The first really warm day, and the mcgill fashion victimhood was in full swing. Restraint ladies. We do not have to wear all of the spring trends at once.
case in point: cowboyboots. flouncy skirt. gold sequin belt. teeshirt. slightly shrunken one button blazer in peach. pearls. big headphones around neck. dangly chandelier earrings. artfully messed up hair, probably in need of a wash.
Under no circumstances should these distinct items form a whole outfit.
There will be more warm days. I promise.
And the Uggs with the miniskirt and it's only 5 degrees out? Two things: legs that blindingly white should be dontated to science to be used as incubator lights for premature babies. AND it is five degrees out!!! That skirt is approximatly five inches long. Parts of you that should not be that cold are going to get that cold.
'sall I'm sayin... (and maya says too... only she is too polite to tell you!)
jeudi, mars 31, 2005
mardi, mars 29, 2005
one month later
you asked me what I have learned:
-to always buy good cheese.
-to listen to music that I don't understand. for longer than I normally would and then, in the middle of half hearing it, to appreciate the skill and devotion of those who play it.
-to relax and enjoy the embrace
-to look for the good in people. to accept the grace and help of my friends
-to be careful of those close to me. Not to take them for granted.
-that who we choose to love doesn't always make sense. And that "sense" in the cognitive aspect, isn't all it's cracked up to be.
-that dep wine always tastes the same
-that I can survive more than I thought I could
-to cut myself, and other people some slack. because, really, we are all just works in progress-half formed sculptures that are malleable and will never be glazed or fired
-how to count music in 12/8 time
-that the human capacity for fucking up is great. as is our capacity to forgive and eventually, to laugh and be kind.
-to always buy good cheese.
-to listen to music that I don't understand. for longer than I normally would and then, in the middle of half hearing it, to appreciate the skill and devotion of those who play it.
-to relax and enjoy the embrace
-to look for the good in people. to accept the grace and help of my friends
-to be careful of those close to me. Not to take them for granted.
-that who we choose to love doesn't always make sense. And that "sense" in the cognitive aspect, isn't all it's cracked up to be.
-that dep wine always tastes the same
-that I can survive more than I thought I could
-to cut myself, and other people some slack. because, really, we are all just works in progress-half formed sculptures that are malleable and will never be glazed or fired
-how to count music in 12/8 time
-that the human capacity for fucking up is great. as is our capacity to forgive and eventually, to laugh and be kind.
jeudi, mars 24, 2005
roller coaster days
Because I am aware of the horrible quicksand of self-pity/absorption, I am trying a new tactic in the face of academic hell and post-apocalyptic personal life.
Awareness. Of myself and my surroundings and the universe.
And remembrance. Of a few key paradigms.
(Ok. Stop laughing. Really, I know it all sounds horribly Californian and aroma-therapy and badly designed muumuu-ish. Let me explain. Then call all your friends and relatives and let them know that I can be found dressed in a caftan in the garden of a "wellness center"...)
I have six weeks left of serious university. Because of trying to finish in 3 years, I don't have the luxery of a soft last semester. I have six weeks to go. And more writing/reading/thinking in that time than the rest of my life combined. This isn't hard to achieve, I tend to spend most of my time in a vegetative state, tending solely to my immediate needs, leaving analytical brain activity to the overachievers.
Somehow the combination of extreme stress and lack of sleep and lots of coffee and not enough food have turned me into something resembling Janis Joplin coming off a six day binge, while concurrently nursing a brutal attack of PMS.
Add to that my self-chosen topics of study: Apartheid in South Africa, war crimes in Sierra Leone, landmines, the Rwandan Genocide.
I've been a little erratic lately. And by erratic, I mean bi-polar. The spikes and dips don't oscillate at all, they follow the same pattern of a heart monitor at warp speed.
And since I don't know how to stabilize, I am acting like a spectator on an out of control rollercoaster. A lot of the time I am scared and feel like barfing, but there are moments of calm when I can look at the scenery and wave to the people on the ground. Awareness, learning to keep myself company.
And, because Anne Lamott is my fairy godmother (although she doesn't know this yet)I am remembering these two things:
"Forgiveness means it finally becomes unimportant that you hit back. You're done. It doesn't necessarily mean that you have to have lunch with the person."
"I live by the truth that "No" is a complete sentence."
Awareness. Of myself and my surroundings and the universe.
And remembrance. Of a few key paradigms.
(Ok. Stop laughing. Really, I know it all sounds horribly Californian and aroma-therapy and badly designed muumuu-ish. Let me explain. Then call all your friends and relatives and let them know that I can be found dressed in a caftan in the garden of a "wellness center"...)
I have six weeks left of serious university. Because of trying to finish in 3 years, I don't have the luxery of a soft last semester. I have six weeks to go. And more writing/reading/thinking in that time than the rest of my life combined. This isn't hard to achieve, I tend to spend most of my time in a vegetative state, tending solely to my immediate needs, leaving analytical brain activity to the overachievers.
Somehow the combination of extreme stress and lack of sleep and lots of coffee and not enough food have turned me into something resembling Janis Joplin coming off a six day binge, while concurrently nursing a brutal attack of PMS.
Add to that my self-chosen topics of study: Apartheid in South Africa, war crimes in Sierra Leone, landmines, the Rwandan Genocide.
