The Epic Journey

Our flight was supposed to depart from Trudeau at around 5:20 PM yesterday.  Just before we left for the airport, we discovered that the flight had been delayed 1 hour...  But the arrival time wasn't so different, and we were sure we'd make our connection.

The weather:  Freezing rain and drizzle, with some snowflakes tossed in for good measure.  The most hated, despised weather conditions for air travel.  After the cab ride from hell, we arrived at Trudeau in time to discover that a) our suitcase was almost 20 lbs. over the weight limit and b) we weren't going to make our connection and we had no option but to stay in NYC.  We couldn't have a single bag over 50 lbs. (but we could have two or three or ten that weighed less!).  If a single bag weighed more than 50, we'd pay the $25 checked bag fee PLUS $90.

First, we sat there on the floor in the airport and did some weight redistribution.  Bras and underwear were revealed to the general public and tons of heavy presents went into the carry-on.  Then, we decided we'd fly to NYC, just in case it was possible to make the flight, and then see what our options were from there.  The airport wasn't so busy, and it was smooth sailing through customs (even though the American customs agent we got made some snide comment about how "marriage stands for crap in Canada" or somesuch idiocy that I wanted to slap him for) and we sat down at our gate to discover that the agent there had been paging us, sure that we'd miss our connection.  We had very few options, since almost all flights out of NYC were booked already.  We looked at other carriers, thought about being shunted to Atlanta and then home, discussed arriving in nearby cities and then driving home.

The flight crew was having a discussion behind the agent's counter and as soon as I heard the copilot's voice, I knew he was from the south.  We chatted and he said that he thought that Caspian and I would be able to make our flight if we left at our new delayed time.  They really gave us hope, and I winked and told the pilot to hit the gas.  The agent gave us the two seats in the first row of the plane to make it easier for us to run to the connection.

We boarded on time, but were delayed.  And delayed.  And delayed.  We waited in long lines of planes to get de-iced.  Other more important flights got shunted ahead of us in the departure line.  Our runway got copped for some other official use.  Soon, we were 2 hours later than our original departure time, and we still hadn't taken off.  We were doomed.

The flight was long and dark and boring...  And uneventful, until the descent.  The stewardess, who was THE most made up person I have ever seen off the competition floor, decided to glop sickly sweet perfume all over her person, stinking up the whole plane.  She had spent the entire flight flipping through a stack of Ogilvy, Estee-Lauder and Mac make up and beauty product magazines.  I turned to make a caustic remark about her choice in odors to Caspian, and he looked at me, pale-faced, and whispered, "Get a bag.  Hurry."

I motioned at the stewardess, who was in the jump seat; we were almost wheels down, and the air was very rough.  I knew we had but moments until disaster.  I said, "My husband is motion sick!"  She responded, "What?!"  Me:  "My husband is feeling motion sick, please get a bag!"  Her:  "What?!  He's motion sick?"  Me:  "Yes!  Get a bag!"  Her:  "What!  Does he need a bag?!"  Me:  "GIVE ME A BAG NOW."

Fortunately, Caspian mastered himself as soon as we broke through the cloud deck and he could see the ground again.  The danger was over.  I have never felt a moment of motion sickness in my life, and I can't really understand how it feels or how it works, but I had the bag ready and waiting!

He was fine after that, and we disembarked to confront a teeming, smelly airport full of people who had missed their connections; we had missed ours by over an hour.  We waited in line for a ticketing agent, with whom we discussed our options.  We talked for 40 minutes, discarding Atlanta (Caspian wasn't keen on extra flights after that rough landing) .  We chose a 6 AM flight out of LaGuardia, a 30-minute drive from JFK.  I made a couple of scenes and acted kind of bitchy, but we got a discounted rate at the Lexington Marco ($170/night!), four meal vouchers and a taxi voucher.  All we had to do was call the cab and pick up our checked bag.

So we waited at the baggage claim.  And waited.  until 11:30 PM, we waited.  The baggage support told us that they had called our bag back from being shipped out without us, even though the airport knew we'd decided to switch airports, and that it would be delivered.  We waited and then asked again...  And the agent told us that the bag had mistakenly been shipped to another terminal.  We walked through the heavy NYC rain with our carry-on bags, bedraggled and famished and just completely exhausted, to the next terminal over.  Our bag was there, so we called the cab, who said he'd call us in 10 minutes.  10 minutes came and went.  20.  Caspian called again, and the cab company said, "We've sent like 4 cars, didn't you see them?!" to which my husband replied, "You'd said you'd call us in 10 minutes to let us know."

We ran outside, where there were no cabs.  We waited.  Tempers ran high, rain fell, obnoxious noises were piped from hidden speakers to scare away the pigeons and jar our souls from our bodies.  The cab arrived, and we rode to the other side of town, unhampered by daylight traffic.  One thing went right, at least!

The auto-tuned, overpolished wood smoke tones of Josh Groban serenaded us about "the little Jesus boy" as we stood in the dim, marble lobby of this bizarre hotel situated at the edge of Queens and Chinatown.  The hotel manager couldn't find the reservation made by our ticketing agent, but through the use of our Jedi mind tricks, we were able to secure a room.  Our credit card worked, thank all the gods and goddesses.  We trooped up to the 4th floor and unlocked the door, expecting to find some old couple already bedded down for the night, or a family of 6 wrestling screaming kids...  But it was silent.  And gigantic!  Bigger than our apartment.  There was a long foyer, a full kitchen, a living room with plasma screen, a bedroom with dressing nook, clothes press and divan.  A lawyer's desk filled one corner of the living room.  A large safe hulked in the closet that stood ajar beside a snowy king-sized bed and 2nd plasma.  And the bathroom!  Beige marble shot through with black and gold, bigger than our bedroom at home; big enough to generate quite an echo.  Original art.  Inset jacuzzi with attached shower head and a separate stall shower.  I immediately threw off my clothes and stood in the shower forever even though it was the middle of the night, with the water at its hottest setting.

We hadn't eaten all day.  The alarm was set for 3:30 AM; it was 12:45.  $170 for 2.5 hours of sleep in a palace.  Why the hell not?

The alarm went off like a nuclear meltdown klaxon.  We rolled out of bed, made sure our luggage weight distribution ratio was acceptable and headed downstairs; the same manager was on duty.  It felt surreal, like the night was endless as well as endlessly repeating.  The ATM had no paper; we had no American money.  The shuttle wouldn't start until 5 AM.  How would we call a cab?  Somehow, the manager arranged a credit card payment for the cab, and we were off.

LaGuardia was insanity, even at 4:15 AM.  Our electronic check-in failed.  We went to the counter and checked our bags, then waited in the long security line.  WARNING!  WARNING!  We had liquids, in the form of a large bottle of Glenlivet Single Malt we'd purchased at the duty free shop in Trudeau.  We couldn't take it; we'd have to check it.  We protested that we'd taken it on our last flight, in the duty free bag.  They protested that it was a domestic airport and had no duty free shops.  We emptied Caspian's backpack, put the scotch in that and pillowed it with a pile of pajamas, and put the emptied contents into the plastic duty free bag.  We were forced to check the backpack; Caspian went back to wait in line at the ticket counter to do it, while I waited for him behind security...  But our credit card failed; we had probably maxed it.  The airline was so upset at all of the problems they'd caused for us (switching airports and trying to add extra legs to our flights) that they let us check it for free.  Whew.  We hadn't eaten since noon the day before.

No trouble after that!  Smooth flight with no motion sickness, a beautiful dawn at 30,000 feet with a crescent moon.

Caspian's parents picked us up, fed us full of holiday treats and farm fresh eggs, and then we went to bed for several hours.  Currently, I sit with Caspian's brother in the bonus room, watching him play Skyward Sword and chatting with my sister Natty on gchat.  Warm rain drums on the skylights.  We will likely go out for Mexican for supper.

Chicken Stew with American Dumplings

Stew:

Chicken stock (enough for a medium-sized stew)
1 whole chicken breast (two breasts with back and skin still on)
New or creamer potatoes
Carrots
Mushrooms
Rotini or egg noodles (or any other noodle you've got)
1/2 of a large onion or 1 small or medium onion (use your common sense and affinity for onions)
2 cloves garlic, minced
1 t olive oil
Salt, pepper and rosemary

Dumplings (makes 4 big ones):

1 c all-purpose flour
1/4 t salt
2 t (yes, 2!!!) baking powder
1 T or so of chopped parsley
1-2 T margarine or butter
1/2 or 3/4 c milk, as needed

Preheat oven to 380 or 400 F.  Heat up skillet to medium-high.  Add a bit of oil and some sea salt (and any other of your favorite poultry herbs) to the pan.  Place chicken skin-side down and brown briefly; drain fat.  Put browned chicken in a baking dish skin-side up and roast in the oven for around 40 minutes.

While that's roasting, put your stock in a stock pot and heat up to boiling.  While you're waiting for your stock to boil, chop up your onion and sautee in a little bit of oil with garlic until translucent (no burning, so watch and stir!).  Add to the stock pot.  Slice mushrooms, potatoes and carrots and add to the pot, too.  Maybe you've got a couple of other veggies on hand; toss 'em in.  Boil for a few minutes, and then turn the temperature down to simmer.

When your chicken is baked, remove from the oven.  It should be very juicy and tender.  I just slice and pull off pieces with a carving knife and my (clean!) fingers when the chicken is cool enough to touch, until I have removed all the meat.  Meat goes in the pot.  Add your salt, pepper and not too much rosemary (just a pinch or two, maybe).  Simmer until veggies are soft.

