precisely what summer is for

the uk countryside in the summer months lends itself every so beautifully to cycling. rolling hills, dozens of back lanes and b-routes, long hours of daylight. every time i set out on my bike i find it all too overwhelming & come home much later than anticipated, having given in to curiosity, adrenaline, or both. cycling does another thing - it clears my head, better than tea or running or swimming or rowing. whereas some things require too much attention to technique (rowing), and others allow you to zone out completely (swimming) cycling provides an ideal combination of head space & body awareness.

now, i'd say i classify as an amateur amateur cyclist at best, riding the £150 bike i pieced together from ebay & my old frame (the deathtrap). i envy and admire those who do it seriously. about two weeks ago i met some people who cycle for a living--from a clock made of spokes, to an entire wardrobe full of lycra, not to mention a shed full of spare bike parts, i was pretty impressed. but at times i really am torn as to what the bike really is for. it has become, as many things do, a sport for the elite.

this chap articulates my point exactly. for him, it's not about the carbon frames and shimano parts, but rather, the 'lazy, languid, long distance cycle rides'. stopping at a pub along the way, some locals commented:

"Respect to you," they said. "You've got your socks tucked into your corduroy, you're riding a bike like that. You're not like those Lycra lunatics." Adding a silent punctuation mark, a racer with all the gear sped past. Knowing glances were exchanged.

i have to admit, i am partial to those lycra lunatics. (this could be just my profound love of lycra; more on that later) & god knows if i had the money i'd deck myself like a little lycra leprechaun on a sweet carbon frame bike. or bamboo! but a recent purchase from my darling boyfriend has me whizzing through the back roads of oxfordshire looking like a giant soreen malt-loaf on a bike. :D

this chap is great though. he rides with the same mentality i meant to set out with on my unaccomplished LEJOG last year--"man, not machine". however, having been scraped & bruised a few times too many, i can't quite say i share the same affinity with his naivete.

I'll admit to a degree of naivety on my trip. As probably the last person working for the Guardian to not own a smart phone, I had to rely on the old-fashioned and frankly outdated concept of talking to people. I didn't bring a puncture repair kit or a spare inner tube. I had no plan for what to do if disaster struck, but I imagine it would have involved an expensive taxi ride. If it rained? Well, trousers get wet. It happens.

i supposed i enjoy the speed at which i move through the landscape. sometimes walking seems atrociously too slow--whereas two wheels is exactly what makes you feel invincible. huzzah!

baked!

i got a prezzie in the mail! it came a little late but boy was it a surprise!

my dear friend out in california had sent me two lovely cookbooks from the baked! bakery in new york! the perfect thing to keep this blog running.

i am determined to make every recipe in both books (even if it does take me all year) and test them on my darling boyfriend. now, the second book has some proper nice adult recipes - things like sweet & salty cake, nutella scones, whiskey pear tart, shortbread with fleur de sel, cowboy cookies, (no, srsly that's what they're called. they have pretzels!) rosemary apricot squares, and salt & pepper malted milk chocolate cookies (as shown on the cover). OH I CAN'T WAIT.

here is their website, with pichas and all.

