Sorry sorry sorry!
New update soon, get excited everyone.
14 years ago
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
I wish to document my happiness.
The following are songs for rainy fall nights when you're crossing Square St-Louis and the fountains are still running, with the waistbelt clinched tightly on your trench coat, umbrella tilted forward slightly, wet leaves collecting under the sopping hem of your sweatpants, the taste of chai tea and buttered raisin bread still lingering on your tongue.*
10) Try - Asher Book
9) S'Wonderful - Audrey Hepburn/Fred Astaire
8) Solitude - Duke Ellington
7) But Not For Me - Judy Garland
6) Every Little Thing - Melanie Doane
5) Our Love Is Here To Stay - Billie Holiday
4) Dream A Little Dream Of Me - Ella Fitzgerald ft/ Louis Armstrong
3) Once I Loved - Damien Rice ft/Lisa Hannigan
2) Till There Was You - The Beatles
1) Overs - Simon and Garfunkel
*I'd like to give the person who coined the phrase "Happiness is remembered, not experienced" a run for his money.
10) Try - Asher Book
9) S'Wonderful - Audrey Hepburn/Fred Astaire
8) Solitude - Duke Ellington
7) But Not For Me - Judy Garland
6) Every Little Thing - Melanie Doane
5) Our Love Is Here To Stay - Billie Holiday
4) Dream A Little Dream Of Me - Ella Fitzgerald ft/ Louis Armstrong
3) Once I Loved - Damien Rice ft/Lisa Hannigan
2) Till There Was You - The Beatles
1) Overs - Simon and Garfunkel
*I'd like to give the person who coined the phrase "Happiness is remembered, not experienced" a run for his money.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Baking BONANZA.
The first week of school is a beautiful thing. This semester, my day begins with an 8:45 French class and goes straight on until 5:30: three classes, breaks for lunch and gym, and sometimes work afterwards. And of course, on top of classes, and the energy spent navigating through the campus between classes, the social pressures begin to sink in as well - "Oh my god, I haven't seen you in four months, coffee after class?", "I'm moving again, come to my housewarming party!", "Everybody's back, let's resurrect [lunch at popular diner/Wine Club/Croissant breaks/etc.]!".However, good or bad, school or social life,
stress is still stress.
And when I am stressed, I instinctively grab some butter, sugar, and flour and eggs. With a bowl resting in one hand and a spatula in the other, I can whip away my problems and instantly return to the happy world (that now exclusively exists in my head) where deadlines and due dates don't exist. I recall everal nights last year where, when legs of my desk were cracking under the weight of articles, textbooks, random notes and papers, and a dangerously loaded laptop, comfort could be found in the smell of cinnamon cookies at 3 AM, fresh from the oven. However, the first few weeks of school do not allow even the briefest of escapes, not even for 15 minute peanut butter cookies, and so as the stress mounted and mounted, with it grew the urgency to bake.This weekend, I went to my friend's apartment and spent two days and $60 worth of groceries to make meringues, tarts, two varieties of cupcakes, a chocolate valentino cake, ratatouille, creme brulee, milan cookies, and vanilla ice cream.
To put all of this in perspective, over the course of this baking spree, we used two blocks (8 sticks) of butter, two cartons (24) of eggs, almost an entire bag of flour, and enough sugar to send anyone into a diabetic coma.
However, to de-stress was the plan, and de-stress we did! Who knew that scurrying around the kitchen near very hot stoves and ovens for hours on end was just what we needed after the dreaded first week of school?
We also have enough cupcakes to give us the sugar-boost anytime cupcake therapy is needed over the course of the next week (although knowing her roommates, maybe not...).
At the end of each day, we set the table, asked one of the boys to make a run for chicken or wine, put on some jazz, and all sat down, family-style, to indulge in our creations.
And, really, at the end of any day, food and friends are what you ever really need.
As the great Julia Child would say, Bon appetite!
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
My love, it'll be (Just Like) Starting Over
Along with a long line of different ways to use maple syrup, there's this tradition in Quebec where people fill tiny ice cream cones with dark maple and top it off with sucre à la crème. These are sold pretty much everywhere you can find food, all year round - in farmer's markets, corner stores, grocery stores, etc. Last Sunday (like every Sunday), my friend and I went to Jean Talon Market and bought some. I just finished my first cornet and am now replete with maple-fueled ecstasy.
So this is my life in Montreal.
I have been up since about 10:30, have had one cup of coffee, and am seriously deliberating with myself whether or not I want another before I head to school to run some pre-semester errands (buy gym pass - on credit, thank you- as well as figure out some OHIP form thing).
