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:

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.

Light in Winter

From the Book of Hours of Louis XII of France, 1498. Victoria and Albert Museum.
(Wikimedia Commons)

A Christmas Carol in Theatrical Form

About six years ago I thought of writing up Dickens's Christmas Carol in play format so that we could act it at home, and since I didn't have the story immediately at hand I made it up a little as I went along, thinking very much of the film versions (principally of 1938 and 1951) and a little of the characterization of Charles Montgomery Burns in The Simpsons. Here are the first two scenes, of three which I have already written in draft. It's not a very serious thing; among other things, I haven't thought much about what is required for writing a drama as opposed to any other sort of text, and am quite used to reading plays as fiction and not imagining or seeing them as theatre.

***

Scene One
Cratchit sitting at a desk, writing with a quill in a ledger. He is wearing a coat and a scarf, and is evidently cold.

Cratchit: (trying to cheer himself up by singing) "Joy to the world! The Lord is come! . . ."
Scrooge: (throws open the door and stalks in grimly) There's another coal on the fire, I see. I distinctly remember counting five when I left. How often must I tell you to bring two coats with you to work and leave the coal-pile alone?
Cratchit: Please, sir, you only told me once, and I thought that since the pitcher on the window sill is frozen . . .
Scrooge: What is winter if not the season of ice? Practicality is the key, Cratchit. Do you see this padding in my waistcoat?
Cratchit: Yes, sir.
Scrooge: That, Cratchit, is yesterday's Times of London. Several pages, crumpled up and placed judiciously within one's clothing, are as good as a fur coat. (He takes off his hat and hangs it on the clotheshook; crumpled newspapers fall out. He shuffles across the floor, rustling. Cratchit involuntarily looks at Scrooge's feet, wondering what the sound is. Scrooge notices.) Ah! You are wondering what that is in my shoes. Well, Cratchit, I will also tell you that a double sheet of newspaper serves excellently in lieu of socks, and it doesn't need darning.
Cratchit: Most ingenious, sir. (Writes on some moments in perplexity, as Scrooge carefully removes the extra coal from the fire and drops it into the ash pail. At last he has screwed up his courage to make a humble request.) Please, sir, it is the twenty-fourth of December, and I wonder whether I am permitted to take off the last quarter hour in addition to the day off tomorrow.
Scrooge: A quarter hour off?! The day off tomorrow?! But, Cratchit, it is a weekday tomorrow. Business waits for no one!

Horse Chestnut Poems, II

The Horse Chestnut

In May the long and dipping leaves flock
gloriously along the supple branches,
thin and translucent and dark and cool
and veined in lightly threading cords;
and clusters of white pink-specked blossoms
rise in thick and heavy spires on stems
tenderly and freshly green,
beset upon by hordes of bees
who render the magnificent dome
into one great leafy, lovely hive.

In the earth, there sunken lie
the tarnished sombre chestnut hulls
which fell as copper-tinted paeans
to the whorled charm of gleaming wood
and now in death return to dust
or sprout a lingering greyish stem
which a lightless neighbourhood will starve
or which a fortuitous sunlit orifice
will raise and cherish into life.

For now the deep Elysian shadows
spread among the cobblestones
and touch the abandoned windows
high in doors of the archaic stables,
guard from view the burdening growth
of a persistent English ivy
whilst it crowns, as if a laurel,
the crumbling, swallow-harbouring brick.

At a distance and yet in sight,
stranded on the crest of fields
that dive and rise into the hedges
and bathe their feet in unseen rills,
a kindred tree casts far its foliage
in a lonely but grand clump:
a watcher of the meadows
and the shelterer of the horses
when, their loping gambols ended,
and finding the sun's orb too fierce,
they canter flowingly to bask
in the arbour's chilly sanctuary.

***
[Second Version, April 14th, 2009, rev. Oct. 20th and Nov. 25th]

[The other horse chestnut poem is here.]

A Poem from the Archives

Written in Grade 10, a grand effort inspired by a classmate who was being sort of annoying:

Once there was someone
Whose head was not good;
A crayon he broke
On his head, which would
Addle the wits that were left him
quite good.

***

In graveyard fields
I, ***, lie
The cricket's chirp
My lullaby.
For restlessly
[in spirit still]
I wander about
Those who see me
Scream and shout
I died at school
Not long ago
[(of boredom)]
At least I now
French can forego.

St. Nicholas, Part I: Philosophical Abstractions

Yesterday was a wearying day and I went to sleep fairly late (or, er, early), so though I had set the alarm clock, I turned it off once it rang (the first class began at 8:30) and thus slept through to noon and later.

The kitchen was still in a mess, but all the shopping had been done. I had the Byzantinian folk literature course at 6:15, so for the next couple of hours I read books online and copied out (by hand) a few more lines of Homer in the Greek original.

