The Right of the People to Alter or to Abolish

Usually on this blog, I try my best to keep things light and cheery and fun. I think it's a good policy, but sometimes, it must be broken. Given that I started this blog when I moved to Australia from the States, it seemed only fitting that I share with you the conflicting emotions that moving away has raised in my heart and mind and soul.

It's not that I don't have anything good to tell you. For example: I finished my thesis and handed it in. I'm waiting to hear back about grades, but it is very exciting to be finished. Also: I'm working with the Manchester Science Festival, and I'll be producing a podcast for them! Very exciting And: I recently read another story at the Bad Shoes Festival, though I forgot my recorder, so you cannot hear it. Notwithstanding: I've moved into a lovely new home! Furthermore: I had a lovely time in Scotland, visiting Mark for a second time. I remembered my camera on that one, but I learned it needs repairs, so there aren't many pictures.

In fact, there's only one. It's from the *amazing* Riverside Museum, also known as Scotland's Museum of  Transport.

We spent five hours at this place, Mark, Steven (his older brother) and me. And we didn't even finish looking at all the exhibits. Strangely, there were three separate exhibits about pawn shops, like maybe a major sponsor of the Riverside Museum is the British Pawnshop Association. I'm not sure there is a British Pawnshop Association. But still.

So you see, dear readers, I do indeed have so many good and exciting things to tell you about. But on the 21st of September, just nine days ago, the state of Georgia killed a man. My only real home executed Troy Davis.

Despite a very large body of evidence casting doubt on Davis' original conviction, Georgia's political machine chose to do a thing that is not un-doable. I believe what many have already said: I don't know if Troy Davis committed the crime he was convicted of. He might have. He might not have. It's simply unacceptable to use the death penalty in cases with so much doubt.

Well, I believe it's unacceptable to use the death penalty at all. I want it abolished.
But it's especially troublesome in such dubious cases.

And for the last week, I have been feeling... dark.
-----
Years ago, I was a committed political activist. Nearly every weekend was spent at a march or preparing for one. I sold left-wing newspapers. I held placards and banners, and I chanted.

I stood in the cold rain on January 20, 2001 and jeered at W.

I did it for years. I organised campaigns against the death penalty and against the IMF. I voted for Nader. I went to meeting after endless meeting. I tore up bedsheets to make banners. I saw people join the movement and I saw people leave. We never seemed to get more people, just different ones.

I saw changes. But none that I would call significant. None that gave me any measure of real hope.

And then one summer afternoon, I found myself crying on the floor of my new apartment, having something close to a nervous breakdown. I kept asking Craig what the hell the point was.

He told me the things I already knew. We protest to show our dissent. Change is a goal, but not the only one. We have to show our dissent so that other people will. We organise to grow the movement. Slow. Steady. Sure. And one day there will be a spark and then we will be able to teach others how to organise and work with them, because we will already have learned lessons.

He said it's our responsibility. We are citizens, and it is our responsibility and our right to criticise and create change when the government denies us the rights to life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness. It's the Declaration, a document that he knew I had immense respect for.

I said I didn't want to live here anymore.

He said he understood, and in some ways he agreed. But didn't I think, didn't I agree with him, that if everyone who thought the way we did just moved away, this place would never get better? Wasn't it our responsibility to stay? To spend money in the places that showed good practices, to vote for the slightly better candidate, to fight for change in the places that really need it?

And the problem was that I knew he was right. I did agree. But I was no longer convinced that the way I was going about it made any sense at all. I didn't believe in our methods anymore.

So, I stopped being a political activist.
-----

And then, after years of political activism, Craig also got discouraged. I'll admit, probably due in some small part to my constant questioning of our old methods. We decided it would be ok to move away.

To Australia, so Craig could study.

To Australia, so I could escape.

And it was so much easier. Capital punishment was abolished there in 1967. There are just not as many broken, hungry, homeless people there. More people are taken care of, at least in the cities. Yes, rural areas, where Aboriginal people live, are not well-serviced. Yes, Aboriginal people have been treated horribly by the white establishments. And it's true, undocumented immigrants trying to make a better life for themselves are not smiled upon.

But there was healthcare, at least, for everyone. And no one was being murdered by their own government.

