Women's Volleyball

This Friday night I attended a volleyball match: the University of Washington Women’s Volleyball team versus Stanford University. The game was played at the University’s Bank of America arena in the lovely red-bricked Hec Edmundson Pavilion situated neatly alongside the ring wing of the enormous Husky Stadium. As an experiment, if I were to ask you to roughly estimate the attendance to this game I wonder what figure you would reach. Considering the game was scheduled on a Friday night and the relative obscurity of Women’s volleyball in the UK, I imagine most estimates would be fairly conservative.

According to Husky Sports, the 24/7 media arm of the University, attendance at the game was over 4500 people. From a brief visual survey of the crowd, I would guess that only one-fifth were students. On reflection, it actually felt far more than this within the arena, as the atmosphere was raucously infectious for the entire game. This atmosphere was warmly fostered by a stereotypical US sports announcer who screamed ‘Point Huskies’ at every available moment, a small division of the Husky Marching Band playing cheesy upbeat melodies and wild, celebratory graphics emblazoning across a JumboTron scoreboard that floated above the arena.

The University of Washington Women’s Volleyball team are currently ranked 3^rd nationally by the Associated Press and they certainly played like such a team (not that I have deep, critical appreciation of volleyball). The game was played at an impressive pace and the movements of the players within set-plays was incredible as players variously feinted, dummied and reset to seek the extra edge. The exchanges at the net were a series of crashing spikes, towering blocks and the most delicate of finger touches. Equally the corresponding team’s pick-ups were a dazzling demonstration of highly tuned reflexives, hand coordination and dedicated court coverage. Impressive stuff…

It seemed that whilst this atmosphere was conducive to the creation of a sporting spectacle, it might have overwhelmed the Stanford team, as they were blown away 3-0 in straight sets. There was some obvious gamesmanship from the home team that may have also contributed to this whitewash. Not least were the cascade of cackles and escalating cheers that created every Stanford server prior to striking the ball and the joyful shouts of derision at the ever more desperate time-out calls from the Stanford coach – although it should be noted that these are the natural characteristics of the average sporting mob. More deliberate were the graphics that celebrated points from the star Washington players such as ‘Kill Jill, Kill!’ and ‘Airial’s Aerial Attack’.

As I streamed out into the night with the hoards, I gave pause to wonder at the diverse array of fans and their great enthusiasm for the sport. I had truly enjoyed my evening and gained a new appreciation for a previously unexplored sport. However, when I inevitably sort to draw comparisons with the UK, I sadly came rather short which was both disappointing but unsurprising. Women in team sports in the UK experience comparatively sparse coverage and support than US counterparts, which needs to be remedied to the benefit of both development and participation. Until such time the University of Washington Women’s Volleyball will continue to benefit from my vocal support.

Halloween

I have to confess that if there were an equivalent character for Halloween, as Scrooge or more appropriately as I’m in American the Grinch represent for Christmas, I would endorse them. Why this annual event is considered a ‘holiday’ has always been slightly beyond my comprehension. This is probably due to an accumulation of factors such as never having ‘celebrated’ Halloween as a child; the stupid kid that I once threw an egg at my house and then one directly at me when I chased him; the fact that most elderly people I know will spend the evening with their lights off in the hope that no miscreant knocks their door; or just general apathy to this wholly commercial holiday loosely based on pseudo Christian and Celtic traditions.

However, in America Halloween is a significant event and therefore I feel behoved to comment.  It is also a distinctly different experience to the UK version that it makes for good observational and anecdotal material. There are many parallels to the UK such as excess candy, stupid costumes, inebriated students, the sudden appearance of faux spider webs, idiots that feel the need to cackle when they serve you coffee and of course the pumpkins. But as with most things in America, the event is bigger, louder and more enthusiastically pursued – it is Halloween on steroids.

It is hard not to over emphasise this, indications that Halloween was once again upon us began in very early October with signs, costumes and special offers appearing all over. It was similar to what happens towards the end of November with reference to Christmas, when you can feel both emotionally and physically, the commercial machine gearing itself up for the ‘holiday’. Then in the week leading up to Halloween virtually every coffee house, office, school, shopping mall and many homes suddenly resemble the set of the Addams family. Plus the annual pumpkin massacre is evident everywhere in a bright orange orgy of vegetable entrails.

This American version of Halloween is perhaps best illustrated by events held at America’s most influential house, the White one with the pillars in Washington…

On Saturday evening, the Obamas hosted over 2000 children for a Trick or Treat event on the front porch of the White House. The Leader of the Free World along with the First Lady gave out Presidential M&Ms, dried fruit and a sweet dough butter cookie made specially by the White House pastry chef in the shape of the official residence. From the news segments, the party appeared to be a huge success with even the Press Secretary dressing as Darth Vader and Michelle Obama as a leopard. Thankfully President Obama demonstrated more restraint, choosing to adopt a more subtle costume, namely that of a middle-aged father in a cardigan. The crowning event of the evening was the unveiling of a 1287lb pumpkin on the Front Lawn – for those seeking a metric qualification it was a 584kg pumpkin…

It is hard to imagine anything like this occurring in the UK. The kids would probably not be allowed into 10 Downing Street due to anti-terrorism legislation and anyhow Gordon Brown would scare them all away – the guy looks like a Halloween monster all year round. Despite it all I remain a Halloween sceptic and refuse to see why I should be held hostage for sweets by small kids in stupid costumes or attention seeking adults that really should know better. However, I am in full support of the traditional pumpkin genocide at Halloween as I have yet to be convinced of why the vegetable is considered edible – even the pumpkin beer I tried recently was nasty. Did we not learn as kids that bright colours indicate danger or a hazard? 

