It's still a mystery to me
How his infant eyes had seen the dawn of time
That his ears had heard an angels' symphony
Still Mary had to rock her saviour to sleep...


Merry Christmas.

I am the jerk who prefers the sea I could never see

I just finished my Christmas wrapping (lies, all lies - I lost one of my presents for my mom... I think I wrapped it up in my brother's gift), listening to Iron & Wine up in my room. An unconventional choice for my Christmas wrapping background music, especially for me, the most iron-clad traditionalist at Christmastime. But there was something about tonight's introspective and melancholic mood that called for Iron & Wine over Crystal Lewis' rendition of Joy to the World (as delicious as that is). I watched The Last Kiss tonight (Doesn't that not come out until Tuesday? you may ask. Ah, my friends, welcome to the perks of working at Blockbuster) and it edged me subtly into the mood I have come to associate with movies that deal dangerously with relationships. The ones that look at a shadow of a connection and leave you asking But why? and When will it happen to me? The ones that don't show something easy, or peaceful - but full. And it's that fullness that I find myself alternately longing for... and backing away from, mostly because I'm convinced it can never happen to me. And if it would, I wouldn't want it anyways.

Ah, 2am introspection. What would life be without you?

I hear those sleigh bells ring-a-ling...

Watch some goodness this Christmas:

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Make Your Movie Wall

Flixster

Shallow and utterly irresistable love

Life is looking up, my friends.

I bought new shoes today. Beautiful, compelling new shoes that make me feel like a comic book character in the sexiest way possible. I'm laughing at myself. But I do love my new shoes. Benito New Year's Eve Dance, watch out! Forget Santa: the hot big-city shoes are coming to town.

AND. (I know, there's already new shoes in this story - how could it get any better? Oh, but it does...) While my lovely mother was purchasing not-so-compelling-but-very-comfy new nursing shoes (complete with a Dr. Scholl's removable gel pad! I'll tell you right now, my new shoes may be gorgeous, but they do not have a gel pad), I was perusing the handbag section of the store. The handbag sale section. And who happened to pick up a lovely little bag and find it marked down to $9.99? There was another bag - Italian, white, leather, sigh - for only $19.99, but I finally made myself resist. (If anyone's struggling for Christmas present ideas for me...)

Ah. Shoes and a handbag in one hurried evening out. I may fail my exams this week, but I'll look fantastic as I do so.


p.s. The Crystal Lewis cd I had stolen from my sister so long ago that I thought she finally stole back? I found it yesterday evening in our cd stand - life is not only looking better, but sounding better as well!

Hop-Along Cassidy just dove off the track...

I feel irritated at myself for always leaving overly-dramatic/sentimental entries. The good news is that means I'm exercising more genuine writing and recording all the good entries (or the excessively dramatic ones) in my real journal. The bad news is that my dwindling force of readers are subjected to schmaltz.

So, on a brighter note:

I was introduced to two new Québecois artists who are utterly fantastic. Mala Jube is the French soul of Belle & Sebastian (hidden Scottish gold), and La Manouche can only be inadequately described as "French gypsy rock," as my best friend and I like to put it.

Hop on over to your nearest bibliothèque publique and check them out. It'll be well worth the trip.

Three-inch-high ruts and dirty slush

I just quit my job.

I'm trying not to feel guilty and like a horrible person, but it's not really working. I'm really going to miss those people (except my psycho manager, the reason that I quit... well, her and the fact that working every single weekend after being in school for 10 hours a day isn't much of a life).

I just spent half an hour on the Prov website, seeing who made all the ministry teams this year. It made me miss Prov.

The combination of birthday and Christmas always makes me so sentimental and lonesome. I want exams to be done (I'm not studying anyways, they may as well be done). I want to be back in dorm. I want to watch the Charlie Brown Christmas Special on TV. And I want to go tobogganing.

I want I want I want. I'm fitting right into the holiday spirit, aren't I?

A Case of Mutiple Super-Personality Disorder

Apparently, they just couldn't decide who I was:

Your Superhero Profile A

Your Superhero Name is The Ring Hurricane Your Superpower is Rapping Your Weakness is Love Your Weapon is Your Particle Rusty Your Mode of Transportation is Love Van

What's your Superhero Name?

Darn you, Love!

Your Superhero Profile B

Your Superhero Name is The Living Singer Your Superpower is Invisibility Your Weakness is Women Your Weapon is Your Nuclear Crowbar Your Mode of Transportation is Pegasus

What's your Superhero Name?

I'm a danger to myself, apparently.

Your Superhero Profile C

Your Superhero Name is The Psychic Ranger Your Superpower is Spiritual Your Weakness is Flirting Your Weapon is Your Light Lance Your Mode of Transportation is Jet

What's your Superhero Name?

Just turn on the flirting and let God do the rest...


Bah, I'm supposed to be studying!!

The alcaline eye

Bad, bad me. Whatever happened to iron-willed, steely-focused studying? A tiny, quick entry, that's all, I have promised myself, and then it's back upstairs to the books. Every since I moved my room around, I've been studying in the orange armchair I dragged upstairs from the basement. It's so bizarre to be studying upstairs in my room... I've always been a kitchen table studier, one who would gripe about the steady drone of conversation and interruptions around me while secretly relishing it as unavoidable opportunities for procrastination.

Anyways. So much for my apparent anonymity on my blog. I am still not quite sure if I intended this blog to be as anonymous as my previous one, or if I started a new blog for precisely the reason to actually have a place to connect with the known. A little of both, I guess, but again, my fault completely. It's too hard to resist the temptation of connecting... is it a pride issue? Back to the second grade, but instead of comparing lunch boxes, we now compare blogs?

I rest bemused, slightly ashamed, but with not enough time to consider this farther. Back upstairs I go...

Making my ancestors proud...