I feel almost back to normal now.
So this is my life in Montreal.
I have been up since about 10:30, have had one cup of coffee, and am seriously deliberating with myself whether or not I want another before I head to school to run some pre-semester errands (buy gym pass - on credit, thank you- as well as figure out some OHIP form thing).
I feel almost back to normal now.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
I hate people.
Every time I'm in Toronto for an extended period of time, say, over three weeks, I begin to go stir-crazy. And as I type this, I do feel a pang of guilt - it's nice being close to my family again, and having the modern conveniences of a toaster oven (in my apartment in Montreal, the oven works well enough to not necessitate a smaller version), television, the piano, and counter space. But at the same time, while in Montreal I don't get the experience the bliss of reclining in a comfy armchair watching Stephen Colbert, cup of tea in hand while the rest of my family is asleep, I have found myself going slightly stir crazy here. Perhaps because in Montreal, I am walking distance within EVERYTHING, and it always seems worth the trek, or because I know that just a few streets away, my similarly unemployed and broke friends are always up for sitting around talking.
I am stressing that there is nothing here to stress out about.
How did I used to do it, all those summers ago when I was in my mid-teens and never had to worry about things like jobs, when if somebody blew me off for the day, I would be content to sit inside and watch terrible day-time television for hours on end? In the past two weeks, I have formed an all-too-intimate relationship with Regis and Kelly that I would prefer to break off as soon as possible.
I actually think this town is making me a more awful person. Impatient, bitter, mean, FATTER BY THE HOUR, and just way more insecure and self-loathsome. I attribute it to the general atmosphere, the hours spent cooped up at home being less than productive...
Sorry, guys. This is my wallow post.
But the next time I write I will be back in Montreal, so hopefully I will be a much easier person to deal with then.
I am stressing that there is nothing here to stress out about.
How did I used to do it, all those summers ago when I was in my mid-teens and never had to worry about things like jobs, when if somebody blew me off for the day, I would be content to sit inside and watch terrible day-time television for hours on end? In the past two weeks, I have formed an all-too-intimate relationship with Regis and Kelly that I would prefer to break off as soon as possible.
I actually think this town is making me a more awful person. Impatient, bitter, mean, FATTER BY THE HOUR, and just way more insecure and self-loathsome. I attribute it to the general atmosphere, the hours spent cooped up at home being less than productive...
Sorry, guys. This is my wallow post.
But the next time I write I will be back in Montreal, so hopefully I will be a much easier person to deal with then.
Saturday, August 8, 2009
Cleanse.
So I went out last night to the Taste of the Danforth and ate five pierogis, a lamb gyro, and an entire funnel cake.
Today, I decided to take a Leek Cleanse and eat nothing but leeks and leek broth.
I kind of want to take a baby cow, slaughter it, and just take a bite out of its raw thigh, fur and all.
I could also settle for a Big Mac.
BUT I CAAAAAAAAAAN'T.
Today, I decided to take a Leek Cleanse and eat nothing but leeks and leek broth.
I kind of want to take a baby cow, slaughter it, and just take a bite out of its raw thigh, fur and all.
I could also settle for a Big Mac.
BUT I CAAAAAAAAAAN'T.
Wednesday, August 5, 2009
Observations from the La-Z-Boy at 1:14
1) Craig Ferguson, can you please be a bigger asshole? Bill Clinton just saved two journalists from North Korea and your only joke (that you keep running into the ground) is, "He's used to bringing two girls home" and "He's good at sneaking girls out of government buildings".
2) Craig Ferguson, can you not find a better guest than old washed-out CNN reporters who are known mostly for sensationalizing human interest stories?
3) Wolf Blitzer, can you please delete yourself from life?
2) Craig Ferguson, can you not find a better guest than old washed-out CNN reporters who are known mostly for sensationalizing human interest stories?
3) Wolf Blitzer, can you please delete yourself from life?
Tuesday, August 4, 2009
Me: "PEOPLE DON'T COMMENT ON MY BLOG."
Dave: "to be fair, your first poem was basically porn"
WHO ELSE THOUGHT THIS??? It was NOT porn, it's actually about two people just SLEEPING together. So get your mind out of the gutters.
ALSO. You people are NOT allowed to complain about me not blogging enough if YOU GUYS DON'T GIVE ME ANYTHING (in the form of comments). Hop to it!
That is all.
Dave: "to be fair, your first poem was basically porn"
WHO ELSE THOUGHT THIS??? It was NOT porn, it's actually about two people just SLEEPING together. So get your mind out of the gutters.
