Stratford-Upon-Avon

Well, last week was emotionally and academically rough, but Friday I got to sleep outside until my toes froze to make up for it. And that last line contains no sarcasm--It was an amazing weekend! Because, my friends, this weekend I got to see David Tennant performing Shakespeare in Stratford-Upon-Avon. Oh, yes! And Patrick Stewart.

We got on the train at 6:36 Friday night, missed our connection, took the next, and arrived in Stratford at 11:00 or so. We got to wait in the lobby of the theatre a short while, but soon we were out under the overhang in front. The tickets for Hamlet were sold out months ago, but they hold 10 for anyone who shows up day of. So, we showed up day before. And sat outside all night.

Some of our number slept, but I couldn't. My feet were cold. Very very cold. I couldn't feel them sometimes. At first they hurt, but at 1:30 in the morning on, I just couldn't feel them. We paced, we ran, we froze and we waited. And I decided I would never let myself get that cold again in my life.

At 6:30 am, the nearby McDonalds opened, and we got tea and coffee to our great delight. The line had lengthened since 4:00 in the morning and we were glad to be as assured of tickets as we were, sitting at the door.

9:30 came, and we bought tickets for both matinee-Love's Labors Lost-and the evening show-Hamlet. Then, we went to a coffee shop and recovered the feelings in our toes. We chatted and slept there until 12:00 when we returned to the theatre for the first show. I changed into my new little black dress, which felt delicate and wondefully feminine after the layers and layers of the previous night's wardrobe.

I had a balcony seat in the front row, which was wonderful. The acting was amazing and the set was fantastic. The costumes were Elizabethean, extravagant, and so, so well suited to the characters. I laughed and had a purely enjoyable time. And as we left, we all agreed that though we had come for Hamlet, Love's Labors Lost alone had been worth the effort.

We had dinner at a pub, then returned to the theatre for Hamlet. We were there early, and did some shopping, but generally anxiously lingered, waiting for the curtain. (Figuratively--there was no literal curtain.) And, then, it began. I started to nod in the first scene when the lights went out. The sleepless night had taken it out of me, but I could not, would not possibly fal asleep at the doorway to wish fulfillment.

How long had I been waiting for this! I found out about this performance in July and have been anxious ever since. And here I was--here I was! Nodding in the first act of the four-hour play. I mentally grabbed myself by the scruff of my neck and shook myself awake. How could I sleep, here?

As soon as Hamlet came onstage, though, I was drawn awake and out of every stupor. The words compelled me to follow and the voice forced me to think. And every class, every reading, every interpretation flitted in and out of my brain. This was Hamlet. David Tennant was Hamlet. Patrick Stewart played a dynamic and suave Claudius and their Gertrude had such a perfect level of melancholy innocence.

But, their Hamlet was the star. They definitely chose the interpretation wherein Hamlet is psychotic. The cutting, the acting, and the costumes all made him undeniably and frightening slip over the edge. Though I don't think this is the only interpretation of the play, you do need to settle on one and go for it. And they did, thereby doing the play justice.

In Love's Labors Lost, Tennant had some soliloquies which were jolly. He had this way of taking up the whole stage though he was all alone and making it seem alive and full. But, in those deathly, gripping Hamlet soliloquies, he physically shrunk and made the space around him vast and empty and cold. All alone in the desperate strates of madness. The breadth of his ability--I could not have slept.

And whether by amazingly employed words or the plight of humanity displayed or the fulfillment of a long dream or the impressive acting ability, and I cried when he spoke his last-

"The rest is silence."

Last Saturday, as promised

Last Saturday (since I assured you I would write of it), I had a lovely day. It's a bit marred in memory since the poem I wrote about it was not warmly received. All the same, I went to art club in the morning and finished a charcoal drawing I began the previous week. That was a nice feeling.
Then, I realized I had left the sandwich I made for lunch at home, so I bought a baguette and cheese and went up to Headington. I had written directions to Lewis' garden (where I had been directed by my Creative Writing tutor), but I promptly lost them and ended up in all sorts of interesting English places, including the other places the tutor had suggested I visit.
I stopped and ate lunch, then--at last!--made it out to Lewis' garden. It was actually a small nature reserve where Shelley used to write poetry and Lewis and Tolkien based Narnia and Middle Earth, respectively. It was absolutely beautiful and before this weekend I would have called it very cold. Silly little Alicia...now, I know what cold is!
After several delightful hours of musing on the place, the use of poetry, and the lacking vocabulary of every sense but sight, I left. I had just enough time to go home for a warm meal before heading off to Mary Mag's for a reading of Milton's Samson Agonistes which was absolutely fantastic.
It was a really wonderful day.

