July 18 2006

Today I met a man on the street who could play the violin so beautifully it tugged at my soul and made me want to weep. He was in his sixties, with an unsmiling and fierce face, his brow furrowed as he concentrated on playing, an open violin case by his feet. I learned from someone else on the seminar that he was a professional street player, and made his money by playing to the crowds and passerbys. I wondered why he was not in some concert hall somewhere, but then thought that this was really how music should be, a sweetly sad melody wafting up upon the breeze to catch you unawares, in the midst of your harassed travels to God knows where. Music to make you feel in your blind rush of hurry.

I have found Oxford full of street performers, especially on weekends and on Cornmarket Street. When night fell I saw a man juggling flaming torches, and two men in a horse costume run down the street as a laughing crowd followed them. Along with performers, there are of course the Faceless Masses, all jabbering in a thousand different languages and bobbing into each other as they go about their business. Besides these, there are the Street People, homeless and begging for change or tiredly but doggedly trying to sell magazines to people. There is also a single black and white dog who runs about the various streets apparently without owner, but I think he belongs to a woman who often sleeps in one of the doorways nearby.

It’s been disgustingly hot outside. Those who are British are in amazement at the heat, and frankly I feel jipped. I tend to like cooler weather, and as England is often described to have a cooler climate, I was expecting a break from the heat. No such luck.

Today we had a formal dinner, after a lecture from a renowned Oxford Professor on Mary Wollstencraft. The lecture was ok, the Professor very nice, and the dinner conversation with the Professor’s friend, Mrs. Arudta Ash, a lot of fun.

I got to do laundry for the first time today. I was very excited. They haven’t had the laundry cards at the Porter’s Lodge for weeks. The bloody people from Georgetown University bought them out.

Tonight I went out with two people I know only a little, but we had fun. Their names are Ebony and Sarah. Sarah is Pakistani, Ebony African-American, and the conversation ranged from books, applying to Oxford, boys, pubs, and the heat. Later at night after we meandered our way from the King’s Arms to Trinity (that sounds a bit naughty…) we sat in the gardens and watched the moon rise over the skyline. I listened to Ebony and Sarah talk, and it was interesting. They were talking about family members who dated “white people�. This struck me as odd. Perhaps I have what you would call a sheltered existence, and I realize historically that there is all this nonsense between “whites� and “blacks� or whatever, but I would not have thought the same labels would be used by the people who had so often been labeled themselves. I can see nationalities as labels, but…? I don’t know. I can understand cultural differences, for instance, Sarah, because she is Pakistani, for religious and cultural reasons would want to marry a Pakistani man. Ebony told a story about her brother who would only date “white women�. I don’t quite get his preference. He seems to be cutting himself away from a lot of potential people. People…a nice word for all of us.