I've been a little erratic lately. And by erratic, I mean bi-polar. The spikes and dips don't oscillate at all, they follow the same pattern of a heart monitor at warp speed.
And since I don't know how to stabilize, I am acting like a spectator on an out of control rollercoaster. A lot of the time I am scared and feel like barfing, but there are moments of calm when I can look at the scenery and wave to the people on the ground. Awareness, learning to keep myself company.
And, because Anne Lamott is my fairy godmother (although she doesn't know this yet)I am remembering these two things:
"Forgiveness means it finally becomes unimportant that you hit back. You're done. It doesn't necessarily mean that you have to have lunch with the person."
"I live by the truth that "No" is a complete sentence."
lundi, mars 21, 2005
restituere
maybe I should rename this blog... something more along the lines of: "what you are reading is the sleep deprived ramblings of a caffiene addicted undergrad who desperately needs to simultaneously read/write pages and pages of political analysis and escape to a quiet place and rehabilitate."
rehabilitate: verb. to restore to normal life by training and therapy. from the latin restituere
Life, right now, is a little bit like being in the middle of a train wreak. only it's happening in slow motion. And I have no idea what point of the crash we are in: there is certainly carnage and blood everywhere and the twisted remnants of once recognizable structures, but there is no particular conclusion in sight. No approaching moment when the momentum is ground to a halt and there is profound silence-instead: a constantly increasing roaring that fills my eardrums.
I feel like one of the chilren in the photos from the Cold War, practicing nuclear bomb protocol by hiding under desks.
rehabilitate: verb. to restore to normal life by training and therapy. from the latin restituere
Life, right now, is a little bit like being in the middle of a train wreak. only it's happening in slow motion. And I have no idea what point of the crash we are in: there is certainly carnage and blood everywhere and the twisted remnants of once recognizable structures, but there is no particular conclusion in sight. No approaching moment when the momentum is ground to a halt and there is profound silence-instead: a constantly increasing roaring that fills my eardrums.
I feel like one of the chilren in the photos from the Cold War, practicing nuclear bomb protocol by hiding under desks.
dimanche, mars 20, 2005
until you understand
it's hard to stay it's hard to look into your eyes when I say I'm leaving
I can't be sure but I think I made up my mind, although your heart is bleeding
I wish the only one I had to be was me for you to see this clearly
I wish the only thing I had to do was hold my arms around you
so long so hard until you'd understand.
so long so hard until you'd understand.
I somehow feel that I'm pulling away your ground before I've even started
to realize my words have caught you by suprise makes it even harder
I wish there was a way to make you read the signs I'm bringing you this evening
I wish the only thing I had to do was to hold my arms around you
so long so hard until you'd understand.
so long so hard until you'd understand.
~kings of convenience
I can't be sure but I think I made up my mind, although your heart is bleeding
I wish the only one I had to be was me for you to see this clearly
I wish the only thing I had to do was hold my arms around you
so long so hard until you'd understand.
so long so hard until you'd understand.
I somehow feel that I'm pulling away your ground before I've even started
to realize my words have caught you by suprise makes it even harder
I wish there was a way to make you read the signs I'm bringing you this evening
I wish the only thing I had to do was to hold my arms around you
so long so hard until you'd understand.
so long so hard until you'd understand.
~kings of convenience
samedi, mars 19, 2005
Grace
It must be something in the air this year. Relationships are doomed.
My friend Zak and his girlfriend Emma are the latest in a long string of casualties. Somehow their relationship fell apart, and though they still love each other very much, she is now half a continent away and out of mobile phone range. He is still here, trying to pick up the pieces of a life that was completely wrapped up in another person.
He called me up last night to ask if I wanted to go to a "yalla party". Yalla parties are difficult to describe without giving a comprehensive description of the certain breed of wealthy middle eastern young men who comprise the Yalla demographic. But suffice to say that I was certainly the only natural blonde in the room, and I'm willing to bet my inheritance that I was the only one who didn't own a cell phone. My role was arm candy and to make sure that Zak didn't start to cry in the middle of the sparsely furnished living room. I'm not sure exactly why he called me up, maybe because I am well acquainted with the culture of the Yalla, and I can play the game rather well if I am in the mood, maybe because I have an endless supply of stupid jokes that are just offensive enough to raise eyebrows, maybe because there is something about me that enables men to cry on my shoulder.
We took off from the party early, and ended up sitting in Zak's apartment staring out at the Montreal skyline trying to make sense of the world.
He loves her so much, and though she loves him too she'd had enough and took off. Although it breaks my heart to see Zak so much in the gutter, I have huge respect for Emma for knowing her limits and taking care of herself first. It is a skill that I am learning slowly, and only recently put into practice for the first time. I am finding it lonely and scary and wonderfuly spacious. I wonder how often we let our boundaries of "this is ok" get incrementally shifted simply because we are worried about the fallout of a break up.
And though it is devastating and horrible and just...sad, there is a kind of poignant beauty in watching someone rebuild themself. It's a visible display of courage that is rare, and it takes such grace to admit that current location is rock bottom and you're going to need some help to crawl up the well. And grace to accept the help and love and support that is offered.
My friend Zak and his girlfriend Emma are the latest in a long string of casualties. Somehow their relationship fell apart, and though they still love each other very much, she is now half a continent away and out of mobile phone range. He is still here, trying to pick up the pieces of a life that was completely wrapped up in another person.
