Literary Criticism

You can't escape English classes without being gnawed to death by literary criticism. It is slow and boring and before the end, you want to find a rock and bash your head in with it. Let me give you some particularly humorous quotes:

"Donne's erotology typically combines the former with the latter kinds of obscurity, which, as this essay will argue, helps to explain the long controversy not only over major love lyrics such as "The Extasie," but also over what would later be known as the metaphysical style."


If you didn't ask, "What did she just say?" and reread it, you've spent too much time around this foreign language. If you did not look up the definitions for metaphysical or erotology, either you've come across this essay before or you're lazy. I looked up erotology because I have to and I just did a basic google search. What's the first result? This essay. I'm pretty sure she made it up. It's the study of sexual stimuli and behavior. It makes sense but not in context. Did Donne study sexual behavior? Or stimuli? He was certainly cunning in his womanizing. He had to be. He had a reputation and the women knew it and so he had to learn new levels of sleaziness and sweet-talking to woo these girls. But then do frat boys have a degree in erotology? While Donne was much smarter than most fraternity members, he had the same goals and motives. 


So anyway, what she's saying isn't particularly difficult here. It gets worse but this is her thesis. She practically says that. It might not make sense out of context, but it does make sense. However, the way she says it is hilarious. She's talking about obscurity in John Donne, who is a relatively straight-forward writer. He might be cunning in his innuendo and puns and double-entendres, etc, but he's very clear. You don't have to read him ten times over to understand him. You might need two or three times if you're unfamiliar with 17th century speech but is "Why must we rise because tis light? / Did we lie down, because twas night?" obscure in meaning? No. Like most great writers, he's understandable. The lady writing that essay I quoted is not and never will be a great writer. She is a failed writer. So she turned to criticism and wrote in her obscured ways there. She thinks she's so clever using the words "former" and "latter" and then pairing them together. You can tell if you read closely and have experience with these kinds of people. They revel in their "cleverness." It's actually something I did in high school before I knew how to write. She uses a negative to emphasize something that doesn't seem relevant to the essay, in this sentence or the rest of the essay. She also misunderstands metaphysics. 


Metaphysics is part of philosophy that questions existence and what the real world is like. Meta means to go beyond, and physics is from the Greek word for nature. It does not question if we really exist or if the world is real. That is left for Nietzsche and other syphilitic crackpots. I'll give you an example with the ship. Every year the ship breaks down a little so they replace it and after seven years the old ship's parts have been completely replaced by the new parts. Is it the same ship? Some people say yes. Others say no. You can make a good case for either and people often do and while there is a right answer, no one can prove which is right. 


So now that you see what metaphysics is, " Even the most disharmonious imagery (like for instance that found in such poems as Shakespeare's "The Phoenix and the Turtle") may lack true metaphysical violence if its paradoxes are not "contaminated" with a riddling logic that produces metaphysical doubt," is a bit ridiculous.


How can metaphysics be violence? Metaphysics can question violence but it violence cannot have the property of questioning the real world and existence. She uses metaphysical twice in the same sentence, which makes me think she is just tossing it around when she can't figure out the real word she wants or when she wants to meet some daily word count.


This lady is awful but she's one of the better critics. She proves a point by saying her goal is D then she does A, B, C, hesitates, moves onto E, F, G. She gets near her topic but never addresses it straight-forwardly. Most critics talk about M and start with A, B, C then skip to X, Y, Z and you're left wondering why you just wasted your time. And they're so wordy. If I could edit their papers, I'd squeeze 10,000 words to 7,000. And then I'd tell them it was a weak argument because they don't once refer to the original text they're talk about. They don't cite evidence. They cite other people who have written on the same topic. 


And universities encourage this practice! Don't worry about what your author says. Worry about what his critics say. They can explain him better. They're how you'll understand him. Don't even bother reading the original text. Just read the critics. They'll explain him so well that he'll be up in heaven or down in hell saying, "Oh, so that's what I meant." 


Literary critics have psychology envy I think. 


p.s. I'd give you more than two quotes to laugh at, except I'm not reading any further in her essay than what I've already read and I won't go back through to find laughable examples. I am not that eager to poke fun. 

One of those weeks

My birthday is Sunday and I feel old.

The semester ends in two weeks. I have to finish three papers and my book by that time. Next semester is my last one in college and I hope to have found a publisher by then. I'm scared sleepless. I don't get scared about much. Talking to pretty girls in hopes of romance, sure. Coming to Wales, not really. Jumping off a ledge 60 feet in the air, only briefly. Thinking about my book's success? Three nights this week I fell asleep at 6 am after turning in around midnight.

But to quell my fears, I've gone back and edited finished sections of the book while I prepare ideas for the newest scenes (1 long one to finish then updating one I've already written and maybe tacking on an epilogue and DONE! SCARY!). And the work I did over the summer is some of my best writing. Things suddenly made sense. I was organized and diligent. I practiced and read every day. And I've gotten back into the swing of things with my latest chapters. I've been doing good, so I was no longer afraid of failing.

I am afraid of finishing it though. It's a scary thought. Once it's done, it's like being a grown up. I'm still a kid. Anyone still in school and supported by their parents is a kid. That's me! I don't want to grow up and pay bills and worry about insurance and my declining health. That's all grown ups do, too. And if they don't, then they worry that they're not grown-up yet when everyone else seems to be.

Maybe that's not true, but it's how I see it and I'm submitting it as truth.

And as I've gotten to the end of the book, I realize that I don't know this characters motivation! It's always seemed perfectly logical based on his personality to act like this towards Ben. But he's an antagonist/friend. He needs some "complex" motivation (I don't mean something that can be explained in a monologue, but something that has been hinted at for the entire book and is revealed in a very short argument between him and Ben. But I haven't pinpointed how to explain that in an argument. It's one of those things that people don't normally talk about and if they do, they sound whiny and that's not this character. He's foul-mouthed, jealous of Ben, has OCD, teased by his friends as part of the typical high school experience, abused and used by other students as part of the typical nerd experience. He's gone slightly mad and is frustrated that his hard work hasn't brought him any closer to "greatness" than Ben's natural gifts.

And to fix this I'm reading through the other scenes that mention him and this conflict, but it's all described by Ben. Ben's not in his friend's head. Ben is stuck in his own and completely ignorant of how other people feel. And that's how I've written every character. I've described people I've seen. I don't know what their real motivation is. I don't think half of them know it.

I have to be a psychologist, a physicist, a painter, a math student and a storyteller. So much work. And I'm not complaining about the work. I'm complaining about my inability to figure it out instantly and the frustration that comes with struggling through it.





P.S. Were you bothered by the lack of a close parenthesis? :) Now you have to wonder. Is that a smiley or a closed parenthesis? The world will never know.

Ranting about "writers"

My latest printed publication came out today and I was accepted for a second one in a newspaper (instantly mind you. I submitted at 2 yesterday and got the response "Awesome!" within the hour. I had already left for my camping trip so I didn't get to brag in the tipi, but I can do it now and that's almost as good. SHIT this is a long parenthetical side note).

Two complaints though.

1. This next publication is being printed in January and I leave in December. I won't be able to pick up a copy for sentiments sake. Not my sentiments mind you. I have no sentiments to speak of. My parents and friends do, however.

2. Pulp is absolute crap. Trite, boring, free for anyone to submit, hounding anyone to submit, encouraging people to write crap and even teaching them how.

Don't get me wrong; any one can be a writer if they put in the work. Talent means nothing in writing. It's all about cultivated skill, something I've spent two years honing to the point that I'm on average at the professional level. This rag is edited by three people, one who starts her submission titled "Creating Flash Fiction" with "The reasons for writing flash fiction are numerous."

Let's dissect this sentence so I can show you the real mind of a writer. First problem, it's a boring sentence. There's no individual voice. It's how you're taught to start essays in middle school when you don't know any better and are just writing because you have to. An opening sentence ought to grab you, even in an instructional essay.

Second problem, it doesn't say anything. How many reasons? Why do you have to tell us there are reasons if you're about to present these reasons? Won't we be able to tell these are reasons when we read them? It could be combined with two or three sentences in the rest of the paragraph and the one after it and it'd still only say "Flash fiction challenges the writer to find creative solutions to solve the word restraint." That's not the greatest sentence ever, mind you. But it at least tells you SOMETHING.

