weather

For weeks, I had very little in terms of a life. I've spent virtually all of my time in the library writing, sans rowing and friends and adventures and anything that would be worth writing about (and dangit, I can end my sentences in prepositions if I want). My Mansfield Park paper got to make its merry way to the Exam Schools on the 16th for its due date, and since then I have lost zombie status. The side effect of all of this writing is that I have absolutely not felt like writing when I didn't have to: hence, the recent dearth of blog posts.

Recent news: snow.

It snowed perhaps 8 inches one day--which is just as astonishingly much in Oxford as it would be in Atlanta, really--and the country essentially shut down. English people have a curious and unique relationship to weather: on the grand scheme of worldwide weather, England occupies a niche whose greatest variance "mostly cloudy with light rain" to "somewhat sunny with occasional sprinkling". The weather here is profoundly uninteresting, and Englanders have the benefits of not knowing natural disasters or heavy rain or extreme heat or cold. This does not, of course, stop them talking about the weather; in fact, they talk about the weather all the more, as if to prove to the world that it is in fact interesting. People walk around all day, cheerfully remarking, "horrible weather, innit?" to anyone they pass. The weather isn't that horrible--it's cloudy, yes, but it is barely sprinkling and one does not even need an umbrella--but I guess it's England-horrible, and Britons are cognizant enough of their mild weather to be cheerful about it. 

Since I didn't have anywhere to be, however, I thought it was absolutely fantastic. Sophie and I had an entire day devoted solely to the snow, in which we got soaked and freezing but didn't care. Snow all over us, gamboling and prancing like five-year-olds, we took photos all over town until sunset and even after. 

Fortunately, the snow did not affect my family's flight--though lots of people here were stranded for quite a few days, unable to get flights out of Gatwick and Heathrow. I know, I know: it doesn't seem like that much snow to necessitate the absolute closure of two gigantic airports. But give them a break...they don't know what horrible weather means, after all. 

productive. as usual.

So, you might ask (or maybe you don't; that's fine). What does an Oxford postgraduate student really do?


You conjure in your mind images of stacks of books reaching floor-to-ceiling, nineteenth-century manuscripts strewn with their accompanying magnifying glasses upon my desk, the passage of time marked only by a furious clicking of computer keys in desperate attempt to reach the word limit in the time limit. Snow swirls outside. A light steam rises from my cup of tea.

That stuff happens sometimes. But here's what I'm doing right now:

Books: check, but closed.
Doctor Who mug: check. Skim milk.
Galaxy chocolate: check. Delicious.
Flash game with explody things: check.

yes I take classes in handwriting

Our handwriting exam was today. Before you ask if I'm a second-grader--it's a class in other people's handwriting. For example, Gerard Manley Hopkins is killin' me:

Though he actually has quite modern writing, so it's not as bad as some. But Hopkins does these weird symbols on occasion...


Our exam consisted of reproducing a Charles Lamb sonnet, and not a good one. The only tricky bit was reproducing the part that Lamb had crossed out and written over, since he didn't cross it out with a nice easy line, preferring instead a series of X's. Oh, and he uses silly words like "Sabbathless" and "turmoiling" and "worky-day". Like I said: not that good.

But I love love love handwriting class and I'm quite sad that it's over. Our professor, Clive, is great...and I will miss him. Sigh. I think I did quite well on my exam, though. Clive looked over it for a moment or two and told me it looked perfect, which would definitely be a first. Especially with silly Charles Lamb not ever crossing his T's. I feel like they can't be properly called T's if they're not crossed.

Anyway, did you know that when people ran out of space in writing letters, they would turn the letter 90 degrees and continue writing the other way? Their letters cross each other and it looks really bizarre. Every time we start a piece of work in handwriting class, I think to myself, oh gosh this is hard. But after a couple of hard-earned sentences, it all starts to flow a bit more. The purpose of all of this, of course, is to prepare us for working with manuscripts in our fields. Not that I feel prepared to do anything of the sort.

Speaking of "extremely awesome classes that I'm taking", we're finishing printing tomorrow--I'll keep you posted.

Apologies for poor photos: the light in my room isn't very good.

OH AND IT SNOWED TODAY. Not as much as in London though.

SNOWSNOWSNOW

Remember the circular park? The pretty bench? The grass and the yellow leaves?

Here it is now.

YAY SNOW!

typos galore: printing class, part 2 of 3

When we last spoke, dear readers, I had set about half of my type. The following week, I set the rest, including the title which is massively annoying to set because it requires three hair-spaces (which are made of paper) between each letter--unless the letters are kind of big. And then maybe they only need two. Or maybe one. Did I mention they're made of paper?

But I finally got it done. Yesterday, therefore, our intructor Paul helped us lock the text into frames so that we could take proofs of our printed material. The above photo is a closeup of the bottom of my poem. You can see where it says "H. Corinne Smith" at the bottom, though it's backwards and upside down.

Then we inked it (with the aid of what essentially amounts to a fancy and extra-heavy rolling pin), put a page down on it, and closed 'er up. I got to crank the machine, which basically rolls the whole tray under heavy pressure so that (hopefully) it inks equally. Then we open it up and cut the paper into pieces, as by this point it  it just one large sheet with eight poems upon it.

Then comes the proofing. I thought I'd done well, but my proof was riddled with errors: sometimes letters are upside down, sometimes--probably because they were in the wrong spaces in the type-case--lowercase Us and Ns get swapped, and the same is true for Bs and Ds. In one case, my lead spacer was sticking up too far and received some ink, creating what looks like a stray mark. So I carefully proofed it three times over, checking every word: it's surprising how easily your eye can glide over an upside-down letter, your brain telling you nothing is wrong.

Jen and Brendan fixing errors in the press. My poem is next to where Brendan is working right now, which is probably why I'm taking photos instead of working. 