He called me up last night to ask if I wanted to go to a "yalla party". Yalla parties are difficult to describe without giving a comprehensive description of the certain breed of wealthy middle eastern young men who comprise the Yalla demographic. But suffice to say that I was certainly the only natural blonde in the room, and I'm willing to bet my inheritance that I was the only one who didn't own a cell phone. My role was arm candy and to make sure that Zak didn't start to cry in the middle of the sparsely furnished living room. I'm not sure exactly why he called me up, maybe because I am well acquainted with the culture of the Yalla, and I can play the game rather well if I am in the mood, maybe because I have an endless supply of stupid jokes that are just offensive enough to raise eyebrows, maybe because there is something about me that enables men to cry on my shoulder.
We took off from the party early, and ended up sitting in Zak's apartment staring out at the Montreal skyline trying to make sense of the world.
He loves her so much, and though she loves him too she'd had enough and took off. Although it breaks my heart to see Zak so much in the gutter, I have huge respect for Emma for knowing her limits and taking care of herself first. It is a skill that I am learning slowly, and only recently put into practice for the first time. I am finding it lonely and scary and wonderfuly spacious. I wonder how often we let our boundaries of "this is ok" get incrementally shifted simply because we are worried about the fallout of a break up.
And though it is devastating and horrible and just...sad, there is a kind of poignant beauty in watching someone rebuild themself. It's a visible display of courage that is rare, and it takes such grace to admit that current location is rock bottom and you're going to need some help to crawl up the well. And grace to accept the help and love and support that is offered.
jeudi, mars 17, 2005
kickin' it old skool
I rolled out of bed this morning at 945. The alarm had gone off at 815, and I managed to sleep through U2's greatist hits for an hour and a half before my body decided to regain consciousness. I have a class at 10. School is about 12 minutes- walking fast-away.
I am not going to whine about this, because the morning was brilliant.
I woke up happily suprised that I wasn't hungover, and given that Laura and I went through 2 bottles of wine last night, hangover absence is cause for both suprise and celebration. The 1 litre of water and an asprin before bed really does work. Thanks dad.
It's sunny today, and as I threw clothes on, brushed my teeth, printed a paper proposal that was due in my 10 am class, and drank yet more water, I quietly anticipated a sprint to school in blinding sunshine. Winter here (and it is still winter)is awful, but at least for me, sunshine makes a hell of a difference. Sunshine means I get to wear my cooler-than-thou sunglasses which allow me to stare at people without them thinking I have escaped from the psych ward.
Tearing down the sidewalk in my down vest and sunglasses I probably looked like some yuppie vancouverite in Whistler-all that was missing was my no-fat-double-latte-mocha-chino-thingy and my yoga mat.
No part of me cared. For I was in a different universe, one in which I had on my favourite sneakers for the first time in months and had the sweet songs of a mixed tape from Neasa blasting my eardrums.
Yes. I said mixed tape. No. We have not been transported to 1986 or the universe of High Fidelity.
I have been a fan of the mixed tape for as long as I can remember. Mixed tapes are a physical and audio reminder of specific points in time. They anchor me to moments and feelings I otherwise would have lost to the brain drain of time and information overload. (by brain drain I actually mean my brain liquifying and pouring out the back of my head... I swear this actually happens to graduating university students)
I made mixed tapes for friends and they made them for me. For about six months my friend John and I sent a tape back and forth each putting a song on and spending our allowance on postage. I have no idea what happened to it, probably in a box at his parent's house in Sherwood Park... The summer I worked in Sorrento, we made a "songs of the summer" tape for all the staff. It has everything from Black Sabbath to Ani Difranco to the Rolling Stones on it. Tapes were birthday gifts or given to boys that I loved. Two boys in particular broadened my musical horizons with the selections on their tapes, little packages that came in the mail and were instantly inserted into my walkman.
Yes. My walkman. It is yellow, a Sony sports model which means it is huge and clunky. I got it so that I could listen to tapes while I ran out my adolescant angst on the streets of my neighbourhood. I couldn't take being alone with my mind for the 40 minutes to an hour of running, so I distracted myself with Punk bands that I had never heard of, courtesy of Naomi: my much cooler friend who lived in Vancouver-a place with a real music scene.
I took tapes to Wales and ran with them along the clif path, and through Marcross, and away from farm dogs. And they were a tangible link to the West in Lebanon, when all I wanted to hear were some acoustic guitar chords and a mellow baritone.
This Christmas break, when people were selling their first born child for an ipod, I found and resurected my walkman and tapes. Since then I've been rocking it 1998 style around the city for as long as the batteries hold out.
So really, it's not the sunglasses that make me cooler than you. It's that, attached to the other end of my ear phones is an electronic device that is bigger than your cellphone, ipod, and blackberry combined. It's yellow. And I'm listening to the Watchmen belt out "Brighter Hell" or the Hip singing "Nautical Disaster"...
The bleary, slept in, walk to school has never been better.
I am not going to whine about this, because the morning was brilliant.
I woke up happily suprised that I wasn't hungover, and given that Laura and I went through 2 bottles of wine last night, hangover absence is cause for both suprise and celebration. The 1 litre of water and an asprin before bed really does work. Thanks dad.