Third problem. The rest of paragraph says something decent. It talks about Hemingway's six word story: "For Sale: Baby shoes, never worn." With slight problems in economy, it's a worthwhile paragraph. She could get rid of the first sentence and lead with Hemingway.

Fourth problem. It shows how lazy she is and how bad of an editor the other two are. An editor would tell you to cut it because it's a useless sentence. These "editors" are just friends who don't want to hurt the girl's feeling because amateurs always take editing so personally. It's not attacking you and your ideals and politics and religions. The red marks aren't blood; they're just ink. But her friends couldn't tell her this, or they did and she had the power to stick it in anyway so she did.

Most writers would see the problem themselves and know to fix it. You can't become attached to your words. The characters, images and themes, sure. Words, no. No writer cares about his words in a personal, sentimental way.

The second editor wrote an article about her failure at NaNoWriMo. If you don't know what it is, I refuse to tell you because I don't support it. It is the biggest waste of time and effort as a writer. A waste of words, really, and you shouldn't waste those.

I've had friends participate in this blasphemy. I do not condemn any man or woman who does. I condemn the writers who do. I don't consider them fellows. They're people who have nothing better to do that month, but who don't have the interest in writing to go about it over the course of years.

Do you diet for a month then pig out? Do you study a subject you love for a month then forget about it? No. Why would you write for a month then be done with it? The point of NaNoWriMo isn't that, but it's what happens. You get your finished piece of crap and you show it to friends because you're real proud of it (though you swear to god it's not your best writing). You show it to friends. You ask for feedback and they skim through it and say, "Yeah, it's pretty good," because they don't want to crush you and they don't have a clue how you'd go about fixing it. (I'd suggest white-out, a shredder, flames and a shoe-box coffin).

The real flaw in the activity itself, since the one above is more the flaw of people, is that it encourages you to rush. Forget about content, quality, editing. Don't write when you're of sound mind, when you're relaxed and prepared. Don't worry if the characters change throughout. Don't worry if it's a trite plot or if the characters are interesting or if you're delving too much into things that no one really cares about. WRONG.

Writing and good ideas take time to develop. They need perspective. They need to sit and to be addressed at a later date so you can look at them objectively. Characters don't need plotting out, but they need a little consistency and depth. Scenes should be planned so that they show the characters and their developments. Instead, writers are encouraged to use whatever comes to mind so long as they get to the word count.

Hemingway published 10 novels, the first two when he was 27 and he killed himself at 62. His short stories only cover 700 pages. Why are people killing themselves to write 200 pages in a month when Hemingway wrote an average of (I'm doing the math now) approximately 100 pages of fiction a year in his writing career (actually less but whatever). The more prolific Dickens only wrote 20 "novels" (things like A Christmas Carol are included in this) in his 34 years of writing and he did it through weekly and monthly serials. He knew not to rush things.

The final editor stole this list of "Top 22 Creative Writing Tricks You've Never Tried" and then he attached his name to it. I bet he didn't even come up with the title, the goddam moron. He can't even be bothered to create his own trite crap so he steals other people's from the internet.

 Let me transcribe a few of the more ridiculous ones for you. Let me warn you that I hate experimental writing.

"Try tacking large pieces of paper on your walls and go to work with some heavy duty pens, chalk or even paints." While fun, what the hell does this have to do with writing? Are you such a shitty writer and boring person that this is your version of a creative outlet?

"Try
                              Moving
                                                          the
                                                                                   words
around."

Yeah that'll make your shit shine. Make it look good. That's what people want, a pretty picture that they don't have to see in their mind. You know what? Just include a coloring book with your publication. That way the infantile readers won't lose interest.

"Replace every adjective with the one three entries down in the dictionary." Really? This might have good intentions. Adjectives and adverbs from beginners are wastes of words. Most should be cut or combined with the weak verb or noun to form a strong verb or concrete noun. But replacing them with random words is nonsense. Not creative.

Creativity should be defined as recognizing what was important in your life. Not obnoxious bullshit.

Brilliant, lovely and funny

My Creative Writing class has come to an end now that professor Blower is having a baby. She was a good professor, though too kind to others for their average writing. Today I read my setting-focused story out loud for the class, and I stumbled and fumbled and stuttered and coughed through it but everyone had a copy so they could read along. They loved it. Professor Blower, before I read, said she had read it last night and it made her giggle because she recognized the website I used to watch movies. That's how specific I was. Then afterwards she said it was brilliant. Others said they loved it and it made them laugh and we had a hoot discussing the clever end because of its insight into the male psyche.

All of it was intentionally done on my part because I'm that good. Here it is:

Angie and I, both being Americans in Wales, needed a Mexican and Movie night. We shortened it to “M&M night,” to which we brought M&Ms. It was a monthly event with countdowns on Facebook and she’d text me the day of, asking “U pumpd 4 2nite?!!!”

I’d reply, “Of course.”

She cooked tacos and quesadillas, and I ate a bag of nachos while waiting. We complained that nothing tasted right. I told her, “It’s the ingredients, not your cooking.” We’d eat them sitting on her quilt. It was white with colored circles and I’d always sit on the orange one at the foot of the bed. She didn’t have any plates so we ate from paper towels on our laps. She warned me if I spilled I’d better only stain my pants and not her quilt. It was a present from her boyfriend’s nana.

She set the laptop on a purple circle and tilted the screen and asked, “Can ya see alright?” She wriggled closer so our knees touched. I could smell the salsa on her breath.

During horror flicks she’d squeeze her plush bear Jimothy. She’d hold him up when the eerie music signaled a killer or kitten to spring from the bushes. She’d flinch and bang her head on post cards of castles and cathedrals in Edinburgh, Dublin and Cardiff that were taped to the wall. Sometimes Jimothy wasn’t enough so she’d clutch my shoulder. Her fingernails would dig in.

I’d snicker at the cheesy effects or clichés or at the truly scary moments when I didn’t want her to know how desperate my lungs were to breathe again.

The movies were online and we could only watch seventy-two minutes before the website made us wait half an hour.

“Why they gotta do that?” she asked.

“Probably bandwidth restrictions.”

“What’s bandwidth?”

“Something technical,” I said. “Hard to explain.”

During the break she gave me a tour of her room. Seated next to me she’d wave her arm like Vana White and present each spectacle. “Trash bin’s under the desk. That’s also where I study. Over there’s the bathroom. Gotta potty? Do it now. And you’re sitting on my bed.”

“Awful tour. Give me some history.”

“Okay, you’re sitting on my bed and I haven’t had sex in it yet.”

I got up and looked at the photos on her desk. The frames sat on wrinkled and grease-stained syllabi for classes. When I picked a frame up, a diet coke can rolled down the desk and clattered on the crumbed carpet. “Your boyfriend?” I asked.

“That’s my dog.” She snatched the picture from me. “That’s my boo. And that’s Mommy. She looks like me, doesn’t she?”

We were on our fourth movie when we heard her flatmates stumble into the kitchen and slam the fridge. One yelled to the other, “Wer muh crisp-puh?” And the other shouted, “Dunno!”

I got up for the toilet. I had been holding it all night. There was hair in the sink. The floor was still wet from her last shower.

Her room was small, and with the toilet separated only by a plastic door, well, I was kind of shy. I let out my stream slowly, careful not to aim at the water. I drained my bladder as silently as possible and five minutes later I was done. I washed my hands using her raspberry soap that scented the bathroom. I walked out taking a big whiff of my hands.

“I could hear you, ya know.”

Changes?

The point of this blog was to chronicle my adventures so that I or whatever audience I have could watch the changes in me. I already stated at the beginning that I didn't think I'd change much because I went to another country. Psychologically speaking, we're determined by our nature (DNA) and our nurture (environment). I'm in basically the same environment as I am in America. There's more of a slope when I walk, I walk more, there's a better scenery outside of town and there's a lot of old buildings but I don't interact with those much.

My environment can be stripped down to classes and my room. Sometimes the class is in another city where I get to see castles and cathedrals and whatever else. I'm forced to interact with others when we get lunch or dinner on these field trips. I can't just sit in the hostel or in a cafe by myself. But I mostly observe and respond to anything directed at me then hand the conversation back to the others. It's a little different with Cathryn, since I'm more comfortable with her than I am with the others. We even had two movie/talking nights.

But all this environment is temporary and it's really not so foreign from my usual life. Boxing is different but I don't interact with the people there. I punch them and get punched by them and tell them good job as they finish a sprint, but there's no bonding between us. They don't shape me.

