The Heart of the Adventurer A Record of Impressions England Study Abroad, 2014 By Donna J. Metzler In May 2014, I took a British Literature Study Abroad Course in England. The following is record of the impressions that I wrote in a journal as I traveled around the cities and towns of England. This is not a highly edited piece. This is because it comes from the heart—from the heart of the adventurer
On Adventure I have begun an adventure. The adventure is a stepping out, a look to the horizon, seeking the horizon. What is out there and how am I a part of that? A new town, a new class, breaking from the old, starting fresh, getting back to the familiar, finding what there is in the world that just might make some sense. It is the place to find meaning. But not an objective meaning, a subjective one. We create meaning, although that can sometimes feel like we are finding it. What is an adventure? I find myself continually embarking on one. An advent is a significant arrival, coming or emergence. But an adventure is not a final destination, although it involves a decision to embark. People everywhere are on their adventures. It is almost as if we were destined to be adventurers, to seek a new thing, to find a new perspective, to emerge. But an adventure does not have to be to the mountain top or upon the great blue sea. Adventures can happen at home. They can happen anywhere. And they can mean different things to different people. All it takes is an open spirit and a willingness to embark—to a new job, a new idea, a new friendship, and yes, to new places. Even to just a new day. Because adventure is like beauty, the eye notwithstanding. Because adventure is in the heart of the beholder.
On Expectations When one expects good things in general, one is not generally disappointed, as such a state of mind makes one inclined to notice good things. Particular expectations are another matter, especially when the situation is largely out of one’s control. Here do we see a difference between anticipation and expectation? I neither expected my daughter to win her class election nor did I expect her to lose. I merely anticipated the outcome. Yet I was disappointed when she lost, mostly because she was disappointed and the girl just needs a break. She never gets a break. Expectation of good things is the sort of optimism afforded to one who looks for good things. There have been so many days of great expectation that turned out in utter disappointment (even tragedy) that one learns to be ready for disappointment even if it is not fully expected. The birthday party that turned into a car flipping head over tail on the river road, blood on the pavement. Broken bones and lives. What are my expectations? I expect to be fully open to new experiences, new ideas, conversations, new places. I expect to make new discoveries. I expect to see places that I have never seen before, to discover the essence of each place. I expect to make each day as full as I can, to open myself to as much new experience as I can. I expect to get to know my classmates, to find out who they are and what makes them tick. What are they looking for and what do they hope to create? I’d like to understand how different people view the same thing. How can a different way of looking at the world help me to understand it? I want to find the character of those places. I want to write. Here is the concept of reasonable expectations: This concept is not born of optimism but of experience. Reasonable expectations have not been met. At least they have been challenged. We don’t expect things to go wrong, but we need to be consistently prepared for the wrong thing to happen.
Westminster Abbey and the Idols of Worship We are asked about our impressions of Westminster Abbey. The obvious answer would be to detail the exquisite artwork and architecture. One marvels at the craftsmanship and artistry. Despite the obvious achievement of the structure, I find Westminster Abbey to be a sad reflection of the tendency in humans to elevate individuals, even God, so far above the average person that we denigrate the average person. Why must we do this? Why must we create idols of worship and veneration? Why can we not see the value in ourselves, in the average person? The artistry is amazing, and I am sure that some would see it wrong of me to be sad at this presentation. The artistry is extravagant and ostentatious. There is this thing that happens when you walk into a place like Westminster Abbey. There is a tendency to succumb to its beauty. But this beauty is a deceiver. Is there an intention to deceive? Were these shrines to kings, queens and saints meant to convince? These are monuments not only to self but to idols. The beauty of the place, the emotion of the songs, the sense that we are engaging in something sacred. One is meant to be awed. It is this awesomeness that one must fight against. This is the feeling these edifices were meant to inspire. But the immensity of these buildings is a sham. These emotions are contrived, and I fight against them. Actually, I no longer need to, as these buildings no longer have this impact on me. I have identified that the immenseness of a building is just that. If we succumb to marveling in it, we need to understand what it is that we are succumbing to. If we get lost in it, we need to find our way back. One might say that these structures are meant to glorify God. I say, if God needs a building for glorification, then the glory is false. But it is clear to me that they were created for the glory of man. The songs and rituals serve the purpose of comfort and obedience. I am not interested in comfort. I am not interested in obedience. Conflicts and paradoxes. Confusion and wonder. These are things that tell us the mind is working properly, as the world is a confusing and wonderful place. These rituals are superfluous to me, but I know they are meaningful to others, so
