You know you've been at the library too long when...

[This might just be the most pathetic thing you'll read...]

1. You resort to Photobooth for a distraction.
2. You no longer worry about the looks you're getting from the intelligent-looking girl on your left as you're taking Photobooth pictures. See below.**
3. You start making playlists in your iTunes for at least five different people simultaneously.
4. You dribble Earl Grey tea on your brand new laptop and shrug it off.
5. The most brilliant idea you have is to blog. And the best you can do is write about being bored out of your mind.
6. The desire to just throw your papers in the air and dance on everyone's desk is tempting.
7. You start humming to the song playing on iTunes just to get a rise out of someone nearby... to no avail.
8. Everything is suddenly funny... like the guy that just walked by who looked like a young, long-haired version of Dwight Shrewt.
9. You wonder what the college cat Simpkins is doing at the moment... curled up in the Porter's Lodge? Getting a catnip treat? Exiting the college through his personal door in the main door? Hmm...
10. You consider leaving all your belongings in the library for a pint of Oxford Gold at Turf. Or when hanging out with Simpkins sounds pretty promising.

**You can vote for your favorite photo in the 'Desperation' series by visiting: savekellyssanity.com. Votes must be cast before she pours the remainder of her Earl Grey tea over her keyboard. 

I told the librarian I needed to read some Gerard Butler. So he searched for him... Gerard Butler's that buff, shirtless Scottish actor from 300.

You and me. We're a lot alike. Here's why... you probably haven't heard of a man by the name of Gerard Manley Hopkins until now. So when my tutor, Vahni Capildeo [a brilliant Trinidad-born poet and Rhodes scholar] assigned me an essay on how Hopkins's poetry and prose manifests voice, I said, "Sure." In my head, I was thinking something along the lines of "What the ____." I'll leave it up to you to fill in the blank. But after reading Hopkins's works and doing some reading on his background, it occurred to me that this Hopkins guy is brilliant. We've all had to skim some Robert Frost in high school, or read Whitman's "O Captain, My Captain" in history [it's about Lincoln's assassination], but this Hopkins fellow was completely new to me. When I think poetry, I have a tendency to think "Grrreat. Emo stuff. Red roses. Yuck." Meet Gerard Manley Butler: the most refreshing, intelligent, honest poet I've come across while being 'forced' into reading him. I feel I owe him an apology for writing him off as another sentimental poet, and think he's one man worth knowing. Before he wrote his poetry, he traced the origin of almost every word he would use, which can be easily overlooked, since (a) words like 'sillion' and 'vermilion' aren't commonly used and (b) who really takes the time to understand the history or connections of such words? Answer: not me. So when I had to take a closer look at his works, I was blown away. Not only do the words 'sillion' and 'vermilion' rhyme, but their original definitions parallel each other. Sillion = an arable plot of land. Vermilion = a brilliant red color. Yet 'vermilion' comes from the Latin word vermis, meaning 'worm.' Thus, 'vermilion' and 'sillion' rhyme, but it's much deeper than that. So in case you've been wondering what I study for hours on end, it's the abstract details of random writing that actually matters much more than I realized, like the Latin word for 'worm.' Now that I've completely succeeded at sounding like I have no life outside of studies, I'll leave you with this little gem of Gerard's to satisfy your poetic craving.

THE WINDHOVER

I caught this morning morning's minion, king-

dom of daylight's dauphin, dapple-dawn-drawn Falcon, in his

riding

Of the rolling level underneath him steady air, and striding

High there, how he rung upon the rein of a wimpling wing

In his ecstasy! then off, off forth on swing,

As as skate's heel sweeps smooth on bow-bend: the hurl and

gliding

Rebuffed the big wind. My heart in hiding

Stirred for a bird, -- the achieve of, the mastery of the thing!

Brute beauty and valour and act, oh, air, pride, plume, here

Buckle! and the fire that breaks from thee then, a billion

Times told lovelier, more dangerous. O my chevalier!

No wonder of it: shéer plód makes plough down sillion

Shine, and blue-bleak embers, ah my dear,

Fall, gall themselves, and gash gold-vermilion.

I agree: it's been far too long

Yes, I'll be the first to admit it... I've failed to fit the image of excessive blogger extraordinaire, pounding the keyboard late into the night. Forgive me for the lack of intriguing things to say on a daily basis. Contrary to popular belief, living in the commonwealth of England and slaving away at the library [the Bodleian, Radcliffe Camera, English Faculty Library, Rhodes House Library, Hertford College Library to name A FEW] does not always mean life amounts to a wool sweater and cuppa tea. In fact, these last couple weeks have been about as delightful as being confined to an itchy wool sweater for seven days straight, or getting third degree burns from scalding Earl Grey first thing in the morning, thus ruining your taste for an entire 24+ hours. Needless to say the last two weeks have been jam-packed full of challenging experiences in just about every category: academics, my faith, friendships, relationships, and, oh yeah!, academics. If you would care to send a prayer my way, you might want to title the subject heading "Re: Frickin' C.S. Lewis Tutorial." By now, I've met with both my primary and secondary tutors to discuss the focus of my studies while here, and you'd think that with only two areas of study I'd have plenty o' free time on my hands... this couldn't be farther from the truth. I can't remember the last time I was so desperate to squeeze more hours into each day. The amount of reading I have to complete continues to grow exponentially, and if I've learned anything so far, it's this simple truth: just because one has read a complicated book cover to cover, does not mean that one has any idea what it's really trying to say. But at the end of the day, no matter how beautiful the day was, or how dejected I may feel trudging home in the drizzling rain, I am so grateful for:
1. YOU
2. the friends far and farther
3. wonderful, amazing family
4. a bowl of cereal and sliced bananas
and last but certainly not least. . .
5. Fleetwood Mac's Greatest Hits album. Have you heard these guys?? They're classic, you can't overlook 'em. Or get enough of 'em. Listen to "Tusk" cranked UP and tell me you don't love them. Current goal in life: see Fleetwood in concert, go barefoot, wear a crown of daisies, and take shots of wheatgrass. One listen is all it takes...

[picture: Portobello Road, Notting Hill. a little preview of the next installation: Antonio's Bygone Boisterous Birthday Bash.]

Countdown to Midnight

11 minutes, 45 seconds until midnight. That means I now have less than 11 minutes to catch you up on the last two weeks. It has indeed been quite some time, so in the short time I have until I've promised myself I'll return to writing my paper [disastrously due tomorrow], I'll give you the best account of these two weeks as I possibly can. First things that come to mind...

1. Emilíana Torrini. If you haven't heard of this Icelandic wonder, iTune her now. I mean it, immediately. See her live whenever and wherever possible.

2. I'm presenting in front of 30+ people tomorrow on the subject of "Prostitution During the Victorian Era." Enough said. Wish me luck.

3. Something extraordinary happened at The White House last night. [In case you've forgotten, The White House is 107 Botley's local haunt, haha.] After sharing some conversation and Nobby's Nuts with Sam the bartender, he locks the place up, but as is usual, we continue to banter on for another hour or two. More drinks are poured, but here's where you should pay attention: Sam doesn't ask for £. Oh no. Instead, he tells Justin to just pay later. Whoa, whoa, whoa! Does this mean that Sam extended us "credit," thereby explicitly implying that he has faith in us and trusts these American blokes to pay him on a later date?? Yes, ladies and gentlemen, this is exactly what that means. Our first extension of true English hospitality. Hats off to you Mr. Sam.

4. Antonio and I recently purchased tennis racquets and have been spending the blue skied afternoons hitting at the park nearby. Lo and behold, halfway through our rallying, here comes a blonde boy standing against the chain link fence, racquet in hand. Assuming he's waiting for someone, Antonio and I play on, but quickly come to realize his friends aren't showing as soon as he'd like. Thirty minutes later, this kid Jake has not only become our new best friend, but he has hit me [hard] several times from behind with the ball. We are two peas in a pod. Two days later, Antonio and I return, and so does Jake. How does he know when we're going to be at the courts, I wonder. Jake apologizes that he couldn't make it the day before... How great is this kid?

5. Bad news: it's 12:04. I've definitely surpassed my time. Good news: Trivia night at The Hollybush is on this week, aka today! Antonio's friend is in town [from Seattle!], and apparently he's a genius, so my hope is that we're going to whip them Brits when it comes to their own history and stupid Norman invasion of 1066. Also, I'm heading to Ireland in less than 48 hours.

6. Forgot: The above picture is the latest in Antonio's evolutionary series of contemporary still lifes. "Prawn Cocktail" flavored chips. Hm...

Ten Things You Should Know About. . .

Antonio.

1. He’s the first of six. The other five are younger sisters. (Whoa.)
2. He’s way too down-to-earth having been in the Coast Guard for 10 years.
3. He’s half Japanese, half Uruguayan.
4. He does things, like washing the dishes or cooking an amazing breakfast, without a second thought.
5. He’s proved he’s quite the generous guy: He bought our whole round of drinks the other night. (I thanked him by unexpectedly beating him at pool as I sunk that 8 ball in the corner pocket. What now Antoine?)
6. He’s got one contagious laugh.
7. He’s got great taste in music, wine and other significant things to have great taste in.
8. The guy wears snazzy pants.
9. He’s afraid of coming off too “New Age-y.” (Haha… he kills me.)
10. He just came downstairs to ask me if the £1 lotion he bought smells “like girl.”

“You’re in the 101st Airborne Division…”

Last night marked 107 Botley’s maiden voyage to The White House, the pub we pass but never enter. All that changed last night after yet another fantastic family meal of pesto, garlic bread, salad, red wine and drinks that followed. The quote above was spoken by a local man Justin seemed to befriend while adeptly throwing darts. Right off the bat, it was clear that this striped shirt man had consumed his fair share of beverages, not to mention his speech and behavior furthermore confirmed my long-held belief that people this side of London push their limit all the time, if not every possible time. The reality of the nightly English social scene, combined with our aged friend’s thick accent, made just about every statement he made indistinguishable, except for his first and best line: “You’re in the 101^st Airborne Division.” Try as he might, Justin just couldn’t convince him otherwise.

My ideas surrounding the hard-drinking, ale-craving, rebel-rousing crowd of the historic academic town called Oxford: 1) Instinctually, their existence and/or identity is co-dependent on being a part of timeless English culture where all that’s needed is a worn bar to lean upon, a few crooked teeth and a pint in hand. 2) It’s in their blood, literally. And it has been for generations. And it will continue to be thanks to their massively high consumption rate. Recent stat: By the age of three, the average British baby will have consumed the equivalent of 1 – 2 pints of Guinness. (Keep in mind that a pint is one very large glass filled to the brim.) I mighthave made that up, (although it could very well be true), but according to The Times, Britain has the highest rate of adolescent and underage drinking. 33% of the under-15 population gets smashed twice a week, on average. Also, Britain is third in the world for teen pregnancy, right after Mexico (2) and America (1). Way to go U.S.A. Always knew you had it in ya.

Despite what you may think, not all Englishmen (or women) are crazies sprinting toward the nearest pub as soon as their shift ends. On the contrary, they display a tremendous amount of class at any given time, even when taking care of business… in the bathroom stalls. To end this tale, I shall leave you with the latest graffiti findings written in the stalls of The King’s Arms:

“Rolland says Toy Story 2 was just OK…”

Here's to You, Oxford

Oi!!

The circular building to your right is the Bodleian Library, which is adjacent to my place of loyalty and study: Hertford College. Hertford is one of the oldest colleges under Oxford University's umbrella, and has been going strong since 1264. After a total of three nights in MY NEW FLAT (107 Botley Road, Oxford, England), it’s come to my attention that saying “hello” is not the standard greeting. If Brits ever use “hello,” it’s not because they’re trying to be friendly; it’s because a) they’re trying to get your undivided attention or b) you’re in their way, so move.

This is just the first of many linguistic differences that I’ve personally dealt with, including the fact that the British accent gets crazier and generally harder to understand the further you delve into the countryside, aka Oxford. On the way out to Oxford via London, on a red, double-decker bus of course, the countryside proved to be exactly how one might imagine it: the greenest of green rolling hills, dotted with oak trees and woolly sheep, bordered by low stone walls or wooden fences. As the bus creaked into town and over a mud-colored stream, which apparently is the Thames, the first glimpse of Oxford was far from disappointing despite the NASTY weather. Nasty includes constant misting rain, fat drops of rain, random downpours of rain, horizontal rain, relentless wind from several directions at once, or a combo of the above. The locals say the weather’s been unusually harsh for early September and that “it should warm up here soon,” but I’m skeptical. No matter the conditions outside, Brits are always stepping out on the streets to head to the pubs, particularly after dark when the rowdy English folk truly come to life. The Brits flock to their pubs like ants to a potato chip… students, high-brow professors, the business men, the blue-collar guys, the club-hopping girls in their stilettos and knock-off designer names, the quieter girls with the glasses and pea coats, the ale-drinkin’ dirty-jokin’ Irish men, the giggling international students in the corner speaking Chinese at warp speed, and my particular favorite, the homelier 40+ English ladies in the plaid, pleated skirts who look as if a night out on the town is exactly what they need. Stay tuned...

Room No. 5, Morgan House, London, England

Without further ado, I am hereby adopting a habit dependent on technology, a habit I swore I'd never pick up: blogging. Whether this whole blogging idea turns out to be a blessing or a burden... that will just be determined later. The point of me blogging is simple: if you're reading this, then it means three things. . . 1) I love you. 2) Because I love you, I still want to let you know what's going on in my life, and vice versa I should hope! 3) You might never read this blog again (and I don't blame you) because let's face it, this is just another piece of text on your computer screen to steal away a few more minutes of your life. I figure if I aim low, I'm bound to succeed somehow. With that said. . .

I'm currently sitting in quaint Room No. 5, complete with two single beds, a fake fireplace, a sink in the corner, a fantastic electric teapot (which I've already taken full advantage of), and quite possibly the best asset yet: a lovely view of London's temporary blue skies. And as I type this, the notorious white, puffy clouds are rolling in once again. The only thing that's missing is a person by the name of Rachel who happens to be a friend of mine, who happens to be traveling with me, who happens to be missing even though her flight arrived six hours earlier than mine. . . hmm. I gave her stellar directions, suggestions, the whole nine yards, and England does speak English, so I'm not worried. . . yet. I've realized that one's more likely to hear any other language but English in these parts, and so far the list includes German, Hebrew, Italian, Spanish, and something bordering on Russian/Greek/Farsi/who knows. It was just harsh, and loud, and in my ear.

Favorite memory thus far: Upon maneuvering my way up THE most narrow staircase in the British Isles to the second floor (though I would've guessed it was the 32nd), I was about to collapse on the carpet until I realized it was still being thoroughly cleaned. As I awkwardly stood there in the non-existent hallway RIGHT outside my unknown neighbor's door, the door is suddenly whipped open and I'm face-to-face with the shirtless, ripped, ghetto-tattooed occupant of Room No. 6. Given, he was black. . . given, he was attractive. We exchanged casual, apologetic smiles. He kindly said "sorry," but I'm not sure whether it was to me, or the lady in his dark room at 2 o'clock in the afternoon?? I'll leave that decision up to you.

Update: Rachel's been found dragging her body up the steep steps after learning, with great difficulty, how to navigate England's Underground. More important update: Occupant of Room No. 6 has a name and a story. His name's Jodi, from Chicago, studying at Hamilton, hasn't received his financial aid check yet, first time o'er here. . . and yeah, negative on the lady in his room.