tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-89931454979490586202024-02-18T21:46:57.311-08:00Livre DivaMeriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.comBlogger236125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-63380978471210047502023-07-28T19:06:00.010-07:002023-07-28T19:52:44.060-07:00Five Reasons Why I Hated the Barbie Movie<p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; text-indent: 36pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span></span></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><img alt="" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1200" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEj1vzH5g3_vrKNyZp4mMlRFI3lb7_3Bo4B6nJC_imrmvC0qvskUfIIwFE6cixTKi5imOlUd6opJm5ZvUO_oX-99EhmMjPYq48bLEEb2YgDrYjkeSkrF4PlzFqP5KBmZTGcP2ur9-a6niwvuWCT7XYhUjJnN898Lhnr1rTqxlDEUcLPlR5xCeCRkka8iRb-W" width="320" /></div><p></p><p><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="text-indent: 36pt; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span><span style="font-size: 11pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: arial;"> </span></span><span style="font-family: arial;">I own several Barbies that are not keepsakes from childhood, but purchases I’ve made as an adult. I own President and Vice President Barbie, a Native-American Barbie, a glamorous vintage movie star Barbie, a disco black Barbie, and then there’s the one I find most relatable (at least on a physical level): a petite, curvy Barbie with wide fashionable boots to accommodate her large calves. I also own one Ken, purchased at a garage sale. When the lady running the sale offered to throw in Ken’s beach outfit in a little plastic sandwich bag for 50 cents, I was all on board. My point is, the Barbie movie should have been an easy sell for me. It should have been a no-brainer for me to enjoy this movie, just like throwing in Ken’s beach outfit. But my review of the movie is a little more complicated than a pair of miniature swim trunks and a Hawaiian shirt. </span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-4242139b-7fff-f87f-8af9-0d8e3cb107ae"><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><span class="Apple-tab-span" style="text-wrap: nowrap;"> </span></span><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">This movie is terrible. It has the depth of a cheap, flimsy sheet of fabric softener. And let me just say, I am allergic to fabric softener. Here is everything I hated about this film:</span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;"><br /></span></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space: pre;"><span style="font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; text-wrap: wrap; vertical-align: baseline;">1.The jokes are shallow. </span></span><span style="font-family: arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I didn't laugh once. I just raised one quizzical eyebrow and furiously ate popcorn for the entirety of the movie. This is not to say the cast is completely hopeless. Rob Brydon has one line. Issa Rae plays President Barbie. But any potential humor from actually funny people is overshadowed by Will Farrell’s imperious, obnoxious, unimaginative character.</span><span style="font-family: arial; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space-collapse: preserve;">2.The storyline is awful. There is no conflict that compels me to care about Barbie’s journey in the slightest.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space-collapse: preserve;">3.The brand of feminism represented makes it easy to point out flaws and alienate viewers. Feminism at its core is simple. Women’s rights are human rights. We should have agency over our bodies and our lives. A couple “jokes” suggest that women have zero power, that we can’t be CEOs or judges on the Supreme Court. By wasting time on these baseless grievances, the movie trivializes actual societal problems, such as sexual harassment and sex-based violence.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">4.The movie is ageist and tries to appeal to viewers with mindless virtue signaling. In the real world, Barbie sits on a bench next to an elderly woman. Barbie says, “You’re beautiful,” and the elderly woman confidently agrees with her. This confident woman contradicts the claim that women in the real world are utterly crushed by the patriarchy. This scene has no purpose, other than to virtue signal that the movie is </span><span style="font-family: arial; font-style: italic; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">not</span><span style="font-family: arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"> ageist because Barbie is condescending to an elderly woman. Then there is the worst line of the entire movie. Rhea Perlman’s character tells Barbie, “We mothers stand still, so our daughters can look back to see how far they've come.” This is nauseating due to the sappy bad writing and the blatant ageism. No woman, no matter her age, should ever be expected to stand still, unless she is a street performer who paints herself some metallic color and pretends to be a statue, in which case, more power to her. This line also perpetuates the lie that progress is linear, when in fact, women of my mother’s generation had more rights when they were younger than women my age have today.</span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space-collapse: preserve;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; white-space-collapse: preserve;">5.This movie is full of shallow stereotypes and contradictions. The whole vibe is confused. Barbie is disgusted by the sight of a birkenstock, yet she loves the Indigo Girls. “Closer to Fine” seems to be Barbie’s personal anthem, but why would Barbie swoon over the Indigo Girls’ down-to-earth music and be repelled by practical footwear? These two ideas seem incompatible to me. Lazy writing, if you ask me. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">So there you have it. A movie based on a doll meant to spark children’s imaginations is the most thoroughly unimaginative movie I’ve seen in a long time. The characters have no personality, which the writers get away with by using the copout that the characters are dolls. Then there’s Will Farrell, who is just a boring cliche. It’s unfortunate that Greta Gerwig received more praise for this fungus-plagued toenail clipping than for her previous work, which was actually good. I guess that’s what happens when an artist appeals to the most shallow and simplicity-craving sensibilities of her audience. </span></p><span style="font-family: arial;"><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;">I love simplicity. But when I want simplicity in my life, I’ll go for an easy knitting project and a cup of coffee. Anything would have been better than watching the Barbie movie. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span face="Arial, sans-serif" style="font-size: 11pt; font-variant-alternates: normal; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space-collapse: preserve;"></span></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><br /></div></span><p></p>Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-89456610315560987532023-04-21T18:43:00.004-07:002023-04-21T19:03:28.023-07:00Thaûma<span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTZ0EcZSC50oqFfwvLybPatf9JAmTTfGXkA1lNiAnOshdjJhDTxZ7y4bbucnGzx9lUFkyud21a5lf98ftrNxXh7eXYWcgfm-1UUnrsB37wwzdmlFCTfwwPkpATW07YYiR878FxJq1njSOzyOgQE96G5mamcgDlZEbxfqsMxuiix7jS1CxtTu5Ue80QRQ" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="413" data-original-width="620" height="213" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhTZ0EcZSC50oqFfwvLybPatf9JAmTTfGXkA1lNiAnOshdjJhDTxZ7y4bbucnGzx9lUFkyud21a5lf98ftrNxXh7eXYWcgfm-1UUnrsB37wwzdmlFCTfwwPkpATW07YYiR878FxJq1njSOzyOgQE96G5mamcgDlZEbxfqsMxuiix7jS1CxtTu5Ue80QRQ" width="320" /></a></div>Mary Beard felt her first sense of thaûma, the ancient Greek word for wonder, while staring at a piece of 4,000-year-old Egyptian cake. The now famous classicist, author, and Rick Steves of ancient civilizations, described this inception of intellectual curiosity occurring when she was about six years old. Because the exhibits at the British Museum in the early 60s weren’t child-friendly, her view of this ancient cake was strained and her mother had to lift her up. Then the guard did something unthinkable, something no museum guard would do today. He unlocked the case, picked up the 4,000 year-old-cake and held it out to Mary, just inches from her face. <br /><br />I watched the online lecture live the other night from my bedroom, concluding that knitting in my pajamas was a better way to absorb Mary Beard’s delightful stories than actually sitting in her live audience in Chicago. Going to Chicago was my original plan, but the logistics weren’t in my favor. I had already met her in Philadelphia, when I attended a reading of <a href="https://www.amazon.com/Twelve-Caesars-Images-Ancient-Bollingen/dp/B0971RVKH8/ref=sr_1_1?crid=1FNRYUR6CHKCW&keywords=twelve+ceasars&qid=1682127896&sprefix=twelve+ce%2Caps%2C103&sr=8-1">Twelve Caesars: Images of Power from the Ancient World to the Modern</a>. During the Q &A, I joked about people who give their children Roman names, telling her I’d met a clerk at Trader Joes, whose name tag read Nero. I struck up a conversation with him as he scanned my groceries, and yes, Nero was his actual name. I asked her what she thought of my niece and nephew’s names: Octavia and Quintus. She said she approved. At the book signing, she asked me what I do, and I told her I was a teacher. I thought of telling her I was a teacher at Girard College, but I thought that information might be inconsequential. Later, when reading her book and learning that Girard College was, for many years, the resting place of a famous ancient Roman sarcophagus in which our genocidal president, Andrew Jackson, refused to be buried, I regretted having been so reticent. Sure, I made her laugh with my Trader Joe’s story, but I adore Mary Beard so much, and I wished I could have kept talking to her. <br /><br />I guess it’s probably for the best that I couldn’t make it to Chicago to meet Mary Beard a second time. I just would have fangirled all over her and embarrassed myself. I probably would have brought up the 100-year-old cookie, which is preserved in a glass case at the Girard College Museum. It’s called the Hum Mud, and one of my favorite assignments that I gave students when I was a teacher at Girard College was to personify and write from the perspective of one of the objects in the museum. Many students chose the Hum Mud, and the stories that came from their imaginations were just delightful. <br /><br />I don’t know how much thaûma is being felt in my classroom, certainly not as much as I’d like. Today, I bribed one of my classes with candy so students would finish their research papers. I had followed orders about which candy to buy. Apparently, the time I bought Hi-Chews was seen as an abomination. “Fake Starburst” was the class verdict. I was also instructed to buy ring pops, but I could only find blow pops. Surprisingly, students were content with blow pops, even though they couldn’t put them on their fingers and fake propose to each other. <br /><br />Mary Beard had some sharp criticism for conservators who want to blue surgical glove-ify everything and make history less accessible to young people. She remembered how that museum guard holding that 4,000-year-old piece of cake in front of her face ignited her with enough thaûma to last a lifetime. <br /><br />According to Merriam-Webster, a thaumatourgós was a performer of wonders, or an acrobat. Although I can’t perform wonders, at least not in an acrobatic sense, I will pledge to experience more thaûma and to help bridge the accessibility to thaûma for others.</span><span id="docs-internal-guid-7c59c135-7fff-714d-1a56-ceaaa50d99e4"><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 12pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-3734861637869226202023-04-07T19:39:00.005-07:002023-04-17T12:33:56.933-07:00Basking in Discomfort<span style="font-size: medium;">The kind people of Valparaiso waved and cheered from their garages as athletes sped past, my mom and I being two of those athletes . . . only we weren’t running. We weren’t even jogging. My mom conveniently “forgot” her running shoes, and since she was wearing her galoshes and wanted to stop frequently to photograph lawn decorations, we were at the end of the race. Yes, it was a little embarrassing. The van for shaming stragglers was right behind us. It was cold and windy and sporadically hailing, which was annoying, considering the title of the race was “Ringing in Spring.” <br /><br />My mom waved back at the spectators, as if we were in a parade and the van lurching behind us was our parade float. She graciously accepted every compliment of “Great job!” or “You guys look great!” She even yelled back, “Thanks for noticing!” <br /><br />Judging by the wide range of numbers on people’s race bibs and the relatively low turnout, a lot of people looked out their window that morning, observed the crummy weather, and decided to go back to sleep. I don’t blame them. The conditions were uncomfortable. My mom stopped at one point to shake a rock out of one of her galoshes, but it honestly could have been a hail stone.<br /><br />The thought of pancakes kept me going. When we finally reached the end and received our lovely participation medals, we went out for our “breakfast of would-be champions (had my mom remembered her running shoes)”. For some primordial reason, I love restaurant booths. It just makes dining so much more enjoyable. It’s the modern equivalent of a cave, exuding a false sense of privacy and security. But I suppose the same way the first homo sapiens may have thought about their language echoing through the caves, I have to be more mindful of my voice carrying across a crowded restaurant. I have a TEACHER VOICE, and I’m used to projecting, so much so that even if I’m insulated in what I believe is some kind of soundproof restaurant booth, the other diners can still hear me.<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhH02mChauQoeXWQxAQcR-oIk65KtxAKj9j8OJn5OXOT841bNdKzZSA5DDh8ibaMKTOYBHTdMVQdl3lGIzpFq07AWfbqOVzO3Kh5n6zhp3U5njSKyQJR4PAqW-gzV5xILd6BIkfzj6HnrGQmdmL0ItgCwAp0aAzxTzVYDt2ibIc0TKCwo60BMoXGik8bw" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="550" data-original-width="1000" height="176" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhH02mChauQoeXWQxAQcR-oIk65KtxAKj9j8OJn5OXOT841bNdKzZSA5DDh8ibaMKTOYBHTdMVQdl3lGIzpFq07AWfbqOVzO3Kh5n6zhp3U5njSKyQJR4PAqW-gzV5xILd6BIkfzj6HnrGQmdmL0ItgCwAp0aAzxTzVYDt2ibIc0TKCwo60BMoXGik8bw" width="320" /></a></div>With my mom sitting across from me, I launched into a critique of people who don’t seem to understand the difference between “controversial” and “uncomfortable,” about how Americans are too concerned with their own peace of mind. The best writing is achieved when the writer is uncomfortable, accessing unique and authentic material and deeply rooted emotions from some dark recess of the mind. The best learning is achieved when the learner is challenged and pushed out of their comfort zone. And the best art should challenge our perceptions, force us to think and view the world differently, even make us squirm a little. <br /><br />I was trying to make sense of something that happened in class recently. Students expressed discomfort at a comparison I drew. My objective was to have students reflect on the power of imagery. I said that Marc Antony unveiling Caesar’s butchered body and pointing to all the stab wounds in order to rile up the crowd reminded me of Emmet Till’s open casket funeral and how it sparked the Civil Rights Movement. I wasn’t comparing the life of Caesar to the life of Emmet Till, nor was I comparing Marc Antony’s civil war to the Civil Rights Movement or minimizing black pain. I was simply saying that images are powerful and can spur us into action, whether that action be positive or negative. I showed students a brief PBS video to familiarize them with Emmet Till, careful to choose one that did not contain the horrific photo. I try to be mindful of the sensitivity levels in America, even if I think those sensitivity levels are over-the-top. <br /><br />A couple students said they were afraid that these kinds of topics would embolden students with racist ideas to voice them, and therefore we should not discuss these dangerous topics in school. My response was that school is a place for learning and making mistakes and shaping the way we think. Just because we’re afraid someone will say something we don’t like doesn’t mean we should shut down uncomfortable topics all together. One student said certain topics did not belong in the classroom, topics such as Hitler and Tom Metzger. Maybe that student is right. Rather than talking about Hitler or Tom Metzger, the real focus should be on why these topics produce such an uncomfortable reaction in the first place. <br /><br />I was told by one student that a previous teacher had them read “Night,” by Elie Wiesel, “a very controversial book.” That's when I realized students were conflating discomfort with controversy. I know I read “Night” when I was in high school. What year I can’t remember. I do know that I wasn't too concerned with my own discomfort.<br /><br />Looking up from my pancakes, I noticed an older woman, exuding positive energy, standing at our booth. “I just want to say I agree with you whole-heartedly and to keep up the good work. I know it’s a hard time to be a teacher.” <br /><br /> I thanked her, and I was happy she stopped by our booth, even though I felt terribly self-conscious about the volume of my voice. After all, restaurant booths are supposed to be safe havens. If the waitress came by and gave everyone a side order of disturbing American history with every entrée, I’m pretty sure that restaurant would get bad reviews. I, however, am not a waitress. I don’t serve information. I don't walk around, asking students if they’d like a free refill of knowledge. Books, if they’re properly analyzed, should be grappled with, reckoned with, poked and prodded. Good writing is uncomfortable because good writing tells the truth. <br /><br />If we can’t face our discomfort and analyze our reactions, how can we hope to get along with people who hold different views? How can we ever solve any problems? Right now the country is so segregated; we can live our whole lives in a bubble and never receive any pushback. Districts are so gerrymandered; politicians can do as they please and only answer to their own supporters. If we shut down conversations because they’re uncomfortable, are we on a dangerous trajectory of being no better than the Tennessee House GOP who expelled two black lawmakers for exercising their First Amendment Rights? And is it any coincidence that the expulsion came as a result of hard truths spoken about America’s myriad of mass shootings? <br /><br />Discomfort should NOT be avoided, although I think if I sign up for another run and there happens to be a hailstorm on race day, I will go back to bed. <br /><br />Conversations should also be age-appropriate. Recently, while having breakfast in a booth with my friend and her two children, her little boy showed skepticism for Pixar’s “Up.” He said it would be scientifically impossible for balloons to lift up a house and carry it to South America. I suggested that maybe if the house were light enough, balloons could lift it. Then I launched into a history lesson about Charles Lindbergh and how he made the Spirit of St. Louis as light as possible so he could complete the first transatlantic flight without crashing. He even cut the edges off his maps. So maybe Mr. Fredrickson was a bit like Charles Lindbergh. <br /><br />Pretty soon, a nice Hoosier lady appeared at our booth. “Thank you for the history lesson. I didn’t know all that stuff about Charles Lindbergh!”