music and goals

this was one of those weeks. you know, what of those weeks––so much to do, too little sleep, too little motivation. sometimes i have superweeks when i get everything done with room for sherlock and cupcakes, but this past week, i tried to fit everything in and it just didn't work. sleep is always the first to go, even though i know that when i get enough sleep i have more motivation AND energy. when will i learn? 

i have decided a few things lately, though. made a few goals. and here they are:

1. blog. if you'll take a look at the dates of my blog posts, you'll notice the huge gap between posts, especially when i started school. this may just seem like something else to put on my to-do list, but i really do enjoy blogging. it gives me an outlet, so instead of wasting time on facebook, i'm actually writing things. and that goes along with my next goal:

2. write things every day. "things" is intentionally vague, but i've realized lately that if i'm at all serious about this writing thing, it's got to be consistant. if there's anything i've learned in my grad program so far, it's that writing is hard, and if i'm going to ever be successful, i'll have to work my tail off. lately i've  loved listening to and reading writer interviews, because i like to hear what other writers have done to be successful. one of the common threads, of course, is daily writing. it makes perfect sense, but it's one of those things that is difficult even though it's common sense. so i'm going to write at least something every day. 

3. sleep at night. i have to be specific with this one, because i tend to stay up until the wee hours of the morning and plan on taking a nap the next day to make up for lost sleep. i always end up feeling discombobulated, even though i like taking naps. i need to sleep at night, and work during the day. this isn't a novel idea, so i ask myself once again, why is it so darn hard? 

4. don't forget my spiritual self. i'm always frustrated at how quickly scripture study and prayer and temple attendance slips when i'm in school. scripture study becomes scripture skimming, prayer becomes a list instead of a conversation, and the temple becomes a distant friend. but recognition is the first step in improvement! 

there are, of course, many more goals i could set, like exercise and healthy eating, but i'm going to try on focus on a few at a time. and i hope that because i'm recording these goals i'll be more likely to keep them. that's how goals work, right? in theory, i suppose. 

meanwhile, i wanted to share a few songs that i've been a little obsessed with lately. on the soundtrack to my life, these have been on repeat:

her morning elegance, by oren lavie (this is such a fantastic music video, too)

bang bang (my baby shot me down), nancy sinatra (in this clip, it accompanies a dance that is equally fantastic)

splendor in the grass, pink martini

speaking to the dead

I had a nice conversation with Charles Lamb yesterday. Well, to be honest, it was with his gravestone, but his remains were there, so it might as well have been true.

Let's see. Allow me to back up for a mo ("mo" being "moment," a Britishism that I fully intend to incorporate into my daily vocabulary. Moving on). For those of you who don't know, I'm in England this summer, not to be an annoying tourist, but to be an annoying student researcher. I'm reading my way through the canonical writers of my genre––the personal essay. I've covered quite a bit of ground so far, but all the way back in May I started with Charles Lamb, who is considered by many to be the father of the English personal essay (with Michel de Montaigne as the father of the essay in general. But he was French, so of course we needed an English forefather as well). Anyway, because of his reputation, I started off my British adventure by reading a couple of his essay collections, Essays of Elia and The Last Essays of Elia (Elia being his pseudonym), and although I've moved through nearly a dozen essayists this summer since Lamb, I keep coming back to him.

Quite literally, in fact. Last week I visited one of Lamb's former homes in London, which happily still stands today. Steeling my courage and suppressing my shy nature, I knocked on the door to see if I could persuade the current resident to show me around. Luckily, a nice woman named Julia opened the door and happily obliged. The house was tall and narrow with fantastically creaky staircases, and the view from the very top floor, as Julia informed me, still looked similar to what Lamb would have seen as he and his spinster sister Mary looked out the window, because the architecture at the street level had changed more than the top levels of the homes on the street. Yesterday I traveled to Edmonton Green, which is in North London, and is also where Lamb lived until he died. Lamb's Cottage, which also still stands, had a lovely exterior, but unfortunately the locked front iron gates stopped me from accosting the current residents. Oh, bother. So I moved on to St. Anne's church, just right up the street, where Lamb and his sister Mary were buried.