And then we go fix it in the press. Taking tweezers, we must very carefully pull out the offending letter, turning it over or replacing it. If the replacement creates spacing issues, we have to do the finding-the-perfect-spacing-combination thing again. When it's all done, we do another proof. And another, if necessary, and another. Fortunately, mine popped out all right the second time round. I've had to take out two stanzas so that my poem will fit on one page--alas! But that's all right. We haven't started printing yet, but we think we can get it all done next week. We'll make 100 copies: so we'll have to ink the type, put in a piece of paper, close the press, roll the tray, push the press, unroll the tray, open the press, and take out the paper one hundred times, which shouldn't take that long once we get into a rhythm of it. And that way we each get three copies of our finished product with a few left over.

In other news, it's fairly cold but refuses to snow. Sigh. But I'm going to a ball tonight, accompanied by the lovely Sophie and Rowena--I'll keep you posted.

education for the nation!

I'm not sure how much coverage this issue has gotten in the States (though here is a link to CNN's recent report), but there have been protests all over the UK about the proposed tuition hikes which are part of a massive educational budget cut from Parliament.

Basically, there's now a cap of £3k on tuition fees, and this would remove that cap. They may remove it entirely; they may cap it at £9k--I've heard both. Now, we who all just came out of (or are still in) US universities start thinking to ourselves, holy cow that's low. It is. It's really low compared to the junk we go through. But the UK doesn't have the system set up like we do: the student loans, the FAFSA, the private grants, the merit-based scholarships. This limitless tuition fee is really scary for the students here, and it's felt extra keenly at Oxford, where women and minorities historically excluded from participation in the University are only just now coming into their own.

The protests have been good. We hear stories about people who are arrested and injured, but it's actually been really peaceable. However. I have some problems with the current protest that's being staged...




This one takes place at the gorgeous Radcliffe Camera, a historic Oxford site as well as a member of the Bodleian Libraries. Some students have decided, in protest of the financial nonsense going on, to occupy the Radcliffe Camera. Occupy it. What is it, France?

The Rad Cam happens to be not only my favourite Bodleian reading room, but the major collection of English and History books. I cannot use it. I am, I think understandably, annoyed.

But that's not even my main problem. A protest ought to be symbolic: the location, the manner, all of it should have some meaning. On the High street, that protest said, we are so righteously indignant about this issue that it's spilling out of the classrooms and into the streets: not just the University, but this city and this country will change for the worse. And that's a good message, I think. That's why I went.

Ultimately, the basic message we should be sending is this one: I value my education, and I won't let you take it away from people like me--women like me, state-school kids like me, middle-class people like me, smart but unconnected people like me. The choice to render a library--which is itself highly symbolic (for the love of knowledge that we supposedly cherish, for the storehouse of great thinking that Oxford has become)--useless doesn't say I value my education. It locks up the protest: we can't see the faces and hear the voices and see the signs. And the inconvenienced are the ones who haven't done anything wrong...us. Me.

But no...they're dancing. Just a good old-fashioned dance party in the Rad Cam, for, um, like change or something.

When I lead the protest (which I won't, because I'm not a UK citizen or even going to be here for more than 10 months), we'll go to a government building. The protest should be against the perpetrator, not the victim. And then we'll fill up every available space--the reception room, the front lobby, the steps outside, the curb--and we'll pull out books and we'll read. We will take learning from them, if they won't give it to us.

back it down, stern pair

Twice a week, I set my alarm for 5:30. If I'm smart, I go to bed early on these days; I am not frequently so self-possessed. Morning comes and the darkness outside is oppressive. The sun won't rise for two more hours, and the temperature generally hovers right around freezing. I dress as warmly as I am able and walk down to the boathouse: half an hour's walk away, giving me ample time to eat my morning banana. The grass is bathed in frost; the sharp wind cuts through all my layered clothing. Once everyone arrives, we pull out the boat, which bruises our shoulders to carry. Slipping my feet into the boat's built-in shoes is sometimes wet, and nearly always cold--very cold. By 6:30, we are off. Our boat cuts silently through the icy water, but the thick purplish fog ensures that we wouldn't be able to tell black water from black sky even, perhaps, were it not before sunrise.

Why do I subject myself to this twice-weekly torture? Well, the short answer is that I don't know. Every time I leave my warm bed for the cold torture of a rowing outing, I ask myself the same thing.

Someone told me the other day that he didn't think anyone simultaneously loathed and adored their sport so much as rowers. Definitely true. We complain constantly. We joke about how crazy we are and how much we wish we were back in bed, or at least back at Starbucks. Don't let us fool you, though: we love it.

Here's the senior crew--the Regent's Women's A Crew--in our race at Nepthys last weekend

Last week was intense: we had Nepthys regatta at the weekend, and three of us on the novice crew (two stroke-sides and a bow-side, which refers to our rowing positions) were temporarily promoted to senior crew, which means that we had two races at Nepthys, along with the associated practice sessions.

The novice crew: coaches Rosie, Lottie, and Fran are on the ends. Lottie is our main coach, and she's the shiny one. We rowers all have matching novice-crew shirts, and our coxswain Chella is the one crouching. 

This weekend is Christchurch Regatta: the big novice regatta of the year. We go up against Mansfield's novice A crew on Wednesday. If we win, we race again Friday; if we lose, there's a repercharge and we therefore row again on Thursday. Either way, we've come a long way in two months, and I'm proud enough of us for constantly braving the early-morning dark and cold that it doesn't much matter how we do in the race.

In the meantime, though, I'm getting some respectable rowing calluses on my hands, and I fancy that I'm coping better with the cold than I did at first...

which is good enough for me.

ink-smudged hands and faces

I've been taking a printing class this term, in which we learn all about historical methods of printing: how paper was made, how expensive paper, vellum, parchment were, how books were bound, how the printing press works and how it changed the system, all the way through how digital printing affects the industry. You have no idea how complicated paper folding can be: folios and quartos are simple enough, but once you hit octavo it all becomes a bit incomprehensible, and most books in my time period were published in duodecimo. Eep. That might sound boring (though I like it), which is why I haven't written about it. But now we're doing something that is SO FREAKING COOL that you're wrong if you think it's boring.

Starting yesterday, the rest of the term is us actually printing. We each get to pick a text (sonnet length is ideal) and set it ourselves in type, make our own proof, and ultimately mix up the ink and print it. Then we have to fold the pages up and it'll make a little book! 

