...and I should know, since I have mono.
Which means '1' as S. so gleefully told me.
He wasn't so gleeful when he found out that I can't kiss him for two months.
Lonely indeed.
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
Monday, August 06, 2007
83 Random Things
This is for Troll. Happy Belated Birthday!
1. I just realized that if S. and I ever broke up I couldn’t get rid of all the things that remind me of him without getting rid of half of my possessions, a lot of my journals and writing, and several pieces of art that I have created in the last year.
2. I have woken up with a song in my head pretty consistently for the last two weeks. The songs vary from “Got Me Where You Want” by Our Lady Peace to “Stand” by R.E.M. – other bands include Sarah McLaughlan and Three Days Grace. It’s been weird – I don’t remember this happening so often before.
3. I dreamt that I was performing dinner music with my friend R. and two patrons wouldn’t let us leave the room, to the point of the man punching me in the face several times with blood and all. I dream like this all the time so it doesn’t disturb me anymore. I’m not sure it ever did. Violence in my dreams fascinates me on some visceral level.
4. I only have to hear a song once or twice to learn the melody, and only a few times after that (if I’m listening carefully) to learn all the lyrics.
5. Since I was 2, I’ve had Top 40 songs in my repertoire. I believe my parents gave me a Madonna record for my 2nd birthday, which I memorized and danced to in my own toddler way.
6. Although I’ve had the newest Harry Potter book since the Thursday after it came out (and it is Tuesday July 31st as I type this), I haven’t gotten any further than Chapter 3. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.
7. I have spent a lot of time with S. this weekend though. He helped me move and among all the stress of that we bickered more than we ever have – and yet I still wanted to have him around.
8. And we still haven’t had a big fight yet, after 13½ months.
9. Although I don’t know what a big, serious fight would be anyway. It could be that our fighting styles simply look like an extended argument (which we have had) instead of the rip-roaring, swearing, throwing-things fights I’ve seen and am waiting to have myself.
10. I hope I never have a fight like that.
11. I am a packrat. I’m staring at the peacock feather that a co-worker gave me when I worked at A&W four years ago.
12. I worked at A&W for 18 months, 16 of which I was a supervisor, in order to jump-start my schooling here. I paid for a year of tuition and living expenses out of pocket without any financial stress. It was wonderful.
13. I want to be in the summer show next year but I won’t be able to afford it even if I do get cast.
14. My brother’s wedding conflicts with the show anyway – and for some reason that seems like a more legitimate reason to turn down the show than the fact that I would be starving and homeless.
15. I dreamt that my brother and his fiancé had a baby girl with perfect light brown skin and dark hair and they named her after me, so now I really have to go to their wedding. (I’d be there anyway – don’t feel any pressure to name your future daughters after me, D&D!)
16. Once I discovered that it was ‘cool’ for Christians to like U2 my interest in them flagged. I still have a hard time admitting that I like their music well enough to own an album or two (which I do).
17. I have a naïve faith that everything will work out somehow, even if I have to work hard or struggle through to the happy ending. This applies to everything in my life – school, money, relationships…
18. Whenever I listen to country music I realize that I like it more than I’ll admit to. The songs seem to have more happy messages than the depressing emotional/meaningless sex songs that tend to fill the rock and pop stations.
19. I don’t understand my youngest brother’s relationship and I don’t like the dysfunction I see within it but I stay silent. And I don’t quite know why.
20. I have started more stories than I have finished but the good ones still live in my head, clamouring for completion.
21. I think that a monarchy is the only system of government that has even a chance of working. There needs to be one person who is ultimately in charge, someone who can take responsibility for the good and bad decisions.
22. I’ve harboured a secret dream of being the dictatress of Canada since I was about 15 – part of my youthful idealism clashing with harsh reality.
23. I get distracted very easily. For instance, my plan for the afternoon was to file receipts and organize things in my still not completely unpacked room, and instead I just took out things for supper, walked to the office to get a Student Loan application form to find out that they are locked early again, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, swept the entire house, and somewhere in there I took many pictures of a small tree that is pushing it’s way to freedom and life through the asphalt of a friend’s driveway. It makes me ridiculously happy to see that small sapling winning out over man’s rock hard world.
24. I love trees. Inordinately so. A part of me was an Ent in a former life.
25. I’ve recently been introduced to Taoism by Pooh and Piglet. I think they’re on to something that needs to be incorporated back into our all too Western philosophies and religions.
26. I like listening to soundtracks, even the ones without lyrics. Sometimes I prefer them that way, actually. The Narnia soundtrack is very evocative of the film, I find. So is the one for The Pirates of the Caribbean.
27. Sometimes when I listen to music without lyrics I see colours and shapes and essences of things that just fit the music. It’s very pretty.
28. I think that some numbers are better than others. I also have months of the year and days of the week that I prefer. May 5th is my least favourite date. It is so round and oppressive and heavy. February 28th is also round but not so heavy – it has some light in it although it is kind of serious. Like Pooh. September 17th – ahh. Such a nice date. Sharp in a kind of dangerous coyote way, it fascinates me and makes me happy all at once. There is no logic to how this works. It isn’t a system, although people have tried to analyze it. It is simply how the numbers and words hit my mind.
29. I write with my left hand but I cut watermelon (and indeed, everything) with my right hand. I wear my watch on my right arm. I think of myself as ambidextrous with a slight preference for my left side.
30. When I was a young girl, I wanted to have either auburn or black hair, and either green or violet eyes. I couldn’t decide which one was better, or which combination would be more striking.
31. Now I’m content with my light brown hair with blonde streaks, and my grey-blue eyes that occasionally look green.
32. I wear contacts now for the first time in my life. I like being able to see on stage but I don’t like it enough to replace my glasses, much to S.’s relief. He likes my glasses.
33. I have put a lot of thought into what illegal career I would pursue if I had to pick one. I think being an assassin is cool, but I’d be able to handle being a thief – I’d love to be good enough to steal from large famous art galleries and museums, as well as pick the petty pocket here and there.
34. I like action movies. I’ve never admitted this – I always felt a bit foolish because it goes against my whole ‘intellectual’ reputation. Plus I’m a girl. And S. doesn’t like them. So I feel a bit silly and defiant, but now I’m admitting it. I like action movies. It’s great if they have a plot but they don’t even need to have a great one for me to enjoy it. There you go.
35. 83 random facts about myself is proving to be easier than I thought it would be. I wonder if anyone else will take it on and do this too? Perhaps I will have started a trend – huge long lists of personal facts on an international electronic forum.
Probably not.
36. I like hats but I’m not so sure that the hats I like look good on me. I know I pull of the cute ball-cap look, but I like feminine hats and every one I’ve ever tried on I haven’t liked on me. I don’t think it’s fair.
37. But since every other piece of clothing I like looks good on me, I guess I shouldn’t complain. I love – no, I delight in – the fact that the fashion industry caters to people who are my size. It means I never have to worry about finding something that will fit me. It’s glorious.
38. I also feel a bit guilty about that sometimes because I know there are women who can’t find stores that even carry their sizes. I wonder if those women hate me for my svelte physique. I hope they don’t. I got good DNA, that’s all.
39. I just bought a filing cabinet and I am discovering how much I like filing things. It’s so organized! Ahh…
40. I get cold even in the summer, so that people mock me for wearing hoodies and sweaters at 8 or 9 in the evening on a blistering hot July day. What can I say? Svelteness has it’s down side.
41. I have often felt like a horrible Christian because I don’t see things the same way as the leaders of the churches I have grown up in. The biggest area in which I don’t see eye to eye is homosexuality. I don’t think it’s what God planned but like so many other things, human sexuality got bent and broken. Lots of things aren’t how they were planned out in the beginning. I know, this one is actually laid out in the Bible (at least in the Old Testament), but I still don’t understand why God would allow someone to be drawn to their own sex from childhood and then deny them romantic relationship. So I feel like I’m missing some integral Christian something because I see two men giving each other flowers and sweet nothings on Valentines Day in New York City and I think, “That’s sweet”, while some of my classmates see that and are repulsed. I don’t understand! I don’t think I ever will. I’m not sure I want to.
42. When I took the playwriting course last summer, I had to list five things that worried me. One of those things was that I am too liberal. The above random fact reminds me of that – it is the exact phrase that runs in my head when I ponder how my personal beliefs run against what I hear from the pulpit.
43. I went to a family gathering a year ago and one of my young teenage cousins asked me if I loved S. I said I didn’t know. About a week later I was getting ready to go to work and I was thinking about that moment for some reason and I realized my answer had changed to yes. I stopped dead, staring out the window over the sink at the white metal fire hall outside. I spent half of the ten minute drive to work crying and half of it laughing, and the whole day I was quiet for fear that something would send me over the edge into either emotion.
44. I get upset about how the world is and I don’t know what to do about it. It makes me feel quite helpless because I can’t see how to make people care about those around them and that seems to be the root cause of all the problems I see. Think about it – if the majority of people really cared about those around them, perhaps there wouldn’t be as much poverty or abuse. Maybe we would reach out to those around us and help them out when they needed a hand instead of living our lives according to rules and systems that don’t contain any mercy.
45. I think that we are headed towards some kind of meltdown – either political, social or environmental – and my naïve sense of well-being keeps me from panicking. I’ll either live or die and really there isn’t much I can do about it now anyway.
46. I really like dark chocolate.
47. I would like to eat more healthily, and I know that if I had a vanity reason to do so it would happen faster but because I don’t gain weight I have to work on eating properly.
48. I am very vain. I always have been.
49. I used to believe that if I wasn’t the smartest I was worth nothing. I am letting go of that but it still irritates me if someone is better with words than I am. I didn’t know this until last year when I took a Shakespeare class and one of my classmates had a BA in English and thus, by simple dint of education, knew more than I did. I laugh about it now but the little bruise is still there on my ego and can be poked. Painfully.
50. Speaking of bruises, I have several mystery ones right now. I got a big deep purple one on my butt from something – I couldn’t remember what I did but I remember swearing about it when it happened, how odd, eh? There’s a green-yellow one on my shin and that could have been anything. My shins are like delicate butterflies. The least jarring and they’re damaged.
51. I once chipped my shin bone by tripping up a set of stairs. I stumbled, struck my shin, and the next thing I remember I was sitting at the top of the stairs (I was two steps from the top) rocking back and forth, holding my injured leg with tears streaming silently down my face. My mom, who was in the next room, didn’t even know I was hurt until she saw my damp face when I finally got up and limped into the room.
52. Whenever I’ve gotten hurt (like chipping bones, not stubbing toes) I don’t remember the actual pain-inducing event. I cracked a bone in my foot and I’m not sure how – I was leaning over a fence, I lost my balance, then I was sitting on the side of the fence I started on curled up, rocking back and forth holding my injured foot with tears silently streaming down my face. Again no one knew I was hurt until I limped into a populated area. A trend? Perhaps.
53. I miss having pets. I still have a dog, and I miss seeing her every day and tending for her every need. I think I need a pet to get me out of my own self.
54. I have really good teeth and I’ve never had braces.
55. I had all four canine teeth pulled at once. That was to keep the next in line adult teeth from growing in crooked, so that I wouldn’t need braces. See? Tricky, tricky.
56. Every time I see the White Sox emblem I don’t see the word ‘sox’. I see the word ‘sex’. So does my dad. One day my dad and I took a White Sox hat and with a Sharpie® changed it to what we see. I wear the hat around town and people’s brains fill in the blacked out bit. My friends have all noticed it, but it still took the quickest of them at least an hour to realize what my hat said, and that was with a bit of prodding on my part.
57. I’ve never had one, but I’ve always secretly wanted a black eye. And a broken jaw. Just to know what they feel like. And for some reason when I was a child I thought black eyes were cool.
58. I also thought it would be a good skill to learn to stand still for three hours at a time. I read a book about a boy who was a prince but didn’t know it, but his father had trained him in the ways of royalty and being able to stand still was a royal trait I guess. I had a crush on this prince boy and wanted to be just like him. I never succeeded. Which is good, because I rather like being a girl.
59. Women complain about getting their periods, but I see it as a feminine mystery. We have the power to create life in our bellies! It’s a miraculous, mysterious thing, and the monthly cycle is a part of that power. Yes, it can be inconvenient and downright painful, but it’s still kind of cool.
60. I have a bit of a flirtation with goddess worship. I don’t worship any goddesses, but I like the idea of God being both masculine and feminine. A wholly masculine God doesn’t captivate or understand me the way I need to be captivated and understood. I think God gets that. I certainly hope he does – otherwise I may be inadvertently damning myself to Hell.
61. I believe that those who die can watch and look over us and even send us messages – the intercession and protection of Saints is very real to me.
62. When I get very scared at night and all the scary movies I’ve seen crowd into my shadows, I ask the Virgin Mary for a mother’s calming touch as I pray to God for spiritual protection. People I respect don’t agree with this. I respectfully disagree with them. The mother of God deserves our respect, and to those who say we shouldn’t worship anyone other than God I say that respect is different than worship. Look it up in the dictionary.
63. I got my ears pierced when I was 2. I sat on the step of the place that pierced ears and I wouldn’t leave until I got what I wanted. It strikes me as funny, and sad, that my parent’s didn’t just pick me up and carry me, kicking and screaming, to the car instead of ‘acquiescing to my request’. Good thing I wasn’t an only child. I would be such a bitch.
64. I did continue reading the Harry Potter book – and today (August 3rd – this is taking some time, people, sorry) I discovered that my copy is missing 33 pages, from page 257 to page 288. The misery that has caused me was assuaged by S., who consoled me (I was almost in tears) and Troll, who leant me his copy during the show so I could read the missing pages and continue with my copy now. S. also found the copy that exists online in case I couldn’t find a copy to borrow, which touched me deeply because S. could care less about Harry Potter and whether he lives or dies. I found it very sweet that he would go to so much effort to console me.
65. In all the realm of illegal substances, the only one that has ever really fascinated me is LSD. Since learning about flashbacks my curiosity has waned. The Parental Units can breathe now.
66. For the last two days (August 4th and 5th – if you have a problem with how long this is taking, try doing it yourself. It takes a lot of thought to not repeat myself. Anyway…) some gland in the right side of my throat has been swollen to the point of being able to touch that dangly thing in the back of my throat. It hurts a lot and this morning I didn’t think I could swallow anything thicker than pudding. Since the long weekend means that all the doctor’s offices are closed I ended up going to the Emergency Ward (sorry Dad) where I was told I likely have strep throat. I am now sucking on a very medicated tasting lozenge and talking as little as possible in order to not lose my voice.
67. I’ve worn glasses since I was 2. Before I got them I was a very obedient child in public but once I could see I immediately began going and looking at things like toys, leaving my parents to freak out when they discovered I was missing.
68. I steal blankets, pillows and bed space when I sleep with other people. I imagine I steal them when I’m sleeping alone too, only there isn’t anyone to witness this event.
69. Apparently I also respond violently to those around me in my sleep, with elbows to the face and kicks to the limbs.
70. My dad and my brothers and I share a sense of humour that my poor mother doesn’t get. Example: The phrase, “I’ve got to go take a pee” – don’t take pee, leave it. It’s not nearly as messy.
71. When I’m driving alone in my car listening to the radio, I sing along and pretend I’m in a band performing at a concert.
72. My laptop (which was a present from my parents – thank you parents) has one of those little mouse pads in it, with ‘palm check’ which is a curiosity to me, but I don’t know what it means and I don’t care enough to find out.
73. I talk to myself a lot. Almost every time I’m alone I hold conversations with myself, sometimes telling stories, sometimes going over past experiences or possible future confrontations. I’m always afraid someone will walk in and hear me, but if it’s happened no-one has told me yet.
74. I would like to have a particular scent that is mine. You read about women who always smell like a certain perfume – I’d like that, but I can’t find a perfume or scent that I like that doesn’t give me a headache or hasn’t been claimed by others I know. Plus it’s a lot of bother to always make sure I wear a certain scent. I suppose just smelling like a clean me is going to have to do.
75. Occasionally I hear words according to their spellings. The first time this happened was when my uncle asked me how my dad was enjoying the ‘log hall’ – at least, that’s how I heard it. He actually said ‘log haul’ (Dad was hauling logs at the time). It gets very confusing because people repeat themselves but it doesn’t help – I’ve heard ‘burleigh’ (which apparently isn’t even a word) instead of ‘burly’ and ‘b-day’ instead of ‘bidet’. It doesn’t happen often but when it does people look at me like I’ve lost my mind while I look at them like they’re speaking Chinese.
76. I like to read the dictionary. Okay, I don’t know if this one counts because if you read this blog often enough you already know that. So I’ll tag onto it that as a child I decided to read through the entire children’s fiction section of the Grande Prairie Library in alphabetical order (which is how they’re filed in case you don’t ever go into the fiction section of a library). I didn’t end up succeeding – I didn’t like some of the authors – but it did introduce me to people like Avi, who I really enjoyed, and Lloyd Alexander, who I can’t help but think I would have run into anyway but perhaps not so soon. It also led me to a series called “The Swallows and The Amazons” about some English children who learned how to sail, and knew Morse code and Semaphore, and had the coolest adventures ever. Because of them, I learned Morse code and about half the Semaphore alphabet before running out of steam (you can only get so far with a code like that without anyone else to talk to, but I was so fluent in Morse that I could read and write with Morse as quickly as I could with the Roman alphabet).
