Play Me, I'm Yours.

Thirty pianos are scattered around London for anyone to play and listen.

Tapping out a ragtime tune. Photo by Joshua Brewer

It's part of the City of London Festival.

I've been enjoying the sounds. I also visited the Tower of London, saw an exhibit on torture, and saw where Anne Boleyn, Henry VIII's second wife, lost her head. I also saw that famous king's personal armor, and all the armor for his horses.

I'm reading The Lady Elizabeth by Alison Weir, which is about Queen Elizabeth, Henry and Anne's daughter. A feisty redhead. So seeing all that was for my mama, because she loved that book and loves English history. And she's a feisty redhead.

But my dinner that night (our favorite) was all for my dad:

Oysters!! Sweet nectar of life! Photo by CJ Lotz

That night, I saw Billy Elliot the musical. It is unfair that any child should dance that well, be that adorable, and make everyone in the audience cry that hard when he sings about his family. Ok, so maybe I've been missing mine.

Getting close to the end

I've been wrapping up my time here, writing papers, seeing the last of the roses, gorging on French food and tonight having a barbecue with my workmates (I'm teaching them to make s'mores!)

Roses in Regent's Park, photo by Joshua Brewer.


I'm excited for next week, visiting Dublin then going home for 4 days before setting off for Haiti. The reading list for the class I'm taking while over there looks awesome:


Danticat, Edwidge, 2008 Brother, I’m Dying.

Desmangles, Leslie. 1992. Faces of the Gods: Vodou and Roman Catholicism in Haiti.

Dupuy, Alex. 2007. The Prophet and Power: Jean-Bertrand Aristide, the International community, and Haiti.

Fatton, Robert Jr. 2002. Haiti’s Predatory Republic: The Unending Transition to Democracy.

Roumain Jacques. 1987. Masters of the Dew.

Things I see.

This is our work meeting room: a yurt with a chandelier.


I loved this little lady, surrounded by buckets, lamps, a cat at Portobello Market.

I dreamed of Van

This is all a true story.

So I went to see Van Morrison last night in Bristol. To understand my excitement, you should know that I've considered stopping music-listening of any other sort than Van the Man.

I was hanging around the stage door, like I've done the other two times I saw him in concert. He hates fans, he never talks to them. Oh, but it makes him all the more mysterious and endearing.

In the blink of a squeaky tire, a glossy black car pulled up, and one foot at a time, majesty stepped forward. He sauntered toward me. Me.

Hello, is your name CJ?

How did you know?

I've been writing a song for you, would you like to take a walk with me to a little oyster bar, where we can have a dozen raw ones on the half shell and I can play it for you while we sip earl gray tea, and then I'll feed you tapioca pudding or beets?

Why Van! How did you know I love those things?

Say, CJ, is it all right if I read to you from Anne of Green Gables, then we can have an in-depth discussion about Haiti? I've been practicing my Kreyol.

Van!

It's not over yet, I plan on killing any crickets that might hop around you, then I'll take you to the Blue Ridge Mountains for a short hike and blackberry picking adventure. Would you like that? Or would you prefer to ride white horses "Into the Mystic" ?

That night I had a silly dream: I arrived to Van's concert just as it was starting, saw an amazing show, sang, cried a little bit when he played "In the Garden" and danced when he played Gloria. Then I stayed with a sweet couple from Bristol. We had a tasty meal of cheese and veggies, explored a bridge and stepped onto a boat modeled after one from the late 1400s. Then I took the train home.





Silly dreams.

And the Healing Has Begun

So-shully Netwerkhed.

What do you think about the verb "tweet" ? We all thought "google" was weird until we started doing it to each other.

In my journalism class on Monday, my group and I presented about new media, including Twitter, and especially interesting was the use of the social networking sites during the Iran protests. Here is just one article:

http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/middle_east/article6524127.ece

Usually, I push twitter out of the nest. I clip its wings: It's creepy, stalker-prone, and grossly hyperactive. But in the Iran elections, it's been a way for protesters to get around the limitations of their government and tell the world about their impassioned struggles.

The bad (and absolutely hilarious) side of social networking? How college kids use it to be self-loving. This blog is read by a lot of my family, so I'm not going to post a link to The Onion's hilarious video on facebook and twitter use at NYU (it's a bit dirty). But if you wanted to see it, you should look for it.

The flora of Fritwell, the oh-dang of Oxford

Ah, the oldest academic institution in the *English-speaking* world. In Oxford, I walked along the 3 miles, yeah, 3 miles of books in Blackwell's Books. I saw the colleges, took pictures of the tops of pretty buildings. But you've seen that before. I prefer this accurate portrait of the town:


I loved knowing that even Rhodes Scholars honk on rust.


And can you guess which language I speak?


Did you know that J.R.R. Tolkien and C.S. Lewis were chums who drank ale together every Tuesday, discussing their latest writings?


I sat and discussed my next meal (fish and chips and tea) where they sat in the Eagle and Child.