TO round out my Greek studies and to relieve my guilt for not doing more in that language, I have decided to read the Iliad and translate it in my head. Surprisingly enough we do not have an ancient Greek text of the Iliad itself wherefore I had to turn to an electronic text, and I am writing it out by hand so that it's easier to consult. About a week ago I looked into the bookshelves, and by grace of my grandfather's and my father's love for ancient Greek, found:

Richard John Cunliffe, A Lexicon of the Homeric Dialect (University of Oklahoma Press), ed. copyright 1963.
Homer, The Iliad (Penguin Classics) Transl. E. V. Rieu, 1966.
Homer, Ilias, Odyssee (dtv weltliteratur) Transl. Johann Heinrich Voß (Iliad: orig. publ. 1793), edition from 1982.
Homer, Ilias und Odyssee (Rheingauer Verlagsgesellschaft) Transl. Johann Heinrich Voss, edited by Hans Rupé and E.R. Weiß, 1980.
William Bishop Owen and Edgar Johnson Goodspeed, Homeric Vocabularies (University of Oklahoma Press), revised by Clyde Pharr, ed. copyright 1969.
J.E. Zimmerman, Dictionary of Classical Mythology (Bantam), 1980. [This has a label bearing my grandmother's name and our Victoria address on the title page.]

St. Nicholas, Part II: Eats

Ge. and I prepared the St. Nicholas plates just before I left for university: milk and dark chocolate-covered gingerbread, clementines, domino stones coated in milk and in dark chocolate, tree tips or Baumkuchenspitzen which are tiny pineapple-fragment-shaped pieces of layered sponge cake (the layers being light with dark edges like the growth rings in a tree, or the layers of a French bûche de Noël) once again covered in chocolate, Spekulatius biscuits, and marzipan potatoes which Ge. bought after I'd left because they were manifestly missing. (c:

The rest of the menu was:

Sweepsteak

(Beef roast with onion, recipe from the I Hate to Cook Book)

Boiled potatoes

Coleslaw salad à la döner kebab

Cauliflower

Salad with aceto balsamico and quark dressing

Sugared oranges in brandy

The potatoes were intended to be lemon potatoes, which I had eaten and enjoyed at a Greek restaurant on West Broadway in Vancouver over six years ago, but the time ran out.

As for the coleslaw salad, I julienned red tomatoes by cutting the peel into slabs and deseeding it and then slicing it into strips, then thinly cut up a quarter of a red cabbage, yesterday. I left these in the fridge overnight so that the cabbage would grow milder, and I hoped the acid in the tomatoes would have a similar effect. What was tremendously cool was letting the tomato juice come into contact with the cabbage juice, because obviously the pH (acidity concentration, I guess one could say) of the tomatoes made the cabbage juice turn pink from its lovely aubergine colour. This afternoon I grated in a carrot on the coarsest holes, sliced in half of an oval lettuce, and sprinkled pomegranate seeds on top; then after the Byzantinian literature class I chopped in some parsley and julienned a little cucumber. Except for the quartered tomatoes which I added and the pomegranate seeds, and the relative scarcity of cucumber and lettuce, it was pleasingly like the salad which normally comes with our favourite takeout döner kebabs. Finis.

I sprinkled aceto balsamico over the cauliflower, cut into small chunks, so that it would become less cabbagey; I think it worked, and fortunately nobody minded the dark vinegar watermarks.

The other salad was of leafy lettuce, of which I had arranged intact leaves around the perimeter of the bowl, which looked very festive; I sliced cucumber over it, put chopped parsley in the middle, quartered some of the tomatoes and removed the greeny stem bits, shook over more pomegranate seeds, and then prepared my dressing.

The sugared oranges were a monumental pain in the neck, also because I thought they turned out too sour though everyone else was happy with them. Removing the pith was difficult, slicing them was difficult because the knife didn't like becoming wet or working with a soaked wooden cutting board or who knows what, so I ended up smushing part of the orange rather than slicing it. The clementines which I mixed in also refused for the most part to slice properly, falling into the disarray of their individual segments instead. I sprinkled sugar in between the layers and added some brandy, but I didn't taste the brandy and thought that more sugar would not have come amiss. The thing is that I have sentimental reminiscences of sliced oranges infused with sugar and kirsch which my father made, and have tried to emulate them; only I was too cheap to buy a 10 euro bottle of kirsch from the store and too demanding to buy a cheap bottle.

I have plans to make tzatziki, and two aubergines to use up, tomorrow, so we'll see how that goes. (c: My attempt yesterday to make baba ghanoush with a third eggplant was a bit interesting, though not in disastrous wise.

At any rate the beef was excellent and so were the platters full of gingerbread and chocolate, and the rest was fine, so I think it was a good day from the culinary front. We also brought some extra festivity into the evening by singing 'Lasst uns froh und munter sein' and, in Mama's case, tootling out Advent songs on the French horn.

THEN we watched a books television show with Dieter Moor and his guest Franz Müntefering, whom I did not greatly admire as a politician but had to admit is rather charming and not without thoughtfulness and humour as a private individual. I had considered him unoriginal and complacent.

Lastly, Ge. and J. and I watched the Daily Show and the Colbert Report together. So now I feel greatly relaxed; the question is whether I will make it to my 8:30 a.m. class tomorrow.

Carrot Cake and Dictionary Extracts

This morning I woke up when the alarm clock went off at around 7:15. I considered it too early, turned it off, and then went back to sleep. A while later I became conscious again and decided to skip my Greek prelanguage course class; then I slept through all the way until 1:50something.