It took me awhile to find the gravestone, as it was a pretty well-occupied churchyard cemetery and many of the gravestones were worn enough to make the text indistinguishable. After a few goings-over, I found it, and sat down to have a small chat. At first I felt odd talking to a gravestone, but after eating a granola bar and chatting for a minute, we were old friends. You see, his writing is so endearing––not that he was singularly good natured, because he definitely had a crotchety streak (although not as much as his pal Hazlitt), but because his essays portray both the amiable and crotchety sides of his character so well that the reader (at least this reader) instantly feels like a friend and confidant. His faults, those that he frankly exposed to the reader, make him infinitely more real and interesting. Because we humans aren't really attracted to people who are perfect––we want to be friends with those people who are as messy and moody as we are.

Anyway, we had a good talk. I even picked a few flowers around the churchyard to set on his grave (I'm not sure if it's unlucky to pick flowers off another man's grave, but for crying out loud, one guy had an entire lilac bush growing around his tomb. I just took one).

I think that the best literature, whether it be nonfiction, fiction, poetry, drama, whatever, is the kind of literature that makes us want to know the writer (even if it's just because he/she is so wildly crazy that you can't help but imagine what a riot he/she would be in person). I don't know if anyone has thought, after reading a really lame, trashy book, "I really want to meet [insert name of trashy romance novelist]." When I read something truly fascinating or strange or witty, I really just want to sit down with the writers and ask them what in the world was going through their brains when they wrote said story/essay/poem. So the reason why I wanted to sit down and have a chat with Charles Lamb is that I was wishing I really could sit down with him and see if he was as great as I think he is, and see what kind of a brain produced writing that people still love.

And that's my two cents for the day.

Pictures to follow.

in defense of pigeons

Ahem. It has come to my attention that I am part of a small minority when I say I like pigeons; and, in fact, many people hate the creatures, to the extent that committing crimes against them has become acceptable. I myself have laughed at how easily the nervous creatures panic and take flight, and how a small stamp of the foot sends them into a frenzy, but for one to kick them as a cur would kick a dog, or rejoice to see a dead pigeon––my conscience compels me to intervene on behalf of these birds. I must say, it seems rather unfair to me the merciless vendetta that some people have against this poor species. That one should take pleasure in giving them pain is horrifying indeed. What have they done to merit such loathing? And why, in this blessed world so full of wickedness and crime, would one waste hatred on so unassuming a species? 

Pigeons are actually smart little birds––and, you know, there may be a thing or two one could learn from these good fowls. For one, I was interested to learn that pigeons, those feral creatures scattered about London and other cities, actually mate for life. There is always something tender I feel whenever I hear of another species in the animal kingdom that mates for life. Emperor penguins, for example: while the husbands sit freezing in the arctic winds, warming the egg containing penguin junior, they wait faithfully for mum to return home from the great hunt. Such loyal creatures! Pigeon fathers also share the nesting duties, taking turns warming and protecting the nest from harm, so maybe shared fatherly duties comes hand-in-hand with mating-for-life-ness. Mating for life is a characteristic that seems to have fallen out of fashion with humanity. As people go through spouses like milk (keep it till it sours, then throw it out!), we really should turn to the birds and learn from their faithfulness. I can't imagine a pair of pigeons filing for divorce; they don't seem to suffer from humanity's current marital disease: irreconcilable differences. No leaving Jennifer Anniston when Angelina Jolie is hotter––pigeons have infinitely better sense than Brad Pitt. They are clever, really, and resourceful, I might add. City pigeons know exactly where to swarm to––the heavily trafficked touristy spots where a person is likely to leave a crumb or two of crumpets and cake for the birds to snatch up. They gladly accept what humanity discards.

Now many distrust city pigeons because they are mistaken for disease-carrying pests. In all actuality, pigeons have very good immune systems and aren't liable to transmit bird flu or other such diseases because they themselves don't carry the diseases. There are one or two diseases that one may contract from handling pigeons, but mostly from their dropppings (which, let's face it, we don't exactly scrape off the pavement and use as ice-cream toppers). As far as disease-carrying goes, you're one hundred times MORE likely to contract a disease from human contact than you are from pigeon contact. Think about the thousands of diseases which we pass around in our shaking hands and hugging and kissing––we thoughtlessly and shamelessly spread our germs, while shrieking at the sight of a pigeon, who is in reality a safer companion than another human. You might as well walk around with a surgical mask and gloves, for all you're concerned, and that would be no way to live.

