Recently in Curiousitousness Category

Mount St Helens has erupted again after a long breather; nothing major, as yet, but still a source of fascination as I've always been enthralled by volcanoes, with vivid images of the catastrophic eruption of 1980 stuck in my head from when I was three or four years old -- this was, of course, recorded footage in documentary form, since I was only four months and two days old when the majestic old mountain obliterated itself in the largest avalanche in recorded history -- what a reminder.

Of course, earth-geeks will all know that we're thousands of years overdue for a volcanic super-eruption, the kind of geotectonic event with the power to affect the planet in its entirety; though I could be wrong, the Toba super-eruption in present day Indonesia was probably the last of these, and that was a good 70 000 years ago. While the Sunda arc, a subduction zone between the Indian Ocean and Eurasian plates, remains a source of geological excitement, the mountain currently predicted to be the next man up is Mt Rainier, the centrepiece of the beautiful Olympic National Park near Seattle, Washington. I would say that I'd be sorry to see it go, as it's one of the prettiest areas I've ever seen, but considering the Toba eruption may have brought the human population of the world down to 10 000 in the blink of a geological eye, I probably won't be around long enough to form much of an opinion.

Exactly one month ago, I was lying stock still in a resonance chamber while a muffled sledgehammer went off inside my head; that's pretty much all that summarises an MRI. That, and the mild disorientation that comes from lying in a tube that is little larger than the diameter of your head for an hour and a half while magnets and motors noisily do the rounds about your grey matter. You're expected not to move; wiggling the toes is enough to cause movement of the head, so developing an itch, or the inevitable pins and needles, isn't exactly convenient. Like most people, I developed both, but once all feeling was lost in my legs, things became significantly simpler.

And now I have my results back... no abnormalities, just unusually large frontal lobes, which is nature's way of telling me that I can neither be blamed for talking too much, nor be faulted for trying to restore my own brand of order to the immediate Universe. It's nice to have an excuse for being anal.

It's a little humbling to see that all that I am is what is represented above; a mass of tissue that obeys a set of rules imposed by some biological imperative, but whose plasticity in size, shape and operation is sufficiently free as to give rise to all the unique personalities with which we interact.
Is that marvelous, or is that marvelous?

A girlfriend of mine turned Doctor today; she passed her viva voce with flying colours, and then we went out on the piss. For a moment, I felt a degree of envy in that she is, now, where I wish I was already, but all in good time I suppose. Besides, I imagine that the work and stress of the interim will be utterly thrilling, and that isn't something I want to pass up on.

I made an early exit from the off-facedness to attend a guest lecture at the Union where artist, Grayson Perry, was to speak about his work; it turned into more of an easy question-answer discussion than lecture, which is unsurprising, in hindsight, given his intensely sociable nature, apparent from the outset. He insisted we not hold back with our questions, and for a while, no one really paid heed, which seemed a little insensitive. So I asked him if he had been abused as a child and whether it had affected the nature of the pieces he creates. He smiled before answering. People got more brazen thereafter.

Talk ranged from paedophilia, classism in society, and the behaviour of the latter in the face of polemicism, to S&M (which Grayson enjoys), forms of abuse, and the meritocratic nature of the art world. It was free flowing, oftentimes amusing, and almost like talking to a friend; very pleasant in all respects. I just wish I had gone to the toilet beforehand as the porter ale went through me and my empty stomach something quick.

If he wasn't straight, married, not my type, and maybe a little too old for me, I'd certainly give his mind the time of day.

He didn't wear a dress because of the cold weather. Bleh.

I started walking across Waterloo Bridge, at about 2115, to see disco lights flashing along a length of the Southbank beneath what looked like a pall of smoke. By the time I got there, all was quiet, no light, no smoke, so I headed into the National Theatre, located alongside the south end of the bridge, to grab their schedule of events, as I'd intended.

Back onto the promenade, and out of nowhere comes ghostly, Gregorian chanting - well, it sounded Gregorian, but for the fact that it was female - I stop, and whammo, I'm spotlit by a pink disco light in the tree above me (cue internal rendition of Twilight Zone music). Then the hi-mist sprinklers turned on.

I'm standing there, eyes screwed shut, wearing a grimace of a smile; it isn't smoke at all, it's artificial piss-from-the-heavens. Novel. I was sure to walk through each cascade of mist in turn, each of them decorated with flashing pink, yellow and green lights; I like artsy installations when they catch me unawares; this one had me smiling right through to my toes.

One of the things I miss from home is the many eclectic and atmospheric markets, hemmed in from above with string and tarp, or acres of corrugated iron, and invariably crammed with everything under the sun.

From fruits and vegetables-most-curious, as tasty as they are unusual, to the "authentic" designer labels, DVDs and software at super-knockdown prices, there's something for everyone. There are invariably items of local or religious interest, and it's often possible to discover something unusual when you rummage, but somewhere along the way I managed to completely miss a whole group entirely; I mean what the hell is a singing bowl?

I came across a couple of these in a little Tibetan shop in, of all places, Covent Garden, where I was offered one of these things to "try". Okay! Er, how? Apparently my lack of cognition was expected; it turns out that these bowls, traditionally made of seven different metals to represent the major planets of the solar system, are narrowly used in meditation to achieve a state of relaxation.

Making a wine glass 'sing' - and sometimes shatter - is something many of us have tried at least once. The premise is the same here; rub the stick along the outer edge of the bowl, and in seconds the quiet scratch of wood on metal takes on an edge, and as you fall into a more natural motion (at which my accomplice becomes unable to stop with the innuendo), the bowl starts to vibrate at a frequency very much its own, resonating so heavily that the sound it makes is surprisingly loud. And you can really feel it in your chest and fingers; heck, the whole shop stopped to peer at what I was doing.

I'm not particularly into the spiritual, much as it interests me, but I was surprised by how much I enjoyed this simple ritual; and it was dead calming. It makes some sense that it should affect how we feel; science has demonstrated time and time again that we respond strongly to sounds, especially deep bass tones, probably an artefact of our nine months in a watery place. If I was into meditation, I'd certainly get one of these. Intriguing.

A new angle on sticky rice.