Second Week

Second week of term...

On Monday, my bike was finally fixed. Unfortunately, I anticipated riding into town on it, and finished the food in my cupboards. This proved a bad idea when it begin to rain very hard and I was left to remain at home without any food the rest of the evening. Still, the rain was the beautiful sort that seems to clear everything away and leave it all clean and fresh. Thus, Tuesday dawned very bright and clear.

I began the day with schoolwork, then biked into town to have tea with everyone. At this point, my hunger was sated by both an unnecassarily large number of cookies and a trip to the grocery store on my way back. How quickly everything went now that I could cycle! Hwin, my dear little blue bicycle, loved the wind and took me wherever I liked as quickly as I could keep up. I returned just in time for a lovely conversation with my dear mother on Skype. We let an extra half hour slip into the conversation, which was especially nice. Then, off to Scottish Dance.

On Wednesday, I began with a lecture on poetic form, then went on to the library to work on the paper I had begun the previous night. Back at Wycliffe, my college, we had a lecture on global warming, then tea. From there, I returned home for more school work.

Thursday is now my big lecture day and, by God's blessing, I discovered one of the richest treasures of the EFL (where my lectures are). The coffee machine upstairs. And the adjacent chocolate vending machine. Oh, and the lectures were all excellent, too. But that hot chocolate--just 30 p (about $.60)! It was a cold day, and my night to cook, so I went to the grocery store again. Matt and I fixed egg McMuffins, hash browns, and prepared fruit. Then, I began my paper writing. I had 3500 words of notes on the assigned poem, and needed to turn it into a coherent paper. Instead, I had a few lovely conversations about music and poetry, gave a massage, and started the paper very late at night. I wrote into the early parts of Friday.

In the later parts of Friday, I worked on another assignment, then went to my tutorial, read my paper, and had a good conversation about one of my favorite poems. That evening, we had our movie night in Matt and Quinn's room-a weekly tradition, now-and we got to bake a large batch of sweets for said event. Then, we played several games, including "The Best Game Ever." I laughed until my sides hurt.

I'll tell about yesterday later. I'm off to a pub.

Still Alive!

It's good to be publishing again! I won't say 'writing' since I've been writing all week. Oxford's term began this last week. For those wondering, I've been taking British Landscape classes up until now. This week, I moved on to Oxford tutorials.

Tutorials are the traditional Oxford (and Cambridge) way of studying. You meet one-on-one with a teacher (called a "tutor") and present an essay answer a question he has posed to you. After reading your essay, you and the tutor discuss the form and content-mostly content if you're already writing well.

These began this week. Additionally, lectures began. Lectures are quite what they sound like: you go and listen to a wonderful British accent discuss obscure topics.

Last week I got to meet my tutors in a group setting. Both of them are wonderful, but I am especially fond of my Creative Writing tutor. He's just brilliant and instantly likeable.

For Creative Writing, we were told to write something evoking some part of Oxford. For Poetry in English, I was to discuss the intellectual poetry of Donne and Herbert, two of my very favorite poems. Thus, I began the week with good feelings about the work to be done. Everything would be marvellously fun.

And, of course, it was. I wrote a poem about Autumn in Oxford (since I'm getting to experience my first proper autumn) which was "Structurally impressive" though the vocabularly expressed my "crush on the 16th century", as my tutor described it. He was absolutely wonderful at giving painless criticism, a valued skill in such a profession.

For Poetry in English, I spent hours in Donne's The Extasie and Herbert's Providence, two examples of the 16th century poetry on which I have said crush. This was especially lovely after being told that I would have piles and piles of secondary sources. Both of my classes are only working from primary texts, which is the most comfortable kind of research for me. Especially when one of the primary texts is Oxford, itself.

That, very, very briefly, was my first week of Oxford classes. Tutorials went well, research went marvellous. All is well in Oxford.

