lundi, juillet 23, 2007
ancient history
So I am cleaning out my years of accumulated stuff from my mum's basement. And while I am most certainly display the least packrat-like tendencies of all our family members, I have managed to squirrel away* an alarming pile of photographs, letters, school assignments, yearbooks, and other random crap that must have meant something to me once.
But since I am flying the coop soon** it is time for a little consolidation if not an outright bonfire.
This morning I found my grade 7 year book. The one made especially for my class when we graduated from elementary school and stood on the cusp of 5 anxiety ridden, hormonal, years of high school. We all had two profiles: our kindergarten one and our grade seven one...
"Claire is five years old. She has blue eyes and brownish hair. She has a two year old brother. Her favourite colour is blue and her favourite food is cookies. At school she likes to play with her friends. When she is not at school she likes to play in her tree house. Claire likes the summer best because she likes to swim. She takes ballet lessons and wants to be a ballerina when she grows up."
"Claire likes dancing, shopping, volleyball, cross-country skiing, running, reading , swimming waterskiing and motorcycling, but dislikes people who only talk about one thing all the time, computers, boring science classes, tennis, football, coleslaw, and rice salad. Her pet peeves are people who think they are the best at everything and stupid guys. Her favourite saying is 'But that's ok.' Her goal is to get through college, move to New York and be on Broadway. Her favourite parts of being in grade seven are not having anyone ahead of you in school and the privileges. Being a graduate of the year 2000 means she will be able to wear a 'Class of '00' sweatshirt, but it's also a big responsibility because people will have high expectations of us."
I could analyse these to death, but this is self indulgent enough. Mostly they make me giggle.
*Monday is the official "day of bad animal similes/metaphors"
**It's true, I could keep this up forever...
But since I am flying the coop soon** it is time for a little consolidation if not an outright bonfire.
This morning I found my grade 7 year book. The one made especially for my class when we graduated from elementary school and stood on the cusp of 5 anxiety ridden, hormonal, years of high school. We all had two profiles: our kindergarten one and our grade seven one...
"Claire is five years old. She has blue eyes and brownish hair. She has a two year old brother. Her favourite colour is blue and her favourite food is cookies. At school she likes to play with her friends. When she is not at school she likes to play in her tree house. Claire likes the summer best because she likes to swim. She takes ballet lessons and wants to be a ballerina when she grows up."
"Claire likes dancing, shopping, volleyball, cross-country skiing, running, reading , swimming waterskiing and motorcycling, but dislikes people who only talk about one thing all the time, computers, boring science classes, tennis, football, coleslaw, and rice salad. Her pet peeves are people who think they are the best at everything and stupid guys. Her favourite saying is 'But that's ok.' Her goal is to get through college, move to New York and be on Broadway. Her favourite parts of being in grade seven are not having anyone ahead of you in school and the privileges. Being a graduate of the year 2000 means she will be able to wear a 'Class of '00' sweatshirt, but it's also a big responsibility because people will have high expectations of us."
I could analyse these to death, but this is self indulgent enough. Mostly they make me giggle.
*Monday is the official "day of bad animal similes/metaphors"
**It's true, I could keep this up forever...
dimanche, juillet 22, 2007
limbo
clearly "soon" is relative.
I left England a month ago, but it seems simultaneously like a moment and decades since I stepped on the plane.
I am not good at saying goodbye. I hate the implied permanence and the wrench in my sternum when we actually part and walk away from each other. The sudden absence of loved ones, when an hour ago we were laughing and drinking wine, throbs for days. And every encounter leading up to the appointed minute of waving through a train window borrows the upcoming sadness. Like paper towel absorbing spilled coffee.
While goodbyes are not my forte, being said goodbye to is even worse. I hate being left behind. I feel so futile, (is that even possible? for one's entire being to be futile?) whenever I am the one wishing safe travels and helping with luggage. Standing at Heathrow crying into my sleeves I remembered a teeshirt slogan: "If you leave me, I am coming with you." Except it was in French, so it sounded much more chic and less desperate. And, to be fair, when people leave me I don't always want to go off on their adventures with them, I just want to be going on my own and not right back out the whooshing airport doors and into a normal Saturday.
So then it was back to canadia: cupcakes, wild laughter, a drunken thursday, and manic conversation started the relocation off. Then another trip to the damn airport to put someone I love on a plane, and a few days of quiet before an orgy of landscaping and construction. When I am 87 I would like to be able to haul landscaping ties around in 30 degree heat. My grandfather did for the better part of a week, and now we have a nice retaining wall that is both level and not about to fall over.
The garden is planted with goodies: peppers, beans, tomatoes, and carrots. But since le frere used the carrot patch for theatrical pyrotechnics practice* we have seen no carrots. To be fair, I don't think he knew about the carrots because I didn't label them, but then, I wasn't expecting the symphony of fire in our back yard.