I admit it. My standards were low. But even in Australia, where things were hardly perfect, I didn't feel like I'd be able to move back to America very easily. The transition back to what I saw as a more cruel society was not something I would ever look forward to.
-----

And then England. Where the native people were conquered, it's true, but it's so far back we can hardly justify still being angry about it. And there wasn't much of a skin colour difference, so at least racially, there's not much of a indigenous injustice to be angry about.

But what about Wales? Scotland? Ireland? It's true. But Scotland has its own Parliament now and makes its own decisions for many things. And Ireland is nearly entirely independent. Wales... well, Welsh is the most protected indigenous language in the world, apparently, so there are strides in the right direction.

No capital punishment.
Healthcare for all.

In so many ways, it is so much easier to live in a place where things feel just a little closer to how you think they should feel.
-----

But I'm still conflicted. When I hear about the awful things that happen back home, the killing of a possibly innocent man, I feel that, as a citizen of a country that I love in some way, it's my responsibility to be there, fighting for something better.

I still don't know how.

I feel like maybe I should just live there.

Maybe just being there, even just talking to my friends and co-workers and neighbours about what I believe, is my duty as a citizen.

But I know now what I knew then. Living there breaks my heart. The transition back to what I saw as a more cruel society is not something I will ever look forward to. I know that I would be living in a cruel place, where my hardworking friends can't afford to go to a doctor, and still I would be doing nothing... because I still don't know what methods to use. I wouldn't feel like conversations with my friends, co-workers, neighbours were enough. I never did think it was enough when I was living there.

On the other hand, remaining far away, in a place that isn't mine, but is easier to live with, feels cowardly. I sometimes feel guilty, like I haven't upheld my part of the bargain that Ben Franklin and John Adams and Thomas Jefferson and Rousseau all got us into. Like being an ex-pat in a place that I feel is a little bit simpler is a cop-out. Maybe it is. Maybe it isn't.

Here's what I know: I have spent the last seven years thinking, talking, and worrying about what my country is doing, from home or from abroad. Because though I have not lived there for three years, and though I often have nothing but criticism of it, I do feel that America is my country. And it *matters* to me. What it does matters to me.

And I believe that I should be doing something about it.

I just still haven't figured out what exactly I should be doing.

And at this point, I'm not sure this conflict will ever be resolved in me. I want. I should. Maybe. Maybe not. I've been weighing up the scales for so long, I think I've broken them.

Give me your thoughts. I won't promise I haven't already been through them before. But I'd be interested.
-----

And next time, I promise, light and cheery and fun. New flat! Canals! Walking tours!
Just to leave you on a very high note: check out my awesome necklace!

Whisky & Bears

Also known as: A Continuation of the Tale of My First Trip to Scotland, otherwise known as Part 2. See here for Part 1.

Having finished the last draft (I hope) of my thesis, I find myself with what is known as "a breather," in which I intend to catch up on all the things I've let slip. Such as you, dear reader. This breather will quickly be cut short, sadly.

I have to move out of Opal next week, and though I'm a little sad about that, I'm excited about my new place. Then I have to look for work. I know, I know. Work's for suckers.

Nonetheless.

It feels like ages ago that I sat on a train from Glasgow to Prestwick, anxiously brushing my hair and re-applying my eyeliner and mascara. My nerve was unravelling like a spool of thread hurled down a stairwell.

I was worried about meeting Mark's brothers. To be fair, one of them (Paul) is Mark's identical twin, to whom he is very very close, and the other (Steven) is his older brother, to whom he is also very very close. I'd already met Mark's parents (in a fluke accident involving strange timing and a Wetherspoon's), so I was only a little bit nervous about meeting them again. But Paul. It struck me then, and I might not be right, that Paul's opinion might matter more to Mark than anyone else's. Excepting, of course, his own. Or so I hoped.

And all that ugly nervous energy was completely wasted. Mark's brothers are super nice, friendly people who didn't take some unreasonable dislike to me at all.

During the next few days in Prestwick, I had such a lovely time walking along the coast in Troon, hanging out with Mark's friends and family, and drinking the occasional gin and tonic, that I didn't take a single picture.

There was a lot to think about. Riots had broken out down south, and we were glad that Paul was on holiday in Prestwick, rather than in his little apartment in London.

But other people (well, one person) took some pictures. I reproduce them here, without permission, but hopefully with gracious post-facto approval...

Mark and me at a bar called Caprice. Bonus: some people we don't know in the background.

Mark, his brother Paul and their friends. I'm sure you can tell which is Paul. If not, go read the beginning of this post again, you not-very-comprehensive-reader, you.


