Day 33: A Walk in the Park

Cabin Fever

Stuck in the house all day with nothing but homework for company, I tried not to explode until after dinner. I grabbed a purse and marched off toward Hyde Park for some evening air.

There's a lot to be said for the solitude of an outing--something clearly stolen in the form of bikes, dogs, runners and lovers scattered across my path. The pond sparkled in the purple dusk, cloistered from church spires and impeding woods, home to white swans and awkward ducks. It seemed another dimension altogether--another London, upside down, people with confused expressions, suffering much darker weather. I was glad to be in the brighter side.

I followed two women holding hands back down the trail--they noticed I was there and quickly dropped their affection. Not wanting to be a nuisance, I stopped and watched a squirrel digging in the grass until they lost me. He didn't seem to care I was watching. He took a chestnut and thunked it on the ground, looking for a place to bury it. Who knew Dreamworks got this animal so accurately?

So much walking...I had thought to walk the length of the park, or until the next tube station; but I definitely passed Queensway, Bayswater, Lancaster Gate and had nearly made it to Marble Arch station before dark really set in, and I STILL hadn't walked one side of the park. Giving it up, I caught a bus back to Notting Hill. My professors would probably be scandalized at how often I venture out alone at night--but when I have to fight through crowds on Bayswater at ten 0'clock, I struggle to feel remorse. Besides--I like the company.

Day 32: General Conference Weekend

I thus titled this entry due to my sitting three sessions in one day, all in this computer chair while goofing off on Paint. I'm pleased to announce that I didn't fall asleep once during conference, and when the six hours were over, I was sad. Would I make a good Catholic and go to traditional Mass? I doubt it. But I was pretty proud of myself.

The trouble with conference with some forty other girls is that they think if you're not an apostle, it's okay to chat through your talk. Irritation. This classroom filled with girls, pillows, blankets, journals, and I sat resolutely in this chair to play Solitaire, thankful for Thursday, when the talks would be published online.

Elders Holland, Uchtdorf, and Scott were easily my favorites, and I decided that this particular conference had the attitude of, "We know things are hard right now. We're going to hark back to the fundamentals to get through it. Thanks for everything you do." I was surprised. Usually in October, most of us come out feeling chastised--this time was entirely for the edification and encouragement of the members. Talks about faith, character, patience, and simplifying your life really puts us beyond our cultural differences to figure out that we ARE doing what we need to do. Kudos to all you members who watched conference and felt the same way.

Day 31: Essays and Other Dumb Things

Up Early

Not really. I got up before ten, but for a Saturday that was fantastic. Rachel, Nikki, and a bunch of others were planning to go to Hard Rock Cafe for lunch, and I was determined to enjoy myself--my religion paper finished, I had no choice but to finish a two page explication of Edward Thomas' "The Cherry Trees". It's a four-line elegy and I'm not sure what I was thinking. I made two pages, single spaced, and I'm confident I found lots of intelligent things to say. 11:30, I jumped into the shower, papers turned in and pleased that I had the whole day to go out and play.

Unfortunately, I found out that the whole group had left at eleven. Pissed, I just went back to bed, figuring the whole day was hosed. There's only so much you can do by yourself out in London and convince everyone else it was super fun and all that...I was so mad! They all knew I wanted to come! They all know where I spend my afternoons, in front of this friggin computer! How hard is it to come find me?

I was mad most of the day, but I didn't say anything to anyone about it. When Rachel got home, she said she wanted to go back and tour the Vault, something the girls hadn't wanted to do, and promised she'd take me.

The First Session

Saturday morning is only available here on audio, and even then it's tough to keep a solid stream unless every single laptop wi-fi is shut off. I sat at this classroom computer and played solitaire--everyone else sat in a classroom chair and took notes or drew or fell asleep on their pillows. Saturday morning is my absolute favorite session, simply because everyone is so excited to be there. New temples announced! I'm amazed how many East Coast ones are being built--a little more realistic about the locals' hostility toward such blatant religion. But hey, temples always make the housing market go up.

The rest of the girls were up late that night. I went downstairs at nine or so, just inserting myself at the dining room table to share in the communal suffering of writing horrible papers an hour before the deadline. Bless Dr. Seely for remembering what student life is like--if you turned in your essays sometime during the night, no worries for you. Everyone groaned and declared it the worst essay ever composed, or that their brains were now mush and they were giving up. I sat and chatted with everyone there, Andrea having everyone listen to Keane, me exposing them to Anberlin and other such bands, writing song lyrics.