As promised, Morocco...
The Sahara, 15 km from the Algerian border...
(in an effort to force myself to actually write more regularly, the photos will be spread out over a bunch of posts. for all 2 of you who read this...)
*yes, my brother was setting of fireworks in our vegetable garden. No, I don't have pictures.
I left England a month ago, but it seems simultaneously like a moment and decades since I stepped on the plane.
I am not good at saying goodbye. I hate the implied permanence and the wrench in my sternum when we actually part and walk away from each other. The sudden absence of loved ones, when an hour ago we were laughing and drinking wine, throbs for days. And every encounter leading up to the appointed minute of waving through a train window borrows the upcoming sadness. Like paper towel absorbing spilled coffee.
While goodbyes are not my forte, being said goodbye to is even worse. I hate being left behind. I feel so futile, (is that even possible? for one's entire being to be futile?) whenever I am the one wishing safe travels and helping with luggage. Standing at Heathrow crying into my sleeves I remembered a teeshirt slogan: "If you leave me, I am coming with you." Except it was in French, so it sounded much more chic and less desperate. And, to be fair, when people leave me I don't always want to go off on their adventures with them, I just want to be going on my own and not right back out the whooshing airport doors and into a normal Saturday.
So then it was back to canadia: cupcakes, wild laughter, a drunken thursday, and manic conversation started the relocation off. Then another trip to the damn airport to put someone I love on a plane, and a few days of quiet before an orgy of landscaping and construction. When I am 87 I would like to be able to haul landscaping ties around in 30 degree heat. My grandfather did for the better part of a week, and now we have a nice retaining wall that is both level and not about to fall over.
The garden is planted with goodies: peppers, beans, tomatoes, and carrots. But since le frere used the carrot patch for theatrical pyrotechnics practice* we have seen no carrots. To be fair, I don't think he knew about the carrots because I didn't label them, but then, I wasn't expecting the symphony of fire in our back yard.
As promised, Morocco...
The Sahara, 15 km from the Algerian border...
(in an effort to force myself to actually write more regularly, the photos will be spread out over a bunch of posts. for all 2 of you who read this...)
*yes, my brother was setting of fireworks in our vegetable garden. No, I don't have pictures.
lundi, juin 11, 2007
Five Things
1. The best result of French colonialism in Morocco is killer espressos.
2. The worst is French keyboards.
3. Camel riding is not, and never will be, comfortable.
4. Vache Qui Rit cheese tastes just the same in Prague as in Marakesh
5. I have a job in Toronto, starting in August.
photos will be posted ... soon... inshallah
2. The worst is French keyboards.
3. Camel riding is not, and never will be, comfortable.
4. Vache Qui Rit cheese tastes just the same in Prague as in Marakesh
5. I have a job in Toronto, starting in August.
photos will be posted ... soon... inshallah
jeudi, mai 10, 2007
time...
Damien Rice is singing about time. And, as per usual, I am wasting it. These aren't the procrastination diaries for nothing.
Unsurprisingly, after a seemingly unending series of unhappy days, as soon as I made the decision to leave the universe cranked up to warp speed. Now I am running on quicksand: writing articles, editing and re-writing other articles, pulling loose ends together, planning out the last month in minute detail.
The funny thing is, I still have no concrete plans. As of June 11, I have no itinerary, no job, no plane tickets.
Stuff is in the works, interviews are pending, and my bank balance is (for now) healthy. I am practicing deep zen breathing, because we all know how well I handle uncertainty.
What I have found interesting, as I search for future opportunities, is how much my perspectives have shifted. Jobs that a year and a half ago would have been first on my list, are relegated to the maybe list by virtue of what would have attracted me to them in the first place. Case in point: Uganda. A fantastic journalism job, opportunity to travel and work on human rights issues. The possibility to actually do good things in the world and change stuff.
And the thought of accepting (if in fact it is offered to me, which, to be accurate, hasn't happened yet) turns my stomach. Another instance of Claire running away from the chaos that is home. Immersing myself into a whole other type of chaos because I don't want to deal with the familiar stuff. Selfish. But also... angry with myself for caving, for giving up something that I would be good at and that I've always wanted.
It's not a fine balance. There is no balance.
Unsurprisingly, after a seemingly unending series of unhappy days, as soon as I made the decision to leave the universe cranked up to warp speed. Now I am running on quicksand: writing articles, editing and re-writing other articles, pulling loose ends together, planning out the last month in minute detail.
The funny thing is, I still have no concrete plans. As of June 11, I have no itinerary, no job, no plane tickets.
Stuff is in the works, interviews are pending, and my bank balance is (for now) healthy. I am practicing deep zen breathing, because we all know how well I handle uncertainty.