At this point, I might add some corn starch + cold water to thicken, but it's not really needed, since flour is going into the mix later.

Once the veggies are soft and you have a nice, fragrant soup, mix the dry dumpling ingredients together in a mixing bowl.  Cut the butter in until you have a powder with a crumbly texture.  Add the milk and stir together until you have a very cohesive, firm dough.  Make into big lumps - not spheres, but sort of cylindrical irregular ones (spheres may not puff up all the way through, if they are big).  Bring your chicken soup back to boiling.

When the soup is boiling, put your noodles in, no more than a cup or less.  Pop your dumplings in, cover tightly, and reduce the heat to med-low, cooking for 15 minutes.

When you open your pot after 15 minutes, you should see four gigantic, puffy, herb-filled dumplings just waiting to be devoured (they puff up to maybe 4x their original size, and should be foamy all the way through)!  The broth should have thickened up nicely, and the noodles should be cooked and plump.  Eat with a friend or a lover, preferably with a glass of expensive white wine for some contrast to this homestyle, all-in-one dish.

Er, what?

I had a strange moment today.  One of my prime blogging principles is to try not to talk about work, and never in depth, so I'm going to keep it vague, but I'm sufficiently confuzzled that I have to mention it.

One of my clients has an androgynous name and I always, from the get-go, assumed that it was a young woman.  I really enjoy working with this client; she's funny, interesting and intelligent.  I never gave her name a second thought and got on with business.

Recently, I took a closer look at her client profile and realized that she was, in fact, a he.   A young man.  I...  Just didn't know.  I couldn't tell.  I heard her - HIS - voice, and he could be anyone, male or female, between the ages of 25 and 34, really.  For some reason, I instinctively decided that he was female.

Now I'm desperately riffling through all the conversations I've ever had with him and hoping beyond hoping that they were always professionally-oriented; and I think they were!  English is pretty egalitarian and I don't think I singled him out as being a female.  When two people are addressing each other and talking about their own business ideas and experiences, it's sometimes hard to determine age/sex, and since I rarely move into personal territory without the client first initiating that tangent...

It's just amazing that he never mentioned anything, ever, that indicated that he wasn't female.  Never mentioned a significant other of any gender or sex, never said anything that lead me to wonder if I was talking to a male or a female.  We talked about styles of professional dress, hobbies, all sorts of things - and I never suspected!  I wonder if this is actually a good thing.  I think it is.

Oh...

And that thing I said about dance?  Well.  Let's just say that our new foxtrot choreography is pretty classy, with a run (that Felix can't seem to ever end), some interestingly-placed fallaway reverse slip pivots and a contra check that Felix hams up with a blithe, aristocratic grin while attempting to bend me in half.  Men shouldn't be able to to splits.

Makin' Healthy Choices (Maybe)

I'm going to include here a random quick analysis of a usual food day in the life of Shinseiko.  I haven't really thought about it in awhile.  Sure, if I go out to eat (happens once a month!) I might eat more (or maybe less, since eating out usually means I'm not hungry enough for 3 meals in a day).  Sometimes I'm in the mood to eat a whole bag of wintergreen Lifesavers if the inclination strikes, and I don't hold back (but in that case, I'm not hungry enough for more than 2 meals in a day).  I'm also influenced by my husband Caspian, who has the smallest appetite of any dude I've ever met (except on kung fu days - he eats like a horse).

• Breakfast: 200 - 300 kcal (cereal with skim or two toasts with light jam)
• Lunch:  300 - 400 kcal (anything from leftovers to a bowl of cereal to a couple of eggs)
• Dinner:  300 - 400 kcal (usually something relatively elaborate that I made from scratch, incorporating a lean meat like chicken or fish - I like to cook!)
• Random snacks thrown in (glass of skim after a workout, a cookie or two, etc.), a customary evening glass of wine and coffee with plenty of cream:  300 - 500 kcal

1200 calories sometimes, 1600 max, probably.  And I eat as the whim takes me, trying vaguely to make healthy choices (never ever soda under any circumstances, almost never fried food or beef, a couple tall glasses of water with lime throughout the day), but exercising very little willpower.  It's actually probably a bit unhealthy, especially given I run for an hour every day and burn probably a third of those calories off (maybe even half, some days!).  Not to mention any dancing I might do (one dance practice is 1.5 - 2 hours and burns at least 700 calories).

And yet, I am still roundy-ish at 5' 3" and around 107 lbs.  Small-boned and curvy with a narrow waist and hips, muscular thighs, broad shoulders (for my frame) and big boobs...  I can't be called skinny or willowy; I have the completely wrong body type.  More like small, feminine and compact.  And I'm probably not skinnier because I don't really eat a whole lot, and I hate forcing myself to eat another bite when I'm not hungry, a spillover from my super-picky childhood, I'm guessing.

Maybe I should woman-up and actually start making food choices.  Like not eating a bagel and cream cheese or a bowl of cereal for lunch if there are hard boiled eggs in the fridge and a pile of fruits in the fruit bowl.  Adding in more protein, especially in the evening.  Substituting protein or nutritive calories for the sugars that make me so not hungry for real food afterward.  I'm just usually lazy and thinking of something else, and I just want to grab whatever's on hand to fill the tummy before going back to whatever pursuit has me in its grasp.  Hunger is not particularly associated with negative emotions in my mind, and sometimes I will feel hunger pangs for a couple hours before finally making the decision to eat... BAD BAD BAD for my metabolism.

Perhaps if I replace some carbohydrate cals with protein cals and force down a few more well-thought-out snacks in there, I'd be able to counteract my curvily-inclined genetics?  Bah, Caspian would kill me.  He thinks I shouldn't have such an antagonistic relationship with my natural body type.

Also, I have been ultra, super-tired these past few months.  No idea why.  I'm inclined to sleep through my lunch break and fall asleep after work in the evenings, and it's totally destroying my feelings of productivity.  In fact, being so damn sleepy stresses me the heck out.  A bright idea occurred to me ---  It's gotta be vitamin D deficiency.  So, I took 1000 units this morning with breakfast, but with no change in energy level, really.  I guess I have to keep it up for a month or so?

Dreamy Dream Dreams, YAH!

I had an incredibly vivid dream this morning from 6:00 - 6:21 AM in which one of my exes critiqued my dancing at a comp and I flew completely off the handle and shouted at him to "shut the fuck up."  He laughed, so I went after him with my claws in the middle of a crowded room and he held my hands away from his body...  So I jump-kicked and kneed him in the chin.  I felt all his teeth crunch.  Creepy.  Significance?  Good question.

I was musing the other day that I am often completely myself in dreams.  I usually act exactly as I would lacking the usual reservations, social pressures or manners.  In dreams, I'm hilarious and violent, never afraid to say weird things and kick some ass as needed.  I even sob unrestrainedly, hide under tables and shout for help as often as I want, as required.  It's a relief sometimes, and even though my dreams are almost always vivid and often disturbing, I'm glad I have the opportunity to operate within sphere without normal rules.

Strong Enough?

It's been kind of awhile since I last wrote a real post.  I've been having an...  Interesting three weeks.  Has it really been three weeks?

First, I must confess that Skyward Sword has become an evening pastime more fun than anything else, for now.  I've played almost 30 hours of it and Caspian has been my cheerleader through temple and desert, forests and floating sky islands and boss fights that make me stand up and scream obscenities.  Wait.  I always stand up and scream obscenities during boss fights.  And when Link walks off cliffs, which seems to happen a lot with me...?

I have also been on a kind of spiritual journey.  Not sitting and asking questions or aimlessly wondering and wandering and moping like usual, but really focusing and exploring a lot of different ideas.  Focusing on the things I know I believe.  Focusing on making real changes in the way I view myself and life and happiness, and what actually matters to me, and...   How to make these changes, beginning with my own perceptions.

I have also come to the conclusion that Facebook, while sometimes fun, occasionally useful, always distracting and mostly arbitrary, is extremely harmful to society.  I really think so.  Why?

1) It's an extreme time-waster and detracts from our ever-dwindling abilities to be mindful rather than multitask.  The more books and articles I read about productiveness and time management, the more I want to move away from tabbed browsing and social media.  Not only do we cease to enjoy and focus on each task as it comes, but our minds become like little sparrows, flitting around from twig to twig, bush to bush, maybe even permanently unable to explore anything in depth.

2) We use social media to construct our own alternate realities.  It's not even real.  It's not even close to a real reflection of face-to-face interaction, or true experiences of the lives of others.  We construct our own profiles based on our notions of the perceptions of others, choosing to highlight and omit at will.

3)  Tied with point 2, we compare our real lives to the fictional lives of the Facebook Others.  They aren't even real people.  And comparison with unreality usually makes us unhappy, because there is no comparison.  Current advertising and media for women springs to mind to help illustrate this point.  In this case, reality and advertising become increasingly divergent as time passes.  How can any of us live up to feminine ideals, when the images we are supposed to emulate are the equivalents of cartoons or computer-generated characters?  Likewise, how can we expect to compare our true selves to the sketchy online facades of others?

4) Communication is becoming flatter.

If I were truly courageous, truly focused on the important things, I think I would delete my profile, reject society's little addictions and tend my true friends with care and mindfulness.  I'm not strong enough yet to do that.

I've also been working on my book, rewriting a couple chapters and getting back up to 50k words.  I estimate 6 chapters to go before I'm done.  Manasvi read what I have so far during her flight back home to northern Europe, and tickled me to death when she told me that she'd enjoyed it!  She had some great insights, too.