Since then I've opened up the Wikipedia article for Rumi and written down a few more words of Farsi along with their transliteration and German equivalents, for university, and have otherwise been pleasantly not doing much in particular.

Isn't Arabic a fairly lovely script? I imagine that there are many different iterations, like print versus cursive writing in the Latin alphabet, so the kind which I am reading in the Farsi-to-German dictionary may be a more utilitarian specimen. Here is an example in my rudimentary scribbling:

***

J. and Ge. went shopping for Ge.'s birthday and since then I have baked a round tin and a very long rectangular tin of carrot cake for the birthday lad. The recipe may be found here.

It turns out that the ingredients for the frosting were a trifle incomplete; the butter-and-cream-cheese frosting rarely turns out well for me anyway. So I softened a little butter over the stove, mixed it in with a slender tub of cream cheese, and added vanilla sugar and plenty of icing sugar. Then I made a second frosting with icing sugar, a drop or so of lemon extract, the bottle's cap full of brandy, milk and water. Since rosemary has a lemony taste and it was there, I took a dried leaf and crumbled it in. The family came to eat the result and made insulting remarks about ants (well, not really insulting — more funny) at the sight of the nondescript dark bits of rosemary, and then tucked in quite happily.

Besides I've been reading some news and meditating a grand journalistic effort again with a great deal of skepticism

An Excursion on Butterscotch Eggnog

Two cups of whipping cream.
One cup of whiskey.
Half a cup of brandy.
A cup of sugar.
Twelve eggs.
Two cups of milk.
Flavourings.

These things, in Melissa Clark's New York Times recipe (which I already mentioned a year or two ago) make me very happy. The quantity is large enough for my brothers, sister and parents too. (c:

America!: Election Night (Liveblog)

12:36 a.m. Have decided to stay up all night to follow the presidential elections and possibly the death penalty abolition amendment in California as well as other initiatives. I think I will do it a bit impersonally, though not 'journalistically,' because I like reading about the experiences of people who really are Americans instead of the secondary recipients of the joy or the reverse of American politics overseas.

One of my favourite stories so far: A Fox news channel show analyses 'voter intimidation' in Philadelphia. It consists of one member (apparently) of the New Black Panther Party standing at ease before a voting place, and opening the door for an elderly white lady.

Everyone seems to have voted:

From: @MarthaStewart on Twitter.

Those who also voted included Maria Shriver and her daughter, who both happily voted for Obama; Solange Knowles, Whoopi Goldberg, Carmelita Jeter, Chelsea Clinton, RuPaul, etc. Also, Donald Trump; though whether this is an overall loss or gain for democracy it is impossible to tell.

To put it in historical context, the actress Anika Noni Rose reminded people to treasure their voting rights — that her own great-aunt "was the first Black person to cast a vote in her Fla. town. She was cursed and spat upon."

Apparently journalists become caught up in everything, too:

From @campbell_brown on Twitter.

There have been many blunders made, and strange rules or rumoured rules, for instance that one isn't permitted to publish photos of one's voting ballot in twelve states. There are also strange voting initiatives; according to a commenter on Jezebel, Nebraska is voting on an amendment to "declar[e] hunting and fishing a constitutional right." (iammonsterface)

3:21 a.m. To make some use of my education (hopefully without making errors in the English-to-Greek translation), behold η ακμη της δημοκρατίας :
The Huffington Post's rather depressing summary of voter intimidation and other small catastrophes throughout the country.

3:53 a.m. Some schadenfreude may have been felt (by me) now that Wisconsin, the home state of Paul Ryan and host to the collective bargaining rights fiasco under Gov. Scott Walker, has been projected to be for Obama.

3:56 a.m. Out of idle curiosity I have consulted the New York Times's website's former election maps — I was glued to the 2004 map during my first year at UBC so I remember it well — and here is Wisconsin's recent presidential voting record:

2004: 49.76% Kerry / 49.36% Bush
2008: 56.3% Obama / 42.4% McCain

Wikipedia helps with the 2000 and 1996 elections. Based on the figures given I have hastily calculated (warning: not reliable) that in 2000 Bush had 47.69% as opposed to Gore's 47.91%; in 1996 Dole had 38.48% versus Clinton's 48.81%. So it is definitely a Democratic-leaning state.

It also makes me happy that Claire McCaskill has apparently beat Todd Akin for a senator's seat in Missouri. The defeat couldn't have happened to a lovelier soul. In the words of @AlexCarpenter:

"The Rape guy lost" "Which one?" Your party has serious issues if people have to ask "Which one?" #GOP #itstheTwentyFirstCentury

The Greek newspaper I follow on Twitter is keeping up to date, too. It reports, thanks to ABC, a Νίκη Ομπάμα στη Μινεσότα — Minnesota, which Obama did win heavily in 2008 too.

In Colorado, a voter initiative is attempting to legalize weed . . .

4:55 a.m. Michelle Obama writes, reconcilingly: "More than anything, I want to thank you all for everything. I am so grateful to every one of you for your support and your prayers. –mo" (@MichelleObama) She posted the message 16 minutes ago (as of . . . now) and it already has 7,118 'retweets.'

5:17 a.m. Barack Obama has possibly won? (Taking into account votes in California?) He has written:

This happened because of you. Thank you.