My mood is better lately, but the novelty of Wales hasn't worn off. I get to do all the fun stuff I did as a teen in scouts again. I get to see castles and live my childhood romance. I'm studying Arthurian literature, and realizing they are really bad stories. I don't have as many hours of class (I'm taking 12 SH instead of my usual 15 - 18 SH) and the British education system is more reliant on my work than on the professor talking at me. This gives me more time to write. I get new material to write about.

So is this improved mood really a change? It's not a personality change. No more than being full is different from being hungry. I still think people are ridiculously stupid and boring with the exception of a person. I'm not suddenly a people-person. I still prefer one-on-one or two-on-one. I'm still impatient, a little careless and unmotivated by things like grades.

So have I changed? I say no. People are the same wherever you go, like I said from the get-go. People from one ethnicity still surround themselves with others of the same language, skin color, culture, etc. People still walk in the middle of the sidewalk so people behind them can't get around them. Drivers don't want to wait for pedestrians. Shoppers still take years to decide if they want braeburn apples or royal gala while some of us know exactly which we want and have to wait. People have a herd mentality where they walk in hoards and block the entire sidewalk. Kids still skip class. Some are good students, others aren't, most are in the middle. Professors like the normal kids more than the others. Everyone likes sugar, alcohol and grease. Corporations are still screwing everyone out of their money.

Basically, life is the same here as elsewhere. I'm no more excited to be here than I was to visit Hawaii or Philmont or any of the dozen exciting places I've been in my life. Everyone looks for adventures on the other side of the map, but you don't even have to drive an hour to find it. 

These Two Mormons

I was studying in the library for two hours today about John Donne and Mannerist art and literature. On my way back to Ffridd site, these two boys in suits stop me and ask if I want to hear about Jesus Christ and the Church of Latter Day Saints. You know, Mormonism.

"No thank you."

"Do you have a belief in God?"

That's how they get you. You say yes, they ask what sect and how long and then continue on with their well-rehearsed spiel. If you say no, they ask something else. They're like telemarketers. They have a script that covers every possible choice and the only way to win is to not play.

So I listen to their speech, being polite and thinking I'd get great material to bombard them with, or better yet, I could convince them of their own lunacy. There's nothing wrong with a belief in God or any religion. But if that religion makes no sense then it is stupid.

They ask me what it would mean to me if there was a living prophet. I said it would mean absolutely nothing to me. If there is a good, then it can be known. If there is a good, whether a person is a prophet or not doesn't change the good. I tell them this and they ask me what Moses did that made him so memorable and historic. He relayed God's messages. They tell me "Good!" like it's some hard question, but really they're just happy that we're back on track with their scripts. If God relates the good to Moses, then Moses tells me, all he's done is save me time in figuring out what is good.

But since the days of Martin Luther, there has been no need for prophets. The bible has been open to study by anyone who wants to. They can read it and interpret it and figure out their own good. It's been going on since before then too. It's called philosophy, ethics, not-being-an-idiot/sheep.

I raise this point to. Instead of answering, I get introduced to the second guy, a massive, blemished boy. It looks as though God put a curse of boils on him and all those boils popped leaving him hideously scabby. The guy doesn't say much but the first guy continues to tell me about this new prophet and how they asked God if this guy was the real thing and not some impostor and guess what? God told them yes, yes he is.

So I accept their premise that God talks to his followers. I asked, "Why would I need to see this guy then? If God is telling me whether or not this guy is a prophet, why doesn't God just tell me the message himself? It'd save everyone some time."

At this point they realize I'm not interested, though I'm sure I stated that at the beginning. They don't give up though. Instead they ask me when a better time would be to learn about this prophet? Or to go meet him? I say look, I told you right away I wasn't interested but you had to keep talking. I'm not interested in meeting him for the reasons I said before. You don't have any arguments that convinced me. I've pointed out the flaws in them all. No offense to your religion but it doesn't make sense as you've presented it."

Then I walked off and wrote this post. This is not a reflection of Mormons, but one of these two boys. I was told, very accurately, that if they took no for an answer then they'd never talk to anyone. That's true, but it's still annoying. 

Exercise then Grease

So most of boxing class is just technique with some sprints and groundwork like push ups or sit ups at the end. To get everyone conditioned they set up a fourth practice of the week that's focused on running and muscle endurance. It lasts half an hour.

Today was the first one and I was the only one who showed up other than the coach. We waited and stretched and watched students walk by and I even saw Will headed back to Ffridd site. And then the breeze turned into 25 mph winds, and then it rained--sidaways.

We ran down steps, then down hills on wet stone, then we went up steps and at the top he said "might as well go the extra mile" and we ran up twenty more steps. We did the ~400 meter loop four times then he told me to run back to my dorm, without stopping during the half mile up hill, and then I was to do as many types of sit ups as I could think up and do three sets of them, each for thirty seconds.

And I did all of this with my banged up knee, which is still sore and swollen. I'm awesome so I deserve pizza.

"Hands up!"

Okay, Ow. First two hour session of boxing today and suddenly that praise from last time isn't meaning so much.

There were only about fifteen of us this time. We did the warm ups like usual then the coach propped two mattresses against the wall. These were our makeshift punching bags and my group went over and hit them 1, 1-2, 1-2-3, etc up to twenty then back down. Then he said to repeat that three times. Jesus that's hard. And all of the times I lost count and redid a number, I must've hit the thing a thousand times. I just did the math, 1260 times and then add in my unnecessary repetitions. The coach came over and held his hand just under where I should be hitting to force me to keep my right hand up. He'd forgotten that he had praised me before, and I probably should have too. Wouldn't want to be too confident.

Then we switched with the other group who had been holding the pads and one person would hit 1, 1-2, 1-2-3, etc up to twenty then back down, then the two switched. This seems like a pretty standard workout, but I was paired with a girl and a rather small one at that. I couldn't hit hard. It's not a sexist thing. She's just small and thin and I don't want to hit the pad then have her hand fly back and smack her in the nose. That'd be bad!

The coach would come over and steal one of us to hit the pads with him doing different combos. I always thought I was next but I never was. So I did the pad hitting with a partner two more times, except I got a new partner. He was stocky, about my height but with a lot more power. When I hit the pad, I was actually going backwards. Most people don't have sturdy arms so the pads always flailing. When he hit the pad, I was backing into the wall.

One of the experienced members dragged me away from my water bottle to teach us some advanced blocking, more like parrying. But when you block the cross the way he showed us, it leaves the body wide open. It seems like bad practice. Anyway, I wasn't too good at it and we only practice for a minute or two then the coach gathered us and taught us basic blocking. I was even worse at that. I was paired with Jim and we were told to hit four times mixing jabs, crosses, hooks to either body or head then we switched and I blocked while he punched. He was another beginner and I only got three or four hits on him in the entire ten minutes we did this. He was good defensively, or I was just too slow to be a threat. But every time he threw his four punches, at least one would land. Usually the left hook to the body. I could block the straight punches (jabs and crosses) but the hooks always came as a surprise and I was flailing about trying to guard.

But only two or three of the shots hurt. One to the body, one to the head (both left hooks) and one to the nose (a jab in the beginning).

We did groundwork after that. Squats, squat thrusts, squat jumps, wide arm push ups, regular push ups, step ups, jumping, flutter kicks, leg lifts, and a slew of other things that I can't name and couldn't do too well. But everyone was exhausted by then.

And we watched sparring again and it was pretty basic except Steve got cut in the first round he fought. Kevin had a bloody nose against Patrick. And they were supposed to be keeping the power down but Kevin smacked the tall kid good and the tall kid, who usually dodges everything, got fussy. Kevin is asian, and short, and small and the tall kid is TALL. They nearly got into a real fight then and it was a big to do.

Afterwards, I paid my club membership and promised to bring my AU card next time and left. I tried finding the path through the forest that Jessie had showed me last week, but I was a bit lost until who did I see? ADAM! Another American who is in my Outdoor Pursuits group and who did boxing with me last Thursday. He had a soccerball and found another on our way back. He showed me the way I should be going because I was just headed back to the road. 

Bangor Boxing (that'd be a bad spoonerism)

I got praised! He said "Have you boxed before?"

I started a post earlier about how busy I'll be with my two lit classes and 5,000 word essay, but it was complaining and I'm no longer in the mood to complain about it. So you get a recap of my night.

