I Feel

... as if I owe the blogging world an apology.
A week and a half without a post? Tis terrible, I know.
And to withhold such beautiful pictures of Portland and the rest of the valley from the general eye, to keep silent about all the great and hilarious quotes spoken in classes, jobs, homes? Cruel.
One day, when I have the time, I will comment on these things - and perhaps, even, give an account of the jr hi harvest party allnighter that has left me in this state of semi-paralysis, eyes glazed, fingers barely moving across the keys, and on the verge of laughter at any passing memory.
But now is not that time.
Now is the time to answer, in five or six pages, something about the interpreting of ritual/magic beliefs and practices or the difference between doing research in another culture as opposed to one's own and the effects there of.
I wish I could go back to sleep.

Hmph.

I was recently accused of being addicted stress/loving my life when it's crazy.
Now, whereas I don't consider this to be an indubitable allegation, I do see how one might come to this conclusion in light of my recent circumstances: jumping into jr level classes after two years schooling hiatus, stepping into jr hi sponsor role at church, re-joining the indoor rock climbing world, picking up a job, and - most recently - accepting a job taking up the entire weekend (with midterms monday-wednesday). In attempt to vindicate my sense of self (and sanity) I claimed that it was all simply the unavoidable and inexorable path of a working college student.
And so I ask: What's a girl to do?

The Weirdness [and Goodness] of Life.

• Entering I-84 at 9:30am to experience traffic not going over 2mph.
• Finishing a book on "witchcraft and oracles among the Azande" only to move on to a book observing retired Jewish seniors living in a SoCal "ghetto".
• Encountering people who bring puppies to PSU. (For Bob: I didn't see your cat person, but some girl walked into the bathroom -there on the first level of Cramer- today with a puppy in tote.)
• Opening a refrigerator that holds no milk.
• Knowing you're getting old when you receive loan information, credit card applications and nothing else in the mail.
• Seeing someone play the vibes and utilizing the pedal. (I didn't know they had pedals for vibes.)
• Drinking a Laguna Beach sub strawberries for blueberries add banana less ice double blended and being bothered by the fact that I can't recall who used to order something like that.

Fall in the City.

Waiting for the bus in Portland can be a beautiful experience. Especially in the fall. I heart October. I heart Portland. I heart everyone.

So.

Everyone needs Skype. What reason is there to not have it?! Go get it NOW.
You know you want to.
(I know, I should be smiling in these pictures, but I couldn't manage that while I was talking and blogging and all...)

Memories in My Wallet

New:
-My Dad's business card
-PSU Bookstore Member card
-PSU ID card (yet unsigned)
-Portland Art Museum member card (sweeeet!! sorry guys, only $5 for art majors...)
-Costello's ten stamp card (x2)

Classic:
-Oregon Drivers Licence (provisional hahaha)
-Visa
-the ever bent and scratched US Bank debit card
-Multnomah County Library card (the new one... heh. the other went too long w/o use)
-Insurance card and AAA card
-Random movie ticket stubs

Old, but can't give up:
-International Student ID
-Lancashire Library card (ohhhhh)
-Oh so many reciepts I can't bear to part with, due to the pound and euro symbols and great memories. (such as: "Sistema tarifari integrat Regio Metropolitana de Barcelona" and "Tickets Eurobus biglietto di corsa semplice da E4,50 da VENEZIA e MESTRE F.S a AEROPORTO TREVISO" or "London Underground Day Travelcard")
-Hostelling International member card
-YHA Rotherhithe Breakfast card (x2) (HAH. stolen)
-Royal Mail 5pound phonecard
-Virgin mobile top-up card

This Is Not Procrastination

...I made these the other day just to see what my little digital picture program could do.The beautiful sea just down the street from Rio Vida in Alacante, Spain.
Spanish trees. Palm trees. Yaaay.
Joshua and I ... on the train to London Luton Airport.

Brings to Mind

Those days gone by, things supposedly learned, things with many memories attached.

A long, marble set of stairs - Central Library, Thursday: the Tower stairs, the Tube transfers, the Spanish steps, the steps to Parc Guell.
A note containing Psalm 145:10-13 - my corduroy coat pocket, Tuesday: the pigeonholes, the love of friends, the simple ways we can encourage one another.
A reference to compassion - Pastor Mike, Sunday: 'splagnidzomai' (Matthew 9:35-38), that learning continues after Bible school, that God's love never changes.
A use of the word "cheers" - Carol (the lady I work for), Sunday: the bus to Lancaster, picking up British words and then accident's saying them in Germany, Damion Rice ("cheers, darlin").