7 july 2009

today, i meet stan. and i know it will be good because i wake up to my father's voice: "you are making pie today". today is the day but first i must sit through this linguistics lecture, my second lecture of the day. the syntax fairy is disappointingly calm. i doodle mountains of nothing but straight, parallel lines on my page, waiting. waiting. finally we go and wait some more at the regular tuesday waiting spot until a small, bald, shaky man appears. he reminds me of a tortoise without his shell, perhaps shivering from the cold rather than the onset of parkinsons. almost a caricature, his eyes are glowing. "oh, she goes" he says and i immediately don't want him to die. i feel selfish, oh so selfish, but i can't help it. he has stories worth saying and things worth teaching. we make our way laughing and talking to a coffeeshop, i don't mind the weight of my f.scott fitzgerald books i bought greedily for fifty cents each. a ritual occurs during the ordering and buying and stirring of the coffee; there is some shifting of bodies involved. i do not partake or meddle in, but i can sense my very presence accounts for the marred execution this time. we decide on inside because stan has no circulation and no body fat and e.b.a. has no body fat and i have no circulation, so we make for quite the unconditioned trinity. sitting inside graces us with the presence of walking-talking teenage stereotypes that switch tables every twenty minutes or so when a new party arrives. e.b.a and i roll our eyes; stan waits patiently for them to finish the maneuver. at one point e.b.a. asks stan to do 'the chaucer thing' for me. and so he begins and we lean in closer and closer to hear until our three heads are almost touching and we must looking like a bunch of crazies plotting something. he begins to recite in middle english the prologue of canterbury tales, flawlessly from memory. it is enchanting, i am enchanted, for i can barely understand but his voice has our undivided attention and it happens again - my surroundings melt into air and i might as well be in edinburgh. he stops, not because memory doesn't serve but because we are interrupted and i am angry at our interrupter, a visitor from porlock, covered in sweat from head to toe, wiping his sweaty brow with his sweaty forearm. it's felix, no cat. uninvited, he drops his girth next to me and in a speech as sweaty as his person begins to tell us loudly about buffy the vampire slayer and the ongoings of the fringe festival. stan adapts seemlessly, molds and transforms six hundred years and theo also seems rather comfortable in this new company, disappointed but comfortable. meanwhile i'm still trying to catch the last syllables of the prologue, touching them with my mind and trying to make them linger on my tongue, to no avail. they are toned out by felix who has hogged all the space - physical and literal and mental - and continues to speak as though everyone were interested. or perhaps it's just me. it takes me a while to concede defeat and drag myself out of london of the 1400's into second cup 2009. felix wants to be a psychologist now. he's a journalist really, quite talented i hear, but insists on being a psychologist, tonight of all nights as well. the more he talks the more he realizes i have nothing to latch on to, there is no portal for me into his post-modern world, so he says: how have you managed to completely escape modern mass culture? i understand to miss a few obscure references, but to have somehow missed, on, the past twenty years or so is almost an admirable feat. i'm baffled. now he's got me he's got me and i'm exposed and i don't know what to say. guilty as charged, i resume my role as social sponge and quietly absorb the rest of their conversation about the talking heads (and then less talking and more head, how clever) and star wars and felix reaches to cover my ears with both his sweaty palms, which requires some hefty maneuvering on his part and i feel violated as if this was his only excuse to touch the single female at the table. all this because e.b.a. admitted to having seen every single star trek episode ever made, to which felix responded: we're not supposed to mention that to members of the opposite sex! and i am amused because secretly i am always amused and stan says, opposite to what? and we all laugh. they keep talking and i mustn't have been a very good sponge because i can't remember what it was they talked about anymore, until e.b.a and felix went for a smoke. left alone with stan, he says to me: about twenty years ago, i met a young woman who, like you, had somehow missed on an entire generation of social reference. she was raised in a very religious household and not until her twenties was given a chance to be exposed to the world and all its worldly wonders. i was there to witness her discover and experience these things for the first time and see them anew through her eyes. it was one of the most beautiful times of my life... i could do nothing but smile at his story and it was in such a state that e.b.a. and felix found us when they returned. and so the evening unfolded, stan dropping tiny bits of wisdom until felix had to go and then stan had to go and e.b.a. and i were left again across from each other, with eager, questioning eyes. he was beaming, absolutely beaming with all of stan's accomplishments that the man himself was so quiet and humble about himself. i knew now, i understood what he meant when he said this man is a teacher. i was grateful, ever so grateful to have met him. i told e.b.a. that and we walked off into the night.

axolotl

you know when you learn a new word & then it seems to haunt you everywhere you go?

my word is axolotl.

it all started at work, when a friend began to explain his previous pets, and we only got to a-talking about that because i mentioned lampreys, which still make me shiver when i think about them. they are jawless fish with teeth. click & be scarred for life.

but axolotls are a different story. they are cute & meek and secretly smiling their goofy smile at you. & they don't suck your blood.

