Cassini took a picture...

Of a backlit Saturn.

Carolyn Porco of the imaging team said, after revealing the mosaic:

"I fervently hope it serves as a reminder that we humans, though troubled and warlike, are also the dreamers, thinkers, and explorers inhabiting one achingly beautiful planet, yearning for the sublime, and capable of the magnificent."

Also got...

The third interview.  I think I'm in, for good or ill.

Got...

An A.  Take that, universe.

I'm Done!

With my degree in French, that is.  There's no update on my transcript yet, so I'm not sure of my grade, but optimistic me says A and pessimistic me says B, which means that I probably received a B+.  McGill professors are terrifyingly strict about grading.

Still no pic of me in a cocktail dress holding a bottle of prosecco, but my buddy here is still on her honeymoon in Aruba, so I haven't had a party yet.  Perhaps this weekend?  Unfortunately, the sealed, stamped and signed diploma will be printed with the rest of the diplomas for 2012-2013 in one fell swoop...  Sometime next April.  POOP.

Six days after my last final exam...  I had a job interview for a company in a field that I refuse to talk about simply because my potential future position there could actually be dangerous.  My dad even suggested that I go by a pseudonym simply because the market can be so volatile and easy to take advantage of.  I really, really don't want to jinx the result (I'll receive news tomorrow or Tuesday), and so I'm carefully cultivating an attitude of stoic apathy.

But within 10 minutes of sending the company my CV, I received an e-mail invitation to a phone interview.  I gave HR my availability, and within 10 minutes of my first available hour, HR called me and I had that interview.  Was immediately invited to an in-person interview, which took place last Thursday.  Interview went very well compared to that one I had last March for the position with that marketing company.

Can't say anything either way.  But I've thought it over and over and over again, flip-flopped multiple times, been alternately jazzed and jaded...  Because the position is a high-powered, high-salaried, high-stress position that could make me or break me.  Terrifying and challenging.  Do I want that, or do I want to be a fiction editor and writer, spending my days in the nearby library with my laptop while the snow falls or the sun shines outside, lost in fantasy worlds?

Interesting Analogy

I do my homework like I do the dishes.  And I have tons of both.

In a state of some stress, I quickly wash all of the easy stuff (plates, bowls) to make it look like there's less stuff in the sink.  I pretend not to be aware of my ploy and stare uneasily at the really tough stuff coming up, like the tupperware caked with dry hummus and intricate thermos lids that I have to disassemble.  Then I grab the spoons and decisively get them over with.

Still staring at the thermos lids, I slowly wash and rinse the wine glasses.  I'm just as stressed as I was when I started.  Next, the coffee mugs and the big cooking utensils.

Now there's nothing left except the hummus container and the thermos.

I go read a book for an hour.  Then I take a bubble bath.  Then I go to bed.  And then I'm late in the morning because I had to wash an old thermos that I wanted to drink coffee out of during class.

Solitudes Solo

I just got back from a show.  A very surprising contemporary dance performance, at la Maison de la culture Frontenac.  It was surprising because I didn't expect to be so deeply moved by it, and I wasn't capable of knowing why at the time.

It was a series entitled Solitudes Solo choreographed by the renowned Québecois choreographer Daniel Léveillé.  I guess it was four male dancers and a sole female one, and each performed his or her own sections by him/herself, to the music of Johann Sebastian Bach.  Each wore a pair of briefs in various colors, and that was all.

The first piece was jarring and fascinating, because I'd just come off the street and my mind was full of French and people's faces and city scenes.  It took me until the third piece to shake off the day and my thoughts and my analyses and just watch in awe.

The fifth dance was the woman's dance.  She was fascinating and beautiful and so completely unlike the dolls and cartoons that you see in the fashion magazines.  She was strong with broad shoulders, small breasts and a well-muscled abdomen unlikely to sport any wasp-waisted bustier.  She struck me as a real woman, an exemplary specimen, completely healthy and without facade.  Her dance followed the same style as the guys' pieces, but she somehow made the same movements and transformed them into female movements.  Not society's ever-changing [feminine], but timeless female.

And her dance reminded me of so many things in just a few minutes, especially of being scared and alone among impersonal machines, or hopelessly lost in math class, or trapped in a place I don't want to be because of monetary or societal restraints.  Yes!  She communicated all of that to me without saying a word or making a sound.  I guess I saw something of myself in her dance and I vowed right there and then - with my throat closed up and actual tears in my eyes - that I would never, ever settle for something because I had to.  Never suffer if I had a choice (and so many people suffer and could choose not to!).  Never allow myself to be unhappy if I can do something about it.  I know this is all sounding kind of complex, but it was as simple as a blast of fresh air full of as many scents as things the wind had touched.  It hits you and you recognize them all without thinking.

Peri"pathetic..." Or not?

There is an itinerant who has been sitting just outside the gates to McGill University for the last few weeks.  Whenever I walk down rue Sherbrooke, he's there, perched on his neatly-rolled tarp under a scaffold, gazing north.  He has blue, blue eyes and red, wind-chapped cheeks.  He is immaculately clean, and his space tidy.  His shoes and clothes are worn and patched, but well-maintained.  He has no cup or hat to advertise his desire for offerings.  His expression is alert with a hint of desolate.  Our gazes have crossed three jarring times, and each time he looked at me...  Not without interest, but completely without plea.  Without expectation.  With zenlike patience that I can't understand, not knowing that the ladies passing with their Dior bags, fur muffs and clicking heels don't see him - can't see him.

He fascinates me.

It's because he's not like the others, the ones who follow me or jump out into my face with leathery, outstretched hands and eye-wateringly alcoholic breath, chanting "change, change, change..."  Others that I encounter during my morning commute who sprawl snoring beside the trottoir, one hand clenched around a bottle and the other lying beside a cardboard sign that could read anything from "traveling home" to "too ugly for prostitution" and even "need a joint."  And those who pass me with the rage in their eyes that I can [theoretically] understand, the ones who terrify me the most because I would be like them.

What can I do directly for them that won't put both of us in worse situations?

Why, why why, any of it?

Words to Live By

Do not let the behavior of others destroy your inner peace.
~ Dalai Lama

Sometimes I think that other people are the only things that can destroy my inner peace.  It's interesting...  Today in class, my classmates and I all gave little surveys to each other about different topics, and I was interviewed about my feelings regarding the merits of living in an urban or rural environment.

The conversation quickly strayed into the metaphysical because we differed completely; my classmate could not fathom any reason beyond "the scenery" to live in the countryside, and I couldn't find any advantages of living in a city beyond "attractions" and "les transports en commun."

It's such a confusing thing to be an extroverted loner!  On one hand, I thrive in the classroom environment and I adore teaching.  I like to talk to people, to see how they react, to imagine their lives...  And yet somehow I have invented this vague, sinister concept of "the people," the huge mass that adds endlessly to the omnipresent filth in the streets, those that scream obscenities at each other and mate in the back alleys, the ones that create the pop mags, produce TV emissions and write copy for advertising firms.  "The people" are the selfish ones, the corrupt ones, the ones that lurk inside of us all, just waiting to show themselves and take what they want.  I guess sometimes, in my most cynical moods, "the people" lurk just under the surface, and we just pretend to see the beauty of the stars and dream without fear or inhibition or a thought to the bottom line, or like to visit la musée des beaux-arts.  We do it just to try to fool others into thinking we're not like them, or that we are exactly like how they pretend to be.

It's why I don't like cities.  People are so often just walking facades, strangers composed entirely of judgment or indifference.  That's what we are when we are anonymous, what we all are.

What I admire about Montreal is sometimes not at all what others hold in high esteem.  People say, oh, it's so cosmopolitan!  So intimate, yet so diverse!  So libidinous!  A truly North American city, so littered with historical significance and fascinating interactions!

No.  I marvel at the huge roots of the oaks that part the cracks in the sidewalks, the rainbows in the pigeons' wings.  The places where I am reminded that life is not about people people people people.  The opaline clouds above the low mountains on the horizon above the seagulls above the hundred steeples as I gaze east northeast from the 13th floor of 688 rue Sherbrooke.  I want to be reminded that it would all get taken back, if we all disappeared, that soon it would subside into the earth to sleep, dreaming its violent dreams to itself.  I put my hands on centuries-old stonework and imagine its birth, the first rays of sunlight peeping deep into the quarry where it had lain for a billion years as those rough hands pulled it from its mother, and it became witness to three hundred years of humans walking and eating and laughing and changing and dying and being born.

Where are the monks?  Are there none among us here?  Are we all so cynical?  Where can I find the quietude amidst "the people" where there isn't suffering or cold or fear?

Stinky

You know what really stinks about Facebook?

The fact that I get to read all of the little gripes and petty victories of the everyday lives of many of the family members I don't get to see very often and love...  But it's tougher when I realize that they blame my generation for "the downfall of America" and persecute people with other religious beliefs.  It's like a punch to the gut.  I always see it coming when somebody related to me sends me a friend request.  I know to brace myself for another gut shot, and it's the reason why I would never mention anything ideological on a social network.