I think a study should be done on the completely bizarre eating habits of students. Come to think of it, I'm sure there have already been countless studies done; all those articles on the Freshman 15 didn't come out of nowhere. Maybe they should just use me as a case study then. I had a microbiology exam this morning, so I spent all yesterday evening studying. My study-eating habits are not too pretty. I had a normal breakfast, went to church, came home and had a normal lunch. Then things started getting out of control. It used to be that I would inevitably get uncontrollable munchies while studying. Now, the munchies attack me when I even think about studying. I went through chips, chocolate, a random second lunch of slow-cooked porkchops and saurekraut (Я љублю кіслу капусту!), several apples, more chips, numerous glasses of lemon ginger ale (I hate ginger ale but by this point my stomach was upset), and some raisins. Chocolate-covered, of course. Then peppermint tea and kubasa and cheese made an appearance for supper. And then I started studying.

No, it wasn't quite that bad. I fit some studying in somewhere between the second lunch and the late dinner. And now, it's only 1100 in the morning, and I'm already more than ready for lunch.

I think all of the brain cells I miss while studying end up in my stomach, making it larger and emptier than ever. Sigh. I should have taken a culinary degree and killed two birds with one stone.

Un nuit, stille nacht, wretched night

It's Remembrance Day, I suppose; 54 minutes past, but still close enough. And what did I do today that was worth remembering? Spent over a third of my day at the ol' BB, selling mindless movies to equally mindless customers... some with only minds enough to berate me on the lack of inspiring titles (because sadly enough, Little Man and Click are considered inspiring).

Last night, in the newborn minutes of Remembrance Day, I watched Joyeux Noël with my brother - a film that portrays the ceasefire of WWI on Christmas Eve in a manner as complex and beautiful as the three languages in which it is filmed. Usually on Remembrance Day, I weep for the countless individuals who have died in sacrifice. This year, after watching that film, I wept for the wars that had to take place at all.

They sang together and toasted each other and bested each other in football one glorious evening: why did they allow their commanding officers to make them enemies once again? The ceasefire created beauty, but in the end, where is the beauty in killing a friend?

Par chemin au parchemin

I think the receptionist thought I was quite cute today. I went to her to find out if the Soirée d'excellence was tonight.

Oui, oui, bien sûr...

And was it at 19h30?

Mais oui, je crois que oui...

And, well... what exactly was it for?

I think that's when she thought I was being cute. Especially after I tried to explain to her that yes, I had been invited to it, but I happened to have lost the invitation a few days after I received it. I wish everyone was that easy to please.

Mom was my invitée for the evening, and I felt bad for even dragging her along, because I was pretty sure we would just end up sitting in the theatre for half an hour while a faculty member praised us as a passing comment to his plea for more funding.

Apparently not. As soon as we walked in, I was whisked away to a separate room to prepare for our "entrance," while Mom was vaguely directed in a language she did not speak towards a room in a school she had never before entered. I was given a program. I was affixed with a corsage. I was then waved towards a swollen mass of fellow recipients who had already tightened into casually intimidating groups. I escaped to the bathroom to gather my courage, and when I returned, the room was still and listening to a faculty member give final instructions. I only caught her last sentence:

Be sure you don't make any mistakes.

How very comforting.

I felt as though I was at a sombre wedding or a very mellow graduation. There was even a musical trio providing improvised melodies as each recipient was announced! There was a photographer and embossed mock-leather folders and a light reception afterwards. So much for this not being a big deal. I rather liked it.

And I liked showing off my world to my mom. The entire program was in French - whoopsies. I think she had half-prepared for that but it was still somewhat of a surprise. But she followed along as best she could, and what I appreciated most was she didn't try to anglicize the evening. She noticed the differences and emphasized them and was proud of me for them. I took her on a tour of my school and we were both so full of delight to share this new part of my life together. The reception only had instant coffee lurking inside the carafes, so she declared she would take me out to celebrate. We hopped over to Finales, because I wanted to see where Kat worked, and of course who happened to be working tonight? It was a good evening. Two of my favourite girls in the world that I love. What more could I ask for?

Y a l'Ontario dans l'cul aussi!

I spent the evening (somewhat inadvertently) at the French Film Festival, hanging out at the Globe for 2½ hours because my best friend can't read military time. Her and I and my brother just returned home from watching Bon Cop Bad Cop, and all I can say is:

Canadian filmmakers, I salute you.

One of the wittiest, most hilarious and beautifully juxtaposed films I have seen in a very long time. The humour was birthed purely from the rapid-paced, clever dialogue, and the development in character relations was subtle but utterly essential to the underlying themes of the movie.

I actually don't know when I have laughed so hard during a movie. And yet it moved me to tears as well. They took the most common of themes and inlaid it with wholly Canadian references and gestures that transformed a forgettable cops n' robbers movie into an unforgettable look at the pride of a culture versus the pride of a nation that threaten to tear each other apart.

I have my rights too; this is the smoking section.

Quand j'ai regardé à l'interieur, j'ai pensé que j'entendais quelqu'un en destres. Et il y avait quelqu'un, mais pas qui j'ai pensé. Et il était en destres... mais pas aujourd'hui.

You have a strong accent in both French and English... who was your tutour, Jean Chrétien?

Do yourself a favour : go and support Canadian film.

When enough is too much

Last midterm tomorrow.

I think I'm going to die a slow and painful death before then. Or at least my memory retention will. I don't think it's physically possible to cram 148 powerpoint slides into my already-too-full brain. There has to be a limit somewhere, and I think I passed it at 121.

The end is in sight... good weekend coming up...

And then only 2 weeks before the "partial test" period starts! Whoohoo!

The savage art of shame

When did selfishness become cute? When did shame become laughable? It was a simple question, and to me, the answer seemed embarrassingly obvious. But I grew to abhor the inevitable response. Would you like to donate $1 to the children's hospital?

And it wasn't even that they simply replied no. Oh... no, not today (because obviously they were planning to come back tomorrow and donate $20). But their reply would then be followed by a coy ducking of the head, a simpering laugh, and an Oh-aren't-I-terrible sideways glance at their partner.

You see, it was far more convenient when they were alone. Then they didn't feel the need to justify their moral degradation with hollow sweetness.

It's the children's hospital. You will pay $10 for a violent video game, $6 for a crappy movie, and harass me because you want the Lindt chocolate bar for $2 instead of $5 (even though you'll end up buying it anyways). And yet you think you can cutely justify your refusal to donate $1 - ONE DOLLAR - to sick kids.

What the hell is wrong with this picture.