77. When I got older I decided to try the adult section. Once again I didn’t actually read them all, but this time I was wiser and knew that would happen so I just looked at them all and read the ones that caught my interest. I believe that is how I met Terry Pratchett (well, re-met actually, since I had met him in the children’s section and then forgotten about him – Truckers, Diggers, and Wings are such wonderful books that it shames me a little to admit that I’d forgotten them but thank goodness I was reintroduced so the shame can be abated in the light of the fact that since that reintroduction I’ve read almost everything else that he’s ever written).
78. I love that my lava lamp is called a ‘peace light’ on the box. I also love how the wax makes fantastic shapes before resolving into the typical up and down balls. It reminds me of dancing aliens or how cave architecture – what are they called? Stalactites? – would look if it could move in the wind.
79. I have always wanted to see if I could be self-reliant. At one point in my life I wanted to own a farm and have sheep, chickens, either cattle or goats, horses to plough and travel with, and enough land to keep me and my critters alive. Eventually I realized that I couldn’t do all the work on my own but I still think it would be a worthwhile endeavour. It would be a lot of work, but surely it would be very satisfying, to know that all your work was keeping you alive in a very direct way?
80. I also considered the following careers – family doctor, surgeon, exotic dancer/stripper, security guard, police officer, librarian (this could still end up as my day job), thief, computer hacker, spy, secretary, lawyer, biologist, writer (this one is still on the table), mechanic, truck driver, something in the oil field, high class hooker (like Xavier Hollander – don’t worry, Mom and Dad, this was more a flight of fancy than an actual consideration) or escort, stewardess (back when they were still called stewardesses), pilot, Mary Kay consultant (I tried this one for a very brief time and decided the MK women were too crazy for me. Their almost fanatical belief in their product – which is very good makeup but not enough for me to get into a religious fervour over – scared me. Greatly.), archaeologist, philosopher, anthropologist, university professor (probably in English or Philosophy), linguistics, or someone who studies things like symbology, which I was into long before it was all cool from the Da Vinci Code. (Please read that last bit in a snooty tone.) Oh, I also went through my required little girl phase of wanting to become a vet, but I added several other facets to that phase, including sheep shearer and jockey (I did read all of the Black Stallion books). I also wanted to be a magical entity or a minor god (I suppose I should have wanted to be a minor goddess but meh.) and failing that, a princess. Or dictatress or ruler of the world/universe/country/or at least a small island somewhere where I could make all the rules.
81. I sometimes think that pictures of people actually have little cameras in the eyes through which the original people are watching me. I know that isn’t true – but sometimes I turn pictures over when I’m changing, just in case.
82. I like stuffed animals. I have a lot of them, most of which are sitting in a box in storage at my parent’s place. However, some of them made their way here. Piglet, Mr. Rabbit, Mad Cow (who looks crazy and is a little scary but since he’s so small it’s okay – Piglet could take him if Piglet wasn’t so timid), Gregory the dragon, Lamb (who is a boy), Lulu (who is a girl lamb but has one ear missing from some adventure we went on when I was a toddler), Rocco the Raccoon (his tag says Ringo but I keep calling him Rocco so I guess that’s his name now), Mr. White Bear who tells me stories and Yellow Bear, who S. keeps insisting is a boy but since I’ve known her since I was 9 months old I think I know better, are all sitting in various places around my room. Rocco, Mr. Bear and Yellow Bear live on my bed, the reasons being that Yellow Bear has supreme seniority over all the other stuffies and Mr. Bear and Rocco were gifts from S. I also have Ernie and Bert living in questionable harmony, a gift from my father. S. thinks they’re gay but I’m not so sure.
83. I took two years of violin lessons, during which I went through three levels of Suzuki training. My violin teacher didn’t understand how I learn music until my very last lesson, when he told me to turn my back and repeat what he was playing on the piano on my violin. I did, almost perfectly. I learn by ear, see, not by reading the music. I sensed a great disappointment in him then. I think he wished he had known that earlier because we could have gotten a lot further if he hadn’t been trying to teach me based only on reading the music. I can read music – I see the black spot and I know which note to play – but I can’t read rhythm without a lot of stopping and counting, and it’s like listening to a severe dyslexic trying to read (it’s just painful) because it still doesn’t come out right. I still don’t know what it is supposed to sound like. But once I hear someone else play the notes, it’s as if they put the emphasis in the right spot and then it all clicks together like magic. It’s the most amazing thing, that moment of clarity. I wonder if that is what it is like when people first learn to read. I learned to read when I was 4 or 5 and I don’t remember it – as far as my memory is concerned I’ve been able to read forever. I sometimes feel like I got gypped because I don’t have that memory of the first time the black marks made coherent sense but I don’t complain because at least reading has always been easy, like breathing, for me and I’d rather not have to struggle with the words I love so much.
Well. I almost didn’t realize I was done. 83 goes a lot faster than I thought it would.
I just hope Troll doesn’t misread this title as 183 Random Things – I don’t think I have the time or patience for a list like that…
1. I just realized that if S. and I ever broke up I couldn’t get rid of all the things that remind me of him without getting rid of half of my possessions, a lot of my journals and writing, and several pieces of art that I have created in the last year.
2. I have woken up with a song in my head pretty consistently for the last two weeks. The songs vary from “Got Me Where You Want” by Our Lady Peace to “Stand” by R.E.M. – other bands include Sarah McLaughlan and Three Days Grace. It’s been weird – I don’t remember this happening so often before.
3. I dreamt that I was performing dinner music with my friend R. and two patrons wouldn’t let us leave the room, to the point of the man punching me in the face several times with blood and all. I dream like this all the time so it doesn’t disturb me anymore. I’m not sure it ever did. Violence in my dreams fascinates me on some visceral level.
4. I only have to hear a song once or twice to learn the melody, and only a few times after that (if I’m listening carefully) to learn all the lyrics.
5. Since I was 2, I’ve had Top 40 songs in my repertoire. I believe my parents gave me a Madonna record for my 2nd birthday, which I memorized and danced to in my own toddler way.
6. Although I’ve had the newest Harry Potter book since the Thursday after it came out (and it is Tuesday July 31st as I type this), I haven’t gotten any further than Chapter 3. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me.
7. I have spent a lot of time with S. this weekend though. He helped me move and among all the stress of that we bickered more than we ever have – and yet I still wanted to have him around.
8. And we still haven’t had a big fight yet, after 13½ months.
9. Although I don’t know what a big, serious fight would be anyway. It could be that our fighting styles simply look like an extended argument (which we have had) instead of the rip-roaring, swearing, throwing-things fights I’ve seen and am waiting to have myself.
10. I hope I never have a fight like that.
11. I am a packrat. I’m staring at the peacock feather that a co-worker gave me when I worked at A&W four years ago.
12. I worked at A&W for 18 months, 16 of which I was a supervisor, in order to jump-start my schooling here. I paid for a year of tuition and living expenses out of pocket without any financial stress. It was wonderful.
13. I want to be in the summer show next year but I won’t be able to afford it even if I do get cast.
14. My brother’s wedding conflicts with the show anyway – and for some reason that seems like a more legitimate reason to turn down the show than the fact that I would be starving and homeless.
15. I dreamt that my brother and his fiancé had a baby girl with perfect light brown skin and dark hair and they named her after me, so now I really have to go to their wedding. (I’d be there anyway – don’t feel any pressure to name your future daughters after me, D&D!)
16. Once I discovered that it was ‘cool’ for Christians to like U2 my interest in them flagged. I still have a hard time admitting that I like their music well enough to own an album or two (which I do).
17. I have a naïve faith that everything will work out somehow, even if I have to work hard or struggle through to the happy ending. This applies to everything in my life – school, money, relationships…
18. Whenever I listen to country music I realize that I like it more than I’ll admit to. The songs seem to have more happy messages than the depressing emotional/meaningless sex songs that tend to fill the rock and pop stations.
19. I don’t understand my youngest brother’s relationship and I don’t like the dysfunction I see within it but I stay silent. And I don’t quite know why.
20. I have started more stories than I have finished but the good ones still live in my head, clamouring for completion.
21. I think that a monarchy is the only system of government that has even a chance of working. There needs to be one person who is ultimately in charge, someone who can take responsibility for the good and bad decisions.
22. I’ve harboured a secret dream of being the dictatress of Canada since I was about 15 – part of my youthful idealism clashing with harsh reality.
23. I get distracted very easily. For instance, my plan for the afternoon was to file receipts and organize things in my still not completely unpacked room, and instead I just took out things for supper, walked to the office to get a Student Loan application form to find out that they are locked early again, unloaded and reloaded the dishwasher, swept the entire house, and somewhere in there I took many pictures of a small tree that is pushing it’s way to freedom and life through the asphalt of a friend’s driveway. It makes me ridiculously happy to see that small sapling winning out over man’s rock hard world.
24. I love trees. Inordinately so. A part of me was an Ent in a former life.
25. I’ve recently been introduced to Taoism by Pooh and Piglet. I think they’re on to something that needs to be incorporated back into our all too Western philosophies and religions.
26. I like listening to soundtracks, even the ones without lyrics. Sometimes I prefer them that way, actually. The Narnia soundtrack is very evocative of the film, I find. So is the one for The Pirates of the Caribbean.
27. Sometimes when I listen to music without lyrics I see colours and shapes and essences of things that just fit the music. It’s very pretty.
28. I think that some numbers are better than others. I also have months of the year and days of the week that I prefer. May 5th is my least favourite date. It is so round and oppressive and heavy. February 28th is also round but not so heavy – it has some light in it although it is kind of serious. Like Pooh. September 17th – ahh. Such a nice date. Sharp in a kind of dangerous coyote way, it fascinates me and makes me happy all at once. There is no logic to how this works. It isn’t a system, although people have tried to analyze it. It is simply how the numbers and words hit my mind.
29. I write with my left hand but I cut watermelon (and indeed, everything) with my right hand. I wear my watch on my right arm. I think of myself as ambidextrous with a slight preference for my left side.
30. When I was a young girl, I wanted to have either auburn or black hair, and either green or violet eyes. I couldn’t decide which one was better, or which combination would be more striking.
31. Now I’m content with my light brown hair with blonde streaks, and my grey-blue eyes that occasionally look green.
32. I wear contacts now for the first time in my life. I like being able to see on stage but I don’t like it enough to replace my glasses, much to S.’s relief. He likes my glasses.
33. I have put a lot of thought into what illegal career I would pursue if I had to pick one. I think being an assassin is cool, but I’d be able to handle being a thief – I’d love to be good enough to steal from large famous art galleries and museums, as well as pick the petty pocket here and there.
34. I like action movies. I’ve never admitted this – I always felt a bit foolish because it goes against my whole ‘intellectual’ reputation. Plus I’m a girl. And S. doesn’t like them. So I feel a bit silly and defiant, but now I’m admitting it. I like action movies. It’s great if they have a plot but they don’t even need to have a great one for me to enjoy it. There you go.
35. 83 random facts about myself is proving to be easier than I thought it would be. I wonder if anyone else will take it on and do this too? Perhaps I will have started a trend – huge long lists of personal facts on an international electronic forum.
Probably not.
36. I like hats but I’m not so sure that the hats I like look good on me. I know I pull of the cute ball-cap look, but I like feminine hats and every one I’ve ever tried on I haven’t liked on me. I don’t think it’s fair.
37. But since every other piece of clothing I like looks good on me, I guess I shouldn’t complain. I love – no, I delight in – the fact that the fashion industry caters to people who are my size. It means I never have to worry about finding something that will fit me. It’s glorious.
38. I also feel a bit guilty about that sometimes because I know there are women who can’t find stores that even carry their sizes. I wonder if those women hate me for my svelte physique. I hope they don’t. I got good DNA, that’s all.
39. I just bought a filing cabinet and I am discovering how much I like filing things. It’s so organized! Ahh…
40. I get cold even in the summer, so that people mock me for wearing hoodies and sweaters at 8 or 9 in the evening on a blistering hot July day. What can I say? Svelteness has it’s down side.
41. I have often felt like a horrible Christian because I don’t see things the same way as the leaders of the churches I have grown up in. The biggest area in which I don’t see eye to eye is homosexuality. I don’t think it’s what God planned but like so many other things, human sexuality got bent and broken. Lots of things aren’t how they were planned out in the beginning. I know, this one is actually laid out in the Bible (at least in the Old Testament), but I still don’t understand why God would allow someone to be drawn to their own sex from childhood and then deny them romantic relationship. So I feel like I’m missing some integral Christian something because I see two men giving each other flowers and sweet nothings on Valentines Day in New York City and I think, “That’s sweet”, while some of my classmates see that and are repulsed. I don’t understand! I don’t think I ever will. I’m not sure I want to.
42. When I took the playwriting course last summer, I had to list five things that worried me. One of those things was that I am too liberal. The above random fact reminds me of that – it is the exact phrase that runs in my head when I ponder how my personal beliefs run against what I hear from the pulpit.
43. I went to a family gathering a year ago and one of my young teenage cousins asked me if I loved S. I said I didn’t know. About a week later I was getting ready to go to work and I was thinking about that moment for some reason and I realized my answer had changed to yes. I stopped dead, staring out the window over the sink at the white metal fire hall outside. I spent half of the ten minute drive to work crying and half of it laughing, and the whole day I was quiet for fear that something would send me over the edge into either emotion.
44. I get upset about how the world is and I don’t know what to do about it. It makes me feel quite helpless because I can’t see how to make people care about those around them and that seems to be the root cause of all the problems I see. Think about it – if the majority of people really cared about those around them, perhaps there wouldn’t be as much poverty or abuse. Maybe we would reach out to those around us and help them out when they needed a hand instead of living our lives according to rules and systems that don’t contain any mercy.
45. I think that we are headed towards some kind of meltdown – either political, social or environmental – and my naïve sense of well-being keeps me from panicking. I’ll either live or die and really there isn’t much I can do about it now anyway.
46. I really like dark chocolate.
47. I would like to eat more healthily, and I know that if I had a vanity reason to do so it would happen faster but because I don’t gain weight I have to work on eating properly.
48. I am very vain. I always have been.
49. I used to believe that if I wasn’t the smartest I was worth nothing. I am letting go of that but it still irritates me if someone is better with words than I am. I didn’t know this until last year when I took a Shakespeare class and one of my classmates had a BA in English and thus, by simple dint of education, knew more than I did. I laugh about it now but the little bruise is still there on my ego and can be poked. Painfully.
50. Speaking of bruises, I have several mystery ones right now. I got a big deep purple one on my butt from something – I couldn’t remember what I did but I remember swearing about it when it happened, how odd, eh? There’s a green-yellow one on my shin and that could have been anything. My shins are like delicate butterflies. The least jarring and they’re damaged.
51. I once chipped my shin bone by tripping up a set of stairs. I stumbled, struck my shin, and the next thing I remember I was sitting at the top of the stairs (I was two steps from the top) rocking back and forth, holding my injured leg with tears streaming silently down my face. My mom, who was in the next room, didn’t even know I was hurt until she saw my damp face when I finally got up and limped into the room.
52. Whenever I’ve gotten hurt (like chipping bones, not stubbing toes) I don’t remember the actual pain-inducing event. I cracked a bone in my foot and I’m not sure how – I was leaning over a fence, I lost my balance, then I was sitting on the side of the fence I started on curled up, rocking back and forth holding my injured foot with tears silently streaming down my face. Again no one knew I was hurt until I limped into a populated area. A trend? Perhaps.
53. I miss having pets. I still have a dog, and I miss seeing her every day and tending for her every need. I think I need a pet to get me out of my own self.
54. I have really good teeth and I’ve never had braces.
55. I had all four canine teeth pulled at once. That was to keep the next in line adult teeth from growing in crooked, so that I wouldn’t need braces. See? Tricky, tricky.
56. Every time I see the White Sox emblem I don’t see the word ‘sox’. I see the word ‘sex’. So does my dad. One day my dad and I took a White Sox hat and with a Sharpie® changed it to what we see. I wear the hat around town and people’s brains fill in the blacked out bit. My friends have all noticed it, but it still took the quickest of them at least an hour to realize what my hat said, and that was with a bit of prodding on my part.
57. I’ve never had one, but I’ve always secretly wanted a black eye. And a broken jaw. Just to know what they feel like. And for some reason when I was a child I thought black eyes were cool.
58. I also thought it would be a good skill to learn to stand still for three hours at a time. I read a book about a boy who was a prince but didn’t know it, but his father had trained him in the ways of royalty and being able to stand still was a royal trait I guess. I had a crush on this prince boy and wanted to be just like him. I never succeeded. Which is good, because I rather like being a girl.
59. Women complain about getting their periods, but I see it as a feminine mystery. We have the power to create life in our bellies! It’s a miraculous, mysterious thing, and the monthly cycle is a part of that power. Yes, it can be inconvenient and downright painful, but it’s still kind of cool.
60. I have a bit of a flirtation with goddess worship. I don’t worship any goddesses, but I like the idea of God being both masculine and feminine. A wholly masculine God doesn’t captivate or understand me the way I need to be captivated and understood. I think God gets that. I certainly hope he does – otherwise I may be inadvertently damning myself to Hell.
61. I believe that those who die can watch and look over us and even send us messages – the intercession and protection of Saints is very real to me.
62. When I get very scared at night and all the scary movies I’ve seen crowd into my shadows, I ask the Virgin Mary for a mother’s calming touch as I pray to God for spiritual protection. People I respect don’t agree with this. I respectfully disagree with them. The mother of God deserves our respect, and to those who say we shouldn’t worship anyone other than God I say that respect is different than worship. Look it up in the dictionary.