Devri came in about midnight, after hanging with her boy--apparently she was sitting in a taxi with a Middle eastern guy who was asking her some questions that would definitely worry Liam Neeson: "Where are you staying?" and "Who are you staying with?" and "How long?". Devri didn't think too much of it, but gave vague answers anyway. They were about to shove off when he got on his cell and started speaking in Arabic. The only thing she understood was "Palace Court"--and she got this feeling that she needed to get out of the cab now. Making some excuse about forgetting something, she ran back into the hotel to grab her six-five guy. He heard an abbreviated account, and the taxi driver got one fuming boyfriend accompanying her home safe. She spread the word, and only time will tell if we have some rogue cab drivers harassing us in future.

We had a great time until I realized it was now two in the morning and I probably should get some sleep to avoid it during conference the next day. It's not really a sin, but you typically miss out on something awesome.

Day 30: FIELD TRIP--Gardens in the Pouring Rain

Kew Gardens

Ben took his humanities test this morning, then headed to the doctor. Apparently that cough that so bothered him all during Paris has been there for weeks--Andrew was hoping he'd be able to join up later, but the insistent rain made that an impossibility. I was doing my laundry, and thus donned a dress for our trip to match those blue Wellies. No umbrella, but my coat and childhood in Seattle was sufficient to enjoy Kew just fine.

After a lunch of obscenely priced meat pies and meeting Devri's boyfriend come to visit her, Nikki demanded warmth in the form of the nearest greenhouse. We walked in and it was something out of Jurassic Park. Palm ferns criss-crossed the hundred foot ceiling, spiked grass, creeping ivy, gnarled African trees and papaya plants the size of watermelons turned the glass house into a jungle. We shed our coats at once and began to wander; I ran my fingers through the lacy Japanese maples and pink cattails, amazed at leaves that glowed silver and gold. We took the stairs below to find an aquarium of algae and every character from Finding Nemo we could think of--big silver bass, Dory, neon seahorses, a puffer fish, and even Jacques, who looked made of clear plastic except that he was scuttling along the bottom after a lady friend. Climbing the stairs to the top, we saw the domed glass ceiling and the view from a zipline, looking down into the dark jungle and feeling the heat rise up. The rain-spattered windows were cloudy with spots of green, not quite hiding a royal pond and fading rose gardens beyond.

The rain didn't convince any of us to stay out long--we hopped from house to house, visiting the Waterlilies (six foot pads, with flowers the size of soccer balls), the Evolution house (from the Big Bang to today), and the Temperate House (rainforest to African desert). My favorite part was the Tree Walk--we climbed ten flights of stairs to bridges over trees slowly turned scarlet; the bridges weren't much more than mesh netting, and we could see clear down to the grass below as we stepped, swaying in the rainy wind. It was like something out of a Keats poem, floating above the trees, afraid and enchanted.

We all voiced our regret that the weather was so poor that day. But watching the raindrops ripple the surface of a calm pond, sprinkling on our heads as they slid off maple leaves, and turning the earth chocolate for the autumn, I kept feeling like the sun is entirely overrated.

Day 29: Depicting Mary Magdalene

National Gallery Again

Since my annual pass to get a headset (£12, reimbursed by the program) was definitely in my wallet, I was forced to borrow one. Rachel was nice enough to loan me hers--and since we have the same short curly hair, glasses, and height, I figured that the recent aquiring of such a pass would go unnoticed.

I rode to Tottenham Court, got off at Charing Cross (yeah, all you Muggles!) and went straight to Trafalgar Square. It was a happening place. I put one hand firmly on my purse and looked straight at my destination. The goal for going to the Gallery was simple: Our Bible and Christianity class required a paper on Christian art, any topic we chose. I was quick to decide, based on my previous visit--"Depictions of Mary Magdalene." I simply needed to find more images of her to write some solid paragraphs talking about similarities across artists, places and time periods.

