Since we started brunching sometime last fall, Kate, Justine, Sait and I have had a few epic Sundays. The kind where we meet on a street corner at 1130 in the morning and part company around 630 in the evening, and in between, all manner of hijinks are gotten up to.
On epic sundays I get back to my apartment late in the afternoon/early evening, and sit in my brown chair exhausted but unable to stop smiling. I forget, in the middle of these afternoons, the stresses of life here, the annoying people I deal with on a daily basis, the strife in the world, and I laugh with my friends until my stomach is spasming and I can't breathe.
Yesterday was an epic Sunday.
All of us short on cash, and me with an abundance of eggs and flour, we cogregated chez moi to eat pancakes and watch episodes of six feet under. A nice sedate plan for a January brunching. Except the weather/temperature gods decided to go and create a spectacularly beautiful day, and bump the mercury up to -2. It was practically summmer.
Tv watching was abandoned in favour of skating at Parc Lafontaine.
The parc is to the east of my flat, and is quite a masterpiece of created greenspace (or whitespace in the winter). there is a large serpentine lake in the middle of it, now nicely frozen, and there are benches at intervals in the center of the ice to rest on or relace skates. Classical music playing through loud speakers. Lots and lots of Montrealers skating.
We rented skates and headed out. We were all of equal skating finesse and spent much of the rest of the afternoon chasing each other around the ice; Kate had an untiring appetite for spinning Justine and I around-especially when surrounded by lots of people. We saw children for what seemed like the first time in ages (the university bubble doesn't really make for integrated social interaction), and older couples skating around and around, holding hands.
It was bright and sunny and the air was crisp every time I inhaled. I wanted to stay forever.
Afterwards we hiked up Mont Royal with Justine's roommate Isabelle. We were supposed to be helping Justine take pictures of eggs for a photo assignment, but we missed the light by about five minutes so we climbed up to a lookout point and sat watching the lights come on in the east end. We ate cookies and drank hot chocolate out of a thermos, and slowly began to freeze to the bench.
On the way down, we eschewed the path, prefering to slide down the side of the hill on our bums, resulting in some really wet trousers and a lot of hilarity. Running through the snow in the forest we kept falling over because our feet would break through the snow cover and we would unexpectedly sink up to our thighs. Pelting down a hill at top knots only to be suddenly face first in the snow...
Kate made dinner at her flat, and while she and Phil and Ninn did their harmony homework, I fell asleep on her bed.
I'm still exhausted from it this morning.
lundi, janvier 31, 2005
mercredi, janvier 26, 2005
teapots
this town is teapot deficient.
For a city with as much diversity as Montreal, it is remarkable what a homogeneity it is displaying on the teapot front. Currently there seem to be only three models of teapot on wide release:
1) the white 1-2 cup ceramic teapot. This model will nicely compliment our white flatware and serving platters. It will also not clash with the white (accented with red/blue/black) mugs. Sometimes this model has a bamboo like handle in an effort to relieve its crushing monotony of white and infuse it with a psudo asian sentiment. Now, I have a white teapot. And white dishware. But my teapot is in the shape of an elephant and I had the dishes well before the "boutique hotel" look came into vougue for apartment living. And they are from the dollar store. Buying a $32 teapot that could easily camoflague itself in an arctic lanscape is absurd.
2) the $6 china town teapot. the main attraction of this genre of teapot is its price and the fact that it is usually decorated by some nice painting of bamboo fronds. (fronds? stalks? branches? What is the correct bamboo terminology?) However, if one is seduced by the price and pretty design, it bears remembering that it was probably painted in some dodgy teapot-painting-factory in the nether regions of china, and that it is inevitably designed badly. The tops fall off while pouring, it is prone to cracking, it pours badly. And really, no matter how much money you save on a cheap teapot, if it pours badly it will drive you insane. Trust me. I applied thrift to the purchase of a kettle that pours water anywhere but into the apropriate recepticle and every time I use it I get a step closer to the straight jacket and pureed food.
3) the cast iron japanese teapot. This type of teapot is not a bad option as long as you are the type of person who will pay 75 dollars for what is, essentially, a nicely forged teapot in miniature. Truely beautiful, these teapots are perfect for people who not only know how to make proper Japanese tea but who also don't mind drinking said tea in thimbles. Firmly Anglo-Saxon, I distrust a teapot that doesn't make enough tea to fill one of my white dollar store mugs. There is no way that I will be hosting a tea ceremony any time soon; my flower arranging skills have been likened to that of a caffinated octopus with ADD, and I don't have enough egg cups.
the search continues...
For a city with as much diversity as Montreal, it is remarkable what a homogeneity it is displaying on the teapot front. Currently there seem to be only three models of teapot on wide release:
1) the white 1-2 cup ceramic teapot. This model will nicely compliment our white flatware and serving platters. It will also not clash with the white (accented with red/blue/black) mugs. Sometimes this model has a bamboo like handle in an effort to relieve its crushing monotony of white and infuse it with a psudo asian sentiment. Now, I have a white teapot. And white dishware. But my teapot is in the shape of an elephant and I had the dishes well before the "boutique hotel" look came into vougue for apartment living. And they are from the dollar store. Buying a $32 teapot that could easily camoflague itself in an arctic lanscape is absurd.
2) the $6 china town teapot. the main attraction of this genre of teapot is its price and the fact that it is usually decorated by some nice painting of bamboo fronds. (fronds? stalks? branches? What is the correct bamboo terminology?) However, if one is seduced by the price and pretty design, it bears remembering that it was probably painted in some dodgy teapot-painting-factory in the nether regions of china, and that it is inevitably designed badly. The tops fall off while pouring, it is prone to cracking, it pours badly. And really, no matter how much money you save on a cheap teapot, if it pours badly it will drive you insane. Trust me. I applied thrift to the purchase of a kettle that pours water anywhere but into the apropriate recepticle and every time I use it I get a step closer to the straight jacket and pureed food.
