talk talk talk

Now Playing: No one. They're all revising (theoretically).

A certain person has requested another post. Don't have much to say, I'm afraid. I went to the library tonight and found a copy of the Kalevala on a dark shelf in an unlit alcove. I wonder if any of the Native American tribes have epic poetry, and if they put the same weight on words as the Old English poets did. I know they have stories, I just can't find them, aside from the one slim volume that my grandparents gave me ages ago, with odd stories from the Lakota about humanoid animals.

A search on the internet has only turned up gruesome Pawnee religious rites, though one interesting fact is that the Pawnees constructed their longhouses so that they could see the Pleiades through the smokehole. Apparently their life was tied closely to the observance of celestial bodies.

That's a strange phrase: "celestial bodies". If you didn't know much about English, you'd think it meant human bodies that had been modified in some way so that they were "heavenly" or shining or able to fly. Maybe superheroes should be "celestial bodies", not stars, planets, asteroids, and so on. Though of course we have a way of calling people who excel "stars" anyway. Then again, it reminds me of C.S. Lewis's The Voyage of the "Dawn Treader" and the Star's daughter at the end. In the world to which Narnia belongs, stars are bodies.

So it's the Kalevala now. I understand, just from reading the introduction, where Tolkien got the other half of his mythology. Middle Earth turns out to be a crossbreed between Old English and Finnish. The Finnish languages and names, even the spelling and pronunciation, have a familiar ring because I've encountered them already in Sindarin and Quendi. The work promises to be heavy reading, perhaps badly translated into Modern English verse, but if I managed to slog through my thick volume of prose Sagas of Icelanders last summer, I can get through this, and the language is much nearer to home, being part of my linguistic heritage thanks to Middle Earth, than the strange Scandinavian names of the characters in the sagas.

I wonder why C.S. Lewis chose to fill the world in which Narnia exists with so much Greek mythology, and Tolkien chose traditions completely different. Ironic, in a way: Narnia seems much younger than Middle Earth, but the versions of Greek legends we have are far older than the versions of Beowulf and the Kalevala. Apparently oral poets were still making songs in Finnish in the fifteenth century A.D., and Beowulf was written down around 800 A.D., long after Ovid and Homer.

I also wonder how these old legends might interplay with postmodern theories about language. It's interesting that in Scandinavian mythology, runes were so important. Odin lost an eye, they say, in order to buy the power to write. For an oral culture one can only imagine how powerful writing would seem. In Beowulf, runes written on a sword cause Hrothgar to unearth a whole new mythic world, sparking one of the tangents so difficult for contemporary readers of Beowulf to endure.

Postmodern poets put such an emphasis on words themselves and on exploring subjective ways to shape meaning. I've heard professors say that the question is, as in the quote from Alice that used to be on the cover of my Wordly Wise books, "Whether you can make words mean so many different things". The difficulty is that their "poetry" so-called makes words meaningless. The quest for meaning makes it disintegrate into strings of words without punctuation or reference point. One of my professors wisely advised a sort of poetry that forces the reader to deal with unusual word combinations but pauses along the way to let the reader get a foothold in the familiar before leaping away again.

Is it possible for legends and oral poetry to have something to contribute to the postmodern confusion over meaning and who has authority to say what word means what? I can agree with the postmodernists, the L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E people, and all that, that it is good to be aware of words, as one is aware of one's physical surroundings, to be aware of their ranges of meanings. But I don't want to let it flake apart into meaninglessness, discarding the idea that words can have meaning and do, by consensus, have definite meanings, no matter where you are. A cat is still a cat: but the connotations will by necessity be different for every person. I simultaneously think of Mandy and a tiger; Rosemary will probably think, "Unwanted two a.m. serenade", and Elizabeth, on the other side of the Atlantic, "Sneezes and itches."

How does an awareness of words themselves shape stories, communication, everyday life? Textbooks, news flashes, movies, novels?

The problem, of course, is that no one really cares. Or rather: No one is aware that they care. When you start to use a word that means one thing in one place in another place, and the people there don't understand you, you begin to realize that the question of words as embodying a variety of meanings actually does have practical implications for everyday life. It can inhibit communication; it can also provide hours of hilarity, or a new perspective on a serious topic.

So why poetry? Because I think it provides a forum for the most directly self-aware discussion of the question. You can sit down and explore meanings in a poem in ways that would definitely be annoying on BBC news. On the other hand, most people don't have a patience to consider the effect the language of a poem is having on them in this much detail.

But there's hope, in an odd sort of way. Doing a paper on Renaissance English made me realize how similar linguistically our era is to the Renaissance, especially in reference to American English, which apparently has the highest coinage rate. English speakers are drawing in new words, creating new vocabulary, exploring new registers, in ways similar to those used during the Renaissance with its demand for new vocabulary to name new commodities from Europe, exotic creatures from the New World, and new ideas drawn from emerging Classical philosophies and Reformation theology. In some ways, we are in a similar position, forced to come up with new vocabulary for internet and computer technologies, trying to deal with globalization, interacting rapidly with other cultures, and creating new subcultures, each one demanding its own range of vocabulary. The hope comes when you realize that the Renaissance produced some of the greatest modern English authors: Shakespeare, Donne, Milton. Perhaps new linguistic self-awareness will result in a similar flowering....

Ah, well, I'll just keep chasing this particular problem by the tail, round and round. Probably end up in knots.

It's about time for Rachel's e-mail break, which means my laptop will be needed soon.

news flash: serious outbreak of contagious disease in Renwick House

Now Playing: "An Ancient Muse" by Loreena McKennitt. Track 3, "Caravanserai".

Warning: Rosemary, you'll need a full-fledged dictionary for this one.

Tonight at tea Andy M., a second-year medical student apparently exercising his knowledge prior to his exams, diagnosed Renwick House with the clinical condition Examination Related Insanity, or, in layman's terms, ERI.

The Warden's reaction was reported to be: "I'm pretty sure I have 'I' year round!"

The chief symptom of this disease seems to be, in Renwick’s case, increased gregariousness on the part of most residents (though for some this is followed by periods of extreme aloofness), as demonstrated by the following examples.

A group of students gathered outside in the car park around one of the kitchen tables, which, having been removed for the barbecue a week ago, has become a permanent fixture in the area behind the kitchen and has been covered with notes, binders, laptops, cups, and empty food containers. Said students have been observed spending all day sitting outside around this table and on the concrete nearby, "studying", some of them leaning against the tyres of the cars parked nearby, others sitting with their feet propped up on the low brick wall between the car park and the back area. In order to control the unruly mob, the Warden has instituted three rules: No Talking, You Must Write More Than Fifteen Words (Emmaline!), and We Go For Ice Cream at Four O'Clock (direct quote from the Warden herself: "Revision is all about the food!").

This final rule has been kept religiously by a selection of Renwick girls for the past two days, specifically the Warden, Emmaline, Linsey, Catherine, and the author of this humble blog, with additions from outside Renwick (Sarah W. and Rosemary), who have been seen marching down Elmwood Avenue in the late afternoon for the past two days to Botanic, where they have queued with half of the rest of Belfast's population at the red ice cream van parked beside the Tropical Ravine. Said collection of girls has been seen dandering back to the house licking ninety-nines, munching Magnums, and eating ice lollies.

In fact, the symptoms of disease seem to be most pronounced in the late afternoon. Just today residents were observed setting up a volleyball net in the car park next door to Renwick's, having tied the net to Renwick's high metal fence on one side, and on the other side having stacked half-a-dozen kitchen chairs on top of a large rubbish bin, and tied the net to the chairs' legs. A lively game of volleyball ensued, with Andy L., Allison, and Matthew against Rachel, Ian, and Andy M. Though afterward Rachel complained of swollen hands and Matthew sent the volleyball crashing into a full cup of tea, baptizing Ian's medical notes, otherwise the residents seemed to extract a great deal of pleasure out of inflicting vigorous wallops on the aforementioned innocent object of their sport as it flew back and forth over the net in a haze of concrete dust in the late afternoon sunshine.

It was noted during the course of the volleyball match that for some reason the disease has prompted all the boys in the house to wear matching reflective sunglasses, a strange manifestation of the malady.

While not all the residents of the house have been quite so seriously ill as to spend all day sitting outside, most of those present have at least spent meal times outside. At lunch and tea, nearly everyone has made an appearance, lounging in the sunshine, eating, dozing, and sunbathing, an indication of the contagiousness of this serious disease. As further sign of the grave condition of the inmates of the house, the conversation at such times turns on completely trivial topics: the influence of Andy M.'s yogurt with seeds on the digestive system, Emmaline's purportedly strange middle name, and Matthew's theory that "if I can't see it, it doesn't exist" in response to Rachel's questions on the shared properties of wind, the Holy Spirit, quarks, leptons, and gravitons have all been discussed at points in the not-too-remote past. In addition, a great deal of mockery of dialectical differences has also surrounded mealtimes. One resident (wouldn't know who this would be, now would we?) has been observed laughing hysterically over the use of "while" in phrases such as "A while good time" and "A while lot", and correcting the pronunciation feel for fail by her not-so-innocent roommate, as well as drawing great satisfaction from mimicking the use of glottal stops in the Warden's pronunciation of words such as butter and water.

Meals indeed seem to be prolonged by the disease. Certain girls, namely the Warden and the author of this post, were seen sitting in the kitchen drinking tea and eating biscuits for half-an-hour after their appointed time to return to their studies, and had to be soundly rebuked by Andy L. for such procrastination.

Yet another symptom observed in the house has been a sudden rash of pranks played on the Warden, executed by certain of the boys. As someone in the house said, "They have too much time on their hands!" Whether this outburst of misapplied creativity is due to an excessive amount of hours in the day or to the madness induced by disease cannot be acertained; however, it is certain that strings of toilet paper, vaseline, ladders, and boys' boxers have all appeared in the Warden's demesne at one point or another, to her disgust.

Another bothersome indication of the disease has been the pile-up of dirty dishes in the house sinks. Apparently the disease inhibits one's physical abilities to clean anything. The most obvious physical effect, however, has caused only slight consternation: Nearly all the residents have pronounced cases of sunburn.

In conclusion, the public is warned to stay well clear of Renwick House in the coming weeks since this disease has proved to be highly contagious, as demonstrated above. Anyone traveling to the area is warned to take extra precautions to avoid contracting ERI.

last day of class

Now Playing: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack by Howard Shore. Track 1, "The Prophecy".