In addition to Titian's Touch Me Not, I found Mary mourning Christ's death, reading the scriptures, seeing Christ resurrected, and being venerated as a saint. Each of these had similar characteristics, such as Mary being depicted in a red dress, with long hair (usually red), and accompanied by a jar of ointment. I learned that traditional Christianity believes Mary to be the woman taken in adultery, as well as the sister of Martha--this sinful past, combined with complete focus on the Savior makes Mary Magdalene someone with whom we can empathize and strive to become. Here's the as yet ungraded paper. Should you steal it, teachers are smart. Also you'll answer to God and all your honest ancestors. :)

September 30 2010
Bible and Christianity
Explication, Art

Depicting Mary Magdalene

Traditional Christianity holds that Mary Magdalene was the sister of Cumbered Martha and was the penitent prostitute who washed the Savior’s feet; these beliefs entirely influence the way she is depicted in Christian art, including her physical appearance and focus, often combining her sinful past and veneration as a saint to inspire our own devotion to God.

Mary has specific traits that identify her in any painting, including a traditional red dress, luxurious hair (usually red), and a bottle of ointment. The ever-present red dress or shawl represents passion and love as well as her scarlet sins as referred to in the scriptures. (Even in Van der Weyden’s The Magdalen Reading, there is evidence that her green dress was painted over red to protect her identity.) Her long hair, though often hidden under a shawl, represents the tresses that cleaned the Savior’s feet; depending on the time period, long red tresses also symbolize promiscuity and even Satanic tendencies. But while the locks are coupled with a jar of oil, the audience remembers the first time we see her in the scriptures, washing His feet as a penitent sinner with oil that “might have been sold to give to the poor” but was offered instead to the King of Kings.

Although some artists depict her less favourably than others, Mary’s complete focus on the Savior (God) is always evident. In Annibale Carracci’s The Dead Christ Mourned, the other women in the painting are looking at the fainted Virgin and at each other for guidance, but Mary is the only one entirely mourning Jesus, her hands thrown up in classical mourning posture and grief apparent on her face. In a veneration painting such as Guido Reni’s Saint Mary Magdalene, she is gazing into heaven with that same look of ecstasy with which she looks at the Savior in Titian’s Touch Me Not. One of the most interesting paintings is Savoldo’s Mary Magdalene, in which Mary seems to be crouching, shrouded in a grey cloak and looks directly out at the audience from the sepulchre. Has her focus on God broken here? If we look closely, her red dress peeps out of the bottom and we realize that her knees are actually just her other hand, which seems to be covering her eyes. Her grief has broken at the sight of someone—is she looking out at the risen Savior, mistaking him as the gardener? Mary is unmistakably and beautifully focused on God every way she is depicted, whether mourning at the tomb, worshipping the living Christ, or simply reading the Bible.

While some argue that her appearance as a sinner is at odds with her sainthood, I believe such juxtaposition makes Mary Magdalene one of the most believable characters in Christian art. She is often depicted with such perfect beings as Christ and the Virgin Mary, people who are without fault and worshipped in traditional Christianity; but alongside this perfection we see a penitent sinner with complete focus on God. Our eyes linger on her expression of mourning in Carracci's "Christ's Body Mourned" or her ecstasy at the veneration. Looking at Mary Magdalene, whether Latter-day Saints or Catholic laypersons, we are better able to think on our own devotion, develop faith in God’s forgiveness and thus achieve redemption as she did.

Day 28: FIELD TRIP--A Shakespearean Petting Zoo

Idioms of the Hathaway Cottage

Today was a pilgrimage to Stratford On Avon. Five houses, only one without rain--stuffed on a little coach with a Polish driver, we made our way south to Cotswolds and I had the best sleep I'd had yet, dreaming as an accompanist for the MoTab.

Anne Hathaway's Cottage was first. Charming flowers all out--the end of September, and the cottage gardens here are still stunning. Elizabethan houses still standing in the charming little outskirts. We entered and found an enthusiastic tour guide who told us some cute stories about Shakespeare's courtship with this particular woman, as well as everyday happenings:

1. Before going to bed, people would tighten the braided bed-ropes (before springs) underneath the mattress as much as possible, because the tighter the ropes, the better the sleep. Good night, sleep tight.

2. When guests came to visit, bacon was usually offered as succor after a long journey (unless they were REALLY unwelcome, in which case, nothing was offered). If you got hot, sizzling bacon, you were an honored guest and the host took extra care to make sure it was hot when you arrived. The uneaten bacon was stored in a little ceiling box, saved for later...if you got this cold bacon, consider yourself snubbed. Tis the cold shoulder.

