Wednesday, September 29, 2004
"And I'm leaning on this broken fence,
Between past and present tense."
The Weakerthans may be very emo in their lyrics sometimes, but they are also geniuses, as we see here.
When I have time I will tell you all of my adventures with OC Transpo. OC Transpo is the busing system. The busing system hates me, and so do its evil representatives on Earth, the bus drivers. Just like secretaries, they hate me.
Monday, September 27, 2004
Queries on the Nature of Downloading
Why is it that everyone on the Internet knows how to spell Jimi Hendrix, despite his unorthodox first name, and yet at least three sad souls out there seem to think that Carmina Burana was composed by Mozart rather than by Carl Orff?
Mozart. I kid you not. Anybody who has ever listened to Mozart and then to Carmina will know that there is no way in hell they can be composed by the same person. Where is the respect?
Why is it that everyone on the Internet knows how to spell Jimi Hendrix, despite his unorthodox first name, and yet at least three sad souls out there seem to think that Carmina Burana was composed by Mozart rather than by Carl Orff?
Mozart. I kid you not. Anybody who has ever listened to Mozart and then to Carmina will know that there is no way in hell they can be composed by the same person. Where is the respect?
Saturday, September 25, 2004
The K-Squared is so cute. (Sorry for the randomosity of these photos, I've just acquired new superpowers of photo posting to cheer myself up.)
The dreams have started. I thought that once the shock had worn off they would, and now it’s gone and here they are. It was strangely serene, actually. They were alive, and going off to be cremated, and we all went with them to this sunny garden area and just gave them a hug and a kiss and suddenly felt very alone, and then they turned around to face the ovens and I don’t remember any more after that, or perhaps I don’t want to. And then I dreamt about a $200 phone bill from calling everyone back home to talk to them.
Despite those disturbances, though, this was the best night of sleep I’ve had in a while. Who knew pneumonia could cause insomnia? The past few week I’ve been up till at least three in the morning, wandering the dorm halls like a ghost and coughing. Finding oneself staring at the wall in the stairwell at four a.m. and crying is somewhat surreal. I can’t do anything like that without thinking to myself, “really, Jessica, you’re acting like a movie character. Nobody actually does stuff like this. Stop pretending you’re so fragile and tragic and go back to bed.” And then I tried it, going back to bed, and found that I couldn’t breathe the air in my room and couldn’t lie down without coughing. There is always an internal awkwardness, like I haven’t really given myself permission to be sad. So, if we’re going to be really honest with my wee-hours activities, I wasn’t so much staring at the wall as I was writhing fetally on the floor and screaming as quietly as I could in the most soundproof, isolated space I could find. Because we don’t want to wake anyone up, do we?
And then during the day I keep seeing them. There are about six boys on campus who have Luke’s slightly sticky-out ears and it keeps taking me aback – I try not to stare but sometimes I can’t help it – and there are a few Stephs, too, walking around looking slightly solemn with their backpacks and never looking directly at me. But if you look at any of them, the Stephs or the Lukes, close up, the resemblance disappears. Which means that I’ve been wandering around watching strangers more intently than is socially acceptable. And this probably isn’t news to any of you, everybody else who knew them is probably having stuff like this too, and it’s not particularly great, is it? It’s just that I’m a person who likes to make every small suffering public, which is an unfortunately useless and probably irritating tendency in a time when there isn’t anybody who doesn’t already know that everybody else is suffering.
My mum is freaking out about the pneumonia. I keep telling her that I’m fine, really, and I don’t feel that bad. Just a little tired and tight in the chest. She’s telling me I should go to the doctor again soon for a follow-up, and get some cough medicine, and plead with the pharmacist to let me have something to help me sleep. It’s fine. But then I remember that it must be driving her crazy that she can’t be here to look after me, and I kind of wish she could be. But then I remember something else: that this is the year I learn to look after myself a bit, and that that entails dealing with all kinds of shit, even if said shit happens all at once and does its best to knock you down. I refuse, je refuse!
I think going to the counsellor is actually giving me a complex; curse Dr. Freud and all his works. Maybe it’ll help anyway?
I can’t wait for Thanksgiving, but it’s going to be a weird time.