Here are some of the workstations: the one nearest is mine. Each person gets an upper case and a lower one--the white pieces of paper above each set of cases is the map of where the different characters are. 

First, though, the setting-of-type bit takes awhile. I take the printer's stick in my left hand and, with my right, grab each tiny character individually and slide it in, remembering to put spaces in between each word. Between the lines we put little lead spacers, too. It takes awhile: we worked for two hours straight yesterday and some people only got three or four lines, though a couple of people have made it hard on themselves by choosing works written in a foreign language (and one in a foreign alphabet!). Apparently my years of crafty doings, sewing and crocheting and the like, have prepared me for the repetitive motion of type-setting, as I'm a good twice as fast as most of the rest of them. I got fourteen lines down, and I didn't see anyone else with more than eight. Still, fourteen lines in two hours' time is a little depressing when I think about how the poem took me significantly less time than that to compose. 

Once we've filled up our stick--for me that was eight lines--we have to very very carefully slide it off and onto the plates. Then we start over! The printer's sticks get quite heavy before we really notice, but the little metal characters' weights really add up when you've got several lines down. My wrist hurts a bit this morning.

Here's my stick right before I slid off my first set of lines. I've got eight lines on here, and each character, including the spaces, is its own little piece. The words are backwards here, of course, but if you look closely you can read a couple of words--the word "ground" in the sixth line seems to be in particularly sharp focus. At the end of the line, we fill the rest of up with spaces. The lines have to be really tight, and finding the right size spaces to perfectly fill the line is often the hardest part. We even have to use hair-spaces made of paper (or equally thin metal, so basically razor blades) to get the right fit sometimes.

Most people picked poems that they just happen to like, though a couple of us chose things we'd written.  If you're curious about what I chose, it's my poem "Curiouser and Curiouser" from the Alice cycle of poems I did for Dr. Johnston's class last semester. The poem's full text is after the jump, plus a bonus picture of a smiling Jen setting her Baudelaire poem. 

english autumn

England is beautiful this time of year. The leaves are changing and falling, and the wind blows them everywhere. The above photo is of the garden just outside my building, which is absolutely gorgeous when carpeted in bright yellow, and in fact I took this photo as I was headed to that very bench to go eat my lunch.

Unfortunately, I must admit that I don't have oodles of time for photo-snapping and leaf-watching. Or even lunch-eating, many days. My draft of my paper for the term--which doesn't have to be long, but has to be good which is much scarier--is due on Friday, and I've been spending entire days locked up inside various Bodleian reading rooms, knowing in a no more than indirect way about the existence of sunlight, or freedom.

Bleak as it sounds (and let me tell you, the life of an Oxford student is rarely glamorous) it's actually quite enjoyable. I have it on good authority that my argument for my Austen paper is somewhat a new one, which is exciting. I've gotten permission to cite a forthcoming article that won't even be published by the time my essay is due, and it's by a woman who is, in the Jane Austen world, something of a scholarly rock-star. All in all, the library days are nice, in a way. It really makes me feel like I'm accomplishing something, unlike those occasional (well, okay, maybe more than occasional) times in undergrad where I felt like I was just treading water--writing moderately well about old ideas has never gotten anyone's blood pumping.

Anyway, I have time still for some fun. Last night I went to Angel's cocktail bar with some college mates, which was lovely. Tonight I had a fish-and-chips date with Brian at this nasty-looking little fish place that was fantastic. Oh, and they had deep fried Mars Bars--! It made me miss Georgia. Brian and I split one, needless to say.

I'll close as I opened--with a photo celebrating English autumn, this one taken from the aforesaid (and, um, aforepictured?) bench, facing my building of residence (the one on the left--though my window faces the other side, which is a lovely bustling street with cute little shops). Not pictured: my delicious curry-filled jacket potato from Green's, my tattered copy of Mansfield Park. Life is good.

remember remember the fifth of november

If you'd told me a year ago that I'd have spent last night eating fried doughnuts and watching a giant burning effigy representing a Catholic terrorist, I might not have believed you.

Bonfire Night--or what we'd be more likely to call Guy Fawkes night, and let's be honest, we mostly only know that from V for Vendetta--is bigger here than I'd anticipated. We went down to Headington where they had some fireworks. We basically found ourselves in the middle of a huge field, surrounded by hot dog and burger and toffee apple and doughnut stands, with a gigantic wooden statue of sorts in the middle. We'd stood around and eaten junk for awhile when the fireworks started!

The fireworks were quite nice and I was only moderately terrified that the entire grassy field was going to go up in flames. Then the real fun started--the bonfire. The vaguely person-shaped blocks of wood were let aflame, and when they'd done, it revealed a metal understructure that looked sort of like a devil. Pretty frightening, actually. It was a huge fire! We were standing really quite far off and we could feel the massive heat from it.

After the giant Guy Fawkes was burned, there was still a sweet bonfire for awhile. We basked in its glow for awhile before heading to the pub for some mulled wine. A good evening.

I have things to update about! Like rowing, and my printing class. Once I obtain photos to accompany these things, you will be hearing more from me. I promise.

Until then, I'm writing a paper about which I'm actually quite excited. It has to do with Mansfield Park and A Midsummer Night's Dream. I won't bore you with details...but I'm enjoying my research. I'd better be--I spent something like eight hours straight yesterday in the library. And as soon as I click "Publish Post" I'm going to do some more work. Sigh.

chawton: the world of jane

"She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste." --Pride and Prejudice, Elizabeth on Pemberley

Yesterday our Austen class--with a couple of additions of people who just wanted to come--traversed to Chawton to see Jane's home as well as the lovely home of her brother Edward, which is now home to a library specialising in women's writing from roughly 1600-1830. 

Chawton is absolutely gorgeous. It's this tiny English town in the country, complete with just about nothing to do except marvel at rolling English hills. It's very charming, though, and even on a cloudy day like yesterday it's really, really beautiful. 