9 May 2008.

In some ways, just like every other day, and not really very exciting, though there was banana bread for breakfast this morning. I went to my last class at ten o'clock, ENG309, and sat through a two-hour lecture about William Tyndale and his translation of the Bible. Then I went to the gym to run, though I got some horrible shin splints.

Walking back through the Gardens was eerie in some ways. Earlier this week the weather was beautiful, warm and sunny, in the 70s Fahrenheit. The Gardens have been absolutely packed with people, the bowling green giving off the same murmur as would come from a crowd, and people in every nook and cranny. Today, though, was still and overcast, like walking around under a thick comforter, so there was hardly anyone on the green. The rhododendrons have started to bloom in full force, profusion of red and white flowers.

Back in Renwick, I found EMM, Rachel, and Andy M. sitting in the kitchen, talking. When I came back from my shower, they were still in the kitchen, though this time Andy M. was showing them cricket techniques (Andy L. would have been shocked and horrified, but it kept us laughing). I ate lunch. Nathan showed up to do small group planning with EMM, so I took my laptop and notes outside to the table that was left in the car park after Monday night's barbecue. It wasn't as pleasant to sit outside today as it was earlier in the week, but quiet at least--pigeons fluttering in and out of the attics of the flats across the street, and seagulls wheeling slowly against the grey sky. I worked on my papers until about half three, until I could hardly see straight, then went inside.

EMM, CMAM, and I ended up going to Cafe Renoir, down Botanic. The cafe was unusually quiet. It's a very large place, occupying a couple of the row houses, and going up three or four stories--all sorts of levels, and odd nooks, and dim, cool spaces, low-lit lamps hanging over wooden tables, richly-colored upholstery on chairs and benches. We took our food upstairs and sat at a table in a back corner. We basically just sat and talked nonsense quietly for an hour.

I worked a little bit more on my papers back in Renwick, then at half five went down to the kitchen to help Emma and EMM cook tea. Tonight Ken Ham was speaking at the Waterfront, and Emma, EMM, Robert, Steven, and Jonny were all going to hear him--the boys were coming round at half six for tea before the talk, and Emma had agreed to cook for Andy L., Samuel, Matthew, Rachel, Daphne, Rosemary, CMAM, and me as well. We boiled pots and pots of rice. We had creamed peppered chicken, rice, and bread, all of us sitting around the common room. Matthew's laptop was out, and we looked at marathon pictures and discussed the times of the various teams. There was ice cream for dessert, and then one by one, people started to leave--the group going to the talk; the boys about their business; CMAM up to study; Daphne and Rosemary, after awhile, to go home to Donegall. I left Rachel miserably trying to motivate herself to study. I listened to Chris Thile and washed dishes.

I went upstairs at nine o'clock, intending to work, but didn't get much done. I sat and thought for a long time. Read through the black book that my friends in the States had made for me before I left. Holding three places together in one's head is so hard.... It's like staring at a maths equation, trying to make the factors reconcile, when they just won't (like the allusion, Emmaline and Rachel? :o).

CMAM came downstairs to see if I wanted a cup of tea at about ten o'clock. We made tea for ourselves and Rachel, and heated up slices of banana bread. Rachel was buried in a sea of notes and binders in the common room. CMAM and I stood in the stairwell, talking for about half-an-hour. Poetic symmetry: As we had begun our time in Renwick way back in September, talking about Heaven, the night when it was just the two of us and Andy M., watching CSI, in the house, so we ended our time in Renwick, now, talking about Heaven again.

At about eleven o'clock, the group came back from the talk. Robert and Emma made tea and found biscuits somewhere for everyone to share. Simon, Matthew, and Dean appeared from somewhere, and we all sat around in the common room, talking. EMM and I nearly fell asleep in the corner. Robert, Steven, Emma, and EMM left to go home to Culleybackey/Coleraine at about midnight, and I, dodging Dean's threats to interrogate me about America, escaped upstairs to go to bed.

And, to finish, a good quote: "Sleep in peace! Do not trouble your hearts overmuch with thought of the road tonight. Maybe the paths that you each shall tread are already laid before your feet, though you do not see them." - Galadriel, The Fellowship of the Ring

some variation

Now Playing: Mark O'Connor, "The Fiddle Concerto".

Seems to have been an unexplainable dearth of poetry on this blog. For an English major, and one who writes poetry at that, this is inexcusable. Therefore:

First of all, slightly out-of-season, and for sheer pleasure's sake, with no ulterior motives,

Queen’s Quarter, Belfast, October
10/07

Autumn here becomes a wakeful bustle:
Trees clot the streets with crisply-cluttered scraps,
And people, swirling home from work and school,
Scuff through the sloughing scales, sheer serpent-gold.
Late summer’s sleepy shadows, sprawling blue
From endless afternoons of hoarding sun
And billet on the town, yawn, stretch, and slink
Into the brooding dusk, and disappear
Behind the whirlpooled whir of winging trees.
The deep, warm dragon-days leave in their slot
Slick sidewalks pressed with gold and umber leaves.

I get so frustrated with academia....

Badminton
4/08

Whisk, whack, swish, flick,
Quick shuttlecock flit back and forth.
Racket raised, reach and clutch,
Players leap, bow, dip and dodge.
Click, click, crisp-flown fletch,
Words gone bouncing, net to net,
Ecofeminism, academics, bourgeoisie,
Neologisms flicked from lip to lip.
The intellectuals posture, strike a pose,
A stance, another argument or masquerade—
Watch them fly, falter, slip and duck,
Dodge the meaning, dither, add a phrase.
Conversation tips from hand to hand,
Book or journal where the sets are played,
Conference, lecture, paper, match by match.
Keep the racket poised, the shuttle flown,
Tense the wrist, serve, jump to volley up,
Postcolonial, postmodern, postromantic,
Socialism, symbolism, sectarianism,
Pause, paraphrase, and postulate—
Then quick flick back.

And something more hopeful to finish with.

Ruins
4/08

Each wall lies broken: stones, piece by piece,
Fall, crushed, and crop in crumbled heaps. Sills,
Thresholds, gables, gutters, ledge by ledge—
This protected, barred the winter back,
This kept warm and pleased the architect,
This grit, dirt-dust, gravel ground to ground.
This, us: our pieces scattered here,
No wall but broken stones in flaying flakes—
No understanding, our brittle words gone dry,
Our mortar chipping even as we try to patch
Our shattered selves together, to each other,
Yet cut and scrape our stones with every shard.

When the architect will come again,
He will see the heap, this ruin, where stones
Wound stones and stones crack into dust—
He will restore, will see the remnants’ pieces,
And will rebuild, join stone to broken stone,
Stone to itself, and stabilize our walls
To stand, not just repaired but recreated,
Increased, enlarged, and strengthened, stone by stone,
Our shattered frames re-formed, re-joined and whole.

C4441

May 5, 2008.

This morning I woke up very reluctantly. Outside the morning was clammy and foggy, not at all what I’d expected, and it didn’t help my mood. I wasn’t looking forward to running my 7.1 mile leg of the Belfast marathon at all. After I dressed, I crept downstairs, got breakfast (the house was very quiet), then came upstairs and did my devotions. By eight o'clock, the house was full of people, mostly boys—Andy L. had registered a couple of teams for the marathon, and lots of other guys seemed to be about. We had to go downstairs eventually, though, to find our numbers and bags for the things we wanted before or after we ran. As the boys trickled out, girls started to trickle in. Naomi, Sarah W., and Lindsey Montgomery showed up. The boys were mostly gone by now, taking their noise, leaving their mess of kit bags and clothes behind in the common room. We pinned our numbers on each other’s shirts and got ready to leave. The girls are in two teams, Run Fat Girl Run (CMAM, Rachel, Naomi, and Daphne), and Go For Renwick House (Sarah, EMM, me, Lindsey, and Charlotte). The first team was supposed to have Sarah R. on it, running the first leg, but she had to work, so her brother was going to run the leg instead and hand the bracelet on to CMAM (her brother David and her father were both running the full marathon). Since Lindsey, Rachel, Naomi, and I were running legs that started far away from the city centre, we set off together in a hurry to catch the bus to our starting points, while Sarah, EMM, and CMAM made their way in a more leisurely fashion to the city centre, and Daphne waited for Charlotte, who wasn’t out of bed yet.

We stepped into a grey, moist morning. Fog hung thickly over the Queen’s campus. We walked up Stranmillis Road, not exactly sure where we were going, found a side road, and took it down to the River Lagan, where we crossed and walked up toward the football pitches—a long walk. Lindsey and Rachel were sure we were going the wrong way; Naomi was sure we were going to miss the bus, so she pushed us to run. We jogged along Ormeau embankment. The water was dark and still in the river below, one swan moving up the water. We crossed a main road at a bridge and jogged on toward Ormeau Park, and finally reached the buses. They were starting to leave. Rachel and I scrambled onto our bus with a sigh of relief. The ride through the city was excruciatingly slow. Traffic was bad because the marathon route mostly takes main roads, so the bus had to go around through neighborhoods and estates. Cave Hill was shrouded in deep cloud, and as we climbed the rises toward it, the city centre down in its depression was hidden in mist also.

We finally reached our destination, a stretch of road near a shopping centre, where people were lined up on either side of the road. Thick crowds of people. I was amazed by how many are involved in this event. Rachel said that last year about 14,000 were listed as participating, and there were plenty of other people along the way to give out water, first aid, etc. We pushed our way through the crowd to find our section, the 4440s, where we were to stand and wait. Rachel’s team was 4440, mine 4441, and both of us were Cs. The first marathon runners began to go by, wearing their red number badges. Everyone was shouting and cheering, clapping, encouraging them on. Then masses of relay runners with blue numbers, searching frantically for their partners through the crowds, stripping off the little yellow bracelet, and handing it on. Some of the relay runners were dressed in crazy costumes—a guy in a Superman suit, boys in fairy wings, people wearing unusual hats, like a carnival.

We looked frantically through the crowd for our partners. Rachel was busy texting people: there had been a mix-up with her team’s bracelet. David R. had run on with the bracelet since he hadn’t seen EMM or CMAM; CMAM had run after him, then come back after ten minutes, then been sent on by EMM, without the bracelet. While we were trying to sort this out, Mr. R ran past us, shouting my team number—I ran after him, calling his name, but he didn’t hear me, and since I wasn’t sure what was happening, I let him run on. Turned out later that he had actually been the one carrying the bracelet—he managed to hand it on to EMM and CMAM on the final leg, when they were standing and waiting by the finish line, so that they could give it to Daphne to finish with. In the meantime, though, everything was in shambles, and Rachel was confused. A cold wind had started to blow down from Cave Hill, beginning to lift the fog. CMAM finally found us and sent Rachel running on. CMAM was pink, but not too out-of-breath, and together we stood and waited anxiously for EMM.

