radiolariat

small.

2011-06-28T14:05:00.004-04:00

fact: I always check the dedications and special thanks sections in books and cds to see if I recognize any names.

ebb.

2011-05-25T11:38:00.000-04:00

And then the very next afternoon I realize that all I really want to do is lie down and stare at the wall for a couple hours.

heart-garden.

2011-05-23T16:53:00.011-04:00

It's the wrong season to talk about reaping what you sow, but that's what is happening for me these days.
Metaphorically speaking (always).

Though my literal garden is still in the heavy-lifting phase (think less dainty gardening gloves and wee little trowels, more excavating cinderblocks from reluctant clay) I'm staggered by the blessings I'm receiving in my personal life.

After my relationship ended, when I stopped keening I looked up and I found myself in a tiny room in the basement of a crowded house in the wrong part of town. Stuck in a job that gave me no pleasure, in a city that didn't mean much to me. Adrift in a body that didn't feel like home, with a heart all crowded with hurt and anxieties.

Nowhere to go. Giving up not an option. Doors were there to be opened, but I had to work at feeling worthy to walk through them.
So I put my head back down and worked at getting it right. At breaking old habits, pushing myself emotionally and physically, at setting new goals and letting go of others. I practiced hauling around a heavy heart, getting up and doing what has to be done, taking pleasure in accomplishments, telling myself the truth.

I've spent my time hustling to get more space in my life. More free time, less clutter, a stronger and more flexible body, deeper relationships, more responsibilities, fewer anxieties.
Many many nights I've gone to bed having done all I could do.
That, in itself, was enough for me.

And now. And now.
This is the last week at my job. I'm going to be nannying; responsibility, challenge, change, generous pay. The sweetest little boy who has already irrevocably changed me in only four months. It's wonderful and exciting.
Still, I'm daunted. Slowing down means more time to think. That's what gets me, every time.

If you push it until you can't go any further, the negative voice in your head is too tired to make itself heard.
If you can't expand into it, space is just...empty.

It makes me laugh, how perverse my mind is.
(Too afraid to accept what you've worked so hard to get.)
He laughs too, while I sit on his front step and worry, arms wrapped around my legs.
"The world is so big, much bigger than this little shell," and he pats my knee with a work-rough hand.
And it makes sense.

The world is lovely and I live a charmed life. It has always been so.
I'm healthy and strong, growing more beautiful inside and out. This has not always been so.

I know the world is cyclical and I'll once again find myself in a place where the pieces are scattered, but I'm starting to feel more hopeful. Perhaps the next time I find myself at the bottom of the wheel's revolution, I'll have acceptance. Grace.

Here's hoping.

Don't give up.
You already carry within yourself everything you have ever needed.
You have the peace, the love, the calm, the strength, the compassion.
Trust.
Let go.

pomegranate concentrate.

2011-02-23T14:38:00.004-05:00

Waiting for snow to melt and waiting for blues to lift.

It's February. What did you expect?

Meanwhile I'm deepening my yoga practice and working on my patience.

(Here is where I put a link to Radiohead's Lotus Flower, but youtube won't let me do that anymore.
You can find it for yourself.)

Remember: Darkness defines where the light is.

I haven't mentioned it here, not knowing who is reading, but it's a big enough part of my life that it's starting to feel silly to not write about it. I'm in a wonderful relationship these days, and we're learning together. Even in the midst of the blues it's getting easier to remember that the world is full up of love.

Trust, and let go.

wail.

2011-01-19T13:19:00.003-05:00

Curl the index finger so that it touches the fold between thumb and finger. Thumb rests on inside corner of the fingernail on the pinky finger. Middle and ring finger are extended. Maintain this mudra with both hands for several minutes and invite acceptance.

You choose to read it as a haunting but, darling, I'm no ghost.

I'm alive and well.
Breathing.
Bleeding red blood.
Messing it up and getting it right.
Despairing. Loving. Running.

Holy smokes, I'm learning so much.
It seems to me that the dead don't learn, but that hasn't been proven yet.

Don't speak of ghosts, boy.
Think of me, if and when you do, more as a Rottweiler puppy.
Big and dumb and not knowing my own strength.
All instinct and teeth and reckless animal heart.

Not that that's quite it, either.
But we're going to have to settle with these juvenile metaphors, if you feel better when I'm in the past tense.

(It's a hard lesson, I know. I'm struggling with it myself these days.)

May, Alex Colville.

2010-07-06T22:28:00.005-04:00

When you build a house you've got to pick up the hammer. When on the road you put the hammer down. - Shotgun Jimmie Kilpatrick

This picture is almost exactly how I feel right now.

Blew through Sackville on the VIA rail this weekend. It was strange to being seeing it from the tracks, Sackville from the back. I had my forehead pressed to the glass for about half an hour before landmarks started to get familiar, but nostalgia would hit with avengence. The eerie row of guard houses across from the Dorchester Pen. The half-finished castle/house. Seeing the road that leads out to Frosty Hollow. Lorne Street. The firing range. The broken bridge. (Oh, to be moving over the trestle bridge, existing in that space I'd contemplated for years.) All these beautiful afternoons spent biking, going anywhere/nowhere, just needing to get out of that small small town.

And that's the thing.

I've ached for Sackville for as long as I've been away from it, but didn't I just as often ache to get away? What am I really aching for? I don't want to go back and live there, and I don't want to go back and re-live what I lived there. Nostalgia is the pain of coming home, and it hurts that you can't go back. Like it hurts to realize that I now stand taller than my dear dear grandfather, who always seemed to me an unbreakable strength. Like it hurts to miss the sweet half of my life with Matthew, and steel myself by remembering the ugly half. Like it hurts to have a heart that overflows with gentle things to say, and a mouth that habitually goes tight and grim.

I'm home with my family for a much-too-brief period of time. Everything has changed, very little has changed. I very deeply feel a change in myself. Somehow it hurts to be moving in the right direction, but I've spent the last seven months learning on my yoga mat that pain is an opportunity to learn. Pain is energy you haven't reconciled with.

Trust, and let go.

Click!

2010-04-27T22:03:00.004-04:00

Oh, constant reader. How's every little thing?

Today was a low day. A mean day. A grey day.
No. Worse than all those. I don't have the words for it.
Today was a snowy spring day and everyone felt alright.
Today was the day that nothing in particular went wrong.
Today was the day that I almost choked on my grief.
Today was the day that went just as every other day has gone in the past four months: I feel like I won't be able to get through it, and then I just get through it.

Got an email from Matt today. Long awaited, though I knew everything it would contain:
Orders to cease and desist.
See, I'm guilty of being selfish. Sending him emails - only a few, but too many- and being too honest.
I miss you. I pray for you. I'm kind of a mess.
That tired old song and dance. I mean, come on. Right?

Wrote it like poetry but the meaning remains the same.
Cease and fucking desist, woman. Stop caring. Don't call don't write.
He did, however, tack a few kind words on, words that my heart has just been keening for for months. So, there's that.
Matt, I might live off those kinds words for a little while, if it's all the same to you.

Anyway, point being that he shouldn't have had to write it.
Something in me needs him to put it into words, and that's so weak.
I needled at him (with such gently teeny needles) until he pushed back. That's my modus operandi, people.

You know what I wanted?

I wanted him to go away over Christmas. I wanted us to have time to think and space to breathe. I wanted to be alone, if I was going to be so lonely anyway. I wanted him to miss me like a heart attack. I wanted to see him for his real self when he came back. I wanted us to be like we were when it was summer and we were on the back porch and the sun was setting. I wanted him to wake up to his potential. I wanted to put down my burden. I wanted to be calm. I wanted to trust him with everything.

Mainly what I want these days is for my chest to stop threatening to supernova.

I promise that I'm not always this much of a mess. As recently as this week I've been known to laugh in genuine delight, and to have my tired tired heart skip beats at such things as sunrises and flocks of birds. It's just that... well, I'm a bit of a mess.

No shame in that.

If you could see where I'm living right now, you'd understand. However, as recently as a week ago I was told "I keep having to remind myself that five months ago you were in school and in a relationship. You're getting through this and you're doing so well."