3. When guests stayed for the night and there weren't enough beds, the top of the table could be taken off and flipped over as a substitute. Room and board.

4. Speaking of tables, the dinner table for a house of 14, like the Hathaways, comprised a long rectangular dining table with benches for everyone in the family. The father (head of house), however, got his own chair and sat at the head of everyone. Chairman of the board.

5. Bread was baked in a lovely oven, much like artisan bread today, except that the bottom wasn't often cleaned, and the loaf was cut horizontally, rather than diagonally. The bottom slice, which was covered in cinders and splinters and ash, was given to dogs or children or servants, while the top slice was given to the head of house. Uppercrust.

It was really cool to walk on the same stone floor that Shakespeare walked on. Could we feel the literature oozing out? Not really. The gift shop was cool though; Sister Seely bought me a new wallet with a Merry Wives quote: "There's money, spend it, spend it!" I thought it appropriate.

Tudors Amok

Our next stop was by far my favorite place. Shakespeare's mum was named Mary Arden, and her property is still a working farm. The cool part was that all the workers dressed in 1500s garb and talked to us like they thought we had the Plague. Little schoolchildren dressed in Tudor clothes were being taught to thresh and milk and make cider, and we walked through like it was some kind of theme park. I was grateful for the irreverent manner that was permitted; but less heavy than all those Great War sites.

The best part? Pigs, cows, goats, chickens, geese, and other period animals (big shaggy draft ponies that attracted the sympathy of every girl due to their rocker hair and sad countenances) were so used to tourists that they let us pet them. The pigs Amy and Liz were small and red with little curly tails and a soccer ball, eager for attention. Smart little buggers. It was at the farm that we missed out on the hawkers because rain started to come down.

The Grave and Other Archeological Events

The next three sites were Shakespeare's birthplace, his son-in-law's house, and the ruins of Shakespeare's own estate...some jerkface burned the place down. As a result, a crew of diggers have begun to search in the wreckage for items lost there and make people pay to see the place. Shame his mulberry tree was cut down too. Troubles with the town drunk and a rector, apparently. His daughter Susanna married an Elizabethan doctor and we visited his house; no thatch roof, and glass in the windows made him a rich man. We tried to invent a Facebook quiz: Which of your humors is out of balance? Blood, phlegm, yellow bile and black bile results.

Charles Dickens found the birthplace in the 1900s and put in a lot of work to preserve the place. I loved seeing the panes of glass with graffiti and signatures dating back to the 1700s. I learned that Shakespeare was dressed as a girl when he was a toddler to chase away the devil...we're glad to learn he survived the year Bubonic Plague took over the town. Like his father, who paid fines out the wazoo for illegal trading and tannering, he seemed to be a bit of a rebel who married an older woman three years earlier than consent age because she was definitely pregnant. I would expect nothing less from the man who penned Much Ado About Nothing as well as King Lear.

The grave is entombed within a Holy Trinity Church, alongside his wife, Susanna and a few other children. We were able to get in for 50p and didn't feel bad about it; the grave was unremarkable compared to tombs of the Black Prince and Lord Nelson that we'd seen--just a slab of granite, like a large flagstone, with a wreath of flowers recently placed. The far more interesting thing beside it was a 1611 edition of the King James Bible, a beautiful book open to Psalms 23. Just calm, simple devotion to a literary past of the town; whether Shakespeare liked going to church is another matter, but he uses Biblical passages everywhere in his plays, the most of whom refer to Cain. How very Hamlet and Macbeth of him.

We left Stratford about four oclock, soaking wet in the English rain and huddled together in the bus to sleep again, looking out the window at a bronze statue of Yorrick in jester apparel. I slept fitfully, thinking that I would catch some good internet time without the mob of girls headed to dinner.

Day 27: The Merry Wives of Windsor

A Confession to Make

There wasn't much play today, due to the outing this evening. The profs all paid for us to see Merry Wives at the Globe--an event that inspired everything from rejoicing to groaning about standung up for nearly three hours. I for one remembered I couldn't feel my toes after Henry IV. But I was optimistic that the comedy would be worth the standing.