<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIBHIODiMMGmV3y-1hNjJHC8bTUwEBNdptQN8NOJs_48KE6ubcPStFnOSrNyOvDIHyNs8KWxegUp2KH83lf5l5Ka4hMDZ3roEGEyzUn0xiAbAtpHweSEXhDfyuwZxWb4Gcvv5X1Vh1x0tB2vcS8yEcnInJ6D-WOINs6B-kMyuwQ8hElYbtYJqa3ZuTGA" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img alt="" data-original-height="300" data-original-width="268" height="240" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhIBHIODiMMGmV3y-1hNjJHC8bTUwEBNdptQN8NOJs_48KE6ubcPStFnOSrNyOvDIHyNs8KWxegUp2KH83lf5l5Ka4hMDZ3roEGEyzUn0xiAbAtpHweSEXhDfyuwZxWb4Gcvv5X1Vh1x0tB2vcS8yEcnInJ6D-WOINs6B-kMyuwQ8hElYbtYJqa3ZuTGA" width="214" /></a></div>“You’re welcome, “ I said, even though I was once again self-conscious about my booming voice. I could have continued the history lesson to include bits about Lindbergh being a Nazi sympathizer or his many extramarital affairs, but that would have made our morning uncomfortable. And restaurant booths, unlike challenging learning environments, should always be comfortable. </span><span id="docs-internal-guid-cdf1a5d1-7fff-b80e-678d-4e7c62719c05"><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-56214830230273943052023-04-02T19:15:00.009-07:002023-04-21T19:26:46.407-07:00Daddy<span style="font-size: medium;">I know people are sometimes pronounced dead and then they come back around. Having some sideshow sensibilities, I’m often drawn to things creepy and demented. Take Coraline, for example. Or Tom Waits. I’m fascinated by dreams and cults and near-death experiences. I read a wonderful memoir by Maggie O’Farrell, titled, “I am, I am, I am: Seventeen Brushes with Death.” Well, apparently, I was so caught up in what it would be like to die and come back to life, I wasn’t even thinking about what it might be like to have to lose someone twice. I’ve lost a couple friends, but the death that derailed everything was my dad’s. He died when I was three. Then he died again when I was 39. Same dad. Different deaths.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /> Let me explain. <br /><br />Recently, after sharing a poem I wrote with my friend Roger, we both agreed that my weird rhymes deserved a macabre illustration style, something in the same vein as Edward Gorey or Aubrey Beardsley. In pursuit of inspiration, I perused Gorey illustrations, coming across one that reminded me of my own family portraits from when I was a child. I used to draw my dad as an angel floating over my mom, my brother and me.</span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><span style="font-size: medium;"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWECVw83_xCQ1cXQh_QIP3cBcqthzPYIeKEbzJ1yGbtZPNth89gVk3T3xVsrEnLuTLJuLbvmUGIV2lQGpK5KnyfACZw3td7JONxUEu9CmsHXeDVc0k5y3vvc5bxYXrjRpGbJeXbKVhldifhrF2Eg8Yc8IHxj9wvv2umxqhxqJbtFGIj_-7Z1rUIOW-A/s4032/7729E05E-A1F2-4C2C-B4B5-6BC297B751A1.jpeg" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="3024" data-original-width="4032" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjEWECVw83_xCQ1cXQh_QIP3cBcqthzPYIeKEbzJ1yGbtZPNth89gVk3T3xVsrEnLuTLJuLbvmUGIV2lQGpK5KnyfACZw3td7JONxUEu9CmsHXeDVc0k5y3vvc5bxYXrjRpGbJeXbKVhldifhrF2Eg8Yc8IHxj9wvv2umxqhxqJbtFGIj_-7Z1rUIOW-A/w635-h480/7729E05E-A1F2-4C2C-B4B5-6BC297B751A1.jpeg" width="635" /></a></div><br />My dad died on Super Bowl Sunday, 1987. Every year, Super Bowl Sunday comes with scant associations to distract me from the anniversary of his death. It really doesn’t matter who is performing in the half-time show. I’m as dispirited as a shoelace when it comes to football. I remember watching games with my dad on TV. In the mid-eighties TVs were very box-like, and I remember being unable to differentiate between the TV and other box-like appliances, namely the washer and dryer. I remember thinking, “Why are we watching clothes spin around in the washer?” My opinion of football hasn’t improved much since then. In fact, I think I’d rather watch clothes spin around than watch men tackle each other and sustain concussions.<br /><br />When my family discovered him on the couch, I tried to wake him up, and my mom yanked me back. My brother stood there quietly. He was five, old enough to understand that there was no point in trying to wake him. After reality settled in, I was fuming. I yelled, “My daddy’s asleep, and he’s never going to wake up!” <br /><br />Recently, my mother came by to visit me in Mishawaka. I still had a shamrock painted on my cheek from St. Patrick's Day the day before. “I have some news,” my mom told me. Despite having some dark interests, I really am an optimist at heart. I thought she’d landed a book deal or won the lottery. “It’s serious,” she added. Then I immediately thought, “Oh, no. Cancer. She’s dying.” Fortunately, it wasn’t that. The news was that someone who had died was dead all over again. “Your father is not your biological father,” she said. “Winfield had a botched double hernia surgery, and we found out he was sterile. We used a donor for both you and Cory.” <br /><br />I guess the shamrock on my cheek didn’t bring me luck. Still, I’d rather know the truth, even if it’s painful. I joked with my mom that she should have capitalized on this family secret and revealed it on some day time talk show. I pretended I was okay at first, but couldn’t help but cry. I’m still searching for ways I can assuage my pain. Drinking pomegranate juice and listening to jazz are pleasant ways to pass the time. I’ve heard the Al Green song “L-O-V-E” playing on several occasions since receiving the news that I’m once again fatherless, enough times to find it a bit unusual. I’m thinking my dad is sending me a message through this Al Green song. I’m so thankful I don’t drink excessively. I usually just have one glass of wine per month. If I had a drinking problem, I may have gone off the deep end and tried to dull my pain through the bottle, stumbling and slurring my speech as I tell everyone that my dad is communicating with me through an Al Green song. Thanks to that song, the pain has gone from a constant throbbing to a dull ache. <br /><br /><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/MssKkD3Ykg8" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></span><div><span style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span></div><div><span style="font-size: medium;">During a French conversation lesson, I brought up how I used to wear my dad’s clothes when I was a teenager. I found a pair of some tan corduroy lederhosen in the attic, and I wore those with one of his sleeveless undershirts and a newsboy cap. I was supposed to be talking about Halloween costumes in French, but I got sidetracked. <br /><br />On April Fools Day, my mom and I drove up to Michigan to watch a movie. That might sound crazy, but Indiana is grievously lacking in good theaters, and I miss going to movies. Back when I lived in Portland, I used to go to movies all the time. In the summer, I would go several times a week. If I loved a movie, I would save the ticket stub as a souvenir. I can still remember who accompanied me to each movie and our discussion afterward. <br /><br />Anyway, a comforting thought occurred to me as I was watching the film, “The Lost King” with my mom. The main character, Philippa, becomes obsessed with Richard III. She feels a kinship with him because they are two lost souls, both deeply misunderstood. She becomes close with him, or his ghost anyway, and he gives her hints as to the whereabouts of his remains. Fun fact: The actor who plays Richard III, Harry Lloyd, is the great-great-great grandson of Charles Dickens. <br /><br />At the end of the film, Richard III is given a proper burial. In finding him, Philippa manages to clear his name and make a name for herself. <br /><br />As for my comforting thought, I realized that two people can be close, even form a sort of father-daughter bond, and it doesn’t matter that they lived five hundred years apart. Time doesn’t matter. And neither does biology.</span><div><span id="docs-internal-guid-c93df130-7fff-fb1c-bfe5-84d29821700e"><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span></div>
<iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; clipboard-write; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture; web-share" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/TXxRfhQFuV4" title="YouTube video player" width="560"></iframe></div></div></div>Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-77740006339562345802022-03-06T20:22:00.008-08:002022-03-06T20:29:07.435-08:00Glory to Ukraine<p><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfPPuPgABOn149nWl12xAEnwnsopHFQWG9PzNut-ouZaI8mxdq_4OMBtX1QUK3ypUP-dcjkyNGNsMDfo04d4MKZrntK6HHCFp0TaaC1M5ZlpbTJ_80BlT4wTCgZDQIEkitUL_9xFZOLba/s1600/tania+and+me.jpg" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><img border="0" height="355" lda="true" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhGfPPuPgABOn149nWl12xAEnwnsopHFQWG9PzNut-ouZaI8mxdq_4OMBtX1QUK3ypUP-dcjkyNGNsMDfo04d4MKZrntK6HHCFp0TaaC1M5ZlpbTJ_80BlT4wTCgZDQIEkitUL_9xFZOLba/s400/tania+and+me.jpg" width="400" /></span></a><span style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"> <span style="text-indent: 36pt; white-space: pre-wrap;">Sifting through college-ruled sheets of topsy-turvy Arabic notes, I wonder if perhaps I overextended myself in signing up for such an ambitious extracurricular activity, especially when the whole world is so topsy-turvy. During my last class I managed to squeak out a sentence in Arabic. I tried to say, “I dance from the river to the road,” and accidentally said, “I dance from the fire to the road.” Honestly, it doesn’t matter. Both are absurd statements. I wonder if I should declutter my house by tossing these nonsensical Arabic scribbles, or if I should hang on to them, maybe use them to practice for the next class. To discard or to keep? That is the question. And while I’m contemplating that, here’s another question: Are human beings capable of not collectively committing mass suicide in a nuclear war? Should we have faith in humanity or should we declutter the Earth and just throw in the towel?</span></span></p><span id="docs-internal-guid-bdc782ee-7fff-6f1a-9219-372540be69da" style="font-family: arial; font-size: medium;"><span><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-indent: 36pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span>Of course we need to keep faith alive for humanity’s sake. At times my mind turns morbid because my friend Tania lives in Kiev. She sent her mother and her little boy to Poland, and she, like a badass, is staying to fight. I’m so worried for her. Apparently, while I was fretting about my friend, I was neglecting another friend. I just received a text message while studying Arabic in the bathtub, because why not? The text read, “I feel you’re not respecting me.” Well, sheesh. My apologies for being so distant. It’s just that I’m worried my other friend will be martyred along with thousands of her brave countrymen and women because of the cruel actions of a deranged dictator. The strength and resilience of Ukrainian people is truly inspiring. I felt their spirit when I visited my friend in 2018 and wrote the blog entry, <a href="https://livrediva.blogspot.com/2018/08/ukraines-fight-is-our-fight.html" target="_blank">“Ukraine’s Fight is Our Fight.” </a></span></span></p><span><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span>I wonder why I turn to foreign languages during times of distress. I meet with French tutors twice a week, and then there’s Arabic. Before that, there was a deluded Russian conversation partner who bragged about being told he spoke like Putin. (It’s funny the things men think will impress women.) Perhaps learning languages reminds me how badly I want to travel the world again. The tongue is the strongest muscle in the human body, and yet there are lunatics like Putin who prefer shows of military strength over verbal communication. Talking any sense into him is an exercise in futility. Now that my friend is caught in the crosshairs of this mess, I am unreservedly invested. Everyone who believes in democracy and freedom from demagoguery has skin in this game. </span></span></p><span><br /></span><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"></p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEji4EZ_VUYw1bAudGe25hsTwkfIIsosRul3lCebi03t0R6mR7_IlAHPMnB7qq5g4Xevq4YS18-33_yZCl5yhziQMBb9JQ-4PPD8v7_HSbbxDv7kl7aCNgELTh7ONDoq5ZfXWt73ioKWV3rFpbDhNdgUE-2Rx3BYnvtjdflfybnqcc17LMEfuAAzPfcuJA=s1000" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1000" data-original-width="707" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEji4EZ_VUYw1bAudGe25hsTwkfIIsosRul3lCebi03t0R6mR7_IlAHPMnB7qq5g4Xevq4YS18-33_yZCl5yhziQMBb9JQ-4PPD8v7_HSbbxDv7kl7aCNgELTh7ONDoq5ZfXWt73ioKWV3rFpbDhNdgUE-2Rx3BYnvtjdflfybnqcc17LMEfuAAzPfcuJA=s320" width="226" /></a></div><span style="font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><span>Scenes from Dune and Julius Caesar have been playing in my head. I’m hoping this year’s Ides of March do not disappoint. Putin turning his back on a supposed comrade is a fine way for him to go, but I feel poison might be a more befitting exit ticket for him. Let him suffer in the same brutal fashion as the people whose executions he’s ordered. Let him go out like Muammer Gaddaffi. There’s no drainage pipe in this world rotten enough to hide the likes of Putin. The scene from Dune in which the Duke of the House of Atreides bites down on a poisoned false tooth and emits poisonous gas replays in my head multiple times a day. That exhale has become a symbol of hope. If only someone could take this bastard out with a single breath.</span></span><p></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">I’m currently drinking a glass of bourbon barrel-aged cabernet sauvignon, listening to old-school Madonna. I’m grateful for my level of security and also ashamed of my comfort. My friend, Tania, who is serving her country, is similar to me in many ways. She is bookish and she loves languages too. In fact, she is a translator. Earlier today, I was reading poems from a press I remember she likes: Button Poetry. I’m hoping the flames of this invasion die down soon and that I can visit my friend again. I will bring her the entire collection of Button Poetry books, and we’ll drink cabernet sauvignon together, although as I recall, she is more of a beer drinker. I’m going to keep this image in mind, as well as that inspiring scene from Dune. </span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></p><p dir="ltr" style="line-height: 1.38; margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;"><span style="white-space: pre-wrap;">Slava Ukrayini! Glory to Ukraine!</span></p></span><span><div><span style="background-color: white; font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span>Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-52368704769083957012021-12-30T07:56:00.004-08:002021-12-30T07:56:43.030-08:00The Pied Piper of CatsStray cats I never knew existed come darting out of nowhere whenever my neighbor walks by. His roommate does not approve of his cat entourage. Their house is pet-free, but that doesn’t stop a band of vagabond felines from showing up on their front porch, begging for food and affection. Apparently, the roommate became so fed up with these flea-ridden solicitors, she insisted he had broken the no-pet rule and therefore, she felt justified in breaking the no-smoking rule. The Pied Piper of cats occupies a small windowless room in their house and says the closeted nature of his living quarters make the fumes unbearable. Naturally, when I asked if he would stay at my house for a week and watch my cats while I visited family in Indiana, he came right over to meet his two furry, much more considerate roommates, Tom Sawyer and Becky Thatcher.<div><br /></div><div>In my bathroom hang two large magnetic boards covered with souvenir magnets. “You’ve visited ALL those countries?!” he exclaimed as he exited the bathroom. “Yeah,” I said, happy that my bathroom decor had its desired effect. Visitors to my bathroom should be comforted by the aroma of my reed diffuser, delighted by my bidet, but more importantly, they should be impressed by my worldly magnet collection. The magnet that impressed and amazed him most was one I never would have guessed. “You’ve been to Ashland, Oregon?!” he asked, sounding stupefied.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcph-Rzw89k8CGFs5LJo3_ENqPcrK3vA1FF115ejdSLq85h_8f95ERiurU_ecOfMYM0KTh2-EVmA6u3X4D2eY9AoNYWWCCRnIchD6KirRXueYxAMNLVxNG4Nj2oCjJiZRj_9ZkOUeZGLgFkOfJZPcfHxBxf4sQ6tGvXyX4ufCxtMEt6-7f5nLfT4yvhw=s4032" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="4032" data-original-width="3024" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEgcph-Rzw89k8CGFs5LJo3_ENqPcrK3vA1FF115ejdSLq85h_8f95ERiurU_ecOfMYM0KTh2-EVmA6u3X4D2eY9AoNYWWCCRnIchD6KirRXueYxAMNLVxNG4Nj2oCjJiZRj_9ZkOUeZGLgFkOfJZPcfHxBxf4sQ6tGvXyX4ufCxtMEt6-7f5nLfT4yvhw=s320" width="240" /></a></div>“I’m from Oregon,” I reminded him. “Ashland isn’t too far away from where I grew up.” We got to chatting and it soon became clear that he did not want to return to the cannabis den, where his roommate was currently having a party and filling the house with more pot smoke than usual. We ended up ordering a pizza and watching Macbeth (the Roman Polanski version). He wanted to watch a zombie movie, but I vetoed it. As an English teacher, but also someone who hates talking during movies, I gave brief explanations about what was happening. He made an astute observation during the scene in which the inept assassins succeed in killing Banquo but let Banquo’s son Fleance get away, saying in between bites of pizza, “It’s like Macbeth hired the two robbers from Home Alone.”</div><div><br /></div><div>When telling him about my cats, I informed him that they were both rescues from Kuwait. “Is that in Oregon?” he asked. “No, it’s a country in the Middle East,” I laughed. Since coming to Philadelphia, I’ve noticed it’s rare to meet people who’ve traveled outside of the country, let alone Pennsylvania. I’ve learned to accept this, as there are so many other attributes people can acquire apart from being well-traveled.</div><div><br /></div><div>On my way home, my courteous catsitter warned me about Lyft and Uber drivers and told me to stay safe. Some women have unwittingly entered the wrong car and have been assaulted and murdered. I thanked him for his concern and told him I’d be careful.</div><div><br /></div><div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYsEUA4hyHBpkXH4rf0h9wcThDlcHORelxN3d2o3nW4EzIPg5n_c1h4DdXabQ0y7KFxmN3d2o7Wc6o1MUTWp5brpeYSiJihNei-JJclfYOUhX12jWfLgt42JYvfaiqrFdKZ16UkucFp3b78etLKl_oahrA6kdoCUzLRwUmF8fIviFCQQz-HxGn-vKVEA=s828" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="735" data-original-width="828" height="284" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhYsEUA4hyHBpkXH4rf0h9wcThDlcHORelxN3d2o3nW4EzIPg5n_c1h4DdXabQ0y7KFxmN3d2o7Wc6o1MUTWp5brpeYSiJihNei-JJclfYOUhX12jWfLgt42JYvfaiqrFdKZ16UkucFp3b78etLKl_oahrA6kdoCUzLRwUmF8fIviFCQQz-HxGn-vKVEA=s320" width="320" /></a></div>When my Lyft dropped me off in front of my house, my delightful, neighborly cat sitter was just leaving. Apparently, he wanted to stay as long as possible before returning to his inhospitable roommate. We hung out some more. He showed me his sketchbook and the various things around my house that inspired him to draw. He drew the view from outside my bedroom window, saying all the lines and angles were especially satisfying for him to render. He showed me a drawing of the fold-out couch. He only unfolded it halfway and put down some decorative cushions. Apparently, that’s the more comfortable way to sleep than unfolding it all the way. I told him he could hang out and draw or come sleep on my couch again if his roommate’s smoking became bothersome. I may insist on watching movies like The Seventh Seal, Macbeth, and Bicycle Thieves, but at least I don’t smoke.