Thoughts: Boxing week in NY.

One thing that should be banned - stores playing Christmas music after Christmas. I don't understand how it makes sense. Who wants to listen to a soulful rendition of "Silent Night" drift lazily from a terrible stereo system while elbowing a blonde hussy out of the way for a cashmere cardigan? (JESSICA -1, BLONDE HUSSY-0: sorry, sugar, maybe next time). Or the uplifting twangs of a country music banjo introducing Garth Brook's version of "Santa Clause is Coming To Town" while wrestling a stick in a mini-skirt and black leggings over a Michael Kors coat at 50% off? (JESSICA - 2, STICK IN MINI-SKIRT- 0: Nice try, but you'll probably get it in eight months anyway, since there seems to be a delay jumping on fad-wagons for you). To set a guideline, I believe that songs with any mention of Christmas, or Santa, or baby Jesus should be stricken from the radio stations. Seriously. I'm sorry, Santa Clause already came to town, made his rounds, and is now nesting peacefully back at the North Pole. He won't be back for about 360 days. And you may as well stop dreaming of a white Christmas, because you'll be dreaming for a while. It's boxing week, it's the time where self-control takes a vacation and people can go back to being money-grubbing Grinches, at least for a few days. Presents you pretended you liked can sit lonelily back in the store shelves, and people you don't really care for but obligatorily still keep in contact with can receive old boxes of Christmas Lindt truffles bought for mere pennies. And as for you, it's a time for over-self-indulgence, hair-pulling for discount goods, and gratuitous amounts of complaining over long lines. And you know what? Maybe you don't want Santa seeing this selfishly bad behaviour. It's time to leave Christmas out of it.

With that said, I've never been a big boxing day shopper, but now I can kind of see why. There's something about being crammed in a messy and unorganized department store with hundreds of bargain-hungry tourists, picking through the season's rejected clothes just to score a deal. Don't get me wrong - I love sales. I will NEVER buy a designer piece for full retail price. I do hold firm to the philosophy, "It's not how much you spend, it's how much you save." It's a game for me, sale-hunting. But Boxing day turns everyone into a green-eyed monster, looking around suspiciously in case anyone else is walking on their turf, hiding items that they want time to think about. It's not a game anymore, it's just an all-consuming force that sucks the goodness and energy out of anyone who steps into its fire.

And my last point.
I no longer take pictures of New York. This is the sixth consecutive year of my family trips there, and I find that I always take pictures of the same things: the skating rink of Central Park, some shot of the Empire State Building, a crowded 5th Avenue, and Time Square at night. And I'm beginning to appreciate all those things way less. For example, Time Square. I remember being 13, witnessing the hustle and bustle under the night sky lit by city lights and flashing signs. Now everything just irritates me, the rude American tourists (yeah, I REALLY hate tourists), people who don't know how to take off their backpacks in a crowded space and end up knocking you out when they whip around to take more pictures, "Look, maw, look at that Coke ad! It moves!" At some point, something clicked in my head, and everywhere I turned, all I could think was, this is just electricity. Time Square is the largest testament to human consumption and consumerism in the world. The gods of Coca Cola and GAP and Target sit on their brightly lit thrones while the ribbon with updates on the New York Stock Exchange wrap around Morgan Stanley, and people come from all over the world gather and kneel. Intersecting Time Square is Broadway, which is no longer the golden celebration of art and culture anymore, it's now tacky family restaurants, Sbarro, and more massive corporate stores just trying to compete with each other through their bright lights. It's really kind of disgusting, isn't it?

However, I did find some beautiful places in the city. I wandered through the most empty trails in Central Park, back roads in the downtown core, sat in coffee shops and people-watched, ate the world's greatest shrimp scampi in Hell's Kitchen, found tiny cramped bookstores where every patron knew each other, and had in-depth conversations with cab drivers about Chinese politics. This was my first year exploring on my own, which gave me a break from the regular visits to museums, shopping kingdoms, jaunts through SoHo, and horrible Italian restaurants in Little Italy. Highly recommended, if you're not a fan of slow-walking couples with large shopping bags, or people in North Face jackets craning their necks at every step to check out the buildings. And really, highly recommended in any city, including Toronto and wherever you happen to live.