But if you persist in arguing against the birds, yes, I do concede that there are pigeon populations in some big cities, leading to property damage and pollution from their droppings. But you can hardly blame them for that––they're only in cities in such great numbers because of us! Yes, the truth of the matter is that city pigeons are just descendants from domesticated pigeons gone feral. If we hadn't domesticated pigeons, the little problems they cause would never have existed. But doesn't a decent population of cooing, twittering pigeons just make a city? Think of a large city––London, or New York––and imagine it without pigeons. Wouldn't the streets be too solemn, too dull without our feathered friends?

But back to what we can learn from pigeons. Pigeons have an undeniably incredible sense of direction. Pigeons could fly thousands of miles and always be able to fly home. Drop a pigeon in the middle of the pacific blindfolded and it would know exactly where to go to get back home. We can't explain it, but we accept it and certainly trust it, which is why pigeons we have used them throughout time as carriers. Our militaries have trusted pigeons with vital information across enemy lines, and they have consistently fulfilled their duties and saved human lives with their faithfulness. G.I. Joe, for example, was a carrier pigeon who saved thousands of soldiers during WWII. In October 1943, the British were making advances on Colvi Veccia, a German-held Italian town. The Brits ordered an aerial attack of the town but were soon afterwards able to break through German lines and take up positions in the city. With a half-hour until the aerial attack, the soldiers in the city hurriedly tied a message to G.I. Joe's leg, telling headquarters to call off the attack to prevent thousands of British troops in the city from being killed by their own bombers. G.I. Joe flew 20 miles in 20 minutes and they were able to cancel the attack just as the bombers were taxiing up the runways.  Cher Ami was another heroic pigeon, during WWI, and delivered another life-saving mission despite being shot out of the sky by German troops. The bird arrived having been shot through the breast, blinded, and with a leg hanging by a tendon, but he delivered his message.

So for their loyalty and faithfulness, I appeal to your humanity and ask you to reconsider your opinion of these our feathered friends, and next time you go to kick a pigeon, remember how many lives its ancestor saved, and spare the poor bird a bit of pain. 

tea and cake london

I saw this book at Waterstone's a couple of weeks ago and decided I HAD TO HAVE IT. It has a long list of tearooms, cafes, bakeries, and patisseries where one can enjoy the sweet of London. I was positively drooling over it in the bookstore, and the moment I brought it home Ari and I decided to have tea and cake Fridays here in London and go to as many of these little places as possible. So I'll share with you a few of our finds!

I have to preface this by saying that I'm obviously not a food photographer, so you'll just have to assume that the food looks about ten times as good as it does in the picture. Okay, this first photo is a slice of lemon loaf and a walnut brownie from the Hummingbird Bakery. The brownie was marvelously chocolatey, rich, and speckled with walnuts––that was my first pick, of course. The lemon loaf, though, was surprisingly delicious. I'm not usually one to go straight for lemon-flavored sweets (sometimes they can just be too sweet), but this lemon bread was delightful. They also had some beautifully-decorated cupcakes that looked fantastic. I'll have to remember that if there's a round two.

This slice of heaven was from Peggy Porschen. This is the Glorious Victoria layer cake, which is vanilla bean cake with a layer of vanilla bean buttercream and a layer of raspberry jam. It was really, really good, and wasn't too sweet, despite what it might sound like. This is a trend I've been noticing––so far, the desserts here in London have been less sweet than desserts in the States. I really like it. I think Americans get a little crazy with the sugar, but Brits seem to show a little more restraint in that regard. Oh, and Ari got the hot chocolate, which was exceptionally frothy. 

This past week we went to Lanka and got hot chocolate, a flapjack, and a white chocolate raspberry mousse cake. I'll load the pictures later, but let me just say that the hot chocolate was SUPERB. So far, the best hot chocolate I've had here has been from Lanka and Caffe Nero. The flapjack was a sort of glorified granola bar, and it was okay, but not my favorite. The whitechocolateraspberrymoussecake was absolutely to die for. Seriously, it was amazing.

I'm going to have to get creative on my food adjectives here, as you can tell.

That's all for now!

about the queen and other things

 Question: Who in the world would stand outside in the drizzling rain and freezing cold for hours on end to see the Queen of England float by on a big boat? First of all, me, that's who, along with thousands and THOUSANDS of British people braving the weather to celebrate their Queen. The Queen's Diamond Jubilee was quite the affair, so naturally a 1,000-boat flotilla was necessary. My friends and I arrived hours early, and still were barely able to see for the crowds of delighted drunk people waving the Union Jack as they awaited Her Majesty. Smiles and drinks were passed around freely as the crowd cheered, and momentarily everyone forgot how cold and rainy it was when the royal family passed by (emphasis on momentarily, though).