At the same time there are early reports that he has conquered in Ohio. And now:

We're all in this together. That's how we campaigned, and that's who we are. Thank you. -bo 

and

Four more years.

5:33 a.m. CNN and other outlets seem to be saying that Obama has won, too . . . !!

5:39 a.m. Defense correspondent for NPR, @larrybarnaby, reports the scene from Romney's headquarters:

Mood funereal at Romney Hq, people hugging, crying.

6:33 a.m. The New York Times online (apparently) calls the election for Obama. Still no concession speech of Romney; the Republicans are, per C-Span feed, watching CNN dourly while the Democrats are dancing, waving flags, holding up four fingers ('four more years!') and listening to music.

6:37 a.m. Worth celebrating: America's first openly gay senator, and a lady, Tammy Baldwin of Wisconsin.

6:52 a.m. Chant of "Mitt!" at the Republican headquarters, with whistles. Now "U-S-A." CONCESSION!

6:56 a.m. Mitt Romney is eerily cheerful. "Besides my wife, Ann, Paul is the best choice I've ever made." All righty then. Wives of his sons are apparently all home-tenders while their husbands campaign . . . Now he reconciles with teachers.

"Job creators." Oh, there's the old Romney.

"Governor Romney is conceding the race with a classy speech," writes the NAACP.

7:02 a.m. Loud cheers amongst the Democrats. "Four more years!" is their chant. A video of Edith Childs and the "Fired up? — Ready to go!" chant is played.

7:22 a.m. I'll have to go to university so I can't listen to Obama's speech. But it's been well worth the white night, and I am going to rest contented that the US and the world are safe again for four years! I hope this is not exorbitantly optimistic but rather a prediction of nice things to come — though the absence of new wars and so on is already a very good thing per se.

An Unpleasant Event

This afternoon, when I was sitting in the bookshop, a lady from the Tempelhof district came in and asked whether I knew about the attempted honour killing down the street. I had seen candles and flowers beside the door but didn't know it was about that (and had felt it would be sensationalist and snooping to examine it further). She said that she wanted us, as the neighbours of the woman, to write a flyer condemning the attempted honour killing, which had already been written up on a website which tracks such honour killings in Germany.
Basically what I said was that any murder or attempted murder is already condemned by me and by most other people — that it is condemned generally, condemned under much of Islam, and condemned I thought also in countries like Afghanistan where it is culturally rooted. (I had read up on this issue, admittedly not in depth, for my class presentation on Islamic feminism in the USA. But I also felt a bit antagonistic because I don't like pointing at other countries and cultures and talking about how backward and savage they are, particularly if it is completely undeserved.)

I also said that I didn't see that it was possible for me to do anything, particularly unasked by those most concerned — unless the family asks for support — and that at best I could post a sign from a women's organization (which she named) directing possible future victims to a helpline or other resources in the window. Much of the time I was in the uneasy position of arguing that I am not my sister's keeper; the woman was generally dissatisfied (though reconciled by the end of the conversation, I think) with the responses of me and of other people she'd talked to as well. In hindsight I wished I had asked her what interested her personally in the case so much, because I think it is far better to engage in a cause when one has a specific personal knowledge or connection to it, and I am certain that she must have one.

When I read up on the case, it was that a young Iranian woman had been attacked with a knife by her former boyfriend in her apartment a week ago; the little daughter is under the care of youth services and she herself was operated on so that she survived. It was so biblically brutal that I understand why the label of attempted honour killing was affixed to it, but I think it is brutal entirely because the man was psychotic.

It does feel unsettling to live around the corner from a near-homicide, but after living here for six years I know that most of my neighbours would never even think of doing anything like it and that, God willing, it won't happen again.

Persian Literature, Phanariotes, and Plaints

The Greek classes haven't become much easier, but that perception is partly also because the conversation class took place on Friday.

On Thursday evening there was the Byzantinian folk literature course; we read part of Digenis Akritas (often known as Akritis), a Byzantinian epic which coincidentally enough was written around the time of Beowulf and has apparently since then been reinvented into a national epic. The emir's song which starts the whole thing is the most unmitigated twaddle I have ever read in that line, being tremendously sappy and at the same time gruesome; it seems to have little originality or depth to recommend it. I find it hard to believe that it wasn't invented in the 19th century when it was discovered in Trabizond (and seems since to have been conveniently lost, only to resurface in Italy and in Madrid's Escurial during the 20th century as divergent copies), because it has a generic, ahistorical quality to it which one tends not to find in most folk epics, which are distinctive, weird, and frequently digressive. On the other hand, obviously this opinion shouldn't be taken as my final one since it is not based on a very profound acquaintance with the text. Anyway, the professor mostly spoke in German, and it was only when the classmates were talking in Greek when I didn't understand anything.

Before that the Persian literature survey course took place, as mentioned in the last blog post, and it was mostly an overview of the evolution of the language (Dari; Farsi being the Arabic for Parsi, which in turn derives from the name of a southwestern province of present-day Iran; etc.) and of different verse forms. Just as it is difficult to present Elizabethan verse by stating that sonnets have fourteen lines, grouped together according to the poet's approach, and containing either the Spenserian or other rhyme schemes — without providing any examples —I think it would have been more relatable if snippets of Persian verse had been given. But there is not that much time to do that; besides I copied down two of the titles from the reading list and looked up the first; this led me to read up on al-Mutanabbi, but he is not, I think, Iranian. What did interest me particularly is that the Persians seem to have been using rhyme since before the 9th century AD, whereas if I remember English literature properly it only popped up around the time of Chaucer (so the 14th century) in Britain.

