we're very busy men... here are photos taken. No photos of france until you hear from Andy, as my camera charger was in Australia until we left that continent... Andy and kate back on the 7th, Sam and May on the 10th... Love to all.
The Yorkshire Countryside
York
Oxford
Bath
Brugge, Belgium
Brussels
Amsterdam
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Edinburgh, January 30th, 2008
It was good to see Andy and Kate again. Although we did get the meeting-up time wrong, so that an initially innocent foray by may and i into the pub was turned into a Black Booksensian masterpiece of comic timing (and drinking). Andy and Kate have been visiting San Francisco and Chicago (plus Champaign, Illinois, to see our friend Ciaran). They enjoyed their visit, but have been left with a slightly bewildered look on their faces from a number of things, mostly food related.
Half of the Friday in Edinburgh was spent finding an internet cafe and being frustrated. The National Express website is, officially, the worst website in the history of mankind, especially since it has aspirations of lovely pop-up screens a la facebook. After denying a payment from my credit card several times it still tried to go through my bank account, charging it six times for a total of zero train tickets. Part four thousand and twenty six of Sam's adventures in bureaucracy had me standing in a phone box, dialling one number, to be told that i'd dialled the wrong department, to be given a whole new number, to be told again that i'd rung the wrong department. This was after I physically went to the National Express office in the train station to be told that not only could they not help me and I'd have to call the help line, but that they were unable to give me the number i'd have to call. We eat expensive sandwiches, drink terrible terrible coffee, again.
We then go to Edinburgh castle. We are introduced, or rather re-introduced to the fact that a lot of museums, or in fact exhibitions of any kind are shit. Going into a castle, with eight hundred year old origins, then stepping through one of its doorways to be confronted by a piece of plasterboard with crappy renditions of all the kings painted on is not in fact a life-changing experience. Neither is a plaster tableau of the coronation of a king that lights up in certain places, as voice-overs 're-create' the 'experience'. The same as going past 'authentic' 'recreations' of the Prisoners of Napoleanic Wars' experience by hanging up some hammocks and making plastic models of bread and apples.
It is only the physicality of actual objects that adds any weight to these sorts of exhibitions, especially those whose context outweigh the banality of their original purpose. One example was at the end of the 'Prisons of War' exhibit, where they put up and highlighted the graffiti carved into the castle's original prison doors. Placards emphasised certain interesting parts, since a lot of them had the 18th and 19th century equivalents of "Shazza Waz 'Ere". One prisoner had carved a rudimentary picture of their ship, the prototype stars and stripes hanging off the back. They lost their rights during the war of independance, because they were not seen as prisoners of war. Instead they were seen as pirates, not legitimate combatants, but terrorists. can i emphasise the point any more clearly, because I know that the museum curators did.
Walking through the museum of military history I blanche. Not at anything in particular, more the reminder that most of the time war is seen in the exact opposite way that i do. The glorious perpetuation of death. Of making war romantic in order to make it functional. What can you expect from museum entirely made from the donations of ex-servicemen? I'm standing in front of a mood-lit cabinet, the third memorial I've seen to the glorious memory of General Haig, not a critical word said in the little plaques of information about his medals, his uniform, the picture he had taken in this year, in this place. From the statue in front of the castle, to the war memorial, where his name is cast in gold leaf, even though he didn't die in battle, next to the one hundred and forty thousand Scottish soldiers who died under his fodder-war until 1918. On the explainatory note that comes with his memorabilia, there is half a sentence that states some contemporary 'people' (not historians) have criticised the way he ran the war. My arse.
Half of the Friday in Edinburgh was spent finding an internet cafe and being frustrated. The National Express website is, officially, the worst website in the history of mankind, especially since it has aspirations of lovely pop-up screens a la facebook. After denying a payment from my credit card several times it still tried to go through my bank account, charging it six times for a total of zero train tickets. Part four thousand and twenty six of Sam's adventures in bureaucracy had me standing in a phone box, dialling one number, to be told that i'd dialled the wrong department, to be given a whole new number, to be told again that i'd rung the wrong department. This was after I physically went to the National Express office in the train station to be told that not only could they not help me and I'd have to call the help line, but that they were unable to give me the number i'd have to call. We eat expensive sandwiches, drink terrible terrible coffee, again.
We then go to Edinburgh castle. We are introduced, or rather re-introduced to the fact that a lot of museums, or in fact exhibitions of any kind are shit. Going into a castle, with eight hundred year old origins, then stepping through one of its doorways to be confronted by a piece of plasterboard with crappy renditions of all the kings painted on is not in fact a life-changing experience. Neither is a plaster tableau of the coronation of a king that lights up in certain places, as voice-overs 're-create' the 'experience'. The same as going past 'authentic' 'recreations' of the Prisoners of Napoleanic Wars' experience by hanging up some hammocks and making plastic models of bread and apples.
It is only the physicality of actual objects that adds any weight to these sorts of exhibitions, especially those whose context outweigh the banality of their original purpose. One example was at the end of the 'Prisons of War' exhibit, where they put up and highlighted the graffiti carved into the castle's original prison doors. Placards emphasised certain interesting parts, since a lot of them had the 18th and 19th century equivalents of "Shazza Waz 'Ere". One prisoner had carved a rudimentary picture of their ship, the prototype stars and stripes hanging off the back. They lost their rights during the war of independance, because they were not seen as prisoners of war. Instead they were seen as pirates, not legitimate combatants, but terrorists. can i emphasise the point any more clearly, because I know that the museum curators did.