This is one of the only clear shots I got during the flotilla. I had to elbow a few nice old ladies out of the way and step on some toes, but all in the name of a good photo, right? (I think I must have gotten a drop of water or something on my camera lens, as you can tell from the dot in the middle of the picture. Or maybe it was just an overenthusiastic grey cloud.) Anyway, I have to say that I'm glad I went to the flotilla because I can check that off my list of "things to do once and never again." It was neat to see all the boats and neat to see how much the British really love Queen Elizabeth.

 This was the grand boat of the royal family, and if you squint really hard you can see the Queen (she's the cream-colored dot on top). (Oh, and don't mind the grey-haired ponytail man. He's in several of my pictures.) At this point in the flotilla, I had been standing for several hours in the cold, and I thought, "this is really what I came here to see? A cream-colored dot on top a red boat?" It was a bit of a disillusioning moment, but I'm sure it was due to the weather more than it was to the view.

But on to my favorite part of the Diamond Jubilee celebration: a tea party hosted by my ward's Relief Society. We drank cinnamon apple tea and ate delicious treats like scones, tarts, little cakes and sandwiches. We sang all five verses of God Save the Queen (I didn't know there were five. It's a long one!) The British sisters sang the national anthem, and two older ladies who remembered the coronation told us about the grand event. Actually, one old lady stood up and recited the history of the kings and queens of England (an abridged version––took about 15 minutes), ending with the coronation of Elizabeth II, where she went into great detail about the ceremony. It was quite impressive (her memory, that is).

To top it all off, we took a quiz about Her Royal Majesty, which I promptly failed. But I wrote down the answers, so for your pleasure, here's a list of facts you will never need to know about Queen Elizabeth:

1. She acceded to the throne in February of 1952
2. She was in Kenya when she heard about her father's death (the King)
3. She was thirteen when she first met the Duke of Edinburgh (Phillip), who was later to be her husband
4. She and Phillip have been married 64 years
5. His nickname for her is "cabbage"
6. The Queen's official birthday is in June, but her real birthday is in April
7. Her first corgi's name was Susan
8. Willow, Holly, and Monty are the names of the Queen's current corgis
9. Winston Churchill was the Prime Minister when she was coronated
10. She wore Victoria's diamond necklace for her coronation
11. She has nine thrones
12. She's the fortieth monarch since William the Conquerer
13. She wears black while visiting the Vatican
14. She wears the Diamond Diadem to and from the State Opening of Parliament
15. She has her ears pierced
16. She wears blue more than any other color
17. She has eight grandchildren
18. She's 5'4"
19. She has never worn jeans (crazy, right??)
20. She doesn't carry any form of personal identification

goal: best reading spots in london

When I read for long periods of time, I tend to get tired of reading in the same spot, so I bounce around every hour or so (or if I'm really fidgety, every 30 minutes or so) and find new spots to settle down in. Now when I'm in Provo, this usually means I go from the couch to the floor to my bed and maybe to campus (where I'll go from the carrels to right outside the carrels to the JFSB etc etc). In London, I've decided to create a master list of the best places to read, so I can bounce around the city and see all there is to see with a book in my hand.

With the blustery, cold, rainy, and altogether uncooperative weather in London thus far, I've had to find indoor locations and save the parks and gardens for later on in the summer (when it will hopefully warm up a bit). [aside: the side of me that loves sunshine and weather above 90 degrees is wilting away.] Anyway, here's a start to my list:

1. Notes Music Coffee is a small coffee shop just off Trafalgar Square. I'd read online that it was a good spot to go, and because of the cold weather I'm determined to find the best cup of hot chocolate in London. So coffee shops it is. Notes Music Coffee makes a mean cup of hot chocolate: it's frothy, not too sweet, and comes out with a lovely design drizzled into the foam. I don't know how they do it; all I know is that it looked as good as it tasted. They also have a fantastic fruit scone. But the food, though important, was not the primary reason I was there. I was there for about 45 minutes, leisurely sipping hot chocolate eating my fruit scone with blueberry jam, and reading Charles Lamb. NMC isn't the quietest place to read, but sometimes I like to read in a semi-noisy place to read because it forces me to concentrate on what I'm reading. There were a couple of people who were, like me, reading, but many of the people there were chatting with friends. They were playing Ella Fitzgerald in the background, and had a fantastic light fixture hanging above the long wooden slab tables. I can only handle reading in a noisy crowd for so long, so I skipped off to find another spot.