3) the cast iron japanese teapot. This type of teapot is not a bad option as long as you are the type of person who will pay 75 dollars for what is, essentially, a nicely forged teapot in miniature. Truely beautiful, these teapots are perfect for people who not only know how to make proper Japanese tea but who also don't mind drinking said tea in thimbles. Firmly Anglo-Saxon, I distrust a teapot that doesn't make enough tea to fill one of my white dollar store mugs. There is no way that I will be hosting a tea ceremony any time soon; my flower arranging skills have been likened to that of a caffinated octopus with ADD, and I don't have enough egg cups.
the search continues...
mardi, janvier 25, 2005
home made hair cuts
A barber shop near my apartment has a sign in the window:
"we fix home made haircuts "
I wonder how many people have gone in specifically to have their home made wonders fixed.
Most of my friends cut their own hair, or get others to cut it for them. Mostly it looks pretty good, and, seeing as we live in Montreal-city-of-fashionably-insane-hairdos, we can get away with a lot. The other thing is that we wear touques for about 5 months of the year, and no matter how much you spend on a hair cut it will come out the same after any extended touque wearing experience.
Actually, come to think of it, it's been ages since my hair was cut. Not that it matters, since a) the above touque reasoning applies, and b) I just don't care that much.
No. That isn't true. I do care, a lot actually... the real reason my hair hasn't been touched by scissors in around a year is fear.
The last time I got my hair cut I went to a fancy salon/spa thing in the swish area of St Laurent. It was the kind of place that I feel out of place in because I am obviously not cool enough to be there. I sometimes wear corduroy: the people in this place would never dream of such suburbia.
The guy that cut my hair was very chatty-I don't do small talk well. All I wanted was a haircut that would make me look cool (in my cords) and not like a republican or an anchor-woman. By which I meant: no one length bobs and it better look good without the use of a straightening iron or blow dryer. Maybe because it is my hair and I have been dealing with it all my life, these instructions seemed simple. Chatty pink shirted stylist (Not hairdresser... stylist!) was either not listening or didn't think I was serious. He lost interest in me soon anyways because I was loath to discuss the scene in Montreal or the relative merits of feathering versus layering my locks.
I ended up looking like a Fox News correspondent... my stylist managed to make me into a republican anchor woman, without the nasty puce blazer.
I've been trying to forget the horror, and ignoring my hair seems to be working. It's getting a little long though... maybe this time I will take the scissors to it myself-at least I know I'll have a back up plan!
"we fix home made haircuts "
I wonder how many people have gone in specifically to have their home made wonders fixed.
Most of my friends cut their own hair, or get others to cut it for them. Mostly it looks pretty good, and, seeing as we live in Montreal-city-of-fashionably-insane-hairdos, we can get away with a lot. The other thing is that we wear touques for about 5 months of the year, and no matter how much you spend on a hair cut it will come out the same after any extended touque wearing experience.
Actually, come to think of it, it's been ages since my hair was cut. Not that it matters, since a) the above touque reasoning applies, and b) I just don't care that much.
No. That isn't true. I do care, a lot actually... the real reason my hair hasn't been touched by scissors in around a year is fear.
The last time I got my hair cut I went to a fancy salon/spa thing in the swish area of St Laurent. It was the kind of place that I feel out of place in because I am obviously not cool enough to be there. I sometimes wear corduroy: the people in this place would never dream of such suburbia.
The guy that cut my hair was very chatty-I don't do small talk well. All I wanted was a haircut that would make me look cool (in my cords) and not like a republican or an anchor-woman. By which I meant: no one length bobs and it better look good without the use of a straightening iron or blow dryer. Maybe because it is my hair and I have been dealing with it all my life, these instructions seemed simple. Chatty pink shirted stylist (Not hairdresser... stylist!) was either not listening or didn't think I was serious. He lost interest in me soon anyways because I was loath to discuss the scene in Montreal or the relative merits of feathering versus layering my locks.
I ended up looking like a Fox News correspondent... my stylist managed to make me into a republican anchor woman, without the nasty puce blazer.
I've been trying to forget the horror, and ignoring my hair seems to be working. It's getting a little long though... maybe this time I will take the scissors to it myself-at least I know I'll have a back up plan!
jeudi, janvier 20, 2005
gentlemanly behavior
So Kate and I were eating lunch at the Midnight Kitchen yesterday, munching on vegan chilli and cake, when she brought up the question of what qualities a gentleman has to have. The list, by no means finished, is below. Bear in mind that Kate, being Scottish, has a mildly different take on the subject than I do: she thinks he should be able to ride a horse if the need came up, I think that being able to jumpstart a snowmobile is far more practical. But I guess practicality isn't the point of being a gentleman. Let me know if you think we've missed some integral element...
-should be able to ride a horse/snowmobile with passable ease if necessary
-should be able to remember types of drinks ("and a vodka tonic for the lady") and coffee/tea preferences without prompting
-able to play golf
-able to tell a joke well
-women: is charming enough to make any woman in the room feel beautiful, but knows to stop short of making her feel uncomfortable
-deals well with animals
-can converse on a wide variety of topics: politics, literature, current affairs, music...
-in conversation, actually listens to what others say and does not monopolize the discussion-keeps the ball rolling
-knows when to send flowers and when to offer up the heartfelt apology
-never criticizes/spats with partner in public
-dresses apropriately for all occasions (kate went on about morning suits and smoking jackets...I just wanted a moratorium on plaid shirts and sports jerseys when not at sports matches...)
-will use moisturizer if he has dry skin
-has cufflinks in his posession
-walks on the street side of the sidewalk when with a woman, to shield her from splashes
-can hold his own in a game of pickup football (soccer) with the lads (boys)
-has basic mechanical knowledge (ie: can diagnose car trouble and can change oil/tires/windshield wiper fluid)
-punctual.
