Sixth Week-Term 2

Monday:

In honour of this weekend's Poetry Symposium a friend and I hosted, here is one of the pieces read that night:

Origins and History of Consciousness

(The Dream of a Common Language)

I.

Night-life. Letters, journals, bourbon

sloshed in the glass. Poems crucified on the wall,

dissected, their bird-wings severed

like trophies. No one lives in this room

without living through some kind of crisis.

No one lives in this room

without confronting the whiteness of the wall

behind the poems, planks of books,

photographs of dead heroines.

Without contemplating last and late

the true nature of poetry. The drive

to connect. The dream of a common language.

Thinking of lovers, their bind faith, their

experienced crucifixions,

my envy is not simple. I have dreamed of going to bed

as walking into clear water ringed by a snowy wood

white as cold sheets, thinking, I’ll freeze in there.

My bare feet are numbed already by the snow

but the water

is mild, I sink and float

like a warm amphibious animal

that has broken the net, has run

through fields of snow leaving no print;

this water washes off the scent—

You are clear now

of the hunter, the trapper

the wardens of the mind-

yet the warm animal dreams on

of another animal

swimming under the snow-flecked surface of the pool,

and wakes, and sleeps again.

No one sleeps in this room without

the dream of a common language.

- Adrienne Rich, 1976.

I had a dickens of a time picking just one poem from that night! So I picked the poem about a poem.

The experience of poetry is quite different when read out loud.

Also, played my first round of bells with the other members of the Warwick Bell Ringing Society. I was on bell 4(?). Under Vic's guidance, I started my ringing and before I knew it, the other players had gathered around the other bells and were ringing along. It was so cool. I'm glad I did little beyond just be in the moment.

Tuesday:

No lectures today and tomorrow. One of the interesting things about the lecture structure here is that the term lasts 10 weeks, but the lectures don't. Some last 7 weeks, some 9. Some courses meet once a week, some thrice. The outcome is a slow lecture beginning and end to the term. And might I add, since I'm here, that these are shockingly short terms. I don't, however, think the longer US semesters are any better or worse than the shorter UK terms. It's still a matter of orienting to a schedule and meeting deadlines, regardless.

So here's a true story about a little old lady on a Tuesday afternoon:

In a posh, little English town, where the average age is 65 and coffee shops flavour the soil, a teacher waited with her learners on the street corner. The teacher, tired from a full day of returning pilfered store wears and snatching up hidden joints, stared off in the distance, dreaming of tropical islands and warm briny breezes, and took another long draw off her cigarette. The relaxing smoke swirled around her face then whipped into the air to follow traffic.

"Oy! Teach! Why you smokin', but then say we can't?" This was Kieran, poster boy for the group of rejected learners.

"What are you talking about? You smoke all the time? Since when have you ever done what I ask?" and with that, she took another drag.

*BLURRRM!!*

Everyone, teacher, learners, custodians, and magpies quickly turned in the direction of the blasting horn just in time to see a double-decker city bus barrel on through and nearly side-swipe a little old lady. They looked on with a mixture of awe and horror. It was only for a second, maybe less, but they collectively held their breath for a second more.

After the bus passed, the little old lady looked around for a bit, blinked her tired, wrinkly eyes a few times, took notice of the onlookers and shuffled over. On her short trek she made sure to correct her red scarf, straighten her cashmere shawl, and check the tilt of her Sunday bonnet.

"Did you see that, that my dear?!" she asked the nearest learner.

"I did! I nearly shit me pants!" replied Kieran.

"Me too!" agreed the little old lady.

Wednesday:

Another work in progress...

[Hand in the grinder]

The machine does not think,

The machine performs.

Sometimes, the machine breaks,

And a mechanic is needed.

And sometimes, just sometimes,

The mechanic lacks understanding

Of the machine.

An elbow is carelessly rested,

A lock is poorly secured,

A glance at the most perfectly wrong moment,

In the most perfectly wrong direction.