I thought my family was composed of intelligent people who would comprehend what kind of wedges they might drive between themselves and those they "love" if they published these types of things for all to see.

Why can't we all just get along and be friends?

Madame Bovary

For Advanced French, my class is reading Monique Proulx's Les Aurores Montreales, which is a collection of short stories that document the lives of ordinary people in Montreal.

Makes me wonder if I am the way I am in order to perceive myself as beautiful and acceptable through others' eyes, or because I am who I am.  It's one of those cycles of reflexivity that is neverending and completely pointless to engage in.  One has to be confident and to simply not give a shit.  One thing that becoming relatively fluent in French has really made me want to do is speak in the 3rd person.

I just finished reading the nouvelle entitled Madame Bovary, after the novel of the same name by Flaubert.  In short, it is about the young housewife of an unexciting businessman who spends her days living quietly after a young adulthood of brilliance and creativity.  She waits every day for her two children to arrive home from school and her quiet, banal husband to return to soliloquize to the empty air about the details of his day.  Each morning with a dainty cup of black coffee, she reads the column of a journalist who writes brilliant, dark and cruelly stark pieces about ordinary people.  She reads every book he recommends, even though her husband dismisses him as "marxist."  One day, this journalist invites his readers, the ordinary people, to invite him into their homes.  Diane (the housewife) does so.  Anyway, long story short, her end goal is to seduce him, for he has liberated her with his words, made her aware of the depressing obscurity of her existence, opened her eyes, given her the information she needs in order to be sentient.  He comes over and she is completely herself for the first time in her life, describing her wildest dreams - and she is completely certain that she has tantalized him.  He leaves, but she is positive that he will return to consummate "their" outrageous desires.

The next day, he writes only a few lines in his column.  He is tired, he is through, he is convinced that his idea to write about the lives of ordinary people was a terrible one.  His folly was brought home by him by who he describes as a young suburban madam searching for her soul between astrology and pastries, a Madame Bovary far more disgusting and empty than she of the famous novel.  He will not write anymore.

It takes Diane a few reads to realize that this passage is about her.  She races to the bookstore to buy Madame Bovary and devours it voraciously.  She is unable to perceive the sense of the analogy, how she resembles at all the heroine of this novel.  She despises herself.  She knows that she must live, absolutely live, and dreams fondly of the taste of arsenic, soft and warm like black coffee.

I'm not a good friend...

...And I am ashamed.  I am a loner.  I carefully guard my unstructured, solitary time with instinctive ferocity and forget quite easily that other people actually might care to hear from me.

After starting my final semester at McGill on Monday, and after that massive trip for my sister's wedding, I just sort of forgot about my dance partner, my bestest friends here amidst all of that turmoil.  Friends in general.  One of my closest buddies moved to Scandinavia.  My dance partner, with whom I spoke this evening for the first time in... a month...  Was so worried about me.  I'm sure he's mad at me.  I felt the distance between us on the phone and I was so ashamed that I wasn't more ashamed of not being ashamed sooner.

So, I am a bad friend.  I am naturally a bad friend and it's really nothing personal.  I love you all, I feel real love and admiration for you.  I guess, in my heart of hearts, that I'm just not capable of truly understanding that somebody might actually like me back.  I dislike assistance from others because I suspect that my assistance is inappropriate or unwanted.  Maybe I am simply not a giving, generous person, and I'm terrible at accepting anything that I didn't pay for or earn.  It's one of the most awkward positions...

And thus, I drift away.  It's so sad that I mourn it after the fact.  Maybe it's the price of disconnecting.

The Water Demons

Dream:

Two water demons had been wreaking havoc upon cities worldwide.  For unknown reasons, they had engulfed a Japanese coastal city in a giant bubble of water, thousands of meters deep.  The city itself had been mostly evacuated, but the bubble loomed into the atmosphere, a motionless dome, unaffected by tides or gravity.

Scientists had, without any repercussions thus far, managed to float a plastic dome the size of a soccer field onto the apex of the water bubble, suspended there and anchored in place by an orbiting satellite.  It was climate-controlled so that the scientists could study the phenomenon.

Caspian and I were famous spies and ambassadors, and we were hired by the government of Japan to rescue one of its living national treasures, a chef, who had been abducted and placed in an air pocket deep in the submerged city.  The plan was for us to descend in the quiet of the night down through the water bubble and rescue him without attracting the notice of the water demons, who, while not especially cruel, were known to be notoriously volatile and unpredictable.

We were transported to the dome that the scientists had erected.  It was an eerie and beautiful place.  The air was cool but not chill, and the only sounds in this huge, echoing chamber were the slight whisper of ventilation fans and the tiniest ripple of the water against the chamber's outer edge.  There was a multi-storied base on one end and two platforms on either side at the water level, with scaffolding crisscrossing above.  The center was an open expanse of water, and breathtakingly beautiful and terrifying.

For the water here was crystal clear down to the very depths, and one had the feeling of being suspended in space over an illuminated metropolis far below, for the city lights continued to shine through the transparent waters.  And since we arrived at night, the effect was overwhelmingly disorienting.  The abandoned skyscrapers loomed up at us like colossal stalagmites.  To get accustomed to this dizzying perspective, Caspian and I practiced swimming in the open expanse in the center of the dome.  At the very top of the dome was a clear window through which one could see, in detail, the frosty stars.

There was a thick cable running from platform to platform, and holding on to it, we tried not to be overcome by vertigo, because pretty soon we would be descending through the water in scuba gear to rescue a Japanese chef.  The surface of the water rippled slightly in random patterns, like the water in the pool below a dam; treacherously riddled with little currents.  It was ice cold.

I used the cable to pull my way to the opposite side of the dome and had just emerged from the water when a strange chiming sound echoed through the chamber.  The scientists at the base shouted at us incoherently, and we knew the water demons were on their way.  The sound was very high, almost out of hearing, with a deep, deep undertone that vibrated in my lungs.

We had been briefed to remain absolutely motionless, to show no emotion, and to ignore anything that may happen to us in the presence of the demons.  We were supposed to remain as still as possible and as unreachable, even if one were to grab us and shout in our face, or worse.  Eventually, like children, they would theoretically become bored and go do something else.

I curled up in a little ball as far up onto the platform as I could quickly get and hid my face.  The chiming stopped suddenly and the chamber became completely still and deeply quiet.  I sat and waited.  I waited for what felt like an hour.  Nothing happened.  I waited more.  Still nothing.  Slowly, I lifted my face from my arms.

She was there, the female water demon, crouching on the far end of my platform.  She was nude and exquisite; a nymph from a rainbow forest.  Cloaked in the deep shadow of the scaffolding, her skin was streaked in colors ranging from midnight blue to deep magenta, her lips were as orange as a clownfish and her tilted eyes as silvery as moonbeams.  She gazed at me without moving a muscle, without saying a thing, without even changing expressions.  She slipped into the water without making a ripple.  I hid my face again, and waited.

Without opening my eyes or hearing a sound, I knew that somebody was beside me.  I couldn't help myself, I lifted my head and was immediately seized around the waist by a towering, shadowed figure.  It was at least 7 feet tall, and I tried not to make a sound.  I could see the deep black planes of powerful face, and as the figure gently laid me on my back, it resolved into a more familiar shape.  I didn't even see it change; one minute it was huge and dark and terrifying, and suddenly it was a beautiful young man, probably almost as short as I, with inky hair and glacier eyes.  In the same second, the hood of my wetsuit was pulled back and my goggles removed.  He cradled my head and whispered in a strange accent, telling me to come with him.  I didn't move, didn't respond, just looked at him mutely.  The male water demon.

He changed from person to person, trying to find a form that would affect me the most, continuing to whisper strange things to me, stroking my hair and my face, examining my fingers.  One minute he was savage, the next minute hesitant and charming.  He pleaded and threatened, but I didn't say a word, I just lay quietly, pliantly in his grasp.

He looked one final time into my face, expressionlessly, and was gone, disappeared into the thick shadows.  I lay there for several minutes, completely overwhelmed by the experience of resisting his seduction, until I heard some movement at the base.  The scientists gave the all-clear signal with a blue light.  I slowly eased back into the water and tried to ignore the disorienting feeling of crossing back across that bizarre expanse.  Caspian was on the platform at the opposite side, and I could tell by his apologetic, sheepish face that he had not been able to resist the female water demon!  I didn't particularly care though, I'd seen her myself.  The scientists came back down to the platform to help us get ready for our dive, and Caspian jumped into the water.

When he surfaced, he gave a huge laugh.  We all stared at him, wondering what was going on, when suddenly he performed an amazing sinuous leap and shot through the water as if he had some sort of jet propulsion system.  He could suddenly swim like a dolphin!

I was so amazed at this gift that the water demon had given him that I started splashing around; the scientists joked around about how much he must have pleased her, but I tried to ignore that.

