Thanksgiving

Once again, I found myself celebrating Thanksgiving in England. The first occurrence was obviously last year when I had my audition. I had arrived Wednesday afternoon, my horn was stuck in Amsterdam (where I'm sure it would have a better time than me), I needed to take a train across the country from Bristol, and the cars drove on the wrong side of the road.

Thursday morning my horn still hadn't made its way over, I needed to call and explain my situation to the school, I hadn't slept, and I was losing my mind. I got to the school, was given a horn, warmed up for 20 minutes (10 of which was spent talking with my accompanist--and I hadn't been able to play my OWN horn for the past two days), went into the audition, played my heart out, was told congratulations, returned the horn, called my family, and went to eat at a Chippy by myself.

That was Thanksgiving 2005

This year was a bit different. Already being in school, I didn't have to audition. I did have class, though. Wednesday morning, Sarah and I went to ASDA to find Turkey, corn, cranberry sauce, stuffing, gravy, green beans, and potatoes (all the staples of a proper Thanksgiving). We even bought nuts and nutcrackers (I move Nancy would later abhor at the site of the carpet littered with nut-bits).The bus never came so we took a taxi, which was cheaper than expected.

Thursday Sarah insisted on cooking, which was fine because I needed to be at school for a lunch-time concert and my class was conveniently placed from 1700-1830. Afterwards, I walked with Yvonne, an American flutist, back to the house (directions are so complicated, its generally better to just take people there--left, right, left, right, etc., etc.)

We had about 10-12 people there total (some left early, some arrived late). Everything was ravaged, making it the first Thanksgiving I can remember without leftovers (even last year I didn't eat the mushy peas). The night wore on, and I finally headed to bed about 3(!) My stupid body woke me up at 9, so I could come back down and survey the damage. I'll leave it to your imagination.

Friday evening saw a similar event, with me being an invitee. The American/Canadian flutists (I think there are 3-4) had their own party, which Yvonne graciously invited me. So I imagine my surplus of Turkey this year was God atoning for my fish and chips last November.

The rest of the weekend has gone on without incident. Yesterday Sarah and I visited Nancy at work, a pub called The Old Monkey. There we had a local bitter called Joseph Holt. Today I discovered (via Nancy) a marginal-if-best soap opera called Hollyoaks. I don't suspect my practicing will be a victim of it.

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Another Point

Ethanol Drives Up Food Commodity Prices, Datagro Says.

With the increase of globalization, one would think we would begin to harbor a worldview that is more inter-related. You would think DDT and history would teach us that nature doesn't always follow straight lines.

And remember that due to the oil/natural gas required to grow our food (insecticide, fertilizer, and irrigation), the Energy Returned On Energy Invested (EROEI) really isn't that great.

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Urbis/Bond

Woke up a bit later than I expected, and missed the train to Newcastle. Grimethorpe lost (they had won the previous 5 years, but this year they lost by 2 points, the equivalent of 1%) In lieu of this, I caught the new bond film (a bit of a requirement over here), and walked around the Christmas shopping area, and explored Urbis.

Urbis is a fantastic museum/art space dedicated to urban development and renewal. the current exhibits were focused on China's expansion and continued alteration. Up one level was the NOISEFestival, productions from an (almost) entirely online exhibition. Finally, on the top floor, there was a section dedicated to the 10th anniversary of the bombing of Arndale. In 1996, Manchester was the victim of a large IRA bomb. No one died, but there were about 200 injured, and a large section of the shopping district was ruined. As a result, Manchester rebuilt the area in a spectacular fashion, building the first new road in about 100 years.

Bond was a bit elusive, in my eyes. I cannot claim to be a Bond aficionado, but the new film seems to have odd segments. I don't want to delve too far (I won't write spoilers, but keep a wary eye if you want to judge for yourself). There seems to be a deconstruction going on, and overall the movie is grittier and, despite your usual cartwheeling acrobatics, more realistic. We see visual/plot-based discussions of control, misogyny, and the degradation of tradition (SPOILER!!! - Bond:"I'll have a martini" Bartender:"Shaken or stirred?" Bond:"Does it look like I care?") Of course, the observation that is begging to be seen is how these elements are being used to change the Bond image, or if they are permanent. Bond 22, the current name for the next film, is rumored to be an actual sequel. Just what is Craig thinking?!?!

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Point and Counterpoint

For those with time on their hands:

Peak Oil Theory is Faulty

Response:

Our Response to CERA
(for a condensed rebuttal)

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Week?! A whole Week?! (aka The Bump on my Nose)

Sorry for the delay, you know how it is.