Lots and lots, hours of meditation and visualization exercises over these last few weeks.  I feel calm and serene for days after each session, until slowly my negative habits insinuate themselves again into my thoughts and actions and I have to sit down again to reflect and orient myself.

Lastly...  I am completely fed up with dance.  Completely.  We had a couple of good practices last week, before which I had to meditate to focus myself in order to not be completely negative about them.  Our coaches want us to compete, but I want to learn.  I want to learn new figures every week and not continue to use the same old choreo as the framework for increasingly advanced technique.  I mention this, and they say things like, "If you don't enjoy what you're dancing now, you're not going to enjoy any of the other figures."  That's not the point at all.  I want more diversity.  I'm just tired of our choreography, tired of the same old arguments and mistakes.

I don't even have the time or the money to compete.  I really don't!  Maybe after I finish my French degree, Caspian is in medical school and I have my dream job, I could consider getting serious about it.  Where will I find time to dance with 55 - 60 hour weeks of work and class?  Where will I find the money for lessons with tuition payments due every 2 months?

Next spring, I'm really going to grow that garden I've always wanted.  I'm going to take out all the shit in the backyard (old statues, patio furniture, weeds, leftover remodeling materials, etc.) and create a haven.  Find the earth again, because I've lost it.  I used to take it for granted, but now I live in the middle of a big city, and likely will for some time.  Years.

So Irreverent.

Me:  Whenever ALL THE PEOPLE IN THE UNIVERSE post stuff on Facebook about their babies or their pregnancies or whatever, I just feel so sad and pointless and like something inside me is dying.  I think it's because I need recognition for my accomplishments, and I haven't accomplished anything in awhile.

Caspian:  Have you pooped?  Because it's an important biological function, and arguably more difficult than making a baby!  We can post on Facebook about how excited we are and about how we're going to throw a big poop shower and eeeeeveryone is invited!  Yaaaaay!  No.  Let's just practice making babies.  Practice makes perfect.

Blug.

If I don't see the forest and the starry sky and the open land with clouds to the horizon soon, I think I'll shrivel up and forget myself.

Musings on Religion and Spirituality

I sort of wistfully wish I resonated more strongly with Christianity so that I'd get into the Christmas season with the oomph of some of my family and friends, just because it looks so fun.  Fun is important.  I was talking to Caspian about it last night.  I really, really like the representation and symbolism of old religion beliefs and rituals and their emphasis on peace, thoughtfulness, science and deep respect for natural cycles both small and large - microcosms that we can relate to and use as similes for the macrocosm.  Its egalitarianism is also truly beautiful and ultimately lacking in Christianity (and most other religions).

Goodnight, Goodnight

I say I'm calm and collected now, but I had a sad, sad moment last night, just before bed.

I was standing in front of my bookcase, trying to decide on the next book to read, when I had this horrible feeling of disorientation.  I really, really, really missed my grandparents who are dead.  Grandpa on one side, grandma on the other.

The Beatles' song Goodnight popped into my mind for the first time in decades, and for a completely different reason than before.  This song used to make me mad when I was a little kid, because my dad would sing it to me to remind me that my long day of furious playing was at an end, and now it was time to rest.  But last night, it came as a sort of tribute to the night sky and to the stars that used to be fixed there that have since gone out.

It's not like I saw my grandparents often; only twice a year at the very most, usually once, sometimes not at all in certain years.  But I miss the certainty that they exist, going about their days, being there, being fixtures or compass points in my mind.  No matter how lost I got, how confused I was, I knew that these two people, two old, old and different people who had experienced many things, were breathing and loving me.  They were the roots of so many dear memories.

It's almost like the stars in the sky have faded or gone out, and now I have to rely upon my memory to guide me.  Have I stopped making experiences that I will look back on with such extreme sentimentality?  I guess I'm an adult now at almost 30 and I need to woman-up and mark my own compass points, or accept existing in this flux.

I laid on the bed and cried and Caspian made jokes, which is really the best way to deal with me in that state.  Later, lying next to him, I asked him if he ever felt like the stars had gone out and he had no way to navigate, and he immediately understood the context I meant.  He said no.

Calm and Collected

Am happy.  No particular reason why.  It might have something to do with the fact that I made the decision to dance for myself, not for anybody else.  Competitions may be in the future, but they're not the main reason why I dance.  I feel much, much better about things now and I find it much easier to express myself.  Felix was so delighted at our last practice session that he almost cried.  Ha!

I also realized with derisive mirth that my fleeting desire to have children pretty much stems from my jealousy of all of the vast quantities of unsolicited attention and support new mothers get from everybody else for no other reason than that they've just produced a new human being...  Not a good reason for kids.  I have some serious maturing to do before ever making that decision.  ;)

Just because it's just the two of us doesn't mean we don't need support and attention.

I feel calm and collected and simple and joyful.  My parents, my sister and Caspian's parents collaborated to pay for our yuletide flights home, which means a lot of social politicking, but also a lot of fun.  I wish our parents lived closer than 40 minutes apart, driving, because we have to constantly travel between them during holidays!

Luckily, I also happen to have three -count them, three! - days off next week, which I will spend writing, writing, writing!  I can't wait.  Blessed days of wintry weather and coffee and stories.

Thoughts for a Tuesday

My life will be an expression of me, not you, and I won't envision chains just to strain against them.  I will absorb information, and then I will be true to myself.

As much as it sort of shames me and doesn't to say it, I'm not a natural humanitarian.  I truly, honestly love animals more than people.  One of the highlights of my life was leaving a quiet, air-conditioned government office where I worked 10 hours a day, five days per week working to salvage taxpayers' money for a living, and then finding myself two evenings a week in a loud, smelly cat shelter, holding the tiniest bottle up so that the tiniest kitten could drink from it, cradling that tiny kitten in my hand.  I swear to you that the love I felt for that kitten in that moment was more intense than almost any love I have ever felt.  I lovingly wiped up feces and vomit and who knows what else, for hours.  My hands were made to write/create and to care for animals, truly.  Animals are innocent.  People - suffering people, oppressed people, young people, old, people, rich and poor and all other kinds - are full of danger and cunning beyond the simple cruelty of nature and beyond my imaginings, and taken as a whole, I often give us up as a lost cause.  We are a lost people.

There have been moments in my life when I'd be callous and weary enough to accept a majority of the human population indiscriminately going up in smoke, hopes, dreams and all.  To think of the vines and the trees slowly taking it all back.  To think of the world in its turning, mind-blowingly slowly and rapidly all in the same moment, forgetting so many of us, so easily.  Could you imagine being one of the most beautiful creatures on this earth, a snow leopard, of which an estimated 4 to 6k are still extant?  Sometimes I truly believe that our human minds are sacred garbage.

Human killers roam the streets.  Animals that escape from refuges to search for food are mercilessly shot down by peacekeepers.

Is understanding necessary for inclusiveness?  Nature kills indiscriminately, yet without understanding.  Maybe a complete lack of understanding coupled with a complete lack of norms is true equality.

I honestly believe that a fair world is an impossibility; an improbability, rather.  It has to do with the very definition of "fair," which is arbitrary.  Nature is fair and devastatingly cruel.  But only humans enslave other humans and I am doubtful that any voice or group of voices or even an army of futuristic geneticists can change human nature.  But what can we change?  Is it wrong to focus on the things we can change?  Is that "settling" for something less than optimal, or is it truly amassing resources in the most efficient ways and taking full advantage of endlessly varied strengths?

I think it's possible to alleviate, but never cure the ills of the world.  And I don't know how fair it is to choose to spend one's time and resources fighting for the poorest of the poor who scrounge for a clean mouthful of water, or those suffering from different forms of complex, lifelong psychological persecution.  Maybe we should be fighting against norms themselves, which are interpreted differently by billions of different minds among countless cultures?  Perhaps we should devote all of our waking moments to combating all of the evident, real, imaginary, perceived, retroactively recognized and halfway acknowledged injustices in the world?

The sharks are among us; we are the sharks in this bloody ocean.  But we are human sharks, and that makes all the difference.

I've recently spent some time delving into the feminist blogosphere, and despite resonating with so many ideas and opinions expressed there by a thousand intelligent people, the very milieu, the medium, the words themselves - the very orientations of the words upon the screen! - were hostile and crass and almost endlessly tedious.  My poor, open mind is raw.  It's not nearly as unnatural and alarming as fundamentalist drivel, but it was still distasteful.  I was taught new ways to feel offended, taught that I should be so, so offended, as a feminist upholding feminist principles.  I should be so offended at not being offended enough!  I'm not being a good queer because I didn't keep up with all of the super-inclusive lingo that just came out.  Hell, did I just accidentally offend myself?  Can I prorate my offendedness to make up for that lost time not being offended?  I don't think I'm meeting my offendedness quota; I must be a horrible feminist.

The huge flaw I saw in this particular piece of the feminist milieu (can't speak for the whole thing) that I partially explored was the complete lack of connection.  It's one way or another, and if you disagree, fuck you and you're wrong, a pack of wolves alternately howling at the moon together, singing the same song, and then snapping at each other's flanks.  Don't you have to connect to change a mind, even if it means compromise, hearing an opposing viewpoint?  If somebody disagrees with you, how are you going to change a mind by telling them to fuck off because they're "wrong?"  Maybe the whole concept of compromise grates, and it does, yes, because it's "unfair," but it's effective.  "Communication" implies that a message was sent by one party, and received by another.  "Rapport" implies that the message was understood, and if one wants to develop rapport, it is a tribute to one's skill as a communicator and diplomat that she or he is able to make him/herself understood by somebody who is completely different.

