Entry #16: What we Forget, and What we Keep

It is shocking to me that I have been in England for almost six weeks (beating the record of days I'd been away from home, formerly 35 days) and there are already days I don't remember. Of course, not every day can be exciting, but the days do blur quite easily when one settles into a routine. The way that we forget people or places, like water in a closed fist, is something I often ponder.

What is painful about forgetting a person is that the subtle, essential details are so quick to ebb; first, the smell and the taste; then, the feel of your fingers through their hair and the curve of their back. Then, auditory memory: suddenly, the inflection of their voice and the particular, uneven pattern of breath grows hazy. Finally, the sight- the detail of their mouth, of their ears... At best, their memory reduced into limited static fragments. A fleeting smell on a city bus will bring it all back. With a bit of effort, you can visualize their smiling face in the ether of your mind or hear a catchphrase in the exact way they would have said it. From these pieces we attempt to make a complete picture, but we are doomed to redundancy, for the million little flecks which composed their entirety are quick to elude us, escaping like particles in every imaginable direction. What we recall is, at best, a fabricated patchwork of the soap they used, the way they grin in that one photograph, and a bank of their history, of the songs they liked, of the words they said that one night you were sitting on the porch, drunk out of your mind.

Forgetting a place is much of the same. We feel certain that the streets, the odours, the noises, our emotional reactions will remain fresh- but like everything else, they yellow and harden with age. I have been to New York City twice now, four and five years ago, and I can't say I recall much of what some people consider the most amazing megalopolis on Earth. I remember riding up to the top of Rockerfeller Center in the evening and being completely shrouded in a thick mist, and seeing nothing at all (I kind of appreciate the idea of having one's head in a cloud). I remember telling bedtime stories to the other girls in my hotel room about an alligator in a hotel. I have a vivid memory of waiting in a pizza line and watching the sweat pour off the chefs' faces in torrents. Other than that, I recollect little off the top of my head.

Humans know that that experience is for the most part temporary, and we don't like this at all. We are- especially when travelling- constantly trying to possess our experience in a way that is tangible: for example, by buying souvenirs, or taking photographs. These things do help, I think, but they cannot tell us how we felt or what we thought during our stay in a given place- or, rather, what we saw, heard, touched, smelled and tasted, and how we reacted to it.

I am trying to decide, while I am still here for another five or six weeks, what I would like to remember about my summer in Sidmouth and how best to go about it.

One lethargic morning a few weeks ago, the part of me which cares about my well-being struggled really hard to convince the other part to go out for a run up the cliff. It was early, and chilly, and hazy, and though I really could've lounged around another hour, I put on my trainers and set off on my disgruntled way. I ran up some bits, and walked some others. As I headed up the familiar trail, the air grew progressively heavier and the mist denser. When I got to the top, the cloud covered all; I couldn't see the barns, or the distant fields, or the other peaks, or even the Channel. Wind blew the sparse bushes sideways. Humidity kept the dew a little longer, beads of water perching on leaves and on blades of grass. I was completely, and wonderfully alone. There was nothing to do in a moment of such perfect solitude than to scream into the nothingness, so I did. It was only a fleeting minute in a already-forgotten day, but I want to recall it.

I want to remember the clarity of the high tide as it relaxes into the shore, where I have sat with my dear friend many evenings after work.

I want to remember the taste of the blackberries I pluck off the bushes whenever I stray into the forest or a  field.

I want to remember the imperious grandeur of a Knickerbocker Glory or of the hotel trifles.

John Ruskin, whose work I had the luck of seeing in exposition in Ottawa last spring, had given a lot of thought to the way we can take something beautiful and, somehow, keep it for ourselves. He was derisive of photographs; he thought the click of the camera shutter did just the opposite, relegating the absorption of the subject to a digital device rather than to our own eyes. More importantly, the way we experience a scene cannot be captured in a photograph. We only have two eyes, two ears, ten fingers (etc.). What we notice is only part of the whole, but it is the basis for our experience. Ruskin (an amazing traveller, sketch artist and painter- you ought to check him out) said that the best way to keep a memory is to draw it or to write about it. Only then can we really capture all that we are seeing and feeling. The things we pay no notice to in the moment- the empty juice box on the beach, the distant blare of Country Hits from a faraway nightclub- are left out. What we keep is what we are immersed in at this moment.