Sunday I was heading to church, but was diverted when I neared the Central Library. If you recall it was Remembrance Day, and the ceremony began the same time as church (a problem with which I was hoping someone would deal). I was able to hear some brass bands playing customary English marches (as well as Nimrod), bagpipers, a religious service (including recitations for Christian, Jewish, Muslim, and Hindu congregants), and poppies aplenty.

Tuesday I had a 5- hour workshop with Tete a Tete, an opera company doing a contemporary version of Odysseus. The instrumentalists (including me) created music for the initial scene, and the singers created action that directly reflected the dialogue. Overall the workshop served two purposes: 1) We were forced away from our convention (i.e. written music) and had to tackle musical needs with greater thought and creativity, and 2) We physically ran through a workshop that would be normally be given to younger children, so we could experience what they would (with the hope that we will eventually be giving the workshops).

During the physical warm-up, we played several versions of tag, including freeze tag. We needed to run under people's legs to unfreeze them. In all the hustle and bustle, I scraped my nose, but not bad enough to be noticable (well, one person has noticed). And that was that.

Wednesday we attended the production of Odysseus Unwound. I sat next two a friend from Greece, who complained that they butchered the original story, although her sister didn't seem to mind as much.

Thursday was again another workshop oriented presentation, this time Artis..., which acts as a training and employment tool for musicians, theaterites, and dances. The emphasis is on school workshops and presentations, and after trainig is completed, the artists work at a specific school, year-round. Sounds like a nice, reliable goup.

Friday I got a new flatmate! Nancy is a master's oboeist at RNCM. She isn't completely moved in, but her sense of humor fits well with Sarah and myself, and she's teaching us British. I could write more, but I can't be bothered.

Today I did laundry, practiced, read Murokami's After the Quake (which I hope to write about later), and watched Casino Royale. Next weekend I plan on watching Casino Royale. Church will be missed once again due to a Brass Band competition in Gateshead.

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Artsy Saturday

Because of RNCM's lack of practice rooms (I think there are less than 50 for a school of 600!), and the presence of little children on Saturdays, it's impossible to practice on a Saturday morning. And given the small party Sarah and I hosted yesterday a small party to celebrate our new abode. Our Spanish friends stayed the longest, and we easily fell asleep after their departure.

That being the case, I woke up at 9, at a nice slow breakfast, read, and headed out for a little culture shock.

The first was the Cornerhouse. This is the closest Manchester has to the Little, although in addition to artsy movies and a cafe, they also boast a bar and a three-floor art gallery (free admission). The current exhibit was called "Pancea Hothouse" and featured several artsits' take on the current solutions to pain and discomfort, tension (both individual and international). One featured 9 green neon "+" signs common in France to indicate a pharmacy. The glare and constant fragmentation of light caused as much discomfort as it supposedly was supposed to allieviate.

The second endeavor was a bit further. Travelling along Deansgate, the primary shopping district, which goes on FOREVER, I eventually made it to Suburb, a restaurant/cafe that emphasizes fair trade and healthy living. There was an exhibit I saw advertised in the Manchester Evening News called "Naked Manchester". The photographer, Neil Roland, had models pose naked throughout the city and neighboring parks. The paper's interest in the exhibit was the response. Thinking about how this may be taken in America (I recall Java's had some close-to-naked paintings on the wall, but very little explicitly placed), and one may expect an uproar in "Prude-land"; however, the photos were such a success, people were paying $500-3000 to have THEMSELVES photographed naked in areas of personal importance.

I had an opportunity to talk with Neil, and I gathered that England is more relaxed than the US regarding nudity. Interestingly, I also learned he was schooled in law, and enjoys success enough so he doesn't have to do weddings, etc. I found his philosophy regarding differences between photographing men and women a bit divergent from my personal philosophy (something I recall reading about in the writings of Ken Wilber). But, I also imagine, since I am not a visual artist, my focus will lean more towards the signifiance of an object rather than the aesthetic (particularly of human form). But that's just my opinion.

I have a room booked in an hour, and I still need to pick up the daily paper to work on the crossword. More from the art world later!

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New Information

My SPS Education Project (where we learn to lead workshops) has finally been broken into groups, where we will decide how to execute our workshop, giving guidelines for the age, number, duration, and other relevant material (such as, what will we actually do?)

A pianist in my group (it's make-up is Piano, Cello, Euphonium) has told us that she has been invited to give a workshop in Malta in March! So while people are grudgingly tramping about Sullen and Dreary Manchester, I will be soaking up rays on the Maltese Coast! Or, giving a workshop.

In any case, I'll keep you updated!

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Have I sold my soul?

