A severe undertaking

The undertaker was clearly in the wrong job. She seemed startlingly unsympathetic. She didn’t understand what we didn’t understand, and she couldn't answer our questions: she looked at us as if we were foolish to have any questions at all.

She asked what religion my mother was. “None,” we replied. “Shall I put C of E, then?” she asked.

It was more important to her to fill out the form than to interact with us. Perhaps she was scared of death.

Each room in the undertakers was named after a castle, although it was a curious choice of castles: Arundel, Stirling, Balvenie Most of the rooms were named after Scottish castles; I would have liked to be interviewed in Balvenie (a bottle of which I have sitting on my sideboard at home, the 12 yo double wood). Drowning in the spirit seemed kind of appropriate.

We went to see my mother lying in her coffin; she lay “in rest” in Tintagel; next door was Edinburgh, which seemed more appropriate to me, at least.

She didn’t really look like my mother, to me; rather like a poor waxwork. I had expected to be moved – I have after cried a far deal over the past couple of weeks (I am pretty good when it comes to sharing my emotions I have a lot of practice). Perhaps I am all cried out.

I half expected Alyson Hannigan and Sarah Michelle Geller to burst in, stakes at the ready. Well, a boy can dream.

A severe undertaking

The undertaker was clearly in the wrong job. She seemed startlingly unsympathetic. She didn’t understand what we didn’t understand, and she couldn't answer our questions: she looked at us as if we were foolish to have any questions at all.

She asked what religion my mother was. “None,” we replied. “Shall I put C of E, then?” she asked.

It was more important to her to fill out the form than to interact with us. Perhaps she was scared of death.

Each room in the undertakers was named after a castle, although it was a curious choice of castles: Arundel, Stirling, Balvenie Most of the rooms were named after Scottish castles; I would have liked to be interviewed in Balvenie (a bottle of which I have sitting on my sideboard at home, the 12 yo double wood). Drowning in the spirit seemed kind of appropriate.

We went to see my mother lying in her coffin; she lay “in rest” in Tintagel; next door was Edinburgh, which seemed more appropriate to me, at least.

She didn’t really look like my mother, to me; rather like a poor waxwork. I had expected to be moved – I have after cried a far deal over the past couple of weeks (I am pretty good when it comes to sharing my emotions I have a lot of practice). Perhaps I am all cried out.

I half expected Alyson Hannigan and Sarah Michelle Geller to burst in, stakes at the ready. Well, a boy can dream.

Nostalgia

We walked back from the undertakers, a long walk into town down the Cowley Road. I spent a year living out here, 28 years ago; I have been past once or twice since, but rarely. I haven’t found much need to walk down the Cowley Road.

We passed pubs I had drunk in, although there seemed to be a large number of pubs: I couldn’t remember why we must have walked past some pubs to get to the ones we drank in – there must have been some reason.

I remembered one place in particular: sitting with A., P., and a few others on a cold, damp Saturday afternoon; I kept playing Diana Ross’ “Upside Down” on the juke box.

I made my brother take a detour down Bullingdon Road, where six of us had shared a house. It was a converted shop, with a huge front room – the shop itself: it had several cast iron pillars, which we spent several weeks stripping the paint off, and then painted them a shade of vivid green. I still have a sketch which P. made of me in that room, reading “On the Road” after I had spent the summer hitching in the States. We had some big parties there, too – including a surprise 21st for me on the last day of term; I disliked surprises even then, and, having caught wind of it, very nearly didn’t go – but it wasn’t just for me, so I went along anyway.

The converted shop has now been converted back into a shop: “Khan’s Islamic Fish Market”. I didn’t go in, but I did want to know how they knew the fish were Islamic.

The pavement on the Cowley Road was inset with circular metal markers. I was very curious. One had a large question mark on it; another the chemical structure of, I think, a complex amino acid; another had a quotation, and another the profiles of two people – I think they were American presidents, but I’m not sure.

The Jamaican restaurant where I seduced J., or J. seduced me, whilst we waited a very long time – several hours, and we started late into the evening (it was a cast party) - for our food. The next day we went punting, and then we went to bed.

Many places in Oxford remind of early sexual encounters: I can spot where I climbed the wall into Somerville to see my girlfriend, C., (though more often someone would recognise me and simply let me in); I can see the window of the room where I lost my virginity; and another room where I discovered much more. Recent adventures, too: a passionate weekend in hotel, scared of disturbing more staid neighbours.

My brother and I walked along New College Lane, and ducked into the Turf. I once photographed my father there, pint in hand. It made me think of old lovers, too.

There are a lot of memories here.

Nostalgia

We walked back from the undertakers, a long walk into town down the Cowley Road. I spent a year living out here, 28 years ago; I have been past once or twice since, but rarely. I haven’t found much need to walk down the Cowley Road.

We passed pubs I had drunk in, although there seemed to be a large number of pubs: I couldn’t remember why we must have walked past some pubs to get to the ones we drank in – there must have been some reason.

I remembered one place in particular: sitting with A., P., and a few others on a cold, damp Saturday afternoon; I kept playing Diana Ross’ “Upside Down” on the juke box.

I made my brother take a detour down Bullingdon Road, where six of us had shared a house. It was a converted shop, with a huge front room – the shop itself: it had several cast iron pillars, which we spent several weeks stripping the paint off, and then painted them a shade of vivid green. I still have a sketch which P. made of me in that room, reading “On the Road” after I had spent the summer hitching in the States. We had some big parties there, too – including a surprise 21st for me on the last day of term; I disliked surprises even then, and, having caught wind of it, very nearly didn’t go – but it wasn’t just for me, so I went along anyway.

