Tuesday, November 15, 2011

The Architectural Faces of Oxford


In this mid-semester wave of Novemberness and slight academic numbness, here are the gargoyles of Oxford. In no particular order...






















"I am part of all that I have met; yet all experience is an arch where though gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades for ever and for ever when I move."
-Tennyson

Monday, November 7, 2011

Guy Fawkes and stuff

“Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot; I see no reason, why gunpowder treason should ever be forgot.”

Guy Fawkes burned again this year.



Who was he and what made him such a badass he is celebrated with fireworks and bonfires? Well, I'm glad you asked...

But wait, does that mean the celebrations are celebrating Guy (real name, Guido) Fawkes' arrest or his attempt to bring down the government? Hmmm.

As for the rest of the week, it's been something like this: butternut squash soup, The Global Auction, procrastination, Woody Allen film, guest speakers who ramble, scarf season, mastering Google's search tools to differentitate between 'color' and 'colour', policy borrowing, "All the Single Ladies", drizzly dizzying sideways misty rain, logic and fatal flaws, milk with green tea (?), binder organization, and Pablo Neruda.




Pablo Neruda's Too Many Names:

Mondays are meshed with Tuesdays
and the week with the whole year.
Time cannot be cut
with your weary scissors,
and all the names of the day
are washed out by the waters of night.

No one can claim the name of Pedro,
nobody is Rosa or Maria,
all of us are dust or sand,
all of us are rain under rain.
They have spoken to me of Venezuelas,
of Chiles and of Paraguays;
I have no idea what they are saying.
I know only the skin of the earth
and I know it is without a name.

When I lived amongst the roots
they pleased me more than flowers did,
and when I spoke to a stone
it rang like a bell.

It is so long, the spring
which goes on all winter.
Time lost its shoes.
A year is four centuries.

When I sleep every night,
what am I called or not called?
And when I wake, who am I
if I was not while I slept?

This means to say that scarcely
have we landed into life
than we come as if new-born;
let us not fill our mouths
with so many faltering names,
with so many sad formallities,
with so many pompous letters,
with so much of yours and mine,
with so much of signing of papers.

I have a mind to confuse things,
unite them, bring them to birth,
mix them up, undress them,
until the light of the world
has the oneness of the ocean,
a generous, vast wholeness,
a crepitant fragrance.

*(It's even better in the original Spanish.)