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?

Rant Time!

Yesterday was my first free weekday morning/afternoon after six 60-hour weeks full of studying, flu, broken bones, final exams and weekends of work.

So, I spent it chilling, shopping for food, reading books I'd intended to read for months.  I cleaned the whole house from top to bottom (I actually washed bathroom ceilings, guys), did all the laundry, swept and mopped and bleached and scrubbed.  Finally, after a couple of hours of teaching, I'd gotten a gchat message from Caspian indicating that he was on his way home.  I went outside in the gorgeous dusk to enjoy the 28-degree weather and wait for him.

Our stone townhouse lies between a pricey bed & breakfast and the longtime home of a rich older lady.  She and another elderly neighbor were sitting on her front terrace, enjoying the summery weather.  The other guy is the one who has been in my disfavor ever since he killed that harmless snake last summer.  Anyway, they both said hi to me and we chatted in French together.  The guy, A, asked me why I'd decided to come outside.  I explained to him that I'd gotten a message from Caspian, indicating that he'd just left work and was walking home.  A thinks that Caspian is pretty much the best thing since sliced bread, and neither I nor Caspian can figure out what caused this opinion.  A has also made it pretty clear on multiple occasions that he thinks I'm lazy-bones jones and not worth Caspian.  A said:

     "Where's the red carpet?  The gourmet meal?  The martini?  You should at least roll out a red carpet!"
     "Pardon?" said I.
     "You have to work to keep a man like that, you know.  There aren't many like him in the world and I know.  You should be fighting tooth and nail to make him happy or you'll lose him and be alone.  And if there's one thing I regret in my life, it's not having a baby."  He winked.
     I gritted my teeth and somehow forced a smile.  "Oh, if he weren't something special I wouldn't've married him," I replied airily.
     "If you don't give him a reason to stay, he'll leave.  Go inside and get cooking!"

Fortunately, I was spared from the trouble of having to hold back a half-dozen scathing replies about the "unendurable horrors of being alone" and the apparent crux of the male soul (food and babies) by the arrival of Caspian.  Upon which A took the opportunity to look at me pointedly and remark, "What, no kiss?!"

Assface.

Wednesday Update

So...  What's going on in the life of Shinseiko?  Well, I happen to be drinking a gin & tonic while sitting at my desk, wishing and hoping that my group presentation partners would realize that they forgot to attach the final presentation documents to their e-mail...  And the presentation is tomorrow morning.  ::facepalm::

I lost quite a bit of weight when ill that I didn't really need to lose (I think I ate one meal every two days during that week, and every .5 degree C increase in body temperature increases one's BMR 7%), so I've been making up for it by eating Cadbury eggs, Chee-tos and Whippets.  If you don't know what a Whippet is, your life is just a pale, wan shadow of what it could be.  A Whippet is a Montréalais soft sugar cookie topped with raspberry jam, covered with a big marshmallow, and then enrobed in dark chocolate.

How can you not want this?

French this semester is markedly more difficult (and rigorously graded) than last semester.  I consistently receive the class high grades, but they are usually somewhere around 80 -  82%; it is extremely rare for anybody to receive a mark over 82%.  I've had to study pretty consistently now that we've gotten to different tonic pronouns for verbs with, without and with multiple prepositions in many different forms.  I'm really confident in my everyday listening comprehension and accent, but correct grammar requires ultra concentration...  Enthusiasm kind of makes up for that though in many cases.  I go to school early so that I have an extra 30 minutes to review what we learned the day before, which is a lot, given that every day contains 6 class hours.  Then, I come home and work until 7.

Yeah, so we have our final project presentations tomorrow and I am CURSED with unintelligent, procrastinating, childish group partners.  Well, one in particular who absolutely drives me up the wall and makes me want to throttle him.  It is absolutely, factually the truth.  We present tomorrow morning, and this person hasn't contributed a damn thing.  I told him to have his portion done by 8 PM this evening; he complained and said that he needed to sleep from 3:30 - 8 PM and would have it done by 12 AM.  I retorted, "Absolutely not.  You are going to go home and finish this project that is due tomorrow."  He looked at me like I was bonkers and said sarcastically to our other two groupies (who were looking on in dismay), "What mom here said.  Except 11 PM."  Have I ever come so close to grabbing somebody's ear and yanking on it for all I was worth?  Nope.

So goes my existence.

P.S. - Ribs are still broken.

Name Use by Russians

I don't know about you, but I talk to Russian guys and ladies every day.  In class, and for my job.

I've noticed something that is particular to all Russians that I speak with...  They use names with far more frequency than those with whom I interact from any other culture.

Most people use first names to get the attention of their desired conversational partner at the initiation of a conversation.  However, Russians (and I generalize based on experience) are very likely to reiterate one's name many times throughout a conversation, at the beginning of emphasized statements and at the end of advice/recommendations.  I spoke with one of my regular students today and he must have used my name at least 4 or 5 times in 45 minutes, which is highly unusual when two people are conversing one-on-one with no interruptions.

And it's so...  Endearing!  I've noticed that it's natural for me to feel closer and more appreciated by people who use my name often.  I like being spoken to specifically, I like to hear my name being said by others.  Thus, Russians seem a lot more personable than people from other cultures, even though they are naturally very emotive, trite and forceful speakers.