It's sunny today, and as I threw clothes on, brushed my teeth, printed a paper proposal that was due in my 10 am class, and drank yet more water, I quietly anticipated a sprint to school in blinding sunshine. Winter here (and it is still winter)is awful, but at least for me, sunshine makes a hell of a difference. Sunshine means I get to wear my cooler-than-thou sunglasses which allow me to stare at people without them thinking I have escaped from the psych ward.
Tearing down the sidewalk in my down vest and sunglasses I probably looked like some yuppie vancouverite in Whistler-all that was missing was my no-fat-double-latte-mocha-chino-thingy and my yoga mat.
No part of me cared. For I was in a different universe, one in which I had on my favourite sneakers for the first time in months and had the sweet songs of a mixed tape from Neasa blasting my eardrums.
Yes. I said mixed tape. No. We have not been transported to 1986 or the universe of High Fidelity.
I have been a fan of the mixed tape for as long as I can remember. Mixed tapes are a physical and audio reminder of specific points in time. They anchor me to moments and feelings I otherwise would have lost to the brain drain of time and information overload. (by brain drain I actually mean my brain liquifying and pouring out the back of my head... I swear this actually happens to graduating university students)
I made mixed tapes for friends and they made them for me. For about six months my friend John and I sent a tape back and forth each putting a song on and spending our allowance on postage. I have no idea what happened to it, probably in a box at his parent's house in Sherwood Park... The summer I worked in Sorrento, we made a "songs of the summer" tape for all the staff. It has everything from Black Sabbath to Ani Difranco to the Rolling Stones on it. Tapes were birthday gifts or given to boys that I loved. Two boys in particular broadened my musical horizons with the selections on their tapes, little packages that came in the mail and were instantly inserted into my walkman.
Yes. My walkman. It is yellow, a Sony sports model which means it is huge and clunky. I got it so that I could listen to tapes while I ran out my adolescant angst on the streets of my neighbourhood. I couldn't take being alone with my mind for the 40 minutes to an hour of running, so I distracted myself with Punk bands that I had never heard of, courtesy of Naomi: my much cooler friend who lived in Vancouver-a place with a real music scene.
I took tapes to Wales and ran with them along the clif path, and through Marcross, and away from farm dogs. And they were a tangible link to the West in Lebanon, when all I wanted to hear were some acoustic guitar chords and a mellow baritone.
This Christmas break, when people were selling their first born child for an ipod, I found and resurected my walkman and tapes. Since then I've been rocking it 1998 style around the city for as long as the batteries hold out.
So really, it's not the sunglasses that make me cooler than you. It's that, attached to the other end of my ear phones is an electronic device that is bigger than your cellphone, ipod, and blackberry combined. It's yellow. And I'm listening to the Watchmen belt out "Brighter Hell" or the Hip singing "Nautical Disaster"...
The bleary, slept in, walk to school has never been better.
lundi, mars 14, 2005
i don't know what I can save you from
you called me after midnight, must have been three years since we last spoke
I slowly tried to bring back the image of your face from memories so old
I tried so hard to follow but didn't catch the half of what had gone wrong
said I didn't know what I can save you from, I don't know what I can save you from
I asked you to come over and within half an hour you were at my door
I'd never really known you but I realized that the one you were before
had changed into somebody for whom I wouldn't mind to put the kettle on
said I don't know what I can save you from, I don't know what I can save you from
I don't know what I can save you from, I don't know what I can save you from...
-kings of convenience
I slowly tried to bring back the image of your face from memories so old
I tried so hard to follow but didn't catch the half of what had gone wrong
said I didn't know what I can save you from, I don't know what I can save you from
I asked you to come over and within half an hour you were at my door
I'd never really known you but I realized that the one you were before
had changed into somebody for whom I wouldn't mind to put the kettle on
said I don't know what I can save you from, I don't know what I can save you from
I don't know what I can save you from, I don't know what I can save you from...
-kings of convenience
vendredi, mars 11, 2005
dreaming of sleeping
The mother of all choral concerts is tomorrow night- that would be the other thing that gives me nightmares. I think every so often my subconscious decides that a stunning slideshow of images from the Rwandan genocide:
"they ranged from burying people alive in graves they had dug themselves, to cutting and opening wombs of pregnant mothers. People were quartered, impaled or roasted to death. On many occasions, death was the consequence of ablation of organs, such as the heart, from alive people." -Mamdani (2001)
is a little too much to take, and puts me naked, 800 pounds overweight, on stage in Pollak Hall in front of all my ex-boyfriends and makes me sing the alto line from the Brahms fuge over and over and over.
I wonder what it says about me that I prefer the genocide dreams.
Flippancy has always been my weapon of choice when dealing with things so serious and tragic and arbitrary. I do deeply understand and care about the issues and the facts. It's just that if I am serious all the time I end up crying in my kitchen at odd times.
Like tonight, when the cbc ran the coverage of the Mountie's memorial services in Edmonton.
"they ranged from burying people alive in graves they had dug themselves, to cutting and opening wombs of pregnant mothers. People were quartered, impaled or roasted to death. On many occasions, death was the consequence of ablation of organs, such as the heart, from alive people." -Mamdani (2001)
is a little too much to take, and puts me naked, 800 pounds overweight, on stage in Pollak Hall in front of all my ex-boyfriends and makes me sing the alto line from the Brahms fuge over and over and over.
I wonder what it says about me that I prefer the genocide dreams.
Flippancy has always been my weapon of choice when dealing with things so serious and tragic and arbitrary. I do deeply understand and care about the issues and the facts. It's just that if I am serious all the time I end up crying in my kitchen at odd times.