ALSO. You people are NOT allowed to complain about me not blogging enough if YOU GUYS DON'T GIVE ME ANYTHING (in the form of comments). Hop to it!
That is all.
Sunday, July 26, 2009
Snippets
His thigh is heavy as it has migrated to the bend of my knee, and an arm sinks limply over my waist. I am Toto, the stuffed bear from his childhood.
He breathes inconsistently, one minute through his mouth, blowing a short passage of air into the nape of my neck; and suddenly, with a hiss like a leaky gas pipe and a short gasp, the tunnels change and he exhales through his nose, down my back.
It can't last, and we both know this, but with my eyes wide open, our legs intertwined, and as he is clutching me like Toto the bear, we will take what we can get. With the back of his hands brushing the hem of soft pink chiffon, I feel very eerily like I am on an airplane, seatbelt cinched at my waist, watching the turbulence light flicker.
In two hours, the sun will rise, and I will have both feet once again planted on solid ground.
C'est tout, bébé. We both know this was a one way ticket.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She stands over the kitchen counter, delicately and lovingly slicing pears. She takes her toasted bread out of the oven, spreads Nutella over them, and lays each sliver of pear across the slices of bread. She glances at the clock.
In the last forty minutes, she has woken up (beating her alarm clock by 13 minutes), lay in bed in deliberation, taken a shower, gotten dressed, and is now eating her breakfast over the kitchen sink. In the next twenty minutes, she will brush her teeth, fix her make-up, zip her luggage bag, and roll it out the door, realizing, two minutes after ensuring all the locks, that she has left dirty dishes in the sink. She does not turn back.
When she is safely on the bus, she takes out a book and flips it to the first page. "I Wish Someone Were Waiting For Me Somewhere". This is an unusual selection for her - it's a recently release book, for one thing, and the title tells nearly nothing about the plotline. Perhaps she chose it because one week prior, she was in the area of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, the very location where the book begins. Or maybe because Vogue (a magazine she frequently leafs through) has hailed the author as a "distant descendant to Dorothy Parker" (a poet she frequently enjoys).
However, most likely of all, it may just be because she wants more than anything to find out how the story ends.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Hello, mes cheres. I'm back, and boy, am I ever in the deep now.
He breathes inconsistently, one minute through his mouth, blowing a short passage of air into the nape of my neck; and suddenly, with a hiss like a leaky gas pipe and a short gasp, the tunnels change and he exhales through his nose, down my back.
It can't last, and we both know this, but with my eyes wide open, our legs intertwined, and as he is clutching me like Toto the bear, we will take what we can get. With the back of his hands brushing the hem of soft pink chiffon, I feel very eerily like I am on an airplane, seatbelt cinched at my waist, watching the turbulence light flicker.
In two hours, the sun will rise, and I will have both feet once again planted on solid ground.
C'est tout, bébé. We both know this was a one way ticket.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
She stands over the kitchen counter, delicately and lovingly slicing pears. She takes her toasted bread out of the oven, spreads Nutella over them, and lays each sliver of pear across the slices of bread. She glances at the clock.
In the last forty minutes, she has woken up (beating her alarm clock by 13 minutes), lay in bed in deliberation, taken a shower, gotten dressed, and is now eating her breakfast over the kitchen sink. In the next twenty minutes, she will brush her teeth, fix her make-up, zip her luggage bag, and roll it out the door, realizing, two minutes after ensuring all the locks, that she has left dirty dishes in the sink. She does not turn back.
When she is safely on the bus, she takes out a book and flips it to the first page. "I Wish Someone Were Waiting For Me Somewhere". This is an unusual selection for her - it's a recently release book, for one thing, and the title tells nearly nothing about the plotline. Perhaps she chose it because one week prior, she was in the area of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, the very location where the book begins. Or maybe because Vogue (a magazine she frequently leafs through) has hailed the author as a "distant descendant to Dorothy Parker" (a poet she frequently enjoys).
However, most likely of all, it may just be because she wants more than anything to find out how the story ends.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Hello, mes cheres. I'm back, and boy, am I ever in the deep now.
Saturday, June 27, 2009
My Airport Year
Apologies for not updating in two months.
A lot has happened.
So since my last post, I have completed my second year of Journalism at Concordia, signed up for French classes in Montreal that I didn't really need, received a surprise e-mail in the middle of one of the said French classes, found myself on a bus back to Toronto the next day, and then on a train to Jonquiere, QC a week later.