And the machine whirls again,

The machine performs as required.

With no preamble,

Snatching up the mechanic.

The machine tears flesh,

The mechanic screams.

Nip points reroute tendons,

The mechanic protests.

The machine only works in one direction,

The mechanic can only fight in the other.

The machine will never be reasoned with,

The machine does not think,

The machine only performs.

The mistaken mechanic can only succumb,

To the machine.

Blindly and painfully entwine with the machine.

The mechanic was never meant

To bend that way.

Thursday:

Have you ever heard of the "hedonic treadmill"?
You should, you're chained to it. And you will continue to be until you die.

"Freedom and autonomy are critical to our well-being, and choice is critical to freedom and autonomy. Nonetheless, though modern Americans have more choice than any group of people ever has before, and thus, presumably, more freedom and autonomy, we don't seem to be benefiting from it psychologically."
- Barry Schwartz, The Paradox of Choice: Why More Is Less

With that in mind, the hedonic treadmill helps partially explain Mr. Schwartz's claim why we're failing to psychologically benefit from such desired freedom and autonomy. It seems to be a very human thing to want to be happy, and happiness is unquestionably vital to personal well-being (though difficult to pin down). So we do things to achieve that happiness. We move in some sort of forward progression toward happiness. However, for most of us (and don't think you're so removed that you don't fall into this trap yourself) under most happiness-pursuits, we simultaneously acquire a new concept of 'happiness'.

For each of us, at least one idea has formed about an experience or achievement that will bring more happiness. To date, you've experienced and achieved many things that brought happiness. You laughed, felt elated, smiled uncontrollably, what-have-you, but those initial feelings of happiness didn't last. That joy of achievement didn't last. The initial palpable goodness of the desired experience didn't last. But you've had a taste - or a banquet - of that good thing, and now that *thing* is required to maintain happiness.

Why is that? You were happy before the acquired good, but now you won't be as happy without. That is because you are not progressing forward toward happiness. You are walking a treadmill that gives the illusion of forward progression. This is due to a sick joke innate in humans. We walk toward happiness, but inevitably balance back to a *neutral* state, which feeds the desire for more pursuits of happiness. As we pursue, we equilibrate, as we equilibrate, we pursue. However, we never actually sustain a single forward step.

Sounds awful, but do realise it works in the other direction, as well. Sadness does not last. Pain does not last. The crushing blows of life and living, do not last. We eventually find an equilibrium. Such is the life of a human.

Friday:

Nothing happened other than everything. Enjoy a great song :)

oh yeah, finally successfully chased down my research professor!

First - Fifth Weeks-Term 2

WEEKS 1-4

Bloody nose.

Horrible.

Exams.

Qualifiers.

Depression.

Winter.

Discontent.

Alien dreams of electric sheep and machine screams.

Tears.

Rain, not rain.

Shut out.

Sickness.

Viscous emotions.

Tap tap.

Scratch.

Scribble.

Red ink.

Sweet hunger.

Wrecked.

Waxed.

Hail scarred.

Broken shoes.

Swallowed smiles.

Hidden fears.

WEEK 5

Monday:

I had the pleasure of sitting behind an elderly couple on the bus headed downtown (city centre). We were on the second level (double-decker bus). They were occupying my favourite seat, front row, left. A young woman occupied my second favourite seat, front row, right. So I sat second row left, just behind the old man, the old woman was all the way to the left, in the corner seat. At first I mistook the old woman’s mumbles for the general bus-indigestion. Her persistence, however, quickly clarified any ambiguity in background noise.

I didn’t mean to stare. But her soft, protruding cheeks – cheeks only possible when teeth are nothing, but a memory – reflected the late morning sun so perfectly. I couldn’t help myself. The warm, slanting sun illuminated each strand of peach fuzz on her round, jiggly cheeks so completely. Her incoherent mumblings continued, but not in vain. The old man answered with a request for her to spy something of interest out the window – pointing in one direction or another – or a question about her state. This seemed to satisfy the old woman for a bit each time.