What I have found interesting, as I search for future opportunities, is how much my perspectives have shifted. Jobs that a year and a half ago would have been first on my list, are relegated to the maybe list by virtue of what would have attracted me to them in the first place. Case in point: Uganda. A fantastic journalism job, opportunity to travel and work on human rights issues. The possibility to actually do good things in the world and change stuff.
And the thought of accepting (if in fact it is offered to me, which, to be accurate, hasn't happened yet) turns my stomach. Another instance of Claire running away from the chaos that is home. Immersing myself into a whole other type of chaos because I don't want to deal with the familiar stuff. Selfish. But also... angry with myself for caving, for giving up something that I would be good at and that I've always wanted.
It's not a fine balance. There is no balance.
lundi, avril 30, 2007
it's really only 100 words...
... but I've been staring at the computer screen all day, alternately trolling my bookmarked websites for updates or idly stalking people on facebook.
100 words. No big deal. In fact, I am pretty sure I will surpass that in the next three minutes of typing here, explaining to myself and the hinternets why I am incapable of finishing off what we all know is a task I am more than capable of.
I think that's the point. That I can do it. That I know I can do it. In fact, it is so abundantly clear to me that writing this damn paragraph is something THAT I CAN DO WELL, that I feel as though just calling up the potential employer and explaining what lovely paragraphs I write would be a better use of my time.
And also, if I don't write it, I can't screw it up.
That's the other side of my bi-polar literary paralysis: the numbing fear that somehow I won't be good enough, that my 100 words will suck so insanely much that I will hear the editors' guffaws all the way from Toronto. Because they are like that in Toronto: they guffaw.
I also know that I write best when I am so stressed that I secrete terror and exhaustion from my pores. Fear is my greatest motivator, and over the years I have learned that I will procrastinate until I am so wound up with anxiety that I am about to puke, and then I will sit down and write killer stuff. It's 8 pm now. The 100 words are due at 3pm tomorrow. I figure I've got another 2 hours before I really light on fire.
Maybe they'll see my hair burning from TO.
[293]
100 words. No big deal. In fact, I am pretty sure I will surpass that in the next three minutes of typing here, explaining to myself and the hinternets why I am incapable of finishing off what we all know is a task I am more than capable of.
I think that's the point. That I can do it. That I know I can do it. In fact, it is so abundantly clear to me that writing this damn paragraph is something THAT I CAN DO WELL, that I feel as though just calling up the potential employer and explaining what lovely paragraphs I write would be a better use of my time.
And also, if I don't write it, I can't screw it up.
That's the other side of my bi-polar literary paralysis: the numbing fear that somehow I won't be good enough, that my 100 words will suck so insanely much that I will hear the editors' guffaws all the way from Toronto. Because they are like that in Toronto: they guffaw.
I also know that I write best when I am so stressed that I secrete terror and exhaustion from my pores. Fear is my greatest motivator, and over the years I have learned that I will procrastinate until I am so wound up with anxiety that I am about to puke, and then I will sit down and write killer stuff. It's 8 pm now. The 100 words are due at 3pm tomorrow. I figure I've got another 2 hours before I really light on fire.
Maybe they'll see my hair burning from TO.
[293]
jeudi, avril 19, 2007
the coolest thing today:
is this
Also cool is calling up the designer and asking him "So, how did you come up with this idea...."
I've decided to haul myself out of Dodge. The unhappiness and insanity of the last few months don't seem to be abating and the job isn't worth it. I'll be somewhere else in June.
Not exactly sure where yet, but not in a house with 12 other people.
Also cool is calling up the designer and asking him "So, how did you come up with this idea...."
I've decided to haul myself out of Dodge. The unhappiness and insanity of the last few months don't seem to be abating and the job isn't worth it. I'll be somewhere else in June.
Not exactly sure where yet, but not in a house with 12 other people.
mardi, mars 27, 2007
living vicariously
It's official. I have no life. This isn't a terminal condition, and I'm planning my escape, but for the moment I really do not have a personal/private/social/cultural life.
The other day, I read an article which explained how, if one is ever kidnapped and held in isolation, one can retain one's sanity by thinking about doing a favourite hobby (for example building model boats)down to the most infinitesimally small details (imagining the tiny little nails and knots on the boat).
Not really into boats, I've been trying this technique with knitting. I've long ago given up hope of actually knitting- 3 inches on one sock in 3 months is embarrassing- but imaginary knitting just hops along during staff meetings.
Just last week I finished this and this and I'm almost done the sleeves for this.
Maybe next I'll teach myself to crochet...
The other day, I read an article which explained how, if one is ever kidnapped and held in isolation, one can retain one's sanity by thinking about doing a favourite hobby (for example building model boats)down to the most infinitesimally small details (imagining the tiny little nails and knots on the boat).