Tonight was boxing practice. Every Monday and Thursday at 9pm for an hour (unless it runs over) and Saturday at 2pm for two hours. On Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays I've been running and so I feel in pretty decent shape. It was a fifteen minute walk to the gym and the karate class that uses the gym before us always runs over so we stood there waiting for the sweaty runts and their sensei to file out.

Adam was there, though he was already tired from Frisbee drills (what?) and track practice. We did the usual warm ups, then as a big group did some quarter-turn hops, half-turn hops, and full-turn hops then some jab-cross combos, then more hops, then jab-cross, left hook right hook to the body combos, more hops, jab-cross, left hook-right hook to the body, left hook right hook to the face, more hops and finally jab-cross, left hook right hook to the body, left hook right hook to the face, left and right uppercuts to the body and more hops.

Then we broke up and one group hit their partner pads going one, one-two, one-two-three, etc up to twenty. My group did some shadow boxing (more of the same combos) while the coach took one kid and had him hit the pad and corrected his form and had him move around and try out different moves. It took forever to get to my turn and then the other group was all finished so they switched.

But Adam and I stuck around until we got to hit the coach's pad. It was a glove with a flat surface and a target so that he could turn it with the flat side facing the ground and you'd hit it with an uppercut, or he could turn it to the side and you'd hit it with a hook. Usually you hit it straight on with one-two, jab-cross combos. And he moved around so you could work on keeping your stance and balance while pivoting, chasing down the opponent and all that.

It was my turn. I was already sweaty from the shadow boxing but I knew my turn was coming up so I took a break and was geared up to hit the pad. He said "One-two," pow-pow! "One-two," pow-pow! "One-two," pow-pow. "Have you done this before? Keep going. One-two, one-two."

Ah, it was great! Then Adam and I took turns hitting the pads going up to twenty, losing all form at punch ten and losing all strength at punch twelve. Then we did a cool-down and most people left. But there was some sparring after. It was between the older students who had done boxing before.

One kid was awkward and kept missing and getting hit and even when he hit it didn't seem that accurate. He's the kid always correcting our forms, telling us to get a move on, arranging socials for the clubs and posting videos so that we don't suck so much. And he was getting clobbered. His opponent was a giant, definitely a heavyweight. He wasn't experienced. He was awkward too, but he had power. Or weight. Or size. The first kid couldn't reach his face without hopping.

Then two other kids went. One had a year of experience and was quick and confident and ducked a lot and threw some odd punches. He was scrawny and Asian. His opponent was Steve, my size and had great technical skill. He moved in, hit, moved out, blocked, and always kept moving. He was big enough to have power but they weren't trying to knock each other out.

Steve stepped out and Bobby stepped in (not his real name, but he's a major player so I have to name him). Bobby was twice as fast as the Asian kid. Every where the Asian kid ducked, Bobby's jab found him. He slipped, Bobby still hit. He bobbed, Bobby jabbed. He weaved, Bobby clocked him. The movement into the punch added to the power and the Asian teetered a bit. Bobby got hit with a few jabs but everything else he slipped around or backed away from. He was clearly experienced. He didn't have a great guard and the coach kept telling him to keep it up but he let it fall after a few punches.

Then Bobby and the first kid, the awkward one, faced off. The guy couldn't do anything. He was too slow for Bobby. He'd throw a hook and Bobby would lean back, just out of the way of it, then he'd lean back in and throw his own shot. If he was trying, Bobby would've knocked the other kid out.

I wanted to see Steve and Bobby face off but they kept getting rotated out and never matched up with each other. I think if they had, it would've gotten serious and Bobby would've lost a tooth. He didn't have a gum-shield in.

I left before they finished sparring because I was starving. I have a weak stomach so eating then doing sprints too soon after makes me vomit. And by too soon I mean within two hours. So I ate at six and then was hungry again at 10 and we didn't get out until 10:30. I staggered down Holyhead road, following an old couple who kept stopping to look at the horses just over the fence. Remember, this is a twenty minute walk.

I figured they'd be closed, but I hoped I was wrong for a change. I wasn't. The student convenience store closes at 10pm each night, so I continued on to the 24 hour one by Morrison's. It's another five minutes from campus. The drunken were already stumbling back to their rooms, crowding the sidewalks and forcing me into the street. Some stumbled the wrong way, probably headed to another pub.

The convenience store didn't have much, but I found a Coke and a package of four muffins. Two were chocolate, one had a chocolate chips and one was cherry? It looks like a plain muffin with three cherries stuffed into the top. I haven't eaten it yet, but the other three are digesting.

On my way back, there was a group of seven kids and one had to be a fresher. She was fat and drunk and her drunk friend supported her while they stood in my way. She couldn't walk. She couldn't even stand still without falling backwards. I tried getting around them but they were a blob on the sidewalk and there was a fence on my left and a stone wall on my right. So I set my muffins on the stones and plucked a chocolate one from its wrapper and ate it while the drunks continued upward.

I devoured that thing and nearly chugged my whole Coke. And after I started walking again, I was already caught up to them! But there was no fence and no traffic, so I crossed to the other side of the street.

There was a bit of complaining at the end, but most of it wasn't. And I'm off to try this cherry muffin. 

Dreams

Last night I woke up three times and I remember the dreams I was having right before I woke up each time. The first was related to something I was thinking about right before bed: the metric system. Everyone in science is infatuated with the metric system and glares at America for using the standard system. But what's a meter? Who decided to use that length and why is it more valid than a foot? A foot is based on the rough size of a man's foot. If you're without a tape measure and need to approximate something's length, you could eyeball it and say "Well, it's between one and two meters but that's as close as I can get you." If you used your feet to measure, you could say "It's about four feet." You'd be more accurate than the metric system.

Is converting from one form to the next easier with the metric system? Yes, if you have them memorized. Centi, milli, deka, deci, kilo, nano, micro, etc. Some people do have them all memorized. If I asked the average Brit to convert all of them, I suspect they'd be clueless. So the metric system's ease of conversion isn't all that great. It's not a miracle worker that magically allows anyone to convert it. So what we should do with the Standard system is change inches and yards and whatever else to units of ten. Ten inches in a foot. Ten feet in a yard, or a dekafoot. Something like that.

See, the metric system was supposed to be designed "for all people for all time," except it's arbitrary. There's no reason behind the length of anything except that it is ten of this other arbitrary length. As I've explained, a foot has a reason behind it. It makes sense. The metric system doesn't so I don't like it. I see the problems with standard system that the US has, but I see just as many with the metric. And the trite argument that everyone else uses metric is the biggest piece of shit logic ever. Convention doesn't make something right or wrong. It just makes it agreed upon. It's convention. See the tautology in that? Just because everyone else is wrong, doesn't mean we should be to. Or maybe they're not wrong; they're just different. Doesn't mean we have to be. If they had a valid reason for doing that, one better than ours, then yes I'd say we should convert. But there is none in my ten minutes of research. The closest I can find is "Originally intended to be one ten-millionth of the distance from the Earth's equator to the North Pole (at sea level), its definition has been periodically refined to reflect growing knowledge of metrology. Since 1983, it is defined as the length of the path travelled by light in vacuum in ¹⁄_299,792,458 of a second.^[1]" And that's just wikipedia. How is that any easier to memorize than 12 inches to a foot. A foot is the length of "most" people's foot. Which is really easier? Hmm?


And that's what my dream was about. Then security came and knocked on someone's door. Someone below them had water dripping on them, so security had to come and ask if they had just showered and if they were using the shower curtain properly. Then they went in the room and I couldn't hear the conversation any more. It was about 1:30 when that happened. 


Second dream, the study abroad group was on some cliffs. They weren't the Cliffs of Moher or the Aran Islands, but they were cliffs and there was a big grassy field around them, so we were playing tag. Tecwyn encouraged us to. It was a big competition and I made it to the last round and there were alliances formed and Will got hurt and I was trying to both save him and win the game. And we were on a train at some point, but it wasn't a modern train. It looked old-fashiony with weird decorations on the wall. It reminded me of The Twilight Zone episode where the guy got off the train and was in the 1800s. 


The third dream, I was an astronaut. The end. 

Fat, Welsh Mr. Miyagi of boxing.