I really am. Though, I will also tell you that I was offered a hug today by a woman who is little more than a stranger to me, and so quick was I to step into her arms that my shoulder bumped her jaw shut.

Click! went her teeth.

2010-02-18T12:05:00.002-05:00

Oh, and just like that February is half-done and I think I might make it to Spring.
Just like that.

I've been doing so much Bikram yoga, expect for a week there when I got the Norwalk virus that made the rounds through Kingston. (About 11 hours of hell, and five days of recovery.) I took two classes yesterday, three hours in the 40 degree heat (again), and my co-workers think I'm a little nuts.

I need this. I'm so fucking strong these days. Body-wise, that is. I'm still carrying my heart around like a crippled thing, and it will be like this for some time yet, but there is no shame in that. Sorrow swells in and sorrow washes out. All I need to do is be still and notice, because sorrow and joy and anger and fear are all equally fluid. Equally transient.

There is so much to learn.

I've lost a lot of weight. About twenty pounds in two months, which is a little overwhelming. I haven't been at this weight since my early teens, I'd guess. I'm eating, but taking little pleasure in the process. Matthew used to do all our cooking, and he put his heart into it.

On the other hand, I do look good in my skinny jeans. So, there's that.

I've sent applications for internships to some of the organic farms around Kingston. Two look promising, one a part-time position that would have me living in the city and still working at Tara's. The other a full-time position at a farm an hour and a half away, which would have me living in a cabin and biking to the city when I could. The latter is a scary proposition, but deeply appealing. I would miss my friends terribly, though.

Do I sound unhappy? I do. And I suppose that I am, but not always.I'm scared and grim and tired, but learning. Always learning. And pushing.

I don't want it to sound like Matthew was holding me back from growing. Because he wasn't. He wasn't. It's just that sometimes we went too easy on ourselves.

... I just can't talk about that right now.

Soldier on.

the ground we stand on.

2010-01-21T21:32:00.001-05:00

I found a journal, and pulled out a piece of paper thinking it was mine.I should have stopped reading when I saw it was his, but... would you?
(Maybe you would. He would have.)

A poem.
(If it had been written in ink it would practically still be wet.)
About meeting a woman in a coffee shop.
Losing track of their afternoons and hands touching and all that.
Scraps of paper to link possible futures.

I confessed and apologized for reading it, and he said reading it was punishment enough.
I have no right to be so broken by it.

At the same time, I think of the times I would hear his new songs or read some new poem he'd written. I'd be searching for me. Straining to see between the lines. Coming up empty handed.

This is how these things shake out in the end.

I wrote him a letter this evening, before I came over to pack. I spent nearly two hours on it, sobbing the whole time. Just wanting to give, to comfort, to apologize, to encourage. I forgot to bring it with me. He just left to run over his thesis defense with our physicist neighbours, and I'm to put my things in a cab and bring myself home. Because that's what has to be done.

And I tell myself that I'm not going to walk back in the cold and the night to deliver him this letter. I tell myself that I'm not compelled to give and give and give until my head landslides and my heart caves in.

But I know that I'm going to.

anatomy of a...

2010-01-16T11:46:00.004-05:00

Matthew and I broke up.
A few weeks ago.
Weeks ago?
Time is moving funny for me these days.

I haven't been writing at all. I sit with pen and paper and try and get something, anything, onto paper about how I'm feeling about the whole thing but words won't come. Not yet.

I'm carrying a huge burden of grief. Though it had flaws, our relationship was a good one. Strong and happy for the most part, hopeful. We were good. We were great. We just weren't quite right. Though I know that it was the right decision for us to end, I feel as if I'll be waiting a long time to feel it to be true.

In the meantime I'm dealing with the hundreds of horrible details of moving out and finding solid ground. The ground is not so solid. If you ask me how I'm doing I will smile and say I'm doing well. If you press the issue my composure will crumple. I will cry, but only for so long. There is work to do.

I've started doing hot yoga, volunteering hours spent cleaning the studio in exchange for free classes. I haven't yet had a class where I haven't cried while in Savasana, but the tears get lost in my sweat. As they should.

I can't say much about this. My heart breaks for both of us. For him and for me and for the life we dreamed of. He said those dreams were so real to him that it was as if they were memories.

Let that be a lesson to us all to live in the present.

I worry about him. Hourly. I'm constantly being told that I have to concentrate entirely on myself, but I refuse to do so. I hope that I never see the day when I concentrate entirely on myself. He will always be in my heart, but that's okay. I have a big heart.

This will heal. He will grow and I will grow. Hopefully we will forgive ourselves our mistakes without hardening our hearts to each other. It's a necessary violence we've done here, but so painful.

I'm afraid and I'm hopeful and I'm lonesome and I'm strong.

and you don't just want to break me.

2009-12-13T19:25:00.002-05:00

Today I'm feeling entirely out of kilter. Mostly for reasons that can only be kept to myself.

I haven't done any work on Christmas today, my day off, and the clock is tick-tick-ticking. But, if I'm being honest, I'm not terribly excited about Christmas this year. Even less so than I was earlier, now that I know our neighbours have invited our crazy old superintendent to Christmas Eve. These holidays promise to be a trial.

hissss...

2009-12-06T14:52:00.007-05:00

Something in the air is being unkind to the skin around my eyes.
Or maybe it's the cold, or maybe one of the neighbours changed their laundry soap in the communal washing machine. Or maybe its dust or mould or chemicals in the house or...

Whatever it is: EYELID ECZEMA. DUN DUN DUN.
(Don't click on that picture of me. It's a gigantic file, and a terrifying close-up.)

The next person who comments on my pink eyeshadow will learn the true power of the dark side, I promise you that.

It's driving me crazy. I don't have it anywear else, just my EYES. MY EYES, people.
This happened before in the fall, though it was much worse and I had to do to the doctor. This time I'm drinking lots of water and taking lots of omega 3-6-9's and trying out some different natural remedies and not making a whole lot of eye contact. People wince when they look at me.

For the record: this never happened to me on the east coast and I hate this town.

sad boy guitar pop.

2009-11-29T01:37:00.003-05:00

Would you like for my dearlove to sing you a song?
He'd love to.

I'm pretty fond of Dead Trees Sleep, which was written after a devastatingly beautiful day spent bumming around the back roads and dead ends of Sackville on our bikes. I'm homesick for coastlines.

Abbey's song might be my favourite, especially now that she's gone.

niesie!

2009-11-29T01:18:00.014-05:00

Our neighbours (Pawel and Elwira) are delighted when we try to use Polish words, even more so when we mangle them. Tonight when attempting to say "soup" Matthew managed to say something more akin to "small ass". Which is awesome.
I have a better ear for it than he does, surprisingly, but Matt is better at rolling his r's. Sadly, it seems unlikely that either of us will ever learn more than a handful of words, Polish is incredibly confusing.

Pawel says something to his daughter.
Lindsey repeats the word: Does that mean hand?
Pawel: Yes! Sort of.
Lindsey: What do you mean?
Pawel: It means little hand.
Lindsey: Oh.
Pawel: Well, it actually means two little hands.

Uh.

Elwira recently tried to tell us a joke, could barely speak for laughing, and was awfully disappointed when we didn't get the punchline. The punchline missed us by a mile. To this day, I don't understand the punchline. The punchline involves the Polish word for "bowl" being the same as the Polish word for "saw", as in to cut. I swear to you that she said "I need a bowl for cutting wood," and waited for us to laugh hysterically. She said it again.

Um.

We get shy about trying, but my vocabulary is growing with leaps and bounds. So far I can say:

"Niesie" which kind of sounds like "meesh" and means "the bear". Not "bear", mind you, but "the bear".
I can also say: lovely, yes, no, little soup, darling, goodnight, and f*#k.
Sounds like a good conversation to me.

meowzers

2009-11-29T00:05:00.019-05:00

Tomorrow is the first day I've had in almost two weeks where I haven't had pressing schoolwork due. Seeing as my term is pretty much over (as my classes are bird courses) I'm STOKED for a day off.