-should be able to ride a horse/snowmobile with passable ease if necessary
-should be able to remember types of drinks ("and a vodka tonic for the lady") and coffee/tea preferences without prompting
-able to play golf
-able to tell a joke well
-women: is charming enough to make any woman in the room feel beautiful, but knows to stop short of making her feel uncomfortable
-deals well with animals
-can converse on a wide variety of topics: politics, literature, current affairs, music...
-in conversation, actually listens to what others say and does not monopolize the discussion-keeps the ball rolling
-knows when to send flowers and when to offer up the heartfelt apology
-never criticizes/spats with partner in public
-dresses apropriately for all occasions (kate went on about morning suits and smoking jackets...I just wanted a moratorium on plaid shirts and sports jerseys when not at sports matches...)
-will use moisturizer if he has dry skin
-has cufflinks in his posession
-walks on the street side of the sidewalk when with a woman, to shield her from splashes
-can hold his own in a game of pickup football (soccer) with the lads (boys)
-has basic mechanical knowledge (ie: can diagnose car trouble and can change oil/tires/windshield wiper fluid)
-punctual.
lundi, janvier 17, 2005
"doing well"
(thanks neasa)
I am beside myself. For the first time I think I finally understand that turn of phrase. I feel like I am standing beside my self, much like a base coach, whispering suggestions in my ear and watching to see whether I follow them. Similarly to the poor base coach, I am increasingly feeling that no matter the intensity of my suggestion to myself-(for example: "Claire, you really should eat.") following through is up the capricious whim of a completely unknown two year old.
Melt down is not really the world for this, closer to willful self destruction.
If I could, I would run away and deal with life here later, when somehow I am stronger and more able to cope. But, due to financial constraints, I would only be able to go as far as my two feet would carry me. Escaping reality in the side streets of Laval or St Hubert is really not what I had in mind. As soothing as video lottery terminals and neon signs advertizing all you can eat poutine 24 hours are...
"I think she overstresses, sometimes, to maintain a recognizable stress-level"
somehow I seem to have outdone myself this time...it's a slippery slope
I am beside myself. For the first time I think I finally understand that turn of phrase. I feel like I am standing beside my self, much like a base coach, whispering suggestions in my ear and watching to see whether I follow them. Similarly to the poor base coach, I am increasingly feeling that no matter the intensity of my suggestion to myself-(for example: "Claire, you really should eat.") following through is up the capricious whim of a completely unknown two year old.
Melt down is not really the world for this, closer to willful self destruction.
If I could, I would run away and deal with life here later, when somehow I am stronger and more able to cope. But, due to financial constraints, I would only be able to go as far as my two feet would carry me. Escaping reality in the side streets of Laval or St Hubert is really not what I had in mind. As soothing as video lottery terminals and neon signs advertizing all you can eat poutine 24 hours are...
"I think she overstresses, sometimes, to maintain a recognizable stress-level"
somehow I seem to have outdone myself this time...it's a slippery slope
mercredi, janvier 12, 2005
broken things
It's been a bad couple of days for keeping things together.
My headphones lost an ear piece.
My christmas present watch from my brother fell out of my jeans pocket when I hung them up to dry off the cuffs. The glass face which protects the hands dislodged itself and when I tried to play Miss Fixit, I cracked the glass.
A particularly out-of-left-field and shattering arguement with someone who is becoming quite dear to me left my (already shaky) peace of mind jarred.
The death of a friend of friends in a skiing accident. I didn't know him at all, but it's still tragic and horrible. And those of us who have lost other people (such a lame euphamism: "lost" for death... as though those of us left living have absent mindedly misplaced our loved ones) are grieving Chris and mourning our private sorrows.
Days, I guess are like this: fragile.
My headphones lost an ear piece.
My christmas present watch from my brother fell out of my jeans pocket when I hung them up to dry off the cuffs. The glass face which protects the hands dislodged itself and when I tried to play Miss Fixit, I cracked the glass.
A particularly out-of-left-field and shattering arguement with someone who is becoming quite dear to me left my (already shaky) peace of mind jarred.
The death of a friend of friends in a skiing accident. I didn't know him at all, but it's still tragic and horrible. And those of us who have lost other people (such a lame euphamism: "lost" for death... as though those of us left living have absent mindedly misplaced our loved ones) are grieving Chris and mourning our private sorrows.
Days, I guess are like this: fragile.
vendredi, janvier 07, 2005
family pictures
"there's a security guard. Quick! don't look like you're planning to do anything naked..."
~emily
"if we get caught, I'll just tell them it's nothing sexual-we're related..."
~jaymie
honestly, my darling cousins are completely and totally insane. the concept of photo booths has a whole new dimension for me now.
~emily
"if we get caught, I'll just tell them it's nothing sexual-we're related..."
~jaymie
honestly, my darling cousins are completely and totally insane. the concept of photo booths has a whole new dimension for me now.
lundi, janvier 03, 2005
saltspring
I wonder how many people in the world carry a piece of a place within them... somewhere that is home to them, the smells, sounds and the feel of the air on their faces...
Even though I didn't grow up on the west coast, it's embedded somewhere behind my diaphragm, between my ribs. The rhythm of waves on shore is a background track to much of my life, and the smell of low tide makes me smile. I'm never here long enough, and never frequently enough.
On the ferry from Saltspring to Crofton this afternoon, in the blinding sunshine, I wanted time to stop. I wanted to be alone-but-not-lonely standing on the top deck of a boat watching the driftwood and fishing boats, one masted dingys and kayaks, for the rest of eternity.
Justine said she thinks of me as surrounded by water, as though even when I am on dryland, I am somehow aquatically inclined.
The coast is my check. The tune, whistled in the wind, that I am relentlessly trying to pick up and carry.
Even though I didn't grow up on the west coast, it's embedded somewhere behind my diaphragm, between my ribs. The rhythm of waves on shore is a background track to much of my life, and the smell of low tide makes me smile. I'm never here long enough, and never frequently enough.
