after her. As a prince and as a captain of the guard, it seems strange that they are eager to relinquish their posts and duties at the turning of a pin, but never mind.
These dwarves arrive at the Lake and persuade the Bard, a man who despite his Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-like goatee is reminiscent of Heath Ledger, to row them through the ice floes in his drab barge. The barge is not coloured brightly, that is, but crude and impractical-looking. Ensconced in fishes they ignominiously arrive at the gates of Laketown, where they are nearly impounded by the confidant of the Mayor. (Threatened with social upheaval if the half-starving denizens of Laketown are deprived of the food, the official agrees to let them pass.)
The roofs of the tall grey buildings in Laketown are covered in slates or tiles, the tower's prows are borrowed faithfully from the stave churches, walkways and floating wooden docks edge the stilt houses, fisherboats throng in the canals between the boardwalks, and en masse in their old-timey garb the people of Laketown had a Bruegelish air about them.
But in the overhanging upper storey of one of the Nordic slat houses, the Mayor (who has been metaphorically "wallowing in his crapulence") and noted British actor Stephen Fry hears about this incident, and from their conversation it becomes clear that they fear that the Bard is a conspiring leader of the townsmen. The mayor's confidant likely invents or heightens the threat of insurrection is for his own ends, and their jealousy of his nobility might engender the Mayor's paranoia and their common antipathy; but it is true that the inhabitants of Laketown are not being treated kindly and that there are grounds for insurrection. Here I wish that the film had not tried to be 'relevant.' ('"Elections?" What fresh hell is this!')
*Full of spoilers*
First came the trailers and commercials, of course, from a household electricity provider, through anecdotes of the powers of the internet that were intended to humanize a certain search engine company, to all sorts of cars. As for the films advertised, they were Pompeii, Noah's Ark, and The Secret Life of Walter Mitty amongst others.
(— Noah's Ark, where I hadn't quite realized that the point of the story was that people were killed as-well-they-should-be. But its graphics were so strikingly Lord of the Rings that they introduced the Hobbit decently well.)
*
Everything was delivered in superlative decibels, which were an assault on the ears, but I thought that maybe the fact that I rarely go to see films has oversensitized me to this.
*
Then, at last, the film itself unfurled. We were privy to a meeting between the wizard Gandalf and Thorin Oakenshield, king of Tolkien's dwarves, at the Prancing Pony on a drizzling night, under the mistrustful eyes of two emissaries sent to remove Oakenshield from the seat of power by assassination. Gandalf, less of a pacifist than one should think he would be from the book, urges Thorin to march on Erebor in order to seize his power and take over as king, which he had not previously known that he was, and to defeat a foe which I imagine is the Orcs. Or something of that ilk.
But by some transition which I fail to understand, the action then leapt to a forest where the dwarves and Bilbo Baggins are fleeing the pursuit of steroidal animated wolves bearing Orcs upon their backs, taking refuge in the hall of Beorn.
They enter Mirkwood on the next morning. Gandalf has been aware of the stirrings of a Necromancer, which are distantly also the stirrings of the Orcs — so at the forest's very entrance, he must part ways with the forlorn dwarves, setting off himself to meet the wizard Radagast.
Mirkwood is a consistent tangle of cyclopean tree trunks twined by clawed creepers, leafed in reddish splendour by crowns of oak, and pervaded by an atmosphere of confusion that leads the dwarves and the hobbit into a Dalian species of absurdity. It is when they are met by the inhabitants of the forest, just as Bilbo had managed to espy the Lonely Mountain and the Lake from the pinnacle of one of the oaks, and engage in a combat, that their muddled miasma in mind is cut finally.
Wood Elves reluctantly rescue the dwarves. Then, at their arrow tips, the elves escort their tinier visitors forcibly to the halls of the Wood-Elves. The king of these elves — himself an arrogant and selfish patrician — argy-bargies with Thorin Oakenshield, who having climbed onto his high horse repudiates compromise. In the meantime the lowlier dwarves hobnob with Legolas and Tauriel, the friendlier elves, through their prison bars.
The dwarves flee their prison, however, as Bilbo Baggins releases them. They are set upon by Orcs at once, and elves die in the slaughter, too, but at last they spiral and bob and rush along the river toward the Lake.
After interrogating one of the Orcs, the elves figure out that the dwarf Kili has been poisoned by an arrow and so Tauriel trots away after him and Legolas duly after her. As a prince and as a captain of the guard, it seems strange that they are eager to relinquish their posts and duties at the turning of a pin, but never mind.
These dwarves arrive at the Lake and persuade the Bard, a man who despite his Pirates-of-the-Caribbean-like goatee is reminiscent of Heath Ledger, to row them through the ice floes in his drab barge. The barge is not coloured brightly, that is, but crude and impractical-looking. Ensconced in fishes they ignominiously arrive at the gates of Laketown, where they are nearly impounded by the confidant of the Mayor. (Threatened with social upheaval if the half-starving denizens of Laketown are deprived of the food, the official agrees to let them pass.)
The roofs of the tall grey buildings in Laketown are covered in slates or tiles, the tower's prows are borrowed faithfully from the stave churches, walkways and floating wooden docks edge the stilt houses, fisherboats throng in the canals between the boardwalks, and en masse in their old-timey garb the people of Laketown had a Bruegelish air about them.
But in the overhanging upper storey of one of the Nordic slat houses, the Mayor (who has been metaphorically "wallowing in his crapulence") and noted British actor Stephen Fry hears about this incident, and from their conversation it becomes clear that they fear that the Bard is a conspiring leader of the townsmen. The mayor's confidant likely invents or heightens the threat of insurrection is for his own ends, and their jealousy of his nobility might engender the Mayor's paranoia and their common antipathy; but it is true that the inhabitants of Laketown are not being treated kindly and that there are grounds for insurrection. Here I wish that the film had not tried to be 'relevant.' ('"Elections?" What fresh hell is this!')
Monday, November 18, 2013
Divers Enterprises During a Grey November
This morning I woke up lastingly after ten o'clock, since at some point earlier I had made up my mind to stay at home to nurse my cold, as the cliché has it.
Since there is time for it, I've then had to figure out what I want to do towards studying for my Greek and Experimental Physics classes. T. and Papa have heaped books on me, regarding the latter subject, as I've asked for them over the past two months.
At present it's the first volume of Richard Feynman's lectures which is the main text. After an overview of gas, solid and liquid states, particularly of water, I had a few questions this morning and for instance looked for a definition of 'type metal' — an alloy of lead, antimony and tin which is heated and poured into carved letters in order to create type-cast.
Besides I asked Papa if it's true that helium is in relatively little supply on Earth — it is indeed — and for the first time realized that zeppelins did fly between continents in the 20th century. It clears up a longstanding confusion because I couldn't quite pinpoint based on past knowledge where they were constructed and flown.
(Aside from the physics lectures, I have two standard Physics textbooks and another on Vector Calculus, the Aquatic Chemistry where I've been briefly introduced to thermodynamics and which I think is a lovely book to learn from because it is so clear and precise from my novice perspective, and a blue paperback edition in German by Herbert Goldstein about classical mechanics.)
As for the Greek, I still have prescribed reading left over to do. Besides there is a great deal one could read up on independently surrounding the military dictatorship (censorship, domestic political developments, negotiations with the US regarding Cypriot and foreign policy, etc.) and the music, literature and so on during the 50s and 60s. Then there are newspaper articles on the internet, I could find an Agatha Christie book translated into Greek to improve my vocabulary and speed of reading, and for a while I had been reading a modern Greek version of Aeschylus's Agamemnon though it was a little disconcerting to find (through the mediation of G*** Translate) that our English translation and the online modern Greek translation often diverge in meaning.
*
Initially I had planned to bake homemade Dominosteine for the first time in my life today, from a recipe in one of our baking books. They are a little like petits-fours. In this recipe, the cake-like base is gingerbread with honey, sugar beet syrup, candied lemon and spices; the filling is a red currant jelly; and the top is marzipan 'diluted' so to speak with powdered sugar. To cover the whole, one is advised to take baking chocolate (Kuvertüre) and cocoa fat; the thing is that there are lovely chocolates produced by a Berlin company, where I particularly love the range up to about 65% cocoa, and it seems it would be worthwhile to try them instead of the anonymous blocks of Kuvertüre.
But I had promised myself to do the shopping now particularly for my own cooking (along the ethical lines of resolving to eat everything I kill); since I didn't go to university I consider it only sporting not to go out for other things. So this enterprise may well be postponed.
Besides I already cooked this week: roast chicken with bread stuffing and twigs of oregano and thyme on top (this technique is one I first tried out with a roast goose, and it looks incredibly lovely and delicate and besides I'm guessing that the aroma of the herbs slightly infuses the chicken), rice which Ge. made, pistachios and raisins to revivify the rice, and cranberry sauce from a jar. Once again the brussels-sprouts-making had to be postponed to another day; saturating the apartment with cabbagey fragrance at 11 p.m. didn't seem civilized.
Since there is time for it, I've then had to figure out what I want to do towards studying for my Greek and Experimental Physics classes. T. and Papa have heaped books on me, regarding the latter subject, as I've asked for them over the past two months.
At present it's the first volume of Richard Feynman's lectures which is the main text. After an overview of gas, solid and liquid states, particularly of water, I had a few questions this morning and for instance looked for a definition of 'type metal' — an alloy of lead, antimony and tin which is heated and poured into carved letters in order to create type-cast.
Besides I asked Papa if it's true that helium is in relatively little supply on Earth — it is indeed — and for the first time realized that zeppelins did fly between continents in the 20th century. It clears up a longstanding confusion because I couldn't quite pinpoint based on past knowledge where they were constructed and flown.
(Aside from the physics lectures, I have two standard Physics textbooks and another on Vector Calculus, the Aquatic Chemistry where I've been briefly introduced to thermodynamics and which I think is a lovely book to learn from because it is so clear and precise from my novice perspective, and a blue paperback edition in German by Herbert Goldstein about classical mechanics.)
As for the Greek, I still have prescribed reading left over to do. Besides there is a great deal one could read up on independently surrounding the military dictatorship (censorship, domestic political developments, negotiations with the US regarding Cypriot and foreign policy, etc.) and the music, literature and so on during the 50s and 60s. Then there are newspaper articles on the internet, I could find an Agatha Christie book translated into Greek to improve my vocabulary and speed of reading, and for a while I had been reading a modern Greek version of Aeschylus's Agamemnon though it was a little disconcerting to find (through the mediation of G*** Translate) that our English translation and the online modern Greek translation often diverge in meaning.
*
Initially I had planned to bake homemade Dominosteine for the first time in my life today, from a recipe in one of our baking books. They are a little like petits-fours. In this recipe, the cake-like base is gingerbread with honey, sugar beet syrup, candied lemon and spices; the filling is a red currant jelly; and the top is marzipan 'diluted' so to speak with powdered sugar. To cover the whole, one is advised to take baking chocolate (Kuvertüre) and cocoa fat; the thing is that there are lovely chocolates produced by a Berlin company, where I particularly love the range up to about 65% cocoa, and it seems it would be worthwhile to try them instead of the anonymous blocks of Kuvertüre.
But I had promised myself to do the shopping now particularly for my own cooking (along the ethical lines of resolving to eat everything I kill); since I didn't go to university I consider it only sporting not to go out for other things. So this enterprise may well be postponed.
Besides I already cooked this week: roast chicken with bread stuffing and twigs of oregano and thyme on top (this technique is one I first tried out with a roast goose, and it looks incredibly lovely and delicate and besides I'm guessing that the aroma of the herbs slightly infuses the chicken), rice which Ge. made, pistachios and raisins to revivify the rice, and cranberry sauce from a jar. Once again the brussels-sprouts-making had to be postponed to another day; saturating the apartment with cabbagey fragrance at 11 p.m. didn't seem civilized.
Monday, September 30, 2013
Plumbum
Today was quite lovely: yellow sunlight, yellow-edged oak leaves which it shone through and over, blue sky, a mass of cloud here and there, a proud colour on the roof-ridge against the sky, reds emerging at sunset, and a nippy chill for this time of year which streamed into Gi.'s room — Gi., whose tastes for the whistling wind of the northern wilds have evidently not vanished entirely.