The converted shop has now been converted back into a shop: “Khan’s Islamic Fish Market”. I didn’t go in, but I did want to know how they knew the fish were Islamic.

The pavement on the Cowley Road was inset with circular metal markers. I was very curious. One had a large question mark on it; another the chemical structure of, I think, a complex amino acid; another had a quotation, and another the profiles of two people – I think they were American presidents, but I’m not sure.

The Jamaican restaurant where I seduced J., or J. seduced me, whilst we waited a very long time – several hours, and we started late into the evening (it was a cast party) - for our food. The next day we went punting, and then we went to bed.

Many places in Oxford remind of early sexual encounters: I can spot where I climbed the wall into Somerville to see my girlfriend, C., (though more often someone would recognise me and simply let me in); I can see the window of the room where I lost my virginity; and another room where I discovered much more. Recent adventures, too: a passionate weekend in hotel, scared of disturbing more staid neighbours.

My brother and I walked along New College Lane, and ducked into the Turf. I once photographed my father there, pint in hand. It made me think of old lovers, too.

There are a lot of memories here.

Community

I don’t have a great sense of community; I am never sure that I understand what the word means – I certainly don’t recognise many of the uses of it. It was one of the few things my last partner and I disagreed on: she had a strong sense of community, and it meant something very real to her, something she needed, something she was part of, which I had difficulty reconciling.

I certainly don’t get the desire of people online to be in a community: I can see how the websites (and their owners) benefit from community, but although I subscribe to sites such as flickr, I do not feel part of the community: I use them to look at pictures, and to post my own, but that doesn’t join me to the millions of other people who use the site.

Strangely, though, my mother was clearly part of many real world communities: different spheres, circles, of people, rarely overlapping, to whom she played an important role. The sense of community I have gathered from people I have spoken to over the past couple of weeks is tangible – solid and meaningful; and something I don’t have.

I don’t remember this when I was younger: perhaps she was too busy working and bringing up a family (and travelling the world, too) to have the time or energy to build communities; maybe it is a function of semi-retirement, something she devoted her energies to.

It is curious – a different side to her. And it is making me think of community all over again.

Community

I don’t have a great sense of community; I am never sure that I understand what the word means – I certainly don’t recognise many of the uses of it. It was one of the few things my last partner and I disagreed on: she had a strong sense of community, and it meant something very real to her, something she needed, something she was part of, which I had difficulty reconciling.

I certainly don’t get the desire of people online to be in a community: I can see how the websites (and their owners) benefit from community, but although I subscribe to sites such as flickr, I do not feel part of the community: I use them to look at pictures, and to post my own, but that doesn’t join me to the millions of other people who use the site.

Strangely, though, my mother was clearly part of many real world communities: different spheres, circles, of people, rarely overlapping, to whom she played an important role. The sense of community I have gathered from people I have spoken to over the past couple of weeks is tangible – solid and meaningful; and something I don’t have.

I don’t remember this when I was younger: perhaps she was too busy working and bringing up a family (and travelling the world, too) to have the time or energy to build communities; maybe it is a function of semi-retirement, something she devoted her energies to.

It is curious – a different side to her. And it is making me think of community all over again.

Connections

One of the blogs I look at was conducting a survey about "Personal Learning Networks"; this is something that sounds interesting to me - but I don't really know what they are.

So I felt I couldn't really complete their survey without finding out.

Of course, I google "Personal Learning Networks"; but all the sites I find seem to assume that you now what a PLN is: basically, as far as I can tell, it is a Bloglines account...

So perhaps PLNs are just a bit more web 2.0 social networking jargon - in that anything can be a personal learning network.

But I also found SlideShare - a (beta) site where people have posted various slideshows they have created. There was one on PLNs; but I found myself browsing - wanting to know more about SLideShare, now, than PLNs; and there is some fascinating stuff there.

Including this prize-winning presentation called Thirst, by John Brennan of ApolloIdeas.com.

The presentation is excellent - simple, concise, and hard hitting.

I may not have learnt what a PLN is; but I have had a fascinating journey!

Connections

One of the blogs I look at was conducting a survey about "Personal Learning Networks"; this is something that sounds interesting to me - but I don't really know what they are.

So I felt I couldn't really complete their survey without finding out.

Of course, I google "Personal Learning Networks"; but all the sites I find seem to assume that you now what a PLN is: basically, as far as I can tell, it is a Bloglines account...

So perhaps PLNs are just a bit more web 2.0 social networking jargon - in that anything can be a personal learning network.

But I also found SlideShare - a (beta) site where people have posted various slideshows they have created. There was one on PLNs; but I found myself browsing - wanting to know more about SLideShare, now, than PLNs; and there is some fascinating stuff there.

Including this prize-winning presentation called Thirst, by John Brennan of ApolloIdeas.com.

The presentation is excellent - simple, concise, and hard hitting.

I may not have learnt what a PLN is; but I have had a fascinating journey!

Slide shows...

I've just realised I can post slide shows from SlideShare; of course I can, this is user-created content...

This is "Thirst" which I found so impressive (sorry, it doesn't seem to embed properly...):

THIRST

View SlideShare presentation or Upload your own. (tags: crisis design)

and this is "Footnotes", which is really fun:

Foot Notes

View SlideShare presentation or Upload your own. (tags: design inspirational)

Slide shows...

I've just realised I can post slide shows from SlideShare; of course I can, this is user-created content...

This is "Thirst" which I found so impressive (sorry, it doesn't seem to embed properly...):

THIRST

View SlideShare presentation or Upload your own. (tags: crisis design)

and this is "Footnotes", which is really fun:

Foot Notes

View SlideShare presentation or Upload your own. (tags: design inspirational)