this little fellow has been following me around everywhere. he came up in a conversation. i saw a sign for salamanders somewhere. i was reading the news and lone & behold, there he was. i was catching up on some reading, only to find that julio cortazar had written a short story called 'axolotl'. i was mesmerized:

I saw a rosy little body, translucent (I thought of those Chinese figurines of milky glass), looking like a small lizard about six inches long, ending in a fish's tail of extraordinary delicacy, the most sensitive part of our body. Along the back ran a transparent fin which joined with the tail, but what obsessed me was the feet, of the slenderest nicety, ending in tiny fingers with minutely human nails. And then I discovered its eyes, its face. Inexpressive features, with no other trait save the eyes, two orifices, like brooches, wholly of transparent gold, lacking any life but looking, letting themselves be penetrated by my look, which seemed to travel past the golden level and lose itself in a diaphanous interior mystery.

there is something so uncanny & so flaneur-esque about this story and yet perfectly natural that it ends the way it does. you can see him building up to it -- the little eyes, the fingernails... & then i find i am overwhelmed by the greatest ironic sadness, when the man no longer returns.

Weeks pass without his showing up. I saw him yesterday, he looked at me for a long time and left briskly. It seemed to me that he was not so much interested in us any more, that he was coming out of habit.

the metatext of the story is so simple and yet never ceases to captivate.

scratch that. i am trying to say something remotely intelligent & literary about it, but i can't. perhaps my brain is out of practice; perhaps i like it too much to analyse the fuck out of it. or perhaps it's just their little, inquisitive, beady eyes...



to read the original short story, click here.

the politics of walking with an umbrella

the other day it was raining, so i chose to take the longest, largest umbrella i had.
i found it on a park bench a while ago. i sat & waited with a friend for 35 minutes and no one arrived to claim it, ergo, it was mine.

it is a strange thing, walking with an umbrella. firstly, we must distinguish between walking with an umbrella in the rain vs walking with an umbrella in the event of rain.
now, the former we are all accustomed to - gripping tight to an umbrella being torn away by gusts of wind, the etiquette of passing people in the street without poking out eyes, pointing it into, not away from, the wind & the rain. you all get the picture. i usually cycle everywhere so i can't be bothered with umbrellas, but this time around i was walking. on the way home, the rain had subsided and i came to a much more difficult point: what do i do with my cane-like umbrella now that it's not raining?

i thought back to an almanac i read a couple years back that included instructions on how to walk with an umbrella, or use it as a walking stick.

now, unless you have a dphil, wear tweed and flannel comfortably outdoors and are over the age of 50, you have no right to be walking with a cane or you look like this twat:

or this one:

i can't for the life of me recall it, but there was a specific method that carefully calculated the amount of steps you need to take per each tap of the umbrella (used as a walking cane in this instance). however, there were also (un)clear rules about the differences in walking with a folded umbrella and an actual walking cane. either way, it was much more scientific than it looked.

what baffled me, however, was that in the process of trying to find some sort of existence of this almanac, i have come across numerous websites that

a) want to sell me victorian walking sticks

b) teach me how to deal with osteoarthritis & getting used to a cane

c) explain 'how to walk in the rain'

d) show me pictures of rihanna

go figure.

born to run?

a very well-read friend of mine recently posted the following on his facebook, by the well-known christopher mcdougall, journalist & runner.

born to be a trail runner

now, i've definitely had a love & hate relationship with running. i never noticed it as a kid, until i got throw into an unexpected cross country race when i was 9. they put with me the upper age-group, only because i was tall for my age (i actually was one of the tallest kids in my class until about grade 8. no, seriously).

i had to run this course with pretty much no training, but little did i know then. i was crammed side by side with lots of other girls, all running madly for some unknown reason. i instantly disliked this - the pushing elbows, the mismatched rhythms, and especially the fact that i was expected to run faster than all of them. it was an odd thought because i was an incredibly competitive child. i did not take losing for an answer. but i was also very stubborn, and when something didn't suit me, that was that.