Not really into boats, I've been trying this technique with knitting. I've long ago given up hope of actually knitting- 3 inches on one sock in 3 months is embarrassing- but imaginary knitting just hops along during staff meetings.
Just last week I finished this and this and I'm almost done the sleeves for this.
Maybe next I'll teach myself to crochet...
lundi, mars 19, 2007
today I learned...
...that certain departments of international organizations do not understand the principles of basic punctuation. Show me a language in which a space between a word and the semicolon following it like this: "claire is slowly going out of her mind ; a process rapidly advanced by inane emails and questions." It is WRONG! So do not waste my time asking me to fix mistakes in a translation that YOU MADE that don't exist.
...how annoyingly self-centered anorexic teenagers really are. I mean, even at my most neurotic and foodless I didn't steal 12 apples and 6 pears and a bunch of bananas from a communal kitchen and expect nobody to notice. I NOTICED. I NOTICED WHEN I WENT TO THE KITCHEN TO GRAB A SNACK AND ALL THE FRUIT THAT WE BOUGHT AT THE MARKET THIS MORNING WAS GONE. Since I've only seen you eat fruit in the three days that you have been here, I am pretty sure it was you. Honestly. If fruit is all you are going to eat, go buy your own damn pears.
...to be careful when I send emails and to make sure not to accidentally include the address of an ex-girlfriend when I send an email to my dad. Because I'm pretty sure he'll feel stupid when I email him to point out that since we haven't spoken in a year, hearing from him via an email explaining to his father how to use skype and how his job sucks, is an odd way to get in touch.
...that I am a hellish procrastinator. I have one final article to write for the magazine. 250 words. I'm facing down the wrath of my editor in a big way. Yet somehow I can write angry, incoherent blog posts. Time management: a concept clearly lost on me.
...how annoyingly self-centered anorexic teenagers really are. I mean, even at my most neurotic and foodless I didn't steal 12 apples and 6 pears and a bunch of bananas from a communal kitchen and expect nobody to notice. I NOTICED. I NOTICED WHEN I WENT TO THE KITCHEN TO GRAB A SNACK AND ALL THE FRUIT THAT WE BOUGHT AT THE MARKET THIS MORNING WAS GONE. Since I've only seen you eat fruit in the three days that you have been here, I am pretty sure it was you. Honestly. If fruit is all you are going to eat, go buy your own damn pears.
...to be careful when I send emails and to make sure not to accidentally include the address of an ex-girlfriend when I send an email to my dad. Because I'm pretty sure he'll feel stupid when I email him to point out that since we haven't spoken in a year, hearing from him via an email explaining to his father how to use skype and how his job sucks, is an odd way to get in touch.
...that I am a hellish procrastinator. I have one final article to write for the magazine. 250 words. I'm facing down the wrath of my editor in a big way. Yet somehow I can write angry, incoherent blog posts. Time management: a concept clearly lost on me.
dimanche, mars 04, 2007
mardi, février 27, 2007
talking to the top of the world...
Mostly I really like what I do for work. Researching, writing and editing for a publication that is vaguely scientific forces me to expand my mind and learn about stuff that I'd otherwise be totally oblivious of. Like myoglobin and how it helps Weddell seals dive for up to an hour without breathing.
But. The last couple of months have felt less like rainbows and cotton candy and my little ponies, and more like a perpetual pine cone probe of my nether regions (sans Vaseline).
It's kind of my own fault, since I am bad at politely saying: "No, I can't help you with that project that you are totally capable of doing yourself, because I have other commitments-such as my own job description, my sanity, and self worth."
And the fun doesn't stop for another five weeks.
Anyways. This morning there was a small moment of zen.
Listening over a crackling satellite phone line as a warm New Zealand accented voice described what he could see out the window of his office. At 85,32N, 125,56E the sea ice stretches out in every direction. It's pretty flat, except for the pressure ridges that form where currents and wind grind ice slabs together, plate tectonics in miniature. Right now, nearing the end of the Arctic winter, the sky gets light between 4 am and noon, bathing the luminous landscape in weak twilight. Aside for the noise of wind and creaks of ice, it is quiet.
But. The last couple of months have felt less like rainbows and cotton candy and my little ponies, and more like a perpetual pine cone probe of my nether regions (sans Vaseline).
It's kind of my own fault, since I am bad at politely saying: "No, I can't help you with that project that you are totally capable of doing yourself, because I have other commitments-such as my own job description, my sanity, and self worth."
And the fun doesn't stop for another five weeks.
Anyways. This morning there was a small moment of zen.
Listening over a crackling satellite phone line as a warm New Zealand accented voice described what he could see out the window of his office. At 85,32N, 125,56E the sea ice stretches out in every direction. It's pretty flat, except for the pressure ridges that form where currents and wind grind ice slabs together, plate tectonics in miniature. Right now, nearing the end of the Arctic winter, the sky gets light between 4 am and noon, bathing the luminous landscape in weak twilight. Aside for the noise of wind and creaks of ice, it is quiet.
dimanche, février 25, 2007
I disappeared...
