![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
averygoodun42Have I mentioned my new year's resolution yet? It's singular.
I will not travel far this year. I will not travel near. I will not travel anywhere, 'less Death takes someone dear.
Okay, maybe that's exaggerating, as I do somewhat hope to get down to NYC this April to go see my cousin's ex's show, but that's only if my mum comes out and goes with me. But that's the only traveling I even half heartedly want to do this year.
I am so sick and tired of traveling. Three trips last year. THREE! And I had had every intention of not traveling last year, as well. But first it looked like my grampa was going to die, and we wanted him to meet Babe, so that was one cross country trip. Then DH had to go to Colorado for business, and we decided that since his ticket was paid for, we might as well make it a family affair so that Babe could meet his other set of grandparents... And then Christmas. I'll just chalk that trip up to 'love of family' (especially sister).
I repeat. I am NOT traveling this year. Unless someone dies. So please, everyone, if it's getting close to your time, please, please take pity on me and wait till next year. I mean, would another year really be that bad?
It does mean that I'll have to miss my high school reunion (if I'm even invited) Aw shucks.
In other... um, not exactly news, but I can't think of the right word at this moment... occurences? No... whatever. The basement is not finished. I was going to start laying tile today, but a trip to Michael's this morning wiped me out. Babe was a terror. And here I was, silly me, thinking that an outing would improve his mood. Bah!
At least that's dealt with, and I'm finally getting my birthday/anniversary present. My parents are paying for the re-framing of an old high school art project (the cube). I think it'll look good. While I was at it, since Michael's is having that framing sale, I took in "Squashed" to be framed. It's expensive, but I found a frame that looks good, which I was beginning to despair of. So now, if and when I decide I can give it up for sale, it'll be ready to go.
Have I mentioned that my walls are bare? Not just bare, but barren. I don't have anything to put in my living room right now, and I don't have any horizontal projects lingering in my mind either. (Ah, the spoiled whinings of an artist.) I'm really not in a landscape frame of mind, and haven't been since moving here, although...
The year we moved here was really cold. Really cold. Our apartment was this dark and drafty place on the second floor that was squished between a major road and five other houses. One of our bedroom windows looked out onto the pale blue siding of one of the houses, whereas the southern windows looked out onto the mountain of parking lot snow, a lone maple tree, and all the other houses.
Well, as I might have mentioned, it was rather chilly that year, and the icicles were amazing. The icicles hanging off our neighbors' house were the kind that could kill if they fell on someone. And it wasn't just a singular icicle hanging of the gutter-spout. It was a row of glistening, shining points, all dangling precariously off the eaves. When the sun chose to come out in the afternoons, it would hit that row of transparent daggers and transform them from symbols of the frigid cold to beautiful objects. Suddenly that dull ice became a myriad of colors, reflecting the blue of the siding and purple shadows, but also sparkling like a prism with yellow and green and white. They would start dripping, slowly melting down, elongating their forms day after day. Somehow the sun shining through them would exaggerate the visual danger to those unwary pedestrians below.
It was one of the few moments of inspiration I had while living in that depressing hole. The problem is, I still haven't decided how to paint it. At first I was actually thinking fabric might be the best medium, but I know that I'm not talented (or patient) enough to work the material into something worthy. I'm tempted by oils, because that's where my comfort zone is, but I'm still not sure. Believe it or not, the idea that keeps coming back to me again and again is black velvet. Yes, that medium has become the epitome of cheese, but, at the same time, it could actually be the dramatic background that I need. It would be such a contrast to the shining ice, both in texture and coloration...
It's kind of frustrating. I can picture this image in my head, size and colors and composition, but I have no idea where to start. If I do go the black velvet route, I'm not sure how to go about that. I mean, I'd probably use velveteen, rather than velvet... maybe... hmm.
Sorry, mind's wandering (working).
Anyway, the other thing I wanted to share was an argument my friend, Anne Stone, wrote about writing and civilization. It's just her musings, but I thought they were interesting.
"Over and over, in many discussions over the years, people have repeated
that civilization is equal to writing. The written word began history and
civilization, or so we are taught in grammar school. Sky brought that up
again this morning. I countered, telling him that this "fact" is hotly
disputed. Well, arguing with Sky is a tough venture, so I feel prepared to
offer you the thoughts.
