Edinburgh Light

Edinburgh was a bit of a puzzle for me, and it still is in terms of balancing or juggling what I like and don’t like about the city.  Edinburgh is a city and a wonderfully compact one, as anyone will tell you, and that’s appealing in the same way that San Francisco is so much more appealing than LA, say.  Or, perhaps, Seattle may be a better comparison, nowadays.  I’m not sure.

When I first saw Edinburgh, I was looking through a doubled pair of lens, Boswell’s and Ian Rankin’s, seeing both the 18th-century and Rebus’ cities intertwined.  And a third strand when I looked at the Castle and saw the winding streets and closes near the Castle was Dunnett’s strand, the Lymond of Crawford strand, for that one wasn’t as apparent as I had first hoped.  I had to look for the 16th and 17th century elements.   And, while I knew the Castle was on a volcanic outcropping and loomed over the New Town, say, I wasn’t quite prepared for the layering, the labyrinthian qualities, the sheer complex design and lack of design of a city that had grown over time on such an uneven surface.  I could understand Edinburgh metaphorically, suddenly, and that made both Dunnett and Rankin clearer to me.  A canny place.

I wanted to like Edinburgh, but I didn’t like the city at first.  Rain coming down didn’t help; anxiety about getting from airport to city centre to Dalkeith lodgings didn’t help either.  The height of the houses, of the buildings in general, surprised me and put me off.  The dirty gray and yellow and black stones of the houses also looked dingy, sooty, filthy in the cold, gray light too.  But then the sun flashed out through the clouds as the wind whipped about, and a brighter face shown through.  The sky in its brightness seemed higher than the sky at home, as if the sky were a ceiling however highly placed, but that’s exactly how the brightness of the light translated to me, illuminating the walls and the streets, catching the wetness of the past shower with a gleam, raising that ceiling as it were for a more expansive world.   

 I didn’t quite get all that, not in words, until I’d seen the brightness of the summer light in Northern England as well over York and Durham and Hadrian’s Wall.  And I don’t know if I am right about the light and the lifting up of the sky and of the spirit, but that’s how it felt and how it feels now in retrospect.

Road Map? (RIP, Jackie Leven)

"The road from intensity to greatness passes through sacrifice."

--Rudolf Krassner,
quoted in the liner notes
to Jackie Leven's Forbidden Songs of the Dying West.

Here's a bit of Jackie Leven's intensity for you:
click this LINK for "Classic Northern Diversions"--
arterial intensity from the first chord, the first word . . . .

RIP, Jackie Leven.
61 years wasn't enough.
We want more . . . .
Thank you for what you've given.

Thank you to Ian Rankin, Scottish novelist and good guy, for talking about Jackie Leven, the man and his music and the friendship between you, at Book Passage in Corte Madera, Marin County, CA.

Ian Rankin and Jackie Leven

Ian Rankin is a funny, thoughtful, and gracious man. Approachable and genuine; very cool.  He works a room well, which he told me had to do with practice over time.

Here is a link with a few words from Ian Rankin on the newest Rebus novel and singer Jackie Leven, a welcome discovery for me.

Mixing Work and Pleasure

Mocha and a cranberry scone as starters . . . .

Dreaming

I had meant to hit the water this past weekend, but the stormy weather kept me home. Because of the traffic and driving issues, actually. I managed two pool workouts though, so I'm placated, if not happy.

Out in the water on a stormy day? That's gravy, as long as I have a clear, doable exit.

On the highway over the Santa Cruz mountains in the pelting rain with all those fools who don't know how to drive in rain anyway? No, no thank you.

The above shot? January 8, 2012. A glorious day in Pacific Grove.

Tonight, I'm working on handouts for class (well, not right now) and reading around.

I'm rereading Hemingway's "Hills Like White Elephants" for class.

I'm reading bits from Kaui Hart Hemmings' The Descendants, an excellent novel that has been made into a film with George Clooney recently. I'm rereading bits from Linda Greenlaw's The Lobster Chronicles and Ian Rankins' The Complaints.

I'm listening to Grace Potter and the Nocturnal's eponymous CD right now, and I'll replay it once more before putting in a quieter CD, one of Jack Johnson's.

I've a shot of Irish in some water, and I expect to drink a bit of tea too, English Breakfast, no doubt, before I crash out.

I recommend all of the above, by the way.

The handouts, though. I'd best get back to those.

A Glass of Scotch, Shakespeare's Earring, A Good First Novel, and A Big Head

1. Journal Note: Really good day for school and at school--been busy since 4 a.m.--so the Glenlivet in the glass is partly reward and fully earned. Trying to recall what I've read about Shakespeare's earring. The gold ring as a talisman against drowning, a popular hope of the day? Or is that reading too much into and out of The Tempest? Where did I read that? In Fowles' Shipwrecks? Note to self: track the errant thought down. First thing, boss.

2. I'm rereading Ian Rankin's first Rebus book, and I'm enjoying the special pleasure of a solid first novel that is trying really hard to be clever and good. A lesser book would be less enjoyable because of how hard it tries, but Knots and Crosses works, and Rankin's rather noticeable efforts to make this a good experience for his reader is certainly part of the charm. (And I hope my first novel, if I ever complete one, is half as good; no, as good, that's my hope, or better. Why not?)  

(*Note: Ian Rankin had published The Flood before Knots and Crosses, so I'm wrong about the first novel thing here.)

3. A Memory: Two Weeks Ago.

Fellow working the counter at the dive shop down Monterey way as I enter: "Man, your hair just keeps getting bigger and bigger." Maybe he recalled my sudden buzzcut last Spring; maybe he had me confused with another diver.

(If you check the mugshot at the upper right, you'll see the fellow's comment was apt. If you check the mugshot at the lower right, you'll see the buzz. If you care . . . which I don't expect.)

I decided not to ask if Bigger Hair is good or bad. We had a fine conversation, I thought, about his spearfishing with tanks, free diving in general, the dangers of solo diving, and the specific conditions of the day. He recommended against solo diving and pointed out the heavy surf; I listened politely as well as carefully. How do I say it? I may act foolhardy, but I'm no fool? I valued his experience, but I have my own experience, especially free diving solo, to value also.

A grab-bag of thoughts, emptied out at your feet. Still, sometimes a blog entry is more for me than for you. I'll aim higher next time.

P.S. April 30, 2011: I'm shifting my photos for the right-hand column of this blog, so I'll put two "hair" shots just so this entry will make sense.

January 2011 (above): '70s Hair.

April 2010 (below): buzzzzcut.