... because what with work, and life and the universe, it's been a tough couple of months.
I am really, really tired.
I am really, really tired.
lundi, janvier 22, 2007
The best hour of the week
Yesterday four of us went tramping off into the Hertforshire countryside. Public footpaths and bridleways and rolling green hills bleeding into silver as the sun set. Puddles. Mud.
Because Sundays are for Pubs, we ended up at my favourite in the village: leaded windows, warm, buttery light, exposed beams and local ale on tap.
We entered hesitantly because our wellies were muddy and English Wellie Etiquette is ephemeral and we didn't want to screw it up and be forever known as "those fooking foreigners who tramped mud all over our carpets". The village is too small to take such risks.
The Irish barmaid told us to take off our wellies and put them on newspapers on the hearth of the fireplace. "Ahh sure, and it's a good thing to see wellies by the fire. It's the right place for them."
Sitting by a fire, drinking ale, in a pub, in one's stocking feet is the best use of a Sunday afternoon I have found yet.
Because Sundays are for Pubs, we ended up at my favourite in the village: leaded windows, warm, buttery light, exposed beams and local ale on tap.
We entered hesitantly because our wellies were muddy and English Wellie Etiquette is ephemeral and we didn't want to screw it up and be forever known as "those fooking foreigners who tramped mud all over our carpets". The village is too small to take such risks.
The Irish barmaid told us to take off our wellies and put them on newspapers on the hearth of the fireplace. "Ahh sure, and it's a good thing to see wellies by the fire. It's the right place for them."
Sitting by a fire, drinking ale, in a pub, in one's stocking feet is the best use of a Sunday afternoon I have found yet.
dimanche, janvier 07, 2007
May grace and peace be with you...
... may your hearts be filled with joy.
No matter that God and I are on a hiatus. I still like benedictions. There are a lot of them swirling around at the end of December and I usually give them short shrift. They seem to be ironic, smug, cliches. All that peace and love and sanctity blaring out from speakers in frenzied shopping malls or in snowy, packed, parking lots.
I can't take their cloying happiness. Especially not this year. Escape came in too much sleep, mind numbing television (Q:how much csi can a person watch before her brains run out her ears? A: a lot), too much wine and the resultant rough mornings.
But it is January now. Everything is grey. And I can breathe more easily. So a benediction.
Personally, joy is too much to strive for. That'll take a while. But in the last three weeks there were moments of peace and more of grace. It's always grace, isn't it? And because I am not the sharpest needle in the haystack, it surprises me every time.
Laughing with le frere on the ferry deck. Wet cedar logs on a west coast beach that stained the tide pools crimson. Choosing my grandmother's diamonds, catching my earlobes sparkling in a shop window. Reeling in a fish. Walking Vancouver's downtown grid with splendid music in my ears-oh ipod, how did I ever live without you? Unexpected kindness. Being held in strong arms and resting my head on your sternum and ceasing-for five minutes-to be self sufficient.
No matter that God and I are on a hiatus. I still like benedictions. There are a lot of them swirling around at the end of December and I usually give them short shrift. They seem to be ironic, smug, cliches. All that peace and love and sanctity blaring out from speakers in frenzied shopping malls or in snowy, packed, parking lots.
I can't take their cloying happiness. Especially not this year. Escape came in too much sleep, mind numbing television (Q:how much csi can a person watch before her brains run out her ears? A: a lot), too much wine and the resultant rough mornings.
But it is January now. Everything is grey. And I can breathe more easily. So a benediction.
Personally, joy is too much to strive for. That'll take a while. But in the last three weeks there were moments of peace and more of grace. It's always grace, isn't it? And because I am not the sharpest needle in the haystack, it surprises me every time.
Laughing with le frere on the ferry deck. Wet cedar logs on a west coast beach that stained the tide pools crimson. Choosing my grandmother's diamonds, catching my earlobes sparkling in a shop window. Reeling in a fish. Walking Vancouver's downtown grid with splendid music in my ears-oh ipod, how did I ever live without you? Unexpected kindness. Being held in strong arms and resting my head on your sternum and ceasing-for five minutes-to be self sufficient.
mercredi, décembre 20, 2006
Canadiana
The snow started Wednesday afternoon. A frere et soeur christmas shopping trip was aborted and instead we drove around in the frere's hatchback, pointing and laughing at all the people who were stuck/had driven into the ditch. Snowtires do not make one invincible, but they kick up the schadenfreude a level...
Good clean fun.
Then we came home and shoveled the driveway.