TO DO:

~~Bake spelt bread.~~
Bake banana bread.
Write a list of what I'm giving the family for Christmas.
~~Begin gift preparations.~~
~~Help Matthew with same.~~
Clean fridge.
~~And the whole apartment~~.
~~Set up meditation altar.~~ (HIPPIE! DIRTY HEATHEN HIPPIE!)
Laundry.
~~Send parcel to Elli and Laura.~~
Patch my jeans before things get indecent.
Send belated birthday card to Mom, and early birthday card to Dad.
~~Retrieve the bag of frozen mango that I left on the table at work.~~
~~Clean up the mess left from leaving a bag of frozen mango out all night.~~
Continue work on baby-food jar Christmas lights.
~~Cut Matthew's hair.~~
Write back to healthpursuitsgroup.com about volunteering.
~~Find out why house smells like that.~~
~~Pay power bills.~~
Buy a bottle of Coca-cola in hopes of unclogging the sink.
Print out essay.
~~Catch up on reading for Children's Theatre.~~
~~Yoga practice.~~
(I'm getting really close to having my hands positioned correctly in cow's head:)

Whew.

Matthew and I won't be able to make it home for Christmas this year, and while we're excited to be together for Christmas for the first time, it's also really hard to be away from home. I've been particularly homesick for my Grandparent's living room this year.

I'm anxious about what Christmas will be like, but we're going to give it the old college try. I've got some plans to keep you (you being Mom and Dad, really) posted about my preparations, so maybe we won't feel so far away.

scaramouche! scaramouche!

2009-11-24T23:03:00.004-05:00

I'm going to lose all my hard-earned cred by posting this.

Ask me how hard I laughed at "I see a little silhouette of a clam".
(Very.)

Meanwhile, I have a paper that I've been working on for a little while now. Seeing as I always seem to be surrounded by mathematicians these days, I don't really have anyone to talk about it with.
"What's your paper on?"
"I'm kind of trying to wrap my head around the ethics of applied-theater."
"Oh?"
"I'm focusing on directors who try and dramatize conflict by workshopping non-actors who live in areas of centralized violence."
"Uh. Cool."

Maybe I'm just a bore.

crumble.

2009-11-21T22:53:00.002-05:00

Man: Are all your dreams coming true for you at work today?
Me: I should hope not. Last night I dreamt that all my teeth were falling out.

when it all went down he got messed up.

2009-11-15T14:19:00.006-05:00

Went to see Wax Mannequin play at The Mansion last night, and it was like the soundtrack to my life circa 2004 had sprung to life in order to blow my mind.
I walk in the door and the first thing I see is Brent Randall holding down one side of a chess game. Against Mark Bragg. And is that... IS THAT JON EPWORTH OVER THERE?

Anna pinched my leg, hard.
"So, you're not dreaming."

It was a good time, despite an inordinately large number of mouth-breathers in attendance. It drives me crazy when the audience disrespects the musicians, but going to a live show is weird experience, no matter how you slice it. Nobody wants to seem out of place. And the audience/performer dynamic is fraught with weirdness.
I mean, Wax Mannequin. I've seen him play a dozen times, and I'm always blown away, but over the span of even the last five years I've watched him shred his vocal chords.
Shred his vocal chords.
I like to rock out to the old stuff as much as you do, but then he gets to the chorus and we all remember that he can't hit the notes that he was hitting even two years. Because we watched him give it everything he has, and it seems to be so hard for people to say, "Okay. Thank you. You've given us enough."

Just one more song.
But at the same time, they seem to love it, don't they? I don't know. I call it the Geoff Berner Effect. His music is great, but every time I see him play live I end up feeling sick that we've just watched this man drink himself blind drunk for an hour. Thank you, you've given us enough.

Mark Bragg asked for requests, and I hollered for Three Little Indians worrying that it was too old of a song for him to be willing to do. Not so! He later came up to me during Wax's set.

"Where are you from? Are you from Newfoundland?"
"Uh, no I'm from Sackville, New Brunswick. I mean, Halifax."
"That makes more sense, I guess. It's just that people who aren't from Newfoundland don't usually know my music. We don't usually get requests."

He was genuinely surprised when I said I've been listening to his music for years. When we spoke again later, he was downright maudlin.

"It really meant a lot to the band."
Musicians are a funny breed.

Anyway, head on over to CBC3 and check out all these names I've dropped.

Fly in (the ointment).

2009-11-08T20:21:00.001-05:00

I had assumed that having made it this far through my education without once making a power point presentation, I was probably in the clear.

NOT SO.

You win this round, Queens.

You won't catch me.

2009-10-26T19:00:00.002-04:00

So long, Abby. You were a good dog.

Bug.

2009-10-26T10:53:00.001-04:00

We met this little guy at the Oak Street Garden Harvest Party earlier this month. I'll tell you more about it later.

captain vegetable.

2009-10-25T19:17:00.006-04:00

One Sunday this summer we took over Farmer's Market duties for a friend of ours. I loaded up a rented bike-trailer with his produce and we spent the morning working his table.

Note the Shakespeare textbook in the background.

This particular Farmer's Market is something of an experiment. It's held in a very low-income part of Kingston, and it basically spent the summer floundering. I haven't heard if it will continue next year. Why? There aren't yet enough customers to ensure the vendors that a trip to the north end will be worth the effort, and because there aren't many vendors... not a whole lot of customers come out. It's frustrating for all involved, because there ARE NO PLACES TO GET PRODUCE in this part of town. Corner stores, but not grocery stores. Nowhere to get healthy, fresh food.

Whatever food we didn't sell was going to be brought to one of the meal programs in Kingston, and I had the feeling that our table was more a charitable gesture than a matter of income. There are families in this part of town living in grinding poverty.

Matthew and I are just learning, but we have dreams of living a sustainable life, and I think that includes helping our community. We're still looking for ways to do that. Sure, some nights we get home from school and work, and we just don't want to think about such heavy things, but we're trying to keep perspective on the things that matter.

Find out where your food is coming from. Find out where it grows, and how it grows. Get to know the people who grow your food. Find out who is making it and who is selling it. Be curious about the part you're playing. Be grateful for what you have. That's a really good start.

no complaints, right?

2009-10-22T15:34:00.003-04:00

I like to think that I would have eventually sent you your CD back.
I have one of Nicola's CD cases, but have lost the CD.
I have fistfuls of my brother's CDs, which I have ever intended to return.
I have one stolen mix CD from the Bridge Street Cafe.
I've sent borrowed CDs back weeks late, and years late. It's not that I intend to to keep them, but dropping a package in the mailbox always gets put on the back burner.

I think I might have sent it back. I would have eventually punched your name into Facebook and found you, and thought, "what the hell?" That time that you asked for it back, I was still angry with you. I was feeling cold-hearted. You had headed for Montreal, and I was lonely in Sackville. So, sorry about that. I don't know if you didn't really care about it, or forgot about it, but the last time we spoke it didn't come up. I think you decided I could keep it if I was going to be so stubborn.

And now you've been dead for two years.
And still I've got your stupid CD.

"Do I feel lucky?"

2009-07-04T21:32:00.009-04:00

I gave someone the finger yesterday, for the first time.
That is, it's the first time that the finger has been hoisted with serious intent, not among friends.

I'm biking home on King St. West, which is a busy street and set on an uncomfortable incline to boot. I've got rush hour traffic on one side and parked cars on the other, and I'm definitely in the Just Don't Crash zone. I'm focused. I'm steering around potholes and watching for doors opening, which is why I notice the man's face in the rearview mirror of the gigantic white SUV I'm coming up on. We lock eyes, so I'm not worried. A car zooms up on my left, I'm looking over my shoulder to keep tabs on it, and that's when I drive past the open window of the SUV.

"BOO!"

I flinch, but I don't veer. I keep pedaling. I consider what has happened, and pretty quickly I'm indignant. I don't know what he expected to happen, but scaring a biker on a busy street isn't my idea of a joke.

I look over my shoulder and to see how far away I've gone. Matt is biking behind me, and is blocking the man from my view, but I raise my arm high and flip him off. I hope he was looking. Matt didn't see what has provoked me, but he laughs.

"It's the biker's horn!"

I'm not proud about it, not exactly, because I'm really not the middle-finger type, but also because I have a film-sharp image of me dropping my bike on the curb and sauntering up to his window and asking him to repeat himself. Think Dirty Harry, but scarier.

