Aphra

Yesterday, having resolved to make some last minutes trips to tourist attractions before I go home and kick myself for having overlooked some very obvious things, I went to Westminster Abby. While it was really cool to see the tomb of Queen Elizabeth I, who wrote some great poetry if you have any desire to read it, my favorite spot in the Abby was not nearly as opulent as that occupied by the Virgin Queen. 

Around the corner from the Poet's Corner, and outside in the courtyard, there lies a flat and faded marble slab laid into the ground. Nothing about it boasts of importance. There is no figure carved from stone to stand above it and demand attention from all passersby. It is just smooth and plain. But the words carved into it couldn't be more perfect. 

It was specifically to see this spot that I had ventured into the Abby. The stone read:

Here lies a Proof that Wit can never be 

Defense enough against Mortality. 

Behind these most fitting words lies the Wit of Aphra Behn. 

Mrs. APHRA BEHN

DYED APRIL 16

A.D. 1680

Aphra Behn, as you may have already guessed, unless you have heard of her before now, was a writer during what is called the Restoration period of British Literature. This era was, for the most part, filled with the words of Pope and Dryden and Swift (Read: crusty old white men who were very angry about a lot of things, and loved to complain about the endless shortcomings of women). And then there was Aphra Behn. 

Behn is a figure whose personal life is shrouded in mystery. Nothing is known for certain about her birth or the identity of her parents or the man that made her a Mrs., but what is known is rather fascinating. She traveled, for instance, to the New World, the West Indies, and lived there for a time, later writing about her experiences in a pseudo-documentary way in a novella called Oroonoko; she also worked as a spy in Holland for the British government, using her feminine wit and charm to get information out of, who else?, men; and lastly, and most importantly, she is recognized as being one of the first and most prolific female writers and playwrights of her era who supported herself by way of her writing. She wrote for her bread.

In her novel, A Room of One's Own, Virgina Woolf wrote that every woman should "let flowers fall on the tomb of Aphra Behn, for it was she who earned them the right to speak their minds." I just finished a paper on one of Behn's plays for my class on the Restoration. It's called The Rover, and it had me laughing out loud. So, needless to say, though to say it makes me sound like a pretty huge dork, I was SO EXCITED to see this unassuming spot in Westminster Abby. I mean, it was kind of like seeing a celebrity on the street or something. That doesn't really make any sense, but just to know that I was, in a sense, in the presence of this woman was a really cool sort of thing. 

I sat down on a bench for a minute, just to look at the black faded stone, just to think. And then a pigeon walked across her grave, her tomb, whatever you want to call it. A pigeon walked across Aphra Behn. Then feet shuffled over her--feet belonging to a tour group that was completely oblivious to what they were walking on top of, of who they were looking over. And then came a stroller. 

I thought the contrast between my attitude of "hero-worship" and everyone else's nonchalance was pretty hilarious. And it made me think about the idea of legacy. 

When I was in Paris the first time, Claire, Syd and I went to find Jim Morrison's grave. He's burried at this cemetery on the outskirts of Paris, and Syd basically came to Paris so that she could "see Jimmy." 

We found the site after a bit of hiking around. It was barricaded with the sort of gate one might find lining a red carpet to separate the stars from photogs and screaming fans. His headstone was strewn with wilting flowers, candles, and other sundry items left my many an adoring fan. The tomb to the left of his was covered in messages from his fans who found it permissible to deface a stranger's tomb in order to leave Jimmy a message. 

Meanwhile, in London, pigeons and strollers and tour groups are passing over the resting place of English Literature's first professional woman writer. 

But this might be preferable to a tacky barricade. 

3 Years Down

4 papers and 36 pages later, I am done with my Junior year of college. 

How the heck am I done with my 3rd year of college? I mean, I still remember moving into my freshman dorm like like it was yesterday. 

I had just gotten back from Outdoor Orientation-- the Scripps Pre-Orientation program, where I had scaled some pretty scary hillsides with a pretty ancient backpack from my dad's former days as a mountain man in the 70s. 

I had just spent my last night sleeping in my own bed before moving into a dorm where I would have to live with other people and endure Esha turning on the lights in the room at 4AM just as I was falling asleep because she had just finished studying for Bio and was having trouble finding her pajamas or something. 

I had just had the most amazing shower of my life after not having shaved or soaped-up for a week. My feet and ankles were bruised and adorned with some pretty nasty cuts where the duct tape I had used to wrap my ankles (in order to prevent blisters) had dug into my skin. 