meaningful that they have become sacred, so meaningful that I hate to criticize them. I see clergy in robes. They have elevated themselves. We accept it. Why are we sitting in the benches and they are ministering to us. Are we lesser? Do we need someone to tell us how the world is? But let us suppose that these structures are for the glory of man. Would the humanist not think this was appropriate? Man over nature, man over universe: I need more humility in my world view than the humanist. But we do this thing where we elevate people to even god-like status—kings and queens, rock stars and actors—and some people seek after this veneration. They believe that they have a higher status, and so often we give it to them. We think they are saviors, geniuses and heroes. This ruffles me. Why do we create superiority like this? Why do we seem to need to do this? I stop myself in my tracks when my admiration moves beyond respect. It bothers me to think that one person is due more or less respect than another person. If one starts with the premise that all people are due equal respect and deference, then the creation of idols should be met with caution. But, we need our Elvis and our Gandhi and our Jesus. I respect them. I can even love them. But they are no better than the woman on the street. The creation of God is the ultimate idolatry. Why do we need it? I know this thinking can be offensive to people, so I do not engage in conversations about it.
Reading on a Train Whilst reading on a train, two worlds pass by at once, parallel tracks and parallel stories. These towns and fields and trees are unknown to me, just as the world in print presents itself anew with each new page. At this moment, Catherine is traveling to Northanger from Bath. I am traveling from London to Bath. Is she going north? South? I am going west. The West is the frontier. Figuratively, Catherine is going west. Shall we envision our destinations together, you and I? And so there are three stories moving along. My story, the story in my hand, and the one outside my window. All moving along at the same time. “With the interest of an entirely new road to her, of an abbey before and curricle behind, she caught the last view of Bath without any regret, and met with every milestone before she expected it” (loc 1918).
The Romance of the Train In so many ways, I would not be considered a romantic. But it is the romance of the train that appeals. The low hum and rumble. The gentle sway and squeal of wheel on track. The whiz of tree and field, less than a snapshot of someone’s life, some place unknown. How can life be known from a window? Isn’t that all we really have? It cannot be known, and that is the romance of it, the wonder of the scene and the expectation of the destination. The whistle. The train is such a medium of expectation. Of going somewhere, escaping something, going back, going home, but always, coming and going. There is an interesting way we say things: coming home versus going home. Your loved one awaits your coming home. You both await your homecoming. You are going home. The homecoming is the expectation. Oh Catherine, what expectations you had for Northanger Abbey! You thought it would be your beloved. I have learned not to form such expectations, or if I do, I make them happen rather than waiting for them to happen to me. But I remain open to what happens, for that is often better than what I planned.
Why do we love an English accent? There is a certain elegance and upward lift of phrase not so much like a question as a hint of wonder. The words profess elegantly yet effortlessly, without a need to fully enunciate every consonant. It seems that the words are closer to the teeth and lip than to the tongue. The words are drawn in but not drawled. The phrases are at once witty and peculiar. Who does not love the British accent? Maybe the French. Some say it is the romance of it, and I am sure there is something to this, but where does the romantic impression come from? It is exotic yet familiar. Is it our connection with England? I also like an Indian accent. If we like the accent so much, why do we talk the way we do? How did we evolve from this? I can change it in my mind, but it is very difficult to change it in my mouth. The mouth must be trained in pronunciation at a very young age. I love the peculiar.
On Jane Austen and Bath In 1801, Jane’s father brought them to Bath. Ultimately, Ms. Austen found the people to be superficial. Austen thought that Bath was unsettled and insecure. She liked the highs and lows of Bath and found it fun to observe the nonsense. What would she think of it now? It seems to be a bit more casual, a tourist destination, but not so much based on appearances. But, there are very strict rules about building in Bath; new buildings have to follow strict design guidelines—this is an issue of appearance.