Calvin and Hobbes

On Wednesday, I visited my one of favourite coffee shops located near to the School of Social Work to engage in one of Seattle's beloved pastimes, pretending to study whilst exploiting the free Wi-Fi connection. I was slowly trawling through endlessly stories of the latest Republican attempts to sink healthcare reform and wondering just how low the conservative propaganda would stoop before an agreement was reach (Rush Limbaugh currently holds the record after comparing public health care to Bernie Madoff’s $16 billion Ponzi scheme).

Just as I began to feel overwhelmed by the myopic conservative media and their soulless defense of a free market in healthcare that exploits profit from the health and well-being of the poor. I noticed a book on a nearby shelf that seemed vaguely familiar – The Complete Calvin & Hobbes. It was like an instant anti-acid tablet soothing the bitterness I had reserved towards these malcontented dilatants of the Right wing.

The book was a collection of Bill Watterson’s comic strips about the adventures of a six-year-old mischievous boy called Calvin, and his anthropomorphic stuffed tiger, Hobbes. I will not dwell on the magic of Calvin & Hobbes, other than encourage you to explore what is essentially one of the wittiest and insightful comic strips ever drawn. It certainly succeeded in making the world a more amusing proposition for a few brief moments on Wednesday…


*Note: You may have to click on the strip to read the text

Just one more! 

As a social worker I cannot condone this kind of parenting...

Where the Wild Things Are

Some of you, particularly those with children, maybe aware of the recent cinema release of Where the Wild Things Are. The film is an adaption of Maurice Sendack’s American classic children’s story as envisioned by director Spike Jonze and screenwriter Dave Eggers. As much as Enid Blyton, Roald Dahl or perhaps even J.K Rowling are integral to the childhood of many children in the UK; Sendack’s Where the Wild Things Are is perhaps a US equivalent. Not that I wish to generalise about anyone’s childhood experiences on this or any side of the Atlantic…

As I discovered, after a visit to the evil empire of books that is Barnes & Noble, the story is a ten-sentence picture book that tells the story of a mischievous boy called Max. Essentially it seems the book is famous for the wonderfully imaginative illustrations of Sendack as opposed to his narrative, which vaguely rhymes but it is fairly stunted. However, the illustrations for the book are alive with a sincere childish credibility and it is easy to relate to why the book has captured the heart of many young children but also still resonates with many of its older, initial readers.

The film, however, is markedly different from the book, in part due to the need to create a full-length film from the sparsely sketched story of Max’s adventure with the Wild Things. The final result is an incredibly livid but yet oddly eerie and sinister story that does not truly reflect the conventional tone of a child’s film. In fairness to Jonze perhaps this conclusion is coloured by the legacy of the traditional happy and homogenously uplifting Disney film that still dominates the genre.

Still this film is incredibly weird and without any appreciation of the book or its illustrations – a film experience that proved to be decidedly trippy, to the point where I began to wonder whether my popcorn had been laced with some illicit substance. The film does not tell a story in a linear format which, if intentional, is designed to reflect the unpredictable imagination of the child, Max. One minor irritation with the character Max, is that although clearly a naughty child in the original story, Max has mutated to reflect the stereotypical ADHD and oppositional defiant traits of the ‘modern’ child. This recontextualising of the story to a new era has even placed Max within a broken home, seemingly further nods to our warped modern narrative of naughty children.

For me the strangest element of the film was James Gandolfini as the voice of one of the main characters, Carol. To hear the voice of my all time favourite mobster boss emanating from a six-foot tall furry creature with horns and a tail was very unsettling. I was worried that at any moment Max would be condemned to sleep with the fishes by this creature that had seemingly swallowed Tony Soprano – he even bore the same vengeful, maniacal traits as New Jersey’s best loved Mafioso!

Maybe Where the Wild Things Are suffers from a common failing of many big screen adaptations of popular books, namely living up to the hype of the reader’s imagination. It is an interesting film and worth watching but if you are looking for a more child friendly fantasy film then I recommend Tim Burton’s Big Fish.

Further Bookish Thoughts

In my previous posting I omitted some of the most interesting information with regards to the Central Library. Aside from the startling aesthetics and refreshing functionality, it is important to share just how  the library came to be constructed and also to gauge its impact on the city. I'm grateful to one of the checking clerk at the Central Library for all the facts and figures. 

In 1998, the residents of Seattle voted (in one of their many, many referendums), 70% in favour for a $196.4 million public bond issue called ‘Libraries for All’. This public funding provided the basis for improvements to 22 existing libraries and the creation of 4 new branches across the city, which included $160 million for the new Seattle Central Library. A further $20 million in funding was provided by variety of philanthropic foundations and individuals including the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation. 

It is clear from referendum results that Seattle has a strong civic sense of literacy and the importance of this value is reflected not only in the architectural grandeur of Central Library but also in its usage. Last year over 10 million items were checked out of the Seattle Public Library system, equivalent to more than 16 books per person. Similarly the people traffic rates within the Library system have quadrupled since the opening of Central Library to over 30,000 visitors a week. 