Anyway. That's my update, what I've been doing lately. To close:

TOP FIVE HOLIDAY SONGS PERMISSIBLE FOR BOXING DAY USAGE:
5) Baby It's Cold Outside
4) Fairytale of New York
3) Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow!
2) Winter Wonderland
1) That Was The Worst Christmas Ever

Hello, I love you


won't you tell me your name?

Songs for Snowy Late Night Baking:
1) Love Me Tender // Norah Jones
2) Christmas Time Is Here // Sarah MacLaughlin ft. Joss Stone
3) My Funny Valentine // Michael Buble
4) Me And Mrs. Jones // Marvin Gaye
5) Baby, Please Come Home // Death Cab for Cutie
6) Here We Go Again // Ray Charles ft. Norah Jones
7) My Favourite Book // Stars
8) Where Did My Baby Go // John Legend
9) Secret Heart // Feist
10) At Last // Diana Krall ft.Lou Rawls
11) Rhapsody in Blue // George Gershwin
12) Coming Home // John Legend
13) River // Herbie Hancock ft. Corinne Bailey Rae
14) Christmas Time Is Here // Vince Guaraldi Trio

We are always taught to expect everything.
In the perfect archetypal Western life, we're born in nice, suburban neighbourhoods with ever-expanding basketball hoops, bases filled with sand, bicycles unlocked in the front for the easy get-away, play dates and day camps and babysitters on speed dial. We grow up in small orange brick elementary schools, evolve into larger and less colourful middle schools where we twirl our furry pens, discover our first "real" crushes and group dating, movies with a hidden chaperon and a regular pizza place. And then high school, with a light tapping of Converse rubber soles on cool linoleum flooring and a quick wink from the janitor. This is where new friendships cement a little quicker and rip off with little more than a bittersweet spot of gooey dark gray residue.
We are always taught to expect everything.
Graduation comes, cuing the cheesy music and the nights bent over beside a friend's used red Toyota (another hand-me-down), vomiting out the last remnants of a torrid but fleeting love affair with Bacardi Breezers. And then we ship out, hours away to university, where we finally feel like living out our free and youthful innocence, befriend strangers and spend hours discussing Neitzsche over cheap diner coffee. Suddenly everyone you meet is another one-night stand, a disposable best friend, used for good conversation and tossed away the next day after empty promises - however good it was while it lasted.

The rest, of course - graduation, the dawning of the proverbial REAL WORLD, full-time job in a field that no longer seems relevant to your degree. You travel quite a bit, discover the world while you're still young and spry. You go to Vienna and try to catch a wisp of the legacy of all your heroes, drive around the South of France with other twentysomething friends, teach English in Japan. All of this, before you finally meet a man (a MAN, with an ironed shirt and perfectly tousled brown hair, nothing but pens and promises in his pocket) and settle down and move into the nice suburban neighbourhood with the basketball net out front, with the unlocked bicycles. You introduce your children to this life, more play dates and daycare. All of this until the kids turn into grown-ups, with grown-up minds and Blackberries, with their own children in the daycares and an arm around their waist, chatting eagerly about the economy and cheese and asking you for recipes.

We always expect everything.

Is it time to consider a plan B?

I'm still trying to function as a human being.

10/11/08
10:10

Thanks, asshole upstairs neighbour, for ruining the one chance of an hour of solid shut-eye this morning by pounding your latest whore into a solid heap of Barbie burger. Because, let's be honest, it's not like we both don't know MY BED IS DIRECTLY BELOW YOURS AND YOUR WINDOW IS OPEN AT ALL HOURS.