Runners went past… and past…. Philip M. went past, pushing Matthew in a wheelchair, to everyone’s amusement (Matthew was wearing an enormous helmet, and the wheelchair was decorated with plywood painted pink). More runners went by. Walkers went by, and stragglers, here and there. Almost everyone was gone from the stop by now, having run on. CMAM and I were both worried and started to pace down toward the nearer end of the road. At last I spotted EMM, running slowly up the hill. CMAM and I shouted her name and cheered her on as she jogged up to us, panting, red in the face. She took off the bracelet, I strapped it on my wrist, and was off, with their cheers ringing in my ears. I put on my MP3 player and listened to the FOTR soundtrack as I jogged up the hill… and on… and on….

It actually didn’t seem to take that long. Up through little pockets of village, through neighborhoods, past petrol stations and corner shops. People were standing in little knots at corners or behind garden gates, watching, cheering us on. The whole community seemed to be in evidence. Once or twice children stood in the middle of the road with arms wide so that we could give them high-fives as we passed. I jogged past water stands, where Styrofoam cups littered the road, tumbling white paper scraping the street. The route wound through neighborhoods, then finally hit the Antrim Road, and the long, steady climb up Cave Hill. Belfast Castle came sooner than I’d expected, looming overhead against the dark trees, rearing up forbidding battlements. Then the long stretch under the beautiful overarching sycamore trees to the left, and the steep drop to the right, Belfast Lough hidden in fog. I stopped to walk for the length of a track, then jogged on. At last the route turned off at the peak of the hill, and I was running down through neighborhoods. Down and down and down, until at the bottom of the hill, the route took an upward turn—I had to walk again there, briefly, but at last the route turned into Gideon’s Green, wound through the park, and took me to the relay trade-off, where Rachel and Lindsey were waiting. I handed the band on to Lindsey, and she ran on.

Rachel called EMM to tell her that I’d arrived; I paced, breathing lightly, my muscles unwinding. We finally started to walk toward the place where the buses left to take us back to Ormeau Park. We walked along Belfast Lough, the path right by the lough, the small waves lapping against the shore. The fog was beginning to lift, and the sea shone pale silver-yellow under the white wall of mist. We walked up through the green, through little lawns scattered with daisies surrounded by birch trees, and to the buses. We sat and sat on the bus before it left, and the ride itself took for ages as well. Rachel and I were both exhausted. I split a Mars bar between the two of us. By the time we got to Ormeau Park, the sun was fully out, and the day was fine and hot. We got out near the finish line. The route before the finish line was lined with people, and all the way up through the park, through the gates to the finish line, people were standing, clapping, cheering, urging the runners on. Rachel and I found EMM and CMAM sitting on the sidewalk in the sun, and joined them. Naomi and Sarah W. showed up, too. Beyond the finish line, well inside the park, a carnival had been set up, with stands for food and amusement rides and such. People were picnicking on the grass. We cheered the runners on as they went past us. Daphne came by, and Rachel ran with her to the finish line. Amy went past, running for a medics team, and CMAM hurried to meet her at the finish line. Charlotte flashed past also, and EMM, Sarah, and I ran to find her.

Once we were all joined up again, we all went to sit in the sun on the sidewalk, Naomi, Charlotte, Sarah W., Rachel, Daphne, CMAM, EMM, and I. We ate jelly babies and wine gums and cheered people on. Sarah W. had been ill on her leg and wanted to go home for a shower. So Naomi, CMAM, EMM, Sarah, Charlotte, and I finally said good-bye to Rachel and Daphne and walked back to RH. The afternoon was gloriously beautiful. Blue, blue sky behind young leaves, vivid yellows and greens and blues. Along the Stranmillis Road, everyone was outside, sitting at the cafes and restaurants, talking and eating. Back at RH, though, things were pretty quiet. Most of the windows and doors were open, as though the house were breathing. The boys had gone out to Pizza Hut. The girls were taking showers or resting. Rosemary and Andy L. were in the common room watching snooker on TV.

We went our various ways. I took a shower and then had lunch (at 4:00 or so), then lazed about for awhile. At about five o’clock, though, CMAM, EMM, and I went downstairs to the kitchen to start working on the barbecue. EMM washed dishes; I sliced and fried peppers and onions; CMAM grated cheese. We listened to music. The warm afternoon sunshine slanted in through the open windows and doors. We worked fairly quietly, the three of us. Eventually Rosemary and Rachel started to heat the barbecue and cook the meat in the ovens. Then people started to arrive. There must've been between 30 and 40 all told, and there were plenty of boys who’d been on various marathon teams who came for the barbecue, whom I didn’t know. Boys drifted through the kitchen, where all the girls were hanging about, talking and preparing food. Sarah, Charlotte, and I ate early, in the midst of all the preparation chaos, burgers that had been cooked in the oven.

Anyhow, as all the uproar was going on, the girls taking the food outside to the buffet table and the boys hanging about talking or getting in the way generally (useless!), EMM, Sarah, Charlotte, and I left for the QUB centenary celebration at half seven. Andy L. came with us, randomly. The evening was spectacular, clear, aquamarine and pale green. Tonight was just the dress rehearsal of the centenary celebration. We went into the Great Hall, where we were put in a group together. A costumed actor came out eventually and spoke to us in the style of a high steward, looking down his nose and being very elegant, welcoming us, etc. In our small group we began the tour of the various performances. The whole tour was punctuated, between each performance inside one of the stuffy, dim rooms of the Lanyon Building, by walks around the campus, as we went from performance to performance—beautiful walks, made lovely by the warmth of midsummer eve, the pure sky hanging over us and the sunshine lingering in the chestnut trees along University Road. The choir performance in which Sarah and EMM were singing was the grand finale of the tour. We returned to the Great Hall for this—a piece written specially for QUB, to celebrate the centenary. The acoustics in the hall were brilliant, the voices echoing clearly around the high rafters, which were borne on the backs of wooden angels. It was a good piece, unusual, sung accapela.

Afterward, we left fairly promptly to get back to RH for the Psalm sing. The house was still in a crowded tangle of people, but Rachel managed to get everyone upstairs to our room. Beulah said she’d never seen our room so full before. Phil led us, with Sarah R. and EMM precenting. Afterward, I chatted with Joel about summer plans. Said good-bye to him, the first good-bye…. Talked with Phil and Naomi about LOTR (everyone always gets very excitable in these conversations!). Downstairs people were having tea and finishing off the last of the desserts.

Renwick weekend, Sabbath

Now Playing: DEF and Rosemary (still!).

April 27, 2008.