This is where I rested for five weeks.
And of course, in those five weeks, I met the most dazzlingly interesting young people in Canada, picked up a good basis for conversational French, hung out in several distinct and artistic cafes, hiked up more mountains than I thought was possible for my little body, learned the full effects of inappropriate footwear, and left swiftly and silently, asleep on a bus with the country roads falling fast behind me.
Tomorrow, I take a very long car ride back to Montreal (the dotted liasonal world, it seems, between me and everywhere else I want to go), to board a plane, to fall asleep and wake up in the City of Lights. The past half year has passed by so quickly, and it hasn't really hit me that I'm leaving so soon. I don't think it will hit me until I get there, and then it'll just fly by again until I return back to Toronto. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Switzerland, London, back to Paris. This is all beyond belief. I keep reminding myself that the worst thing that could happen to me (discounting natural disasters and the slight chance of like, kidnapping or whatever -- but I'm a smart cookie so I'm sure I'll be okay) is that I will actually learn something about myself. I feel like if I don't take advantage of my current financial position and my youth and do something crazy by myself, I won't be able to do anything I set out to do later. I'm living actively.
I've been thinking about life lately. I'll give you the full report when I've deciphered all my thoughts and organized them neatly (or messily) in my notebook, sitting in the Jardins de Luxembourg or in an actual Paris cafe. Perhaps then I will know what it is like to stop thinking and start living the life.
Right, well then.
Wish me luck!
Au revoir, Canada!
A lot has happened.
So since my last post, I have completed my second year of Journalism at Concordia, signed up for French classes in Montreal that I didn't really need, received a surprise e-mail in the middle of one of the said French classes, found myself on a bus back to Toronto the next day, and then on a train to Jonquiere, QC a week later.
This is where I rested for five weeks.
And of course, in those five weeks, I met the most dazzlingly interesting young people in Canada, picked up a good basis for conversational French, hung out in several distinct and artistic cafes, hiked up more mountains than I thought was possible for my little body, learned the full effects of inappropriate footwear, and left swiftly and silently, asleep on a bus with the country roads falling fast behind me.
Tomorrow, I take a very long car ride back to Montreal (the dotted liasonal world, it seems, between me and everywhere else I want to go), to board a plane, to fall asleep and wake up in the City of Lights. The past half year has passed by so quickly, and it hasn't really hit me that I'm leaving so soon. I don't think it will hit me until I get there, and then it'll just fly by again until I return back to Toronto. Paris, Berlin, Vienna, Switzerland, London, back to Paris. This is all beyond belief. I keep reminding myself that the worst thing that could happen to me (discounting natural disasters and the slight chance of like, kidnapping or whatever -- but I'm a smart cookie so I'm sure I'll be okay) is that I will actually learn something about myself. I feel like if I don't take advantage of my current financial position and my youth and do something crazy by myself, I won't be able to do anything I set out to do later. I'm living actively.
I've been thinking about life lately. I'll give you the full report when I've deciphered all my thoughts and organized them neatly (or messily) in my notebook, sitting in the Jardins de Luxembourg or in an actual Paris cafe. Perhaps then I will know what it is like to stop thinking and start living the life.
Right, well then.
Wish me luck!
Au revoir, Canada!
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Memos
Remember in grade 12, in Hoogendam's class, with the memos and reading them every day/week/month, etc.? So I'm at home, leaving tomorrow to go back to school to re-cram everything I learned in the past semester back into my head before my exams on Tuesday and Wednesday.
I kind of miss high school.
BUT MEMOS.
This was the last one I ever did.
It is 1:50 and I am falling asleep at the keyboard. Here it is, folks, the final stretch. Unbelievable. I’ve been slaving over World Issues and worrying about Philosophy all night, but here I am, with this new document open, scrambling for coherent sentences that I could possibly slap down here, it is so weird. Kind of like the deafening quiet that comes after you’ve just shut off your iPod, turned off your cell phone, shut the doors. This is our last day of high school. Frankly, the sentimentality hasn’t set in, and I really don’t think it will. It’s time, you know? I feel like if I stay one more year, I might actually drive myself to the point of sticking my hands in my head and pulling out my brain. This is not to say that I didn’t enjoy high school, because I did. More so than I would have enjoyed my old school. Did that sentence make sense? I don’t care. I’m tired.
So next year I’m going to Montreal, to study Journalism at Concordia University. This is exciting. I was actually in Montreal last week for orientation, and it was the eeriest feeling. I arrived late, ambled my way inconspicuously to the back corner, took a seat, and, looking around me and seeing those blank faces, I slowly filled them with time. This time next year, I could actually know most of their names, or their background. This time next year, they’ll all be a thousand times more familiar.