</div><div><br /></div><div>I’ve noticed since he left, a couple stray cats have shown up on my porch, looking for their friend. “Sorry, guys. The Pied Piper left,” I told them. But I’m sure he’ll be back later for more pizza and highbrow movies. <span id="docs-internal-guid-4b1fc8cd-7fff-4228-7d39-9fd039ef89ea"><div><span style="font-family: Arial; font-size: 11pt; font-variant-east-asian: normal; font-variant-numeric: normal; vertical-align: baseline; white-space: pre-wrap;"><br /></span></div></span></div>Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-89149942401427945172021-12-24T12:12:00.003-08:002023-04-03T19:18:30.970-07:00Jingle Bell Fun Run<p>Jogging along at my my glacial pace, I watched festive athletes in pink bunny costumes pass me, their long floppy ears and fluffy tails incentivizing me to pick up the pace. No matter how out-of-shape you are, there’s something demoralizing about being upended by characters from a Beatrix Potter book. Actually, the Brits may have their own Peter Rabbit fun run over in jolly old England (if such tomfoolery isn’t beneath their dignity), but this is Chesterton, Indiana, a hop and a skip away from Hammond, Indiana, where the acclaimed film, “A Christmas Story,” is set. Paying homage to the film by wearing adult bunny onesies and displaying leg lamps in living room windows is part of the culture here.</p><p>My mom and I participated in the fun run and were gratified to see such community spirit and glee. The run was about as competitive as a napping contest. There were no race bibs, no one kept track of the time, and the pink bunnies standing around drinking mimosas when my mom and I crossed the finish line didn’t even acknowledge our achievement. I mean, I didn’t expect the good people of Chesterton to lift me up on their shoulders and parade me triumphantly through the town, but I kind of expected a “Good job” or a golf clap or something. That’s okay. The jingle bell fun run was anti-climactic, but it lived up to its name. Plenty of runners wore jingle bell necklaces. One lady even dressed up as the Grinch and pushed her friend, dressed as Max the little dog, around in a sleigh. The running itself was not fun, but the costumes and the lack of competitiveness made it a jolly experience.</p><p>I’m returning to blogging after a year-long hiatus. I don’t know how active I will be on here, but I want to make more of an effort to have adventures and to document them. The pandemic has made this blog seem totally insignificant and inconsequential, but it’s something I enjoy. It’s the written equivalent to a fun run. Just like the pink rabbits drinking mimosas, no one seems to notice when I post something new. But that’s okay. I’m an inconspicuous person wearing normal running clothes, blogging about my adventures. </p><p>Adventures such as eating deep dish Chicago-style pizza for the first time and holding my new nephew, Quintus Lorenzo, for the first time. I’m feeling tremendously lucky. Mele Kalikimaka! Feliz Navidad! Merry Christmas! </p><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhW3Rsv2uEZ5UIWrFbGOEyOHFKbLuj1MIG8VH4utRjLAVHaJJ8_CNCJFp1c7W_1N2gW3z8DkVDkcWY5w5tfBecx-JoHrEYlksqakuQL3cMOpLLxaomVpXocuBtaEehUn_nmQ5ZnfErbgHJ8us1X6t3Aa1IbW6RfgmFiiofYMxwYaiPtms15y_GU6XOY7w=s1509" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1509" data-original-width="1440" height="349" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/a/AVvXsEhW3Rsv2uEZ5UIWrFbGOEyOHFKbLuj1MIG8VH4utRjLAVHaJJ8_CNCJFp1c7W_1N2gW3z8DkVDkcWY5w5tfBecx-JoHrEYlksqakuQL3cMOpLLxaomVpXocuBtaEehUn_nmQ5ZnfErbgHJ8us1X6t3Aa1IbW6RfgmFiiofYMxwYaiPtms15y_GU6XOY7w=w333-h349" width="333" /></a></div><br /><p></p>Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-29877837967626726072020-04-23T20:21:00.001-07:002023-04-15T19:45:06.251-07:00Happy Birthday, Shakespeare!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on"><span style="font-size: large;">I’m superstitious about numbers. I prefer even to odd, unless the numbers match, like 33, or they are sequenced in order, like 456. If the digital clock in my living room reads 2:22 or 4:44, I jump around like I’ve just won something on a game show. Well, today was Shakespeare’s birthday. The bard’s age, 456, warranted a rich abundance of celebratory jumping, not to mention delusions of game show giveaways. (Come on down!) I think I won a green vintage refrigerator full of beer, a set of golf clubs, and a massage chair that looks like a catcher’s mitt. I don’t golf, but I’m sure the set of clubs will find a home. The refrigerator full of beer is right up my alley, and I look forward to being massaged in a baseball glove. All great prizes. Thanks, delusional game show!</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Though I meant to cast off my nighted color, I couldn’t be bothered to change out of my black dress. I made chocolate chip pancakes in honor of Shakespeare’s birthday, framed my mind to mirth and merriment, and increased my daily writing goal from 260 words to 400. It seemed luck was in the air. I’m feeling good about my life. I’m happy to be single, even if I did recklessly condemn a few ex-boyfriends to nunneries.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">With so much time to sit and ponder, I’ve recognized a pattern of Gertrudes who have come into my life. I’ve been patient with these Gertrudes, although I’m secretly repulsed by their frailty. I am so glad I am not a Gertrude. A Gertrude is a woman who is dependent on men, no matter how horrible they are. All Gertrudes are miserable. How many times have I given advice similar to the advice Hamlet gave his mother? “Refrain tonight. And that shall lend a kind of easiness. To the next abstinence, the next more easy.” I feel empathy for people quarantined with romantic partners who are driving them crazy, but I am done giving advice.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tonight, my family read our favorite Shakespeare over Zoom. My brother Cory recited Sonnet 34, which is basically Shakespeare calling out someone for giving a false weather report. It rained and Shakespeare went out without his cloak! I’d write an angry sonnet, too, if that happened to me. I read Juliet’s Farewell speech in the voice of Bernie Sanders, and my mom recited “Oh, what a rogue and peasant slave am I” followed by “To be or not to be” in Turkish. She switched from a panama hat to a fez because apparently the right headgear was imperative for each performance. My mom figured out how to turn her screen upside down, so for a while we had a wacky, upside down, Turkish-speaking Shakespeare nut. My brother turned his baby, Octavia, upside down, too. Both grandma and baby created a chorus of giggles, and I just smiled, right-side up, appreciating my super weird family.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The whole world is upside down right now, but we can still find plenty to celebrate. Shakespeare lived through the plague and wrote King Lear in quarantine. We should all strive to be a little more like him. Happy birthday, Shakespeare. </span></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-31274609867687911552020-04-13T15:23:00.015-07:002023-05-24T18:42:02.909-07:00Morbid Poem (Inspired by current events)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
If I were a skeleton<br />
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I’d hang in a corner</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Preferably in an art room</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One without a chalkboard</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Although I suppose the dust would cease to bother me</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Students would contemplate the architecture of my bones</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">More than they ever contemplated English composition</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They would relate to me more than any fictional character</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Even if I died long before they were born</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">They would gaze into my sockets and soliloquize</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Declaring me a fellow of infinite jest</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Even though “prickly elitism” is more like it</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">But it’s rude to speak ill of the dead</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">And besides, I’d be anonymous right down to my marrow</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">To impressionable minds my empty skull would impart wisdom</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Deepen their sense of human fragility </span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">A student in the simple act of scratching a knuckle</span></div>
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</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Would understand their flesh is ephemeral <br /><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/VzQxiu_0pnQ" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-65078139815512865552019-09-23T07:12:00.002-07:002020-11-12T02:49:03.936-08:00Passing the Peace<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54f74f23e4b0952b4e0011c0/1550725001481-OW3O2S6H3OIFATBPL1SF/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kANPycS1xMmB2DHMj7XKyEhZw-zPPgdn4jUwVcJE1ZvWQUxwkmyExglNqGp0IvTJZUJFbgE-7XRK3dMEBRBhUpzOeqS1g1ZYcZbvsTb-QQc_fimOWPjSeSh4xRIcQ1fETOzVZDfe4pqhvyCp_gm1wMU/sweet_honey_by_julie_spillane_720.jpg?format=750w" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="425" src="https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/54f74f23e4b0952b4e0011c0/1550725001481-OW3O2S6H3OIFATBPL1SF/ke17ZwdGBToddI8pDm48kANPycS1xMmB2DHMj7XKyEhZw-zPPgdn4jUwVcJE1ZvWQUxwkmyExglNqGp0IvTJZUJFbgE-7XRK3dMEBRBhUpzOeqS1g1ZYcZbvsTb-QQc_fimOWPjSeSh4xRIcQ1fETOzVZDfe4pqhvyCp_gm1wMU/sweet_honey_by_julie_spillane_720.jpg?format=750w" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Women on the cover of a sewing pattern, striking confident poses. That’s the image evoked from Sweet Honey in the Rock strutting out on stage. I imagine variations of the same dress diagrammed on the back of the pattern envelope and a ream of red and black African print. One woman wears a black sash around her waist. Another wears a dress that’s long in the back like a queen’s robe. When I see Sweet Honey in the Rock take their seats and adjust their microphones, I fantasize about fabric shopping, particularly for bold colorful prints, like the ones associated with West Africa. But I’m not a particularly good seamstress. I don’t have money for extravagant fabric shopping and I don’t have time to sew my own garments. But these are trivial matters. As soon as Sweet Honey in the Rock begins singing in harmony, I am swept away to a place where none of these nagging thoughts, inadequacies, and material longings can reach me.</span><br />
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">The five women who comprise Sweet Honey in the Rock weave their voices together to form a tapestry of sound. A man with an upright bass strums sparingly for select songs, but the women’s voices do all the heavy lifting. I’m in awe of the vocal gymnastics, the timing, stamina, versatility, and passion required to perform these musical trapeze stunts. Their songs are political and spiritual. “Second Line Blues,” a song featuring names of innocent victims to deadly violence, recalls a slideshow of cell phone, body cam, and news footage. The mournful background vocals consist of the name “Trayvon,” repeated over and over. By the end of the song, my eyes brim with tears. After being in such a solemn mood, the next song startles me like the popping of a champagne cork. From the five women’s lungs resounds a joyous gospel celebration. I can’t transition like some of the audience members who are clapping and dancing in their seats. The sign language interpreter on stage, whose outfit is also cut from the same bold cloth, is both signing and dancing. When one of the songstresses stands up to perform “Feeling Good,” with those iconic lyrics embellished with her own freestyle scatting, I feel calm and contentment, close friends I rarely see, drop in for a visit.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div>
<span style="font-size: large;">The women of Sweet Honey in the Rock converse with the audience between songs. One advises us to say hello to strangers on the street. As if we are passing the peace in church, we are told to turn our heads to the people sitting next to us and say hello. Exactly as promised, this brief human contact improves my outlook. I leave the concert, feeling sanguine about the future. Sweet Honey in the Rock is a perfect model for what the world could be if people could learn to live together in harmony.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Walking home from the concert, I prolong the positive wave of energy by listening to Sweet Honey in the Rock’s music on my phone. I reflect on how their music managed to put my whirlwind brain on hold. I was completely entranced, something that doesn’t happen very often. My goal as a writer is to write a book that will cast a similar spell over readers. I want to spin a compelling story that makes readers forget the world around them, forget who they are, and just be present in the plot. I imagine a ream of paper and feel excited about my future as a writer. As opposed to sewing, writing is a skill in which I am confident. I don’t need to go shopping for material because I have loads of material in my head, just waiting to be written. Listening to Sweet Honey in the Rock is a reminder to inject my fiction with emotion, substance, style, and, most importantly, voice. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/1tG1dNJh2rw" width="560"></iframe></span><br />
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-21161300468420830342019-03-26T14:21:00.000-07:002019-03-26T14:38:48.288-07:00A Tribute to Robert Chabon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wHD1idlHRXgcmk5ZpIj5O6B9eLgT5yaUqI3LSmC1irjv-j2LWyL77FUKR8NkZaaTamhyphenhyphenLX-c87zeYDs62xVWEfzXeWZqzkLysozooz8AdEFNWMorsJb6JXSXSLKfHtNfqvygOxDaSgKO/s1600/Robert+Chabon.jpeg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1073" data-original-width="800" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi6wHD1idlHRXgcmk5ZpIj5O6B9eLgT5yaUqI3LSmC1irjv-j2LWyL77FUKR8NkZaaTamhyphenhyphenLX-c87zeYDs62xVWEfzXeWZqzkLysozooz8AdEFNWMorsJb6JXSXSLKfHtNfqvygOxDaSgKO/s400/Robert+Chabon.jpeg" width="297" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I met Robert Chabon while working as a concierge at a Pearl
District condominium building in Northwest Portland. Robert, his wife Shelly,
and their son Andrew are the only tenants I remember fondly and miss. While
other tenants were friendly enough -- greeting me by name, or at least trying
to (Meredith and Meridawn were two variations I heard) -- and generous, buying
me lattes from the Starbucks across the street, my conversations with them had
a short shelf life. In contrast, my conversations with Robert could have
continued, to my delight, well past the end of my shift.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We talked about literature. I remember we discussed H.L.
Mencken, W.G. Sebald, and Patrick White, just to name a few. Whenever he recommended
a book, I would jot it down, buy it for my Kindle, or walk over to Powell’s
Books and buy a used copy. We talked about many other authors; it’s impossible
to recall all of them. Once he asked me what I was reading, and I told him
William Maxwell. He commented that most people didn’t know who William Maxwell
was. Only “people like us” knew who he was. I felt exhilarated to be put in the
same category as him. “People like us,” I repeated to myself, letting my pride
swell. Robert Chabon was brilliant. To be like him in any respect, especially to
have comparable knowledge of and passion for literature, was a tremendous
honor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had ample time for writing at that job, especially in the
early morning when the condo dwellers were still asleep. In a conversation with
Robert it came out that I was an aspiring writer. Robert asked me to share my
writing with him, offering his appraisal of my work as naturally as someone
might tell a house guest to help themselves to whatever’s in the fridge. I
believe he told me to prepare a ten-page sample. So I did. He warned me that he
was going to be honest in his critique, staring at me intently before he took
my pages to make sure I understood. After I’d braced myself for his brutally
honest feedback, he came back to me, saying that I had “a real ability.” He
assured me that he wouldn’t lie to me and smiled, as if my writing had given
him real pleasure. He lingered at the front desk to tell me again that I had
real ability.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">To help me better understand how serious he was, he told me a
story. He said all his sons had shown him their writing and Michael was the
only one he encouraged to pursue a writing career. “My other sons I told to go
to law school,” he said. His son, Michael, is the Pulitzer Prize winning writer
of “The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.” I couldn’t believe he was now
putting me in the same category as his son. I had ability, he said. Like
Michael Chabon. I didn’t need to go to law school. Not that I would have
anyway. Robert recognized so much potential in me; I was radiant with promise I
hadn’t felt since childhood, back when confidence came so easily.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Robert had all sons and no daughters. I had no father. I
knew our friendship consisted of book talks at the concierge desk and nothing
more, but I secretly envied his sons for having such a wonderful father and I
liked to pretend that he was my father too.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I acquired an interest in 1950s racial segregation and the
advent of the Civil Rights movement through my conversations with Robert. He
told me about a girl named Gloria Lockerman, a contestant on the show, “The Sixty-Four
Thousand Dollar Question.” When I told him I wanted to write a young adult
novel about her with the historical context being the beginning of the Civil
Rights movement, he thought that was a great idea and began asking me, “How’s
Gloria doing?” as a way of checking my progress.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Robert talked to me about America in the 50s. He became an
ally for his black classmates when his Washington D.C. high school was integrated. A
fascination with child prodigies influenced culture back then. When he was a
boy, he was featured on a radio show called “Juvenile Jury.” It didn’t surprise
me that he was a brilliant child, selected to be on a radio show with other
brilliant children. After all, he was a brilliant man, a doctor and a lawyer,
passionate about justice, possessing a vast and ever-expanding knowledge of
literature.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When his son Michael visited Portland, Robert gave him my
stories to read. He reported back to me that Michael was “enthusiastic about my
abilities” and that “he said only good things.” I self-published a small comic
book about my experiences living in Qatar and shared it with Robert, along with
some drawings of my dreams. Robert told me that Michael asked if he could keep
my self-published book. He said he saw Michael pack it in his bag before he
left for the airport. When I met Michael, I noticed he had that same smile and
personable quality that his father possessed, that ability to make the subject
of his attention feel wonderfully interesting. The dream drawings received no
comment from either Michael or Robert, so I assume they weren’t as
well-received. I knew from reading one of his essays that Michael Chabon hates
dreams; my dream comics apparently failed to change his mind. But it was worth
a try.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Now I’m taking an online writing class and my work is
subject to thorough feedback, which I find both exhausting and gratifying. The
feedback is usually positive, but last week, my confidence was shaken. I was
scared to submit my work. I reminded myself, “Michael Chabon is a fan of my
writing.” Then I thought about Robert and realized it gave me more pleasure to
say that Robert Chabon was a fan of my writing. Without Robert’s guidance, I
don’t know if Michael Chabon, as the world knows him, would have existed. Robert
is the man from whom I felt a kind of parental approval, which boosted my
confidence.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I just read that Robert passed away on March 22</span><sup>nd</sup><span style="font-size: large;">.