midway through the run which i was grudgingly doing to begin with, i caught a cramp. that was it. i decided i don't want to run it anymore, i didn't like running with the other girls, and it wasn't even my race. so i stopped. & walked the entire course, non-chalantly. i came in 64th, out of a total of 65 girls. apparently one fainted in the woods.

that was enough to put me off running for a good three years. it was common practice for elementary schools in canada to have 'cross country' season in the spring, where one usually male, athletically-inclined-but-well-past-his-prime middle-aged teacher spends his lunch hours organizing the cross country team.

it ought to be mentioned: lunch hours at schools i went to consisted of mandatory eating for 20 minutes and then mandatory playing outside for 40 minutes. being on the cross country team meant mandatory running for 55 minutes & mandatory gulping your lunch for 5. i have no idea how but a certain mr. p got news that i was captain of the soccer team and made me join cross country. i had no choice.

at the end of my first run, i was spitting all over the place because i was certain i had blood in my throat. the same thing happened the next day. i kept pointing at little gobbits of saliva & saying 'blood! blood!' after a week, i was off the hook.

throughout my four years at highschool, i cannot recall doing single bit of exercise. i was running around, indeed, doing all sorts of other things (mostly licking ass, tbh) but that was that. it wasn't until university that i picked it up again, this time of my own accord.

my first day at uni i noticed i had a 3 hour gap between international history 101 and geology 101 (this was my 'rocks for jocks' course). so in order to live up to the name, i started regular gym sessions with a friend. and so began the running, but it was non committal. it wasn't until my then much-older boyfriend broke up with me that i took it hardcore.

for some strange reason, all my periods of the most intense physical training have always occurred immediately after breakups. i ran off every breakup i had, and this one was particularly bad. it was my first real heartbreak and i was angry. i needed to come up with horrible things to say and the best way to clear one's head was with a bit of air. and so in -10 weather, i wore thermals and went running. when it was 2 degrees celius, i was wearing shorts. i ran laps around a stadium and i ran cycling paths and neighbourhoods. i ran & ran & ran until i felt better. i did & it worked.

after that year at uni, i moved to france for my exchange. it was a stupid idea to begin with, and having secured a small apartment (if i may even call it that, but that's for another time) in the 16e, i went for runs around the rolland garros & the bois de boulogne. this was short-lived however, as the patisserie just below my flat and the banks of the seine lined with art called for a much slower pace of life. & so my running came to a halt.

again, it was another breakup that made me start again. this time it wasn't as bad and i was quickly thereafter occupied. & this happened a few more times. then there was last summer - cycling had taken over running as the ultimate break-up cure. i needed a channel for my anger and i was hooked on the endorphins. it got to the point where i was cycling the british countryside for about 2 hours a day, more on weekends. running was a change of scenery, that's all.

it's not that i don't run in between, it just never had a particular function. from time to time i enjoy a good run but when i'm rowing or busy with work it becomes less necessary. until recently.

my boyfriend had a friend over who runs for 2+ hours a day. she does marathons, was a blues rower. hearing about her bothered me a little, but it wasn't until i actually witnessed her going out for one of her morning runs that it hit me: cascade of competitiveness, jealousy & admiration. i don't like people that like the same things as me. it's a strange feeling, really.

within a week i was running again. the thing is, it had little to do with her. in fact, nothing. i had been fidgety for a while & my utterly dissatisfying job only left me restless in the evenings. so back i was, up to 5 times a week. i happily wake up at 6 and greet the dawn across port meadow. sometimes i'm lucky enough to catch a last bit of the night's frost.

around the same time, i read mcdougall's article. i can relate, in a way - the idea of running a marathon has never appealed to me. in fact, i think i would hate it and am already tensing my vocal chords in disapproval. i don't like the idea of running for money, or having to pay to run. i don't like running near urban space. & i ESPECIALLY don't like running with people.