But is it always possible to create rapport?  I doubt it, and I guess that's where the fighters come in to knock some heads together and rage, rage, rage until the light dies.  Did they even see any light?  . . . did they want to?

Is it better to fight the darkness, or spread the light?  Are they one and the same?

If your greatest happiness is living a life that is a battle well-fought, I have no criticisms to offer you.  But really, it's not for me, I'm no good at being offended.  Life is a sunbeam well-soaked-up, a galaxy well-spun.  A small gift well-given, a hand well-clasped in silence.  A tiny twinkle well-appreciated on a dark night.

Stuff and Things

Reeling from this week's realizations.  Maybe they were more like...  Acknowledgments.  But my concept of self has been severely shaken and I'm just now starting to feel normal again.

My life is better because of all of it.

I watched Constantine last night with Caspian, which got horrible critical reviews...  But, I rather liked it!  Good acting, neat and dynamic characters, fun effects (for 2005).  When Keanu Reeves plays Keanu Reeves, he does a bang-up job.  The vile, seedy old Lucifer was a nice touch, and so was the overly-dramatic, androgynous, misanthropic angel Gabriel.  One of my favorite scenes featured s/he explaining to the main character (Keanu) why he was going to hell, searching his face lovingly, then finishing with a trite, British, "You're fucked."  And what?!  Gavin Rossdale as demon chic?  I didn't even know he was an actor!

I must have been more affected by it than I'd thought, because I dreamed relentlessly about it all night.

She who thinks she knows...

I started realizing that I knew everything sometime around, oh, 16 years old.  I pretty much had the whole universe figured out, and I was totally sure of my place in it.  Yup, whiling away entire weeks in bed with books?  Check.  While eating as many Dutch mints as my tummy could hold, without feeling a smidge of guilt?  Check.  Not showering for two days?  Sure, why not?  Completely and utterly drowning myself in pure, unadulterated and soggy self pity?  Check.  Tons of times.  Cans of frosting?  Eaten remorselessly.  Vapid journal entries detailing woeful unrequited love stories?  Wrote volumes of them.  Whatever I wanted or felt, I pursued, with almost mindless clarity and belief in myself.  It's probably exactly how animals live their lives and trees grow old and die in the forest.

Now, at almost 30...  I'm in a constant state of doubt.  What should I be doing?  What is the definition of "leisure time?"  What is the definition of "marriage?"  Am I on the "right" path?  Am I supposed to be experiencing [insert experience] in [insert description] way?  Is my eye makeup maximizing the forest green shade of my eyes?  Am I wasting my time reading stupid stuff when I could be studying literature or Norwegian or biochemistry?  Am I feeling my emotions as thoroughly as I can, appreciating each beautiful, quiet, hectic, ugly, stupid, humdrum, unforgettable moment as it comes?  What if I didn't?!  What if I took a nap instead?

Did I appreciate the nap?

As a newlywed (almost 2 years, has it been that long?), I still have a lot to learn about my relationship with Caspian.

I learned something today about true love.  Open-minded and open-hearted and selfless and accepting.  I read those two sentences and I wonder what initiated this cliché attack, but it's one thing to read about it in a book or see a 2nd-rate representation of it in a movie, and another thing to hug the person you've pledged your lifelong loyalty to and to realize that he accepts you more than you do.  So much more.

Mlermph.

Company was being wishy-washy over our show dance...  We cancelled.  Too much money (costumes, choreography, practice) and too little time (four weeks).  I am both disappointed and relieved.

To Conquer or Avoid

Rumba or samba?  I am asking myself this question this morning while I drink my Kenya and eat Froot Loops.

We have to dance three "latin" dances for our showdance; a combination of tango (not a latin dance), cha cha, samba, rumba, jive.

I am most comfortable in tango, followed closely by samba and jive.  More trouble with cha, and the most with rumba.  I thought to myself, heck, what a great reason to choose it as one of our three showdances, but now I'm not so sure.  Maybe I should avoid a dance I'm not so confident in.

On a side note, I never described my costume!  I was an enderman, from Minecraft.  Or an enderwoman, rather.  I had patent heels on, and a black box on my head with glittery purple eyes, and I even used acrylics to paint a pixelated box of dirt to carry around!  However, I spent most of the evening with the mask off; it was really hard to see, even with my zentai hood around my neck.

Ingenue Angst

So.  A bunch of interesting things happened this week.

• Felix and I finalized our contract; we're definitely doing the showdance, and I'm pretty much terrified.
• I worked a lot and wasn't too disconsolate, discontent or unhappy; I even studied French for several hours!
• I bought fetish gear for part of my Halloween costume; skintight black lycra from top of head to toe, completely blank face.
• Managed to complete one full circuit of Viennese waltz alternating between natural and reverse, WITH good connection without crashing into the wall or other people.
• Got called out by a bunch of dicks on the street when they asked my husband, Caspian, how much he spent for a night with me.  I was in the black bodysuit.
• Watched my husband kiss a man.  Or get kissed by, I guess.
• Got teased (good-naturedly) for being a) a "straight-laced American," b) not bisexual, c) not a swinger and d) immature because of it.
• Had probably 12 or so drinks in one night.  'S really all I can handle.

I am kind of pissed off about that 2nd to last point.  It was a stupid, silly conversation, but I was utterly shocked at the context, which was specific enough to be inappropriate for this relatively anonymous blog.  It was just weird to me, someone who has operated at a very professional level in very professional situations.

And, I get so angry when people treat me like an ingenue.  So what if I am one.  I guess I sort of invite it.

Need to play some Katamari to burn off some anger; nothing like rolling up people and everyday objects into a giant ball of insanity to settle one's nerves.

I Hold the Line

The year I was born, Peter Gabriel released a song titled San Jacinto, which documents the spiritual experience of a southwestern Native American man, whose culture is inundated and crushed by the influence of the white man.

He prepares himself for a great trial.  He walks through his modern city, observing its travesties and saccharine, witty artificiality, and yet continues to the top of the mountain at dawn.  He breathes in the sacred drug and he has a great revelation.  All becomes clear for a brief moment, he exults, he is overwhelmed.  He is but one node in the line, he holds it, he steadies it.

And, upon waking up, he is groggy, confused.  He can't order his thoughts and is left with a vague remembrance of his epiphany, which he struggles to communicate.  But he knows he is part of the last vestige of his culture.

Beaucoup des Choses

I struggled a lot this week.  It was the week after Carolina Fall Classic and my FB newsfeed was pretty much plastered with gorgeous pictures of friends from the past in their beautiful costumes.  Big change from last year's comps; I boycotted social media out of jealousy and despair.

I also felt massively ineffectual this week.  Trapped in a place and unable to escape without significant portions of time working towards that escape (i.e. more grad school).  I kind of want a quick fix even while I'm completely averse to the idea of being half-assed.

After two incredible hours of practice last night, Felix and I somehow found a parking spot on St. Denis in pouring rain at 10 PM and ducked into a loud, fancy restaurant packed with French young people.  We sat and yelled at each other until enough people left to go dance or party or whatever that the atmosphere of the place calmed down enough for regular conversation.

It was my first "French" practice; meaning Felix spoke quite a bit of French and I did my best to respond.  They will continue to be more and more like this until I'm confident.

Anyway, so last night we sat and I had my signature gin & tonic and he had his usual white wine and we just talked and talked for maybe three hours.  We talked about people and past experiences and observations of those around us.  I told him about the week's issues, and he actually had some pretty sage observations.  He thinks that my discontentment has a lot to do with the fact that I spend so, so, SO many hours alone every week, thinking my thoughts and ruminating upon them until I'm not sure what I was originally thinking.  And I'm too much of a natural loner to go and seek company, even when I know I need it.

He also thinks I'm just naturally discontent; happy in the short term after an accomplishment, but soon seeking another goal, another evolution.

He's also a bit shocked at Caspian and I's relationship!  He wonders what will happen.  He says he's never seen anything like it before and maybe it's just a new breed, but he feels strongly that we need to spend more time with each other, which surprised me.  So, we're an extremely open pair, but not so much compared with other young couples I know.  I just can't deal with jealousy in a mate, I can't do it.  I refuse to deal with misogyny and pressure after being the recipient of so much of it.  Caspian is the perfect, ideal mate for me; thoughtful, driven, feminist, confident, extremely trusting, decisive and affectionate.  He tempers a lot of my faults, including lack of risk aversion, intuitive decision making, overblown emotional drama, extreme self criticism.  But Felix thinks we've gone the opposite direction, married but operating in different spheres without much overlap.  I'm not sure he's seeing the situation clearly, but maybe he's got somewhat of a point.

We almost always party separately; or rather, he is invited to a lot of social events in his field, with people he interacts with that I don't attend, because although I'm invited by default as his spouse, I just don't feel like one of the group.  I feel like "the wife" and I hate that feeling.

In other news, Caspian started regular kung fu practice at a studio downtown about a month ago and is pretty much obsessed.  He studies the pronunciation of the Chinese descriptions of figures and positions, he practices almost every day.  I really like it.

Not cut out for it?

I really, really love reading Rhonda's blog, Down to Earth.  She is just so modern and inspirational about self-sufficiency in a world of endless consumption.  She is a fabulous example of a liberal person who has somehow transcended gender roles while upholding the belief that homemaking is the ideal job for all of us, men and women in all kinds of relationships.