Dear Readers,

It can begin so easily and innocently. Sarah, one of my American friends (we tend to huddle together), was living in Salford for the past month-and-a-half. Her roommates were unbearable, the commute was too long, and as usual, America had ruined our financial status (now resolved). In an effort to help alleviate her suffering, I recommended she move into my flat. There were still two rooms available, and the rent was fairly cheap.

She accepted the terms, and moved in two days later (many things, like shops opening, and lunch, take massive amount of time, energy, and paperwork, but housing seems to streamline everything with "we'll do the paperwork later"). In comparing the step from her earlier accommodation to her new house, she had a nickname which isn't clean enough for my blog (I consider this a family site).

After a week of intensive cleaning, hodge-podge decorating, sketchy cooking equipment, broken electricity boxes, shoddy doors, and a mouse, she decided she needed to move.

(For a quick reference, the original post of my living conditions are here. I am obliged to quickly point out that my room was significantly better than hers. Her room was the first one I saw, to which I thought "maybe this isn't the best deal". I tried to pull the screws out of my wall, but they were pretty solid.)

The landlord has other accommodations. Quite a few in fact, and she was moved (within one day) to a newer accommodation, free of mice, decrepit ceilings, and electricity boxes. She was enthused, and, there being 4 other rooms available, obliged me to join.

Here is a quick summary of several of the factors that entered my head:

1. Price - The new house is a bit more expensive. Still doable, and still significantly less than the dorms (about $150/month less). Since I tend towards the analytic, I found myself estimating the daily cost, and pushing it against the aid package I have, allowing me to see what "extra cash" I might have for "extra things" such as food.
   
   Of course, the new price may encourage me to step out of my shell and find a job.


2. Safety - Although both areas are moderate areas in the safety department, and I haven't felt discouraged about the location of my house, I must admit the locks and security system of the newer house are a nice improvement to the padlock on my room at Rusholme address.


3. From School - This by far is the most difficult decision, primarily because the walk I take to school takes me through Whitworth Park, by the [WW] Art Gallery, Royal Eye Hospital, the Children's Hospital, The Holy Name Catholic Church, and the University of Manchester - some of the finest architecture this side of City Centre. By contrast, the new walk would take me by the newer buildings and construction projects, large behemoths of glass and hard edges, and a used car lot.
   
   I could feasibly take the old walk, without going too far out of the way.


4. Aesthetics - Another challenge to the newer establishment, primarily because I enjoyed the Saturnian garden in the front, as well as some of the architecture I venture to say many people miss when walking by (such as the stained glass birds on the window above the entryway - echoed on the wall near the stairs.
   
   In a stark contrast, the newer house is in a humdrum neighborhood, fallen asleep through the sin of conformity.

So when discussing this with the landlord, I was presented the quote above, and told at my peril that three people were looking at it that afternoon. Several hours later, when discussing the options with Sarah, I learned they had arrived, visited, and accepted the terms of the new house.

In a panicky frenzy, I called my landlord to 1) ensure that I would accept a room under the condition that it wasn't the ground floor room, and 2) upon finding out it was a small room in the attic, agreed to move in the next day.

So tonight I will return to conformity. Perhaps this void of creativeness will force me again out of my shell, but as any experienced player taking a turn in a significantly worse ensemble will tell you, this is not always the case. All I am obliged to do is treat the house with love and respect, and perhaps it will show me a surprise or two.

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Remember, Remember...

the fifth of November.

Ah, Guy Fawkes Day. Bonfire night. The now 401-year celebration of the foiled plot to blow up parliament. I can only imagine what London must have been like.

In bright Manchester, I didn't know where the celebrations would be. I had been informed by Julie that there would be fireworks in Hulme, but the trip might take too long :( Considering the amount of explosions I have heard outside my house for the past couple nights (comparable to the noise and commotion during the end of Ramadan), we wouldn't have to go far to see something.

And indeed I was right. We decided to sojourn out to Platt Fields Park, just beyond the Curry Mile (a monstrously large park, with a lake and island); I figured something would be going on there. As we started down the Mile, we stopped to observe the ashes falling from the sky. We wondered how our eyes would survive the hazy fog the enveloped the entire city. The fast moving clouds may indeed have been the fallout from too many rockets.

We were saddened to find nothing at Platt Fields. That is, nothing immediately. Instead, we were pleasantly surprised to have a moderate view of fireworks far and away. Balz complained about there not being any "large" fireworks, but this was strictly due to distance.

I can definitively say this was different than the 4th [of July]. Although I wasn't as close to the fireworks, they were no less grand. Indeed, it is quite different to stand alone in a park, with 3 friends, turning every which way to catch the lights and explosions coming from all directions. It was like every neighborhood harbored their own collection of rockets, a cataclysmic battle-of-the-bands. Occasional sparklers would arise, and mischievous kids with their own tricks would unleash an explosion or two.