I almost made my grand escape

There was an advertisement for Wasa bread at the top of the screen, but when I clicked it, it did not bring me to the coupon as promised. It did not bring me anywhere. It did not bring me here nor there... whoops, sorry, Seuss took over for a second.

What was the point of the advertisement if I will not be getting any free Wasa??

A paper moon affair on the field

It was an appallingly cold day that splintered into an overwhelmingly confused and shock-ridden situation. I sat for four hours in the penetrating cold, painfully forced myself to athletically socialise, heralded a triumphant reunion against all odds...

And against all odds, all I received was a slanting look; a few words spoken out of sympathy and glee; expletive-mingled outrage (that warmed my heart); a defiant, mocking decision; spiraling disaster; and then cold silence.

All I feel is regret that I didn't stick to my half-hearted decision and start again next year. I hate this feeling of guilt and responsibility, even though I have been assured repeatedly that I am in no way responsible. Maybe in the eyes of Technicality I'm not, but tell that to the rest of the girls when they know that any consequences will come as a direct result of my presence on the field. The girls don't fraternise with Technicality - and now I won't be able to fraternise with them.

Bordering on depressive happiness

I was a little parentheses-happy in that last post. Wow.

Second midterm just finished, only two more to go. I love profs who put past quizzes into exams. It makes life just a little more reassuring. I'm telling you: my microbio prof is the french-scientific version of my psych prof from last year. They look the same, sound the same, have the same enthusiastic-bordering-on-manic obsession with student-participation, and do everything possible (although probably unintentionally) to make their exams low-stress. God bless the Morgans/Matthias' of the world (even their names are similar! they really are the same person!)

My manager called me a few days ago and asked if I wanted tonight off from work. A Friday night off from work. It was such a struggle to say yes. In all reality, I don't know what to do with myself. I feel like going absolutely crazy and having a Friday to make up for all the other Fridays of this year so far. For the past two months, I have been in school Monday-Thursday to work Friday and Saturday evening. Every week. That was my life. And now - this evening is looming ahead of me like some great shining Opportunity, and I feel like I owe it to my somewhat-pathetic life of late to get out and do something.

Except, knowing me and my luck for connecting with people, you'll probably find me at home, watching a movie and then tucked into bed at midnight with a book. Oh, I do need to learn to show some restraint (said in my affected English accent that I pull out on occasions).

It's not my birthday, but I'll take the cake anyways

Pretty bad day today! But I'm feeling fairly upbeat. The thing about exams is that no matter how impossible they're hyped up to be, no matter how utterly exhausting and stressful studying is, no matter how many breaking points you reach, and no matter how incompetent you feel writing them, once they're done - they're done. None of this standing around discussing every question, none of this checking the answer key on your way out the door. It's done! Let it go! As soon as I relinquish my paper, I can live in a period of blissful ignorance until it's corrected and returned, and I fully intend to do so.

I skipped my soccer game today. I think I'm in a crisis of torn loyalties and confused identity. Or maybe I was just feeling lazy, but I'd prefer to think the former. We're playing my old college today. We played them last week, but I was working, so (oh-so-unfortunately) I couldn't make it to the game. Today I was on-call for work, and I was almost to the point where I would have preferred to be called in (hah!). But I wasn't. I told my coach I was, and then I hopped on the bus for home. I think if I had been more dedicated to this team from the beginning (ie. actually attended more than one practice) I would feel far more connected to them and playing Prov wouldn't be such an issue. But last year, the soccer team was your first and only priority. Missing practices wasn't an option; showing up less than half-an-hour early to practices wasn't even an option. Our coach used to play university volleyball and liked to show his respect for us as athletes (or something) by assigning us half-hour bouts of sprints every practice. More if he felt we were lacking motivation.

In all reality, it did motivate us, and the level of intensity that was expected on the field went a long way in shaping the attitude of the team. It always does. I think any lingering intensity from last year far outstrips any newborn passion from this year.

Well, finals are this weekend and I'm planning to play (if we're even in). And next year, I'll be one more year removed from Prov with a year of CU loyalty behind me. I'll be a menace on the field then, I'm sure.

When the hidden card is a deuce... or a cunning lady

So. Studied all yesterday (well, after I took an hour and a half nap and ran to Superstore for some necessities and got in the way of my brother's filming project by carelessly eating my lunch at the kitchen table) for an exam that was cancelled 5 minutes before it was supposed to take place. I can sympathize that you're sick, Monsieur. But if you're well enough to make it to school, you're well enough to sit for an hour and do nothing so that we can write our exam! Have I said it before? The respect of students is such a beautiful thing.

Also panicked all yesterday about my ridiculous class situation. First, I fought to drop Rédaction and was told I was too stupid to be taking it in the first place. Then apparently I was too smart to be allowed to drop it. Then they found out I never needed it, but I found out that they make a habit of "screwing students over". So now I have an appointment with the registrat who will probably succeed in confusing me even more. Some phrase about the respect of students is ringing an alarm bell just about now...

Right. Also received a letter yesterday. Didn't add to the soap opera, as Mom so kindly suggested, but did cause my thoughts to fly. Far away. Onto that plane I was talking about before.

Almost forgot - might get fired from work because I changed my availability. Doesn't matter that I do my job well and sell more than most of the managers. No, I dare to go to school in hopes of one day having a career that pays more than minimum wage and doesn't depend on suggestively selling confection combos for self-fulfillment (although those combos are pretty sexy).

Finally, my aunt picked me up ridiculously early this morning (I had just come downstairs! I hadn't even taken a bite out of my toast yet!), but stopped for coffee because we had extra time. Robin's coffee. In other words, stale coffee grounds scooped out of the compost and diluted with river water (I thought I saw a finger floating in there, but it may have just been a piece of soggy doughnut). After all my proud words about never stooping to drinking that filth... I stooped. I'll admit it. Never again.

I sound so petty. I'm really just overwhelmed. I would love for life to be somewhat boring, because then at least I could choose to make it exciting. Instead, my life is just full of busyness, a lot of which I don't particularly care for. Positive thoughts... positive thoughts... I might go live with my sister next week! Merveilleuse. I feel better already.

Paper faces on parade

It was a night out with my dad. That already makes it one thing. But a night out with my dad, getting whipped in the face with the relationship I've worked so hard at not focusing on anymore by another relationship that is questionable at best?