 This was Jane's house. She and her sister Cassandra shared a bedroom, and they lived their with their family, as neither married. Now, of course, it's been turned into a museum of sorts, but many of the original furnishings remain, as well as original garments, tools, etc. from the house.

This is Jane's actual writing desk--tiny, right?
 Kathryn Sutherland, my absolutely brilliant professor (if you've seen articles lately, which I certainly have seen dozens, about the digitization of Austen's manuscripts or the resulting questions of how much influence her editor had upon her work, that was all Kathryn's project), feels that her writing, which is sort of cramped in both its subject matter and its treatment of life in rural England, stems from these sort of cramped writing circumstances. Regardless, it's pretty frickin' cool.

And here's the Knight house, where Edward Austen Knight lived. While we were there, they were having an adorable Halloween party for some very cute English children. The house is beautiful, and absolutely huge! The grounds have lots of buildings on them, from the church to the stables, and the surrounding countryside is populated by lots of sheep.  Many of the original furnishings from this house are still there, too, like the original furnaces and preparation-tables in the kitchen, lots of paintings on the walls, and even some of the original wallpaper.


Chawton was pretty much fantastic, and it was so fun to go with my whole Austen class. Because we were with Kathryn and Freya (our other professor), we got to see and even handle the first edition printings of some of the Austen novels that the museum happens to own, which are worth an insane amount of money and are terrifying but thrilling to get to hold.

We are maybe possibly planning an unofficial trip to Stratford soon. I'll keep you posted.

oxford: a villanelle

In a conversation with Mr. Charles Greenberg that took place about half an hour ago, we were discussing the near-impossibility of writing a good villanelle. I submit as proof my first draft of the villanelle I attempted on the fly; I only post it at all because it's about Oxford:

A year spent wand’ring under ancient spires

that punctuate the city as they dream:

this new world that, in reaching down, inspires

sweet visions of the Bard’s bare ruined choirs

that, crumbling, are complicit in my scheme:

a year spent wand’ring under ancient spires.

Every Bodleian moment lights the fires.

Swimming with ideas, these textbooks teem

with this new world that, in reaching down, inspires

oars dipping in and out of cold sapphires—

the sun reflected in a bright Thames gleam—

a year spent wand’ring under ancient spires:

charm so rare could but be Oxfordshire’s.

The tea-sets plenty, scones with jam and cream:

this new world that, in reaching down, inspires 

me ever to be what this place requires—

joining with my own words in the stream

of years spent wand’ring under ancient spires:

this new world that—in reaching down—inspires.

oh, the glamour

At great pains of memory, I endeavour to present to you my Tuesday of 2nd Week, the 19th of October:

1. read Jane Austen and listen to the Decemberists.
2. read Jane Austen and listen to Neutral Milk Hotel.
3. read Jane Austen and listen to the soundtrack from Cabaret.
4. read Jane Austen and listen to Owl City; start a crochet project.
5. read Jane Austen and listen to Belle & Sebastian; keep crocheting.
6. read Jane Austen and listen to the soundtrack from Dr. Horrible's Sing-Along Blog; finish crocheting.
7. read Jane Austen and listen to the Pipettes.
8. talk to the illustrious and lovely Ben on Facebook for ten minutes before he goes to work. Realise that this is first human contact of the day...and it's on Facebook.
9. walk to Tesco. Buy milk, eggs, detergent, peanut butter, shaving razors, two jars of Nutella. You know. Just the necessities.
10. walk home. Look a little funny trying not to break the eggs while carrying heavy milk and heavier detergent.
11. read Jane Austen and listen to Neko Case.
12. read Jane Austen and listen to the soundtrack from Wicked.
13. realising you haven't eaten anything today, munch on some frozen grapes as a combined breakfast/lunch/early dinner.
14. write blog post.

I know, I know--the glamour of my life in England is almost unbearable. I wouldn't expect you to understand the subtleties, the nuances.

What will come next? There's no telling, really, but I'll give you a hint: I feel some Yeah Yeah Yeahs coming on.

matriculam universitatis

Last night we went to formal hall at New College, which is Brian's school (the photo is Mark, Olga, and me). The food was fantastic and the atmosphere was nice--it was so sweet of Brian to invite us! I'm going to look into when Regent's black-tie guest night is (I think this week, but maybe next) and see if the gang wants to come.

In other news, matriculation was today!

That's where we all dress up in our schoolgirl outfits (properly called sub-fusc) and gowns and march down to the exam schools to be formally let into the University. Oh, and along the way random tourists photograph us without our knowledge or consent, so it's kind of like being in a zoo. It was fun, however, and I love the tradition of it all--they've been matriculating for hundreds of years, and if it seems a little dusty and antiquated a tradition, that's because it is. Which is fantastic. Why is Celeste so tall?!


(Many of) the lovely ladies of the MCR, all dressed up in our sub-fusc and gowns!

wordsworth and byron and austen, oh my

Now that term has started, I've gotten considerably busier--in that I think I've spent more time in the library than sleeping in the last three days. My A course (which is the one with the insane reading list) is good, though the only text we've really talked about specifically is Wordsworth's The Prelude, which I'll freely confess to loathing. Somehow I got roped into presenting on Byron's Don Juan next Monday, so we'll see how that goes. I've never actually read Don Juan, and it's quite lengthy: hence the library hours. I do really love it, though, so it's not so bad, just sometimes the stanza form becomes a little oppressively routine.

Today was my big day of classes. I had my B course in the morning, and then, well, I should have a course immediately following, but due to an apparently highly characteristic mix-up, class was cancelled today. So we went out for coffee and then read in the library for a bit.

My first meeting of my Austen options course was today, as well. The two professors--Kathryn Sutherland and Freya Johnston--are really fantastic, and the course is going to be excellent. There are, I think, ten of us in it, and we're all pretty serious Janeites. My assignment for next week involves reading both Austen's letters and the Juvenilia, which consists of Austen's early (as in, childhood and teenage) writings. I have very much always wanted to read the juvenilia, since there are some really interesting early writings in it. Let's hope I can get it all done in time, though.

