Travel: United Kingdom :Isle of Wight

Isle of Wight 7/7/04 11:32 am

Visiting the hometown of A-send was especially exciting since it was also here that my favorite singing nuns reside. The Benedictine Sisters of St. Cecilia's Abbey at Ryde ranks as my favorite Gregorian Chanters next to the Bros at Luxembourg. I think it is primarily because they use an accompanying organ to offset the monophonic melodic vocal line. Fifteen years ago, the Liturgical Press was the distributor of the vinyl LP recordings of the gals at St. Cecilia. When I found out the pressings were out-of-print, I called Collegeville up and asked what remained in the stockroom of the Liturgical Press. I cleared out whatever was left on the shelves.

At Ryde we asked around, and eventually found the Abbey. I was overjoyed. Despite cobwebs on the lawn chairs and wooden furniture inside, a sister at the book shop kindly received us and even offered us a rest, complete with apple juice, abbey-made cakes, and a plain lounge to take the load off our feet. We were just in time for afternoon vespers, so we made our way into the abbey. The place that had been so familiar in black-and-white photos on the album sleeve of my records came to life. As one psalm led into another, Sister Louise-Marie piled latin, english, and sheet music on top of A-send and I, guiding us through the performance.

In the bed-and-breakfast type hotel where I stayed, I listened to karaoke-ers across the street enthusiastically perform Billy Joel's New York State of Mind, New York, New York and other American pop hits. I thought, how strange it was that folks are singing about things they have little or no exposure to. A-send had told me that the whole gangsta rap culture had invaded the UK scene and white kids have been adopting the posture of ghetto gang bangers whom they have no exposure to. I thought about the wiggers at home, who blast Snoop-Dog and cruise by in low-riders, having an ominous street cred of blowing away no more than five people in one hour on their X-Box.

But then I thought again, and in a way, I think most of us do live vicariously through an artist's or musician's work. They may be talking about love, happiness, depression in their pieces - things we are familiar with - but really, we have absolutely no idea, relation, or connection to what is really at the core of their creations. Whatever we find in someone else's work, is really nothing but our version, or, ourselves.

Sitting on the Island Explorer bus, a drunken man sang aloud, waving his arms over the rolling hills that pass by outside. "What a beautiful world! I love this day!" His wife sat two seats in front, cursing at him to stop singing. He didn't. So we started making small talk - and that kept him from singing. Although I considered it a community service for keeping the peace for other riders, I see no reason why he should temper such joyfulness.

After he got off, I told A-send about the new movie in the States, Supersize It. The one about a person making his way through the ordeal of consuming Mickey-D's for 30 days straight, ending in artery complications, and health problems. While the passengers behind us eavesdrop, I mentioned that the handful of overweight girls on the island may no longer be a minority, if the American culture is allowed to permeate into the Isle. I turned around, and found that all the girls who were sitting there a moment ago gone, presumably, running home to spread the word about the evils of Mickey-D's.

Oh all that I do to help diminish the spoils of the US of A.

Three words: I'm Lovin' It.

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Isle of Wight Part II 7/8/04 12:46 pm

Whenever people relate thoughts about committing suicide to me, I think about every day my father fought through during his three year battle with cancer. I'm sure these people have reasons that are valid to them for considering such actions. Still, it sometimes seems like lighting a cigarette with a hundred dollar bill in front of a street bum.

I think traveling all over and seeing how people get through their day gives me the same feeling of knowing someone who has suffered. I remember people squatting in front of a pile of burning garbage at Xian, or playing pool in a roofless room. When people tell me their lives are unbearable, or when I am without accomodations, tucking myself under a garbage dumpster in a back alley in the pouring rain in Glasgow, I think, "well, if those guys can make it through the day squatting in front of burning refuse, how bad can this be?"

Of course, when I see people live better than I, it makes me aspire as well.

Either way, anything is better than a souvenir t-shirt that says PARIS.

I tried to give this feeling of hope to my friend Alex on my final night on the Isle. We parted and I blinked back a misty eye.

We're both going off in opposite directions, out in the world, alone once again.

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