YOU FREAK.

Aside from that, my night was amazing - walking to the Old Port at 2 am with Abdullah and Dylan, rounded the circle around the downtown core, ended up at a grimy diner at 5 AM and had the most amazing eggs, sausage, and homefries in my life. Back in bed by 7:45, an hour before I had to wake up to meet my cousins and walk for the cure.

And of course, now, my legs can't move without sharp cursing pains and my eye lids are growing heavier by the pound, but the only thing I regret is not stretching.

So how are your lives?

It's been a while since I've done this

Top 10 Songs For a Rainy Morning In My Cozy, Colourful Near-Basement Apartment:

10) You've Got Growing Up To Do (Joshua Radin)
9) Apples And Pairs (Slow Club)
8) Green Eyes (Coldplay)
7) Freddie Freeloader (Miles Davis)
6) Where Did My Baby Go (John Legend)
5) House Of Cards (Radiohead)
4) Grey Room (Damien Rice)
3) Joseph and His Rabbit (Caroline Keating)
2) Sea Green, See Blue (JayMay)


I don't think I want a boyfriend, I just want someone who will bring me white daisies.

As Suggested By The Calculations Of Copernicus

This first kiss on this cold street
could have jailed Galileo
for the heavenly point it proves
but tonight, merely moves
our two souls into steady revolution
around and about the warm fixed fact
of our brilliant lips.

- Jason Guriel


I am dreaming of what every girl wants - bright red sweaters, tweed skirts, knee-high suede boots, Chanel Chance, cobble stones, and Paris in the fall.

"So Vegas, huh, people? I love your saying - What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas. And that is why when I leave here, I will no longer have herpes."

So I'm pretty sure the saddest moment of my life was this morning at dawn, when I was lying in my bed, very much awake and thinking about exercising. Finally, deciding to get up and go for a run, I start rummaging through my drawers for shorts and socks and the sports bra that I think my mom bought me in grade 8 --- and nada. I have no shorts. The closest thing I have to a sports bra is a normal bra that has shed its underwires in many tumbles through the dryer. All my socks are nylon. Even worse - in terms of footwear, it's a toss-up between a holey pair of pink Converse hi-tops and gold flats. I opt for the Converse, harass my mother for cotton socks and shorts (at 5:30 AM), and I'm out the door.

Walk out, jog for three blocks, stop, double over in heaving gasps, and continue walking for the next song and a half. Try to jog again, but barely make it through the first chorus. Me, flailing my arms, iPod hitting against my tree-trunk thighs, sweating out a lake, DYING. It was ridiculous. About halfway into the run, I was ready to find a nice green patch of grass and lay down in it forever. I saw elderly people speed-walking across the street with tighter buttocks than I and ultimately lost every silent race I staged with them in my head. That was how bad it was. And now, at 7:55, after drinking a gallon of water, my ass is planted to this arm chair, feeling the burn, and is not ever going to get up.

Working out is not as fun as it's cracked up to be.

Plagiarism.

Someone is waiting to swallow all the halos out of you
As your face blows through my windows
Sending pieces flying all around my room

And I love you and I want to
Shoot all the super heroes from your skies

I'm up in the air, baby

I have five different versions of the song "Leaving On A Jet Plane". Isn't that strange? My favourite cover is by John Denver, but the one that shows up on my "Most Played" list is Chantal Kreviazuk's. These songs are like those little samples of perfume you would dig up out of your mother's make-up case when you were five, gingerly unscrewing the top and letting the scent waft gently into your nose, sending you back into her arms. Not too much, mind you, or it'll somehow be lost, never to be found again, but just enough.

Listening to John Denver, I am immediately 12 again, clutching my big clunky blue Discman in my lap, seat-belted down carefully with my family falling asleep around me. The blue of the sky has has enveloped us and we still have about 15 hours before landing. I used to time songs so they would fit the moment, and "Leaving On A Jet Plane" seemed fitting enough for that particular experience, so I decided to play it about seventeen times during the flight.