The old man giggled and shared jokes. He kissed the old woman on her soft cheek, with a sweet, delicate *peck* each time. I don’t know if I’ve ever seen a kiss delivered with such unquestionable, true love. When we think of a lover’s kiss delivered with unfettered honesty predicated on true love, our thoughts often (if not exclusively) turn to such kisses seen in movies; when the music swells, and hearts are jumping; when she’s forcefully pulled toward her lover; then locked in some form of face-smashing excitement. However, the old man’s gentle peck on the old woman’s cheek far surpassed Hollywood’s tired attempts.

For everything the old woman lost in communication, the old man seemed to gain. Each time he shot his arm up to point out another person, bird, or tree out the windows, I realised, not only was the old woman following, but I and the other passengers followed as well. The old man had fully engaged our collective attentions. What power he may never know he had.

Tuesday:

I bought a bottle of red wine today. It was cheap and delicious. Not often are we satisfied with sub-par goods, but this was a good bottle, all the same.

I want to say I spent the entire day alone, but that may be misleading. I spent the day, as a matter of fact, surrounded by people. They made wide births for me when I entered the boutique drenched from rain. They ritualistically bumped my shoulders in passing like a strange form of English greeting for the alien in the hallway. They wished me a “cheers” with each receipt. What they don’t know, though, is that they are the aliens, not I. They move across the stores with strange gates, speak in strange tongues “yeah but, no but, yeah but, no but….,” and smell of exotic fragrances, reminiscent of sausages and curry.

Wednesday:

People are still talking today about the sun they saw on Sunday. I can’t say I thought Sunday’s sun was anymore note-worthy than every other day’s sun this month. However, the locals seemed to enjoy it immensely.

I, however, have no time for sun revelry. I was just enlightened on the extent to just how far behind I am in both my course work, as well as my PhD work. Unfortunately, the (very truthful) excuse that I can’t get my work done because I’m too busy getting my work done, won’t fly.

Upside of the day. I sought late afternoon refuge in the Postgraduate Hub to knock out a few hours of reading/writing for a lecture I’ve convinced myself I enjoy. While tap-tapping away, my back reminded me that I hadn’t moved in a while and was in serious threat of forming an impressive hunch. So I sat up straight, raised my arms over my head, then arched over the back of my chair in the hopes of achieving some satisfying snap, crackle, and pops. While stretching backwards into a human pretzel, I spied a series of large sky-lights directly above head. Then I realised that in 5 months of working in the same place, nearly everyday, I just now noticed the luscious amount of natural light feeding into our work space. A lovely surprise, indeed. As well as a wake-up call to my attentional abilities.

Thursday:

Perhaps it was the weather. Perhaps I should have eaten before attending morning lecture. Or, perhaps I should never have attended a morning lecture today at all. I could “perhaps” myself until the sweet relief of death, but that won’t change what happened this morning. Strangely enough, a part of me hopes I never live it down, too.

Our new lecturer for Experimental Economics introduced research that assumes there is a difference between men and women with respects to risky behaviour. I sat quietly and listened to the presentation of the work, methodology, and concluding remarks. One great, but dangerous aspect of our field of ‘science’ is that no matter how much we researchers try to control the variables, the results are still open to interpretation. We like to think we have successful control over the research, therefore justifying the strength and validity of interpreted results. HOWEVER, results still require deductive reasoning and guess work. After experiencing a complete absence of questioning from the other students, I spoke up. I questioned the extent to which such research and ‘results’ could be disseminated. I asked if there was a possibility that this research (and its like) were measuring a 3^rd variable, or variables, not originally acknowledged in the design and hypotheses. I asked how clear it was that this research was measuring innate, biological underpinnings, as opposed to social constructs or compliance to fabricated sexist roles.