I want to preface this post with two warnings. First, this will be edited tomorrow or Saturday after the second practice. Two, I'm going to romanticize the coach (The fat welsh boxing Mr. Miyagi) more than Emily Bronte romanticized Heathcliff. I do this to show how much I respect him and to show that though he's graying and balding, he's still in better shape than I am. I won't be doing it all tonight, but probably throughout my time here. I should really learn his name.

Tonight was my first night boxing. We started with stretching and warm-ups. The stretches weren't anything extensive. Touch your toes, hold, try to touch the floor, back up, on your toes, stretch your hands over head, back to your toes, back to the floor if your Gumby. Stretched your arm, wrap one around the other shoulder, switch, put it between your shoulder blades, switch, circle circle circle. It wasn't anything an athlete would find odd, interesting or fun.

Then we warm-ups were a lot of jogging in place, punching forward, punching up, punching down, faster, faster faster. Jumping jacks, butt kicks, high knees, fast feet, jog, repeat. I looked around and saw a lot of kids panting and I thought, Yeah, I can take most of these guys. They've got no stamina, probably no form or power. And I thought all of this while I held my breath trying to slow it down, like the rest of them.

We split into two groups because there were so many of us. One group did one exercise and we did another and then we switched and then we joined together to run bare the treads of our shoes. The first group was mostly girls and I'll get to describing them in their various shapes and fashion choices a few paragraphs down.

But first, my group and my experience. I was paired with a lanky Brit from between Chester and Dover named Philip. He had done tae-kwon-do for two years and was tired of kicking folks around and thought he'd try punching them out. Tae-kwon-do rounds, he told me, are only a minute long. Boxing is three (two for amateurs).

Phil was given two worn one-size-fits-most gloves and I was handed a big rectangular pad with straps on the back and a hand hold. I put it on like my neighbors did theirs. Two straps around the forearm then grip the hand-hold with both hands and keep it steady and by my face so that Phil doesn't accidentally punch my teeth out.

The coach, was leading the girls and two experienced boxers were leading us. One was named Steve (I think) and the other I didn't know his name but he had been boxing for six years, been in four fights in which he did alright, and needed to stop smoking. Those two were paired so they could show us how much we suck at the exercise.

The exercise was hit the pad once, then twice, then three times and up and up until you get to twenty then come down, nineteen, eighteen, all the way to one jab. The first few hits nearly knocked me over so I braced myself and held it steady and Phil hit again. My arm got tired when he was at ten, but I wasn't going to force him into a break before he was ready. So I held my arm up and suffered through it until he lost track of his punches and we just said he was at twenty. Then he came back down, pausing between each round to drop his arms and breathe and adjust his stance and whatever else he could think of to stall.

I was given the gloves, he was given the pad, we got ready and I hit him and he saw how hard it was to stay steady. Granted, I'm bigger than him, probably by fifteen pounds. I hit, hit, hit, keeping a rough estimate of my punches, slowing after ten, losing power at twelve, losing form at fifteen and losing my breath at twenty. But I came down and that last jab was the most gratifying thing in the world. Except I missed the pad and had to do it again.

I watched the experienced boxer whose name I didn't know get up to twenty with great form, great speed, great power, and without a break he went right back down.

Then I watched the girls do their exercises. Before I describe what they were doing, you have to know what some of them looked like. The guys were pretty consistent in their dressing. T-shirt or long sleeves, athletic shorts or sweat pants (called trackies here) and tennis shoes. The girls were more diverse.

Some were appropriately dressed. A t-shirt and...leggings? Compression pants? Spandex? Under armour? Call them what you want. They cling to their legs and butt and make it easier to move. I hear they're warm too. Three were dressed like the guys, trackies and t-shirt, but two of them clearly didn't have sports bras on. The easiest way to spot this was the bouncing that was hard to miss. And one was fat so it wasn't all good bouncing. The second way to tell was when they got to sweating and their white t-shirts clung to them, the outline of their bras were clearly not sporty. Two girls had piercings in their lips.

Then there was one girl. I don't know any of their names. I only knew Steve, Kevin, Patrick, Jordan, George and Phil. There were about forty people there so I couldn't learn everyone's names and about ten of them were girls. But this girl had on a shirt I've seen girls go to clubs in. It has a swooping neck line in the front and back. Usually girls wear it with one shoulder poking through the neck hole and their bra strap showing. It had frills. It was lavender (I don't know what lavender looks like but it was a light purple). It was loose. And this girl was curvy. And she didn't have a sports bra on either. So I don't know what she expected or what she was doing there.

Anyway, exercises. They did them, then we did. First, they were taught the boxing stance, always hold the left guard up, try to keep the right one up, left shoulder forward, left toes at 45 degrees, always on the ball of the foot, bounce back and forth, never let your feet get too close together or too far apart.

Throw the jab. Jab. Jab. Higher. You should be looking down the arm to the opponent's nose. You don't want to hit his chest. You want his jaw or nose. Jab jab jab jab jab jab. Their left arms must've been tired because some giggled with their neighbors and bent over and looked around and panted and then got back into place for the next jab jab jab jab. It was a full round of jabs.

Next, the one-two. Jab, right cross. Twist the hips. Bend the knees, push off with the back leg. Keep that jab up, draw it back, right cross. Keep the guard up after the jab. Don't hit yourself when you pull back. Twist at the hips. Don't lean forward. Jab, right.

By the tenth minute of this, the coach introduced the left-right cross-left hook combination. It's probably a wonderful combination, but everyone was so tired by then they only threw about ten in the five minutes they had to practice it. That's two a minute. That is a terrible work rate. But they got through it, then we did and I thought we were done.

Nope. Next were sprints. I haven't done *serious* exercise for any prolonged time since eighth grade track. That's seven years. I had some in high school but it was gym class. Ten minutes to get dressed, five minutes stretching, a warm-up, a little exercise, ten minutes to shower and get dressed. That's not hard or prolonged. So I wasn't prepared for this twenty minutes of sprints.

We did suicides. We were on a basketball court so we went from one boundary to the free-throw line, back, to the half-court line, back, to the other free-throw line, back, to the other boundary and back. And after each we did either push-ups (press-ups they call them), burpees, squats, rounding push-ups front and back (I won't explain them), or jumping jacks. Then the next person in our line went. It wasn't a lot of reps but after the punching and right after the sprint, five or ten ground work exercises are hard!

After the second sprint I did some dry heaves over the trash can. I ate early and only had two apples around seven so I didn't have much, if anything, to vomit. But I made it through the third sprint and slowed my pace a little (everyone else had too) and the constant turning and sloshing in my stomach settled.

And it helped that the coach was "in" our group. We were right by the exit and so everyone could turn to see him demonstrate the exercise before the sprint in case they never had gym class. And on the first sprint, he actually went. And he kept up with group! He was chanting, "Faster faster!" as he sprinted. Sometimes he was the first to finish! (usually because he was the one saying "Go!" and he'd go a second before everyone else, usually catching them off guard).

Because he stood by us, he supervised our form for the groundwork exercises and though I was holding down vomit, I was being praised with "Perfect press up!" "Get your head up, now that's a great burpee!" "Squat all the way down, just like this guy!" "There you go, you've done this before." (This was on the rounding press-ups, which backwards looks like you're doing the worm, and forward looks like you're humping the ground so I'm not sure I like that my form was perfect that time).

And that praise, in his wonderfully musical Welsh accent, kept me going! More so than the generic cheers behind me of "Keep it!" "Almost done!" Yadda yadda yadda.

After tonight, I imagine most of the beginners won't come back. I had the flight instinct screaming in my skull to grab my bag and get the hell out of there before one of these pierced girls knocks you fuck out. I weathered it though. Through the pants and cramps, through the helpful though annoying advice of my seniors, through the dry heaves over a trash can, I survived with a smile.

But, practice is at Normal site. Normal site isn't even on the map of Bangor Uni (which stretches half the town) because it's approximately a mile from Ffriddoedd site where I live. So walking back was hell. Not only was it dark and a long way but I didn't know where the turn off was. Luckily Phil and his violent and appropriately dressed girly friend were there to walk with me. They pointed me to the turn off and I got back to take a cool shower.

Welsh weather doesn't feel so cold tonight. Even in a sweaty undershirt and trackies. 