On Friday morning there was the Greek prelanguage course, where we read the first chapter of a book which I remembered from last year, and a classmate from that year and I held a discussion about the difficulties of the other Greek courses. I still tend to be rather sleepy (because the classes usually take place at 8:30) but it is a nice class and it's reassuring that it isn't in Greek.

Then I went to the bookshop, where I wrote the professor an email setting forth the practical impossibility of pursuing the Greek studies this year according to suggestions which the professors and the department have made.

Then I returned for the first year Greek conversation class, which was largely in Greek. A fellow student read out a summary of a text, which she had written, and I didn't understand a thing except "1941" and "Mussolini"; and then the professor talked about Macedonia and also mentioned 1941, and that was basically all I understood in that hour. If there are proper nouns to latch onto, I can figure out what the subject is, but everything else is doubtful. Some words I wrote out and then looked up in the dictionary. Then we were given a satirical poem which she read, and the more experienced classmates understood it and found it funny, and I only knew what was going on when she went through it and translated the unknown words one by one. Then she gave two different homework assignments, one for the experienced (maybe four or five) and another for the inexperienced (another three or four) students. It was confusing and I didn't like being shut out of much of the class; while on the other hand I had to recognize that the professor was making an effort to accommodate us. It's not that I don't remember and didn't learn a great deal last year, it's only that I would have to know three times that vocabulary to get along.

In the evening I had the modern Greek history class, where we were given texts in German and Greek, specifically about the Phanariotes(?) who rather precariously climbed into the elite and served as interpreters and even margraves(?) in the Ottoman Empire, named after the city quarter Phanar in Istanbul. I came in a little late, and the class switched from Greek to German after I entered, but if the other students were irritated by the necessity they didn't show it. Sometimes the professor talked in Greek with the other students, if they asked something in the same language, but he was often comprehensible to me and would switch back eventually anyway; besides I guess it is comforting to feel considered and not feel dumb.

Anyway, it's all been kind of stressful

A Happy End and Halloween

I finished my essay on Monday, in the evening, and since then have been taking it easy because I was quite exhausted. There are certain advantages to finishing these things before the start of the new semester, observed Papa, and I agree.

Yesterday evening we celebrated Halloween well. J. and Ge. dressed up, and I wore my Scottish tartan skirt which is more of a compromise than a costume; and five groups or so came by and were allowed to dip into the enormous bowls of candy which Ge. and J. had bought. (I had bought some too, but the licorice spirals and vitamin fruit gummies, for instance, were consumed last evening.) There was plenty left for us, which rounded out the experience.

Other than that, it's been quite cold and the really dark skies with thick clouds and a charcoal-grey colour at their bases have begun pulling through. The plane trees are still quite green, and so are a couple of the trees, even if they have lost most of their leafery.

Soon I will have a lecture on Persian literature, so this is a very brief blog post. (c:

An Obscure Rant on the First Byzantinian Folk History Lesson

This morning I went to my Greek class with my professor from last year, and it went reasonably well although I had forgotten to take along my grammar book and although she was speaking in Greek for much of the time.

Then I went to the bookshop where two books were bought by separate customers, one person returned a book since his children already had it, one lady chose a book and didn't buy it since the credit card machine wouldn't recognize that a chip existed in either of the two cards she tried, the post delivery man left a package for a neighbour, two gentlemen came in looking for a book I didn't have at hand, someone from the house management firm came by, I had dropped my key inside my purse so that I fished for it even though J. (who was guarding the shop) waved me through the open door, and last but not least, two or three plumbers went in and out to address a massive overflow into the cellar thanks in part to an ancient pipe. The plumber who explained what was wrong afterwards was polite to me, but obviously not impressed.

At home I had enough time to watch the Daily Show with Jon Stewart, and then I was off to university again for a course in Byzantinian vernacular literature. By this point I had been up for almost twelve hours.

IMAGINE my surprise when I entered the class and, by and by, professors came in as well as the students. Since the professors were youngish and I thought that my professor may have shown up to provide moral support to a new teacher, it was a great surprise to me when I thought, 'Finally the professor has shown up,' and then he wrote out his name . . . and it was the name of the department head! It turns out that the first part of the lesson was allotted to an introductory event of the Greek faculty.

By this point I was incredibly grumpy, since I hate introductory events, cheerleading for upcoming university courses or semesters, and particularly being forcibly friendly and 'cool' with fellow students — when I think that the ideal relationship with a fellow student is to barely exchange a word during the entire year and then be happy to meet each other again by surprise. Besides I want to focus on the darned academic matter.