***
I was inside for all of it, but seized of the useful impulse to do something, vacuumed and mopped in the kitchen. It has reached a pass where the Before and After are pleasingly distinct. But I swallowed a metal S-hook in the vacuum cleaner and fished reluctantly in the exhaust bag, only to find nothing and resort to rattling the pipe a second time in exasperation — thanks to aerodynamics which prevented it from travelling too far in, it was still lodged there. It was surprisingly anticlimactic when my stupidity was met without any perceptible penalty from vengeful fates.
A few days ago I removed the pipes under the bathroom sink in search of a clot. The clot itself looked gratifyingly primordial, i.e. a dissolving stalactite of soft whitish and brownish soap- I dislodged it but only after spraying water specked with soap sludge over half the bathroom floor and over my clothes. So this first foray into beginner's plumbing was not the grand event I might have expected.
Besides, I hemmed and hawed over removing the pipes at all. At first it took some force to dislodge them at the joint, which was a little mineral-encrusted. It was only after taking a firm hold of the pipes above and below, and being sure that I wouldn't rip the basin from the wall like an inept Superman, that I took the plunge (so to speak).
All of which isn't hugely exciting, but entertaining to experience.
*
On the piano I've tried the last(?) movement of Schubert's first trio again. For much of it I was thinking of other things and didn't struggle in the least against repeating what I remember from a recording in terms of interpretation, which I did in what I think of as my 'concert pianist' mode. The mode comes up rarely and generally makes me feel as if I were a ten-year-old who has put on her mother's dress and high heels and feels very sophisticated. But it's rather amusing while the effortlessness lasts. In the end I played it more like I think Schubert wanted, and it didn't go badly. At this point it's a wild guessing game, but I ended up adopting more or less the phrasing and some of the mezzofortes, etc., of the score without feeling hindered by it, so it must have gone reasonably well. Still, I think it's extremely helpful to introduce some foreign element to a score and then to revive one's view of it, whether it's playing the entire song on the cembalo, switching detached for staccato notes, dropping the damper pedal, or best of all to go against the grain of the music so that there is nothing facile about it. Which might sound a bit like I'll be banging my head against the noterack next for thrilling percussion effects in some vague derivation of Derrida, but I think I'm no less traditional for it.
The other thing is how 'Austrian' to make Schubert's music sound, because pleasing as it is to pick out bits of folklore and elements so typical of the region that they practically yodel at one from the page, I don't think he would entirely appreciate it if a pianist turned his works into a parochial fest along the lines of Disney films or a certain film with Julie Andrews rendering a nun. Fortunately, though, I leave the interpretation to the others when we play a trio. I do like trying things out in the piano part — different things each time, as they come to mind when we play, and they are mostly quite small.
The latest master experiment, which is to say one that I've tried in much of our three Haydn trios, is to relax and keep time according to Intuition. Which means that I wait until I have a vague feeling that I am supposed to hit the next note, instead of striking it when I become nervous about not striking it yet, or keeping mathematical time as a piano teacher (or any person with a speck of pride and musicianship) would doubtless prefer. Whether the Intuition is an unholy disaster or not, it seems to make me breathe more in time with the music. Also, what is certain is that I'm much less frazzled when I fork forth the Intuition.
*
***
I was inside for all of it, but seized of the useful impulse to do something, vacuumed and mopped in the kitchen. It has reached a pass where the Before and After are pleasingly distinct. But I swallowed a metal S-hook in the vacuum cleaner and fished reluctantly in the exhaust bag, only to find nothing and resort to rattling the pipe a second time in exasperation — thanks to aerodynamics which prevented it from travelling too far in, it was still lodged there. It was surprisingly anticlimactic when my stupidity was met without any perceptible penalty from vengeful fates.
A few days ago I removed the pipes under the bathroom sink in search of a clot. The clot itself looked gratifyingly primordial, i.e. a dissolving stalactite of soft whitish and brownish soap- I dislodged it but only after spraying water specked with soap sludge over half the bathroom floor and over my clothes. So this first foray into beginner's plumbing was not the grand event I might have expected.
Besides, I hemmed and hawed over removing the pipes at all. At first it took some force to dislodge them at the joint, which was a little mineral-encrusted. It was only after taking a firm hold of the pipes above and below, and being sure that I wouldn't rip the basin from the wall like an inept Superman, that I took the plunge (so to speak).
All of which isn't hugely exciting, but entertaining to experience.
*
On the piano I've tried the last(?) movement of Schubert's first trio again. For much of it I was thinking of other things and didn't struggle in the least against repeating what I remember from a recording in terms of interpretation, which I did in what I think of as my 'concert pianist' mode. The mode comes up rarely and generally makes me feel as if I were a ten-year-old who has put on her mother's dress and high heels and feels very sophisticated. But it's rather amusing while the effortlessness lasts. In the end I played it more like I think Schubert wanted, and it didn't go badly. At this point it's a wild guessing game, but I ended up adopting more or less the phrasing and some of the mezzofortes, etc., of the score without feeling hindered by it, so it must have gone reasonably well. Still, I think it's extremely helpful to introduce some foreign element to a score and then to revive one's view of it, whether it's playing the entire song on the cembalo, switching detached for staccato notes, dropping the damper pedal, or best of all to go against the grain of the music so that there is nothing facile about it. Which might sound a bit like I'll be banging my head against the noterack next for thrilling percussion effects in some vague derivation of Derrida, but I think I'm no less traditional for it.
The other thing is how 'Austrian' to make Schubert's music sound, because pleasing as it is to pick out bits of folklore and elements so typical of the region that they practically yodel at one from the page, I don't think he would entirely appreciate it if a pianist turned his works into a parochial fest along the lines of Disney films or a certain film with Julie Andrews rendering a nun. Fortunately, though, I leave the interpretation to the others when we play a trio. I do like trying things out in the piano part — different things each time, as they come to mind when we play, and they are mostly quite small.
The latest master experiment, which is to say one that I've tried in much of our three Haydn trios, is to relax and keep time according to Intuition. Which means that I wait until I have a vague feeling that I am supposed to hit the next note, instead of striking it when I become nervous about not striking it yet, or keeping mathematical time as a piano teacher (or any person with a speck of pride and musicianship) would doubtless prefer. Whether the Intuition is an unholy disaster or not, it seems to make me breathe more in time with the music. Also, what is certain is that I'm much less frazzled when I fork forth the Intuition.
*
Sunday, September 08, 2013
A Wintry Drifter-Seeker
Since I didn't want to post something diary-like yet, here is a poem written between university classes this spring.
Likely the first two lines quote a different poem, in fact they are 99% likely to have been plagiarized from better verse, but I can't remember which particular poem has suffered larceny. Anyway, these twin lines of course refer to etymology — that 'planet' comes from the Greek planáw — to wander.
***
O snowflake, wanderer of the skies
and planet of minute domain,
o wayfarer of tiring tries
at thwarting past the windowpane.
Seek outside your place to stay,
From our hearth stray far away.
O winter's chill, from airloft borne,
and casketed within the soil —
snowflake, this shall be your bourne,
the aim and tombment of your toil.
Seek in earth your place to stay,
For heaven hath compelled away.
O shivering branch and snivelling bud,
withhold far up the pillowed streaks;
beneath the snowflake mires in mud,
but you shall keep it from the creeks.
Some seek in branch their place to stay
Until they melt and drip away.
O glass-eyed sky and clouded lord —
Urane, who art wintering —
from within the heavens' ward
with hail and snowdrift lingering,
Seek for each flake some place to stay
And speed it briskly on its way.
***
Regardless that this isn't a poem I particularly admire, and in the end I didn't try anything really new with it, I did think it was a stimulating though airy-fairy challenge, in theory, to bring together ancient ideas of the cosmos, and poetic conventions, with modern scientific models and the tendency to atheism. In modern verse I think there isn't so much suspension of disbelief (except, perhaps, the precedented disbelief that even the inceptor knows what meaning, or lack thereof, lies in his rime), which is fairly impoverishing.
Likely the first two lines quote a different poem, in fact they are 99% likely to have been plagiarized from better verse, but I can't remember which particular poem has suffered larceny. Anyway, these twin lines of course refer to etymology — that 'planet' comes from the Greek planáw — to wander.
***
O snowflake, wanderer of the skies
and planet of minute domain,
o wayfarer of tiring tries
at thwarting past the windowpane.
Seek outside your place to stay,
From our hearth stray far away.
O winter's chill, from airloft borne,
and casketed within the soil —
snowflake, this shall be your bourne,
the aim and tombment of your toil.
Seek in earth your place to stay,
For heaven hath compelled away.
O shivering branch and snivelling bud,
withhold far up the pillowed streaks;
beneath the snowflake mires in mud,
but you shall keep it from the creeks.
Some seek in branch their place to stay
Until they melt and drip away.
O glass-eyed sky and clouded lord —
Urane, who art wintering —
from within the heavens' ward
with hail and snowdrift lingering,
Seek for each flake some place to stay
And speed it briskly on its way.
***
Regardless that this isn't a poem I particularly admire, and in the end I didn't try anything really new with it, I did think it was a stimulating though airy-fairy challenge, in theory, to bring together ancient ideas of the cosmos, and poetic conventions, with modern scientific models and the tendency to atheism. In modern verse I think there isn't so much suspension of disbelief (except, perhaps, the precedented disbelief that even the inceptor knows what meaning, or lack thereof, lies in his rime), which is fairly impoverishing.
Thursday, August 29, 2013
Shelley — and Syria
After a few days of hurly-burly — torrential traffic and torrential sunlight — the drooping cloud cover, meditative sunsets and fleeing winds have lent a rather autumnal air to the past few days, steeped in green though grass and tree leaf may continue to be.
*
There, to press the lines of Shelley into service, will follow
*
In the meantime, and not far from the sense of Shelley's Ode, the principal tumult seems to be supplied by the course of world events.
Since the camps of the Muslim Brotherhood were cleared from Raba'a and elsewhere in or around the capital of Egypt, and since the fuss surrounding the British detention of a journalist's husband on the ground of possessing journalistic material (which is safeguarded under British statute) and the supine arguments all over newspaper comment sections to the effect that this authoritarian wielding of muscle must be according to the rights of things, we have of course arrived at the seeming precipice of an Intervention in Syria.
***
A long time ago I wrote that the uprising in Syria is not something which should be encouraged and that its spreading would only create a terrible situation for the region, which has as far as I can tell been borne out by events since then. But firstly that prediction, which I once thought rather sagacious, does nothing to solve the quotidian problems of Syrians, and secondly on further consideration it wasn't really a prediction, but a mere summing up of the information which I gathered on Twitter when I was still intensively reading on the issue and which I think laid bare pretty thoroughly the risks and ambivalencies which pervade the situation.
But as far as I am aware — and this information is not borne out by my Twitter-reading but rather through past, rather cursory reading about Syria's role in the war on terror etc. —the real problem of Syria in terms of foreign aid or outside diplomacy is that it has been a harbour for the rougher aspects of Russian, American etc. intelligence operations in the Middle East for a while. The Canadian engineer who, on mistaken premises, was taken from an airport and flown by the American government to Syria in the early 2000s, to be treated as poorly as possible there while the US could pull a Pontius Pilate and wash its hands of the matter, seems one of many innocent parties who have fallen victim to this kind of Wild West. The allure of Basher Assad, which I think continues, is that he is still a secular figure with allegiances to western countries, and promises to keep Syria as a 'neutral' field given his perceived stability. It's the underpinnings of this 'stability' which, I think, need to be investigated, because whether the government cares to involve itself or be aware of it remains an issue, but I think that its authority is constructed and held by a chaos of amorality, cruelty and impunity. Unfortunately I don't think that the rebel forces are free of these horrible qualities themselves; and I think that a defining trait of Syria's Arab Spring, and one which sets it far apart from the Arab Spring in other countries (even though my general feeling is that said Spring is already radically different country by country), is the depth of the culture of brutality and the depth to which the opposition has been infected by and shares it. The actions of the US and Russia in Syria since the early 2000s — exploiting or becoming infected by this climate — likely don't bear scrutiny, either.