In other news, I've almost made it out of first week alive. I have two lectures that I'm planning on attending tomorrow, but nothing formally academic, thank goodness. Oh, but rowing tomorrow at 6:30 AM...not the best time to be on the Thames, as it's already growing cold here. I need a nap just thinking about it...

traditions

Last night I went to my first formal hall. Basically, we all get to wear pretty dresses (and our postgrad gowns, which are extremely dorky-looking but in an endearing sort of way) and eat in the hall together: think Harry Potter. There are all sorts of rules: you can't talk about the paintings on the walls of past heads of the college--and no, I can't tell you why, because I wasn't allowed to ask!--and if you leave the hall for any reason during the meal you have to bow to the head table on both exiting and reentering. Anyway, the food was fantastic, and it was nice to see everyone all dressed up.

As our slightly less classy follow-up to formal hall, Regent's had its first bop of the year! A bop is a themed party with dancing and cheesy music and costumes. Our theme was "alphabet bop": come dressed as something starting with the first letter of your name.


Being lame--and not wanting to spend money--I came as "Colourful" (if you just did a double-take and said to yourself, wait a sec, colourful doesn't start with an H!, then you've missed the memo: I go by my  middle name here).

Many people's costumes were lamer than mine, especially the other postgrads'. However, Celeste's Cruella Deville happened to be fantastic, complete with black-and-white wig and vintage fur stole. Anyway, the bop was super fun, and I suppose constitutes another equally legitimate, albeit more recent, Oxfordian tradition.

Another tradition: rowing! In a fit of doing-things-I-wouldn't-normally-do, I signed up to be on the Regent's crew team with Celeste, Nitya, Charlotte, and Karith. I'm going to be awful--but hopefully, with the exception of Celeste who has rowed before, we all will. We have our first practice today, so I'll keep you posted. Unfortunately, I'm sort of sick right now, so I'll be extra-awful. Hurrah! But I figured, you can't come to Oxford and not try rowing at least once! Even if you're awful...right?

inductions galore

So yesterday was the English induction. The St. Cross building--where the English faculty and library are--is huge and rather imposing. Apparently everyone else thinks it's ugly, but I kind of like it.

Anyway, we sat through a lengthy series of lecture, mostly in library usage and tech support. Unfortunately, our almost-identical library orientation took place at Regent's less than 24 hours before. So here I sit in this giant lecture room, having not eaten all day, listening to a morning's worth of self-evident library-related stuff. To be fair, the Bodleian system is really, really complicated. And they did give us tea and biscuits afterward.

But then I got to meet with my strand-mates (the other people doing 1800-1914). I really like the group, and it's a good size (maybe 18 or 20 people). A few of us went for lunch at the Turf after, and I think I'm really going to like spending time with them.

This morning I went to the fresh market in Gloucester Green. They run it every Wednesday, but at this time last week I was still living a hostel so I didn't pay attention to prices of food yet. Holy cow! I got a pound and a half of tomatoes, nine bananas, and a huge basket of grapes for under four quid. So I had a banana and a tomato (pronounced toe-MAH-toe, of course) for lunch. Before realizing that the English department is giving me lunch. But that's okay.

In the meantime, my room is almost perfect. I have a brand-new mattress and now I'm reasonably stocked on food. The only thing wanting may be the curtain for my closet, and I'm working on that. I got all of my photos up: take a look! See if you can spot yourself! If you can't, send me pictures...

things i miss

Things I miss about home:

• thrift stores. Real, honest, kinda-dirty-but-extremely-cheap thrift stores. I have attempted to explain the glory of new clothes for under a dollar lately (to Rowena, this morning), and it has made me more homesick than I'd have imagined.
• Francar's.
• craft stashes of fabric and yarn. On that note, my sewing machine as well.
• the word "y'all."
• having sneakers in every color.
• not having to cook.
• Glee.
• both Dogwood and Emmanuel churches.
• my kitty.
• board games. Real ones. 
• PB&J sandwiches. They don't eat those here! I've had people actually ask me if Americans really eat peanut butter and jam sandwiches. Apparently it's something of a stereotype.
• my golf cart.
• most importantly, all of you.

Things I don't miss about home:

• the heat.
• having to drive or have someone else drive everywhere.
• American bars and restaurants.
• feeling culturally bound to smile at everyone I meet.
• Wal-mart.
• Democrats.
• Republicans.
• Nathan Deal. I know I just said "Republicans," but really, he necessitates such repetition.
• cruddy beer.
• the complete lack of public transportation.
• lots and lots of unhealthy food.

Anyway, today was absolutely beautiful. I got to spend much of my day with the lovely Rowena, hurrah! And I opened my bank account! And I found my planner! Life is full of excitement right now, it seems, given all the exclamation points.

i have an address!

Last night we went out to Fire & Stone, which is a sweet pizza place in city centre (the photo is of me with the lovely Nitya, who is a member of the business school but finds time in her busy schedule to hang out with us Regents folk). F&S organizes the menu in a really cool way--it's by continent, and within continents are cities. Each city is the name of a pizza. I had the Melbourne, which involves sliced brie, roasted butternut squash, roasted red onions and toasted pumpkin seeds on top. Pretty much best pizza ever, and it was a LOT of food. And only four pounds. Yay Rowena and her coupons!

Oh, but the real subject of this post: my address. You should all send me letters and food and sweaters:

Room 327
25 Wellington Square
Oxford OX1 2JH
United Kingdom


Yes? Yes. Do it.

adventures in accommodation

Oh, the places I've lived in the last week! From a lovely bed-and-breakfast down Abingdon with Corbin, to a cheap but nice hostel down Hythe Bridge, and now in a cold room--but finally one that is all my own--on Little Clarendon. Here's the photo of my hostel: there were only four beds, and it was an all-female dorm. My roommates were all pretty awesome, and I actually had a quite good time.





Here's where I live now: my dorm in Wellington Square. It looks a little sad and lonely--particularly when considering that it has no heat right now--but once I get it set up I'm sure it'll be cozy. There's a little sink with a cute curtain to draw over it, though strangely the curtain doesn't go all the way across the closet even though the rod does. I guess I'll have to get a curtain! I wish I'd made my T-shirt curtain while I had the chance back at home, since now I'd be able to get some use of it.