On the ferry from Saltspring to Crofton this afternoon, in the blinding sunshine, I wanted time to stop. I wanted to be alone-but-not-lonely standing on the top deck of a boat watching the driftwood and fishing boats, one masted dingys and kayaks, for the rest of eternity.
Justine said she thinks of me as surrounded by water, as though even when I am on dryland, I am somehow aquatically inclined.
The coast is my check. The tune, whistled in the wind, that I am relentlessly trying to pick up and carry.
jeudi, décembre 30, 2004
perspectives
being mouthy and strangely competant in most aspects of my life, it comes as a bit of a suprise to a lot of people that computer glitches that do not fix themselves right away leave me frothing at the mouth and planning ways to kill off the gremlins that are clearly inhabiting my harddrive. In all honesty, besides turning the sucker on and off, I have no idea how anything works, programs, downloads or otherwise, and I intend to keep it that way. However, had I a thimble's worth of common sense or laced my cereal with slightly less stubborn juice, I could probably be convinced that learning how to debug my parent's computer could be a useful way to spend my time. I would then have been able to check my hotmail account, my university email, and write on this little page of self indulgence.
As it is, I have been happily out of touch with the "real" world since returning to BC.
I am at my grandfather's house on Vancouver Island now, (where the computer still won't take me to hotmail...) staying on the coast for a few days to see relatives and friends before heading back east. I wish I could say that the past few weeks have been a whirlwind and this is a well deserved break, but truthfully, Kelowna was quiet and I slept a lot.
I only keep in touch with about two friends and one was working a lot and the other didn't get back until the 23rd. I went to a few open houses, did some christmas shopping, cooked a little, slept a lot... nothing to light the pond on fire.
The usual entertainment sufficed: making up answers to my parent's friends queries about my post-university plans (lap dancer got some priceless reactions), watching a lot of movies, knitting (I am my grandmother), and slipping out of conversations that involved marriage, babies and my prospects therein. I love how I think that the perspective in Montreal is so skewed-grad school obsession, academic excellance trumping mental health- but really, it's got nothing on the good old hometown.
It is good to be on the coast, I am running out of ways to be polite about my lack of direction or ability to hold sucessful husband auditions.
As it is, I have been happily out of touch with the "real" world since returning to BC.
I am at my grandfather's house on Vancouver Island now, (where the computer still won't take me to hotmail...) staying on the coast for a few days to see relatives and friends before heading back east. I wish I could say that the past few weeks have been a whirlwind and this is a well deserved break, but truthfully, Kelowna was quiet and I slept a lot.
I only keep in touch with about two friends and one was working a lot and the other didn't get back until the 23rd. I went to a few open houses, did some christmas shopping, cooked a little, slept a lot... nothing to light the pond on fire.
The usual entertainment sufficed: making up answers to my parent's friends queries about my post-university plans (lap dancer got some priceless reactions), watching a lot of movies, knitting (I am my grandmother), and slipping out of conversations that involved marriage, babies and my prospects therein. I love how I think that the perspective in Montreal is so skewed-grad school obsession, academic excellance trumping mental health- but really, it's got nothing on the good old hometown.
It is good to be on the coast, I am running out of ways to be polite about my lack of direction or ability to hold sucessful husband auditions.
samedi, décembre 18, 2004
home (?) again...
I am sitting in the Westbank library, checking email while my mum does groceries for my father's voluntary unemployment dinner tonight. It's finally happened. He is retired!!! In celebration we are going skiing tomorrow and picking out a Christmas tree.
My darling brother has taken off to Australia, from the sound of his voice over a sketchy phone line, is having a ball. He started work at the hotel today, and I hope it went well-jetlag and sharp kitchen knives are not always the best combination. It was hard to watch him go through airport security, he looked so young and small and ... then I realized that I was 2 years younger when I took off and far less pulled together. Terrifying the amount of trust my parents must have had in my apparent good sense!
The house is quiet without him. I miss joking around and cooking dinner with him, fighting over the amount of spice the sauce needs.
mum is done groceries now.
off to cook some prawns!!!!
My darling brother has taken off to Australia, from the sound of his voice over a sketchy phone line, is having a ball. He started work at the hotel today, and I hope it went well-jetlag and sharp kitchen knives are not always the best combination. It was hard to watch him go through airport security, he looked so young and small and ... then I realized that I was 2 years younger when I took off and far less pulled together. Terrifying the amount of trust my parents must have had in my apparent good sense!
The house is quiet without him. I miss joking around and cooking dinner with him, fighting over the amount of spice the sauce needs.
mum is done groceries now.
off to cook some prawns!!!!
jeudi, décembre 02, 2004
perfection
I have re-acquired my copy of Bird By Bird. (thanks sait!) It is written by Anne Lamott who is an insanely talented and honest writer; a woman whose words make me laugh out loud on the metro, and keep me up reading by flashlight in the middle of the night.
The actual book is something of a personality. I can't remember where or when I got it, but I have a strong suspicion that my mum bought me my own copy after I disappeared hers. It is worn and there is lots of underlining throughout and the odd margin note. I am so glad to have it back, especially at the beginning of exam period, because somehow Ms Lamott puts me in perspective. A commodity I am dearly in need of right now.
"I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you and have a lot more fun while they're doing it."
I keep remembering a sign on the wall of the ballet studio in Kelowna: "We aim for perfection; excellence will be tolerated."
What was I saying about perspective? Permanently skewed??? Yes, I thought so.
The actual book is something of a personality. I can't remember where or when I got it, but I have a strong suspicion that my mum bought me my own copy after I disappeared hers. It is worn and there is lots of underlining throughout and the odd margin note. I am so glad to have it back, especially at the beginning of exam period, because somehow Ms Lamott puts me in perspective. A commodity I am dearly in need of right now.