63. I got my ears pierced when I was 2. I sat on the step of the place that pierced ears and I wouldn’t leave until I got what I wanted. It strikes me as funny, and sad, that my parent’s didn’t just pick me up and carry me, kicking and screaming, to the car instead of ‘acquiescing to my request’. Good thing I wasn’t an only child. I would be such a bitch.
64. I did continue reading the Harry Potter book – and today (August 3rd – this is taking some time, people, sorry) I discovered that my copy is missing 33 pages, from page 257 to page 288. The misery that has caused me was assuaged by S., who consoled me (I was almost in tears) and Troll, who leant me his copy during the show so I could read the missing pages and continue with my copy now. S. also found the copy that exists online in case I couldn’t find a copy to borrow, which touched me deeply because S. could care less about Harry Potter and whether he lives or dies. I found it very sweet that he would go to so much effort to console me.
65. In all the realm of illegal substances, the only one that has ever really fascinated me is LSD. Since learning about flashbacks my curiosity has waned. The Parental Units can breathe now.
66. For the last two days (August 4th and 5th – if you have a problem with how long this is taking, try doing it yourself. It takes a lot of thought to not repeat myself. Anyway…) some gland in the right side of my throat has been swollen to the point of being able to touch that dangly thing in the back of my throat. It hurts a lot and this morning I didn’t think I could swallow anything thicker than pudding. Since the long weekend means that all the doctor’s offices are closed I ended up going to the Emergency Ward (sorry Dad) where I was told I likely have strep throat. I am now sucking on a very medicated tasting lozenge and talking as little as possible in order to not lose my voice.
67. I’ve worn glasses since I was 2. Before I got them I was a very obedient child in public but once I could see I immediately began going and looking at things like toys, leaving my parents to freak out when they discovered I was missing.
68. I steal blankets, pillows and bed space when I sleep with other people. I imagine I steal them when I’m sleeping alone too, only there isn’t anyone to witness this event.
69. Apparently I also respond violently to those around me in my sleep, with elbows to the face and kicks to the limbs.
70. My dad and my brothers and I share a sense of humour that my poor mother doesn’t get. Example: The phrase, “I’ve got to go take a pee” – don’t take pee, leave it. It’s not nearly as messy.
71. When I’m driving alone in my car listening to the radio, I sing along and pretend I’m in a band performing at a concert.
72. My laptop (which was a present from my parents – thank you parents) has one of those little mouse pads in it, with ‘palm check’ which is a curiosity to me, but I don’t know what it means and I don’t care enough to find out.
73. I talk to myself a lot. Almost every time I’m alone I hold conversations with myself, sometimes telling stories, sometimes going over past experiences or possible future confrontations. I’m always afraid someone will walk in and hear me, but if it’s happened no-one has told me yet.
74. I would like to have a particular scent that is mine. You read about women who always smell like a certain perfume – I’d like that, but I can’t find a perfume or scent that I like that doesn’t give me a headache or hasn’t been claimed by others I know. Plus it’s a lot of bother to always make sure I wear a certain scent. I suppose just smelling like a clean me is going to have to do.
75. Occasionally I hear words according to their spellings. The first time this happened was when my uncle asked me how my dad was enjoying the ‘log hall’ – at least, that’s how I heard it. He actually said ‘log haul’ (Dad was hauling logs at the time). It gets very confusing because people repeat themselves but it doesn’t help – I’ve heard ‘burleigh’ (which apparently isn’t even a word) instead of ‘burly’ and ‘b-day’ instead of ‘bidet’. It doesn’t happen often but when it does people look at me like I’ve lost my mind while I look at them like they’re speaking Chinese.
76. I like to read the dictionary. Okay, I don’t know if this one counts because if you read this blog often enough you already know that. So I’ll tag onto it that as a child I decided to read through the entire children’s fiction section of the Grande Prairie Library in alphabetical order (which is how they’re filed in case you don’t ever go into the fiction section of a library). I didn’t end up succeeding – I didn’t like some of the authors – but it did introduce me to people like Avi, who I really enjoyed, and Lloyd Alexander, who I can’t help but think I would have run into anyway but perhaps not so soon. It also led me to a series called “The Swallows and The Amazons” about some English children who learned how to sail, and knew Morse code and Semaphore, and had the coolest adventures ever. Because of them, I learned Morse code and about half the Semaphore alphabet before running out of steam (you can only get so far with a code like that without anyone else to talk to, but I was so fluent in Morse that I could read and write with Morse as quickly as I could with the Roman alphabet).
77. When I got older I decided to try the adult section. Once again I didn’t actually read them all, but this time I was wiser and knew that would happen so I just looked at them all and read the ones that caught my interest. I believe that is how I met Terry Pratchett (well, re-met actually, since I had met him in the children’s section and then forgotten about him – Truckers, Diggers, and Wings are such wonderful books that it shames me a little to admit that I’d forgotten them but thank goodness I was reintroduced so the shame can be abated in the light of the fact that since that reintroduction I’ve read almost everything else that he’s ever written).
78. I love that my lava lamp is called a ‘peace light’ on the box. I also love how the wax makes fantastic shapes before resolving into the typical up and down balls. It reminds me of dancing aliens or how cave architecture – what are they called? Stalactites? – would look if it could move in the wind.
79. I have always wanted to see if I could be self-reliant. At one point in my life I wanted to own a farm and have sheep, chickens, either cattle or goats, horses to plough and travel with, and enough land to keep me and my critters alive. Eventually I realized that I couldn’t do all the work on my own but I still think it would be a worthwhile endeavour. It would be a lot of work, but surely it would be very satisfying, to know that all your work was keeping you alive in a very direct way?
80. I also considered the following careers – family doctor, surgeon, exotic dancer/stripper, security guard, police officer, librarian (this could still end up as my day job), thief, computer hacker, spy, secretary, lawyer, biologist, writer (this one is still on the table), mechanic, truck driver, something in the oil field, high class hooker (like Xavier Hollander – don’t worry, Mom and Dad, this was more a flight of fancy than an actual consideration) or escort, stewardess (back when they were still called stewardesses), pilot, Mary Kay consultant (I tried this one for a very brief time and decided the MK women were too crazy for me. Their almost fanatical belief in their product – which is very good makeup but not enough for me to get into a religious fervour over – scared me. Greatly.), archaeologist, philosopher, anthropologist, university professor (probably in English or Philosophy), linguistics, or someone who studies things like symbology, which I was into long before it was all cool from the Da Vinci Code. (Please read that last bit in a snooty tone.) Oh, I also went through my required little girl phase of wanting to become a vet, but I added several other facets to that phase, including sheep shearer and jockey (I did read all of the Black Stallion books). I also wanted to be a magical entity or a minor god (I suppose I should have wanted to be a minor goddess but meh.) and failing that, a princess. Or dictatress or ruler of the world/universe/country/or at least a small island somewhere where I could make all the rules.
81. I sometimes think that pictures of people actually have little cameras in the eyes through which the original people are watching me. I know that isn’t true – but sometimes I turn pictures over when I’m changing, just in case.
82. I like stuffed animals. I have a lot of them, most of which are sitting in a box in storage at my parent’s place. However, some of them made their way here. Piglet, Mr. Rabbit, Mad Cow (who looks crazy and is a little scary but since he’s so small it’s okay – Piglet could take him if Piglet wasn’t so timid), Gregory the dragon, Lamb (who is a boy), Lulu (who is a girl lamb but has one ear missing from some adventure we went on when I was a toddler), Rocco the Raccoon (his tag says Ringo but I keep calling him Rocco so I guess that’s his name now), Mr. White Bear who tells me stories and Yellow Bear, who S. keeps insisting is a boy but since I’ve known her since I was 9 months old I think I know better, are all sitting in various places around my room. Rocco, Mr. Bear and Yellow Bear live on my bed, the reasons being that Yellow Bear has supreme seniority over all the other stuffies and Mr. Bear and Rocco were gifts from S. I also have Ernie and Bert living in questionable harmony, a gift from my father. S. thinks they’re gay but I’m not so sure.
83. I took two years of violin lessons, during which I went through three levels of Suzuki training. My violin teacher didn’t understand how I learn music until my very last lesson, when he told me to turn my back and repeat what he was playing on the piano on my violin. I did, almost perfectly. I learn by ear, see, not by reading the music. I sensed a great disappointment in him then. I think he wished he had known that earlier because we could have gotten a lot further if he hadn’t been trying to teach me based only on reading the music. I can read music – I see the black spot and I know which note to play – but I can’t read rhythm without a lot of stopping and counting, and it’s like listening to a severe dyslexic trying to read (it’s just painful) because it still doesn’t come out right. I still don’t know what it is supposed to sound like. But once I hear someone else play the notes, it’s as if they put the emphasis in the right spot and then it all clicks together like magic. It’s the most amazing thing, that moment of clarity. I wonder if that is what it is like when people first learn to read. I learned to read when I was 4 or 5 and I don’t remember it – as far as my memory is concerned I’ve been able to read forever. I sometimes feel like I got gypped because I don’t have that memory of the first time the black marks made coherent sense but I don’t complain because at least reading has always been easy, like breathing, for me and I’d rather not have to struggle with the words I love so much.
Well. I almost didn’t realize I was done. 83 goes a lot faster than I thought it would.
I just hope Troll doesn’t misread this title as 183 Random Things – I don’t think I have the time or patience for a list like that…
Tuesday, July 24, 2007
8 Random Things
1. I like writing lists. As a child I would write long lists of information copied verbatim from books that I owned. Eventually I realized I didn't need multiple copies of the same info. It did help me learn and retain stuff though (I think...)
2. I chew on the inside of my cheek when I'm thinking. My mom always assumes that I'm thinking something interesting but it can be my mind wandering or making a grocery list - or thinking of deep and profound things to say. Odds are good either way.
3. For example, I often zone out, chewing my cheek and thinking about what my life would be like if I could do magic or if I had different supernatural abilities. One of my reoccurring faves is shape shifting...
4. I like being nude. If I could I would walk around the house completely naked. Clothes just feel so confining.
5. At the same time, I really like clothes. I have far too many of them. I either feel comfortable or really damn sexy in almost everything I own - some magic items are both comfy and hot. ;)
6. I really like my body - except the stretch marks on my thighs, which I got from growing (thanks to my connective tissue disorder).
7. That said, I'm beginning to like wearing shorts anyway.
8. I have vivid dreams. I always have. I usually write them down and read them years later. Most of the time I remember them. Sometimes I don't.
2. I chew on the inside of my cheek when I'm thinking. My mom always assumes that I'm thinking something interesting but it can be my mind wandering or making a grocery list - or thinking of deep and profound things to say. Odds are good either way.
3. For example, I often zone out, chewing my cheek and thinking about what my life would be like if I could do magic or if I had different supernatural abilities. One of my reoccurring faves is shape shifting...
4. I like being nude. If I could I would walk around the house completely naked. Clothes just feel so confining.
5. At the same time, I really like clothes. I have far too many of them. I either feel comfortable or really damn sexy in almost everything I own - some magic items are both comfy and hot. ;)
6. I really like my body - except the stretch marks on my thighs, which I got from growing (thanks to my connective tissue disorder).
7. That said, I'm beginning to like wearing shorts anyway.
8. I have vivid dreams. I always have. I usually write them down and read them years later. Most of the time I remember them. Sometimes I don't.
Saturday, July 14, 2007
Tired...
I just want to spend a day snoozing - I fed a scout breakfast this week and that meant I got up hours earlier than normal...so tired...
(Scouts are people here to check out the school - they spend a week here working and taking classes and what not so they get an idea of what this place is before they commit - although no one really knows what they've gotten themselves into until they're here...[evil laugh, although it happened to me too)])
Lots of parenthetical statements...cool.
But I'm still happy so the tiredness is easier to handle.
(Scouts are people here to check out the school - they spend a week here working and taking classes and what not so they get an idea of what this place is before they commit - although no one really knows what they've gotten themselves into until they're here...[evil laugh, although it happened to me too)])
Lots of parenthetical statements...cool.
But I'm still happy so the tiredness is easier to handle.
Tuesday, July 10, 2007
Not much to say, but what's here is good
The weather is nice.
I'm in love.
Some of my creative juices have been flowing again, which is great.
My new house should be ready soon.
I like my life right now.
I'm in love.
Some of my creative juices have been flowing again, which is great.
My new house should be ready soon.
I like my life right now.
Monday, July 02, 2007
Can’t Buy This
The sun was shining, illuminating occasional puffy white clouds and a big, blue Prairie sky. One arm tingled, refreshed and chilled from the AC, while one leg of my jeans was almost too hot from the sun shining in the window of S.’s ‘cranberry-purple’ car. The grey asphalt curved away, disappearing into the ditch as we drove along on our way to go grocery shopping. It’s nothing earth shattering, but it makes me happy.
We’ve gone shopping together before – it makes sense to carpool when you live out of town on a limited budget and to be perfectly honest, I’ll go with S. when I don’t need anything just to spend time with him. I love sitting in the passenger seat without a care in the world, knowing that the man I love is sitting so close to me.
We are quite different shoppers. He’s a ‘get in and get what you need and get out as fast as you can’ kind of guy, and not only because he’s so efficient in his daily life. He hates shopping, even for groceries. I don’t mind shopping. I don’t like buying so much, but I like to take my time, meandering from aisle to aisle and perusing the merchandise laid out on the shelves. Even when I’m focused and in a hurry I only go at his most relaxed pace. So far we’ve laughed about it – even if it’s sometimes only to dispel tension – avoiding any real squabbles. He bugs me that I’m going to get hit by the cart as I gaze star-struck at the shelves around me, I tease him about his scurvy-inducing phobia of the produce section.
We are also quite different when it comes to how we deal with our groceries. We were sharing a cart and as I wandered along he came up and casually put his ground beef in the cart. On top of some grapes.
“You can’t do that!” I almost shrieked.
He picked up his meat very quickly, startled. “Why not?”
“The meat juices could leak out…that’s how you get E-Coli. You can die,” I said. It seems I’ve heard that somewhere although upon reflection I don’t know if it’s true.
“It won’t leak,” he said, scoffing. “It’s sealed.” But nevertheless he put his meat on the very bottom of the cart.
I leaned towards him, instantly embarrassed for freaking out. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he said, returning my kiss.
When we got to the teller, he started handing me things to put on the check-out counter. “Could you hand me the heavier stuff first?” I asked.
At his quizzical expression I explained, “It makes it easier for the person bagging the groceries if they’re in order of weight.”
“You do realize that they don’t pack them in your special order,” he said.
“Yes, but it makes it less likely that the bread will end up under the cans,” I said. I thought everyone knew this, but apparently not.
As we drove out of the valley, he shook his head.
“What?” I asked.
“You are really particular when it comes to food,” he said. “Sometimes I feel like I’m irritating you by not following your system.”
I thought for a moment. “I just forget that there’s more than one way to do things,” I said. I still felt bad for freaking out about the meat. “It surprises me and sometimes that probably sounds like I’m irritated, but I’m not. I’m not irritated with you.” I looked out at the hazy blue horizon. “I’ll try to remember that there’s more than one way to do things.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
I looked over at him, the familiar lines of his face and his blue eyes revealing themselves to me as if I’d never seen him before. “I really appreciate how you just take me in stride,” I said.
He glanced at me with a little smile in his eyes before looking back at the road. “You have to take me in stride too,” he said.
“I guess.” I was silent as I thought. “You just accept my idiosyncrasies. I appreciate it.”
He shrugged. “Why not? They’re not going to change.”
And just like that I discovered another level of love to fall into.
He accepts me right now, how I am now, and doesn’t need me to change for him to love me.
It surprised me. It still does – I guess I didn’t think I’d find someone who would, or could, accept me like that.
I had that goofy Bridget Jones smile on my face the rest of the way home. When he asked me why I had no answer except “I’m happy”. I finally understood the magic of those words – “He loves me just the way I am”. There is no phrase as perfect in the English language.
Or as priceless.
We’ve gone shopping together before – it makes sense to carpool when you live out of town on a limited budget and to be perfectly honest, I’ll go with S. when I don’t need anything just to spend time with him. I love sitting in the passenger seat without a care in the world, knowing that the man I love is sitting so close to me.
We are quite different shoppers. He’s a ‘get in and get what you need and get out as fast as you can’ kind of guy, and not only because he’s so efficient in his daily life. He hates shopping, even for groceries. I don’t mind shopping. I don’t like buying so much, but I like to take my time, meandering from aisle to aisle and perusing the merchandise laid out on the shelves. Even when I’m focused and in a hurry I only go at his most relaxed pace. So far we’ve laughed about it – even if it’s sometimes only to dispel tension – avoiding any real squabbles. He bugs me that I’m going to get hit by the cart as I gaze star-struck at the shelves around me, I tease him about his scurvy-inducing phobia of the produce section.
We are also quite different when it comes to how we deal with our groceries. We were sharing a cart and as I wandered along he came up and casually put his ground beef in the cart. On top of some grapes.
“You can’t do that!” I almost shrieked.
He picked up his meat very quickly, startled. “Why not?”
“The meat juices could leak out…that’s how you get E-Coli. You can die,” I said. It seems I’ve heard that somewhere although upon reflection I don’t know if it’s true.
“It won’t leak,” he said, scoffing. “It’s sealed.” But nevertheless he put his meat on the very bottom of the cart.
I leaned towards him, instantly embarrassed for freaking out. “I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s okay,” he said, returning my kiss.