It's a good thing I don't drive a motorcycle, I can't even imagine the attitude I'd develop.

Skeleton Park

2009-07-01T17:22:00.008-04:00

This happened two weeks ago but I forgot to tell you about it.

In anticipation of Sappy Fest 09 we volunteered for Kingston's Skeleton Park Music Festival, and had a pretty lovely time doing so. Even though it rained all day.

Officially known as McBurney Park, Skeleton Park was a burial ground which received some 10,000 bodies from 1813 until 1865. The majority of those buried were soldiers from the early 1810's, lower-class Kingstons who bore the brunt of chorela epidemics in the mid 1830's, and thousands of the Irish immigrants who came during the famine in 1847.

Bodies were exhumed and reburied in the last years of the 1800's, and the land was given to the city to turn into a park, but the historian that spoke during the festival explained that only an estimated 10% of those buried had actually been exhumed.

As odd as it is to be mucking around on consecrated ground, I think it's the way things are headed. Green space is pretty precious in this day and age.

I have more pictures on my flickr account, but they're mostly of other people's kids.

quietly.

2009-05-25T02:49:00.003-04:00

Matt just left for his week away and, as always happens when I suddenly find myself alone, I'm reminded that I live too near to all the things I've left behind. That is to say that when I sit quietly and think about the faces that I haven't seen in some time, sometimes I forget to let them go again.

And I wish for things I cannot name.
And I'm homesick for places I've never been.

Living mindfully is so hard.

buckley.

2009-05-14T13:20:00.014-04:00

I keep getting pressed for news.

Matt got straight A's this term.
Matt is going to a conference in Regina at the end of this month.
Matt's family came to visit.
Matt turned 24 yesterday.

It's not that I don't have news, but mine never comes in tidy little soundbites.
My news is always so inane.

I learned a new yoga position.
I found half an eggshell from a robin's egg.
I finally gave Matt a decent haircut.
I made a new friend at work.

Like a diary of an eighteen-year-old.
(So it goes. )

I'm yearning for something epic, but I'm settling for little victories.
Having a good day, a day when I do what needs to get done and still have the heart and the energy to do more, and then having a string of good days. Having a good week. Having a good month.

I'm happier than ever before.
That's my news.

In other news: Aidyn is a whirlwind of disaster. (and this is not the decent hair cut.)

And I made a wicked birthday cake.

I added mushed raspberries when I iced the middle, and would recommend you use as many as you can afford. Also, I couldn't find double cream and used table cream (18%) which worked just as well. Unless you're in the UK, and can buy castor sugar, just use granulated sugar.

parnoosh.

2009-04-25T21:48:00.009-04:00

Our families ask us if we're doing okay.

We've just had Matthew's roasted eggplant soup with tuna/avacado melts for supper. How could we possibly be anything other than okay? Other than the fact that we couldn't afford goat cheese this week.

That's how we're rolling these days. Just doing it and nevermind the luxuries.
We seem to be very happy.
(It's a work in progress.)

Matt is neck deep in an Algebra take-home exam, and hating every minute. He shut himself in the math building early this morning, and I've spent my day paley loitering around the house doing chores and sporadically picking up books. It's the first Saturday I've had to myself in a while, and I haven't got much to show for it. I think it's the weather.

The last few days have been funny here, warm and wet. Anxious weather. If you were to open a door in Sackville on a day like today, likely it would nearly get blown off its hinges. Marsh wind. Here you just get gales of tiny, frantic flies that cling to your skin and get stuck to your lips. Our landlord says they're going to get worse for the next few weeks.
You'd stay inside too. 'Effing Kingston.

I'm going to lapse into point form for a bit:

1. I mostly love my job. Mostly.
2. I won't find out about getting into Queen's until June.
3. I made a kind-of friend at work.
b. She just quit and is heading to an ashram in California for a month.
4. I avoid the neighbours and befriend their cats.
5. Our tomato seedlings and our pepper seedlings are growing.
6. I filed my taxes for the first time.
7. I stopped taking the pill.

Which probably merits full sentences. Is that too much information? There are no procreation plans in effect , I just firmly believe that the cons of hormonal birth control far outweigh the pros. I've been off it for about a month and not only have I not once suffered from "feminine hysteria", but I've lost five pounds and generally feel better over all. I'm taking dong quai and seeing how things go. Send in your favourite baby names! (Mein Gott, I'm kidding.)

I'm practicing yoga and braving the streets of Kingston on my bike, it promises to be a sunny summer all around.
I feel good these days.
(but can you keep your balance with your eyes closed?)

In other news, I haven't gone to a hairdresser since early December. I want to grow it out and have curls and wear a leather jacket. (Oh, yes.) But, as always, the sheer bulk of my own hair is driving me nuts. The unruliness cannot be captured in words.

Please disregard the chubby chin and note the inexplicable list to the left that my hair has taken.

Oh yes, we're all for growth these days.

Bloom like a tigerlily in July.
(And it's only still April.)

fanta.

2009-04-08T20:26:00.004-04:00

I caught these two breaking all sorts of safety regulations at the grocery store the other day. I love what they're doing, and I totally get it. That loosening in the chest when you've figured out a new way to break the monotony of shift work.

I wanted to just snap a picture, but thought better of it and asked their permission first.
They blushed like only teenage boys can, and said they didn't mind, but it totally ruined my picture.

Act natural.

cracks.

2009-03-31T15:26:00.003-04:00

DELICIOUS COOKIES FOR SALE.
Send some my way, while you're at it.

Edit: Looks like you missed your chance...

wolfe.

2009-03-30T17:40:00.007-04:00

It's easiest to find the beauty in something when you're looking backwards.
Such has been my experience, anyway.

We found the Wolfe Island Ferry on Saturday and, consequently, Wolfe Island. It was too cold and dark to stay for long, but I took a couple pictures of the creepiest graveyard I've ever seen.

This gravestone, which only says "E.G" was the only marker left in an area of the graveyard that looked and smelled like there had been a fire a couple seasons ago. Many of the stones were worn, broken, and scattered around the plots, and there was even a path made of fallen gravestones. It seemed pretty inappropriate, but I suppose that doesn't matter to the dead.

We wandered around until we'd thoroughly creeped ourselves out and then we went to the Island Grill for pie, and flirted with the waitress. Busy day!

I've had $100 in my head since I saw them open for Julie. It's not the first time I've seen them, but this time around the lead singer's voice got stuck inside my skullbones. Not as painful as it sounds. You should give them a listen.

patience.

2009-03-28T14:39:00.008-04:00

I don't know that I have five people who read this, but rules are rules.

The first five people who respond to this post will receive by mail (within the year 2009) a handmade gift of undetermined quality, made specifically for you by me with love and other undetermined materials. The only qualification being that you make a similar offer to your own reading public. Email me your mailing address if you're game.

In other news, someone called Matthew and I "hip" last night.
Only someone who goes to military college could think we're hip:

This took place at 2:30 in the morning, so we're not only boring but we're the worst neighbors ever.

Julie 'effin Doiron played the Grad Club last night and I'd been worried I wouldn't be able to get in, having gone and lost my wallet a like a dope. I got home from work yesterday afternoon, and my Ontario health card (complete with photo) was in the mail. I've never had that kind of luck in my life.

First beers since leaving Sackville + songs about Sackville = Metaphysical Hangover.

dicotyledons.

2009-03-26T11:28:00.004-04:00

Matthew said that even if only one grows it will have been worth it.
I'm inclined to agree, but I keep my reasoning to myself.

infants?

2009-03-15T20:31:00.007-04:00

If any Tara has any magazines that don't get sold in their respective months, we rip off the covers and put them out for the staff to take home. There is a stack THIS HIGH in the Lewis/Pilon household. Adbusters! Bitch! The Sun! But best of all are the health magazines.

Health Magazines have a brand of fear mongering all their own. There is plenty of useful information to be found, but you have to glean it from among the advertising and the alarmist propoganda. I can't imagine how damaging these things must be in the wrong hands.