"I think perfectionism is based on the obsessive belief that if you run carefully enough, hitting each stepping-stone just right, you won't have to die. The truth is that you will die anyway and that a lot of people who aren't even looking at their feet are going to do a whole lot better than you and have a lot more fun while they're doing it."
I keep remembering a sign on the wall of the ballet studio in Kelowna: "We aim for perfection; excellence will be tolerated."
What was I saying about perspective? Permanently skewed??? Yes, I thought so.
mercredi, décembre 01, 2004
avoiding the new testament
Yesterday I accidentally fell asleep in the TNC office for 5 hours. I dreamt about a crocodile in a my bathtub and waging civil war in a grocery store. Weird stuff. When I woke up it was dark and I felt like I had missed the entire day, which, I guess in a way, I had. I was worried that I would be up all evening, but I managed to fall asleep around midnight with relative ease. I feel like I am about to get back on the 'terminal exhaustion' bandwagon. Bloody exam schedule.
Last day of lectures for me today... we managed to convince the seminar prof that we didn't need to meet on thursday, so I unexpectedly have time to do laundry this week. Exams start on the 7th (and I have two that day) and then a week to prep my seminar paper and study for ethnic conflict. Right now I am exhibiting zero motivation on all fronts. I know enough about myself to realize study avoidance has gotten extreme when I would rather learn my choir music than do a few readings. So far I haven't resorted to cleaning the apartment obsessively, but I am sure that will come.
I wonder if other people manage to self-sabotage as well as I do. Realistically, I should just get down to work and save myself the anguish and annoyance... but I seem completely unable to do so right now. Probably why I am writing random crap on here.
"I listen to the wind, to the wind on my soul/
where I'll end up, well I think only God really knows/
I've set it on the setting sun/but never never never never/
I've never wanted water once/I've never never never/
I listen to my words but they fall far below/
I let my music take me where my heart wants to go/
I swam upon the devil's lake /but never never never never/
I never make the same mistake/no, never never never"
Last day of lectures for me today... we managed to convince the seminar prof that we didn't need to meet on thursday, so I unexpectedly have time to do laundry this week. Exams start on the 7th (and I have two that day) and then a week to prep my seminar paper and study for ethnic conflict. Right now I am exhibiting zero motivation on all fronts. I know enough about myself to realize study avoidance has gotten extreme when I would rather learn my choir music than do a few readings. So far I haven't resorted to cleaning the apartment obsessively, but I am sure that will come.
I wonder if other people manage to self-sabotage as well as I do. Realistically, I should just get down to work and save myself the anguish and annoyance... but I seem completely unable to do so right now. Probably why I am writing random crap on here.
"I listen to the wind, to the wind on my soul/
where I'll end up, well I think only God really knows/
I've set it on the setting sun/but never never never never/
I've never wanted water once/I've never never never/
I listen to my words but they fall far below/
I let my music take me where my heart wants to go/
I swam upon the devil's lake /but never never never never/
I never make the same mistake/no, never never never"
dimanche, novembre 28, 2004
shoes
new shoes. again. what was I thinking????
but they are so beautiful
this addiction has to be stopped.
but they are so beautiful
this addiction has to be stopped.
senseless kindness
I am full of pasta and scallops and spininch (highly reccomended on cold damp nights) and ben harper is playing from the kitchen. And someone else is doing the dishes. This is a moment to perfect to let go without notice.
As was opening the door in the middle of a term paper to a choice of swiss chocolate or cigarette.
Or perfectly timed tea and croissants.
Lately, though my life has been insane with school, I've found myself having the best of times with my friends. So much laughter.
Maybe it is because the semester is almost over and I can relax a little and breathe. And sleep. I think life is evening out.
Stuff that's been on my mind:
-next year: what to do, where to go... India, Neasa? Africa?
-the utility of introducing a bass player into the newly found equilibrium
-topic for my seminar paper
-how quiet the house will be at christmas without Timothy. How much I am going to miss him
-how glad I am that Timothy is getting out of Kelowna
-how much I love "petoncles"
-new pillows.
-red wine
As was opening the door in the middle of a term paper to a choice of swiss chocolate or cigarette.
Or perfectly timed tea and croissants.
Lately, though my life has been insane with school, I've found myself having the best of times with my friends. So much laughter.
Maybe it is because the semester is almost over and I can relax a little and breathe. And sleep. I think life is evening out.
Stuff that's been on my mind:
-next year: what to do, where to go... India, Neasa? Africa?
-the utility of introducing a bass player into the newly found equilibrium
-topic for my seminar paper
-how quiet the house will be at christmas without Timothy. How much I am going to miss him
-how glad I am that Timothy is getting out of Kelowna
-how much I love "petoncles"
-new pillows.
-red wine
mardi, novembre 23, 2004
boots
I wore my hiking boots today. It wasn't snowing or anything, I just decided that they needed a trial run so that my feet get used to them before I have to wear them every day. When I opened the cupboard to take them out, I caught a glimpse of my other boots-my old ones.
I got the old boots the summer I was 13 because I was hiking the West Coast Trail with my mum and some of her friends. The shop that we bought them from isn't open anymore, but it was on the main street in downtown Kelowna, and the process of finding the right fit was close to buying pointe shoes: take an hour or two, try on everything in your size in stock, make about 50 'practice walks' around the store, finally, once your brain is numbed to the differences between pairs, choose something that you think makes your feet look cool. My boots were grey with purple accents (this was 1995!) and they cost about $250, which I thought was astronomical, and was suprised when my normally budget-conscious father didn't get annoyed when paying for them. He said they were a good investment.
I hiked the West Coast Trail and canoed the interior of BC with those boots. They were staples of my wardrobe during several summers of camp counsellor employment, and I wore them every day for eight weeks working on a landscaping crew the summer I was 16. They also were the boots I wore while riding on the back of my dad's motercycle all over New Zealand, and on a grade nine trip to Europe. In between adventures, I wore them to and from highschool, the movies, dance class...When I moved to Wales, the boots went too, and then to Lebanon, accross the Middle East and now Montreal.