Despite those disturbances, though, this was the best night of sleep I’ve had in a while. Who knew pneumonia could cause insomnia? The past few week I’ve been up till at least three in the morning, wandering the dorm halls like a ghost and coughing. Finding oneself staring at the wall in the stairwell at four a.m. and crying is somewhat surreal. I can’t do anything like that without thinking to myself, “really, Jessica, you’re acting like a movie character. Nobody actually does stuff like this. Stop pretending you’re so fragile and tragic and go back to bed.” And then I tried it, going back to bed, and found that I couldn’t breathe the air in my room and couldn’t lie down without coughing. There is always an internal awkwardness, like I haven’t really given myself permission to be sad. So, if we’re going to be really honest with my wee-hours activities, I wasn’t so much staring at the wall as I was writhing fetally on the floor and screaming as quietly as I could in the most soundproof, isolated space I could find. Because we don’t want to wake anyone up, do we?
And then during the day I keep seeing them. There are about six boys on campus who have Luke’s slightly sticky-out ears and it keeps taking me aback – I try not to stare but sometimes I can’t help it – and there are a few Stephs, too, walking around looking slightly solemn with their backpacks and never looking directly at me. But if you look at any of them, the Stephs or the Lukes, close up, the resemblance disappears. Which means that I’ve been wandering around watching strangers more intently than is socially acceptable. And this probably isn’t news to any of you, everybody else who knew them is probably having stuff like this too, and it’s not particularly great, is it? It’s just that I’m a person who likes to make every small suffering public, which is an unfortunately useless and probably irritating tendency in a time when there isn’t anybody who doesn’t already know that everybody else is suffering.
My mum is freaking out about the pneumonia. I keep telling her that I’m fine, really, and I don’t feel that bad. Just a little tired and tight in the chest. She’s telling me I should go to the doctor again soon for a follow-up, and get some cough medicine, and plead with the pharmacist to let me have something to help me sleep. It’s fine. But then I remember that it must be driving her crazy that she can’t be here to look after me, and I kind of wish she could be. But then I remember something else: that this is the year I learn to look after myself a bit, and that that entails dealing with all kinds of shit, even if said shit happens all at once and does its best to knock you down. I refuse, je refuse!
I think going to the counsellor is actually giving me a complex; curse Dr. Freud and all his works. Maybe it’ll help anyway?
I can’t wait for Thanksgiving, but it’s going to be a weird time.
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Queries on the Nature of Bathroom Time
What can my locking not only of the access doors to the bathroom but also of the door to the stall represent about a person? For I know not why I do it. Partially, it may be to protect myself against the prying eyes of any determined person who pries open both sets of doors and catches a glimpse of me with my pants down (as it were). Then again, it may be to protect others against any offense from said sight.
Why, also, do my can-mates wish to have the bathroom cleaned every other day? Do they seek immunity from mold in all its forms? Are they frightened of their own bodily dirt, or (worse!) of mine and my roomie's? It may be that they only wish not to offend us with any uncleanliness.
And, in reference to something I no longer have the opportunity to do, why is writing in a journal so much better when leaning against a cool bathtub than anywhere else? Seriously. The privacy? The isolation and accompanying sense of perspective and impartiality? The knowledge that one could survive for several weeks, should one be locked into the bathroom by invading contras bent on imposing an autocratic junta? Could be. Could be.
Now exiting the bathroom state of mind. I have a theory that I am in the wrong major. Why, you ask? Well, because I seem to be required to write ten to twelve page double-spaced paper on any of several interesting issues, using only academic sources instead of the much sexier sources to be found in layman's media. Boo. In addition to this imposition, I must also write midterms. Why is this so? Why?
Also, my econ professor is boring. He is sort of cute (he looks like a turtle! Turtle, turtle!) but his lectures move about this fast: . That is their speed per minute, that little dot there. I can glean just as much Knowledge from reading the textbook, and in fact so far I have.
WFMU.org's Republican National Convention remix is highly recommended, dead creepy stuff. W. really is a bastard, isn't he? Don't let Media Player's constant need to "buffer" put you off.
What can my locking not only of the access doors to the bathroom but also of the door to the stall represent about a person? For I know not why I do it. Partially, it may be to protect myself against the prying eyes of any determined person who pries open both sets of doors and catches a glimpse of me with my pants down (as it were). Then again, it may be to protect others against any offense from said sight.
Why, also, do my can-mates wish to have the bathroom cleaned every other day? Do they seek immunity from mold in all its forms? Are they frightened of their own bodily dirt, or (worse!) of mine and my roomie's? It may be that they only wish not to offend us with any uncleanliness.
And, in reference to something I no longer have the opportunity to do, why is writing in a journal so much better when leaning against a cool bathtub than anywhere else? Seriously. The privacy? The isolation and accompanying sense of perspective and impartiality? The knowledge that one could survive for several weeks, should one be locked into the bathroom by invading contras bent on imposing an autocratic junta? Could be. Could be.