I’m sorry, I really don’t know what I’m going on about. I don’t function well at all under these conditions. So, back to high school and how awesome my experiences here have been. Okay --- wait, I just heard a weird sound. I’m the only one up, and I’m totally creeped out now. Whatever. Back to high school. Okay, never mind, I can’t really think about that right now, nothing comes to mind. So how much do I wish that exams were over? Oh man. So much. I’ve been in this funk for too long, I tell you. I feel like I’ve been slowly working my way up a mountain, and I’ve gotten to the point where I can see the tip, and it’s just so close, but I’m so tired and worn thin that it’s taking forever to just get one leg up, and then the other, and pull my way up. And I still know that at the top of this mountain, I can just free-fall into a refreshing lake or something, y’know? Okay, so the song My Sharona by The Knack has just come up on Party Shuffle, and that has lifted my spirits considerably.
It feels like I’ve been working on this memo forever and it has only been ten minutes. I’m really, really sick of pages and pages of Times New Roman.
So I’m sorry for depressing the hell out of everyone right now. My life isn’t very interesting. Well, actually, I do well with it, but I’m not really in the mood to tell you the more interesting parts, unless you’d like me to go at length about cute boys and the things that they say. Don’t get me wrong – I could. But I won’t. Because it’s still school, and bringing my out-of-school life into school… that’s not a marriage I’d like to see yet.
Oh my goodness I am not making sense at all. Tomorrow I’m going to bring this up and I’m going to print it and read it over and find this paper absolutely riddled with grammar mistakes and typos. So in case you were wondering, I’m actually giving up on Philosophy. Well, actually, I’m going to see how much Socratic questioning I can cram into one spare period, but for now, for tonight --- I’ve given up. It’s 2:06. God help me. There are 15 people online, but ten of them are set to “Away”. Who goes on MSN at 2:07??? Well, obviously, people like me, who like to waste time on Freetetris.Org and check Facebook every five minutes, thus dragging out their homework until 2:08. It’s 2:09. Can I say right now, if I’m actually reading this thing out loud, how sorry I am? I am truly sorry. I think I need the marks. You understand, don’t you? The song Nessun Dorma, sung by Luciano Pavarotti and Andrea Bocelli, from Puccini’s Turandot came up. It’s kind of weird, because I generally don’t listen to opera, but I love this song. I don’t understand Italian, though, and I’ve never seen the opera itself, so I don’t know the story of it. So I found this CD a few months ago in my parents CD shelf called Pavarotti and Friends, and it features ole’ Lucci doing duets with everyone from Stevie Wonder to the Spice Girls to Jon Bon Jovi. When Luciano Pavarotti gets together with Celine Dion, you know that magic is in the air. And it is. Magic is truly in the air. Oh my goodness, last line.
It’s 2:13. Good night.
a) I thought 2:13 was LATE.
b) OLE' LUCCI????
c) I was a cute kid.
I kind of miss high school.
BUT MEMOS.
This was the last one I ever did.
It is 1:50 and I am falling asleep at the keyboard. Here it is, folks, the final stretch. Unbelievable. I’ve been slaving over World Issues and worrying about Philosophy all night, but here I am, with this new document open, scrambling for coherent sentences that I could possibly slap down here, it is so weird. Kind of like the deafening quiet that comes after you’ve just shut off your iPod, turned off your cell phone, shut the doors. This is our last day of high school. Frankly, the sentimentality hasn’t set in, and I really don’t think it will. It’s time, you know? I feel like if I stay one more year, I might actually drive myself to the point of sticking my hands in my head and pulling out my brain. This is not to say that I didn’t enjoy high school, because I did. More so than I would have enjoyed my old school. Did that sentence make sense? I don’t care. I’m tired.
So next year I’m going to Montreal, to study Journalism at Concordia University. This is exciting. I was actually in Montreal last week for orientation, and it was the eeriest feeling. I arrived late, ambled my way inconspicuously to the back corner, took a seat, and, looking around me and seeing those blank faces, I slowly filled them with time. This time next year, I could actually know most of their names, or their background. This time next year, they’ll all be a thousand times more familiar.