Okay. Books are our friends. Many of you make your living off of books.
Books are many of our favorite artifacts, rivals to jewelry or chess men or
shoes or fast cars. In my collection of junk to move, I move 20 boxes of
books, 3 boxes of supplies (art, sewing), two boxes of CD's and a computer,
and one box of kitchen stuff. So you see that I do like books. Even if I
were rich and had collected a house full of stuff for 40 years, it would be
in that ratio, believe me. My parents were the same way, my mother's 4000
square feet has about 30 bookcases, floor to ceiling. So I don't really
want to go to a place where I can't read a book. But, that being
explained....
The idea that civilization or history began with the written word is bull
shit. (Agh! Don't yell at me before you hear the argument!)
We, as a culture have a remarkable prejudice against the term, "oral
tradition". For many it sounds like quilting or naked guys with wooden
spears peering out of the jungle. This is so poorly understood that one of
my favorite books, "Fahrenheit 457" is blown at the end by the idea that
people became books by memorizing all or parts of them.
Bull shit again.
Now, I have a terrible memory, verbal memory, that is. I sometimes think
that I got dropped on my head as a child, but I do have epilepsy in the
left temporal lobe, so there may be some truth to that suspicion.
Definitely something broken there. My IQ tests bear that out as well as my
reading comprehension which is so lousy that I suffer from a dyslexia that
is marked by "over reading" or reading too fast to get the words. So I
might think of walking books as a fantasy rather than plausible because I
can't do it, no way. I can't even remember my own stuff, or stuff I just
said or heard. I have to paraphrase.
Despite this handicap, I have a brain. And I do remember vast amounts of
stuff. But I could never, even for a million dollars be a walking book,
even a walking story.
This is the first fallacy of "oral tradition". The argument against it is
based on this prejudice. People assume that people could no more remember
a book, let alone a body of information better than some child trying to
remember the Gettysburg address.
BUT....People didn't remember books. Books and prose are inventions of a
late sort, so late that they're historical. Fact number one. People from
an oral tradition do not memorize prose.
Okey, dokey. Let's try this out. I'm going to write something and you're
going to remember it.
"Row, row, row your boat, gently down...."
How many of you remembered the rest of the line, but also compulsively
"sang" it to yourself? Think back on your teen years and think of just how
much stuff like this you remember. If you're like me, it would take you
several days to say or SING it all. I remember the lyrics verbatim of not
only hundreds of songs and poems, but of entire operas.
So, we hear a tale of a person who tells a tale that has been handed down
for generations unchanged and it is not the first chapter of Genesis like
in Bradbury's book, but "London bridge is falling down..." a song that all
of us can sing as it was sung in the 17th Century, no changes.
In our formal schooling, we have experienced a tragic loss of poetry. We
learn really, really stupid stuff like how to write a sonnet. It is
understood that peoples of "oral traditions" like the Mongols and the Celts
had (have) hundreds of patterns, syllabic and alliterative, not just rhyming.
We have some of this, "row, row, row your boat" is a very different
pattern from "my love is like a red, red rose" which might be less
memorable without the alliterative pattern. "My love is similar to a scarlet
flower." Row, scull, embark your boat..." just don't have the same kind of
"stickiness". I have found that most people who try to write poetry learn
very fast that they have no ear developed. Some of you may think, "big
deal" but for a person memorizing hundreds and hundreds of "books" it's a
major big deal.
More than the loss of poetric understanding, we moderns suffer more from
inheriting spoken languages that were badly translated to a visual
phonetic. By badly, I mean that almost all the rules of spelling are
orthographic and people don't understand this, nor are they told the
reasons for it. People generally don't even notice until that damning day
when they are sitting in French class or Spanish class and wondering why in
the hell the word tocar is in the first person toco, but in the third
person toque. As a phonetic, the spelling is to preserve the sound, but
visually it is clumsy and seems rather stupid. Now Romance languages are
vastly simple compared to other tongues that were transcribed with Roman
letters like Gaelic. Some people, like the Vikings, got creative and
invented new characters to represent non-Roman sounds like the thorn to
represent "th". Other people like the English just spell "thin" and "then"
alike and hope that people just learn that they are said differently.