Jane was too much of a romantic at heart to marry for financial reasons, they say. She was intrigued by social phenomena, by rules and follies. But, Bath had too many distractions and anxieties. Perhaps now it would be a retreat. It is still place for shopping, something we continue to adore. In 1806, Austen was “too unsettled to write.” She needed a calm country life to cultivate her masterpieces. So what would she think of it now? In many ways, Bath is still superficial. When I first heard that Bath had very strict building design guidelines about how new buildings are to be built and how old ones are to be maintained, I thought, thank goodness that they are trying to maintain the history and feel of this place. Thank goodness that it won’t be lost to new buildings and obnoxious commercial signage. But, upon further reflection, I do recognize that there can be a sort natural evolution of a place that blends new with old, cutting edge with the soft edges of history and tradition. Communities evolve. Forcing it to stay a certain way is admirable and I am glad they did it, but it is superficial. Forcing change to happen in a certain way is not organic, although I appreciate the intent. I also think Disneyland is fun. Life is more casual in many ways than it was in Jane Austen’s time—in matters of dress and etiquette and societal expectation and it seems to me that Ms. Austen might appreciate this. But in so many ways life, and Bath is no exception, is so much more hectic than it was then. There was the luxury of time and a walk with friends. Every day. Now our vacations last a week and we feel we must get back to work. Every day is push push push. If Bath was unsettling to Ms. Austen then, all the cars and traffic and tourists might push her over the edge. This is no calm country atmosphere.
On Rules At the Pump Room in Bath we had a conversation about table etiquette, which except for a few basic issues of respect and practicality seem completely ridiculous to me. You should eat how you feel most comfortable. You should use the spoon you want and arrange the table how you want it to look and function.
Why do we get some caught up in things such as rules of etiquette? Why do we argue about what is right etiquette and what is wrong? We even do this with pronunciations, even when we know there are legitimate variations. Why we do this? Why do we make up these meaningless rules and then make a fuss about following them? It is to show that we are one thing and not another. It is like entry into the clubhouse, except we speak of which fork to eat with first. If you do it right, you are one of us; if you do it wrong, you are not. But sometimes a fork is just a fork. Throughout high school and college, I got in trouble for not following rules. Not laws, but conventions. Teachers did not understand me. I never aim to break the rules. I understand them in and out. I know them, but they don’t know me. I have learned over time how to negotiate when it is okay to deviate from the rules and when it is not. I hate rules. I hate them all. I live a completely ironic life. I am a rule enforcer and a rule follower.
Impressions Sitting Beside a Gravestone What is the allure of the graveyard? The dark and shadowy one with its stories to be unfolded and these past lives that intrigue. The one with birds that fly and roost and caw caw caw. Is it this connection to the past the draws? This feeling that somehow my story is somehow just like their stories? Only mine is mine. Until I die. And then, if I have left a legacy, perhaps it is someone else’s too. Is it a sadness, a longing, even a strange regret of something I don’t really understand. Loves and hates and passions just like mine. They were born and then they lived and then they died. And now they are in the ground, and we wonder. We wonder. How did they sense the sound of their own breathing? Did they melt into the same stars that I melt into when feeling the cool winds blowing in the night sky? Did they wonder the same way that I am wondering now? What is the allure of the graveyard? It is the reminder that I am mortal, that in some way, some day, I will belong here too. And the allure of it is that I am not afraid of it. I do not yearn for it, for I wish to live a full life. But the allure tells me that I have accepted it. A beam of light falls on grey stone. As this is a rainy day, such light is a treat for shadows and damp grass. The inscriptions—they must be studied closely to be read at all, with moss and dirt and etched away letters, with sun and snow and rain and wind to take away that thing that was once so very real to someone. Someone who
ran their fingers over the letters, pondering with silent but accepting tears, their loved ones, gone just then, or maybe years past, but not hundreds of years, not the year that we see here. Someone grieved at this stone. Grieved at a loss that wrenched them to their knees and they prayed to their beloved God. Why? Why? Why was my dear wife, husband, child, sister, brother taken from me? Taken from this earth. My passion, my love is gone. What is there to live for when the only thing I lived for is now gone. Taken. As this light falls, how dare I look for stories, how dare I see this in wonder. But I do dare. Because although I do not grieve, I do understand, I do see how I am just like this person under this stone. I am just like the person who grieved here. But, here, grass that grows and the crows that fly about and land on the tops of gravestones. Not mourning but living. Rabbits. Life amidst death! This reminding me that these two things forever co-exist. We are in a cycle from birth to death yes, but we exist and live along with death. Gravestones, worn and ragged, just like the living. These stones portray death, yes, but life as much as death. I want to be buried in the ground. I don’t want to be in a box. I want my naked body covered with sweet soft dirt, and I want the bugs and worms to own me again. I want to be one with the earth. Okay. Dress me if you must, if it makes you feel better. But I see my death as part of life. Life from death. It does not have to be a sacred cycle, just that simple and natural metamorphoses. That is also the allure. Here, the flowers and grasses grow around. White dots of tiny flowers springing up like rainfall from the ground, signifying life, in the face of the death underneath. How does rainfall come up from the ground? This is legacy. So: Wordsworth. This man has left a legacy, but so many others—their legacies are fleeting, vanishing, gone even. But these little flowers—this is what we need from a graveyard. I ask this: is a legacy for the living or the dead? A legacy brings them together. Like these little flowers rising from the earth.