As for the do-gooding impulse — firstly, since the mountain of dead is already so high, the artificial distinction between chemical and other weapons has become ignobly irrelevant. Secondly, the dropping of bombs on a foreign country by a foreign government is hardly to be regarded in the light of purest altruism. There is a defense industry presumably salivating behind the home front; there are civilian deaths and unforeseen consequences — not to mention deaths of military operators or foreign citizens like journalists and UN personnel — which must be trivialized before the Greater Good in advance; and above all I think the point is to Feel Good about Doing Something with reference only to one's own ego and a few opinion columnists who agree with your rationale, completely ignoring the basic, substantial needs of the civilians on the ground.One must also rationalize — particularly in the case of the US and Britain, possibly also of France — using taxpayer funds to jettison armaments over the eastern Mediterranean while people are inching along the poverty line in a recession-struck, budgetarily bereft country which is purportedly one of the world's most prosperous. If one wanted to do actual good, one would concentrate finances and attention on the lot of Syrian refugees — not via the UNHCR but directly, ensuring sound quality of life and some hope of returning to their country undeterred by political interference or financial inability — and above all negotiate the future of Syria not based on crabbed, selfish ideology of military or intelligence objectives, but of a pragmatic desire to see the situation of Syrian civilians returned to something commensurate with their human dignity and individual rights.
Edit: A sampler of proper international conduct: "On Tuesday [Sept. 3, 2013] Sweden became the first European country to offer asylum status to any Syrian that requested it." (Syria crisis blog, TheGuardian.com)
*
There, to press the lines of Shelley into service, will follow
O, wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn's being,and
Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead
Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing,
Yellow, and black, and pale, and hectic red,
Pestilence-stricken multitudes: O, thou,
Who chariotest to their dark wintry bed
The winged seeds, where they lie cold and low,
Each like a corpse within its grave, until
Thine azure sister of the spring shall blow
Her clarion
Loose clouds like earth's decaying leaves are shed,(and the rest of the poem is here.)
Shook from the tangled boughs of Heaven and Ocean,
Angels of rain and lightning: there are spread
On the blue surface of thine airy surge,
Like the bright hair uplifted from the head
Of some fierce Mænad, even from the dim verge
Of the horizon
*
In the meantime, and not far from the sense of Shelley's Ode, the principal tumult seems to be supplied by the course of world events.
Since the camps of the Muslim Brotherhood were cleared from Raba'a and elsewhere in or around the capital of Egypt, and since the fuss surrounding the British detention of a journalist's husband on the ground of possessing journalistic material (which is safeguarded under British statute) and the supine arguments all over newspaper comment sections to the effect that this authoritarian wielding of muscle must be according to the rights of things, we have of course arrived at the seeming precipice of an Intervention in Syria.
***
A long time ago I wrote that the uprising in Syria is not something which should be encouraged and that its spreading would only create a terrible situation for the region, which has as far as I can tell been borne out by events since then. But firstly that prediction, which I once thought rather sagacious, does nothing to solve the quotidian problems of Syrians, and secondly on further consideration it wasn't really a prediction, but a mere summing up of the information which I gathered on Twitter when I was still intensively reading on the issue and which I think laid bare pretty thoroughly the risks and ambivalencies which pervade the situation.
But as far as I am aware — and this information is not borne out by my Twitter-reading but rather through past, rather cursory reading about Syria's role in the war on terror etc. —the real problem of Syria in terms of foreign aid or outside diplomacy is that it has been a harbour for the rougher aspects of Russian, American etc. intelligence operations in the Middle East for a while. The Canadian engineer who, on mistaken premises, was taken from an airport and flown by the American government to Syria in the early 2000s, to be treated as poorly as possible there while the US could pull a Pontius Pilate and wash its hands of the matter, seems one of many innocent parties who have fallen victim to this kind of Wild West. The allure of Basher Assad, which I think continues, is that he is still a secular figure with allegiances to western countries, and promises to keep Syria as a 'neutral' field given his perceived stability. It's the underpinnings of this 'stability' which, I think, need to be investigated, because whether the government cares to involve itself or be aware of it remains an issue, but I think that its authority is constructed and held by a chaos of amorality, cruelty and impunity. Unfortunately I don't think that the rebel forces are free of these horrible qualities themselves; and I think that a defining trait of Syria's Arab Spring, and one which sets it far apart from the Arab Spring in other countries (even though my general feeling is that said Spring is already radically different country by country), is the depth of the culture of brutality and the depth to which the opposition has been infected by and shares it. The actions of the US and Russia in Syria since the early 2000s — exploiting or becoming infected by this climate — likely don't bear scrutiny, either.
As for the do-gooding impulse — firstly, since the mountain of dead is already so high, the artificial distinction between chemical and other weapons has become ignobly irrelevant. Secondly, the dropping of bombs on a foreign country by a foreign government is hardly to be regarded in the light of purest altruism. There is a defense industry presumably salivating behind the home front; there are civilian deaths and unforeseen consequences — not to mention deaths of military operators or foreign citizens like journalists and UN personnel — which must be trivialized before the Greater Good in advance; and above all I think the point is to Feel Good about Doing Something with reference only to one's own ego and a few opinion columnists who agree with your rationale, completely ignoring the basic, substantial needs of the civilians on the ground.One must also rationalize — particularly in the case of the US and Britain, possibly also of France — using taxpayer funds to jettison armaments over the eastern Mediterranean while people are inching along the poverty line in a recession-struck, budgetarily bereft country which is purportedly one of the world's most prosperous. If one wanted to do actual good, one would concentrate finances and attention on the lot of Syrian refugees — not via the UNHCR but directly, ensuring sound quality of life and some hope of returning to their country undeterred by political interference or financial inability — and above all negotiate the future of Syria not based on crabbed, selfish ideology of military or intelligence objectives, but of a pragmatic desire to see the situation of Syrian civilians returned to something commensurate with their human dignity and individual rights.
Edit: A sampler of proper international conduct: "On Tuesday [Sept. 3, 2013] Sweden became the first European country to offer asylum status to any Syrian that requested it." (Syria crisis blog, TheGuardian.com)
Saturday, August 10, 2013
Where Sportsyness Goes To Die, and Other Tales
At last the hottest days in the year are past — or so it would seem — and since the temperature dropped to 16° or so this afternoon I have felt quite optimistic about existence generally.
Somewhat paradoxically I decided to go for a run, according to a schedule where one runs and walks in set intervals week after week until one is, at last, capable of running 20 minutes at a time. Which is perhaps not the most challenging feat ever invented, but given my unathletic nature still considerable. The park is nearby, so I squeezed into running shoes I haven't worn in three years at least and which were already too tight twelve years ago, exchanged a skirt for trousers and put on my jacket, and went out into the world in which the rainfall was rapidly evaporating from the sidewalks and the sun had just emerged. Fortunately there were few people about, so I was slightly less self-conscious.
It soon became clear that I am quite out of form,
Somewhat paradoxically I decided to go for a run, according to a schedule where one runs and walks in set intervals week after week until one is, at last, capable of running 20 minutes at a time. Which is perhaps not the most challenging feat ever invented, but given my unathletic nature still considerable. The park is nearby, so I squeezed into running shoes I haven't worn in three years at least and which were already too tight twelve years ago, exchanged a skirt for trousers and put on my jacket, and went out into the world in which the rainfall was rapidly evaporating from the sidewalks and the sun had just emerged. Fortunately there were few people about, so I was slightly less self-conscious.
It soon became clear that I am quite out of form,
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Part II: Die Musik — Mein Leben
Months ago I tried to live-blog my reading of Daniel Barenboim's autobiographical book which was published initially in 1991 as A Life in Music. Today I tried it again, though it can't really be called a 'live blog' if I wrote everything in one flow. Here's hoping, too, that the inaccuracies of my synopses especially of zeitgeist and other things which I don't know are forgivable!
1:41 a.m. I am hopping ahead to p. 33, which delves into Israel in the 1960s and 50s. It was, as a Jewish state, rather a confluence of different waters — American, South American, continental European and Middle Eastern Jews (which two groups, at the risk of looking like an ignoramus, I think are generally synonymous with 'Ashkenazi' and 'Sephardic'); educated as seemed typical for the emigrants to the New World or uneducated — at least fairly unworldly; and diverse in many other traits of Weltanschauung and character and tradition, I suppose, too.
In Barenboim's age group, earnest political convictions carried over into their daily life and habits, mirroring the convictions of the fully-fledged grown-ups; "It was the first time that I experienced a society that was built on idealism." There was apparently a great deal of soul-searching — what was a man's (or woman's) role in the state; what should be striven for as a citizen and as a citizenry, as a labourer on the construction site of one's own new home and of the state at large?
1:41 a.m. I am hopping ahead to p. 33, which delves into Israel in the 1960s and 50s. It was, as a Jewish state, rather a confluence of different waters — American, South American, continental European and Middle Eastern Jews (which two groups, at the risk of looking like an ignoramus, I think are generally synonymous with 'Ashkenazi' and 'Sephardic'); educated as seemed typical for the emigrants to the New World or uneducated — at least fairly unworldly; and diverse in many other traits of Weltanschauung and character and tradition, I suppose, too.
In Barenboim's age group, earnest political convictions carried over into their daily life and habits, mirroring the convictions of the fully-fledged grown-ups; "It was the first time that I experienced a society that was built on idealism." There was apparently a great deal of soul-searching — what was a man's (or woman's) role in the state; what should be striven for as a citizen and as a citizenry, as a labourer on the construction site of one's own new home and of the state at large?
Thursday, July 18, 2013
Lists to Conquer Labour?
Operation Be An Adult has slowed down a trifle; the employer for the cleaning position didn't telephone on the weekend. I hopped from one foot to the other on Saturday, but this excitement was tempered by the knowledge that 'there's many a slip twixt the cup and the lip'; and by now I have resolved to Be Patient. The cleaning position starts in August.
In the meantime I have begun again to skim through job postings without committing myself, to remain apprised of what is 'out there.' The process is familiar and straightforward, and most often hinges on two criteria: being sure that I could do the work, above all; and determining that the posting does not convey a jerkwad tendency. If a bakery, cleaning, etc. position demands excellent German, I see no reason not to assume that the employer is a raging xenophobe; and rhapsodies about a 'young team' or other age discrimination are thought-provoking for slightly similar reasons of general unpleasantness. Spelling is not so important for me;
In the meantime I have begun again to skim through job postings without committing myself, to remain apprised of what is 'out there.' The process is familiar and straightforward, and most often hinges on two criteria: being sure that I could do the work, above all; and determining that the posting does not convey a jerkwad tendency. If a bakery, cleaning, etc. position demands excellent German, I see no reason not to assume that the employer is a raging xenophobe; and rhapsodies about a 'young team' or other age discrimination are thought-provoking for slightly similar reasons of general unpleasantness. Spelling is not so important for me;
Wednesday, July 10, 2013
Twinkletoes
In fulfillment of a girly childhood dream, besides everything else I've done lately I've also started a daily regimen of barré exercises for ballet, under the tutelage of divers people on YouTube. It is much easier at certain times of the day; I am far too embarrassed to want to grace my siblings with a sampling of my artistic endeavours (or catastrophes, if you will).
The first exercise is the plié. Ideally you turn your feet outward into the first position for this. I have managed to corral the feet in a straightish line after the first week of exercises; but mysteriously enough this only succeeds when I am in front of the computer and align my feet according to the seam in the floor in front of it. Therefore it seems to be my Lucky Spot.
Then you bend your knees outward and sink until you form a diamond with your legs. Then you stand up again.
According to the French etymology I should be thinking of delicately folding. As it is, I think of squatting; it is very hard to evoke poetry in motion if you are imagining Self as a supersized hen assuming the position to disgorge itself of an egg. A problem greatly exacerbated in the . . .
Grand plié. The feet are farther apart. In the video, the exercise practitioners sink so far down that their hips and upper legs form a kind of tabletop, propped up by their lower legs; I have not tried assuming this position exactly, having sworn a modified Hippocratean Oath: First, do not dislocate your limbs.
After that comes the relevé in the first position, which means standing with your feet outturned as in the plié and then rising to one's tippy-toes. This is quite easy, and still by the perversity of the exercise video I am only told to repeat it 16 times, rather than 32 times as with each previous ordeal.
Worse follows:
The first exercise is the plié. Ideally you turn your feet outward into the first position for this. I have managed to corral the feet in a straightish line after the first week of exercises; but mysteriously enough this only succeeds when I am in front of the computer and align my feet according to the seam in the floor in front of it. Therefore it seems to be my Lucky Spot.
Then you bend your knees outward and sink until you form a diamond with your legs. Then you stand up again.