I wish everyone could have such a wise, supportive mentor in their lives. The
short time that I knew him was a gift to me and I am forever grateful. I will
do my best to honor him and continue to write well. Otherwise, I may have to go
to law school.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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<o:p></o:p></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-90529511335278697472019-03-09T12:55:00.002-08:002019-03-10T10:51:29.029-07:00Susan Sontag <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f2/Susan_Sontag_1979_%C2%A9Lynn_Gilbert_%28headshot%29.jpg/220px-Susan_Sontag_1979_%C2%A9Lynn_Gilbert_%28headshot%29.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img alt="Image result for susan sontag annie leibovitz" border="0" height="306" src="https://upload.wikimedia.org/wikipedia/commons/thumb/f/f2/Susan_Sontag_1979_%C2%A9Lynn_Gilbert_%28headshot%29.jpg/220px-Susan_Sontag_1979_%C2%A9Lynn_Gilbert_%28headshot%29.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The name Susan Sontag has always been synonymous with “Intellectual.” At the university bookstore where I used to work, I regarded the book, <i>Regarding the Pain of Others</i>, but that’s all I did. I just regarded it, the same way the man in the cover illustration is regarding the hanged person, dangling lifelessly. I was too afraid to open it. I knew it probably contained deep infinite wisdom, but it may have also contained disturbing photos and stories of pointless, incurable human suffering. The intensity of that book was intimidating enough closed. To open it might be dangerous. Either the contents would be too much for my delicate sensibilities or so intellectually torturous that it would make me feel totally stupid. I knew she was Annie Leibowitz’s partner and had seen photos of her, taken by Leibowtiz. I assumed Sontag was a brooding intellectual because she looked like one.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Well, I still haven’t read, <i>Regarding the Pain of Others</i>, but I just read an essay by Susan Sontag called “Pilgrimage,” which is about the time she met German novelist Thomas Mann when she was just 14 years old. Her self-congratulatory exclamations over her brilliance made it sound as if she never got over her egocentric adolescence. Either that, or she was just a very confident woman, aware of her intellectual superiority and not shy about expounding upon her own extraordinariness.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I loved the essay. I imagined meeting one of my heroes when I was that young. When I was in elementary school, I thought Mark Twain was God. Really. (You can blame the ending of the movie, <i>The Adventures of Mark Twain</i>, in which Mark Twain’s compassionate face appears in the clouds.) In middle school, I thought Tom Waits was Jesus. Not really, but he was just as worthy of worship if you asked 14-year-old me. I would not have handled a meeting with one of these men with as much grace as Susan Sontag did when she met Thomas Mann. I also wouldn’t have been so critical of one of my idols, especially if he had been as kind and hospitable as Thomas Mann. She called him a god, but she also said he sounded like “The Saturday Evening Post,” when she read the much more high-brow “Partisan Review.” She wrote, “We neither of us were at our best,” but why would Thomas Mann be aiming for his “best” just to please a fourteen-year-old fan? Perhaps he just didn’t sound as intellectual as she had hoped. I will have to read her essay again. Also, I just discovered that one of my new favorite writers, Sigrid Nunez, wrote a memoir about her relationship with Sontag. Apparently, Sontag mentored her. They are both incredible writers. Actually, Sontag was. She passed away in 2004.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Here is an interview with Susan Sontag I found on youtube. I think she’s being rude to the interviewer. I wonder if 14-year-old Sontag would have appreciated her meeting with Thomas Mann more if he had assumed this kind of superior attitude and expressed this same kind of loathing for her. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br />
</span> <span style="font-size: large;"><iframe allow="accelerometer; autoplay; encrypted-media; gyroscope; picture-in-picture" allowfullscreen="" frameborder="0" height="315" src="https://www.youtube.com/embed/7Mmi03G5oV0" width="560"></iframe></span></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-90485371633170103742019-02-23T22:26:00.002-08:002020-08-09T07:09:08.851-07:00Delivering Hard News<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<img alt="Image result for north korean human mosaic" height="426" src="https://cdn.theatlantic.com/assets/media/img/photo/2018/09/north-korea-70/n01_AP18252648600596-1/original.jpg" width="640" /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Thursday was a day of modest celebration and considerable
relief. A small number of students showed up, wearing their choice of either
traditional clothing or the colors of the Kuwaiti flag. Arabic music blasted
from the loud speakers in every classroom and I continually adjusted the
attendance, as students trickled in at a slower pace than usual. One student
brought a tin of chocolates, which I opened and shared with everyone. I love
fruit and chocolate combos, especially chocolate and orange, and I wondered if
the one I popped in my mouth was some kind of truth elixir, because when a boy
asked me, “Are you coming back next year?” I couldn’t answer with an ambiguous
“Inshallah.” I looked straight at him and said, “No, I’m not.” I was worried by
how students would take the news, but they showed poise and maturity, saying,
“If it makes you happy, then we’re happy for you.” I had been fretting over making
an announcement, but it came about in an organic way, and to my relief, only
two people’s eyes teared up: mine and those of a female student who had been
counting on me being her English teacher next year.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One student’s initial reaction was particularly heart-wrenching.
She asked, “Are you leaving because of us?” I said, “No, of course not. I would
bring you with me if I could.” When I told them I may be moving to
Philadelphia, one student agreed to come with me because, “They have good cream
cheese there.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Later that day, I was on the rooftop, chatting with a friend
who teaches in the middle school. All the students were corralled into sections
and given colorful sheets of paper to hold over their heads, so when a drone took
a picture, it would look like a Kuwaiti flag. Another teacher warned us, “We’re
not sure if this is even structurally viable. The roof has never held this many
people before, so if you feel the ground wobbling, run.” That made me a little
nervous, even though I knew this teacher was half-joking, so when my friend and
I were asked to participate in the human flag, I considered the possibility of
the roof caving in and the colorful sheets of paper fluttering down on all the
bodies and wreckage.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">We weren’t as uniform as the North Koreans making their
giant human mosaics; some students were tired of holding the paper over their
heads. Some could not resist the urge to make paper airplanes. Organizers made
commands into the speakerphone, like, “White students, get closer to green
students.” Apparently, the Kuwaiti flag in the pictures looked unacceptably
patchy and we needed to bunch together. My friend found my fear of the roof
collapsing very funny and bounced up and down to make the roof wobble even
more. Needless to say, we all survived, and more importantly, no one died in a display of nationalism, taking part in a human flag formation.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">When I told another teacher that students took the news of
me leaving surprisingly well, she said, “They’re used to it. Teachers leave all
the time.” But here I must contest that I am not just any ordinary teacher who
comes for two years and leaves again. I am not just one red square in a giant
flag formation. I am a unique individual who recognizes students as unique
individuals with limitless potential. I can’t imagine the hurt students must go
through having to say goodbye to teachers every year. Sometimes they don’t even
have the chance to say goodbye. I thought I had built a resilience to having
transitory friendships as an international teacher, but I think it’s something
you never quite get used to.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Because I’ve maintained some level of independence, buying
and carrying my own groceries rather than having them delivered to my door, and
cleaning my own apartment rather than hiring someone, one of my friends tells
me that I’ll have an easier time transitioning to living back in the states.
One aspect of living in the states that I have not forgotten is that people are
recognized more for their individual qualities, even when political factions
are quick to judge people with opposing views.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday, I was reflecting on the fact that so many people
living in Kuwait express the same grievances. People complain of being horribly disrespected. They say the people in their home countries are friendly, but as
soon as they come here and see the tactics some use to assert their power, they
become . . . mean. There’s no other word
for it. Just that simple word that denotes senseless playground taunting, but
this kind of meanness shouldn’t be associated with children, because these are
adults taking part in this kind of behavior.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Recently, I went into Jo Malone, just to sample some of the
luxurious perfumes. The saleslady treated me to a complementary hand massage
and a lesson about pairing scents. The art to pairing scents, she said, is to
choose two that will complement each other perfectly. They must bring out the
unique qualities in the other. Both scents, even if one is warm and the other
is intense, can create a lovely new fragrance. Wouldn’t that be nice if people
could work together the same way? Nobody likes it when domineering
personalities take over like a cloying perfume, and yet this is what so many mild-mannered people, the warmer perfumes, experience every day.</span></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-30617517017879344522019-01-03T14:57:00.000-08:002019-03-12T11:45:30.517-07:00Belgium<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-kd5hZKzq-X1qjvkvLbYvWIjixUKlnR68rig7riE_EuwMTBKc-f6XgkQpxZWrTb44ys3fOqUSkyy6o3XYSrbuat1rMNCoVhOrQo2a2xG2DgjOCiDR6MA4EnT4eOxawGL3QRqAOhDewkg4/s1600/brussels3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg-kd5hZKzq-X1qjvkvLbYvWIjixUKlnR68rig7riE_EuwMTBKc-f6XgkQpxZWrTb44ys3fOqUSkyy6o3XYSrbuat1rMNCoVhOrQo2a2xG2DgjOCiDR6MA4EnT4eOxawGL3QRqAOhDewkg4/s640/brussels3.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFhnvNVMGs9r0AASHd4ycmcneniPa_IjXeqiyDZWPn8GmH6zXUd6xsxdPc9HPTbHRXwySs6U5hUzpKoZTxejX7uFYWuYB90pUAVjeWD6pyi_rybl09H7_QUyJ95rXdjM1YBDmaf6ZDGuzu/s1600/brussels1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgFhnvNVMGs9r0AASHd4ycmcneniPa_IjXeqiyDZWPn8GmH6zXUd6xsxdPc9HPTbHRXwySs6U5hUzpKoZTxejX7uFYWuYB90pUAVjeWD6pyi_rybl09H7_QUyJ95rXdjM1YBDmaf6ZDGuzu/s400/brussels1.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5tMnOuGOfW3asD3ubYkxavjmWJgxb51YoFmkBfZVrWkyh60CgdJ-MTItkgjXHIUzWLCOPQdhUwOzomXLWqnb8Jfut7J-zkhdiS-a7RGZLNQtfyW2OWx_es3XcFxIFrn-BKuSeGCdcneAb/s1600/brussels4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh5tMnOuGOfW3asD3ubYkxavjmWJgxb51YoFmkBfZVrWkyh60CgdJ-MTItkgjXHIUzWLCOPQdhUwOzomXLWqnb8Jfut7J-zkhdiS-a7RGZLNQtfyW2OWx_es3XcFxIFrn-BKuSeGCdcneAb/s400/brussels4.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday at the comics museum in Brussels, I was thrumming with excitement and a strong desire to draw. I found the character sketches, showing faces in various states of emotion and at different angles, very interesting. The process leading up to the finished page lay right before me. I saw how famous cartoonists developed their characters, sketched layouts, studied movement, and blotted out imperfections with white ink. I especially loved the artwork of Aimee de Jongh, Jordi Lafebre, and Regis Loisel and Jean-Louis Tripp. I need to practice injecting life into my drawings. Statuesque and expressionless is unfortunately how I would describe some of my characters. I practiced a sketch of myself mid-yawn, not very flattering, yet exactly the kind of natural behavior I need to capture.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7QfDxdXOBxZrrsKqTfYE6yAbPBqnpE0g6ZnDqU8uKjwt3euhXLHSQ6lbDWPzEciPgzUiRukRs3HF8dHGJ4Nrlg1v8WsrQ3YSIeBVBOlipBl_PSneKF-scThz9TzPIsyp-1xdW8j8AXGq/s1600/bruges+selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj-7QfDxdXOBxZrrsKqTfYE6yAbPBqnpE0g6ZnDqU8uKjwt3euhXLHSQ6lbDWPzEciPgzUiRukRs3HF8dHGJ4Nrlg1v8WsrQ3YSIeBVBOlipBl_PSneKF-scThz9TzPIsyp-1xdW8j8AXGq/s400/bruges+selfie.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Today I felt more like painting. I hummed the Norah Jones song, “If I were a painter,” while snapping pictures of swirling cloudy skies with pink and orange hues. My flights of fleeting whimsy, one morning wanting to draw and the next afternoon wanting to paint, and the following evening wanting to write, means I hardly ever finish creative projects. I realized while walking around the Magritte Museum that passion has a habit of dying and that I should stick to one project at a time before my enthusiasm for it evaporates. I used to love Renee Magritte, but I walked through the museum unmoved.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclT5iT-8ytl18BLnHID7JTXcnD0SQK_GYKu6WPSd0cxpAuwzxWyW5Spl6sRukNp0OtnaQav0BVwwmlCLi9xtonODlsB4yPvszFnY4exm9DJ1y_O94XO2aNCKcYITzbY6UnXDXmqgnV5nF/s1600/bruges.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhclT5iT-8ytl18BLnHID7JTXcnD0SQK_GYKu6WPSd0cxpAuwzxWyW5Spl6sRukNp0OtnaQav0BVwwmlCLi9xtonODlsB4yPvszFnY4exm9DJ1y_O94XO2aNCKcYITzbY6UnXDXmqgnV5nF/s400/bruges.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">I guess tastes change. However, if my taste for Italian food and red wine ever goes away, I think it’s safe to assume my heart and soul have been possessed by aliens. My mom and I enjoyed the most satisfying and affordable feast at an Italian place right by our hotel. Il Colosseo doesn’t look like the classiest of venues on the outside, but on the inside it’s charming, vibrant, and redolent with cooking aromas.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIMitEjBykVwbosKrwqrtBLaCi45IWptp6Du5hAf9BOExz65Bg_7fpvTjkAyb74DXxHc4WslyRztJ5YlcZo7-BrAEESjeP3I1EZ8pJgAN6u_XPzHoxfKvrgJSYbRc98rkJVJwJlc1uCYP1/s1600/mussels.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIMitEjBykVwbosKrwqrtBLaCi45IWptp6Du5hAf9BOExz65Bg_7fpvTjkAyb74DXxHc4WslyRztJ5YlcZo7-BrAEESjeP3I1EZ8pJgAN6u_XPzHoxfKvrgJSYbRc98rkJVJwJlc1uCYP1/s400/mussels.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Unlike London, where there was too much to do in too little time, Belgium has given us some welcome relief. We have explored Brussels, Bruges, and Leuven at our own pace, taking frequent cappuccino breaks, leisurely strolls, and dips into souvenir shops.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">In Bruges, one of the highlights was feasting on mussels at a restaurant called Breydel-De Connick. The Groeninge museum featured paintings by Hieronymus Bosch and Botticelli and some Belgian masters I’d never heard of: Jacob Van Oost, Edmond Van Hove, and Joseph Benoit Suvee. My favorite painting was “Invention of the Art of Drawing,” by Suvee. I love it because it resonates with the thrill of discovery.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuob6Cr5j3PnVKLaPt6AanhirrtINzgz6U8p7zXCSykFBhw_uDj55URyCRJ0kmuO9mrRogdX5Dw-CRujcMfGJxv5EDKXaMdN3EPQY0mVCRIJuw5Ph5HdNYt0Uak1biruHEggMlyHuw-XSr/s1600/invention+of+drawing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiuob6Cr5j3PnVKLaPt6AanhirrtINzgz6U8p7zXCSykFBhw_uDj55URyCRJ0kmuO9mrRogdX5Dw-CRujcMfGJxv5EDKXaMdN3EPQY0mVCRIJuw5Ph5HdNYt0Uak1biruHEggMlyHuw-XSr/s400/invention+of+drawing.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Belgium has some disturbing history, both recent and not so recent. I have been meaning to read the book, “King Leopold’s Ghost: A Story of Greed, Terror, and Heroism in Colonial Africa,” by Adam Hochschild. I feel that in order to learn from history, we must study it evenly, and not just examine selective parts. Why is it that some genocidal maniacs escape people’s memory and moral judgement? I don’t understand.