Like tonight, when the cbc ran the coverage of the Mountie's memorial services in Edmonton.
mardi, mars 08, 2005
how to go insane; a step by step guide
1. enter university as a polisci/development major.
2. decide to finish above degree in 3 years rather than the 4 usually allocated.
3. put off highest level courses until final semester.
4. decided to write term papers/do projects on severely depressing subjects. (suggestions: sierra leone, apartheid, landmines, IDPs)
5. stop sleeping.
6. drink only coffee.
7. test the theory that nicotine really does have a calming effect.
8. volunteer to create powerpoint slides for a group presentation. (only do this if you have never worked with powerpoint before)
9. finish above slides 1/2 hour before presentation. do not save files to a CD. leave them on your laptop.
10. arrive at presentation exhausted, plug laptop into projector. watch as your laptop freezes.
11. reboot computer. curse loudly in front of your professor who is also your thesis advisor.
12. begin to sweat. heavily. reboot for third time. realize that only the curser is frozen, and that if you had thought to bring your mouse, you could fix your computer.
13. try to ignore the murmers from classmates who are waiting for the presentation to start.
14. run upstairs to the library to borrow a mouse.
15. run downstairs to classroom praying audibly.
16. restart computer w/ mouse plugged in. re-attach projector cable. start presentation an hour late.
17. return home. drink beer. read landmine books.
18. wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare in which you were trying to hook up a laptop to a landmine detector...
2. decide to finish above degree in 3 years rather than the 4 usually allocated.
3. put off highest level courses until final semester.
4. decided to write term papers/do projects on severely depressing subjects. (suggestions: sierra leone, apartheid, landmines, IDPs)
5. stop sleeping.
6. drink only coffee.
7. test the theory that nicotine really does have a calming effect.
8. volunteer to create powerpoint slides for a group presentation. (only do this if you have never worked with powerpoint before)
9. finish above slides 1/2 hour before presentation. do not save files to a CD. leave them on your laptop.
10. arrive at presentation exhausted, plug laptop into projector. watch as your laptop freezes.
11. reboot computer. curse loudly in front of your professor who is also your thesis advisor.
12. begin to sweat. heavily. reboot for third time. realize that only the curser is frozen, and that if you had thought to bring your mouse, you could fix your computer.
13. try to ignore the murmers from classmates who are waiting for the presentation to start.
14. run upstairs to the library to borrow a mouse.
15. run downstairs to classroom praying audibly.
16. restart computer w/ mouse plugged in. re-attach projector cable. start presentation an hour late.
17. return home. drink beer. read landmine books.
18. wake up in the middle of the night from a nightmare in which you were trying to hook up a laptop to a landmine detector...
jeudi, mars 03, 2005
the world is too much with me...
this is not a whine. Really. It's more of a lament.
I disagree with Neasa. It's not the bird flu that will kill us eventually, it is more along the lines of losing the thin thread of civilization that keeps us from behaving savagely. This conclusion is based on around 4 hours of research on (in no particular order) landmine victims, apartheid in South Africa, the civil war in Sierra Leone, the Lebanese civil war, and the plight of refugees and Internally Displaced People.
I've been staring at graphic images of man's inhumanity to man for so long that my eyeballs feel like they are about to bleed.
It is these times, in the middle of the night, when I should really be sleeping and not contemplating the state of the universe, that I am rolfed with waves of grief for things I have no part in and have no way of preventing or helping. The thing is, I haven't been sleeping well, so at this point I much prefer the horrors delivered to me via Google than the ones my subconscious can conjure up. At least then I know what I am battling.
I am losing my grip. But then, that's nothing new...
I disagree with Neasa. It's not the bird flu that will kill us eventually, it is more along the lines of losing the thin thread of civilization that keeps us from behaving savagely. This conclusion is based on around 4 hours of research on (in no particular order) landmine victims, apartheid in South Africa, the civil war in Sierra Leone, the Lebanese civil war, and the plight of refugees and Internally Displaced People.
I've been staring at graphic images of man's inhumanity to man for so long that my eyeballs feel like they are about to bleed.
It is these times, in the middle of the night, when I should really be sleeping and not contemplating the state of the universe, that I am rolfed with waves of grief for things I have no part in and have no way of preventing or helping. The thing is, I haven't been sleeping well, so at this point I much prefer the horrors delivered to me via Google than the ones my subconscious can conjure up. At least then I know what I am battling.
I am losing my grip. But then, that's nothing new...
dimanche, février 27, 2005
le escape
is going well, thank you for asking.
the past two days have been the best in recent memory. Currently neasa and I are compiling a photo essay, which may at some point grace these hallowed pages...
the two of us, actually two halves of one rather insane human being, have been running between shoe stores like there's no tomorrow. Every so often we stop to eat, or drink-like last night when, for my good behaviour, I was awarded with a pub crawl of harvard square which ended up late/early staring out at the city from a 24th floor window. this morning: a bleary but heartbreakingly lovely breakfast whereupon I made the startling discovery that plastic cheese equates with real cheese here. hmmm. Montreal wins for omlettes.
drive through MIT campus, running riot around downtown. A two hour walk back from the bus stop, which was wierd, because it should have taken 3 minutes: insert yet another shoe store, mexican food, buying terrible terrible celebrity gossip magazines, German licorace sold by an aging transvestite, a whirl through the fine arts building, two movie stores....
sated with all things non academic, we have collapsed and are doing little more than reaching for more licorace and turning the shiny pages of US weekly.
having a wonderful time.