After the ordeal, which was short objectively but long by no stretch of the imagination, we headed to the Whitworth, a pub near my home, where we enjoyed lager, cider, and poor folk music (not music of poor folk, but poorly performed). On the way back to my house, I got to hear and see more fireworks being shot off across the street, in Whitworth Park. This was fine, although the one that flew sideways indicated it was amateurs setting them off.

In my bed, I was carried away to Slumberville by the glorious fireworks, explosions, and general hub-bub of English tomfoolery.

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Review of the Week

from Bloomberg:

All You Need Is Love? McCartney's Oratorio Is Syrupy Confection

"The players of the Academy of St. Martin in the Fields looked as if they were on heavy tranquilizers."

I think that's my favorite quote.

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There are no Universalists in England...

Today I visited the Cross Street Chapel, home of Manchester's Unitarian Church. Services start at 10:45, and there aren't choir rehearsals prior, so I slept well in the morning, and took a leisurely stroll (partly due to the fact I thought it started at 10:30).

The church itself is quite interesting; located on Cross Street, it balances between City Hall (home of citizenry) and Arndale, the primary shopping center (home of consumerism). Walking past Albert Square (someone finally did let the prince out of the can!), which rests in front of CH, it was intriguing to see in the distance shops and the Manchester Wheel/Eye. Seeing myself as a pilgrim of sorts, I recalled Hawthorne's Celestial Railroad, and the John Bunyan work on which it was based (Pilgrim's Progress). I felt I could embark on temptation and place myself squarely in Vanity Fair, surviving needless capitalist pleasures (in the end, I bought a coffee).

Reading my newest intellectual inquiry Findley's Silent no More..., I sat outside the church until about 10:40. Then I stepped in.

The church is quite new, and old, with it's foundation poured in 1997 and it's roots shooting back to the 1662; the Sanctuary is round, with about 150 chairs placed in three sweeping rows, stopped towards the other side by a piano and small organ. The chalice was in the center, in front of a lectern.

Today's sermon was an historical account of Joe Priestley "Gunpowder Joe".There were about 10 people today, which may be because it was a lay service "of sorts" (the lady who presided is an ordained minister and teaches at a Unitarian University). I was pleased to discuss music, religion, et. al. in the true UU Communion "Coffee Hour".

It was here that I sadly learned "There are no Universalists in England." One of the members had sung in a choir at the Unitarian Church in Rochester, but stated so boldly England's lack of Univ's when I specified I had attended the Universalist Church. Such a shame.

In any event, I was greeted by a welcoming congregation, despite my American shortcomings. More will be posted in the ensuing weeks of spiritual enlightenment.

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Janacek

Finally, tonight it will be over.

Don't get me wrong, I enjoy Janacek; he's always been a composer I haven't entirely warmed-up to. Just his odd melodies/harmonies rub me the wrong way at times, I guess. The 5 movements are interesting in their own right, but they don't mesh well, I think.

So the day goes as such:
10-11 Boring Master's lecture
11-13 Composition Discussion (probably not boring, but if it is, I'm trapped in a small room with 7 others for 2 hours)
13-15 Euphonium class w/ Thornton
1430-1730 Dress Rehearsal (I'll only need to be there for 1/2 hour)
1730-1930 Eat, get dressed (which may or may not involve buying a black button-down)
1930 Concert

And then it's the weekend!

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Halloween

I need to write this quickly, so I can jump in the queue and get a practice room.

Yes they do celebrate it here, and people get dressed up. Because I live in primarily student area, I didn't see to many trick-or-treaters, but there were many college students at the JCR. There were the basic assortment of scary masks, light make-up work done (usually as kittens), red pitchforks and tails; the most frequent dress I hadn't seen in the US was Alex de Large, from A Clockwork Orange.

My costume got quite a few compliments. I must profess, it was difficult visualizing/executing the role of a "salad", especially the helmet fashioned from a head of cabbage. Although it went over well (until about midnight, when food was beginning to tire), I don't think it was as successful as last year's "That which is between Jesus and a pirate". Although inspiration for next year's costume arrived en route to the party (Sound Effects Man!), I'll let the idea ferment, and see if I get wine or vinegar. You just can't prepare this early.

They had ghoulish rock music playing, while on the TV's we caught the end of Ghosbusters, then most of Battle Royale. It wasn't nearly as bloody as I expected, which made me question about it being banned in the US; however, I suppose context would be sufficient.

Sarah went as Frozen, and Julie went as Burnt. I'm not sure how they're costumes were received, but pending after-party questions, I would imagine pretty well.

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