Anyway, the professors were introduced, we students were each supposed to say what our minor's programmes were, I refused to make eye contact and therefore got away with not answering; and then I had no chance to wriggle out of it when the department head asked us each to give a little background on ourselves, specifically why we were studying Greek (which is admittedly a reasonable question, but one whose answer is mostly boring for fellow students except if the answer is that one wishes to join a cult whose text is the untranslated New Testament). Besides I have to finish my essay and have no time for distractions!!! The structure of the bachelor's programme was elucidated, and then the professor contingent and the prelanguage course students left; and the actual class began after a short interval in which I read one of the most rebellious sections of the Autobiography of Malcolm X with a great deal of sympathy although my grievances were much more trivial.

As in a different course this morning and on Tuesday, because there are students in the incoming year who have actually gone to Greek schools and speak it amongst each other — whereas my classmates from last year wouldn't dream of it and like me exert themselves considerably to proffer two or three credible sentences at a time — some of the class was conducted in Greek!

As a person who sat in many a class where I inconveniently knew a little too much, like a German class in Canada and an English class in Germany, I did my best not to inconvenience my classmates or demand anything. I was bored and it didn't improve my working habits, but I dealt with it because otherwise I could have just knuckled down and learned extra grammar or whatever so that I could be put in a more difficult class. Besides I thought that some things would be new and in fact they were; and I don't think everything always goes the way one would like it and that it's useful to learn to handle that.

Such masochism should be widespread!

Anyway, as Mama also pointed out, the language immersion should be helpful. But it drives me mad that I, after only one year of language instruction, am being asked to keep up the same level as someone who has lived in Greece!!!

On Tuesday my saintlier reaction to this state of affairs was to begin listening to a Greek news video on a semi-daily basis again — not because I understand more than half of it but because it helps to have the language in one's ear. But today, muchly enraged, I surmised that I could passive-aggressively counterbalance the situation by coming in for extra help during my professor's office hour until the gaps of knowledge are closed and by taking up her time thusly practice a form of civil disobedience which neither Martin Luther King, Henry David Thoreau, nor Mahatma Gandhi would likely recognize. Ge. and J. were not much impressed by this unsaintly notion, either, so I am just going to enjoy the idea of it.

My Essay on the Moorish Science Temple, Part 2

Apologies in advance for the statistics salad which this part of the essay has become. I will undoubtedly have to condense and beautify it in the German-language version which I hand in. It is also subject to small changes as my research, er, finishes progressing.

THE FOUNDER AND PROPHET of the MSTA, Timothy Drew, was born in North Carolina, on January 8, 1886, by his own account. Greensboro is mentioned as his birthplace; it was a town of some 2,100 inhabitants at the time of the 1880 Census, with a long history of settlement including of the Quakers — First Lady Dolley Madison was born in present-day Greensboro in 1768 — and with its own War of Independence battle in 1781. During slavery it was a station on the Underground Railway; the abolitionist businessman Levi Coffin opened a Sunday school for slaves in 1821 which was however swiftly suppressed; during the Civil War, it was Confederate territory. Its population grew steadily; in 1910 it encompassed approximately 15,895 souls.

Photo: Drinking at "Colored" Water Cooler in Streetcar Terminal,
Oklahoma City, Oklahoma (July 1939)
By Russell Lee
From Library of Congress, prob. public domain

The south at the end of the 1800s was plagued by Jim Crow laws, segregation, and lynching,¹  as it would continue to be until the 1950s. The Emancipation Proclamation had been passed in 1863, but so was the segregationalists' legal cornerstone Plessy v. Ferguson in the Supreme Court in 1889. There were serious miscarriages of justice, like the Scottsboro case in 1931. As far as voting rights were concerned, even in 1957 a Mississippi teacher — an African American — who tried to register to vote had obstacles set in his path. Then he was informed that the attention of the Ku Klux Klan had been drawn upon him, so he was under police protection for a time.²

There were continued attempts at procuring an education and establishing businesses, likewise in the north. Even before Booker T. Washington founded his National Negro Business League in 1900, there were thousands of African American businesses. Only two banks numbered amongst them, but by the end of the decade the quantity was 'nearly fifty.' A minuscule fraction of African Americans had also gone to college by 1899 (1,914 in the thirty-four black institutions and 390 in white ones, which included prestigious institutions like Bowdoin and Oberlin colleges; and women were among them). Newspapers proliferated and, in a few cases, had over a hundred thousand readers.

American culture of the turn of the century, and later, certainly facilitated the success of African Americans in the arts, if only in spotty fashion. Sidney Poitier, for instance, was only nominated for an Academy Award in 1958, after a lot of cinematic water had gone under the bridge.

My Essay on the Moorish Science Temple, Part 1

Current or former MST location in Chicago. Taken by Google Street View, April 2009

***

I DECLARE it does appear to me as though some nations think God is asleep, or that he made the Africans for nothing else but to dig their mines and work their farms, or they cannot believe history, sacred or profane. I ask every man who has a heart, and is blessed with the privilege of believing—Is not God a God of justice to all his creatures? Do you say he is? Then if he gives peace and tranquility to tyrants and permits them to keep our fathers, our mothers, ourselves and our children in eternal ignorance and wretchedness to support them and their families, would he be to us a God of Justice? I ask, O, ye Christians, who hold us and our children in the most abject ignorance and degradation that ever a people were afflicted with since the world began—I say if God gives you peace and tranquility, and suffers you thus to go on afflicting us, and our children, who have never given you the least provocation—would He be to us a God of Justice?