These statistics are not surprising with a building such as the bizarre but dazzling wonderful Central Library providing the energetic core of the city’s public library system. Personally I would rather swap the 2012 London Olympic games budget for 20 such libraries across Great Britain and then perhaps redevelop our poor public sporting facilities with the spare change. But then I guess improving literacy rates and public health are weak outcomes compared to 4 weeks of international media attention…

Seattle Central Library

The Seattle Central Library is situated at 1000 4th Avenue in the Downtown district of Seattle and sits neatly across an entire block, offering 4 different street entrances at 2 different street levels.  From the street exterior the building is strikingly odd and yet has an angular beauty that is hard to properly describe. I have been trying for a weeks to create a clever metaphor for the design but have as yet failed to think of anything adequate. 

From a distance the experience is like staring a mutated interpretation of a Rubik cube that has been washed of its traditional colours to be replaced with a hallucinogenic, silvery reflective quality that mirrors and mixes every passing cloud, shadow and light with static images of the surrounding buildings. The stark angles and shapes of the structure at first seem erratic and yet with time seem to blend together in a non-traditional shape. 

The interior of the building does not fail to live up to magical, light enriched quality of the exterior – spread across 11 levels it utilizes and manipulates space to reinvent the concept of a conventional library. These levels do suffer with cheesy titles such as ‘The Living Room’, ‘The Mixing Chamber’ and ‘The Stack’ but their aesthetic and functional excellence allows you to forgive this exuberance.

As you walk around the building, each level has a unique character and atmosphere, which creates a tangible feeling of creative possibility and adventure. Around every corner and across every straight line there is a different view of the floor(s) below, the exterior skin of the building or an angular corner frame. Carefully attention has also been given to the transition between the levels giving a fluid, colourful motion to the building through a network of artful escalators, lifts and staircases.

It took about 45mins of aimless wandering, admiring this unique structure before I realised that I had as yet to consider its central purpose – books. This is not to imply that the building has in anyway lost purpose amidst its architectural significance – like some enviable people this building has both beauty and brains. ‘The Spiral’ best illustrates the centrality and importance of the books; a continuous book stack that stretches across 4 floors connected by gently sloping ramps. This allows the majority of the non-fiction collection to exist in one continuous run and acts as the accessible heartbeat of the library.

It is my humble view that the Seattle Central Library is an immense achievement and a truly modern, inspiring reaffirmation of the role of the library within society. Commentators have been warning that in our new digital era, the simple pleasure of a good book will be lost to be replaced by Kindle and what ever supersedes web 2.0. The Central Library is a living, energy-infused monument taking a stand, in part to embrace this change but also to stake a claim for the importance of books. I can only hope that more cities follow this enlightened view and that we all have the opportunity to make use of them! 

For more pictures from the Central Library visit my Facebook page or alternatively:
 http://www.flickr.com/photos/ajwoolley/sets/72157622602023886/

Daily Show with Jon Stewart Link

Sorry to anyone who was unable to view the link to the Jon Stewart clip. Thankfully I have found the clip on Youtube if you are still interested in experiencing one of the best political commentators in the US.


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OFdU0JC5NEg

GAP

During a stroll through the University’s Red Square yesterday I was confronted by something more than the usual charming architecture of the Suzzallo Library. A 20-foot colour image of a ten-day-old aborted foetus was omnipresent across the entire Square. Suffice to say that the looming presence of the image was causing a significant stir amongst passersby and was certainly a jolt to my otherwise carefree morning.

This ‘exhibit’ belonged to a protest group called the Genocide Awareness Project (GAP), whose proponents surrounded the image offering literature on abortion and seeking to engage people on the issue. It must be obvious to you from their provocative title and tactical approach that the group stands firmly against abortion rights.  It was my fleeting observation that the GAP representatives did not seem to be gaining much traction with those passing, despite the enormity of the visual assault.

I genuinely have no desire to turn this article into a debate on abortion but to simply register my reaction to the Genocide Awareness Project. This is because I believe the issue of abortion to be one fraught with emotive opinion and a deep complexity that it should be granted privilege from the parameters of a ‘typical’ public ethical debate. That is not to say that it is should be exempt from public discourse nor to imply that those wishing to advocate on any element of the issue should be censored.

I would wholeheartedly stress the importance of granting a dignified sensitivity to the issue that moves beyond inflammatory and pejorative rhetoric. Hence, I refuse to be drawn into any discussion whilst being assaulted by such an offensive image or in a forum such as a blog, when these principles are not embraced, guaranteed or respected. If I were to have engaged this group as a result of their ‘exhibit’, I cannot but help feel that I would have been complicit in their exploitive and divisive tactics.

The approach of the Genocide Awareness Project serves to only pollute debate by distastefully and grotesquely embracing the right to free speech whilst simultaneously disrespecting the very opportunity for debate and their responsibility to others under this powerful freedom. Strength of personal conviction is not excuse for the lack of common decency and respectful decorum.

In some respects I wish that these thoughts had formulated whilst I made my way across Red Square to class. Perhaps I would have made my opinion known in an expressive fashion to a member of the Genocide Awareness Project in the hope to make them aware of their wholly negative impact. But then I fear that the urge to move beyond a verbal confrontation to a more demonstrative representation of my feelings may have been too tempting. The University does after all have it’s own police force…

Introducing Jon Stewart

One common misconception of the US amongst British and Europeans in general, is that Americans have little or no sense of irony or sarcasm and by extension satire. We generally consider our humourous traditions and crackling wit to be far superior to that of our American cousins. Whilst I can testify to a number of jokes or comments that have been lost in sarcastic translation, most people I have encountered at least loosely grasp the principles of such humour.