I only had blisters the first hike; somewhere there is a snapshot of me sitting on driftwood at a campsite near Tsusiat Falls cradling a moleskin covered foot, the boots discarded in front of me.
The purple is indistinguishable now, they are a fairly uniform shade of grey, and there are holes where the stitching has disintegrated. There are cracks in the leather by the joints of my big toe and little toe where the boots bent with every step I took in them. The treads are completely worn down, and when they stand on their own the boots look like my feet are still in them. The laces are ratty, with at least two knots for mending purposes. There is a white line of dried salt around them from the roads in Montreal in the winter-looks a bit like a high water mark... These are not sexy boots.
Last December I left them on top of the radiator over night, trying to dry them off. The rubber soles, having had enough of my abuse, separated from the bottom of the rest of the boot and only stayed attached at the heel. I didn't even try to superglue them back together, somehow I just knew they were finished.
My parents bought me the new boots for Christmas last year. They are really nice-they make my feet look dainty, and they are a tasteful brown. They don't fit right though. Like rebounding from a relationship, I jumped on the "new boots" bandwagon, willfully disregarding the small pinching of my toes and the blisters growing on my heels.
"You just need time to break them in," I told myself, "You haven't had new boots in so long, you don't know what to expect. Give them a chance."
I spent the rest of the winter with pinched toes and bloody heels.
The new boots are better now. I have broken them in as much as possible. Nine years down the line, they may have history too. They just won't have the same history...my teenage years are in those boots, quietly sitting in the cupboard under the stairs, waiting for me to figure out how to deal with them.
I got the old boots the summer I was 13 because I was hiking the West Coast Trail with my mum and some of her friends. The shop that we bought them from isn't open anymore, but it was on the main street in downtown Kelowna, and the process of finding the right fit was close to buying pointe shoes: take an hour or two, try on everything in your size in stock, make about 50 'practice walks' around the store, finally, once your brain is numbed to the differences between pairs, choose something that you think makes your feet look cool. My boots were grey with purple accents (this was 1995!) and they cost about $250, which I thought was astronomical, and was suprised when my normally budget-conscious father didn't get annoyed when paying for them. He said they were a good investment.
I hiked the West Coast Trail and canoed the interior of BC with those boots. They were staples of my wardrobe during several summers of camp counsellor employment, and I wore them every day for eight weeks working on a landscaping crew the summer I was 16. They also were the boots I wore while riding on the back of my dad's motercycle all over New Zealand, and on a grade nine trip to Europe. In between adventures, I wore them to and from highschool, the movies, dance class...When I moved to Wales, the boots went too, and then to Lebanon, accross the Middle East and now Montreal.
I only had blisters the first hike; somewhere there is a snapshot of me sitting on driftwood at a campsite near Tsusiat Falls cradling a moleskin covered foot, the boots discarded in front of me.
The purple is indistinguishable now, they are a fairly uniform shade of grey, and there are holes where the stitching has disintegrated. There are cracks in the leather by the joints of my big toe and little toe where the boots bent with every step I took in them. The treads are completely worn down, and when they stand on their own the boots look like my feet are still in them. The laces are ratty, with at least two knots for mending purposes. There is a white line of dried salt around them from the roads in Montreal in the winter-looks a bit like a high water mark... These are not sexy boots.
Last December I left them on top of the radiator over night, trying to dry them off. The rubber soles, having had enough of my abuse, separated from the bottom of the rest of the boot and only stayed attached at the heel. I didn't even try to superglue them back together, somehow I just knew they were finished.
My parents bought me the new boots for Christmas last year. They are really nice-they make my feet look dainty, and they are a tasteful brown. They don't fit right though. Like rebounding from a relationship, I jumped on the "new boots" bandwagon, willfully disregarding the small pinching of my toes and the blisters growing on my heels.
"You just need time to break them in," I told myself, "You haven't had new boots in so long, you don't know what to expect. Give them a chance."
I spent the rest of the winter with pinched toes and bloody heels.
The new boots are better now. I have broken them in as much as possible. Nine years down the line, they may have history too. They just won't have the same history...my teenage years are in those boots, quietly sitting in the cupboard under the stairs, waiting for me to figure out how to deal with them.
mercredi, novembre 17, 2004
whirling dervish
It's been two weeks since I saw them, the dervishes, and only now are they coming to mind...delayed...cognitive...analysis...
When I hear the word "dervish" I think of the cloud that surrounds the road runner in cartoons when he is speeding down the road, narrowly missing cacti. Helter Skelter and vaguely out of control. But they are not like that at all.
The music begins and they start swaying gently side to side with their arms crossed over their chests. As they are swaying side to side, they are also making a small figure of eight movement with their shoulders. Because of their long and wide skirts, their legs are obscured, so the swaying dervish-men have the appearance of seeming to grow out of the ground. A dervish-assistant walks through the group of dervish-tree-men with an incense burner wafting clouds and clouds of smoke around the already otherworldly swaying beings. Then, suddenly, with no apparent queue, all the dervishes start to spin. They turn to the left and gradually get faster and faster, but at no point do they seem out of control or haphazard. At first, I was looking very intently to try to figure out the movements of the feet, and the arms and if they were spotting or not, but after a while I gave in to the spinning and stopped analysing and just watched.
The dervishes spun with intense speed and perfectly co-ordinated arm movements, yet I felt like there was a core part of each of them that wasn't spinning, that was still and bemusedly apart.
It seemed to go on forever. As though the spinning was eternal, had been started eons ago and would continue long after we left the theatre. And suddenly. They stopped. All at once. Finished. Standing still, arms back crossed over their chests, heads bowed. Perfect balance.
Lately, I feel like a dervish in training. Spinning for all I am worth, starting to detatch.