It was so incredible swimming in that 3D panorama of sky and city and stars!  Caspian kept shooting past me underwater and I tried my best to keep up, but I was a floundering mess compared with him.  He kept spiraling around, plunging deep and then shooting up and arcing through the air while the scientists all clapped.  He pushed me deeper underwater, until I panicked and thought that I wouldn't be quick enough to get to the surface, and suddenly he came from behind me and held me around the waist with one arm.

Together, we went shooting up toward the surface and as my face broke through the water I could see all of the tiny droplets of water sparkling around my face, his breath was in my ear and the stars spun slowly beyond the window in the dome ceiling and I took a huge, deep breath ---

And I was lying in bed.  I breathed out.

Dream

I was being held prisoner with Liam Neeson and a bunch of others in a little midwestern town for some undisclosed nefarious purpose, and we all collaborated to build a flying bus that would take us over the town walls to freedom.

We were on our maiden voyage in the bus, barreling through the town under massive roiling thunderclouds.  We just couldn't get enough speed because we'd compromised the handling of the bus when we'd installed the flight systems, and we kept having to slow down to avoid kids on bikes and falling trees.

Lighting struck all around us and violent gusts of wind propelled green leaves and sticks through the air to pelt against the rattling windows of the bus while we screamed and were jostled inside.  Finally, we'd hit the open road, no kids, no trees and we started accelerating at an alarming pace.  The noise of the engine was deafening and my heart was in my throat.

The front wheels were juuuuuust lifting from the pavement and I could see the town walls in the gloomy distance when ---

Caspian whispered in my ear that he was done working out and coffee was done! 

 

Assessments

As you can tell from my lack of posts, I've really been feeling much better.  A quick trip to the psychologist confirmed that I am probably not suffering from anything but what is apparently a very masculine symptom of anxiety (I feared neurological issues), which has helped me to relax about it.  No medication, no further counseling, since I am, in her assessment, already a master of cognitive behavioral therapy.

In other news, I sat for the final exams of level 4 on Thursday and Friday and feel like I did reasonably well, but I've overestimated scores every single time I took a test this semester.  Oh, I also reviewed the statements and behavior of professor Q just after I wrote that post and decided quite quickly that she is not the monster that I thought, just extremely blunt with a wry, deprecatory sense of humor (in general) and no filter, especially when in a bad mood for whatever reason, and certain behaviors set her off.  I'm not saying that this attitude is appropriate for the classroom (because reasonable people like myself could easily misinterpret), but I felt like I immediately understood her better after this realization and our relationship improved immensely.

It's nice to have my weekends back.  I had time to do all sorts of chores that I haven't had time to do recently, such as mending a couple tears that Kiska kicked into the duvet cover, bleaching internal parts of vacuum flasks, washing the insides of the refrigerator, moving all the furniture in the bedroom to find piles of "lost' kitty toys and a fuzzball the size of another cat.  Caspian decided last night that he was going to reset his circadian rhythm, and we went to bed quite early after eating early...  And then we were up at 6.  On a Sunday.  I am still feeling kind of physiologically/psychologically messed up from this, but it's only 9 AM...

Stuff and Things

My favorite author, C.J. Cherryh, posted this translation of various items of graffiti preserved on the walls of buildings in Pompeii.  Proof that humanity is hilarious and that a couple of millennia of two steps forward one step back haven't really altered our natures.

Our horrid, awful but really-not-so-bad-in-the-end semester project, the PDC (make of that acronym what you will), is dans le passé.  It's finished and over and I don't care (yet) about my grade.

In other news, I ordered Elizabeth Kastova's The Historian from Amazon Marketplace for $.01 CAD and was immediately enchanted by her prose and her descriptions of places.  I feel like I am actually with the protagonists as they travel through the bustling Western cities, gemlike coastal towns, mysterious Carpathian villages and enchanting Byzantine metropolises of Europe.  I can smell the dust in the library annexes and the feel the varnished surfaces of the tables in the reading rooms of the Oxford library.  I can taste the coffee of Istanbul and feel the unexpected, creeping horror of understanding the realities of the terrible atrocities that were committed centuries, millennia ago in places which are now sunlit, ordinary and thronged with tourists.  History reaches back from the past to haunt us now.  I love this book.

When it rains...

I was in the health clinic this morning at 8:30 AM...  Waiting to see a doctor about a giant cyst under my tongue that formed in under two days.  A sphere about 1.5 inches in diameter, fluid-filled but painless.

Wtf, body?

Fortunately, she didn't think it was anything too horrible, and referred me to an oral surgeon and an ENT doctor in case a) it didn't resolve itself in the near future or b) it became painful.  It's an excuse to eat sour Skittles.

Post-haste Burgers et Autres Choses

A mediocre day and an awesome evening.  Things are looking up?

I had two quizzes; one written expression (a bitch) and one written comprehension.  I owned both of them despite my Brain Fog, which was mostly induced by my ill-considered decision to bring oolong tea to school in my vacuum flask rather than my customary coffee.  My composition contained about five sets of double pronouns both simple and composé, as well as plenty of all of the imparfait, passé composé, simple present, present continuous, futur proche and futur simple tenses.  I think I even tossed a couple of conditionals in there just to boggle their minds.  Don't even get me started on les marqueurs de relation.

After lunch, I could barely muster a smile at my poor professor, who knows something about my recent problems.  The whole class was a disaster.  The partner of one of my classmates had been hospitalized recently for neuro issues and another had a swollen abdomen worthy of a hospital trip, too.  A couple were still hungover from Sunday, somehow.  We were a sad lot today, morose and suffering, until a discussion about corporal punishment for children...  Things went crazy.  Needless to say, I woke up and kind of even enjoyed my walk home.

On top of that, a bunch of my clients cancelled their appointments with me, and I could spend the evening designing a kick-ass graphic for my team's final project and writing up the PowerPoint slides.  I've been cooking turkey burgers and listening to Ace of Base (The Sign, circa 1996?) at full blast.  Unfortunately, Caspian is still out, and I was too hungry to resist devouring my burger post-haste.

Connected

It breaks my heart in such a sad, sweet way to see people and places I love becoming more and more decrepit.  On one hand, I have such vibrant memories to recall.  On the other...  They have less and less of an anchor in reality.

I know I mentioned before that my family, sans moi et Caspian, went together on vacation to my parents' beautiful hometowns, and my dad finally published all of the pictures from their journey onto his website.  And I cry.  In my grandparents' homes, I cry to see the same exact arrangements of little knicknacks on tables that I know were originally organized or set out by people who are now dead.  The content of those minds have dissolved into the ether, and my most poignant memories come gushing forth, catalyzed by the sight of those silly knicknacks arranged so artlessly and so long ago by veined, old hands.  The original intent, the motive to put these things here and there hangs in the air like an untethered balloon, with only my love to justify its continued existence, it seems.  The sun and the rain are indifferent, the paint peels, but the hands are too old to repair it, the eyes too misty to refresh the color.  My god.

When gramma died last year, I remember wandering the house, touching the things she touched, pondering deeply every careless toss of mail as if it were a prayer or a poem, because it was she who had tossed it.  The curves of her signature spoke volumes to me of love and fear and striving and the impotence of all of that in the face of the end.  Right?

I feel.  It's amazing to have this aching feeling behind my eyes and in my sinuses and to hear the thunder outside and feel some sort of connection to it.

I have to keep going.  I have to get over my little problems and fucking ace this class and create, create, create.  Create things with powerful intent that hang in the air like giant blimps that nobody can ignore, even after motive is gone.

Tears have fallen all over my keyboard.

Bein' Happy

I'm going to post while I am completely clear.  I am completely clear!  No brain fog, no worries, no angst.  Was it the wild salmon oil I took about two hours ago?  Possibly!  But this proves that I'm not dying of some horrible brain tumor or sitting pretty as a hemorrhage kills various regions of my frontal cortex.  It's all in my head, no pun intended.

Well, maybe not completely clear...  I have been enjoying an Argentinian vintage, inexpensive, called Zone 32.  It tastes much better, in my mind, than the $11 it cost.  Everything in life should be like this.  Caspian is incredibly understanding and responds with hair-sensitive awareness to every awkward anxiety-induced situation I put him through.  Man or god?  The love of my life, at least.

Anyway.  I am in a superb mood and I studied quite a bit for a test tomorrow on personal pronouns and relation markers.  Made flashcards and all.  I even proofread my final project article and will hand it in tomorrow.  Worked plenty for my company this weekend, and I feel...  Okay!  Better than okay.  I feel good.  Let's keep it up, squeeps.

The Land of Worries

I am in a very interesting state.  I feel like my brain is wrapped in cotton wool and that there is a band tightening around my forehead.  I can't concentrate and sometimes it's difficult to follow conversations.  All of these things are classic anxiety symptoms.

