An embarrassment of books

I spent the day wandering around the nearby Glasgow University; I went to their campus bookshop and the library (the library is a 12 story building with more than two million volumes; I have a feeling I will spend some amount of time there as it is within walking distance and, as a Strathclyde graduate student, I can check out books).
From there, I made a general loop around the wider neighbourhood. I first went into a little back-alley bookseller where books were literally piled in heaps on the floor. Most of the shelves had books two or three deep in ranks. I don’t know if they occasionally rotate the stock back to front or if the rear volumes have been there since the 1930’s.

In this bookshop was a black and white cat; when I entered, it was sitting on a pedestal by the door. I assume she is the security of the place as she gave me a look over. While I was there, the fellow at the desk let her out (notable later).

Behind this place is a funky little tea house named Tchai-Ovna; the owner is half Czech and the waitress and I exchanged a few words in Czech (she is taking classes at Glasgow Univ.). They serve, of course, Middle-Eastern food.

After that, another bookshop…and then another…and then I stopped at a book fair. I am proud of the fact that, while I saw a lot of books that looked interesting, I did not purchase any books today. One, I am trying to save money and know that I will have to buy books for school; two, I know that I will have to move all these books at the end of the year.

The cat showed up twice after her first appearance. Once was just down the street. She was stalking a small bird. After that, some distance away, she was sitting in the entrance to an antiques shop greeting visitors there. She must provide security services to several shops in the neighbourhood.

I also stopped at the Botanic Gardens; there is an exhibition of bonsai trees on right now. They had some really wonderful examples on display (in peril from the curious fingers of children who were gleefully wandering about the glasshouse).

I’m going to set down with a book for the evening; something’s put me in the mood to read.

Glasgow Botanic Gardens

I’ve just returned from the Glasgow Botanic Gardens (it’s a five minute walk from my flat). I’ve found the place to go this winter when I need to take a stroll and clear my head. It’s like walking through a giant Victorian terrarium; every inch of the place seems covered with exotic plants. Lovely.

Arrived in Glasgow

I’m sitting in my new place. New country. New city. New people. I have exactly the same feeling I had nearly 15 years ago when my parents dropped me off at university (well, maybe not exactly). Yesterday morning, I kissed Andrea good-by to go away for a year of study. It was cold and rainy when I arrived in Glasgow. I’m excited about the program I will enter; but, at the same time, this will mean some sacrifices. Last night, the first night here, I was sort of sad. Excited but alone again. It better be worth it (and I mean that literally, everything here seems about four times more expensive than in the Czech Republic).

I did not learn very much Czech in my time there; coming to Scotland sounds, at first blush, like a relatively easy move when it comes to language. After all, English is spoken here. But, when I walked out of the airport yesterday, I needed to find the taxi I had booked to bring me into the city. I stopped an official airport looking fellow and asked where the taxi stop is. I literally did not understand one word he said! I’m not entirely sure how that is possible. Thankfully he did gesture in a direction and I found the location.

My taxi driver was this jovial guy who gave me a general overview of the traffic situation and some points about the city on the way in. However, I had to listen very keenly to make much headway through is accent eithe. E sounded lik e were speakin ethout everal diptongs e ave en moost Anglish spech. Ploos, air winder wos dawn e ole wae ain thee nois from de wind russian bie mae ait terrabil diffcult tae hear eich oother.

I will just have to get my ears in tune; most of the people I spoke with when I was here before were much more intelligible. (And, I have to wonder, it may be difficult for people to make their way through my accent. So I’m not complaining.)

The flat I’m in seems great; it’s in what used to be a fire brigade compound. There is a big inner courtyard with a community patio and we are in a relatively quiet neighbourhood. This will be good as I have a feeling I will spend most of my time this year sitting here reading.

Colloquial copy

I’m trying to write voice over copy for the Xtreme Team video; however, my words sound like a tired university professor reviewing the exploits of a group of adventuresome young people. I find myself using phrases such as in retrospect and along those lines. I’m not sure if this is a warning that my writing and speech is verging on cliché or I merely have the wrong set of vocabulary to write such things.
I recall meting a group of teens in a Philadelphia transitional home a few years ago. We fell into a lexically mismatched void of communication; I was saying, “Oh, pleased to meet you; it seems your program is progressing quite well here…etc. etc.” to their bemusement. I left with the impression they thought I was making fun of them. But, that’s just the way I speak. If I had attempted “streety” language it would have been truly false (and—I probably would have been thrashed).

Now, I’m just aiming for neutral language that will appeal to young people who might consider going on Xtreme Team. I’m afraid going into a MSc program this fall will pull me further down into an abyss of cluttered language. I shall endeavour to—I will keep Strunk and White close at hand.

Shame

For most of human history (or, “civilised” human history, if you like) the most disappointing thing one could do would be to shame one’s ancestors. To break family honour or lose face in society was (and still generally is) a terrible matter. To have a parent or close relative say, “You have shamed us all” could send a person into a downward turn for the rest of his or her life (which may be spent in psychological or physical exile depending on the severity of the transgression).

One’s family has a certain amount of honour built up over generations; to shame it is seen as a theft. An act of shame may draw down heavily on the account and cause it all to collapse. I think, to some extent, the responsibility (or the burden, if one considers the extreme expectations of some families) of holding up the family name has diminished. We are, in “the West” at least, so focused on the individual’s accomplishments and failings that past glories (or downfalls) are of little importance. This is, of course, both liberating and damming. If my forefathers were scoundrels, I’ll probably not be held to attest for their misdeeds; but we also tend to neglect the history of goodwill and actions of many who have passed on (this is particularly emphasised by the loss of extended families and the mobility of society in general; we are no longer of a place—neither bound to its history or its future).