In the US, it is my humble opinion that there is no better proponent of the satirical and sarcastic humourous tradition of which we are so universally proud of as a nation, than the comedian Jon Stewart. He is the host of The Daily Show with Jon Stewart, which airs Monday through Thursday on Comedy Central and is also shown in the UK on More 4. The concept of the show is that of a fake satirical news program focusing on politics, the media and current affairs. It is akin to Have I Got News For You and programs of a similar humour-based critical ilk.

Quite simply, it is genius and perhaps one of the most enlightened and insightful programs on American television - minus the bouts childish and insane humour. It is one of only a handful of satirical shows to shine an analytical and critical light on the crazy corporate world of 24 hour news networks in the US. I believe it is a beacon to journalistic integrity and freedom of speech in the otherwise murky swamp of TV news, which is dominated by polarised opinion over fact, and culture wars between conservative and liberal. If you get a chance to watch Fox News you will understand these sentiments, it is like watching a parallel universe!

Yesterday's show demonstrated a hilarious example of what happens when a news station steps out of line and catches the attentions of The Daily Show. The focus of Jon Stewart’s ire was CNN, a well-respected news outlet with a global presence in the media market. The station took exception to a sketch on Saturday Night Live, a long running variety show featuring well known comics, mocking Obama’s recent Nobel Peace Prize. Such was CNN’s objection to the sketch mocking Obama; they decided to check the entire segment for factual irregularities. Not exactly vital news programming during one of the most important public policy debates in the history of America, namely healthcare reform.

Here is Jon’s take on the coverage and apologies for the language at the conclusion of the segment…

http://www.thedailyshow.com/watch/mon-october-12-2009/cnn-leaves-it-there

Welcome to the American news cycle and long live the BBC!

Public Libraries

I can remember my first visit to a public library – I was about 5 years old and my mother took me to Newington Library on the Walworth Road to visit the Children’s Section. It maybe a dew-eyed nostalgia but I can still vaguely recall the impression that the building and the books created for me. A world of wonderful possibility that had a slightly bad smell and dusty atmosphere; but then maybe that was just particular to libraries in Southwark. I can remember the vivid books on revolving shelves and the librarians on there brightly coloured but ridiculous furniture, as if the tactile experience was as important as the words and pictures.

Looking back to my childhood, I loved the sense of owning books even if it was just for the period defined by the thud of the librarian’s date stamp. Walking out the library doors laden with copies of the Secret Seven, the Hardy boys, Roald Dahl, Willard Price, Herge’s Tintin and of course Asterix; was a pure, unadulterated childhood joy that my unnecessarily overburden adult self has nothing but envy and jealousy for. A time when words and pictures stoked up more than just excitement but a belief in possibility, purpose and other-worldliness fuelled by the power of imagination.

The wonder of the library was in the choice, a sense of freedom to wonder the aisles and turn the revolving shelves until a title; book cover or a favourite author struck me. If we are honest, books are expensive items considering that most copies purchases are only read once, they are a serious investment for a one-time experience. This does serve to underline the importance of the library, in that despite the limitations of personal finance or the narrow focus of a literary education at school – a public resource that will provide a gateway to the world of books.

Over the last week I felt something of a return to this notion, to this inner-childish delight for books if you can stomach the cliché, when I visited the Seattle Public Library in the downtown area. It was a truly exciting place and one local whom I met within the halls of the building described it as ‘a temple to reading’. I am not sure that I am content with the analogy of worshipping books but the architecture and construction did create a sense reverence - not in a religious or spiritual sense but more akin to joyful monumentality.

As I have blathered on in indulgent, misty-eyed reminiscing, I feel it necessary to take a pause and return with a separate piece on the Seattle Public Library. This is in the hope that I can refrain from inflicting my juvenile experiences on you all whilst examining this fantastic amphitheatre for the literary community!

Unseasonably good weather

As autumn fast approaches Seattle, supposedly the weather takes a decidedly bad turn. As the glow and warmth of summer fades, traditionally the damp, grey misery of the Seattle rainy season begins and turns the city’s residents into wet squibs. Or so I have been told by a sufficient number of people as to convince me of the reality of this impending seasonal wetness.

Mercifully, as yet this communal meteorological pessimism has yet to be proven right, as I have had more cause for sunglasses than my pac-a-mac. Incidentally some Americans refer to their raincoats as pac-a-ponchos, which I find a more disturbing concept than that of a geeky pac-a-mac.

This is primarily because a pac-a-poncho looks very similar to an over-sized version of those horrific plastic rain hoods that your Nan or Gran used to wear when it rained. In fact if you gave a tartan shopping trolley to any of these pac-a-poncho muppets, they would bear a passable resemblance to my own Nan.

Anyway we have just passed through the first week of October without any sign of the rain. The weather has been bright and crisp, filled with weak and hazy autumnal sunlight that has given the city an extended holiday atmosphere. Despite this surprising and enjoyable spell of fine weather, some Seattleites remain discontented.

This apparent break from the natural meteorological course is causing some in the city to wish for the rain. I have read letters in newspapers, overheard conversations and spoken to people who have all expressed this thought. Perhaps this attitudinal trend has formed the basis of dubbing Seattle as the ‘Rain City’ and the common sentiment that only wimps and tourists use umbrellas.

I for one am just pleased to encounter a community of people that discuss the weather with greater neurosis than the British. Aside from that I am also enjoying these glorious sunsets from my rooftop terrace. Who said that life in Seattle was good as long as you can adapt to the poor climate…

How I Came To Be

Since beginning my classes at the School of Social Work, I have been asked on a number of occasions how I came to be studying social work at University of Washington. The simple and honest answer to this question is that without the administrative and financial support of the US-UK Fulbright Commission I would not be enjoying this amazing opportunity.

