Revolution

I've been thinking a lot recently about the word "revolution." When I say recently, I mean while I made toast just now. When a disc revolves around a point, it makes a "revolution." When peasants revolt, their movement is a "revolution." When John Lennon makes a haunting sound collage, he calls it "Revolution 9," which is unfortunately stuck in my head as a result of this little introduction. Moving on&hellp;

Other words of these two roots include "revolting" and "revolver." The former word can describe something quite disgusting; the latter word can describe something quite disgusting. Ho ho ho. I'm not a big fan of guns. It does, however, strike me as a little odd — if not revelatory — that two words describing any general thing that causes a change have come to describe something as disgusting and name a weapon. Is change disgusting? Does a revolution rely on weapons? Certainly, in any revolution there are those supporting the old ways, most of whom would view the new age as disgusting. In the case of the revolver, obviously the term describes its mechanics and not its function or idealistic symbolism.

Several other common cases that call "to revolve" to order strike me as interesting, which likely means you should stop reading. You haven't? Brave soul… Anyway, one such case is: To think the world revolves around oneself It describes megalomania or perhaps simply narcissism — to be described as one, I'd be offended; for the other, I'd agree — but the connotation of being the cause to every effect is one which both frightens and consoles me. I'd rather not be to blame for every bad thing that happens; I'd gladly be told that I'm in complete control of my own life. Guilt is annoying; free will is my favourite.

It also conjures memories of ideas raised in Mostly Harmless — the last book in Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide To The Galaxy series — and conceptualised by the lovely German word "umwelt." It is the idea that everything in one's world is shaped by one's own experiences: the universe is unique to the viewer. I rather like this idea. It means I don't have to share my universe with things that I don't like. I can also define my own meaning, morals and rules. It's somewhat an extension of "beauty is in the eye of the beholder," which once again is an idea of which I am greatly fond. Why would two quite distinct creatures have the same ideal of beauty? Even if something can be described as objectively beautiful, I simply take that to mean that, on average, people find it subjectively beautiful.

I've rather strayed from my original etymological discussion or approximation thereof. I'm not too bothered, though. I count this as a moderately interesting post, which is a step in the right direction from whatever miserable tripe I spat into prose last time. I did mean to get onto the idea that nothing would ever change without something "revolting" happening to provoke it, but I've so little to say on that matter that I'd rather leave myself open to queries regarding perception than, as it were, interception^†.

^†I think we could count the Arab Spring and other revolutions as "interceptions" of power. I like using words that share a root but differ in prefixes. What are you going to do about it?

I'm Always Miserable When I Write These

My little brother recently emailed me to detail his distress at having read my previous post so many times. As a courtesy to him, I write this. So, in a way, this blogpost is dedicated to my little brother, Owen.

I distinctly remember injecting zero work into my GCSEs and performing rather well. In my AS year, I upped my game somewhat to the most minimal level of work required to hit scores of 90%, and I slacked from this in my A2 year only to the detriment of Physics and French in which I received an A grade and a B grade respectively. In the interests of modesty, I would like to introduce my inability to swim. Today, however, in my first year of a maths degree, I've discovered that my coasting capabilities have reached their limits. I have no doubt that I could pass through to second year with minimum effort, but that feels rather like a waste of all the effort I put into not putting any effort into things in the past.

Should I fail to do better than simply not failing, I will be most disappointed with myself for at least five minutes before finding something better to do with my time than kick myself for not bending to society's silly rules. There are a great deal many things about which I care deeply, most of which have names and the remainder are either abstract concepts or the most simple of items. For instance, I care deeply about my ability to write, and, for that matter, to read. There is no qualification in existence which can aid my prowess in these fields. Similarly, I enjoy cooking and eating, neither of which requires a university degree. Intelligent conversation is my opium and I need not a first in maths in order to stimulate myself so.

I've actually bored myself with this.

My attention span is somewhat at a deficit.