To his credit, the professor seemed extremely uncomfortable, but attempted to answer as ambiguously as possible. To my credit, I managed to blanket the entire room in a gossamer film of disquietude they won’t soon forget.

In the evening I joined the Warwick Atheist, Secular, Humanist Society and Christian FOCUS Society on campus for a lovely discussion-in-the-round. Similar to speed dating, we sat in little groups and discussed whatever topic was shouted out to us by one of the students leading the event. Each new topic brought the potential for whole new group of people. It was quite enjoyable.

Friday:

More than once, I have found myself in a precarious position, in a strange place, uttering to myself, “I have no idea where I am,” only to quickly follow it with, “…and I’m OK with that.”

Meet a new group: Seabear - Seashell

Abandonment

The different photos may express an array of emotions for you. At the heart of this growing project, however, I am conveying a life alone.

I do find it interesting that I am in a country where the headlines never stop reporting how they're running out of room, yet I continually find myself alone, in abandoned spaces.

  

The End-Term 1

Monday:

I woke before the sun.
I enjoyed a slow shower, slow cup of freshly pressed coffee, and a leisurely view of the sunrise out my window.
Then I received a call letting me know that I was horribly late for my new research assistant job on campus.

Shit. I forgot about that.

I highly recommend, just once in your life, attempting to get dressed in nearly freezing weather, at full sprint, down a public street. No worries kids, I made sure my wellies were on before I flew out the front door. Priorities darlings.

In an unfathomable display of generosity, the bus driver chose to acknowledge my screams and stop the bus just as he was pulling out into traffic. What I failed to gather when dashing out the door, however, was my bus pass. So I did the American thing and threw too much money at him and took a seat. The bus driver was left confused and anxious, befuddled and mumbling to himself, but he did my bidding all the same. Catching the bus at least allowed me the chance to finish snapping on my bra and properly wrap up my scarf.

I arrived with seconds to spare. As soon as my things were carelessly flung to the corner of the testing lab, 20 undergraduate participants began lining up, ready to perform the last task in the PhD student's experiment. As she attempted to explain my duties, I realised I wasn't the only one having trouble getting my shit together that morning. Poor thing. The participants were to gamble for real money and I was the designated bank. The first participant won, and I asked the PhD what to give him. She handed me a paper bag impregnated with smaller bags of coins coupled with a dismissive "Here", then turned to tend to the next participant in line. The first participant won £2. I spied several small plastic bags of silver coins, and delivered one unto the student. What I actually managed to do, as I was soon to find out, was give the first participant £10 in 50 pence coins. The bags were not, as I thought, pre-divided into the payout options, but were in standard UK-bank coin bags, segregated by denomination. Well, poop.

So I Americaned out again. I knew I had roughly 10 minutes before the second round of participants were ready and a bank lay less than 10 minutes away. I turned to this ever so young and now frazzled PhD student and convinced her to calm the fuck down.... I got this.

I ran to the bank. Procured a £10 bag of 50 pence coins from my account. The moment I left the bank, however, I knew I wasn't going to make it in time. Even at a full sprint (assuming I had that in me sans breakfast) I seriously doubted my physical abilities at that point.

But what was this? A refuse truck headed in the same direction? Right up the main road? I jumped onto the passenger side foot lift and asked if they were headed north. They confirmed and I yelled through the partially opened window that I was "in serious need of transportation help", "frightfully late", and would jump off at corner X & Y.... IF ONLY I COULD JUST SNAG A RIDE FOR THE GIBBET HILL STRETCH!?

And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how I ended up riding the outside of a refuse truck to save someone's research study. Was it all worth it? Do you really need to ask :)

Tuesday:

What to say about Tuesday...
Tuesday is the second day in the traditional work week. Tuesday is the sixty-fifth workday in a postgraduate week. Tuesday carries a momentum with magical, other worldly powers that keeps the mover moving until Friday. Well, Friday afternoon, at least.