When we got to the teller, he started handing me things to put on the check-out counter. “Could you hand me the heavier stuff first?” I asked.
At his quizzical expression I explained, “It makes it easier for the person bagging the groceries if they’re in order of weight.”
“You do realize that they don’t pack them in your special order,” he said.
“Yes, but it makes it less likely that the bread will end up under the cans,” I said. I thought everyone knew this, but apparently not.
As we drove out of the valley, he shook his head.
“What?” I asked.
“You are really particular when it comes to food,” he said. “Sometimes I feel like I’m irritating you by not following your system.”
I thought for a moment. “I just forget that there’s more than one way to do things,” I said. I still felt bad for freaking out about the meat. “It surprises me and sometimes that probably sounds like I’m irritated, but I’m not. I’m not irritated with you.” I looked out at the hazy blue horizon. “I’ll try to remember that there’s more than one way to do things.”
“It’s okay,” he said.
I looked over at him, the familiar lines of his face and his blue eyes revealing themselves to me as if I’d never seen him before. “I really appreciate how you just take me in stride,” I said.
He glanced at me with a little smile in his eyes before looking back at the road. “You have to take me in stride too,” he said.
“I guess.” I was silent as I thought. “You just accept my idiosyncrasies. I appreciate it.”
He shrugged. “Why not? They’re not going to change.”
And just like that I discovered another level of love to fall into.
He accepts me right now, how I am now, and doesn’t need me to change for him to love me.
It surprised me. It still does – I guess I didn’t think I’d find someone who would, or could, accept me like that.
I had that goofy Bridget Jones smile on my face the rest of the way home. When he asked me why I had no answer except “I’m happy”. I finally understood the magic of those words – “He loves me just the way I am”. There is no phrase as perfect in the English language.
Or as priceless.
Evaluated (June 10, 2007)
Although I wrote this one several weeks ago, it's still extremely relevant to me and I don't know why. I had a meeting about my evaluations and those same feelings all came up again. Just what exactly is this voice trying to tell me? I'd like to know now, please...
I got my evaluations yesterday.
They were all good, as in the criticisms were constructive.
My teachers picked up on new things that I need to learn, which means they’ve either given up on my old bad habits or I’ve outgrown them.
My playwriting teacher had the longest, and most thought-provoking, evaluation.
I’m still processing, but so far I’ve already learned one thing.
I think I’m explaining.
Everyone else hears excuses.
I’m confused but I guess I’ll stop explaining things when they go wrong and just…
…accept the consequences.
Which for some reason I am reluctant to do.
Recalcitrant. Resistant. Rebellious.
I don’t understand but I think it’s true.
I don’t like it.
Rebel – renounce, or take up arms against, authority; revolt. L. re-again, bellum-war.
Recalcitrant – show resistance; refractory. L. re-back, calcitro-kick.
Refractory – unruly, obstinate. Unmanageable, perverse.
Reluctant – unwilling, disinclined. L. re-against, luctor-struggle.
Resistant – make opposition to, strive against. L. re-against, sisto-stand.
I got my evaluations yesterday.
They were all good, as in the criticisms were constructive.
My teachers picked up on new things that I need to learn, which means they’ve either given up on my old bad habits or I’ve outgrown them.
My playwriting teacher had the longest, and most thought-provoking, evaluation.
I’m still processing, but so far I’ve already learned one thing.
I think I’m explaining.
Everyone else hears excuses.
I’m confused but I guess I’ll stop explaining things when they go wrong and just…
…accept the consequences.
Which for some reason I am reluctant to do.
Recalcitrant. Resistant. Rebellious.
I don’t understand but I think it’s true.
I don’t like it.
Rebel – renounce, or take up arms against, authority; revolt. L. re-again, bellum-war.
Recalcitrant – show resistance; refractory. L. re-back, calcitro-kick.
Refractory – unruly, obstinate. Unmanageable, perverse.
Reluctant – unwilling, disinclined. L. re-against, luctor-struggle.
Resistant – make opposition to, strive against. L. re-against, sisto-stand.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Observer (written June 2nd, 2007)
I accidentally posted the unfinished version of this post but since I deleted that, here's the (more) finished product...
All my life, I have been an observer. It is my nature to sit on the sidelines and watch the lives and actions of the people around me. My watching used to be a substitute for living my own life, but as I am now living my life (and pretty fully, I think) I have found that I still watch those around me. These people are my teachers…my friends and family, my neighbours and peers, mentors and heroes. Some I know intimately, some are complete strangers to me.
Last night we opened a show. Weeks of rehearsal finally came to a conclusion and afterwards everyone, cast, crew and audience, gathered outside to celebrate. I found myself, like usual, on the edges watching the main group happily chatting and interacting with each other. I am quite happy to be on the edge watching – it’s less overwhelming for me – but sometimes I wonder if I’m missing out on something. Every party, every social gathering, I skirt the main event and watch the other people. I watch the event instead of being a part of the event.
I’ve tried to be in the centre. I just can’t manage it. The mere thought fills me with a panic, a sense of being overwhelmed and overpowered, of losing my self, and what if I never find me again? It’s taking me long enough as it is. It sounds unreasonable, but being that surrounded by noise and breath and other heartbeats scares me.
I know I’m not alone. At one party several years ago, I met another person on the sidelines who nodded in understanding when I confided my fear of the centre. A whirlwind trip in and then back to the calm – that was how he navigated the chaos too.
I’m not afraid of the people, I try to explain. I just don’t understand the appeal of surrounding myself with them. I don’t want to. It’s uncomfortable to me. I sometimes wonder what it’s like to be at home in the middle of the craziness. I see friends laughing, alive in the element that spells death to me, and I wonder what it would be like to be there and not drowning in the noise.
But I don’t wonder enough to fight my nature and be one of the observed.
In the worlds of both science and mystery they say that the mere act of observing has a tangible effect on the observed. Watching something or someone, even if they don’t know it, has measurable consequences.
So I’ll play my part and watch.
And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll see the results of my observation.
All my life, I have been an observer. It is my nature to sit on the sidelines and watch the lives and actions of the people around me. My watching used to be a substitute for living my own life, but as I am now living my life (and pretty fully, I think) I have found that I still watch those around me. These people are my teachers…my friends and family, my neighbours and peers, mentors and heroes. Some I know intimately, some are complete strangers to me.
Last night we opened a show. Weeks of rehearsal finally came to a conclusion and afterwards everyone, cast, crew and audience, gathered outside to celebrate. I found myself, like usual, on the edges watching the main group happily chatting and interacting with each other. I am quite happy to be on the edge watching – it’s less overwhelming for me – but sometimes I wonder if I’m missing out on something. Every party, every social gathering, I skirt the main event and watch the other people. I watch the event instead of being a part of the event.
I’ve tried to be in the centre. I just can’t manage it. The mere thought fills me with a panic, a sense of being overwhelmed and overpowered, of losing my self, and what if I never find me again? It’s taking me long enough as it is. It sounds unreasonable, but being that surrounded by noise and breath and other heartbeats scares me.
I know I’m not alone. At one party several years ago, I met another person on the sidelines who nodded in understanding when I confided my fear of the centre. A whirlwind trip in and then back to the calm – that was how he navigated the chaos too.
I’m not afraid of the people, I try to explain. I just don’t understand the appeal of surrounding myself with them. I don’t want to. It’s uncomfortable to me. I sometimes wonder what it’s like to be at home in the middle of the craziness. I see friends laughing, alive in the element that spells death to me, and I wonder what it would be like to be there and not drowning in the noise.
But I don’t wonder enough to fight my nature and be one of the observed.
In the worlds of both science and mystery they say that the mere act of observing has a tangible effect on the observed. Watching something or someone, even if they don’t know it, has measurable consequences.
So I’ll play my part and watch.
And who knows? Maybe someday I’ll see the results of my observation.
Monday, June 18, 2007
Inheritance (written the week of May 21st, 2007)
Another of the posts I wrote during my absence...
I sat down to write some lame explanation for why I haven’t written here for a while. It’s not even that I haven’t been writing because I have been. I just haven’t been posting what I’ve written. Getting to the office (where the internet is) while it’s open was challenging (well, damn near impossible) because I was in full-time rehearsals for four weeks. I enjoyed myself. After a hiatus from acting, the passion burned brightly again. I learned so much, and I have so much more to learn – but instead of being overwhelming that thought simply makes me smile with anticipation.
But back to the lame explanation. As I sat down to write it I saw my new desktop. I like using photos for my desktop. My last two desktops were headshots of myself, which prompted my mother to say that only an actor could be egotistical enough to have their own face on their computer desktop. I am one of the few women who thinks she is beautiful, and both of those photos showed that wonderfully – they were beautiful pictures of a beautiful woman. However, when I decided to change my desktop yesterday my mother’s words whispered in my head. It helped that I was bored with my own image, so I turned away from the headshots and instead chose one of myself and my brothers, taken by one of my parents last Christmas. It is also a beautiful photo. My two much taller brothers are holding me so that it appears that we are all the same height, although in reality I am sitting on a cradle made out of their hands.
Anyone looking at the photo would see two young men and a young woman, all with the same blue eyes and soft pink gentle lips, all with the same definition to their cheekbones and jaw-lines. The two men have the same nose, the girl’s nose is similar but feminine, with one nostril slightly collapsed on itself. Their hair is different – a red-head and two brunettes, one in mid-tones and one dark, but even in that darkness the German ancestors leave their fair mark.
You don’t see how their personalities mesh and differentiate, as all sibling personalities do. You can’t see how they all have a creative bent. You can’t see how they all have completely different ways of showing that. Things like that aren’t really visible, but that’s okay. That’s why people get to know each other, after all.
Looking at this picture was the first time I saw that I do share facial features with my brothers. We’ve been told all our lives that we look like my father’s people. That is a definite fact – at the last family gathering I went to I saw our lips and bone structures on every side – although our faces hold evidence from my mother’s input too. I’ve never really seen a similarity between my brothers and myself until I chose that photo for my desktop.
It somehow roots me to see that my brothers and I look like our family. It reminds me that there is life outside of learning lines and blocking and finding the lights.
Which is a good thing to be reminded of, I think.
I sat down to write some lame explanation for why I haven’t written here for a while. It’s not even that I haven’t been writing because I have been. I just haven’t been posting what I’ve written. Getting to the office (where the internet is) while it’s open was challenging (well, damn near impossible) because I was in full-time rehearsals for four weeks. I enjoyed myself. After a hiatus from acting, the passion burned brightly again. I learned so much, and I have so much more to learn – but instead of being overwhelming that thought simply makes me smile with anticipation.
But back to the lame explanation. As I sat down to write it I saw my new desktop. I like using photos for my desktop. My last two desktops were headshots of myself, which prompted my mother to say that only an actor could be egotistical enough to have their own face on their computer desktop. I am one of the few women who thinks she is beautiful, and both of those photos showed that wonderfully – they were beautiful pictures of a beautiful woman. However, when I decided to change my desktop yesterday my mother’s words whispered in my head. It helped that I was bored with my own image, so I turned away from the headshots and instead chose one of myself and my brothers, taken by one of my parents last Christmas. It is also a beautiful photo. My two much taller brothers are holding me so that it appears that we are all the same height, although in reality I am sitting on a cradle made out of their hands.
Anyone looking at the photo would see two young men and a young woman, all with the same blue eyes and soft pink gentle lips, all with the same definition to their cheekbones and jaw-lines. The two men have the same nose, the girl’s nose is similar but feminine, with one nostril slightly collapsed on itself. Their hair is different – a red-head and two brunettes, one in mid-tones and one dark, but even in that darkness the German ancestors leave their fair mark.
You don’t see how their personalities mesh and differentiate, as all sibling personalities do. You can’t see how they all have a creative bent. You can’t see how they all have completely different ways of showing that. Things like that aren’t really visible, but that’s okay. That’s why people get to know each other, after all.
Looking at this picture was the first time I saw that I do share facial features with my brothers. We’ve been told all our lives that we look like my father’s people. That is a definite fact – at the last family gathering I went to I saw our lips and bone structures on every side – although our faces hold evidence from my mother’s input too. I’ve never really seen a similarity between my brothers and myself until I chose that photo for my desktop.
It somehow roots me to see that my brothers and I look like our family. It reminds me that there is life outside of learning lines and blocking and finding the lights.
Which is a good thing to be reminded of, I think.
Thursday, June 14, 2007
To Love An Artist (written the week of May 7th, 2007)
I've been writing and now I have time to post...so here is one of the three posts I wrote in the past month...
When I was at home in May my mother asked me if I thought it was easier or more difficult to be in a relationship with a fellow artist.
I gave her a very long answer, with the phrase ‘it has different challenges’ in it somewhere.
I had just helped a fellow student with a show called “The Last Five Years”, a story of two artists who try to join their lives and passions only to see their union unravel into chaos and heartbreak. This is a story I see told over and over again, in many mediums and with many variations. Artists faced with a choice between love and relationship or their art and what makes them feel alive. Sometimes they choose love. Sometimes they choose their art. Sometimes they strive for both.
Some succeed. Most seem to fail.
I watch the people around me and I realize that in real life things aren’t laid out so clearly. In real life the choice isn’t posed so gracefully. In reality there are so many reasons behind why one relationship fails and another goes the distance. A relationship doesn’t die solely because one person is jealous of a stage kiss. The stress of auditioning over and over isn’t enough to tear two people apart without other, more invisible problems underneath. In real life, you aren’t just two artists. You’re two people like everyone else.
I’ve seen a lot of relationships go down in flames here – fledgling loves that never got out of the nest as well as established relationships that have flown for years. I’ve heard stories of bigger train wrecks that happened before I got to this town. I know there are heartbreaks that I don’t know about.
I’ve seen relationships last too. There is one couple here who both work in the theatre. He is a stage manager and actor. She is a lighting designer and stage manager. I have babysat their three beautiful children, and they have another on the way. They somehow make it work.
There is another couple here that I don’t know as well. They both act, write, and direct. They also have two small children. They also somehow make it work.
I go through the families in this town and it seems that every single one is involved with the theatre on some level. Increasingly it seems that everyone I know is an artist in some way. And yes, one couple is in the midst of a divorce. But so many more of them seem to be fighting through to keep their love alive and kicking.
My friend, roommate, and fellow actress L. is getting married to an actor, K. I hope they are one of the couples who last. I’ve seen L. go through a long, blurry relationship that ended painfully. I’ve seen K. do the same thing. I hope that doesn’t happen this time.
And as I watch I realize that my answer to my mother was not completely accurate.
I wonder if the search for authenticity in art conflict with the search for everlasting love. The journey that acting requires – demands – is difficult and painful. Even a relationship with a non-actor can crash and burn when the constant auditioning, rejection and frustration wears on an actors soul. With two people going through that, it could bring you together or tear you apart. If one of you finds success, the other could be there to support and share in the joy – but the seeds of bitterness could root; and if both of you find the spotlight you could end up being busy and drifting apart into the arms of (seemingly) understanding cast mates.
But can’t those things happen to anyone? I know that other people don’t deal with some of the externals, but can’t anyone get too busy to be in love? Can’t anyone get jealous of their love’s success? Can’t anyone get turned off by their partner’s burnout? I can’t shut up the stubborn voice of hope, that voice that tells me that just because it could go sour doesn’t mean it will. All people risk in love. That is what love is.
And that is what art is too.
Most people don’t have to face life as honestly as an actor is encouraged to. Most people don’t use their emotions intentionally on a daily basis, much less as a part of their job. But perhaps, if you go in knowing that, it can end up being a good thing for both people.
I watch. I ponder. And I cling to hope.
And I think I would now tell my mother that relationship is relationship. In a strange way it doesn’t matter what you do…what matters is who you are, and how honest and true you can be to yourself.
And isn’t that what life, love and art are really all about?
When I was at home in May my mother asked me if I thought it was easier or more difficult to be in a relationship with a fellow artist.
I gave her a very long answer, with the phrase ‘it has different challenges’ in it somewhere.
I had just helped a fellow student with a show called “The Last Five Years”, a story of two artists who try to join their lives and passions only to see their union unravel into chaos and heartbreak. This is a story I see told over and over again, in many mediums and with many variations. Artists faced with a choice between love and relationship or their art and what makes them feel alive. Sometimes they choose love. Sometimes they choose their art. Sometimes they strive for both.
Some succeed. Most seem to fail.
I watch the people around me and I realize that in real life things aren’t laid out so clearly. In real life the choice isn’t posed so gracefully. In reality there are so many reasons behind why one relationship fails and another goes the distance. A relationship doesn’t die solely because one person is jealous of a stage kiss. The stress of auditioning over and over isn’t enough to tear two people apart without other, more invisible problems underneath. In real life, you aren’t just two artists. You’re two people like everyone else.
I’ve seen a lot of relationships go down in flames here – fledgling loves that never got out of the nest as well as established relationships that have flown for years. I’ve heard stories of bigger train wrecks that happened before I got to this town. I know there are heartbreaks that I don’t know about.
I’ve seen relationships last too. There is one couple here who both work in the theatre. He is a stage manager and actor. She is a lighting designer and stage manager. I have babysat their three beautiful children, and they have another on the way. They somehow make it work.
There is another couple here that I don’t know as well. They both act, write, and direct. They also have two small children. They also somehow make it work.
I go through the families in this town and it seems that every single one is involved with the theatre on some level. Increasingly it seems that everyone I know is an artist in some way. And yes, one couple is in the midst of a divorce. But so many more of them seem to be fighting through to keep their love alive and kicking.