Now exiting the bathroom state of mind. I have a theory that I am in the wrong major. Why, you ask? Well, because I seem to be required to write ten to twelve page double-spaced paper on any of several interesting issues, using only academic sources instead of the much sexier sources to be found in layman's media. Boo. In addition to this imposition, I must also write midterms. Why is this so? Why?
Also, my econ professor is boring. He is sort of cute (he looks like a turtle! Turtle, turtle!) but his lectures move about this fast: . That is their speed per minute, that little dot there. I can glean just as much Knowledge from reading the textbook, and in fact so far I have.
WFMU.org's Republican National Convention remix is highly recommended, dead creepy stuff. W. really is a bastard, isn't he? Don't let Media Player's constant need to "buffer" put you off.
Tuesday, September 14, 2004
Taryn's comment on my last post reminded me: I met another Taryn here. Actually, her name's Heather, and her personality is probably quite different (I have never heard Taryn say, "Man, I feel too fat today to wear this") but her voice and her mannerisms are so exactly like Taryn's that it's somewhat freaky. She got very very excited to find out that I knew where Edson is, because everybody else here goes blank when you say, "I'm from Edson". It took me a minute to work out just *who* she reminded me of, but when I got there it was veeeery strange.
So there is a Bizarro World Taryn here in Ottawa.
My history prof is kind of scary. He walked into the lecture yesterday, in his navy blue suit jacket (slightly too big, which is appropriate because professors should always have ill-fitting clothes) and said, "Hello, class. I'm Professor Mayer, not Maier, Mayer [pronounced like "mayor"] and this is 20th century European history." And then he got straight into the course material and layout, no personal commentary at all. He has a slight accent, I don't know where from. I thought it was Scottish but then it turned sort of Russian or something. He's young and thin and tidy and has wire-rimmed glasses and that indefinable "serial killer" vibe. The only thing he told us about himself was that he's new to Carleton, and while his lecture was interesting, it was sort of textbooky.
Maybe his class only seemed strange because I'd just come from my Public Affairs and Policy Management (PAPM) lecture with Professor Darby, who was exactly as promised. Some people have told me that he's like a cross between Colonel Sanders and Santa Claus. They are exactly right: he's a big, white-bearded Georgian man with a thick Southern accent. He is obsessed with semantics, which is (I think) just as it should be in a course on political thought. I think I will either enjoy his class very much or be driven to tears by it.
I have also, inadvertently, collected some dirt on that party Sunday night. I am so very, very glad I didn't go. Actually, the incidents described reminded me very much of the Orgy Song I picked up during frosh week:
And so on for as many verses as you like. You can even make your own little witticisms, such as, "At my orgy, my parents are going to be there -- Somebody has to videotape!"
This post has gotten horribly off track, and I hereby give up.
So there is a Bizarro World Taryn here in Ottawa.
My history prof is kind of scary. He walked into the lecture yesterday, in his navy blue suit jacket (slightly too big, which is appropriate because professors should always have ill-fitting clothes) and said, "Hello, class. I'm Professor Mayer, not Maier, Mayer [pronounced like "mayor"] and this is 20th century European history." And then he got straight into the course material and layout, no personal commentary at all. He has a slight accent, I don't know where from. I thought it was Scottish but then it turned sort of Russian or something. He's young and thin and tidy and has wire-rimmed glasses and that indefinable "serial killer" vibe. The only thing he told us about himself was that he's new to Carleton, and while his lecture was interesting, it was sort of textbooky.
Maybe his class only seemed strange because I'd just come from my Public Affairs and Policy Management (PAPM) lecture with Professor Darby, who was exactly as promised. Some people have told me that he's like a cross between Colonel Sanders and Santa Claus. They are exactly right: he's a big, white-bearded Georgian man with a thick Southern accent. He is obsessed with semantics, which is (I think) just as it should be in a course on political thought. I think I will either enjoy his class very much or be driven to tears by it.
I have also, inadvertently, collected some dirt on that party Sunday night. I am so very, very glad I didn't go. Actually, the incidents described reminded me very much of the Orgy Song I picked up during frosh week:
Orgies make the world go round,
The world go round, the world go round.
Orgies makethe world go round,
So let's go have an orgy!
[Spoken]At my orgy, there's only one chair!
[All] Awww!
[Spoken] MY FACE!
[All] Yaaay!
Orgies make the world go round,
etc.
And so on for as many verses as you like. You can even make your own little witticisms, such as, "At my orgy, my parents are going to be there -- Somebody has to videotape!"
This post has gotten horribly off track, and I hereby give up.
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Shiiiiiit, man. I feel like shit. For the past couple hours I have been dizzy and wheezing and coughing and blowing my nose (which has now started to bleed). YAY.