This morning I opened the curtains to a spectacular spring morning, and went downstairs to the common room to do my devotions, tiptoeing gingerly around damp reminders of last night’s water fight. I had finished my devotions and was fixing breakfast when Andy L. came in through the back door. He’d had cricket all weekend, but was up for Sabbath day. I told him that no one else was up, and he laughed and went upstairs whistling and shouting, “Wake up, everyone!” When I went upstairs at eleven-fifteen to see if EMM was ready, she was, just up. Everyone assembled downstairs about five minutes later, plus Rosemary, and we walked briskly to church. We were late, of course, though the elders were patiently waiting on us before they started the service. EMM and I sat in one of the long, rib-curved pews on the right toward the front, under one of the great lance windows. Today was Shaftesbury’s mission Sabbath, so before the sermon, Andy M., who had also come up for Sabbath day, spoke for fifteen or twenty minutes about the work in Nantes. After he was done, he came and sat with EMM and me, and made me incredibly nervous by doing so. Whenever we stood to sing, I could hear my little reedy soprano chirping between Andy M.’s powerful bass and EMM’s equally powerful alto, and felt very awkward. After the service, all of us RH people were ushered upstairs to the fellowship hall. Ten or twelve long tables had been set out down the hall, neatly decorated with little pots of pansies, and with the best china set out in our honor. For the most part the RH people didn’t do a very good job of un-clique-ifying themselves, but it was so encouraging to watch Pastor McKay making the rounds of the tables, welcoming and speaking to everyone. Of course, after lunch there was dessert. Amusing: Rosemary, CMAM, and I went up together, and I was at the head of the queue. I asked for some chocolate trifle from the little old lady who was serving. There were four or five spoonfuls left in the bowl, enough for at least two people, but she heaped it all into my bowl. Completely abashed, I moved to the next lady down the line for some ice cream. She looked at me, then it, and said, “Would you like me to put some of that in another bowl?” “Yes, please,” I said (Rosemary snickered behind me because of the relief in my voice). So the woman moved some over, but it still wasn’t very much—I gave more to Rosemary when we got back to the table. Of course, Rosemary and CMAM teased me about being a pie. As we were leaving, Rachel and I had the brilliant idea that we go to Botanic for a Psalm sing. As soon as Rachel asked him, Pastor McKay obligingly disappeared in search of Psalters, and returned with enough for all of us. We all walked back to RH. People changed clothes, and there was about half-an-hour’s quiet time. EMM and I sat in our room. She did her devotions; I lay on my bed and tried to read Desiring God. At about three o’clock, we went down to the Gardens. My breath was taken away by the loveliness of the gardens: in front of the statue of Lord Kelvin, a bed of bright gold primroses and lilac-colored hyacinths was blooming in perfect chequered pattern; overhead, an enormous cherry tree was bowing under clouds and clouds of white flowers. The gardens were crowded with people. Students, couples, parents pushing strollers, families, schoolchildren, people walking dogs, a red ice cream van. The bowling green was thick with people, boys throwing Frisbees or kicking footballs, couples lying on the grass sunbathing, children toddling through the crowd. We eventually found a place on a green lawn under the huge pine tree across the path from the rose garden. EMM, Rachel, and Daphne spread out their blankets on the grass. We were all there: Matthew, Andy M., Andy L., Samuel with his back against a young beech tree, Ian, Daphne, CMAM, EMM, Emma, Rachel, Rosemary, and me. One of the girls brought out a box of popsicles. We lounged around for awhile, quietly, everyone’s moods expanding in the warm sunshine. Rosemary shuddered when a huge German shepherd walked past, and all of us gasped and laughed when an even bigger dog, a gigantic fluffy black beast that must’ve stood at least three and a half, maybe four feet, ambled by. Rosemary giggled in my ear, “I was so scared just now when I heard someone shouting, ‘Sabre! Sabre! Come here!’ because I thought it must be a really massive dog, but then I turned round and it was a little terrier.” The breeze stirred the beech tree above us, rippling the patterns of the sunshine on all the leaves. “Ever notice how all the leaves seem to be different greens?” EMM asked dreamily, “All different shades, but one color.” Behind us, the sun shone through the red taffeta young leaves on the rosebushes, and the breeze ruffled the branches of two cherry trees, weighed down with their glory of deep pink and white blossoms. After awhile, we opened our Psalters and had our Psalm sing. EMM precented: 19A to 220, her request; 66A to 254, Andy L.; 24 to 292, Daphne; 103 to 124, CMAM; 121 to 88, Rosemary; 124 to 279, Andy M.; 139 to 14, Rachel; 91B to 90, Emma; 145 B to 289, Ian; 84B to 264, me; 72 to 80, EMM. We sang reverently but kept the pace up, and with EMM’s alto and Andy M.’s tenor, and some of the other boys adding bass, we had a good group. Andy M. closed us in prayer. We lounged around awhile longer. Matthew and Samuel climbed all the way up to the very crown of the beech tree, its slim branches bending whippily under their weight. After they’d come back down, Ian gave it a try, only to be told off by a couple of park wardens who happened to be going by. “That’s not fair,” Rachel said under her breath, but everyone, including Ian, laughed it off. Someone suggested we try another human pyramid—and this time, that Ian go on top. We tried it a couple of times, but it didn’t work too well with the boys on the bottom, so EMM, Daphne, Rachel, and Emma went on the bottom, with CMAM, Andy M., and me next, and Matthew and Andy L. after that, and Ian on top. Rosemary stood back and took pictures. The whole business was ridiculous, everyone laughing, scrambling, groaning, and shouting for everyone else to hurry up. Once Ian was on top, we lasted about two seconds before the whole wobbly thing came sliding down. Emma was completely flattened; I was flung off to one side; CMAM was squashed, and the boys on the bottom row were nonexistent, but no one particularly minded, and we all picked ourselves up off the grass laughing to try again. This time the boys were on the bottom row, and it worked pretty well, except that CMAM couldn’t for the life of her climb to the top, and Emma’s knees kept slipping, so it all collapsed in a heap again. Then we mucked about, the boys turning handstands and cartwheels, while people stopped to stare and laugh at us. At about half five, we packed ourselves up, brushed ourselves off, and walked back to RH. Emma and I walked together, chatting. Back in RH, CMAM, Rachel, Daphne, and I fixed sweet-and-sour chicken with rice for tea. Andy M. sliced the pineapple to add in. Emma worked on making rice crispy buns, melting Mars bars, then stirring in a big box of rice crispies, while Ian was given the job of buttering the pan. He and Andy M., taking a personal interest in the business, suggested layers of melted marshmallows and melted chocolate on top, so with Daphne’s help, and an extra sprinkling of nonpareils, Emma made the very first batch of Renwick buns. When they were finished, we cleaned and set the tables. Twelve of us sat down to tea, and afterward, Andy M. produced a cake out of his cupboard, and Emma produced ice cream out of her freezer drawer, and Rachel made tea, and we had a generally scrumptious time. We had five minutes to get ready for church, so there was another scramble out the door, but on our way down to Shaftesbury for church at seven o’clock, Daphne, Rosemary, Rachel, and I ran into Cliff. Rachel persuaded him to come to church. Church today was upstairs in the hall. Again there was a missionary speaker before the actual service. After the service, the members of Shaftesbury served us with shortbread and tea. CMAM and I went over to sit by Rachel, Daphne, Cliff, and Ian. After Shaftesbury, we left cliff off at his place again, and walked on up to RH. In RH, everyone sat around in the common room. Matthew had his laptop out and showed Andy M. the “amazing” picture he’d drawn on Paint—he and Andy M. made up all sorts of ridiculous artistic symbolism for it. Andy L. hijacked it to look up origami patterns, and taught EMM and Daphne how to make swans with pages torn out of an Argos catalogue. Ian and I brought down our laptops so that I could give Ian my pictures. Everyone wanted to see pictures, so I shared my laptop around. Matthew discovered one of the discarded caps from the bottles of bubbles (which were now completely empty), and flicked it across the room. This began a royal battle between he and Andy M. on the far side and me, Rachel, and Ian in the bay window. There were four or five caps lying about, and we flicked them across the room fast and furiously. The five of us were royally enjoying ourselves, especially Rachel, Matthew, and Andy M., who flicked the caps at each other so that they pinged off the walls. Amy came by to deliver some things for EMM and CMAM, and later, Phil arrived, and then Deborah, to Emma’s delight. Phil went upstairs, but Emma and Deborah went into the kitchen, and at eleven o’clock we had a “girls’ midnight feast” (the boys all went to bed). Good to be almost complete complement again, me, Deborah, Daphne, EMM, Rachel, Emma, Rosemary, and CMAM. Emma had Minstrels, gummy fish, popcorn, squares of white and bubbly chocolate, and tea for us, and we sat around asking Deborah questions about her weeks of teaching practice, and teasing Deborah for getting hyper on Coke. Good times…. CMAM went up to bed early, but the rest of us sat on until half eleven. Since the dishtowels were still wet from last night’s escapades, we had an excuse not to wash the dishes, but we cleared the table and said our good-nights, a good weekend over. EMM and I lay in bed chatting for awhile after the lights were out.

Renwick weekend, Saturday

Now Playing: Rosemary and DEF (Daphne).

April 26, 2008.