Written English continues (in Feyman's words) to be the most stupid and
abitrary set of rules ever created, but he was wrong. Written English is
a phonetic transcription of three languages that interacted over a period
of five hundred years overlaid with thousands of borrowed words. It has to
be one of the finest adaptions in all of history, dealing with a basic
vocabulary of almost four times the average language. Learning written
(and spoken) English is learning three languages, with a goodly knowledge
of three more. Anglo-Saxon, Norman French, and Celtic with a working
knowledge of Greek, Norse and a secondary Celtic language (depending on if
it's British English or Hiberno English or American English). Be
impressed, folks. When your polygot Asian friends look down on you, feel
better.
Well, we come to the second fallacy.
There are two tragedies of equal importance to the transmission of
knowledge. The first was the burning of the library at Alexandria
witnessed by Cleopatra as the greatest loss of her time. It will never be
known what was lost in the countless volumes that became ashes overnight.
This single thoughtless event might have set back human progress by a few
hundred years.
The other loss is not recognized as a loss because of our prejudice for
books over oral tradition. When Cromwell invaded Scotland and Ireland, he
replaced the noble class with his own land hungry followers, following a
precedent set by King John over four hundred years previous. This
replacement was known as the Plantation. What is not well known is that
Cromwell did not stop with the nobles in a pattern of genocide known as
"the Flight of the Earls" which was comparable to many Jewish programs. What
he also did was kill off anyone in the caste of ollaves over a certain
rank. To explain this, it would be as if someone invaded the US and killed
all the senators and such, but also killed off every university professor,
every engineer, every doctor, every writer, everyone of a level of
knowledge or skill that was of mastery.
So we are left with this legacy. I know that some of you might be
poo-poohing this as my Celtophilia, but it is not. What happened is that a
huge, huge body of knowledge was lost, and I mean lost. For you see, in
the largely still oral traditions of Scotland and Ireland, a person was a
book.
Sky argues against this as a defense for civilization coming to non-writing
peoples. But there is a mistake here of magnitude. You see, in a society
of books, like we have, one person can be an institution of learning, like
my mother with 5,000 books. She could not find that information in herself
or in anyone of any skill. But most oral societies were not individuated
like we moderns. Knowledge was kept in libraries, just as it was once kept
in monasteries. In oral societies, knowledge is kept in schools.
What Cromwell did was destroy the libraries or "schools" of Gaelic society.
Oral societies were fiercely jealous of the knowledge they had. It took
them years to memorize all the "row, row, row your boats" of geneology,
history, science, astronomy, literature--you name it. To reach ollave
status, or mastery, took almost twenty years. Certainly the equivalent of
a PhD.
So here is the tragedy. Oral tradition was left to people who knew a few
songs. It would be as if the total knowledge of the Old Testament was
summed up by someone who knew a few psalms. People have run around Ireland
and Scotland and England to record the last of these oral transmitters who
even know that much, calling it "folk" tradition, usually in the form of
"folksongs" or tales told at a certain time of year or rituals performed at
certain events. For you see, all the knowledge that might impress anyone,
was killed. Like all that was left of your local library was a few
children's books with some nursery rhymes and fairy tales.
No wonder people think with scorn on "oral traditions"! Granted, the Celts
set themselves up, for they had such a scorn of the written word, sure that
it would damage their ability to memorize, that they even pied and changed
stuff for the monks who changed stuff anyways to Christianize tales and
traditions to make them more acceptable to their library overseers in Rome.
Well, I am going on. But many people have noted that the ability to "tell
a good tale" is something to be cherished. Certainly the ability to sing a
good song is admired. But when you hear a song or someone tells you a
story, think on the tradition that it evokes, that of hundreds and hundreds
of books being passed on verbatim between schools of people from one
generation to the next. I hope this adds to your admiration of humanity
and disperses your prejudice (but not your love) of all those books in your
own library denoting you as "civilized"."
Snape's Journal
Feb. 24, 1998
Minerva came over for a spot of tea this evening. She mentioned Miss Granger has started working on research again. I casually mentioned the detention, and, though upset, she did seem to understand. She kept giving me suspicious looks through the rest of tea, though.
We also devised a revenge on Albus. I'm not mentioning it here until it has occurred, nor am I saying when it will occur, just in case the old bugger does have access to these entries. Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, now would we?
I will not travel far this year. I will not travel near. I will not travel anywhere, 'less Death takes someone dear.