I didn't get any beautiful Scottish landscape shots. Next time. Until then, I will tell you this. The western coast of Scotland is gloomy on a rainy day, a beautiful kind of gloomy. Prestwick is a pretty suburban town with an international airport, charming little houses that all seem to have back gardens. The McWilliams back garden is especially pretty.

Okay, it's the only one I saw.

Nevertheless.

On my last full day, Mark and I visited Edinburgh. It was a gorgeous day, and we visited a tartan-facturing place. A tartanmill? A tartantuary? Tartanactory? I'm not sure.

I watched Mark do that thing that white people do, where they relate their surnames to ancient things, and know fairly well that they actually are from those ancient things. Weird. Brown people simply don't do genealogy like this, readers. We don't. We definitely do not have different patterns of cloth that are officially registered by the national government that once (and still do) represent our families. It's just another one for my "White People Is Crazy" list. Don't worry. My "Brown People Is Crazy" list is way longer. Stay posted for examples, coming forth in the next few days.

Then, we met up with his absolutely flipping hilarious friend Eric, and Eric's girlfriend Ailidh. She had to return a text, so she's in the background, holding the red jacket.

We saw the Scottish Parliament building, which is very strange looking on the outside. Mark suggested it looked like the opening titles of Saved By the Bell. From other angles, the likeness is more obvious.

But it's stunning on the inside. 

And I truly love that they put whisky bottles into the wood panel patterning. Design genius.

And Edinburgh is a beautiful town, with lovingly preserved old buildings and streetnames like "Fleshmarket Close." It's a charming place, and I can see why so many of dearest friends have, at some point in their lives, called it home. I wouldn't mind calling it home... but it is a bit hillier than Manchester. That took some getting used to. After a life in hilly cities, just one year in a flat one, and I've completely lost my hill-ankles.

Since the Fringe Festival was on, the whole town was busy and vibrant. We saw two men sitting at a card table outside a bar, offering free custom sonnets, written while you wait. They called themselves Whisky and Bears. I could not pass that up.

One of the guys was tall and jovial, with a funny moustache an apron and a hat. He told us how it worked: we pick three things, tell him our names, and he writes a sonnet. Right there. Then he reads it to us and hands it over. For free.

I hope that I will never in my life be able to pass that up. 

I noticed his accent and asked him where he was from, and he said he'd escaped Texas 10 years ago and was living in Munich now. My best memory of Texas is from a road trip my family took when I was about 7. We shared a bottle of Big Red soda, a failed attempt by the Big Red chewing gum company to make a foray into carbonated beverage.

The guy, Rob, exploded with a big huge laugh at the idea of Big Red soda, so we chose Big Red.

We chose E.T., because I have a zine about E.T. that makes me laugh everyday right now.

And we chose tartan, because we had tartan on the brain.

Rob's friend Matte stood by with a coffee while Rob wrote the sonnet, mumbling to himself and occasionally laughing at his work. And when Rob was finished, he spoke it for us, while Matte played the accordion!

Did you know, reader, that the accordion is one of my favourite instruments? 

This was a beautiful, beautiful moment. We tried to get it on video, but we were unsuccessful, so instead, I present you this:

Big Red is really chewy, also hot!
Unfortunately the weather here is cold.
I'd hoped it would be sunny, maybe not,
But it is nice here, just like y'all, is that too bold?

That tartan that we see here on the street
Is wonderful and me feel so glad,
Some people like to wear it head to feet,
Just don't let them hear you call it plaid.


I left my daughter just to do this show,
And every day she keeps on calling me,
And asking, "Papa, when will you come home?"
A little like that foreign guy, E.T.


I hope you find your sonnet quite a lark!
Good luck to you sweet Nija and good Mark.


cheers, Rob & Matte, Whisky & Bears
(right before he wrote that line about the tartan, we had actually *just* seen a girl band fully dressed in tartan dresses. And get this: they were from "Gallery Serpentine," an Australian goth shop that was on Enmore Road in Sydney– the same road I worked on for two years! What a coincidence, right?)

Despite our best-laid plans, Mark and I only left ourselves about 10 minutes to eat dinner, so we decided on a takeaway. Now, I will be honest with you, reader. I am a student. I live in the UK. And I had not yet eaten food from a kebab/pizza/chips/burgers takeaway. Hell, I had not eaten from any takeaways. This was my first.