The Commission has provided assistance and guidance at every junction and I’m entirely indebted to them for their confidence and generosity. Inevitably some including myself have further wondered just how I managed to secure a Fulbright scholarship, especially as social work is not a ‘traditional’ subject for such academic prizes. So I decided to give you all a glimpse of the personal statement that was at the heart of my scholarship application. Hopefully it may provide some insight into my understanding of social work and balance out the cynicism evident in my previous postings...

This is the first half of the application statement:

During my early and most formative years, my father was employed by the London City Mission, a Christian-based society working with those who were homeless and had substance misuse problems on the streets of London. I spent many obliviously happy afternoons as a child wandering the halls of mission amongst those struggling with individual, social and economic problems. The society was founded in 1835 and in partnership with its contemporaries, such as the Salvation Army, had a longstanding influence on the early development of social services for the people of London. Likewise, the raw and simplistic experiences of my childhood have had a lasting influence on my desire to pursue a career in social work.

For many the profession of social work is emblematic of a broken society, a symptomatic consequence of a modern state of welfare dependency and despair. I have always believed that such sentiments were devoid of both compassion and reason. It is simply too easy and existentially safe to rest of these laurels and to draw comfort from wells of fatalism and individualism. I believe that our challenge is to assert and create a movement of justice and change within our society. This aspiration is beyond the ephemeral realm of politics and prejudices but speaks to the core foundational values of our existence, growth and survival as a people.

The works and words of a great American hero, Dr. Martin Luther King, have heavily influenced my commitment to this profession. Dr. King once wrote that, 'true compassion is more than flinging a coin at the beggar; it comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring.’ Dr. King lived in the everyday reality of oppression and injustice but had the personal courage and conviction to challenge these broad societal problems for the sake of his fellow man. Tragically he paid a terrible price his vision and whilst I would not dream to hold an iota of his qualities but do find a great sense of purpose in light of his legacy to us all.

‘We must accept finite disappointment, but never lose infinite hope.’

Orientation

My graduate course officially commenced last Thursday with a daylong orientation event held in the very agreeable surroundings of the University’s Urban Horticulture centre. The orientation was markedly different from anything I had previously experienced, as it was organized and conducted by second year students. The session was designed to be an icebreaker and was described on the agenda as: 'providing opportunities for community-building in celebration and recognition of our commonalities and differences. Emphasis will be placed on initiating the development of a professional identity and in establishing a dynamic and respectful teaching and learning community.’

Now in all honesty, when I read this statement of purpose I had no idea what it meant or what it had to do with icebreakers, social work or even my studies. These session goals did not sound like any icebreakers I had previously experienced - the kind of sessions I generally place on par with other equally constructive and exciting activities like train spotting or bog snorkelling. However, I was willing to suspend my deep cynicism and disinterest in the hope that on this side of the Pond it would be different.

The day began with an introduction from our second year facilitators, who introduced themselves as Team ‘O’. They did so in the kind of cheerleading, peppy fashion normally associated with characters from movies aimed at young teenage girls. Seemingly unaware of the huge clichéd elephant in the room, they actually proceeded to perform the US style team hands in and break, whilst shouting loudly their team name. I think at this point a small part of me died inside…

For our first exercise we were invited to create a ‘space’ of nurture, respect and understanding by each sharing the stories of our ‘souls’. The use of the plural tense was deliberate, as it was acknowledged that some of the students present might have more than one story to tell – the inference being that a multiple of souls and therefore stories was conceivable and probable. We were asked to represent the stories of our soul/s through the medium of drawing, as this would free us from the disempowering and oppressive lexicon of society.

Fifteen minutes, four crayons and two glitter pens later, I was fairly pleased with my ‘soul timeline’. I had managed to resist the urge to represent the stories of my other previous lives as I thought that this would only cloud the ‘space’ I was trying to create. So I dropped the illustrations of my previous lives as Bhupat the Nepali Sherpa boy, Billy-Ray the wandering hobo and Claude the French trapeze artist. Despite this, my matchstick men did a valiant job of illustrating my life story to the present day.

Following on from this exercise, we were invited as a group to begin a meditative journey of ‘self-care’. This journey was designed to guide us towards a ‘sacred inner space’ to find our ‘eternal spring of wellness’. This spring would assist us to maintain and nourish our joy throughout the course of the graduate program. Unlike every other journey I have taken, this one was to be conducted with my eyes closed and by crossing the ‘threshold of inner-knowing’ along the ‘true path’ to find my eternal spring.

My journey towards my ‘sacred inner space’ was treacherous, as I got lost a few times along the way. I did stop to ask for directions from my fellow students but most seemed oblivious to my request with oddly serene looks on their faces. I guess their paths must have been easier to navigate than mine. However, I managed to get back onto the ‘true path’ and found myself headed towards a pair of golden arches. It was at this moment that I felt a strange sensation in my stomach, as if it was pulling me towards the arches. I headed towards this golden glow guided by the sensation….

Now apparently, my ‘eternal spring of wellness’ is not McDonalds nor is my ‘sacred inner space’ located in my stomach. As much as a Big Mac will bring me joy it will not be sufficient or sustaining for the barren winter months of my soul’s journey. I think I may have a taken a wrong turn somewhere along the ‘true path’ to my ‘sacred inner space’ and gotten lost. Or maybe I should have adhered to my ‘inner voice’, which warned to avoid all such quasi-religious, pseudo-spiritual nonsense and search for real meaning. However, the meditative journey was a success, as the class did bonded together in a shared appreciation of these ridiculous and in every sense mystical activities.