I smiled. I laughed brightly and pushed aside their greedy-sweet questions. I smoothed my skirt and complimented her shoes. And inwardly I stormed past them all, got on a plane, set things straight, and came home to finally focus for the first time all month.

And maybe took another plane ride. While my thoughts are in the air, they might as well be flying high.

Way down the silver road I'll go...

I feel like I've received an official initiation into the world of adults and early-morning rush hour traffic. Note the time? I just arrived at school, therefore standing up my class that started half an hour ago. One bridge girder taken out by a cement truck apparently has the capacity to stop the flow of traffic all over the city. A 20-minute trip downtown to school evolved into an hour of frustration, disbelief, and complete immobility. I'm soon going to become steeped in bitterness, sitting hunched over at the wheel, clutching my wilted styrofoam cup of stale Robin's coffee, pulling at my over-processed hair and lambasting everyone from our municipal government and their useless traffic by-laws to the idiot attempting to turn in front of me.

Wait, what am I thinking? I could never stoop to drinking coffee from Robin's Doughnuts!

In reality, the lateness didn't bother me too much. The thought that this might be a normal morning occurrence did. But apparently that's not the case. I technically could have gone to class, I suppose - I was only 20 minutes late. But when a class is only an hour long, that's justification enough to miss. Besides, my prof is a psychotic who immediately locks the door and pulls the blinds at 8:25 sharp. Anyone coming in late has to subject themselves to pounding on the door for at least 5 minutes before he will let them in. Once inside, he will then hurl obscure questions at them and greedily savour the stammered J'ne sais pas, Monsieur... non, j'ne sais pas... before satisfactorily proclaiming that whatever cannot be answered will be on the exam.

Oh, the respect of students is a beautiful thing.

The city of cold and lights

On Saturday, I walked home from my best friend's house in jeans and a tank-top, and had to immediately change into shorts once I was home because it was so warm out. +28ºC or thereabouts.

On Tuesday, I slogged through a snow-encrusted field in my soccer cleats in an attempt to make it to my game on time, only to arrive at the field and find out it was cancelled due to the snow.

This city is ridiculous.

Snow at this time of the year makes life seem so precarious and unrealistic. Snow laces my every thought with memories of Christmas and the holidays. When these memories hit, I end up drifting through the day in a hazy state, unable to believe that it’s only October and far from my only responsibilities being the Christmas tree to decorate and the lights to admire in the cold, I actually have midterms next week and 3 papers to write that I haven’t started yet. Reality has a way of intruding on these pleasant, snow-born thoughts.

Stupid reality. Why doesn’t it ever take a stress leave, like a normal person?

Get back to me next year, when there's something new to say

Do you ever get tired of talking to people?

Sometimes talking is so meaningless. There are maybe three people in this world with whom you regularly communicate outside of your mutual relational sphere: your mom, your significant other, and your best friend. In other words, three people with whom you discuss things deeper than work, or school, or catch-up gossip. But all the rest of those people bumping shoulders with you throughout the course of your day? The only communication that can realistically be expended on them is meaningless talk.

I was at a wedding reception today and I responded to the same inane, meaningless talk with the same inane, meaningless responses every time. "No, I'm not a Prov this year. Yes, I am at school. Saint-Boniface College. Yes, I'm sure you did know that. Very exciting, very busy, a little overwhelming." If I am so unconnected to these people that they don't even know what city I'm living in this year, I don't want to have to repeat my life plans to them over and over again. With every recitation of my excitement regarding my current circumstances, any actual excitement slowly faded until all that was left were the limp, blank words that grimly fell from my lips.

To have to express my uncertain anticipation with such certainty to such vaguely-concerned strangers strips me of my confidence, leaving nothing but a bright smile to mask my panicked eyes.

Just when life started to make sense

You are: Gummy Bears

You may be smooshie and taste unnatural, but you're so darn cute.
What Kind of Candy Are You?

What the frick does this mean?

I say this meaning no offense at all...

Yesterday's plan of shower-book-bed? Didn't pan out at all. But good conversation until after midnight is always appreciated anyways.

Surprise, I'm in the middle of a labo. This time, our myoglobine est en traîne de dénaturer pendant une demie-heure, alors I have some temps libre to come and post nonsense on my blog. Well, the upside of having few to none commentators is the absolute freedom to post whatever nonesense I happen to come up with at the moment. 3 cheers for freedom of ridiculous speech!

Every time I say the word ridiculous I am reminded of my friend Jeremy. I only connected with him on tour this past April, but one of the first things that struck me about him was his tendancy to say Ridiculous! in his ridiculous voice. It made almost any situation, ridiculous or not, incredibly amusing. I try to capture his spirit when I say it but, let's face it, there's no one quite like Jer.

Point of interest: a cell phone, practically shaking the computers with its intensity, just exploded into obscene rap. A tiny slip of a girl finally picked it up, interrupting her phone's explicit serenade, and breathed Hello?

Who is this? No, who is this? Oh really? How are you? No really? I can't believe it! Really?

After some time, she finally appeared to realize that she was not, in fact, in the privacy of her bedroom, nor did anyone around her wish to be privy to her inane conversation.

I'm actually in class right now... I guess I should go.

Really hon. You think?

When the falling dark knows you by name

I was at school for 27 of the past 48 hours. After entering the doors at 8:00am, I did not breathe fresh air until 21:30 that night. That's ridiculous.

I am proud to say that this evening I started and finished my paper for Rédaction universitaire. Hooray me! As I explained to one of my astonished classmates (who saw me waiting for my ride at 21:30 and chatted with me for a bit as to why I would still be at school), j'sais pas si c'est de la qualité, but it's done!

I say that with such flippancy to nearly everyone I talk to, and it is true to some degree, but if it wasn't quality at all, there's no way I would ever have allowed myself to print it off and hand it in. I procrastinate like mad, my eyes end up crossing halfway through my papers, and I mock-quit hundreds of times in an evening, but when it comes down to it, I want to be proud of my work. Why else would I waste any time at all getting it done?