It was actually a pretty delicious pizza. Mark got some chicken thing. We ate sitting on the footpath, on some concrete steps. And when I say "we ate," reader, I mean "we scarfed." We scarfed takeaway food on a footpath.

It doesn't sound romantic, does it? Well, to be fair, it wasn't.

The Richard Herring comedy show was hilarious. Entitled "What is Love, Anyway?" as an homage to Howard Jones and to the question we all start asking ourselves the moment someone we don't really even like says they love us, this comedy show broke my face. I couldn't breathe. He read us some poetry about love he'd written when he was 17. That is always funny. Always funny. I liked his comedy... it didn't do a lot of making fun of anyone but him.

After the show, we ran to the train station, hoping to catch the early one back to Prestwick, but we didn't make it, because I am short. So we sat in Glasgow Central, re-telling Herring's jokes to each other, laughing, yawning, and not thinking about the next day, when I would get on the train to Manchester.

We didn't know it yet, but the riots had already spread to Salford, Manchester's poor conjoined twin sister...

A Kickass Ring

A few weeks ago, I visited Scotland. I wanted to visit Mark, and I had never been before, so you know. Two birds with one Starburst, as it were.

That is a deep cut. Allow me to remind you what I'm talking about. Taken at Sydney's Taronga Zoo.

Mark grew up (and his parents still live) in a town called Prestwick. It's in Ayrshire, on the West Coast of Scotland. To get there from Manchester, you have to ride to Glasgow and change trains, so decided to spend a few hours in Glasgow on our first day, before heading on to Prestwick.

Glasgow, as many of you already probably know, is a little bit wonderful. It's pretty, but a bit rough. People fight in the streets at night. It's got nice pedestrianised areas, but it's got some trashy-looking streets, too. There's something about that mix that makes me go all wide-eyed.

We spent most of our time in Glasgow walking along this big pedestrianized street, with huge old buildings. The first floors had mostly been modernised into glass-fronted shops, but if you looked up...

Glasgow is, of course, filled with Art Nouveau details like that, largely because it is the home of the Glasgow School of Arts, best known for The Four or the Spook School. Now, The Four are not a terrorist group or a boy band. They were artists: sisters Margaret and Frances MacDonald and their husbands, Charles Rennie Mackintosh and Herbert MacNair.

And the city is covered with typefaces they designed and filled with a style they largely created. In fact, Glasgow is so suffused with Art Nouveau, I could imagine it getting a bit tiresome after awhile. Just like I imagine that after a very long time living in Barcelona, I would be annoyed by all the Gaudí stuff everywhere... No, you're right. I would never get tired of that place.

We spent a lot of the day in the Gallery of Modern Art, because I'd heard of a British contemporary art exhibition going on there. I don't think Mark generally goes into art museums, but he was quite happy that I'm the kind of person who does, because the building was amazing.

Some of the exhibition was really fantastic as well, but the building took my breath away.

We sat outside and had some coffee, and Mark got bored waiting for food, so he took pictures of me. This is what I look like lately.

That's right. Sarcastic. That's how I look. And very sunny.

Glasgow is also a place where tall poppies tend to get cut down pretty quick. And you can't get much taller a poppy than Wellington. So, the built a statue to him, and then quickly proceeded to develop a tradition mocking said statue with a traffic cone and a funny hat on top of it. Ah, Glaswegian spirit, I suppose.

Mark had a job interview the day before we went to Scotland with a law firm called Leathes Prior in Norwich. So, while we were in Glasgow, every text, phonecall and email carried a jolt of excitement and nerves. Suddenly, he looked at his little screen... an email... from Leathes Prior. I told him to open it RIGHT NOW, MISTER. He looked at me after a few moments, and said, "I've been offered..." I screamed as loud as I could manage, given that we were in an art gallery, hugged him, and said, "Let's get out of here, you gotta call your mom, let's go have a pint!"

On the way out, I stopped into the gift shop. Sometimes gift shops have cool things. Not usually, but sometimes. Mark was in a daze over getting the offer, and my eye caught on the ring I'm wearing in this picture. It's like a giant red button.

I wasn't sure about buying it, but Mark said I should. It was cute and only £3, he said, I should have it. So, I walked over to the counter, handed it over with some cash. As I was getting my change, Mark said, "Oh! Oh, no, wait, I wanted to buy that for you!"