When I hear the word "dervish" I think of the cloud that surrounds the road runner in cartoons when he is speeding down the road, narrowly missing cacti. Helter Skelter and vaguely out of control. But they are not like that at all.
The music begins and they start swaying gently side to side with their arms crossed over their chests. As they are swaying side to side, they are also making a small figure of eight movement with their shoulders. Because of their long and wide skirts, their legs are obscured, so the swaying dervish-men have the appearance of seeming to grow out of the ground. A dervish-assistant walks through the group of dervish-tree-men with an incense burner wafting clouds and clouds of smoke around the already otherworldly swaying beings. Then, suddenly, with no apparent queue, all the dervishes start to spin. They turn to the left and gradually get faster and faster, but at no point do they seem out of control or haphazard. At first, I was looking very intently to try to figure out the movements of the feet, and the arms and if they were spotting or not, but after a while I gave in to the spinning and stopped analysing and just watched.
The dervishes spun with intense speed and perfectly co-ordinated arm movements, yet I felt like there was a core part of each of them that wasn't spinning, that was still and bemusedly apart.
It seemed to go on forever. As though the spinning was eternal, had been started eons ago and would continue long after we left the theatre. And suddenly. They stopped. All at once. Finished. Standing still, arms back crossed over their chests, heads bowed. Perfect balance.
Lately, I feel like a dervish in training. Spinning for all I am worth, starting to detatch.
jeudi, novembre 11, 2004
midnight cleaning
I've often wondered about "new age" music. Somehow the glint in a Yani fan's eyes frightens me. As though she is recieving messages from outerspace via his haunting pan-pipes played at the Acropolis...
Right now I am proof of my own theory:
I stopped writing my African History term paper at 1am on the basis that I was tired and would do better to finish the sucker off tomorrow morning. In need of a bit of relaxation, (and sick of the majority of my CD collection) I put an Enya compilation in... within the time it took the kettle to boil-for my herbal chamomile tea (ha ha ha)-I was overwhelmed with the urge to clean my bathroom, tile scrubbing and all... As my bathroom is pretty small scrubbing the whole thing didn't take too long, so I moved on to sweeping my living room and hallway, and some light dusting. I contemplated mopping too, but somewhere in a part of my brain NOT being directed by the ghosts of Enya and Martha Stewart I realized that I was going a bit far...
Right now I am proof of my own theory:
I stopped writing my African History term paper at 1am on the basis that I was tired and would do better to finish the sucker off tomorrow morning. In need of a bit of relaxation, (and sick of the majority of my CD collection) I put an Enya compilation in... within the time it took the kettle to boil-for my herbal chamomile tea (ha ha ha)-I was overwhelmed with the urge to clean my bathroom, tile scrubbing and all... As my bathroom is pretty small scrubbing the whole thing didn't take too long, so I moved on to sweeping my living room and hallway, and some light dusting. I contemplated mopping too, but somewhere in a part of my brain NOT being directed by the ghosts of Enya and Martha Stewart I realized that I was going a bit far...
dimanche, novembre 07, 2004
Self indulgence
Interesting days.
The silence of my flat drowns out the residual soundtrack of the week which lingers in my ears. Telephone rings, polite inquiries, alarm clocks, cacaphonic voices, laughter... It is so necessary to just sit here in the semi-darkness and the quiet, letting pent up everything drain away.
I have new artwork: a cast of breasts. My breasts. It was "dyke days" this week at school, and Nina and I, after teasing Nisha all week about her duty to the woman's studies department to attend, decided to go and plaster our breasts for posterity. Realistically, mine will probably never look so good again, and Nina-Brazillian to the core- wants to be able to remember at age 50 what hers looked like before plastic surgery took over! There were about 10 women, of which we were the only two not to have ex-girlfriends, but no questions were asked and maybe we were ambiguous enough to pass. The whole experience was quite fantastic. Because Nina and I were "doing" each other, there was no sexual vibe between us-but afterwards we both felt completely relaxed and mellow. The wine probably helped...
And then later last night, Nisha and Waleed finally caved in and told each other that they were hopelessly in love-something that most of us around them have known for months. Good to see Nish so happy. And Waleed was more relaxed than I have ever seen him...I cannot imagine how he has existed since the spring so deeply in love with her and not said anything. I would have exploded. It's so new right now that I don't even know what to think about it; I am excited for them and terrified at the same time. Neither of them are wont to dive headfirst into something that isn't serious, so this may be the beginning of something longterm.
I've been thinking about timing lately. How right now when I feel like I am marking time before moving away again, others around me are settling in or beginning something new. I find it difficult not to compare where I am, in my life, with where any other random person is. I think I need to value my life experiences and learnings a little more, but I just assume everyone around me has similar-or better-stuff going on. Because all I know is my life, it seems normal and unexciting, and I have no reliable way of figuring out how I am doing relative to the rest of humanity. ...Well Claire, does it really matter how you measure up?... ha ha ha-really, on a lifetime scale, of course not. But right now, while I am in flux, it creeps in. "Comparisons are odious." Yes, they are... and I need to work on exorcising some odious voices in my skull.
I think I need to work on being present. Which sounds lame and airyfairy in a lemongrass tea and deep breathing kind of way. But really what I mean is to concentrate on the place I am in right now and not to waste energy on past or future. Because, really, stuff will work itself out.
Blah blah blah... self indulgent crap.
except that I tend to forget about taking care of myself. So self indulgence can be excused. Once or twice.
The silence of my flat drowns out the residual soundtrack of the week which lingers in my ears. Telephone rings, polite inquiries, alarm clocks, cacaphonic voices, laughter... It is so necessary to just sit here in the semi-darkness and the quiet, letting pent up everything drain away.