Okay, maybe that's exaggerating, as I do somewhat hope to get down to NYC this April to go see my cousin's ex's show, but that's only if my mum comes out and goes with me. But that's the only traveling I even half heartedly want to do this year.
I am so sick and tired of traveling. Three trips last year. THREE! And I had had every intention of not traveling last year, as well. But first it looked like my grampa was going to die, and we wanted him to meet Babe, so that was one cross country trip. Then DH had to go to Colorado for business, and we decided that since his ticket was paid for, we might as well make it a family affair so that Babe could meet his other set of grandparents... And then Christmas. I'll just chalk that trip up to 'love of family' (especially sister).
I repeat. I am NOT traveling this year. Unless someone dies. So please, everyone, if it's getting close to your time, please, please take pity on me and wait till next year. I mean, would another year really be that bad?
It does mean that I'll have to miss my high school reunion (if I'm even invited) Aw shucks.
In other... um, not exactly news, but I can't think of the right word at this moment... occurences? No... whatever. The basement is not finished. I was going to start laying tile today, but a trip to Michael's this morning wiped me out. Babe was a terror. And here I was, silly me, thinking that an outing would improve his mood. Bah!
At least that's dealt with, and I'm finally getting my birthday/anniversary present. My parents are paying for the re-framing of an old high school art project (the cube). I think it'll look good. While I was at it, since Michael's is having that framing sale, I took in "Squashed" to be framed. It's expensive, but I found a frame that looks good, which I was beginning to despair of. So now, if and when I decide I can give it up for sale, it'll be ready to go.
Have I mentioned that my walls are bare? Not just bare, but barren. I don't have anything to put in my living room right now, and I don't have any horizontal projects lingering in my mind either. (Ah, the spoiled whinings of an artist.) I'm really not in a landscape frame of mind, and haven't been since moving here, although...
The year we moved here was really cold. Really cold. Our apartment was this dark and drafty place on the second floor that was squished between a major road and five other houses. One of our bedroom windows looked out onto the pale blue siding of one of the houses, whereas the southern windows looked out onto the mountain of parking lot snow, a lone maple tree, and all the other houses.
Well, as I might have mentioned, it was rather chilly that year, and the icicles were amazing. The icicles hanging off our neighbors' house were the kind that could kill if they fell on someone. And it wasn't just a singular icicle hanging of the gutter-spout. It was a row of glistening, shining points, all dangling precariously off the eaves. When the sun chose to come out in the afternoons, it would hit that row of transparent daggers and transform them from symbols of the frigid cold to beautiful objects. Suddenly that dull ice became a myriad of colors, reflecting the blue of the siding and purple shadows, but also sparkling like a prism with yellow and green and white. They would start dripping, slowly melting down, elongating their forms day after day. Somehow the sun shining through them would exaggerate the visual danger to those unwary pedestrians below.
It was one of the few moments of inspiration I had while living in that depressing hole. The problem is, I still haven't decided how to paint it. At first I was actually thinking fabric might be the best medium, but I know that I'm not talented (or patient) enough to work the material into something worthy. I'm tempted by oils, because that's where my comfort zone is, but I'm still not sure. Believe it or not, the idea that keeps coming back to me again and again is black velvet. Yes, that medium has become the epitome of cheese, but, at the same time, it could actually be the dramatic background that I need. It would be such a contrast to the shining ice, both in texture and coloration...
It's kind of frustrating. I can picture this image in my head, size and colors and composition, but I have no idea where to start. If I do go the black velvet route, I'm not sure how to go about that. I mean, I'd probably use velveteen, rather than velvet... maybe... hmm.
Sorry, mind's wandering (working).
Anyway, the other thing I wanted to share was an argument my friend, Anne Stone, wrote about writing and civilization. It's just her musings, but I thought they were interesting.
"Over and over, in many discussions over the years, people have repeated
that civilization is equal to writing. The written word began history and
civilization, or so we are taught in grammar school. Sky brought that up
again this morning. I countered, telling him that this "fact" is hotly
disputed. Well, arguing with Sky is a tough venture, so I feel prepared to
offer you the thoughts.
Okay. Books are our friends. Many of you make your living off of books.