I woke up at nine o’clock, slept more, woke again, and got up at about ten. EMM was sound asleep. I dressed and tiptoed downstairs with my laptop to the common room, where I did my devotions sitting in the window. The morning was cloudy, and as I sat reading, rain came down, silvering the sidewalks. As I was typing up yesterday’s entry on my laptop, Ian came in. We were all supposed to be going to brunch at noon at Springsteen’s down Botanic, but of course no one had made an appearance yet, so we sat and laughed at everyone. At about noon, Emma arrived, fresh off the train. We filled her in on the fun so far, and when we told her about the breakfast plans, she plugged her iPod into the speakers and got some energetic music going. Daphne and CMAM came downstairs, and the three of them bounced to Room 2 to wake Matthew by singing at him through the door. Pretty soon, everyone was up. Outside, the rain had blown away, and a warm spring morning was glowing through the young elm leaves. We practically frolicked to Botanic, the girls singing down the sidewalk, to the amusement of passers-by. At Springsteens, I sat in a booth with CMAM, EMM, Samuel, and Matthew. After breakfast, we danced back to RH again, the girls swinging their feet in step up Elmwood Avenue. Back at RH, EMM, Rachel, CMAM, and I piled into EMM’s car. The afternoon was warm. We drove up the Lisburn Road to a butcher’s, where we stopped to buy meat for the barbecue tonight. It was a bit strange to walk into the shop with its white walls and gleaming tile floor, and the long counter full of stacks of red meat, while in the back we could see two men hacking up big joints of meat with cleavers. Rachel and EMM ordered a dozen burgers and a dozen sausages. EMM took the meat back to RH to start cooking it, while the rest of us walked down to Tesco to buy other necessities—bread, sauces, dessert for afterward, etc. In RH, while we waited for the meat to finish cooking, I crawled upstairs and lay down for about half-an-hour. I was just drifting from doze to deep sleep when Daphne called me. We were mostly ready to go. Emma bravely elected to ride with Ian, Matthew, Simon (who was along for the afternoon), and Samuel, while Daphne, Rachel, CMAM, and I went in EMM’s car. The girls’ car had to stop to buy charcoal and lighter fluid somewhere. We made a tour of several garages on our quest, and at one of them, EMM, Daphne, and Rachel ran inside and bought drinks and sweets, while CMAM and I sat in the car, listening to Coldplay. Daphne had bought popsicles, sour apple on the outside, purple pear on the inside, with a stripe of pineapple ice cream twisting around the outside. We finally found a Tesco that had charcoal and lighter fluid, and from there it wasn’t far to Crawfordsburn Forest Park. At the beach, the others were throwing a frisbee and a nerf around. The beach was fairly empty. The afternoon had become overcast. Out on the lough, three huge tankers were standing at anchor. A sailboat went scudding down the bay like a white butterfly, and a motorboat churned up the water closer to shore. The beach stretched in a long brown line from the eastern headland, over which we’d climbed from the parking lot, and which was crowned with a ridge of tall sycamore and oak trees, to the western headland, which again was crowned with tall trees, but which also had houses built along it, and sprawl of low grey rocks beneath it. Simon suggested we try to build a human pyramid. Of course the boys were on the bottom row, then Daphne, Rachel, and EMM, then CMAM and Emma on top of that—theoretically, but Emma and CMAM kept sliding off and choking the row of girls under them as they tried to stop themselves, so it didn’t work very well. We did succeed in making an all-girls pyramid, with me on top, and then we tried again, but we never could get a pyramid with everyone in it. So the boys went back to throwing the frisbee around, and the girls had a round of ankle wrestling, which EMM won hands-down. All of us stood in a big circle and threw the frisbee around—the boys threw it as far out into the ocean as they could so that Daphne and Rachel would have to run, squealing, into the icy waves to rescue it. After awhile, Simon suggested shoulder wrestling. So everyone paired up and climbed on each other’s shoulders: CMAM on EMM’s, me on Emma’s, Rachel on Daphne’s, Samuel on Simon’s, Matthew on Ian’s. It was a wobbly, ridiculous process, lots of screaming, squealing, and apologies, at least on the girls’ side. We swapped around, and I ended up on Rachel’s shoulders. We were fairly successful in staying “alive” until Matthew and Ian snuck up behind Rachel, at which point both Rachel and I went sprawling in a laughing tangle in the sand. Us girls played a game of freeze tag, and finally we organized ourselves into a game of ultimate nerf (exactly like ultimate frisbee, but with a nerf instead). Ian, Matthew, Emma, EMM, and I were on a team together, “Two boys, two wee girls, and one big girl,” as Rachel put it. Ian and Matthew turned out to be a fairly unstoppable combination, especially with EMM to help them out, while Emma and I scurried up and down in the “endzone” to catch the nerf in case Matthew was being covered to closely by Simon. We had a blast, running up and down the sand, shouting and jumping. The sand was full of pockets of crushed shells, places where the waves had tossed up millions of tiny yellow and black fragments, which didn’t make running very comfortable, but no one minded too much at the time. We played until it started to get ominously dark in the southwest. Ian and Samuel went to fetch the barbecue, while Rachel, Daphne, and EMM went to bring the car around to the closer car park. Left alone, Simon and Matthew mucked about on the beach. CMAM found the bottles of bubbles that she and I had bought at Tesco, and she, Emma, and I sat huddled on the edge of the embankment above the beach, on the footpath, blowing bubbles, and watching them skirl away over our shoulders, through the fence and onto the golf course behind us. The wind off the sea was fresh and cold. Simon and Matthew came running up eventually to snap at the bubbles and then sit huddled nearby. CMAM found Daphne’s blanket among the pile of stuff left on the edge of the footpath, and she, Emma, and I stood together inside the blanket. We waited and waited. At last the girls showed up, having gotten a bit lost on the way. They’d brought down one load of things. Daphne, CMAM, and I went back to the car to bring down another load while everyone else looked for a more sheltered spot than the open beach for our barbecue. Daphne, CMAM, and I went up the footpath, down a little narrow lane between high hedges smelling greenly of summer, up a broader lane between vacation houses, and into the car park. I pulled on a hoodie, my own windbreaker, and Daphne’s big school jacket, in order to stay warm. When we went back to the beach, the others were nowhere in sight—until we were down on the beach, and then we saw them, under the western headland, in a perfect little nook made by the rocks. Samuel was scrambling about over the boulders nearer to the sea, while Simon and Matthew were amusing themselves by squirting lighter gel on the coals, making flames shoot up. The wind made the coals smoke and made it difficult to keep the fire going, and when the boys put enough gel on, the wind whipped the flames into a venomous-looking miniature maelstrom, which usually only burned itself out quickly. In the west the clouds began to move away, and the western sky went pale peach and aquamarine behind the trees. When the coals were hot enough, EMM and Rachel put on the burgers. Simon and Matthew, their outlet for pyromania taken away, went to join Samuel on the rocks, and Ian was given the task of slicing cheese with a plastic knife. The meat didn’t take long to cook, and soon we were all eating, the meat smoking in the buns. Sausages came next. We stood around the grill, warm in our little hollow in the rocks. People walking down the footpath above us glanced over the edge at the smell of the smoke. A dozen teenagers, very drunk, staggered down the path, shouting to ask if they could join us. Simon said something politely, but Matthew yelled, “No!”, which made the kids laugh and move on. We watched them in disgust. One of the girls, who must’ve been very drunk, went swimming, though she was only wearing her pajamas. A little later, a girl riding a gorgeous chestnut pony came cantering onto the beach. Daphne and I watched, mesmerized, as the pony went in easy loops, its hoofs thudding softly on the sand. Someone further up the beach let their dog loose, though, and it chased the pony, so the girl had to take it off the beach. The wind had died down, and suddenly through the clouds the leveling sunshine came striking, a vivid, luxurious gold on the eastern headland: the trunks and rocks were copper, and the leaves burned gold, and the water was deep grey-blue. The tankers out to sea flashed white. When we’d finished our main course, Rachel produced marshmallows, biscuits, and roasting sticks. We had s’mores, marshmallows between chocolate-topped biscuits. Sticky and delicious. When we finished eating, the boys ran out onto the sand to throw the frisbee around. Rachel, Daphne, EMM, and CMAM eventually took the nerf. Emma and I sat by the fire, though, to stay warm. Slowly the rich light died from the far headland, from the beach, from the water, the shadows gradually lengthening. Emma and I started to collect the leftover food and rubbish into bags. I spotted EMM washing her shoes off down at the waterline, so I yanked off Daphne’s jacket and sprinted over the sand to push her in—we had a good-natured wrestling match in the water, both of us in almost to our knees at one point, and my shoes soaked. When we turned around, we saw Ian and Matthew coming running over the sand to join us, carrying CMAM between them to throw her in the water. She was squealing, and everyone was laughing—they only set her down on the sand in the foam. Rachel and Matthew had a seaweed fight, flailing at each other with long rubbery pieces of kelp, while the rest of us finished cleaning our campsite. We packed up the cars and drove back to Belfast. As the road curved up over a headland, we got a glimpse of the sunset: the deep living blue of the water below us, the black shoulder of Cave Hill sprinkled with orange lights beyond, and behind that, a saffron sky, aquamarine and turquoise above, patterned with a few deep grey clouds, leftover from the morning’s rain. Back in RH, we unloaded the car. Most people sat around in the common room, but Emma and I took quick showers. When I came downstairs again, I sat next to CMAM in the common room, and we took out the half-empty bottles of bubbles and blew them. Rachel and EMM drew an imaginary line across the carpet and played bubble tennis, blowing big bubbles back and forth, while the boys enthusiastically popped all the little ones. At about half ten, we had dessert, apple strudel hot out of the oven, with custard and tea. EMM polished off the custard, eating the last several huge spoonfuls out of the big serving ladle. We debated what to do next. Simon suggested “one-two-three-I’m-free!”, basically the racing version of hide-and-go-seek. By fiat Ian decided that CMAM was it, and sent her up to Room 9 to count while the rest of us spilled out into the street. The clubs were in full swing in the Students’ Union and at The Parlor, so there were taxis and people going up and down, but it was quiet enough. It was long past twelve by the time we were all collected and sitting on the steps in front of RH. Samuel and Matthew started to try to climb up the doorposts to the ledge above the door. I gave Rachel, EMM, and CMAM back rubs by turns. A few pale stars gleamed down at us through the elm trees. We finally went inside and sat around. Somehow or other, a water fight started, Ian and CMAM throwing water all over each other with shouts and squeals of delight, and everyone cheering them on. At that point, I went up to bed.

Renwick weekend, Friday (again overdue, and by request)

Now Playing: Daphne ("Daphers") singing along with Josh Ritter (at Rosemary's instigation).

April 25, 2008.

This evening, everyone who was staying for the weekend, plus Andy L., assembled in the common room, everyone being me, EMM, Rachel, Daphne, Ian, Samuel, and Matthew. We tried to decide what to do for tea tonight. Rachel suggested that Daphne ring up Domino’s to see what their meal specials were, so Daphne rang them on her mobile, to everyone’s amusement: “Heya, whassup, D-d to the ‘omino’s?” and after a gangsta-style conversation, “Catcha lata, homedog!” We all burst out laughing as soon as she’d ended the call. While us girls got on the internet to think of options, the boys got impatient and went outside to play frisbee in the street. We finally ordered three larges from Domino’s. I had offered to run up the road to buy chips. Daphne and EMM couldn’t be bothered to move, but Rachel came with me. We had a good brisk trot up to the chip shop, where a cheery lady served us our order, and then we stopped next door at a Mace to buy drinks and marshmallows. Back at RH, the pizza had arrived. We pulled our chairs into a circle in the common room and ate. Matthew kept the conversation interesting, coming out with all sorts of random questions (“Anyone have an embarrassing pizza story?” “What sorts of animal noises can you make?”) and facts (“Did you know that giraffes don’t have vocal cords?” “Did you know that if you get more light, you feel more awake?” this after he’s been up for thirty-eight hours!). Daphne rang CMAM, and we left her a voicemail worthy of a zoo, with Daphne, Ian, and me meowing, EMM making a cow-style moo, Matthew attempting an elephant, Rachel braying like a donkey (for which she was slagged mercilessly), and Samuel adding a random “Woof!” on the end. We slagged each other off mostly. Ian made fun of me for being an American, which joke continued the rest of the evening, rather to my disgust. Everyone made fun of Rachel’s accent. We sat around until about eight o’clock, when we cleared up the room and got in cars to drive to Dundonald to go crazy golfing. EMM, Rachel, Daphne, and I took EMM’s car, and Matthew, Samuel, and Ian took Samuel’s car (Andy had cricket tonight). We pulled out first, and EMM handed Daphne and Rachel her MP3 player, and pretty soon we had some cool beats going. The girls were all dancing and singing along, excerpts from Lion King, Princess Diaries, High School Musical, and just about anything else they could find worthy of dancing. I sat in the front seat and laughed and laughed—and held on for life as EMM swung round corners and zoomed up behind taxis. Rachel and Daphne had the whole car shaking as they danced in the back seat, and they all burst out laughing when we pulled up beside a policecar. People in other cars stared at us, and Rachel and Daphne grinned and waved. The crazy golfing is at the same place as the ice skating rink, but it’s outside, with a pirate theme—canons and weird totem poles and palm trees and the like. We were split into two teams. Daphne, Ian, Matthew, and I were on a team. EMM, Rachel, and Samuel went ahead of us. It was good fun. After crazy golfing, we drove to McDonald’s for ice cream. The boys trailed behind us, so we sat in the car and listened to “Chasing Cars” by SnowPatrol. The car windows fogged up as we sang along. When the boys arrived, we went in to order—the restaurant was crowded with tweens and little kids (who ought to have been in bed!), all of them running around, talking in shrill harsh voices, laughing, and so on. We ordered our mcflurries and sat quietly at a table, watching the mayhem around us. “I think we’ve raised the average age in here by ten years,” Ian joked. On the drive back to Belfast, more music, Prince of Egypt and more. A carful of boys pulled up beside us (not “our” boys), and “smoked” us. Daphne and Rachel were screaming and laughing in the back seat, begging EMM to smoke them back. We did, a couple of times, and then they pulled past us and blew us kisses, to the great delight of the girls in the back seat. Back at RH, we assembled in the common room. CMAM had come up on the late train, and she was back, too—we’d brought her ice cream. Rachel and EMM produced bags of sweets and Articulate!, and we split into two teams for a game. Ian, Daphne, CMAM, and I were together; EMM, Rachel, Matthew, and Samuel were together. At first our team was winning, but after two rounds we lost by a hair’s breadth. Ian made fun of me for knowing who Mendelssohn was, and Daphne and I laughed because we both knew who Paul Newman was. Ian had brought down his iPod, and Rachel had brought out her speakers, so we had a random selection of Ian’s music—Bruce Springsteen, Bob Dylan, Coldplay, U2, and a whole pile of ones I didn’t know—to keep us company. I was absolutely exhausted. Once we’d sorted out lunch tomorrow, I said good-night to everyone and went upstairs to bed.

Renwick formal (by request, and long overdue)

(CMAM is Catherine; EMM is Emmaline; RH is Renwick House)

April 24, 2008.

