Corduroy Calamity

Split Personality

2010-08-23T21:17:00.000-07:00

Life can be absolutely hilarious in its irony.

I began this summer staring hopelessly at the big, scary expanse of time in front of me, completely bewildered - four months in Toronto, no job, certainly no traveling, and no friends who didn't completely remind me of high school.

I felt like I was slowly being pulled backwards in time, to a period where I was so sure I had moved from. But one funny thing about life is that in order to prepare yourself for the future, you have to reconcile your past. And Past Jessica was the one person I had spent three years desperately running from. Past Jessica is that ugly, misshapen, mothbitten sweater flattened in the bottom of a closet, beneath years' worth of less embarrassing, probably more expensive other garments. But, of course, what happens when the shiny new clothes have been taken to the cleaners or moved into a new home in another province?

I had left my baggage in Montreal. Before leaving, I had emotionally detached myself from some of my closest friends, lost interest in a new romantic prospect and had stopped looking. The weeks before leaving, I spent my nights sweating and shaking alone in my empty apartment, battling an existential crisis into the early hours of the day, squeezing my eyes shut and helplessly unable to keep my mind from asking questions darker than the last about life, and death, and what comes after.

I thought a lot about death those days - wondering how it would feel, when it would come, what would go on after, accepting that it was going to happen eventually, and just as quickly as my university career had swiftly passed before me, so would the rest of my life. I worried about the future, crammed my early adult life with enough plans as to not waste these fleeting years - if I was lucky enough to make them through alive. Lying in fetal position, I would mutter between gasps, "Please get me through these few nights. Please get me at least enough to get back home to my family. Please don't let me rot here in this bed, ignoring calls until they finally find me when my lease is through and they need to break down the door to forcibly evict me."

When the sun rose the next day and I woke from my blurred half-sleep, I would literally let out a sigh of relief and say a quick prayer to get me through the day.

I was ready to go home. There was very little left for me in Montreal. And then, inevitably, time folded and sighed and I was back in Toronto.

Between May and July, I slept irregularly, often going to bed at 5 AM and waking up at 11, still entertaining my dark thoughts. But some time in those months, a strange intruder slowly crept into my mind. She blew the dust out of some of the forgotten corners of my brain and wafted through the vents and awoke some old familiar habits. I had rudely set myself up in her domain, so she made her presence known to me. It was Past Jessica, back to haunt me.

She re-opened the floodgates of all my insecurities, my awkwardness with men, my vanity, my selfishness, my jealousy and my temper - all parts of me that I shrunk and slowly grew out of. She floated into my speech, made gossip more biting, lit the short fuse, spurned my parents and my friends, and I was helpless against her. She argued with me into the night, mocked me relentlessly, cut me down when I felt high. But slowly, like a babysitter dealing with an impetuous child, I got tired of her antics and ignored her when she lashed out. I got busy. It was a gradual shift, I was just so sick of worrying and battling. So I threw myself into project after project. I did the Fringe festival, I tutored English. and she, the jaded teenager, slowly slunk back into her space and blasted her angry music. And in those situations, the only thing you can do is let it rest and then wake up wthe next morning and talk it out. It was time to stop running away and finally face her.

Between Montreal and Toronto, I had left everything behind - my friends, relationships, school drama, and had violently intruded her space with this air of self-importance, bringing back with me nothing but tension and negative energy. And the more I willed myself against her presence, the more she acted up.

I sat her down in a quiet edge of my brain and asked her, finally, what it was that she wanted. She replied matter-of-factly: I want a room. She wanted to be able to settle back in with me. What else was to be done? I let her back in. I unlocked my door, found her a space with a bed and blank walls for her to hang her punk rock posters on, poured some tea for me and got a bottle of Coke for her, and suddenly, she just lived there.

I talk to her sometimes now. She's got her room in an attic in my brain, and constantly offers her two cents. When I get into an argument with my parents and shrink away silently, boxing myself up in my own isolation, a discipline that I have practised over the years for these situations, she with her biting honesty will sarcastically snarl, "So, what, you think you're, like, better than this now? Who the hell do you think you are?" When I am faced with moments of heartbreak and in typical Jessica fashion, turn my back and check out, the over-emotional teenager will rip off her headphones, leap out of the bed in her attic, land in that unignorable little crook that connects to my eyes and my eardrums and scream, "FEEL SOMETHING!!!!!!!" so violently it reverberates through my body.