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One night my mom and I decided to toss back some beers in our Airbnb and watch the film, “In Bruges,” a dark comedy about two hitmen waiting for their next assignment. The reference to pedophilia in the film ignited my curiosity, so I decided to google it. Well, now I have some more disturbing associations with Belgium that I can’t get out of my mind, not to mention unanswered questions, and the feeling that justice was never served.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtFb4kF_DGWj-fRrXXAn3_Q5zrCZQ2uCt9wUti7h_Hl6DR81pZsyzUKdHP2vxBiaHgzCx7t4ENiVgNlKZjOZ2Bbhtg7c-W5dbDtDeEv4AMWtP1FdCpwPB4c_U8lq5D3t5wsY02HIF2rNx/s1600/leuven.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqtFb4kF_DGWj-fRrXXAn3_Q5zrCZQ2uCt9wUti7h_Hl6DR81pZsyzUKdHP2vxBiaHgzCx7t4ENiVgNlKZjOZ2Bbhtg7c-W5dbDtDeEv4AMWtP1FdCpwPB4c_U8lq5D3t5wsY02HIF2rNx/s400/leuven.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">For New Year’s Eve, my mom and I traveled to Leuven. My research had informed me that Leuven was a college town and that the Old Market Square was dubbed “the longest bar in the world.” I anticipated that Leuven would be a lively place to ring in the new year, not realizing that most Belgian college students would take the train home for the holidays. Leuven was a ghost town and everything was closed. Fortunately, the town hall was lit up, but there was absolutely nothing to do but walk around and laugh and make sarcastic remarks about all the wild excitement happening in Leuven. It was a beautiful town and I would love to return when there’s more activity than just blowing tumbleweeds, like in an old Western movie.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMqJi_Qo8j4FSGFn7BHTCG3YYQFuoDiBGh4Br7C2zBvBT7mdLvMPB3MPFlKdYUuPgLeavwc_aFa6c8u9ZMhH9WoYOxmIsFBgBcdFyRkLMC7-i6EuEn-IhY8i51D9QY2SMTkVeA6-LZ8AZ/s1600/brussels2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOMqJi_Qo8j4FSGFn7BHTCG3YYQFuoDiBGh4Br7C2zBvBT7mdLvMPB3MPFlKdYUuPgLeavwc_aFa6c8u9ZMhH9WoYOxmIsFBgBcdFyRkLMC7-i6EuEn-IhY8i51D9QY2SMTkVeA6-LZ8AZ/s400/brussels2.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Brussels is also beautiful, and we are enjoying our time here. The highlights of Brussels were the Comics Museum and walking around the Grand Place, a huge town square lined with 17</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: large;"> century buildings and accentuated by a dazzling Christmas tree, bedecked with twinkling blue lights. Tomorrow I return to normal life, refueled and fortified by my adventures around England and Belgium. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-62209431935809899882018-12-28T15:27:00.001-08:002018-12-28T15:27:35.652-08:00So long, London!<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: cyan; font-size: small;">View from the London Eye.</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The past week in London has been magical. In the words of Benjamin Franklin, “Of all the enviable things England has, I envy it most its people.” I also envy their communal seating, their mince pies, their theatrical traditions, and their refusal to put their leaders on pedestals. While taking the Samuel Pepys walking tour on Christmas day, I listened to our guide talk about the public execution of Charles I and I thought how nice it would be to do away with some of our leaders, those who assume their power will go unchecked, who put their own selfish interests above those of the people. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">As for the mince pies, this was something I tried for the first time here and very much enjoyed. My taste buds declared the mulled wine at the Old Vic theater the Best Mulled Wine Ever. But not all English culinary traditions are admirable. I think it’s high time the Brits retire their tradition of eating mushy peas. Tonight when strangers sitting around me at the neighborhood pub overheard me order fish and chips and say, “No mushy peas,” they were utterly confounded. “No mushy peas?” Three men puzzled over my bizarre order. “You don’t like mushy peas?” Well, I might have some if I were absolutely starving, but there have been many culinary advances over the years that go beyond the caveman method of mashing things. I think I’ll stick to steamed vegetables, thanks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8GAmR7zhGy8Uq2ijExlrjn-HntJE925ktr7YtYLSBPsiiS9ljqtba5_n0hOh8d4cervhTcgxphS6Nv_AMivlsQg-tPhCCYwrGVNODt5c_YwscR1rT1EZcvw8B7R1ojHkS9nNrEUysOEg/s1600/travels+863.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhL8GAmR7zhGy8Uq2ijExlrjn-HntJE925ktr7YtYLSBPsiiS9ljqtba5_n0hOh8d4cervhTcgxphS6Nv_AMivlsQg-tPhCCYwrGVNODt5c_YwscR1rT1EZcvw8B7R1ojHkS9nNrEUysOEg/s400/travels+863.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"></span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">My mom and I have managed to fit a lot into just one week, but we’ve still only made a dent in all there is to see and do here. Yesterday, we visited the British Museum and the National Gallery. I wanted to join the people sitting around the British Museum with their sketch books. Perhaps I will return to London on a sketching holiday. My mom and I admired the Elgin Marbles and wondered what kind of sound effects would accompany the slabs depicting man vs. satyr. Would the satyr be neighing like a horse or grunting and growling like a man? I most enjoyed the illustrations and the Japanese art, while my mom was taken with the Captain Cook exhibit and the Ancient Greek artifacts. <o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFhTpoCM7euGPz6zISdBWjhTtlKxwrlzNLAy5Fevtn0iPv11EGp0D-s9i1iwwndoQsG0EbSCiwKNlnm0LfMSYzUdnKWCQ-izUW0e3AW0jJqz3nVCaC5aHosexxNX0UaPZabSgxgyRsj12/s1600/travels+881.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgHFhTpoCM7euGPz6zISdBWjhTtlKxwrlzNLAy5Fevtn0iPv11EGp0D-s9i1iwwndoQsG0EbSCiwKNlnm0LfMSYzUdnKWCQ-izUW0e3AW0jJqz3nVCaC5aHosexxNX0UaPZabSgxgyRsj12/s640/travels+881.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhuHucRPCD8RsnoZszOaRbwmand6MH1ec9faariFwpyJDBaatRa8ppeOXxk5gLiLda5GQxUS6Jp15_T6nm1WUWJ048UpHlQrrxbCAtXNO6Y7UT_THZQRiBS2DxfMY0LHikBQDjbRA-aQEF5/s1600/travels+884.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><span style="font-size: large;">At the National Gallery, I saw Caravaggios, Botticellis, and Van Goghs, in addition to a painting of Venus admiring herself in the mirror, which I recognized from the film, “Venus,” starring Peter O’Toole. We also saw a couple Leonardo da Vincis and I thought back to an art critic on Youtube who questioned the validity of the most recently discovered painting attributed to Leonardo da Vinci. It is a pity that the Crown Prince of Saudi Arabia, Mohammad bin Salman, bought Salvator Mundi for $450 billion, when he could have fed all the starving people in Yemen for that much.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: cyan; font-size: small;">At The Royal Opera House in Covent Garden</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">One of the highlights of this trip was seeing the opera, Hansel </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">and Gretel, at Covent Garden. This fairy tale left me scarred when I was a child, but the opera version does not include Hansel and Gretel’s parents leading them out into the forest to be eaten by wild animals. The man playing the witch added both suspense and comic relief. He was a diabolical buffo</span><span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">on and was highly entertaining to watch. The woman who played Hansel was also very convincing as a little boy with all her energy and twitchy, herky-jerky non-stop motion. The special effects and set design were stunning, so even though it was a German opera, not French or Italian, it was still a highlight of the holiday season.</span></div>
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: cyan; font-size: small;">The Sam Wanamaker Playhouse at The Globe. </span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Today was the last day in London and I ran out of steam. I planned to go to the Tate Modern, but I just couldn’t fit one more thing into my schedule. After walking on average about ten miles every day, my legs are stiff and sore. My mom and I saw Dr. Faustus at the Globe, an interesting play but a little outdated with its many references to the horrors of hell. That sort of thing would have been frightful to Marlowe’s audience, but now it’s more amusing than frightening. I ended the day with beers and book shopping.</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large; text-indent: 0.5in;">Tomorrow my mom and I bid farewell to London and head over to Brussels on the Eurostar. Good bye, London. I love you. Until we meet again!</span></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-52766621076482500622018-12-26T16:29:00.000-08:002018-12-26T16:29:25.952-08:00Boxing Day, a Day of Contrasts <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppfhsZ8p4Wcq2kVKLeF2UZhfVvjTwvjxPpE7CoQlDsLu7KTNoSRINxVqR4f86ejknYJ4qaZAd9tGWmYXa8wxyjgofkPXx00gsoBsDp-_EGg9ewozLruI_rDzQTkXLrI6jfhbYg5_2LvFl/s1600/mom1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjppfhsZ8p4Wcq2kVKLeF2UZhfVvjTwvjxPpE7CoQlDsLu7KTNoSRINxVqR4f86ejknYJ4qaZAd9tGWmYXa8wxyjgofkPXx00gsoBsDp-_EGg9ewozLruI_rDzQTkXLrI6jfhbYg5_2LvFl/s640/mom1.jpg" width="360" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">My observations on this Boxing Day ran the gamut from excessive greed and extravagance all the way to beautiful displays of love and charity. I had no idea what Boxing Day was before I came to England, and to be honest, I don't like the idea of one of the world's largest cities practically shutting down for two whole days. Yesterday, my mom and I walked over 14 miles because there was no public transportation. Today, things were sort of back to normal. Many shops and restaurants were open, public transportation was up and running, but the museums were still closed. So, after wandering around Hampstead and seeing where John Keats and George Orwell once lived, we decided to go for a walk through Hyde Park and visit some department stores, just to say we did. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcSRqrqRsbursS3tJYe8MTlC3CxaqkkMzVxrf3-1p939PaPMCx0ZfH7SZdxup3K0P9jBZm9B2bGXPchCcMUeJ0drTSByFEsZQ8JCon1yanmp9-uRhg0eJ3BF6PU8cTKo5eb-Qzb660SRV/s1600/orwell.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxcSRqrqRsbursS3tJYe8MTlC3CxaqkkMzVxrf3-1p939PaPMCx0ZfH7SZdxup3K0P9jBZm9B2bGXPchCcMUeJ0drTSByFEsZQ8JCon1yanmp9-uRhg0eJ3BF6PU8cTKo5eb-Qzb660SRV/s400/orwell.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ8njBZERoa92RmUB8Xj_vd2YKKFLCiy6umtJEwWKMjQYER3SMmEzzHHv_668m_y3HsyJAwCBvZcCg-9v3SZFKambHIleIpmXIaoUEXKVHCFJ8kdEBzwcAJtqSb-lmtr7wjP3gR8tK-8KT/s1600/mom2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiZ8njBZERoa92RmUB8Xj_vd2YKKFLCiy6umtJEwWKMjQYER3SMmEzzHHv_668m_y3HsyJAwCBvZcCg-9v3SZFKambHIleIpmXIaoUEXKVHCFJ8kdEBzwcAJtqSb-lmtr7wjP3gR8tK-8KT/s400/mom2.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">We had coffee and dessert on the top floor of Harvey Nichols, an expensive but delicious treat. I liked the way the cherry blossoms decorating the cafe complemented my mom's grey hair and sweater, so I took some photos of her. One picture I took captures her expression just as the waitress came with our desserts.</span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmQcQJRB7ltCP2WNFt9WPYBfJHM8qtUDngDa2zOHCgKH2X70s79H5j7aaVyw6hyphenhyphenImrzKAtKP3L7ah59V7Y_cqJ1mV-Q4ZL424rydWIJI1EUPYWYd839XzRiR0ytMN4gOnZLUrw0LEEP4dV/s1600/perfume+line.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="320" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjmQcQJRB7ltCP2WNFt9WPYBfJHM8qtUDngDa2zOHCgKH2X70s79H5j7aaVyw6hyphenhyphenImrzKAtKP3L7ah59V7Y_cqJ1mV-Q4ZL424rydWIJI1EUPYWYd839XzRiR0ytMN4gOnZLUrw0LEEP4dV/s320/perfume+line.jpg" width="180" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I have often heard students talking about Harrods, a huge luxury department store, so going inside was a way to check off something at the very bottom of my to-do list. </span><span style="font-size: large;">The next time a student talks to be about Harrods I can say I've been there, but this experience has not left a positive impression on me. My mom wanted to see a shrine to Dodi and Diana, but since Mohammed al-Fayed sold the store to Qataris, the shrine has been moved. Out on the streets, people in Ferraris and Lamborghinis</span><span style="font-size: large;"> were showing off. A long line stretched outside, just for people who wanted to buy perfume. It all felt like a big gimmick, like something that is supposed to be fancy and exclusive, but it's really just targeting insecure people who think shopping at Harrods will boost their status. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxSmYjDGkzpfpYAVeMWXqBAGpxaUMWmfHvQv4WqE7AAIWGifzLOIC8WkcP_b63Rq01h8Jq3_abAYhVPVMJc7E1n7pcqJDkQbktS6iSsSHl7EuDMedPOQmGrJxdMOX1EsCyxzZDWSFUdLTr/s1600/old+vic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxSmYjDGkzpfpYAVeMWXqBAGpxaUMWmfHvQv4WqE7AAIWGifzLOIC8WkcP_b63Rq01h8Jq3_abAYhVPVMJc7E1n7pcqJDkQbktS6iSsSHl7EuDMedPOQmGrJxdMOX1EsCyxzZDWSFUdLTr/s640/old+vic.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">All this ostentatious, commercial nonsense could have been avoided if only the museums had been open. Fortunately, we had tickets to see A Christmas Carol at the Old Vic, so this Boxing Day wasn't a complete loss. The performance was magical. The actors utilized the entire theater, so no matter where you sat, you felt as though you were on the stage. While watching, I thought of our ridiculous president and how he could very well fit the part of Ebeneezer Scrooge. Instead of Tiny Tim, Trump could be confronted with the two immigrant children who died in U.S. custody in this month alone. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUY5CtEzesJHBw6ZoTzrhyphenhypheniYhPyQWCc6gFOaYgb2wJUSGkSVkR5M9S4Qy9j2rv2qWNSVNoRfX8zrPk-5xN5fvnjcaDGT04FFLFX4M3wuvfe7Qb2gdf5PomupagqRixAD7sYp1qIcLnI-ni/s1600/holmes.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUY5CtEzesJHBw6ZoTzrhyphenhypheniYhPyQWCc6gFOaYgb2wJUSGkSVkR5M9S4Qy9j2rv2qWNSVNoRfX8zrPk-5xN5fvnjcaDGT04FFLFX4M3wuvfe7Qb2gdf5PomupagqRixAD7sYp1qIcLnI-ni/s640/holmes.jpg" width="480" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">After the play, the actor playing Ebeneezer asked the audience to dig into their pockets and donate to children in the UK who go hungry every day. Apparently, not much has changed since Dickens' day. But we must overcome greed and give out of love and charity. Giving to people in need would be way more valuable than anything you could buy at Harrods. </span></div>
Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-25089285824269913762018-12-24T11:01:00.002-08:002018-12-24T11:01:44.104-08:00Merry Christmas Eve from London<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nrslO-2GpbcdJkyLqEg9yYVFTPdZjuP1GC6G6FNlzCazWgQ4gwKBvC5gxejzLf75lnNqyzViGnjbMKsCYquaYh47hyphenhyphenyJJK7ExnU_Q4x9vtLifD23BFIoW6fcjdn-yI3xeG6tGkx2nsvR/s1600/regeants+street+selfie.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2nrslO-2GpbcdJkyLqEg9yYVFTPdZjuP1GC6G6FNlzCazWgQ4gwKBvC5gxejzLf75lnNqyzViGnjbMKsCYquaYh47hyphenhyphenyJJK7ExnU_Q4x9vtLifD23BFIoW6fcjdn-yI3xeG6tGkx2nsvR/s400/regeants+street+selfie.jpg" width="300" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">As Christmas approaches, our options for museums and other types of entertainment are dwindling. Almost everything in London closes on Christmas Day, including public transportation, so today my mom and I went to Borough Market, a historical market that is a must-see, to stock up on food for tomorrow. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our favorite stop was a cheese shop called Neal's Yard. The line outside was testament to the tastiness of their cheese. We got two types of cheese, a cheddar and a blue, to go with our loaf of olive bread and bottle of Shiraz for tomorrow. I also picked up a salami, despite my short-lived goal to not eat anything with hooves. I will go back to that goal when the holiday season is over. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">After the market, we walked along Millennium Bridge for a lovely view of the Thames, the Tower of London, and St. Paul's Cathedral. It was a glorious day, so we thought we might use our tickets for the London Eye, the big Ferris wheel, and soak up some more of the marvelous view, but when we found ourselves buried in an avalanche of people, we decided to move right along. The crowds finally dissipated when we reached St. James's Park, but the throngs of people came back with a vengeance on Regent Street. The Christmas lights were in the shape of angels, suspended in the air to give the impression of flying. It was a dazzling sight, but I was exhausted by the time we finally made it out of there and hopped on the tube. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our neighborhood, Hampstead, is adorable. It's quiet and charming and not too crowded. Our hotel has a French restaurant downstairs, which once was frequented by the actor, Peter O'Toole. My mom's favorite movie is Lawrence of Arabia, so she was understandably starstruck when she saw his portrait on the wall. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Tomorrow we will walk to Trafalgar Square, one of the few locations my mom feels has remained the same since she lived here in 1968. It's going to be a long hike, but we both love exploring and the exercise will be salubrious. </span><br />