The rain begins to fall with a cool and slight breezes. The drops come down in scarce intermissions such that it is not so much wet as damp. These little breezes rustle the green leaves and scatter the birds, who chatter as they scatter. The birds. They know not and care not of their mortality. Oh to fly without a thought given to legacy. To fly without fear of death. To live without fear of death. Life is but the next moment, and nothing more. So we like to live in this one. Living in the moment.
The Idolatry of Genius We have made idols of our poets and authors. We want to touch what they touched. We think their furniture has more value than that of a nameless farmer (he actually does have a name). Let me touch Wordsworth’s bedpan (I know, bed warmer). We can appreciate genius without resorting to idolization. But there is another caution I heed when I consider the artists in the Wordsworth/ Basho exhibit. Let us not confine our observations about genius to the past. The glassworker may have a level of genius that surpasses Wordsworth, although there is another caution about such comparisons floating in the back of my mind. Here is the real point: We need to recognize and cultivate our own genius and not simply relegate it to others. Let each of us own it. Let us see our own lights, not only through the lights of others, but for their own sake. Literature and poetry are beautiful and wonderful, but sometimes we get so lost in what someone else said that we forget that we have our own voice. Let us sing. Let us sing. I love books, but I am not in love with them. After the session with the curator, I realize that there are many types of English majors. I won’t typecast anyone, but I will say this: I love books, but I do not yearn to be all day in a museum or library or some private nook. I thought I would go crazy with the book exhibit preparation session. That is not my thing. I am very glad that it is someone else’s. When I wrap a present I cut the paper quickly and haphazardly, and fold the paper around the gift most disheveledly. If the paper fits all the way around and I can get it all taped up, I am happy. Time to move on to the next
thing. I am not a perfectionist. I can’t sit still to do Yoga either. My mind needs constant motion. I am not talking about motion of the body. I am speaking of my inability to calm my mind. This is no complaint. I do not want a calm mind. And don’t expect me to enjoy wrapping tape around the page of a book. I guess my private nook is the wind and the rain and the sun and the fragrant moon. I need to move and feel the immensity of the universe. Writing from a writing shed does not make sense to me right now. Every once in a while, I cannot bear any sort of confinement. I rebel indignantly against it. Ironically, it happens most when I have felt the freedom of my own footsteps, and I have heard only the sounds of my own breathing and the world outside as it abounds about me. It doesn’t happen most after long periods of confinement. It happens after a period or feeling of freedom. It is this precariously place I often occupy. One must temper the desire to escape entirely.