"You're The Ocean" by Teitur is a more recent perfume sample. About a week before moving into Res, I fell in love with this band and listened to the song obsessively. Hot summer days, heat rising to the fourth floor of Hingston Hall, drifting lazily through the window and finding me, the newly-independent and already terrified res student. My parents and uncle have finally left me alone, and I am sitting in my dark purple office chair, debating in my head whether or not I want to leave the door open. I decide against it, but the room smells vaguely like lemon-scented dust gathering on new Ikea plastic, and all the fan seems to be doing is pushing my own carbon dioxide back in my face. The room is too tidy, too small, too stuffy, too much. Turn off the stereo, stand up, sit back down, cross the arms, think a bit more, stand back up, open the door, walk out, and the rest doesn't seem to fit in the song anymore.

But now, nearly a year later, I'm back in Toronto, and Hingston Hall is reduced to merely a collection of memories. I wonder what song it will be next time - what will be the background score to me pacing around my new apartment, wondering if I should go out and introduce myself to the neighbours? How many of these little perfumes are left before I've gone and desperately sucked up the last little dredges? Or worse - how many more times will I be able to smell these vials and relive the memories until it all just fades away and loses the magic?

So here's a few of my own personal samples:

5) Kingdom Come - Coldplay (Driving to New York in the fall of grade 10)
4) The Sound of Silence - Simon & Garfunkel (Singing along in the car with my dad, driving to Montreal when I was 8)
3) Round Here - Counting Crows (Walking down Yonge st. under my big black umbrella every day in the spring of grade 11. For about three weeks, it always seemed to rain every day around 3:30 - 4:00 as I was walking home)
2) Take Me Home, Country Roads - John Denver (Road trips to South Carolina in the summers when I was 7 and 9. We would all start singing the chorus as we were driving past West Virginia)
1) Brown-Eyed Girl - Van Morrison (Around the campfire in sleep-away camp when I was 13, breathing in the smoke-tinted air, roasting marshmallows and engaged in a never-ending "girl talk" session).

Baguettes, Barret's and Bruni

For a taste of the French:

1) Quelqu'un M'a Dit - Carla Bruni (Yes, Mrs. Nicolas Sarkozy)
2) Seul - Garou
3) A Ton Nom - Damien Saez
4) Elisa - Serge Gainsbourg
5) Je Tombe - Damien Robitaille

I'm beginning to see now, finally, that everything that I thought I was was completely incorrect. Self-analysis is lame - it traps us into moments of pure self-conceit and paranoia, when really, all that we're pondering over ultimately leads to little tiny nuggets of theoretical information so inconsequential and trivial to society and, really, our lives.
But yet we still do it, maybe to get that sense of stability, maybe as a step ladder to understanding the world as a mirror - because, really, if we can't figure ourselves out, how can we even begin to even try comprehending the world around us?
So here I am, I guess - my moment of self-conceit and paranoia. Mostly paranoia. And many of you who might be reading this will probably ask, "Why bother posting this on a blog? Keep these thoughts to yourself, Jessica." but really, it's my blog, and you can tune out if you want. But mainly, I think I need someone in this gigantic cosmic space to tell me that I am wrong, I am over-thinking, over-simplifying the human complex, and worrying about nothing.
The problem is my restlessness, and my fear of rooting myself in too deeply. I got into journalism in the first place so I could travel around the world, stay in each destination just long enough to get a rhythm going and then cut out. I went to Montreal because I needed to dive into an unfamiliar pool and surround myself in people who knew nothing about me. I live in a mess, and I prefer the books and clothes and whatever else thrown around carelessly in the room than to live in a place of order and organization.