I must apologise to Owen for dedicating to him perhaps my worst post since that time I attempted to write a short story in five minutes. I have many an interesting subject rolling around my head, some of which present much greater problems than those presented by my mundane ogre of a degree. They are trifles and thus the most intriguing of things. None are so easily communicable and yet all are decidedly commonplace. I cannot concentrate on such boring concepts as continuous functions or linear transformations while my brain has much deeper abysses into which to plummet and darker swamps in which to frolic.

I seem to have come full circle, or even made a breakthrough. I think that is the difference between then and now. During my school years, nothing was important to me, thus I could conceptualise utterly useless chemistry and brilliantly bogus physics without once having my mind wander. I'd now so much rather be preoccupied with thoughts of family and friends than by equations and translations.

Just a quick post-script: I'm actually somewhat happy at the moment. I've been great for days, this is just some downtime. I only ever blog during my downtime, it would seem. When I'm next happy, I may do a shorter, happier post.

Exile

I have never been so upset to be leaving a place than I am to be leaving the northeast later today. Sure, I'm dreading the exams neither for which I've prepared nor about which I've convinced myself to care, but they are not nearly colossal enough to strike immobilising fear upon my mind; only one such experience springs to mind, and it is far detached from the world of academia.

It also doesn't help that Sunday happens to be my sister's birthday. She at least pretends not to care, but it does slightly annoy me that the schedule has woven itself so tightly around the pivot of being a nuisance. That rather sets the theme for all my grumbles at being called back to university and my duties as another brick in the wall. I don't believe I wasted a moment over these holidays and yet I regret not being able to do so much more.

Nonetheless, I spend this weekend in Cambridge, and, save a few exams, I can bathe in the luscious waters of no work, regimes or responsibilities for ten weeks thereafter. It's not all doom and gloom. I used to enjoy Maths, especially exams; perhaps there is yet scope to rekindle that enjoyment. It would be the one thing to fully restore my faith in this degree if I could at least remember why it was I thought I'd enjoy it.

Like I say, Cambridge this weekend with, to choose the most apt superlative, the most entertaining of my flatmates, followed by two days hard graft, an exam, then a Pre-Avengers marathon amongst friends. It's not quite being by the seaside, but nothing ever was.

Discovery

I wanted to break tradition and document my day. I can feel your raised eyebrows reverberating back into what is to you the past and to me the present. I will dispel such quizzical looks with some hairy liberations of my own, albeit proverbial ones.

A trifling fancy gripped me this morning. I have so much gotten bored of being housebound each day that earlier this week I wandered to Newcastle with no purpose but to kill time and left the Grainger Market that day with two packets of biscuits, then proceeded to have a walk along the promenade at Whitley Bay. It was peaceful, enjoyable somewhat, but not nearly as brilliant as today.

Today, I prised my little brother from the clutches of my PS3. We were bound for the Discovery Museum, and discover we did.

Where to start? Let's start at the very beginning: a very good place to start. The wondrous propellers shown above are the work of Charles Algernon Parsons of Ryton, which lies some 7 miles upstream of the Tyne Bridge. Parsons invented the steam turbine, and later developed turbine-driven ships, the first of which was the Turbinia, shown below as she currently sits in the Discovery Museum.

Turbinia, who was completed in 1894, demonstrated Parsons' ingenuity and was by far and away the fastest ship in the world at the time, both due to its knife-like bow and novel use of turbines. Setting a new standard for steamships, the Blue Riband prize for crossing the Atlantic quickly fell into ownership of ships using Parsons' technology. At around the same time, the International Mercantile Marine Co. was setting up a monopoly that was to cruise liners as NewsCorp is to media, which included the White Star Line, of which you will have no doubt heard. To claim a victory over this conglomerate, Cunard commissioned a new range of liners, larger and faster than ever before, using Parsons' brilliant engineering.