Yet...  I am capable of focus, somehow, in some fascinating ways.  Sensations are pushed to the background and primal feelings rise to the forefront.  I just sat down at the piano and, without any semblance of concentration, managed to play a piece that I haven't even looked at in years.  It just flowed forth.  Bizarre.  My skills at video games have never been better.

My teaching lessons are somehow unaffected; I gave a perfect observed lesson yesterday evening.  I took a listening comprehension exam yesterday morning without trouble.  Why am I so afraid?

I am afraid that I will never have my extreme focus back again.  I hypothesize that I'm a person who is consummately in the world, usually hyper aware, always analyzing situations from multiple angles, always trying to be simultaneously in 1st person and 3rd person omniscient mode.  Now that I'm thrust in into this unnamed mode for whatever reason, I feel utterly lost.  My censor is bound and gagged in the corner of my mind, and I will say whatever the hell I want.  Situations that do not benefit from analysis or critique (recalling suddenly how to play ancient pieces without having to look at the music, for example, or sex) come so naturally, sans worry.  It is terrifying.  I want to be lost in uber-aware contemplation again, not shrouded in this fog, this fuzz.  It's like ecstasy (theoretically) vs. weed.  Honestly, I'd rather have the e.

This feeling is not there when I wake up.  I am clear!  Life is as simple and joyful as it has always been.  But as soon as I start worrying about it and asking myself, "Am I in the fog?  Now am I?  Now?" (usually within the first five minutes of the alarm), it returns.  I often forget what I'm doing and I'm easily distracted.  Caspian jokes that this is his usual modus operandi; it's true, he's much more forgetful than I and his mind is usually wandering.

Unfortunately, my mind seems to always wander in the Land of Worries.

Blah.

Anxiety to the point of feeling quite disconnected with reality, which only makes me panic more.  Feeling quite a bit better after discovering that "disconnection" and "disassociation with reality" is one of the most documented symptoms of anxiety disorder.

But...  Why?

I don't even feel stressed.  I've never had trouble with anxiety before.  There's nothing to be anxious about, except long days and no breaks (and the horrible worry that I will never feel "connected" with reality again).  I feel slightly high, and quite groggy today - but a high dose of melatonin last night might account for that.

The doctor has been called.

I hate this so much.

Tuesday Night Update

Switched to red wine.  Will the headaches stop?

Even better today, despite walking to and from McGill in warm, driving rain and 33-degree temperatures.  Completely forgot to eat breakfast and didn't realize it until I was about to start work at 4.  I wore jungle green and retook the quiz I missed last Friday and I owned the nominalisation part, but I wasn't super sure when to choose the imparfait vs. passé composé for a couple of cases and I think I invented conjugations for s'agir and ressentir.  I'm not even going to check.

Recently, I have gone pretty much crazy when it comes to clothes, especially at last weekend's street sale.  I have bought all sorts of bizarre and awesome, colorful pieces.  Dresses with broad belts, translucent tops and white and blue denim miniskirts or pencil skirts in black and white polka dot.  Lots of marine stripes in all colors and plenty of amethyst, bright green and cobalt.  I'm pretty content right now on the wardrobe front.  Caspian bought me some gorgeous industrial-looking white gold loop earrings that are super shiny on the sides, but they look kind of die-cut and are matte on the long sides.  I love 'em.

Just trying to stay calm and positive.  Take pleasure in the small things.  I'm not normally an anxious person, but during those phases, life can be a nightmare.  I have to keep thinking about things bigger and more important than myself and my little problems.

Started reading Elizabeth Haydon's Rhapsody and was slightly affronted at the romantic virgin sex between...  A 13-year-old and a 14-year old.  ::sigh::  Really?  At least it was better than Fifty Shades of Grey (which was too awful and stupid to bother wasting time reviewing).

Um, What?

Feeling better.

Also having probs with one of my profs since Day 1, randomly assigned the initial Q.  On the surface, Q seems happy and friendly.  But just under this veneer is rather obvious malcontent and sarcasm, which, although it doesn't particularly hurt my feelings, incites feelings of discouragement and discontent.  Instinctive emotional response to a negative person.

It's the first time in this program - no, in my life! - that I have felt so...  Ridiculed by a teacher.  Sure, I can understand corrections.  Please, criticize me so that I can improve my skills, that's why I'm paying $1600/6 weeks to take this class.  But we're here to learn new things, not to be berated for not knowing everything beforehand or immediately.  My 'favorite things' are her "pre-quizzes," which she gives us before we've started on a new grammatical topic so that she has fodder for a scathing lecture?

Some of Q's less tactful comments (en français):

• ::eye roll, aggrieved sigh::  Shinseiko, why are you asking this question?
• Don't tell me you don't know the answer.  Guess, or you won't learn!
• If you don't know the answer, don't simply guess; you'll give the class wrong information.
• If you don't know the answer, consult your document.
• Why on earth are you checking your document, Shinseiko?  You should know this.
• Shinseiko, I can't believe these errors in your composition.  This mistake here is Level 1.  I find it hard to believe that you received an A in Level 3.
• No, no, no.  ::exasperated sigh::  You are absolutely wrong, Shinseiko.  Next?

Some of those are just funny and unhelpful.  Others are mean-spirited and confusing.  I have no idea what she wants from us; do we answer her questions and get shot down, or do we stay silent and then get a lecture about her questions not being rhetorical?  Since when is asking well-phrased and relevant questions in class something for the prof to get worked up over? ::sigh::  The only thing that worries me about her attitude is the fact that I feel that it could bias our grades negatively.  There is not a single person in the class that she is warm to.  She's just a bad prof.

I don't think she's particularly happy with anything in her life, and we just apparently aggrieve her further.  Unfortunately, there are a couple of students who are young and don't take the class seriously, but the vast majority have master's degrees and are present for professional reasons, like me.  She is certainly going to receive a dispassionate and stark review from me, come the end of this session.

Fear of Fear

I think I'm finally breaking.  Dealing with a lot of anxiety (especially anxiety about insomnia, but not insomnia itself...?), suffering from frequent and debilitating migraines and almost constant trouble with my digestive system, despite eating a balanced diet.

Seems like I spend more time worrying about finishing things than actually finishing things.  I need some perspective, or a break or something.

To complicate everything, Thursday night, Kiska escaped from the backyard when nobody was watching and had a night on the town.  I was an absolute mess on Friday and couldn't bring myself to go to school, even though we had a quiz and a field trip to Radio Canada.  Caspian and I searched for her from 6 AM to 9 AM with no luck and posted signs in our neighborhood.

I was completely overcome with guilt.  The only thoughts in my mind were:  What if she's terrified and alone and lost?  What will happen when the winter comes?  She loves to snuggle and she loves her food; how can I stand the idea of her being cold and hungry and sick, and fighting other cats.  What if she gets hit by a car?  I couldn't sit still, I couldn't do anything...  I can't imagine what parents of lost children must go through.

That was a terrible day.  Ads were placed in Craigslist, animal shelters were called.  My sister was horrified, knowing what a timid, small and nervous creature Kiska is.  How could I let this happen after all of the heartache and triumph this little animal has put us through over the years?  All of the surgeries and hospital visits?  How could she survive on her own?  How could she find her way home, as an inside cat?  We're in the center of the downtown area, where there's always tons of activity, noise and traffic.

Between lessons yesterday evening, I wandered out into the backyard.  Caspian had scattered soiled litter to mark our "territory" for her, and had placed out one of his old shirts in her fuzzy bed.  I'd wandered out there what seemed like hundreds of times that day, disconsolately calling her name, wandering around the three blocks nearby and all of their alleys, probably irritating the neighbors.  I glanced in her favorite little hollow under a peony bush where she always liked to roll, sun and sleep.

And she was there!

Where she went and what she did, nobody will ever know.  She was fit as a fiddle and very happy; a little bit dirty, but that's what happens when an all-white cat runs around in a city.  I think cats are a lot smarter and a lot more able to take care of themselves and remember their surroundings than I give them credit for, especially clever little Kiska.

But the anxiety remains.  It's all I can think about, the fear of the fear.  Three more weeks.

Niveau 4!

J'aime tellement niveau 4, beaucoup plus que 3.  J'aime mes professeurs et les etudiants; il n'y a pas trop d'étudiants cette fois!  Il y a 11 dans le cours, un numéro qui est parfait a mon avis.  Je sens confortable avec l'environnement, et je suis TRÈS contente sur le sujet de mes examens pour la placement.  J'ai scored à niveau 5 (le niveau le plus haut) en expression et écriture et ma nature compétitive est vraiment heureuse à la moment.  Je souhaite que ce n'est pas necessaire pour moi de sauter une seméstre; je veux plutôt finir la diplôme immediatement!

Ignorez, s'il vous plaît, mes erreurs d'accentation et de la grammaire.