Okay. I tell her, calmly, shaking, and finally allow myself to feel something.

I'm back in Montreal now, after the four months, and I've taken her with me, the little brat with her angry music and her cold shrugs, but also with her moments of youthful wisdom. Together, we slid the key into the lock, stepped in and looked around at the apartment that I spent three years away from her to cultivate. Being there after all that time was eerie. It was suddenly not my home now; it was haunted by a different presence. Standing in my kitchen felt like I was meeting a stranger who somehow suddenly knew every detail about me - my interests, my friends, my history. This strange presence, I gathered, must be Future Jessica, waiting for me to catch up, beckoning Past Jessica and Current Jessica to sit down at the couch and chat over tea - and, of course, a bottle of Coke.

I wonder what we'll find out about her.

In Transit.

2010-08-14T11:40:00.000-07:00

I have always wanted an espresso machine.

Okay, let me be more precise - I have always wanted really shiny, pretty, professional espresso machine, with not only a milk steamer attachment but the ability to steam milk at the exact temperature of 185 degrees in 45 seconds. I don't want the stove-top percolator, a Steam machine, or a low-grade Krups home machine that can steam milk and pull a shot with a cheap plastic turning knob. And really, I don't want to pull a shot, I want to extract one. I want this machine to last 20 years, with proper maintenance and yearly calibration. I want a matching grinder, too - a large burr mill with specific settings to be able to grind extra fine, fine, medium, coarse, and very coarse. One that properly grinds the beans together as to not give off too much heat to taint the flavour, without the spinning blade that so violently bruises the beans.

This being said, it may be surprising to note that the biggest problem preventing me from purchasing such beautiful machinery is not the money. Don't get me wrong- the money is still a problem, as I don't regularly keep two thousand dollars lying around waiting to be spent (unless my couch knows something I don't). However, even if I did so conveniently have that amount cavalierly lounging and sighing restlessly in my wallet, the larger issue would be: "Where the hell am I going to keep this thing?" (I regret to tell you that the idea of giving this exorbitant amount to charity to help the needy ranks a few notches lower, and I do hope you forgive my disgusting human materialistic complexion).

I have often repeated in earlier posts that I wanted my 20th year on this earth to be one of self-discovery and world-discovery, and while I have dipped a small, shakey toe into that pool, I have begun to realize that this transition period will very likely last me at least the next ten years (and, really, hopefully longer). This transition period will hopefully take me through more places I have never travelled before, present challenges and obstacles never tackled before, allow me to run my tongue and teeth across plates and plates of new, exciting foods. And unfortunately for my caffeine addiction, these years will have no room for large, bulky, expensive new gadgets.

I have been in Toronto for four months. I often think about my apartment in Montreal. I think about my very small but inviting bed, the wooden shelves lined with my favourite novels and writers and movies, my coffee table weighed down heavily with reams of paper and notes and my laptop and scented candles, next to a couch upon which mountains of clothes and winter apparel sit comfortably. And don't forget my kitchen - a foot of counter space yet roomy enough for a pristine white hand-mixer, submersion blender, and various sizes and styles of whisks and spatulas. My iPod is palm-sized but it is full to the brim of music I have collected over the years.

I have been away from all of this (well, not the iPod) for four months, and I have survived quite comfortably without it.

I've spent years trying to make this space an extension of me, from the teal/black/white colour scheme to everything in between. I have manifested my personality and identity into a collection of objects, songs, and colours. And this all culminates to what end - when I leave this apartment behind at the end of my studies? What was all of this for?

It has dawned on me that I've done this all a little too prematurely. It's too early to splash "Jessica" all over a bachelor apartment and call the space my own - particularly if I'm merely renting it. And this is why I'm not ready for that sleek new espresso machine.