According to the French etymology I should be thinking of delicately folding. As it is, I think of squatting; it is very hard to evoke poetry in motion if you are imagining Self as a supersized hen assuming the position to disgorge itself of an egg. A problem greatly exacerbated in the . . .
Grand plié. The feet are farther apart. In the video, the exercise practitioners sink so far down that their hips and upper legs form a kind of tabletop, propped up by their lower legs; I have not tried assuming this position exactly, having sworn a modified Hippocratean Oath: First, do not dislocate your limbs.
After that comes the relevé in the first position, which means standing with your feet outturned as in the plié and then rising to one's tippy-toes. This is quite easy, and still by the perversity of the exercise video I am only told to repeat it 16 times, rather than 32 times as with each previous ordeal.
Worse follows:
Arabic and Rainbow Flags
As the main project while I'm not cleaning yet, I've begun learning more Arabic and Farsi. The tools at hand: a Farsi-German dictionary, an Arabic reader for beginners and the entirety of the internet (outside of paywalls). So far I have copied out words and deciphered letters and meanings, with terribly slow progress wherein — after learning to recognize a, n and r with greatest confidence — I have finally remembered more.
e.g.
ابن
ibn; son
I would have assumed that the long stroke is an a, but it serves I guess as an all-purpose vowel; the b is recognizable enough even if I wouldn't remember which letter it is if I didn't look it up; the n is pleasingly easy to remember because it appears at the end of words so often and its swoopy shape with the diamond or dot over it is distinct.
***
I read another page of the Koran yesterday but found it too enigmatic to be anything but steep going; but besides that I am skimming through the chapter on hadith and sunna in Muslim Studies, by Ignaz Goldziher. Goldziher was an old-school academic who, with a large metaphorical foot in the 19th century, pioneered the western field of Islamic studies in many aspects; his choice of topics is far-ranging to the point of being as universal as you can probably become within the field. So I have wanted to read more of his work for a while. As for Edward Said's verdict, regarding the degree of 'orientalism,' a certain online encyclopaedia explains,
These hadith are the source of the sunna, which explains how Islamic principles and Muhammad's example are to be translated into daily life. At least that is the way I'd explain it. Then there is sunna which is the opinion of a Muslim writer who has passed into the religious canon, but not founded on a specific hadith — perhaps a Christian parallel might be the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas — and I think that Goldziher describes the Shi'a as being particular partial to these little innovations.
During an Islam-and-feminism research spree I came across Asma’ bint Umays, who recorded hadith as one of several women who were important in this scholarly tradition; but Goldziher seems to think she is unreliable, though at the same time mentioning that she married Abu Bakr, who was certainly in Muhammad's circle . . .
***
This past week, thanks to Twitter I've been following the situation in Egypt — according to American-Egyptian intellectuals and activists, Egyptian journalists, correspondents in Egypt, politicians, the Army's public relations staff, Muslim Brotherhood spokespeople etc. Everything which is happening seems wrong, pragmatically and ideologically, but it might not be polite to really vent about it here.
On the whole I found the news much more cheerful during the last week of June, even though I found the partial torpedoing of the Voting Rights Act by the Supreme Court very depressing and this feeling carried over to dampen even the joy of the rulings the next day on California's anti-gay marriage state law and on the federal law of the same aim. I have the feeling it will turn out for the best after all, but none of the language which I heard from the rulings in either gay marriage case seemed to me to provide a sturdy guarantee that gay marriage will be seen as a right under the 5th amendment. In federal tax law, marriage equality might exist; and in California it might exist now too as it does in a handful of other states where no successful referenda existed; but, in every other respect, it doesn't in over 30 states. Besides, how will the federal government safeguard the rights of people who live in a state where their across-the-border wedding isn't accepted?
On the other hand I very much liked that Anthony Kennedy seems to have written that a gay marriage ban is a malicious, gratuitous, and busybody-ish denial of someone else's freedoms (in other words, that homophobes should mind their own business). As for the legal hurdles, I think that the controversiality of the Prop 8 (i.e. Californian) ruling not on moral so much as on procedural grounds is very clear if you look at who agreed and who dissented — not the usual candidates, and even the gruesome twosome of Antonin Scalia and Clarence Thomas decided to take up opposing causes. 'At the end of the day,' however, I believe that seeing the happy photos from Stonewall, etc., made even pessimists like me a bit more cheerful.
e.g.
ابن
ibn; son
I would have assumed that the long stroke is an a, but it serves I guess as an all-purpose vowel; the b is recognizable enough even if I wouldn't remember which letter it is if I didn't look it up; the n is pleasingly easy to remember because it appears at the end of words so often and its swoopy shape with the diamond or dot over it is distinct.
***
I read another page of the Koran yesterday but found it too enigmatic to be anything but steep going; but besides that I am skimming through the chapter on hadith and sunna in Muslim Studies, by Ignaz Goldziher. Goldziher was an old-school academic who, with a large metaphorical foot in the 19th century, pioneered the western field of Islamic studies in many aspects; his choice of topics is far-ranging to the point of being as universal as you can probably become within the field. So I have wanted to read more of his work for a while. As for Edward Said's verdict, regarding the degree of 'orientalism,' a certain online encyclopaedia explains,
Of five major German orientalists, he remarked that four of them, despite their profound erudition, were hostile to Islam. Goldziher's work was an exception in that he appreciated 'Islam's tolerance towards other religions', though this was undermined [etc.]In the hadith and sunna chapter Goldziher is discussing the transmission of legends of the Prophet. — The Koran (I think) is about the messages of God, through Gabriel, to his Prophet. For stories about Muhammad's life and manners and those of his entourage, we turn instead to the hadith, anecdotes and sayings which have been shared and recorded (at least putatively) from his closest contemporaries, particularly after his death.
These hadith are the source of the sunna, which explains how Islamic principles and Muhammad's example are to be translated into daily life. At least that is the way I'd explain it. Then there is sunna which is the opinion of a Muslim writer who has passed into the religious canon, but not founded on a specific hadith — perhaps a Christian parallel might be the writings of St. Thomas Aquinas — and I think that Goldziher describes the Shi'a as being particular partial to these little innovations.
During an Islam-and-feminism research spree I came across Asma’ bint Umays, who recorded hadith as one of several women who were important in this scholarly tradition; but Goldziher seems to think she is unreliable, though at the same time mentioning that she married Abu Bakr, who was certainly in Muhammad's circle . . .
***
This past week, thanks to Twitter I've been following the situation in Egypt — according to American-Egyptian intellectuals and activists, Egyptian journalists, correspondents in Egypt, politicians, the Army's public relations staff, Muslim Brotherhood spokespeople etc. Everything which is happening seems wrong, pragmatically and ideologically, but it might not be polite to really vent about it here.
On the whole I found the news much more cheerful during the last week of June, even though I found the partial torpedoing of the Voting Rights Act by the Supreme Court very depressing and this feeling carried over to dampen even the joy of the rulings the next day on California's anti-gay marriage state law and on the federal law of the same aim. I have the feeling it will turn out for the best after all, but none of the language which I heard from the rulings in either gay marriage case seemed to me to provide a sturdy guarantee that gay marriage will be seen as a right under the 5th amendment. In federal tax law, marriage equality might exist; and in California it might exist now too as it does in a handful of other states where no successful referenda existed; but, in every other respect, it doesn't in over 30 states. Besides, how will the federal government safeguard the rights of people who live in a state where their across-the-border wedding isn't accepted?
On the other hand I very much liked that Anthony Kennedy seems to have written that a gay marriage ban is a malicious, gratuitous, and busybody-ish denial of someone else's freedoms (in other words, that homophobes should mind their own business). As for the legal hurdles, I think that the controversiality of the Prop 8 (i.e. Californian) ruling not on moral so much as on procedural grounds is very clear if you look at who agreed and who dissented — not the usual candidates, and even the gruesome twosome of Antonin Scalia and Clarence Thomas decided to take up opposing causes. 'At the end of the day,' however, I believe that seeing the happy photos from Stonewall, etc., made even pessimists like me a bit more cheerful.
* * * * *
Tuesday, July 09, 2013
Libération
Last week I decided to leave off university and set forth into the job market. So this coming weekend I might begin working as a cleaner for a lady in Tempelhof, and we'll see if I'll take more part-time or 'mini' jobs. Eventually I hope to work in something which trains me to a satisfyingly thorough standard in some field, because I would like to do more than one kind of work very well; but I feel happy and excited about this already. There are two other job applications I sent off, and we'll see if any reply arrives eventually.
The last year of university reminded me of school, too, so now I feel emancipated from educational institutions in general. 17 years, including kindergarten, is quite enough.
Even better, I feel old enough and confident enough to make my own decisions and to deal with whatever impediments and whatever good things they cause.
To a degree there isn't much of an alternative. Whenever I begin repressing instincts and adhering to the expectations of others, I feel as if I will never grow out of childhood, and never be a whole person, or even a person whom other people can rely upon, if I continue in that manner. It leaves questions unresolved which reappear later and with which one must deal eventually. So I refuse to continue and get an undergraduate degree simply because it is generally believed to be a prerequisite for decent work.
This seems like a dramatic line of argument to append to a declaration of intent to leave university, but to paraphrase Pope, trivialities at times give rise to big events. It is an open-ended question what to do so that I will arrive at the age of eighty knowing that I have done well and that I belong; and that I have laid a sufficient foundation to live happily for some twenty or thirty years more if need be. I have learned that it is best to start as you mean to go on, and if it means relying on one's own common sense and instincts in small things now, so much the better when big things present themselves later. Which sounds a bit morbid, but not nearly as morbid as the feeling of fighting against everything and hating the necessity to die, once the Grim Reaper approaches; or of living half a life long beforehand.
Besides I think I can permit myself the luxury of making my own mistakes, because I have no one relying on me yet. If I had three or four children . . . maybe not an entirely good idea. :)
The last year of university reminded me of school, too, so now I feel emancipated from educational institutions in general. 17 years, including kindergarten, is quite enough.
Even better, I feel old enough and confident enough to make my own decisions and to deal with whatever impediments and whatever good things they cause.
To a degree there isn't much of an alternative. Whenever I begin repressing instincts and adhering to the expectations of others, I feel as if I will never grow out of childhood, and never be a whole person, or even a person whom other people can rely upon, if I continue in that manner. It leaves questions unresolved which reappear later and with which one must deal eventually. So I refuse to continue and get an undergraduate degree simply because it is generally believed to be a prerequisite for decent work.
This seems like a dramatic line of argument to append to a declaration of intent to leave university, but to paraphrase Pope, trivialities at times give rise to big events. It is an open-ended question what to do so that I will arrive at the age of eighty knowing that I have done well and that I belong; and that I have laid a sufficient foundation to live happily for some twenty or thirty years more if need be. I have learned that it is best to start as you mean to go on, and if it means relying on one's own common sense and instincts in small things now, so much the better when big things present themselves later. Which sounds a bit morbid, but not nearly as morbid as the feeling of fighting against everything and hating the necessity to die, once the Grim Reaper approaches; or of living half a life long beforehand.
Besides I think I can permit myself the luxury of making my own mistakes, because I have no one relying on me yet. If I had three or four children . . . maybe not an entirely good idea. :)
Tuesday, June 25, 2013
Early Renaissance Drawings of Demons
Though it would be nobler to take the trouble to write and think through some sort of commentary, not much has come to mind so I will just post three pieces of this series of very strange drawings as standalone curiosities. I came across them a few weeks ago in connection with the Ashmolean Museum. I will say that the demons look remarkably un-frightening — more comical.
***
Temptation of Faith (c. 1450), by Master E.S. (1420-68)
Copper engraving, 91 x 69 mm, in the Ashmolean Museum (L.175)
From Janez Höfler: Der Meister E.S: Ein Kapitel europäischer Kunst des 15. Jahrhunderts via Wikimedia Commons
Ermutigung im Glauben (92 x 70 mm) [via Wikimedia Commons]
Temptation of Despair (89 × 67 cm [sic?]) [via Wikimedia Commons]
***
Temptation of Faith (c. 1450), by Master E.S. (1420-68)
Copper engraving, 91 x 69 mm, in the Ashmolean Museum (L.175)
From Janez Höfler: Der Meister E.S: Ein Kapitel europäischer Kunst des 15. Jahrhunderts via Wikimedia Commons
Ermutigung im Glauben (92 x 70 mm) [via Wikimedia Commons]
Temptation of Despair (89 × 67 cm [sic?]) [via Wikimedia Commons]
Saturday, June 22, 2013
A Political Rant, Mostly About the USA Scene
It's a very sunny day and fortunately not as nearly a hot a day as one of two hellish ones in the past week. After deliberating on how to navigate the U-Bahn on the way to university on those days, I ended up merely staying at home. Barack Obama, of course, had no such luck; his visit coincided with the first of these days, so he got to enjoy the 34°-in-the-shade mark as well as the humidity which had mounted for the past week or so beforehand. Since the speech was held before a preselected audience I didn't go hear it, and besides the anticipation was much greater in 2008, so I contented myself with watching the news coverage.