I met up with the lovely Linda, my grandpa's cousin (we decided the name for us should be grand-cousins) and spent the night and Sunday in the village of Fritwell.



Fritwell is the kind of place with houses built in the 1500s.


Where you wish you wrote, spoke, ate, drank, poetry. So we tried, at breakfast.


Can I be a crumpet, soaking up the honey and butter of morning? Or a blackberry, between teeth and lips, ten seconds of tart explosions?


Fritwell's villagers opened their backyard gates for the yearly garden walk. The British heap flowers upon flowers upon pink, blue and red flowers.



Their topiaries just need a little icing and sprinkles, although the owner of this Manor may have had more regal ideas in mind.


Foxgloves guarded poppies, protecting tissue paper petals from eager sun.


These babies were the most welcoming of all the guests, as they leaped, dream-style, baaaaing for our cuddles.


Such a trying day needs a spot of tea and sponge cake.



So that we could trek on, and fall down the rabbit hole. (Did you know that Lewis Carroll was inspired by scenes around here and wrote Alice in Wonderland in Oxford?)


And I peered through the day, the trees, the time to breathe in the green and the calm and the quiet respect of village life.

How I walked to work plus other tidbits

The jaunt to work was rather a hike (45 minutes), but I did notice hundreds of eyes peering at me from standstill buses, bumper to bus butt all along the road.


This doesn't relate, but this morning, I quite enjoyed one of those little type-the-word things you have to do when posting links. Check out what I had to write:

In other news, I think I'm becoming a bag lady. When I looked in my purse this morning after a fun night out with Caitlin (we went to a press release party for a festival...details to come), I found the typical notes and scraps of paper that I always collect in the street.

But, in my purse, I also had a tomato.

Bube Tube Dude Strike.

Romantic, efficient.
The tube, the tube, the tube.
England loves transportation.

And workers love to vocalize 5 percent pay increase desires.
A strike, a strike, a strike.

Strike, transportation. These don't pair like beer and curry.

I usually take the Hammersmith and City from Farringdon to Aldgate East to get to work.

Now, what will I do? Walk? Work on my computer in my most very favorite coffee shop, Paul?

Photo courtesy of Alex Farris. That's me, Rachel and Sam perplexed on the tube. When it was working. Now it is broken because the workers made it that way. That's not really true, but I like the tube a lot. Riding it makes me feel less guilty about having a car at home. And I like that the Piccadilly line ends at "Cockfosters." And I also really like to look at the old women and business men and white girls with treacherous looking heels. And I like to accidentally grab people's hands in an awkward fashion when reaching for the bar. And I also like to repeat after the machine woman who says "mind the gap." My accent isn't convincing unless I say, "Mind the Gap, Ski-uhls! (Skittles)."

Come on strikers, my mom told me peace is possible.

Share the London Love

Bubble surprises at Camden Market. CJ Lotz.

The glorious Caitlin Van Kooten is visiting before her own study abroad in Dublin. We overwhelmed our senses at the Camden market and saw all the touristy wonders as well.

Leaning Tower of Big Ben + Parliament. CJ Lotz.

Some recent work at Mute, the magazine where I intern:

A short piece critical of turning "organic" urban gardening into a complicated trend

A short bit + article about the Tarnac Nine. Really interesting discussion of using fear as a weapon, especially in France.

Blooms

Lunch hour, exploration of future story ideas. I took a stroll down Brick Lane, past the curry shops, past the cheap fabric stores and painted panels,


took a right at Buxton Street, gandered through the footballers in the park. Then I glimpsed mammoth Queen Anne's Lace and signs encouraging my steps

all the way to Spitalfields city farm. First I found vegetables, the best kind.



Then I saw my worries sprouting away in the hard drive.



Children and their mamas lunched and watered their herbs.



And even the broken found a place.




As I rambled, I found all kinds of puppies (animals). Some ate oats, some ate scraps, some said baaaaaaaaaa, others were guinea pigs and some couldn't see because they were too stylish.


Others were sly, seductive, upfront about their desires.



Then I jotted back to Whitechapel, back past the curry, into the cardamom, but with the memory of earth whiffs and basil. I found it hard to distinguish thought and sky.

Found in London

I found a "find" today,

A drawing of an engine.

I found a "find" yesterday too,

A note from a drama instructor to her student about rescheduling rehersal.

I love leaning over in the middle of the sidewalk to pick up a scrap of paper that may be a doodle or awkward middle school love letter.

As soon as I find a scanner, I'll show some of my London finds.

For now, check out the inspiration:

foundmagazine.com

Paul Farmer + Obama = Paurack Fabama = Yes.

Paul Farmer is the man. His idea of bringing Harvard-quality medicine to the poorest places (Like Haiti) revolutionized the way the medical world treats the world's needy. There's talk of him taking a place in the new administration. I say, good move. Farmer is young, compassionate and bright, and if there is a surge in AIDS relief money, I'd like to see Farmer in charge of it.

Paul Farmer and Obama