So, for the last year, I've probably had the biggest taste of "homemaking" I've ever experienced.  Not completely, since I work all day, but all of my work is done at home and because I don't have a commute, I tend to be in charge most of the "homemaking" tasks that might come to your mind.  And I don't mind them, in this situation.  I'm just in the ideal place to perform them, regardless of the fact that I'm a married female.  All of you know that, like Rhonda, I am accepting of all kinds of relationships and I firmly disbelieve that children are for everyone.

It's funny.  After my last position, I was so fed up with bureaucracy, my career and all things white collar that the idea of withdrawing from the world and living in a cottage in the woods, growing a garden, ignoring fashion and trends and gadgetry and spending hours exploring the landscape, seemed like pretty much the best idea ever.  For the last year, I've lived a much simpler life in the middle of quite a large city, but I've come to realize something about myself.  I will never, ever be content as a full-time homemaker.  Maybe for periods of time, or for certain tasks, but I like to have my fingers in the pie.  I like business communication and interaction.  I like problem-solving.  I want to use my expertise and my power to influence the workings and effects of large corporate or government organizations.  Leaving that behind has left a big old hole somewhere inside, a negation of some internal structure that I wasn't even aware of until now.  I guess I'm a purist; I'm not even in it for the money!  The business world needs an equal blend of women and men like me to work properly.

I wonder if traditionalists, or even contemporary homemakers like Rhonda, would call me misguided.  I don't think I am; I feel like I've shucked my socialized role (highly-educated, career-driven female, go get 'em!)...  And then re-donned it after introspection.  I'm simply a highly-educated, career-driven female, and I want to go get 'em, although I love home-related tasks, chores and simple things as well.  I will not be truly happy or fulfilled until I have the opportunity to fill all of these shoes.

Human beauty fades.

It's not worth much.  Why agonize over it?

Lacking Sparkle? What?

Who knew I'd be going back for yet more graduate school, and in French of all things.  I am completely jazzed.  My supporting documents were submitted on Tuesday and accepted, and I paid my tuition this morning.  It's really happening.  It will mark my eighth year of higher education, my third year of post-baccalaureate studies and my fourth university diploma.

I'm pretty much terrified, too.  A new, gigantic university in the middle of a big, liberal city, full of irritating young college students on their first forays away from home and rules.  I have no patience with 'em.  I'm also quite a hypochondriac, which will be another big thing to overcome.  And then there's the whole "talking in French" thing.  My ear is pretty good after living here for a year, but I am so shy about speaking.  And about my American accent, which Felix assures me is "soft" and "cute."  I dunno about that!

I'm also terrified of starting school in mid-January.  That's the month it gets down to -40 C and F (they are the same at this particularly dismal point).  It snows and snows and snows some more.  McGill University isn't far, but it's not so close, either.  My boots will get a workout, I'm sure.

Last Saturday, I complained that my life lacked sparkle.  With these showdances on the horizon and my imminent trilingualism (with some hard work, of course) pending, I am adequately satisfied...  For this week. Heh.  The only thing that would make my fall/winter better would be a) some candy corns and b) the acceptance of my book for publication.

Irony - The Good Kind

Felix and I just got invited to do a showdance at a ritzy Christmas party downtown.  Well, three, actually.  Tango, chacha and samba.  They want me in red for all dances.

Remuneration:  $500.  Per dancer.

Guess I should find me a kickass red tango dress, eh?

Mmmmmmmargaritas! The real deal.

So, I had a really potent margarita tonight and I can barely type, but I'm totally digging on Royksopp right now and feel like I should share a song with all of you.

But first, my margarita recipe:

1 part tequila
1/2 part Cointreau
1/2 part mixed fresh-squeezed lime and lemon juices
Less than 1/2 part simple syrup
A dash of salt

Shake with ice and enjoy.

Reminds me quite a bit of GLaDOS of Portal and Portal 2, who is undeniably sexy.

[There was a time when all the shadows of these tall buildings
Would throw their capes around each corner of the grassy fields
And one by one, each huge shade would color the green with black
Allowing changes that we could not have foreseen

Everybody, let us gaze upon the world we've created
Let us rest our eyes upon the great machine as we wave goodbye
Feel the evening breeze caress us while the cities are dying
As we watch it fall into a modern state, a modern time

Remember when we'd hear the distant sound of human life
A zillion noises whimper as they travel through the sky
And one by one, each new sound has faded away with time
Allowing changes that we could not have foreseen

Everybody, let us say goodbye to all our notions
Because it's not enough to say that we're humane when we're left behind
It's too late to think that we can worship human emotions
Because we've already evolved into machines within our minds]

Monday Madness

Things I've learned about myself this week:  I am a lot pushier than I was just a few years ago.

Case-in-point:

I spent Monday arguing with people.

Monday was a so-called "vacation day," but the first thing I did early in the morning was walk to Avis and rent a really nice red Ford 4x4 and then take my poor little white cat to the vet to have her dentistry performed.  This cat is dear to me.  She is shy and spazzy and capable of almost human expressions of profound terror.  She is like the pale, tiny ghost of a cat in a half-forgotten dream of the world.  She trusts only two people and is sometimes afraid of bugs.  If she ever escaped...  I'm not sure what she would do.  Maybe she'd cease to exist.  I feel like the force of our love for her is what keeps her substantial, otherwise she'd fade away.  She is very otherworldly.

At Avis, the lady told me that my driver's license was invalid.  I glared at her straight in the eye and demanded, "Tell me why."  She informed me that as I was a resident of Québec...  "No, no, no," I interrupted.  "I am not a resident of QC, but my residence is in QC.  I am American, here on a visa."  She said, puzzled, "Your residence is in QC but you are here on a visa."  I responded with consummate wit, "These are not the droids you're looking for."  It flew right over her head, but persistence pays off, and I got my car.

Caspian caught Kiska, and I dropped her off at the vet.  I then parked the rental car in front of our house and took the metro to Montreal International to pick up my CAQ, or my approved request to apply for a student visa.  Rode the metro home, only to discover a parking ticket waiting for me, because the zone I parked in is illegal FROM 9:30 to 10:30 AM ONLY.  Bah!

Then, an hour of driving through miserable drizzle, over Pont Victoria and to the border between Québec and New York state, St Bernard-de-Lacolle.  Just before the border crossing, an expanse of maybe 12 lanes, of which only 2 are usually open despite the volume of traffic, I pulled into a Canadian government office building parking lot and went inside to the information desk.

"I'm here to complete my student visa process," I told the uniformed young agent at the counter.  He told me to go through the border and then turn around and go back through the Canadian side.  "That's bonkers," I asserted.  He laughed and pointed.  Bah, bureaucracy.  Or bureaucrazy, as I originally typed.

For an hour I sat, listening to Pendulum, in one of the TWO OPEN LINES at the border.  When I finally got to the border, the customs agent took my passport and asked me, "What's your business in the US?"  I responded, snarkily, "To use a few feet of road space to make a U-turn and go back into Canada because that other agent told me to."  He laughed, and I made my massive U-turn and waited in line on the other side.

"Bonjour!  What is your business in Canada?" asked the Canadian customs agent.  I blew out an exasperated sigh.  "I just came from Canada.  I'm trying to finalize my student visa."  He laughed and directed me to THE EXACT OFFICE I HAD VISITED BEFORE THE BORDER NONSENSE!

I went in, preparing myself for some serious arguing with public servants.  Good thing I came ready.  I argued with a young customs agent for a good 15 minutes.  She wanted to see proof of enrollment in a university, but all I had was proof of acceptance.  I told her I hadn't enrolled yet because I didn't have a student visa.  She blinked at me owlishly and asked how I had gotten my CAQ, since it apparently also requires proof of enrollment.  I told her I didn't know, Montréal International had handled all of that stuff for me.  I also stated definitively that I wasn't leaving this office until I had my visa in-hand.  My argument was that, since my CAQ was accepted without proof of enrollment, she should issue me my visa, as it has the same requirements.  Persistence is powerful.  I convinced her to do it.  But!  In the middle of printing my stupid, cursed, bedamned visa, the printer broke.

So, I sat in the waiting area for over an hour until the problem was fixed.  I didn't play on Caspian's iPhone.  I didn't read a book.  I glared at the customs agents so that they knew I took my waiting utterly seriously.  Look guys, I am suffering.  I guess I was a total bitch.  Anyway, a big dude walked in wearing a Duke sweatshirt.  What!  A Duke sweatshirt!  I called out to him and asked him if he was from NC, and he said that he was!  He sat down beside me and pumped my hand excitedly.

We chatted a bit about NC and Canada and things of that ilk, and he asked me what I was doing so far from home.  I explained that my home was Montreal now, and that I was finalizing my dual work/study visa to go back to school for French.  He asked why.  I looked at him funnily and said, "Because 82% of the population of Montreal speaks fluent French at home and I can't work in my field unless perfectly bilingual."

His response?  "But Canadian French is fake, made-up French.  It's not even a real language."  I glared at him and almost told him to shush; the office was full of French Canadians.  I tried patiently to explain to him that it was an accent, much like the difference between Scottish and American English, but he wouldn't believe me.  I clipped the conversation short after he started dissing Canada; his ignorance was breathtaking.

Finally, the visa was printed and I was on my way.  I had missed my doctor's appointment.  I drove once again through the drizzle, over Point Champlain, just in time to get a call from the vet; "Your insane cat is out of surgery and had seven teeth removed."   7 teeth.  Adult cats have 36 permanent teeth all told, so I assumed she will still be able to chew.  I thought to myself, "Why my insane cat?  Why not my cute, adorable little cat?"  Oh well, I was glad that she was doing okay.