Back to staying at school until the dark hours of the evening... the upside is that you end up having interesting chats with extremely random people you would never have otherwise connected with. Last night, while waiting 45 minutes for my ride, a very nice guy sympathized (and bewildered) with me about my very late ride. It was made especially meaningful by the fact that he initially commented to me in english (Are you still waiting for your ride?!) but when I responded in french, that remained the language for the rest of our (rather brief) conversation. Again, tonight when Jean-Luc (je pense?) stopped to chat with me, we had a delightful mix of french and english going on. Whenever some stops to talk with me is invariably when my ride shows up. Why can't the chatters stop by earlier on in the waiting period?

A shower, a book, and off to bed. I think I'll be home by 17:30 tomorrow... what am I going to do with myself!?

"Want to go out with me, Sharky?"

My only pick-up line I've ever received. Oh, Prov.

What makes it acceptable to throw out pick-up lines? Maybe a better question would be Are there acceptable pick-up lines? It doesn't seem like it. Any story beginning or ending or containing the phrase So then he used this pick-up line on me is invariably met with groans. Or appreciative laughter if the audience is male. Why then do they exist?

I really am a lone shark these days. I have started the countdown to when all my wayward friends return home. The festivities actually start tomorrow, and then mid-February, early April, late April, and reunited we will be! I've never thought of myself as someone who has trouble identifying emotions, but as of late I've really struggled to figure out what I'm feeling about all this. I eagerly leap onto the computer at any chance I get, regardless of whether I've checked my email only 45 minutes before, because there may be a chance that one of them will have emailed. Every shrill ring of the phone is cause for a heartbeat to be lost, especially if the time differences are acceptable. And when I finally arrive at home every evening, especially after a day of disenheartening email absences, there's still the brief flicker of hope that arises as I flick through the mail on the table. All that stomach-twisting, heart-swinging, and crushing disappointment when it all comes to nothing...


Why, I think I might miss them.

Weather warning: psychological thunderstorms ahead

My head hurts. I think it’s sympathy pain for my leg, which has been locked in a vicious cramp since Tuesday evening. What exactly is a pulled muscle? Because if it’s achingly painful, ridiculously tight, and causes you to hobble up and down stairs like a beshawled matron tottering on a cane, then I think I have it.

Je ne sais pas quoi penser. Je suis au milieu d’un labo: on doit laisser les acides aminés font les extractions pendant une heure. Mais je m’inquiète, je m’inquiète comme toujours parce que je ne sais pas quoi faire aux labos! J’écris ceci en français en espérant que toutes les personnes qui lisent mon blog ne comprendraient pas, parce que je m’ennuie de plaindre tout le temps. Mais, avec la protection d’une langue différente, je peux plaindre tout que je veux. Arg. Le problème est que je ne veux pas ça. Je le déteste, honnêtement. Je veux être contente. Mais les inquiètes me plagient toujours. Pourquoi?

This is ridiculous. Apparently, it makes no difference what language I write in. The result is the same. I should write in Ukrainian : I only know how to express fairly contented sentiments as of yet.

Я хачу їсти. Я льублю кіслу капусту! Бог стобою.

That's better.

Row, row, row your boat

Friends. What a wonderful word! What a wonderful world when they're in it.

I prepared a birthday package for a friend with whom I became extremely close this summer and who is working in Germany this year. I sent it off on Friday afternoon, full of anticipation and a slight amount of shock at the steep prices of airmail. I've been waiting, wondering anxiously when he would receive it and what he would think. Because this birthday package was no standard gift. It was an... artistic compilation, we'll say, of our summer together. But more than that, I felt it represented where our true friendship began.

This evening, I received an email from him, thanking me. But it was more than his surface words of thanks that made me nearly ecstatic with joy. It was the knowledge that he understood, more than words could ever express, what that present truly meant to us as friends.

And it is our friendship that has been the most incredible birthday surprise of all.

(I just barely refrained from saying "the greatest gift of all." I love cheese - especially Edam - but that's just going too far.)

Happy Birthday Jon!

Tuning the cacophony within

My fingers are speaking to me. They're boasting, actually. At times, I try to quiet them half-heartedly, while secretly reveling in what they have to say. But other times, I can't muster up the willpower to even pretend to attempt to subdue them, and I unleash their ecstatic announcements with unbridled pride.

Although I've had the desire for years, I only recently began venturing down the path of learning to play the guitar. My parents had even bought me a guitar some years ago, with the promise of guitar lessons whenever I had the time. And I just never had the time. And, due to what the guitar grew to represent to me, the desire slipped away from me as well.

But, thanks to an unexpected friendship this summer, I learnt the basics of tuning and the first of a few chords that sent me sailing towards a life-long passion. I love little more than sitting with the guitar nestled against me, intently and usually achingly slowly picking out the chords to favourite songs. I spent all evening yesterday icing several new guitar licks (couldn't resist), and when I was finished, my fingers were mottled purple and slowly shedding crumbling leaves of calloused skin.

I relish these calluses. They are the language my guitar and I share, the secret words that my fingers whisper to her on her strings. When I am alone, in the banal world that music has abandoned, I run my fingers across my lower lip and can still taste the poetry embedded in the rough surfaces.

My guitar gives voice to the music that fills my skin.

In a room smudged with shadows, You're all I need to see

Afficher. Supprimer. Créer. Everything on this screen is in french, and I am charmed in an unsettled way.

Everything except Preview, that is. Prévue ne fonctionne pas pour ces gens? Ou est-ce que «prévue» est mème pire que «preview» parce qu'il est une anglicisme? Me pardonnez - je suis anglophone!

I hadn't even realized how negative my outlook on life had become until I woke up this morning and began cataloguing negativity before I had even rolled over in bed. Almost immediately, my entry from last night pushed its way into the room still hazy with predawn shadows and sat heavily on my chest. I sighed. And I began to pray, for anyone and anything that came to mind, while trying to focus on His blessings.

If nothing else: it made me laugh at myself this morning and I haven't fallen asleep in class yet. I'll take one miracle at a time.

Resenting every bloody cuticle as a snapshot of my life

It is interesting how rapidly pieces of thoughts fall into place when you take a moment to think them through. Actually, I didn't even have to think things through. It was more a matter of acknowledging what I was already aware of and attempting to neglect for some time now.