"Too late," I said, "Be quicker next time."

"I was distracted about the job," he said, "I really wanted to buy you that."

"Sorry."

"Here," he said, trying to hand me some money, "Let me pay you for it, then it'll be like I bought it."

That is not ok. Am I right, ladies? I'm right.

It was better this way, too, because poor Mark felt bad all weekend, every time anyone said they liked my new ring. And everyone liked it. Because it is a kickass ring.

After getting the big news, we tried to walk around Glasgow a little more, but I felt like Mark was really looking forward to seeing his family and celebrating his job. I would have been happy to just go, but he insisted on walking up to the Cathedral (which would have been beautiful, I'm sure, but was mostly covered with scaffolding).

The gardens were pretty, though.

And we caught an awesome bagpipe band rehearsal.

And on the way up there, I found another fabulous door, to go into my ever-growing collection, and someday photobook, entitled Awesome Doors I Found While I Was Looking for Something Else.

A close up.

Eventually, though, we couldn't bear the excitement alone any longer. We headed toward Prestwick, where a congratulatory celebration was waiting.

More tomorrow! Prestwick! Edinburgh! Readers! I'm back!

Audio Obscura

A little over a month ago, when I went to a literary event at Piccadilly Station, I did not imagine I would have occasion to attend another, not just within the same year, but within the same quarter of one.

Manchester, however, is a city full of surprises. The Manchester International Festival was full of exciting, cool events. 

Audio Obscura was put together by renowned poet Lavinia Greenlaw, and again used the backdrop of Piccadilly Station to introduce questions of private lives in public spaces.

Mark was coming into town that weekend, so I met him at the train station. We got our headphones, hit play, and started walking around the station, listening to a pre-recorded 1/2 hour soundscape loaded onto an .mp3 player.

Now, I really enjoyed Station Stories. I thought it was awesome. And I was hoping to be duly impressed with this event as well.

But I just wasn't.

The 1/2 hour soundscape, by virtue of being pre-recorded, rather than performed, felt less dynamic. It was decidedly less interactive, as people who were unaware of the event didn't involved at all (compare that to how David Gaffney's story forced unaware people to get involved). Which also meant that listening to Audio Obscura also felt more insular.

Also, the soundscape didn't have clear narrative... it was much more poetic, which shouldn't surprise me, considering it was written by a poet. Several different voices, speaking unconnected thoughts. Occasionally, you'd hear a strand left and picked up again, but just as often, you wouldn't. Maybe it's just me, but I believe in narrative.

I also felt the thoughts being voiced were far too intense. Yes, personal dramas do happen at train stations. But not for most people, not all the time. There was too much anger, too much intensity for it to feel... possible. Only one of the speakers was reciting banal thoughts about not being able to find his platform, which I think is probably far more common. It would have been interesting to intersperse more of that into the soundscape, I think.

But I think the biggest problem for me might have actually been intended. Because no one was performing these thoughts, which were being cast into my brain, I had no one to "stick" them onto. I just ended up putting them on whomever I saw at any point in the station. I was constantly casting about to see who these thoughts might fit with... and I started to feel very irresponsible. Surely, that woman isn't thinking about murdering someone, she's just returning a dress to the Monsoon. It felt voyeuristic, attaching these angry, intense thoughts onto passersby. It felt unfair. Maybe we weren't meant to try to attach those thoughts onto anyone, but I know I couldn't help myself. Neither could Mark. 

We took off our headphones and looked carefully at one another before I finally broke the silence. "That wasn't nearly as good as Station Stories."

He, of course, hadn't been to see that excellent event, but he'd read my blog about it.

"No, it doesn't seem like it was."

We returned the headphones, feeling slightly disappointed, and went to meet some friends down the pub...

More MIF stuff:

Wagner: I had won 4 free tickets to see a preview of the MIF performance of Wagner's Ring Cycle. The performance opened with a specially commissioned new prologue that vaguely told the story of how Wagner wrote the opera, using actors and the symphony. It was brilliant.

Then, after intermission, they performed a part of Die Walküre. The singing and music were absolutely fantastic. My only complaint was that they projected English subtitles on the walls... and when faced with words I can read, I just can't stop myself.

The opera lost a lot in translation, as any song does. But more than that, the words of this opera are banal and boring and they make you wonder why these lyrics are being sung with such passion... 