Saturday Night Thinking

I feel like we've gone off-track with the food somewhere in the last few weeks, neglecting meal-planning and traipsing off to the supermarket together to buy whatever weird whims cross our minds (which tonight happened to be wheat beer, kosher salt for tequila and Skittles).  Not a mindful or budget-minded way to live.  It's time to jump back on the train, even with the large return we are crossing our fingers for.  We've been getting sloppy with my significant raise and the completion of all tuition payments.

We've also decided that we get a lot less bang for our buck from our organic co-op.  It's convenient, high-quality stuff, but it doesn't go very far.  We might have to return to our weekly shopping trips to the IGA.  Sad, but as Caspian puts it, maybe we're just not in the right stage of our lives to be able to afford such decadence.  A temporary position, but still constraining at the moment.

I'm pretty elated and bummed at the moment.  I guess I mentioned before that my family, including my grown-up sisters, all trekked off and collected in my familial hometown and one of the most beautiful and lovely places I can think of on this planet.  They're doing together all of those little things that I've needed desperately to do with them since the death of my gramma in March of 2011, and I feel alone and abandoned.  I think about gramma every single day of my life.

It's not really in my nature to get homesick, but now, especially when everybody else is celebrating together, I'm heartsick.  Living in another country, speaking a foreign language, not seeing the faces of your closest family members for a year at a time...  Isn't always a walk in the park.

Greenery

Cucumber flowers everywhere!

Pea pods double in size in 24 hours.

Plenty of chard.

Garden with daylilies.

Angels and Insane Accountants

Mmm, do you like my beautiful Italian angel?  I am quite taken with him.  He is from a 19th century book illustration (public domain, of course).  I've named him Cajetan.

It has been quite a busy week.  I sanded, painted and finished furniture, planted about 100 flowers of many kinds, cooked, cleaned, gardened...

And visited the Insane Accountant to finally finish our taxes.  I can't do his personality justice in words, it's absolutely necessary for me to act out his bizarre mannerisms, strange tics and alarming facial expressions for you to get the idea.  Suffice to say that I knew it would be an interesting experience when, after he opened his office door for me and I introduced myself (I had called him earlier to let him know that I would be dropping in), he rolled his eyes and huffed a huge, exaggerated sigh before turning around and heading back in!

Immediately, I had the impression that I was in a movie set.  The walls were completely obscured by post-its and papers like scales on a fish.  They all contained names, dates, amounts and bold commands like "DO IT" or "HE OWES YOU $140 - GET IT."  The office and the anteroom were piled high with boxes and boxes of reams of new paper and the whole place reeked of cigarette smoke.  I was quite taken aback.  However, his desk was immaculate, with green paperclips in this box and white in this one, everything arranged perfectly flush with everything else, not a fingerprint or dust mote in sight.

He had me sit with him at his computer and reread figures to him twice and three times.  He crosschecked, triple checked and rechecked every.  Single.  Figure.  And.  Name.  He tested algorithms and made dummy worksheets to ENSURE that everything was spot on.  He consulted tax codes with an ease that bespoke of 22 years of sitting in this very same office, doing the very same thing.  And all the while, he mumbled to himself, shouted things like "Christ, the incompetence!" when he reviewed our 2010 accountant's work.  When I pointed out a spelling error or something, he would shout in my ear, "Christ I know!  Thank you dear."  He repeated everything to himself and told me to repeat his directions like a mantra.  "Sign here and here and on page four.  ON PAGE FOUR.  Now where do you sign?"  He waited expectantly.  "On page four," I repeated dutifully.  "ON PAGE FOUR," he would shout.  If I moved anything a fraction of a millimeter, he would roll his eyes and move it back.  We yelled at each other.  We argued like we'd known each other for 40 years.

My favorite part was when he called the Canadian revenue service and pretended to be me in order to ask some questions about student loan interest, complete with a fake high voice.  When the lady on the other end asked questions that became too complicated for him, he finally shouted, "HERE, talk to HER," and handed me his iPhone.

So much insanity happened during those 2.75 hours that I sat there with him that I can't possibly describe it all.  I went from skeptical to horrified that I'd made a terrible mistake, to bemused, to fascinated and then to satisfied.  Our taxes were done well and thoroughly, with every possible deduction entered and mistakes from 2010 corrected, albeit slowly and with much arguing.  Ha!

My vacation is almost over.  Meanwhile, my family's vacation is about to begin, with both parents and both sisters heading to the most beautiful lakeside town in the world to celebrate the summertime.  I will be starting High Intermediate on Monday.  Blargh.

Chin chin!

Je ne le crois pas...  J'ai fini niveau 3!  Ça fait longtemps depuis j'ai posté.  Je crée des nouveaux mots, excusez-moi.  Donc, oui, shit got real.  Mais, je pense que je suis fonctionnelle en français maintenant.  Sûr, ma grammaire est terrible parfois, et je ne sais pas toute la vocabulaire, mais je bien comprends et peux repondre awesomely quand je suis dans le droit état d'esprit.  Je suis sûr que je fais beaucoup de erreurs ici!  Je me promets que je ne utilise rien des utiles comme Google Translate...  C'est seulement pour pratiquer mon français.

For the first four weeks of this last level, which was complete immersion, I was utterly blocked.  But two weeks ago, I woke up and suddenly French clicked into place.  I can use relatively complex sentence structures (but not a couple of important tenses, like the subjunctive or conditionals), speak fluidly and with excellent pronunciation.  It's absolutely true, and I'm just so fucking proud of myself today, the day of the last two final exams.  So fucking proud.  It's not much longer now.

It is such a joy to be alive!  Nine days, free of work and school, stretch before me, to be filled with afternoons of lying in the garden in my yellow bikini, painting furniture bright colors, cooking excellent meals, reading and watching Sailormoon (I am on like episode 60/200 right now, and I still feel like I got an A somehow).  I haven't had a single day off for thirteen weeks, including weekends.  I am sure you don't blame me for forgetting to post for almost a month.  ;)

I made things even more challenging by starting my very first 30 Day Challenge (see www.ted.com)...  To run 5k every morning at 6:15 AM for the next month.  I realized on day 4 that this is unreasonable, and amended it with "running interspersed with days of weight lifting."  I'm on day 7 today and I find it very easy and simple to wake up 40 minutes earlier to get in some extra exercise.  I feel closer to my ancient ancestors, closer to the earth, when I run in the morning.  There are a few moments when most of the city is asleep but everything else is wide awake.  Why sleep through it?

Finally, all of my tuition is paid, through level 5 (the final level).  I will obtain, fingers crossed, my certificate of proficiency at the beginning of December, 2012.  And I will have accomplished my "30-years-old goal," which is to become fluent in another language.  I could cry right now I am so happy.  WAIT.  Still two levels to go.

Level 4 begins in 9 days.  BRING IT.

Amish Ponderings

For the thesis for one of my bachelor's degrees, I did qualitative and quantitative studies on messages in Amish publications.  If you know me well, you will also know that I have been utterly and completely fascinated with the Amish since I was very young, for some deep and disturbing reasons.  You will also know that I was raised Catholic and attended a private Catholic high school.  I am familiar with the bible and advanced Christian tenets and have actively rejected the style of Catholicism upheld by the Pope and clergy as ethically corrupt (not to mention any version of Christianity less liberal than Episcopalian, which is toeing the line).  I rather prefer my mother's inclusive, all-loving brand myself.

That being said, I've been rereading all of the fascinating textbooks, studies and books of memoirs that I've collected over the years on Amish culture, religion and practices.  I've finally put my finger on what disturbs and attracts me so much about the Amish, and why I keep coming back to this particular group to study and mull over.

Before I keep going, if you haven't heard of this before, here are Kohlberg's Stages of Ethical Development.

I don't hesitate to reject social norms and laws, to discard religion and to be completely unafraid of threats of societal or spiritual punishment if any of their bases violate my internal principles of human equality.  This puts me somewhere around Stage 5/6.  Most people spend their lives around Stage 4, but some never progress beyond Stage 2.  Based on my experience, most religion holds adherents at 4, through fear and promises.  Any belief system that uses fear as a tool to control fundamentally opposes my internal principles of love, acceptance, equality and freedom.  Fear is worse than pain, worse than physical suffering.  Any "god" whose teachings can in any way place any creature's essence (a soul, which I firmly believe in) into a state of eternal suffering is a false god, a crass, base social tool created by humanity to keep people fixed in lower stages of ethical development in line with the rest of society.  Unfortunately, it also gives these people the same tool, with which, if they gain societal power, they can use to overpower others.

The root of Amish life can be found in the word Gelassenheit, which means, more or less, submission.  They submit to god, to each other, to all things that their society deems "worldly."  Conflicts are "solved" through avoidance.  Instead of focusing on individual fulfillment, fulfillment comes through the community after the abandonment of self and of the outside world.  Their governing systems are both authoritarian and decentralized, to react swiftly at a local level.  They believe that their way of submission/rejection of societal values like boldness, individualism and personal development is much more difficult than any other way of life, that it is a sacrifice.