I've always thought that fear of commitment was a cliche, an excuse for people to go around and have sex or whatever to whoever they wanted, whenever they wanted, without the responsibilities of life bogging them down. But here I am, scheming for days about how to "get" the guys I'm interested in and slinking back the minute they show any hint of interest. I focus more on the careful build-up, rather than the big story itself, and consequently, I'm already gone and running before the story's even over. And I can't explain why I do this, why I panic as soon as their mouths are on mine, or why immediately after, I feel the urge to get the hell out. The first time it happened, I thought it was just because I was inebriated and didn't even like the guy. But now, looking back, it's happened a few too many times than I'd like, and I'm only beginning to see the trend.

Recently, I was very formally asked out by a really nice, great guy, and rather than dance around and leave him hanging like I normally do, I decided to just accept. And there's no risk, it's a coffee and a conversation, and if there's no attraction then at least I've got a good conversation buddy and it'll be peachy, but why am I already worried? I don't even know what I'm worrying about, but every time I'm on the computer, I feel like messaging him and postponing the offer, going, "Oh, Monday's no good for me after a while. Man, this whole week is really brutal for me, what with exams and stuff...". It's the strangest feeling, to panic without cause.

Please, someone tell me that this is normal, that people go through it all the time, I'm just experiencing a bout with insecurity, and I just need to get real and live my life and not dwell on these problems. But I hate feeling like this, and I hate thinking of myself now as a cheap tease. Someone even called me on it once, turned around and went, "Jessica, you fucked with my mind." before leaving, and all I could do was stand there, with my breath catching in my lungs.
I think I do need to grow up, and cozy up to the hope of stability.
But seriously --- what is wrong with me??


Ugh.

That's all I have to say, you guys can ignore this if you want, but if you who really knew me before this mess want to offer your words and insights, I'm all open. I promise next post will less self-absorbed.

And oh: songs of the day ---
Amsterdam - Guster
Gold To Me - Ben Harper and the Innocent Criminals
Around The Sun - R.E.M
No One Else - Weezer

When I was a kid, I used to stand beside our upright black Yamaha piano and watch my mother practice. My nose nearly touching the edge of the piano lid, I had a habit of unfocusing my eyes and watching her fingers flittering across the ivory. It always reminded me of ripples in water; scales were canoes gliding smoothly down a river.
Every Sunday morning, I'd wake up to the sound of her warming up, or practising a song for church and I'd lay awake, listening to scales and chords mixed with the percussion of the creaking of our old hardwood floors as my dad paced around the kitchen making coffee. I was lucky to have been raised in a house where when music was played, it echoed defiantly through the halls and filled all of the rooms with raw melody. From my brother's trumpet at his end of the hall to the piano in the living room, there was rarely a moment of silence.

I was watching my friend Andrew play a Fugue by Bach in one of the practice chambers under the caf, and as I kneeled with my nose almost touching the lid and watched his fingers fly across the keys, I was sent back to the old house with the creaky floors and the echo-y walls. After he finished, he sort of leaned back, looked at me with a grin and in his Lebanese accent, went, "This is nice piece?" I couldn't do much other than smile back and nod.

I'm getting into jazz and classical now, more than before; obsessed with what my friend Kyle calls "pure sound". I've always been fascinated with the idea of being surrounded by this organic, natural music, and what Jazz has been giving me is a sense of beauty in confusion, which sort of reflects a balance I've been trying to find in life in general.
So here it is - a mix for the bubble of sound.

1) The Gardens - Chick Corea
2) Blue Skies - Oscar Peterson Ft. Itzhack Perlman
3) Body And Soul - Thelonious Monk
4) The Boy In The Bubble - John Coltrane
5) La Fille Aux Cheveux De Lin - Claude Debussy
6) The Voyevoda, op. 78 - Tchaikovsky
7) Miniskirt - Kronos Quartet

Mixtape For Post-Exam, Post-Essay-Handing-In Grooving On The Bus/Singles Night Out (No Hard Feelings, Valentines Day):