Days and Days

The days of regualr posting, I see, are gone.
Perhaps there will be a beautiful age where I will be again faithful to my blog, not leaving it vacant for days and days.
But until that time, I sit before Stuart and write papers, rather, and research long gone people such as Richard Doyle, and read ancient comedy - sometimes not funny.

Art for the English Major

On The Purpose of Art:

"What is the purpose of art?" - a question thrown out to a pack of attitude wielding, autophilosophizing students of literature. Is it to improve society as the Greeks thought? Was a Poet's duty not to change the way in which people lived their lives? In Arisophanes's "The Frogs", a certain poet must be brought back to save Athens from certain impending doom. Not something one could anticipate hearing in today's society.
After a few rounds of comments, a few by myself even - though many a rebuttal less than I would have liked to have returned - we got to a few more interesting statements.
(Warning: These generally unrepresentative of the author's views on art.)

"The artist is an ice ax to break the ice around the frozen hearts of people; art makes us feel."

"Talking about aesthetics is impossible. The philosophy of art? Never."

And my personal favorite:
Student: "Art is vanity."* Prof: "What are you, a monk? What, do you have an ex-girlfriend who's an artist?"


On More General Art Topics:

"They're just like you... only making money." [designers vs students]

"It looks like you're looking at a stone wedding cake." [victorian architecture in Britain]

"Morris doesn't ever really know what he's doing." [on william morris]

"Too much is not enough."

"Women weren't taken very seriously, just look at what they were wearing." [victorian women's roles]

"If things suck visually, what can we do about it?" [what you must ask yourself]

"The rich have no taste anyway, have you noticed that? Okay, maybe I made that up."


*( I could dialogue on this one for hours.)

From "The Critic as Artist, With Some Remarks on the Importance of Doing Nothing".

Ernest. But, my dear fellow - excuse me for interrupting you - you seem to me to be allowing your passion for criticism to lead you a great deal too far. For, after all, even you must admit that it is much more difficult to do a thing than to talk about it.
Gilbert. More difficult to do a thing than to talk about it? Not at all. That is a gross popular error. It is very much more difficult to talk about a thing than to do it. In the sphere of actual life that is of course obvious. Anybody can make history. Only a great man can write it. There is no mode of action, no form of emotion, that we do not share with the lower animals. It is only by language that we rise above them, or above each other - by language, which is the parent, and not the child, of thought. Action, indeed, is always easy, and when presented to us in its most aggravated, becomes most continuous form which I take to be that of real industry, becomes simply the refuge of people who have nothing whatsoever to do. No, Ernest, don't talk about action. It is a thing, dependent on external influences, and moved by an impulse of whose nature it is unconscious. It is a thing incomplete in its essence, because limited by accident, and ignorant of its direction, being always at variance with its aim. Its basis is the lack of imagination. It is the last resource of those who know not how to dream.
....
Ernst. But is Criticism really a creative art?
Gilbert. Why should it not be? It works with materials, and puts them into a form that is at once new and delightful. What more can one say of poetry? Indeed, I would call criticism a creation within a creation.
....
Gilbert. It is the highest form of Criticism, for it criticizes not merely the individual work of art, but Beauty itself, and fills with wonder a form which the artist may have left void, or not understood, or understood incompletely.
Ernst. The highest Criticism, then, is more creative than creation, and the primary aim of the critic is to see the object as in itself it really is not; that is your theory, I believe?
....
Gilbert. ...so the critic reproduces the work that he criticizes in a mode that is never imitative, and part of whose charm may really consist in the rejection of resemblance, and shows us in this way not merely the meaning but also the mystery of Beauty, and by transforming each art into literature, solves once for all the problem of Art's unity.
But I see it is time for supper. After we have discussed some Chambertin and a few ortolans, we will pass on to the question of the critic considered in the light of the interpreter.
Ernst. Ah! you admit, then, that the critic may occasionally be allowed to see the object as in itself it really is.
Gilbert. I am not quite sure. Perhaps I may admit it after supper. There is a subtle influence in supper.

Oscar Wilde.
Genius.
I believe this is somewhat of the debate I am getting myself into.
Perhaps I should read the next play: "The Critic as Artist, With Some Remarks on the Importance of Discussing Everything."