1 – 0 to cynicism…

Grannies, Cookies and Duplexes

My first major task since arriving to Seattle has been to locate and secure a suitable apartment. This was following a disastrous decision to secure an apartment close to the University without having seen the building. I have no wish to revisit this sorry episode but it is sufficient to say my apartment did not have the views of Lake Washington as depicted on the web. The apartment had a more graceful vista of the rooftop of a nearby burger restaurant equipped with visually stunning extractor fans and muddy puddle textures.

After dropping the apartment I then began the search for another. This involved many days of my Converse and I clocking up the mileage on foot through the Seattle suburbs. I learned a few valued lessons during this period: Firstly that converse trainers were not made for walking further than 4 blocks. Secondly, scanning through the rental listings, that lots of Americans have basement duplexes available for lease. In terms of a definition, a duplex is a house comprising of two units on two different floors with the second unit in either the basement or sometimes in what is known as a Mother-in-Law apartment (otherwise know as a MIL). So the basic principal of the duplex is that your landlord will generally own the house and in most circumstances live in the unit above you. In my search for a suitable apartment I excluded all MILs simply on the basis of the name, as I could not live with the shame of renting a Granny flat.

However, I was intrigued by the basement duplex concept and my first introduction to them transpired when I answered a rental ad placed by a very nice lady called Judy. Now Judy owned a big, traditional American home and to save money to send her grandkids to college, she had converted her basement into a two bedroom ‘apartment’ to rent out specifically to graduate students and ‘fine, young couples’. As if to emphasis her grandmotherly and trustworthy credentials as a prospective landlord, she had freshly baked cookies for me on arrival.

There were a number of striking features to Judy’s basement apartment, which will hopefully provide some insight. Firstly, every light fitting in the entire apartment had been switched on, which considering it was a bright and clear late summer morning, struck me as a tad odd. However, the reasoning behind this decision became apparent the moment I switched off a light, as it was darker than the London Underground. This was more poignantly illustrated by a collection of the sorriest looking spider plants I have ever seen, which were not a good advert for the presence of natural light in the ‘daylight’ basement.

Secondly, there was a large garish purple curtain covering a doorway in the lounge, which revealed a pine staircase leading upwards to a door. In my naivety I asked Judy what lay behind this door and she simply stated that it was her home (I guess stupid questions…). I think the shock on my face, drew Judy into reassuring me that she hardly ever used the door except when doing her laundry or to pay her tenants a visit. The next obvious question was to ask whether as a tenant, I would be provided with a key for the door. Judy laughed at this and stated that for her own security she had the only key and that the door was kept locked with the exception of laundry day.

Now I appreciate that grannies need to maintain security in their homes, I really do, but what about my security? Judy seemed like a very nice lady but whose to say that she was not a danger to me also. Just because she has grandchildren does not mean I will not wake up one night to find her standing over me offering more cookies. Plus do I really want to be interrupted during dinner by a granny descending the stairs and passing through the purple curtain to wash her nighties?

Suffice to say thanks to my hyperactive imagination and the less than satisfactory first impression of the basement duplex – I did not rent Judy’s place. It is a sad, sad world in which you cannot trust a granny, especially one offering cookies…

The A-Team

It is general accepted that a sign of one’s fading youth is the regurgitation of TV programs from childhood, as either a renewed program or a big screen adaption. It could then be argued that any excitement evoked by this possibility is sufficient evidence of unashamed immaturity and a failure on the part of the individual to properly assimilate the process of adulthood.

But then again would it be more interesting to discuss the relative differences in rental property prices comparative to squared footage across Seattle or the news that a big budget film remake of the A-Team has been approved and actors cast in the roles. Perhaps surprisingly to some but probably predictably to many, I fall into the later category. In my defence, the A-Team was my favourite TV program as a child, a title closely contested with Knight Rider and the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. However, in truth no amount of Turtle Power or David Hassellhoff being outperformed by a robotic car could ever truly surpass the joy that was the A-Team.

The program formula was always the same; our soldiers of fortune would battle against glass-jawed bad guys in an exhilarating mix of guns, explosions, car chases and harebrained schemes for daring rescues. Made in the ‘golden’ era 80’s TV, it also reinforced bad social stereotypes; deployed clichéd characters in predictable plotlines and never blinked at cheesy dialogue. Nevertheless, each episode would inevitably crank up to climatic and theatrical do-or-die moment of peril for the A-Team. Only for BA to save the day with the construction of a hovercraft using a tumble dryer and a garage door, on which the heroes could then outrun and out manoeuvre the enemy. This was always despite their seemingly superior numbers, automatic machine guns, rocket launchers and helicopter gunships. But then the bad guy could never shoot straight!

This big screen reincarnation of the A-Team is therefore under considerable pressure to live up to the sherbet happy, dewy-eyed days of my childhood. After all, many of us have seen beloved programs, books or even video games dashed against the rocks of the Hollywood machine. For every Lord of the Rings there have been nightmares such as Thunderbirds, Lost in Space, Planet of the Apes, The Avengers and most tragically of all, Dolph Lundgren as a steroid enhanced He-Man.

Sadly I’m already disappointed with the casting, Liam Neeson as Hannibal and relative unknowns for the other characters. Also according to news reports the film’s director is seeking to create a more serious tone for the movie as opposed to the camped up capers of the TV series. Personally I feel that is a shame and I would have preferred George Clooney as Hannibal, Sam Rockwell as Murdoch, Owen Wilson as Face and anyone who suggests that somebody other than Mr. T can play BA, I have three words for you:

‘You crazy fool!’