I have been so overwhelmed ever since this school year started. There are so many different possibilities to explain my feelings of anxiety I didn't even know where to start in an effort to resolve the problem. But sitting there today in the tucked-away labo des ordinateurs on the third floor, I finally allowed that falling piece to lodge one corner into my exhausted head. I complain about being overworked, I panic over my incomprehension, and I frantically worry away my fingernails as I attempt to make some sense out of classes, life, love, and other mysteries (oh, Point of Grace just never dies). But when the God I promised to serve no longer has even the lightest touch on the reins of my life, I can't pretend to understand where my "confusion" could lie.

Confusion. That has been the key word in my life for the past 2 weeks, and I think it is only now that I am starting to acknowledge why.

The only reason I am at my school is because I followed God's leading to apply. The only reason I am in the program that I am in is because I finally turned to God last year and asked him what He wanted. I felt such a profound peace and an overwhelming joy at doing so. And now, my selfish ambition has snatched that away.

It makes me even more tired to even consider re-dedicating my life to God - again. Yet, what are my other options? Worry myself into the ground? Survive this year by the tips of my bloody, chewed-off fingertips and head into the next year with even more apprehension? Continue to slowly strip the life off of every relationship I tenuously hold because my life is so crammed full of anxiety?

What gorgeous choices.

And yet I still resist.

I suppose that is why I am confused with myself. It's the why.

Let's go to the overground

I think this could be considered a significant moment. I only just realized that U2 was not showing up on my favourite music lists, which is utter blasphemy. When I went to the help page to seek some kind of assistance to resolve this dilemma, I found nothing less but a specific post addressing my very problem.

To all the other U2 followers who were concerned enough to seek help:
I salute you.

I may be ridiculous, but at least I have my priorities.

Dried up in Frogland

Typing on a french-set keyboard is like travelling to a new world. If I kept every mistake I made in hitting english-set keys when I was searching for the french ones, this would be an entry full of questions marked with És instead of ?s and apostrophes that danced backwards ``````

I am overwhelmed. I sit in class, the panic rising, and wonder if I would find the material any easier in English, or if I am simply hopelessly behind where I hope to be, regardless of my language of study.

I'm sure (hoping) that being incredibly, ridiculously tired doesn't help at all. Why is it so hard to stay awake between 10h00 and 12h00? ...and 12h00-17h00... fine, between 6h00 and 23h00!

Work today, 20 amino acid structures to memorize tonight, class again at 8:30 tomorrow morning! Arrrgh...

From the mouths of babes

Oh, if this is a vision of what this year holds...

Then my headache tells me I'm in trouble.

After not sleeping all night, blessed again by the insomniac demon that has plagued my sleep for the past two weeks, I awoke at the ungodly, unearthly, inhuman hour of 6:00 AM and was out of the house by 7:00. The friendly Telebus operator had advised me to catch the 7:27 bus, but, stricken by uncertainty and anxiety, I oh-so-intelligently caught the 7:15 bus instead. Meaning I had the fine opportunity to wait downtown, at 7:30 AM, surrounded by hordes of other bleary, unimpressed citizens, for an extra twenty minutes. Oh, fine thinking indeed.

So my day commenced at 6:00 AM and is finally winding down now, close to midnight. I worked tonight after classes that went until 5:30 PM. It was my first actual day of classes, seeing as how yesterday's "classes" consisted of a sporadic soccer game accompanied by extremely mellow franco-manitobain live music outside in a tent. My day was a hum of crisp french accents and concise scientific objectives... two things that have been starkly absent in my life for the past two years.

C'est dommage, c'est la vie - pour moi, l'extraordinaire est qu'est-ce que je peux maintenant attendre tous les jours.

A mass grave of quicksand and idealism

I come on here to reclaim some ownership over my blog that I have meaningfully neglected for the past two months. But the one topic that comes to mind is the blasted topic that I have spent the past week attempting to keep from my mind.

Expectations.

What are they? Where do they come from? And why do they plague me so?

In a world where liberation is applauded and freedom is flaunted, why are we still inexplicably bound by expectations - not even those held by ourselves, but those we imagine are held against us by others?

Dreaming can't protect us anymore

My trip to my mother's hometown held especial significance for me this time. My aunt lives in a house on Third Avenue; obviously, three blocks from Downtown. Downtown consists of one block, ten buildings, and four or five pick-up trucks that constantly linger in the center of Main Street. However, if you turn the corner on Main Street, you will find yourself on Railway Avenue. Walk down Railway Avenue for about ten minutes and the smooth road will suddenly crumble into dusty dirt. This dirt road winds its way along the track, and at the very end of the road, behind a wild spring of bushes that proudly marks the edge of town, is my mom's house.

This trip was the first time I made the walk to their house all alone. I have walked the tracks countless times with my mom, and exclaimed over their little bungalow; the chicken coop my uncle built all on his own; the old water pump that still stands next to the house; Grandma's tiny, grey-washed house. We would tumble down the steep grassy hill to explore the depth of the culvert and discover jewel-like marsh marigolds and wild roses, and then she would trace the path the cows would meander every morning (it had been her job to get them back to the house for milking).

But this trip, I took a walk every evening on my own. I would start geometrically and gradually chop my walk tighter and tighter and I wound towards the center of town. I would march the length of Main Street, admiring the stores. Then I would turn the corner at Railway Avenue and set off towards the end of the road.

There was a feeling that mingled in the air along with the dust and the smell of hay and French lilacs. It was a bittersweet longing to be back when my mom and her family still lived there. Standing on the road across the ditch from Grandma's house, I could see my mom at eight years old, running across the lawn and giggling to her sisters. I could see her when she was eleven, awake at 5:00 AM in order to call the cows back from the pasture. I could hear her footsteps on the road, running to school or to town to go to the library while my baba shopped. And I wanted to be there with her. I wanted to meet her, to be her friend.

I wanted to protect her from all the terrible things I knew were coming her way.

Waves on the beach, out of reach

My mom and I took a road trip this week, driving six hours north to stay with my aunt who has recently moved back to the little town where my mom and her family grew up. This is a familiar, well-worn path for my mom and I - we would trek up there about twice a year, staying in hotels, buying Twinkies and Lipton's Raspberry Iced Tea for me and coffee for her to snack on, lying in the grass beside the river, climbing trees and magic rocks and balancing along the railway tracks that led to their old house... We would do it because there was something so restful about the familiarity and peace of that old town. The drive itself was comforting, but staying there for a few days was pure magic. I travelled back in time through the dust on the dirt roads and the prickle of the long grasses that grew by the tracks.