Maybe when I'm in my thirties or forties, I will have a house and husband (although a large part of me shudders at the thought), and room in my kitchen. But right now I have to remind myself that when one is in transition, the only space they can call their own is themselves, and it's important to take inventory of the small but important aspects of themselves as surely as do with their possessions. I'm not about to go all-out Francis of Assisi and sell all my worldly possessions and live a life of peace and solitary confinement, but I'd like to know that if I did, I would be able to stand on my own.

But for now, I will return to my apartment, bask in itself as myself for one year, and afterwards, leave it in quiet peace, escaping with only two suitcases and the hope that in the end I, too, will be repainted and refurnished.

2010-08-03T22:26:00.000-07:00

"This will all feel like shit to you, I can assure you that. Right now, you're doing draft after draft, getting the information and all the facts straight, and you're revved up on confidence and people are telling you how great they think your work is. You feed off of the attention like a butterfly outstretched towards the warmth of the sun, or some similar colourful, textured, and poignant metaphor that you have littered all over your pages. But in about three or four weeks, when your piece is all but a distant whisp of a memory, you'll find the pages, red-marked with comments in the margins, folded into a textbook or shoved in your laptop bag. You'll pick it up, smooth it out, read it with fresh eyes, and... you'll hate it. It's the worst thing ever. You'll ask yourself why you spent the hours slaving over it, what people saw in it, and in you, and why you had to keep this shit around instead of throwing it in the trash where it belongs. But it's not shit- let me assure you this. And I know, because I've read shit. I've written shit, and I knew it was shit as I was writing it, too. And your harsh and jaded eyes will seldom allow you to appreciate your creation, but remember that you kept at it, that you were flying when those fingers hit those keys, pumped for every edited copy. You weren't just salvaging, you were polishing. So keep this now, keep the excitement, and keep going, because when all of this is done, all you can rely on is the memory of finally tackling something you were once proud of."

One step forward, two steps back.

2010-05-21T13:34:00.000-07:00

My youth and inexperience makes me (to say the least) ill-equipped to bring on those retrospective drops of wisdom about life; I am, at the very most, in the beginning phases of the learning process. But things I do know from my twenty-one years here: just when you think you're the most sure of yourself, everything seems to fall apart.

One year ago, I was exactly the kind of person that I wanted to be. I had a year of living alone under my belt, a basic grasp of French, was in a town surrounded by fascinating new people, full of buzzing anticipation knowing that the next step would take me to the rest of the world.

I was never as happy or as independant as I was when I was hopping train-to-tram in Berlin, wandering around St-Stephensplatz in Vienna, or making plans with international strangers in London. Even at my lowest points, when I was sleep-deprived, homesick, lost, lonely and alienated, starving and broke, I always had the option of taking that magic little trainpass and going back to somewhere comforting.

When I returned to Canada, people noticed a difference in me - a surge of strength they couldn't quite place, or a freshness and maturity that they had never been able to recognize in me before. I was happy for several months, high on the memories and feasting on possibilities (maybe giving myself a little too much credit) - having seen a part of the world that was completely new to me, I felt like there was nowhere I couldn't go.

Now, it's one year later. I've been back in Toronto for three weeks, desperately handing out resumes, and feeling more hopeless than I've ever been. I've never once not been grateful for the experiences and the opportunities I've had in my life, and I know everyone has their lows. But what happened to post-Europe, independant, mature Jess? When I hand a potential employer my resume and see their smiles slowly wilt, I'm instantly reverted back to high school Jess, who still lives at home off her parents money, underqualified and hopelessly unprepared for her real life. Worries keep sneaking into my mind - what if I don't get a job this summer? What if my lack of experience will prevent me from finding a job in the school year? What if I don't save enough money to travel, and I don't end up doing what I really want to do with my life? Now that I've seen the person that I'm happy with being, will I ever be able to find her here?

I'm afraid I'll never be able to answer these questions. Three months. I just need to worry about these three months, until September, and constantly remind myself to keep holding on, and trust that this, too, will teach me something.

2010-04-12T15:04:00.000-07:00

One of those moments you would carefully fold it into a small square and pat it down in your left breast-pocket as you walked home,
And the streetlights would beckon you forward, every single time,
And St-Laurent smelled exactly like lavender, you swear it.

2010-03-04T06:59:00.000-08:00

I hate just being human. It's just never enough.

Half of this wasn't me (it was Tom Waits)

2010-01-16T10:10:00.000-08:00

nighthawks at the diner
of Emma's 49er, there's a rendezvous
of strangers around the coffee urn tonight
all the gypsy hacks, the insomniacs
now the paper's been read
now the waitress said

eggs and sausage and a side of toast
coffee and a roll, hash browns over easy
chile in a bowl with burgers and fries
what kind of pie?

A bottle of nail polish remover next to
an ashtray, four butts smoked down to the filter behind
a crumpled brown styrofoam cup, perforated by plastic spoon.
This whole city is dying of second-hand smoke,
and the rest of us are just dying.

The Take-Off.

2010-01-01T09:38:00.000-08:00

I mentioned earlier this year that I wanted this to be my airport year, to bravely march into the unknown world, stop being perpetually stuck in plain contentedness and stop settling for normalcy. So this year, I bought a plane ticket, traveled on my own and realized my own abilities to adapt, made wonderful friends from all corners of the world, threw myself into completely new environments (from the rural French township of Jonquiere to the bright lights of Paris), found a clearer idea of who I want to be and what I want to be doing in ten years, and dipped a hesitant toe into the icy cold waters of journalism. In this time, I've lost some important people in my life, learned from some unlikely people, and realized who my real friends are.
And so, without further ado,

What I've Learned About Myself (and really, life) This Year
- I'm terrible at keeping a balance in my life. Unless all aspects of my life are going well, than nothing is, and this is often due to a skewed mindset. I will go long stretches of time getting 12 hours of sleep and napping all the time, and then I'll quickly snap into a rigorous routine where I'm out the door at 7 AM and come back home at 10:00. It's very inconsistent and something I need to work.
- Sometimes, at the most unlikely moments, there simply isn't any room to be afraid or worry and it's important to just keep moving.
- Often, it takes one very drastic (but calculated) risk or action before the rest of the details line up. You can go on telling yourself you'll do something, or wait around for people to catch up, but it doesn't amount to anything until you finally push yourself off.
- It's remarkably easy for me to immediate put up a cold, "I'm better than you" front when threatened or insecure. This is alienated me from a lot of people, or it has set me up to be a completely different person than I am, which pigeonholes me into a character that will inevitably disappoint.
- I drink way, way, way too much coffee. Five cups a day should not be a consistent norm, and it has been in the past four months for me. I also don't drink enough water or milk.
- I bypass many of the larger problems in my life and instead target a lot of petty inconsequential things like appearance and weight.
- I need to give myself more credit for a lot of things. I'm a more genuine person than I think I am, and the self-delusional "Oh I can't do this, I'm a terrible person, I hate everything" is easily turned into an excuse to not go for what I want. At the same time, I also need to trust myself to know to stop when I should.
- I am terrified of a whitebread suburban lifestyle. It obviously works for a lot of people, but not for me. Hell comes in the form of a mini-van and a white picket fence.

So that's the sum-up. And this year?

2010 Resolutions:
- Quit soul-sucking job, attempt to find job where I will engage with real human beings who have no chance to hang up on me.
- Do not spend more than $350 a month.
- NO MORE BEER.
- Drastic, but calculated decisions.
- Only go to bars once a week (Karaoke, Tuesday nights, Peel Pub)
- Use time that would have been spent at soul-sucking time cooking dinner for self
- Blog once every two weeks.
- Find a balance. And an internship.

Manageable?

Hopefully. Have a good year, everyone.

2009-12-30T10:19:00.000-08:00

Sorry sorry sorry!
New update soon, get excited everyone.

I wish to document my happiness.

2009-10-05T20:00:00.001-07:00

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.

Baking BONANZA.

2009-09-14T18:43:00.000-07:00

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!

My love, it'll be (Just Like) Starting Over

2009-08-25T09:46:00.000-07:00

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.

I hate people.

2009-08-11T11:28:00.000-07:00

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.

Cleanse.

2009-08-08T15:29:00.000-07:00

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.

Observations from the La-Z-Boy at 1:14

2009-08-05T22:14:00.000-07:00

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?

2009-08-04T20:25:00.000-07:00

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.

Snippets

2009-07-26T21:30:00.000-07:00

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.

My Airport Year

2009-06-27T22:01:00.000-07:00

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!

Memos

2009-04-16T20:39:00.001-07:00

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.

2009-04-12T03:11:00.001-07:00

It is 6:11 on Easter Sunday morning and I am sitting on a brown suede easy chair, watching the sun slowly rise across the city out of the corner of my window, listening to Bach's Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major.

Life is just a series of dances.

2009-03-26T22:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-03-17T20:05:00.001-07:00

GAH.

ANGER.

That is all.

December 10th, 2006 flashback

2009-03-13T14:24:00.000-07:00

"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?

Things I Would Rather Do Than Be A Journalist

2009-03-08T21:15:00.001-07:00

- 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!

2009-02-18T12:01:00.000-08:00

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.

Three coffees later..

2009-02-16T22:32:00.000-08:00

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.

2009-01-30T22:05:00.000-08:00

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?

Thoughts: Boxing week in NY.

2008-12-29T21:55:00.000-08:00

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

2008-12-12T19:07:00.001-08:00

Hello, I love you

won't you tell me your name?

2008-11-25T19:29:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-14T20:21:00.000-08:00

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?

2008-11-09T21:20:00.000-08:00

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

10/11/08
10:10

2008-10-05T12:35:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-14T21:19:00.001-07:00

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

2008-07-15T21:36:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-07-05T04:38:00.000-07:00

"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.

2008-05-20T09:56:00.001-07:00

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

2008-04-28T22:02:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-15T09:39:00.000-07:00

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

2008-04-09T09:01:00.001-07:00

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

2008-03-08T19:13:00.000-08:00

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

2008-02-14T16:22:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-30T11:53:00.000-08:00

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.

2008-01-26T10:13:00.001-08:00

I'm really not ready yet.

2008-01-04T13:05:00.000-08:00

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.

Drowsy.

2007-12-23T11:13:00.000-08:00

So I wasn't very smart last night and decided to stay up until 3:30 talking on MSN and reading in bed, knowing very well that I had to get up at 9:00 the next morning (as in, this morning) for church. I took an idea from a class-napper who recently got busted for drifting off during Writing and Reporting and quickly downed a can of Red Bull before service, which did the trick when it came to the sermon this morning, but now I feel rather like an insomniac -- tired and as hell, but, alas, unable to sleep. This could explain the run-on sentences. It's strange, because I never have trouble with keeping my caffeine in check and more often then not, I have more of a problem quitting than encouraging my addiction; but right now, I'm just ... spent.

So no Top 5 list for today, I'm afraid, because I can't get the brain power (or enough energy in my arms to reach over to the mouse and browse through my iTunes list).

However, I do believe a mini-rant is in order.

Okay, so when has it become a job for people to sneer at others who may be carrying their groceries in, heaven forbid!, a plastic bag?? Don't get me wrong, I'm as environmentally inclined as the next person, but let's say I just popped in for a surprise visit to Loblaws, having had no time to stop home and pick up my tote bags. Does that really warrant the death-glare and the "turn-to-friend-and-say-something-snarky-about-plastic-bags"? I kid you not, arms full of groceries, rushing to get home, I get sidestepped by a woman and her friend, who give me the bitchy kind of glance-overs and in passing, I hear her dramatically sigh and say (quite loudly), "You'd think more people would have switched to cloth bags by now....mutter mutter... Global Warming" (the 'mutter mutter' was due to a store alarm going off at a nearby shop). Now here's the thing: I wasn't walking out of the Loblaws with fifty bags for six apples. There was no excessive double-bagging (or any at all). I had three bags for a hefty amount of groceries, and this woman finds it necessary to pour a pail of condescension over my head from her oh-so-high pedestal? Believe me, I usually have my reusable bags with me when I can, and I do understand the importance of spreading awareness about the well-being of our planet, but there must be better ways than the off-the-hand, holier-than-thou 10-second sermon. Otherwise Al Gore wouldn't have spent all that time and money with "An Inconvenient Truth".