I’m sorry, I really don’t know what I’m going on about. I don’t function well at all under these conditions. So, back to high school and how awesome my experiences here have been. Okay --- wait, I just heard a weird sound. I’m the only one up, and I’m totally creeped out now. Whatever. Back to high school. Okay, never mind, I can’t really think about that right now, nothing comes to mind. So how much do I wish that exams were over? Oh man. So much. I’ve been in this funk for too long, I tell you. I feel like I’ve been slowly working my way up a mountain, and I’ve gotten to the point where I can see the tip, and it’s just so close, but I’m so tired and worn thin that it’s taking forever to just get one leg up, and then the other, and pull my way up. And I still know that at the top of this mountain, I can just free-fall into a refreshing lake or something, y’know? Okay, so the song My Sharona by The Knack has just come up on Party Shuffle, and that has lifted my spirits considerably.
It feels like I’ve been working on this memo forever and it has only been ten minutes. I’m really, really sick of pages and pages of Times New Roman.
So I’m sorry for depressing the hell out of everyone right now. My life isn’t very interesting. Well, actually, I do well with it, but I’m not really in the mood to tell you the more interesting parts, unless you’d like me to go at length about cute boys and the things that they say. Don’t get me wrong – I could. But I won’t. Because it’s still school, and bringing my out-of-school life into school… that’s not a marriage I’d like to see yet.
Oh my goodness I am not making sense at all. Tomorrow I’m going to bring this up and I’m going to print it and read it over and find this paper absolutely riddled with grammar mistakes and typos. So in case you were wondering, I’m actually giving up on Philosophy. Well, actually, I’m going to see how much Socratic questioning I can cram into one spare period, but for now, for tonight --- I’ve given up. It’s 2:06. God help me. There are 15 people online, but ten of them are set to “Away”. Who goes on MSN at 2:07??? Well, obviously, people like me, who like to waste time on Freetetris.Org and check Facebook every five minutes, thus dragging out their homework until 2:08. It’s 2:09. Can I say right now, if I’m actually reading this thing out loud, how sorry I am? I am truly sorry. I think I need the marks. You understand, don’t you? The song Nessun Dorma, sung by Luciano Pavarotti and Andrea Bocelli, from Puccini’s Turandot came up. It’s kind of weird, because I generally don’t listen to opera, but I love this song. I don’t understand Italian, though, and I’ve never seen the opera itself, so I don’t know the story of it. So I found this CD a few months ago in my parents CD shelf called Pavarotti and Friends, and it features ole’ Lucci doing duets with everyone from Stevie Wonder to the Spice Girls to Jon Bon Jovi. When Luciano Pavarotti gets together with Celine Dion, you know that magic is in the air. And it is. Magic is truly in the air. Oh my goodness, last line.
It’s 2:13. Good night.
a) I thought 2:13 was LATE.
b) OLE' LUCCI????
c) I was a cute kid.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Lately, I have been approached by nagging thoughts about the future- whether or not there will be tiny nano-robots floating through our blood streams, whether the newsprint business is going out of business, 0r whether the music business will continue going on the current soul-crushing path it's on now.
Tonight, I took a walk home in the rain. Spirits high, caffeine buzzing in my bloodstream from a latte from Le Croissanterie, it suddenly didn't matter that my bag weighed ten pounds, my plonking suede shoes were half a size too big and soaking through with the speed of a leaking pen, and that my thin tights were ill-equipped against the wind and rain.
I plugged in my earphones, clicked on some Gershwin, and followed the ribbon of Victorian-style lamp posts down Sherbrooke. I passed the Museum district opposite the row of wildly luxe hotels, tilted my umbrella to old men in trench coats, peered into tediously arranged store windows, and breathed in fresh spring rain.
Walking through a city on a rainy night incites in one a certain feeling of comfort. With the rain drops playing percussion to a soft, bluesy piano melody in your head, there is complete certainty that Ernest Hemingway, Woody Allen, Tom Waitts, Carey Grant, Audrey Hepburn, and countless others have walked in your steps. This is a strange nostalgia, a memory so strong and so communal through such a grand expanse of time. I stepped into the dirty '30s tonight, passed girls in high-waisted flapper skirts under mangled umbrellas; the 1890's offered the architectural backdrop to a black and white film. The ghosts of all who have come before became silhouettes on the street, umbrellas dropping with rain water.
It's nice to know that the past, the present, and the future are united in one thing.
With this post, something I haven't done in a while.