In the past week I read two or three romance novels online, translated from English into the Portuguese. After a while it was clear that they were homemade translations, so the English syntax and idiom was intact and probably confusing for a Portuguese reader. But it seemed more important to learn the vocabulary than any grammatical idiosyncracies, so I copied-and-pasted much of the books into Google Translate and inched through them. This pace was only really a bit disturbing when I encountered a prolonged childbirth scene; in the English original I would have sped through it, but in this particular situation little was left for me to do but to slog through it bit by bit and end up feeling pretty queasy despite holding the general conviction that it is shallow to be bothered by the miracle of existence etc. At the end of the days I almost felt as if I could write in Portuguese mas acho que é melhor não ter muita temeridade and por isso I usei Translate to check, which is a very good idea because my first attempt at a sentence was mostly Spanish with incorrect Italian thrown in.
*
After that preoccupation ended, I finally had the time and inclination to catch up with the American news again, which is even more of a circus than anywhere else so there are always good tidbits to be found. This time what occupied my thoughts most was the news of the iffy racial philosophy of a Food Network television chef, in her deposition for a court case in which she and her brother are accused of creating a terrible work environment.
For one thing, since she made a name for herself as a 'Southern' style cook, and some of her supporters are trying to excuse her peccadilloes on the grounds that she grew up in a time and a place where the 'N' word isn't so uncommon, I'm probably not the only one who sees broader ramifications regarding the centuries-long cross-Dixie squabble. For one thing, in a sense much of the outrage which Southerners expend in internet comments (Gawker and elsewhere) on arguing that Yankees mischaracterize and exaggerate the quantity and quality of racism in the South, is being temporarily forgotten; this tradition of racism — much denied — is suddenly being reclaimed from the historical ether.
In the past week I read two or three romance novels online, translated from English into the Portuguese. After a while it was clear that they were homemade translations, so the English syntax and idiom was intact and probably confusing for a Portuguese reader. But it seemed more important to learn the vocabulary than any grammatical idiosyncracies, so I copied-and-pasted much of the books into Google Translate and inched through them. This pace was only really a bit disturbing when I encountered a prolonged childbirth scene; in the English original I would have sped through it, but in this particular situation little was left for me to do but to slog through it bit by bit and end up feeling pretty queasy despite holding the general conviction that it is shallow to be bothered by the miracle of existence etc. At the end of the days I almost felt as if I could write in Portuguese mas acho que é melhor não ter muita temeridade and por isso I usei Translate to check, which is a very good idea because my first attempt at a sentence was mostly Spanish with incorrect Italian thrown in.
*
After that preoccupation ended, I finally had the time and inclination to catch up with the American news again, which is even more of a circus than anywhere else so there are always good tidbits to be found. This time what occupied my thoughts most was the news of the iffy racial philosophy of a Food Network television chef, in her deposition for a court case in which she and her brother are accused of creating a terrible work environment.
For one thing, since she made a name for herself as a 'Southern' style cook, and some of her supporters are trying to excuse her peccadilloes on the grounds that she grew up in a time and a place where the 'N' word isn't so uncommon, I'm probably not the only one who sees broader ramifications regarding the centuries-long cross-Dixie squabble. For one thing, in a sense much of the outrage which Southerners expend in internet comments (Gawker and elsewhere) on arguing that Yankees mischaracterize and exaggerate the quantity and quality of racism in the South, is being temporarily forgotten; this tradition of racism — much denied — is suddenly being reclaimed from the historical ether.
Wednesday, May 22, 2013
Quotidianity on a Rainy Wednesday
This afternoon I decided to cook chicken broth for a separate recipe, and since Ge. bought the few ingredients and Mama had bought three bundles of asparagus yesterday, it all went into a meal.
First I fried the soup chicken in a little oil since it is supposed to improve the flavour, and threw in the celeriac while I was at it. Then I took them out of the pot and put salted water to a boil, and chopped up the remaining 'soup greens' (Suppengrün: e.g. three carrots, a small leek, a willowy parsnip and curly parsley as well as a celeriac fragment), and then threw them into the water gradually after the chicken had already found a home in it. Then it boiled and boiled, I skimmed off a little of the protein? which flocked to the rim, and I added a quartered tomato since one was sitting around and the weather does not conduce to palatable longevity.
Part of the broth then went into a beaker for the sake of the recipe for which it is intended, and I added asparagus stock to the rest on Mama's recommendation. After that came the fun bit of sprinkling in salt for flavour, and then hoisting out the chicken and reducing it to bite-size little pieces of boiled meat with the assistance of a fork and our most enormous carving knife. Which also took a while.
It was a cloudy and mildly tempestuous day today; oak leaves being blasted in the wind and showing their greyish undersides, tropically large drops of rain, etc. Uncle Pu was there for a visit, so in the evening we ended up playing the customary three Haydn trios again. Lately I've been playing mostly Beethoven's late sonatas and bits of Chopin, though not so much today, when I turned to the cembalo and tried out Baroque pieces.
It may be silly or obvious or venom to the soul of a true connoisseur, but one of the best ideas to approach a Baroque piece seems to me to be to consider it carefully and assign a particular method to playing the different values of notes. Sometimes I play all of the eighth notes staccato, sometimes the quarter notes; sometimes I play them detached or play them legato, and often I do something different in the left hand. It sounds quite good once one strikes the right balance, and I think Glenn Gould did something similar. And, frankly, I think it just sounds bad in my case if I don't do it.
First I fried the soup chicken in a little oil since it is supposed to improve the flavour, and threw in the celeriac while I was at it. Then I took them out of the pot and put salted water to a boil, and chopped up the remaining 'soup greens' (Suppengrün: e.g. three carrots, a small leek, a willowy parsnip and curly parsley as well as a celeriac fragment), and then threw them into the water gradually after the chicken had already found a home in it. Then it boiled and boiled, I skimmed off a little of the protein? which flocked to the rim, and I added a quartered tomato since one was sitting around and the weather does not conduce to palatable longevity.
Part of the broth then went into a beaker for the sake of the recipe for which it is intended, and I added asparagus stock to the rest on Mama's recommendation. After that came the fun bit of sprinkling in salt for flavour, and then hoisting out the chicken and reducing it to bite-size little pieces of boiled meat with the assistance of a fork and our most enormous carving knife. Which also took a while.
It was a cloudy and mildly tempestuous day today; oak leaves being blasted in the wind and showing their greyish undersides, tropically large drops of rain, etc. Uncle Pu was there for a visit, so in the evening we ended up playing the customary three Haydn trios again. Lately I've been playing mostly Beethoven's late sonatas and bits of Chopin, though not so much today, when I turned to the cembalo and tried out Baroque pieces.
It may be silly or obvious or venom to the soul of a true connoisseur, but one of the best ideas to approach a Baroque piece seems to me to be to consider it carefully and assign a particular method to playing the different values of notes. Sometimes I play all of the eighth notes staccato, sometimes the quarter notes; sometimes I play them detached or play them legato, and often I do something different in the left hand. It sounds quite good once one strikes the right balance, and I think Glenn Gould did something similar. And, frankly, I think it just sounds bad in my case if I don't do it.
Tuesday, April 23, 2013
Nonsense About Ottoman Cyprus, Etc.
IT'S past 3:40 in the morning and I should really be going to sleep. My schedule for tomorrow looks like this: Wake up at 7 a.m., shower, clean up a bit; go to university; spend 6-8 hours at university depending on whether I'll come home during the 2-hour break; clean up a bit more; and prepare for the weekend since I don't seem to have classes on Fridays yet.
*
THE Latin class may have to be dropped because both tutorials clash with Greek classes, but I finished a worksheet except for two questions this evening, and it was rather a monumental undertaking. First of all, hopping between Wiktionary, a paperback English-Latin dictionary, a German treasury of Latin vocabulary, and a German-Latin website, to search out the mot juste for the German-to-Latin translations and verify the declension or conjugation took a while. Besides I buried myself in the Latin grammar, where it explains when to use an ablativus cum infinitivo construction, which constructions to use to replace nonexistent future conjunctives, etc., and that non dubito pairs with quin instead of quod or ut or ne. It's like trying to learn the rules and 'plays' of chess. I played this little sport every Sunday morning last semester, to submit the worksheet per email as obligatory, so at any rate it's not unaccustomed.
THEN I read a few brief paragraphs which were assigned to us from a history (an introduction to the Ottoman Empire which also stood on last year's Ottoman history lecture reading list) to illustrate the realities of Ottoman rule. For instance in Cyprus, this rule began when it was conquered from the Venetians who had held it since the 15th? century in 1571, despite the victory of the inimical Spanish and Portuguese(?) in the Battle of Lepanto in the same year. (The author wrote that this battle was 1571, but someone crossed out the 1 and wrote a 3 in its place. Perhaps I must consult Wikipedia to decide whom to believe.) Cyprus was muchly interesting to its various occupiers due to its cotton and sugar-based agricultural industry. In the late 16th century (?) the Ottomans began resettling Anatolians to Cyprus. But the Orthodox Church remained on the island, and aside from things like the non-Muslim head tax, the religion was mostly allowed to peacefully coexist with the Empire's Sunni faith. The island was not in the 'core' of the Empire — which was mentioned in this afternoon's Ottoman history lecture, — where the Ottomans felt comfortable ruling completely. (Egypt was, for example, recalcitrant and stood outside of the core.) Since the details are most likely askew, I will copy-edit them tomorrow.
SADLY (?) the second article we were to read for the Cyprus seminar has refused to load itself, at least in timely fashion, so I can't read it. Tomorrow morning I must decide, also, whether to print out 50ish pages of Latin vocabulary. I definitely do not feel like it. (Think of the trees! And the time spent when I would prefer to do something else before the epistemic — if that is a word — onslaught.)
*
THE Latin class may have to be dropped because both tutorials clash with Greek classes, but I finished a worksheet except for two questions this evening, and it was rather a monumental undertaking. First of all, hopping between Wiktionary, a paperback English-Latin dictionary, a German treasury of Latin vocabulary, and a German-Latin website, to search out the mot juste for the German-to-Latin translations and verify the declension or conjugation took a while. Besides I buried myself in the Latin grammar, where it explains when to use an ablativus cum infinitivo construction, which constructions to use to replace nonexistent future conjunctives, etc., and that non dubito pairs with quin instead of quod or ut or ne. It's like trying to learn the rules and 'plays' of chess. I played this little sport every Sunday morning last semester, to submit the worksheet per email as obligatory, so at any rate it's not unaccustomed.
THEN I read a few brief paragraphs which were assigned to us from a history (an introduction to the Ottoman Empire which also stood on last year's Ottoman history lecture reading list) to illustrate the realities of Ottoman rule. For instance in Cyprus, this rule began when it was conquered from the Venetians who had held it since the 15th? century in 1571, despite the victory of the inimical Spanish and Portuguese(?) in the Battle of Lepanto in the same year. (The author wrote that this battle was 1571, but someone crossed out the 1 and wrote a 3 in its place. Perhaps I must consult Wikipedia to decide whom to believe.) Cyprus was muchly interesting to its various occupiers due to its cotton and sugar-based agricultural industry. In the late 16th century (?) the Ottomans began resettling Anatolians to Cyprus. But the Orthodox Church remained on the island, and aside from things like the non-Muslim head tax, the religion was mostly allowed to peacefully coexist with the Empire's Sunni faith. The island was not in the 'core' of the Empire — which was mentioned in this afternoon's Ottoman history lecture, — where the Ottomans felt comfortable ruling completely. (Egypt was, for example, recalcitrant and stood outside of the core.) Since the details are most likely askew, I will copy-edit them tomorrow.