This evening I took a deliberate leap and met with a professor who's single lecture pushed me to question assumptions I wasn't even aware needed questioning. He graciously agreed to a late-in-the-day meeting. Afterwork meetings are a touchy business. As the asker, one must be aware that the receiver can be mentally exhausted by this time. He (or she) is wearing a full workday by this point. A Tuesday workday, at that. He, in this case, could have easily dismissed my inquiries, belittled my pensive, probing questions, and left me feeling quite impotent, due to his own fatigue driven honesty.

Or...

He could have exhibited a rare openness that can also stem from the same fatigue driven honesty. I was lucky enough to be the recipient of the latter.

I predicated this meeting upon my desires for a PhD. The meeting, however, turned into a delightful exchange of philosophical ideas. We discussed Thoreau, Emerson, Mill, Russell, Wittgenstein, rationality, object-based vs. subject-based science, & more. Even the notion of the sustainability of a rock became a topic of severe interest. He's one of the few people I've met who allowed me quiet reflection in the middle of our discussion. This meeting gave me food for thought. Precisely what I needed.

Working title: The Wrong Side Of An Economics Lecture

The clock is not moving.

.

.

.

.

.

I'm sitting here,

Victim to destructive thoughts of sanity,

And the clock refuses to tick.

.

.

.

Neither will it tock.

.

.

What does this clock have against me?

Have I wasted too much of it's gift?

Have I spent too frivolously?

.

.

.

The silence.
A resounding,

Yes.

.

.

.

This is my punishment.

This is the consequent for my frivolities.

          Time refuses to allow me further forward progression.

Time has shut me out.
.

.

.

.

.

Tick, you bastard.

tick.

Wednesday:

Day of reflection.

Life is everything imaginable. Strap in and I hope you enjoy the ride.

Here are some pictures:

So far, I'm the only postgruadate this term from the states.

I don't know who this goose is, but he's got his own shack on an island in the middle of the city. Cool.

This goose danced for me. It only seemed polite to take his picture and applaud his two-step.

Abandoned downtown bus station at 15 to 2(am).

Thursday:

There's nothing quite like reviewing an entire course's information in 2 frightfully short hours.

Friday:

Last day of Term 1.

We were kicked out of the private, postgrad work space 3 hours before the Assessment #3 deadline, for our "safety". A peaceful student protest was scheduled to be held in front of the building in 2 hours. When I say kicked out, I mean they had to send in the cops to remove me from my work space. I was the last hold out. It started with the director of the postgrad space asking us all to leave. After several visits, it ended with him imploring me - the last holdout - to leave. I remember at some point yelling out, "I protest the protest!" It officially ended when I realised the cops standing in front of me were just a couple short breaths away from bodily removing me from my work space "for my safety". My only thoughts were for the safety of my laptop and the oh, so precious non-backed-up work on it. So I left of my own accord, flanked by cops to be sure, but walking on my own two feet. I won't go so easily next time, however. Next time, I will remember I have Dropbox 2.0.22, and insurance.

By late lunch I was busy having drinks with fellow postgrads at one of the campus pubs. This was closely followed by a liquid PhD meeting at the next campus pub. The day came to a close with one last, yet spectacularly terrible, cider closer with a friend at a third campus pub. I slept until Sunday.

SEE YOU IN THE NEW YEAR :D

Ninth Week-Term 1

Monday:

Today I attended my first official Rotary luncheon (District 1060). Terry Bond, my original contact whilst still overseas, was my acting host for the day. Might I say, a lovely group of people, indeed. We dined on soup, bread, sauce-covered delicacies, and jovial conversations. I had the unique privilege of being the only female at the table. The men, all seemingly long-time friends, threw jibes at one another and gave each a 'good ribbing'. I was well entertained.

The speaker was Paul Carvell, Chair of North Warwickshire Chamber of Commerce. He spoke of infrastructure, job prospects, the uniqueness of N. Warwickshire commerce, and the social aspect of their growth (or lack thereof, depending on your perspective). Very intriguing, I must say.