I strongly encourage writing and drawing as a regular record-keeping of experience, travelling or not. In the daily grind, we sometimes feel as if there is nothing worthy of recollection, but it is quite disheartening to later accept that there are gaping holes in the development of our consciousness because they have faded away completely. It may seem very American- paying very close attention to how we feel about everything- but I think it is interesting.

I have been working on some sketches, but I am afraid none are very satisfactory yet.

Sitting on the beach on a very, very hot day

This post is already too long, but here is my advice for you on this fine day: pay attention to how you experience all that is around you, and try to keep some of it. You'll be glad you did.

(Shoutout to Jude and Cass for taking me to the John Ruskin exhibition at the National Gallery)

Entry #15: Nineteen (today I Upgrade)

funny the pull of the tide
funny the call of the waves
sifting through the stones like a gentle comb

It just comes and goes-
Goodby, sweet summer flavour
Today I upgrade

blessed for a birthday on the road
a Momentary lull
of nothing behind nothing
ahead
I just come and go

One promenade in
One sleepy town in
One tiny island empire in
One colossal, infinite world
Of all places to be, here I am

Go
Small figure of noodle limb and limber mind
Succomb to the pull, but return

Entry #14: Dreams of a Paper Route

One theory concerning art is that everything we create, from instrumental solos to the realm of fantastical fiction, is autobiographical- that no matter how far we stray from our own vécu in our artistic endeavours, that whatever we produce will reflect what we're living and believing at the time of creation. I totally agree: I think that the words, colours and melodies we exalt are inextricable from the people and places we choose, and the time and cultural settings we are born in.

And thus, when we read a book, listen to a song, admire a sculpture, watch a film- when we experience art in a way that steals our breath and captures our imagination in the best of ways, it is natural to question the people, places and events which helped to mould it in the mind of its creator.

I am thinking about this a lot lately as I observe the slight variations between Canadian and British culture. Even though the environment, technological advancement and social mores are fundamentally similar, small differences concerning the weather and acceptable mother-child behaviour are enough to explain, in a small way, vast differences between British and Canadian cultural produce.

(Example: I no longer question why women occupy the large majority of villain roles in British children's literature)

But I digress. I am interested in unraveling the importance of culture and setting in British books, by reading classics (old and new) and traveling to the place where they were conceived and/or created. Literature plays a huge role in the way we understand a time or an event, and as someone who's life is continually impacted by great works, I am thinking of doing a kind of reader's pilgrimage through the UK to better read, write and understand this beautiful country.

I have a few works on my list already:

Persuasion by Jane Austen (in Lyme Regis, just 10 minutes from where I'm staying now)

Watership Down by Richard Adams (in Worcestershire, in Hampshire)

The Witches or Matilda by Roald Dahl (Llandlaff, Wales, and Bucinghamshire)

Harry Potter (a must) by JK Rowling (in Oxford, Scotland, Northnumberland)

Poems by Wordsworth (in the Lake District)

This is where I need your help. Do you have any novels or books, old and new, that I could add to my list? Ideally, these books would be set in the UK and be considered as classic or at least representative of its socio-cultural environment. It can be poetry, a short story, a children's book- I just want to read. Ideally I'd have a list of about a dozen.

I haven't made many plans about when I leave Sidmouth in September (although it would be pretty monumental to be in Scotland during the referendum on September 18th), but if nothing else comes up, I think this is what I would be happiest doing.

I hope y'all are enjoying your summer, basking in the sunshine and reading some books! Please send me some suggestions!