When I get closed in With an obscured view I cannot let darkness guide me Lest it be Into the light
No Return I do like museums, but there is a point at which I need to get out. There is an irrepressible urge that says, “let me out now.” Thank goodness there was a place to go at Rydal Mount. I get the feeling that Wordsworth was like me in some ways. He needed to walk. I need to walk. I need to run. They say that Dorothy was his muse, but walking was his medium. So it was with Basho. I was so relieved to be able to walk about alone at the Wordsworth gardens. I had the feeling that I described above, not as I wrote from the writing shed, but from a long ledge wall that overlooked the gardens at Rydal Mount. I wanted to jump. Not to die. But to feel the freedom of flight. So I walked, knowing that I had to keep track of where I was and where everyone else was. But the constant chatter of conversation had to disappear for a while. This was not a judgment, but a necessity. So, this feeling, this feeling that I have to hold back from escaping entirely, it is a rational thought, although it might sound desperate. The feeling was so clear. I wandered about in this garden—seemingly wild in so many ways, but within a boundary, a mix of confinement and freedom. My thoughts were on the idea of escape. I imagined Edward Ruess and Christopher McCandless and those other wanderers who needed to get away. Who felt their urges to “let me out now” so strongly that they just walked away completely. Irretrievably. I thought about that ledge and how it was wide enough to walk on— still connected to society but with a clear view and feeling of freedom. I walked with these thoughts, hearing the laughter of my classmates on the wind. But then I happened upon a gate with a sign that read “One Way. No Return.” I put my hand on it, ran my fingers upon the edges, lightly covered with moss. I ran my fingers on the latch and discovered that it would open. Symbolically as much as anything, I decided not to go through.
Revisiting Expectations I am meeting and exceeding my expectations. Nothing has fallen short, but then again, one of my expectations was to be open to discovery. This leaves room for so much to happen that it is difficult to call anything contrary to expectation. There is a freedom here.
On Concentricity There was a concentric circle design in Wordsworth writing shed at Rydal Mount. There is something powerful about a repeating design feature. But, there may be more to the idea of concentricity than powerful design. At dinner we spoke about concentricity. Of a series of circles with a single focal point. Alan says that it sounds like one of my essay ideas. Once that gets put into my head, my subconscious goes to work. Concentricity is a design feature, a geometric configuration, a feature of set theory. My thoughts are with the Wordsworth/Basho exhibition, as it seems to me that there may be an element of concentricity there, but I have not fully considered the final exhibit. I must go to the exhibit. It is a necessity. I cannot get it out of my mind. Participation in the final exhibit is sort of magical. I felt like I was an audience of one, that the messages of the artists were clear to me, not in a literal sense but in an abstract one, which is so much more satisfying. I had trouble pulling myself away. I set out to find concentricity, which may mean multiple layers of sets within sets, circles within circles, all with a common center. I had chosen both a geometric and a mathematical interpretation of concentricity. But, in choosing to look at the exhibit this way, I ended up with a poetic interpretation, although I did not set out to do this. Was the exhibit a portrayal of concentricity? I draw circles. Are we considering set theory or geometry or both? The difficulty in creating the concentricity model for the exhibit is that in set theory, each progressive circle outward contains the previous, such that it is not only an issue of common focus but progressive inclusivity. So we might have something like understanding as the focus or inner-most circle, with poetry next, then walking, then nature. But then I realize that I cannot find Wordsworth here, not in this model. This is because it is not that simple (nor that complex). We have multiple artists who have created different levels of meaning for Wordsworth’s works. But they are not only varied interpretations, but with varied deviations with varied themes. We do not
have concentric circles, we have intersecting lines and sets and subsets, each with different trajectories, nothing perfectly straight or perfectly circular. Not chaos exactly, but not order either. I was looking for order. But this is not to be found, because like the beauty of the mountains, this exhibit is not about geometry. There is a gracefulness here that is more intriguing than circles and lines, than sets and subsets, even more intriguing than powerful design. It is about multiple layers of interpretation, understanding, experience, expression, intersecting sometimes but augmenting, enveloping, enhancing, exciting, even celebrating, wondering, seeking and finding. It is about color and word and shape and movement and being. We can see evidence of these trains of thought and how like paths and lives and perspectives they intersect, touch and elevate. Something special happens at the moment of intersection or touch; it even happens at moments of parallelism—it is a meeting of minds and passions and spirits. Meeting and sometimes melding but always also remaining discrete. This magical thing that happened. It is the meeting of the winds, coming in from east and west, north and south and from latitudes undefined, a perfect storm of thought, imagination, perspective and desire.