—David Walker

DuBois, W. E. Burghardt. "The Talented Tenth."  in: Washington, Booker T., et al. The Negro Problem. Mobile Reference, 2009. Web. [Google Books]

IT'S not surprising then they get bitter, they cling to guns or religion or antipathy to people who aren't like them or anti-immigrant sentiment or anti-trade sentiment as a way to explain their frustrations.

—Barack Obama

"Top 10 gaffes in presidential campaigns." SFGate.com. Web. 13 Oct. 2012.  [http://www.sfgate.com/news/slideshow/Top-10-gaffes-in-presidential-campaigns-49242.php#photo-3472619]

 ***

If you seek out the places where the religious community Moorish Science Temple of America is or was once located, by present-day virtual means, you are often transported into disconsolate environments.

These tend to be urban ones: names of shops are painted onto signs and awnings by hand, the antiquish false fronts would fit perfectly into the Wild West, the street is fissured or seamed by dark tar strips, a quadrangle of grass grows where a house was torn down, old-fashioned sedans are parked alongside the road, in extreme cases the roof is dilapidated so that it must be drenched during rain, industrial terrain is immobile, windows of houses down the street are nailed shut with boards, and the shop or house itself has grates in front of the windows and door to ward off theft and violence. A casual search for an address in Pittsburgh leads to local news of three shooting deaths within two years in front of one bar, and one in Fayetteville in Georgia leads to a police blotter.

Therefore it seems, also if one reads of the history of the Temple, that to arrive at the truest picture of the origins and present state of the Moorish Science Temple's congregation, one must endeavour to understand its socioeconomic context, formerly and currently. Many aspects of the doctrine and mythology, and all of the internal politics, of the Temple will come short in this essay, also because even scholars dispute what information is fact and which fiction¹; while Chicago is particularly focused upon since it can serve as a microcosm of the industrial north.

_______
Google Street View. Web. 7 Sept. - 13 Oct. 2012.

Sherman, Jerome L. "Does bar play a role in violence?". Pittsburgh Post-Gazette 22 Nov. 2009. Web. 30 Sept. 2012.

"Rockdale Blotter - 10/29/10." Rockdale Citizen 28 Oct. 2010. Web. [http://www.rockdalecitizen.com/news/2010/oct/28/rockdale-blotter-102910/]


1 Even the year of the founder, Noble Drew Ali's, death varies depending on the scholar.
Pinn, Anthony B. Varieties of African American Religious Experience. Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress, 1998. 215. Web. [Google Books]
The Illinois State Archives have a death record for "Timothy Drew" on July 20, 1929; and the African-American newspaper, the Chicago Defender (the image is credited to a "Defender Staff Photographer"), apparently ran a photo of "Noble Drew Ali"'s funeral. The caption mentions that he was buried at Burr Oak cemetery, where his headstone bears the date "1929."
"Prophet Noble Drew Ali's funeral." Moorish Society. 4 Apr. 2012. Web. 29 Sept. 2012. [http://moorishsociety.com/2012/04/04/prophet-noble-drew-alis-funeral/]
Illinois Statewide Death Index. Web. 2 Oct. 2012 [http://www.ilsos.gov/isavital/idphDeathSearch.do Search for "Drew" and "Timothy."]
"Noble Drew Ali." FindAGrave.com. 1 Feb. 2005. Web. 13 Oct. 2012. [Link]
So the year 1929 — not 1920 — seems plausible.

[P.S.: Really not so fond of the new MLA formating, which I am using for all my footnotes and which looks very different from what it did back in 2005 when I last applied it to university work.]

Notes From the Essay-Path

Last night I read the first part of a long history of Chicago's parks, particularly on the South Side, which I found extremely interesting and which has made me look at streets in a different way. Basically the idea is that the early magnates and city government of Chicago were privy to the fairly new arrangements of Haussmann in Paris, which served as an inspiration to the new streets; and that the same Frederick Law Olmsted who planned out Central Park in Manhattan and Prospect Park in Brooklyn wanted to have boulevards as tree-beplanted 'tunnels' between parks. Since at that time the traffic was horsedrawn and pedestrian, the grandest boulevards seemed to consist of several different tracks; and it was only in the 1890s where asphalt and electric street lamps came into use. The question with the streets is how to arrange the drainage, prevent excessive strain on the surface, and stay aesthetically pleasing; for a while cedar wood paving was used on some roads and 'blast furnace slag' was one possibility for the gutters. The streets' forerunners were sometimes Native American trails, navigating through surer and less swampy soil, and one or two avenues which joined the park district later were pioneer plank streets. I liked the other trivia, too — that a gas lantern had 8 to 10 candlepower or something, whereas the electric lamp had 2000. Lastly, the park management on the West Side was clearly hugely corrupt, but at least in this report the management on the South Side looks highly respectable.

The whole point of the exercise is to have a contextual sense of urban development during the 19th and early 20th centuries, which may seem beside the point of my essay, but which isn't particularly as the socioeconomics which might bring forth religious groups are its focus. So I have read much more of the Autobiography of Malcolm X, for instance, but I don't think I will bring the Nation of Islam into the essay aside from mentioning that it is partially the legacy of the Moorish Science Temple's .