TEN SONGS FOR WALKING ON A RAINY NIGHT (To be played in this order, and only this order)
1. Rhapsody in Blue // George Gershwin
2. A Case of You // Diana Krall (cover of Joni Mitchell)
3. The Piano Has Been Drinking // Tom Waits
4. You Don't Know Me // Michael Buble
5. Christmastime Is Here // Vince Guaraldi Trio
6. Paris // Camille
7. A Change Is Gonna Come // Sam Cooke
8. Cafe Bleu // SoHa
9. A Song For You // Herbie Hancock ft. Christina Aguilera
10. Song For The Asking // Simon & Garfunkel
Tonight, I took a walk home in the rain. Spirits high, caffeine buzzing in my bloodstream from a latte from Le Croissanterie, it suddenly didn't matter that my bag weighed ten pounds, my plonking suede shoes were half a size too big and soaking through with the speed of a leaking pen, and that my thin tights were ill-equipped against the wind and rain.
I plugged in my earphones, clicked on some Gershwin, and followed the ribbon of Victorian-style lamp posts down Sherbrooke. I passed the Museum district opposite the row of wildly luxe hotels, tilted my umbrella to old men in trench coats, peered into tediously arranged store windows, and breathed in fresh spring rain.
Walking through a city on a rainy night incites in one a certain feeling of comfort. With the rain drops playing percussion to a soft, bluesy piano melody in your head, there is complete certainty that Ernest Hemingway, Woody Allen, Tom Waitts, Carey Grant, Audrey Hepburn, and countless others have walked in your steps. This is a strange nostalgia, a memory so strong and so communal through such a grand expanse of time. I stepped into the dirty '30s tonight, passed girls in high-waisted flapper skirts under mangled umbrellas; the 1890's offered the architectural backdrop to a black and white film. The ghosts of all who have come before became silhouettes on the street, umbrellas dropping with rain water.
It's nice to know that the past, the present, and the future are united in one thing.
With this post, something I haven't done in a while.
TEN SONGS FOR WALKING ON A RAINY NIGHT (To be played in this order, and only this order)
1. Rhapsody in Blue // George Gershwin
2. A Case of You // Diana Krall (cover of Joni Mitchell)
3. The Piano Has Been Drinking // Tom Waits
4. You Don't Know Me // Michael Buble
5. Christmastime Is Here // Vince Guaraldi Trio
6. Paris // Camille
7. A Change Is Gonna Come // Sam Cooke
8. Cafe Bleu // SoHa
9. A Song For You // Herbie Hancock ft. Christina Aguilera
10. Song For The Asking // Simon & Garfunkel
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Friday, March 13, 2009
December 10th, 2006 flashback
"What I needed was a realization that I wasn't a robot and could feel real emotions, that I was deeper than a kiddie pool and could connect on a level a little more personal than cellphones and acronym-filled MSN messages. I gave up my Livejournal because my own juvenile delinquency, my ridiculously emotive bleeding-heart posts were tiring me out beyond belief, and needless to say, I was sick of it. So I closed my doors to the personal blogging world and filled out my very basic, very minimal Yahoo 360 required for school. But I'm back (I hope), because words were just going to waste in my head.
What I want to remember right now is how it felt the moment I stepped into the school hallway for the first time back in kindergarten. The itching of a stiff red dress and feigned excitement on my face. That's what I want to remember. Because right now, I'm about seven months to the end of small white rooms and posters on the door, and decorated lockers on my birthday; stiff green attached desks, and locker combinations scrawled on sweaty palms of teenage boys. Am I prepared?
No freakin' way at all.
Progression is natural and graduation is inevitable. So why am I still sitting here, wondering where all that time went and regretting I had done more with it?
Obviously this is only high school graduation, and I'm kidding myself to think that my life has even begun; but I don't want to forget this, you know?
It's funny, I've spent about 16 and a half years imagining myself one level up in University, seeing me with freedom and independence and a higher level of maturity; but now as I'm nearing the end of my 17th, the future has started to freak me out like no other.
S'messed up, I'll tell you that much."
Am I what I was expecting?
What I want to remember right now is how it felt the moment I stepped into the school hallway for the first time back in kindergarten. The itching of a stiff red dress and feigned excitement on my face. That's what I want to remember. Because right now, I'm about seven months to the end of small white rooms and posters on the door, and decorated lockers on my birthday; stiff green attached desks, and locker combinations scrawled on sweaty palms of teenage boys. Am I prepared?
No freakin' way at all.
Progression is natural and graduation is inevitable. So why am I still sitting here, wondering where all that time went and regretting I had done more with it?
Obviously this is only high school graduation, and I'm kidding myself to think that my life has even begun; but I don't want to forget this, you know?
It's funny, I've spent about 16 and a half years imagining myself one level up in University, seeing me with freedom and independence and a higher level of maturity; but now as I'm nearing the end of my 17th, the future has started to freak me out like no other.
S'messed up, I'll tell you that much."
Am I what I was expecting?
Sunday, March 8, 2009
Things I Would Rather Do Than Be A Journalist
- Public relations for a theatre/opera house
- Host a talk show
- Busk
- Move to New York and be a personal shopper
- Be an Ad agent
- Act (movies or theatre)
- Be a pastry chef in France
- Scout music for a record company
- Write poetry
- Screenwrite
- Flip houses
And of course there's always the option of marrying rich and spending my days traveling.
Endless possibilities!
- Host a talk show
- Busk
- Move to New York and be a personal shopper
- Be an Ad agent
- Act (movies or theatre)
- Be a pastry chef in France
- Scout music for a record company
- Write poetry
- Screenwrite
- Flip houses
And of course there's always the option of marrying rich and spending my days traveling.
Endless possibilities!
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
It's mid-February and Montreal is a frozen tundra and I am buried in essays on Sir Gawain and French presentations and feature profiles and research reports, but I can't help but put on a song that makes me long for colourful skirts and lavender flowers and Kensington market...
I want to find a grassy knoll and just lie there for a while.
I want to find a grassy knoll and just lie there for a while.
Monday, February 16, 2009
Three coffees later..
So this morning, I woke up at precisely when I needed to be up, maybe a few minutes earlier, bounded out of bed, halted to a stop in the middle of my living room, rubbed my eyes, threw up my arms in frustration, swore to myself and exclaimed, "Screw it, I don't want to put on pants" and jumped back into bed, where I woke up five hours later.
It's just one of those days, I suppose.
It's just one of those days, I suppose.
Friday, January 30, 2009
Every few months or so, I begin to miss airports. I think I've explained this before. Despite the long lines, mean customs agents, sudoku puzzles in terminals, it's all worth it for that sense of eager anticipation of taking off for unknown worlds.
I've always felt as if 20 was that Airport year; shedding off the teen years and bravely marching forward into some sort of unknown world. But for the past year or so, I've been stuck in this state of perpetual content, and there's been a severe lack of that buzz of excitement and the anticipation of a new, exciting future.
My life could be so much more awful than this, I have great friends and a great apartment, I enjoy my classes and I enjoy my spare time. I'm healthy, balanced, and perfectly secure and comfortable. I know I sound ungrateful, because I genuinely know that I don't deserve all these amazing things, but I can't help feeling a bit restless and bored of this security and comfort. I fill my life with coffee meetings, girly gym sessions where I discuss Gossip Girl and bash on the latest fashion trends, late-night "family" dinners with friends and bottles of wine, and Chaucer-fuelled discussions in class, and I feel ridiculous complaining about this, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this is going to be the happiest time of my life and that terrifies me.
If I can't accept my own happiness now, will I be able to, ever?
Or maybe it's not a question of happiness, maybe it's a question of superficiality, and all the things that I have that I should be happy with eventually boils down to nothing. I keep waiting for something real to hit me, because I'm so caught up this idea that things should just magically appear in front of me. How do I even begin to make it on my own?
I don't really expect the answer to those questions, because I don't think they really exist.
But, I mean... if we don't even try, then what is life?
I've always felt as if 20 was that Airport year; shedding off the teen years and bravely marching forward into some sort of unknown world. But for the past year or so, I've been stuck in this state of perpetual content, and there's been a severe lack of that buzz of excitement and the anticipation of a new, exciting future.
My life could be so much more awful than this, I have great friends and a great apartment, I enjoy my classes and I enjoy my spare time. I'm healthy, balanced, and perfectly secure and comfortable. I know I sound ungrateful, because I genuinely know that I don't deserve all these amazing things, but I can't help feeling a bit restless and bored of this security and comfort. I fill my life with coffee meetings, girly gym sessions where I discuss Gossip Girl and bash on the latest fashion trends, late-night "family" dinners with friends and bottles of wine, and Chaucer-fuelled discussions in class, and I feel ridiculous complaining about this, but I have a sneaking suspicion that this is going to be the happiest time of my life and that terrifies me.
If I can't accept my own happiness now, will I be able to, ever?
Or maybe it's not a question of happiness, maybe it's a question of superficiality, and all the things that I have that I should be happy with eventually boils down to nothing. I keep waiting for something real to hit me, because I'm so caught up this idea that things should just magically appear in front of me. How do I even begin to make it on my own?
I don't really expect the answer to those questions, because I don't think they really exist.
But, I mean... if we don't even try, then what is life?
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