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.
Saturday, September 30, 2006
Friday, September 29, 2006
Thursday, September 28, 2006
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?
Really hon. You think?
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?
Wednesday, September 27, 2006
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!?
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!?
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
"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.
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.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
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!
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!
Saturday, September 16, 2006
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.
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.
Thursday, September 14, 2006
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.
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.
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
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.
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...
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...
Wednesday, September 06, 2006
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.
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.
Monday, September 04, 2006
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?
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?
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