For the purposes of an essay it's self-defeating, but like during the last semester I keep on wondering what Truth is in relation to history. The basic question is, how can I write something which someone who is affected by the subject which I am writing about would recognize? I don't know all the time which facts are true and which are important. So I use instinct and I consult different sources from different perspectives in different disciplines. Obviously this takes longer, but I dislike feeling sloppy and mendacious.

Besides, I think that the principles and the historiographical ideas of the Moorish Science Temple are easily found enough, and that these are moreover fluid and open to interpretation by different followers and perhaps closed to interpretation by the skeptical outsider. The organization and its degrees of power don't interest me very much either, because they seem to me to be 'ersatz' for something else. So I want to take a very concrete approach, make something clear of the events like the Great Depression and the New Deal and the First World War, the formal and informal minutiae of segregation, and the evolution for instance of Chicago; perhaps something of the general religious foment if I manage to bring my investigation of the prominent branches of Christianity in the first half of the 20th century to a reasonable point; and still, I guess, in an authorial manner, capture some of the individual human drama.

In short, this is all overly ambitious, but it kind of sweeps one up in its breadth and historical momentum.

***

Anyway, right now I am at the bookshop, and it has been a quiet morning thus far. I went to sleep after 5 a.m. last night and woke up before 9 a.m., so I feel a little hollow-eyed. But this is definitely preferable to my original notion of remaining awake the entire night.

A Poem on Fieldmouse Fodder

 I wrote the original draft of this poem on November 26, 2008 and have thought of posting it several times because I like horse chestnut trees and it comes to mind sometimes when the seasons change. Some of these things are observed but I have no idea if fieldmice eat chestnuts. It's not a very good or original poem in my opinion, so I include it more for its atmosphere.

***

Its winding roots are dipped
into the clayey chilled soil
and the wetness of dark water
blooms and seeps around their threads;
grasping rock, enclosing pebble,
cleaving through the fundament.
Anchored there, the trunk swells stoutly,
rough and grey and boldly tall;
and grows athwart in hefty branches,
stalwart perches for a nest.

*

IN SPRING, its fuzzed and pale leaf-buds
curl up to the bald cool sky.

In summer, the palmeate rays of green
raise sprinkled towers of rose-flecked blossom
from these drift the lightsome petals
wandering over brooding grass;
and weigh with lazy dignity
in lonely clump on shadowed fields, —
or burst with power, a tree of life,
amidst the tomblike secluded domain
of some distressing cobbled yard.

In autumn, shrivelling as if by flame
of scorching sunsets, lit the world
as from a hidden fiery pool,
crowns of spikes, crowns of cruelly
slaughtered verdure;
spindly-tipped maces whose fresh green thorns
harden, whose casket breaks asunder,
whose milkwhite flesh grows soft and dies
as the dark-pearled nut
is unhusked and left to lie,
a treasure exposed,
to insects, fieldmice, squirrels, and men.

In winter, melancholy,
lofty twig and branch untenanted,
ordered flurry of raindark twigs,
gently scaled and bronzy tips
which promise much in coming springs,
and skeleton with tangled ribs
where birds alight, and hide, and sing.

Live-Blog of the Pacified Ogre

To be honest, I'm not working on my essay intensely today, since I feel scatter-brained and like my concentration needs a rest. I have a bad conscience, but I want this to be a 'complete' essay and for that I want to keep researching different aspects and keeping a thoughtful pace until everything falls into place. Besides, I want to be accurate and not lie about anything except if all of my sources are at fault and so there's no way I could know that it's untruthful. Anyway, this should be a leisurely live-blog.

1:09 a.m. I'm foraying into general American religious life in the early 20th century and have discovered a census from 1951 which lists denominations, the numbers of their churches or synagogues or other houses of worship, and the numbers of their members. Now I'm looking up the churches which were listed on Wikipedia. I expect some invigorating sensationalist reading; some of the first words I read were "speaking in tongues." It is really fun to be reading about a subject for a long time and partly overcoming pretty dry texts, and then to start reading tidbits which are as stimulating and striking as anything fictitious.

1:36 a.m. "Eschatological." I've seen it before and have no idea what it means.

1:38 a.m. "The wicked will not suffer eternal torment in hell, but instead will be permanently destroyed." Merciful Heavens!

1:42 a.m. Note to self: must read New Testament to see if Jesus in fact cared what clothes people wore.

2:49 a.m. Washing of feet! (Not mine; it's a practice within the church I'm reading about.) The "anointing of oil" also reminds me of the anecdote, courtesy an old New York Review of Books article, about the ex-Attorney General John Ashcroft, a ceremony, and vegetable shortening. Or, indirectly, about the time my mother taught Sunday School and we made a tincture of hyssop steeped in alcohol. I was wondering why I couldn't remember the sermons in the church, and now I realize that it was because I wasn't always in the room then; I was in the basement with my age peers learning about the trinity or about Lazarus instead, in an ecumenical way since I'm baptized Catholic and the church was Protestant. (Obviously I'm in a reminiscent mood.)

3:38 a.m. Snake-handling.

4:16 a.m. Re. eschatology: oh.

5:09 a.m. I'm tired and will thus go to bed soon. (c: