Musical Pencil?

See you later/The cursed animation of inanimate objects.

2011-12-16T04:05:00.001-08:00

So I really didn’t sleep Wednesday night, unless you count that hour nap in the midst of finishing my paper. But it was fun, for I skyped various and sundry people, and the subject of my essay was mucho interesante.
Since we have not got mod cons, aka a printer, at my house, I went to LCF to print my paper and the few tickets necessary to go Europe-exploring. There was almost no one in the lab, which is UNHEARD OF. It means the printer isn’t freaking out with 5095769097 jobs. And the paper won’t run out. So, blah blah blah, printing, nearly asleep, when I look out the window at the rare London winter sun over the rooftops of Oxford Circus, and realize I won’t be here again, in this exact spot, for a long time. Depressing…….happy sleepy mood gone……

I do my stuff and leave. I go to the toilet. Finish that business. Go to unlock the stall door.

FOILED.
it refuses to unlock.
I try again. Again. Again. Again.
No. not happening. I can see the problem: the teeth on the underside of the bolt have become disentangled from the knob that turns it, and it’s just flopping about. I can’t seem to slide it out by other measures either. I’m alone, thankfully.

No worries, say I, I’ll just slide out under the door. Grimy, yes, but not deadly. And I have assignments to turn in, buses to catch, fickle bathroom locks shall not deter me.

Or will they. This stall is not a standard one, with the accompanying standard foot-and-a-half between bottom edge and floor.

OH NO. this is a custom built bugger. There is no more than eight inches between the floor and the bottom of the door. I’m little.

But not that little, yo.

I look up. The ceiling is probably nine feet high. The door is about seven-and-a-half.

Nothing for it. Slide backpack under door, get rid of encumberments like scarf and Ipod.

“Dear God. If anybody has to go to the bathroom on this floor ,please remind them that they have to buy their witchy step-mother a gift, and entangle them in searching the web for that gift. Just keep them out of here.”

This is why I climbed all those trees in my childhood. This is where scootching up the hallway walls to the ceiling like a little monkey was a good idea. Because that’s what I look like, feet braced on the stall walls, wishing I’d been doing my pushups. My legs are plenty toned, but my arms are about the consistency of chicken skin.

Anyway, I get on top of the door. Deeply, truly, devoutly thankful I’m a lady, because this would hurt like the dickens if I were a dude, astride the narrow end of a slab of wood.

OOF.
Done. Success. Hooray.
Not fifteen seconds later, someone comes in.
I suppress my mirth and dissolve in giggles as I run down the stairs and out into the sharp air and noise of Oxford Street.
A fitting incident for a last day.

Birthday Bloggings. and ghosties.

2011-12-12T10:47:00.000-08:00

Me birthday! “so-and-so and 42 other people posted on your wall!” yes, ladeez and gents, today is a busy day on the ol’ Facebook wall.

Went to Brick Lane, just didn’t find anything, the seller I was looking for, the lady with the sweaters and jackets for 2 and 3 pounds was not there. Got my salmon and cream cheese fix at Brick Lane Beigel Bakery though. So goooooooodddd.

Then to Camden for the charity shops, didn’t find what I wanted there either. Good day for the pocketbook. Then to Fleet Street, in search of an ancient old pub called Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese. Frequented by Dickens, Arthur Conan Doyle, Teddy Roosevelt, and others. Re-built in 1667. Not built, mind you. Re-built.

Since I was fool enough not to have my camera with me, here’s your verbal description.

Get off the bus at Charing Cross Station. That area has the sense of being an artery of London: right next to Trafalgar, the buses and the cabs and the cyclists in an endless stream towards Westminster, the Abbey, the houses of Parliament, Whitehall, and the rest. Turn onto the Strand, past the toweringly gothic Royal Courts of Justice, daring you to break the law and get away with it. Past the crescent shape of Aldwych, full of weathered stone. The road narrows. Now you’re on Fleet Street.

Walk. Walk. Walk. Stay on the left side, this place is easy to miss. Kind of. The sign is a simple white thing with black trim, looking like the top of a lamppost, with the name written on all four sides. There is no entry in the front.

Step into the tiny dark alleyway on the left side. The onion layers of time fall off, a sensation of timewarp, especially at dusk. The cobbles are old, and the only light is the one above the pub’s door. It is closed, naturally, it’s nighttime on a Sunday. The building’s dark wood walls bow out, leaning over you. Forbidding. Black. Silent. A posting near the windowless door lists the monarchs the pub has survived,the paper yellowed, probably been there since Elizabeth II came in. There’s no one with you. At least, no one you can see.

You know all those tales about London? Sweeney Todd? Jack the Ripper and the rest? All the gruesome, horror-laced ghosty yarns? They don’t hold much water in broad daylight, in front of the lions guarding Lord Nelson, with a million people flooding around you, safe as can be.

All you have to do is step into certain alleyways, wander a bit after nightfall and something whispers out the walls and paving stones and makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up with all the ancient stories it could tell. London is a different creature at night. Keeping secrets, warning you lest you become just a secret like all the rest.

No place like it.

P.S. Stella Artois makes excellent cider.

Writing on the Walls

2011-12-03T10:54:00.000-08:00

So. I have been doing plenty of things that I've neglected to put on here. Mostly homework,(corsets, journals, other uninteresting things. I'll post about the corset eventually.) But the thing I've recorded best is street art.

Now,street art......Well, I'll just post what I journaled about it.

Be warned. This will be an epic long post. I'll put all my photos at the bottom, so if you just want to see that, skip the text.

I went to Shoreditch today, with a knowledgeable man who took my Space Place and Culture class on a street art tour. Street art is difficult to catch sometimes because it’s constantly changing, disappearing, wearing off, being painted or arted over. Sometimes not. I'll explain.

There were several names I’d not heard: Malarky, Swoon, Stix, who used to be homeless, Citizen Kane or CZK, Ben Eine. We saw lots of ROA, he’s one of my personal favorites. The crane off Brick Lane is very beautiful, one of his best bits. There’s also a rat crawling out of a wall that I love.

On the wall of the club Cargo, which is under a bridge, there is a very famous Banksy piece, which now has plexiglass over it to keep it from being painted over. Not at Banksy's command, I guarantee. How funny. Protect the vandalism.
For technically,it is vandalism,but it is now part of London, and most people love it.

There was another, rather political bit in the Cargo garden, by someone whose name I cannot recall, had a definite OWS feel/message to it. That whole wall is covered with street art. You can just wander in in the daytime, when there’s no one there.

There was also an incident, our guide informed us, where people would make art with gum on the walls, and stick flash drives in it, with art files on them. You could take a flash drive and in return, replace it with your own art on a drive. Sort of an anonymous art swap. But then it disappeared, as all such urban phenomenons do, likely someone started putting viruses on the drives or something.

There is a street near Petticoat Lane Market which has all the letters of the alphabet on the shutters of the shops. They are not in order, and the only time to see them all is at night or Sunday. We went by at about dinnertime, and only one was down. Ben Eine did that street.

Other well-knows art streets are Rrrrrivingdon? Riverdon? Starts with an r? I think? The street that Cargo is on. Redchurch St. is also a hot spot, and Fashion St. And everywhere else in that neighborhood. It's like someone stuck a knife in London's grimy little urban heart, right about at Shoreditch High St. Station, and spraypaint splattered out for a mile around. It is covered.

Our guide was pointing out that the popular places for street art are always a little bit run down, a little edgy. One of the best spots for street art is on a shop shutter, which you generally only see in poorer places, as opposed to the burglar alarms that operate in places like Oxford Circus.

Also observed that London is a palimpsest, a place with a thousand million shadows of what has been there before, like the shadow when you paint over a bit of street art. Brick Lane/Shoreditch area has always been a place for outcasts, weirdos, artists, immigrants, etc. Jack the Ripper, the Huegenots, Bangladeshi immigrants, the pioneers of street art, working at night, cloak and dagger. You can sort of smell all that, walking down there in the dusk, the past leaking out of the ground. Jack the Ripper. Wow, that's surreal.

But street art, at least, is more accepted than it once was. People actually ask for their walls to be arted, and one walks past galleries full of the artist's work that you can hang on your wall.

The hipsters may whine about commercialization. I say shut up, hipsters. This is the course of a movement, the way that art works. Street art began as a very political thing, still is. Then it becomes prolific, and more people see it, more people are exposed to the message it is trying to convey. If you are truly trying to communicate, the more people the better. Also the artists tend towards the middle-aged, and the middle class. So what? They are artists. What they make is beautiful, insightful, whimsical, disturbing. Art. There's enough drabness and despair in cities and the world in general.

Some of it is political, some of it is just that primordial artistic instinct that leads kids to draw on the walls with crayon. It is a blank space, begging for beauty and interest and humanization. It is a quiet revolution of the concept of space, of the concept of walls. It is also anarchist. The wall may belong to someone. But when you alter it, it belongs to you as well, you've left a mark on it.

That is what street art shares with graffiti, I think, that territorial aspect: I was here, I exist, this is Mine. For my part, walking around looking at all this, I felt very......very much part of a tribe, if that is the way to put it. It makes you feel less alone. And alone can be a terrifying thing anywhere, but particularly in a city, in all the hurry and fear and worry and inevitable loneliness. You begin to feel invisible, non-existent, constantly scooting over the pavement, no trace left behind, passing no one you know. It's basically people leaving little bits of themselves around, little chunks of their humanness. Also vandalism is fun. Yes, I speak from experience. Sue me, arrest me. :) (i only really did it twice, and once was on the bathroom wall in Hard Times Cafe, which doesn't even count, because they pretty much encourage it.)

The odd thing is that once there is art, beautiful, well done art on the wall,often people respect it. Occasionally someone will write some little insulting tag on the wall, but many of these pieces are pristine, and have been for some time.

So now we come to the government reaction. Street art is practically legal. The police probably will not stop you. At least not in Shoreditch. But they may paint over it. And then what? They've simply refreshed the canvas for the next artist. There are cases where the city council will paint over a piece, and the community raises a ruckus, because they liked it. Believe it or not, when someone puts a piece of art on the wall in a rather grungy place like Redchurch St., it's not the people who live there who whine. They are ok with it, sometimes the artist asks them, as was the case with the alphabet street. It adds personality.

Ben Eine is a great example: David Cameron recently gave Obama one of his pieces, and after that, that same week, Eine painted on a wall in Hackney: “The strangest week”. It was a lovely big bit of street art, just like his other stuff. Come the next week, the Hackney council had painted over it. Whilst his piece is presumably hanging in the White House.

So, I think street art will always retain a little of the anarchist artist, and be the better for it. All anonymous urban phenomenons have that characteristic: parkour, bike posses, skateboarding, urban exploring, all varieties of slightly communist sharing, like the flash drives in the gum, all the other stuff I can't recall but have encountered while poking around cities. Good. I like that.

And since talking about art is like dancing about architecture, here's the pictorial proof. LOTS OF IT.

I'm not even kidding, you're about to look at about 70 photos. I will put any relevant/interesting facts or stories before each batch. Ok? OK. k.

The fourth one here is a Banksy. CHEEKY MAN.
ha. a pun.

:)

vampire carrots! and leetle tiny people with an anteater. I love the mini ones, they are there only for the observant. Also the shadows are painted on, a nice touch.

3rd one looks like a Banksy but isn't: it's very political though. It's a stencil of a famous football photo, but with politician's faces swapped in. It's David Cameron (Brit Prime Minister) grabbing some other politician, whose name I cannot recall, by the....not his nose. What a notion, politicians manipulating each other.....

4th is Space Invader. The wall with the blue and red piece is one of the most painted-over walls, bit of a territory war. mine. mine. mine. mine. mine. etc. forever......
and the Not Soup, best tag ever.

oh look! people actually in the act of arting!
how nice.

more little tinies!!

eee.

Also, the third one is an example of what I mean by a palimpsest: something there before, covered, still visible. Layers.

the first two are the Banksy with plexiglass over it, (come to think of it, the man in the loo has plexiglass too) and the others are the stuff on the wall at Cargo.
I like the one of Wile. E. running off with a sheep.

3 and 4 are a Ben Eine piece, 5 is by a Bangladeshi woman whose name our guide has not sent us yet...sorry. She also did the little people on the shutters eating. Wonderfully bright and rich, the photo doesn't do justice.

Not all street art is paint: 1 is a terrible photo I know, but on the corner there's a little thingie made of those melty beads we all played with as children. And the rock, the rock is so clever.

1 and 2 are a Ben Eine piece: ANTI ANTI ANTI on one side of the street, PRO PRO PRO on the other.

AHAHHAAAA that first one. Short. Sweet. To the point.
Hilarious.
and the "useful" piece, what humor.

In order: Malarky, ROA, Stix, Malarky, Malarky.
hark hark malarky. :)

"a shortcut to what?"
"MUSHROOMS!"
but i will bet you it was no shortcut to get it on the roof.
nor to cover that bike in crochet. There was a car there too, but I don't know where I put the photo. OH WELL. use your imagination.
4 is another ROA.

1 is Stix again, 2 is CZK, and the last one is my favorite ROA, possibly my favorite so far. So unexpected.

LAST BATCH. if you read this far......pat yourself on the back. you are PATIENT.
That last ROA....the way he used the wall, made it look like the rat is crawling out, about to lick the drainpipe....I understand it's vandalism, sure. But there is another part of me that says "you paint over that and i'll feed you to the sharks." Or the sewer rats, they get as big as cats in London.
And the last one is one of those that made me feel like I'd caught something, caught London being London. I didn't alter it much either, all i did was make it less eye-searingly orange, if you can believe that.

Keep your eyes open.
-Lu

Museums.

2011-11-23T13:58:00.000-08:00

There are SO MANY free museums in London, it's dizzying.
I am just going to list all the ones I liked enough to recommend to other people. In no order. If/when you find yourself in London, visit a few. They're first-class.

1. The Victoria and Albert. First place I ever went in London. It is my favorite museum here. Design, art, all things beautiful. HUGE.
2. The Tate Britain. British art through the centuries.
3. The Tate Modern.
4. The National Portrait Gallery.
5. The Natural History Museum
6. The Geffrye Museum. Interiors of houses.
7. The Wallace Collection. This is the most ornate museum I've ever been to. Incredible. They have an impressive armor and weaponry collection.
8. The Museum of London. Rather trippy to look at things from Roman London, Medieval London, Elizabethan London, Victorian London, London Now, and think, "this is all layered under my very feet."
9. The British Museum. Similar to the V&A.
10. The Bethnal Green Museum of Childhood. Cute. creepy in places. Culturally very interesting.

That's all for now. I gotta do homework. Finals, yo. Later.
-Lu

I hath the Sneezles.

2011-11-21T04:40:00.000-08:00

by dose id thtuffy.

Yesh, I am still here, still doing my homework. In fact, that's mostly what I did all weekend. Aren't you proud. There's not been a lot to report lately: lingering cold-in-the-head nastiness, lots of sleeping. Being a hermit, getting the finals work donezo. It's sort of nice.
Not a lot of exploring going on tho. I have to remind myself I am not here primarily to explore absolutely everything, because 1. that's impossible. London is Bigger On The Inside. 2. I am here for school. School before exploring. Soon enough, school will be through, and all I intend to do is Christmas shop, make things, explore, and sleep.

I seem to go in shifts anyway. Be a hermit for a week, be a gypsy for a week. that be how I like it. Variety. Hopefully I'll do some exploring today: I have a self-directed museum visit as one of my last bits of homework for dear old HCFS.
HOW DIFFICULT. actually, choosing a museum is much more difficult than you would think.

thag you veddy buch.
-Lu

Are you hungry? Because you're about to be.

2011-11-12T17:58:00.000-08:00

Today, I took myself to Borough Market. It is supposed to be one of the best food markets in Europe.
I concur.
I went when I was hungry. DO NOT DO THAT.
it is pleasant torture. I ended up snacking upon a pain au chocolat with almond paste. om. nom.

There was curry.

And greenie veggies, and bread, and those BROWNIES. and meat, and mushrooms, and olives, and EVERYTHING. and Turkish Delight. the guy selling it was hilarious "Hey, good looking, come here." *gives me a sample*. Boy was that delicious.

PUFFY DOGGIE. i petted him. he was friendly and fuzzy.
I am not sure what the occasion was for bearded turbaned man to look so serious, but he held that face for a good minute. hence the good picture.

And then on the way home, which was more convoluted than we will go into, because half the Tube was out of commission.....there was this epic traffic jam. The bus sat on that street for a solid 45 minutes. See the dude in the white shirt? he hopped out, lit a cigarette, smoked it, talked to his friend, and then they hopped back in the bus.
typical.
Ha, and when his friend threw his litter all the way across the road, white-shirt guy goes and gets it, and presumably threw it away properly.

I'm never ever bored here.

But now I have a sinus infection, BUT i am going to a car-boot sale tomorrow.
good times. good night.
-Lu

CASTLES. and shakespeare. Who may not have existed. (read on.)

2011-11-11T14:45:00.000-08:00

so history. Lots of it. Warwick…hwere to starrrt. At the beginning.
Before I even got to my lodgings, I walked past/photographed the church where J.R.R. Tolkien got married, a lovely little Catholic church.

No. let’s start with the best thing.
You’re about to learn things. Things they don’t tell you in history class.

Because it would be too complicated.

You know, they say Shakespeare was not Shakespeare. He could have been many people, or that could have been a pseudonym. There are many candidates, I will not list them all. Elizabeth I is one of them. But all those possibilities save one don’t hold water. That one is Faulke Greville, former Earl of Warwick and once an inhabitant of Warwick Castle. Here is the case for his possible genius. Make your own call. It sparked my interest.

Warwick is near Stratford on Avon. There is proof that William Shakespeare met Faulke. Shakespeare left only a bed and a modest amount of money in his will. No writing desk. No inkwell. No documents. None of that.

Elizabeth I summoned Shakespeare to come to her court three times. He never showed once.

There is no record of Shakespeare attending his own plays. Faulke Greville attended them all.

There are numerous verbal clues, hidden in the jargon of that time, hinting that Shakepeare was not what he appeared, and even that he was Faulke. I don’t remember the specifics. Look it up if you like.

The wealthy and famous in that time had portraits painted to show their importance. The only portrait of Shakespeare was drawn 13 years after his death.

And here is the thing that made me wonder. In an ancient church in Warwick, Faulke Greville is buried. Or is he? His grave began to crack some time ago. It was X-rayed to find why it was cracking.

There is no body in the grave. Just boxes lined with lead. What did they store in boxes lined with lead?

Documents. His grave contains no body, only boxes filled with documents.

Makes you wonder, hey? Here’s the kicker: The Greville family line is still around. The woman who calls the shots with regard to the grave?
She doesn’t want the grave opened. But she’s ill.

The next in line? He/she wants to open it.

Pull it open, man. Let’s get the truth. After all, wouldn’t it be something to find an unsung literary genius after 500 years?

Well now, there were other things. Like Lord Leycester’s Hospital, which has nothing to do with medicine, rather, it is a place for retired servicemen to live. It is basically a beautiful quaint Tudor building complex. Like a fool, I had no camera. Pride and Prejudice was partly filmed there, if that gives you any idea. Look it up.

Here's the mean truth about photos. I have them, obviously. Not from that jaunt. They are here, on my compy. But uploading them is a PAIN. I may post them separately, I may put them on Facebook when I get home.(in fact, i think that'll be my London-sick fix) I may even show them to you personally if you wish. But I hate always having a camera. It ruins things sometimes. Tough beans. I will post some. But not all.

I'm going to flirt with verbal description for awhile.
The oak beams in this Lord Leycester place were older than America.
GET YOUR HEAD AROUND THAT. That oak, man, it's like stone. I petted it. It was tough.

Oh, Warwick Castle was cool, but too commercialized for my snarky amateur-history-buff soul. The views were incredible. ALL RIGHT FINE HERE'S PICTURES. from the tower, from the hill, from other places.
because they must be resorted to when words fail. The whole time I was thinking to myself "This is where fairytales come from. All those Brit fantasy writers, this is the soul of their worlds. This is where they live. Here." also autumn lasts so much longer here. These were taken on the first weekend of NOVEMBER. does MN look like this in November? NO.

You'll just have to come here.

2011-11-11T13:45:00.000-08:00

I pull my earbuds out and buy a turkey and cranberry pasty for 3.75, worth every pence. Pasties are like pies. Little pies full of spices and potatoes and meat and other worthwhile things, all wrapped up and juicy in thick buttery flaky pastry. Oh, careful how you say it, if you ever order one. Say “past” like “it was in the past” NOT “I used paste”. Big fat difference. The former is tasty pies, the latter involves burlesque routines.
The Evening Standard and I chill by the Bishopsgate entrance to Liverpool St. Station. I read the paper and eavesdrop on the three peers next to me. (read in your best British accent.)
“Eww, someone get it off me. I can’t stand it. I get that whenever I touch unprocessed wood.”
“There’s a man by the Starbucks who’s a woman.”
“What! A man who’s a woman!?
“Well shout it why don’t you!"
”I caught myself singing along to Justin Bieber the other day…”

Train stations are like airports, all hustle and bustle and wait, rife with possibility. I’m beginning to have a real affinity for the Liverpool St. Station. It’s on a busy street, with pubs and coffeeshops and newsstands and patio tables in the entrance, where the human lifeblood of London grabs a pint and a chat, or reads the paper. And in the dark cozy evening, it has some sort of ancient beehive aura that’s comforting. Therapeutic. I think that’s the height of my hybrid introvert/extrovert personality right there: therapy= being alone and chilling in a crowded space, observing. Love it. I feel as though I become part of the architecture, part of London. A Londoner. I get to pretend I’m a Londoner.
I despair of describing London to you. It defies me. It’s too hard.

Come. Come here.
-Lu

Being Rusty (a project. That is not school-related, or money-related, or any crap like that.)

2011-11-02T15:47:00.001-07:00

Once upon a time, I used to draw people. All the time. I drew classmates whilst they were unawares. I drew imaginary people. I drew characters from books. I drew my friends.

At some point, I quit doing that.

I think it was because my drawing skills progressed to the point where I was really starting to delve into depicting the range of emotions people's faces can convey, and I got a little intimidated.

I really don't draw much as an end in itself anymore either, and I miss it. Drawing is always just a means these days, a means to a template or a clothing pattern or a screenprint.

To remedy this, I am giving myself a project. I made a lot of arbitrary parameters, because otherwise it will have no coherence. Also, I decided to frustrate my inner hipster and do realism, which is something almost all artists do, and everybody gets sick of. Therefore, inner hipster does not like it. So I'm going to do it. Trying to get back to the way I used to do it before I (briefly) cared what other people thought.

Here's what I wrote; we'll see where it goes.

1. The subject must be a musician. That I listen to, in whatever degree. Photos of musicians are easy to find, and they have some great facial expressions. They do not need to be performing, though that's preferable.

2. I cannot use any materials other than a 2B pencil, an HB pencil, a Pink Pearl eraser, my fingers, and an 8 1/2 by 11 sheet of white paper.

3.Photo must depict subject who is either deviant in appearance, and/or “making a face”: some emotion must be expressed. There must be some personal idiosyncrasy to capture: weird hair, distinctive makeup, smile, gesture, features, something.

4. I cannot use any unnecessary strokes: no photorealism, just realism. There's a difference. All I am trying to do is make the finished sketch recognizable as that particular person, and the expression in the sketch must match that of the reference as truly as possible. Minimal background, minimal shading, minimal lines. (this is deliberately to torment myself, because I am a perfectionist, and overwork/think things.)

Anyway. not sure why I'm putting this on FB. I'm only going to post it on my creative blog when it's all done. Feel free to suggest photos or musicians if you like.

TIME TO DRAW.

My ears hurt.

2011-11-01T13:24:00.000-07:00

I just went for my first night bike ride in London.
why did i wait that long.
Nobody knows. But you know that funny pain inside your ears when you've been exercising outside in the chill? I've got that. It's not a bad feeling. It goes with a particular sort of warm fuzzy tiredness. A winter tired.

Also, there is nothing quite like doubledecker breath down your back when you're pedaling along. They have a personality, the buses here. I don't have a name for it yet.

I think I'll tell you about the Wallace Collection briefly. Oh, and Alfie's. Alfie's is funny.

The Wallace Collection is an art collection, an enormous one. It is in an 18th century hunting lodge, which is now smack in the middle of the shopping mecca around Bond Street. It's basically next to Selfridges.

The collection was left to the British public by the collector's (the 4th Marquis of I-don't-know-what)French wife under the condition that it never be added to or subtracted from.
The building itself is extremely opulent. I always get this funny sensation in places like that: simultaneously delighted and out of place. I was early, so I was wandering about, admiring, when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I had dressed a cut above my normal jeans-sneakers-hoodie equation, and as a result, I didn't look out of place. It was very strange, feeling awkward and realizing that I didn't look it.

This place was rococo to the max. There were more swirlies around than atoms, practically. Unfortunately, I did not get any wondrous photos, just some mediocre ones. The rate at which my wonderful professor whisks us through these places makes me not exercise on the days we have class. It would be too much.
If you ever get the chance, go to this place. It's free. Great word, free.

Completely random thing: The only place I can really, truly say I haven't found in London is the equivalent of Hard Times Cafe. I miss that spot. It will be one of the first places I go when I get back to Minneapolis.

I've realized something about traveling. I have to live in the moment. I can't worry about home, it'll take care of itself. Further yet, I can't try to have it all. When I'm here, though I know for a fact I could live very happily here, I get little twinges of missing Minnesota and/or Wisconsin. But when I'm home, all the souls of the places I'm visiting now are whispering across the miles and the oceans, saying "come find us!". So, obvious though it sounds, you can't have le cake and eat it too. I simply count myself lucky that I ended up in a career guaranteed to let me discover lots of those sneaky whispering voices. Catch 'em. Catch 'em all. :)

Then there's Alfie's. Alfie's is an antiques emporium. The vintage jewellery made me drool on the cases. Four stories of historical ghosties. Yum. If and when you get to London, it's on Church Street. There's a dece little market on that street too.

but then it's London, you can't walk a mile without bumbling into a market.

Here's the Wallace Collection photos.

The ornate containers are snuffboxes, none of them bigger than 5 in across. The painting, which might be familiar, was actually very sexually suggestive, but the proper Victorian ladies later on thought the girl in pink was so pretty that they cropped all the men out and put her on chocolate boxes.

yeah.
das all.
-Lu

The Clash is the cream. of the proverbial crop.

2011-10-27T12:02:00.000-07:00

I know I haven't posted any pictures in far too long.
Partly because I'm enjoying pretending I live here, and do not take pictures of things.

That is actually one of my favorite ways to be a tourist. Act like I'm not. Whatever it is that makes people say to me in the States, "you look European", it makes people ask me for directions. Then I talk, and their faces fall. But the first thing I say is that I have an atlas, so they don't run away, and I get to do my good deed for the day.

Today, instead of being direct and taking the Tube home, I took a bus to London Bridge, which despite assumptions, is the architecturally boring one. Nothing else around there is boring, but the bridge most certainly is. I then walked over to Southwark, along the Thames, past the HMS Belfast,

and across Tower Bridge, which is the awesome one. Then past the Tower of London. I love walking past it like I don't notice it, but looking at it out of the corners of my eyes, the way one looks at attractive people on public transit. It was pretty attractive.

Then I sat on the tube and laughed internally at how funny people are. Like the lady sitting across from me who kept twitching unsettlingly and rattling her Evening Standard.

Anyway. I am listening to the Clash. They sort of ooze London. Something about their socially questioning lyrics,their quirky mix of punk and reggae, the stream-of-consciousness sound of the spoken-word verse over the continous-jam sound that they do so well....sort of sums up the experience of it.

and their little accents. Just tops it off.

"Know your rights! All three of 'em."

well done boys. elegant punks.
Maybe over the weekend I'll post pictures I actually took myself.
Right now I need to decide what to send home with my uncle.
night.
-Lu

To A City

2011-10-22T12:18:00.001-07:00

It’s hard to say, London, it’s hard or impossible to predict what’s next. But I think, I feel, I hope.

We may be better friends.

I would like to know you better. I would like to know you well. I would like to know you the way I know my favorite songs. I’d like to become part of you.

I found part of me in you.

Fashion is funny.

2011-10-19T12:34:00.000-07:00

When I wear heavy music shirts/hoodies, people at (design) school are like "Oh, your shirt looks cool." They have no idea who the band is.

It tickles me. Not in a mean way: a compliment's a compliment.

Sorry I've not been taking a lot of pictures: Mum was here, so I let her take all the photos. I'll post some of hers and give a little recap: we basically only stopped walking/sightseeing to eat and sleep. For a week.
Pretty sure I can kick like a horse now.
-Lu

AAAANNND duplicate content.

2011-10-12T20:15:00.000-07:00

Schwell. That was supposed to go on my creative blog. Can't be duplicatin'. Go follow it if you like. Here
-Lu

A Verbal Image

2011-10-12T13:11:00.000-07:00

The description of this blog is “a repository of images.” Images can also be verbal. I have a deep love for visual images, but I like to try my hand at the verbal ones as well.

With no further ado, here is an image of a journey, from Angel Station in Islington, London, to Earl’s Court, Chelsea, London.

Dusk is creeping in London. The clouds smirk of rain. There are brilliant, blue-white flashes coming regularly, no thunder. This is puzzling till I see the window of the photography studio, the flashes making people glance and hurry.

I stop at the entrance to the tube station. The inside is hot, grimy, and artificially lit.

No. I don’t want to be in the belly of a little worm train, snaking through the ground. The crisp air and gloom forbid it. It’s doubledecker time.

The bus is the 19, to Hyde Park Corner. The best seat is open: front row, top deck, left corner.

A few of the trees have icy Christmas lights on selected branches, wrapped around the wood, giving the trunks a different dimension. The bus pulls so close to its cousin in front of it that were I to kick through the tall window before me, I’d hit its red paint.

The street looks half mystery, half welcome, the pedestrians Jeykll and Hyde: I’l never know which. A tiny gray-white spider races around the folds in my hoodie, and in trying to remove him nicely, I partially sqush him. Sorry sir.

Spiders, in my experience, do not fall for the “here, climb onto my finger!” schtick as readily as other bugs. Ants are the same way.

Two girls sit across the aisle. They talk too much. Well, one does. The other sits, contained, graceful, staring vacantly, listening politely. Something about the way she’s sitting is feline. “And I’m like,no, she’s been dating this guy for awhile, I’d know if they were engaged….That was so, like, stereotypical of him..”

Fascinating. Really.

I take a deep breath, and think: “SOMEone hasn’t bathed since the Dark Ages.”

Two policemen mosey along Cambridge Circus, talking easily to their companion, a man in street clothes. The metal points on their helmets glint sharp in the dark. Shaftesbury pulses with flashing bulbs on theater signs.

Contentment has snuck up on me. Like when you swallow hot coffee in the morning, and the warmth and vitality shivers through you. Can’t force it, can’t detain it. It simply is. Like art.

The bus goes past the Ritz Hotel. Once merely a family name, now an adjective and an empire. Its spangly, lightfooted ants scurry in and out of their anthill, trailing wealth like perfume.

I put a pound into a man’s hard, dirty hand, at the entrance to the Hyde Park Corner Station. He was the most cheerful person I’d met all day. And he is likely homeless, with only his blanket seat and a Styrofoam cup of coffee to his name. He said “Thanks, darling!” as if I were an old friend giving him cookies instead of a stranger with cold coin. That kind of courage deserves my pocket change, while I have it.

As I stood waiting for the train, I was looking at the boards and nails on the tunnel wall, and realized that they were not a painting. The stark lighting on the white paint made it look like hyper-realist art, and every time I looked at it again, I had to remind myself it was actual nails, actual plywood, not canvas.

I get off the train and think about putting my hood up to disguise the fact that I have earbuds in, since it’s dark, then remember being carded at Proms while attempting to obtain a Pimm’s and lemonade. I look younger with a hood up: also it hides my slightly-rougher-than-Chelsea half-hawk.

Pull open the satisfyingly heavy front door, breathe deep, and think happily, “somewhere, someone in this house is making nachos.” There was something comfortingly American about the smell of nachos.

Good night.

London is not a grid.

2011-10-12T07:56:00.000-07:00

That title...there is a screenprint hiding in that title. I'll find it. It's evading me yet.

Cities are forbidding when my attitude is forbidding. If I'm feeling receptive, then they are an enchanted, screwed up adventure. You know why I can navigate London well? It is flat. Chicago is confusing to me. There is no sense of area. It's too tall. too many skyscrapers. Too many corners with the same Dunkin Donuts or Starbucks on the corner underneath the same soot-stained skyscraper. This is not an accident. London has height restrictions on buildings, due to the historical nature of some of their sightlines: St. Paul's, for example. Also, the buildings and the sense or feel of the neighborhoods are distinct. You could also call that diversity, I guess.

The compounded layers of the history, the differences, the varied influences in each place, each region, make it easier to navigate. It nearly makes up for the lack of grid.

On that subject. London is intuitive, navigationally. If I've been somewhere only once before, I can almost always find it again by intuition. The curve of the streets, the landmarks, the buildings, the tube stations, imprint themselves on my mind, and when I am trying to find a place a second time, my mind recognizes the pattern and before I have time to truly think about it, I know where I am. And isn't that kind of what intuition is? The recognition of patterns, feelings, vibes, aura, all that stuff and how it interacts with you and the world.

I think that's what learning is. Both intuitive and logical. It is a scaffolding in your head, linking neuron to neuron, memory to facts to feelings to senses. And you know you've truly learned something when it fits in that neural scaffolding like a puzzle piece.

I remember the streets, but always in relation to other things. If I were to draw London, the streets would be there, but there would be other things in equal measure: tube lines, landmarks, neighborhoods.

I rarely get entirely lost. Rather, I lose my way. There is a difference. Losing my way is easy to remedy, usually. For several reasons,I've decided.

I like observing. If something is unusual or visually interesting or disturbing, I will remember it, and where it was.

I'm a designer. Doesn't seem to relate, does it? Well, it does.
An excellent drawing professor I once had told me that drawing was a constant flipping back and forth between your intuitive side and your logical side, between the left and the right brain. Design is the same. It requires you to express an aesthetic, an emotion, a feeling, a look, in an object while retaining its practical use.

So, I do that every day. I practice it, because I love it. Such that there is a decently strong connection between the left and right halves of my brain. When I'm trying to find my way, the pattern recognition of my intuition combines with the cold hard facts in my reason.

Also one should never be ashamed to ask directions. Courtesy is key.

The last thing: I like to know stuff for myself. I love to explore. I lose my way on purpose if I have the time.

It pays off.

Oh! and this is weirder yet. I hate highways. They confuse the living daylights out of me. Because I'm going too fast to observe, and because the threat of collision requires that I keep my eyes on the road. more so than walking, or even biking. Though biking in London, believe me, is a strange middle ground. You can be hit by a car, but you're not going so fast as you would on a highway.Neither truly pedestrian nor driver. Rider. You're a rider.

I think, actually, that in only one month and a week of living in London without a car (I've been in a car twice, and it was a cab both times.THE WAY THEY DRIVE....!!!)Anyway, in that time, I have a mental map of London that compares pretty favorably, to my mental map of Minneapolis, as well as Hudson/River Falls. Where, collectively, I've spent 20 years. That is strange.

MORAL OF RAMBLING, PRETENTIOUS STORY: lose your way.
-Lu

Final Answer.

2011-10-09T09:51:00.000-07:00

I hate, hate, hate, hate, the question "What kind of music do you like?"

That is an impossible question. Genres don't work, for within each genre are brilliant artists and people who aren't even artists, they just have a record contract. There are people who don't have a record contract. And there seems to be an expectation that one only likes a few kinds of music.

Well yeah, there are some genres that I don't appreciate the general sound of. Mainstream rap and pop. Country. Opera.

But aside from that, here's the real answer. I like music that is alive.

Handel.
Underoath.
Norah Jones.
Skrillex.
Beirut.
The Clash.
Sufjan Stevens.
Tchaikovsky.
Yann Tiersen.
Radiohead.
Skinny Puppy.
Switchfoot.
Balkan Beat Box.
The Sex Pistols.
Daft Punk.
Marilyn Manson.
Jars of Clay.
Trentemøller.
Jon Foreman.
Iggy Pop.
The Glitch Mob.
Hans Zimmer.
Sigur Ros.
Bauhaus.
Pavarotti.
Vitas.
Ella Fitzgerald.
Motionless in White.
Chopin.
Maylene And The Sons Of Disaster.
Gogol Bordello.
Sondre Lerche.
Phil Keaggy.
Showbread.
Flogging Molly.
The Ramones.
Gorillaz.
Jimi Hendrix.
Johnny Cash.
Lady Gaga.
ceo.
Andrew Bird.
Becoming The Archetype.
Nirvana.
The Misfits.
Joy Division.
The Velvet Underground.
Bob Dylan.
Chastity Brown.
Leonard Cohen.
The Chariot.
Arcade Fire.
Louis Armstrong.
J.S. Bach.
Eyedea and Abilities.
Pink Floyd.
Aesop Rock.
Paper Diamond.
Atmosphere.
The Devil Wears Prada.
The Tallest Man on Earth.
The White Stripes.
Audioperm.
Basshunter.
Fever Ray.
The Beatles.
Regina Spektor.
The Rolling Stones.
Bright Eyes.
Bob Marley.
The Cure.
Olafur Arnalds.
U2.
We Butter The Bread With Butter.
Gustav Holst.

etc....forever.
Asking me which kind of music I like best is like asking what facet of a diamond is most beautiful.
It's a silly question.

yeah.
-Lu

Liberty in the UK

2011-10-08T10:01:00.000-07:00

OOOO0000ooooo you thought I was going to say anarchy. they have that too.
But the Liberty I speak of is the most heavenly department store I have ever had the pleasure of entering. Bar none.

It is basically a haven of all things beautiful. Fabric. Yarn. Haberdashery. Christmasy things. Furniture. Other homey things. Handbags. Shoes. Paper. Things to color the paper with.

I mean, there is an entire hall (and i say hall in the sense of Vikings-could-have-lunch-here) devoted to scarves.

Go there. I will say no more, except to give you photos. I took only one photo inside, and felt like I was violating a sacred contract.

And the area outside is incredibly cute, and incredibly expensive. It reeeeeeks of money. And at that point, I had a small revelation.

I am not the judge of rich people. I know I'm comparatively rich. But there is something in me that dislikes the facade of perfection there, and elsewhere. It just doesn't jive with me. I like conflict. Personality. Idiosyncracy, a little whiff of anarchy. I thrive on that. Liberty I somewhat exempt from this, because it has oodles of personality and a smidge of dark whimsicalness.

But it's a free market world in London, and if them folks want to buy all that stuff up, I won't stop them. Their life.

And I also encountered a zombie pub crawl. And a troop of about ten men dressed as superheroes. (too much spandex, not enough muscle.)All in Oxford Circus. An apt name. The couple, when I asked for their photo, I couldn't understand a word and was trying to deceipher whether they'd said yes or no....oh WAIT, you are beyond smashed, you're friendly, and YOU WON'T REMEMBER A THING. *snappity snap*
in retrospect, maybe they weren't a couple....

lalalallalaaa
Then to Green Park, and more lessons in capitalism.
In Green Park, there are a bunch of green-and-white striped lawn chairs as you come out of the tube stop. Being tired, I sat down. I was just reflecting on how nice it was of whoever to put those chairs there, when I and two other travellers were informed by a snarky little man in a neon vest that the chairs were not free, they were 50 p.

FAIL. Not on my part. Oh no. An epic, epic fail on the part of the lawn-chair schemer. For all around me, under the cozy gray sky and the towering autumn-clad trees, through all of Green Park, were benches and lovely green grass. And no smirky people charging 50 p.

KEEP YO LAWN CHAIR, BUCKO. Schemes like that only work if I have no other option, and praises be, you haven't monopolized the snuggly vegetation and park benches.

I made some dry, nondescript reply and moved off to freer butt-resting spots.
The other two people did the same. There was no one else sitting.

(i'm sure he probably makes money when the park is more crowded and the weather's warm, but at that moment, it was ludicrous. Laughable. silly.)

Ennyhow. I'm tired. Sometimes I want to be out in this kind of weather, but sometimes all I want is my screen, a book, a project, and the window.

OH HA. the window. Last thing. I was wondering lately why I could hear all the street sounds so crystal clear. Then one day I glanced up at the top of the window frame. There is a clean gap, big enough for me to stick my hand in, between the edge of the frame at the top, and the actual structure of the wall. There is a hole in the wall. I never.

I want soup.
-Lu

alert: pretentiousness awaits in this post.

2011-10-07T15:22:00.000-07:00

There is so much whining in the world, guys. So much. It frustrates me. It is such an utter waste of breath, time, life, opportunity.
SO. at the risk of becoming a whiner about whining (INCEPTION JOKE HERE) (I HAVEN'T SEEN INCEPTION. YES I AM A SORT OF NORMAL HUMAN.)
i give you the photo that absolutely, completely, perfectly sums up my reaction to said whinging and whining.

Good night.
-Lu

it is a SMALL WORLD. and i like libraries.

2011-10-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

I am sitting at the moment in the lobby of The British Library, parasitically using the internet. Well, not really.

Also, maybe this happens to other people all the time, but it had never happened to me before. I posted this photo I took in Camden Town on Saturday on Tumblr. I don't usually put the place and day taken, but I did.

And in all the spiderwebbyness of the internets, the girl in the picture found and reblogged it. funny.

anyway. This place is quietly intelligent, worldly-in-a-good way. The tagline is "The world's knowledge" and I guess that's about the best way to sum it up. However, I don't have any proof of my address, so I don't know if I can be a member here. Oh well. Great place for studying.

I promised myself I would not have anything so common as Starbucks in London. But then i was ridiculously thirsty, and I had a vision of a venti chai frappucino made with half-and-half and extra chai and espresso, and brain simultaneously recalled that there was a Starbucks down the street and that was the end of that resolution. They also have these little lollies that I used to beg for every time Mom took us into Starbucks, but I've not seen them in American Starbucks anymore. and then I sat on the curb and drank it and watched Oxford Circus rumble on.

On Friday I went to Regent's Park. At dusk, with the leaves just starting to fall and the gardens still in bloom, I thought I'd walked into an enchanted kingdom or something. The photos won't do it justice, but they're better than nothing.

ah it relaxes me simply to think of it.

I AM GOING TO CATCH UP. i promise.

2011-10-05T20:06:00.000-07:00

But for now, here is a little thingie i wrote in Journalism class this afternoon. It is probably no good as a news story, but it's not being graded, it's funny, and she was NOT CLEAR on what we were supposed to be writing. And I had half an hour.

anyway. whining over.
Movie Review into News Story. -
Found in The Daily Flare, a Martian tabloid

Shortly after a catastrophic Earthling wedding, which ended with the groom
killing himself and the depressed bride estranging her entire family,the
rogue planet Melancholia collided with Earth, resulting in the end of that
planet.

The bride had had an elaborate wedding planned by her siblings, though
she was deeply depressed and not interested in worldly fanfare. To make
matters worse, her estranged parents fell out further during the event,
resulting in unhappiness all around. Some have even speculated that the
anger and ill-will generated by the wedding attracted the attention of the
sentient Melancholia, who decided to end the wedding and the Earthling
world.

Though we mourn the end of that unhappy family and the rest of the
human race, a more pressing concern is the abundant space debris
resulting from the collision, which poses a terrible threat to the
inhabitants of Mars. Regardless of the cause,the debris of Earth will
continue to be a problem requiring the most creative Martian solutions. We
suggest contacting your local community leaders with ideas, as the issue is
urgent.

(I made up the part about the Martians, the sentient planet, and the
debris. The movie apparently involved little more than a terrible wedding
and the end of the world. The movie was Melancholia.)

yes. I have break from LCF classes for two weeks. I intend to chill, sleep, explore, make things, and BLOG. there is half a post on regent's park waiting for pictures that will make the pretty-loving part of your brains verrrry happy. so. let me go finish my homeworks SINCE IT'S 4:03. (parents, I promise I've only stayed up like this once, no twice, since I left. I'm normally painfully responsible, of course...)
grood night.
-Lu

much blogging.

2011-10-02T14:19:00.000-07:00

There is so much to catch up on i don't even know where to start......since i last blogged....Tate Britain, worldwide squees, Museum of London, Lucie finds the Tardis, Regent's Park, Camden Town, night so late it's early, and as previously stated, sore muscles.

Well. Eat an elephant one bite at a time. Let us first betake ourselves to the beautiful Tate Britain.
It is on the banks of the Thames, and there are charming benches set on brick pilings so you can see the water as you sit, and not just a brick wall. Being me, I climbed onto the wall instead of the bench. Here's me not falling in the Thames.

yes yes ok.

now the inside. This is all British artsies. I tell you, the London, it has the stellar museums. stellar I say.

I believe this was called "Athlete Wrestling with a Serpent"

And this piece of art will forever remind me of Anne of Green Gables, and the fateful reenactment of Ophelia's death, wherein people nearly drown. So, I giggled when we got to this one, because it's a hilarious part in the book, and everybody looked at me funny.....smatter, people, didn't you have a childhood.....

for some reason, when i looked at this one, it seemed the most perfect pictorial representation of the word "pride" i had ever seen.

And some Bacon. Weird stuff.

Ah, this one. By John Singer Sargent. It was in a lovely book I had as a kid, no idea where it went. Regardless, I spent hours poring happily over that book, and immediately on seeing this it brought childhood and security and happily amusing myself for hours back. And it's pretty.

aha then there was an area where you could make a drawing and hang it up. An unknown stranger contributed the beautiful man-in-hat piece, and I did the little mermaid gem. And yes, I hung them up.

This one really struck me to the point that if I were filthy rich, I would have tried to buy it. It's basically The Thinker, threatened by the bayonets of fascism. Painted around WWII, I believe.

And to end, I think this chandelier was my favorite. Skinny Bunny Rabbit was cool too.

2011-10-02T11:05:00.000-07:00

my. legs. hurt. (and my butt.) last 3 days: walk walk walk SPEED-WALK YOU'RE LATE walk walk walk walkwalkwalk dance for four hours, walk walk walk walk NAP.

In London, thinking about Wall Street.

2011-09-30T14:03:00.000-07:00

It feels kind of funny, being so far from my home country when stuff really hits the news.

I don't pretend to know if Occupy Wall Street will go down in the books, maybe, maybe not. And I haven't pulled my head out of the sands of London long enough to actually formulate an opinion on the event itself.

Well, I sort of have.

I think that I would much rather people take action on what they see going wrong than sit around in front of TV.

If you disagree, take (peaceful, please) opposing action.
Looking at the list of cities organizing similar protests is.....what? Not frightening, certainly. Not surprising, since economic conditions, and therefore the conditions in which we live, have been unstable, scary, difficult, angering, so on, for awhile now.

Yeah, yeah, I know it could be worse. But that is no reason to let it get worse.
Answering my own previous question, then, about the spread of protests, it is reassuring to me, I think. It....ahh I'm not sure how to say this. Whether or not I entirely agree with the protests, (and I do agree on some levels), it's good to know people have some spark in them, some fire, a lack of passivity.

That's all.
-Lu

Just some wanderings about.

2011-09-29T16:21:00.000-07:00

This is basically me running around with a camera. Enjoy. There will be many, many more posts like this. I am beginning to realize that updating this will probably happen at least once a week, twice if we're lucky. It will depend on the week....
And if you ever come to London, here is a snippet of anecdotal advice about transport...

There was a combination moment today.. It was the combination of a good dubstep remix of Pink Floyd’s Brain Damage, the top of a double decker bus, being curled up in the front corner seat, and the sunshine on the spires and graffiti.

The tube is great, yeah, it’s got personality, it’s got stories, it’s the most prime place for people-watching evah, it’s quick. But…..it’s UNDERGROUND.

If you want to look at London, not just see it.... top of the double-decker, every time.

Other anecdotes, then some pictures.

on that same bus ride, I saw a man standing at a crosswalk, wearing a red shirt, green skinny jeans, and no shoes. No socks neither. And I wanted to say to him "Sir, if you are trying to represent Christmas, wear shoes." and then I realized that was hypocritical because I wanted to go barefoot too. But there's too much litter around for that.

There is a different ethic regarding litter here, because they have street-sweepers. It is acceptable to leave litter in the following places: on top of rubbish bins (NO LOGIC, WHATSOEVER), in telephone booths, on ledges, on the tube, on top of newspaper dispensers, basically any flat surface or corner.

Also I was trying to get to class last Saturday, and the tube stop was closed, and so Jessica and I were being all independent and figuring out the buses, and being late, when I saw a man on the corner wearing a gorilla suit. I giggled internally and thought no more of it. Not five minutes later, on the correct bus, finally, TWO MORE GORILLAS. walking down the street chatting. At 10 am on a Saturday.

what is this i don't even.
just london being london.

another bus ride. abandoned markers on top of bus shelters, creeping on people, feet on dashboard that isn't dashboard (note: the very best seat on a double decker is the right corner seat all the way in the front.)

and I had a class near the Camden antiques market, which is cute, and so expensive my wallet hurts just walking in all those adorable little boutiques. Miss Weideman. you would have died. There is a ladybug on the top of my computer screen, now he flew away.

and here are some candlesticks.

And then on Sunday I betook myself to Brick Lane again. Here is something I wrote that day: "I went a-marketing this morning, to Brick Lane , then Petticoat Lane. Both, but Brick Lane particularly, have this air of anarchic antiquity: all the stuff spread out catawampus on the sidewalk, rubbish and treasure all mixed together, the advertising done the old-fashioned way. “ONLY one pound, EVERYTHING one pound, HAVE a look, have a look!” “Cheap, cheap, have a look!” “Real fruit, real juice, cheap!” Let me tell you, that stand, with trays of fresh-squeezed juice sitting in rainbow rows, piles of fruit waiting to be smushed behind them, and behind that the quick-moving employees making it before your very eyes…nom.I was full of empanadas and Argentine cookies (caramel-taffy stuff between shortbread biscuits), but I nearly caved. Oh well. It’ll be there next week.

And to top it all off, in Petticoat Lane in the midst of all the cruddy fashion and five-pound sale racks of “Topshop” stuff, there is a grizzled man selling hot roasted chestnuts and peanuts with his charred little oven, looking like a Dickens illustration come to life."

They have this area you will see below, with a bunch of table games to play, wherein the top of the table is the board.

And this girl has the classiest jacket....and then some shoes.

And now, finally, we come to the last few days. I promise the young lady with the epic trousers was really smiling, not smirking like that, she really was flattered...yours awkwardly truly just took the photo when the smirk had not smiled.....
I love those cab Vodafone ads....maybe you can't see, but the majority of it is just all the picturesque street and landmark and neighborhood names of London.

and that last one I took simply because it was so ridiculously BRITISH.

There, that ought to keep ye busy for awhile.

tomorrow, we go to the British Library, Camden Town, and Regent's park. That is my unofficial wandering plan for le Friday. hoooorrraaaayyyyyy!!!!!
nighty. night.
P.S. For any and all Doctor Who fans out there, apparently there used to be a Police Call Box, a.k.a. The Tardis, outside the very tube stop I live next to. I don't believe it's there anymore. That or I am incredibly unobservant. I shall look and report back tomorrow. Or sometime.
-Lu

I've never seen Zoolander. (yes, i live under a rock.)

2011-09-26T12:38:00.000-07:00

Modeling.

There are so many stigmas and stereotypes associated with modeling it is eencredible. And like all stereotypes, they started somewhere.

Anorexic. Big ego. Shallow. Talentless, just capitalizing on their looks. Overpaid. Dumb.

I’m not going to say anything about any of that. I’m just saying the things that have struck me in while looking at innumerable photos of these people and the lovely clothes they wear.

Modeling bears some resemblance to acting. Without speech or movement if we’re talking about a photo.

Also I’m aware that they are coached and prompted, touched up and digitally changed. But I’ve also noticed that there are things that cannot change.

Your bearing, your posture, your attitude, your aura, if you like, is something elusive. A model and the people who work with them have to communicate a whole world, a whole message, in an image. That’s hard. They have to use those elusive things to communicate to you, the consumer.

They are acting out the story of the clothes they are wearing. I’m sure there is diversity in how seriously models take that.

Let’s put it this way: I would not call myself unattractive, in fact, I’ve been told the opposite. But I’d make a terrible model. If I’m just being me in clothes, I’m told I can “pull it off” (it being, odd, unwashed, raggy, weird, thrifted, or otherwise strange apparel). But if I stop and think about it, I absolutely freeze. To this day I hate being taken pictures of. (mother, that's why i make faces.)It’s like way back in the day when I tried to act. It didn’t work.

So props to all you people out there who do your job in spite of people asking you if you’re anorexic.

2011-09-25T15:43:00.000-07:00

so I had a whole post written about the National Portrait Gallery, and somehow deleted it. I could probably retrieve it, re-write it, but in all honesty, i just don't want to. So here are some of my scribblings of late instead. Perhaps one day I'll get the urge to re-work that post, but today/tonight ain't it.

here we are.

Thinking about cities. They don’t necessarily make people more civilized, they just magnify your civilization or lack thereof. Proximity is the key. If you’re a jackass, everybody knows it. However, it is also easy to hide in a city, because you’re just a face in the crowd. So your deeper parts go unknown, and the little things are blatant. The tiny ways you interact with people, whether you are kind or inconsiderate. Do you give up your seat or pretend you don’t see? Pick up the dropped parcel or walk on? Snap angrily or give the benefit of the doubt? It could be argued that the little things indicate what your true character is, hint at the deeper things. I know you can fake the little things, but I honestly think it’s pretty hard. What you do when you are a speck in the crowd, and something catches you by surprise, or bypasses your analytical side, gets to you, annoys you, those things are telling.

And believe it or not, people remember. I can recall innumerable kind strangers. The graciousness of people you’re around all the time gets taken for granted, but surprising kindness is remarkable. I could pick the cashier at Tesco today out of a crowd for you because he was kind. I could probably draw him.

All that to say, I love cities. They are a neverending movie. Sometimes it’s terrible, yeah. But that’s the part everyone talks about. Tell the whole tale, people.

In that vein, here’s a couple quotes

There is nothing in which people more betray their character than in what they laugh at." Goethe

You can easily judge the character of a man by how he treats those who can do nothing for him. --James D. Miles.

I know who Goethe was, but I’ve no clue about the other dude.

good night.
-Lu

the gallery with the portraits.

2011-09-23T13:18:00.000-07:00

They don't actually let you take pictures in the National Portrait Gallery. But I found several interesting portraits, which I shall now tell ye about.
This was, I think, my favorite museum so far. I love people, and this was a place entirely about people, about their times and their cultures, and their similarities, and their differences, and personalities, and responsibilities, and the makers of the portraits who captured all this. Before we even got to the first gallery (well, besides the one with the Rolling Stones, next to the bathrooms), our tutor pointed out that as you come up the long escalator to the upstairs galleries, there is nothing on the walls. Everywhere else, there is something on the walls. And you turn and look at all the people coming up the escalator, and they are a portrait. They are a living portrait.
I don't know if they intended that, but I thought it was cool.
There was a gallery where the portraits are hung on glass, so that you can see the other person on the other side looking at the portrait on the other side. My favorite thing in that gallery was the work of a man named Ronald Searle. Here are some of his cartoons. They're a stitch.

I also loved the modern galleries. A couple really striking ones were the video portrait of a sleeping David Beckham, and a self-portrait by Marc Quinn, made of his own frozen blood in a mold.

And then I went and had lunch with Nelson and the pigeons and a lots of other people in Trafalgar Square.

It's fall. I found this monster of a leaf today.

that is my computer, for scale. Night kids.
-Lu

oh boy oh boy oy boi.

2011-09-18T16:18:00.000-07:00

My nose is running. WELL YA BETTER GO CATCH IT! that's what my dad would say.

The neighborhood where I have corsetry class reminds me a little of Cedar-Riverside. There are a million different cultures. Here's a mural.

Then I biked to Hyde Park. It was the most gorgeous day. Ah to be a seagull with nothing to do but eat fish and chill on the roof-pole.

Here is something I scrawled in my sketchbook while I was there: "What an absolute glory of a day! Perfect sun, tugging breeze, and nowhere on God's green earth I'd rather be than Hyde Park. This will have to be a regular thing. The water is so ridiculously blue. The birdies bathe in it, flapping. People are doing all the things that should be done in a park: kissing, biking, talking, sleepings, sitting waiting, wishing, longboarding. A sanctuary, like a library.
P.S. there's a paddleboat full of French kids who yell like little children whenever the big Canada geese fly near them.

That was on Wednesday.

Today, we went to various things to do with London Fashion Week, namely went to Topshop to hear the cool Charlotte Taylor talk about starting your own line, producing collections, manufacturing, how to find retailers, press, so on, so forth. She has awkwardly adorable prints, one of which she was wearing. She was so kind as to let me take a photo:

there was a cycle race

hhhaha side note i'm now watching some vid about an entire family who plays World of Warcraft....

anyway, after that we went to Somerset House on the Strand, stared at all the expensively dressed people, went and had dinner at some little cafe, sat there till they closed, then went back to Somerset (which is one of the venues for shows during London Fashion Week) and asked to register for the show screenings they do, and found they were about to close, though there were still lots of people there. Then we asked where the bathroom was, and sneeked right past the guard fellows into the bathroom, drank some free champagne, watched a screening of Cassette Playa by Carrie Munden's SS 2012 collection (May I note that though the clothes were very cool, the word intelligent was misspelled on the brochure, and my inner grammar geek giggled) and then went and people-watched in the lobby till they started kicking people out. it was close quarters so I took no photos of all those ridiculously well dressed people, and was wary of asking them as we really didn't have any sort of pass or anything we should have had......but it was a bunch of cool peacocks, believe me.

And it was next to the river and it was preeedddy....

also, here is this very blurry picture illustrating your trend for the day: ombre'd hair. it has the potential to look cool, and the potential to look like you have the longest roots in the world.

und zat, chilllens, is all for today. i have many a thing to do, tomorrow, yea, even tonight.
groodbai.
-Lu

The British Museum

2011-09-17T17:29:00.000-07:00

On Monday, (my, that long ago?) my classmates and I got ourselves to the British Museum for class. here tis.

oh of course i got lost getting there and ended up in some little park chillin. I always leave about two hours early for this class, so lateness is not an issue.

the first is this lovely stone lion. I don't remember where he was or what he was, but he was nice and gracefully intimidating.

and the next ones are an Australian crocodile mask.

metalwork leaves me in awe, also knitting, and that textile there is something else. You know what it is? It is knitted, and it contains all the medication that the average human consumes in a lifetime. It was meters long. And needless to say the woman's was longer than the man's.

and here is a nice totem pole, and then my favorite thing I saw, perfect in its creepy simplicity, crystal skull. and this resourceful textile from Africa, made from the tinfoil on wine bottles.

more things from the Africa bit, and some lovely sculptures. you may note that the two fellows have a certain bit of their anatomy missing. Fact is, in the Victorian day, they emasculated all the poor statues, and stored the broken-off pieces in the basement. As if the absence was not as glaring as the presence. Ha. (it's still in the basement...O_O)

a cartoon museum? yeshh pweese....

night guys, my left tonsil is killing me...it's always that one.
-Lu

Be yourself. Everyone else is already taken.

2011-09-14T14:02:00.000-07:00

Oscar Wilde said that. It got him in trouble. While we are on the subject of quotes, here are a few more of my favorites: George Nathan on George Bernard Shaw: "Shaw writes his plays for the ages. The ages between five and twelve." Shakespeare on other people: "I do desire we might be better strangers", and my personal favorite of all time "Do thou amend thy face, and I'll amend my life."

Ok. I have a whole post written, and pictures of the British Museum, and various other places for you, but you're going to have to wait, because I'm hungry. and I have other things to do besides blog, believe it or not.

hypocritical statement. sawing off the branch I'm sitting on. K. going now.
-Lu

How many many feet you meet. ( The well-heeled footsies of London)

2011-09-12T14:47:00.000-07:00

I. love. shoes. My closet doth attest the fact.

So, obviously, I look at people's shoes. And take pictures of them. No, that's not creepy. It's a compliment.

And if you're wondering how people react to you asking if you can take their picture, 90% of the time they are absolutely flattered. People are delightfully vain: shutterbugs, thou shalt exploit this.

Anyway, here are just a few of the 16 million feet of London.

Nice black stilettos sir. that is not a typo. Use your eyes. :)

They needn't match. Mine sometimes don't. They need only accord with the dictates of your soul.

AH! we must not forget le friendly cross-dresser. Here he is:

He told us he was on on his way to work in Soho. This was at 9 in the evening. He then asked if I was a lesbian. To which Priya wittily replied, "No, she's just fabulous."
And that,dear people, is all for tonight. i go to draw some corsets.
-Lu

Brick Lane. Hipsters. Clothes.

2011-09-12T13:08:00.000-07:00

If you like Ragstock, I'm about to make you drool. Brick Lane is one of the more well-known markets in London, and it is the motherlode of all vintage, funky, punky, eclectic, sometimes black-market shopping. You cannot throw an empty Starbucks cup without hitting some little hole in the wall full of half junk, half treasure, and clothes from the last five decades. There are whole alleyways full of beautiful stolen cycles and parts. Stalls full of old electronics and food and just plain interesting pieces of crap.

It is also CRAWLING with hipsters. Need I say I felt so at home it was almost uncomfortable. I was too busy enjoying myself to take too many pictures: it will have to be revisited. Many times. However, I shall share with you what I did snap.

We begin with the view from my street, (deffo not Brick Lane) on such a London morning as makes you really happy to be alive and sauntering down the avenue.

Now we get there.

and this place, oh, my mouth waters at the thought. They make these fantastic beigels, then they put salted beef in them, then they hand it to you and you are happy. We're not talking about Arby's beef. It looks like you've got half a cow in your hand. Glomp. eaten.

drawing on the wall is encouraged, or at least tolerated. space invader was here? and little pink dinos eat coins. Actually he wasn't all that little.

I believe this store was called Beyond Retro. It never ended, pretty much.

There was a jacket from.....wait for it.... SHAKOPEE. Shakopee Minnesota. in London. What a laugh.

And that food

the pink boots are great too, no? Don't let me forget to tell you about the cross-dresser who asked if I were a lesbian.

le People

Ladeez an gents, it geeves me great pleasure to present to you.....the hipsters (in the best possible sense) of Brick Lane. yeah. And some from Fashion's Night Out. And various other places in this excellent city.

FNO. The fellow in the beautiful coat and cravat was in Alexander McQueen, the rest, as you can see, mostly stopped on the street.

This fellow was standing in Speaker's Corner in Hyde Park. nice jacket sir.

Brick Lane folk:

Yes, I do believe I could live here. Yup.
-Lu

War Horse. And the National Theater, and Other Stuff. (like proms in the park)

2011-09-11T15:09:00.000-07:00

I felt so British-ness soaked after all this. It was fantastico.

Well, Uncle Dan and I saw War Horse. Synopsis: Follow endearing horse named Joey through childhood, WWI, and happy ending. In case you see it, I shall elaborate no more.

Are there theater lovers among you? Because the technology, the artistry, the design, was goose-bumpy. Goose-bumpy I tell you. The main character is a horse. Now, in a movie, no problem. Get a smarter-than-average horse. Theater, not so easy.

Solution: Life-sized horse puppets. And I don't mean animatronic puppets either. These were old-fashioned puppets, with people inside them. They are made of cane, wire, gauze, leather, who knows what other ingenious things, and look like so (not my picture):

The actors can ride them, their ears move, their legs look like horse legs, basically they're incredibly lifelike. The puppeteers did such a good job of giving this (sort of) inanimate thing a personality that you forgot they were there. Even, oddly, the man who stands beside the head the whole show through and works the neck, mouth and ears. I wanted to find those individuals afterwards and tell them what a phenomenal job they did, but I couldn't remember their faces, which was as it should be.

Also, there was a nearly full-size tank. I almost fell out of my seat. Did I mention it was a front-row seat? I kept being afraid something was going to hit me in the face, and simultaneously being really amazed and happy.

Side note: The whole story was good, a fairly family-friendly tale, but it interested me most, when the sidekick horse died. Why? Well, when he dies, the puppeteers inside stop moving, then slowly, reverently extract themselves and back away into the shadows of the wings. It was a strikingly good expression of death: the animating thing, your mind, your soul, pulls itself out, leaving only a puppet.

If you have any chance at all, see it. Was well worth the while.

Next morning, Dan took us to a backstage tour of the National Theater, which was impressive, but too long to blog in detail.

then Proms in the Park.

Guys, Brits are funny.

They seem so reserved sometimes. But get them a little music, a little patriotism, some grumpy weather, and they are an entirely different bunch. Long story short, we sat on the grass in Hyde Park and listened to live music for six hours on a windy, drizzly, typical London evening. There were 30,000 people there, if I heard aright. The music varied widely, and was mostly excellent. at the end, everybody sang together, and waved flags, and cheered, and were patriotic. And yes, I sang Rule Brittania along with everyone else. When in Rome. Don't forget who brought you.

however, I did sing the first verse of God Save The Queen as My Country Tis Of Thee, just for kicks, then gave in and switched to the former, which ALWAYS, always makes me think of The Sex Pistols. Yet another reason I'm ok with pretending I'm a Brit for a bit.

Cider and crisps. They go together verra nice. Now I'm hungry.

Here's all the flags and hullabaloo.

That's enough blogging for tonight. There is homework to be done and tea to be consumed. Tomorrow, we post about Brick Lane, the ever-present clothes, and hipsters. London hipsters, to be precise.

Good night, errybuddy.
-Lu

How to......Make Shoes.

2011-09-11T14:33:00.000-07:00

This was the first class I've been late to, and it was an embarrassing, nerve-wracking 30 mins. late. At least the class is seven hours long, and I get to learn how to make shoes in it. Can't complain. I won't bore you too much, just a few pictures and some snippets of information.

Basically, to pattern a shoe, you take the last, cover it in two layers of masking tape, mark certain important spots, trim the edges, slice it in particular places, and peel it off. Then you CAREFULLY place the tape chunk on pattern paper, and smooth it out with as few creases as possible.

Then, you do various complex things to it, and voila! we hath a pattern for a shoe upper. Then you trace and slice in various other ways to get the lining pattern. Fun, it is.

Other things learned: did you know that part of the reason that designer shoes, for instance Jimmy Choos, (i couldn't help it, it rhymed.) are so very expensive is that the heel mold has to be cast carefully, specifically, exactly as they want it? If you get shoes from Target, they may well have the exact same heel mold as the ones from Forever 21. But a pair of Prada heels? Not so. They have been made to look perzackly how the designer wants them to look.

Also this place has leather scraps. be jealous. PRETTY leather scraps.

On to War Horse!

-Lu

Una Noche del Fashion.

2011-09-11T14:09:00.000-07:00

Fashion's night out, in case you are not aware, is an event begun by Vogue Magazine, wherein countless retailers in every city with any sort of fashion scene stay open late, have deals, celebrities around, DJ's, new snazzy window displays, free cocktails and champagne, and everybody dresses up and admires everybody else's clothes. It's fun.

We (flat-mates and I) betook ourselves to Bond Street, home of expensive, beautiful clothes/shoes/bags/people. And really well dressed salespeople. Of course.

Here's Allsaints Spitalfields. Their entire storefront is vintage sewing machines. How.....vintage.

This post will likely be just storefronts, however, I think I'll have to devote another post to the street fashion I caught in the lens that night: there's plenty, of every imaginable sort.

NOW. The icing on the cake, the proverbial prize, the place with the longest line, was without a doubt Alexander McQueen. If you ever listen to me talk about fashion in person, you've heard this name. We spent at least a blissful hour in here. Some of the photos are not the most stellar quality, but chalk that up to me avoiding the gaze of the photo-forbidding shop assistants. pweese. spanks.

Le storefront and window display. For the record, this is the Fall/Winter 2011 collection. Yes, the bodice of that white and blue number is indeed pieces of porcelain. Why? BECAUSE IT'S ART.
(P.S. i can die happy now. )

Le inside. Trey beans, as the sergeant in War Horse said. But wait, we're not there yet.

you see those clutches. The brass-knuckle ones. I WANT them.

an some shoesies.

COATS. I apologize for the blur.

Heatherpants, that last one was taken with you in mind. It's calfskin. And I wanted to eat it.

And shoes. ah, shoes.

And believe it or not, we did go other places. That one was just my favorite. Here they are. The first two are Dolce & Gabbana, since it isn't immediately legible. Unless of course, you're a fashion nerd and recognize the collection.

And that's enough of that. that street is going to get another visit from me, and further drool on the windows/shop floors. It is always enjoyable to pretend one has the money to buy such things.

The streets were so full, and I mean cars-can't-get-through full, of well-dressed, happy fashion nerds. Such fun.

slow down the room please and let me off.

2011-09-11T13:11:00.000-07:00

AHHHHHHHH what a weekend. I don't believe I've stopped moving since Thursday. And then I wake up in the morning still tired and feel like this:

yes. Well, let's just say the vintage shopping in old Mpls will seem rather pooey after this, because yours truly went to Brick Lane today. more bout's that later, and a sampling of le London hipster.

But for now, an incident that appeals to my coincidence-and-clothes-loving soul.

On Thursday, while waiting outside Alexander McQueen, whilst I was admiring this one redheaded girl's coat, a tall guy walks by and I think to myself "where have I seen him?" it then hits me i have his picture off a style blog. I realize that may be ordinary for some people, but I had never had it happen, and it's slightly surreal. Not exactly a conversation starter. "hey I have a picture of you!" "ehhhhh...."

well, i managed to snap a picture, and you can decide for yourself.

Here's the blog picture, from the London Style Scout, (check it out!)

and here is my reflexive, neither-polished-nor-posed snap:

I thought i was mistaken till I realized the tats were the same: those rarely lie. Right, creeping over, now I'll actually blog about FNO, because it was AWSOME.

Me Day. Short.

2011-09-07T18:01:00.000-07:00

We went to Primark today: Forever 21 on steroids.
Sitting outside waiting for everyone else to check out, looked down, saw these tiny little oxford sneaker things, abandoned.

As I'm trying to decide whether to abscond with them or not, the street sweeper picks them up with his little grabby thing, and turns towards the trash. I say, "Hey, you gonna throw those away?" He hands them to me without a word.

Sitting in the same spot, see three girls with 7 big Primark bags apiece get into a taxi, the bags nearly spilling out.

Going to get stamps, standing in line. (76 p to mail stuff to the States, folks.) and some old man sticks his head in and yells the following (verbatim) not at me, honestly not sure who he was talking to, but there was venom going on. "Hey, where you from? Arab? Israel? Is that it? Go back to your own country!" I honestly felt like slapping his face and breaking his toes.

Then to Oxfam, wherein I acquired purple suspenders with crowns on them for the grand sum of one pound. They will be worn to Fashion's Night Out London tomorrow. Oh yes.

now. pictures. All two of them. more tomorrers. LOTS MORE. we are going to places like Alexander McQueen and Vivienne Westwood and Burberry and other places with window displays that are art and cost a million pounds. Roughly.

So long.
-Lu

Le List, Pt. 1

2011-09-07T17:49:00.000-07:00

This is going to be a long series. It is a record of all the ways the U.K. is different. Words, phrases, images, habits. It will be updated as I notice more things. American English on the left, English English on the right.

elevator = lift
bun = bap
pants = trousers
tank top = vest
vest = waistcoat
bathroom = toilet, loo, WC
truck = lorry
underwear = pants, knickers
picture = photo
professor = tutor
rainboots = rubbers, wellies
good, cool, bye = cheers
pay attention to = mind
get off (usually the train) = alight
idiot = twit, twat
round trip ticket = return ticket
one way ticket = single ticket
sidewalk = pavement
purse = handbag
schedule = timetable
faculty = staff
first floor = ground floor
closet = cupboard, wardrobe
tacky = naff
potato chips = crisps
french fries = chips
cookie = biscuit
biscuit = scone
cigarettes = fags
smart = clever
dumb = thick
pee = have a wee,spend a penny,
highway = motorway
pastor = vicar
thrift store = charity store

The streetlights double as traffic lights.
The bike lanes are half the size of ours.
The streetsigns are on buildings, fences, what have you. Rarely do they stand alone.
The elevators are half the American size.
The taxis are five times cooler.
The streets are narrower.
The cars are smaller.
The trucks are smaller.
The cheap food is tastier.
The older people dress better than the older Americans I've seen
People wear jeans/nice trousers more. Rarely do I see someone in sweats, and five to one they're American. Ten to one they have a baseball cap on.
There is almost always patio dining in restaurants, if they are on street level.
The crosswalks are marked with big steel studs, like the studs on a punk jacket, about five inches square.
The charity stores are a fifth the size of our thrift stores.
When approaching a streetlight doubling as a traffic light, the white lines on the road are squiggly.
There are less coffeeshops, and pubs galore. Pubs are uncanny similar to our coffeshops.
The internet is virtually never free.
The street is usually wet.
More than half the buildings look at least eighty years old, likely more.
Said buildings have huge chimneys.

I like it here.

-Lu

Skool. and being a Pevinsie

2011-09-06T15:36:00.000-07:00

I feel like a Pevinsie today. Chilling inside a big house on a rainy day with books and music and a project or three. And nothing but errands to do tomorrow. And exploring. I’d best enjoy it while it lasts, because it won’t. I’m going to need study spots soon. You think they’d kick me out if I did my HW in the V&A? I love it there.

Corsetry is going to be extraordinarily fun, and a lot of work. All these classes are. The area around Lime Grove is great, reminds me a little bit of Cedar-Riverside in Mpls. There must be five or six little hole-in-the wall fabric shops a stone’s throw away. All run by well-dressed Indian men, often with their hair tied up in the Sikh style. Full of beautiful satins and silks and velvets, stacked against the walls. They look like little oases of glowing, living color in the wet, gray London street. For the record, there is one dude in Corsetry. I didn’t catch if he was going to make one for himself, or for some lucky(?) lady. The instructor told us with a smile that our finished garments would take up to 4 inches off our waists. Therefore my waist in my finished corset will measure 24 in. We are not going to think about that yet.

Oh, but I didn’t tell you about my Historical and Contemporary Fashion Research class (hereafter referred to as HCFS.) The professor is a small, rocket-fast walker of a lady, and I do really mean a lady. She talks easily at length without notes, taking us through the Natural History Museum, and the British Galleries in the V&A, connecting microscope photographs of insect heads to Alexander McQueen and horror movies, butterflies to Elizabethan embroidery and culture. But when we got the British Galleries she was really in her element. I will let the pictures do the talking about the clothes (talking too much about art is a bad idea), but she knows ALL SORTS OF THINGS. She was telling us about the lacemakers in Holland, before machine lace was made, how they would start at age nine, working long days in damp, dark cellars. They were often blind or dead of disease by the time they were 18. That brought her to discussion of today’s production methods, how Primark and similar companies, (Americanos, think Forever 21, Walmart, Target) abuse and exploit workers to make quick cheap fashion, however much the companies may protest to the contrary. That is a complex subject right there (better to be a child prostitute or work twelve hours in a dangerous factory?), but in her words “Save up for a few key pieces that will last. That’s my fashion advice.” Ah, but that requires people to have true style, to know who they are, and how they want to look, instead of listening to the billboards and the fads. How funny that my first reaction to that “know who you are” principle is “well then we’d have less diverse brands!” when really the opposite is true. There are so many different people, that we might see more diversity in brands and styles if we all dressed “according to the dictates of our souls” (that’s from a Vogue issue, hence the quotation marks, carn’t remember which issue though,) instead of inspecting the Joneses.

Here's the Natural History Museum. We only saw the butterflies and insects, which was actually quite enough for the time we had. It's free. This makes me really really happy. I think I will commit to blog about every single museum we visit in that class. London is our classroom. It'll help me learn.

The man who practically founded the N.H.M. was Hans Sloane. He had an enormous collection of all sorts of naturey things. He was the first to bring back a recipe for hot chocolate with milk from Jamaica: he found the straight chocolate and water mixture the natives liked disgusting.

Bugs. up CLOSE. They're somewhere between beauty and horror. They're so perfectly formed it weirds me out.

Here's the structure called the Cocoon where the butterfly/insect exhibit is stored.

Here are some more bugs. Don't just think, "oh iww. bugs." Look at how perfect their patterns are, how the colors play off each other. Look at how precise all their tiny joints and hairs and wing scales are.

More Victoria and Albert! I have to go get my journal from this class. The random tidbits are fascinating. Hold on.

Ok. am back.

Ages ago, fabric came with embroidery patterns printed on. The buyer would then take the fabric home, embroider the printed pattern, and make up the garment. The smock (Calvin and Hobbes!) in the exhibit was black thread on white muslin-type fabric, pattern very simple with intricate, stylized floral embroidery.

There was the biggest bed I have ever seen. You could have fit all seventeen students and the tutor on it.
It was called the Great Bed of Ware, and was mentioned in Twelfth Night. The innkeeper who owned it used to brag that he crammed it as full as possible. Now imagine, bathing was not fashionable nor frequently feasible. EEEeeeeeee. bugs. smells. yay for technology and hygiene.

She told us how Elizabeth I was given 24,000 "pynnes" on her becoming queen, and that led to how Somerset used to be a place of enormous glove production: the uncut leather would start at one end of the town and come out the little cottages at the end all finished.

Reminds me a bit of this, by Alexander McQueen, modeled by the lovely Sasha Pivovarova, out of Vogue.

Speaking of modern fashion, our tutor pointed out the tiny dolls that were the equivalent of viewing the collections online. They were dressed in miniature versions of the latest styles. Dior and various other designers did a similar exhibit when finances were tight, which boosted their sales and was just a general success.

A woolen wedding suit, with gold and silver embroidery. The embroidery was done in many stages: I can't imagine the hours. This particular one
is miraculously well-preserved for a wool garment.

Hahlo fishies.

These wacky pannier things were removable, so that the wearer could dance more vigorously.

Here is a room for you. It was in a house in Norfolk, and was brought to the museum. Obviously. The curtains would almost never have been let down, so as to show off all the wealth to the plebians down the hill. It has been used for numerous fashion shoots. It was a music room.

And finally, here is some embroidery by a lady named Anna Maria Garthwaite. Her house was in Spitalfields, London, and she employed Huegenot weavers to help her with her work. It is exquisite.

DATS ALL FOLKS. it's time for actual homework now. Peas haute. to borrow a Heather Weidemanism.
-Lu

ketchup. hurry up. KETCHUP. (now I'm thinking of dancing hot dogs.)

2011-09-06T13:05:00.000-07:00

So i went and did more random stuff.

How bad a post would that sentence be. Edit: I pooped about in Oxford Circus, observed expensive things, walked to Piccadilly Circus, which is the coolest place, full of theater and restaurants that are smell torture if you've not eaten in five hours and been walking all of them, which I had. Then I had a crazy adventure. In Dagenham. First things first.

Oxford Circus contains the biggest H&M, Urban Outfitters, and aforementioned Topshop I've ever seen. And other spendy shops. It looks like so: (not my picture)

Then I walked. And walked. And walked. And walked. I saw a kid my own age, slumped next to a building, clutching his paper cup of coffee despondently. He was sitting on a duffel, and I didn’t know if he was homeless or just a tired traveler. The poor guy looked so utterly done in that I came really close to asking if he was all right. Didn't. ppppttt.

Piccadilly Circus. Really is like a circus. I will go sit there sometime, and act like I'm part of the architecture. It's like a picture from a history book. The beautiful old buildings towering over the various streets, the red buses scurrying, the pedestrians scurrying even harder. Picture. Again, not mine.

Then this is Theatreland. This precise Les Miserables poster is there as we speak. type. whatevs.

I then went home and was tired. but happy.

now. Dagenham. Dagenham Heathway, to be precise. I went there to get a bike. It required me to take the District Line nearly all the way to the east end. Long ride. I got there, and walked about three miles to get to the bike. I asked so many people for directions. A girl in chinos and flats clipping her hedge, a grandma in her trench coat, and this rather nerdily attractive kid my own age with green eyes, and brown hair flopping in them. The older woman literally shied away from me when I started to talk. I’ve never seen someone look so afraid of me: her eyes looked terrified. She warmed up though. “Oh yes, Green Lane, just go through that alley there, take a left, then a right in the next alley!” I was supposed to be there at a certain time, and though I had drawn a map, I wanted to be sure.

All that said, I got the bike, reduced the price by five pounds by being snarky, and began to ride home. Then, oh, then, I took a wrong turn. It was getting dark, and let's just say it was not a ritzy neighborhood. The street signs are difficult. They're on buildings, fences, sometimes not in sight at all if you don't know where to look. Yes, I know, I'm a newbie. And it was raining. I backtracked and asked directions again. I thought the road he indicated was the one I'd come in on: after five minutes, realized it wasn't so. At that point, the panicky thought crossed my mind: "WHAT IF I CAN'T GET HOME!!!!?? what if the tube doesn't run as late as it does in the city, what if I get more lost, what if i miss the first day of corsetry, what if i shrink and fall in the gutter in the rain.." There is only one thing to tell your brain at a time like that and it's Kindly Shut Up Please. Now, Some Logic. Oh look, that street sign points the way to the street you're trying to get to. and you are going the direction it points in. Keep. Pedaling. Look, a main street. A hill. I recall a hill by the station...and BEHOLD! the beautiful red and blue circle-and-dash of the London Underground. In the rain, me hauling my tired bike and sore calves up the slope, it was more gorgeous than...i don't know. Eddie Redmayne. And that's saying something.

Then onto the train, folding my little bike neatly at my feet, and reading the laughable Evening Standard as night fell. Something as simple as sitting down is occasionally wonderful. That was Sunday/Monday. I had a stellar class that morning that you'll hear about, but it must go in the Skool post. A place for everything, and everything in its place. to end, here's what the tube looks like, if you were wondering.

Brit-ism of the day: Keep Calm and Carry On.

Where I Find Rob?

2011-09-03T09:13:00.000-07:00

Children, heed my words. If you ever travel the London Underground on a weekend, CHECK FOR CONSTRUCTION. Yours truly was attempting to get her hands on this lovely little vintage folding bike here

But was foiled. Not really. But for the moment. I got to the station, and the sign says “oh yes. By the way, there is construction on the line you want.” Ok, thought I, this is all interconnected, I can get beyond the construction on some other line. Onto the Piccadilly line we go. Get to alternate line. “oh, this one’s down too.” Phhhhpppp. At this point, since I’m supposed to be there to pick the bike up in 45 min, I call the nice man, who agrees to hold it for me till Monday, when I can just ride District all the way. Hooray. However, I blew 8 pounds in the process. Boo.
The experience which came next, however, was worth every pence of those 8 pounds. I was sitting on a chair outside the Hammersmith station, when a terrifyingly beefy woman in leggings sitting next to me turns and says in a very thick German accent, “Excuse me, I have question.” Disclaimer: What follows is word for word. I do not make this up.
“Yes?” say I. “
“ I am trying to find my boyfriend, Rob. In 2009, we come here. He was back there.” She points behind her. “At Starbucks?” I say, trying to be helpful.
“No, in 2009, he go to Charing Cross Hospital, Fulham Palace Rd. You know how I find him?”
No. (I didn’t say that.)
What I did say was, “Well, I have an atlas, let me find it.” I poke around in my priceless London A-Z atlas. (they are the best) for five minutes.
“You don’t know, you don’t know how to find him? He was Charing Cross Police.”
at this point I think. LOOK LADY, it was two years ago. You are no longer in touch with him. You were at a hospital? And that is all the info you have on him? FURTHERMORE, can you not tell that I am AMERICAN? Not. A. Londoner. I know no more than you do about Rob. I do not live in this hood.
Fortunately, she asks the quiet fellow next to me, whose gray hair is one big perfect dreadlock. He tells her how to get to Charing Cross Hospital. She then says, “Yes, I get there, but how I find him?” At which I rise, say nicely, “If he was there, I’m sure they have record of it. Ask the people at the front desk. I hope you find him.” And walk away with my internal giggles about to become violently external.

Then I explored expensive, interesting thrift stores that play Lady Antebellum (NOT INTERESTING. Came here to escape that thank you. But I will forgive you because your little orange Prada parka is making me drool.), and ended up with a nice little green hooded raincoat. Which had a transit card in the pocket. So we shall see if my jaunt will be monetarily redeemed. There’s prolly nothing on it. Oh well.

P.S. Said charity shops are located on 211 Brompton Rd, and 3 Bute St., run by Octavia Foundation.

Expeditions to Shopping Land and LCF

2011-09-02T17:26:00.000-07:00

We toured LCF today, had our orientation. It is just off of Oxford Circus. We went to the Topshop flagship store over lunch.

Five stories, and the basement is just shoes. I could have lived there. Ahhhh.

Also United Colors of Benetton, All Saints, H & M, and plenty others, all a mere stone’s throw from school. The LCF staff are awesome. You can tell from the first five minutes, that they love what they do, they are happy. The building itself is unremarkable outside, beautifully minimalist inside. There are no textbooks, but to balance that, if you miss one class without an excused absence, you lose a letter grade. The walls are full of postings and beautiful illustrations and photographs. Here are my classes there: Corsetry, Shoemaking, Historical and Contemporary Fashion Studies. The last one meets at a different gallery or museum every single week, admittance paid. HAVE I DIED AND GONE TO HEAVEN? It was a good day. Chilling and organizing now. Needed some down time like crazy. Tomorrow we goeth to a big thrift store in our rather wealthy neighborhood, and possibly a designer sample sale in Brick Lane, way the heck up by Islington sorta. And sleeping in. there will be some sleeping in happening.

Is finally going to be in one place for longer than two days. Too much facebook, i just typed that as one would a status. ignore.

2011-09-01T15:46:00.000-07:00

I walked everywhere again. Being reluctant to spend money on the tube to go two miles, there were three round trips made to get my luggage where it goes. It is now there, and will not be moving for four months. YES.It didn't matter too much, because the neighborhood I was going through is, as I've already stated, most chic and interesting.

It does not seem there will be any gaining of weight in this place. I have to be brutally honest here. All that stuff about Americans being fatter than Europeans? At this point, I have to agree, almost completely. That being an explosive subject, let us move on to other things.

I get to go explore my new campus tomorrow, and since I took no pictures today, because I was on a time constraint of sorts and was too busy trying not to knock people over with my luggage. I'm sure the shutterbugging will resume tomorrow.

The flats we live in are cute places. I'll take pictures tomorrow. I have a desk in a little alcove by a window, and roomie Priya has a nice little skylight. yay.

ah, funny occurrence. I was waiting outside the Holborn tube station last night to meet someone, and a woman in a suit came up and asked for directions. She took me for a native till I opened my mouth, but I got all smarty with my mini-atlas and gave her directions. heh.

May it also be noted that I stood there forty-five minutes (Stephanie if you read this I was early on purpose, wanted to people-watch) and London did not disappoint. Not a boring moment. Let me describe it for you. The street is full of taxis and buses, honking, cycles speeding past with fluorescent-jacketed people looking like jockeys. The light fades from normal daylight to the odd night light of huge cities. The people are myriad as always, meeting their friends, kissing their lovers, smoking a cigarette and reading the Evening Standard, a Citypages sort of publication, free. The pavement is half gum, half cig butts. A street sweeper sets up shop, and somehow, under the fashionably clad feet of hundreds of people, the trash and abandoned nicotine sorts itself into a neat pile. The buildings tower, they give this funny feeling of coziness in the noisy, life-filled dark, as if they're watching amiably. Watching the same things they've seen for who knows how long. Ah if only they could talk. Well, perhaps not. Slowly, if you stand in one place long enough, you blend into the world around you, more aware of the pigeon hopping at your feet and the funny, pessimistic man handing out the papers than how your hair looks. Such that when the observant Stephanie walked up to me, she was within a foot of my face before I realized it was she.

Then, we went to a pub called the Shepherd's Bush, and I had a fried salmon and cheese cake and a Guinness. Excellent.
Night kids. Tomorrow we set off for Oxford Circus and the London College of Fashion.
-Lu

In Defense of The Internet (Brought on by reddit. It's been ages since I wrote anything argumentative)

2011-08-31T07:59:00.000-07:00

You know, we whine about technology all the time, particularly the internet. WHY? Right, I’ll hand it to you, it can suck your time, make you unproductive, encourage the banal, even make actual face-to-face interaction difficult if you use it enough. A lot of the other technology we use can have similar pitfalls. Cell phones/texting can degrade your grammar/writing skills. Fast cars result in devastating crashes. Advanced medicine can also be used for warfare purposes. But let me just take the four things I mentioned, and compare how they make our lives different from say, 150 years ago.
We’ll go backwards. Advanced medicine. Imagine a world where perhaps a third of your siblings die before you’re 12. I mean it. Imagine that. If you have two brothers, one is dead. A simple infection can kill you. Diseases are transmitted lightning fast for lack of vaccines or access to them. Surgery is terrifying and primitive. No Vicodin here.
Fast cars. We’ll keep with the health issue. Ambulances. Ask any doctor, and they will tell you that minutes can decide whether someone lives or dies. I could give you any number of anecdotes illustrating the fact. Now imagine being a doctor with nothing but a fast horse. I know, ambulances are sometimes too late as well. But you cannot tell me the horse was more efficient. Life is fundamentally, completely interconnected. That person on the gurney might have been your soulmate.
A plane can drop bombs and be gone before anyone knows what’s happening. It can also get supplies to natural disaster victims in a matter of hours, food to desperate people before they starve.
Texting. We are going with convenience here. It is simply a pain in the bum to make ten calls trying to meet with someone, changing the plans. It takes half that time to text, and you’re enjoying your friend’s company twice as fast. Just phones in general: how would you like to wait for months for mail, imagining all the things that could have happened to your faraway friend in that time. Even the Pony
Express, crazy cool though they were, cannot hold a candle to le telephone.
Now, the Internet. This, to me, is the most complex one, because it is so incredibly multi-faceted. It is ridiculously easy to air your opinions, enlighten or deceive people, make them laugh, steal from them, inspire them, we could go on and on. Behold, I’m doing it now. I think the bottom line of it is that we need to stop acting as though the Internet, and not humanity, has problems. The internet is just a bunch of code and electricity and invisible stuff, fundamentally. It is a THING. It has no conscience, no compassion.
So there are a lot of idiots on the web. They were there before! You just didn’t know they were an idiot. It merely makes it easier for them to inflict idiocy on everybody else. So there is obscenity and racism on the Internet. Have you ever really studied Shakespeare? Have you ever heard a bawdy old bar song? Seen certain ancient art? HEARD OF THE CIVIL WAR??? They didn’t have internet. It’s nothing new. And may I point out that nobody is making you look. Nobody is stopping you, but they are not forcing you to click on the link your conscience doesn’t like.
So those are the cons. Here are the pros. The internet allows you to quickly and thoroughly research to an incredible degree. I know there is false information out there, but don’t tell me you can’t still cross-check things. It allows you to understand much more fully what is going on in other countries and how such things affect you. As previously stated, it brings the interconnectedness of everything to light. It allows you to share interesting things, to spread ideas, to connect with people on the other side of the world,. It can emphasize the truth that there's only one kind of people. People. That’s it. They are fundamentally just like you. It is often incredibly conducive to creativity and art, if you are willing to search out the right people and websites.
I’m not saying we’re better than our ancestors. They did great things and terrible things with the tools they had. Our times are not better, they are not worse. They are just that, ours. You can’t time travel. Live where you are, and quit whining about it. As Eugene Hutz so wisely says: “There were never any good old days,/they are today, they are tomorrow./It’s a stupid thing we say, cursing tomorrow with sorrow."
-Lu

Hyde Park, Victoria & Albert, Mine Housing, Thrift Stores, Fabric Stores, Antique Stores, and Varied Other Business

2011-08-30T12:16:00.000-07:00

Get ready kids. This will be a long one. Here is a short list of what went down, and then we will go into detail. I went to Hyde Park, to the Serpentine Gallery in said park, wandered around by the Royal College of Music, tried to find where I will be living, got sort of lost in Kensington/Chelsea,(delightful, try it sometime) finally found the address, went to a thrift store, went to a fabric store, found an adorable little antique store that was closed, and bought Jelly Babies. I am now at my leisure eating said babies. They are deeeelishus. Here. Here are some pictures.

This was last night: I was just amused by the difference in the view from me window at night vs. morning.

Here's where I am currently staying, thanks to an awesome uncle. :)

Now we come to Hyde Park. This is not a little playground park we are talking about here. This is a PARK. A park where you could disappear. A green, luscious thing in the middle of stone and steel and concrete.

Allow me to remind you we are in the middle of a city of about 8 million people.

PIDGIN. being a pigeon. Like a boss.

There are enormous amounts of birdies. They get ridiculously close to you, make lots of noise, and are generally companionable and delightful. Later I will upload some little scribblings of them, after I color them, and you should all help me figure out what kind they are. I have guesses, but am not a birdwatcher.

This is not the greatest picture, but it immediately made me think of that bit in the Aristocats "Amelia! BOTTOMS UP!!!" ah. ha.

Not only do they have a neato park, they let you let your Irish Wolfhound run around without a leash. I now want a dog. There seems to be an unreasonable amount of beautiful dogs in this joint.

This was a little place in the park called the Serpentine Gallery. As you can see, it has a lovely enclosed garden, with a general air of peace and welcoming. The park made me think again about why design is delightful and powerful.It affects how people interact. The whole of the park seems to beg you to either sit/walk and enjoy the world around you, or bring someone else to enjoy it with you, and commune with them. It's lovely.

See?

Here is a memorial to Queen Victoria and Prince Albert. I'm not sure what the official name is, but it's imposingly beautiful.

In case you cannot see, the inscription reads so: "In memory of Albert, Prince Consort."

The gate/fence merited a picture all to itself.

Guess what? elephant butt. In all seriousness, can you sculpt an elephant? I carn't.

Great socks, sir. I have noticed this great thing here. Unless there is a sign prohibiting what you're doing, you can do what you please where you please. I'd want to take off my shoes after a day in a suit....

Royal Albert Hall.

I would like one of these on my doorstep please.

Dear chimneys, you are so cool. I can't get over you.

More Albert, and the Royal College of Music.

This I have noticed: They are picky about where you park your bike. Understandably. Also, I want to be called Head Porter. How enjoyable would that be.

No detours here. No. They are DIVERSIONS. That reminds me, there must be another post too, LE LIST DU DIFFERENCE. a list of words. That are different. I want to see how many I can get.

They do not, however, mince words. Do we have these in the U.S.? I've never looked.

And just GUESS what this is. This is my future neighborhood. It is absolutely charming. There are posh little shops and hordes of chic people with dogs and clean snazzy sneakers. The Londoners, they have very nice sneakers. Sometime I will sit around and take pictures of unaware people's shoes, and make a post out of it.

If they were not police, I would steal their hats.

Here we are. Home sweet home. This is where I will live. I'm still pinching myself.

One walks down the street and sees gardens like this, with perfectly manicured paths and kids on tricycles behind the wrought iron and the hedge. I refrained from photographing said children. Duh.

May I have your dog. Thank you.

So I had to further pinch myself, because walking distance from my house is a FABRIC STORE. forget all this trucking-myself-to-Roseville-for-three-hours business. I looked at it, thinking oh, cute little place, prolly not a huge selection. HA. Here is what the basement/hidden next door room look like.

I pretty much wiggled with delight. The prices aren't awful either. And they have Liberty remnants. YES.

And this is a stroll down the block. I shall perhaps go in sometime.

Finally, kiddies, I went to the wonderful, enormous, free Victoria & Albert Museum. It is but a step from my current lodgings. I have made a pact with myself, that before I leave London, I will see everything in it. It will have to happen in installments: I only got through most of the first floor today. As you will see, they allow photography. This place gives me the same vibe as Hyde Park, richness of beauty for everyone, as long as you are courteous. All this incredible art (or nature, in the park's case) is waiting for you to enjoy it, there for the asking. All you have to do is walk in. Enjoying it so much made it really painful to walk past the donation box without putting something in, but all I had was a 20 pound note. Anywhoo. picshures.

I will do my best to recall what sections this stuff was in.

Southern Asia, I believe.

People, this is a hat. A turban rather. Nice, no?

This is the courtyard in the middle of the museum. Kids play in the fountain, though not today: was too cold.

He looks like he wants you to join him. No thanks, sir, never been too much of a necrophiliac.

And here's some stuff from the Medieval/Renaissance bit.

Need I even say who did that magnificent last one. The inimitable Dale Chihuly, derr.

I was just about to take a picture of the carpet on the half-hour, when it's lit for a few minutes, when the guard informed us that it was closing time. oh well next time.

All that was from the Islamic Middle East section. As you probably already know, they were not supposed to represent people, hence the ridiculously gorgeous abstract/geometric patterns.

And here is my favorite. It made me realize that I need to be paying attention to the history of this city, not just my first impressions.

That's what flawed perfection is, right there. On that note, goodnight.

-Lu

I feel like a little time-traveler, and this template is urrrgly.

2011-08-29T13:53:00.000-07:00

I shan't lie, waking up to dawn over Iceland is fairly cool. (yes, I listened to Sigur Ros. What else. I was listening to Takk, and just as the song picked up the clouds parted over the coast. YEAH window seats.) Icelandair is my new favorite airline, except for the fact that they give you a menu of beautiful food that is expensive. Otherwise, they have the cuddliest blankets, and little lullabies on the pillows, and wish you a pleasant day after every announcement practically. Basically they're so Icelandically nice it hurts. If you got on here to read about London, be patient. I'm getting there. All the flight attendants speak Icelandic, and wear these awesome little hats.

Here are your facts about Iceland in a nutshell.
-They have the oddest sayings posted in their beautiful, quiet, entirely Scandinavian-looking airport.

For instance: "A single wave is seldom alone"
"He who has no brother is naked on the back" these interesting tidbits were in the security area, so for obvious reasons I took no photos.
-They apparently have this nice tradition called house reading, where one person will read aloud to the rest of the household in the evening. Don't know how much that still happens.
-Their prime minister is listed in the phonebook
-The national dish is cured shark
-The population is 300,000. That's less than MPLS. 60% of them in the capital.
-They have a children's book called Helgi Explores the World. They give the illustrations on postcards as coloring pages. I totally nabbed the one from the cute little Icelandic kid sitting next to me, as he left it behind, and was too busy watching the Simpsons to color it in.
-This is what it looks like from a plane. EVERYBODY LOVES PICTURES WITH THE WINGS OF PLANES/REFLECTIONS IN THEM.

-They produce awesome music. For instance, if you like lovely quiet music that's kind of angsty in the best way, I raise you Olafur Arnalds. And if you like the absolute opposite, that is, hardcore-ish music that's half instrumental, I recommend Swords Of Chaos. And Jonsi. He be the bomb. And, though I mentioned it already, if you do not listen to Sigur Ros, STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING AND GO. go listen.
-I also used the silly little in-flight store to find some of their fashion brands: Farmer's Market, 66 north, and KRONKRON.

that's enough of Iceland. Not bad for only spending two hours there. Don't judge, I was so excited to have a stop in that place.

LONDON is.........:). The tube is the greatest thing ever. And little kids with English accents are enough to leave you in a puddle of cuteness on the floor. They walk on the left. That took me a minute to get used to. Downside: hauling roughly 150 pounds of luggage through walkways and up stairs and through airports and over the inevitable, proverbial gaps between train and platform....is not fun. EVERYTHING ELSE IS AWESOME. everything, nearly, is old. All the little row houses have little back yards with walls and big old chimneys like in a Dickens novel. Also, I must note: People here have style. I can't walk three yards without wanting to compliment someone. I cannot tell a lie: the dudes in particular have a much higher percentage of stylishness than anywhere else I've ever been. Also, this is an enormous city. I know that's obvious, but when it takes you awhile to hurtle over it in a plane, you know it's big. Here. picture.

Honestly, there is so much going on here that pictures are the best way to give you the feel BUT i have no neck strap for my camera, so I'm going to go make one, and my adventures tomorrow will be more pictorially described.

Smooches,
-Gyp

A Watchin' of the People

2011-08-22T18:44:00.000-07:00

I have been meaning to record this. One day, perhaps a month ago, I drove past the large bus stop in downtown St. Paul between the library and the Landmark Center. There was a woman standing there, rotund, obviously not completely with it, holding a can of Pringles. She appeared to be having a food fight with someone I could not see, behind the shelter. She would throw food, then skitter back, almost into the street, giggling. As I nearly have an accident trying to see what’s going on, she reaches the point of exasperation and chucks the whole can of Pringles at the offender. It is then that I realize she has been food-fighting with a flock of birds. She would jump back when they all jumped on the food, scattering it, which was why, from my viewpoint, it looked like a food fight.