Unfortunately, individuals aren't given a choice.  They are kept in ignorance of the machinations of their society and follow/submit blindly, or risk being shunned in all ways; familial, spiritual, societal.  They don't have the education or experience to easily adapt to the outside world, another massive control tool exploited by this way of life.  The result is a kind, gentle, generous, quiet, simple, community-focused group...  Stuck at stage 3, forbidden to express individual will or a desire to personally effect any changes upon the world.

But a sacrifice?  Can one sacrifice without understanding what they are sacrificing?  Can one be forced to sacrifice without pondering deeply and reflexively of the ramifications of such?  It's easy to "submit" to the rules and norms of one's society/religion.  It's the easiest thing we can do, because to fight the pressure means to fight society itself...  And our society's definition of god.

I feel that it is much more difficult, painful and beautiful to take it all in, to have complete freedom and unbridled access to knowledge, to explore, to lose and find oneself again and again, and then discover deep, personal reasons to personally embrace principles of love, community, simplicity and nonviolence.  Claw your way from your box, be hurt, be rejected.  Then, embrace a fresh perspective and know instead of follow.  We are intelligent, active beings infinitely capable of love, pleasure and joy.  Is there a reason to limit our personal growth, to stunt our capacities for these lovely things?

Yes.  Unfortunately, the majority of people don't have the fortitude, the reflexive natures or the will to explore, learn, understand and then reject for the good of all.

I had big plans...

For this blog, including a makeover featuring custom graphics by yours truly.  That was before I raced through four books by Ilona Andrews in two weeks.  ::headdesk::

I just finished up my 2nd week of six of Intermediate French at McGill University.  It felt like two days.  I can't believe that 1/3 of this insane class (and about 50% of the entire degree) is already behind me.  Soon, I will be clutching the certificate in one paw with a cold, frosted bottle of Fumées Blanches in the other and a pile of job offers in my inbox.  Chin chin!

On another note, I keep my Facebook friendlist cropped short at all times, and yet it seems to me as if at least 80% of all of the women I know in committed relationships with a male between ages 23 and 33 are preggers or postpartum at the moment.  I'm feeling kind of left out of all of the congratulatory messages such as "soon, the real work will start!" and "I LOVE the name you chose; Barbados Elrond is so original!" and my personal fave, "only 24 months till his first poo-painting episode; cherish these final days!"

Three hours of dancing this morning.  Felix and I were in the middle of a practice at Conseil des Arts when our coach called and said that he'd been waiting on us for 15 minutes at the studio...  We'd forgotten all about our lesson!  So we booked it to Des Ormeaux and commenced to dance until our feet fell off.  It was a nice feeling and spawned a lovely nap fraught with green tree shadows and warm breezes (I had the bedroom window open).  I worked for a few hours, did plenty of weekend chores and ate brownies that Caspian made.  I find it amazing that he managed to pull himself away from his 60-hour workweek and the lure of Diablo III to create them.

I will put up a picture of our container garden, which Caspian finished planting earlier this morning!  All of our seedlings were successful...  Until yesterday, when Kiska decided that spinach seedlings would make an excellent evening snack and mowed them down.  They are pretty much decimated, but they may bounce back yet.

Je suis à toi.

There is nothing like the heavy, still air before an impending thunderstorm and the dusk light filtering through new leaves.

It is springtime in Montréal, and I am content.  Everything is full and lush again, the sky is that fake-looking 8-bit blue and to sit in French class for six hours a day practicing l'imparfait on the 13th floor of a high rise downtown is pure delight.

To walk home through the bustling city, passing beautiful people of all colors speaking languages of all sorts and enter my cool, quiet little bastion of me...  It's so wonderful.  My little moments of envying my old acquaintances from school their big homes and children and established lives fade into distant memory.  I'm here, but I could up and bust off to Europe or Japan at any moment!  I'm studying diligently, speaking every day with clients spread across the globe.  I can call myself 'fonctionnel' en français and not be lying.  My free time is spent with books and jogging and with my husband.  There's a little boutique down the street whose proprietor knows me by name, asks me for fashion insight and offers me discounts on all the new summer lines just to keep me coming back.  Our little seedlings are ready to be planted this weekend.

Pooh-Pooh to You, Too

I am totally in a bad mood for a dumb reason.

Today was my first day of Intermediate I, and, sadly, I am not the best and brightest student in the class.  Nope, there are six others out of twenty who surpass me in French skills, and possibly education - one in particular has my competitive nature chomping at the bit.  At least we have some new blood and I don't have to be completely irritated at my lackey classmates anymore.  I met my first Americans at McGill University in my new class, and they are quite cool.  Good representation; plenty of tattoos and PhDs.

It also sucks because today was a Perfect Day.  There aren't many Perfect Days in a year, and they should be appreciated.  Luckily, yesterday was one, and I ran about 6k in Westmount south of Ste Catherine, which I've never visited before and loved.  Today...  Was so perfect that it just made my day even worse.  Mocking me with its beauty and all that.  Poking nosy little sunbeams into every crevice of my baby bad mood.  Some corners should just stay shadowed.

Tomorrow will be rainy and I will be avenged!  Take that, sunshine.  I hope chill, seeping spears pierce your brightest places and infuse you with gray.  Damn fine alliteration and assonance.  I am going to wear black and I don't care if it's spring.

I'm Late Late Late

Despite posting what I have deemed rather antisocial rantings and/or self-doubting analyses that I often regret later but leave up because they perfectly captured one of my priceless moods (heck, maybe I'm even more likely to learn from my mistakes if they sting a bit?), a snarky, funny, sweet, surprising buddy of mine hath blesseth me..eth...  With the...  (will I ever rid mythelf of thith lithp?)

As tickled and surprised as I was, I'm confused as to who to pass this award on to, as the few blogs I read are also innermost thoughts, unsearchable via Google, anonymous and very private.  I will have to think long and hard about it, since it's a social award and I have such an itty bitty readership (who probably only come back because it's fun to roll eyes at the crazies).

So, I would like to take this opportunity to thank all y'all (raised in the south!) who keep coming back for more of this stuff, as weird, overblown, dreamy or ranty as it may be!  Visit Martine, too.  She's awesome and her name will likely be a fantasy buzzword in the near future.

Part Deux:  Now I have to post 10 things you may not know about me.  Heh heh heh.  I think you probably know everything about me, especially if you've followed me through all my drama at the previous iteration of this blog (over 650 posts, I think?).  ::deep breath::

1. I can't stand it when things "run low," even if I have replacements handy.  That last, tiny glorb of toothpaste lurking in the tube?  My nemesis.  Those few, final drops of dish soap in the bottle?  Enemy mine (good movie).  If I had no ethics and was a creature of pure desire, I would only use 3/4ths of everything and discard the rest.
2. There is nothing grosser to me than spit.  I hate other people's spit.  Kitty cat eye boogies is a close second.
3. I used to have tons of piercings, but as I got older, they disappeared one by one, and now I'm left with a hole in each ear and one in my bellybutton.
4. I have a very large tattoo (that covers most of my upper back, but I despise tattoos on men.  Complete turn-off.
5. I was "valedictorian" of my graduating class (grad school).
6. I received several Fs in high school.  ::smirk::
7. I have only killed one animal willfully, and it was a minnow.  I was a child and wanted to see its insides.  The memory continues to disturb me.
8. When I was around 13 or 14, I was the best piano player in my state for my age group.
9. I have an undying fascination with marshmallows.  A bag of little fruity marshmallows would be an appreciated gift for any occasion.
10. I think Billy Crudup and Andrej Pejic are two of the most beautiful dudes on the planet; as for ladies, I'd pick Delphine Chanéac and Claire Forlani.

Be Yourself

My sister sent me this CNN article, titled Aging stylishly, online and in the streets.  I love it.  Don't be fooled - it's not about style, but about being yourself.  Style may have its place, or it may not - depending on the person, but it is true that one always expresses something about oneself through one's appearance, with or without meaning to.

The article caused me to think back on my own personal style and wonder what's going on:  Do I let society define my conceptualization of what is stylish, or do I define it myself?  Previously, the former...  But I am going to change that.

When I was a little girl and as soon as I had any say in how I dressed, I shamelessly and proudly called myself "tacky."  Paisley stirrup pants with a bright pink shirt encircled by shirred anemone-like flounces?  With brown leather ankle boots and wooden earrings painted raucous colors in the stylized shapes of cats with dangling arms and legs?  Don't forget the spiky side half-ponytail.  That was me.  Mom's size 5.5 clogs from the 70s plus green tights and a pink plaid wool pleated skirt?  Yes please.  I remember vividly my mom saying (hopefully?) to me,"You're going to change when you get older, you know."  Innocently, I replied, "Nope, I'll always be tacky."  And then expressed interest in buying a blue metallic Christmas tree strung with colored lights.  She rolled her eyes.