SADLY (?) the second article we were to read for the Cyprus seminar has refused to load itself, at least in timely fashion, so I can't read it. Tomorrow morning I must decide, also, whether to print out 50ish pages of Latin vocabulary. I definitely do not feel like it. (Think of the trees! And the time spent when I would prefer to do something else before the epistemic — if that is a word — onslaught.)
Friday, April 12, 2013
An Incredibly Long Post Which *No* One Could Be Expected To Finish
ON MONDAY we began reading M. Karagatsis's modern revision of the Odyssey. My family has a copy of a volume of the original text, an old-fashioned one, and I tried translating the first page or two. So I still remember that it begins, "Andra moi ennepe, mousa, polytropon" . . . "Tell me of the man, o Muse, who is resourceful" . . . (To translate it a little badly.)
In the modern version, Mr. Karagatsis excises the preamble and plunges into the middle of the matter, explaining that amongst his comrades, Odysseus had the longest journey back from Troy, comprising twenty years [ETA: Actually, it's ten years. The additional ten years refer to the duration of the war at Troy.]. The Ithacan had been privy to a presentiment that he would be landed in such a mess if he went to Troy, when the rest of the kings allied with Menelaus had reminded him of his promise and tried to haul him off to help rescue Helen. (I admit that I was thinking, rather cheerfully, that Tennyson really does seem to have read Odysseus wrong by casting him as an easily bored person, unfond of his home, in "Ulysses," though perhaps the underlying notion is that persons and their aims change in the course of life. But, then, my opinions of that poem are prejudiced, as evidenced by a certain lousy parodic couplet of my manufacture, to this effect: 'It little profits that an idle king / Should be so fond of whining.')
At any rate, Odysseus does his best to pretend to be too crazy to go, by determinedly striding down to the coast with salt in hand, leading a horse and an ox, whom he straps in front of a plough and sends down the sandy shore, following them to sow the salt where they wandered. Which reminded me a bit of Malcolm X's tale in his autobiography of getting out of military service in the 1940s.
MALCOLM X is occupied with his hustling life in Harlem and does his best to evade the informants of sundry branches of the Armed Forces who are doing their best to round up anyone who could be sent off to fight, and personifying the bristling, accusing finger of Uncle Sam. He is caught and summonsesed,* and gets into the spirit of things by acting erratically around his acquaintance a few days beforehand.
(* well, 'summoned,' but I like the supernumerary syllables)
Then on the glorious day, he enters the office to find himself before a psychiatrist, and prepares to be evaluated.
*
ANYWAY,
In the modern version, Mr. Karagatsis excises the preamble and plunges into the middle of the matter, explaining that amongst his comrades, Odysseus had the longest journey back from Troy, comprising twenty years [ETA: Actually, it's ten years. The additional ten years refer to the duration of the war at Troy.]. The Ithacan had been privy to a presentiment that he would be landed in such a mess if he went to Troy, when the rest of the kings allied with Menelaus had reminded him of his promise and tried to haul him off to help rescue Helen. (I admit that I was thinking, rather cheerfully, that Tennyson really does seem to have read Odysseus wrong by casting him as an easily bored person, unfond of his home, in "Ulysses," though perhaps the underlying notion is that persons and their aims change in the course of life. But, then, my opinions of that poem are prejudiced, as evidenced by a certain lousy parodic couplet of my manufacture, to this effect: 'It little profits that an idle king / Should be so fond of whining.')
At any rate, Odysseus does his best to pretend to be too crazy to go, by determinedly striding down to the coast with salt in hand, leading a horse and an ox, whom he straps in front of a plough and sends down the sandy shore, following them to sow the salt where they wandered. Which reminded me a bit of Malcolm X's tale in his autobiography of getting out of military service in the 1940s.
MALCOLM X is occupied with his hustling life in Harlem and does his best to evade the informants of sundry branches of the Armed Forces who are doing their best to round up anyone who could be sent off to fight, and personifying the bristling, accusing finger of Uncle Sam. He is caught and summonsesed,* and gets into the spirit of things by acting erratically around his acquaintance a few days beforehand.
(* well, 'summoned,' but I like the supernumerary syllables)
Then on the glorious day, he enters the office to find himself before a psychiatrist, and prepares to be evaluated.
I kept jerking around, backward, as though somebody might be listening. I knew I was going to send him back to the books to figure what kind of a case I was.[N.B.: *obviously the word in the book starts with 'ni' but isn't 'ninja.' The passage is from The Autobiography of Malcolm X, pp. 106-107.]
Suddenly, I sprang up and peeped under both doors, the one I'd entered and another that probably was a closet. And then I bent and whispered fast in his ear. "Daddy-o, now you and me, we're from up North here, so don't you tell nobody. . . . I want to get sent down South. Organize them ninja* soldiers, you dig? Steal us some guns, and kill up crackers!"
That psychiatrist's blue pencil dropped, and his professional manner fell off in all directions. He stared at me as if I were a snake's egg hatching, fumbling for his red pencil. I knew I had him. I was going back out past Miss First [the African American receptionist] when he said, "That will be all."
*
ANYWAY,
Saturday, April 06, 2013
Grumpy Prognostications Recalling Pope's Dictum
On Monday the first classes of the new university semester will begin, so I have registered for one course and just selected the tutorial, and seen that the rest of them 'carry over' from the winter semester.
I will have:
Greek:
* Oral and Written Language
* Modern Greek Language System
* Conversation
(three classes with the same professor)
* Erotokritos and the Literature of Crete under Venetian Rule
* History of Cyprus and the Cyprus Problem
Latin:
* German-Latin
History and Culture of the Near East:
* Lecture: Literature and Sources
(i.e. surveys of Arabic and Semitic literature)
* Seminar: Genres of Arabic Writerdom
These all sound more impressive than they are. The real description should probably read: Greek: miserably dragging myself through incomprehension in Greek; reading things in the Cretan dialect which I couldn't translate in a million years except when the professor feeds us each word; finding out how much I don't know about Cyprus and never really will. Latin: writing really, really difficult exercises and trying to figure out how long I can hide the fact that I couldn't reproduce a single Latin declension paradigm correctly if I'd have to walk off a plank into a sharky sea for getting it wrong. History and Culture of the Near East: feeling generalities go in one ear and out the other, because if I've ever read a whole page of Arabic literature I'd be greatly surprised and I've no context in which to understand the development of the literary genres; feeling really, really ignorant and trying to gird my loins for the inevitable class presentation what with its necessity of bringing my knowledge on a subject from 0 to the point at which I can write a well-rounded, knowledgeable, and reasonably variably sourced essay which is respectable in the undergraduate university level about it.
The point is that I don't feel unusually stupid or unusually delinquent in attending to what is taught, but all of this makes me really aware that somehow I still couldn't sustain an intelligent conversation about any of my courses because there are so many sinkholes of ignorance strewing the terrain.
Pope's dictum, as mentioned in this blogpost title, is this famous one:
A little learning is a dangerous thing
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring
I will have:
Greek:
* Oral and Written Language
* Modern Greek Language System
* Conversation
(three classes with the same professor)
* Erotokritos and the Literature of Crete under Venetian Rule
* History of Cyprus and the Cyprus Problem
Latin:
* German-Latin
History and Culture of the Near East:
* Lecture: Literature and Sources
(i.e. surveys of Arabic and Semitic literature)
* Seminar: Genres of Arabic Writerdom
These all sound more impressive than they are. The real description should probably read: Greek: miserably dragging myself through incomprehension in Greek; reading things in the Cretan dialect which I couldn't translate in a million years except when the professor feeds us each word; finding out how much I don't know about Cyprus and never really will. Latin: writing really, really difficult exercises and trying to figure out how long I can hide the fact that I couldn't reproduce a single Latin declension paradigm correctly if I'd have to walk off a plank into a sharky sea for getting it wrong. History and Culture of the Near East: feeling generalities go in one ear and out the other, because if I've ever read a whole page of Arabic literature I'd be greatly surprised and I've no context in which to understand the development of the literary genres; feeling really, really ignorant and trying to gird my loins for the inevitable class presentation what with its necessity of bringing my knowledge on a subject from 0 to the point at which I can write a well-rounded, knowledgeable, and reasonably variably sourced essay which is respectable in the undergraduate university level about it.
The point is that I don't feel unusually stupid or unusually delinquent in attending to what is taught, but all of this makes me really aware that somehow I still couldn't sustain an intelligent conversation about any of my courses because there are so many sinkholes of ignorance strewing the terrain.
Pope's dictum, as mentioned in this blogpost title, is this famous one:
A little learning is a dangerous thing
Drink deep, or taste not the Pierian spring
Tuesday, April 02, 2013
Die Musik - Mein Leben
Two weeks ago, or thereabouts, my brother Ge. and I went shopping for music scores at a small music antiques shop in Charlottenburg, and as a 'thank you' we received secondhand books: one by Joachim Kaiser, another evidently a philosophical reflection on Bach, and the third a memoir by Daniel Barenboim, which was published in English originally and in German by Ullstein in 2002. Since I feel too hyperactive to sit down and read a book without hopping to the computer now and then, it seems best to write about the process of reading and then nip over to one or two other websites (Pinterest, for instance, which I have finally officially joined since mid-March) intermittently.
1:35 p.m. One thing I've wondered is when Barenboim's family came to Argentina, since it is (after all) a newish country for European references. The book explains that his grandparents on both sides fled there from the Soviet Union in the 1900s.
1:49 p.m. When did he begin to play? — Barenboim has no Arthur-Rubinsteinesque tales of consummate ability at the age of two* with which to bowl over his reader, or perhaps he modestly withholds them. He grew up in a musical family, and his mother taught him piano first, and soon his father took over.
* I don't have his autobiography at hand, but a certain online encyclopaedia provides the details.
2:20 p.m. In Argentina, he writes, musicians visited the house of Ernesto Rosenthal in Buenos Aires. One of the visitors was Sergiu Celibidache, the conductor from Romania who also for instance taught at the Curtis Institute of Music in the USA. (It's where Hilary Hahn went, and from what Papa tells me it seems like a rather hippieish and freewheeling place instead of a musical barracks for the next generation.) He is easy to find on YouTube, for instance in this video with the Dutch National Radio Symphony Orchestra: Ravel's Bolero, in the early 70s.
2:40 p.m. As a seven-year-old, Barenboim gave his first concert in Argentina, where he had already been going to school. He writes that even when he became a teenager school was a priority insofar as he didn't go on long tours, so that he had a 'quite normal school education.' I think 'quite normal' is being stuck in there for the grim duration and not having much during the holidays and after school to take one's mind off of it, but anyway. (c:
2:47 p.m. In the early 1950s his family moved to Israel because his mother, in particular, as well as his grandparents on her side, were highly excited by the formation of the new homeland. His father's piano lessons continued, and Barenboim writes that this was quite convenient insofar as he didn't have to hop back and forth between different teaching and musical philosophies. Also, he was taught to think of music and technique as integrated concepts, so that there wasn't undue emphasis on scales and other technical exercises and undertakings in isolation. An important thing was to be taught what was needed by the scores, let's say of a Mozart piano concerto.
This really rang a chord, but rather because I always mess up scales and do better when they are part of a piece of music. Unlike with Barenboim, I don't know if it can objectively be said to be the only possible philosophy or the best didactic method for me. But at least it keeps me happy and keeps me in good humour with the music. Also, even under these conditions, it is nice to feel that a piece I work on for a while on can send me forth into the world again with a new piece of the technique puzzle, even if I haven't tracked down the relevant finger exercises or scales for repetitive formal drills.
To translate back into the English, Barenboim writes,
3:22 p.m. Well, I'm only on p. 17, which is the disadvantage of a reading liveblog when I'm the one in charge of writing it; but I think I'll take a break and look at Easter crafts, etc., on a certain pinning website now.
1:35 p.m. One thing I've wondered is when Barenboim's family came to Argentina, since it is (after all) a newish country for European references. The book explains that his grandparents on both sides fled there from the Soviet Union in the 1900s.
1:49 p.m. When did he begin to play? — Barenboim has no Arthur-Rubinsteinesque tales of consummate ability at the age of two* with which to bowl over his reader, or perhaps he modestly withholds them. He grew up in a musical family, and his mother taught him piano first, and soon his father took over.
* I don't have his autobiography at hand, but a certain online encyclopaedia provides the details.
