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.
Friday, July 27, 2012
Wednesday, July 25, 2012
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 24, 2012
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.
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.
Monday, July 23, 2012
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.
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.
Sunday, July 22, 2012
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.
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.
Saturday, July 21, 2012
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.
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.
Wednesday, July 18, 2012
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.
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, July 17, 2012
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).
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).
Monday, July 16, 2012
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):
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.
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?
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.
Saturday, July 14, 2012
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.
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.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)