My friend, roommate, and fellow actress L. is getting married to an actor, K. I hope they are one of the couples who last. I’ve seen L. go through a long, blurry relationship that ended painfully. I’ve seen K. do the same thing. I hope that doesn’t happen this time.
And as I watch I realize that my answer to my mother was not completely accurate.
I wonder if the search for authenticity in art conflict with the search for everlasting love. The journey that acting requires – demands – is difficult and painful. Even a relationship with a non-actor can crash and burn when the constant auditioning, rejection and frustration wears on an actors soul. With two people going through that, it could bring you together or tear you apart. If one of you finds success, the other could be there to support and share in the joy – but the seeds of bitterness could root; and if both of you find the spotlight you could end up being busy and drifting apart into the arms of (seemingly) understanding cast mates.
But can’t those things happen to anyone? I know that other people don’t deal with some of the externals, but can’t anyone get too busy to be in love? Can’t anyone get jealous of their love’s success? Can’t anyone get turned off by their partner’s burnout? I can’t shut up the stubborn voice of hope, that voice that tells me that just because it could go sour doesn’t mean it will. All people risk in love. That is what love is.
And that is what art is too.
Most people don’t have to face life as honestly as an actor is encouraged to. Most people don’t use their emotions intentionally on a daily basis, much less as a part of their job. But perhaps, if you go in knowing that, it can end up being a good thing for both people.
I watch. I ponder. And I cling to hope.
And I think I would now tell my mother that relationship is relationship. In a strange way it doesn’t matter what you do…what matters is who you are, and how honest and true you can be to yourself.
And isn’t that what life, love and art are really all about?
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
I'm Still Alive...
...just in full time rehearsals. I'll post something at some point, I know I will...
Thursday, May 10, 2007
I look around my room...
I look around my room. It’s not the largest of rooms but I fit into it – just barely some days, when my clothing spills from the closet and my books pile onto the floor – but I fit. It is never sparkling clean but I am learning that I am not that person. As a young adult my mother would always tell me how tidy I was (and I suppose my natural inclination is cleaner than hers) and thus I gained the reputation of being a tidy person. For a long time, whenever my room was a mess I felt enormous guilt for not being ‘true to myself’, but I have learnt that there are many variations of tidy. My version lies in the range of what I call a comfortable clean.
Right now my room is on the messier side of comfortable. My clothes are all in their place, except the pile in front of my closet where I left the latest culls from the depths. My desk has only one pile of paper on it, left-overs from the school year. My bed isn’t made and has a pair of jeans at the foot, jeans I need to alter before I wear. Above my head are shelves that need dusting. They are dressed with about a third of my book collection. I miss all of the books that are lying dormant and unused in my parent’s tool shed. I want to bring them all here with me where they belong, being used and loved and read.
There are pictures scattered about my room, both in frames and stuck on my wall with sticky tack. The faces of my friends and family look down at me, while my man looks out from the many photos I’ve collected of him in the past eleven months, surrounded by pieces of paper with hand written quotes on them. Quotes from people like Leo Tolstoy and Frederich Buechner are side by side with fridge magnet poems I needed to immortalize and phone numbers for my brothers, the fortune cookie fortune I got one night that read, “Character is what you know you are, not what others think you have” (to which I added ‘in bed’ because that’s what you add to the end of fortune cookie fortunes). I have opening night cards, notes of encouragement and old theatre tickets, a reception invitation and comic strips that make me laugh. There’s a note from my love, a simple note – “Hope you had a nice day!, Love S.” – that showed up in my room for no reason one day, accompanied by a box of chocolate.
My sunscreen sits on my dresser beside my makeup, looking a little out of place since I only brought it out two days ago. A few stray hair pins make the dresser look cluttered, and a pencil that looks like it was carved out of a tree lays beside a candle holder, which for some reason makes me think of campfires.
In a vase there is a dried white rose that S. gave me almost a year ago, beside the box that the chocolate arrived in before I ate it all and a bottle cap from one of his beers that I picked up months ago and stuck into my backpack where it sat forgotten before I cleaned it out in a strange fit of detailed cleanliness two days ago. I look up and see the covers of the CDs he has bought me and I listen to the music that I have on my computer because he let me rip his music onto my computer, music I would never have heard of if he hadn’t come into my life.
My room is a reflection of myself, perhaps more deeply than I realize. Not perfect, like my thirteen-year old self so desired to be, with such a strong desire that I spent hours crying, wishing I was dead so that my search for perfection, my struggle for that unachievable goal could be over. Not clean, like my teenage self believed I needed to be, living up to a reputation that didn’t belong to me, a reflection of someone else that I was nevertheless striving to match. It is private, only opened up to a select invited few. Only a few people can enter at their whim and even then they knock.
It is filled with things that tell you who I am – what I fill my closet with shows how I see my body, a beautiful, sensual entity, filled with an overwhelming desire that I am discovering anew every day, and yet comfortable and able to move without restriction, elegant, young and full of life. What I read reveals my vivid imagination, my childlike love of fairy tales and my belief in the magic of the world, my desire to find hope and light in a world that often only offers darkness and despair. What I listen to informs my flexible changing emotional life, with music to feed my secret rage, my unconscious energies, my happiness and my melancholies. The trinkets I hang on to tell a story of a sentimental girl and a sacramental woman, relics of moments that I keep forever engraved in my memory.
It is filled with things that show you what is important to me – pictures of the people that I love, the people who I have risked with and opened myself up to. Words that inform what I believe and how I try to live. Images that have stuck with me for reasons even I cannot articulate. People who I admire, poetry that resonates in my soul, icons that feed spirit beside tools that keep my body tended to.
I sit, surrounded, and write and wonder how my room has shown my nature throughout my life. If I had a snapshot of my bedroom in every year of my life, would they show the change that accompanies growing up? Can a room capture the innocence of childhood, the confusion of adolescence, the settling of adulthood? What would change and what would stay the same? As I came into my own would my room mirror my journey into authenticity? Would there always be some hint of the real Rebecca even in the years where I was trying so hard to be someone else?
My room has always been there, a solid tangible place that I could retreat to, a place of safety where I could rest and find myself again in the confusion of growing up.
Sometimes having a place where I can go to simply breathe is all that keeps me, the deepest rooted part of who I am, alive. I am suddenly filled with a deep gratitude for this room that feels alive with so much of my soul, like a part of me, like a reservoir for who I am. I once explained my journals as a bowl into which I pour my memories so that I don’t have to hang onto them in my head anymore, an image I picked up from a world of magic I entered in one of my many books. Now I see my room as another bowl, into which I put the parts of myself that I cannot carry with me, the parts that I need to spread out so I can see them, name them and understand them clearly.
Maybe I’m crazy. For now I simply breathe and feel grateful for my craziness and the calm it brings me.
Right now my room is on the messier side of comfortable. My clothes are all in their place, except the pile in front of my closet where I left the latest culls from the depths. My desk has only one pile of paper on it, left-overs from the school year. My bed isn’t made and has a pair of jeans at the foot, jeans I need to alter before I wear. Above my head are shelves that need dusting. They are dressed with about a third of my book collection. I miss all of the books that are lying dormant and unused in my parent’s tool shed. I want to bring them all here with me where they belong, being used and loved and read.
There are pictures scattered about my room, both in frames and stuck on my wall with sticky tack. The faces of my friends and family look down at me, while my man looks out from the many photos I’ve collected of him in the past eleven months, surrounded by pieces of paper with hand written quotes on them. Quotes from people like Leo Tolstoy and Frederich Buechner are side by side with fridge magnet poems I needed to immortalize and phone numbers for my brothers, the fortune cookie fortune I got one night that read, “Character is what you know you are, not what others think you have” (to which I added ‘in bed’ because that’s what you add to the end of fortune cookie fortunes). I have opening night cards, notes of encouragement and old theatre tickets, a reception invitation and comic strips that make me laugh. There’s a note from my love, a simple note – “Hope you had a nice day!, Love S.” – that showed up in my room for no reason one day, accompanied by a box of chocolate.
My sunscreen sits on my dresser beside my makeup, looking a little out of place since I only brought it out two days ago. A few stray hair pins make the dresser look cluttered, and a pencil that looks like it was carved out of a tree lays beside a candle holder, which for some reason makes me think of campfires.
In a vase there is a dried white rose that S. gave me almost a year ago, beside the box that the chocolate arrived in before I ate it all and a bottle cap from one of his beers that I picked up months ago and stuck into my backpack where it sat forgotten before I cleaned it out in a strange fit of detailed cleanliness two days ago. I look up and see the covers of the CDs he has bought me and I listen to the music that I have on my computer because he let me rip his music onto my computer, music I would never have heard of if he hadn’t come into my life.
My room is a reflection of myself, perhaps more deeply than I realize. Not perfect, like my thirteen-year old self so desired to be, with such a strong desire that I spent hours crying, wishing I was dead so that my search for perfection, my struggle for that unachievable goal could be over. Not clean, like my teenage self believed I needed to be, living up to a reputation that didn’t belong to me, a reflection of someone else that I was nevertheless striving to match. It is private, only opened up to a select invited few. Only a few people can enter at their whim and even then they knock.
It is filled with things that tell you who I am – what I fill my closet with shows how I see my body, a beautiful, sensual entity, filled with an overwhelming desire that I am discovering anew every day, and yet comfortable and able to move without restriction, elegant, young and full of life. What I read reveals my vivid imagination, my childlike love of fairy tales and my belief in the magic of the world, my desire to find hope and light in a world that often only offers darkness and despair. What I listen to informs my flexible changing emotional life, with music to feed my secret rage, my unconscious energies, my happiness and my melancholies. The trinkets I hang on to tell a story of a sentimental girl and a sacramental woman, relics of moments that I keep forever engraved in my memory.
It is filled with things that show you what is important to me – pictures of the people that I love, the people who I have risked with and opened myself up to. Words that inform what I believe and how I try to live. Images that have stuck with me for reasons even I cannot articulate. People who I admire, poetry that resonates in my soul, icons that feed spirit beside tools that keep my body tended to.
I sit, surrounded, and write and wonder how my room has shown my nature throughout my life. If I had a snapshot of my bedroom in every year of my life, would they show the change that accompanies growing up? Can a room capture the innocence of childhood, the confusion of adolescence, the settling of adulthood? What would change and what would stay the same? As I came into my own would my room mirror my journey into authenticity? Would there always be some hint of the real Rebecca even in the years where I was trying so hard to be someone else?
My room has always been there, a solid tangible place that I could retreat to, a place of safety where I could rest and find myself again in the confusion of growing up.
Sometimes having a place where I can go to simply breathe is all that keeps me, the deepest rooted part of who I am, alive. I am suddenly filled with a deep gratitude for this room that feels alive with so much of my soul, like a part of me, like a reservoir for who I am. I once explained my journals as a bowl into which I pour my memories so that I don’t have to hang onto them in my head anymore, an image I picked up from a world of magic I entered in one of my many books. Now I see my room as another bowl, into which I put the parts of myself that I cannot carry with me, the parts that I need to spread out so I can see them, name them and understand them clearly.
Maybe I’m crazy. For now I simply breathe and feel grateful for my craziness and the calm it brings me.
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
Love Will Keep Us Alive
That's the name of a song by the Eagles, a song that my dinner music group sings when a couple in the Mercantile is celebrating an anniversary. It's a lovely song, if a little out of my range, and couples seem to like it, gazing at each other over their plates of dessert while we croon.
Today we were called back to a room to sing for a couple and so we naturally assumed that's what the occasion was. We began the song, and the couple smiled at us. By the second verse, the gentleman's eyes were misting over and by the bridge they were both sniffling into their napkins. I wasn't sure what to do. Sometimes crying is a good thing but they both seemed so sad. I locked eyes with my dinner music partner and we sang the duet as if we were in love. When I looked back I noticed that the couple were holding hands over the table, tears slowly trickling down their faces. I choked up and could barely finish the song.
They came up to us later. The gentleman told us that they were crying because they are madly in love but the lady is being called back to Quebec by God and so they will be separated for a while. Her story was actually amazing - as a child she saw the Virgin Mary in a vision that saved her life, and now she is moving to an apartment on the same street that she had the vision on. It was a very touching story and I can't capture it here, but to know that they are in love and yet must be separated put me into a bit of a blue funk.
Today we were called back to a room to sing for a couple and so we naturally assumed that's what the occasion was. We began the song, and the couple smiled at us. By the second verse, the gentleman's eyes were misting over and by the bridge they were both sniffling into their napkins. I wasn't sure what to do. Sometimes crying is a good thing but they both seemed so sad. I locked eyes with my dinner music partner and we sang the duet as if we were in love. When I looked back I noticed that the couple were holding hands over the table, tears slowly trickling down their faces. I choked up and could barely finish the song.
They came up to us later. The gentleman told us that they were crying because they are madly in love but the lady is being called back to Quebec by God and so they will be separated for a while. Her story was actually amazing - as a child she saw the Virgin Mary in a vision that saved her life, and now she is moving to an apartment on the same street that she had the vision on. It was a very touching story and I can't capture it here, but to know that they are in love and yet must be separated put me into a bit of a blue funk.
Seeing people in love usually puts me in an introspective mood anyway. I end up watching all these elderly couples and wondering.
Will love really keep us alive?
My romantic nature hopes so.
Monday, April 23, 2007
Procrastination
I am supposed to be working on my Faith and Art final exam right now, but I don’t feel like writing short essays on subjects like ‘Creativity’, ‘the Artist as Servant’, or how I plan on living ‘an integrated life as an artist’.
I’ve been procrastinating all day – this afternoon I dithered about checking my email and then I spent time with S. before his show. When I came home I played Diablo II for an hour. I actually feel a bit sick from being at a computer so much today, so playing games is out now. I feel like having a nap.
I keep telling myself I have the weekend. Three whole days until the exam is due…then I remember that I haven’t done any of the journals for this term either and perhaps I should do them…and I have rehearsal for a final project that I’m stage managing on Sunday and Monday. A groan escapes my lips and I sigh and try to turn to the exam.
No luck. I can’t focus my thoughts, and everything I remember from the entire year of discussion in class escapes with the lyrics of the next song to play from the collection of music that is randomly singing out from my laptop. It routinely amazes me how well I remember music I’ve only heard a few times, but I am able to sing along to Chris Rice as he sings “Everything’s Okay” and I gamely buy into the message. I look up from my computer as I sing and notice the book of stamps behind the Coke can on my desk, which reminds me that I haven’t sent away my student loan form yet, so I pick it up and finish filling in the information, which means I have to fish out the Quick Tips form from my garbage so I can calculate how much they should give me (although they won’t because for some reason I’m only eligible for 60% of what I need, which is why I’m so grateful I got approved for that line of credit, which reminds me, I need to phone Dad and ask him what his card says and see if they issued him a card for my line of credit in which case he shouldn’t use the card or I won’t be able to pay my tuition)…and the final exam is successfully erased from my mind.
Until the form is in the envelope, licked and sealed and I realize that one of my roommates is on the phone. Then guilt creeps into the mix. I told S. I’d be doing homework tonight, and for some reason that makes me feel like I should. It’s not like I don’t have enough of it, too. My marketing portfolio was due a month ago, and I have a huge annotated bibliography that needs to be started, which means a lot of reading...but then an Iron & Wine song starts and I get distracted again.
I really like that song – about a Mexican boy named Jesus.
When I turn back to the exam, I focus on inane details. What does this bonus question mean? ‘How many surrealists does it take to screw in a light bulb?’ I don’t remember talking about surrealists in class! Perhaps if I look up surrealists and answer the question as a surrealist would, I’ll get the extra credit. Of course, if I put that time into the actual exam, I will probably get the same mark, if not a higher one.
I feel like I felt every time I knew I was supposed to be working on my play. So easily distracted but not sociable, restless but with no desire to do anything. It’s a horrible affliction and I morosely muse on how I am the only one who ever experiences this sensation. Such is the life of a writer, I drone in my mind, melodramatically, like one of my friends, a musician and musical theatre actor who has come to Rosebud to have his ‘schmacting’ broken out of him. He is the moodiest person I know – the stereotypical artist, feelings easily hurt and ego easily bruised, and everything is always about him. In spite of that, I like him quite a bit. He’s got some growing up to do, but don’t we all?
I mean, I started an exam 45 minutes ago and all I’ve written is REL 321: Faith and Art at the top of the page. Not exactly mature responsible adult behaviour.
Oh, a John Denver song that I haven’t heard in ages! I think I’ll sing along…
I’ve been procrastinating all day – this afternoon I dithered about checking my email and then I spent time with S. before his show. When I came home I played Diablo II for an hour. I actually feel a bit sick from being at a computer so much today, so playing games is out now. I feel like having a nap.
I keep telling myself I have the weekend. Three whole days until the exam is due…then I remember that I haven’t done any of the journals for this term either and perhaps I should do them…and I have rehearsal for a final project that I’m stage managing on Sunday and Monday. A groan escapes my lips and I sigh and try to turn to the exam.
No luck. I can’t focus my thoughts, and everything I remember from the entire year of discussion in class escapes with the lyrics of the next song to play from the collection of music that is randomly singing out from my laptop. It routinely amazes me how well I remember music I’ve only heard a few times, but I am able to sing along to Chris Rice as he sings “Everything’s Okay” and I gamely buy into the message. I look up from my computer as I sing and notice the book of stamps behind the Coke can on my desk, which reminds me that I haven’t sent away my student loan form yet, so I pick it up and finish filling in the information, which means I have to fish out the Quick Tips form from my garbage so I can calculate how much they should give me (although they won’t because for some reason I’m only eligible for 60% of what I need, which is why I’m so grateful I got approved for that line of credit, which reminds me, I need to phone Dad and ask him what his card says and see if they issued him a card for my line of credit in which case he shouldn’t use the card or I won’t be able to pay my tuition)…and the final exam is successfully erased from my mind.