It is the future we have to address. Whereas we once took care not to shame our fathers and grandfathers, we now take even less care to honour our children and grandchildren. Our focus, as a society, seems to be entirely on the present; in this, we shame both past and future generations. This is not a shame belonging to any one family or lineage; my shame spreads to your family and yours to mine. It is like a cancer than begins in one cell and spreads to another till, system by system, it consumes everything.

We are consumers of all (often we are collectively referred to as such as in the somewhat telling economic term consumer confidence). Our idealised frontiersmen forefathers might be forgiven for believing the Earth was an inexhaustible resource—we can have no such delusion. We are now openly stealing the fortunes of all who follow for our own temporary benefit. I’ve never heard someone openly wish a life of deprivation and despair for future generations; yet this is what we curse them with at almost every step. What greater shame or selfishness is there than this to lay upon the human family?

Note that I do not exempt myself; I am as complicit as the mass of others in a thousand little ways. But I do not wish to shame those who came before me—those who, no matter what we may now see as their missteps, believed they were building up a world for the better. I also do not wish to become a source of shame for those who follow. As I write this, I’m looking out my window at a group of children playing. I want none of them, as adults, to look back at me and say, “You knew; why could you not have been a source of change?” And what a radical change that must be.

Soaring

I had a wonderful belated birthday gift today (which ended up much better than my previous birthday experience last month). Petr Pojar, a colleague of Andrea’s, is part-owner of the local airfield here in Most; he’s an avid amateur pilot (thousands of hours in the air over the span of 30 years). We are beside a mountain range here and there is a lot of hang-gliding, parachuting, etc.; several months ago, Andrea and I saw a sail-plane in the air and I mentioned this is something I’ve always wanted to do. So, she arranged a flight with Petr (which I did not know about till this morning)!

We flew in a Czechoslovak Blanik L-13 glider. It’s a somewhat compact (for a glider) two person plane (a bit less room than economy class in Lufthansa, but the view was amazingly better). We were towed up by a single engine prop plane (also Czech made—in 1949) from a grass runway. At about 3000 feet, Petr released the tow cable and we were gliding—and, except for the sound of wind rushing by and the mechanism of the controls, there was no noise. In some ways, it sounded like the stroke of oars on a boat skimming over water (the plane doesn’t weigh much more than a small boat anyway; it’s 292 kg or 643 lb empty).

Several times, Petr dropped into a sudden dive (a free fall like this gives the impression of zero gravity) then pulled up into a wild arc (which, of course, pulls down several times the force of gravity and pinned us to the seat). The plane must not stall easily; it seemed, at the end of the arc, we were pointed straight up and would fall out of the sky! That was also the point, at the peak of the plane’s recovery, where there was absolutely no noise; we were thousands of feet in the air in absolute silence. I’ve heard pilots say that gliding is almost like a meditation and can understand why. Rather than tearing through the sky with a big engine, one must learn to read clouds and ride the winds.

We had a terrific view of the city and surroundings (unfortunately we had a great view of what happens when there is extensive surface mining for coal; the past fifty years of industry haven’t been kind). After about a half hour, Petr spiralled back down toward the airstrip (which, rather disconcertingly, has a big pond at the head of it…which he seemingly dove straight down towards before pulling up and gently landing on the runway). The glider also has a very short landing distance; I think it was less than a hundred feet or so.

And then we went and had a beer; which is the way to finish off all things Czech.

There was also a parachuting competition today—that’s something I’m not sure if I ever want to do.

Discarding life

Speaking of China, we’ve heard in recent days about product recalls of Chinese made toys. What happens to all these recalled toys? Millions of toys are coming back in; where do they go? Are they melted down and recycled into new toys (noting that the reason for recall is lead in the paint; will this lead be removed somehow)? Will they be dumped into a landfill (again, what happens to the lead)? Will they be shipped to some other country that does not note child safety so closely?

(For that matter, what happened to the millions of batteries recalled from mine and similar laptops? Recycled, I hope. What’s going to happen to the millions of mobile phone batteries Nokia recalled this week?)

What happens to all the toys that are just discarded? After a toy’s season has passed and a child loses interest, where does it go to its long home? When I was a child, I wanted all the same action figures and new toys that most every child wanted. But, looking back, I think the toys I appreciated most and enjoyed most were the simple LEGOs or wooden toys (Lincoln Logs, Tinker Toys, etc.) that stimulated my imagination. For years, I enjoyed these toys (long after generations of the latest toy had passed its prime).

I don’t think it’s just nostalgia. I wonder if we, as adults, forget that a child doesn’t need a toy that is so fancy and elaborate that there is no need to ascribe any imagination to it. It seems that many toys are so complex that all the play is “explained.”

Beyond this; what are we teaching children about the experience of joy and pleasure? That it is something to be enjoyed in this one thing—and then discarded after a time in favour of something new with more lights and colours? How does this translate life outlook and decisions? I need more and more shiny things; I’ll enjoy this person for a while but then I’ll need someone new; all the discarded parts of my life will just go away—they weren’t well made to begin with and someone else can deal with the debris.

Maybe that’s digging a bit deeper than reality; but—just a thought.