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timerippleWell, to be cheesily sentimental about it:
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains, high-cover’d with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.
Robert Burns, of course. I’ve been home less than a week, and I’m ready to leave. Am insanely jealous of those going to the Boston Celtic Music Festival today - no, actually I just miss them. I haven’t even seen the horse yet. And that’s all I’m saying on that subject.
I keep having this dream in which I am returning at long last to a familiar place – usually school – and either it’s somehow twisted, or all my memories and experiences of it have been erroneous illusions, and I’m suddenly confronted with having to figure it out again. When I was in high school I kept trying (and failing) to find the right Spanish classroom; last night I was in some strange combination of Wellesley and St Andrews. Let me emphasize that this was not necessarily a best-of-both-worlds thing. In fact, it was downright creepy. I walked in the front door of some building vaguely (but not really) resembling the foyer of my hall in Scotland, picked up my mail from a cardboard folder, and bumped into several St Andrews guys in what was at this point the front passage of Munger Hall (only different). They were carrying groceries, which for some reason included a giant chunk of blue birdseed, and we headed for the elevators. Whereupon I remembered that my room was on the ground floor – only when I go there, the hall didn’t look anything like 1 West, and my room definitely wasn’t there.
At which point the dream turned into a confused jumble of a Pony Club dressage show with an evil inflated-plastic-life-sized Data (no, it wasn’t Lore – it was definitely evil Data) running the lunch line. For an evil plastic inflated android, though, he was surprisingly generous with the chocolate chip cookies. In fact, aside from those Tesco packaged cheese sandwiches, they made up the entire menu (which totally contradicts the evilness of evil plastic inflated Data. Perhaps there was no milk. I didn’t have time to notice, being busy trying to stop people from accidentally resurrecting him after a bunch of us pushed him onto a hot plate. Why there was a hot plate, when the entire menu was packaged cheese sandwiches and cookies, I refuse to speculate).
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North,
The birth-place of Valour, the country of Worth;
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove,
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love.
Farewell to the mountains, high-cover’d with snow,
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below;
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods,
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods.
My heart’s in the Highlands, my heart is not here,
My heart’s in the Highlands, a-chasing the deer;
A-chasing the wild deer, and following the roe,
My heart’s in the Highlands wherever I go.
Robert Burns, of course. I’ve been home less than a week, and I’m ready to leave. Am insanely jealous of those going to the Boston Celtic Music Festival today - no, actually I just miss them. I haven’t even seen the horse yet. And that’s all I’m saying on that subject.
I keep having this dream in which I am returning at long last to a familiar place – usually school – and either it’s somehow twisted, or all my memories and experiences of it have been erroneous illusions, and I’m suddenly confronted with having to figure it out again. When I was in high school I kept trying (and failing) to find the right Spanish classroom; last night I was in some strange combination of Wellesley and St Andrews. Let me emphasize that this was not necessarily a best-of-both-worlds thing. In fact, it was downright creepy. I walked in the front door of some building vaguely (but not really) resembling the foyer of my hall in Scotland, picked up my mail from a cardboard folder, and bumped into several St Andrews guys in what was at this point the front passage of Munger Hall (only different). They were carrying groceries, which for some reason included a giant chunk of blue birdseed, and we headed for the elevators. Whereupon I remembered that my room was on the ground floor – only when I go there, the hall didn’t look anything like 1 West, and my room definitely wasn’t there.
At which point the dream turned into a confused jumble of a Pony Club dressage show with an evil inflated-plastic-life-sized Data (no, it wasn’t Lore – it was definitely evil Data) running the lunch line. For an evil plastic inflated android, though, he was surprisingly generous with the chocolate chip cookies. In fact, aside from those Tesco packaged cheese sandwiches, they made up the entire menu (which totally contradicts the evilness of evil plastic inflated Data. Perhaps there was no milk. I didn’t have time to notice, being busy trying to stop people from accidentally resurrecting him after a bunch of us pushed him onto a hot plate. Why there was a hot plate, when the entire menu was packaged cheese sandwiches and cookies, I refuse to speculate).
