hights, lows, hellenistic hag

moral dilemmas for which i have no answers and however much i study facts or rhethoric techniques to convince myself, i won't know. for some reason they all make me feel uncomfortable with my consciousness and undermine the confidence i've been trying to build to manage exams and larger tests of time.

or maybe just low points of my day to be written on some piece of blogging to be burnt and buried in the interblag so i can sleep, get up, row and revise like normal people do...

8am - i had to book a flight with ryanair to sardinia.i need to get there for excavations, but there's nothing i have that i can compromise - time, comfort, effort - in favour of the ethical reasons against flying, except the impossible price of the ferryboat. yet, consciousness on the back-burner, i sat down to book 'cheap' flights. and honestly, they get dirtier and dirtier every time i look. the environmental damage comes first; the unneccessary consumerism ranks second; then the intrusive adds and attitude; and with every next webpage, a new kind of made-up cost added to a 'free' flight - insurance, obligatory check-in, obligatory card-handling fee, luggage, etc.

my new theory to play with is that low-cost companies molest their custommers by hidden fees, and intrusive disciplining physical discomfort, telling them where to be, when to do things etc exercises of authority. and this is all a strategy to take people's mind off guilty thoughts about carbon footprints. once you're having a shitty time and have been deceived anyway, you don't want to self-flagellate your consciousness further and enjoy your holliday.
sado-masochisstic behaviour (discomfort for self, bad for the planet) might help people get over their problematic relationship with the environment. that's how i felt on the last long flight i took anyway - 10 hours stuck next to the toilet, with a stinky fat guy next to me undermined good intentions for carbon offsetting because 'i'd suffered enough'.
or maybe they are careless bastards heading on cheap holliday.

2pm - then i met with someone who i recently learnt has published a beautiful book with funding from the getty museum, which is deeply involved in illicit antiquities (but has great outreach). this is someone whom i hold in truly high esteem, whose writings are an inspiration, and whose lectures are a privilege to attend, who has taught me more about art, antiquity, argumentation and cambridge, than any other supervisor, ... so it came as a bit of a shock and caught in the cross-fire between my two teachers (Miss Ethical black and white Heritage Management and Mr Reach Out to the Public is more important than ethical but dust-filled museums), i still don't know what to think.
anyway, he in turn found out what my exam essays would be like...
great way to motivate the last week of hard work - mutual disappointment.

4 pm talking to amiya because i'm upset and concerned, it turns out it's common advise for cambridge exam tactics - 'to do a high-mark argument, write like anything you are not': like a private-schooled english boy who can provoke by instinct, name-drop authors to parade his knowledge, and stick to disciplined timing. i'm sure where i stand on this, but i'm not sure what to do. last year i thought i would try to fit the mould to see if i can, take the best skills from it and move on. but i'm not so sure if those skills are worth it any more or it'll be time to move on to somewhere else (less mouldy) after this degree.

6pm - little 70-year old lady with blue veins under loose satine skin in grads. came up to me. she'd let a bra strap fall off her shoulder and spilt her tea with unrest, because i was bear-footed in a coffeeshop. then gave a long expose on how dangerous i was, compromising the hygene of the institution, swine flu, equatorial bugs, countryside and all. it was so tragicomical and pathetic i could not respond with anything but think 'ok whatever, if you'll fuck off and leave me worry about gender and fetishism'. i would not disagree with anything a crazy little old lady says, but it's disturbing to listen out of pity for someone who expects respect, to treat them as a story, a cultural product that needs to be tolerated or a black-white picture that only accepts respect and affection.

reminding of my great grand mother as real as she was, and aristotle's observation that we enjoy grotesque because we recognise it's art. we take distance from the hellenistic 'old hag' because she is a statue and we focus on the artist's skill rather than the degradation of the subject.
sometimes i write here to take distance from what is happening, lock it in some nice alliterations, metaphors and that kind of safe-keeping devices. then it's a bit more tolerable and thinkable through. it's text, not weight on my chest.

but it's also disturbing to treat anyone (me, the old hag, my unremembered great grandmother) as a story, a cultural product that needs to be tolerated or a black-white picture that only accepts respect and affection.

hopefully one day i'll be buried and will grow into a tree. people would keep correcting my branches, trimming me, and so on to keep me alive and keep stretching higher.

that song. again.
(god took the stars and he tossed 'em
can't tell the birds from the blossoms
you'll never be free of me
he'll make a tree from me

lay your head where my heart used to be,
hold the earth above me
lay down in the green grass
remember when you loved me)

good-drinking cup tea break

* ok, the last words of the last post (and i) deserve the prosaic break because i learnt something quite fascinating (for someone who made up their mind about doing archaeology following the steps of Schliemann, with 'The Deam of Troy' in my backback, inherited from their mother):

In one of the shaft-graves at Mycenae, in 1876 Schliemann found what he believed was

... a cup,

a magnificent work Nestor had brought from home,

studded with gold. There were four handles on it,

around each one a pair of golden doves was feeding.

Below were two supports. When that cup was full,

another man could hardly lift it from the table,

but, old as he was, Nestor picked it up with ease. (Iliad 11.632ff, transl. J.Johnson)

... he was wrong, the cup was made several centuries before any Trojan war and any Nestor.
But in 1954, at Pithekoussai, one of the oldest colonies near Naples, excavations unearthed a clay cup, which spoke for itself (in a hexametric inscription, one of the earliest snippets of Greek we have!):
I am Nestor’s good-drinking cup.
Whoever drinks this cup empty, straightaway
the desire of beautiful-crowned Aphrodite will seize.
The clay-cup came from a child's grave, I think as a symbolic solution to completing his early-ended life cycle to the point where he would have been as old as myth or Nestor.

Other entertaining associations include Romanian death-weddings, the purposes of Platonic myths, structuralism / cognitive theory applied to Geometric vase painting, and so on, ... I'd better get on with visions and revisions.

bonfire to summon summer.

(i know it's summer even though it's gloomy grey and seeping rain and the tall towers of colleges are closed to prevent anyone climbing above the clouds or committing suicide during exam term)
because my jumper smelled of smoke one morning
and nettle burns weave healing stings around my knuckles
because a spiderweb was stretching fresh across the path and sealed my lips as i was running
because we warmed the river's waters with our naked swimming bodies
and as i pull my ore through water, there is a rhythm - 8 rocking over, 8 flicking wrists, 6am starts - that i did not know before.
and then i go to learn my Homer hexametres between cups of tea and cups of Nestor and Mycenae.*

if i had twitter

i'd say my brain is asleep after an all-nighter; but i am on a sugar high after eating too many grapes (criminally imported out of season); my eyes are reading; by bike is cycling; i'm going to listen to a four hour seminar on levi strauss; and i think i'll deconstruct all my binary oppositions by the end; but then there will be a surprise czech film.

this morning dr miracle (who is not fictional) said post-structuralist phases are something like a mid-life crises. at least for hodder. ho. ho.

will write about it later.