What they say about small towns is true: everybody knows everybody, and a stranger cannot come to town without it being an event. Our arrival in town could certainly have been classified as an event. A reporter for the Star & Times lives across the street from my aunt, and by nightfall, everyone knew we were there. What they didn't know, however, was why we were there, and that was enough to cause ripples of curiosity and suspicion throughout the town.

I went out for a walk that evening, as I would for every evening during my trip, and as I walked the town, people waved. This is a phenomena we simply do not see in the city. When people passed me on the road, they waved, whether they were out watering their grass, speeding down a dirt road, or talking in front of a shop downtown. I was a newcomer in town, and I therefore commandeered the attention necessary for a wave. When I first received a wave, I was too shocked to do much of anything but stare dumbly and somewhat panicked at the taillights of the retreating car. "Did I know them? Did they know me? Why did they wave? What am I doing wrong?" But as I became somewhat accustomed to small town ways (waves - haha), I began to hesitantly reciprocate. They would wave, and I would throw my hand back more and more enthusiastically in response, unable to hide the ridiculous smile that inevitably blossomed across my face. "They waved! They're waving at me! It happened again!" It was my new favourite game, and the townspeople never disappointed me.

The waves were a tangible form of connection with this town I to whom I was a stranger, though I loved it so dearly. The waves were, in short, a gift.

In the beginning there was the Word

I love the music of Aimee Mann.

It is a love that goes beyond the mere enjoyment of a good cd. Her lyrics not only speak to me, they speak about my life. And that is a rare and good thing.

Don't all go rushing out to buy her cds, now, as amazing as she is. I'm not a fan of bandwagons.

I bought myself a new bible yesterday. I felt funny doing so... a bible seems like something that should be presented to you as an occasion gift - birthdays, graduations, baptisms. It somehow felt odd to simply buy myself one with no particular occasion at hand. And yet it has been something I have wanted for quite awhile now. I really wish I had had it this past year at bible college, for the class lectures I copied out practically word for word in the margins of my old bible from my Pentateuch class. I loved the format of my old bible (single column is the way to go, baby!), but there comes a time where teen-angst-ridden anecdotes that take bible verses completely out of context no longer have any appeal whatsoever.

Why have bibles become symbols of life milestones rather than the most practical and valued life tool? Why has it become engrained in our mind that a bible is something to be horded and presented in a showy display, rather than a textbook we study more diligently than any school text we will ever buy? Why did I feel the need to justify to myself why it was alright to buy myself a bible for no occasion other than I feel a desire to study it?

I found the bible I have been wanting for quite some time, and when I brought it up to the cash register, the salesgirl warned me, "You know that that's the TNIV, not the NIV, right?" Today's New International Version versus the New International Version.
Uhhh... yes?
"Well, a lot of people have been returning them because they're offended by what has been changed."
Oh. What exactly is the difference?
"I think the main difference is that they've changed a lot of the hes and hises to theys."
Aha. Gender-neutral?
"Yeah, I guess. A lot of people have been offended."

And this is where I realized I may just deliberately try to shock people. Never to the extreme. I hardly think a case like this could be made into an extreme issue. But I made it quite clear that I wholeheartedly support and quite definately like the idea of some shifts in the gender notations of the bible (oh, wouldn't Louise Cornell be proud). Our language supports so many implied gender inequalities that I am beginning to recognize the importance of making a shift in the way we speak in order that we may be begin to shift the way we think and view the world around us.

What is more, beyond mere sociological issues of gender issues, are theological issues of the way in which I view the bible. I was upset at first to hear that there were some differences in the text. When I flipped to Psalm 23 and saw that the first line was slightly changed, I didn't know if it would mean as much to me anymore. And that's when I realized that I was holding the familiarity of the text over the significance of the words. When I read the bible, do I read it for the comfort of seeing words I've read dozens of times over? Or do I read it seeking new insights into my faith and my walk with Christ? A different translation shouldn't alarm me, shouldn't offend me (if it's done properly). Instead, I should be eager to encounter the words in a different way and from a different perspective.

Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made. In him was life, and that life was the light of men. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not understood it. (John 1:3-5)

Never let it hold you back

Today is a momentous day: the day I stared fear in the face and won.

The fear of baking layer cakes, that is. Ever since a fateful Mother's Day three years earlier, I haven't had the slightest desire to attempt to bake a layer cake. That Mother's Day, I stupidly decided to bake a three-layer strawberry meringue cream cake, despite the fact that it was blazing hot outside with not a breath of air to push the heat into what would vaguely resemble a breeze. No no, a little heat couldn't scare me. So I plowed ahead with my baking plans, and the result was a leaning tower of cream and meringue and sliding strawberries that I attempted to hold upright by means of various forks and chopsticks frantically poked in at various intervals.

Sigh.

Since that day, no layer cakes for me. I didn't even stop to look at their pictures in a cookbook.

But today, that all has changed! Today, I put into motion the steps that will either end in disaster or a three-layer toffee-mocha cream torte. My brother is a special person to prompt this kind of action from me on his birthday. I haven't actually attempted to put the layers together... that bit of fun I am saving for tomorrow morning. Oh joy and delight, I can't wait to see what the morrow holds...

But I do know that it holds a massage at 10:45, so maybe it's not all that bad.

Little darling, it's all right

It's an interesting day outside... strictly weather-speaking. It was gorgeous and sunny when I woke up, one of those days when you smile before you open your eyes and realize that sometime during the night you've comfortably kicked off all your blankets and are covered now by only half of a sheet and a cat (and pajamas, of course...) And it smelt wonderful. To me, summer is here when the smell of apple blossoms, lilacs, fresh-cut grass and line-dried clothes has seeped through the walls of my house and lies curled in every corner, every windowsill, on the step of every staircase, in the smooth lines of my pillowcase.