I couldn't find a parking spot.  Sometimes living in centre-ville is more trouble than it's worth.  I drove around for 40 minutes, and decided to secretly park back at Avis, but not return my key, since I'd need the car later to get Kiska, the kitty.  Heh heh heh.  I slunk away from the building and traipsed home to nap, exhausted, until Caspian arrived home with a bag of gumballs and a card for me!  He sure does know the way to a woman's heart.

We went together to get Kiska, and the whole story emerged.  Apparently, she fought unconsciousness with preternatural strength; she just wouldn't go under when they administered anesthesia.  She escaped from the operating room and rampaged through the clinic, knocking stuff over, leading the techs on a wild goose chase that raised an uproar among all the animals, which culminated in them jury-rigging a loop out of a leash and snagging her under a pile of cages in a storeroom by the neck.  Poor, poor Kiska.

The cost?  $800.  Upon looking at the receipt, I half-jokingly asked if the "Difficult Extraction" line item accounted for the rampage.  The vet tech assured me not.

We took all seven, toothless, 800-dollar pounds of our little white cat home, where she proceeded to act like nothing in the world had happened to her.  Little ingrate.  She should at least have the decency to mope around and complain, but not a peep out of her.  She ate a pile of food.  Little stinker.

Whining On a Rainy Sunday

Time to write.  I'm saturnine for a bunch of little reasons that add up to a lot.

For one, it's in the 40s (almost 10 C) and raining, raining, raining.  I have done nothing all weekend thus far but write, play video games, exercise and do housework.  And mope, obviously.  Snicker.

Felix, my partner, is sick.  We had a 2-hour practice on Wednesday night, after which he cancelled our dinner date, promising to go out with me on Friday night.  Then Thursday night, he e-mailed me to let me know that, in fact, he would not be able to go out Friday after practice (due to the fact that he was "over budget" for the month), and on Friday morning, cancelled our practice because he wasn't feeling good, rescheduling it for Saturday.  Saturday morning, he cancelled.  I think my lesson is finally starting to sink in, but I'm not sure yet.  Nothing wrong with being sick, but I have made time for him, gladly, and he has fallen through at least ten times in the past few months.  Not regarding practice, but in terms of friendship.  His excuses were valid (much work, new contracts, meeting with customers, etc.), but he shouldn't make plans with me in the first place, then.  It's unwise, and it hurts regardless.  I'm not sure how much power good intentions have anymore now that I'm an adult and know what I want.

I am jealous of my sister, Natty, who belongs to a small social dance studio in her town.  She's been dancing for maybe 8 months or so, and has been in a ton of spotlights, events and competitions, simply because her studio has so many.  Me?  None.  Not a single one.  My studio is competitive lessons only, everybody is uber serious.  It kind of sucks, since I enjoy having fun, socializing and partying, which isn't really a possibility when all the dancers are very cool with each other at best, and actively hostile at worst.

And I'm also envious that she, even as a beginner dancer, has had opportunities to wear amazing costumes that I never have (syllabus dress codes in competition are strict).  She has a beautiful smooth gown and rhythm dress custom sized and stoned.  Her husband, Pepper, takes videos of her performances and matches faithfully.  And her events are always in such beautiful ballrooms.  Sigh.  I guess I just feel like my life lacks sparkle.

I don't know if Caspian cares that I'm so passionate about dance, or if he is even interested.  For sure, he likes that I am passionate about things and he is glad that we have different passions, but beyond that, skill and technique just don't seem to matter to him or impress him.  There is no pride or fascination in a different art.  It's the polar opposite of how I feel about his singing.  I am his biggest groupie when he is a lead, or in a performance or whatever.  I want to know all the details about technique.  I want to hear about his thoughts regarding his performance, his technique, all of it.  I don't get the same in return from anybody.

Sigh again.  Completely different things make us tick, my husband and I.

Why doesn't Felix want to compete with me?  Bah, here I am second-guessing him and gossiping about him like I can't stand him, which isn't true, but I know for sure things are building up to a confrontation.  He's so sincere and disarming and affectionate, and during times like now when I'm apart from him and not subject to the full force of his admiration, remembering that sincerity just frustrates me.  He precedes every positive statement about our dancing with "We have so much work, but..." or "We aren't totally awesome, but..." or even "Not to be fresh or anything, since we've obviously got a ton of problems, but..."  Where the fuck is his ego?  Did I take it from him somehow?  Is he protecting me from criticism, putting a pillow on the hammer, so-to-speak?  Preventing me from seeing everything through rose-colored glasses?  I guess there are three stages. One:  You're a bad dancer and you don't know it, and so you feel awesome.  Two:  You're a bad dancer and you know it.  Three:  You're a good dancer and you know it.  Stage two seems to be the longest stage ever.

I just want to know when I can wear beautiful costumes and false eyelashes and outrageously coiffed hair and KNOW that I'm good enough to be out there on the floor, and KNOW that my partner has faith in me without all of those "We're okay, but..." statements plaguing me.  My life is like an endless march of these statements.  I want to be the fucking best.  The most beautiful.  The smartest.  The coolest, the cleverest and all of it.  And it's all so stupid because the attainment of such vague, arbitrary goals is just plain impossible, but the problem is that I'm not walking around confidently in the tier of "good enough" or "smart enough," I'm stuck in the mire of but but but.  And buts are full of shit.

Minecraft = Mindcraft

Earlier this week, my husband, Caspian, purchased the real version of Minecraft.  It's a strange, ugly, beautiful game.  I have wasted many hours these past few nights after work and dance constructing worlds in this game, hours which I should have spent writing the novel.  I digress.

The game, which is deceptively simple and lo-res, is actually huge and complex.  A whole world is randomly generated for you to explore, containing different biomes, plenty of resources, animals for food and materials, seas, deserts, forests, bizarre and lovely archipelagos composed of soaring hills.  But...  At night...  The world is spontaneously populated by monsters.  Monsters like zombies, and giant spiders, and horrible black sticklike beings called "endermen," which teleport behind you if you look directly at them, and start hacking away.

Caspian and I have our own worlds.  They are incredibly different.  I have a hilly, mountainous world of deep ravines, rivers, heavy forests and seas to the horizon.  His is a world of grasslands, plains, gentle beaches.  We go about the game completely differently.  For example, his construction goals include mining out a gigantic, perfectly-symmetrical hall of dwarven proportions.  I, on the other hand, build glowing white sandcastles and giant lit beacons on the highest promontories I can find.  My architecture style is simple and dramatic; Caspian's is elegant and fastidiously even.

And there are depths, such amazing depths!  Monsters spawn in darkness, and there are strongholds, cave complexes and mind-boggling lakes and waterfalls of lava just waiting to be explored, gold and iron to be gathered and made into armor and swords and self-propelled mining carts.  You can even build a portal to the nether world, where huge, white, hostile jellyfish sail the skies and zombiepigmen chase after you if provoked.

There are endless possibilities, whether your goals are exploration, construction or complexity.  Wherever your eye can rove, you can travel.  You can build into the clouds.  You can sail the seas and discover unexplored lands of snow or sand or trees to the horizon.

I am such a romantic video game player.  I like to climb to the top of my highest, whitest sandcastle, which is lit from within with torches so that it glows like a beacon for miles, and listen to the soft, sad, spontaneous piano music that sometimes accompanies the sunrise, punctuated by the snarls of burning zombies (which can't survive in sunlight).

Adventures in Amurrica

I had a really, really good week.  No dancing, since Conseil des Arts screwed up their scheduling and double-booked people, but lots of good writing, good work, and fun people.

For instance.  Yesterday after work, Caspian and I rented a car and drove in the rain with Manasvi and her man to Burlington, VT.  It was extra fun, because we drove through a whole slew of little podunk towns with bars/gyms (literally half-bar, half-gym), super-dubious strip joints and fruit/veggie stands that could have been picked up by a tornado in northern Indiana and placed there in southern Quebec...  Only everything was in French.  Manasvi and...  Bah, what should his name be?  Anyway, Manasvi and Her Man were amazed at these towns, and also the little ones in Vermont.  Being from Norway, they've seen these little places in movies and games and things, and were shocked to suddenly realize that they truly, really exist in all their glory.  I've seen so many little towns up and down the east coast and in the midwest that I wouldn't give them a second thought, unless my Norwegian friends were so amazed by them!

Also, visiting Vermont makes me realize that while Americans are fat, racist, prejudiced and care nothing about the social welfare of those less fortunate, they are truly nice, gregarious people who like to laugh.  Quite the difference from Montreal, where even salespeople are only marginally nice.  Marginally.  People look at you weirdly if you happen to strike up a conversation with a stranger in the metro, or linger overlong to chat with a cashier.  The rule is "ignore or be ridiculed" here in this North American bastion of Frenchishness.  Sure, French Canadians are attractive and fashionable, but sometimes I want earnest, honest friendliness and connection with strangers.  I grew up in the south.  But!  I don't want to disparage the French Canadians too profligately, as one of my bestest friends is of this heritage, and he is honest, affectionate, thoughtful and willing to do almost anything to take care of me.  But...  He's not a stranger, and I had to earn this right!  In America, strangers will offer you their onion rings as you wait for your club sandwich and tell you their life stories, AND be eager to hear YOUR life story.