For example, and these are not quotes, they are just things I remember and thus may not be perfect:

"Brünnhilde, where have you been?"

"I had work to do."

or

"Father, have I shamed you so that you make me thus full of shame? Have I debased you so that you now make me so base?"

And so on... 

It would be better, for me at least, to just hear the singing, not understand the words, and appreciate the music.

Wu Lyf: I'd heard about this band on my friend Joe Sparrow's blog A New Band A Day. Check it out. It's awesome. He was over them by the time this show happened (he's a hype-maker, so he sees past the hype quicker than the rest of us). But I bought tickets because a) I'd never heard them before, b) they're young and seem exciting and fun, and c) the show was going to be in a tunnel.

I convinced some friends to come along, and in the end, it was a good time. I think I probably like Wu Lyf's music at least enough to listen to it, but:

1) A tunnel is not a good venue for a band. The acoustics were horrendous.

2) A band needs good sound people. Apart from the acoustics, their mix was really bad. You could barely hear the guitar.

3) Depending on where you're standing, the crowd can either be amazing and wonderful or total pricks. 

I began the show standing in a section of the latter. I could not believe all these people had paid and come out to talk to each other. They shouted at each other throughout, not even listening to the music, not dancing, nothing. Once we moved to another section though, closer to the stage, we had a much better time, listening to the band, rather than the pointless shouted conversation of a hipster clique. I really don't get it. 

I went to a bunch of other MIF events, but I don't have anything to say about them except this: I really liked the MIF. I liked how the city felt while it was on. It world-premiered huge amazing shows, and even New York Times wrote articles about Manchester during that month. It made the city hum and buzz and feel alive, and you had a reason to just head into the city and see what was going on. I loved it. I'm looking forward to the MCR Literature Festival and the MCR Science Festival, because I'm hoping they'll just be nerdier versions of the MIF. I can't wait.

Quick note: I don't love doing posts without photos, but I seriously did not take a single photograph of an MIF event. Bad blogger. I will learn my lesson. As of tomorrow morning, I am headed to Scotland, and I will definitely take pictures. I am visiting Mark. At his parents' house. And during the weekend, I will meet his twin brother and his older brother. And his best friends. No pressure, then.

Obviously Objectionable Occupants

I will get back to my feelings about the various Manchester International Festival events I went to. I promise.

But last night was another Bad Language event, the monthly literary open-mic night held at the Castle Hotel. It's run by lovely, talented, kind people and many talented and interesting people read their stories there fairly regularly. It's always a fun evening, and last night, I actually remembered to not only bring my voice recorder, but also to turn it on!

(Bad Language folks: If any of y'all want me to record your stories next time, let me know!)

So, here you are, a little story about Atlanta... and a little "found" poem about flat-hunting.

Listen to them here

Because my voice recorder is a little bit crappy, which is to say, it's held together by duct tape, it sounds to me like it missed a crucial word in the poem. Here are the words, for those who might be interested:

Catherine: Monica Grove 1B 1530
Howard: Talbot Road 2A 1600
Monica Grove
5 rooms
All postgrads
But the one guy who was there
wasn't wearing a shirt
was listening to awful dance music
loudly
and didn't turn it down.
Not a home.
More like a student flat
per Mackenzie Road, with more
obviously objectionable occupants.

MCR International Festival

While the Manchester International Festival (MIF) was on, I kept going to events and thinking, "I should write a post about that. People will be interested in that."

And then I didn't. Because I've been finally getting stuck into my thesis, because I had big other stressful things going on, because I have big other wonderful things going on, and occasionally, I like to sleep, or at least, to dream.

Now that the Manchester International Festival is well and truly over (ended on 17 July), I'm quite happy that I haven't written a single word about any of the events I attended. That accidental occurrence entitles me, I think, to writing a "round-up." Herd your cattle, cowgirl.

Derf. I've just written down a list of the MIF things that I went to and have *lots* of opinions about. It is long. Warning: this may take a few posts...

Opening Night
Björk | Biophilia

First off, yes, I know everyone else has already written about this. Nevertheless.

I bought myself a ticket well in advance, thinking I would go alone. To my surprise, my dear friend Stuart rang me the day before the show. He'd gotten some free tickets through his radio show, which were coincidentally for the same evening! So, I went to see Björk play with Stuart and the lovely girls from his show, and since it's always nice to have company at concerts, I was feeling pretty lucky.