After being teased relentlessly in middle school for my flippant, hyper ways, insane outfits, lack of boobs and unusual choices in friends, I realized that it just wouldn't fly anymore.  Something had to be done.  I caved.  I chopped my hair off boy-short and embraced piercings, the color black and gothy/outcast buddies.  Except I didn't do it stylishly.  I couldn't really care less about style.  I mixed retro with euro in the same outfit with high-water cargo pants and shiny Born clogs.  I imagine it looked terrible.  In this way, I was actually more true to myself at this age than later.

By the end of high school, my sunny personality reasserted itself and I found myself with a nice figure, a small waist and big boobs, which I'd never expected.  I didn't really know what to do with any of it.  I dressed in expensive but blasé outfits from GAP, nothing super tight, nothing super bright.  I kind of did this throughout college, looking cute and nice, but that's it.  I went through a horrible overalls stage.  Learn from my mistakes and avoid them at all costs.

And then, it started with the boyfriends.  Bluh, boyfriends, completely overrated.  My first serious boyfriend (and I mean serious; the relationship was maybe 5 or 6 years long) didn't really think about my clothes or express any opinions, so I stuck with what I knew.  Bootcut jeans, boring-cute shoes and light pink or blue tops, all with the same v-neck, all through two bachelor's degrees.

The next serious boyfriend...  Was quite controlling, aesthetically.  Not outright, but with subtle hints and vague, insidious expressions of disapproval.  And plenty of pressure.  I came to realize that I was a hottie in sheep's clothing. How did I let this happen?  My makeup wasn't right, my clothes weren't slutty enough.  Why wasn't I showing off these shapely legs and gorgeous curves?  I was meant to be seen and heard, to be paraded in public like some prize cow.  Suddenly, I had to acquire flashy earrings.  I had to tan at the salon a couple times a week (really regretting that).  Shoes?  Black and high-heeled patent.  In the back of my mind, some part of me rebelled.  I mean, sure, dressing/acting like that is fun...  When I want to dress/act like that. If somebody else is wanting me to dress like that, I'm always second-guessing myself.  Being meek, wondering if I made pleasing choices.  It was wrong.  There was no me in those clothes.  I wish I had been stronger, more mature.

The next serious boyfriend would become my husband.  He finds me beautiful and compelling in old pajamas, devoid of make-up, with bedhead and old mascara and coffee breath, not just in the sheath dresses, knee-boots and elegant coif.  I can dance a sexy rumba or the funky chicken, and he's kind of equally attracted to both.  It took me awhile to realize that, years even.  And now I realize that while it's nice to be accepted, it doesn't matter!

Now it's time to dig out those raucous, painted wood cat earrings and wear them with a demure wool top, sparkly nail polish and beaded moccasins.  It's time to throw away that shitty, flashy jewelry I hated and buy pieces that I feel drawn to for my own reasons.  Let's wear silver and gold together on the same hand.  Let's get a floral tattoo that covers most of the upper back.  Natural eyes in the morning, heavy liner in the evening with emerald-green shadow!  Classy boots and bright red dresses and push-up bras!  Sometimes, brown and blue and flowing and shy.  Why the hell not?  In Montréal, no matter how far you go, there will always be somebody who passes you on the street looking 10x more outrageous.  Sometimes it's nice to just not care, too.

So, this article really appealed to me, because finally, I feel comfortable and confident enough to be myself, even if I don't exactly have the funds at the moment. I really like Ilona Royce-Smithkin's (age 92) quote:

"Young people are too quickly in older life, they have no childhood. It's like speeding up strawberries to grow," she said. "They look great, but there's no taste."

Container Garden, Part 1

In December, I bought Caspian Urban Gardening by Thomas J. Fox.  We have a little city backyard with an alley behind, and Caspian asked the owner of our house if we could plant a garden.  Caspian has always been interested in self-sustainable living, especially gardening.  But the landlord said that a garden would be impossible, since the soil in the backyard is only five inches deep, with gravel underneath; we'd have to build raised beds, and he didn't want to do that (he wanted to keep his lilies and flowers).  Caspian was quite dejected for a few weeks, but I rekindled his enthusiasm by insisting that we start a medium-sized container garden.

Today, we went together after work (both of us are working six or seven days a week right now) to buy ten 12" x 12" square containers, some seedling trays and spinach, cucumber, pea, onion and Swiss chard seeds.  We bought four bamboo trellises for the peas and cukes and Caspian carefully planted the seedlings this evening with peat in the starter trays (following the guidelines for each type of plant in his book), and we will keep them inside for the next two weeks or so (the last frost date is May 19th) and then plant them in the containers in a mix of soil and the compost that we've been preparing for the last year and a half.  Caspian even diagrammed his plans on graph paper to scale, indicating how far apart each seedling should be planted in each container, depending on its species.  He will use his drill to make tiny drainage holes in the container bottoms before he plants.

We can move the containers easily and change their configuration at will.  We pushed a very tiny gardening initiative last year, when Caspian started some seedlings and created a vertical garden from a canvas shoe organizer, with cherry tomatoes, herbs, lettuce and beans...  But we got started late and its location didn't receive much sunlight.  We ate the lettuce and the beans, and I think we harvested a grand total of two cherry tomatoes?

This year will be better!

Oops...

Dream:

I was working as a floor-sweeper for my old piano teacher, L, in her music shop.  It was an okay job, I was pretty good at it...  But I was also one of the high-ranking members of a secret guild of mages, almost by default, as my abilities were (apparently - I had no idea in the dream!) unparalleled and didn't require much education or practice.

Unfortunately and predictably, the vast population of "gnormies" (non-guild people) quite disapproved of this guild.  Feared and yet also ridiculed, for whatever reason.

As the story goes, I would visit one cafe every day during lunch to eat my meal and talk with the people working nearby.  And as luck would have it, one day, sitting beside me, was my awkward and talented idol, High Contrast.  We chatted for awhile and soon became friends.  I learned that one of my cute co-workers (and rivals) was collaborating with another drum & bass artist to win a new artist contest, and High Contrast urged me to work with him to produce my own track, which would undoubtedly blow hers out of the water.

I don't remember much of the production process at all, but I very vividly recall the filming of the music video, which involved me in a badass Trinity outfit doing stunts on a crotch rocket.  That pretty much comprised the vast majority of the dream, and when I watched the music video later, I was amazed at all of the post-production and amazing shots they got of all of my bizarre facial expressions.  I hadn't even spotted a camera!

Needless to say, the song was awesome (I woke up with Internal Affairs' 1993 track Shinin' Down on Me very firmly stuck in my head, which I think I bastardized and called my own in the dream)...  Yet, so was the song of my little blonde rival, which was comprised of a lot of heady, breathy lyrics and dreamlike beats.  I could totally appreciate it, but she was my rival!

So, the party war began.  We both threw a massive party at the same time and in the same place, each trying to gather more supporters than the other...  But what resulted was just a ginormous party.  Until she started detracting the mages' guild of which I was a high-ranking member.  Things got ugly and pseudo rioty, until I got so insulted that I knew I had to do something rash that would impress/terrify everybody.  I didn't really make a conscious decision about what that something would be though...

And I ended up sprouting red, orange and yellow steel feathers all over my body and transforming into a metal bird of death that screeched a mighty screech and then flew off into the chilly air of the starry night, leaving the terrified party-goers huddled under the tables.  I was both self-righteous and sad at the same time, because I knew that High Contrast would never speak to me again.

I went back to my apartment and watched Jesper (my cat) catch and eat falling snowflakes out on the balcony.

A heartfriend sent this poem...

...to me today.  I cried.

Horses at Midnight Without a Moon
Jack Gilbert

Our heart wanders lost in the dark woods.
Our dream wrestles in the castle of doubt.
But there's music in us. Hope is pushed down
but the angel flies up again taking us with her.
The summer mornings begin inch by inch
while we sleep, and walk with us later
as long-legged beauty through the dirty streets.
It is no surprise that danger and suffering surround us.
What astonishes is the singing.
We know the horses are there in the dark
meadow because we can smell them,
can hear them breathing.
Our spirit persists like a man struggling
through the frozen valley
who suddenly smells flowers
and realizes the snow is melting
out of sight on top of the mountain,
knows that spring has begun.

Money Equals Freedom?

Here I am, thoroughly enjoying my three week break from school!

Despite the fact that it's been rainy (and snowy, at times) and gross, and despite some truly epic migraines that have lasted for days (I blame allergies), much exercising, reading, cooking and planning has happened.  Applied for a really interesting position at one of Canada's largest philanthropic organizations dedicated to women's issues, and even got headhunted yesterday in French.  I will interview just for practice!

Much thinking has happened as well.  I have decided to be uber, super picky about my career path.  I pondered my naive decision to work for government after grad school, as well as possible careers in the private sector, and completely gone are the days when I would accept a position simply because it "sounds good" or "pays well" or "is 'professional.'"  It's time to actually do something that will change the world in ways that interest me.  Anything less is just a placeholder and a farce.