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-19917950536695846752018-12-23T13:40:00.000-08:002018-12-23T13:40:45.151-08:00Wassail! <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">Somebody please pinch me. Today I joined hands with other groundlings at the Globe Theater and formed a conga line, running around the place like a little kid. When my mom and I left the Globe after the wassail party was over, we heard the bells from St. Paul's Cathedral on the opposite side of the Thames. The party itself wasn't the basis for my excitement; I was just thrilled to be in the theater itself. I've wanted to visit the Globe for years now and it finally happened. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirefoazMh1HoVQ31ci4JKN10t5x6rM2vmVymISYdOxWm1ykfFLutGwVNlv8oHeP8RCBAJfCuOMGABIRz2WWe3NWiu3BMV4cN5F4wBvuUWj84yFgc6TasQvQV1hQHY3_zYHmpGxoYhEkttP/s1600/shakespeare+mural.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirefoazMh1HoVQ31ci4JKN10t5x6rM2vmVymISYdOxWm1ykfFLutGwVNlv8oHeP8RCBAJfCuOMGABIRz2WWe3NWiu3BMV4cN5F4wBvuUWj84yFgc6TasQvQV1hQHY3_zYHmpGxoYhEkttP/s400/shakespeare+mural.jpg" width="225" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On Friday, we will return for a performance of Dr. Faustus. I'm a bit more knowledgeable about the story line of Dr. Faustus than I was about what a wassail party entailed. I looked it up just now and found it's an Anglo-Saxon word meaning "good health." It's also a word for mulled cider, a drink I imbibed numerous times while walking along the Thames today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">To be honest, the wassail party at the Globe was a bit too . . . um . . . English for my taste. I enjoyed being around so many festive people fully embracing the holiday spirit, but I didn't understand the humor. I guess I was in more of a jazzy mood, which was satisfied by the cool restaurant we went to next. The restaurant, called The Flask, is hidden down an alleyway in Hampstead. They played Blossom Dearie on the stereo and I gave my feet a well-deserved break after, according to my fitbit, walking over 20,000 steps today. </span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;">Our other fun activity today was visiting Benjamin Franklin's London home. Our tour guide stayed in the character of Polly Stevenson, the daughter of his landlady, who stayed in touch with Benjamin Franklin for the remainder of his life. Although my mom is a Franklin fanatic who has read multiple biographies of Benjamin Franklin, including his autobiography, she still looked as if everything our tour guide was saying was new and interesting. I photographed my mom standing by the window where Franklin would take his "air baths," a term he used to describe his exhibitionist behavior. Franklin liked to sit in the window naked because he said the fresh air was good for his health. I think one does not have to be naked to enjoy the benefits of fresh air, but what do I know? I didn't even know what wassail meant. <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-36682010607321704732018-12-22T15:29:00.001-08:002018-12-24T00:19:21.909-08:00Hampstead and Oxford<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFXDRwUlx7-F53gsa_8-NUEk-TKA1Sp_cfMrsn4jgBk5yWV4Ciozlx7q9ZGUPaGnv1vBSCNReAJxAJJ3FeWq333wVfZnh6WKr0kF4bhXUNYNY8ISFoLyeusN_LBBmovA1B-mllouNyaI0/s1600/oxford1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYFXDRwUlx7-F53gsa_8-NUEk-TKA1Sp_cfMrsn4jgBk5yWV4Ciozlx7q9ZGUPaGnv1vBSCNReAJxAJJ3FeWq333wVfZnh6WKr0kF4bhXUNYNY8ISFoLyeusN_LBBmovA1B-mllouNyaI0/s640/oxford1.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">At the King William IV Pub in Hampstead, portraits of
notable Brits (mostly men) cover the walls. The etched logo on the glass in
front of me informed me that I was drinking a Caledonian, a lager I enjoyed in
my youth. I had simply asked for a lager and didn’t know that this gem from my
past was even on the menu. Caledonian is a name I enjoy almost as much as the citrusy,
crisp taste. It’s the Latin name for Scotland, in case anyone is wondering. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">My
mom learned to stop asking for a pint of bitter. Apparently, no one calls it
that anymore. And the two ales that were served to her today were, unfortunately, bland and not
chilled. My mom commented that too many of the celebrated Brits on the wall were
men. I said in my disgruntled British old man voice that, indeed, Kingsley Amis
did not deserve two spots on the wall. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I then performed one of our favorite impressions,
one that never gets old, of a British man who shall remain anonymous. Kevin
Nealon was doing standup at an event to raise money for animal charities maybe
15 years ago, and my mom and I were in attendance. An old British gentleman interrupted
the lighthearted comedy and took the microphone out of Kevin Nealon’s hands. He
directed everyone’s attention to a painting being auctioned and stated in a
solemn tone, “Here we see a picture of the chimpanzees looking on as the humans
destroy each other.” The last three words were uttered with severe gravitas,
delivered slowly for dramatic effect. The awkwardness of seeing Kevin Nealon
try to transition from that interruption back into joke-telling has been a
source of amusement ever since. Tonight, at the King William IV pub, its walls
decked with pictures, seemed like the perfect time to reenact that scene.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Yesterday marked my arrival in London. In the Heathrow
Airport, a sign at customs reads, “Abuse will not be tolerated.” I wish that
kind of guarantee were given everywhere, but of course, there are places where
abuse is more than tolerated; in fact, it’s rewarded. Hence, I have never
needed a vacation so badly. Seeing that sign upon my arrival was a good omen.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I met my mom at Paddington Station. She wanted to show me
how metro-savvy she is. (She lived here in 1968.) Twice she led me onto the
wrong train and I joked that from now on I would have to be the brains in this
outfit. She had bought us tickets to see Mary Poppins Returns at a theater in
Hampstead and we barely made it. My mom told me she and her English sister used
to go to that theater in 1968. She speaks about this English sister in more
glowing terms than she speaks about her biological sisters. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">The film was delightful,
a complete reversal from Detroit, the film I watched on the plane. (Detroit was
also wonderful, but oh so disturbing.) When the credits rolled, the audience applauded,
something I thought only American moviegoers did.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I have been missing these cozy movie theaters, the kind
where you can snuggle up on a sofa with a pint of beer, a bowl of quality
popcorn and enjoy a good film. To anyone else who cherishes these kinds of
places, know that the Everyman Cinema in Hampstead is an essential attraction.
Seeing Mary Poppins Returns, which is set in London, made the experience even more
special and uplifting.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Today my mom and I spent the day in Oxford. We saw Wilfred
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_z-sZsiNaCRNsOLNHrhfKt3LNbTxkAr4PChpJesTXb1eTK-2tyWYqGMXCcTkebWYgU7lFEn_1ZlRxJt18gxpGHMrqaIS4xCJWq0ITNjTuaBvabocSUCqvJoyWW5UdUKIgMUQZVtABjzY/s1600/me+at+the+inkling%2527s+table.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhG_z-sZsiNaCRNsOLNHrhfKt3LNbTxkAr4PChpJesTXb1eTK-2tyWYqGMXCcTkebWYgU7lFEn_1ZlRxJt18gxpGHMrqaIS4xCJWq0ITNjTuaBvabocSUCqvJoyWW5UdUKIgMUQZVtABjzY/s400/me+at+the+inkling%2527s+table.jpg" width="300" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: cyan; font-size: small;">At the place where Tolkien and C.S. </span><br />
<span style="color: cyan; font-size: small;">Lewis used to sit and discuss their writing. </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Owen’s original hand-written poems. We drank beer at the Eagle and Child and
sat in the same place where the Inklings, C.S. Lewis’ and J.R.R. Tolkien’s
writing group, met every Tuesday morning. We stopped in at Blackwell’s Bookshop
and stocked up on some reading material. We visited the Ashmolean Museum and pursued
their modern art collection. It was a perfect day. I love Oxford. I love London. I
want to move here, even though I have only explored one neighborhood so far. I
can confidently say that Hampstead is the bee’s knees. Tomorrow, we will go to the
Globe Theater and do some more exploring. I am so excited to be in London right
now. I feel inspired and happy and Christmasy. </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-size: large;">I leave you now with a snippet of a Mary Poppins song.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">“So hold on tight to those you love<br /> And maybe soon from up above<br />You'll be blessed, so keep on looking high <br />While you're underneath the lovely London sky!”</span><br />
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<span style="font-size: large;"> </span><br />
<span style="font-size: large;"> ~Mary Poppins Returns</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0yLgP-WTs7E1FJO6gdjldtMTWbo3lI1DpJgj1kuGcsAy1B1bdHKVZIEqY7Nc_Fryg-3Ryw_N79rNrwX_FFMimz45fu5kHcrNZk6GNAcFKplHtUKm1_VtEaePnW43q5ubLgFrbpS8s20pJ/s1600/oxford5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg0yLgP-WTs7E1FJO6gdjldtMTWbo3lI1DpJgj1kuGcsAy1B1bdHKVZIEqY7Nc_Fryg-3Ryw_N79rNrwX_FFMimz45fu5kHcrNZk6GNAcFKplHtUKm1_VtEaePnW43q5ubLgFrbpS8s20pJ/s640/oxford5.jpg" width="358" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilCxGUa8iiunvK4ttI1f3vPCbC2JP411utEhrv38Ej5HWY4FyX41AKlw48iCGSBjNv8KqEDuwxmfB7Cri0ulwtgaorfGXKVqz3Z2yeRvEsYNcRNCEV3yM9mBmrNVAkM57L_4wZ5uronkut/s1600/oxford9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilCxGUa8iiunvK4ttI1f3vPCbC2JP411utEhrv38Ej5HWY4FyX41AKlw48iCGSBjNv8KqEDuwxmfB7Cri0ulwtgaorfGXKVqz3Z2yeRvEsYNcRNCEV3yM9mBmrNVAkM57L_4wZ5uronkut/s640/oxford9.jpg" width="358" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_mTBMh7NpYRAsJCqjmdR4-2_VH8rRc7R83shlk1w8s7AHFW_THVLf44fK0NBv-ovp1yuO5GH8z6dOF6RI6p8z1HetrRBuLrKsNPMCAchAoV5uxku5JpSUT6nODtEfQk6LSroRdTKKUdM/s1600/oxford4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjE_mTBMh7NpYRAsJCqjmdR4-2_VH8rRc7R83shlk1w8s7AHFW_THVLf44fK0NBv-ovp1yuO5GH8z6dOF6RI6p8z1HetrRBuLrKsNPMCAchAoV5uxku5JpSUT6nODtEfQk6LSroRdTKKUdM/s640/oxford4.jpg" width="360" /></a></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;"></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVaMsfrIrES3Wpoo5sz-olV8lJ_D4hyphenhyphenbu4pMQ8OB0pCMUe1JThEzpQYAYfAAanFXs7BWkvRd9LIFk-yDmke6JgEzWcGVNO4_QSPzRxGf4aeP23yX0NUADhtG13B-gc-T260iW51TAgRG5J/s1600/oxford8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="font-size: x-large; margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgVaMsfrIrES3Wpoo5sz-olV8lJ_D4hyphenhyphenbu4pMQ8OB0pCMUe1JThEzpQYAYfAAanFXs7BWkvRd9LIFk-yDmke6JgEzWcGVNO4_QSPzRxGf4aeP23yX0NUADhtG13B-gc-T260iW51TAgRG5J/s640/oxford8.jpg" width="360" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;"><table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgBiUQgF0GKGWRoX-BgvRbNUVFTpI-B8ithVAq3ErSn78fd-7URsblyVrq42Cst5x-jLvZzI-xeLPu6_D1Wi1MUgDW4Gdrf1uhFREZLLavACN2kjFPf7raMeYxvHGUamASADlKX8I7nhias/s640/dolce+et+decorum+est.jpg" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;" width="358" /></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: cyan; font-size: small;">The original of Wilfred Owen's "Dolce et Decorum est."</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-size: large;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazwnpZ2-cDaxkMmFDTggciXLbxNZhT_SRXfr5c91PWSxdLbdoDE9knLd2Eg1Aki7SPx3MpRJrLuPRd49uNEPQPCXcpLjFMOU-0aqWoX6X_liKdXqaxxjx9ssL0n7bgeDLP_F6KCyDgwfF/s1600/oxford2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjazwnpZ2-cDaxkMmFDTggciXLbxNZhT_SRXfr5c91PWSxdLbdoDE9knLd2Eg1Aki7SPx3MpRJrLuPRd49uNEPQPCXcpLjFMOU-0aqWoX6X_liKdXqaxxjx9ssL0n7bgeDLP_F6KCyDgwfF/s640/oxford2.jpg" width="358" /></a></span></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-90959158386321283042018-09-12T20:22:00.000-07:002018-11-02T06:36:06.515-07:00Horsey Wedding<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhjDS1j4qjfvh_bacCE8Q_e8kvtINyb8l9SEzH6FYaHBTqHvnmPi0KSibyWhatCscaB5myCXD7Owm4pBcqjD5AcafvMlac-hq5Qgic8KGoyOaqxSMXqWjja8nA9vl6y-OAkUZDv_7q0pCm/s1600/horses.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="720" data-original-width="960" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhjDS1j4qjfvh_bacCE8Q_e8kvtINyb8l9SEzH6FYaHBTqHvnmPi0KSibyWhatCscaB5myCXD7Owm4pBcqjD5AcafvMlac-hq5Qgic8KGoyOaqxSMXqWjja8nA9vl6y-OAkUZDv_7q0pCm/s640/horses.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">What is more romantic than a horse-drawn carriage ride or
two lovers riding a horse into the sunset for a fairytale photo shoot? Well,
just about everything, but a horse scenario I’d prefer to either of those is a
gang of horses invading a pre-wedding party on the beach. That is exactly what happened
last weekend when my brother got married in Maryland. All the guests were
enjoying the festivities when the horses swaggered in, ate the chips,
marshmallows, and chicken, and then made a puddle of piss at the food and drink
station. They didn’t move on until a park ranger came and kicked sand at them. When
asked how she held such power over the wild horses, the park ranger said the
horses recognized her uniform. Perhaps if we had wanted to be left alone, we
should have all dressed up like park rangers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">The horses left and came back, more confident this time,
knowing that the most we would do was stand back and take videos on our cell
phones. Some guests followed the park ranger’s example and kicked sand at the
horses, to absolutely no effect. My new sister-in-law’s father, who is hard of
hearing, confronted the horses, armed with a foldable chair and a sausage on a
skewer. Despite some people calling for him to stop and let the horses pillage
and plunder, Katie’s dad continued to try to be the hero. I’ve never been so
afraid for someone’s safety, yet so amused at the same time.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh209sQ2i5Xp1hZPHMVCdk5p_BKwXHQEt72DE0XJhE2r1x4f7ipAvCokB1Tl_XLfsay_nvA3FXCKsx6xrK5vePZXRw-eWCvFP50iPpt9DzTBYtUYYcWSnPmy-MT3A0GdjHgThiU-hcU65z/s1600/Falks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="917" data-original-width="960" height="381" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhh209sQ2i5Xp1hZPHMVCdk5p_BKwXHQEt72DE0XJhE2r1x4f7ipAvCokB1Tl_XLfsay_nvA3FXCKsx6xrK5vePZXRw-eWCvFP50iPpt9DzTBYtUYYcWSnPmy-MT3A0GdjHgThiU-hcU65z/s400/Falks.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">At the beginning of the party, my only concern had been lightning
and bugs, not lightning bugs, but actually being struck by lightning and being mobbed
by bugs. My hair, as well as other guests’ hair, was sticking straight up, a
bad sign that we were susceptible to being struck by lightning. Then my cousin
Tammie, who I hadn’t seen for over thirty years, showed up and I had such a
good time talking with her that I disregarded my previous concern of getting
hit by lightning. Then the horses invaded and I stared dumbstruck, forgetting
all about lightning and bugs. Fortunately, the bugs weren’t too bad and we all
left the party with a great story to tell.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhf09ySOqCIWE9x3tyxg1hFrUf-8d6u0PFHJA4qHRtJsX_utS1LnAFT9x3wKCiyoOCTtRzxg6mrIqL6u6iusd4DVYbHlpJ-qxgGPR5okb2lhHPAyON0LHvpaiH39L4fTVNyZWSFiyM8O_l/s1600/cory.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="960" data-original-width="720" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhhf09ySOqCIWE9x3tyxg1hFrUf-8d6u0PFHJA4qHRtJsX_utS1LnAFT9x3wKCiyoOCTtRzxg6mrIqL6u6iusd4DVYbHlpJ-qxgGPR5okb2lhHPAyON0LHvpaiH39L4fTVNyZWSFiyM8O_l/s400/cory.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">For the wedding ceremony I was a bridesmaid, an honor I’d