So please, all the snappy women of the world who have jumped on the latest enviro-trend, get off your high horses. If you've got something to say, make it tasteful, or everyone will just keep thinking you're a bitch.

That's my rant. I think I'll take another shot at a nap.

And now that that's over...

2007-12-20T22:01:00.000-08:00

Top 5 Favourite "Recently Added" Tracks On My iTunes:
5) Pull Shapes - The Pipettes
4) Gotta Have You - The Weepies
3) Neptune City - Nicole Atkins
2) Deacon Blues - Steely Dan
1) I Can't Get Next To You - The Temptations

Now you go.

Not studying Shakespeare.

2007-12-14T21:10:00.000-08:00

Top 5 Songs To Dance To:
5) Put Your Records On - Corinne Bailey Rae
4) My Love (ft. TI) - Justin Timberlake
3) Signed, Sealed, Delivered - Stevie Wonder
2) Billie Jean - Michael Jackson
1) Direct Me - Otis Redding

I've spent the day in my pyjama pants and my old-man cardigan, tribal dancing 'round my Christmas tree to Otis Redding, and watching The Tudors on CBC (everyone get on that! It's sexy, it's dramatic, it's Henry VIII; this time, sizzlin'ly hot and makin' love - makin' love! - with every waiting woman while waging war on Italy!).

This is kind of weird, the grey area between the end of classes and actual Christmas vacation (because I've got one more exam), probably made weirder by the fact that I'm home. Right now, I'm staying in, telling myself that I'm going to work hard and study my ass off, but in the end, I'll look back on my day and realize that I've only spent about 1/8th of the time studying, the other 7/8ths on Youtube, dancing, staring, knitting, watching television, et cetera.

Yesterday was definitely the longest day ever, though. It was my self-appointed day-off from school work, so I woke up at 6:30 to meet Darryl and Eui Yong and Peters for breakfast downtown. I got home around 11:00, power-napped, went to the Dollar Store and Loblaws with my mom to pick up random edible decorating items (candy canes, cranberries, etc.), went home, and took another nap. A few hours later (like at 8:00, having had no food that day other than breakfast), I left for Korean Grill with a friend from school while doing a bit of spy work.

While there was nothing particular un-fun about yesterday, I was all too delighted to stay in and laze around today.
...aaaand that's what I've done.

Have a great weekend, e'erbody!

Home!

2007-12-06T21:52:00.000-08:00

It feels like somebody keeps pressing a "Pause" button on my Toronto life when I leave, and I go back to school and live a whole other life and feel grown up because I never have to be back at any certain time and I have words like "Metro" and "Dépanneur" incorporated into my daily vocabulary and I am in charge of when I sleep and what I eat; and when I have a long weekend or an extra break, I'll take a train (which maybe doubles into a time machine) and go back to High School Jess who has parents calling her at 6:00, asking her if she'll be back for dinner, and turns the key and pushes the door open to see someone else there.

Whew. That was a run-on sentence.

I highly suggest anyone who is able to, to go downtown (Toronto) to see the Christmas windows within the next few days, when the weather is still relatively bearable and the snow is white and crisp.

Last night, around 11:00 when everyone was asleep, I made Apple Cinnamon tea and sat in front of the television watching The Daily Show.

I don't think I'll be ready to go back to Montreal in a while.

A Case Of You

2007-11-30T16:35:00.000-08:00

I'm sick of myself.

Let's hear about your weeks.

Procrastination.

2007-11-29T09:02:00.000-08:00

So I've got two essays to write based on thousands of readings I must be able to draw on, interview three different transportation agencies, and record those interviews in a script/clip split page script to be prepared for filming.

and what am I doing?

An Excercise, if you will.