I was a little concerned about the no heat since I hadn't unlocked the achievement yet of obtaining sheets and a comforter. By the time this began to alarm me, stuff was closing: Argos was closed, M&S didn't turn out to carry bedclothes at all. Fortunately, Primark carries lovely inexpensive (well, relatively so) sheets and duvets and things, so now I'm warm and cozy in my extremely cheaply made bed-dressings. On an equally extremely uncomfortable bed.


Builds character, right?

Bonus picture: fun things! Fun things at the Eagle and Child! From left to right: Chana, Olga, Mark, me, Brian, Sungwoo, and Seungil. Hurrah!

sincerest apologies: rambling meditation in place of photos

So, I've left my handy photo-uploader-doohickey (strangely, Chrome's spell-check recognises "doohickey" but not "uploader") in the luggage that I checked at the hostel, so unfortunately I seem to be unable to upload photos for a few days, unless I go down and get it. Which is a major hassle.

A pity, because I have a good photo of the group of us at the Eagle and Child. Ah well. Will upload in a few days! I promise! At any rate, the E&C was fun, and it was nice to talk to people from all over the world.

This next bit seems obvious, and I suppose this is the case at every university, but I've never felt it so strongly as here: it's just simply fascinating to hear people talk about what they love. No matter how boring I think economics is or how much I dislike philosophy (if you're reading this Mark, Brian or Sungwoo, sorry but it's true), I could listen to people who really and truly love those things talk about them all night long, because the honest and sincere love of something transforms it in every case.

Like I said, I've noticed this at Mercer. I could listen to Cameron talk about engineering or Corey about mathematics or Leeanne about photography or Abby about music no matter how little I know (or, in some cases, care) about such things. I think that most of y'all would be at least moderately interested in feminism and poetry when it comes from me, since it's clearly a realm of sincere interest. But that impulse, that magnetic attraction to any academic subject when a fellow conversationalist is head-over-heels in love with it, has never felt so strong as here, where people are just really good at what they study.

Oh bother. I'm getting all pretentious and snooty already, and I haven't been here a week. As Olga would say (there now, I've mentioned all four of you by name!), it's time for a good dose of pop-culture whoredom. Good thing there's a new Glee tomorrow, eh?

approaching albion, alone

Corbin left this morning at bloody 5:45, rendering me all alone. I watched out the window 'till he got on his bus and then did my best to get back to bed. When I woke up and checked out of the hotel, I became quite aimless: wandering about the city, not totally certain where to go because I felt sure that I could not check into my hostel yet.

Eventually, my bag began to weigh on my shoulders something impressive, so I made my way to the hostel anyway. My suspicions confirmed--it was only ten-thirty and I couldn't check in until one--I was nevertheless able to relieve myself of my heavy backpack. Then I went to Regent's for awhile and spoke with Marian, the front-desk lady, who gave me a nice tour.

I then resumed aimlessness and walked a fair distance (some three miles, maybe) for a cup of tea that I could have gotten practically next door if I'd wanted. There I read the first hundred pages of Howard's End, which is excellent by the way. Eventually it occurred to me that it was nearing two, and the international student folks were having a drop-in session at the Examination Schools, which happily ended up being quite near. So I went, only intending to stay for a few minutes, as I could go back to my hostel at any time and check in.

However, I met friends! Well, so far, acquaintances anyway. We hung about the Exam Schools till they kicked us out at four, and then sojourned to a nearby coffeehouse. Now I'm at the hostel, which is very nice and seems quite secure, having gotten my Oxford wireless account set up against all improbable odds. We're meeting up at eight (oh laws, that's in fifteen minutes) for dinner and drinks at the Eagle and Child.

So yay! I didn't have to talk to myself all day to stay sane.

a few golden english days

Corbin and I are certainly doing our best to get our four days' worth. We have walked all over this city multiple times, eating at fun places and visiting pretty things. Every day in this adorable B&B starts with our home-cooked full English breakfast, consisting of toast, bacon, fried sausage, an egg, beans/mushrooms, and of course a nice hot cup of tea.

Today we had the advantage of a particularly beautiful day--yesterday was quite cloudy--and we walked for awhile along the Thames before heading into town. The absolutely beautiful Christchurch (you know--the Harry Potter Great Hall?) has particularly fantastic gardens, so we took our Sainsbury's purchased Kinder Surprise eggs and our cameras there to relax.

To the right are the products of our Kinder Surprise fun: I got the Donkey from Shrek, which I put together, and Corbin got a rather complicated little sailboat. Naturally, Donkey had to take a trip around the meadows! We plan on playing with the sailboat in the bathroom sink in a bit.

Come tea time, we headed to Cafe Loco for a traditional cream tea, which consists of--along with tea, obviously--some delicious scones with real clotted cream and strawberry jam. We gobbled them up and then sipped tea for awhile before heading back to the bed-and-breakfast, which is where we are now--resting our poor tired feet, browsing the Internet, and in some of our cases, updating a blog and researching the best pay-as-you-go phone plans. I'm currently leaning towards T-mobile, if you were concerned.

Anyway, it's probably nearing dinnertime, and we should start thinking about where we want to eat/drink/be merry. We have one more day together before Corbin has to leave, and by George, we're going to do some awesome stuff!

not quite according to plan

So, I'm in England! Hip, hip, hurrah! Yesterday was pretty, today was cloudy, but we've walked allllll over the city in search of places we wanted and needed to go. Goodness! I don't think I've ever walked this much in a single day in my life. Except possibly the last time I was in England.

But I'm getting ahead of myself: I have some sad news. Upon arrival at the airport, we were of course immediately ushered into the mindless shuffling border control lines, where we were asked by peppy audio recordings to please have out our passports and all relevant information. Apparently some of us have better relevant information than others: I was given a quick clearance, while Corbin was left behind. I went downstairs, got my bag, changed some money (errgh), tried to find a wireless connection, played six games of Spider Solitaire, and then realized that it'd been an hour and I hadn't seen Corbin. So, with surprising difficulty, I found my way back up to immigration, where he, bored-looking, was sitting in the same chair they'd left him in earlier.