A Properly Named Festival

Earlier I went to Serendipity (which I continue to misspell) with Cathryn and Naomi then met up with Stef and briefly Bailey and Jackie. This isn't for those of you who went since I can't describe all of the chaos but only remind you of it. This is for those back in the States. Or it could be a teaser or warning for anyone going tomorrow. I have no idea who will actually read this, so if anything it could just be for my own later recollections.

Serendipity was in Maes Glas between 11 and 15 (3pm) today and will be again tomorrow. It is spread between two basketball courts and a hallway connecting the two. It is where students go to learn about the fifty-five clubs and societies at Bangor Uni. Clubs are more physical activities and societies are academic or social, but when I say clubs I mean either.

This was my understanding of it before going, but they failed to mention the crowd, the noise, the odor and temptations. What Serendipity really is is twenty-five or thirty clubs packed into one gym, each with their own table, each with two to three members or supervisors manning the tables, another member walking around jerking you aside and pointing you towards their table, and about three hundred students overwhelmed by all the pictures, pamphlets and demonstrations so they can't move faster than a land tortoise.

Serendipity is really a chance for clubs to entice you into joining. The Mountain Walkers Clubs had pictures from last year of their members posing on top of mountains, straddling ravines and looking like typical badasses. Most clubs had pictures of some sort.

The Canoeing club also did this, but at their table they also had a very attractive girl in a wet suit. Wet suits are form fitting, and she had form to fit. But they weren't the only ones using sex appeal. The Bangor Uni Women's Hockey Club had a calendar of their last year members. Most of the members were naked with only a hand-bra or their bodies pressed to the grass. I nearly signed up right there as an equipment manager. (It did make me wonder who they were trying to attract, since the majority of who they did attract couldn't sign up for the same reason as me. Maybe they figured lesbians would play better hockey.)

The basketball and Gaelic football* and pretty much every other club with an attractive woman in it had her working the table. Sometimes she didn't even do the talking, but she just sat there and smiled. The solid rule of advertisement is just as prevalent here as in America. Sex Sells.

Some of the clubs used humor to pull you in. I can't say for sure that this was the club, but there seemed to be a "Mascots club." That's what I'll call it. They dress up like the guys at Disney World, or as their favorite team mascots or just a cute animal like a penguin and walk around harassing folks. It was always to the amusement of the crowd.

The Ultimate Frisbee club had chocolate (white and milk) frisbees with sprinkles on them and taking one meant you had to check out their booths. Some athletic clubs were there in full uniform and looked quite intimidating and cool, like the American Football guys. We later saw them play in a field and not one of them could catch or throw better than me. I think five of our Americans joined the club, so they'll have a better than usual team I guess. One club had a beach volleyball bouncing around the gym. Other clubs made no effort to grab you, but sat at their table looking friendly (or sometimes awkward) hoping you'll drop by so they can bore you with some trite speech about how you should check out the taster session.

Taster sessions are where you go for a meeting or practice and maybe pay five pounds to rent equipment. Others were free and you could meet the members and potential future members and just see what a great time it would be if you joined that club.

A lot of the clubs were ones you'd see in America. American football, football (soccer), basketball, hockey, literature, music, volunteering, a stress hotline, cooking, first-aid preparedness, mock trial, etc. Other clubs were what you'd expect from the UK. There was fencing, rugby, Gaelic football*, historical re-enactment (similar to our civil war re-enactors except with swords, halberds, armor and the mindset to enjoy the brutality of the battle without necessarily remaining historically accurate) and there was some sort of polo club. Whether this was regular polo or water polo, I can't say but I don't think it was a club for guys and girls to gather in their best polo shirts and look like preppy morons.

Some of the clubs you might not expect were Jiu-jitsu, Herpetology (I was dying to show them the xkcd comic), Capoeira, a role-playing war game society, paintballing, air rifle club, DJ society, law, sea angling and others. Here is a full list.

There was plenty of free papers from the clubs, but in the hallway connecting the clubs to the societies were people advertising. They were grown people, people living on their own and certainly not students. There was someone from O2 cellphone company. There were Dominos employee. I got coupons from them for free pizza, and I can't easily use them because I have an American phone. Someone was handing out cook books and measuring spoons. Their only job was to fill your hands and pockets with more crap.

In the other gym were the societies, though I've described them with the athletic clubs. But that gym was a lot quieter. You didn't have to yell at your neighbors to understand them. You still had to talk loudly but it was tame, like the difference between a lion and an ornery house cat. It could've been because there were fewer people or fewer clubs, but I like to think it was because the people were of a higher quality. Typically they let their subject matter interest you instead of using sex appeal, humor or candy. But the Herpetology society did have live snakes that Naomi sped by and so she nearly missed her Psychology society's table. Stef actually ran by the snakes.

I got separated from the group twice. That's when I found my clubs. I joined boxing and then the creative writing magazine Pulp--formerly called Inkwell. I spent some time talking to members of each. The boxer said he was a beginner too and was quite excited that I was American. He was so excited he told the other boxer then told his coach. I imagine if he had his phone handy, he'd have called his mother and introduced me to her.

On my second venture away from the group, I met the Pulp prose editor. I'll probably be getting to know her, for better or worse, over the next few months. If she respects my brilliance or is brilliant herself, we'll get along just fine. But we might be bonding over the bloody corpse of my latest draft. (That metaphor reminds me of what Art Johnson said during his first massacre of my work, "It's only ink, not blood.")

 I didn't notice it at first and I'll attribute that to the noise in the gym, but Pulp later sent me an email and I suspect she was the author of it. I had sent one the night before where I asked if being an American exchange student somehow disqualified me from submitting. She replied telling me just the opposite. That I was more than welcome and that I'd be right at home since there were two or three staffers who were also American, herself included. Now I don't know the prose editor's name or the name of whoever sent the email, but I think they're the same person.

Then I salmoned (I want to coin this verb) my way through the crowd until I found Cathryn, Naomi or Stef.

My first boxing practice is tomorrow at 9 pm. I'll probably run in the morning. I know that one morning run can't undo the past 20 days of lazy behavior but it can help, right? And I hiked three mountains at the Pentland Hills, biked across the Aran Island Inis More and have been going up and down hills every time I go to the grocery store, so I haven't been a complete sloth.


*Gaelic Football. Cathryn explained this to me in the crowded, noisy gym and it was explained to her only seconds before in the same environment so something might've been lost in translation. Gaelic Football is a combination of volleyball, football, basketball and rugby. I don't know how it works either. Google it. Also the girl at the table was cute and mute (for my duration there). 

The Flat

I think it's fate. I'm from Illinois, a region known for being flat, and I go to UK and live in a flat. 

This'll be all over the place. I'm just letting thoughts come out as they will.

Saturday was Freshers move-in day. Freshers are freshman. I don't know if they skip junior or sophomore but UK students only go for three years. There's all sorts of Peer Guides, easily identifiable by their purple shirts. Tyler was wearing a purple shirt too, but I wouldn't let him guide me anywhere. Actually most of these guides don't know what they're doing. I've asked two of them questions and they couldn't help me. It's an odd feeling seeing them guiding Freshers while they have a cigarette burning in their hand. You wouldn't see that in America. Smoking is nearly taboo now, a shameful act that robs the criminal of basic human rights. Not really, but it's getting to be that way. 

The Freshers in my hall are pretty quiet. I've met two, but I think one lives elsewhere and was helping his friend move in. I met the one who lives here twice. First I was waiting for my pizza to cook. The timer had two minutes left and he walked in with his friend and shook my hand before ever saying hello. I don't like shaking hands. He had a tattoo on his right shoulder that was covered by his baby-doll type sleeve. It was odd seeing him wear a shirt like that. He was tall for a Brit, and taller than me. He looked bigger than he actually was though. I still don't know his name. He's a bit awkward, or maybe just because I'm awkward. 

I hear him in the halls. He calls me the American. He knows my name, he said it once to a girl, but I don't remember his. I should. I probably didn't understand it the first time he said it and I can't ask now. But a girl asked who's bread this was? And he said not his, maybe the American's. He's been here a week. That's what he said. 

The kitchen is right by my room. Whenever I enter or exit my room, there's always someone in it but they're never cooking. They say hello to me as I pass and I say hello back but I never got a good look at any of them. Maybe they're waiting. I always hear them talking. I can't understand through the walls and doors and their accents, but at night a couple--a guy and a girl--sit in there and talk. They've done it a few nights now. I can't understand them but I know they're flirting. I can't pick out flirting easily, but maybe I pay too much attention to the words and now all I hear is tone, and this tone is flirty. 