At about half four this afternoon, my preparations for the formal started to get underway in a lackadaisical fashion, compared to the racket in the room next door. Linsey, CMAM, and Heather were all in Linsey’s room, tittering, giggling, chattering about fluffy things, putting on makeup and fake tan, straightening and washing hair, and so forth. I went in and lounged against the wall, offering advice, and generally laughing at the chaos. At about six o’clock I trailed into our room and dressed. EMM came in. She’d gone home on the train at lunchtime, picked up the car, then picked up Alistair, and taken him to Mark’s house to get ready. I helped her and Rachel with safety pins for their dresses, and did my hair. At seven o’clock, people started to emerge from their rooms, and the others who were to be at the dinner—players on the football team, former residents, friends—started to arrive. The common room and stairwell were crowded, girls in their dresses, boys in slacks and jackets, everyone slightly nervous. Robert and Andy M. drove Rosemary and me to Barnaby’s. By now the afternoon storm had blown over, and the luminous evening sunshine slanted over the deep green fields, lighting every blade and leaf. At Barnaby’s, we had been assigned to a room on the ground floor—a medium-sized room, semi-circular, with windows all round, and five long wooden tables. Rich red carpet on the floor, dark paneling under the windows, black-and-white pictures of old sports teams on the walls. The boys made beelines for their own tables, and, partly as a result, we were soon segregated into tables—two tables of all boys, two mixed tables, and one table of all girls. People came in groups, in waves, by fours and fives, as carloads arrived. We had an absolutely lovely time. As people arrived, there was mixing at first, girls fluttering between tables in their dresses, taking pictures, exclaiming over each other’s outfits. Slowly people settled down. Phil stood and gave thanks, then the waiters brought out starters for those who’d ordered them. I was sitting between Lizzie and CMAM. Lizzie and Daphne, sitting across from each other, mostly talked to each other during the meal, giggling and making silly hyper jokes above (or below!) the rest of us. Heather, Linsey, Rosemary, Naomi, CMAM, and I chatted pleasantly through the meal. When the meal came, it was sumptuous. After dessert, Iwent over to chat with Michaela and Sarah W., to listen to Charlotte and CMAM tell funny stories, to see if EMM and Rachel (perched in one of the deep windowsill) needed help finalizing the powerpoint for the table quiz. Before the quiz, Phil stood up and got everyone’s attention. He handed out awards to the guys on the football team, making speeches with each one, and keeping everyone laughing with his dry, sometimes scathing, humor. After the awards were given out, some of them serious and some of them silly, Rachel split everyone into pre-determined teams. The segregation that had separated boys and girls earlier was thrown to the wind as everyone was put into different groups of five or six. I was with Heather, Allison, Andy L., and Steven. Rachel and EMM ran the quiz from EMM’s laptop. The staff of the restaurant had obligingly provided a screen for the projector. The first round was my picture round (Steven was disgusted that I couldn’t help). Then a music round, provided by Linsey off a CD used by her church for youth group games, then anagrams from names of residents and friends of RH. Then a Cranium round, each team given a card from the “star performer” box to act or sing or hum, and finally a football round with trivia from the past season. Our team came last, and I think the boys were a bit disgusted, but it was alright after all. After the quiz, of course, we had to have a round of pictures. We all milled around, but people eventually sorted themselves into rows, all of us short girls in the front, of course. Bob climbed on a table, while the boys cheered, and took pictures of us all—when Beulah asked him to take one on her camera, everyone booed. Then there was a RH picture, which Mark and Steven invaded, and then a RH girls’ picture, and a picture of the football team. After the pictures, we all stood around talking. The tables were a mess of papers and dishes. Michaela, Sarah W., and I took silly pictures, and CMAM took pictures, trying to finish her disposable camera. The waiters began to move about the room, clearing the dishes. We collected our belongings, said our thanks, and trailed out to the cars. The evening was cold, a taste of frost in the air. Just about everyone ended up back at RH. Rachel and Daphne had their black-and-white Halloween masks out, and Beulah screamed when she came through the door and saw them on the stairs. Everyone else laughed, though it was quite creepy to see them dressed up with the masks on. Mark, Rachel, and Beulah fixed tea for everyone. Emma had buns leftover from a camp meeting, Malteser and caramel and shortbread concoctions. I sagged onto the seats in the window with Naomi, CMAM, Linsey, and Rosemary, all of us exhausted. I finished my tea and pattered quietly upstairs to bed. Liney’s perfume, squirted on me and CMAM at the beginning of the evening just before we went out the door, lingered in the air even when I’d taken off the dress, sweet taste as I drifted off to sleep.

studying so hard...

... that I'm seeing WHITE RABBITS!

cu small group weekend

Now Playing: The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis, dramatization by Focus on the Family Radio Theatre. Track 3, "The Signs".

We take a break from our regularly scheduled programming (i.e., writing essays) to bring you this special report, an episode from this past weekend, during which the CU small group Bible study that I'm in, with Rachel and Emmaline, went to Sheep Island View Hostel in Ballintoy for a weekend retreat. The MPC (maths-physics-computer science) small group is normally split into two groups, one that meets on Wednesday night and one that meets on Thursday night, but this weekend was a joint event.

April 19, 2008. This morning I woke up in my top bunk. The room was quiet. I always hate getting up first, so I waited until Allie got up. Allie is one of the leaders of the Wednesday night group, a lovely tall girl with luxurious straight strawberry blond hair. She went into the shower. I crawled out of my bunk and found Claire awake (not Claire W., but a girl who usually goes to the Wednesday night group, who looks like Laura's friend Michelle, and who is chirpy, friendly, and always ready to talk about anything and everything). Claire happily told me about her night: she and a group of others had gone out for a joyride to the beach at 2 a.m. We were sitting and laughing quietly about it when the sleeping bag bundled on one of the bottom bunks groaned and moved, and turned out to be a very sleepy Emmaline.

We got dressed in stages and were down in the kitchen for breakfast by ten o'clock or so. There were two other groups sharing the hostel this weekend, plus an assortment of French and Dutch travelers. After breakfast, Steve dismissed us to do our quiet times for forty-five minutes. I went outside, down the hill, across the little road, and to a bench at the edge of the fields facing north. Before me, two fields sloped down and up again, and where they sloped up, they ended, and beyond them was royal blue sea, flashing with waves. The morning was gorgeous: a bracing northeast wind, clear sunshine, aquamarine sky, gulls and rooks flying over the fields where tractors where plowing. Sheep and lambs grazed in a field nearby, and a small shaggy pony stood and watched from the field closest to me. I lasted about half-an-hour in the cold and brisk wind, and then retreated back into the hostel to finish my devotions in the deserted kitchen.

At half eleven, we grouped up in the common room of the hostel for our speaker, another Steven, a youth worker at Steve and Allie's church, to give us our second talk on the armor of God from Ephesians. We had a long discussion time, and then lunch.

After lunch, we eventually got ourselves sorted enough to get into cars and drive to Emmaline's family's farm to pick up things for the barbecue tonight. The afternoon was still lovely. When Emmaline was ready, we were split into four teams of three, and headed into Coleraine for our photo challenge--a scavenger hunt of sorts, though instead of taking pictures of objects, we were supposed to take pictures of ourselves doing a variety of crazy things. Claire, Emmaline, and I were together.

Our first stop was a little park in a green hollow in the town, near the main shopping area. Here we took a picture of us "hanging": Emmaline and Claire swinging upside-down from the monkey bars. Also, we took a picture of "upside-down": Claire holding me upside down by my feet while I did a handstand. "Hugging a tree" wasn't too difficult in a park. Then we walked on up the street into the central pedestrian shopping area. Here Emmaline and Claire ran into Topman so that I could take a picture of them posing "in a shop window". Emmaline stopped a man passing by to take a picture of the three of us "in a phone booth", and then Claire took a picture of Emmaline and me pretending to "sleep" on the edge of a planter. Emmaline and Claire both kept running into people they knew from school or church. Walking down toward the town hall, we noticed a group of soldiers picking up their equipment from a demonstration of some sort. Claire marched up to one of them and asked him for a picture; he, with good-humor, provided us with a picture of "someone in uniform". In down the street, Emmaline spotted a gift shop. "They're really nice in that shop," she said, so we popped in, and the two shopkeepers, both middle-aged women, were absolutely delighted to let us take a picture of us pretending to "work behind a counter". They then sent us down the street to a hairdresser's, where one of the girls in the salon pretended to cut Claire's hair for a picture of someone "getting a haircut".

Back out in the street, Claire and I took turns of each other "dancing". Emmaline and I practiced our two-hand reel in the middle of the street. We walked to the mall, where Emmaline found one of her school friends working in a shoe shop. She gleefully assisted us in our next challenge, a picture of us "buying something with shoes on our heads". Out in the mall again, Emmaline saw another of her school friends, a fluttery little girl, who took a "funny" picture of us sitting on a children's toy. In a bookstore a little further down, I took a picture of a "farmyard scene", composed of Emmaline and Claire holding up children's books about barn animals. Walking back to the car, we took a rather random picture of Claire and me, with our feet in plastic shopping bags, pretending to have a sack race, to satisfy the "winning a race" qualification.

On our way back to the car, we stopped in the park again. Emmaline asked a young man to take a picture of the three of us making a "pyramid", and then of the three of us "in midair", hanging from the swings on the swingset. We drove to another park where there was a fountain, and when we parked there, we asked a couple of boys who were hanging out near the car park to take a picture of us "in the boot of a car". There was a gazebo in the park, so Claire to our "scene from a movie" picture: Emmaline and me pretending to perform the sixteen-going-on-seventeen song from The Sound of Music. For our underwater picture, since we were running out of time, Emmaline went to the fountain in the park and stuck her head underneath it.

It was six o'clock, and the shops were beginning to close. On our way to the car, we found a shopping trolley outside Pound Stretchers, so I took our last photo, of Emmaline and Claire "in a shopping trolley".

Back at the hostel, we sat in the common room waiting for everyone else to come back. When everyone was back, we had our third talk. After the third talk, Rachel, Steve, Emmaline, and I went into the kitchen to collect the supplies for our barbecue. Allie and Matt went down to White Park Bay beach to start the fire. It took us awhile to get all the food together: Rachel and Steve had wisely decided to cook the meat first before we took it to the grill, but the ovens in the hostel were rather temperamental, so it took awhile.