never experienced before. Katie looked gorgeous and my brother looked like a
handsome 1950s milkman in his all-white suit. For the photos, we donned horse
masks, which along with the wind, messed up my perfectly coiffured bridesmaid’s
do. Although the wind messed up my hair and whipped my dress around, it created
a nice wind-swept goddess look for the bride. The waves crashing in the
background also looked spectacular and I am looking forward to seeing how the
professional photos turned out.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTEyDJrMFsynBN_pXhE9StLMaxNsTrSKSV5EQBdPC7YU6f8Or9vosy3l_wQqtbVygS9HF66nVkOMe5ygdOHnLYDwnWz96WPFs_PtsgunEG6ZD944XPIrVlCD7cNYTNFZGxSl8ZsIfbagu0/s1600/wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjTEyDJrMFsynBN_pXhE9StLMaxNsTrSKSV5EQBdPC7YU6f8Or9vosy3l_wQqtbVygS9HF66nVkOMe5ygdOHnLYDwnWz96WPFs_PtsgunEG6ZD944XPIrVlCD7cNYTNFZGxSl8ZsIfbagu0/s640/wedding.jpg" width="640" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">This was the best, most entertaining, most meaningful
wedding I’ve ever attended/taken part in. I had a great time and it was well
worth the thirty hours of flying and six hours of driving it took to travel from
Kuwait to Maryland and back. I have since returned and am still recovering from jet lag,
not to mention exhaustion from all the horsing around.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjnVjegDTU8h4y8IszaWKTgCH4CVKn_96lyvGhJGRF4AAm7cLe9N8B2flovzzMTWPH7cNqvLHUE0bUueSQ7qybKeV2Ah0yzA61l6mGoB6XPEDAyhN4C_zoZF50kKyx__ZeGbdNAzHbW5H/s1600/horse+bridesmaids.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1080" data-original-width="1440" height="480" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgfjnVjegDTU8h4y8IszaWKTgCH4CVKn_96lyvGhJGRF4AAm7cLe9N8B2flovzzMTWPH7cNqvLHUE0bUueSQ7qybKeV2Ah0yzA61l6mGoB6XPEDAyhN4C_zoZF50kKyx__ZeGbdNAzHbW5H/s640/horse+bridesmaids.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-86931932829154030132018-08-23T13:08:00.001-07:002018-08-23T13:08:41.198-07:00Lviv<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvIrLClGO18WYOVk0eoXQ4gIRqKq3UO83YSkwT3i-q_FY0XLvBSHVvo0U_98Yb-X3svEIom4M0EyKIPRm30Zg_55rvpGHIVbWdltb2CY4iF_wQbsDr9jQ4yJVCUMZBhUYqBzQkDXoIXCxj/s1600/lviv8.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="651" data-original-width="1600" height="260" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjvIrLClGO18WYOVk0eoXQ4gIRqKq3UO83YSkwT3i-q_FY0XLvBSHVvo0U_98Yb-X3svEIom4M0EyKIPRm30Zg_55rvpGHIVbWdltb2CY4iF_wQbsDr9jQ4yJVCUMZBhUYqBzQkDXoIXCxj/s640/lviv8.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoP1O_SU4C_O94GdXkhtUgozuMDbNaO9iNoe75nRp2jefVdc5gaFyWKKn0GJZxOFQ-_B0nY_esSp8blAWq7zVgr2ZQpb-hgMcmFbgLBEPf3ovV7igiBNwYDlbik72RNg017rAkH1S2N2oF/s1600/lviv9.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoP1O_SU4C_O94GdXkhtUgozuMDbNaO9iNoe75nRp2jefVdc5gaFyWKKn0GJZxOFQ-_B0nY_esSp8blAWq7zVgr2ZQpb-hgMcmFbgLBEPf3ovV7igiBNwYDlbik72RNg017rAkH1S2N2oF/s400/lviv9.jpg" width="225" /></a></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">My two full days spent in Lviv were idyllic, and although
two days were just enough to see everything I wanted to see, I would have been
happy to stay longer. This beautiful little town on the eastern edge of Ukraine
sits right next to Poland. It’s a five-hour train ride from Kiev and another
five-hour train ride to Krakow. Eighteen years ago, I visited Krakow for just one
day, so it was tempting, especially being so close to Krakow, to try to squeeze
in one more day, but alas, I didn’t have enough time. I will just have to save
Krakow for another adventure. Maybe, depending on who I am traveling with and
what our plans are, we can visit both Lviv and Krakow.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xTU0_52M21eyK6oAI56c3Gxz5yKZoZJt-GYb6DbpRoneIB1lEOK1YMzfbO_SBp9VnIFht6yOyScD4B52TQBraBja15MBc1ns80lXDBgYeDNW3kEAXMOphcmbDbIFcy3jik4d8i8EfXAI/s1600/lviv11.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-xTU0_52M21eyK6oAI56c3Gxz5yKZoZJt-GYb6DbpRoneIB1lEOK1YMzfbO_SBp9VnIFht6yOyScD4B52TQBraBja15MBc1ns80lXDBgYeDNW3kEAXMOphcmbDbIFcy3jik4d8i8EfXAI/s400/lviv11.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">I had a wonderful time and I enjoy traveling alone, but Lviv
is full of great restaurants and coffee shops, frequented by groups of friends
and close companions. When my Airbnb hosts asked if I was traveling solo and I
answered yes, they each made a sad face. I understood their sympathy when, walking
around the city center, I saw friends and lovers walking hand-in-hand,
arm-in-arm, and joyful people sharing lively conversations over dinner and pints
of beer.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijgLdXCZRqrKJx49aIQ7BXKMhb34DdGRBXFR-gDu45gTgGpthVN-IphPT-vUo8l-4mfFEKM2x1LPU00owZ8wL-C7msDe3hHDBTXwrY9AAtghb_PybutUAF1dimWBnYOPj2ghLx68NkZVZu/s1600/lviv4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEijgLdXCZRqrKJx49aIQ7BXKMhb34DdGRBXFR-gDu45gTgGpthVN-IphPT-vUo8l-4mfFEKM2x1LPU00owZ8wL-C7msDe3hHDBTXwrY9AAtghb_PybutUAF1dimWBnYOPj2ghLx68NkZVZu/s400/lviv4.jpg" width="400" /></a></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDg-mGD8jyhtfJ7Q9AXrSFjE9M0lup84qh8tcuLobbK7uq_x2VhTn05KIhthBkvexYqqARtOc_7zhPYeRm6LJMOTPInqiaGKlfmmh4UuPhF6jqciBSSjuiU5j-3_J_7KHB2Cd5qtJoFf3_/s1600/lviv6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgDg-mGD8jyhtfJ7Q9AXrSFjE9M0lup84qh8tcuLobbK7uq_x2VhTn05KIhthBkvexYqqARtOc_7zhPYeRm6LJMOTPInqiaGKlfmmh4UuPhF6jqciBSSjuiU5j-3_J_7KHB2Cd5qtJoFf3_/s400/lviv6.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">Traveling with friends could also have its drawbacks, like
feeling pressured to move too quickly through art museums. I am the type who must
read and ponder the signs next to practically every painting. At the Pototski
Palace, I swooned over the beautiful paintings by Italian and Dutch painters,
but I was even more fascinated by the collection of sculptures, jewelry,
figurines, and weapons, which had belonged to the last emperor of China, Pu Yi.
I had recently watched the film, </span><i style="font-size: x-large;">The Last
Emperor</i><span style="font-size: large;">, about his fascinating life, and this exhibition brought me a bit
closer to this strange and fascinating figure. I read on the placard that one
of the items in the collection was a stamp custom made for Pu Yi, which
featured leopards chasing each other with golf clubs. (I’m not sure if the
leopards were actually holding the golf clubs, or if the English translation
was just weird.) The golf clubs were a tribute to his teacher, played by Peter
O’Toole in the movie, who introduced the emperor to the sport. I went back and
forth through the exhibit, determined to find this stamp, a search that would
have exhausted even my most patient friends, but I couldn’t find it. How this
collection came to be in this Ukrainian Palace has something to do with Stalin,
and the false promise that Stalin would protect the desperate emperor from the
Chinese communists, but the details of the Soviet acquisition of his stuff were
unclear to me.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR-lpvpMDIP93-6ZpLzWt6vOPiB0YPbKC0Ih6HfEO2oxn4NL9uYoQPxiDVd6UyeC_V7z4CfWBDV5fHmtgUxms5dyxdgtthflb05LtEcNkQFx_KJyCD7vsuSf7dF1yIJWawlLHsENT8Reud/s1600/lviv12.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhR-lpvpMDIP93-6ZpLzWt6vOPiB0YPbKC0Ih6HfEO2oxn4NL9uYoQPxiDVd6UyeC_V7z4CfWBDV5fHmtgUxms5dyxdgtthflb05LtEcNkQFx_KJyCD7vsuSf7dF1yIJWawlLHsENT8Reud/s400/lviv12.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLvtl1iDHVpsTkmgb6Po9yDBtU9Q6GIsMusIMM6TtEzMjfo_Wv3kbeETySyLFkYIZS0_JvdsB9HWkA-AdeybMwUZdeJgK_OqylOloicUViMGrRXcOUjc6-8_TMFswYZkiWhG7gobb96-_f/s1600/lviv13.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLvtl1iDHVpsTkmgb6Po9yDBtU9Q6GIsMusIMM6TtEzMjfo_Wv3kbeETySyLFkYIZS0_JvdsB9HWkA-AdeybMwUZdeJgK_OqylOloicUViMGrRXcOUjc6-8_TMFswYZkiWhG7gobb96-_f/s400/lviv13.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">While walking around Lviv, I messaged my friend Kat in
Seattle to let her know where I was. She told me she’d wanted to visit Lviv,
ever since having a roommate in college who was from there. That made me feel a
bit selfish, as if I were hogging a large, delicious meal to myself. Speaking
of delicious meals, the coffee culture and restaurant culture in Lviv are
superb. For breakfast one morning, I went to Lviv Coffee Manufacturer, which
doubles as a coffee museum. I liked the brick warehouse atmosphere and if it
weren’t for the Brazilian jazz playing, I might have felt like I had traveled
back in time. My most exquisite meals were at the restaurants Mons Pius and
Amadeus, both of which I highly recommend. At Amadeus, the pretty blonde server
brought me a glass of champagne, simply saying, “Gift,” with no other
explanation. I was delighted to receive a free glass of champagne, but I
wondered if, like my Airbnb hosts, she felt a bit sorry for me for dining
alone.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">On my travels, I like to buy paintings and drawings of
recognizable streets and landmarks, art that captures the essence of a city.
After visiting St. George’s Cathedral, I hoped I could find a painting that
could do this gorgeous cathedral justice. The camera on my phone certainly wasn’t
doing the trick. Sitting in the pews, I listened to the Ukrainian service,
which included singing and put me in a peaceful trance. In the gift shop, I
looked for art commemorating the cathedral, but just like my search for the emperor’s
stamp, I came up empty handed. It wasn’t until later that day when I stumbled
into a fancy jewelry store that I saw a collection of paintings and prints.
There, I found exactly what I was looking for. I bought a large beautiful print
for a bargain price of about $20. I hope this ink drawing will help preserve my
memory of visiting that cathedral and feeling so completely at peace.</span></div>
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music CD playing. That and the Brazilian jazz playing at Lviv Coffee
Manufacturers were the only instances of me hearing music to my liking in Lviv.
I am a bit persnickety about music and I can’t tune out noise that displeases
me, so bad music, like what sounds like Soviet children’s songs or flute
renditions of George Michael hits, grate on my ears. That is my one and only
complaint.</span></div>
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<span style="font-size: large;">Ukrainian people are warm and friendly and the ones I have
spoken to express their fondness for Americans. They also expressed their
dislike of Russians. I laughed whe</span><span style="font-size: large;">n a man told me, “Russia is a fantastically
bad country.” That’s a delightful paradox and one I think I’ll use. I’m
currently writing this in a train car, which I am sharing with three
Ukrainians. All of them have offered me food. Two women offered me half of
their sandwiches and a man offered me some of his chips. My delightful Airbnb
host was rightfully proud of her city and wanted me to read a coffee table book
about Lviv, which she happily pointed out was written in English. Ukrainian
people are thoughtful like that. While reading the book, I couldn’t help but
laugh at the descriptions. I think I’ll call the writing “fantastically bad.”
To give you an idea, here’s one of the sentences, which I had to write down for
memory’s sake: “When you feast your eyes on the stone dolphins framing the
ground floor windows of Bandinelli Palace, you seem to enter into invisible
elements of success, as these enigmatic beings have symbolized great
achievements in ancient times.” Yes, entering invisible elements of success. Couldn’t
have put it better myself. But try as I might to weave some fancy words
together to accurately describe the allure and beauty of Lviv, I’m going to simply
say it’s magnificent and requires a stay of at least two days.</span></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-70614625280906189782018-08-21T07:35:00.000-07:002018-08-21T12:28:49.522-07:00Ukraine's Fight is Our Fight<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-size: large;">The word “maidan” means town square in Turkish and Persian and was adopted into Ukrainian. It’s how residents of Kiev refer to their Independence Square, where over one hundred Ukrainians were murdered or went missing, presumably kidnapped, during the 2014 Ukrainian Revolution. When I visited this week, the mood in Maidan was somber, with people milling about, taking photos, and paying their respects to the victims who died so that their country would have a brighter future. A statue of an angel holding a rose branch high over her head rests atop a column, overlooking the city. She represents independence and was built in 2001 to commemorate the 10-year anniversary of the collapse of the Soviet Union and Ukraine finally breaking free. The presence of this statue serves as a painful reminder of the high price of freedom and the promise to never again kneel to a hostile power.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxuxWpxNSgKa1ULqEXEQ5CaNTqeP_VG8W9M4l4wXg0Qa_yAQ4DymC-jkIOAvszWEpwvVZrOyj8dLEWa-NNGoMglUkaclOV0WEQdsGSQ7M8LFE8Q3tqZcBVYqcZFgtq5ajn6DASLgVqaBz6/s1600/Maidan+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="360" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgxuxWpxNSgKa1ULqEXEQ5CaNTqeP_VG8W9M4l4wXg0Qa_yAQ4DymC-jkIOAvszWEpwvVZrOyj8dLEWa-NNGoMglUkaclOV0WEQdsGSQ7M8LFE8Q3tqZcBVYqcZFgtq5ajn6DASLgVqaBz6/s640/Maidan+2.jpg" width="640" /></a></div>
<span style="font-size: large;">The woman who served as a model for the statue was the sculptor’s daughter, an American, but the connection between Ukraine and America doesn’t stop there. We must look at the situation in Ukraine as a lesson, and maybe borrow a few tips from the brave citizens who gathered and demanded that their corrupt president step down. Our sleazy politicians and finger puppets of Vladimir Putin are no better than Ukraine’s disgraced president, Viktor Yanukovych. People like that care only about themselves and are willing to sell out their country for their own ego and financial gain. Scumbags like Paul Manafort have blood on their hands from helping to orchestrate the massacre of innocent Ukrainians in 2014. Perhaps when the walls are closing in around our fake president, he will flee like a desperate rat, seeking asylum with his moral equivalent, Yanukovych, in Moscow.</span><br />
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</span> <a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh3Wc6t3I9s1qmWxe26E0AlM51NQD6sYDhtbnUtAt7gizDSLnlw_dtaL0LCCQ4D27u8igo3CFlOakd9pN8VrsMP33Z0lKA_gJ_w1yEcVrG9HhUARcBcmsC2spF6B65aMYCD_HAbrkVc2SH/s1600/maidan+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1200" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgh3Wc6t3I9s1qmWxe26E0AlM51NQD6sYDhtbnUtAt7gizDSLnlw_dtaL0LCCQ4D27u8igo3CFlOakd9pN8VrsMP33Z0lKA_gJ_w1yEcVrG9HhUARcBcmsC2spF6B65aMYCD_HAbrkVc2SH/s400/maidan+5.jpg" width="300" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">With American support for Russia on the rise, a search for our soul is imperative. We can’t just look at Ukraine’s tragedy and ongoing fight as something that only pertains to them. This is our fight too. The 2014 Ukrainian Revolution and Russia’s illegal annexation of Crimea could be precursors to a much more dangerous and far-reaching aggression, all plotted and schemed by the grand puppet master and dominatrix to our gimp of a president, Vladimir Putin. In Pulp Fiction, this is the scene when Bruce Willis is about to flee his captors’ den but stops and experiences a moral dilemma. Should he save himself or go deliver some samurai-style vengeance? I vote for the latter. </span><br />
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-83032666288361532312018-08-18T20:58:00.000-07:002018-08-18T22:32:49.914-07:00First Day in Kiev <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-size: large;">I spent day one in Kiev torturing my legs and feet and
feeling breathless, also known as exercise, on hilly cobblestones and bell tower
steps. My friend, Tania, wore sandals and did not seem fazed by the hilliness
or the duration of our walking. I suppose there is a direct link between living
in a physically demanding city like Kiev, one with lots of steep hills, and
being in good shape. I realize I need to walk more. I’m sitting up in my hotel
bed right now, feeling muscles I’d forgotten I had. Did I just hike up the
Carpathian Mountains? No, I went for a simple stroll in a beautiful old city with
a beautiful old friend. So why am I grumbling about my debilitated body?