On Walking Wordsworth and Basho: engaging the real world through walking. Walking is part of the poetry process. For Keats, poetry is necessary to understand nature, to relate to it subjectively. Using these two premises: Walking is necessary to understand nature. After my accident, I could not walk for six months. I had to learn how to walk again,
which is one of the hardest things I have ever had to do. In this process of learning how to walk, I learned things that I never knew before. After I learned to walk again, I still could not run and I have never been able to run like I used to. I used to run fast. I used to win races. That has been lost. But, I started walking and running in a different way. I had to stop. I had to walk. I had to rest. I had to breathe in. In so doing, I learned to see the world around me. I had never really seen the world before. I began to see poetry in everything around me—the trees, the sky, even my own footsteps. The universe is conspiring such to make me walk instead of run. Walking has given me the gift of poetry. I am thankful for my broken bones.
On Navigation, or Seeing the World Whirl by All at Once I have a peculiar problem finding my way around, especially in the city. No one I know has this problem. If I did not have other skills, one would wonder how I function. I distinctly get the feeling that I am part of everywhere, rather than being, in a given moment, somewhere. I have to give myself specific directions, landmarks, names and maps to avoid this sensation. This is not an unpleasant sensation, but it is particularly impractical, one which lends toward getting lost. It is difficult for me to travel in a group because I like to be lost, which is very impractical thing to be when you want to be some particular place at a particular time. I don’t like to be found, but there are so many particular moments that I must find myself on this trip that I find it disturbing and unsettling. I must always ask where we are going and how we get there, because I have no natural sense of it. Being in the open outdoors is different, as I don’t feel disturbed and unsettled with my location. Here I am always on the verge of disappearing, but it is okay because I feel part of everything around me. When confined by walls or streets or hallways, have constantly fight this
inclination, and I have to constantly be in a place. I must force myself to ascertain where I am. I only do this for practicality’s sake. Otherwise I have no interest in knowing where I am. I suppose it is good that I am a practical person. Otherwise I would have disappeared long ago. The yearning is so strong to feel part of everywhere that I often cannot stand it. The problem with escaping is that I would not know how to find my way home. And there is something about home. It is very difficult to describe this need I have to connect through disconnectedness. I am learning to see this inability to accurately establish place as an abstract ability to understand the concept of everywhere. I do see it, although I cannot describe it in words. It is not just large; it is unfathomable and that is its allure. That is its justice. Its beauty. It is the ridgeline of the soul. The mountain of the heart. It is the ravine of glorious despair. Why do I write so well on trains? Parallel travels with parallel travels with the world passing by just the way I need to have it passing by, with its sense of immensity and movement. When you ask me which way to go to get here or there, I cannot tell you, because it is only the moment of being that I can perceive, the moment being all encompassing. This is way I have trouble with cities and streets and buildings. I enter a street and it is unfathomable to me without a map. Pathways away from and toward things in this environment I do not understand. But, if I do not have place to go in particular, if I can wander up and down the streets and get some bearings, and not be expected to go back to where I started using a particular route, I am free. But I am most free when I am lost. When I can see a clear horizon, I am happy. I ask where I am, what things are named, not because I want to know, but because I need to know, in order to establish, not a sense of place, because I have that, but in order to establish a sense of a particular place, which does not occur naturally. Being on a train satisfies the need to feel the whole world whirl by all at once.
On Attachment and Detachment (on the Bronte Walk) What is it, this detachment from nature, versus attachment. In many ways we see a detachment—we accept what it is and our place in it without identifying with it. This can seem like a very natural approach to me. Then there is attachment, which may display itself in various ways, from reflecting mood, to the need to describe. They need to describe may be a detached way to form and attachment, a sometimes desperate and fruitless endeavor. When I say that I feel part of everywhere, there is a sort of detachment, a detachment that ironically creates a connection. Attachments come at a price. Attachments bring with them the question of: what would it be like if I let go? Or, to recognize that we cannot let go. In a sense, I do not want to feel irrevocably attached to a place, so that I would not feel the constraints that cause me to want to escape. It is unfetteredness that make one recognize the need to be free. Detachment means freedom. “It is not drawn in any map. True places never are.”—Herman Melville (this quote was on top of the page of my journal in which I wrote about being detached from a place. My journal has travel quotes on every fifth page).
On Ghosts Some found Haworth to be a place of ghosts. This may be. But I found an effortless blending of life and death, past and present. No juxtaposition, no irony, just a humble sense of mortality. Being surrounded by death gives a poignancy to the preciousness of life. Acceptance of death does not preclude grief.