On Fresher move-in day I wrote this a minute after it happened:

To get into the building you need a "Wave card." It's a card that you wave in front of a sensor and it lets you in, if the name wasn't clear enough for you. Then to use the elevator you have to scan it again, and to get into each hall (each floor has two halls) you have to scan it again, and finally to get into the room you have to scan it again. It makes the buildings very secure, but a pain in the ass for visitors. It'd be easier to call your friend so they can come let you in. 

So when I heard this knock-knock-knocking, I figured it was someone from another room in the hallway trying to reach a friend or something. I don't know; I wasn't about to answer it so I came up with whatever excuse would free me from responsibility. It wouldn't matter if I let them in the hall because they still couldn't get into their room without the card. They'd have to go to the security lodge either way. But this knock-knock-knocking went on for ten minutes then stopped. I figured someone else finally let them in. 

Nope. Ten minutes later it was back. I waited for three knock-knock-knocks (because it was never more than three raps on the door) before I got up and dealt with it. I grabbed my wave card and went down the hall. There's no windows on the door into the hall so you can't even see who wants in. There's a peep hole but I didn't use it. I just opened it for two asians--a boy and girl. 

They said thank you and sorry for bothering me and whatever else, and I said sure. I figured the knock-knock-knocking was over and I could get back to my journal writing. I got into my room, sat on the bed, took up my pen and put the journal on my lap. I read where I had left off so I wouldn't forget anything and...

Knock-knock-knock. "Shu-shen?" I don't know Chinese (or Korean or whatever oriental language it was) so I can't spell the name or word, but it sounded like "Shu-shen" when they said it a second time and knock-knock-knocked again. They pounded at the door, called his name, then left. Apparently they thought he'd hear this knock-knock-knocking more clearly than the knock-knock-knocking on the hall door. Never did they think that he wasn't answering the hall door because he wasn't in his room. So they left. 

Absence

In Ireland and Scotland I was without a computer or time to journal. I've been diligent since, but some of the writing would affect some potential readers. I mean, they were there. And it's not mean, not all of it anyway, but it is honest or exaggeration that may be taken as honesty. Everyone's going to take it the wrong way so I've kept it in my journal and on my hard drive for later publications.

Some of it is just too boring to detail. I spent about three hours and eight pages journaling the trip to Scotland. I think I got up to our arrival and first meal in the cafe across the street from the train station. Nothing happened in that time but there were little observations that felt important. So I guess there was no conflict or characterization. And over the next day nothing happened but I'll detail it on paper and sift through it before I type anything up.

I'm sure no one's been irritated while expecting my next post, but I feel like apologizing anyway (that's what that was up there).

Also, these walls are very thin and the people in the hall keep referring to me as the American. They're not saying much of anything other than that I'm here. It hardly seems worth talking about.

Maybe I'll have a few adventures to detail this week. I have all sorts of orientations so that'll be ripe for interesting material, right? Right. 

My Problem with the Tour of Wales

Today we went to Caernafon and Criccieth and a slate mine in Tecwyn's hometown. I don't remember its name.  The travel there was beautiful with mountain backdrops, mountain-climbing sheep, the Cardigan Bay and Irish Sea, the forests, the people, the architecture. There's so much that we saw that I can't remember it all.

And that's the problem. It was an overload of images. I can't process all of them. I can hardly sort through my mental photographs and bring up Caernfon instead of Criccieth. I can't track when I saw this mountain in the distance and when I saw it with a sea in front. I don't know which had mountains and which had slate. And we were rushed at times. I think others might've enjoyed the pace but I would've skipped the slate mine so we could enjoy the Caernafon castle more or the town there or the view from Criccieth.

I went through and snapped a hundred photographs from every angle I could manage, but those don't mean much. I want to find a single spot there and just burn it into my brain. I like sitting in the park, looking at the same general setting for hours. I think we only spent an hour plus the movie at Caernafon and maybe thirty minutes plus the time to get ice cream at Criccieth. And the slate mines didn't interest me much. I think I was too burnt out by then to take in any more information. It was interesting to see how they did it and the marks it left and how long it took and I felt bad for the workers. But I just couldn't take any more and my mind wandered.

And I don't blame Tecwyn (the program director) for any of this. He's great but students have limited attention that more often gets paid to friends than history and surroundings so if we stayed too long, we'd just waste time chatting. And Tecwyn wants us to get acquainted with the culture. He's not expecting us to marry it. So the brief visits are like a sample I guess.

When I got back I basically crammed the mental images in the medulla oblongota or wherever is furthest back in my memory. Then I hoped I took decent photos so I could still remember it.

My Quest For Power

Please admire the cheesy title that makes it sound like I'm a knight of the round table headed off to fight dragons and find the holy grail, except I won't return a year and a day from now but in about fifteen weeks.

So I'm in Wales, I've met most everyone, heard everyone's name, can list most of the names but I can't put too many faces to names other than the three people I knew already. And I wanted to write a little something yesterday (initial reactions, similarities, funny words, etc) but I didn't have a converter yet and didn't want to waste what precious power I had left over from America. This meant my phone was off most of the day and was on airplane mode when I was using it as a clock and alarm.

And this post won't cover any of those ideas either.

After Tecwyn dismissed us in his funny accent, most kids followed him for a tour of the academic buildings scattered around town. There is no campus, but there are groups of buildings here and there with bagel shops next to them. But I didn't follow. I went to my room to map out where the nearest electronics store I&H Griffiths was. It was on High St. (the Welsh equivalent of Main St.), and I knew where that was. I memorized a few landmarks like before Cob's Records, after Deinol Centre and after KFC then I was out the door in the rain.

At first it drizzled but even with my hood down it wasn't bad. My shoes were broken in and my pants were hiked up so the legs didn't drag on the wet pavement.  I headed down towards Morrisons. I'm not going to use street names other than High St. since I can't pronounce them or remember if there's one f or four, and most aren't marked clearly like ours. I pressed the button for the cross walk and it beep-beep-beeped telling me to cross (that's how they do it here). Then I went down a road that was marked for cars but that I haven't seen a car driving on since arriving.

Then I made it to the hill Alt Glanrafon. I looked up the name on google and still misspelled it three times. It's only about two hundred meters but it's steep. You have to lean back and stomp your heel into the pavement to resist gravity's insistence that you run down it. And it has two types of pavement. Cement bricks where I've been walking and this red rock on which cars have parked, but I haven't seen them drive on it. So it's all very confusing.

At the bottom, I wasn't sure which way was High street. Tecwyn led us there yesterday and someone else led us back and I missed the landmarks, so I headed down the sidewalk next to a busy street. I passed a cross walk signal by about 100 meters before I saw the sign pointing to Deinol Centre on High St. I didn't want to turn around because I figured there'd be another cross walk.

There wasn't for a long while and while looking for it, a man in a car pulled up next to me and in his funny accent asked "You know where the stadium's at?" I told him I didn't. Then he thanked me for being unhelpful and drove off without splashing me. It was very polite of him to do both. And I realized after that he meant the station and not the stadium, but I couldn't give him any directions that way either.

Ahead of me was an Asian woman in the middle of the road. There was concrete medium and a sign that I assume meant it was a cross walk without signals, so you should only run across when it's clear. It was a T-intersection with the new drivers yielding to those continuing straight. One lane was clear and I ran to the median. Then a man stopped and I thought he meant for me to go so I started but the car turning was too busy thanking the other driver for the wave forward, that she didn't see me and nearly smashed me against her headlights.

After taking twenty steps down that road, I felt lost. The end of the street didn't look like High street so I turned around and went looking for that sign pointing towards Deinol Centre. I went that way, then turned left and I was looking at all the stores and all the people and down every intersection and couldn't find my other landmarks. So I kept forward and saw Cob's Records so I turned at the street before it, like I thought I was supposed to. And what I saw was that the street I felt lost was this street and that I had backtracked for nothing.

I went looking for I&H Griffiths. I turned down one street and thought it might be on the street behind it and Google's maps had just been unclear. But I kept turning until I was back on High St and at the corner of the street I felt lost on and the High St. was the small shop I was looking for. Through the windows were plasma TVs and stereos, like their sign advertised. It also advertised Hi-Fis, but I don't know what those are.