I can't even tell you how many pictures of Matt's hands cupping my head that I now have on my computer, and my parents were worried my birthday-present-camera wouldn't get any use.

(Now I know that video can't be rotated.)

People think we don't do anything for fun.

naturally.

2009-03-14T20:06:00.003-04:00

Tara is a great store. Quite often I overhear people saying how the store makes them feel good, feel happy. It's bright, it smells good, all the wood in the counters, floors, and shelves has been smoothed and worn down from use. Kids in knit hats and bright sweaters get underfoot. It's a comfortable place.

But a lot of sadness drifts around as well, because the Natural Health industry makes a lot of money off of people's fears.

I can chat with you a bit, I can show you around, laugh with you about your crazy detox.
I'll tell you how long to cook your rice, give you some tips on the skin products, find the cheapest vitamins.

But, I'm sorry. I don't know about the best immune boosters for someone on chemotherapy. I'm kind of new here. No, I don't know much about these arthritis creams, but it's a very good brand. I'm not sure what might help a sick child's appetite. And I don't know what supplements help with memory loss. Let me just run and get someone who knows more than me! I do know that we have herbs that will help dry up your milk, but I don't know much about ... I'm sorry, I don't know. I'm sorry.

whoops.

2009-03-11T18:49:00.001-04:00

I accidentally just watered my plants with salt water.
Yet another reminder to take my birth control pills.

spade.

2009-03-10T17:48:00.008-04:00

I share a morning commute with a total jerk.
He rides the #2 at 8 o'clock on weekday mornings, we both get off at the downtown transfer.

Until today he hadn't done anything to me that would make me dislike him, but he always rubbed me the wrong way.

He's a loud mouth that craves attention from anyone who will meet his eye. He's pushy, and verges on aggressive when someone doesn't want to talk to him. I've seen him poke strangers and grab at their jackets and bags. I once watched him yell at a girl who turned on her iPod to ignore him.

"Hey! Look at me!"
Right into her face. She didn't even flinch, and I was impressed.

I sat across from him today, and he elbowed the woman sitting next to him.
"Look!" he cried, laughing and pointing at me.
They look at me, I look at the ceiling.

"Ha ha! Her sweater is like a bathrobe!"
(My sweater looks like grey terrycloth, and my mother bought it for me.)
She responds, guarded.
"That looks like a cozy sweater."
I shrug at her.
"Ha ha ha!"
He laughs like that, the way you would write it out.

Ordinarily I would have called him out for pointing and laughing.
"It's rude to point," I wanted to say while looking at him over my glasses.
But I didn't. It would have looked bad.

See, this jerk also happens to have Downs Syndrome, and though I maintain that his jerk-ness and his disability are two separate entities and the fact that I have such dislike for him doesn't prick my conscience in the last, I don't suppose that this would be the popular opinion.

So, as he is pointing at me and laughing, I gave him a lips-only smile that seemed to me to be far more condescending and discriminatory than outright (and righteous?) indignation.

ruminate.

2009-03-07T19:42:00.002-05:00

I'm 24 and my knees ache before it rains.
I don't think this bodes well for all the winters to come.

cerebrum.

2009-03-05T18:26:00.006-05:00

Not much going down around here these days, I call home and talk about the weather.
My father asks "Aren't you doing anything for fun?"

Strange fruits.

I was going to tell truths about something, but it seems like the words won't come.
Another day.

relish.

2009-02-27T19:18:00.000-05:00

Kingston is disgusting these days. Yesterday and today were both warm and rainy, and the streets are full of last fall's garbage. Tonight it's supposed to drop to -17 and all of the kleenex bits and coffee cup lids and remnants of last halloween's jack o' lanterns are going to freeze to the pavement in plain sight.

The good thing about the rain is that the panhandlers stay inside. Unexpectedly, somewhere during my years in Sackville I've become uncharitable towards street people. I used to find them vaguely threatening, or more accurately, I was threatened by their poverty. Now I just find it a nuisance. Clearly I need to get involved with some volunteer organizations.

Work is going well. I think that I've just finished week three. Daphne said that it felt like I'd been there forever, is that a compliment? I've gotten the hang of their pricing system and the cash register, and have a good idea of where things are, but every day I get blindsided with customer requests.

I'd suggest that the people who go to health food stores fall into three camps. You have the lifers, old hippies and Europeans, who know exactly what they want and where it is and will cut you if you happen to be out of stock. You have the casual enthusists, families with young kids and hipster couples, who are looking for Echinacea, stuff to make sushi, dried fruit, and skin care products. Lastly, you have the little lost lambs who wander in looking for help.

Those are the worst. It's as if they think I'm in the know, that I'm qualified to diagnose and prescribe. They want herbs, they want pills, they want potions. They want me to tell them the secrets that are going to keep them calm, clear-skinned, and svelte.

I'm like: "look at who you're asking!"

That being said, I've been learning a lot. Mostly that health tastes strange. I added aloe juice and kelp to my smoothie this morning, and it tasted exactly like drinking water from a hose. I've also learned (from reading) that eating too much licorice root will affect your voice, and that catnip calms the nerves and aids the digestion in humans. As soon as I learn something useful, you'll be the first to know.

Don't worry, it's just dill.

bout.

2009-02-22T12:27:00.000-05:00

Matt has brought a plague on our house.

No joke. He has been sick twice in as many weeks and though I managed to dodge the first bout, this time I'm down for the count. It's not that I'm praying for death, exactly, but if it were to come knocking I don't know how hard I would fight.

I kid. But I think I've used up my sick days already. Let me tell you, you don't know peer-pressure until you've worked at a health food store. Hardly a night goes by that I don't fret over the next day's lunch. Heaven help you if you bring a sandwich! I mean, if you don't eat a balanced meal and carry it in an eco-friendly way, frankly, you deserve to be sick.

I kid! I love my job, and my co-workers are great. Eclectic? Yes. Oh, heavens. Yes.
On more than one occasion I've laughed before realizing that someone wasn't joking. But can you blame me for being taken unawares when somebody thanks "The Goddess" for something?

Listen, I'm bailing on this entry. I feel like hot garbage. Matt just came over and checked my lungs with an imaginary stethoscope, then asked me if I'd had my TB shots.

I'll keep you updated.

urbane.

2009-02-15T09:50:00.000-05:00

Matt and I spent Valentine's Day making sushi and watching Kurosawa movies. If this was the late nineties we would be so damn hip. My parents gave us (as a Valentine) the funds for sushi-making, which is pretty cute. Thanks mom.

We're really not the Valentine's type, but somehow ended up getting each other presents anyway. He gave me a plant, despite his alarm at the swelling numbers of my herd. I gave him jellybeans and this patch:

The act of defiance he will never commit. Or is it desperation? It's probably going to end up on his desk at the math lab, which is fitting.

I've been making a lot of noise lately about how domesticated we are. We're edgy like soup spoons. For instance, that patch? I didn't make it, I bought it at the Made4You artist's collective.
He and I are the kind of people who are rarely the product, but always the market, and it frustrates me. I think we're timid. Late bloomers, you might say. We have a lot of big ideas but lack the chutzpah to put them in motion.

My life lacks resolutions. I've often wondered how different my life would have been if I'd had nice tits. Do you think it would have made a difference?

Wasted potential...

rumblings.

2009-02-08T02:02:00.000-05:00

Nearly all of the Christmas lights on the houses along Pembroke Street -and Kingston in general- have been turned off for the season, and it's surprisingly disorienting. Take a left at the house with the white candles, keep going past the yard with one string of red lights in a tree. The city has been gradually getting darker these past two weeks, and it took me a few nights to clue in.

February will almost certainly outlast us.

To cap off a spectacularly awful day today, I lost my wallet. No harm done, credit cards already cancelled and a police report filed, and still a good chance it will be found (I left it on a bus during its last run of the night) but I was a wreck for about an hour. Matt was baffled by my meltdown, reminding me that it wasn't the end of the world, but he always forgets my capacity to be destroyed by what would seem to be glancing blows.

I think it's obviously symptomatic of my lingering anxiety disorder. These days I've got things pretty much under control out of sheer determination, because I'm too stubborn to get treated professionally, and I don't think there are many conditions that can't be drastically improved by focusing on diet, exercise and environment. My problem is that I'm just lazy.