Until the form is in the envelope, licked and sealed and I realize that one of my roommates is on the phone. Then guilt creeps into the mix. I told S. I’d be doing homework tonight, and for some reason that makes me feel like I should. It’s not like I don’t have enough of it, too. My marketing portfolio was due a month ago, and I have a huge annotated bibliography that needs to be started, which means a lot of reading...but then an Iron & Wine song starts and I get distracted again.
I really like that song – about a Mexican boy named Jesus.
When I turn back to the exam, I focus on inane details. What does this bonus question mean? ‘How many surrealists does it take to screw in a light bulb?’ I don’t remember talking about surrealists in class! Perhaps if I look up surrealists and answer the question as a surrealist would, I’ll get the extra credit. Of course, if I put that time into the actual exam, I will probably get the same mark, if not a higher one.
I feel like I felt every time I knew I was supposed to be working on my play. So easily distracted but not sociable, restless but with no desire to do anything. It’s a horrible affliction and I morosely muse on how I am the only one who ever experiences this sensation. Such is the life of a writer, I drone in my mind, melodramatically, like one of my friends, a musician and musical theatre actor who has come to Rosebud to have his ‘schmacting’ broken out of him. He is the moodiest person I know – the stereotypical artist, feelings easily hurt and ego easily bruised, and everything is always about him. In spite of that, I like him quite a bit. He’s got some growing up to do, but don’t we all?
I mean, I started an exam 45 minutes ago and all I’ve written is REL 321: Faith and Art at the top of the page. Not exactly mature responsible adult behaviour.
Oh, a John Denver song that I haven’t heard in ages! I think I’ll sing along…
Saturday, April 14, 2007
Hunger
I was sitting on a deck, letting the sun soak into my face and feeling the Chinook wind blow around my legs, listening to the dripping of icicles and the screaming of gophers. Among so much beauty, I was trying to figure out why bad things happen to good people. I was in the midst of telling God what is wrong with his world when someone walked by and asked me what I was doing.
I’m telling God what is wrong with the world, I said.
Things shouldn’t happen to people to make them jaded and cynical.
He stopped and pointed at me. That is so true, he said.
We shared a moment of silence.
Some people don’t ever get cynical, he said. My mother was one of them.
Then he went on his way, leaving me with that tiny bit of extra hope in a world that was screaming hope and life at me anyway.
Something disappointing happened to S. last weekend. He lost a role that he had earned fair and square because the director changed his mind about casting at the last minute. It’s rough – it’s hard enough to lose a role fairly, but to have it given to you and then taken away is just not fair. It happens here sometimes, although I’ve been told (and I agree) that it’s pretty unprofessional.
I’ve never had this happen before. I’ve discovered that it is unexpectedly difficult to feel the disappointment of someone I love, and to be saddened for them, and to know that there isn’t anything I can say or do that will make it better.
I hate feeling helpless in the face of injustice.
So I spent half an hour outside in the beauty and straightforwardness of God’s creation, talking to him about what isn’t working down here. Sometimes free will is a bitch, particularly when it’s someone else’s free will but you have to deal with the consequences.
At the end of my ponderings and talking, I realized that I am very naïve. So many people have broken themselves down from the pedestals I placed them on – I keep being disappointed when people I respect make choices and treat people in ways that contradict the person I thought they were. I suppose I should learn to stop putting people on pedestals. A part of my soul cries at the reality that in this fallen world I will find no one who will not let me down. Is that naivety, or is it hope, or is it what is left of Eve before she ate the apple?
I can see why it seems intelligent to become hardened and cynical. It protects people from being disappointed by life, by other people, by this big, old, awful sick mess of a world.
I don’t want to be hardened though. I spent too many years as the cynic. It takes so much negative energy to live in that world. As risky as it is to choose the softness of a snail without a shell, I want to hold on to hope. I want to keep believing that there is good out there, that there are people out there who do choose to live according to what is right.
Madeleine L’Engle is one of my favourite authors. Her stories are full of the knowledge that the world is bent and broken, full of hurt and wrong and injustice. Her characters are aware that the world is not how it should be, and they have a passion to see the world whole and healed again – but they all come to a point in their journeys where they have to choose to fight for what they instinctively know is right. It is never an easy choice. They are overwhelmed by the darkness sometimes. They are filled with despair that the world can ever be whole again. And they choose hope, they choose to fight for that little, tiny, almost invisible spark of light, against impossible odds. They fight even though they know they will lose. They fight even though there is no possible way that the world can be saved. They fight because they have to.
Sometimes I feel like my purpose in life is to keep fighting for that miniscule speck of light and hope, like I am here in this life just to keep that tiny light alive, and if all I can do in my life is keep that light from going out, even if I can’t make it any bigger, even if I can’t win the fight, even if after all I do the light goes out – as long as I’ve done all I can to fight for it, that is all that matters.
It hurts. Sometimes it feels like I’m losing, like I’m losing my will to fight because it seems so impossible. I know there is no way that I can win. The dark, the brokenness is too big and too overwhelming and there is nothing I can do to make things better. But the pain of losing that light is so much greater than the despair of never winning that I just can’t give up, even when everything is telling me I should cut my losses and just join the dark winning team already.
I just can’t do that. I just can’t lose that hunger for the light. I hope I never do. It’s the most irrational thing I’ve ever done, but it’s the only thing I can do. It’s the only thing that feels right.
I can’t bear to lose that wild, fierce hunger.
All I can do is hope that I never do.
I’m telling God what is wrong with the world, I said.
Things shouldn’t happen to people to make them jaded and cynical.
He stopped and pointed at me. That is so true, he said.
We shared a moment of silence.
Some people don’t ever get cynical, he said. My mother was one of them.
Then he went on his way, leaving me with that tiny bit of extra hope in a world that was screaming hope and life at me anyway.
Something disappointing happened to S. last weekend. He lost a role that he had earned fair and square because the director changed his mind about casting at the last minute. It’s rough – it’s hard enough to lose a role fairly, but to have it given to you and then taken away is just not fair. It happens here sometimes, although I’ve been told (and I agree) that it’s pretty unprofessional.
I’ve never had this happen before. I’ve discovered that it is unexpectedly difficult to feel the disappointment of someone I love, and to be saddened for them, and to know that there isn’t anything I can say or do that will make it better.
I hate feeling helpless in the face of injustice.
So I spent half an hour outside in the beauty and straightforwardness of God’s creation, talking to him about what isn’t working down here. Sometimes free will is a bitch, particularly when it’s someone else’s free will but you have to deal with the consequences.
At the end of my ponderings and talking, I realized that I am very naïve. So many people have broken themselves down from the pedestals I placed them on – I keep being disappointed when people I respect make choices and treat people in ways that contradict the person I thought they were. I suppose I should learn to stop putting people on pedestals. A part of my soul cries at the reality that in this fallen world I will find no one who will not let me down. Is that naivety, or is it hope, or is it what is left of Eve before she ate the apple?
I can see why it seems intelligent to become hardened and cynical. It protects people from being disappointed by life, by other people, by this big, old, awful sick mess of a world.
I don’t want to be hardened though. I spent too many years as the cynic. It takes so much negative energy to live in that world. As risky as it is to choose the softness of a snail without a shell, I want to hold on to hope. I want to keep believing that there is good out there, that there are people out there who do choose to live according to what is right.
Madeleine L’Engle is one of my favourite authors. Her stories are full of the knowledge that the world is bent and broken, full of hurt and wrong and injustice. Her characters are aware that the world is not how it should be, and they have a passion to see the world whole and healed again – but they all come to a point in their journeys where they have to choose to fight for what they instinctively know is right. It is never an easy choice. They are overwhelmed by the darkness sometimes. They are filled with despair that the world can ever be whole again. And they choose hope, they choose to fight for that little, tiny, almost invisible spark of light, against impossible odds. They fight even though they know they will lose. They fight even though there is no possible way that the world can be saved. They fight because they have to.
Sometimes I feel like my purpose in life is to keep fighting for that miniscule speck of light and hope, like I am here in this life just to keep that tiny light alive, and if all I can do in my life is keep that light from going out, even if I can’t make it any bigger, even if I can’t win the fight, even if after all I do the light goes out – as long as I’ve done all I can to fight for it, that is all that matters.
It hurts. Sometimes it feels like I’m losing, like I’m losing my will to fight because it seems so impossible. I know there is no way that I can win. The dark, the brokenness is too big and too overwhelming and there is nothing I can do to make things better. But the pain of losing that light is so much greater than the despair of never winning that I just can’t give up, even when everything is telling me I should cut my losses and just join the dark winning team already.
I just can’t do that. I just can’t lose that hunger for the light. I hope I never do. It’s the most irrational thing I’ve ever done, but it’s the only thing I can do. It’s the only thing that feels right.
I can’t bear to lose that wild, fierce hunger.
All I can do is hope that I never do.
Thursday, April 05, 2007
Hurtin' Unit
My youngest brother came to visit me this weekend.
He is on an extended leave of absence from work following a mental break-down. At least that gave him the freedom to catch a ride with a friend and spend two and a half days just hanging out with me at my home.
He has a lot of pain and it isn’t hiding very well behind his shields of cynicism and bitterness. The chip on his shoulder is so big I wonder how there is any shoulder left. I can see the roots, deep inside his broken heart but I don’t think everyone can. The perks of being a sister I guess.
We had some good talks, about our brother getting married and how happy we are for him. How good D1’s girl is to him, and how we think they’ll make it. How we wished we had been better siblings to him and how we hope we’ll be able to continue to repair those cracks we made.
We talked about relationships. He hung out with S. for a few hours and said he seemed like a good guy, that he trusted my ability to choose a man. He said it must be nice to have a relationship that our mom didn’t have a problem with, where I didn’t have to fight with her to have my adult choices respected.
He spoke of his girl, of their life, of where they might go. I asked him if he thought they’d be together forever and he said they might be. We have problems, but who doesn’t? he asked. She loves me the best she knows how, and she’s learning how to be better. I wanted to ask him if that’s all he deserves, and if he loves her as best as he knows how or if he thinks he needs to learn to be better too, but I didn’t. Instead I listened as he talked to me.
I don’t know if I remember a lot of the words he spoke to me. I do remember how much pain there was in his whole being. He’s like a dog that’s been whipped, L. said. In his whole body, in his attitude, everything about him looks like he’s been broken and hasn’t been put back together yet. I nodded and held my own pain inside.
We went for walks and talked about life, me walking upwind so that the smoke from his cigarette would blow away from me. Watching him smoke was hard for me. It made him seem hardened somehow, like the thug he played as a child had come real. Like he didn’t give a damn, like his pain was all there was and he had no hope that it would ever change.
We spoke of how confusing it is when peace comes from a source that we were taught was wrong. How confusing it is when we learn that something we were told was out of bounds is completely within our grasp. We talked about how things can be right for one person and wrong for another. About how God is bigger than the mistakes of our parents and the church. I learned how cynical he is towards church and pastors.
We talked one evening about our mother. He used some of the exact phrasing that I had used in counselling three days before. It was a comfort to us both that we have the same problems with the same woman. It helped us to see that it isn’t in our heads. That the problems are real and solid because someone else felt them too.
It was a comfort to me to see that counselling has actually helped me to grow and learn to deal with my anger, pain and frustration. It filled me with calm to see that I used to be where D2 is now, full of pain and anger that I didn’t know what to do with, but I’m not anymore. It filled me hope to see that a person can learn to keep acknowledging the feelings, to put the responsibility for them on the right people, and to let it go and move on.
I told D2 that he should seriously think about going to counselling. He agreed with me. I hope he does it.
I have a lot of hopes for him. I hope that his choice to move back in with my parents is a good one. I hope that he can get what he needs from them, especially my mother. I hope that all of his pieces get put back where they belong and that he won’t always look so beaten down.
I hope.
Maybe with enough hopes behind him, his pain will become easier to bear.
He is on an extended leave of absence from work following a mental break-down. At least that gave him the freedom to catch a ride with a friend and spend two and a half days just hanging out with me at my home.
He has a lot of pain and it isn’t hiding very well behind his shields of cynicism and bitterness. The chip on his shoulder is so big I wonder how there is any shoulder left. I can see the roots, deep inside his broken heart but I don’t think everyone can. The perks of being a sister I guess.
We had some good talks, about our brother getting married and how happy we are for him. How good D1’s girl is to him, and how we think they’ll make it. How we wished we had been better siblings to him and how we hope we’ll be able to continue to repair those cracks we made.
We talked about relationships. He hung out with S. for a few hours and said he seemed like a good guy, that he trusted my ability to choose a man. He said it must be nice to have a relationship that our mom didn’t have a problem with, where I didn’t have to fight with her to have my adult choices respected.
He spoke of his girl, of their life, of where they might go. I asked him if he thought they’d be together forever and he said they might be. We have problems, but who doesn’t? he asked. She loves me the best she knows how, and she’s learning how to be better. I wanted to ask him if that’s all he deserves, and if he loves her as best as he knows how or if he thinks he needs to learn to be better too, but I didn’t. Instead I listened as he talked to me.
I don’t know if I remember a lot of the words he spoke to me. I do remember how much pain there was in his whole being. He’s like a dog that’s been whipped, L. said. In his whole body, in his attitude, everything about him looks like he’s been broken and hasn’t been put back together yet. I nodded and held my own pain inside.
We went for walks and talked about life, me walking upwind so that the smoke from his cigarette would blow away from me. Watching him smoke was hard for me. It made him seem hardened somehow, like the thug he played as a child had come real. Like he didn’t give a damn, like his pain was all there was and he had no hope that it would ever change.
We spoke of how confusing it is when peace comes from a source that we were taught was wrong. How confusing it is when we learn that something we were told was out of bounds is completely within our grasp. We talked about how things can be right for one person and wrong for another. About how God is bigger than the mistakes of our parents and the church. I learned how cynical he is towards church and pastors.
We talked one evening about our mother. He used some of the exact phrasing that I had used in counselling three days before. It was a comfort to us both that we have the same problems with the same woman. It helped us to see that it isn’t in our heads. That the problems are real and solid because someone else felt them too.
It was a comfort to me to see that counselling has actually helped me to grow and learn to deal with my anger, pain and frustration. It filled me with calm to see that I used to be where D2 is now, full of pain and anger that I didn’t know what to do with, but I’m not anymore. It filled me hope to see that a person can learn to keep acknowledging the feelings, to put the responsibility for them on the right people, and to let it go and move on.
I told D2 that he should seriously think about going to counselling. He agreed with me. I hope he does it.
I have a lot of hopes for him. I hope that his choice to move back in with my parents is a good one. I hope that he can get what he needs from them, especially my mother. I hope that all of his pieces get put back where they belong and that he won’t always look so beaten down.
I hope.
Maybe with enough hopes behind him, his pain will become easier to bear.
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Themes
I just realized that the last few posts (excluding the happy one about my brother) have been rather negative.
Maybe I'm going through a phase. Huh.
It bears some thinking about, that perhaps it isn't all the people around me, and maybe it's me.
Although I'd rather it wasn't.
Maybe I'm going through a phase. Huh.
It bears some thinking about, that perhaps it isn't all the people around me, and maybe it's me.
Although I'd rather it wasn't.
Frustration
I am so frustrated with school right now. Not with the work – that feels quite manageable for once. No. I'm frustrated with the institution itself and the people who are running it.
It feels like the Educational Directors are on a warpath and I don’t know why. It’s sudden, too. One day I’m going along my life, making my own decisions and organizing things my way, and the next day the phrase ‘mandatory’ gets thrown in my face and I have to abide by a new set of rules. Rules that I haven’t been aware of for three months now, but that apparently have to be added to my life for this last month of school or the world will come to an end.
The thing I really don’t understand is that the class they are raising Cain about is dance, which is a fucking audit for me. I’m not getting any credits or being marked or evaluated in any way. I didn’t get the option of choosing this class – if I had I would have turned it down. It’s exactly the same class that I took last year and since I passed, I don’t see why I have to take it again. But suddenly I have to attend and catch up on what I’ve missed so that I can participate in the presentation that is happening in three weeks.
They say they want me to stay in practice with dance and I can understand that. But the majority of the class time is spent warming up and stretching. I do that on my own every morning. I lead a deliberately active lifestyle. I keep my tools ready to work. As far as the idea of keeping dance moves fresh in my mind…the way I see it, if I ever go out for a dance audition I’ll be doing it cold. Taking dance classes outside of school doesn’t interest me. I know that I learn basic choreography at an average speed. I’m not a dancer, but I can learn choreography. If this class taught me how to pick up choreography quickly I’d be there in a heartbeat, but instead we spend 85% of the class time warming up to spend 15 minutes going over and over the same dance moves – dance moves that I’ve never seen used in musical theatre anyway. It’s a waste of my time.