(looking into therapy for shoe addictions... ahhhh fuck it. it's genetic!)
the past two days have been the best in recent memory. Currently neasa and I are compiling a photo essay, which may at some point grace these hallowed pages...
the two of us, actually two halves of one rather insane human being, have been running between shoe stores like there's no tomorrow. Every so often we stop to eat, or drink-like last night when, for my good behaviour, I was awarded with a pub crawl of harvard square which ended up late/early staring out at the city from a 24th floor window. this morning: a bleary but heartbreakingly lovely breakfast whereupon I made the startling discovery that plastic cheese equates with real cheese here. hmmm. Montreal wins for omlettes.
drive through MIT campus, running riot around downtown. A two hour walk back from the bus stop, which was wierd, because it should have taken 3 minutes: insert yet another shoe store, mexican food, buying terrible terrible celebrity gossip magazines, German licorace sold by an aging transvestite, a whirl through the fine arts building, two movie stores....
sated with all things non academic, we have collapsed and are doing little more than reaching for more licorace and turning the shiny pages of US weekly.
having a wonderful time.
(looking into therapy for shoe addictions... ahhhh fuck it. it's genetic!)
mercredi, février 23, 2005
"but if you wear spandex...
...don't you automatically fly?"
again, where I least expect it, grace comes in odd forms.
midnight conversations planning world domination by two superheros, Clout and Wiseness, had me laughing so hard my stomach aches now-a day later.
again, where I least expect it, grace comes in odd forms.
midnight conversations planning world domination by two superheros, Clout and Wiseness, had me laughing so hard my stomach aches now-a day later.
lundi, février 21, 2005
the ringer
details not necessary- been through the wringer this week.
Funny expression, (probably picked it up from my mum as I do most of my odd turns of phrase...case in point: kerfuffle.... or shambols...) It stems from what happened to clothes in the olden days when they used wringer washers. I am by no means well equipped to extrapolate on the details of wringer washers, but I have seen one and actually used it once or twice.
-Anglican summer camp, we used to threaten the kids with death by wringer washer if they didn't go to sleep fast so we could go make out with the boy counsellors-
The clothes would be washed sent through the wringer to get all the water out so they would dry faster. The wringers are two cylinders that sit one on top of the other lengthwise and roll in opposite directions. The clothes get fed through the small space between the two wringers and their rolling pushes them through and squeezes out all the moisture.
The clothes come out looking all limp and haggared. Fit only to be hung on a line in the breeze for an afternoon, slowly regaining their shape with each breath of wind.
Sometimes disasters occured and clothes got stuck in the wringer and tore at the seams. They would get hung up too, more carefully than the others, and would be mended when they were dry.
The wringers of exhaustion, stress, infidelity, insomnia and freak weather patterns have left me limp and ripped at the seams.
My breezes come in the form of pachebel's canon, hot water bottles and scottish accents, soup, and an escape to Boston.
It's taken a while to realize that there is no shame in escaping...
Funny expression, (probably picked it up from my mum as I do most of my odd turns of phrase...case in point: kerfuffle.... or shambols...) It stems from what happened to clothes in the olden days when they used wringer washers. I am by no means well equipped to extrapolate on the details of wringer washers, but I have seen one and actually used it once or twice.
-Anglican summer camp, we used to threaten the kids with death by wringer washer if they didn't go to sleep fast so we could go make out with the boy counsellors-
The clothes would be washed sent through the wringer to get all the water out so they would dry faster. The wringers are two cylinders that sit one on top of the other lengthwise and roll in opposite directions. The clothes get fed through the small space between the two wringers and their rolling pushes them through and squeezes out all the moisture.
The clothes come out looking all limp and haggared. Fit only to be hung on a line in the breeze for an afternoon, slowly regaining their shape with each breath of wind.
Sometimes disasters occured and clothes got stuck in the wringer and tore at the seams. They would get hung up too, more carefully than the others, and would be mended when they were dry.
The wringers of exhaustion, stress, infidelity, insomnia and freak weather patterns have left me limp and ripped at the seams.
My breezes come in the form of pachebel's canon, hot water bottles and scottish accents, soup, and an escape to Boston.
It's taken a while to realize that there is no shame in escaping...
dimanche, février 13, 2005
mercredi, février 09, 2005
mutant parcel from hell...
this is the conversation I just had with my mother over messenger. Verbatim. And, having reduced both me and Nina to hysterics, I felt the need to share it.
(best to read it w/ my mother's voice in your ears... if you don't know my mum, she has a Canadian accent and a very dry sense of humour, and tends to start laughing before the funny parts. somtimes she snorts when she laughs-but it's not her fault: family trait. I come from a long line of laugh-snorters.)
Joan says:
your b'day pressies got sent y'day.
Claire says:
hoooray
PRESSENTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Joan says:
remember that you left your pressie from Aunty Cindy? So we had one box with her present already wrapped and another one from us. In hindsight, the logical thing would have been to get a monster big box for both and fill it up with popcorn and send that, BUT in typical 1st born, single focus (your Dad) fashion we wrapped two parcels separately.
Sooooooooooooo.... There I am: 2 pkgs in front of the Post Office lady who says: What have we got here?