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Ifestiophobia

It has been brought to my attention, by a longstanding resident of Seattle, that I failed to provide a full and accurate description of Mount Rainier in my last posting. I mistakenly missed off the most intriguing and yet worrying element of the mountain’s relationship with the city of Seattle. Without the archetypal disaster movie soundtrack to provide sufficient suspense to my narrative, the following statement may have less impact but Mount Rainier is an active volcano. I have unknowingly travelled over 4500 miles to live less than 80 miles from an active volcano.

After some extensive and anxious internet research it is apparent that my local volcano isn’t just any volcano. No, according to the US Geological Society, Mount Rainier is a stratovolcano and potentially the most dangerous and explosive volcano in the contiguous United States. So basically outside of Hawaii, whose islands are created and continually extended by volcanic eruptions, Seattle is the worst location in the US for proximity to the Earth’s molten magma. As the author of the US Geological Society article so delicately surmises, ‘Few are aware that Mount Rainier poses a deadly threat to all who live and play in its shadow.’

Unbelievable…. For years the closest I’ve been to a volcano is a bottle of Volic water and their incredibly irritating advertising campaign with the phony French accented voice over, ‘Drink in the treasure of the volcano’. (This I guess is why we love to hate the French, as only they could sell water in a poncey manner.) To now I discover that I leave right on top of volcano and can see this huge and menacing natural edifice from almost every area of my adopted city has given me a little cause for concern. Forget my fears over being shot by an over zealous moose hunter or local gangster-type; and my concern for the destruction of my vocabulary replacing 'pavement' with 'sidewalk' and 'aubergine' with 'eggplant'. These school-boy fears fade to insignificance when you have a volcano to contend with.

Cue dramatic and pulse quickening flashbacks to every CGI disaster movie and TV show that I’ve ever seen….

As I highlighted in my previous posting Seattleites simply refer to Mount Rainier as ‘the Mountain’ due to its prominence across the city. On reflection I have drawn the conclusion that this local diction is entirely too casually and flippant for my liking. As such, I will be adopting my own term of reference and will know refer to Mount Rainier as, ‘THE MOUNTAIN,’ and is to be said in an appropriately deep-voiced and ominous fashion.

You may not be able to detect this but I have a developed a certain level of irrationality about this whole topic. After consulting the reliable diagnosis tool for all mental health concerns that is the internet, I have discovered a name for my lava-induced fear: Ifestiophobia. This condition is common to actors in low budget disaster movies, geologists and Meg Ryan (See: 'Joe Versus the Volcano').

My first steps on the route to recovery from this affliction are to memorise the Washington State Emergency Management Division Disaster Preparedness plan and to start a support group for fellow victims of Ifestiophobia. Hopefully these steps will keep me from panicking until I actually see smoke rising from 'THE MOUNTAIN'.

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City vistas

Any new arrival to the city of Seattle and the surrounding metro area will initially be struck by one simple observation – the mountains. It is hard to do justice to this impression but driving to downtown Seattle from the airport provides an amazing view of the area’s topography; and it seems as though the city is totally enclosed by mountain ranges and great expanses of water. The horizon is abruptly halted by the effortless dominance of these ranges which stand like huge bastions of Nature’s might overseeing the life and times of the city.

When I consulted a map I realised that this initially topographic impression was actually fairly accurate. Seattle is located on long and thin inlet from the Pacific Ocean called Puget Sound and is the largest of approximately 8 or so reasonably sized towns and cities that stretch along the Sound and up the coastline to the Canadian border and Vancouver. Towards the east of the city is the Cascade Mountain range and then towards the west across the Sound is the Olympic Mountain range. These two ranges and the Sound are what give the city an atmosphere of natural topographical encirclement and most definitely account for the soon to be arriving autumnal (or should I say the Fall) rainy season.

The only escape from this natural encirclement is seemingly to the south of the city, which on a cloudy day appears clear and inviting. However, during my first and probably last bout of sunny and clear spells for sometime over the weekend, it is more than apparent that this is not the case. To the south of Seattle lives a gargantuan monster of a mountain….

This is a photo taken of Mount Rainier, from the top of Capitol Hill in Seattle. I had to fight some visiting Japanese tourists for camera space but I got a good shot in the end!

According to my well informed hosts, Mt Rainier stands tall at over 14,000ft and 4,300m. As you can clearly see from the photo, it has permanent snowfields all year round and stands like a benevolent citadel protecting the city. It is impossible to described how this mountain just hits you in truly poetic fashion as you travel across the city and it is understandable why Seattleites refer to it simply as ‘the Mountain.’

Friendly Neighbourhood Cat

Washington State is an area renowned for its natural beauty and an abundance of animal and marine life. The State has a rich diversity in topography including rainforests, mountain ranges and semi-deserts. Despite 60% of the population residing within the Seattle metropolitan area, the city maintains a close affinity with its natural surroundings and environment, and nationally is often referred to as the Evergreen State. This affinity is probably best illustrated by the abundance of parks, lakes, canals and waterways that available for public use across the city. As such, outdoor activities including hiking, mountain biking and sailing are part of everyday life and are fair sized local industries in their own right.

I live close by to the city’s largest park, Discovery Park that at over 500 acres is only a few blocks over from my current address. The park has attracted a lot of media attention over the last week or so following numerous sightings of a cougar. For those unappreciative of wildlife, such as myself, a cougar is also known as a puma or mountain lion and is a stalk-and-ambush predator. Primary food sources include ungulates such as deer, elk, and bighorn sheep, as well as domestic cattle, horses, and sheep but it also hunts species as small as insects, rodents and unsuspecting British students.