The Mauretania. Isn't she beautiful? Cunard needed the greatest shipyards in the world, and two of them at that. A merger between Tyneside shipyards Swan Hunter and Wigham Richardson was necessary in order to construct a ship larger than the world had ever seen before. Mauretania held the Blue Riband between 1909 and 1929, though not without a well-documented, ill-fated attempt by White Star to beat Cunard by taking a shortcut with a slightly slower class of ships, their Olympic line. Just as Mauretania dwarfed its sister Lusitania and later comrade Aquitania, the Titanic has fame far beyond that of the Olympic and the Britannic. This would still be the case were she successful in her challenge. To return to a less tragic and commercially exploited topic, Newcastle innovated and implemented one of the greatest developments to fluvial transport to date.

What's this? A locomotive? In fact, it's Locomotion No 1. With this engine, George and Robert Stephenson sped up the Stockton and Darlington Railway in 1825. The duo improved the existing railways for horse-drawn wagons for the heavier mechanical machines, first in the North East, then in Liverpool and Manchester — which opened the floodgates for passenger rail services — and then continuing to supervise the construction of railways all around the UK. The British Empire then carried these innovations across the world.

That's not even everything yet. Not nearly. Have you ever used a light bulb? Thomas Edison may well have displayed his version at the Chicago World Fair, but neither he nor Joseph Wilson Swan of Tyneside ever knew who achieved success first. As ingenious as the pair were, they merged their companies rather than compete or burn their fortune in court under the name EdiSwan. The photograph above shows a replica of Swan's 1878 bulb, with the nearest to perfect vacuum ever, a carbon filament and a rather lovely shape, as well as a reflection of the flash from my camera.

Speaking of cameras, this is an early home camera. It uses bromide paper: yet another brainchild of Joseph Swan. Though lenses were much altered across the years, and different methods for the development of photographs introduced, the majority of film never strayed far from the original bromide paper. Only the recent surge in digital photography has superseded cameras of a similar class to those that used Swan's paper.

Seriously, Newcastle. I am in awe.

Home Comforts

I'm happy. I'm genuinely happy, which makes me sad. I'm home now, having travelled incognito the night prior to Mother's Day by a train journey during which I made a new friend instead of, as is my preference, chancing upon one of my oldest. Nonetheless, I am very much happy in my current surroundings and this makes me very sad indeed.

The phenomenon is not unlike the happiness I felt last summer. After A-Levels, I had more than enough spare time to do everything I'd wanted to do for years. This just so happened to be nothing. I rowed 25 kilometres down the Tyne, raising £90 for a local children's hospice in the process, read several novels and novellas which I had meant to read for quite some time and I even earned some dough working in a local shop. The void between school and university was a most blissful one; beloved, as ever, knew nought.

The dawn of university brought with it more novelties and new faces than I could possibly communicate, but given that this would be the case for almost anyone, it shouldn't be too difficult for most readers to sympathise with the gravitas of such a situation. As first term rolled on, I became ever more attached – even infatuated – with my peers. I find it ludicrous to suppose that I may have ever been attached to such depressing surroundings as those of Warwick University, but perhaps my infrequent jogs by Lakeside's lake and my initial attraction to Leamington did something to capture my imagination. Come Christmas, I was somewhat distraught to be separated from what I considered my home. Upon returning, the rose-tinted spectacles of the opening sequence had been washed away by the tides of winter. Despite my companions ever brilliant, the place itself and the feeling of isolation it placed upon me greatly grated my spirits.

I had awaited a change – a revert – of scenery with great anticipation. I knew Tyneside would restore my geniality, and she did not disappoint. Furthermore, I have spent such great times in the company of old friends that I query why I ever believed moving away from home – as I know believe it to be – to be anything other than misplaced adventurism. I am happy here; it makes me sad to know that, like the summer before it, this inconsequential playtime must end abruptly and all too soon.

I miss my flatmates, my fellow mathematicians, and all the insane bunch of film nerds and literature geeks with whom I spend a curious amount of my time. I also know that I cannot postpone the final examinations of the year, and that I must do myself justice in them. With that in mind, I have taken to doing some revision and resolved that returning to the land of labour from here, my world of whimsy, is a necessity. I need only survive three more years in the anus of Britain. Next year looks to be more endurable: living in a town, not a township.