So, we drove to Vermont, laughing and telling stories and commenting on the populace and our jobs and things of that ilk.  We were on our way to see my favorite band in the electronic alternative/post-rock genre, possibly my favorite band ever, Mutemath, which is touring to promote their new album, Odd Soul.  (Watch their unique 2007 music video, Typical)  It was warm and raining and as the countryside changed from flat with low trees to rolling hills with deep forests, I felt weirdly content.  I say I love Canada, and I do...  But I still love the United States, too, even with all of its problems.  Alas, I lost quite a bit of that glow of contentment when I saw the song and dance routine that my poor Norwegian friends had to go through at the border to get into the country.  Getting back into Canada was basically a quick, friendly chat and a wave.  Going into the US with foreign nationals through Canada is like pulling teeth.  Where are you going?  Give me the address.  How long will you be there?  What band are you seeing?  When do the doors open and when does the show start?  What did you have for breakfast and how many times did you get up to pee over the past twelve nights, total?  BAH!

We made it to Burlington in the rain, which is a little burg on Lake Champlain.  We found the venue, a tiny little concert hall, and then walked across the street to Al's Diner, famous for its "frys," and got a whole pile of fresh fried chicken, hamburgers, onion rings and those very same "frys," which were awesome.  It's been years since I've thrown all caution to the wind and splurged, calorically-speaking, on the essential American small town dining experience.  The Norwegians were ecstatic.

We were a little late back to the show, but...  I was so happy to see Mutemath again.  I love them.  I love how completely demented they look when they are performing, I love how they slowly lose their poppish veneer and dissolve into experimental shit as soon as they are sure they've sold their act to the little backwoods crowd.  I danced so wildly that I pulled muscles in my neck and latissimus dorsi and slapped my thigh so hard that I burst a bunch of blood vessels close to the surface.  I got a $45 Mutemath hoodie to support the band and got their demo CD for free.

After the show, to top off the American experience, we stopped at Dunkin Donuts and got fresh decaf, one boston creme, one jelly-filled and one strawberry frosted donut.  And then it was back through the rain to Montreal.  The view of the city in the weeping mist from the apex of Pont Champlain was a beautiful, melancholy sight to me.  Mont Royal was a hulking blackness behind the shimmering lights of the centre-ville skyscrapers, and the mighty St. Laurent barreled its way beneath us, probably a mile wide at that particular point of its course.  I love the city.

It was a successful adventure, in my opinion.

I was up early this morning.  Felix picked me up and we made our way to Studio 2720 for a 1.5 hour lesson in jive... And paso doble.  It was my first time with paso - the very first time in my life.  The attitude comes easily to me compared to rumba.  It's so fun to me because I get to posture and be aggressive and dramatic.  In times previous, it was Felix's least-favorite dance, but after our lesson today, he amended his assertion, saying it's a lot less fun "quand tu danses avec un mur," (when you're dancing with a wall) his previous partner.  I think P (coach) was shocked and pleased when I quickly puffed out my chest, arched my neck and scowled, trying to both affect and mock the paso doble attitude.  I've learned that my definition of "mocking" the attitude of a dance usually results in me achieving the attitude of the dance, whatever that means.  I guess that it's just so over-the-top.  I think I like paso.  No, I'm sure I like it.

Le Petit Prince

I cried and cried tonight reading this.  My mom read it at my wedding.

Rodin, Lasagna, Books and DnB

In every métro stop all over the city, there are billboards advertising the next show of Les Grands Ballets Canadiens de Montréal, Rodin-Claudel, a full-length ballet about the passionate and ultimately tragic relationship between artist and muse.  The posters haunt me.

The first time I saw one of them was out of the corner of my eye as I was passing through Place des Arts on my way to Berri-UQAM and I thought I had imagined it.  It's just so fantastical and graceful and sad and lovely.

I almost want to go see the ballet to discover what it really means in the mind of the choreographer, as conveyed by the work.  It's just such a beautiful picture.  Gives me chills.

Lots of things have been going on.  First and foremost...  For the past month and a half, I've been writing a book.  I'm completely obsessed with it.  It's only recently that I feel comfortable enough saying "I'm writing a book" and not "I'm writing something" or "I'm writing a story."  At nearly 30,000 words and halfway finished, I think it now qualifies as half a book.  And it's so brilliant and funny and interesting!  Gah!  I can't say anything about it yet, only a few close people know anything about it.  It's also a collaboration with Natty, although I've written almost all of the prose; she has been a great help with the story board, character development, timeline and scene purposes.  When I'm stuck, I ask her, "So what happens next?" and she will point me in the right direction.

Writing this...thing...has been so easy.  It writes itself in most places.  Sometimes the characters act up and don't do what I want them to do, but I let them be themselves and take the story in a new, more true direction.

Secondly, my husband and I had a stupid, hilarious fight about lasagna, which we ended up making from scratch and really having fun - it took 4 hours and tastes like layered awesome.  I think there were like 25 ingredients.  The only fatality was one of our big Pyrex baking dishes, which was sitting on a burner (we have like no counter space), which I turned on by accident.  I noticed in two minutes, but the damage was done.  I put it with great trepidation on a hot plate on the kitchen table, where it popped and pinged and made little star shaped cracks as it cooled down, but seemed to be otherwise okay...  Until it spontaneously shattered in a magnificent 3D explosion that sent glass shards far and wide!  Then I put the layers of the lasagna together slightly wrong and basically stood at the sink and cried like a 3-year-old.  This is what happens when you go off hormonal birth control for a month.

Thirdly, Felix and I got half of our new jive routine last Saturday morning.  I've been avoiding jive for about a year, since I technically wear a size 32 D (but end up settling for a 34 C because 32 D can be tough to find) and jive is...  Bouncy?  Kind of?  Maybe not if you do it right?  And then Felix manhandled me and wrenched my left shoulder during some kind of backwards rollout that I don't remember the name of, and I got mad and told him to stop dancing when I do instead of continuing just to show off.  He deserved it.  Despite the little injury, jive comes...  Easily.

On the same note, two weeks ago I dislocated my right shoulder while pulling masking tape off the ceiling (I painted half of the apartment a pearly white) standing on a folding chair, which collapsed.  I laid down with the shoulder partially dislocated without realizing it, really straining the muscles, before it popped back in and scared me to death.  No permanent harm done, just lots of ice and pain killers.  It still pops weirdly, but there's no pain and I have full range of motion.

I hope to finish the first draft of "The Book" before school starts (January) and then get started on my drum & bass album.  I'm serious.

Blue Eyeshadow - FAIL

It's nice to leave my hometown and all of its baggage behind, and start in a new place.  To be seen as I am and not as I was, or like other people said I was.  It's kind of important, since my personality is probably kind of different in some ways than it was 5 years ago and more similar to the way I was 20 years ago.  For one, I am not so eager to please.  Also, I am much more publicly obnoxious.  And, since really investing myself in dance, I'm a lot more aware of my body, how it looks, how it moves.  Still haven't mastered blue eyeshadow, though; I always feel kind of stupid wearing it.

This Saturday was the last meeting of the Breakfast Club at our favorite french-toast infested haunt, Burgers & Benedicts...  Which is going out of business!  Waaaah!  Where will I find a similar uber-buttery maple drenched confection?  Anyway, I ate my fill for the final time, and then Manasvi and I went...  Clothes shopping!  For like three hours.  I bought a giant pink wool poncho.  It's hard for me to describe what a relief the whole experience was for me.  It's almost like it's taken me this long to rediscover that it's okay and awesome for me to be the goofy, sometimes awkward, intense and incredibly silly person that I am.  I'm remembering what it's like to like something funny-looking, out-of-fashion or conspicuous and actually go for it because, hey, I like it, and who gives a fuck?  Certainly not my friends, and certainly not my husband.

And then, after two hours of really incredible dance practice in the afternoon, Caspian and I spent the evening over at the home of Manasvi and her man up on the Plateau, eating pistachios and fruit and apricot-stuffed, bacon-wrapped pork tenderloin and going to the grocery store multiple times, all in the middle of watching Super Troopers on Netflix.  The Germans are my favorite.

And today, after a stupid, idiotic argument with Caspian that had more to do with my personal moodiness than any real problem, I called up Felix, sobbing, and asked him to talk to me about his life and his day because just listening to him and his silly, charming half-English makes me calm, just like it does after a tough practice or critical lesson.  Not to mention he's seen me burst into tears a bazillion times and whispered stupid nonsense things to me in French that you say to soothe old milkcows and I don't have to worry about that awkwardness.  Ha.

Having fascinating and intelligent like-minded people to go on hours-long shopping expeditions with and watch full frontal nudity with and sob on the phone at...  Priceless.

Something to Learn

I'd wondered when I'd be ready, and today was the day, a year since my first weekly lesson at the studio.  I finally danced epic latin in front of Pierre.  BAH!  Who cares if you can speak Swahili in front of the mirror, or play a perfect Christine Daae in the shower.  You have to be able to prove it to the people with the experience to judge.

As you read, last Saturday I had kind of a meltdown, and then a sort of epiphany about the whole feel of latin dances, especially rumba and chacha, because samba is our best dance of both categories simply because we have really, really nice action and movement.  Chacha gives me trouble because it is so fast and "punchy," with a lot of not-so-subtle stops thrown in and movements initiated fractionally early to give the observer the illusion that you have time to be languid on the beat, and we have some connection problems.  Anyway, I said to Mireille, "I feel like I have something to prove," and she was like, "No, you have something to learn.  That's all.  No different from any of our other competitive couples."