As it happened, it was *very* good to be at the show with company. Because that show was bizarre. Brilliant and fun and interesting. But weird. First off, Björk was wearing an enormous orange wig. So big, she needed a big chinstrap under it. There's a great image of it on this page, and you can see a clip of the show here. Björk's singing was beautiful, and she was backed by the Icelandic choir Graduale Nobili, who were absolutely fantastic.

Biophilia is meant to be all about music and science, so it was fittingly housed in the Manchester Museum of Science and Industry. I've been there before, it's a lot like Sydney's Powerhouse Museum, but housed in the world's oldest surviving railway station. *swoon* Unfortunately, this also meant there were no seats and people crowding at the stage sort of obstructed the view of the stage.

This was no ordinary Björk show, as I'm sure her fans will already have read. This show also had a larger educational aspiration. Björk didn't just perform at MIF, she had an artist's residency there, and she organised a bunch of workshops for children to learn about science.

She had special custom instruments created for the show, each designed to express and show some scientific force. A big tesla coil that flared to the bass was meant to say something about electricity. A gamelon made of four pendulums used gravity to make music. An organ was meant to teach the power of air as a force. Even the beats for her songs were generated using pi, so they're not rhythmic at all. Trust Björk to still make that sound good.

But the thing is... Björk is an artist. A spectacularly eccentric one. She is the kind of person who would marry Matthew Barney. She is, simply, *not* an educator. She's not an explainer. She is that most wonderful thing: a poet. And as one of my heroes Dirac once said, "I do not see how a man can work on the frontiers of physics and write poetry at the same time. They are in opposition. In science one tries to tell people, in such a way as to be understood by everyone, something that no one ever knew before. But in poetry, it's the exact opposite."

I don't completely agree with Dirac on that, but in this case, yes, yes, for heaven's sake, yes. I doubt anyone came out of Björk's Biophilia show feeling like they learned something about DNA or plate tectonics. We had to read the programme just to figure out what the custom instruments represented.

But absolutely everyone came out thinking it was delightful, and the music is wild, surprising, uncatchy and dramatic. Definitely check out the album. 


Right.


Dr. Dee
Damon Albarn | An English Opera

I had absolutely zero intention of going to this show. I never really got into Blur, and the only Albarn project I've ever liked was Gorillaz. But Stuart had a spare ticket going, so off we went! It was at the Palace Theatre, which is gorgeous. I'd never seen it before, but it's like an an old opera theatre, all ornate and red velvet everywhere. Lovely.


The opera was... well, operatic. It was sung in English, but I still didn't understand most of the words. The music was nice to listen to, the way opera often is, when you can't understand the words. What I liked best about Dr. Dee, though, was the visual experience. A set that moved up and down, Elizabeth I being lowered over the stage and then just kept mid-air, looming over all the action, occult-looking drawings projected onto her dress, folded paper used as set designs. It was beautiful. There are some dramatic and excellent photographs here.

And of course, because I can't let anything pass without doing at least a little research, I ended up quite intrigued by Dr. Dee, as well. The opera is a classic rise and fall story. John Dee was an advisor to Elizabeth I, a polymath, a scientist, a renowned mathematician. Wikipedia says, "in his lifetime Dee amassed the largest library in England and one of the largest in Europe." But like many geniuses, he couldn't stop until he'd figured out the code the explained the world... and a man named Edward Kelley, a sort of Rasputin figure, who claimed to have supernatural powers, and convinced Dee to focus all his energies on the occult. Dee lost favour in Elizabeth's court. Accused of being a conjurer, of being Faust, of making a deal with the devil, his library was stolen, and he died in poverty, selling off his posessions to care for himself and his daughter.

Fascinating, right?

To be continued...

By chance.

Just about a month ago, I traveled down to London to be an audience member on the Radio 4 Bookclub. I truly *heart* Radio 4. Sure it's got its problems. Maybe too much comedy radio plays. Maybe a few too many airings of the Archers. It's still my favourite radio station ever. I listen to it just about all the time. Except when I'm writing essays and have to concentrate. Then I listen to Radio 3.

Anyway, Radio 4 have a great bookclub series. They invite an author on, get some listeners to read the book, come in and discuss in a little studio. Having tried to get a radio bookclub going a few times in Sydney, it was exciting to be a listener/reader for this one... especially since the book being discussed was The God of Small Things and the author, Arundhati Roy, was going to be there!