There is little that evokes home/canada/family for me as much as shoveling the driveway at night in the snow. Our street is quiet and has no street lights, so its usually the shoveler and the moon. Shovel scraping against the frozen ground and the bottom of my lungs tingling when I inadvertently inhale the wisps of my airborne shovel-full. Meditative work. Only, because it was me and le frere, we raced a little-the intricacies of sibling rivalry prohibit us from saying how much we'd missed each other so we compensate by trying to outdo the other in driveway shoveling prowess.
When it's cleared, we head inside. Flushed and with suddenly runny noses. The house is warmer, brighter, more cozy than when we started. And there are rewards...
Good clean fun.
Then we came home and shoveled the driveway.
There is little that evokes home/canada/family for me as much as shoveling the driveway at night in the snow. Our street is quiet and has no street lights, so its usually the shoveler and the moon. Shovel scraping against the frozen ground and the bottom of my lungs tingling when I inadvertently inhale the wisps of my airborne shovel-full. Meditative work. Only, because it was me and le frere, we raced a little-the intricacies of sibling rivalry prohibit us from saying how much we'd missed each other so we compensate by trying to outdo the other in driveway shoveling prowess.
When it's cleared, we head inside. Flushed and with suddenly runny noses. The house is warmer, brighter, more cozy than when we started. And there are rewards...
lundi, décembre 11, 2006
the lead up
to home?
Thursday: Scott Polar Institute. Cafe in Cambridge in the rain. Acquiring more books-Christmas presents. Is it ok to read aforementioned christmas presents before one wraps them and hands them over? The Fox and Duck. Pints. Foot massage. Tea laced with calvados.
Friday-Escape from potentially ackward housemate situation via London. Camden. Fruitless search for cheap noodles. Posh British people at a fancy dress party. All of them named Ollie and Ellie and Georgie and Betts and Camilla. Fox stoles. Vodka and The Proletariate. The longest cab ride EVER.
Saturday-Hangover. Hungover posh brits making breakfast. Coffee in the best coffee house in central Londres. The largest independent book shop. Postsecret exhibiton. Sun in Trafalgar Square. Aimless wandering in Soho. Eating pizza outside at a cafe in December. Spending far too much money on a dress. Scottish women enabling said purchase. Roping a defenseless Swede into coming back to the farm. Wine.
Sunday-Sleeping in. Walking in the rain. Making lasagne for ravenous housemates. K's Choice for the first time in years. Finally sorting out work prioraties for January. Packing. Wine. That 70's Show. 3 Julians at one dinner table.
Monday-Putting the Swede back on the train to London. Weaving in the loose ends or just ignoring them. Cambridge for dinner. El Amin sausages and sweet potatos. Transatlantic calls and planning: haircut and dinner party on Friday, the Messiah on Saturday...
Tuesday-(tbc) Train to London. Tube to Heathrow. Mince Pies. Will my knitting needles make it on the plane? Calgary...(stay tuned...)
Thursday: Scott Polar Institute. Cafe in Cambridge in the rain. Acquiring more books-Christmas presents. Is it ok to read aforementioned christmas presents before one wraps them and hands them over? The Fox and Duck. Pints. Foot massage. Tea laced with calvados.
Friday-Escape from potentially ackward housemate situation via London. Camden. Fruitless search for cheap noodles. Posh British people at a fancy dress party. All of them named Ollie and Ellie and Georgie and Betts and Camilla. Fox stoles. Vodka and The Proletariate. The longest cab ride EVER.
Saturday-Hangover. Hungover posh brits making breakfast. Coffee in the best coffee house in central Londres. The largest independent book shop. Postsecret exhibiton. Sun in Trafalgar Square. Aimless wandering in Soho. Eating pizza outside at a cafe in December. Spending far too much money on a dress. Scottish women enabling said purchase. Roping a defenseless Swede into coming back to the farm. Wine.
Sunday-Sleeping in. Walking in the rain. Making lasagne for ravenous housemates. K's Choice for the first time in years. Finally sorting out work prioraties for January. Packing. Wine. That 70's Show. 3 Julians at one dinner table.
Monday-Putting the Swede back on the train to London. Weaving in the loose ends or just ignoring them. Cambridge for dinner. El Amin sausages and sweet potatos. Transatlantic calls and planning: haircut and dinner party on Friday, the Messiah on Saturday...
Tuesday-(tbc) Train to London. Tube to Heathrow. Mince Pies. Will my knitting needles make it on the plane? Calgary...(stay tuned...)
mardi, décembre 05, 2006
Learned today: Lemming Availability
"A snowy owl's preferred meal is lemmings—many lemmings. An adult may eat more than 1,600 lemmings a year, or three to five every day. Lemming availability may determine the extent of southern migration."
lundi, décembre 04, 2006
In which she rambles...