Elise x

Entry #13: Musings on the Aging of Romance

When we're young, we want to consume love the way we consume everything else: intensely, obstinately, immediately. From an early age, the act of falling in love is placed high on a pedestal; we have a preconceived notion of the feeling based on what we learn from music, film and books. By the time it actually happens, we are often caught off guard, because we have been throwing the word around and "practicing"- if you will- romance in its many forms since we were children. We hold hands, kiss nervously, and whisper tender words as soon as we find someone willing to reciprocate the action, because we are thirsty to emulate the feeling which, we are told, is the most amazing and spectacular of all.

The motions of love and romance have certainly evolved in the last century, in innumerable ways. Some differences emerge from a change of environment: for example, we now have access to technology which allows us to experience a relationship in a whole new way; others from a change in social mores: e.g., the de-shaming of pre-marital sex, of homosexual relationships, etc. Some things stay the same: new lovers are stupefied, dumbfounded by what they feel, all hands and shiny eyes, hardly able to pry themselves from the other, overtaken by a burning need to be together. It's sweet, and a bit silly, but largely more important is what's left over when the fiery throes of passion loosen their grip.

Living in a town whose demographic is comprised by two-thirds of elderly people has made me look at love from a fresh perspective. At eighteen, though I know that love is very much about deep emotional connection, trust, companionship and devotion, the undeniable truth is that passion and attraction still play an important role. Science tells me this is natural, that my hormones and uterus are actively seeking someone to sow their seed (even if I'm not) so I can fulfill my "womanly duty" and borne children (note the heavy quotation marks). But what happens after 30, or 50, or 70 years of being together? To a young person, the concept of love without (semi-regular) consummation and attraction may feel absurd. Besides, as we age, our bodies begin to act against our will: we say, wrinkle, grow hairy upper lips; we bulge, stoop, and the tools which were once crucial to the relationship often do not function as well as they once did. Love as we know it at eighteen or twenty-five, the whirlwind romances which occupy the movie industry- are simply no longer possible after a time.

I see many couples at the hotel who come to Sidmouth for a romantic getaway. They are almost exclusively 75+, coming to blow their pension money at the seaside rather than saving it for their ingrate children who are "too busy to visit" (consider yourself forewarned). I watch them sit at their tables, look unflinchingly at the face they have sat across from every day for decades and decades. Some chatter animatedly; some gaze out the window quietly, transfixed by the sway of the lilac outside. When they choose a dish for themselves, it is rarely without consulting the other, often shouting across the half-meter distance so their deaf partner can hear them.

"I THINK I'LL HAVE THE SOUP TO START. NO, THE SOUP."

They eat at the pace of snails, taking tiny bites of potato as their partner tries to explain something about the garden, or the neighbor, or their daughter.

When I come to collect their plates or offer the pudding menu, they are invariably startled by my sudden appearance. Gently, the world has grown smaller, evolving into a private universe only big enough to fit two comfortably.

One couple marked me especially. They were not-so-old, perhaps in their late sixties, but age had already begun to take its toll. Though they stayed at the hotel for a week and come every year, they regularly got lost in the garden, and whenever I approached to offer a bread roll or take their order, the man would jump about a foot in the air. To any outsider, they were slow, confused and weird- but to each other, these shortcomings were insignificant or accommodated for. In their private universe, their thoughts, actions and quirks are immune from judgment.

They were always the last to finish a meal, eating their trifle and crème caramel in the pleasant silence of the empty dining room. And whilst I toiled, replacing dirty tablecloths and preparing the tables for the next day's breakfast, they whispered to one another. Their being quite deaf, I could hear every word.

"That looks good. We could try to make it at home."

"We can split half-and-half if you want to try mine."

"For goodness' sake, Bryan, not in front of the waitress, how embarrassing."

I'm not sure what exactly it was about them, but I was totally won over.

I think the great thing about the aging of romance is the organic merging of two people after so many years, unencumbered by fleeting passions or other people (ideally). A companionship that is all-knowing and comprehensive, where one is not quite one without the other. When we are young, the thought is repulsive- even in love, we want to maintain our individuality at all costs. But when we age, these stubborn fancies seem to matter less.