Assessment: great place to read if you don't mind the crowd. I was there during lunch hour, though, so I might try again at a not-so-busy time of day. Good hot chocolate, good scones, good music.

2. I didn't have to go very far to find a quiet spot. St Martin's in the Fields church is almost next door to Notes Music Coffee, and as I passed by, I realized that a church would probably be a perfect place to settle down for a bit. I was right. Architecturally speaking, St Martin's is an impressive structure, especially from the outside. The inside is more understated, though, and except for the carved, vaulted ceilings, it's quite simple and plain. Also, the windows are very interesting: there's no stained glass, only paneled glass. The east window, behind the altar, is the same simple paneled glass, but it's designed to look like the image of a cross reflected on the water, so the steel framework is warped and bent around in the shape of a cross, but more of an understated cross. It's very unusual, and I really loved it. I didn't want to be disrespectfully snapping pictures, but you should look it up online.

That's all aside from the point. I was there to read, so I sat down and pulled out my book. There was a string quartet in the church rehearsing for an upcoming Vivaldi concert (it was actually that evening), so I read whilst basking in the glorious silence of the crowd and the glorious music of the instruments. It was perfect, and I took a moment to thank heaven for beautiful music, beautiful churches, and beautiful reverence. I read there for almost two hours, and when I left I was reluctant to get up.

So far, those have been my two favorite spots. Maybe another day I'll tell you about my worst spot. But today, only the best.

odd occurrence on the london underground

I have to say, the public transportation system is one of my favorite things about London. Is that strange? I love that each tube stop is different, from the colorful mosaic tiles in the Tottenham Court Road station to the thousands of tiny Sherlocks in the Baker Street station to the sleek grey simplicity of the Westminster station. I love that you can find the stylish business types sitting next to the goths, or the hipsters, or the ever-present tourists. I don't always love them individually, but collectively they really are fascinating; they remind me that no matter who you are–rich, poor, whatever–you still need to get around somehow. And the overwhelming number of people who choose the tube to get from point A to point B makes the ride interesting.

Of course, when you have that many people coming together, there are bound to be tiffs. Take today, for example, when Ari and I were coming home from Southampton, and at the very last leg of our hourandahalf journey back to London, a disturbance threw a wrench in the typically eventless tube ride. We were technically in the London overground, not the underground, but it's pretty much the same thing.  Anyway, allow me to relate the experience:

Our train was at a routine stop, and a large crowd was still trying to get in when the doors started closing. Enter The Jerk. The Jerk was a tall man in a business suit, with a scarf wrapped tightly around his neck. He was probably around 6'3", with pale skin, almost-black hair, high cheekbones, and a sardonic smile. He entered the train, narrowly missing the closing doors, and yelled at the Tired Train Operator to not close the doors so quickly, as there was still a number of people coming on board. Tired Train Operator was a black man, medium build, probably 5'10", his hair braided into cornrows. He looked worn out. After The Jerk yelled at him, the two men had some sort of heated verbal exchange that I only heard bits of. It ended with The Jerk accusing TTO of abusive behavior and TTO demanding that TJ leave the train so they could sort the problem out so the train could proceed on its journey. They were at a standstill: TJ refusing to get off the train, and TTO refusing to start the train until he did. Enter Level-Headed Man. I didn't get a good look at LHM, but I remember that he was also in a business suit and had a neatly-trimmed beard. He started talking to TJ, calmly saying that everyone was tired and anxious after a long day's work, and that everyone should let the matter drop so the train could move on its way. The standstill continued for a while, as TJ continued to argue with TTO, and TTO stubbornly but calmly waiting for the man to get off the train. LHM finally got out of the train and spoke to TTO, and I heard nothing of their exchange. By this time, the other passengers onboard started to murmur and a few called out to TJ to get off the train already. Enter Autistic Child, who was in the train and starting to get angry with his mother, nervously and anxiously proclaiming that they should NOT have taken the tube. AC's mother called out to the men, saying that she had an autistic child who didn't handle waiting very well. He was getting really upset, and everyone around TJ started to urge him off the train, and he finally stepped off, spoke with TTO for a brief moment, got back on the train, and in less than a minute, the doors closed and the train squealed as it picked up speed, and we moved away from the platform. No one in our car said a word, and silence hung awkwardly, heavily, and oppressively in the air, until the next stop, when Ari and I exited the train, wide-eyed and relieved.