[this will probably not be well structured, thematic, or readable in any way. I was going to distract you, dear reader, with pictures. But the pics are not uploading for shit, and they'd be a cop-out anyways. Pictures may absolve my lack of blog content, but won't do a thing about my laziness concerning writing...]
November has slid by in a string of ever shorter gray days. My copy deadline for the magazine was Dec 1st, and most of the month was spent typing steadily toward the magical 1200 word mark. 1200 words is not that much, really, but 12oo well chosen words strung together in kicky, funny, hip sentences on topics that I have no prior interest in or understanding of, quickly turns into a strange nightmare of google searches and abuse of the MSWord thesaurus function.
But. It's all done, and I think that I did ok. It'll be posted online around Feb 1, and y'all can check it out then.
Highlights of November include ... The gala 25th anniversary party for my ngo. Chatting to the brother of one of the founders, only to figure out later that it was Yusuf Islam... formerly known as Cat Stevens. Yes. I managed to serve Cat Stevens food and wine, and chat to him about theatre and publishing in a completely normal manner-BECAUSE I HAD NO IDEA WHO HE WAS... I think it is best not to wonder how much of a blithering idiot I would have been had I clued in earlier.
Germany. Sent on my first ever 'real journalism' job, to cover a conference of young environmentalists. A whole hotel room to myself. A whole bathroom to myself. An invisible person who made my bed every day. Heavenly. The conference was good too. I met a bunch of very inspiring young people, and a bunch of journalists who taught me a lot about reporting. The conference was sponsored by a multi-national pharmaceutical company, so I got a first hand glimpse of how big, profit driven companies are tackling environmental degradation, and I've been mulling over what I think about that approach. As usual, I am sitting on the fence, but I want to think more about it over December and hopefully come to some kind of position I can defend.
Wales. 10 hours on the train=one pair of wrist warmers and finishing some leg warmers. Hiking up a 'mountain' in Snowdonia. Walking on a beach. Drinking beer and eating steak and kidney pie in a pub on the beach. James Bond. Cooking. Talking. Comfortable silence. Driving: complication-free mobility. A bit of a rest. No rain. Sun, even.
Yesterday. Nina and I discovered the best pub in the world. The Beehive. We were adopted. 3 hours. 5 pints. Sent on our way with blueberries 'To keep your strength up.' Apparently I am a dead ringer for Renee Zellweger, even though I hem my trousers with duct tape.
Back to the motherland in a week. Not exactly sure how I'll navigate the 'holiday season'. For the moment I'm wondering what to cook for dinner.
November has slid by in a string of ever shorter gray days. My copy deadline for the magazine was Dec 1st, and most of the month was spent typing steadily toward the magical 1200 word mark. 1200 words is not that much, really, but 12oo well chosen words strung together in kicky, funny, hip sentences on topics that I have no prior interest in or understanding of, quickly turns into a strange nightmare of google searches and abuse of the MSWord thesaurus function.
But. It's all done, and I think that I did ok. It'll be posted online around Feb 1, and y'all can check it out then.
Highlights of November include ... The gala 25th anniversary party for my ngo. Chatting to the brother of one of the founders, only to figure out later that it was Yusuf Islam... formerly known as Cat Stevens. Yes. I managed to serve Cat Stevens food and wine, and chat to him about theatre and publishing in a completely normal manner-BECAUSE I HAD NO IDEA WHO HE WAS... I think it is best not to wonder how much of a blithering idiot I would have been had I clued in earlier.
Germany. Sent on my first ever 'real journalism' job, to cover a conference of young environmentalists. A whole hotel room to myself. A whole bathroom to myself. An invisible person who made my bed every day. Heavenly. The conference was good too. I met a bunch of very inspiring young people, and a bunch of journalists who taught me a lot about reporting. The conference was sponsored by a multi-national pharmaceutical company, so I got a first hand glimpse of how big, profit driven companies are tackling environmental degradation, and I've been mulling over what I think about that approach. As usual, I am sitting on the fence, but I want to think more about it over December and hopefully come to some kind of position I can defend.
Wales. 10 hours on the train=one pair of wrist warmers and finishing some leg warmers. Hiking up a 'mountain' in Snowdonia. Walking on a beach. Drinking beer and eating steak and kidney pie in a pub on the beach. James Bond. Cooking. Talking. Comfortable silence. Driving: complication-free mobility. A bit of a rest. No rain. Sun, even.
Yesterday. Nina and I discovered the best pub in the world. The Beehive. We were adopted. 3 hours. 5 pints. Sent on our way with blueberries 'To keep your strength up.' Apparently I am a dead ringer for Renee Zellweger, even though I hem my trousers with duct tape.
Back to the motherland in a week. Not exactly sure how I'll navigate the 'holiday season'. For the moment I'm wondering what to cook for dinner.
vendredi, novembre 17, 2006
how am I?