The whole ‘mandatory audit’ thing is really just the tip of the iceberg. Recently the Student Life Advisor sent an email to all of the students who are living in student housing, reminding us all that a) we aren’t allowed to have alcohol in our houses and b) boys aren’t allowed to be in our rooms past midnight. I know these rules – well, I knew the alcohol one. I knew that technically we weren’t allowed to have boys in our rooms unless the doors were open but that rule has never been enforced so I didn’t think it was a big deal, and I certainly didn’t remember that they had to be out of our house by midnight. When S.’s schedule means that he isn’t free to come visit me until 11 o’clock at night it seems ridiculous that he would have to leave after an hour, particularly if neither of us has anything the next morning, but fine. We’ll hang out at his house if it’s really that big of a problem. It pisses me off that I can’t live my own life in my own house.
I’ll admit I was breaking the letter of the law on the alcohol thing. I had a bottle of wine in my closet. I had no intention of drinking it in the dorm – I am waiting to open it until R. and I move into our new not-student-housing suite. I didn’t think having a bottle of wine in my closet would be a problem but after I got the email I moved it to S.’s house. He lives in a private residence and is allowed to make the adult decision to drink or not to drink. I can’t wait until I live in a house where my landlord will actually assume that I can act my age (23) and where I can make my own life choices – where all I have to take into consideration is whether or not I’m being respectful to my roommates and whether I’m taking good care of my house. That is what an adult, living on their own, should have to think about. I shouldn’t have to worry about whether my lifestyle is meshing with someone else’s moral structure, but thanks to the nature of student housing that is my reality. I hate it.
It’s made me realize that I have control issues when it comes to my room. The email stated that members of the Educational Team would be conducting random house checks, looking for alcohol and asking whether guys were staying over. The idea of having someone go through my stuff in my room, looking for non-existent alcohol, asking me about aspects of my life that shouldn’t be their business in the first place, makes me instantly angry. Unreasonably angry, in fact. I thought about it a lot and I realized that my bedroom has always been the only area of my life that I have had complete control over. I have always controlled my room completely and implicitly. I have been anal-retentive about who comes in and when, the contents and where they go. I rule my room and no one else has any authority therein. It has always been that way, and I just can’t let that go. I’ll let them in my room if they must check it, but only if I’m there. I’d prefer it if they could just take my word for it that there’s no alcohol in there. They have to take my word for it that S. isn’t sleeping over, after all.
Another big part of my frustration with the school comes from scheduling conflicts. This year has been the worst year for students being double-booked into things that anyone I’ve spoken to has ever seen. Students have been expected to be in two or three places at once, and when they choose which one of those places they are going to go, they are informed that they have to make up the other classes on their own time. It’s bullshit! I understand that the schedulers are human. I’m not asking for perfection. It would just be nice if when the problems are brought to their attention they would try to rectify them instead of shoving them off on the student.
Right now I’m stage managing a classmates’ final project. Part of this requires me to try to make the schedules of the various team members match up. It is not an easy job. I thought that the school would be helpful with this whole process. The Educational Team approved this project, after all.
I’ve since realized that that was a little too optimistic of me. There have been several ‘mandatory’ classes added to our schedule that are in direct conflict with rehearsals. I don’t understand it. They approved the fucking rehearsal schedule. They should know it, and if they foresaw problems with it they should have said something back then. Instead they approved it and are now kicking up a fuss about the classes that I won’t be attending.
I feel really angry about all of these things, and what makes it worse is that I feel like I’m not being heard.
I know I’m not the only student feeling this way. There are important things that the Educational Team isn’t hearing when we say them, and what can we do about it?
Nothing.
It pisses me off half the time and fills me with a horrible old feeling of resignation the other half. It makes me feel like closing up every time one of them talks to me. Why should I listen to you if you aren’t going to listen to me, I want to ask. But instead I sigh inside and try to be receptive.
How can I expect them to listen to me if I won’t even try to listen to them, after all?
I keep listening.
They keep ignoring the problems they are creating.
And so I am frustrated.
It feels like the Educational Directors are on a warpath and I don’t know why. It’s sudden, too. One day I’m going along my life, making my own decisions and organizing things my way, and the next day the phrase ‘mandatory’ gets thrown in my face and I have to abide by a new set of rules. Rules that I haven’t been aware of for three months now, but that apparently have to be added to my life for this last month of school or the world will come to an end.
The thing I really don’t understand is that the class they are raising Cain about is dance, which is a fucking audit for me. I’m not getting any credits or being marked or evaluated in any way. I didn’t get the option of choosing this class – if I had I would have turned it down. It’s exactly the same class that I took last year and since I passed, I don’t see why I have to take it again. But suddenly I have to attend and catch up on what I’ve missed so that I can participate in the presentation that is happening in three weeks.
They say they want me to stay in practice with dance and I can understand that. But the majority of the class time is spent warming up and stretching. I do that on my own every morning. I lead a deliberately active lifestyle. I keep my tools ready to work. As far as the idea of keeping dance moves fresh in my mind…the way I see it, if I ever go out for a dance audition I’ll be doing it cold. Taking dance classes outside of school doesn’t interest me. I know that I learn basic choreography at an average speed. I’m not a dancer, but I can learn choreography. If this class taught me how to pick up choreography quickly I’d be there in a heartbeat, but instead we spend 85% of the class time warming up to spend 15 minutes going over and over the same dance moves – dance moves that I’ve never seen used in musical theatre anyway. It’s a waste of my time.
The whole ‘mandatory audit’ thing is really just the tip of the iceberg. Recently the Student Life Advisor sent an email to all of the students who are living in student housing, reminding us all that a) we aren’t allowed to have alcohol in our houses and b) boys aren’t allowed to be in our rooms past midnight. I know these rules – well, I knew the alcohol one. I knew that technically we weren’t allowed to have boys in our rooms unless the doors were open but that rule has never been enforced so I didn’t think it was a big deal, and I certainly didn’t remember that they had to be out of our house by midnight. When S.’s schedule means that he isn’t free to come visit me until 11 o’clock at night it seems ridiculous that he would have to leave after an hour, particularly if neither of us has anything the next morning, but fine. We’ll hang out at his house if it’s really that big of a problem. It pisses me off that I can’t live my own life in my own house.
I’ll admit I was breaking the letter of the law on the alcohol thing. I had a bottle of wine in my closet. I had no intention of drinking it in the dorm – I am waiting to open it until R. and I move into our new not-student-housing suite. I didn’t think having a bottle of wine in my closet would be a problem but after I got the email I moved it to S.’s house. He lives in a private residence and is allowed to make the adult decision to drink or not to drink. I can’t wait until I live in a house where my landlord will actually assume that I can act my age (23) and where I can make my own life choices – where all I have to take into consideration is whether or not I’m being respectful to my roommates and whether I’m taking good care of my house. That is what an adult, living on their own, should have to think about. I shouldn’t have to worry about whether my lifestyle is meshing with someone else’s moral structure, but thanks to the nature of student housing that is my reality. I hate it.
It’s made me realize that I have control issues when it comes to my room. The email stated that members of the Educational Team would be conducting random house checks, looking for alcohol and asking whether guys were staying over. The idea of having someone go through my stuff in my room, looking for non-existent alcohol, asking me about aspects of my life that shouldn’t be their business in the first place, makes me instantly angry. Unreasonably angry, in fact. I thought about it a lot and I realized that my bedroom has always been the only area of my life that I have had complete control over. I have always controlled my room completely and implicitly. I have been anal-retentive about who comes in and when, the contents and where they go. I rule my room and no one else has any authority therein. It has always been that way, and I just can’t let that go. I’ll let them in my room if they must check it, but only if I’m there. I’d prefer it if they could just take my word for it that there’s no alcohol in there. They have to take my word for it that S. isn’t sleeping over, after all.
Another big part of my frustration with the school comes from scheduling conflicts. This year has been the worst year for students being double-booked into things that anyone I’ve spoken to has ever seen. Students have been expected to be in two or three places at once, and when they choose which one of those places they are going to go, they are informed that they have to make up the other classes on their own time. It’s bullshit! I understand that the schedulers are human. I’m not asking for perfection. It would just be nice if when the problems are brought to their attention they would try to rectify them instead of shoving them off on the student.
Right now I’m stage managing a classmates’ final project. Part of this requires me to try to make the schedules of the various team members match up. It is not an easy job. I thought that the school would be helpful with this whole process. The Educational Team approved this project, after all.
I’ve since realized that that was a little too optimistic of me. There have been several ‘mandatory’ classes added to our schedule that are in direct conflict with rehearsals. I don’t understand it. They approved the fucking rehearsal schedule. They should know it, and if they foresaw problems with it they should have said something back then. Instead they approved it and are now kicking up a fuss about the classes that I won’t be attending.
I feel really angry about all of these things, and what makes it worse is that I feel like I’m not being heard.
I know I’m not the only student feeling this way. There are important things that the Educational Team isn’t hearing when we say them, and what can we do about it?
Nothing.
It pisses me off half the time and fills me with a horrible old feeling of resignation the other half. It makes me feel like closing up every time one of them talks to me. Why should I listen to you if you aren’t going to listen to me, I want to ask. But instead I sigh inside and try to be receptive.
How can I expect them to listen to me if I won’t even try to listen to them, after all?
I keep listening.
They keep ignoring the problems they are creating.
And so I am frustrated.
Thursday, March 22, 2007
Congratulations!
That is to my middle brother, who asked his girlfriend to marry him.
She said yes. Otherwise this would be a sad little post, instead of a happy one.
I am really excited for them, and can hardly wait to welcome her into our family!
Congratulations, you two. Lots of love and best wishes your way.
She said yes. Otherwise this would be a sad little post, instead of a happy one.
I am really excited for them, and can hardly wait to welcome her into our family!
Congratulations, you two. Lots of love and best wishes your way.
Thursday, March 15, 2007
Resentment
Our household harmony is vanishing. Fast.
It started with the breakdown of the System. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly little resentments will pop up when the dishes aren’t being done. As soon as the dishes remained piled on the counter with loud declarations of “they aren’t mine and I won’t do other people’s dishes” everything else went to pot.
Secret resentment number one: I would put dishes here, but I’m not sure that dishes count as a ‘secret’ resentment since the entire household has articulated this one multiple times. And in reality, if M. would just do her damn dishes, this post would be over already.
Secret resentment number two: It is tech week for the Opera House show, which means that L. (who is the ASM) is under stress. To help her out, L.’s fiancé, K., has been here cooking for her so that she doesn’t have to worry about preparing meals during her short breaks. It’s awfully nice of him, but it does add another person to an already crowded kitchen. But hey – he washes the dishes he uses. I have been feeling a little overwhelmed by the extra person in our kitchen but I’ve been dealing with it. I have S. over often enough, after all. M., however, is tired of having ‘the boyfriends’ over here all the time.
She doesn’t go speak to L. about this though. No. She talks to me, like I’m going to fix it for her.
Secret resentment number two: M. has been watching seasons one and two of Grey’s Anatomy. Not a problem until you realize that she has watched the entire two seasons over four days. While she watches film after film and episode after episode, she uses the upstairs bathroom – the bathroom that C. and I supply with toilet paper. Our supplies are vanishing almost as fast as the household harmony.
M. has always spent every spare moment of her life sitting in the living-room watching movies at high decibel levels, and while it has been getting on everyone’s nerves for a long time, it has reached a snapping point. It is understandable that we can only handle so much noise in the only common area in the house, and when you combine that with watching her sit there while her dishes pile up in negligent sloth, you get a fairly volatile situation.
C. decided that taking the RCA cables away would solve the problem. It didn’t. It just made things worse. When M. came home and discovered that the television didn’t work, she felt like she was being punished (which she was) and accused C. of mothering her. To her face, which I must admit I was quite shocked to learn.
That brings us to secret resentment number three: M. treating me like I’m her personal intercessor. After raising her voice to L. when it was pointed out that she needed to do her dishes, and then yelling at C. for mothering her, she stalked up to my room and proceeded to fill me in on the entire afternoon in a highly controlled and angry voice.
In my bedroom. My private retreat from the entire house, the only private place I have in the entire town.
I had removed myself for a reason. Apparently that was lost on M. While she spouted off about how the entire house was treating her like a child, all I could do was stare at the top of my dresser and wonder why the hell I let her do this to me and wonder why she can’t seem to learn that her actions affect the people around her. She is very much like a child.
I felt like I couldn’t even tell her what I wanted to because I had to stop her from going and having it all out with L. right then and there. In the middle of tech week. This is the worst week in any show, particularly for L. M. has no sense of timing.
I wanted to tell her that none of us wanted the full-time job that mothering her would be. That we aren’t trying to mother her – we are only behaving like roommates behave when someone in the house isn’t pulling their weight. That pulling your weight means not only cleaning up after yourself (which she isn’t doing) but also pitching in to pick up the slack that is left when six people live together. That if she had a problem with somebody in the house she should go talk to them instead of dragging me into every fight she has. That she can’t come into my room. For any reason. Ever.
It irritates me that M. can’t recognize her dishes; that she doesn’t speak to the people that are angering her; that she can’t seem to realize that her problems aren’t my problems or my business; that she also has no sense of timing; that she can’t remember to be considerate of the people living around her; that she can’t see past what she wants and what she feels to the desires, needs and feelings of the people she has lived with for six months.
I am getting very tired of living with her. I know I said I could suck it up for another month and a half…but I think I was lying. A little part of me harbours a secret resentment against our student life advisor for placing her here in the first place. If she didn’t live here, my life would be so much easier.
And while the household harmony vanishes into the ether, I cling to the hope that somehow in all of this I have become a better person.
Because otherwise this was all a significant waste of my time.
It started with the breakdown of the System. It never ceases to amaze me how quickly little resentments will pop up when the dishes aren’t being done. As soon as the dishes remained piled on the counter with loud declarations of “they aren’t mine and I won’t do other people’s dishes” everything else went to pot.
Secret resentment number one: I would put dishes here, but I’m not sure that dishes count as a ‘secret’ resentment since the entire household has articulated this one multiple times. And in reality, if M. would just do her damn dishes, this post would be over already.
Secret resentment number two: It is tech week for the Opera House show, which means that L. (who is the ASM) is under stress. To help her out, L.’s fiancé, K., has been here cooking for her so that she doesn’t have to worry about preparing meals during her short breaks. It’s awfully nice of him, but it does add another person to an already crowded kitchen. But hey – he washes the dishes he uses. I have been feeling a little overwhelmed by the extra person in our kitchen but I’ve been dealing with it. I have S. over often enough, after all. M., however, is tired of having ‘the boyfriends’ over here all the time.
She doesn’t go speak to L. about this though. No. She talks to me, like I’m going to fix it for her.
Secret resentment number two: M. has been watching seasons one and two of Grey’s Anatomy. Not a problem until you realize that she has watched the entire two seasons over four days. While she watches film after film and episode after episode, she uses the upstairs bathroom – the bathroom that C. and I supply with toilet paper. Our supplies are vanishing almost as fast as the household harmony.
M. has always spent every spare moment of her life sitting in the living-room watching movies at high decibel levels, and while it has been getting on everyone’s nerves for a long time, it has reached a snapping point. It is understandable that we can only handle so much noise in the only common area in the house, and when you combine that with watching her sit there while her dishes pile up in negligent sloth, you get a fairly volatile situation.
C. decided that taking the RCA cables away would solve the problem. It didn’t. It just made things worse. When M. came home and discovered that the television didn’t work, she felt like she was being punished (which she was) and accused C. of mothering her. To her face, which I must admit I was quite shocked to learn.
That brings us to secret resentment number three: M. treating me like I’m her personal intercessor. After raising her voice to L. when it was pointed out that she needed to do her dishes, and then yelling at C. for mothering her, she stalked up to my room and proceeded to fill me in on the entire afternoon in a highly controlled and angry voice.
In my bedroom. My private retreat from the entire house, the only private place I have in the entire town.
I had removed myself for a reason. Apparently that was lost on M. While she spouted off about how the entire house was treating her like a child, all I could do was stare at the top of my dresser and wonder why the hell I let her do this to me and wonder why she can’t seem to learn that her actions affect the people around her. She is very much like a child.
I felt like I couldn’t even tell her what I wanted to because I had to stop her from going and having it all out with L. right then and there. In the middle of tech week. This is the worst week in any show, particularly for L. M. has no sense of timing.
I wanted to tell her that none of us wanted the full-time job that mothering her would be. That we aren’t trying to mother her – we are only behaving like roommates behave when someone in the house isn’t pulling their weight. That pulling your weight means not only cleaning up after yourself (which she isn’t doing) but also pitching in to pick up the slack that is left when six people live together. That if she had a problem with somebody in the house she should go talk to them instead of dragging me into every fight she has. That she can’t come into my room. For any reason. Ever.
It irritates me that M. can’t recognize her dishes; that she doesn’t speak to the people that are angering her; that she can’t seem to realize that her problems aren’t my problems or my business; that she also has no sense of timing; that she can’t remember to be considerate of the people living around her; that she can’t see past what she wants and what she feels to the desires, needs and feelings of the people she has lived with for six months.
I am getting very tired of living with her. I know I said I could suck it up for another month and a half…but I think I was lying. A little part of me harbours a secret resentment against our student life advisor for placing her here in the first place. If she didn’t live here, my life would be so much easier.
And while the household harmony vanishes into the ether, I cling to the hope that somehow in all of this I have become a better person.
Because otherwise this was all a significant waste of my time.
Saturday, March 10, 2007
The System: or, Flex Before Somebody Snaps
In our house we have a System when it comes to dishes. It’s quite simple. You do your own.