2007-11-26T22:27:00.000-08:00

Beauty is:
little old ladies in oversized coats
that Harry Potter scene where he's walking across the blizzard-y courtyard (the one that looks like The Quad)
underground societies
the sickening green jealousy that rears its ugly head at any great perfect line of poetry.
a crowded couch and a cheesy movie, every night.
the mess behind me
"The Internet started out as a government military device to release information.... do you think they really anticipated YouTube?"
Sailing Into The Mystic
the competitiveness of Top Friends on Facebook
tangerine shafts of light at 1:32 AM
the potentiality of colour.
the precise measurement and planning of the perfect snow fort.
Mittens and Kittens
not the actual store window of Ogilvy, but the idea behind it.
"Star, star, teach me how to shine" transitions (Swell Season, last Thursday!)
stalking rock stars.
The Irish
"China Propaganda" calendar - 2008!
the numbers, the numbers, the daunting old numbers.
onomatopoeia
&
fin.

2007-11-26T17:52:00.000-08:00

You know the moment in the music, between the downbeats,
where everything you've ever experienced comes together to fit perfectly like pieces in a puzzle?

The piano sang out the nine million raindrops hitting the cold rough concrete.

A newspaper angled to the skies,
praying for mercy, dangling by fingertips of
the women
with the sprayed hair
and the ivory teeth
(brighter than 88 keys)
and the bitten nails.

Carols drip with the rain
hung with contradictory spells of too many seasons.

The ants are hiding; waiting for the sun
the leather shoe peeping out of the corner

you can hear it
you can hear it
and
you can feel it.

and all this
because life is not a
red wheelbarrow sparkling in the rain,
it's the impatient child,
red and yellow,
daring you to

run.

The First One, All Over Again

2007-11-17T21:59:00.000-08:00

Does anyone ever feel really silly doing this? During my avid Blogging days (back in grades 8 and 9 where I thought my heartbroken soul actually had things to say), I was unstoppable, always ready to pipe out line after line of drippy, but nevertheless present, e-gold. And now, I'm here in University, still sans boyfriend, along with other things (like my sanity? Uhhh, yes).
So this leads me to my question: why another attempt at this e-journaling thing? Did I not learn the lesson with climbintheback.blogspot.com, the last untouched brainchild of absolute boredom? Clearly, my ambition (and not to mention, procrastination) has gone the extra mile, leaving my brain slowly heaving along.

So hi. Here I am, blogger.

Let's talk about the last few days:
Christmas is approaching, and it's becoming more evident in the city of Montreal. No snow as of yet, but the shoppers emerge from over-dressed downtown stores with a renewed joy and bigger shopping bags. I've found that I can no longer stay in shopping districts for too long because the sight of people finding so much falsified happiness in material items a little depressing. But then again, I'm the one ambling into any store with a "Jusque 50% Solde!" sign, so what does that say about me?

I'm also spending too much money on alcohol and less time on homework, which is getting me nervous because exams begin unsettlingly soon. I'm a little too comfortable here, I think - I'm still in that mindset of, "Oh, if I just do the required homework then I'll be fine." which I don't quite think will cut it. On the plus side, I haven't failed anything yet; nor do I skip classes. So, I mean, here's hoping, right?

In other news, I have plans for next year pretty much all figured out --- sharing a house with three people who don't irritate me, hopefully downtown near a Metro station. You'll soon learn about them; but that is not for now.

I watched Memoirs of a Geisha two nights ago and am very proud of the three Chinese leading ladies; but also a little unsettled that they played Japanese parts. There's no WWII beef on my part or anything (although I can see the level of disrespect about that), but it's not terribly hard to spot differences between Japanese and Chinese people; and the accents! Gong Li and Zhang Ziyi barely have English down and they were forced to do it all in Japanese accents? Strange-o! Not terribly impressed with how that turned out. However, still a beautifully shot movie and a sweet story line. I have heard many fans of the book express their disappointment in the movie; so I think I'll attempt to tackle the book and decide for myself which one I like best. With me, though, it's generally the books that get the more votes; so we'll see.

This week, I'll be trying to finish my Shakespeare essay once and for all and getting my CV together so I can apply for a call centre job (one of the few job opportunities I'm limited to, since I have such little work experience and can't speak French). Not sure how that'll all turn out, but we'll hope for the best.

But for now, it's 1:23 and I feel like hot chocolate and hot lovin' (or just some time in my bed to read).

Good night!