The animal was reportedly seen climbing trees, investigating driveways and trash cans in the neighbourhood surrounding the park. Fortunately, officials from the Department of Fish and Wildlife, with the assistance of tracker dogs, trapped and then tranquilised the cougar in the early hours of Sunday morning. The animal was reported to be around 3 years old and weighed just less than 140 pounds, which translates to about 10 stone of agile, muscular animal. Not your average friendly neighbourhood cat!

Check out the links for more on the story and some excellent photos of Seattle’s second newest resident:

http://www.magnoliavoice.com/2009/09/06/cougar-caught-in-discovery-park/

http://www.magnoliavoice.com/2009/09/06/cougar-got-to-magnolia-by-accident/

And just before I thought it was safe to take a nice stroll through the park this afternoon, a second animal has reportedly been seen in the northern outskirts of the park. I’m thinking of either buying a large dog or taking up my second amendment rights to keep and bear arms…

Jetlagged on Labor Day

Having never completed a flight across a time zone greater than anything that Europe has to offer, I have had exactly zero experience that pertains to jetlag. It was a complaint that friends and family have discussed but garnered little sympathy for. I now regret this dismissive and callous attitude, as over the last few days the affects of my trans-Atlantic flight have begun to take their vengeful toll on my pitiful and weak frame.

If I were not a naïve and green traveller perhaps I would have noticed the warning signs a little earlier: a slight maniacal twitch in my right eye, the occasional slurring of a word, a distinct flu-like sensation and the constant feeling of pressure in my temples and forehead. More significant was the over-whelming desire to simply fall to the floor, adopt the foetal position and rock myself gently to sleep. These symptoms combined to create a condition that, in the course of my long and hypochondria tinged medical history, could only really be compared to man-flu.

Despite this significant impairment, I was due to attend a Labor Day party that my host had planned to mark the holiday. The invites for the party had foretold of the presence of witty, gifted young British student who would bring sparkling company, entertainment and enlightenment to the much-anticipated event. How was I to live up to this stellar billing in my pitiful, jet-lagged condition?

Now prior to the party I had enquired of my American hosts as to the origins of Labor Day and had been informed that it was a Federal holiday to recognise the importance of the American worker. I confess that I was initially dubious of this explanation as it sounded more reminisce of Communist Russia than the red, white and blue of the USA. However, after consulting the only reliable guide that is Wikipedia, I discovered that their explanation was true. Labor Day was created to recognise and celebrate: ‘the strength and esprit de corps of the trade and labor organizations.’

I therefore decided that I would play on this theme as part of my witty banter during the course of the party. As I was introduced to each guest and conversed about general and polite niceties, I would drop in a typically droll, British mannerism; the observation that Labor Day was a rather socialist holiday for Americans to celebrate. Without wishing to brag, this anecdote played like a dream, as I circulated amongst the guests, sprinkling their evening with a small dose of the famous British wit. That was until I met the Joe….

I dispensed the by now well-rehearsed line about socialism and Joe didn’t blink. He paused and stated matter-of-factly, ‘Well son, you know what they say: work will set you free.’ My jetlag-addled British brain had no witty comeback or throwaway line to this stoic profundity. I simply gaped for a few seconds, then wished Joe a pleasant evening and retired to an early bed with my newly blunted British humour in tow.

Arrivals

Prior to my departure to the US, I had been told numerous scare stories of over zealous Customs officials making life unpleasant for visitors and migrants to the US. These stories usually followed the format of gun crazed, maniacally paranoid officials shaking down individuals for having the wrong papers, carrying ‘suspect’ items, making jokes about terrorism or the most heinous crime of all – commenting on George W Bush.

It was foreseeable that I could fall into any of these categories, if not all of them. I had darks visions of being dragged away by burly Customs & Border agents after a serious misfire of British humour, to dark interrogation room where an individual who in my mind resembled Jack Bauer would make me talk… Thankfully none of this stereotyped imagery related to my actually experiences. My paperwork was scrutinised on at least three occasions but each time in friendly and polite manner. At Customs, the agent was politer than any British Passport Control Officer I’ve met and took a kind interest in my upcoming studies.

Unfortunately the same could not be said of the stewardesses on my flights to the US. Travelling with Icelandair did initially seem like a risk but the low price swung the decision favourably towards the airline. I was also concerned that the airline would go the way most Iceland banks of late and be bankrupt before I could set foot into Heathrow. However, I safely boarded pleasant and well-kept planes to Reykjavik and then Seattle.

The flying experience was unlike any other, mostly thanks to the air stewardesses. On each flight, the crew was comparatively unremarkable to any other airline, save for the Head Stewardess – a strapping matron like figure of a woman who stood apart from her peppy and fake smiling underlings. She commanded the plane gangway with the air of Genghis Kahn meets Margaret Thatcher and had a gaze that would melt the bravest and most seasoned of passengers. She dispensed meals like rations in an army barracks and marched the gangway as we ate stopping to dispense icy stares at those failing to consume the ‘nutritious’ and oddly glowing in-flight food.

About halfway through the flight, I requested a blanket to fend off the stiff, icy draught coming from the emergency exit as we flew over Greenland. Although the matron was willing to accommodate my request, it was dispense with air of frank disappointment and condescension that shredded my pride and self-esteem.

Next time I think I’ll fly with British Airways to fly in comfort and hopefully maintain my manhood….