(Another day)
Went to the Irish fair yesterday, oh my lordy. So many kilts. You ave your average pretty tartan kilt, your black heavy metal kilt with studs, pumpkin butt kilts, and last but not least. THE CAMO KILT. No one will ever notice you. Other observations: We saw our good friend shirtless-kilt,-and-lei man, eating fish and chips under a tree, muttering away and shaking his head. His kilt is green plaid, and we see him all over. He is present at Irish Fair, always, as well as the Harriet Island bandshell. If he weareth not the kilt, he weareth overalls with the straps undone, staying up most dubiously. There was also a pair of people in full Renaissance gear, King and Queen.

(YET ANOTHER DAY)
8/15/11 I had a good time on the bus today. There were these two silly women in the back. I may try to draw them later. There was no one else on the bus, and they kept pointing/staring. They were likely just talking with their hands, but it was funny because there was no one to point at besides me and the bus driver’s mirror. I will try to describe them before I forget. One was tall, everything about her was narrow, her skinny body, her hawk nose, her face. She had no glasses, but that kind of long, overbrushed, trying-to-be-curly hair that isn’t huge, but still makes you want to knit a sweater with it. Her khaki pants were a little bit above her natural waist, and her maroon Subway-style polo was tucked into it. It had some kind of work logo on it. She was wearing tennis shoes, and looked annoyed/nervous.
The other woman was the physical opposite, except for her hair, which was similar, pulled back in that half-medieval, unflattering way one associates with old-maids-to-be. She was round and staring. Her glasses were as round as her face, making her rather bulbous blue eyes look even bigger, and her mouth was disapproving and thin. She was wearing a blue t-shirt that fit her poorly, and I think jeans. She sat hunched into herself, always staring at something. They huddled together and talked in this funny, quiet, intent, almost angry way. For some reason it tickled me.

8/16/11
I just remembered a charming incident from way back when I worked at Perkins. One day, as I was waitressing, a man paid for an older woman’s meal. She did not look wealthy, though I don’t think she was poor. He told me not to tell her who did it, and then told me that he had traveled the world, and in every place he ate, he would anonymously pay for someone’s meal. He himself looked like your average blue-collar workman, not what you think of when you hear “travel the world.” Just goes to show, you never know till you’ve talked to someone. I wish it would rain: it looks like it, and nothing is as cozy or productive as rain. You feel like a bear all snug in your cave. P.S. It did rain: poured for an hour actually.

YESTERDAY
was sitting on the balcony, some dude walks by. Looks up, says hi. I say hi. He asks if I’ve ever heard of an eyeglass brand called Kate Spade. I have, so I say yes. He asks how much a pair of glasses would cost. I waffle. He says thanks and walks on.

Weather. The most Minnesotan topic in the world.

2011-07-10T20:40:00.001-07:00

I love weather. Specifically storms, but Minnesotan weather in general. Weather that is not calm, predictable, boring. It is a force to be reckoned with. It's uncontrollable. Wild. We can try to predict it, prepare for it, be afraid of it, revel in it, but we can't any more control it than we can control when we die. As they say, "wait five minutes and it'll change.

I feel like relating anecdotes. Here we go.

I'm four, sitting on the livingroom floor, at ten in the morning in Minneapolis, and the world outside is dark as midnight. The storm hits, then a doozy of a lightning bolt. That crack remains to this day the loudest noise I've ever heard. My dad was standing at the upstairs window and saw it hit a tree not 25 yards from our house. The electricity made his heart skip, and it beat irregularly for days. In getting to the tree, the bolt vaporized part of the chain-link fence. Bam. gone.

I'm twelve or so. We live in Wisconsin now, and it's December. There is a blizzard of LauraIngallsWilder proportions raging outside. We eat beef stew by candlelight and feel archaic and unspeakably cozy. Grateful.

I'm sixteen, I think? At summer camp. I come to bed in the staff cabin at about 2 am. Miss Allison Steddom is sitting on the porch. She sticks her head in. "Lucie, come outside. You have to see this." I go outside. The lightning is unearthly. No rain, just blazing light from horizon to horizon, stronger and sharper than any strobe. The world is alternately bright as noon, then tar-black, every single shaking twig on the trees in brilliant detail. hardly knowing what I'm doing, or why, I start to sing How Great Thou Art. we sit there and sing, Alli and Callie and I. "I see the stars/I hear the rolling thunder/Thy power throughout the universe displayed/then sings my soul/How Great Thou Art."

Just last month, Heather and I sat on the front stoop in Dinkytown, on a weekend night watching the world get cleaned by rain and thunder and light. People run by, laughing, enjoying the force of the storm. The lights are on in a few windows across the street, a dude in a towel walks by his open window. The light is odd, warm, expectant. The street looks tropical, like Jamaica and New Orleans do when it rains.

and now here i am, with the branches thrashing outside the window, when i should be sorting the laundry and packing my lunch. That's all.
-gyp

Le London

2011-06-19T17:55:00.001-07:00

So I booked a flight to London last night. I am just here to say that it is WEIRD to look at a screen and put in times to tell people I've never seen when I'll be in a place I've never been. It is stranger still to look at those times and think "On that day, in that place, at that time, it is guaranteed that my life will change. Permanently." I have never been to another country that did not somehow permanently alter how I look at the world.

I. cannot. wait.

And yet I can wait, I need to wait, because there are loans to be signed and lodging to be booked and class schedules and adresses and roommate names to get, stuff that needs to be bought, paychecks that need to come in, mini-trips to plan, belongings that need to be got rid of. Believe it or not, I am really looking forward to packing my life into four bags and hopping on a flying machine. It will be refreshingly minimalist, I think.

I'm still processing all this. It's not real. I get to go to the place where Charles Dickens lived. Where Fleet Street is. Where the Romans accidentally dropped their coins into the mud of the Thames. Where Shakespeare's plays were performed while he still lived. Where Alexander McQueen and Burberry and innumerable other brands are based. Where the Black Death killed off way too many people. Where The Clash and The Beatles and ever so many more great bands are from. Where....I could go on and on and on.

All right. Freaking out over. For now. Till the plane touches down on the Heathrow tarmac.

Books. Springtime. Observations.

2011-05-15T19:09:00.000-07:00

First you get to hear the weird things i observe.

the other day I saw an elderly lady reading a bodice-ripper paperback on the bus. Ah, juxtaposition.

Rosie and I found three pennies on the ground yesterday.

And there are three trees growing out of the grates in the ground across from Hard Times Cafe on Riverside Ave. It's spring.

I dyed my hair blue. Well, part of it.

It's time to read, to get rid of the library fines I inevitably run up at the city library by getting all these good books from there and then school gets so crazy that I don't return them on time. School ain't about. All I gotta do is go to work tomorrow. Wooooooooot.

Yo. What book have you been liking? spit it out.

There are several people whom I should email. If you know who you are, and you're reading this, (highly unlikely), I swear my email WILL NOT CONNECT. I'm tired, so I think I'll leave you all alone and go freewrite, where I don't have to use grammar and good syntax. Be back when I have something to write about.

-Lu

this be a short one.

2011-03-08T09:37:00.001-08:00

I miss my gypsy side.
I miss doing thing without knowing exactly why or how they'll end.
I'm sick of deadlines.
I'm tired of my own attitude towards said crap.
I miss being playful, and not always thinking about what I'm supposed to be DOING.
as opposed to who am i BEING.

The funniest part is, when I have a more relaxed attitude, I get more done. Do you have any idea what a waste of time stress and worry are? I'm not debasing responsibility here, just the tendency to take everything way too seriously, and forget the funny things. The important things. The things that make doing all that responsible stuff worthwhile. Because if all that stuff isn't working towards some worthwhile goal, why do it?
worthwhile goal for me sometimes comes down to: I want a bike, an open road, and a day to myself. And maybe a buddy, depending on my mood. Sometimes that's a really good goal.

in short
I have got cabin fever. Welcome to Minnesota. Spring is coming. I can smell it.

complete random tangent. Here I sit, in the St. Paul Student Student Union, and they're playing Carrie Underwood(pants)'s before you cheat song, or whatever.
Now I am listening to the lyrics. Basically, she considers shooting whiskey and pool the criteria for being a real woman.
you can shoot whiskey and pool if you really need to. But is that all you can do? Besides write and sing songs about said VERY IMPORTANT THINGS.
If so, no wonder you spend your days wrecking the cars of men who get women drunk so they can get lucky.
But perhaps I take her too seriously. Maybe I just won't listen. EVER.
That's all. I gotta go draft things.

Productive Packrattery, Or, Rag and Bone

2011-02-22T09:37:00.000-08:00

I have a lot of stuff.
And people always point this out to me
“geez, you have a lot of clothes.”
“Wow your room is messy.”
“ Why did you keep that?”
Yes. Thank you. I’m entirely aware of the fact that buttons, writing utensils, magazines, books, thread, paper, pictures, clothing, fabric, etc. are coming out my ears. And I am trying to keep it under control, and periodically organize and throw some out.
BUT. In defense of my weird habit of hoarding rags and bones, I will tell you why I do it. It isn’t just an impulse, though that’s part of it. It is partly practicality.
I like making things. Nice things. This requires materials, whether that be paper, zipppers, or pictures. Guess what: THAT STUFF COSTS MONEY. I am many things: rich ain’t one of them. (relatively.) When I save things that I don’t have a specific need for, they are future creations. When I look at something, I do not just see what it is as a whole. I also see its raw material, and its possible alternative uses. If I think I may want it, I keep it. It’s that simple.
Now, this needs refining: over time, I’ve learned what I’m likely to use, and what I’m not. But sometimes when the same folks who informed me that I had a lot of stuff ask “Where on earth did you GET that button/photo/other random object?” I smile.
Where did I get it? The trash can. The lost and found, It was lying on the sidewalk. So and so didn’t want it. And I am sorry, but I’m going to rant now.
This is a quality, this re-use, refurbish, thriftiness, that is depressingly non-existent. Yes, I realize rehabilitating stuff may not be your favorite activity, BU T FOR PETE’S SAKE DO NOT JUST THROW IT IF IT’S A PERFECTLY GOOD THING.
Sell it to a thrift store.
Give it to a Random Crap Collector Who Makes Things.
Etc.
A shirt you don’t wear can become someone else’s pillow, bag, scarf, stuffed animal, skirt, another shirt, a coat lining, a hat, a piece of a blanket, a patch.
Kapeesh?
Ok. Good. My computer is dying.
Here’s most of the excellent song whose title I stole
Rag and Bone, by The White Stripes

Well can't you hear we're selling rag and bone?
Bring out your junk and we'll give it a home
A broken trumpet or a telephone
Come on, come on, come on, come on and give it to me

You sure you don't want it?
If it's just things that you don't want, I can use 'em
Meg can use 'em.
We can do something with 'em.
We'll make something out of 'em.
Make some money out of 'em, at least.
Hey, if you ain't gonna use it, just give it to us.
We'll give it a home.

Well, have they got something shiny for me?
Anybody got a Christmas tree?
Can you part with a toilet seat?
A jump up, a jump up, a jump up, come on and give it to me

They might need it.
If you don't want it, we'll take it; if you don't want to give it to us, we keep walking by.
Keep going, we're not tired.
Got plenty of places to go, lots of homes we ain't been to yet.
West side, southwest side, middle-east, rich house, dog house, outhouse, old folks house, house for unwed mothers, halfway homes, catacombs, twilight zones.
Looking for techniques, turntables to gramophones.
So take a last lick of your ice cream cone.
And lock up what you still want to own.
But please be kind.
And don't rewind.
All of your pretty, your pretty little rags and bones.

-Lu

There once was a boy name Eustace Clarence Scrubb...and he almost deserved it.

2011-01-02T16:59:00.000-08:00

I think The Voyage of the Dawn Treader is mostly about Eustace, and unfortunately, we're all a bit like him. So...you may turn into a dragon. (I always envied him that bit.)

At the beginning of the movie, Eustace and his cousins Lucy and Edmund are staring at a picture of a fantastical ship on a tossing sea. Lucy and Edmund think the ship looks Narnian.

Eustace thinks they're nuts. His words to his cousins: "It's people like you, reading fairy tales, that end up becoming awful burdens to people like me, who read books of actual facts."

Then the picture on the wall starts to move. To drip. Then to pour. And skeptical, factual, sarcastic, ridiculing, pansy little Eustace is in for the ride of his life. If you've read it or seen the movie, you know that he reforms, but I'm going to stop right there.

Besides going to movies, I'm also reading Madeleine L'Engle's book about faith and art, Walking on Water. Among other things, she talks about the lie that stories aren't true. On the contrary. They are. Not in the factual sense, but in the sense that they remind us of truth, retell the stories our overly practical, factual, naturalistic world squishes out of us. We are like Eustace. We refuse to believe what we cannot fully understand. And then, guess what? We're unhappy. Not for that reason alone, but partly, partly because we aren't purely factual creatures. The very existence of inumerable "untrue" stories attests the fact. See? fact. I do it too. Don't get me wrong. I love facts. Try me. I am good friends with a lot of facts. But that's only half of me. The other half of the iceberg likes mystery, loves paradox, relishes what you cannot put into words.

There is another part in that movie that struck me very deeply. Lucy is standing, looking in a mirror, talking to Aslan. Her character throughout the movie is self-doubt personified. Aslan tells her "They never would have found Narnia without you. Don't run from who you are." I felt like he was talking to me. I am, whether I like it or not, an artist. I tend towards creative insanity, or just insanity, when nobody's looking. And then it spills over, and it's not just in private, and the looks and comments start. What do you do with that? I think, if it is ridicule or teasing and not affectionate banter, you should both ignore it and take it as a compliment. Don't let it sink in the way they want it to. Weirdos who tell stories are deeply, thanklessly necessary. Take care that you tell your stories with others and the truth in mind as well as your own pleasure, but don't ever listen to the lie that the things you can't explain are somehow inferior. LIES ALL LIES. The great Storyteller made you, and He makes no mistakes. You've got to help people "find Narnia", be it in a movie, a book, a picture, a song, whatever thing you make.

And for the folks who worried, as I did, that my favorite Narnia story would be ruined, fear not and relax. Making movies out of books is like translating poetry from other languages. If you go word for word, often you lose the rhythm of it. It takes serious skills to translate a book like that, particularly a rambling book like Dawn Treader, but they did a bang-up job. It didn't follow the book exactly, but they caught the soul of the story.

Aight. Bai.

Hi. I went to bed four hours ago. Also I'm twenty.

2010-12-11T06:44:00.000-08:00

It is snowing outside.

This is the end of the longest not-blogging stretch since this thing began. Be aware the following post may ramble. I woke up ten minutes ago from a four hour night's sleep, and sandy beaches macaroni and cheese beeswax.

This part is for everyone who works in food service and likes it just a little bit. You have a thankless, essential job. You FEED PEOPLE. If you make coffee, you are arguably even more important. You keep them from killing others early in the morning. You make them happy. If you didn't wash your hands and be sanitary, you could kill them.
I know what you are thinking. Where on earth did that come from. Well, I have worked in food service ever since I started working. I have worked at the State Fair, Perkins, Panda Express, Einstein Bagels, a fancy Greek restaurant, and will soon add Starbucks to that list. Pathetic, I know. And that's just the food service jobs. Also I didn't get fired from any of them.
Point being: I like food service. I like setting food down in front of people or handing it to them and watching their faces light up. When I worked at the Greek place, they had this salad. If that salad were a person, it would be the sort who stops traffic. It had hot grilled salmon on top and all these different colors of fresh greens and veggies on it. When I brought that to hungry people, they looked at me like I was a savior.
On a more serious facet of it, food service provides strange opportunities sometimes to encourage and comfort people. Some of the people I've served were sad. I don't know why. Perhaps I never will. But I had the chance to be kind to them, show them respect and sympathy even without knowing their sorrow. And sometimes I did know it. Even the jobs that have a much shorter customer interaction time give enough time to smile, compliment them, whatever.
Enough of this tangent. Point is: If you work in food service, I don't care what people imply or treat you like, you're important. Somebody has to do it. You may impact them, you may not. You will probably never know. Personally, I like the mystery.

Other thing. I'm twenty today. I know that's not that old, but whatever. It's a fifth of a century, a quarter of my probable life span, two decades, the end of teenagerhood, one year away from legal drinking age. I read somewhere that when you reach twenty, your character is pretty much formed, for better or worse. I agree and disagree both. I do see myself forming a character and developing habits. But I never, ever want to stop changing, to stagnate, to get senile. I want to be curious till the day I drop dead. I want to take an interest in other humans till that day. I want to make compassion a habit that stays with me. I want to create things my whole life, things and art that communicate what words often can't. I want to pay atttention to culture. I'd like to be like those wonderful, alive older people I know who've not lost contact with the world, who care about what goes on in it and why. And that won't happen unless I keep it up now, today, this very precious second, because that's all I've got.
Credit where credit is due, now. Maybe you know who Michael "Eyedea" Larsen was, maybe not. If you do, you're probably thinking come on, he's old news, that was October. Well, hush up for a minute. He was an emcee from St. Paul, a rapper/spoken word artist. He died in October at age 29. By his own estimate, he left between 300 and 400 notebooks full of writing. His lyrics tell me he thought existentially, compassionately, intelligently. Some people go through life never ever asking why, just how. Here's the paradox. In my opinion, if you don't know why, how is pointless. He asked why. I don't know that he found an answer. That makes me want to cry.
For no reason, hearing he was dead bothered me more than I expected, almost more than it should have. I think it was the senselessness of it. All death is like that, but the thought of all his potential and how I'm not sure he found comfort or peace makes me angry. Yes, angry, what's more, angry at God. Angry in a silly way, because yes I know and believe He's got a plan, a reason. My experience tells me that. But sometimes I don't understand. WHY. why whywhywhywhy. Please don't tell me "but He knows better than you, He's sovereign, He's God" I KNOW THAT. sometimes I've got to ask why. There are things I do not understand, because I am finite, and He is not.