Emmaline, Rachel, Steve, Nathan, and I drove down to the beach at last, at about half nine. The beach wasn't too far away--at least the car park wasn't, but the beach itself was a long walk down a steep hillside. We stood at the top of the hill staring out into the dark, trying to see the others, until finally we heard Phil shouting up at us faintly. We headed down the hill, slipping and tripping on odd flights of stairs cut into the hillside or on slippery patches. At last we found everyone else. The grill was set up in the lee of a ruined building, a house or church, its whitewashed bulk looming against the dark sky. In the east, above the crown of the hill, the full moon was rising through pale clouds. Faint stars were shining in the dark sky. Ahead of us, the dunes sloped down, overgrown with grass and furze, and the endless murmur of the sea hung on the edge of hearing. The ocean lay black beyond the dunes, the bulk of Rathlin Island dimly seen in the distance, its tip marked by the red flash of a warning beacon.

Of course in the shadow of the building it was pitch black, even as the moon shone more and more brightly. People brought out cellphones, and someone had a wind-up torch. Emmaline presided over the grill, while Phil and I brought out the meat in stages, and Rachel and Allie put the meat and buns together. No tables or anything, so Allie held the bowl of cheese and other condiments, while Rachel was in charge of the buns. We all huddled around the grill in a tight circle, as close to the warmth as we could get. Laughing, joking, general craziness: the cold night air seemed to have gone to everyone's heads. Someone had gone to buy drinks, and they handed around bottles of soft drinks since we'd forgotten to bring down cups. We ate the hot food right off the grill, sizzling and scorching our fingers. The wind curled around the corner of the building, kicking the sparks up into our faces, and making the grease drippings flare on the hot coals. The moonlight beyond the shadow of the building grew brighter and brighter. When everyone had had enough meat, Steve brought out bananas, marshmallows, and chocolate buttons in little aluminum foil packets, and put them on the grill. We toasted marshmallows, and when the desserts were cooked, we ate them hot off the gril, scraping the sticky mess out of the foil with plastic forks.

When we were done eating, everyone still stood around the warm fire. Laughing, talking, singing.... People tossed out campfire tunes, pop songs, snatches of hymns, lines from musicals, and joined in cheerfully (but tunelessly).

Eventually, Steve, Phil, and Rachel decided that it was time to go. Some of the boys went and got sand to use to douse the fire; the rest of us packed up the plastic bags with the remnants of our feast. The long trek up the hill to the cars seemed to last forever, winding up the hill on the pitted gravel road, hauling the bags, with the dark furze bushes on either side, and the moonlight making a lane between them. A couple of car-loads went on back to the hostel, but Emmaline, Rachel, Steve, and I waited around for Phil to come up from clearing up the grill. Nathan put on the dance music, and Emmaline and Rachel danced around the car park, their shadows sprawled ridiculously in the moonlight as they moved to the beat. We drove back to the hostel and sat around in the common room, where we looked at everyone's pictures from the afternoon. Lots of laughter, of course. Rachel's group, with Nathan and the two Stevens in it, had taken some absolutely ridiculous videos, and everyone clapped for Emmaline's underwater picture. "You're a living legend!" Rachel said. When we'd seen all the pictures, I went to bed. Claire and Emma (Wednesday night small group, second year; arrived this evening) came in, too, and whispered and giggled.

it's that time of year again

Gone paper-writing!

i love these pictures

Nathanael, Emmaline, me, and Stephen at the Giant's Causeway in Northern Ireland


Stephen and me outside the Natural History Museum in London

Thanks to my mother....

April 11, 2008

Now Playing: The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack by Howard Shore. Track 1, "The Prophecy". I always listen to this music when I need to think or work or sleep or run or just about anything else... some of the best in the world.

It's been an incredibly rough week, but I won't bore you with the details. Suffice it to say that through it all, God is good, quick to forgive, quick to pour out blessing unlooked-for. Take yesterday for an example:

Emmaline and I ate breakfast together for the first time in ages. She had bought pancakes yesterday, so we toasted one each, and after we ate ended up washing dishes and chatting. The counters were covered with dirty dishes, piled from last night. We washed them and stacked them in barely-balanced piles. After the dishes were done and the kitchen clean, I wrote in my journal and breezed out to ENG309 at ten o’clock. After class, I went to the gym to run. The day was lovely, and walking through the gardens I was struck by the beauty of bare branches against sky: smooth grey-green skin towering up against a blue so deep it was almost purple, with great white clouds moving behind. Robins, tits, and chaffinches singing in the forscythia bushes (see, mother dear, I'm putting that bird guide to good use).

I went running and then walked back to Renwick. Walking back through the gardens was delightful again, people out with their dogs, particularly a little white fluffy Snowy-type dog jogging along beside its mistress, looking very pert with its silky fur in the sunshine.

I showered in Renwick, went downstairs, and warmed up leftovers from last night for lunch. I was just curling up in a corner of the common room to eat and enjoy the banter before going upstairs to study (Naomi, Catherine, Ian, and lots of others were coming in and out) when Catherine blinked at me and said, "Oh, E--, I just sent Sarah up to your room!" Two seconds later, Sarah W. came in and said brightly, "E--, would you like to go to Cafe Renoir with us?" I stared at her, my lunch in my lap, blinked, reminded myself of a resolution I'd made to be more spontaneous (seems like a paradox, right?), and said, "Sure," with a laugh. The leftovers went right back into the fridge, to grow some unmentionable microorganisms, I'm sure, and I went upstairs to grab my jacket.

Sarah W. had one of the guys from her classes with her. The three of us walked down as far as Shaftesbury Square, where he went to a music store, and Sarah W. and I continued on to the city centre. We had a lovely time, just chatting lightly about this and that. The sun was shining and the afternoon was cool, though ahead of us the sky was a dark stormy grey: the greys and greens of the tall buildings, and the white spokes of the Belfast Eye, flashed against the clouds. As we were crossing the street by City Hall, it started to rain. Sarah W. had an umbrella, and I followed her through the maze of narrow pedestrian alleys behind Queen Street. She found the cafe, through a door, up a flight of stairs, and through another door--quiet, secluded, above the noise of the street, and mostly empty, only a few customers having early afternoon cups of tea.

She ordered a latte and a piece of cheesecake, and I (ravenous by now with the workout and long walk) ordered a vegetable wrap. We found a table in a quiet corner and talked. When the food came, it was good. The wrap was hot, full of colorful vegetables like a fiesta, and topped with fresh pesto. Sarah W. and I sat chatting away until Charlotte and Michaela joined us. They were both exhausted from having walked to the city centre with all their bags and books to carry home for the weekend. They ordered buns and drinks (buns/traybakes are the N. Irish equivalent of desserts, for those of you who don't know, and come in so many different forms and varieties that I couldn't begin to describe their deliciousness). We spent a lovely hour or so talking over silly things.

We went downstairs and back into the street. The afternoon had turned chilly. We stopped in the Faith Mission bookshop next door to see if I could find a copy of The Holiness of God. I was unsuccessful, but the other girls had great fun looking over the women's section. From there we walked through Castlecourt. A band was playing outside Castlecourt--brass, accordion, rattles, saxophone. We went down Queen Street, then ducked off into alleyways again until we found Victoria Square, the very fancy shmancy new shopping centre. One goes down a long, long flight of stairs from street level and finds oneself in a huge open atrium going up three or four stories, topped with a glass-and-metal fabric, with a dome in the middle. Shops stretch up on both sides so that one feels as though one is walking between narrow overhanging cliffs.

Sarah and Michaela had an errand to run in House of Fraser, so while they took care of that, Charlotte led me straight back to the little shop at the back of House of Fraser, Paperchase, that sells paper, cards, journals, pens, and such. On the way, we walked through gleaming glass shelves full of handbags and shoes, gasping at the prices on some of them. Charlotte showed me the journal she likes best in Paperchase, a teal journal with a red-purple-white design of flowers and birds on the front, rather like a stained glass window (in Rachel's words when she saw it later). Fine paper, beautiful lined pages. There were only two left: we bought one each.

When the other two girls returned, we went to Accessorize to look for things for the formal. Then the four of us said good-bye to each other. Charlotte and Michaela went to catch their bus, and Sarah W. and I walked back to Renwick, and we parted ways at City Hospital.

The early evening was again overcast. Just as I got into Renwick, it started to pour down rain. I found Rachel, Emmaline, and Catherine sitting in the common room, chatting, and I flopped down on the chairs next to Catherine to show her my new journal. Emmaline and Rachel were being fairly silly, keeping the four of us entertained.

Catherine and I were both getting hungry. Eventually, Emmaline said, "You know how I promised I'd make tea tonight? And you know how it's the weekend, and we're supposed to relax? And you know how I need more time to work? Can anyone else think of any more arguments?" (general laughter) "Well, I thought maybe I'd order Chinese tonight." I lay and laughed and laughed at her, and said yes of course. So we ordered Chinese, and pretty much spent the entire evening in the common room, joking around, talking, laughing, being silly. Rachel and Emmaline were funnier and funnier as the evening went on, and Catherine and I added our own spice of humor to the mix. Ian joined us to eat his tea, and sat on the chairs at the back of the room and laughed at the four of us.

When the Chinese came, Catherine split up the neatly-wrapped plastic boxes for each of us. After we finished eating our Chinese, we watched the Spider-man 3 DVD Emmaline had bought today. Ian had gone upstairs to bed. The four of us scooted chairs together, Rachel brought out blankets and pillows and sweets, and we sat in a row and watched the movie. About halfway through, we paused it, and Emmaline (whose foresight is quite amazing) brought out a tub of Ben & Jerry's chocolate fudge brownie ice cream to split between the four of us.

When the movie ended, we were all silly and hyper from the sugar, so the next natural activity for the evening was a lively pillowfight, started by Catherine tickling Emmaline, in which Catherine and Rachel whacked at Emmaline, and I whacked at them, and Emmaline whacked at everyone. After awhile, we settled down and sat and looked at pictures on Rachel's camera.

Putting her camera away, Rachel glanced around the room and moaned, "Oh, this place is a tip!" "Well, what will we do about it?" I asked, jumping up. The four of us went to work and had the room righted in a matter of minutes: pillows neatly piled, dirty dishes taken to the kitchen, chair straightened, rubbish thrown away, etc.

Quieter now, we sat in the common room chatting for awhile, though Catherine left at about half twelve. Rachel, Emmaline, and I sat on until half three.... We outstayed even the drunk people: the noises down the street from the club, the click of girls’ heels, the slurred male singing and shouts outside, all of it had died away into the eerie early morning silence.