2:20 p.m. In Argentina, he writes, musicians visited the house of Ernesto Rosenthal in Buenos Aires. One of the visitors was Sergiu Celibidache, the conductor from Romania who also for instance taught at the Curtis Institute of Music in the USA. (It's where Hilary Hahn went, and from what Papa tells me it seems like a rather hippieish and freewheeling place instead of a musical barracks for the next generation.) He is easy to find on YouTube, for instance in this video with the Dutch National Radio Symphony Orchestra: Ravel's Bolero, in the early 70s.
2:40 p.m. As a seven-year-old, Barenboim gave his first concert in Argentina, where he had already been going to school. He writes that even when he became a teenager school was a priority insofar as he didn't go on long tours, so that he had a 'quite normal school education.' I think 'quite normal' is being stuck in there for the grim duration and not having much during the holidays and after school to take one's mind off of it, but anyway. (c:
2:47 p.m. In the early 1950s his family moved to Israel because his mother, in particular, as well as his grandparents on her side, were highly excited by the formation of the new homeland. His father's piano lessons continued, and Barenboim writes that this was quite convenient insofar as he didn't have to hop back and forth between different teaching and musical philosophies. Also, he was taught to think of music and technique as integrated concepts, so that there wasn't undue emphasis on scales and other technical exercises and undertakings in isolation. An important thing was to be taught what was needed by the scores, let's say of a Mozart piano concerto.
This really rang a chord, but rather because I always mess up scales and do better when they are part of a piece of music. Unlike with Barenboim, I don't know if it can objectively be said to be the only possible philosophy or the best didactic method for me. But at least it keeps me happy and keeps me in good humour with the music. Also, even under these conditions, it is nice to feel that a piece I work on for a while on can send me forth into the world again with a new piece of the technique puzzle, even if I haven't tracked down the relevant finger exercises or scales for repetitive formal drills.
To translate back into the English, Barenboim writes,
"I often meet musicians who begin by trying to solve specific problems in a technical, mechanical way, so that they can wedge in the 'musicality' afterwards — like whipping cream on a cake. But these things — technique and interpretation — should be connected from the outset [...]".For me, I think it is perhaps rather a failing that (as far as I know) I don't want to resolve technical problems or look at music analytically for its composition, for fear of losing the charm and emotional roundedness of the music. If I were really a musician and weren't a shallow person, shouldn't it make no difference? But perhaps it is the case as with academic work, where I think the worst possible thing is to engage with the subject shallowly and then become convinced that one knows everything because it is too easy — whereas diving into learning and researching, and pushing past mental barriers, produces a degree of thought and emotional development which doesn't make one flippant or cold.
3:22 p.m. Well, I'm only on p. 17, which is the disadvantage of a reading liveblog when I'm the one in charge of writing it; but I think I'll take a break and look at Easter crafts, etc., on a certain pinning website now.
Sunday, March 31, 2013
Paschal Pleasures
This morning I was the first to wake up except Papa, having gone to sleep at a seasonably early time and had a rather sound go of it. Europe's 'leap forward' to summer time, viz. the loss of an hour between 2 a.m. and 3 a.m., was not really bothersome. It was still greyish weather and single snowflakes of large compass idly footled about in the sky.
This year the Easter bunny duties were for the most part assumed by J., who assembled the table picturesquely, with a great deal of chocolate eggs in brightly coloured foil, the plate whereupon a sugar-dusted cake lamb reposed as a present from a family friend, Maltesers (the confectionery), an orange for everyone, and a belled goldwrapped chocolate bunny on each of our little plates.
While I waited for the others to wake up, I began watching the Easter mass from St. Peter's Square at 10:14, thanks to ZDF's internet livestream. I didn't get very far in, but did hear the reading in English from Corinthians. (Puzzled by the unelevated language of the text, I later lamented that the Catholic church didn't seem to be using the King James Bible any more, whereupon Mama et al. groaned and I remembered that England was Anglican by King James's time.) The German voiceovers were a pain, but some of the commentary was useful. I liked the way that the garb and postures of the deacon, cardinals, etc. resembled those in medieval paintings, as if someone had animated them for my benefit — and I loved the flower arrangements, which were in fine taste in my opinion — it turns out that they are Dutch —, arranged with an eye to the manner in which greenery and blossoms naturally disperse and group themselves.
Then came the Easter breakfast. There I forgot the eggs so that they boiled a good eight or nine minutes despite the loftiest intentions. This year there was no to-do of dye or watercolour paint, though J. has painted his own eggshell in a design which was intended to resemble Islamic art and which I thought (and said, perhaps tactlessly and at any rate to a bemused audience) looked very Celtic. It has a little green but a lot of dark berry red and black and gold, and shapes of hares with a thick band of ornamental pattern as a kind of Greenwich Meridian/(straight) International Date Line. At any rate, we did eat raisin bread and graham bread and freshly baked rolls (dough of industrial provenance) with jam, cheese, egg, or ham. The tea and coffee were also toastily-hot and at the ready.
After that our paths diverged.
This year the Easter bunny duties were for the most part assumed by J., who assembled the table picturesquely, with a great deal of chocolate eggs in brightly coloured foil, the plate whereupon a sugar-dusted cake lamb reposed as a present from a family friend, Maltesers (the confectionery), an orange for everyone, and a belled goldwrapped chocolate bunny on each of our little plates.
While I waited for the others to wake up, I began watching the Easter mass from St. Peter's Square at 10:14, thanks to ZDF's internet livestream. I didn't get very far in, but did hear the reading in English from Corinthians. (Puzzled by the unelevated language of the text, I later lamented that the Catholic church didn't seem to be using the King James Bible any more, whereupon Mama et al. groaned and I remembered that England was Anglican by King James's time.) The German voiceovers were a pain, but some of the commentary was useful. I liked the way that the garb and postures of the deacon, cardinals, etc. resembled those in medieval paintings, as if someone had animated them for my benefit — and I loved the flower arrangements, which were in fine taste in my opinion — it turns out that they are Dutch —, arranged with an eye to the manner in which greenery and blossoms naturally disperse and group themselves.
Then came the Easter breakfast. There I forgot the eggs so that they boiled a good eight or nine minutes despite the loftiest intentions. This year there was no to-do of dye or watercolour paint, though J. has painted his own eggshell in a design which was intended to resemble Islamic art and which I thought (and said, perhaps tactlessly and at any rate to a bemused audience) looked very Celtic. It has a little green but a lot of dark berry red and black and gold, and shapes of hares with a thick band of ornamental pattern as a kind of Greenwich Meridian/(straight) International Date Line. At any rate, we did eat raisin bread and graham bread and freshly baked rolls (dough of industrial provenance) with jam, cheese, egg, or ham. The tea and coffee were also toastily-hot and at the ready.
After that our paths diverged.
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
Canada Customs and the Pope
Since I am not likely to set much finger to keyboard for the purposes of this blog any time soon, and since although not a hermit I am doing a fairly good impression of a reticent and occasionally growly troll hiding under a bridge — here is a somewhat silly video from a Canadian political/social comedy series which my family and I enjoyed watching when we weren't cringing over 'inappropriate' bits.
As far as things I don't mind talking about are concerned, the news I've been following lately also comprised a great deal about the new Pope. Having been thoroughly disgruntled by his predecessor and prone to speaking very lightly of the Vatican, it sort of bowled me over to find that by a simple choice made over two or three days, I have been basking in a kind of rosy haze at the thought of Pope Franciscus. The novel idea of seeing God's work as going amongst the poor and needy and, heaven forfend, even listening to them — instead of reading up and holding endless speeches on dusty theological disputes; dusting off ceremonious chasubles or other antiquated trappings which had been discarded by less tradition-happy popes; and carefully keeping away from the other religions which are suddenly all evil again since Pope John Paul II died — has been so entrancing that I even thought of attending church again.
As suspected, I didn't act on this impulse, but it feels nice to be in a state of mind where I'd sincerely consider it. On the other hand, Franciscus's vivid acquaintance with The Evil One (to whom he ascribed a role in certain gay marriage legislation in Argentina, and whose name he dropped on the Pontifex Twitter account) seems a little naive to me. Belief in a red man with horns and a forky tail is not really supported by the actual text of the Bible, if I am properly informed, and there is something undignified about it unless you have a true, mature feeling for apocalyptic upheaval and sinisterness like a Hieronymus Bosch. Similarly, I think that fantasizing about satan is an odd activity (and a misdirection of energies) for a man of God.
Another thing that impresses me as human and sensible about the new Pope, though, is that he seems to be trying to lead as ordinary of a life as possible — walking amongst hoi polloi, talking with people he disagrees with, living in quarters which are about what he has been accustomed to, speaking the language of the neighbourhood where he lives instead of Latin, travelling in a vehicle which does not look too silly, making his own arrangements re. newspaper delivery, and (metaphorically speaking) not wearing too many bells and whistles. It seems an excellent way to remain reasonably levelheaded.
*
I would talk about university stuff, but the last semester was the WORST (not so much terrible as pointless and irritating) and I'm grumpy about having to return from the holidays in mid-April.
*
Lastly, for people who are not excessively bored by Twitter and are interested in the issue of gay marriage, here is a link to a lovely though unexpected political statement by the American lifestyle (well, not that kind of lifestyle) magazine Martha Stewart Living. It refers to the 'equals sign' = which has been adopted and spread as a pro-gay-marriage symbol by (I think) the Human Rights Campaign. [Link] I found it quite heartwarming — unlike the decision of the US Supreme Court not to decide on 'Prop 8' yet. Someone wrote a comment underneath the photo that the magazine would lose Twitter 'followers'; in fact I have kept track of it and its numbers have gone from 46,429 to 46, 451.
As far as things I don't mind talking about are concerned, the news I've been following lately also comprised a great deal about the new Pope. Having been thoroughly disgruntled by his predecessor and prone to speaking very lightly of the Vatican, it sort of bowled me over to find that by a simple choice made over two or three days, I have been basking in a kind of rosy haze at the thought of Pope Franciscus. The novel idea of seeing God's work as going amongst the poor and needy and, heaven forfend, even listening to them — instead of reading up and holding endless speeches on dusty theological disputes; dusting off ceremonious chasubles or other antiquated trappings which had been discarded by less tradition-happy popes; and carefully keeping away from the other religions which are suddenly all evil again since Pope John Paul II died — has been so entrancing that I even thought of attending church again.
As suspected, I didn't act on this impulse, but it feels nice to be in a state of mind where I'd sincerely consider it. On the other hand, Franciscus's vivid acquaintance with The Evil One (to whom he ascribed a role in certain gay marriage legislation in Argentina, and whose name he dropped on the Pontifex Twitter account) seems a little naive to me. Belief in a red man with horns and a forky tail is not really supported by the actual text of the Bible, if I am properly informed, and there is something undignified about it unless you have a true, mature feeling for apocalyptic upheaval and sinisterness like a Hieronymus Bosch. Similarly, I think that fantasizing about satan is an odd activity (and a misdirection of energies) for a man of God.
Another thing that impresses me as human and sensible about the new Pope, though, is that he seems to be trying to lead as ordinary of a life as possible — walking amongst hoi polloi, talking with people he disagrees with, living in quarters which are about what he has been accustomed to, speaking the language of the neighbourhood where he lives instead of Latin, travelling in a vehicle which does not look too silly, making his own arrangements re. newspaper delivery, and (metaphorically speaking) not wearing too many bells and whistles. It seems an excellent way to remain reasonably levelheaded.
*
I would talk about university stuff, but the last semester was the WORST (not so much terrible as pointless and irritating) and I'm grumpy about having to return from the holidays in mid-April.
*
Lastly, for people who are not excessively bored by Twitter and are interested in the issue of gay marriage, here is a link to a lovely though unexpected political statement by the American lifestyle (well, not that kind of lifestyle) magazine Martha Stewart Living. It refers to the 'equals sign' = which has been adopted and spread as a pro-gay-marriage symbol by (I think) the Human Rights Campaign. [Link] I found it quite heartwarming — unlike the decision of the US Supreme Court not to decide on 'Prop 8' yet. Someone wrote a comment underneath the photo that the magazine would lose Twitter 'followers'; in fact I have kept track of it and its numbers have gone from 46,429 to 46, 451.