Thus commenced a several-hour-long period of waiting in which various members of the Border Control Agency helped us and/or shot us dirty looks. One very nice gentleman in particular kept me posted, while I read almost all of Portrait of a Lady. At the end of it: Corbin is, long-term, denied clearance. They were nice enough to give him four days, but he has to leave Monday morning.

So we're making the most of the time we've got: eating at pubs, walking until our feet turn into little nubs. My blog will receive more attention once those four days are up, as I will be lonely, friendless, and perpetually cold. Tonight, however, we're about to head to dinner at the Red Lion (a fact which, if Alan Franks or Jacob S. O'Neal number among my readers--which they most assuredly do not, but they might, if they wished--will appreciate) and walk around the city at night.

Photos forthcoming. Love y'all.

all of my life, packed away in a bag

In one day exactly, the time will be 2:30PM. I will quite possibly be lost, because I will have been in Oxford for perhaps two hours. I'd have a photo to accompany this post--perhaps of my larger-than-should-be-legal suitcase sitting on the scale in the foyer--but my camera is in one bag and my photo-uploader is in another, so you'll have to survive sans picture for a little while longer. 


This past week has been busy, busy, busy. Packing and cleaning, cleaning and packing--and then on Saturday I got to head to Macon for a ridiculously awesome going-away party, the likes of which only Matt Roche could provide. There was a piñata. And did you know that they make alcohol-infused dark chocolate whipped cream? It was pretty much the best party ever.


Then Corbs and I drove separately to Savannah--yuck!--so that we could leave his car there. After just a day in Savannah, we drove all the way back to Peachtree on Monday, and we've been here since Monday evening, packing our carry-ons and weighing our gigantic suitcases. Last night we went out to Thai Spice with my family, and I got to see both Russell and Savi for brief stints. Oh, and we watched the Glee season premier, which wasn't as unrelentingly brilliant as I'd hoped but was still good. 


Today is go time. Our flight's at 5:45, and I have a few things to do between now and then. And by that I mean that, every time I was on the verge of falling asleep last night, I thought of some other small thing that hadn't yet made its way to my suitcase, so I had to turn on the light and write it down. So now I get to follow my list! And then, before I know it, we'll be on our way to Hartsfield, paralyzed with that particular fear of having forgotten something absolutely crucial. Here's to hoping I didn't.

cupcakes & packing

You see before you a celebration, in sucrose form, of my having successfully obtained a visa. That's right: it's a visa cupcake. My mommy brought home three of these little guys yesterday and we had a mini visa-related party; if you've read my previous post, you may have some inkling as to why this even deserves such celebration.

Six days from right now, I will be on a plane that is somewhere over the Atlantic ocean. I still can't quite fathom leaving so soon. All summer, people have asked me when I was leaving and I've said, "Oh, not until September 22nd" in a flippant sort of and-isn't-that-ages-away? sort of tone.

Earlier this month, I had to emend the way I said it. Because suddenly I realized, hey, that's only three weeks away! Well looky there. And now I'm here to tell you: there's nothing that makes you realize how soon you're leaving the country than having to pack a gigantic suitcase full of everything you plan on owning for the next year. I have a running anal-retentive-type list on MS Word for exactly what's in my suitcase, what it's packed with (as I have a bunch of 2.5 gallon Ziploc bags with the air pushed out of them), and what it will match. I know, it's crazy, but I only have fifty pounds for it all, and that includes several anthology textbooks.

At any rate, we can safely say that freakout mode is engaged. But at the moment, I'm getting through it by slowly working through my packing regimen, leaving the house at strategic points so I don't go stir crazy, and liberally adding TotalFark Discussion into the mix. And cupcakes. Can't forget the cupcakes.

how to get a UK visa: a somewhat biased public service announcement

1. Go to http://www.ukvisas.gov.uk/en/ and spend an hour attempting to navigate the page. You will not be successful; this step is just to familiarize yourself with the insanity that is the UK Border Agency.
2. Fill out a massive application. Have at the ready information like your social security number, your driver's license number, all bank statement information, the name of your first pet, a brief essay on the relative merits of your personal favo(u)rite pop singer, the hexadecimal code for the color colour of your eyes, your preference re: boxers or briefs.
3. Pay the $330 application fee. This money has no discernible purpose or reasoning other than "because we can." Just do it.
4. Spend three days getting all of your paperwork together. It is not good enough; spend another day. The morning of your big biometric data appointment, race around the house in your pajamas for at least three hours. Call your dad six times to pester him at work over small but highly significant portions of your application. Print out any e-mail sent or received with the words "Oxford," "visa," or "UK" in them, just to be safe. 
5. Go for your biometric data appointment. Don't be fooled by any and all information contained on official Web sites, in e-mails and on your printed application: they lie. You should know this by now. The purpose of this meeting is to stand in a line queue in which you are the only English-speaker and then get your fingers unceremoniously mashed against a fancy-pants machine. The amount of time you spend in line will equal approximately 1000% of the time you spend with said machine.
6. Despite all assertions to the contrary and the fact that you paid a ludicrous amount for postage, these people will not mail anything for you. Carry your paperwork back home.
7. Since you've got the time again, go through your paperwork a final time. Send it off. Know that something will be wrong, but hope that it will be okay. 
8. Wait.
9. Wait more.
10. Stress out about the fact that you still haven't heard back, and that these people have your original birth certificate as well as your passport. They may be laughing at you from behind their deceptively pleasant accents, or hijacking your identity, or deliberately thwarting you because they have deemed you unqualified to study Victorian poetry. Despair slightly.
11. Wait a little bit more.
12. Receive back a curt, uninformative, and stressful e-mail from the unnamed and unreachable bureaucrats in Chicago. They will inform you that one of your documents--as you suspected--is the wrong document, and that you need to replace it. Oh, and you have three business days. 
13. Call your loan people. Get shunted from department to department. If you really want to follow my process, talk to Melanie at Federal Student Aid, Janet at State Licensing, Josh at Federal Student Aid, Lisa at Direct Loans, Roslyn at Application Services, Danielle at Direct Loans, then Chris at Application Services. None of these people will actually have a solution for you, even Chris, though he was very nice. Be prepared: Melanie and Roslyn were both rude and stupid. Yes, I wrote down all of their names.
14. Wake up the following morning at 3AM so that you can reach the UK at the beginning of the business day. You may think you will get back to sleep, but you will not. Prepare mentally for this eventuality. Station yourself far enough away from a comfortable surface (preferably standing) so that you will not just give up on your visa, England, and the whole university system and go back to bed. Trust me, it's tempting.
15. Spend a fortune on international phone calls. Get shunted once more from department to department, all the while glancing nervously at your watch and wondering just how much AT&T is going to charge you for all of this. 
16. Find the person with the least possible power who still knows something about your problem: that's the best advice I can possibly offer for dealing with bureaucratic nonsense. Get that person to overnight something to you. 
17. Wait three long days, as it is Labor Day weekend and there's no mail post on Sundays. 
18. Come Tuesday, wait anxiously for your letter to arrive. When it does, resist the urge to pee your pants in excitement; that reaction is childish and will result in a ten-minute delay in you getting to the UPS place.
19. Go to the UPS store. Overnight this document to Chicago. 
20. Think to yourself all the next day, "my document should be there by now. Shouldn't it?" Do not allow yourself to hope that this is actually the document they are looking for, as it may not be.
21. The next day, receive the most exciting one-sentence-long e-mail you have possibly ever gotten: "Your application has been approved and the visa has been issued."
22. Do a happy dance.