After interviewing at the advertising firm and being perfect for the position apart from the fact that I couldn't start work until after six weeks (ultimately why I wasn't offered a position), I realized just how short-sighted that particular company was.  Maybe they were pressed for time and/or man/womanpower, but they passed up a potential dedicated, intelligent, long-term employee.  Was not concerned; the bottom line was obviously more important than honing the combined skillset of the company.  However, if I'm not granted an interview at the women's advocacy organization I mentioned above, I'm going to be really bummed.

Prematurely and happily, I've spent many hours of my free mornings dreaming about what I'd like to see in a custom house on a large piece of property.  HA.  I dream of designing a rather small contemporary home to be built on Prince Edward Island, covered in solar panels and boasting a state-of-the-art rainwater reclaiming and filtering system, complete with a forest, a view of the Atlantic and a garden capable of sustaining us all year on our own produce.  We would have a music room for Caspian (and I), a library to contain our zillion books and a beautiful nook where I can write my books.  I would just love to live this kind of ultra-modern, old-fashioned, self-sustaining life.

In the meantime, I mean to find a fulfilling career and make the most of this car-free, dance-filled, downtown city life!

A Nom Story

Today, we joined our very first organic food co-op, which delivers right to our doorstep twice a week, if we want.

We bought chicken brochettes, chicken breast, several kinds of vegetables and lettuce, seasonal fruits and organic yogurt, milk, cream and quinoa.

I smirk at myself, because I simply can't stand it when particular friends of ours finish all of their food-related sentences with, "and it's straight from our local CSA!" or "it's organic and free-range!"  The whole "organic" hype thingy what-cha-mah has turned me into a rebel who specifically doesn't buy organic just to feel original to a satisfying degree.

And then I found this co-op!  Free delivery across the island with an order of $80, no membership fee, and you can pick and choose which items you want to buy.  It's awesome.  And it's organic and free-range!  And straight from our local CSA!  If you turn your bottles and jars back in, you receive a $2 credit per bottle or jar!  Each order is assembled the next morning, and it's kind of exciting to know that the turnaround for food coming in from farmers is so fast that it's possible that the items you chose will have to be substituted for something similar.

It's almost like having no choice but to eat organic stuff!

Unfortunately/fortunately, we are at the whims of the seasons and can't choose, for instance, golden delicious apples right now (only gala and pink lady).  We can only buy salmon, trout and red bass.

To Be, Or Not to Be Part 1

I'm at the halfway mark of the controversial book No Kids, written by a French mother of three, loaned to me by a fellow childfree (I kind of like this term, amidst all of the "parentally correctness"* bandied about in North America and Europe right now) married friend and classmate.
*Corinne Maier

The author, Corinne Maier, introduces 40 reasons not to have children with wordy wit, unmitigated vitriol and an overly bipolar view of the universe...  After all, she wrote the book in such a way that it would incite the most emotional reaction - either total agreement and satisfied self-righteousness for the childfree, or complete disdain and fury, on the parts of parents or would-be parents.  The book is an hilarious read if you refuse to fall prey to her juicy, tempting bait.  In the middle of all this acerbic sarcasm and anti-State paranoia, she did manage to air some concerns and "foods for thought" regarding parenthood that are at the crux of my natural, lifelong disinclination to be a mother.

"Every child born to a developed country is an ecological disaster for the entire planet." pg. 2 

"'The child's innocence is vested in the weakness of its limbs, not its will.' (Saint Augustine)  Children are like dogs; if they were two or three times bigger, they would be vicious beasts, your own worst enemies." pg. 45

"Consumption is the foundation of parenthood.  In the land of merchandise, the child is in its element.  It's great for capitalism, always more things, always more crap that you can't recycle, interchangeable junk soon forgotten and endlessly replaceable.  As long as there are kids, the absurd world we live in has a future." pg. 54  

"Having a child is the best possible way to avoid asking what the meaning of life is, as everything revolves around that child, who is a marvellous substitute for the existential quest.  The philosopher Alexandre Kojève said 'the animal defines itself by exhausting its existential possibilities in procreation.'" pgs. 82 - 83

When I was a young girl, when the subject of my future motherhood came up, I would respond with a truthful "I don't like kids."  Later, à la socialization, I realized that this was too truthful in the midst of a self-absorbed, viral society obsessed with fertility, and thus I modified my response to a more acceptably self-deprecatory "I'm too selfish to have children."  This, too, is untrue.  Apart from infrequent hormonal urgings, I am simply not interested in children, in procreation, in the parental lifestyle.  Thus far, the thought of motherhood holds no allure, no whispers of primal joy, no celestial connection with the divine; only the promise of attention and social reinforcement.  On the rational side, why should I sacrifice so much of myself and all I have striven to become (and after I have just begun to love and cherish who I am!) to introduce another terrifyingly selfish being into a terrifyingly selfish, human world?

A study conducted by the University of Oregon (quoted by Oregon Live) indicates:

"In the United States, the carbon legacy and greenhouse gas impact of an extra child is almost 20 times more important than some of the other environmentally sensitive practices people might employ their entire lives - things like driving a high mileage car, recycling, or using energy-efficient appliances and light bulbs. The research also makes it clear that potential carbon impacts vary dramatically across countries. The average long-term carbon impact of a child born in the U.S. - along with all of its descendants - is more than 160 times the impact of a child born in Bangladesh. 

Under current conditions in the U.S., for instance, each child ultimately adds about 9,441 metric tons of carbon dioxide to the carbon legacy of an average parent - about 5.7 times the lifetime emissions for which, on average, a person is responsible." 

This is reprehensible.  And I feel that it is part of my duty, as a conservationist, to prevent it as best as I can and in a way that comes naturally to me and my spouse.  Do we add anything, or do we just take away?  Is our human definition of "adding value" taking away from the health of the planet?  We see this phenomenon in our children, who take and take and take...  And then resent us for not being better parents.  I did it to my own parents, and I consider myself to be blessed with intelligence and beauty, an excellent education and veritable showers of love, acceptance and support from all directions.

Now, I ask myself if I would even recognize a true desire for children after three decades of disinterest, and if so, if it would be utterly selfish to indulge it when there are so many unwanted, uncared-for babies in the world who need [a] financially-secure, free and established parent[s].  Isn't it a much better situation (in terms of psychology, spirituality, lifestyle, economics, ecology, ethics, you name it) to take into one's household one of the planet's millions of neglected souls, without sacrificing or risking one's body, one's spousal relationship and one's youth, and after waiting until one had experienced a fulfilling and lucrative career?

As I continue to uphold, support and underscore this choice not to become a parent, I willingly accept all responsibility for any hormonal pangs of regret that I may or may not experience in my future, and everybody insists that I will feel them.  We will see what happens.  I really like Maier's assertion that having a child is not a right...  It's simply a possibility.

The concept of fertility is no longer needed, it should not be revered anymore, from a rational and ecological standpoint.  Back when humanity was threatened, survival was not guaranteed and we needed new humans to defend ourselves from rival groups, yes, it was necessary for the future of our species.  We're in the opposite situation now - we live too long, we destroy so much, we have so little remaining to us, mediocrity thrives, there is no such thing as uniquity anymore.  And yet, we are obsessed with the sanctity of procreation!  Our gender roles, our taxation systems, our economies, our advertising, our governments - our very lives revolve around it - and it will destroy.  The world.  I hear it in the whispers in the breeze, I see it in the carbon footprints, I read it between the lines of the studies and the research projects...  We're pretty much doomed.

Babies have become a business, a frightening, empty business, a pie that The State wants to have its fingers in, and a socialized enslavement.  Parents, especially mothers, are slaves.  Despite the fact that attitude is everything - and if you are in control of your attitude, you are in control of your situation - I don't even care to deal with the trouble of trying to raise a child outside of this sprawling spiderweb of politics, social pressure, consumerism and marketing.  It's hard enough not to fall prey to The Endless Acquisition of Stuff myself.

The Agony and the Ecstasy

I just have to say that I am absolutely blown away by High Contrast's new album, the Agony and the Ecstasy.  Just floored by it.  I haven't read any reviews, any critical feedback or comments by the artist on its production.  There are a few songs on it that have just sort of deeply shaken me.

Track 8:  Two Hundred & Thirty Eight Days

The opening note, struck by a hammered dulcimer, pretty much sets the tone.  I get chills.  I don't even know what the hell it's supposed to be about.  I listened it for the first time with my new ultra-bass earbuds while washing dishes and was pretty convinced, as I swished away with my little scrubby, that I was some jaded superhero about to sacrifice myself to save the world or something.  The song doesn't even climax.  It takes you almost to the edge, you're about to save the world, but then you fizzle out, you lose your focus.  You fail.  And so, you stand on the beach and watch it all burn.  Maybe you're convinced you did the right thing, in the end.

Track 9:  Not Waving, But Drowning

The whole concept of this song is resignedly, passively self-despising.  I just love it.  It's real dubstep, straight from the mind of this Welsh master.  Can it get any further from Skrillex?