Monday, February 04, 2013
Brief Newsflash of Studies on a Monday
The past three weeks I went to university fairly regularly and ended up grumpy and exhausted, and last week I skipped every class except for one on Friday where I had been asked to do a presentation. So, after skipping another class this morning, I slept in past 10 a.m. and went to Latin in the early afternoon in a kind of relaxed and happy frame of mind — quite alert, too, considering that it was on Monday. It is the last class before the exam next week, which thankfully I needn't write but which I hope to try for the sake of practice. The Latin course has been very difficult. Since the teaching assistant explains everything so precisely, however, (post facto, though, meaning that my embarrassingly flawed worksheets have already been handed in and are beyond hope of correction) the framework of the grammar has gradually become clear. I feel quite pleased with my progress by the end of the semester, and so (judging by the positive murmurs when the teaching assistant asked for commentary today) is the rest of the class.
Thursday, January 10, 2013
From Haloes to Hospitality
This week I have been fired by the wish to show up to all of my classes virtuously, at an excellent juncture as it turns out since a great proportion of the students are staying away in a presumable spillover from the holidays, so I feel the beginnings of a halo glimmer around my head whenever I — exquisitely on time — tread into a classroom these days.
Since this semester's schedule combined with the necessary repetition of the prelanguage course demands that I be at university at 10:00 on Mondays and 8:30 every day thereafter, I have been going to sleep before midnight and waking up spontaneously between 3 a.m. and 7, then relaxing as I like to do in the tranquillity of nighttime, and then taking as long or as little time as I like to dress and pack things together, and then going out the door.
Today I had a prelanguage course Greek grammar class preceded by a first-year Greek grammar class, followed by the overview of Turkish literature lecture which has set in since two weeks before the Christmas holidays after all the Persian literature was overviewed by a different professor.
In the first-year grammar we reviewed the present active participle — ταξιδευοντας, etc.— in sentences which were so incredibly depressing that I had no idea what was going on until I realized that the chapter's theme was criminal justice and prison sentences. For the prelanguage course there was a little vocabulary mixed in, and we had to complete small, much more cheerful exercises surrounding the four seasons: ανοιξη, καλοκαιρι, φθινοπωρο, and χειμωνα.
In the Turkish literature class I recognized the letter wāw on the chalkboard from my small discursions into Persian vocabulary and felt tremendously pleased with myself. I should have known the kāf, too.
***
Anyway, I've had little projects at home going on, and one of them was to dabble in modern music again and figure out what I like. I did this in possibly the stodgiest way thinkable, by looking at NPR's 2012 best-of lists and then listening to over a hundred songs on YouTube. In terms of genre I felt quite undiscriminating, but I wasn't especially taken by electropop and nostalgic folk music from urban types (along the Mumford and Sons line, which I — probably unfairly — now think of as 'fauxlk music') and the kind of punk music where pale young women who seem on the verge of passing out sing feebly off-key whilst playing the keyboard, and that while I felt less self-conscious when my parents walked into the room when I was listening to jazz I found most of it incredibly boring, and I really do like rap music because I think it has more substance than most other stuff. I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but the real rap like the Wu Tang Clan separately and collectively do intimidate me because they can feel so hard and joyless and genuinely aggressive, but the rest is kind of easier to hear.
'Skyfall' bowled me over, but I only listened to part of it once and I wonder if the reaction was proportionate; at least it is nominated for an Academy Award, so . . . Arvo Pärt was on the list, and much to my surprise because contemporary classical music all falls under unoriginal, neurotic, self-indulgent overintellectualizing minimalist tosh concocted by academic aesthetes in my mind, I liked the song, as it was performed by an Estonian choir.
The musicians I had heard of before were Bonnie Raitt and Neil Young, and perhaps unsurprisingly I also liked them best. Above all, both musicians' voices are like instruments which they have learned how to use, with the twang and the colour and everything beautifully calibrated and mature (like a fine wine, to add another cliché to this paragraph), which less experienced singers seem to try to replace with lovely sincerity but little originality through Bob Dylan- or Dolly Partonesque affectations. Bruce Springsteen, I was surprised to find, seemed anodyne despite the persona.
But the only songs which have stuck in my head this year are "We Are Young" from fun., as well as "Whistle" from Flo Rida and that song from One Direction, which I had already heard because the apprentice in the bookshop and I listened to them together during the summer. I've heard 'Gangnam Style' and 'Call Me Maybe' the requisite number of times, too, but I thought that Gangnam Style was kind of harsh and degenerate — though I think that most people who look at the cheerfully absurd-seeming music video will probably wonder what on earth I mean.
As far as the singers accompanying themselves on the piano went, I considered it best to ignore the offerings in that line, excepting rare cases like Diana Krall's. Because if the piano is to have no tone and no expression at all, and a rather sparse score, one might as well prod around a well-tempered and multicoloured Fisher Price keyboard for noise-loving two-year-olds. But I consider the horrendousness in this area more due to the absence of effort (or of respect for the instrument) than of talent.
In the end, I pruned these 100+ songs into two shortlists — one for fun songs and bands, and one general list which I am planning to revisit:
Since this semester's schedule combined with the necessary repetition of the prelanguage course demands that I be at university at 10:00 on Mondays and 8:30 every day thereafter, I have been going to sleep before midnight and waking up spontaneously between 3 a.m. and 7, then relaxing as I like to do in the tranquillity of nighttime, and then taking as long or as little time as I like to dress and pack things together, and then going out the door.
Today I had a prelanguage course Greek grammar class preceded by a first-year Greek grammar class, followed by the overview of Turkish literature lecture which has set in since two weeks before the Christmas holidays after all the Persian literature was overviewed by a different professor.
In the first-year grammar we reviewed the present active participle — ταξιδευοντας, etc.— in sentences which were so incredibly depressing that I had no idea what was going on until I realized that the chapter's theme was criminal justice and prison sentences. For the prelanguage course there was a little vocabulary mixed in, and we had to complete small, much more cheerful exercises surrounding the four seasons: ανοιξη, καλοκαιρι, φθινοπωρο, and χειμωνα.
In the Turkish literature class I recognized the letter wāw on the chalkboard from my small discursions into Persian vocabulary and felt tremendously pleased with myself. I should have known the kāf, too.
***
Anyway, I've had little projects at home going on, and one of them was to dabble in modern music again and figure out what I like. I did this in possibly the stodgiest way thinkable, by looking at NPR's 2012 best-of lists and then listening to over a hundred songs on YouTube. In terms of genre I felt quite undiscriminating, but I wasn't especially taken by electropop and nostalgic folk music from urban types (along the Mumford and Sons line, which I — probably unfairly — now think of as 'fauxlk music') and the kind of punk music where pale young women who seem on the verge of passing out sing feebly off-key whilst playing the keyboard, and that while I felt less self-conscious when my parents walked into the room when I was listening to jazz I found most of it incredibly boring, and I really do like rap music because I think it has more substance than most other stuff. I don't know if I've mentioned it before, but the real rap like the Wu Tang Clan separately and collectively do intimidate me because they can feel so hard and joyless and genuinely aggressive, but the rest is kind of easier to hear.
'Skyfall' bowled me over, but I only listened to part of it once and I wonder if the reaction was proportionate; at least it is nominated for an Academy Award, so . . . Arvo Pärt was on the list, and much to my surprise because contemporary classical music all falls under unoriginal, neurotic, self-indulgent overintellectualizing minimalist tosh concocted by academic aesthetes in my mind, I liked the song, as it was performed by an Estonian choir.
The musicians I had heard of before were Bonnie Raitt and Neil Young, and perhaps unsurprisingly I also liked them best. Above all, both musicians' voices are like instruments which they have learned how to use, with the twang and the colour and everything beautifully calibrated and mature (like a fine wine, to add another cliché to this paragraph), which less experienced singers seem to try to replace with lovely sincerity but little originality through Bob Dylan- or Dolly Partonesque affectations. Bruce Springsteen, I was surprised to find, seemed anodyne despite the persona.
But the only songs which have stuck in my head this year are "We Are Young" from fun., as well as "Whistle" from Flo Rida and that song from One Direction, which I had already heard because the apprentice in the bookshop and I listened to them together during the summer. I've heard 'Gangnam Style' and 'Call Me Maybe' the requisite number of times, too, but I thought that Gangnam Style was kind of harsh and degenerate — though I think that most people who look at the cheerfully absurd-seeming music video will probably wonder what on earth I mean.
As far as the singers accompanying themselves on the piano went, I considered it best to ignore the offerings in that line, excepting rare cases like Diana Krall's. Because if the piano is to have no tone and no expression at all, and a rather sparse score, one might as well prod around a well-tempered and multicoloured Fisher Price keyboard for noise-loving two-year-olds. But I consider the horrendousness in this area more due to the absence of effort (or of respect for the instrument) than of talent.
In the end, I pruned these 100+ songs into two shortlists — one for fun songs and bands, and one general list which I am planning to revisit:
Tuesday, January 01, 2013
A Sleep-Deprived Account of the New Year's Concert
The traditional hatchet job, with my apologies for hyperacidity or inaccuracies, follows:
Yesterday morning, as is our wont, we watched the New Year's concert of the Vienna Philharmonic on television; this year it was an unusually large contingent, as Papa, Mama, Ge., J. and I were there, laughing and groaning and minding the music as the moment demanded. I had been up for some twenty hours and was as a result in a vague and grumpy frame of mind.
This year the conductor was Franz Welser-Möst, on his home heath, though rightly or wrongly I felt that his musical terrain was more Wagner than Strauss, just as with Daniel Barenboim I seem to remember that there was a hint of Beethovenishness throughout. The music encompassed not only the Strausses and Josef Hellmesberger Jr., who as the ORF commentator noted was an early conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic and is therefore honoured regularly in the programme, but also Verdi (a charming morsel of Don Carlo) and Wagner (something from Lohengrin) in honour of their impending 200th birthdays. For the Wagner the brass section melted together into an almighty unisono roar which had the subtle heft of, though more harmoniousness than, a sledgehammer. It felt in my view a little ponderous for a classical, rectangular concert hall. In terms of musical bells and whistles, grating boxes came out towards the end of the concert, there was a harp, and the triangle often came into play.
I approved considerably of the flower arrangements, at least insofar as to find them uncommonly tasteful, arranged to give an overall impression of pink rose colour. There were, as customary, roses, anthuriums, orchid-like flowers, and for a change snapdragons, nestled in greens, and though the anthuriums were anthuriums they were so pale pink and beigey-yellow that I barely noticed them, which is as it should be.
For the first half of the concert I was inattentive or out of the room, preferring even to begin translating a Greek text for a course presentation to sticking around in my grouchy mood, but then I arrived for the cinematic pièce de résistance which is the intermission tourist video — an experience much softened by the aforementioned sleepiness.
Yesterday morning, as is our wont, we watched the New Year's concert of the Vienna Philharmonic on television; this year it was an unusually large contingent, as Papa, Mama, Ge., J. and I were there, laughing and groaning and minding the music as the moment demanded. I had been up for some twenty hours and was as a result in a vague and grumpy frame of mind.
This year the conductor was Franz Welser-Möst, on his home heath, though rightly or wrongly I felt that his musical terrain was more Wagner than Strauss, just as with Daniel Barenboim I seem to remember that there was a hint of Beethovenishness throughout. The music encompassed not only the Strausses and Josef Hellmesberger Jr., who as the ORF commentator noted was an early conductor of the Vienna Philharmonic and is therefore honoured regularly in the programme, but also Verdi (a charming morsel of Don Carlo) and Wagner (something from Lohengrin) in honour of their impending 200th birthdays. For the Wagner the brass section melted together into an almighty unisono roar which had the subtle heft of, though more harmoniousness than, a sledgehammer. It felt in my view a little ponderous for a classical, rectangular concert hall. In terms of musical bells and whistles, grating boxes came out towards the end of the concert, there was a harp, and the triangle often came into play.
I approved considerably of the flower arrangements, at least insofar as to find them uncommonly tasteful, arranged to give an overall impression of pink rose colour. There were, as customary, roses, anthuriums, orchid-like flowers, and for a change snapdragons, nestled in greens, and though the anthuriums were anthuriums they were so pale pink and beigey-yellow that I barely noticed them, which is as it should be.
For the first half of the concert I was inattentive or out of the room, preferring even to begin translating a Greek text for a course presentation to sticking around in my grouchy mood, but then I arrived for the cinematic pièce de résistance which is the intermission tourist video — an experience much softened by the aforementioned sleepiness.
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