Ghosts in Jane Eyre and Wuthering Heights—essay idea. What role do they play in the novels and how does this relate to Victorian spiritual/religious views? Ghosts as a portrayal of “other.” Ghosts- subjective/ abstract. Fear is subjective and abstract.
On the Legacy of Words (written at the British Library) Henry Purcell wrote Chacony in G Minor in early 1680. The detail and beauty of his handwritten compositions impressed upon me that life was at once both harsh and elegant. Is there an ironic relationship between these two things? Life seems so easy and contrived and superficial. So many things have been lost, for time, weather, circumstance and failings have all taken them away. We now have the means to keep a better legacy, but in so many ways, we choose not to. One can see original transcripts and sheet music in the authors’ own elegant and sometimes messy hands. Their lives and works are still so tangible, bound and saved for legacy’s sake. I am left to ponder, where will our words go? There is little visceral elegance in cyberspace. I am encouraged to write it down or draw it out. It will mean something to someone someday. My journal, with its words and diagrams, is becoming a beautiful thing. In so many ways, we have become content consumers rather than content producers. Technology encourages this in many ways. For me, technology has enabled me to become more of a content producer. I have written stage plays and screen plays, produced a CD, all made easier by technology. But perhaps it was always this way—that there were more content consumers than producers. There were actually very few consumers at one time as well. Both were likely luxuries. For most people now, neither needs to be a luxury, at least at some basic level. We have the means to be great creators, great information gatherers. We have knowledge and enlightenment at our fingertips. The ability to create and
convey, to produce, participate in and enjoy are right before us. Yet we play games. Perhaps it was always like this. It seems a shame—all the lost talent and industriousness. When I have put this out to people in the past, they became offended, defending their television shows and their posting of drivel on Facebook. They say they have no time for personal creative thought, that it is a luxury of too much time. Do I have more time than the average person? I have the same number of hours in my day and many obligations. How do I have more time for contemplation and creation? I don’t know. My life is very full. We now have a sense of history, or at least a possibility of a sense of history. I don’t imagine that the average person in the 17th century could spend leisurely morning looking at ancient manuscripts. What a treasure we have before us. Yet we pass it by. So much in the day-to-day. Are most people knowledge seekers? Most of my close friends are. We want to know why and how, but how many of us go out of our way to find out? Most people I know will seek out answers to everyday questions, but larger questions remain unasked, and therefore, unanswered.
Wind on the Open Water The wind on open water reveals the power of the elements. Oh, how they can at once be both gentle and fierce. Swept away. Swept along. I love a cold wind on my face. It reminds me that I am alive. Sometimes I think I was meant to live at the sea.
Genius in Action At the Handel museum, we experienced two composers, composing right in front of our eyes and ears. And it was beautiful. Not just the sound, but the energy and realness of their creativity and passion. Another reminder that all that is good is not in the past. We live amidst genius.
Developing a Theory of Perception (At this point in my journal, my thinking and writing are not linear, and to convey the thoughts linearly would not convey them the way I wrote them, so this next section is a representation of my thought process as I diagrammed it. I will turn this into an essay.)
Love of the Madman and the Heart of the Beautiful The further away from normal a person is, the more I am drawn in. A madman is not to be feared. Each of these people on this trip is unique and wonderful, and they each view the world a little, well, sometimes a lot differently from the way I do. And that is what I love. How can minds be so vibrantly different? Beauty is in the heart of the beautiful.
The City as an Organism Chinatown on a Friday night is loud and swarming and alive. The buzz is different from the intense energy of the workday. Shoe and spirits rise. Couples flirt on the tube station escalators and best friends talk in excited yet relaxed tones, faces only inches apart. There are conversations, conversations that don’t happen during the day— those quaint yet elegant closeto-the-lip exchanges in which each utterance seems a little like a question. And later, riding on the escalator amidst this vibrating energy, with the busker sounds of Smash Mouth punctuating the buzz, clear and soulful, I felt the rhythm of the city. And it was at that moment that I knew London was an organism. It was at that moment that I knew that I had arrived, not expected destination, but to one at which I was not a stranger. Good-bye London. I imagine you will be calling soon.