Books are many of our favorite artifacts, rivals to jewelry or chess men or
shoes or fast cars. In my collection of junk to move, I move 20 boxes of
books, 3 boxes of supplies (art, sewing), two boxes of CD's and a computer,
and one box of kitchen stuff. So you see that I do like books. Even if I
were rich and had collected a house full of stuff for 40 years, it would be
in that ratio, believe me. My parents were the same way, my mother's 4000
square feet has about 30 bookcases, floor to ceiling. So I don't really
want to go to a place where I can't read a book. But, that being
explained....
The idea that civilization or history began with the written word is bull
shit. (Agh! Don't yell at me before you hear the argument!)
We, as a culture have a remarkable prejudice against the term, "oral
tradition". For many it sounds like quilting or naked guys with wooden
spears peering out of the jungle. This is so poorly understood that one of
my favorite books, "Fahrenheit 457" is blown at the end by the idea that
people became books by memorizing all or parts of them.
Bull shit again.
Now, I have a terrible memory, verbal memory, that is. I sometimes think
that I got dropped on my head as a child, but I do have epilepsy in the
left temporal lobe, so there may be some truth to that suspicion.
Definitely something broken there. My IQ tests bear that out as well as my
reading comprehension which is so lousy that I suffer from a dyslexia that
is marked by "over reading" or reading too fast to get the words. So I
might think of walking books as a fantasy rather than plausible because I
can't do it, no way. I can't even remember my own stuff, or stuff I just
said or heard. I have to paraphrase.
Despite this handicap, I have a brain. And I do remember vast amounts of
stuff. But I could never, even for a million dollars be a walking book,
even a walking story.
This is the first fallacy of "oral tradition". The argument against it is
based on this prejudice. People assume that people could no more remember
a book, let alone a body of information better than some child trying to
remember the Gettysburg address.
BUT....People didn't remember books. Books and prose are inventions of a
late sort, so late that they're historical. Fact number one. People from
an oral tradition do not memorize prose.
Okey, dokey. Let's try this out. I'm going to write something and you're
going to remember it.
"Row, row, row your boat, gently down...."
How many of you remembered the rest of the line, but also compulsively
"sang" it to yourself? Think back on your teen years and think of just how
much stuff like this you remember. If you're like me, it would take you
several days to say or SING it all. I remember the lyrics verbatim of not
only hundreds of songs and poems, but of entire operas.
So, we hear a tale of a person who tells a tale that has been handed down
for generations unchanged and it is not the first chapter of Genesis like
in Bradbury's book, but "London bridge is falling down..." a song that all
of us can sing as it was sung in the 17th Century, no changes.
In our formal schooling, we have experienced a tragic loss of poetry. We
learn really, really stupid stuff like how to write a sonnet. It is
understood that peoples of "oral traditions" like the Mongols and the Celts
had (have) hundreds of patterns, syllabic and alliterative, not just rhyming.
We have some of this, "row, row, row your boat" is a very different
pattern from "my love is like a red, red rose" which might be less
memorable without the alliterative pattern. "My love is similar to a scarlet
flower." Row, scull, embark your boat..." just don't have the same kind of
"stickiness". I have found that most people who try to write poetry learn
very fast that they have no ear developed. Some of you may think, "big
deal" but for a person memorizing hundreds and hundreds of "books" it's a
major big deal.
More than the loss of poetric understanding, we moderns suffer more from
inheriting spoken languages that were badly translated to a visual
phonetic. By badly, I mean that almost all the rules of spelling are
orthographic and people don't understand this, nor are they told the
reasons for it. People generally don't even notice until that damning day
when they are sitting in French class or Spanish class and wondering why in
the hell the word tocar is in the first person toco, but in the third
person toque. As a phonetic, the spelling is to preserve the sound, but
visually it is clumsy and seems rather stupid. Now Romance languages are
vastly simple compared to other tongues that were transcribed with Roman
letters like Gaelic. Some people, like the Vikings, got creative and
invented new characters to represent non-Roman sounds like the thorn to
represent "th". Other people like the English just spell "thin" and "then"
alike and hope that people just learn that they are said differently.