On such a gorgeous day, I scrounged around for a picnic blanket and an old pillow and made myself a retreat center underneath the sprawling branches of our crabapple tree in the front. It was more shaded than I had liked, but the warm smell of the sun still bathed me, so I was content. Except for the fact that my pillow was not high enough to adequately support my head, so I had to keep flipping around to try and find a somewhat-comfortable position. And for the fact that our front yard is only partially concealed by a fence of bushes, so I was the object of covert, fascinated glimpses for the many junior-high boys who walked past our house on their way home to lunch.

However, the sun decided to play hide-and-seek at around 1:30 in the afternoon, without realizing that I did not feel the need to be entertained by games as I lay out in its company. Once the sun hid, the temperature dropped only slightly, but my aching back did not find it worth it to stay outside. So, in I came, only to write what I now realize is quite a pointless entry. But the very freeing notion of having no commentators is exactly that: I don't care about what comments may come!

Football game tonight (which I was not invited to). Wedding tomorrow (which I was invited to).

Your lips move but I don't understand what you're saying...

Why is it that when talking to God, people feel the need to use a language that is completely removed from the language of reality? It is only in prayer that words such as "upon," "amongst," "gathered," "cleanse," and "seek" are used with alarming regularity. While the use of such words in common conversation would earn nothing more than slanted, sideways glances of disbelief or politely swallowed snorts of mockery; in the eyes of Christians, God is apparently too polite to feel the desire to snigger at the pretentious attitude behind the Church's obnoxious prayers.

Who is the Church to restrict God's conversation skills to an ostentatious style of speaking that does nothing but further alienate Christianity from reality? Imagine for a moment if the Church insisted on speaking to their friends in the same manner in which they insist on speaking to God:
"Is that rain falling upon the garden? Well, I am quite thankful we are all gathered inside. Not only can we seek shelter from the rain within this house, but we have also been given this opportunity to congregate amongst friends. What an incredible blessing."

If Jesus came to be God among us, maybe it is time we began speaking to him with respect that is at least equal to that which we show to our loved ones.

After Afternoons

Look over
a desert valley
raw red
rough red
smooth red
deep craters
and rising hills slightly
burning
and turning me
rosy healthy rolling

burnt.
Texas sun
broad-brimmed leather hats
sweet smoke and sweat and
tears
cooling to fall
onto reddened shoulders
frolicking romping
in grassy hills
mud-slingers
wrestlers
sweet

a story traced
by roughened fingers
across the plains
of my burnt shoulders.

Not this again...

I hate starting. There is something so appealing and satisying about the very initial start of something new, but once the page is first marked, it becomes work to build something comfortable once again. I am so addicted to these crisp new beginnings that I forget about the discomfort that lies right behind them.

I had a wonderful day yesterday; a classic, hoped-for Victoria Day. What an odd holiday. Thank you oh useless representative monarchy of Canada for granting us a day off in the middle of such a beautiful month! Not that a "day off" really means anything to me right now, but it does mean something to those around me, which in turns benefits me. I spent the day with my close friend/cousin Nicole and her family. We walked around all morning, stopping at various flower shops where my aunt was busily plotting her new and improved Victorian garden scheme for this year. In the afternoon, we went to a park and flew a kite. BATKITE, to be precise. Batkite was eagerly rebellious in the wind and made for many hours (well, 1½) of enjoyable arguments and tense struggles for power with him. Flying a kite forces you outside, into a green space, where you have to be faced with a strong wind whipping away any anxieties or embarrassments you may have. And the whole time, you inevitably have "Let's Go Fly a Kite" from Mary Poppins running through your head. Well, at least I did. What could be more enjoyable?

And, to make a lovely day even better, I burnt my shoulders! Summer has gloriously, triumphantly arrived in a blaze of rosy skin and aloe vera applications. I have bid my official adieu to the blinding pastiness of the winter months. Unfortunately, I suspect aurevoir is more accurate...

The torture of convenience

Weapon of searing heat
aimed ruthlessly to blind
the hopeful eyes
of my heart
peering out so earnestly
only to be met with vicious rage
aimlessly shuffled along in ragged rows
scorched-topped vegetables
back behind iron bars.

Pulsing beacon
laced and stiffened
with the heat of mindless passion
rapist's erection
cruelly elongating
into an obscene grin
before savagely thrust to stifle
broken useless denials.

It radiates defeat
and gleefully crushes hope
and plucks one by one
the faint gleam of stars
that struggled to shine in my eyes
until I pull the plug
on the empty red glow
of the answering machine.

Love Song of the 21st Century

So.

That's the way we speak
it seems
to old friends and new acquaintances
lovers and random chats
shoulder-brushing, finger-tip clasping
arms tightly locking
and still
it seems
means no more to you
than digital footprints
on an encoded soul.

I hate technology.

I knew it all along

You scored as Cinderella. Your alter ego is Cinderella! You often find yourself doing a lot of housework, but if you are patient, your hard work usually pays off. You are prone to losing things, so don't rush through everything. Which Disney Character is your Alter Ego? created with QuizFarm.com

If I were made of saran-wrap you still could not see through me...

It is 100 in the morning, and if I were a reasonable, intelligent citizen still recovering from jet-lag at an inordinately slow rate, I would be sleeping by now after realizing what a smart idea that would be, especially considering that I have to be awake, in the shower, and perkily raring to go in 6 hours. But as the unreasonable, muddle-headed citizen that I am, I am attempting to make the first witty and captivating paragraph entry on my blog. Brilliant.

Note that I clarify this is to be my first paragraph entry. I started this blog back in February already, after being inspired by a friend on the online journal site I used to/at times still do frequent. Now however, I feel a greater inclination to shrug off at least a portion of my excessive anonymity and share daily or at least thrice-weekly profound thoughts with all my loved and looming ones. We who blog think so highly of ourselves, don't we? I just can't seem to resist jumping on this self-important bandwagon.

The more times I write the word "blog," the more ridiculous I feel. I'm sure this slightly-ill feeling will pass by the time I feel inspired to offer my next morsel of { insert appropriate noun here as my already-strained thinking skills have decided to shut down completely }.

With love from,
the bemused and slightly shamed
Virgin blogger

To begin

tick tock
pepperpots
tiny movements
move universes unfold...

follow me
swallow me
and realize
my world.