I stepped in and no one was manning the counter. The door didn't close on its own, I had to shut it and I tried to do so quietly. I didn't want to be rude on my first visit in a Welsh store. It was small inside and crowded with merchandise that if I kneed or kicked by mistake would cost me as much as the plane ticket here. A man stepped out of the back room and I said "Hi" and walked towards him. Though I was drenched, he didn't look at me accusingly as if I was ruining his carpets or a real sore to look at.

"I'm American and we have different electrical plugs from you guys. Do you have a converter?"

He grunted some things, which still sounded polite, then he turned about the room looking for them. An older man came out from the back and took over. He asked me about the voltage and wattage and amps and then suggested answers I could use and even said he was sure I knew all about this, which I didn't, and then he pulled out a converter and told me the price was "Three pounds fifty pence." He kept telling me all about it as I rolled it over in my hand and nodded. He told me how it was a snug fit so I shouldn't jam the plug and that it should work for most things like cell phones or laptops, etc.

When I ran out of polite responses, he repeated the price and handed me the converter before I paid him. You'd never see that in America with the exception of Taco Bell drinks and sit-down restaurants. I left and he thanked me.

Then the rain was heavier but the wind was gone. I passed the Deinol Centre and saw a shop that sold donuts twenty for four pounds. I thought of going in but didn't and headed back towards the dorm. I trudged up the hill and stepped on a drain and slipped and by the top I was panting through my mouth.

The roads were soaked and were churned to mist by tires. Headed towards me was a family of three and they got to a cross walk (one without signals). Behind me I heard cars speeding this way. They crossed the right lane towards the median and I was sure they'd be splattered. Suicide seemed like an odd family outing. Then when they made it safely to the other side I realized cars drive on the wrong sides here.

I got to my room, stripped off the wet sweatshirt, the wet pants and put on sweat pants to relax in while I caught up with the world through the internet. I plugged in the converter and plugged in my computer and it all fit so I thought I was good. I turned on my computer and the charging symbol didn't come up but it's sometimes slow so I waited. Still nothing. I tried my phone. It didn't chirp and charge like it usually does.

Great, I thought. I'd have to go back down. Which I did, directly instead of getting lost again, and the old man from before was with another customer but the first grunting man was free. He looked at me and I walked towards him and explained my problem. The old man turned from his customer who was figuring out a universal remote and helped me. He said it was odd that it didn't work and I showed him the plug from my iPhone and he made sure it fit and checked the specs and said it should've worked. I said I thought so too. He got me another without hesitation or paperwork and tried it out to be sure it worked and it did. He thanked me again and insisted I come back if it didn't work or if I needed anything else. He thanked me, his assistant thanked me, and the customer thanked me and I nodded in return.

I stopped off at the donut shop I saw before. It was called Dragon Bites and they sold mini-donuts. Not donut holes, but little donuts complete with holes, so twenty for four pounds wasn't as amazing a price. Another customer was inside and the shop was only big enough for her. Her husband and child were outside waiting for her because there was no room for them.

With her gone the employee and I grunted greetings and nodded and I ordered, rather awkwardly. A medium bag of twenty. I wanted a drink too but he was so involved in making the donuts that I waited. Then he was covering them with sugar (not powdered sugar either, regular sugar), then he was standing the bag on the counter top, then he was telling me the price so I never had the time to order a soda, all of which were canned and only the water was bottled.

I ate them in the rain and at the cross walk I pressed the button and an Asian woman came up behind me, also waiting to cross. But she was standing about five feet away. I might've been sweaty, but everyone was so wet it would be hard for her to tell. I couldn't think of why she'd stay away other than the awkwardness that comes with being close to strangers. Then a bus passed through the puddle in the gutter and splashed me. I pulled my donuts out of the line of fire and stepped back.

As I went up the hill I ate the donuts and choked when I tried to pant with my mouth full. They were gone by the time I was in the dorms. I plugged the converter in and my phone didn't chirp or charge. Dammit, I thought. Then I noticed the two nubs between the outlets. They were switches and they were off. I flipped it down and my phone chirped and the battery came up, empty except that red sliver that slowly grew. 

Exotic Europe?

This blog is supposed to track my changes through my European adventure, but I don't think I'll change so I ought to be upfront about these feelings.

Through the 1000+ years of literature, people have labeled Europe, or parts of it, exotic. Writers who have never been to a country will write about it and their readers, who also have never been, will eat it up and rave about how exotic it is. Mysteries of Udolpho by Ann Radcliffe is on the GRE but Professor Johnson had us read excerpts from it to mock it along with Jane Austen in Northanger Abbey. Radcliffe wrote about Italy and their mountains and some great mystery in a castle, none of which she had any experience with. I bet she hadn't even traveled to Italy. But the readers didn't know any better based on her descriptions and it's a foreign land with a deep history so of course they'd be interested.

And that's how Americans are about civilized parts of Europe, you know, Western Europe. No one wants to go to Slovakia. We've romanticized W. Europe as exotic and so interesting and breath-taking. And Wales isn't even on typical lists. There's France, Italy, Spain, Ireland and England. Not all of the UK, just England.

And it's not because we've never been there. I've never been to Washington but I'm not antsy to jet over and get doused by their rain. All this excitement is because we're told to be excited.

After two weeks in the Rockies, I was no longer amazed by anything but the peak of a mountain I climbed, so I bet the honeymoon will end quickly for the "beauty" of Wales. And once that phase is over, all that'll be left is the everyday life. Which will be interesting, but no more interesting than it would be in Iowa. No one describes sloshing through the muck on a rainy day or seeing pigs and cows and corn as beautiful. Even folks in Europe don't have that misconception. But Snowdonia's beauty will fade into a backdrop. The rolling hills will become something to trek up while grumbling. The everyday rains will lose their charm.

I'm not writing this because I think Wales won't be great. I'm writing this because everyone seems focused on the wrong things. The beauty will be in the persons. Once I figure out what's cultural, I can't see their humanity being any different than ours.

But this is just a prediction. I'm eager to be wrong. 

Pre-trip Excitement

Over the months I've been telling friends, family, professors and my barber about how I was excited and a little nervous about this trip. I lied. 

There've been no late nights, wondering "Will I have a good time? Will I make friends? Will I find anything to eat that isn't traditional Welsh food like laverbread which is made from seaweed?" Other than informing people of when I'll no longer be available or answering their questions about what I'm going over there for, I haven't raved about Wales. I've told people about the occasional fun fact like that I might join the Bangor Apprectiating Literature & Language Society (BALLS is the acronym) or that I get Tuesdays or Thursdays off to go hiking through Snowdonia national park or that my classes don't begin until a month after everyone's in America. I haven't been doing the countdown to my flight like my mom has, I haven't been making a big to-do over see-ya-laters, and I haven't researched the town and culture. The closest thing to excitement has been my exercise routine to get in shape for the Welsh ladies. 

I just wasn't excited or nervous or feeling much of anything about it. I also wasn't feeling any regret so I am thinking it'll be a worthwhile trip. The only dread I've felt is when looking at the price on my plane tickets and rain suit. I'm naturally a stoic person I guess, and cheap apparently. I've always been like this before college and high school. The last time I was excited about a natural progression of life that everyone else makes a big deal of was when I got my license, and that faded when we tore the house apart looking for my social security card that was hidden in a box in the basement. 

But I had a moment of excitement. While my bath water ran, I cleaned off my college stuff from the guest room's bed and tossed it in my closet then hefted my suitcases onto the bed and started packing. When my bath water was nearly to the overflow, I stopped packing and sat in the tub and then drained some water and ran some hot water so I wasn't shivering the soap to suds. 

No one just cleans themselves in the tub or shower. It's a place for thinking. So while my hair was lathered and my eyes squinted shut so the shampoo didn't burn, I had my moment of excitement. It was almost here.

Then I submerged and got water in my ear and the excitement passed.

My Blog

I'm leaving for Wales late on the 31st (of August) or early on the 1st, so I figure I ought to have a blog, you know, to update the three people in my life. I don't know what I'll say after this post because I don't know how I'll react to all the funny accents and new people.

I have to join a club so maybe that'll be something to talk about. And I'll be going to Snowdonia national park once a week so I might have pictures. And I'll have roommates so maybe I'll have rants. My seven flatmates will wonder why I'm in my room so often, so maybe I'll put creative writings in here then point the Brits to this and say, "See, I really was being productive and not avoiding you."

I don't know.