Me: Birfday Pressies
She: When does the one for Montreal have to get there?
Me: They're both for MOntreal
She: The same address?
Me: Yes
She: ?????????
Me: a brief explanation
She: so, they're both going to the same address
Me: Yep
She: It's going to cost you a lot to get them there by Sunday
......she figures it out, tells me and then has to wave smelling salts under my nose.......
She: but it would be less if it was only one parcel
I have visions of taking the parcels home to your Dad. This is not a good vision.....
Me: ummmmm
She: Is it ok if it is only one parcel?
Me: sure
She: OK
and she picks up the magic tape dispenser and proceeds to make 2 parcels into 1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I wanted to make a little sign and stick it on saying: Post Office Lady Did This!!
Claire says:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!
super
Joan says:
Honey: you’re laughing now; wait til you SEE it!!!
Soooooooooo while she is going ballistic with the tape dispensing I notice the Valentines and think –DAMMIT we didn't put your Valentine in…sooooooo the Valentine Mum picks out a not too sloppy one
Claire says:
oh god!
Joan says:
writes in it, licks and sticks the envelope, and writes your address on the front, and puts a stamp on except mail has gone up and I need a 1 cent stamp, which she is quite happy to sell me BUT…she wants to know
"And how much was the card?"
which is now in the licked and sticked envelope.....
hmmmmmm, says I
Back to the card rack.....
Is there another card?
Is the sky green?
Is there an "F" in way?
By this time, your parcel looks like something that would not get through any customs office anywhere and certainly ain't going to make it with anyone with a packing tape phobia
there is, miraculously, only me and the PO Lady (guess everyone else who needed postal issues could feel the vibes....) still at the counter.
Sooooooooooo I pull off about 3 cards, and hand them to her price side up
She: You want three more cards?
Me: Uh no, there isn't another one of the one that's already in the envelope so I thought you could choose your price
She now gives me the look I've been wanting to give her and STILL doesn't crack a smile.
(does she do things like amalgamate people's parcels to screw Canada Post everyday????)
Claire says:
hahahahahahahaha.
Joan says:
and then charges me for the cheapest card of the bunch laid out before her!!!
I pay up, say "thanks very much" and she said (straight faced) that you could keep any mail that got inadvertently caught under the tape!!!!! You'll see what I mean when the parcel arrives if some Canada Post fanatic hasn't slashed them apart!!! Make sure your paring knife is sharp - I think the weight went up about 500gms just tape alone.
Claire says:
this sounds like the mutant parcel from hell
Joan says:
hahahahahaha
make sure you have tongs and protective clothing
The PO Lady has been handling your mail from Dad since before Lebanon
so maybe she wondered who the Hell I was sending you parcels???
Claire says:
hahahahhaha
that is the best story ever
EVER
Joan says:
just hope it gets there "in one piece"
hahahahahaha
Claire says:
piece... being relative...right?
(best to read it w/ my mother's voice in your ears... if you don't know my mum, she has a Canadian accent and a very dry sense of humour, and tends to start laughing before the funny parts. somtimes she snorts when she laughs-but it's not her fault: family trait. I come from a long line of laugh-snorters.)
Joan says:
your b'day pressies got sent y'day.
Claire says:
hoooray
PRESSENTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Joan says:
remember that you left your pressie from Aunty Cindy? So we had one box with her present already wrapped and another one from us. In hindsight, the logical thing would have been to get a monster big box for both and fill it up with popcorn and send that, BUT in typical 1st born, single focus (your Dad) fashion we wrapped two parcels separately.
Sooooooooooooo.... There I am: 2 pkgs in front of the Post Office lady who says: What have we got here?
Me: Birfday Pressies
She: When does the one for Montreal have to get there?
Me: They're both for MOntreal
She: The same address?
Me: Yes
She: ?????????
Me: a brief explanation
She: so, they're both going to the same address
Me: Yep
She: It's going to cost you a lot to get them there by Sunday
......she figures it out, tells me and then has to wave smelling salts under my nose.......
She: but it would be less if it was only one parcel
I have visions of taking the parcels home to your Dad. This is not a good vision.....
Me: ummmmm
She: Is it ok if it is only one parcel?
Me: sure
She: OK
and she picks up the magic tape dispenser and proceeds to make 2 parcels into 1!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
I wanted to make a little sign and stick it on saying: Post Office Lady Did This!!
Claire says:
HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!!!!!!!!!!
super
Joan says:
Honey: you’re laughing now; wait til you SEE it!!!
Soooooooooo while she is going ballistic with the tape dispensing I notice the Valentines and think –DAMMIT we didn't put your Valentine in…sooooooo the Valentine Mum picks out a not too sloppy one
Claire says:
oh god!
Joan says:
writes in it, licks and sticks the envelope, and writes your address on the front, and puts a stamp on except mail has gone up and I need a 1 cent stamp, which she is quite happy to sell me BUT…she wants to know
"And how much was the card?"
which is now in the licked and sticked envelope.....
hmmmmmm, says I
Back to the card rack.....
Is there another card?
Is the sky green?
Is there an "F" in way?
By this time, your parcel looks like something that would not get through any customs office anywhere and certainly ain't going to make it with anyone with a packing tape phobia
there is, miraculously, only me and the PO Lady (guess everyone else who needed postal issues could feel the vibes....) still at the counter.