Which brings me to that confession--the day the Pope was here, I had massive cabin fever by five, and went in search of a crew with plans that evening. I found a contemplative Andrew tuning the Centre's guitar in the sitting room and asked if they were going out to play. Apparently he thought I said, "Going to a play?" to which he said, "Yeah, but we all got our tickets beforehand." I was super confused. Henry the Fourth at the Globe, £5--a play I'd never heard of before, but him, Nikki, Ben, Sarah and Liz were all going. I ran and asked Liz if she still wanted to sleep (definitely vampiresque by the time I made it upstairs) but Sarah gave me the I-have-waaay-too-much-homework-for-Shakespeare look (such a thing does exist, profs.) So I bought her ticket and found myself on the Tube headed to St. Paul's.

Henry IV

We sat in line for some two hours, foregoing the pictures until inside the actual theatre, debating whether to buy hot dogs from that stand or that stand. It was a beautiful, cloudless day and I'd given up bringing a coat (such faith in the weather) from my training from SRO concerts. When they finally let us in, we scrambled to grab a place at the coveted wall, and ended up scrunched at stage right. It was like something out of Shakespeare in Love--the walls were painted with images of Dionysis and other gods; stage heaven and hell, although the set was a big structure meant to be bottom and top floor meets fly rail; big family crest banners dangling from every seat landing, and an open ceiling beyond the stage where we saw deep purple evening setting in. I was still surprised how warm it was. We sat for the few minutes before the show started. I stared at the groundling floor as it filled, imagining pistachio shells that had undoubtedly caused the actors so much grief to clean up in the days before popcorn.

Eventually, the crude Commedia Arte came to introduce the show and we all had to stand. That first act, I realized Falstaff was the same bad guy in Speed Racer and V for Vendetta--and it showed. His stage focus and presence made every time he entered the best moment ever. And Prince Hal? Definitely high-fived me! Gah, it was like being back at that Muse concert, except waay nerdier. The actors in Henry IV were magical onstage--Falstaff and Hal had brilliant chemistry, and every side character had trouble breaking focus busting out laughing--everyone, that is, except Falstaff. What a guy. The only one who really irritated me was Hotspur, who had the same voice inflections and hand gestures the entire time, which is wearing on the ears as he has the second most lines. My favorite scene was when Hal gets called in by the King and is cornered in a chair; the audience thus far has laughed harder than we can remember, and we're anticipating more jokes, when Henry IV positively screams at his son, who looks legitimately scared. It was some fantastic acting that just changed the mood on a dime, til the air was thicker than cold custard. I still get chills thinking about it.

Other fantastic things? Ad-libbing, Welsh singers, solid stage combat, and that random would-be boring scene that started with a man leaping out of the trapdoor in Elizabethan underwear, pursued by a vehement girl dressed likewise, who seems intent on causing him the most bodily harm possible. While the boring conversation goes on, we focus on the couple racing around the stage and eventually going back underneath, trying not to laugh too hard at the thumps and clangs and yells issuing there, and mostly hoping that no one's saying anything important. But no worries--Hotspur's rebellion is destroyed, Hal will become king in the next segment, and Falstaff lives on to star in Merry Wives of Windsor, the show we actually saw today.

Merry In Windsor

What's the point of a comedy where there's no cross-dressing? Apparently Queen Elizabeth, who liked Sir Falstaff so much, commissioned a show starring him. Naturally Shakespeare made the man a dog whose only goal is to bed two married women at the same time. But unlike the wise, reality-aware Falstaff we knew and loved, this one was foolish enough to pick two best friends, and drunk much more than the other actor was. We laughed much less, acquiesced that the show was for clearly younger audiences, and were dazzled by costume effects and body humor. I stood next to Rachel, who was so excited to be in the Globe and loved every minute of the show--one can't help but feel in company with so much enthusiasm. She made sure to document that I was there too.

The trip home from Henry definitely had us sitting on the Tube massaging our groundling feet and exclaiming how awesome the show was when two Welshmen started singing randomly. We all looked over and Liz cheered and clapped. "You, yeh got Welsh blood in yeh?" She said she didn't know. But the guys seemed to think so and came down the car for another stop and kept singing as they disembarked. Liz planted a big wet one as they waved through the train window. I told her to wash that off before she ate anything. Nikki said that kiss didn't count. Liz could only say, "Isn't this great that we're all here together??"