The experience of love is no better or worse at 80 than it is at 17- but it is different in so many fascinating ways.

Note: these are just musings based on observation- I don't mean to offend anyone who has a different perspective or opinion on the matter or generalize the experience at all.

Entry #12: Consolations d'une bonne-à-rien

Here is a confession: although I do like to think myself as a moderate, considerate, temperate and clever-enough person, the horde of my shortcomings skulk beneath the surface and often, like a sneaky fish, like to jump out of the water and slap me across the face. A great obstacle that I face every day is my total lack of knowledge and comprehension regarding any useful task. This is a problem I have encountered from a very young age, and I'm afraid it's anything but abated as I grow older.

I am always the last person to get a handle on menial jobs. Example: when I was five and had to master the mean feat of tying my shoelaces, the effort it demanded is, retrospectivey, quite incredible. If I remember correctly, it was not until my two older sisters threatened that I certainly wouldn't make any friends in kindergarten without knowing how to tie my shoes that I finally wrapped my head around it. Similarly, I could not blow bubblegum or snap my fingers until the fifth grade; to this day, I still can't ride a bicycle. Ergo, things that come naturally to most people tend to take a little more time to sink in with me.

Most days, I can get by without feeling too obstructed by my difficulties concerning doing laundry, banking and simple cooking. However, the place wherein it becomes the most noticeable is when I am starting at a new job. Oh my, does my ego swallow a severe beating then.
This is mostly what made me lose my job at the Delta: I simply could not get up to factory speed with making beds. I'd never (properly) made a bed in my life. The art of slipping the pillow cases over the very fat pillows eluded me completely, and consequently took me about 3x longer than it should have. Getting fired certainly didn't feel very nice, but I understood. I didn't possess the necessary talents.

My hotel job is going well- beautifully, even. But the other job does tend to bring to light my failures.

"Elise, what are you doing?" they ask, incredulous at my perceived stupidity. "You can't wipe a table like that."

Well excuuuuuuuse me.

For the first few days, everything went smoothly, but it didn't take too long before I began to bungle just about everything.

"How can you not know that cream tea is scone, jam, butter, clotted cream and tea?"

"This isn't how you clean a glass."

"How do you not remember? I showed you how to do this last week."

"Elise, you're doing this wrong."

It's no good explaining that it takes me a little time to catch on- not to mention that I've been in this country for only three weeks, that I don't know anything about the English culinary culture and that I still struggle to understand the British accent.

Anyway, luckily I'm not unarmed. When I get back to my flat, I can whip out my trusty handbook, The Consolations of Philosophy, which devotes a chapter on what Michel de Montaigne had to say about mental inadequacy.

De Montaigne is far and away one of my favorite philosophers. Born in 16th-century France, he lived a secluded life in a countryside castle whose library boasted over a thousand volumes. There, he wrote Essays on just about every subject, often in his very own shameless, derogatory style. Having been the recipient of a classical education at one of France's finest liberal arts schools, he was very critical of the way in which we distinguish cleverness. It is not about how much we know, he says, but how much what we know is useful and helpful in our own approach to life. For example, it is all very well for one to know how to solve a trigonometric problem, but one who lacks this knowledge but doesn't need it should not feel lesser than the former. Rather, we should trust ourselves in applying our own set of skills and talents in a way that propagates sustainability and happiness in our lives.

He says: "I have seen in my life hundreds of craftsmen and ploughmen wiser and happier than university rectors" (p.157). It's not about whether your particular cleverness is celebrated by society, but how you use them to live your own days in a way you deem good.

I know I have some knowledge. I'm a good academic. I'm good at fooling around with instruments. I'm good at picking flowers and cleaning bathrooms. There are things at which I'm less good, but I try not to let them overwhelm me, because my being  unable to throw a ball or properly finish anything does not devalue me. This is not to say that I live on a cloud of self-glorification- "If only talking to oneself did not look mad," de Montaigne muses, "no day would go by without my being heard growling to myself, against myself, 'You silly shit!'" (156). Best to accept ourselves as ridiculous, gross but occasionally heartwarming creatures.