What I'm saying here is, the pat answers do not kill the pain. And how dare I write that about a man I did not know, who died intoxicated and life-threateningly, manically, depressedly sleep-deprived of the combination of alcohol and sleeping pills. I dare. that's how. Music and writing and art allow you to know someone you've never seen, who may have died before you were born, who may live a thousand miles from you. It makes me realize the incredible amount lost when someone dies, all the personhood that no longer keeps us company, welcome or not.

Death angers me. That's all.
In the end, though, I must not stay angry. That's counter-productive and wrong. I have to learn what I can from him and keep it. Follow the example he and countless other people have left, and in that way, they keep living. Their work and art and love outlive them.

Rosie Carlson. You once wrote a post about how some people who are not Christians are kinder and more loving than some that are. I concur. It's just a fact. Love them all anyway. Love them because He first loved me.

the end.

-me

2010-08-13T22:28:00.000-07:00

I haven't mush to say. Great way to start a post, no?

So I was biking back home from work the other night, and it hit me that it was not unbearably hot. Not just that, the mugginess was gone. It was like I could almost smell snow. I hear you. Lucie, you say, it's August. you are insane. Yeah, whatever. I felt it, I tell you. And the lightning was flashing all over the place, and I raced the storm home, and you know what? School gives me mixed feelings.

I hate not having a life. During school, I mean. As Radiohead so wisely says, you do it to yourself. It ain't healthy.

There are deeper things on my brains right now, I promise. But sometimes I have to write about seasons changing. Because it means life changes too. The only freaking constant is change. And God. Fortunately.

And I can't put all the deeper things into words sometimes. As someone who loves writing and finding the perfect word or turn of phrase, that is sad and good at the same time. Some things don't belong on the internet, they don't belong in the black on white cage of words on a page.

it just belongs in feelings. they're painful and gorgeous and sometimes unreliable but life would be deathly boring without them. And there's some weird ache right now. Don't know why, maybe it's autumn, things dying. Or there's no reason at all except the world being fundamentally screwed up. Not permanently, mind you.

This is why Sigur Ros hit it big, people. They bottled ache, feeling, longing....right. Ima go listen to them. and scheme for Give Em' Epic.
and be a little emo. I have my rights, and one of them is to slight emo-ness.

so long.
-Lu

How that one thing works. (the internet)

2010-08-04T10:24:00.000-07:00

No, actually I have absolutely no clue how the internet really works. I don't know where or how all that information is stored. I mean, I know it has to do with ones and zeros. But what weirded me out was that I use the internet all the time, every day.
to talk to people.
to get
directions
pictures
buy stuff
watch videos
listen to music
talk to people
snoop. (if you're not snooping, you're not using facebook properly.)
amuse myself
research
learn things

and i do not know how it works. If you asked me to explain in detail how poking things with my fingers makes little marks on a screen you can understand, I'd clam up.

If the internet disappeared, an enormous part of our culture and society would disappear with it. How strange is that? What would people a hundred years from now know about us?

What would be left? They'd have our clothes. What would that say? they'd have our CD's. They'd know the lyrics of our songs, and the looks of our musicians, and their taste in graphics. They'd know the plotlines of our movies.

They'd have our books, and magazines. I think that might explain us entirely. or not, who knows. Our buildings would be there. Our art. Our stuff.

But facebook would not be there. Only the changes it made in our language and behavior would still be around.

Anyway, this is why I like making things. It is possible that long after I'm somewhere else, that thing will still be sitting around, being used or admired or recycled, with a little bit of me still in it.

P.S. heather and rachel and I were talking about this last night,and decided to make a blog book. In other words, print our blog posts and combine them into a thing. Who knows if that's worthwhile or not.

I should do other things. Bye.
-Lucie

daggers make a dichotomy

2010-07-28T09:36:00.001-07:00

I cannot get these two songs out of my head for anything. I think it's been two weeks at least.

Daggers, by The Chariot

Take it all back
Is this the fashion, "Medic" painted on a white dress or is this the formal crowd?

Where is the battle?
Absent from wealthy minds and far from all concerned?
Now take your places and may peace breed.
Fight your war. Old men, keep dreaming of battles for young men to fight.

War, it's only skin deep.

Make your spine just like your pride and if you find a heart I hope it bleeds grace.

Sell "peace" as limited time

For "limited", I say, is a choice so fight. Take your voices down. Tear it down.

the part of that song where everything quits except the bass, the drums and the clapping haunts my dreams, i tell you.

Dichotomy, by Becoming The Archetype

In this hour the tower shall fall
Initially they rationalized with futile speculations
Which brought about their ultimately fatal calculations
They sewed their own eyes shut
To protect them from the light
Closed the doorway of their minds
Barred and sealed it tight
Their foolish hearts were darkened
Their vacant minds deceived
The lies that they exchanged for truth
Became all that they believed
They exchanged the incorruptible
For the image of fallen man
Worshiped created rather than creator
The image rather than his hand

The heavens wait in silence
For the coming of the end
As man perfects his own imperfection
Destruction closes in

In the grave they chose to make their beds
And now all that they've created
Comes crashing down upon their heads
Death is waiting
In this hour the tower shall fall.

(i sincerely wish for a human voice on the other end this time.)

-Me

when in a hockey rink (Why do I always come up with blog posts in mosh pits?)

2010-07-21T09:26:00.000-07:00

Call me crazy, but I don't mind the smell of mosh pits. And for some reason, they make me philosophic. Which is good. I have been too busy to really think much these last few months. That or nothing I thought was worth writing down. But I am back, and my fingers are very happy to be abusing a keyboard again.

I don't usually spend time in hockey rinks, but Sonshine is an exception. I would seriously bore you if I tried to relate everything here, so we'll stick to the serious snippets. For the immature antics/people-watching creepiness, go check thumbtimes, and for a few pictures of creatively dressed folk, check quirk and restraint.

I forget what show it was, but at one point I was sitting on the sidewall and watching, saving my mosh for later, when the screamer asked between songs how many people got persecuted by parents, peers, whoever, for listening to heavy music.

Almost everyone raised their hands. And then I looked at this crowd and wondered how many sad tales were represented in that. All the blindness and pettiness and fear of something different. And that's only the beginning of those stories. It boggled my mind to realize the obvious, that every person there has just as much, probably more depth and complexity and sorrow and joy and potential as myself. There are no ordinary people. How often do I forget that? every day, every single day. All I see is their flaws, their problems, their sin. It is hard-wired into me to look at the negative when the beauty is under my nose.

You could say everyone living has a split soul. You could turn into Hitler or Mother Teresa. It makes me terrified and excited at the same time. It makes me want to hug strangers and run from them. But then, as my mumsy says,the minute you love a human, you let yourself in for pain, so forgive them ahead of time. I wish there were time for all those stories. I guess we'll do that in heaven. Bring it on.

(wow that sounds suicidal...)

Band of note: White Collar Sideshow. They were the catalyst for my lightning bolt of the festival, my millionth inner altar call. Explaining music is pointless, but let's just say I felt a few scales fall off my eyes. It was not a wild concert in the least, just a weird one. Look them up on Youtube. I won't blame you if you didn't like them, they were most certainly out of the ordinary....

"There is only one valuable thing in art, the thing you cannot explain." someone said that, can't recall who.....

I'm going to go put up some pictures and badger art fair venues.

I like songs I can't understand. And I have tan lines.

2010-06-09T10:40:00.000-07:00

Cyberspace, old buddy. Missed you. What's that? Where have I been?

Sleeping. Getting rid of the guilty feeling "I'm not doing homework" that I've been living with day and night waking and sleeping for nine months.

It's the strangest thing in the world. School dictated everything I did more intensely than it ever had before, and now it's gone.

THREE CHEERS. I have remembered how to spend a happy, productive day doing whatever the heck I want to. Read: knitting, READING READING READING hanging out working designing sitting on the front porch and creeping with sarah/rachel.

I'm residing in St. Paul for the summer. Come invade: woman cannot live by creativity and philosophy alone, though I deeply enjoy trying.
These is enormous value to just existing.

Song of the second: ZOL, by BLK JKS (that being the song I didn't understand. You know why I like songs like that? Well you should tell me, cuz' I'm not quite sure.)

Later. Someday.
-Gyp

An owde to ze threeft stores.

2010-03-18T18:27:00.000-07:00

Let us hear it for the thrift store
oh secondhand place
you ruin me for malls
you cause my wallet to rejoice

You contain so many things
Shoulder pads
Stirrup pants
Acid wash jeans
Counterfeit handbags
Mugs shaped like evil dwarves
These things make me die inside

But you bring me back to life with weird handkerchiefs
and gypsy scarves
and ancient silverware
and new skinny jeans for three dollars
and knee-high leather moccasin boots
and a REALLY FUNNY cross-section
of the homo sapiens

You are the greenest thing going
And I like you a lot

Basshunter, urban outfitters,yelling at hipsters,and other deep things.

2010-03-14T18:32:00.000-07:00

this is jimi. (hendrix) you knew that, didn't you.

I sit here with my feet on a warm dryer, in which is a pair of freshly dyed lime green shorts, waiting to be pinstriped with a fabric pen. also a v-neck t-shirt.

Which brings me, in a roundabout way, to peer pressure. Things like v-necks, and Switchfoot, and Tim Burton, enjoy a period of huge popularity, often due to real worth and merit and artistry, and then become uncool. Why? Sometimes, yes, it is due to a real decline in their quality. More likely, they are "old".

Here is my thought:
so what.
WHO CARES?
why should that decrease their worth?

If you claim to dislike something because other people dislike it, because it's old, not because you have decided you personally are tired of it, or that it isn't good for you:

1. you feel like a two-face (because you really do still like it.)
2. you begin a (small) (dangerous) habit of letting your peers or parents or profs dictate your loves.

I am not saying you have to always like the same things, or that you should love a store only because the rest of the populace doesn't, or that we should not investigate new music or styles or artists or ideas or kinds of washing machines. And yes, I know the opinions of our culture and society influence us somewhat whether we like it or know it or not. You are steeped in your era. Yes, you. Yes, me.

yours truly is sick of this snobbery, this silliness I am guilty of myself.
of throwing the baby out of the bathwater of cool because he's getting gray hairs.
of the feeling you get when you lose sight of your own tastes.
If you like Basshunter, or Urban Outfitters, or Nike, or polka-dot socks, or boot-cut jeans, or cowboy hats, or hardcore, or even that Delilah radio show, ok. I like a few of those myself. you can figure out which ones on your own. as for yelling at hipsters, look up toothpaste for dinner.

Liking something for what it is worth, because it made you cry, or think on God, or remember, or tap your foot.....well, just try it. and if you do that already, thank you for existing. you're out there, i know.

Songs of the dia: Red House, by Jimi Hendrix, naturally, and Watching the Planets, by The Flaming Lips.

mreeb.(s) also squee.

2010-03-11T15:20:00.000-08:00

I was tired and annoyed in the brain the other day, and realized how long it had been since i had blogged. possibly a factor, since writing lets out all the crabby juices.

GUESS WHAT. ITS SPRING. heather says it isn't till the twentieth, but heather is shorter than me, so she can't be right.

There has been a lot of Hard Times lately. meaning the place. we saw a fellow walking in with a beautiful bouquet of flowers, no apparent reason.

you know how i know its spring? Number one, it is rainy. Rain after months of snow tells my brain to run the slide show of squishy grass and camp shetek and lazy excursions with the windows down and a distinct lack of school. Also, when I walked out of Middlebrook today, by the door was a patch of all the cigarette butts people had smoked, buried in the snow, and forgotten. Since that substance melted,they are all living in a big commune on the sidewalk now. I laughed.
hey, did you know there's this girl who recycled cigarette butts into clothing? www.coolhunting.com/style/mantis-recycled. too lazy to fix that link.

song of day. an old old old oldie. the shadow proves the sunshine, switchfoot. or as my pater calls them, twitchfoot.

so long. there might be more coherent writing later. when there are cats in my lap.
-Gyp

ON the SUBJECT of WEIRDNESS and MUSIC. preferably combined.

2010-01-07T20:25:00.000-08:00

Weirdness of most shapes and I are friends. Good ones. Longtime mates. And my love affair with music.....music. music. i like you a lot.

Once upon a time, I could not understand how people could like music wherein the lyrics are growlsy screams. Then one day, not so long ago, in fact more like a few months ago, I told people to post their favorite song on my timeeater wall. Someone posted Underoath's (see above) video for their song Writing on the Walls. I watched it, more out of boredom than otherwise. It. did. something. strange. to. me. I liked it. Why?

we doesn't really know, precious.

short months later, i have addicted myself. PARTICULARLY TO DEVIL WEARS PRADA. yip. Oh crunchy thundery raw goodness. also showbread. they deserve their own post. never mind. later. I am new to this yet, but something tells me we are gonna be friends.

Here's my guess. Somewhere inside me, something was tired of normalcy and fake-it-till-you-make-it and non-rebellion and easy listening and Thomas Kinkade.It hit the spot, that's all I can say. It let something loose that had been percolating for years,and grew, and grew. A good, realistic thing who doesn't like being put into words. If you join me in mine addiction, you may know exactly what I mean. If not, well, maybe the scream bug will bite you someday.

Christianity. Is often not a pretty or an easy thing. Screamy, crunchy, pessimistically-optimistic music expresses that. So. WHaatever. To those who think such soundwaves are not music, perhaps your brain and emotions and life haven't tuned your ears to hear. or maybe you just don't like it. whatevs. I won't make you listen. Just think about it, is all I ask.

here's to Underoath.

-Signed, Gyp.

money. its a drag.

2009-11-25T08:10:00.000-08:00

"You cannot serve God and money" does not just mean loving money. It means worrying about it too. Guilty on both counts, as usual. But forgiven. Forgiven forgiven forgiven...........

there's sweat on our hands

2009-11-20T09:44:00.000-08:00

So. In one of my classes, we were discussing counterfeits and sweatshops. Here is how it goes. The price of clothes has gone down, while everything else has gone up (inflation). Why? Because we, consumers, you and me, refuse to pay market price. It is not primarily the fault of the manufacturer, for paying less than a living wage. If he does not respond to the retailer's demand, he won't survive. It is NOT, as we would like to think, the retailer's fault, for ripping us off. No. Demand is the problem here. We want clothes of good quality, cheaply, and we want the stock to change every month. In no other market does that happen, and it cannot happen without a sweatshop-type system.
Here's why: The most negotiable part of manufacturing costs is labor. Fabric, shipping, shoplifting, those things are hard to change. It is much easier to find someone desperate enough to work for nearly nothing, in terrible conditions, and thus keep the prices lower than they logically should be. I am not saying the retailers and manufacturers are blameless, just that the majority of responsibility lies with consumers. That is how capitalism works, and it can work for good as well as evil.
Here is the uncomfortable truth. If you have ever handed over money to Wal-mart, Target, Kohls, T.J. Maxx,a dollar store, or any comparable business, your bucks supported the sort of slave-like system we would like to think doesn't exist. Be grateful you're at the top of the food chain, because there are thousands who aren't.
I've done this. So have you. There's sweat on our hands. Our money matters.
So having said all that depressing business, what are you supposed to do? Research. Sorry. That's all there is to it. Know. Inform yourself. And for pete's sake rethink whether or not you NEED new stuff every two weeks. I know, funny coming from me. Thrift stores my friend. If I didn't have to run off, I would write an emotional, economic ode to a thrift store. Hmmm. maybe later.

ANOTHER BLOG!!!with two other wonderful people

2009-11-14T22:05:00.000-08:00

So. This is a blog, begun by myself and two other lovely ladies.thumbtimes It's...well , follow the link and find out for yourself. Observations. people-watching, coincidences, other things.

things.

2009-11-11T20:26:00.001-08:00

learning to appreciate being on the outside.

because you're never really on the inside in this world.

or at least very rarely.

And the sensation of being on the outside

makes finding people of your own ilk

a million times more delightful.

Sometimes when I'm walking across the bridge, particularly on days so sharp and beautiful they could cut cardboard, I stop. And lean over the railing. And remember why I like Minnesota.

The last while

I've been discovering

Things again.

like art, and why I want to do it for the rest of my life.

That I can't not do it

Specifically

I like making things way too much

I've been

keeping up my love affair with music

And listening to Vitas on Halloween.

Forgive my randomness

but im about to do homework, and that always makes me random.

It's been a good little-more-than-half-a-semester.