Because I’m out of shape, that’s why. Who knew movement could be so hard? I
discovered ballet flats are not viable shoes for conquering this kind of rugged
cobblestone environment. I will wear my running shoes today. And I will try to
adapt to the hills and cobblestones and not complain so much.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4RkAzsZRCgooTM9jVUiNAasgG3IMw74i8zlQ6ZGgWKvU3q8Nxz5i7C3mrou4whlDs8vJjpFHHeBCRajlgyA73Xd7YyqQ2-ORI8StL1T9qyQc1vKlxHcFBK-KgMpoTjj10UiG4odJwHXp/s1600/tp.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="900" height="400" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjV4RkAzsZRCgooTM9jVUiNAasgG3IMw74i8zlQ6ZGgWKvU3q8Nxz5i7C3mrou4whlDs8vJjpFHHeBCRajlgyA73Xd7YyqQ2-ORI8StL1T9qyQc1vKlxHcFBK-KgMpoTjj10UiG4odJwHXp/s400/tp.jpg" width="225" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">I think I also need to improve my knowledge of history and
read more to satisfy my curiosity. The old Soviet occupation of Ukraine has me
curious about the psyche of Ukrainian people, their emotional memory, and how
history has influenced present day tensions. I talked to Tania about the annexation
of Crimea, but try as I might, I cannot fathom what it must be like to have an
aggressive nation swoop in and steal a piece of my country, and then worry that
they’re going to try to take even more. It would be like Canada occupying
Buffalo and staking maple leaf flags in the ground everywhere. Like I said,
completely unfathomable.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUUUaBYfLuz1GEWPJjrIn7V5rbcqBLbrKWEBI8xz7lP1CmQMEpe2fIYtJBmaPE8drHGBs-CmvHUbgRuZGNfFIn4YF3AspInZAwBFrs-PwBIvIltfn-eKrmhFnetX09OrnaMf8ESO_RbI2/s1600/tania.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="900" data-original-width="1600" height="225" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiqUUUaBYfLuz1GEWPJjrIn7V5rbcqBLbrKWEBI8xz7lP1CmQMEpe2fIYtJBmaPE8drHGBs-CmvHUbgRuZGNfFIn4YF3AspInZAwBFrs-PwBIvIltfn-eKrmhFnetX09OrnaMf8ESO_RbI2/s400/tania.jpg" width="400" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">The highlight of the day was visiting Saint Sophia’s
Cathedral, an 11</span><sup>th</sup><span style="font-size: large;"> century church. The architectural plan is similar
to the Hagia Sofia in Istanbul. I wasn’t allowed to take photos, so you will
just have to imagine the Hagia Sofia in all its Byzantine glory, only a bit
smaller, and instead of Greek inscriptions, imagine Cyrillic ones. The painting
of the brown and white feathered seraph angel in the Hagia Sophia can also be
found in Saint Sophia’s Cathedral in Kiev. In Saint Sophia’s, there are three seraphs
in a row, reminding me of the lullaby league in The Wizard of Oz. While walking
around with Tania and her little boy, Misha, I wondered what the difference is between
a mosaic and a fresco. (I noticed that when my friend Tania and I were
referring to the same religious art, she used the term fresco while I called it
a mosaic.) At the risk of being wrong I’ll continue calling them mosaics until
I google the answer later. I wonder if mosaic artists in the olden days followed
patterns, like, I dunno, mosaic by numbers? Looking at any number of haloed
saints, I can’t help but think I’ve seen its exact replica somewhere else. I
find myself staring at ancient fragmented faces, asking, “Have we met before? I
think you have a twin in Istanbul.”</span></div>
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<div class="separator" style="clear: both;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWA8GBBR-dNsR2FcVsbDEK2sGMTb_NneRVtBADvqBvVVahel4fwvYVucoKJknGhIX6fHl8MrMJS8jnB9skVQckoT8x7Y192TrpZ2zlMXLrt9qHjl4M2JJGd8Xm4J4J1VoxOW6n9NliUBR/s1600/lullaby+league.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" data-original-height="480" data-original-width="654" height="233" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEizWA8GBBR-dNsR2FcVsbDEK2sGMTb_NneRVtBADvqBvVVahel4fwvYVucoKJknGhIX6fHl8MrMJS8jnB9skVQckoT8x7Y192TrpZ2zlMXLrt9qHjl4M2JJGd8Xm4J4J1VoxOW6n9NliUBR/s320/lullaby+league.jpg" width="320" /></a><span style="font-size: large;">One more question I am pondering is if I have any need in my life or room in my luggage for a Ukrainian power stick, also known as a bulawa. Walking down Andrivskaya Street with my friend Tania, we saw these items for sale and I was tempted to buy one. Tania was telling me that it’s a symbol of power that many high-ranking men depicted in statues and paintings are shown holding. I don’t know what purpose this object would serve, other than giving me a heightened sense of importance and being a great conversation starter. I think I just answered my question. A power stick is a must-have souvenir from the Ukraine. Until next time.</span></div>
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-60708914629939894322018-07-28T23:13:00.000-07:002018-07-29T06:26:52.404-07:00Remembering Dan <div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The fear of missed opportunities has finally dawned on me. I
have been dedicating myself to my writing, a summer job helping children learn
to read, and slowly getting back into running. Last night I discovered from Facebook
that an old friend of mine passed away. How he died I do not know. About a
month ago I learned that a boy, who grew up on the same block as me, died of
cancer. Both these guys were my age. It’s unsettling to know both are gone. But
Dan, whose death I learned about last night, played a more significant role in
my life. He was my first boyfriend.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">My mom/summer roommate told me she recently checked a list
of people from her high school graduating class who have died, and the list
went on and on. I can see how sobering scrolling down that list would be, but
my mom is almost 71. I just turned 35. Perhaps this sounds naïve, but people my
age shouldn’t be dying.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Last night, while picking up my race number at the Hawaiian
Festival in Vancouver, Washington, I was so touched by the feeling of ohana (family).
Islanders show so much love and support for each other, to both newcomers like
me and old pals. I walked around, looked at jewelry for sale, ate shave ice with
banana, cherry, and coconut flavoring, watched women dance hula onstage, and
talked to warm, friendly people. A big fan of the “It takes a village”
mentality, I realized it’s this kind of warmth and community I have been
deprived of lately. I think because I am not the most socially proactive person
(at least not right now), it would serve me well to be adopted into an inviting
community. Then maybe I can shed some Haole (non-Hawaiian) cultural traits,
like the selfishness and the divisive hate that is rampant in this country.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Anyway, I decided last night to reach out to some people. I
messaged a few folks on Facebook and searched for Dan. I had not seen Dan for
about nine years, but some memories of him had been flitting through my mind
lately. Then I saw “Remembering” above his name.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I couldn’t sleep after that. I read Dan’s obituary, which told
me everything I already knew. He was curious, kind, intelligent, all traits
that were apparent when first meeting him. I tried to recall some details about
him, like someone desperately trying to hold a hand that was slipping from my grasp.
I lay awake all night thinking about him.<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnHuxR-RHaYJVkUpzlVXoZJyFZTcb6vqY_j4yxQ8gAZDYux1cZJ_IK8QM-zoIOc4OJNCvvXMWDZpJ4Y7zyOUm6vAkZySG8iXrdZPd5h-dDxcgsTVD5nnph5iA4e2SJY-QSdyaafwlcj2va/s1600/Dan.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" data-original-height="1600" data-original-width="1280" height="640" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhnHuxR-RHaYJVkUpzlVXoZJyFZTcb6vqY_j4yxQ8gAZDYux1cZJ_IK8QM-zoIOc4OJNCvvXMWDZpJ4Y7zyOUm6vAkZySG8iXrdZPd5h-dDxcgsTVD5nnph5iA4e2SJY-QSdyaafwlcj2va/s640/Dan.jpg" width="512" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: cyan; font-size: small;">A page from my scrapbook from 15 years ago. The decorations are random.</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I met Dan at a Dave Eggers reading at the First Unitarian
Church in Portland when we were both 19. I showed up thirty minutes before the
reading, taking my place right next to Dan in line. I asked a woman what the M
on her necklace stood for and she said “Michelle.” I said, “I’m Meriwether. I
should get an M necklace too, because, have you ever noticed, the coolest
people all have M names?” That’s when Dan stuck his hand out for me to shake. “And
I’m Mark.” I laughed and then laughed again when he admitted, “Actually, I’m
Dan. I just didn’t want to feel left out.” He told Michelle and me that he had
been in line for six hours because he wanted to be first. I thought this was strange
and hilarious because Michelle and I stood behind him in line and we had only
arrived thirty minutes before the doors were opened. Most people came 5 or 10
minutes before the reading. When I asked him what he had been doing for six
hours, he said, “Reading,” and held up his book. I admired his dedication to
literary culture and his ability to focus on a book for six hours, both rare
qualities. We sat next to each other during the reading and talked about books
afterward. Then he asked, “Can I call you sometime?”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">He called and said he wanted to “do something arbitrary,
like coffee.” I had never heard arbitrary used in reference to coffee. I was
impressed by his vocabulary. He suggested we meet at Coffee Time, a restaurant
in Northwest Portland that I had never been to.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I didn’t realize this, but Coffee Time had several adjoining
rooms. I arrived on time, sat in the front, and read my book. Dan arrived early,
sat in one of the back rooms, and read his book. We both sat there reading our
books, oblivious to the other’s presence in the next room, each thinking the
other had stood us up. Two hours later, when I looked up from my book, I
noticed Dan standing there, just looking at me. I yelled at him, “Late!” to
which he calmly responded, “No, actually I was early. I’ve been in the back.”
He sat down across from me, looking very sad. I was irritated with him for not finding
me earlier, for just assuming I had stood him up when we had made plans to meet
just a few hours earlier on the phone. (I think this was before cell phones.) I
didn’t think I wanted to see him again, but then we started talking about books
and I changed my mind. I discovered that Dan liked the same authors as me. In
particular, Jonathan Lethem and Jose Saramago.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Dan was one of the most well-read people I ever met. He
introduced me to Yukio Mishima, Haruki Murakami, Victor Pelevin, and Mikhail
Bulgakov. Our taste in literature was similar, but we often disagreed about
films. I loved "Ghost Dog," which he said was horrible because “rappers can’t
act,” a statement I found offensive. My favorite film at the time was “When
Harry Met Sally,” which he kindly agreed to watch with me on New Year’s Eve, 2002,
even though he didn’t glean as much pleasure from that film as I did.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">At 19, I had no idea what to make of “Secretary,” a movie
about a woman who willingly chooses to be subjugated and beaten for pleasure by
her boss. My feminist identity hadn’t been fully developed. Still, I wasn’t
wild about the film. Dan loved it.</span></div>
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<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">We saw “Punch Drunk Love” and during the scene when the characters get into a car accident and Emily Watson’s character is
injured, Dan grabbed my hand and held it for the rest of the film. I took that
to mean he had been imagining me as the Emily Watson character and didn’t want any
harm to come to me. I felt that he loved me long before he ever said it. I
could see a twinkle in his eyes and a tenderness that could only be interpreted
as love.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">For years I’ve looked for that same twinkle in other men’s
eyes. The last two men who said they loved me had cold, unemotional eyes, so I took
them for green card hunters and told them I didn’t believe them. With Dan there
was no doubt that he loved me. Dan had a huge capacity for love. He would people-watch
and empathize with the pain and unhappiness he imagined complete strangers were
going through. He told me about a lesbian couple he knew and how he found it sad
that they were afraid to show affection in public.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I was an aspiring novelist and told Dan that my reward for finishing
my novel would be a red leather jacket. He took that to mean he should buy me
a red leather jacket, a gift that took me by total surprise. The idea had been
that I would by it for myself to celebrate my greatest accomplishment, but it
was such a beautiful jacket. It was a dark red and it fit me perfectly, so I
didn’t say anything about his gift infringing on my independence.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">He could be moody, competitive, and classist. I remember one
time he inquired about my family, “What do you people eat, canned food?” I don’t
think he was trying to insult me or my family. He was just oblivious as to how
class-conscious I was, and the class shame felt by those who didn’t come from backgrounds
as privileged as his. I’m sure I made unintentionally hurtful comments as well,
but I can’t remember what they were.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">Dan grew distant. Instead of talking about books, a subject
we saw eye-to-eye on, he talked a lot about court cases and computers. He
decided I wasn’t knowledgeable enough in these areas and broke up with me for
that reason. It was heartbreaking. His love for me dwindled as my love for him
grew.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">For a long time I missed his cologne (I wish I could
remember what line it was) We went out one more time years later and discovered
we had the same favorite beer, Black Butte Porter, but the connection we had
before couldn’t be restored.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">The most brilliant film I’ve seen in ages is “First
Reformed,” starring Ethan Hawke. It’s an important film about a priest who wants
to be spiritual, but he is too wrapped up in the world and all its problems.
The struggle of the characters reminded me of Dan and how sometimes the world
was too much for him. When Dan talked about the Holocaust, he appeared to be enduring
real pain. He said he didn’t care for the film, “The Pianist,” because Roman
Polanski did not make the Holocaust look as terrifying as it really was. I told
him that’s how I felt about “Life is Beautiful,” but honestly, I found “The
Pianist” to be adequately terrifying and heartbreaking. I suppose Dan’s
imagination for the scope of terror was broader than mine. I wish Dan could see
“First Reformed.” I don’t know if he would have liked it, since we disagreed about
a lot of films, but I have a feeling we’d agree on this one.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">This morning I ran my 5k race in Vancouver. A Hawaiian
pastor called on all the runners to hold hands. He led us in prayer and
afterward, the man next to me told me, “Your hand felt nice and warm. Thank
you.” In any other situation, I might have been creeped out, but I guess I’m
not called upon very often to hold hands with strangers. I cried a little while
I ran, even though I was listening to fun songs like “Whip it” and “Take on Me.”
I just kept thinking about Dan. I thought about how Dan bore a slight resemblance
to the lead singer of A-ha, and an even stronger resemblance to Joseph Gordon
Levitt. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">I hope Dan felt at peace when he passed away.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;"><br /></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-size: large;">After the race, I bought flowers. I chose a bouquet
with sunflowers. I’m not sure what kind Dan would have liked. Although I don’t
have a grave to put them on, I thought I would put them in a vase and enjoy
them for as long as I can. </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span><span style="font-size: large;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<br /></div>
Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-8993145497949058620.post-14743551228260464702018-06-16T00:14:00.003-07:002018-07-11T10:31:06.277-07:00Feels like Yesterday<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<span style="font-family: inherit; font-size: large;">I feel as though not a day has passed since my last time in Istanbul. It's election time again, so everyone is bombarded with propaganda. Banners with Erdogan's face seem to have outnumbered homages to Ataturk. Vans with Erdogan's face on the side barrel down streets, blaring their political messages. I can remember some of the stressful aspects of living here: the crowds, the politics, the noise. But I also remember everything I love about Istanbul: the ferry rides, the food, the smell of roasted chestnuts, nargile, and spices. I miss seeing old friends and having intelligent conversations while walking down Bagdat Caddessi, dipping into coffee shops or Marks and Spencer to check out their sale racks. I miss Istanbul. I miss the students I taught here. I was telling friends one night that my ideal place to live is beautiful, with art and culture, friendly people, and a stable government. "Good luck with that" was the response. Does such a place exist? My friends and I visited some terrific restaurants in Kadikoy, my favorite being <a href="https://www.tripadvisor.com.tr/Restaurant_Review-g293974-d10303198-Reviews-Siraz-Istanbul.html">Şiraz</a>, a lovely Persian restaurant. When you're enjoying exquisite food with good company it's easy to forget the stress that comes with living in a big chaotic city. Then you can just focus on the good things in life. </span><br />
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Meriwether Falkhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/13103053172147828930noreply@blogger.com0