So if you want to do something for me today, then take a moment to appreciate yourself as a perfectly good-enough conglomeration of strengths and shortcomings.

Book reference: De Botton, A. (2000). The Consolations of Philosophy. New York: Random House Publishings.

Entry #11: Staying Outside the Flat is Awesome

Friday last, after deciding that I'd definitely be staying the summer, I signed the lease and moved into my new room. It's a small three bedroom flat built purposely for room rentals--I can tell because all the individual rooms are quite large and, save perhaps for the kitchen, there is no space to congregate in plural form. I'm staying at the topmost room, facing the street. It's quite central, only about a minute's walk from the esplanade, which means that every night after finishing up at the hotel I get to go and sit out on the sea. The waves are most often calm, and the diurnal traffic of octogenarians seems to be significantly less after the hours of ten or eleven. 

Now, for someone who only moved out of the familial abode at the age of sixteen, I've lived in my fair share of apartments since (four). Some were quite appealing and some less so--the slanted, torn up floor tiles from my stint on Wellington Sud do arise to mind--but I daresay that this one is very particular in its own right. 

With England being one of the most costly places to live in the world, I couldn't really afford to be choosy. I live with two flatmates, E and H. Both are in their fifties and keep to their room when home from work. For the sake of their privacy, I won't post any pictures of the flat, but I can give you a bit of an idea. 

For starters, the apartment is next door to Sidmouth's most popular pub, The Black Horse. I hear there are bands there every Saturday night and up to three or four times a week in the dog days of July and August. Indeed, as I slipped into bed Saturday last, a string of poor Fleetwood Mac and Coldplay renditions kept me awake for a long time. Throughout the evening, one is sure to spot the occasional drunkard bobbing down the street, eyes glazed over and mouth quite ajar--or, on a lucky night, several of them, which often entail a howling chorus of whatever was playing inside the bar. 

But the pub and its patrons are not my enemy. If there is a thing that is possibly more grating than the dull throb of a subwoofer at 2AM, it is the constant aaawk-ing outside the window from the gulls. Morning, night and noon, there they are, flying over the building or pecking at my window pane. This poses a secondary problem because the flat has a washing machine, but does not have a dryer. The clothesline outside is to suffice as a substitute. You can probably see where this story is headed. 

Needless to say, I was thrilled to discover that one of my work blouses had been shat on by a gull this morning as it lay on the line; as I glared up accusingly at the circling culprits, they made even more noises, which were suspiciously reminiscent of evil laughter. 

This afternoon, I discovered that E regularly feeds these gulls and that, having found warm greetings, many of them have established their nests on our roof. She pointed out their babies to me as she shred slices of white bread into crumbs for her darlings. 

Yay. 

A few more problems have arisen: for example, the night before last, someone broke down the door of the flat, very angry, very drunk and looking for H. It appeared to be about a misunderstanding. Not caring to place myself between them, I sat in my (locked) room and waited it out patiently.

me and my babe. sweet lovin

Luckily for me, there's no reason to stay indoors more than I have to. Everyday, I'm out of there by 6:30AM to run up to Sidmouth Peak before work so I can go visit some meandering sheep before going to work. The seacoast path which takes one up to the top is simply incredible. It's straight uphill the whole way, often resulting in my panting curses to Sisyphus and Edmund Hillary and mountain goats and summit-scaling creatures everywhere for making it look so goshdarn easy. But the ascent is not the only breathtaking feature: the view of the coast; the blooming foxglove, old man's beard and spotted orchid; the wheat fields, which truly do seem to be made of gold; the expanse of grass, of undulating hill; all these things make me just want to be there all the time.

Of course, a dip in the ocean after my run is complimentary.

Sorry for the vagueness concerning other stuff, news will be posted soon! Just checking in to give you a little taste. I've heard from a number of you and am always glad to recieve messages! Miss you guys. x