So, I came home, had my little tantrum with a few tears and plenty of pillow-beating, and then I thought to myself later that day when I was calmer, punch.  Ooze.  Do all of those things that you thought you'd never be able to do.  Just pretend.  And I did, and it all became real.  And it was so incredibly easy today for the first time ever for me to do it, real/pretend, in front of champ couples and even harder, my coach!  He was almost shocked; he hasn't seen us dance latin for months, and today we did complete rounds of entire choreographies, bam bam bam.

First, Pierre said, "If you want to hear something nice, call up your mother.  If you want to hear the truth, call me."  And then he followed that with most beautiful thing:  "You and Felix have such an elegant latin partnership."  He praised our hip action, our weight changes, and most of all, our timing and musicality.  If there are two things I know I am naturally good at, it's timing and musicality, but it is so gratifying to be told so by my coach.

We all need praise.  Critique is helpful, but it's all I've gotten recently.  Felix called me not 5 minutes after he dropped me off at my house, and he was like, "I never really get to see you dance when I'm dancing with you, but today I saw you dance.  I'm so crazy about latin again."  I guess he wasn't so crazy recently, just like me; we were weary of our plateau.

Next week:  New jive choreography.

Piazzolla's Oblivion - Rastrelli Quartet

I have to post it to remind myself of it later when I need a good cry.  It is seriously one of the most delicately tortured things I have ever heard.  I'm really drawn to the face of the cellist playing the high melody line; he is totally digging it.

::SCREAMS OF RAGE AND FRUSTRATION::

Know what's hard?  When your dance partner is better than you.  Watching him succeed while you fail and fall apart...  It's so hard.  No matter how hard you try, you can't do it as easily, fluidly or as beautifully as him.  It feels like you're letting him down every time, no matter how many times he tells you he loves you or how patient he assures you he is.

It's impossible to do anything right unless you are taught how first, unless you do it by accident.

It's so hard to accept that fact.  Why can't I just download this shit into my brain?

• Heels on the floor on weight-bearing leg in all latin dances, heel clonking IS allowed.
• Arms and body from the waist up extended in the direction you are progressing, esp. rib cage and shoulder blade engaged:  Voltas
• Feet fucking turned out!  C'mon, girl.
• BIG BIG BIG BIG arms with back engaged!
• Elbow always faces back, never down or in.  Looks weak.
• BLAARGGH!  Now I feel better.

Mmm, yummy cello noises; like meat taffy!

Also became aware relatively recently that I have mild synesthesia (at least, I think it's mild).  I never thought about it until I asked Caspian about it, and he says that no, he doesn't experience the world like that.

When I hear sounds or music, I have a sort of ghost sensation/sight in my brain.  Not against my skin or in my field of vision, but I perceive different noises and sounds as 3-dimensional objects in space and time that I can touch and handle with my "mental fingers," if that makes sense at all.  Sometimes sounds can be like prickly sea urchins, heavy, cool, extruded blocks of various sizes and lengths or spiky, sharp stars (with light, heat and cold!), or they can even be like different viscosities of liquids and gases streaming through my fingers or over my face.  Extrusions and emissions of different shapes and textures of materials are the most common.  Still weirder, other sounds I perceive as...  Objects or materials that I can chew, explore and understand with my teeth!

Flashing lights or lights that change in brilliance also have tangibility in space and time in my mental horizon, and are even accompanied by a brief, ringing tone or high, sweet sigh - not mental, but actually audible.

Strange, no?

In other news, Felix and I are going tonight to that ballroom dance club we visited with Caspian and his parents in Laval.  The place where we got yelled at for taking up to much space and/or being too flashy or having choreography, etc.  I wonder if it will happen again?

Uber excited about our latin, but dismayed at our standard.  Felix was a professional dancer in Les Grands Ballets Canadiens for like a decade and a half, and he is just too flexible.  He can twist above the waist like a human owl or something and splay his feet beyond 180 degrees.  I bet he could jump rope with his arms if he clasped his hands.  Not a good thing for frame, I decided.  Too much range of motion.

My CAQ was accepted by the gouvernement du Québec, and all I have to do is complete a quick transaction at "the nearest terrestrial border," and I will be able to study at McGill all I want.

Meh! Meh! Meh!

So, I am feminist.  So are all the members of my family, so is my husband, so are most people I know.  The true definition of feminism:

The advocacy of women's rights on the grounds of political, social, and economic equality to men.

Not women are better than men or women have the right to be hairy and sleep with as many people as they want, just like men (which they do, but that's not the point).  Feminism was originally used as an inane emblem to describe the belief that we are all human and should be afforded the same rights.

I've lived my whole life as a completely free human being, accepted as who I am by my family, always encouraged to explore and learn and grow and make my own choices according to my own convictions.

To Caspian's unending eye-rolling, I'm also completely obsessed with fundamentalist movements and have been agonizing for years now (I wrote one of my undergraduate theses to illuminate repressive messages and themes in Amish publications) over finding some way to free, educate or comfort the suppressed groups that suffer under this regime.  Seriously.  Even under the threat of more eye-rolling from my husband, I admit that I'd even be willing to dedicate my life to the cause.

I am utterly fascinated by the blogs of fundamentalist women, as well as journals chronicling the thoughts and experiences of those who have escaped the movement's clutches and are now just discovering what it means to be free to live and love and grow as the people they are.  My grief for these people is completely overwhelming, to the point where I am hesitant to describe just how strongly I feel.  I want to scream and rage and hug and comfort and weep as their stories unfold.  No other cause transforms me into such a wreck.

It's almost worse when I read about the political aspirations and causes of the leaders of these movements (male and female) - I just have to oppose them.  I am compelled to fight!  I can't just sit here and simply live my life freely while these others suffer and while others actively fight to oppose my lifestyle, to change the very laws that allow it.  The United States is such a weird, backward country in so many ways, and I read an article recently that mentions American fundamentalist aspirations to revoke gay marriage rights in Canada.  BLARGH!  This is a shot at the people I love!  One of my best friends is gay and married!

I should start a nonprofit.

I'm feeling better now.  Life is truly good.  I have love, a beautiful place to live, friends whom I love and who love me.  I taught a 2-hour workshop to an eastern European executive on business ethics and it went beautifully.

Fall is in the air, and yet the cicadas are still singing away to their hearts' content, beginning from 9 AM.  It's weird to wake up to temps of 14 (around 59 degrees F) in late August.  I have almost finished assembling all of the materials and documentation needed to complete my applications for a study visa and enrollment at McGill University, and I will be sending it off this Friday.

I found my Nintendo DS in a bin the other day, where it has lain dormant for a couple of years.  I've probably only ever played it for a grand total of 10 hours and it was in its box, in mint condition, still with factory plastic adhering to it.  So, I plugged in Phantom Hourglass and have been...  ARGH!  I've probably played 3 hours of Link today, and last night I played it...  In bed.  That's my fortune.  You will play tons of childish video games (in bed).  Who cares about work evals when one could be scouring the seas for golden frogs and captured power fairies?!  Eh?

In other news, a moderately powerful hurricane is slated to strike my home state.  I hope it gives my mom a vacation, since she's utterly exhausted by her job at the moment.  Mentoring technologically-challenged people in addition to her other strenuous duties isn't in her job description.  In other other news, EARTHQUAKE!  But not here.  Maybe all of the crazies at Family Radio were right?

We All Break the Same

I'm depressed.

It's been like this for the last 4 or 5 weeks.  I'm just disillusioned with myself and my goals and dance and all sorts of things.  I don't have enough money, my career is paused due to language constraints until I spend money I don't have to study French to get my certificate.

Because we practice and practice and practice and have lessons every week at the the same times over and over, there is this illusion that Felix and I keep making the same dumb mistakes over and over again and that the same things challenge me no matter how many times I face them.  I need some inspiration.  I realized in my saturnine, weird, intermittent dreams last night that we are not going to dance at La Relance in September.  We haven't admitted it or planned not to dance at it, but we won't.

The first time I brought it up a few weeks ago, Felix was like, "It's such a small competition, not worth our time." The second time, he seemed disinterested and wasn't excited by the costumes that I picked out, so I didn't commit to any of them.  The third time he said that he wanted to utterly sweep the floor wherever we competed so that we could compete in the next tier and get new advanced choreo.  The fourth time, he told me that our latin wasn't good enough, and that we could compete in standard only, which really befuddled me because I think our standard is lacking and that we should only do latin.  Fuck, we've been practicing together hours every week for the last... year.  A YEAR.  I have probably jumped entire levels in this single year, and yet, it doesn't seem like nearly enough.

He's one of my best friends.  His boyfriend has called me up to thank me for finding my way into Felix's life.  But sometimes I don't get him and I'm puzzled by his flighty scheduling and vacillations between love of dance with me vs. his reluctance to dance with me in competition.  I wish we could just go and have fun.  I wish he didn't have ex-partners calling him up and telling him that they'd be in the front row to see how I stack up.  I wish costumes were banned like they are in the US in gold and under.  The dance milieu is just so hostile in Montréal.  I just want to stand on the floor in all of my glory and dance with him.

You know what?  Who cares about all of this!  Why not keep this simple routine of practicing and partying and enjoying each other's company?  Why should I feel so pressured to compete?  It doesn't matter.  Sure, I want to be a competitive dancer, but every week something improves.  Which means every week I practice and don't compete is one less screwup caught on camera or by a judge's eye.

I want to dance a fucking showdance with props and open figures and tons of flashy stuff not allowed in syllabus, in front of a non-dancer audience.  Champ dancers from all over the US and Canada come to my studio and I am so weary of being the baby, the rookie.  I'm always impressed and never impressive.