See? In 22 easy steps, you too can be the proud owner of a shiny, slanted yellow sticker in your passport. For the record, it's the most breathtakingly beautiful shiny, slanted yellow sticker I've ever seen.

t minus one month

So I leave for England in exactly a month. Things that I know:

• where I will be living (funny story, that's changed: I'm now living in graduate student housing)
• where my classes will be
• what I should be reading

Things that I do not know:

• that I will definitely have a visa
• if Corbin will get a visa
• what to do about a bank account
• what to do about my cell phone
• what my classes will be like
• that I won't fail out
• where I will live the week before I can move into my dorm
• where Corbin will live
• where Corbin will work
• how much time I will have for a social life
• how I am going to afford any of this.

La well. Life wouldn't be fun if we knew all the answers, right?

what do you mean, preparatory?

The following constitutes the "preparatory reading list" that I received via e-mail yesterday morning. Go ahead. Peruse.

PREPARATORY READING

1.  An Introduction to Ideas of ‘Period’. Wordsworth, The Prelude.  1805 version  with comparison with 1850 first published text, most easily done with the Norton Critical Edition.  Anthologies:  F. Palgrave (ed) The Golden Treasury, L.Trilling and H. Bloom (eds), Romantic Poetry and Prose.  Jerome McGann (ed.) The New Oxford Book of Romantic Period Verse. Duncan Wu (ed.) Romanticism. F.O’Gorman (ed.) Victorian Poetry.  C. Ricks (ed.) The Oxford Book of Victorian Verse.  I. Armstrong and J. Bristow (eds), Nineteenth-Century Women Poets.

2.  Epic ambitions. Wordsworth, The Prelude. Byron, Don Juan.  Keats, Hyperion, The Fall of Hyperion. Tennyson, Morte d’Arthur; Ulysses. Yeats, Cuchulain’s Fight with the Sea.

3.  The ‘Condition of England’.  Austen, Persuasion. Dickens, Bleak House. Gaskell, North and South. Eliot, Middlemarch.

4.  Elegy and the elegiac.  Wordsworth, Elegiac Stanzas . . . Peele Castle.  Extempore Effusion on the Death of James Hogg.  Shelley, Adonais. Tennyson, Break, break, break.  In Memoriam. Crossing the Bar. Hemans, The Grave of a Poetess. Landon, Stanzas on the Death of Mrs Hemans.  Barrett Browning, Stanzas Addressed to Mrs Landon, LEL’s Last Question. Arnold, Haworth Churchyard. Thyrsis. Memorial Verses. C. Rossetti, Remember. When I am dead my Dearest. Housman, A Shropshire Lad.  Hardy, Poems, 1912-1913.

5.  Poetry and the Spiritual Quest. Wordsworth, Lines . . . Tintern Abbey, Ode: Intimations of Immortality. Coleridge, This Lime Tree Bower My Prison, Hymn in the Vale of Chamounix.  Shelley, Mont Blanc.  Tennyson, In Memoriam.  Brontë, No Coward Soul is Mine. Newman, Lead Kindly Light. Firmly I believe and truly.   Bode, O Jesus I have promised. Arnold, Dover Beach, Stanzas from the Grande Chartreuse, The Youth of Nature, The Youth of Man, The Scholar Gypsy. C. Rossetti, In the Bleak Midwinter. Caswall, See Amid the Winter Snow.  Hopkins, Sonnets, The Wreck of the Deutschland.  Hardy, The Oxen, The Impercipient.

6.  Becoming a Heroine.  Austen, Emma, Persuasion.  Eliot, The Mill on the Floss.  Thackeray, Vanity Fair. James, The Portrait of a Lady. Hardy, Tess of the D’Urbervilles.     

7.  The Marriage Plot.  Austen, Pride and Prejudice. C. Bronte, Jane Eyre. Eliot, Middlemarch.  Hardy, The Woodlanders, Jude the Obscure.  Wells, Ann Veronica. Forster, Howards End. Shaw, Mrs Warren’s Profession. Wilde, The Importance of Being Earnest.

8.  The Forms of Gothic.  Shelley, Frankenstein.  Hogg, Private Memoirs and Confessions of a Justified Sinner.  Brontë, Wuthering Heights. Brontë, Jane Eyre. Dickens, A Christmas Carol, Great Expectations.  Stevenson, Dr Jekyll and Mr Hyde.  James, The Turn of the Screw.






as good old Doctor Ten might say: what? What? WHAT?