Mr. Carvell said something particularly interesting toward the end which resonated for days... still is, as a matter of fact. He speculated that if The Tube was a city planning proposal for London today, it would probably fail. A feature of London that is so ingrained in the minds of people, a truly wondrous transportation system, that it is near impossible to imagine the metropolis without. Yet, he speculated that, given the mentality of the people today, counter arguments of a fairly rational nature would kill the project in its infancy. "We already have good roads, plenty of cars, taxis, even a bus system. Why do we need to sink more money into a massive project that will tear up neighbourhoods and put people out?" Food for thought...

There were also plenty of attorneys at the table. This set my mind wondering and I became temporarily lost for pondering the traditional attorney tag, "You don't have to answer that." Why is it so important for an attorney to say such a thing? Perhaps it is because we standard, run of the mill humans have a compulsion to answer direct questioning. If so, why do we have such a compulsion? Is this, yet again, some throwback from our childhood? As children, we're [practically] punished if we don't answer a direct question from an adult. I can certainly pull up a number of instances from my own experience. We are taught it is the polite thing to do, after all. And let's not forget, politeness is the cornerstone of a healthy society... blah, blah, blah.

Tuesday:

I was treated to a movie today with two other lovely postgrads from my course. We saw Captain Phillips. Exposé on the movie. On my own, I had no desire to see this movie. I vividly remember the news coverage of this event. I remember the animalistic excitement of Americans replaying the Navy Seal actions against the Somalian pirates. I did not want to suffer another story of murder-turned-American pride. However, my curiosity was peaked after hearing the excited reviews from others. So I attended.

Tom Hanks was everything Tom Hanks is. We wished nothing, but the best for his character, because we did not see Captain Phillips, we saw Tom Hanks.... and we Americans adore Tom Hanks. Yes, I too, like to watch Tom Hanks on screen. So the hero factor was a certain.

But what about the bad guys? We hate Somalian pirates, right? I mean, we revelled in their deaths, after all, when the news came through the wires. 

Oh contraire, mon frère. The four unknowns cast as the pirates were magnificent on the big screen. The directing was superb on their parts. The close-ups and disquieted, piercing glares were all the more shocking on screen, and we loved them. We fell in love with our nemesis and found ourselves lamenting their deaths. We knew it was coming, but we hoped all the same. Their deaths created a shock that washed over the theatre. As can happen with a well told story, we saw the human in the monster, just before the final stroke.

Wednesday:

What is this? It is beautiful, but what is it?
Musicians' compulsion to play together. To bond over a shared language, but it's more than familiarity. It's an excitement. It's finding someone who also speaks your language, but has improved upon it. The Other wants to express those improvements, put it all out on the table. Then you come with your improvements. Spread them out for listening pleasure or pain. A mystery until experienced. The product of a musical cocktail, equal parts compulsion and desire, stirred with pride, and a twist of fear.

"Your language is different from mine."
                                          "It's called harmony."

I woke up today from a fully orchestrated dream. I composed another song while dreaming. Haven't done that in..... I don't know how many years.

Then I promptly fell asleep in another morning lecture. Such is life.

Thursday:

Footnotes from Postgraduate Land:

• "There's something positive to be said about low investment (education), small return (job)."
• "The guy in front of us has very impressive ear hair."
• "It's always about assumptions."
• "What we now have is a formula for murder."
• "Look at your suffering. Begin there."
• "discovery -> knowledge -> power -> control"
• "Psychology is mostly irrelevant. It's an academic parlour game."
• "If mechanism is rubbish, what about cyborg science?"
• "You ever commit a move so familiar you must take pause to revel in the sweet state of familiarity? You should."
• "I find long-slumbering players privately waking & quietly, insidiously sneaking out. I hope Crazy stays slumbering."

Friday & Saturday:

Decided to give everyone a treat and cook a (semi)traditional Thanksgiving dinner. It was well worth it.