Of Paris

I'm not even going to attempt to do Paris justice, this morning. It was an amazing trip and that's that. I would rather write enough to actually tell you something when I have time than write a very poor sketch this morning, which is all I could do. Nevertheless, I don't want people to think I have ceased blogging, so I'll just give you a little itinerary to be fleshed out later:

Friday:
~Louvre
~Notre Dame

Saturday:
~This great Parisian graveyard with Oscar Wilde and Chopin
~Place de Concorde
~Egyptian Obelisk
~Louvre Park
~Arc de Triumph
~Effeil Tower
~Notre Dame (again)

Sunday:
~Museum of Cluny (Medieval Museum)
~Rodin Museum (with the famous statue "The Thinker")
~Museum of Modern Art
~Sacre Coure (Church)

Monday:
~Roman Arena
~Mosque
~Bastille
~Pantheon

That's a general overview. And we ate lots and lots of great French bread. I'll describe it all in greater detail this weekend.

Of the Stones of Oxford

I wrote a few weeks ago that the academics were looming ahead of me, challenging and beautiful. Now, I am in the midst of those hard parts of the structure of Oxford. Exactly 48 hours ago, I lay in bed at 1:30 AM and realized that all the research I had done toward a paper on Freud would get me no where. I needed to change topics. And, I needed to write this paper by Wednesday. And, I had signed up to cook dinners two nights this week for our food groups. And I was on kitchen cleaning duty this whole week. And, I was leaving for Paris in four days and still needed to work everything out with the folks I was staying with. I had reached the impossible mountain, and still only at the beginning of term.

I closed my eyes and whispered the words of C.S. Lewis I have so often whispered in those moments at 1:30 in the morning when you realize there is no possible way, "All this trying leads up to the vital moment at which we turn to God and say, 'You must do this; I cannot.' " And, there was nothing else to do. All my time management skills flew out the window with my Freud paper. Suddenly, and due to no neglect on my part, I was faced with researching and writing a 8 page paper in forty-eight hours. But, at least I didn't have to go it alone.

And somehow, Somehow!, beyond all human possiblity, I just finished the last sentences of that paper. 2,036 words, all about two people I had never heard of 48 hours ago. Everything looks to unfold perfectly with the meals, the dishes, Paris...

God is so good!

Of Hampton Court Palace

The paper stewing safely in its own juices, I shall take joy in turning away from writing to come to my blog and...write more.

Hampton Court Palace has been built and rebuilt during various eras. Some walls housed Henry VIII, some commissioned by James and his queen. Whispers ring down the halls of ancient spectres and vines cover up the cracks in the brilliant brick. The painted Roman busts have lost their sheen, but not their potency; an almost reverent atmosphere fills the air with once graced the presence of the Monarchs of Antiquity.

Yet, England has so often brought me the Feeling (that deep and almost painful yet beautiful one of seeing the rustic, the important, and the ancient) that I failed to regain it for some time, even in the palace. Here had the royals walked, and yet... It left me cold. Pleasantly cool, at least. The garden was beautiful and the company was absolutely wonderful. The tapestries hung in their sedate splendor on the walls, but somehow (even in my acknowledgement of the wonders surrounding me!), my historic paths did not bring what they always had.

Then, I came to the bathing room of Queen Anne. Behind the elaborate wall stood the grand tub, lavish. But, in front of the wall, a set of her possessions were displayed. In the center was her mirror.

The window at my back, my face was cast in shadow as I looked at it through the glass. The sunlight lit up my hair and left my blue eyes dark. I saw the face which had briefly greeted me every morning, then turned away to become more familiar to all others than to myself. There is a strange feeling in seeing oneself in the glass.

All other times, we depend on others to know ourselves. But at the glass, you stand there looking through yourself, beholding that which you know the least about in yourself. And, in that mirror, the Queen had seen herself. There, she had seen her eyes, her hair, her imperfections. Her perfections. This bore her back to herself without any flattery, any forgiveness.

And a mirror would have been rare in those days. Perhaps it was the royalty who needed it the most-something to keep their hold of who they really were. Almost less of a luxury than a punishment. No one but the royalty had to look their own selves in the eyes each morning, and no one needed to as much as the royalty.

The familiar lump filled my throat and my heart went deep. Here was the Feeling. It is a telling thing that it came from seeing myself reflected in antiquity. I love when the literal and the figurative merge.

Hampton Court was altogether beautiful, despite the tarnished silver, the clouding mirrors, and the fact that I never got to see the much-admired kitchens.