British Museum, Westminster, and "Tyger Tyger"

Alright. I'm feeling the pressure of the unrecorded life, as Virginia Woolf puts it, so here goes- first post.

London is truly a multidimensional city. Scratch that- this is an obvious characteristic of any city. But here I'm more aware of everything happening all at once, simultaneous, together, in overlapping spheres of experience.

Just yesterday I attended the world famous British museum where myself and a couple of my American friends spent most of the daylight hours. I like museums, but more so the idea of them and the collective impression the preservation of history can have as a million marks of existence held by the same walls. As far as perusing artifacts go, the visual experience just isn't enough for me- without a context that is. Knowing this, I had in mind a particular print by a particular German artist, Albrecht Durer, whose work is referenced in one of my favorite poems, The Burning of Paper Instead of Children by Adrienne Rich. I saw online that the museum held the work and that it was among other features on the fourth floor print room. After visiting the mummies of ancient Egypt, I looked and looked for this engraving, knowing the black and white scene from google images. Not being able to find it, I asked an attendant if the museum still held some of Durer's collection. He informed me that it was no longer on display but that if I knocked on the door behind the wall he pointed to, they might be able to help me find what I was looking for. (I wish that happened more often.)

Now, I was by no means made exceptional to the ordinary goings on of the museum, though I never knew something like that existed. Behind said wall was the complete archive of prints and drawings held by the museum that weren't currently on display, and I was allowed to view Melancholia upon request and filling out a short slip. It's a beautiful work, very detailed and short pen-like incisions make up the engraving of a woman who personifies the malaise of an artist. She sits in what appears to be a secluded room, where rational elements and tools are strewn about, and with which she does nothing and prefers to stare off into the imaginary- that's the choice she makes as an artist in opposition with using the tools to fashion the material world. The print has many interpretation which all apply considering the great complexity of the work. Consult the print image on google for a more detailed, interesting, as well as concise description. I was unable to attach the link.

We left the museum and took the tube to Westminster Abbey for the nightly choral service. At this time the church was closed for tourism but charged no fee for the ceremony. The choir sang beautifully, and it was a majestic experience to hear the sonorous echo; it gave me chills, though it was also cold in there. Outside Westminster is picture perfect London. The London eye, Big Ben, The Abbey's exterior, etc. Will post pictures when I receive the necessary cord from home.

Took the tube back to King's Cross. Later last night went to "Tyger Tyger," a dance club that costs ten pounds to get in. Having never been to a "club" per se, I was razzle-dazzled by the atmosphere and how perfectly it conformed to the stereotypical version you see in the movies. Though, it was over-crowded, and the bar service was a joke. And all the men you don't want to talk to you, do. But maybe that's because there were no men there I wanted to talk to? Yeah. Won't be going back there. The thing about clubs is that they embody a dating, dancing fantasy realm that transports you, with a little help from the alcohol, into a dream state chain of interactions, and you always leave thinking, "well that was weird, not sure what to make of that." And that's because you can't..make anything of it. It's nothing. Just colored vapors and the lingering after scent of a desperate amount and strength of cologne that rubbed off on your dress.

If I go to the club again, I have set in my mind the purpose of that will not be to entertain or ward off my pursuers, but rather to dance freely, reject whomever from my company, and enjoy myself.  Because to be quite frank, dreams of the altered consciousness variety don't lend themselves well to conversation.

Point: London's a massive plethora of choice. Lesson: choose wisely.