I was in London yesterday, talking to a friend who I last saw when I was in London in June before everything fell apart. We've been in touch throughout the summer and autumn-emails, phone calls- but when someone ask you face-to-face, how you are doing and really means it... well, that doesn't exist over phone lines or the ether.
She was waiting, her question hanging in the air between us, twirling like a wind chime. And I didn't know what to say. Shrugging and saying "I have no idea," summed it up pretty well, and she's a good enough friend to understand both the weight and and ephemeralness.
The truth is that I don't really want to discuss, on a deep level, how I am doing. People who have grieved understand the fear that, if I lift the rug to see what's fermenting underneath, I will be swept away-back five months to being a zombie with no memory.
Come to think of it, I am still a zombie with no memory. Only I've kind of mastered the art of 'pulling it together' and so, like the classic little-type-A that I am, I seem to be doing fine. F.I.N.E.
A wise woman, whose words I read regularly had this to say yesterday:
As an adult I often feel like I have put my feelings away quickly, that I haven't got a right to love or hate or grieve or celebrate for as long as I feel each of those things. That my emotions are somehow not polite to have, particularly when they relate to other people, or when, upon occasion, they show as sloppy as a slip hem trailing or a run in my stocking. My adult life is littered with emotional fallout from trying to make important things small and falsely insignificant, from trying to be a grown up who gets on with it, over it, lets it go because that's what maturity does.
I don't think it is. And I want to know where and how I lost the freedom to feel whatever I feel as long and as exactly as I feel it. Why do I, why do so many of us, think that there is no point to uncomfortable emotion if the root cause is beyond our influencing?
She was waiting, her question hanging in the air between us, twirling like a wind chime. And I didn't know what to say. Shrugging and saying "I have no idea," summed it up pretty well, and she's a good enough friend to understand both the weight and and ephemeralness.
The truth is that I don't really want to discuss, on a deep level, how I am doing. People who have grieved understand the fear that, if I lift the rug to see what's fermenting underneath, I will be swept away-back five months to being a zombie with no memory.
Come to think of it, I am still a zombie with no memory. Only I've kind of mastered the art of 'pulling it together' and so, like the classic little-type-A that I am, I seem to be doing fine. F.I.N.E.
A wise woman, whose words I read regularly had this to say yesterday:
As an adult I often feel like I have put my feelings away quickly, that I haven't got a right to love or hate or grieve or celebrate for as long as I feel each of those things. That my emotions are somehow not polite to have, particularly when they relate to other people, or when, upon occasion, they show as sloppy as a slip hem trailing or a run in my stocking. My adult life is littered with emotional fallout from trying to make important things small and falsely insignificant, from trying to be a grown up who gets on with it, over it, lets it go because that's what maturity does.
I don't think it is. And I want to know where and how I lost the freedom to feel whatever I feel as long and as exactly as I feel it. Why do I, why do so many of us, think that there is no point to uncomfortable emotion if the root cause is beyond our influencing?
mercredi, novembre 01, 2006
Dirty Laundry...
...should be washed at home. (sorry mum, this might make you cry) But despite our herculean protestant efforts, the family dirty laundry is about to be washed very publicly.
An eviction is never pleasant. And when the evictor and evictee are family, no matter how estranged, a peculiar kind of horror descends upon the proceedings.
Today, after three months of warnings, negotiations and court proceedings, the bailiffs and locksmith arrive.
The awfulness of the eviction is bearable only because the alternative is worse. There is a kind of freedom in slicing the threads that attach us to each other. Though, in this case, the threads are more like fraying twine, and the slicing closer to sawing with a butter knife. And I don't know what colour this freedom is. The velvety close-to-black green of a hillside of pine trees? Gut wrenching scarlet?
I am grieving for two little boys with blonde crew-cuts and seersucker shorts, digging in the Departure Bay sand. The one who dug the frere and me Gabriola sandcastles at low tide- who is gone. And the one who is tall and gaunt and who is getting cut off today. Set adrift for perhaps the first time in his life.
An eviction is never pleasant. And when the evictor and evictee are family, no matter how estranged, a peculiar kind of horror descends upon the proceedings.
Today, after three months of warnings, negotiations and court proceedings, the bailiffs and locksmith arrive.
The awfulness of the eviction is bearable only because the alternative is worse. There is a kind of freedom in slicing the threads that attach us to each other. Though, in this case, the threads are more like fraying twine, and the slicing closer to sawing with a butter knife. And I don't know what colour this freedom is. The velvety close-to-black green of a hillside of pine trees? Gut wrenching scarlet?
I am grieving for two little boys with blonde crew-cuts and seersucker shorts, digging in the Departure Bay sand. The one who dug the frere and me Gabriola sandcastles at low tide- who is gone. And the one who is tall and gaunt and who is getting cut off today. Set adrift for perhaps the first time in his life.
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