Advantages of university: independence and responsibility.
Advantages of staying home: vegetable soup and cough medicine on demand. Also, things aren't all closed Sundays. Fuuuuuck.
I look like something the cat horked up and peed on. And I feel like somebody's been jumping up and down on my throat for three hours, and now I'm trying to breathe through a dusty straw. This has been: exercises in metaphor.
Seriously. Everybody else is going out to this huge "freakin' weekend" drunken party (or several of them, actually) and while I don't actually want to go, I would prefer not to be, you know, alone. I mean, I've got Shweta, because I'm wagering that Indian exchange students don't go out to parties in their first weeks in Canada, but I don't like to swear around her. It shocks her. And right now, I'm in a cursing mood, for the first time all week.
Advantages of university: independence and responsibility.
Advantages of staying home: vegetable soup and cough medicine on demand. Also, things aren't all closed Sundays. Fuuuuuck.
I look like something the cat horked up and peed on. And I feel like somebody's been jumping up and down on my throat for three hours, and now I'm trying to breathe through a dusty straw. This has been: exercises in metaphor.
Seriously. Everybody else is going out to this huge "freakin' weekend" drunken party (or several of them, actually) and while I don't actually want to go, I would prefer not to be, you know, alone. I mean, I've got Shweta, because I'm wagering that Indian exchange students don't go out to parties in their first weeks in Canada, but I don't like to swear around her. It shocks her. And right now, I'm in a cursing mood, for the first time all week.
I can now say with pride that I'm done all my readings for poli-sci four whole days early.
Mwraaaaaa... I think the cold/cough/fever I've had over the past few days is progressing into an ear infection. I hatehatehate ear infections (who doesn't?). This is not what I need right now.
Mwraaaaaa... I think the cold/cough/fever I've had over the past few days is progressing into an ear infection. I hatehatehate ear infections (who doesn't?). This is not what I need right now.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
Goddamnit, I went out tonight. The campus pub, Oliver's, had an 80s Night and it was all-ages. So I went to a real bar and danced to old music. I danced for Steph and Luke.
Maybe I just wanted a distraction from the pain, and I'm trying to justify it, but I think they would want me to. I Elbow Danced through Bohemian Rhapsody, after having decided that anyone who can't deal with the Elbow Dance can't be my friend. And anyone who has a problem with Elbow Dancing doesn't deserve to hear our stories, and will never even know secondhand versions of Steph and Luke. If there is one thing they have taught me it is to glean all the joy you can from life, whether you find it in tablecloth crazy-carpeting, year-long countdowns to highly anticipated events, delinquent pebble messages, or in Elbow Dancing.
Nemo saltat sobrius. Sober men don't dance, James Boswell wrote. Life is unpredictable, insecure, and frightening. To live it well, we have to take the risk of loving someone, knowing all the while that someone will get hurt. Luke and Steph certainly took that risk on us. Now we owe it to them to keep doing things that terrify us, for the sake of joy in the meantime.
Tonight I danced for them. Tomorrow I will dance for us.
Maybe I just wanted a distraction from the pain, and I'm trying to justify it, but I think they would want me to. I Elbow Danced through Bohemian Rhapsody, after having decided that anyone who can't deal with the Elbow Dance can't be my friend. And anyone who has a problem with Elbow Dancing doesn't deserve to hear our stories, and will never even know secondhand versions of Steph and Luke. If there is one thing they have taught me it is to glean all the joy you can from life, whether you find it in tablecloth crazy-carpeting, year-long countdowns to highly anticipated events, delinquent pebble messages, or in Elbow Dancing.
Nemo saltat sobrius. Sober men don't dance, James Boswell wrote. Life is unpredictable, insecure, and frightening. To live it well, we have to take the risk of loving someone, knowing all the while that someone will get hurt. Luke and Steph certainly took that risk on us. Now we owe it to them to keep doing things that terrify us, for the sake of joy in the meantime.
Tonight I danced for them. Tomorrow I will dance for us.
Sunday, September 05, 2004
Apologies for the lack of post-age over the past couple of weeks. I've been in transit across Canada, from Sherwoot! Park to Ottawa, and have had limited internet time. It's been quite scarring.
So: My family is gone. We spent four days driving cross-country (eek.) and reading Northanger Abbey out loud, such geeks we are. We spent two days or so in Ottawa and then went to a lake paradise for a week. Unfortunately, paradise is rainy and our cottage turned out to be a trailer. A really nice trailer, but still. It's the principle of the thing. Two days or so were really nice, but the rest of the weather was sort of blah -- just rainy and windy. We managed to get some good swimming, canoeing, walking, and beachy stuff in, nevertheless. At the resort's Saturday night dance Elise and I won a bottle of highly suspect homemade wine in a dirty bottle ("scumble", to you Terry Pratchett fans), as well as a pot of chrysanthemums, which are now dead.