Written English continues (in Feyman's words) to be the most stupid and
abitrary set of rules ever created, but he was wrong. Written English is
a phonetic transcription of three languages that interacted over a period
of five hundred years overlaid with thousands of borrowed words. It has to
be one of the finest adaptions in all of history, dealing with a basic
vocabulary of almost four times the average language. Learning written
(and spoken) English is learning three languages, with a goodly knowledge
of three more. Anglo-Saxon, Norman French, and Celtic with a working
knowledge of Greek, Norse and a secondary Celtic language (depending on if
it's British English or Hiberno English or American English). Be
impressed, folks. When your polygot Asian friends look down on you, feel
better.
Well, we come to the second fallacy.
There are two tragedies of equal importance to the transmission of
knowledge. The first was the burning of the library at Alexandria
witnessed by Cleopatra as the greatest loss of her time. It will never be
known what was lost in the countless volumes that became ashes overnight.
This single thoughtless event might have set back human progress by a few
hundred years.
The other loss is not recognized as a loss because of our prejudice for
books over oral tradition. When Cromwell invaded Scotland and Ireland, he
replaced the noble class with his own land hungry followers, following a
precedent set by King John over four hundred years previous. This
replacement was known as the Plantation. What is not well known is that
Cromwell did not stop with the nobles in a pattern of genocide known as
"the Flight of the Earls" which was comparable to many Jewish programs. What
he also did was kill off anyone in the caste of ollaves over a certain
rank. To explain this, it would be as if someone invaded the US and killed
all the senators and such, but also killed off every university professor,
every engineer, every doctor, every writer, everyone of a level of
knowledge or skill that was of mastery.
So we are left with this legacy. I know that some of you might be
poo-poohing this as my Celtophilia, but it is not. What happened is that a
huge, huge body of knowledge was lost, and I mean lost. For you see, in
the largely still oral traditions of Scotland and Ireland, a person was a
book.
Sky argues against this as a defense for civilization coming to non-writing
peoples. But there is a mistake here of magnitude. You see, in a society
of books, like we have, one person can be an institution of learning, like
my mother with 5,000 books. She could not find that information in herself
or in anyone of any skill. But most oral societies were not individuated
like we moderns. Knowledge was kept in libraries, just as it was once kept
in monasteries. In oral societies, knowledge is kept in schools.
What Cromwell did was destroy the libraries or "schools" of Gaelic society.
Oral societies were fiercely jealous of the knowledge they had. It took
them years to memorize all the "row, row, row your boats" of geneology,
history, science, astronomy, literature--you name it. To reach ollave
status, or mastery, took almost twenty years. Certainly the equivalent of
a PhD.
So here is the tragedy. Oral tradition was left to people who knew a few
songs. It would be as if the total knowledge of the Old Testament was
summed up by someone who knew a few psalms. People have run around Ireland
and Scotland and England to record the last of these oral transmitters who
even know that much, calling it "folk" tradition, usually in the form of
"folksongs" or tales told at a certain time of year or rituals performed at
certain events. For you see, all the knowledge that might impress anyone,
was killed. Like all that was left of your local library was a few
children's books with some nursery rhymes and fairy tales.
No wonder people think with scorn on "oral traditions"! Granted, the Celts
set themselves up, for they had such a scorn of the written word, sure that
it would damage their ability to memorize, that they even pied and changed
stuff for the monks who changed stuff anyways to Christianize tales and
traditions to make them more acceptable to their library overseers in Rome.
Well, I am going on. But many people have noted that the ability to "tell
a good tale" is something to be cherished. Certainly the ability to sing a
good song is admired. But when you hear a song or someone tells you a
story, think on the tradition that it evokes, that of hundreds and hundreds
of books being passed on verbatim between schools of people from one
generation to the next. I hope this adds to your admiration of humanity
and disperses your prejudice (but not your love) of all those books in your
own library denoting you as "civilized"."
Snape's Journal
Feb. 24, 1998
Minerva came over for a spot of tea this evening. She mentioned Miss Granger has started working on research again. I casually mentioned the detention, and, though upset, she did seem to understand. She kept giving me suspicious looks through the rest of tea, though.
We also devised a revenge on Albus. I'm not mentioning it here until it has occurred, nor am I saying when it will occur, just in case the old bugger does have access to these entries. Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise, now would we?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2006-01-17 08:43 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2006-01-17 09:12 pm (UTC)And I'm relieved to know, that as much as I love to see new people and places, I am not alone in finding travel uncomfortable.
no subject
Date: 2006-01-18 11:51 am (UTC)