And now I was saying goodbye to my parents and embarking on the scary new task of making new friends for the first time in 6 years. 

And it was scary. I'm loud as hell once you get to know me, but when I'm put into a situation where I am unknown, I tend to be quiet and shy. So making friends was scary. 

It happened soon enough. MaryAlison and Esha and I got to be fast friends, despite the occasional urge to kill one another. And I met Lauren and Claire either in Spanish Class or through voice, where each of our wise little first-year butts were hired to oversee our own sections of the newspaper. (Because, yes. We were just THAT good.) 

I remember one of our Editor-in-Chiefs asking Lauren and I if we were sisters because we apparently looked alike. (Because, obviously, every girl on the planet with masses of brown curly hair is related.) 

Oh, man-- I must tell you. My hair has lost the curly. I don't know what to do. I mean, I remember reading someplace that a woman's hair changes texture something like 7 times over the course of her lifetime, but, HELLO? Um, no one ever asked me if I wanted the curls to go away. And I mean, my hair is still wavy, but I can't help but wonder if this is some sort of punishment from the curly hair gods for chopping all of it off. But it was heavy, and I really wanted a change. It's not like I ever straighten it, I mean... Come on! Maybe when I get back to the humid Southern California summer, the curls will spring back up... I hope?

Anyway, back when I had curly hair, I also got to be friends with Claire. Another curly. Claire at the time was a walking Petri dish. She was sick. And I don't know how it came up, but she told me that she felt like her throat was going to implode or something, so I took her over some Throat Coat tea and a microwavable can of Chicken Noodle Soup in hope that it would make her feel better because I wanted us to be friends and I thought it would be kind of awkward to be friends with a person who didn't have a neck. Best to avoid that.

From there, Claire, Lauren and I had Spanish study session pow wows and embarked on a grand tour of the Scripps English Department. 

Anyway, by the end of freshman year, I had friends. I had a place. I knew where I was going and I was excited about it. 

Three years later--still unsure of how time has passed so quickly--I receive an e-mail from the professor in charge of the English Senior Seminar to tell us that we need to start thinking about our thesis topics, because we need to know them for our first class in the Fall. 

Shit. 

I'm really going to have to grow up now. But first, I'm going to have to write a thesis. And I have NO CLUE what I'm going to write mine about... 

What better to do?

It's 1AM, so what better to do than update the good old blog?

My four "almost papers" have somehow worked themselves into two full drafts and two "almost papers." Woot!

Here are some updates on the things that I do to fill up the unseemly blank spaces in my planner:

Summer Job-- I have a summer internship! And I am SO excited. I will be working as the Development and Literary intern for Circle X Theatre Company in Los Angeles. 

Scripps Newspaper-- In addition, I have just been offered the position of Co-Editor-in-Chief for the Scripps College Newspaper. Another Editor-in-Chief notch to add to belt! I'm really excited. I know this job will be incredibly challenging, but it's my last year at Scripps so I have to make it count! My friend Lauren will be the other half of what will be our dynamic duo, and she's completely amazing and I am so excited to be working with her on this! 

In other news, I bought a little dress today. I've decided to call it my "Traditional English Dress" because it's just about as "London" as a dress can get. It's black jersey to the waist and then it explodes into a full skirt made of a calico floral print of flowers and strawberries. It has an asymmetrical hemline and a black ribbon that ties into a bow at the waist. And yes, it's just as ridiculous as it sounds and I love it. 

That being said, today was my last trip to TopShop this time around. (I say this time around because I, of course, plan on coming back to London.) The place was a madhouse and my personal space was invaded by many an eager shopper with a bad dye job and an addiction to black eyeliner and facial piercings. Even if I weren't leaving in 10 days (!!!!) it would take me a while to build up the strength to venture back in there. Also, the shoe temptation is just too much to handle. (When I get home my father might actually be glad to hear that I want to go to Nordstrom after having to look at four months worth of credit card statements full of ugly sums that take full advantage of the crap exchange rate from £s to $s.)

My agenda for tomorrow includes finishing my Shakespeare paper and taking in a matinee showing of Spamalot with Jessica. 

I cannot wait to be done with these papers. Working on 4 at a time is an ugly business, let me tell you. But I really love what I'm writing on for all of them, so at least that's a plus.