this happened to me TWICE recently & it completely ruined my runs. it's alright to pass a fellow running along the way, usually heading in the opposite directly, or to run past others enjoying the open air. but to have to run alongside someone, or worse, behind/in front of someone is hell. i hate it. i rather not run at all. i was out for a run a very well-hidden woodland when i heard breathing. i saw a man coming up behind. i was angry for having him invade my space so i didn't let him pass. i kept him off for a good while but what was supposed to be an enjoyable run became this stupid game of showing him i'm better. or maybe he wasn't trying. i don't know. i could hear his breathing, it angered me. he had poor rhythm. finally, i found a path to diverge on and ran away. that completely ruined my run.

then, the next day, someone else was running ON THE SAME PATH. it was two guys this time, fucking talking. talking! running is not motherfucking chitchat time. if you can chitchat you are not running hard enough. fuck off. & shut up. gah. i was pissed off enough at this point that i slowed down and let them pass. then i stopped. completely stopped until i couldn't see them anymore. & i waited for a while until i was certain they were gone. i couldn't pick it up again as well as i had been & it had worked me up so much i knew i had ruined another run. fucking bastards.

yes, the idea of running a marathon is appalling. but mgdougall's idea of a fatass run sounds doable. so long you don't see anyone for miles. and hey, if i was running that far, a fistful of warm frenchfries would be a very welcome gift. omnomnom nom .

but mcdougall raised another point - running method. he studies the tarahumara people - an ancient tribe renowned for their long distance running abilities. as he points out, they run on the balls of their feet, & what's more - they run barefoot. which brings me to my next venture:

vibrams!

oh these are definitely on my christmas list this year, along with lululemon pants & a bike. oh right, a bike! we'll get on that later.

but the thing that attracts me to these shoes, more than anything, is this:

you can put your fingers in between your toes! oooh that feels sooooooooo good. it's right up there with q-tips! that's how good it is! (anyone who has seen me clean my ears will understand)

but the point he makes in an interesting one - like all other animals, it seems ironic humans are not made to run. perhaps we do not make the fastest sprinters in the animal worlds, but researchers have found that we do make pretty damn good long distance runners. which is contrary to the belief that sprinters are muscular and healthy, while thin, strung out marathoners are weak & gangly. take for example this article from harvard about the evolution of humans and long distance barefoot running.

i could go on forever but i'm up tomorrow at 6am for another run, so imma sleep.

but if christmas can't come too soon, tell santa i want this pair in black.

brrap brrap boom.

austra (new band alert)

http://hypem.com/#!/item/18bt7/Austra+-+Lose+It

i tend to have a strong dislike to most female vocalists, but every now and then someone like these guys comes along.
have a listen.

Some background: She joined the Canadian Children’s Opera at 10, sang for the Canadian Opera Company, and pursued a career in opera (while learning viola and piano) until she attended a punk show and joined a band. Instead of going on to focus on music in college, she listened to NIN and the Knife and started doing production work (for soundtracks and local plays), deciding she wanted to “make classical music with really fucked up, distorted crazy shit on there.”

-stereogum.com

Still, academia's loss was goth-tinged baroque synthpop's gain as Stelmanis sought to create music that would present her as a sort of brooding, electronic Polly Harvey. Austra's album, Feel It Break, mixed by Damian Taylor (Björk, the Prodigy, Unkle), doesn't cover any new ground if you're familiar with the work of Bat for Lashes, the Knife, even Florence. Nevertheless, if you have a penchant for gently pummelling keyboards with some of the sleazy flavour of early Soft Cell, vocals that are ethereal yet powerful - if a little heavy on the plummy hauteur - and lyrics that allude to all manner of dark forces and questionable rituals, then this is your lucky ... Break.

-guardian.co.uk

things you can do with bits of wire

here's a little interesting internet find: this man (terry border) adds bits of wire to everyday objects. the results are brilliant. here's a short gallery from the telegraph.

this one of spooning bananas was one of my favourites:




there's more on his original blog: http://bentobjects.blogspot.com/

given my fascination with minutiae and the everyday, he seems to capture it in an almost maurice blanchot sort of way. brillies :D