Walking through the museum of military history I blanche. Not at anything in particular, more the reminder that most of the time war is seen in the exact opposite way that i do. The glorious perpetuation of death. Of making war romantic in order to make it functional. What can you expect from museum entirely made from the donations of ex-servicemen? I'm standing in front of a mood-lit cabinet, the third memorial I've seen to the glorious memory of General Haig, not a critical word said in the little plaques of information about his medals, his uniform, the picture he had taken in this year, in this place. From the statue in front of the castle, to the war memorial, where his name is cast in gold leaf, even though he didn't die in battle, next to the one hundred and forty thousand Scottish soldiers who died under his fodder-war until 1918. On the explainatory note that comes with his memorabilia, there is half a sentence that states some contemporary 'people' (not historians) have criticised the way he ran the war. My arse.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
Train to Edinburgh, January 30th
I'm sitting in the quiet coach on the way to Edinburgh, drinking a Stella and listening to Kate Bush. May is drinking an Irn Bru, which is apparently the hangover cure of choice in Scottish Literature. I think about what I have read, endless Chrisopher Brookmyre and one Irvine Welsh. I didn't know anything about the orangey can of sugary crack. I do know a few things though. The first thing I know is that I love trains. The second thing I know is that at one pm every day a cannon is let off in Edinburgh. I know that this is the first time in over a week that I've looked in the sky and haven't seen tracers of the jumbo jets making their way to the USA. Just as I write that one appears, the first one, when usually the sky is crossed with them. In a few days time my godfather will tell me that whilst from where we stand the tracers are fluffy and white, in reality they are the blackest of exhaust fumes. We came here on one of those. Another addition to the list of the destructiveness you are willing to participate in.
*small side note*
I don't know if people know this or not, but SNAFU's play this year is going to be about the Second World War. I know stuff about it that I'm surprised others don't, I think about it more than others do. I don't know why this is. I'm an existential atheist feminist, not a godly chauvinist warmonger. Because we are in Europe-land, and most of these entries are transcribed after the fact, I am going to try and remain faithful to my thoughts while drinking beer on a train. You can make fun of it if you want.
*end small side not*
I'm not used to all these tracings of aeroplanes in the sky. Even in the vast Derbyshire countryside they were all-pervasive. You wonder if during the war there was a constant presence like this, a constant low murmur of machinery, with so much needed in such a confined space. This play will be difficult, because what you're aiming for, or what inevitably happens in the discussion of war is the need for a grand narrative or lesson to emerge from it. Even though at the time, and even now we all know it's impossible to put even the most significant events into a simple narrative structure. All you get are inadequete impressions.
There are more people in Britain in greater concentration than in Australia. You get the same trends raised to the surface because they are unable to hide. The difference between a self-sufficient, poverty stricken and resourceful wartime Britain, and the grand consumerism of it now is obvious as nostalgia has long overtaken reality. Every family had a vegetable garden, everyone learnt self-defense, everyone forfeited themselves or part thereof. Today the pre requisite for engagement in conflict is that it not happen anywhere near your own turf. The sun never sets on the Western Empire. The only necessary thing for home is creating the proper face of evil to spread over every media outlet.
Playing Trivial Pursuit in the hostel at Edinburgh was a little less heavy from that previous rant. The game, which I won by the way, beating Andy, and that's the important thing, mostly consisted of us replacing as many words as possible with 'Gay', as well as this interesting question:
Q: What do monotremes, such as Mrs. Platypus, produce that marsupials, such as Mrs. Wombat, don't?
I tell you, the state of inane trivia is going down the toilet.
*small side note*
I don't know if people know this or not, but SNAFU's play this year is going to be about the Second World War. I know stuff about it that I'm surprised others don't, I think about it more than others do. I don't know why this is. I'm an existential atheist feminist, not a godly chauvinist warmonger. Because we are in Europe-land, and most of these entries are transcribed after the fact, I am going to try and remain faithful to my thoughts while drinking beer on a train. You can make fun of it if you want.
*end small side not*
I'm not used to all these tracings of aeroplanes in the sky. Even in the vast Derbyshire countryside they were all-pervasive. You wonder if during the war there was a constant presence like this, a constant low murmur of machinery, with so much needed in such a confined space. This play will be difficult, because what you're aiming for, or what inevitably happens in the discussion of war is the need for a grand narrative or lesson to emerge from it. Even though at the time, and even now we all know it's impossible to put even the most significant events into a simple narrative structure. All you get are inadequete impressions.
There are more people in Britain in greater concentration than in Australia. You get the same trends raised to the surface because they are unable to hide. The difference between a self-sufficient, poverty stricken and resourceful wartime Britain, and the grand consumerism of it now is obvious as nostalgia has long overtaken reality. Every family had a vegetable garden, everyone learnt self-defense, everyone forfeited themselves or part thereof. Today the pre requisite for engagement in conflict is that it not happen anywhere near your own turf. The sun never sets on the Western Empire. The only necessary thing for home is creating the proper face of evil to spread over every media outlet.
Playing Trivial Pursuit in the hostel at Edinburgh was a little less heavy from that previous rant. The game, which I won by the way, beating Andy, and that's the important thing, mostly consisted of us replacing as many words as possible with 'Gay', as well as this interesting question:
Q: What do monotremes, such as Mrs. Platypus, produce that marsupials, such as Mrs. Wombat, don't?
I tell you, the state of inane trivia is going down the toilet.
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
No time to post, am in Oxford being freaked out by the high academic standards... so here are the photos from Derbyshire, more to come...
Clickety-Clack
Clickety-Clack
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