Cambridge

I write on a whim. I write reflectively - not so much descriptively ... and I promise to not force a novel (at least at this URL) on any of you. However, to at least put my reflections into context I give you a brief explanation of my summer plans, chronologically. I am traveling to Moscow, Russia in order to conduct academic research on the press, i.e. 'what, how, and why are they writing about the Russian administration?' After holding interviews and studying the issue in-depth, I will hopefully have insight on what might me done in the private sector to encourage civic journalism in Russia.

My travels, however, are not confined to Moscow. I am spending a week in England now, and will have a brief stint in Latvia, Estonia and St. Petersburg in mid-August. More on all of this later. For now, to Cambridge!

I notice how similar rural England looks to the green pastures (green this time of year) of my home in Northern Wyoming. I think that I could feel quite at home outside of London. Then again, I feel quite at home in the rural US outside of, say, New York City. Much like New York City, London is confused and congested, but I’ve noticed that anything unfamiliar feels much the same. Anything or anywhere in the world possesses its own rhythm of life, and the only reason we ever feel comfortable in this universe of terrific speeds and flux is through a gradual familiarity. We take this familiarity for granted. I’m sure, therefore, that London is a living, breathing, interesting and wholesome-in-its-own-way place, but I have to admit that these green fields hold my immediate affection.

Emulation=vanity. Oh, vanity, vanity, all is vanity. The frustration of a writer bereft of inspiration. Yet all of inspiration is the novelty of learning from an individual view; therefore, once a line of thought has been duly noted in the mind, there is no more descriptive need, and there is indeed nothing new under the sun. Silence, then, is the ethic of the day. Learn from God through others and rush not to speak.