Just to shock us, my dad shaved off his beard. I KNOW. Let's clarify: My dad has had a beard since he was nineteen and has not been clean-shaven in my lifetime, until now. It's very strange. We kept wondering who this man was in the living room.
After the lake, it was back to Ottawa for three days, where we kept ourselves amused by buying coat hangers and Vim and other such exciting items for my room. Saturday was moving day. I am on the third floor and as such have quite a nice view, at least until the marigolds at the base of the next building stop blooming. My roommate seems very nice, but is now gone to see Niagara Falls. She'll be back Tuesday. Her name is Indra and she's from Mongolia but has been living in Brussels the past three years, where her mother seems to be ambassador of Mongolia to Belgium (or to the EU, I don't know -- all I know is that she had "Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary" on her card, and I thought immediately of West Wing). Indra herself is a little tiny thing, about five foot three and 10 cm across. She has extremely good skin and speaks excellent English in a soft voice. Living in Belgium, I assume she speaks good French too, but she was only around for an hour or two and our room was full of our families (only hers were conversing in Mongolian). Not much time for bonding.
Our floor (Third Dundas -- pronounced dund-ASS for some reason, probably because "ass" is a yoomerous word) was supposed to go for breakfast at eight thirty but there are only about three other girls up right now. Go figure. I was frantic for about ten minutes, because I was the only person walking about the floor, the Twilight Zone theme running through my mind. When I went to the cafeteria, it was locked, so I became even more concerned: "What if I accidentally slept for like three days and I've missed orientation?! No! Bad! I don't know where anyone or anything is! Bad! I don't even have all my textbooks yet!"
On the bright side: I have successfully downloaded three songs by The Darkness and they are all fabulous. Love on the Rocks With No Ice is their usual insano metal fun, and the chorus to Growing on Me reminds me of Queen. Nuff said.
So: My family is gone. We spent four days driving cross-country (eek.) and reading Northanger Abbey out loud, such geeks we are. We spent two days or so in Ottawa and then went to a lake paradise for a week. Unfortunately, paradise is rainy and our cottage turned out to be a trailer. A really nice trailer, but still. It's the principle of the thing. Two days or so were really nice, but the rest of the weather was sort of blah -- just rainy and windy. We managed to get some good swimming, canoeing, walking, and beachy stuff in, nevertheless. At the resort's Saturday night dance Elise and I won a bottle of highly suspect homemade wine in a dirty bottle ("scumble", to you Terry Pratchett fans), as well as a pot of chrysanthemums, which are now dead.
Just to shock us, my dad shaved off his beard. I KNOW. Let's clarify: My dad has had a beard since he was nineteen and has not been clean-shaven in my lifetime, until now. It's very strange. We kept wondering who this man was in the living room.
After the lake, it was back to Ottawa for three days, where we kept ourselves amused by buying coat hangers and Vim and other such exciting items for my room. Saturday was moving day. I am on the third floor and as such have quite a nice view, at least until the marigolds at the base of the next building stop blooming. My roommate seems very nice, but is now gone to see Niagara Falls. She'll be back Tuesday. Her name is Indra and she's from Mongolia but has been living in Brussels the past three years, where her mother seems to be ambassador of Mongolia to Belgium (or to the EU, I don't know -- all I know is that she had "Extraordinary and Plenipotentiary" on her card, and I thought immediately of West Wing). Indra herself is a little tiny thing, about five foot three and 10 cm across. She has extremely good skin and speaks excellent English in a soft voice. Living in Belgium, I assume she speaks good French too, but she was only around for an hour or two and our room was full of our families (only hers were conversing in Mongolian). Not much time for bonding.
Our floor (Third Dundas -- pronounced dund-ASS for some reason, probably because "ass" is a yoomerous word) was supposed to go for breakfast at eight thirty but there are only about three other girls up right now. Go figure. I was frantic for about ten minutes, because I was the only person walking about the floor, the Twilight Zone theme running through my mind. When I went to the cafeteria, it was locked, so I became even more concerned: "What if I accidentally slept for like three days and I've missed orientation?! No! Bad! I don't know where anyone or anything is! Bad! I don't even have all my textbooks yet!"
On the bright side: I have successfully downloaded three songs by The Darkness and they are all fabulous. Love on the Rocks With No Ice is their usual insano metal fun, and the chorus to Growing on Me reminds me of Queen. Nuff said.