I have pretty much been sitting on my butt for the entirety of January, and I'm excited about working at Tara's. My first paycheck is going towards a membership to the YMCA which means : all swimming, all the time.

I'm going to try to start updating my flickr account, which you can find here:
http://flickr.com/photos/radiolariat/

A far more interesting site to check out would be The Selby. Sometimes I find this website inspiring, but mostly it's just voyeuristic and full of attractive people and things to covet.

practical.

2009-01-29T21:05:00.001-05:00

Tara Natural Foods called this morning to offer me a part time job, and I opted to spend most of the day in my pajamas in celebration. Matt thought this was unwholesome, and took me out to dinner when he got home from class. The food was awful, but we're still in high spirits. Matt eyed the other diners. I eyed the waitresses.

I have a theory about waitresses.

Everyone who knew that I would be looking for work once we moved kept telling me how many nice restaurants there are in Kingston, implying that I would end up a waitress. I found this vaguely offensive, but I find lots of things vaguely offensive.

I never had any intention to be a waitress, mostly because I'm discomfited by talking to someone who is looking up at me. It's not a good angle for me. I'm only truly at ease when talking to people taller than 5'9, anything less and I get antsy. Short people. Seated people. You see how that might be a problem.

Despite that, I had been on the verge of dropping off a resume at a fancy-pants restaurant which was looking for servers. As I was walking up to the doors a pretty girl in her waitress blacks sauntered up with her blonde hair swinging, gave me a once-over, and went in ahead of me. She didn't bother holding open the door. I didn't bother going in.

I don't think I have the looks to be a successful waitress, though after two years at the cafe I'm old hand at flirting for tips. I would argue that attractive waitresses are not necessarily good for business.

Say a woman is going out to a fancy dinner with her husband and it's a treat, a real event for them. They never go out. She gets all dolled up, and she's nervous. They haven't been on a date in ages, she wants things to go well. She worries her special-occasion dress might not fit so well anymore. Then, they're served by a pretty young thing who bats her eyelashes at husband, looking for a good tip. The woman orders a salad, she leaves unsatisfied and unhappy, they never come back. Six months later, they're divorced.

On the other hand, suppose the waitress is plain. The wife gives her the once-over, feels to be the more attractive of the two, and dismisses her presence entirely. The waitress is efficient and unobtrusive. The wife feels confident in the candlelight, she laughs, she orders dessert. They drink lots of wine. They're spending loads of money, but they don't care! She takes her husband home to have passionate sex that disturbs the neighbours. All is well with the world.

It's just good business sense. You know? Matt thinks I'm nuts, but he doesn't know much about women. When I'm pms-ing and angry, he likes to tell me that I'm suffering from "feminine hysteria" or "wandering uterus".

When Barbara called this morning, she reminded me not to wear anything nice to work. Flat shoes a must. Practical dress, the older the better. Apparently more than one girl has had her clothes ruined by carrying around boxes of spices.
"You know turmeric," she sighed.

And I do. I think this job is going to work out fine.

Would you want this girl refilling your water glass?

Matt wanted me to post this picture because he thinks I look like Daniel Day Lewis in There Will Be Blood. A crazed animal. On the verge! I have great hopes for regular sleep patterns once I start this job.

inertia.

2009-01-25T23:56:00.000-05:00

Books Read (and reread) Since Landing In Kingston:

Brave New World - Aldous Huxley
Two or Three Graces - Aldous Huxley
The Salterton Trilogy - Roberston Davies
Silver Salts - Mark Blagrave
Into The Arms of Strangers - Mark Jonathan Harris and Deborah Oppenheimer
The Staircase Letters - Arthur Motyer
Drowning Ruth - Christina Schwarz
Hocus Pocus - Kurt Vonnegut
What We Believe But Cannot Prove - Ed. John Brockman
Where The Heart Is - Billie Letts
The Bondswoman's Narrative - Hannah Crafts
The Moonlight Chronicles - D. Price
Timothy Findley - The Wars
Johnny Got His Gun - Dalton Trumbo
Whylah Falls - George Elliot Clarke (YOU MUST READ THIS BOOK.)

I'm currently reading (both for the first time, for shame) Watership Down by Richard Adams and The Robber Bride by Margaret Atwood. I've loved Adams since reading Shardik, but Margaret Atwood has never been my thing (and this is the fifth novel I've read), but Matthew thinks I'm being precocious when I say that her writing makes me antsy.

Waiting in the wings on loan from the library are Plague Dogs - Richard Adams, and The Periodic Table - Primo Levi

Holy smokes, somebody needs to offer me a job.

sick.

2009-01-08T14:21:00.000-05:00

Embarassingly enough, today is the first day I've ventured out on my own in Kingston.

I've been wussing out at home for the last few days with an upset stomach, but living off clementines and earl grey tea promises to do wonders for my figure.

We still haven't got our phone hooked up, which is not boding well for my whole "get a job" scheme, not having a phone number to put on resumes is not the best way to start.

I'm not sleeping and not eating and not enjoying myself, but am trying to be patient.
Transitions are tough.

new.

2009-01-02T15:13:00.000-05:00

Kingston is treating us well.

We only get internet access in twenty-minute bursts at the moment, and haven't got a phone number yet. Should you need us:

22 Pembroke St. Apt #1
Kingston, ON
K7L 4N4

We're a bit homesick.
Don't drink the water.

decked.

2008-12-26T16:59:00.000-05:00

Happy holidays!

I'm in Dartmouth going batshit crazy. On the upside I'll see Matthew tomorrow, he's been in Fredericton for the past six days. Next update will be from Kingston, assuming we survive the trip. We leave for Sackville tomorrow morning, and Ontario tomorrow afternoon.
Wish me luck.

stimulation.

2008-12-18T02:12:00.000-05:00

Winter Term '08 Survival Playlist

I don't know how to embed these songs, so I'd suggest going to http://radio3.cbc.ca/ and starting your own playlist. All these songs can be found and added through their search function.

I'll Believe In Anything - Wolf Parade
Any Old Day - Jason Kent
Kennedy Killed The Hat - Buck 65
Harder They Fall - Lioness
I Was A Daughter - Basia Bulat
At War With The Cynics - Rich Aucoin
Kill Me In My Sleep - Chad VanGaalen
Comme Des Enfants -Coeur de Pirate
I Love The Things That People Make - The Burning Hell
Meine Augen - Lederhosen Lucil
Thought Yourself Lucky - The John Henrys
Dreamer - Jenn Grant
Wicked And Weird - Buck 65
(Not Superstitious) - Snailhouse
Real Estate - Cadence Weapon
Aributus - Scribbler
Waist Deep In The Water - Shotgun Jimmie

Of course, by the end there I was just listening to Chad VanGaalen's - "Willow Tree" on a loop.
It's a beautiful song, and if you only listen to one off that list this should be the one.

destination.

2008-12-15T14:12:00.000-05:00

Inexplicably, I got a B+ on that Faulkner essay.
Not great mark for me, but trust me when I say that paper did not deserve a B+
Maybe a B- if he was squinting while he read it. Maybe.

So, that's about par for the course. Things are going better than they should, and I've been stressing out way too much. All my Cloud Nine stuff is late, and I CAN'T EVEN TALK ABOUT IT, but the end of the term is ridiculously close and in two days from right now I'm going to be done exams. This morning's went shockingly well.

Right now I'm just soldiering on. I'm still all kinds of anxious about what the future holds, but more on that later. For now, studying.
Then:
packing!
christmas shopping!
christmas!
moving day!

What then? Hard to say.

22 Pembroke Street

circular.

2008-12-08T22:48:00.000-05:00

My brain has turned to straight-up Jello.
I am nowhere near finished, but it's game over on the 17th whether or not I've made it through.

I just spent twelve, count em, twelve hours working on a paper on the shortcomings of a Phenomenological approach to Benjy's narrative section in William Faulkner's The Sound and The Fury. Sounds impressive, right? It still isn't done, and it's not terribly coherent, but I had to stop for the night in order to study for my music exam tomorrow night.

I am such a trainwreck right now.