1) Jump (For My Love) - The Pointer Sisters
2) Direct Me - Otis Redding
3) Don't Stand So Close To Me - The Police
4) What'd I Say - Ray Charles
5) Yesterday Man - Roz Bell
6) Signed, Sealed, Delivered - Stevie Wonder
7) And She Was - The Talking Heads
8) I Can't Get Next To You - The Temptations
9) Crazy Love - Van Morrison
10) He Can Only Hold Her - Amy Winehouse
11) Heart Of Glass - Blondie
12) You Ain't Goin' Nowhere - Bob Dylan
13) Green Onions - Booker T And The MG's
14) In The Morning - Razorlight
15) Rush Rush - Debby Harry
16) Son Of a Preacher Man - Dusty Springfield
17) Crow Jane - Derek Trucks Band
18) My Moon, My Man - Feist
19) A Little Respect - Erasure
20) Jumpin' Jive - Glen Miller
21) Stay With You - John Legend
22) Blue Skies - Oscar Peterson & Itzhack Perlman
23) My Sharona - The Knack
24) Mr. Jones - The Counting Crows

Next year will be all about Mao.
We've been planning, Future Roomie and I (let's called her "Sarah", for that is her name), and while we're missing a few fundamental details (like where we'll live and how much we want to spend for rent), we've made some pretty solid decisions.
First: We'll have a shrine for Chairman Mao Tze-Tung in our medicine cabinet (hidden enough to not be suspicious, but always there to surprise bathroom snoopers).
Second: We'll have a [possibly invisible] cat that we'll call The Chairman, and leave pet dishes and toys all over the place and say things like, "It's The Chairman's birthday today!" and "The Chairman felt a bit sick earlier, so I gave it some Tylenol and hopefully that'll do that trick."

So we're off to a rolling start, I think.


I've been clicking through all the China photo albums on Facebook again. It's kind of turned into an activity I do when I'm discontent with where I am now. Kind of peaceful, rehashing all those memories. I still can't believe that it happened; that we were there, together, for two weeks. I realize now that I can't really complain that I've got a boring life anymore, after all that's happened in the past seven months.

18 was a good year.

And where am I now? Still swimming, I guess. Res is getting tiring, but I think we've all begun to accept that we can't be on all the time around each other. My schedule is perfectly balanced and I wouldn't change a thing about it. My love life has turned from nonexistent to freakishly confusing (and not just nonexistent and confusing --- but actually full-out messed up. And probably my fault). Montreal is still a gorgeous city, and I'm seeing more and more of it.

So really? Life is good.

Five Songs For Blogging Away Mid-Day Under The Covers In A Yellow-Tinged Room:
5) And She Was - The Talking Heads
4) Hands Open - Snow Patrol
3) Gold - Interference
2) Cheers, Darling - Damien Rice
1) Cold, Cold Heart - Norah Jones

Enjoy the rest of the week.

I'm really not ready yet.

It's a day for tunnels in the snow
It's a day for aimlessly circling rooms
It's a day for following the echoes in the hallway
It's a day for reflection
It's a day for dramatic purple eye makeup and
It's a day for make-up remover
It's a day for cleaning the fridge
It's a day for whipping out old playlists
It's a day for chocolate
It's a day for hugs and kisses
It's a day for dissolving sugarcubes on your tongue
It's a day for loads of laundry
It's a day for turning on the backlight
It's a day for Ernest Hemingway
It's a day for Dorian Gray
It's a day for Bono
It's a day for Charles Bukowski
It's a day for Mt. Everest
It's a day for fruit and cheese
It's a day for coffee, and lots of it
It's a day for high-heeled boots and long necklaces
It's a day for reading in bed and ringing phones

'seize the day'.

And the five songs for such a day:
5) I Don't Feel Like Dancing - Scissor Sisters
4) Ships - Umbrellas
3) Waiting On An Angel - Ben Harper
2) Age Of Consent - New Order
1) Fantino - Sebastien Tellier

It's a day for resolutions.