I'd been a fan of Arundhati Roy's politics for years. She's a hero. But I hadn't read her novel until Monika gave it to me as she was moving to New Zealand. I was helping her pack up to leave Sydney that day, and my eye wandered over the cover.

"I've never read The God of Small Things," I said. "Whenever I tell someone I'm Indian, the first question I usually get is, 'Have you read The God of Small Things?' I feel like they don't think I'm a proper brown person when I say I haven't."
"Take it," Monika said, "My gift to you: you can be a proper brown person."

I'm lucky to have friends who know when I'm being funny and choose to play along.

So, I read the book. I wasn't all that impressed, honestly, and some of you may remember my review here.

Cut to me in Manchester on any random night, listening to Radio 4 and the rain, and at the end of that month's bookclub show, they invite listeners who want to be at a bookclub with Arundhati Roy to write in.

Good thing I can type fast like lightning. I wrote in. They wrote back. I got myself another copy of the book, because Monika's gift to me was still in Sydney, and I bought a ticket to London.

On June 6th, I was so excited about being in London, that I found myself walking down the street with a big stupid grin on my face, American-tourist-style.
"I'm going to be in a BBC building," I thought, "Oh, wow!"
To be fair, it wasn't raining or even foggy or cold, so I did have *quite* a lot to be happy about.

Some handsome young gentlemen who were walking hand-in-hand down the street saw my goofy smile and said, "Bonjour, mademoiselle!" I don't know why everyone in Manchester's always talking about how cold people are in London. Those two gay men seemed *lovely.*

I had a few hours to kill before the show, which was being taped in Bush House. Which just happens to be right near Covent Garden... which just happens to also have a Tatty Devine boutique. I love small coincidences. I dropped by and bought a new necklace (pictured below), and then wandered around, enjoying the Covent Garden cafes and streets. I found a truly wonderful bookbinder supply shop, and they even do mail-orders. FAB. And Charles Dickens once lived near here! London is so old and cool and interesting and overwhelming, I nearly passed out.

Finally, it was time to go to Bush House, and get in the studio.

Bush House is a gorgeous old building with winding corridors and marble stairwells and a courtyard. They sort of ushered us through very quickly, though, so I only got exteriors.

The studio itself was nothing to look at, but they did give us some free BBC wine. And I got to take a photo with Arundhati Roy, a proper brown woman if ever there was one, by my account.

The bookclub taping went well, and I even got a question in! But of course, I don't know if it'll end up in the final edit of the show. It won't go to air until October– don't worry, I'll put a link up when it does, especially if my question makes the cut!

I left the studio and headed back toward the train station, still beaming and thrilled to have met Ms. Roy, and been in a BBC studio. It was just a lovely day altogether.


And lest you think that's the end of the story, dear reader, read on:

For those who haven't been on an British rail train, the seating on the trains here works like airplanes. As in, you get assigned a seat when you buy a ticket, you sit next to some stranger. 

I found my reserved seat, pulled out my computer, and started watching some This American Life: The TV show. Some guy sat next to me, and as you do in airplanes, we nodded at each other. Made short comments throughout the train ride. Near the end, I muttered, "Christ, it always feels longer coming back. I swear it didn't take this long this morning."

Stranger said, "You went into London and back in one day?"

I explained that I had to be in Manchester the next day, that I had a chance to meet Arundhati Roy, that it was worth it, even if it meant six hours of train in one day.


The train pulled into Manchester Piccadilly, and as we shuffled onto the platform, he asked if I wanted to get a drink. "Sure," I said, because I am adventurous and spontaneous, and because I trust this city to put amazing new people in my path. I will not turn them away.

His name's Mark, and he hates Manchester. Or at least he did then. I told him how much I love this city, and he looked surprised. When he told me why he hated it, I quickly diagnosed the problem. He had not been to the right places. He had not seen Chetham's, he had not been on a single history walking tour. He had not been to the Knott Bar. He had not made the right friends.

"It's your lucky day," I told him, "I am an *excellent* friend to have in this town."

Too late. He was leaving in three weeks, he said, to go back to Scotland, and then hopefully London.

As regular readers and my dear friends and family surely already know, I don't give up so easy.

I was determined to show him, in what little time he had left, that this town could be amazing. I should get paid by MCR tourism for this kind of work, seriously.

The upshot? He left for Scotland last week, but he's coming to visit soon. Another chance to convince another convert.