I'm so looking forward to recharging over the holidays and hitting the ground running in Kingston this January. Of course, I don't know where I'll be running to, but I think the scenery change will be inspiring. It'll just be good to run, you know?

twelve-thirty.

2008-12-02T03:30:00.000-05:00

At this point in the term the hardest thing to do is call it a day.

I'm a sucker for scare-tactics and I have a bad track record with dealing with academic stress, so it's pretty significant that I can pull my head out of what I'm doing and say "enough". I've spent most of the day with literary theory and white noise, and no, I didn't get enough done. Honestly though, it's never enough.

It frustrates me when my options boil down to: which professor will I inconvenience with late work? (From which professor will I accept the petty humiliations that go along with it?) I hate the implication that maybe I've spent too much of my time sitting on my hands. Other people can meet this deadline, why can't you?

I don't know! I don't know how it's done. How many times am I supposed to ignore the fact that I'm trying to type with trembling hands, trying to read with blurred vision? There was a time when I kept my head down and ignored it, only to look up and realize that I was lost.

Then it took me a year to find my way back.

Oh, this is all very melodramatic. In a month I'm going to be in Kingston and if Queen's doesn't accept me because my grades aren't good enough, I'll just have to find another way to finish my degree. I'm figuring out the impossible business of loving someone. I'm setting new goals. Hey, you're okay.

I was reading an article that was talking about people who can handle immediate problems better than they can handle the threat of future difficulties. "Hey, that's me!" I thought. I read on. Apparently, those people are neurotic. I stopped reading.

It just seems like two term papers and a handful of journals should fall into perspective in the face of everything else I'm dealing with, but they haven't. Right now I'm in full-blown fight or flight mode, and it's a miserable way to go through the day.

So, I'm done. I'm calling it a day.

resurface.

2008-11-28T13:48:00.000-05:00

seasonal.

2008-11-26T17:49:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I had two profs push back deadlines, so I took a night off and went to bed at six.
Internet, it was glorious.

Otherwise, school is murdering me. My grades are definitely not going to be as good as they were last year. I'm fighting tooth and nail to pass everything in music theory (Lord, grant me humility) and feel like Anthro is going to be low as well. I think I was overly optimistic in taking an extra course on top of Cloud Nine but, you know, hindsight. The problem is that Queen's won't consider transfers if you have lower than a B- in your last year, and it looks like I might.

Oh dear, oh dear. I'm still at it, but I don't think I'm ever going to finish this degree.

We're slowly making progress on our moving plans, but still haven't found an apartment in Kingston. Our few stipulations are making it difficult; we want laundry facilities in the building, and we don't want to live in a basement. Why is that so much to ask? Matthew's mother thinks that we're being unreasonable about the living-on-the-ground-floor thing, but I'm the one who almost got brained by a kid throwing a rock through my living room window. To each his own.

One of the most disheartening things for me is that Matthew and I are going to have to spend Christmas apart for another year. He thinks it's unreasonable for us to travel from Fredericton to Halifax on Christmas Day (I'd do it), his mother pretty much threatened to put her head in the oven if he didn't come home, and I'm not ready for the straight-up secular Lewis Christmas.

So, things are stressful. I'm trying to keep school in perspective, but I'm feeling incredibly drained. Fine motor skills are out the window! I keep bumping into things, and this evening Matthew gave me a bowl of spaghetti which I dropped in my lap and then burst into tears. Matthew was so alarmed.
"It's just spaghetti!" He said. "Don't cry!"

It's just spaghetti.

accomplished.

2008-11-17T18:38:00.000-05:00

I didn't get much out of Astral Drive Junior High's Tech101 class (woodworking), but what I did retain has stuck with me: Don't waste your time admiring finished work. Move on.

I've just finished a big research proposal (just the proposal mind you, not the paper itself) and I'm inordinately proud of myself. I've been working on it for a couple days now, I think it's more coherent than most papers I've turned out in my time here, and I think my thesis has promise.

So, I'm sitting here, trying to work up the gumption to start one of approximately thirteen projects on my academic to-do list (let us not even think about the personal to-do list...) and I realize I'm just flipping through the pages of my proposal. Over and over. Just... flipping through with pride and affection...

I'm fondling my research proposal.
Gotta move on.

I'm either SO not made for academia, or so suited to academia that it's disturbing. These days it seems like both.

ritual.

2008-11-07T15:41:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I unexpectedly took a much-needed French leave, and spent most of the afternoon in Upper Sackville, biking and reading Harry Thurston's "If Men Lived On Earth". Better than throwing oneself off of Hart Hall, which was the only other activity that came to mind.

Somewhere out along Silver lake, I swung a right instead of a left and got myself a little bit lost. Well, not so much lost, because I knew the direction I needed to go, but none of the roads were pointing the right way. Having followed one Art Mill road hoping to somehow meet up with Pond Shore Road at some point and figure out where I was, I found instead what I thought might be hunting trails. Naturally, I followed one. Only in retrospect have I asked myself "...is hunting season over?"

The trail ended in this secluded part of the lake. Still and humid, it felt like trespassing in more ways than one. It was beautiful, but eerie. There were empty packs of cigarettes, beer bottles, and all the labels were old and faded but still the place seemed crowded.

As I was turning to leave I caught the heavy smell of apples on the air. It was sharp enough that it startled me into looking around. It was like the flick of a lightswitch, suddenly it was there and impossible to ignore.

Then I saw this tree. It took me a second to notice there was something off about the apples.

Though there were one or two green ones growing up top, I don't think those seven red apples had even grown on that tree. They've just been speared onto random branches.

It was unspeakably creepy. I can't even articulate it. My mouth went dry and the apple smell made me feel sick to my stomach, and I got on my bike and booked it out of there.

Sackville, I've seen your random cow skulls and skeletons. They're scattered all over the back roads, with your boot prints still in the mud. I don't know what you're up to, Sackville, but sometimes you creep me out.

scratch.

2008-11-02T16:00:00.000-05:00

Cloud Nine closed last night, and though I'll be sad to see it go, I'm looking forward to having some free time. Scratch that. I'm looking forward to having time for other school work. To be honest, Cloud Nine was a pretty painful process. It seemed like everybody had different agendas (if any), and it was difficult to accept the fact that there comes a point where you're either going to get better as a unit or you're going to level off and maintain status quo.

Though I am proud of what we presented, I know for a fact that we were capable of better. Dr. Blagrave said that he was proud of it, but I think the general consensus among the cast and crew was that we have to take him with a grain of salt. As a director and professor both, Dr. Blagrave plays his cards close to the chest which makes him incredibly difficult for actors to read. (That's part of his charm.)

This is the little black and white television in the green room (ours is blue, apparently for luck) on which we can watch the play in progress. When I'm not onstage, I'm either hunkered down near my entrance, or watching the rest of the scene. I really think its vital to keep tabs on how the rest of the show is going, how the other actors are holding up, if mistakes are being made or energy is flagging. It kills me that not everyone in the cast was doing the same. I wonder if they just don't realize how draining it is to work with people who aren't giving 100%.

I'm not trying to suggest that I'm perfectly focused and serious 100% of the time, because Lord knows I get silly or distant too, but at the very least I try and be respectful. It was a rough go.

***

This past Saturday was the first and hopefully annual White Salt Mountain, a celebration of John Thompson's poetry. Thompson was a professor at Mount Allison between 1966 and 1976, a resident of Sackville, and a poet who wrote some of the most heart-wrenching work I've ever read. To this day he's a polarizing figure, there are those who still love and admire him, and those who would like him stricken from the record. All reports describe him as chaotic, inspired, and it's easy to look at the bare bone facts of his life and tragic death and get hung up in the legend that surrounds him, without paying due respect to his poetry.

It's tantalizing to delve into the myth, particularly when you think that you've walked the same streets, literally and metaphorically. His poetry is so familiar to me, like he's describing a dream I'd had and then forgotten. One of the first times Matthew came to my house (back when were just learning songs together to sing at Open Mic) I handed him my copy of Peter Sanger's book, which includes At the Edge of the Chopping, and Stilt Jack, saying "Have you heard of this guy?"

He opened to a page that I had dog-eared, which was Our Arcs Touch.