Sooooooooooo I pull off about 3 cards, and hand them to her price side up
She: You want three more cards?
Me: Uh no, there isn't another one of the one that's already in the envelope so I thought you could choose your price
She now gives me the look I've been wanting to give her and STILL doesn't crack a smile.
(does she do things like amalgamate people's parcels to screw Canada Post everyday????)
Claire says:
hahahahahahahaha.
Joan says:
and then charges me for the cheapest card of the bunch laid out before her!!!
I pay up, say "thanks very much" and she said (straight faced) that you could keep any mail that got inadvertently caught under the tape!!!!! You'll see what I mean when the parcel arrives if some Canada Post fanatic hasn't slashed them apart!!! Make sure your paring knife is sharp - I think the weight went up about 500gms just tape alone.
Claire says:
this sounds like the mutant parcel from hell
Joan says:
hahahahahaha
make sure you have tongs and protective clothing
The PO Lady has been handling your mail from Dad since before Lebanon
so maybe she wondered who the Hell I was sending you parcels???
Claire says:
hahahahhaha
that is the best story ever
EVER
Joan says:
just hope it gets there "in one piece"
hahahahahaha
Claire says:
piece... being relative...right?
mardi, février 08, 2005
weather
so I bought some skates yesterday.
and now it is going to be hovering around 3C for the rest of the week.
one day I will appreciate this irony.
and now it is going to be hovering around 3C for the rest of the week.
one day I will appreciate this irony.
dimanche, février 06, 2005
saturday
It's the first time I have been by myself, alone, in almost two days. Yesterday was a brilliant, wonderful day filled with brilliant wonderful people, but sleep was a relief in that I could finally shut down and not have to interact. Today I bounced from shopping w/ Ninn for bass player clothes, to choir rehearsal, and finally to the theatre where I am the front of house manager. I am in the otherwise unoccupied office right now, trying out the new internet connection. Wireless, my dears, is the greatist thing since the gold sequined shoes I caved into yesterday.
Yesterday Nina came over for tea which turned into dinner, and, while manger-ing on baguette and cheese and pate we talked for hours. About boys. Because, really... what else is there to talk about? Obviously the various males in our lives are the center around which we orbit. Of course it is necessary to spend hours discussing the inner workings of their brains. We have to learn to put ourselves in their positions, understand things from their perspectives: then it will all make sense. Really. How else could it work?
Or not. Forgive the cyanide laced sarcasm of the previous paragraph, it's been a rough few days on the XY chromosonal front. My own particular relationship is not the one at issue (things there are lovely, he skates like a deamon, makes me laugh, and is learning not to take my insanity personally) but some of my closest friends seem to be constantly evaluating and re-evaluating the status of their relationships. It is tiring to listen to, and must be more tiring to keep up on a daily basis. I wonder where the urge to have things be perfect comes from? And the lack of patience for things to work themselves out in a timely fashion?
Maybe it's our ages: early 20's are not known to be humanity's most rational years. Maybe it is the immediacy of communication: it's easier to react without thought when we can pick up the phone and leave angry voice mails or fire off stinging emails. Maybe we so desperately want to know that things will turn out alright that we are willing to lose sight of the current to focus on a distant fuzzy version of a future.
Mostly, I think we all need a good dose of perspective.
Yesterday Nina came over for tea which turned into dinner, and, while manger-ing on baguette and cheese and pate we talked for hours. About boys. Because, really... what else is there to talk about? Obviously the various males in our lives are the center around which we orbit. Of course it is necessary to spend hours discussing the inner workings of their brains. We have to learn to put ourselves in their positions, understand things from their perspectives: then it will all make sense. Really. How else could it work?
Or not. Forgive the cyanide laced sarcasm of the previous paragraph, it's been a rough few days on the XY chromosonal front. My own particular relationship is not the one at issue (things there are lovely, he skates like a deamon, makes me laugh, and is learning not to take my insanity personally) but some of my closest friends seem to be constantly evaluating and re-evaluating the status of their relationships. It is tiring to listen to, and must be more tiring to keep up on a daily basis. I wonder where the urge to have things be perfect comes from? And the lack of patience for things to work themselves out in a timely fashion?
Maybe it's our ages: early 20's are not known to be humanity's most rational years. Maybe it is the immediacy of communication: it's easier to react without thought when we can pick up the phone and leave angry voice mails or fire off stinging emails. Maybe we so desperately want to know that things will turn out alright that we are willing to lose sight of the current to focus on a distant fuzzy version of a future.
Mostly, I think we all need a good dose of perspective.
mercredi, février 02, 2005
protocol
walking three abreast on a sidewalk, already narrowed by snow banks, is a complete violation of basic sidewalk manners and protocol.
Don't do it.
Also: when walking with another person, the correct way to deal with an oncoming pedestrian is to move into single file to allow for ample passing room. Under no circumstances should one remain beside one's walking partner rudely forcing the oncoming party into the aforementioned snowbanks.
It's uncool. Really.
I will walk all over you.
Don't do it.
Also: when walking with another person, the correct way to deal with an oncoming pedestrian is to move into single file to allow for ample passing room. Under no circumstances should one remain beside one's walking partner rudely forcing the oncoming party into the aforementioned snowbanks.
It's uncool. Really.
I will walk all over you.
lundi, janvier 31, 2005
epic sunday
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.
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.
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