I went to bed at last and was asleep before Emmaline came in at half four or so.

for whom the bell tolls

Now Playing: Edward Elgar, "Enigma Variations".

I promised Catherine that I'd post this for her.

For whom the Bell Tolls
John Donne

---

From "Devotions upon Emergent Occasions" (1623), XVII: Nunc Lento Sonitu Dicunt, Morieris - "Now, this bell tolling softly for another, says to me: Thou must die."

PERCHANCE he for whom this bell tolls may be so ill, as that he knows not it tolls for him; and perchance I may think myself so much better than I am, as that they who are about me, and see my state, may have caused it to toll for me, and I know not that.
The church is Catholic, universal, so are all her actions; all that she does belongs to all.
When she baptizes a child, that action concerns me; for that child is thereby connected to that body which is my head too, and ingrafted into that body whereof I am a member.
And when she buries a man, that action concerns me: all mankind is of one author, and is one volume; when one man dies, one chapter is not torn out of the book, but translated into a better language; and every chapter must be so translated; God employs several translators; some pieces are translated by age, some by sickness, some by war, some by justice; but God's hand is in every translation, and his hand shall bind up all our scattered leaves again for that library where every book shall lie open to one another.
As therefore the bell that rings to a sermon calls not upon the preacher only, but upon the congregation to come, so this bell calls us all; but how much more me, who am brought so near the door by this sickness.
There was a contention as far as a suit (in which both piety and dignity, religion and estimation, were mingled), which of the religious orders should ring to prayers first in the morning; and it was determined, that they should ring first that rose earliest.
If we understand aright the dignity of this bell that tolls for our evening prayer, we would be glad to make it ours by rising early, in that application, that it might be ours as well as his, whose indeed it is.
The bell doth toll for him that thinks it doth; and though it intermit again, yet from that minute that this occasion wrought upon him, he is united to God.
Who casts not up his eye to the sun when it rises? but who takes off his eye from a comet when that breaks out? Who bends not his ear to any bell which upon any occasion rings? but who can remove it from that bell which is passing a piece of himself out of this world? No man is an island, entire of itself; every man is a piece of the continent, a part of the main.
If a clod be washed away by the sea, Europe is the less, as well as if a promontory were, as well as if a manor of thy friend's or of thine own were: any man's death diminishes me, because I am involved in mankind, and therefore never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
Neither can we call this a begging of misery, or a borrowing of misery, as though we were not miserable enough of ourselves, but must fetch in more from the next house, in taking upon us the misery of our neighbours.
Truly it were an excusable covetousness if we did, for affliction is a treasure, and scarce any man hath enough of it.
No man hath affliction enough that is not matured and ripened by it, and made fit for God by that affliction.
If a man carry treasure in bullion, or in a wedge of gold, and have none coined into current money, his treasure will not defray him as he travels.
Tribulation is treasure in the nature of it, but it is not current money in the use of it, except we get nearer and nearer our home, heaven, by it.
Another man may be sick too, and sick to death, and this affliction may lie in his bowels, as gold in a mine, and be of no use to him; but this bell, that tells me of his affliction, digs out and applies that gold to me: if by this consideration of another's danger I take mine own into contemplation, and so secure myself, by making my recourse to my God, who is our only security.

a couple of days

Now Playing: Nathanael and Reuben on the computers. (And on my laptop, "Mother Gigogne and the Clowns" from The Nutcracker.)

April 3, 2008. After devotions, I had tea and toast for breakfast while I answered e-mails. I managed to clear my inbox out, and feeling accomplished, walked to the post office in dazzling sunshine to send away a scholarship letter to TU. Then I heated up soup for lunch and set to work on my ENG309 paper. The window was open, and the cool afternoon air came freshly into the room. I was working away happily, listening to Tchaikovsky. I finished my paper satisfactorily after a couple of hours and then went to the gym. The bowling green in the botanic gardens was dotted with people lying on blankets, kicking balls, or throwing frisbees. I spent about an hour in the gym. Then I walked back to Renwick, where Daphne and Catherine were sitting in the common room. It was the first time I'd seen either one of them all day. I brought down the book that my mother had left for Daphne--she was absolutely delighted with it. Catherine and I figured out how to work the DVD player, and she put on The Devil Wears Prada. Sarah W. and Emmaline came back from their afternoon's outings and invited all of us to Sarah's house for tea, though Emmaline didn't have room in her car for us. So I took a shower and walked down the Donegall Road alone. The evening was becoming cool, but still clear, with the spring crispness. Children were sitting outside on the kerb on the girls' street, playing games on the sidewalk. Emmaline let me in. She, Michaela, Sarh W., Calvin, and Matt were all in the kitchen. Sarah W. had invited Calvin and Matt over for tea since Calvin is her cousin. The boys were being incredibly silly. The pair of them could go into stand-up comedy. Calvin had made it his goal to make Emmaline mad since he likes her "cross" face--and between the two of them, he and Matt were doing a fairly good job, while Michaela, Sarah W., and I laughed at the boys (who were being incorrigible) and at Emmaline (who was trying to hold her temper and seeing the ridiculousness of the situation at the same time). We ended up ordering from a kebab shop for tea. The girls all ordered chicken tikkas; the boys both ordered kebabs. Emmaline had to go to a meeting, but when the food came, the rest of us wedged together at the kitchen table and ate. It was good: the chicken wrapped in thick Indian bread, with cinnamon and curry spices on it. After tea, I went back to Renwick. I opened my window again to the evening, and sat down for a Skype call with Mr. Carroll: my own session visitation. After an hour (a very packed hour), we signed off, he joking to the very end that he won’t believe I’m coming back to the States until he actually sees me in church. “I was nearly enchanted by those Irish myself,” was his last word. Anyhow, I packed my things and went downstairs. Catherine and Andy L. were talking in the common room, so I sat with them for awhile. At about ten o'clock, I said good-night and walked back to the girls' house. Matt answered the door, and of course wouldn't let me in, so Michaela had to do the job for him. Michaela and I spent about an hour sitting in the two armchairs in the living room, watching Calvin, Matt, and Sarah W. watch videos on their mobile phones. Michaela and I were both too sleepy to interact much, and the other three were having way too much fun together to try to rouse us. Emmaline came back from her meeting at about eleven-thirty. She, Sarah W., Calvin, Matt, and I squeezed into her little car. Emmaline drove Calvin, Matt, and Sarah W. home, in that order. Until we left Matt home, we had his iPod to keep us amused, though: he and Calvin would change the song about every thirty seconds, so though we never got to hear the end of anything, there was plenty of variety, everything from Justin Timberlake to Bob Marley, and a whole spectrum of dance and pop in between. Sarah W. and Emmaline heaved a collective sigh when the boys were out of the car, and Sarah found Emmaline's MP3 player--we were treated to selections from Princess Diaries and the new Pride and Prejudice on the drive to Ballymoney. After we dropped Sarah off, I moved to shotgun, and Emmaline and I chatted all the way home. The house was dark and quiet when we got back. We both went to bed, but we stayed up talking for awhile, again.

April 4, 2008. Woke early this morning to the usual noise of everyone getting ready to go to school. It seemed as though almost all the other kids had to poke their heads into Emmaline's room for one reason or another before they left. Emmaline and I didn't get up until later. After Emmaline's alarm went off, she went downstairs, but I dressed and sat quietly in her room, doing my devotions. The two of us ate breakfast in the little room. Emmaline managed to find something decent on TV, a couple of programs about how to refurbish a house, which made good background noise while she worked on her impossible paperclip puzzle and I worked on a birthday present. The morning was rainy, grey waves of mist so thick that even the sea was hidden. We spent the morning quietly, and at the usual late dinner. Emmaline and I cleared away and were back in the little room in time to watch Diagnoses Murder. When the show finished, Mr. M rang Emmaline to get her to come outside and wash the cars, so she and I pulled on wellies and leggings and went out into the crisp sunshine. The rain was gone, only a few grey clouds left, and the sun on the concrete walls of the sheds was richly warm. Emmaline and I washed her blue car, then her dad's grey jeep, then the silver family minivan. Massey watched us nervously, disliking the water. Behind us, in the parlor, the afternoon milking had begun: the rhythmic swish and click of the machines, Darius's voice calling the cows on, the warm, slightly acidic smells of dung and sour milk and hay. Emmaline and I worked in silence on either side of the car, sloshing soapy water and scrubbing at muck on hubcaps. A few rooks circled overhead, cruising to brown fields where the dark earth has been ploughed. A breeze came up and stirred the bobbing heads of the daffodils in the garden behind the house, just down the little hill. When we finished the three cars, we went inside, cleaned up, and drove to Tesco to buy groceries. The two of us were in charge of tea tonight, and we made Emmaline's special: honey-orange-glazed chicken and sweet potatoes. While the vivid afternoon sunshine faded into cool blue shadows in the farmyard, Emmaline and I worked away, slicing sweet potatoes, preparing the sauce, segmenting the oranges, putting chips in to fry and vegetables on to boil. It took awhile for everything to be ready, and then, just when the table was set and the hot food was all out, and we had all come to the table and were ready to say thanks, someone looked out the back window and announced, "Cows are out!" So Mr. M, Nathanael, Emmaline, and Reuben dashed outside to chase the cows back into the sheds, while Eleanor, Erin, and Mrs. M asked me polite questions about the trip to London. When everyone was settled again, we gave thanks and ate--a good meal. For dessert there was "insta whip": for you Americans who have never savored this delight, imagine something between chocolate pudding and chocolate icing, only fluffier, like cool whip. Very sweet, but good with M&Ms. :o) After dessert we cleared the table and washed the dishes. Then I went in to sit by the fire and keep working on the birthday present. Reuben was in there, watching X-Men, but he and Emmaline went for a bike ride, leaving me by the fire, absorbed in my work. Outside, the deep jewel blues and greens of evening faded into night, and Mrs. M came in and closed the curtains. Reuben and Emmaline came back in time to see the climax of the film, the two of them tumbled together on the couch like a pair of puppies while Nathanael sat beside me and borrowed my brush pens to color a picture of a tractor. When the movie ended, Mr. M joined us, and found an old spaghetti Western on TV. When the boys were sent up to bed, I went out, too. Emmaline was upstairs, reading. We went straight to sleep.

pictures from Easter break travels

Belfast, Dublin, Coleraine, London

Having already been white-rabbited by my thoughtful aunt, I can at least get the rest of you.

WHITE RABBIT!