 If our arcs touch
it must be

as the taut snow setting
steel:  steel
grass blade;  death

we won't speak of

our folly,
so cold, we can

bury these bones:
things
rise, the warmth:
so cold

our arcs touch,

it must be.

And he just sat stunned. I loved him for it.

While leading a discussion on the Canadian Ghazal, Rob Winger mentioned going to the Archives and seeing the original copies of his Stilt Jack ghazals, about holding these cigarette packs with poems scrawled on the back and questioning who he was to be going through this man's private things. I completely agree.

Stories are one thing. One man named Allen told about how he came across John collecting swan feathers down at the swan pond. When questioned, he explained that he was planning on making a necklace for his daughter. People all around the table jumped like they'd been electrocuted. Rob pawed at his copy of Stilt Jack, seemingly involuntarily. Matthew elbowed me, hissing, "that's in there!" One of the ghazals mentions making necklaces for his wife and daughter out of feathers. I think it's the closest I'll ever come to the excitement of an archaeological dig. How relevant is that to literary interpretation? Well, to each his own. But, as people with beating hearts we reread and we think, "how sad, how lovely."

In the evening presentation, Peter Sanger gave an incredibly grim run-down of Thompson's 38 years of life, touching on depressions, heartaches, and despair. It had me squirming in my chair. Who am I to be hearing about his love affairs and paranoias? It seemed so disrespectful. I'd rather not know the particulars of his grief, I can get the gist from what he left for me to read, and I don't need a lesson in empathy.

I do think that Peter was just overwhelmed from an emotional day, it was clear he meant no disrespect. But it left me thinking.

In the afternoon there was a gathering at the cafe, with four pretty girls playing Bluegrass and poetry readings of Thompson's work and a few other poets. It was warm and bright, very moving. Harry Thurston had me in tears, as did a song that begged: "lay me down a pallet on your floor".

I was having a somewhat maudlin conversation at the cast party with a boy who had been to all the day's events, and I said "more days like today would have saved him." Of course that's naive, but I'm 24. Anyway, the boy agreed wholeheartedly, saying "yeah, just to know that someone appreciated him." But that's not what I meant. It wasn't about John, it was about all of us, still here with our beating hearts. It was about music and poetry and camaraderie and creating bright moments on cold, hard days.

I claim it would have saved him, because it's the kind of thing that saves me.

nerves.

2008-10-29T16:56:00.001-04:00

The show opens tonight. Caryl Churchill's Cloud Nine, directed by the inimitable Dr. Blagrave.
(I think I'm going to throw up.)

It hasn't been that many years since I really started taking theatre seriously. When you get over the grade-school thrill of Make-up! Costumes! Lights! you realize how much work there is to be done. That holds true for everyone involved, but is especially true for actors. It's agonizingly hard. You can never give enough, and sometimes the well runs dry.

Every show I've done in the last few years has ended with me wanting to give it up; I have fears that get in the way. I'm afraid of turning out caricatures, that I don't really know what I look like, that I'm wasting someone's time. "That's it," I say. "No more."

And then I turn around and I'm right back here. An hour and a half until the doors open and feeling like I'm going to be sick and exhausted and terrified and so very excited. And then I do what I have to do, balls out (to borrow a phrase). Here goes.

absurd.

2008-10-26T16:28:00.000-04:00

Remember that might-as-well-have-been-an-all-nighter paper I mentioned last week? The one that took me a couple hours to crank out? Well, I just got this email:

Dear Ms. ____:
I don't like to write somebody an e-mail on the weekend, but I
hope you won't mind. I've been grading the essays, and yours is quite
exceptional -- indeed, I'll be surprised if anyone ends up with a better
grade. But it's bugging me that I can't put a face to your name. Could
you tell me, please, where you sit in the class, so I don't have to wait
until Tuesday to find out!? Cheers, ______.

My response:

Dr. ______,

I'm the girl with short red hair that always looks surly. I'm pleased you liked the paper.

Regards,
Lindsey

I couldn't make this stuff up. My life is absurd.

The subtext of my reply to him is, of course: "You don't know me because I never go to your class, and when I do I'm bored out of my mind. Isn't it funny that someone who never GOES to your class can write an A paper FOR you class? Fondest regards, Lindsey."

I'm really not surprised. I knew it was a good paper, and it's not that all my classes are so effortless, but it is kind of frustrating to be in a class where your bare-minimum is "exceptional".

endurance.

2008-10-24T16:53:00.001-04:00

I survived hell week.
(Trying not to get cocky, the "November Slam" is yet to come.)

I feel like when you come out of undergraduate studies you're closer to a navy seal than you are an academic. The sleep-deprivation, the absolute subordination, the perpetual anticipation of more punishment. Of course, a lot of us are pretty doughy and would likely fail the physical, but man, do we understand succeeding against all odds.

Unless you've lived through one, I don't think you can appreciate the exquisite agony of an all-nighter essay. Perhaps only on par with spending the night with a screaming baby, but if you get a baby to sleep at least you're likely to be rewarded with a smile the next morning. You hand in an all-nighter essay and you're left with is a pounding head and that day's lecture to sit through.

I have a theory that university is really only good for putting the rest of your life in perspective. A car accident? An unexpected pregnancy? Stock market collapse? Pah. Nothing could possibly break someone who has been forced to spend eight consecutive hours face down in literary theory.

After one all-nighter, one might-as-well-have-been, a midterm, and the last week of rehearsals before prod week (aaugh!!), I'm pretty much destroyed. I'm sick, predictably enough, and extremely irritable. Mathboy can corroborate.

Speaking of Mathboy, we've just found out that Queens University is willing to shell out a significant amount of money to have him come to their school. No, I won't tell you how much, that's gauche. ~~But, it's a pantload!~~

Seems like something is finally going right.

tuchus.

2008-10-18T20:31:00.000-04:00

Tucker left today.

We knew we couldn't keep him long-term, that it wasn't safe for him to be living right on the intersection, that we would murder him if we had to put up with much more of his yowling to go out at two-hour intervals throughout the night. We knew all that but, holy smokes, we're going to miss him.

dissonance.

2008-10-17T15:57:00.000-04:00

I just bombed a music theory midterm, although I thought I understood this stuff. Mr. Beeler and Mr. Williams (my 7-9th and 10-12th grade music teachers, respectively) are out there somewhere, snickering. "That'll teach her to skip class," they're thinking. True that.

I guess I got cocky, but this recent bombing reminded me of the math tests I sweated through in grade school. I used to try so very hard at math, but nothing would stick. For every one equation I managed to grasp, three more would slip out of my fingers. It's not that I don't appreciate the mediums either, I understand that the theories are building blocks and I watch people around me making things out of them, but all I can do is sit and bang them together like a toddler.

This is the latest in a string of academic disappointments. Fall 2008 has me by the balls (pardon my french.) My grades last year were awesome -a little army of A's and A-'s marching across my transcript and I'm fiercely proud of each one - but getting anything coherent out of me this year has been like pulling teeth. Frankly, I'm discouraged.

I suspect it has a lot to do with the fact that Mathboy and I are moving to greener pastures in the Winter. He has been accepted to the Masters program at Queen's, and we're stoked. It's a big, scary, turn-our-world-on-it's-head move and we're jittery with nerves. I'm trying to stay focused on where I am and what I'm supposed to be doing, but my mind wanders. I'm also a little afraid of never finishing what I started (i.e. - drama major), Mathboy says to this: "so, finish it." He has a point.

To commemorate the six+ years spent pulling teeth in Sackville, (and more importantly who I've become in those six years) I got this:

The tattoo artist kept calling me a "tough cookie" in his surprise that I wasn't flinching.
"Dude," I thought, "you have no idea."

It's a pheasant feather. I think it's pretty boss.

Mount A. and Sackville both toughened me right up, but certainly haven't made a scholar out of me. I've learned a lot about stillness and endurance and grace, but my grasp on theory isn't so great. Sometimes I suspect I'm just lazy, but mostly I feel like I'm spinning my wheels. My Indian name is Truck In the Mud.

I just that these days I'm not really sure what it is that I bring to the table. And, Lord help me, the snow will be coming soon.