I have new artwork: a cast of breasts. My breasts. It was "dyke days" this week at school, and Nina and I, after teasing Nisha all week about her duty to the woman's studies department to attend, decided to go and plaster our breasts for posterity. Realistically, mine will probably never look so good again, and Nina-Brazillian to the core- wants to be able to remember at age 50 what hers looked like before plastic surgery took over! There were about 10 women, of which we were the only two not to have ex-girlfriends, but no questions were asked and maybe we were ambiguous enough to pass. The whole experience was quite fantastic. Because Nina and I were "doing" each other, there was no sexual vibe between us-but afterwards we both felt completely relaxed and mellow. The wine probably helped...
And then later last night, Nisha and Waleed finally caved in and told each other that they were hopelessly in love-something that most of us around them have known for months. Good to see Nish so happy. And Waleed was more relaxed than I have ever seen him...I cannot imagine how he has existed since the spring so deeply in love with her and not said anything. I would have exploded. It's so new right now that I don't even know what to think about it; I am excited for them and terrified at the same time. Neither of them are wont to dive headfirst into something that isn't serious, so this may be the beginning of something longterm.
I've been thinking about timing lately. How right now when I feel like I am marking time before moving away again, others around me are settling in or beginning something new. I find it difficult not to compare where I am, in my life, with where any other random person is. I think I need to value my life experiences and learnings a little more, but I just assume everyone around me has similar-or better-stuff going on. Because all I know is my life, it seems normal and unexciting, and I have no reliable way of figuring out how I am doing relative to the rest of humanity. ...Well Claire, does it really matter how you measure up?... ha ha ha-really, on a lifetime scale, of course not. But right now, while I am in flux, it creeps in. "Comparisons are odious." Yes, they are... and I need to work on exorcising some odious voices in my skull.
I think I need to work on being present. Which sounds lame and airyfairy in a lemongrass tea and deep breathing kind of way. But really what I mean is to concentrate on the place I am in right now and not to waste energy on past or future. Because, really, stuff will work itself out.
Blah blah blah... self indulgent crap.
except that I tend to forget about taking care of myself. So self indulgence can be excused. Once or twice.
lundi, novembre 01, 2004
raining
Soothing: It has been raining on and off all day. I know this, not because I have been outside getting rained upon, but because the window has been open and I've been pounding out analysis of the Congo Crisis to the soundtrack of rain.
Touching: Jeff brought me "des petits gateaux" to feed my brain. Apparently vanishing from the human race for a few days can have benefits. Such beautiful little tarts, and a box with a bow. The hardened cynic in me wonders what he is up to, but the rest of me just ate the damn tarts and will ponder the deeper meaning later.
The weekend: mostly blah, but I did manage to catch up on some sleep. However, I am not sure how good an idea sleeping was... I can go for weeks on adrenaline and caffiene and 4 hours a night, but as soon as I relax and let my guard down I get sick. Right now is not the time to get sick. I am eating oranges by the pound and drinking so much water that I am sure I no longer walk: I float.
Touching: Jeff brought me "des petits gateaux" to feed my brain. Apparently vanishing from the human race for a few days can have benefits. Such beautiful little tarts, and a box with a bow. The hardened cynic in me wonders what he is up to, but the rest of me just ate the damn tarts and will ponder the deeper meaning later.
The weekend: mostly blah, but I did manage to catch up on some sleep. However, I am not sure how good an idea sleeping was... I can go for weeks on adrenaline and caffiene and 4 hours a night, but as soon as I relax and let my guard down I get sick. Right now is not the time to get sick. I am eating oranges by the pound and drinking so much water that I am sure I no longer walk: I float.
vendredi, octobre 29, 2004
breaking things
fucking curiosity... the death toll for cats is rising exponentially.
Having been grumpy for days, I find myself in a state of near apoplectic rage. Too bad my dishes are all pyrex, as I could do with hurling a few of them into the ally. And then going for a long long run... starting running so blindly angry that I end up sprinting a good 5 km and collapsing, lungs heaving, stomach churning-exhausted.
I feel like King Knut... raging against the inevitable. And, like the shore, there will be eventual calm once the rushing tides abate... I just don't know when that will happen. My patience is shot, (did I ever posess any to begin with?) and we all know that I do so well when life spirals out of my control...
[timothy to claire: "here's a phrase that describes you: 'I'm not a control freak... things just go better when you do it my way.'"]
This too shall pass. Thanks mum. I just don't enjoy the process. Always prefered the destination to the journey.
Rather than being in the shelter of a big top, sometimes it seems like this tightrope I am walking is really a power line and it's monsoon season.
Metaphors all over the place tonight... general lack of coherence.
Tempering the rage: Justine and I talking last night at "all hours," solving all the problems of the moment-specifically le francais... a lot of red wine should do the trick! And the satisfaction of nailing the Bach to the wall tonight.
Not quite running, but for now, it's all I've got.
Having been grumpy for days, I find myself in a state of near apoplectic rage. Too bad my dishes are all pyrex, as I could do with hurling a few of them into the ally. And then going for a long long run... starting running so blindly angry that I end up sprinting a good 5 km and collapsing, lungs heaving, stomach churning-exhausted.
I feel like King Knut... raging against the inevitable. And, like the shore, there will be eventual calm once the rushing tides abate... I just don't know when that will happen. My patience is shot, (did I ever posess any to begin with?) and we all know that I do so well when life spirals out of my control...
[timothy to claire: "here's a phrase that describes you: 'I'm not a control freak... things just go better when you do it my way.'"]
This too shall pass. Thanks mum. I just don't enjoy the process. Always prefered the destination to the journey.
Rather than being in the shelter of a big top, sometimes it seems like this tightrope I am walking is really a power line and it's monsoon season.
Metaphors all over the place tonight... general lack of coherence.
Tempering the rage: Justine and I talking last night at "all hours," solving all the problems of the moment-specifically le francais... a lot of red wine should do the trick! And the satisfaction of nailing the Bach to the wall tonight.
Not quite running, but for now, it's all I've got.
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