The System works pretty well. It’s the only way we’ve been able to keep the peace with six women using dishes in the house. It isn’t perfect though. It breaks down when someone doesn’t do their dishes for a week or when people forget which dishes are theirs. Confusion over ownership wreaks the most havoc on the System, and unfortunately the dishes are the ones who suffer, sitting unclaimed on the counter wallowing in their filth until someone breaks down and does them.
It wouldn’t be such a problem – or a topic for my blog – if this house wasn’t filled with such stubborn women. Let me introduce them to you –
First, we have L. L. refuses to do dishes that aren’t hers because she is of the firm belief that the dishes piling up belong to M., who she doesn’t really like and with whom any excuse to like her less is a viable reason to make life difficult for everyone around. She doesn’t see that aspect of it, but it’s true non-the-less.
Then we have the infamous M., of whom I’ve written before. M. is tired of all the extra dishes being blamed on her and likewise refuses to do any extra dishes – although she does tend to forget what she has actually used and blame her work on others, particularly L. and C.
C., the first one of us to live here and who thus lays claim (subconsciously or not) to the title of Alpha Bitch, has a good memory as to what she has and has not used for dishes. She rarely is a culprit when it comes to over-flowing counters. She usually has to play the role of dish-Nazi (the one who makes others do their dishes).
J. doesn’t do her dishes upstairs, and so has excluded herself from the System – although when a dish disappears for a month it’s usually because it has been wallowing in her sink downstairs.
R. adheres to the System. She does her dishes with OCD-like attention to detail, and thus avoids the perennial conflict when it comes to arguments of ownership.
I occasionally leave dishes and have been known to forget which ones are mine. However the System is so ingrained in me that when I was home for Christmas I used a plate and then washed it immediately, ignoring the pile of dishes from the previous meal (much to my mother’s irritation. She doesn’t understand the overwhelming influence of the System). I also will wash other people’s dishes if someone else will put them away – I hate putting dishes away but washing them doesn’t bother me. Much.
In this latest uprising of plates and cups half of the house was absent, leaving L. and M. to battle out the ownership issue. I had been observing the dishes and knowing their eating habits, I was pretty sure that they were the result of an even split between the two of them, but neither of them were willing to budge an inch to do any more than what they believed was their responsibility. Fuck, I hate legalism.
I finally got sick of the whole mess and took out my frustration at the breakdown of the System in the most passive-aggressive yet positive way I could. I did all of the fucking dishes and then cleaned the kitchen to boot.
I did receive gratitude in the form of lip-service, but that evening again I witnessed the strict adherence to the System to the exclusion of mercy or grace.
I think I hate the System too.
The problem is that I know that the System works. It isn’t the System that is broken. It’s the understanding of the System. There needs to be a bit of flex room, a place of grace where each member of the house will accept doing a few extra dishes now and then to help out a friend (or to stop an argument that will overflow onto friends – or the floor). There needs to be an understanding that no System works without flexibility to work outside the rules.
I discussed this with R. when she returned from her study break. I got quite worked up about it (the swearing in this post isn’t gratuitous; it accurately reflects my feelings on the subject). R. sensed my pent-up rage and asked me if we needed to have a house meeting. I said I thought it would be okay. I am the queen of taking deep breaths and taking things in stride. I can hold out until the end of term, when M. is leaving and L. will suddenly remember what it means to help out the people around her instead of doing her own fair share and letting everyone else take up the slack.
If this situation rises again before the end of March, though, I’m going to fucking flip out and it won’t be a pretty sight.
I just wish we could all just remember to have some flexibility within our Systems. Maybe then our lives would run a little more smoothly.
At least I’d have to find something else to snap about.
The System works pretty well. It’s the only way we’ve been able to keep the peace with six women using dishes in the house. It isn’t perfect though. It breaks down when someone doesn’t do their dishes for a week or when people forget which dishes are theirs. Confusion over ownership wreaks the most havoc on the System, and unfortunately the dishes are the ones who suffer, sitting unclaimed on the counter wallowing in their filth until someone breaks down and does them.
It wouldn’t be such a problem – or a topic for my blog – if this house wasn’t filled with such stubborn women. Let me introduce them to you –
First, we have L. L. refuses to do dishes that aren’t hers because she is of the firm belief that the dishes piling up belong to M., who she doesn’t really like and with whom any excuse to like her less is a viable reason to make life difficult for everyone around. She doesn’t see that aspect of it, but it’s true non-the-less.
Then we have the infamous M., of whom I’ve written before. M. is tired of all the extra dishes being blamed on her and likewise refuses to do any extra dishes – although she does tend to forget what she has actually used and blame her work on others, particularly L. and C.
C., the first one of us to live here and who thus lays claim (subconsciously or not) to the title of Alpha Bitch, has a good memory as to what she has and has not used for dishes. She rarely is a culprit when it comes to over-flowing counters. She usually has to play the role of dish-Nazi (the one who makes others do their dishes).
J. doesn’t do her dishes upstairs, and so has excluded herself from the System – although when a dish disappears for a month it’s usually because it has been wallowing in her sink downstairs.
R. adheres to the System. She does her dishes with OCD-like attention to detail, and thus avoids the perennial conflict when it comes to arguments of ownership.
I occasionally leave dishes and have been known to forget which ones are mine. However the System is so ingrained in me that when I was home for Christmas I used a plate and then washed it immediately, ignoring the pile of dishes from the previous meal (much to my mother’s irritation. She doesn’t understand the overwhelming influence of the System). I also will wash other people’s dishes if someone else will put them away – I hate putting dishes away but washing them doesn’t bother me. Much.
In this latest uprising of plates and cups half of the house was absent, leaving L. and M. to battle out the ownership issue. I had been observing the dishes and knowing their eating habits, I was pretty sure that they were the result of an even split between the two of them, but neither of them were willing to budge an inch to do any more than what they believed was their responsibility. Fuck, I hate legalism.
I finally got sick of the whole mess and took out my frustration at the breakdown of the System in the most passive-aggressive yet positive way I could. I did all of the fucking dishes and then cleaned the kitchen to boot.
I did receive gratitude in the form of lip-service, but that evening again I witnessed the strict adherence to the System to the exclusion of mercy or grace.
I think I hate the System too.
The problem is that I know that the System works. It isn’t the System that is broken. It’s the understanding of the System. There needs to be a bit of flex room, a place of grace where each member of the house will accept doing a few extra dishes now and then to help out a friend (or to stop an argument that will overflow onto friends – or the floor). There needs to be an understanding that no System works without flexibility to work outside the rules.
I discussed this with R. when she returned from her study break. I got quite worked up about it (the swearing in this post isn’t gratuitous; it accurately reflects my feelings on the subject). R. sensed my pent-up rage and asked me if we needed to have a house meeting. I said I thought it would be okay. I am the queen of taking deep breaths and taking things in stride. I can hold out until the end of term, when M. is leaving and L. will suddenly remember what it means to help out the people around her instead of doing her own fair share and letting everyone else take up the slack.
If this situation rises again before the end of March, though, I’m going to fucking flip out and it won’t be a pretty sight.
I just wish we could all just remember to have some flexibility within our Systems. Maybe then our lives would run a little more smoothly.
At least I’d have to find something else to snap about.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
22 - The Year of the Firsts
I had my birthday this week. I turned 23.
23 feels a lot older than 22. Someone told me it’s because 23 is closer to 25 than to 20. Perhaps that’s why.
I think the reason I feel older is because I am definitely an adult now. There is no way that a 23 year old is not an adult. I have no excuses now for any of my childish behaviour.
Maybe that should make me sad, but instead it makes me stand straighter, smile and look to the future.
After all, you can’t stop getting older. I think you might as well embrace it.
That said I’m not negating the difficulty people have in aging. I am sure that in spite of my best intentions I’ll find some years hard. Which ones I’m not sure of yet. After all, I wouldn’t have thought that turning 20 would be hard but it kind of was.
But whatever. I’ll accept the difficulty and still never lie about my age, no matter how hard I find it to be old. When I am, I mean. I’m still young, so it’s easy to have this ideal, but I am determined to keep it. Not everyone gets to be old, even as old as I am now, and I will not belittle the gift of life by denying how many years I have had it.
This last year has been one full of life, too. I experienced quite a few firsts – first leading role, first degree, first time ASMing, first boyfriend, first kiss, first time falling in love, first time making out, first time getting paid to sing in public, getting my first role in the main season, first close friend getting engaged, first time really fighting with the student loan people, first time getting drunk, first hangover, first laptop (thanks Dad and Mom!), first time acting in a final project, first time traveling overseas, first time seeing London, England and Wales, first time being sniffed down by a drug dog and being randomly checked by airport security people, first time being really, really late with the rent (and tuition…sigh), first play written and read publicly…not all in that order necessarily, but all this year.
I can’t help but be excited about next years firsts…along with continuations of this years discoveries, 23 should be a pretty good year.
23 feels a lot older than 22. Someone told me it’s because 23 is closer to 25 than to 20. Perhaps that’s why.
I think the reason I feel older is because I am definitely an adult now. There is no way that a 23 year old is not an adult. I have no excuses now for any of my childish behaviour.
Maybe that should make me sad, but instead it makes me stand straighter, smile and look to the future.
After all, you can’t stop getting older. I think you might as well embrace it.
That said I’m not negating the difficulty people have in aging. I am sure that in spite of my best intentions I’ll find some years hard. Which ones I’m not sure of yet. After all, I wouldn’t have thought that turning 20 would be hard but it kind of was.
But whatever. I’ll accept the difficulty and still never lie about my age, no matter how hard I find it to be old. When I am, I mean. I’m still young, so it’s easy to have this ideal, but I am determined to keep it. Not everyone gets to be old, even as old as I am now, and I will not belittle the gift of life by denying how many years I have had it.
This last year has been one full of life, too. I experienced quite a few firsts – first leading role, first degree, first time ASMing, first boyfriend, first kiss, first time falling in love, first time making out, first time getting paid to sing in public, getting my first role in the main season, first close friend getting engaged, first time really fighting with the student loan people, first time getting drunk, first hangover, first laptop (thanks Dad and Mom!), first time acting in a final project, first time traveling overseas, first time seeing London, England and Wales, first time being sniffed down by a drug dog and being randomly checked by airport security people, first time being really, really late with the rent (and tuition…sigh), first play written and read publicly…not all in that order necessarily, but all this year.
I can’t help but be excited about next years firsts…along with continuations of this years discoveries, 23 should be a pretty good year.
Friday, February 23, 2007
Five Things You Might Not Know About Me
1. On the side of my Outlook Express account, there is a list of tasks that I make for myself. They range from the dull (Homework) to the bizarre (Be the Broccoli...don't ask) to the sublime (Kiss S.) Upon completion of this post I can tick off the "Meme - Five Things" task that has been there for months, annoying me.
2. I despise honey. I cannot abide the taste, smell, texture or sight of it...ugh. Even thinking about honey can make my stomach turn. I have no reason for this detestation, but it is sincere. S. was quite smug with himself when I ate a meal he had cooked that had a minute amount of honey in it - but I'll get him back someday. He has a bizarre dislike of cinnamon, after all...
3. All of my close friends live in this hamlet. I have no close friends from my childhood unless you count family members. This is something I don't tell people. I am ashamed of this, although it really wasn't my fault...I was a pretty isolated child. Still. It makes me feel like a bizarre aberration of nature.
4. Sunday will be the first day that anything I've written, and finished, will be shared with people that I cannot choose. It scares me and thrills me. It strikes me as strange, thinking about it now, that I have been writing for most of my life and yet haven't shared my writing with more than a handful of people - because I'm afraid, of course. Perhaps that isn't so bizarre after all.
5. A movie has to be really, really terrible for me not to get sucked into the story. Even a terrible movie will keep me enthralled - it's like the screen has a bizarre ability to hypnotize me within thirty seconds. This annoys me, because if a television is turned on I have a very difficult time focusing on the people around me. I would rather put my attention on the people, really - but it is very hard for me to do, and I'm not sure why.
6. I know this is supposed to be five, but yes - I did intentionally use the word bizarre in each one of those points. Ha ha!
2. I despise honey. I cannot abide the taste, smell, texture or sight of it...ugh. Even thinking about honey can make my stomach turn. I have no reason for this detestation, but it is sincere. S. was quite smug with himself when I ate a meal he had cooked that had a minute amount of honey in it - but I'll get him back someday. He has a bizarre dislike of cinnamon, after all...
3. All of my close friends live in this hamlet. I have no close friends from my childhood unless you count family members. This is something I don't tell people. I am ashamed of this, although it really wasn't my fault...I was a pretty isolated child. Still. It makes me feel like a bizarre aberration of nature.
4. Sunday will be the first day that anything I've written, and finished, will be shared with people that I cannot choose. It scares me and thrills me. It strikes me as strange, thinking about it now, that I have been writing for most of my life and yet haven't shared my writing with more than a handful of people - because I'm afraid, of course. Perhaps that isn't so bizarre after all.
5. A movie has to be really, really terrible for me not to get sucked into the story. Even a terrible movie will keep me enthralled - it's like the screen has a bizarre ability to hypnotize me within thirty seconds. This annoys me, because if a television is turned on I have a very difficult time focusing on the people around me. I would rather put my attention on the people, really - but it is very hard for me to do, and I'm not sure why.
6. I know this is supposed to be five, but yes - I did intentionally use the word bizarre in each one of those points. Ha ha!
Thursday, February 22, 2007
Out of the Dust
Years ago, one of my aunts gave me a book called "Out of the Dust" by Karen Hesse. It is a story told in poetry and it is beautiful. I remembered that I loved it but I had forgotten how heartbreaking and perfect it was.
...and didn't notice how lonely she was
until she met Daddy and fell into the
big hurt of his eyes.
This sentence leaped out at me and almost made me cry.
Story really is a vital part of our human experience. I sometimes forget this.
I'm glad there are stories out there to remind me.
...and didn't notice how lonely she was
until she met Daddy and fell into the
big hurt of his eyes.
This sentence leaped out at me and almost made me cry.
Story really is a vital part of our human experience. I sometimes forget this.
I'm glad there are stories out there to remind me.
Saturday, February 17, 2007
I'm back...
...and extremely jet-lagged.
But London was fun - if filled with smog that turned your nostrils grey after a day of sight-seeing (although that could have been all of the second-hand smoke...almost everyone there smoked but that could have been to protect themselves from the smog...it's a vicious circle).
I'll write all about it when I get my brain back from whatever magical land brains go to when they travel across time-zones.
But I would like to say that making me change to Beta when I'm so incoherent is extremely unjust.
At least I think that it is.
But London was fun - if filled with smog that turned your nostrils grey after a day of sight-seeing (although that could have been all of the second-hand smoke...almost everyone there smoked but that could have been to protect themselves from the smog...it's a vicious circle).
I'll write all about it when I get my brain back from whatever magical land brains go to when they travel across time-zones.
But I would like to say that making me change to Beta when I'm so incoherent is extremely unjust.
At least I think that it is.
Thursday, February 01, 2007
An Observation
People are incapable of stability.
Waiting for them to achieve stability is an exercise in futility.
Waiting for them to achieve stability is an exercise in futility.
Up, up and away!
This time Saturday I'll be flying to London.
I probably won't post much (if anything at all) while I'm over there...but I'll be back - and jet-lagged - on the 17th, so you'll hear from me for sure by the 21st (which is when I imagine my brain will be functioning again).
Pray for safety for me and my classmates. This is a school trip. Almost everyone who is important to me (outside of my family) is going to be along, which is cool.
I suppose along with a prayer for safety for me, you could add a prayer for peace of mind for my mother.
I probably won't post much (if anything at all) while I'm over there...but I'll be back - and jet-lagged - on the 17th, so you'll hear from me for sure by the 21st (which is when I imagine my brain will be functioning again).
Pray for safety for me and my classmates. This is a school trip. Almost everyone who is important to me (outside of my family) is going to be along, which is cool.
I suppose along with a prayer for safety for me, you could add a prayer for peace of mind for my mother.
Monday, January 22, 2007
I am here...
Life feels like a big question. I’d like to know where the answers are but I suspect they lie at the end of the journey. I’m not ready to be at the end, so I guess I’ll find them like every other mortal – by living my life and making my mistakes – but that seems so hard right now.
I find myself writing "Rebecca was here [insert date here] and she was [insert emotional state here]" on walls, on floors, on pieces of set around the town. I don't know why, but it helps somehow.
S. shaved his head last night. I like it a lot…he’s even more distracting than he was before. I love it when you rub someone’s head and it feels like it’s covered in velvet. Plus it looks really good. Mmmm…
I’m listening to music on an iPod, which is a new experience. I’ve been instructed in the use of the little thing, which is a wonder to me. Five buttons and a little dial and that’s all you need to listen to hundreds and hundreds of songs. Weird. It’s S.’s iPod so it’s all his music. It is both educational and interesting to listen to and see where our tastes meld and where they take sharp departures.
I should be working right now – but I thought I should also put something on here to let myself know that I’m still alive and capable of creating something independent of school work, even if it’s small.
That feels like an answer. An answer I needed.
Rebecca was here January 22nd 2007, and she was comforted.
That's enough for now.
I find myself writing "Rebecca was here [insert date here] and she was [insert emotional state here]" on walls, on floors, on pieces of set around the town. I don't know why, but it helps somehow.
S. shaved his head last night. I like it a lot…he’s even more distracting than he was before. I love it when you rub someone’s head and it feels like it’s covered in velvet. Plus it looks really good. Mmmm…
I’m listening to music on an iPod, which is a new experience. I’ve been instructed in the use of the little thing, which is a wonder to me. Five buttons and a little dial and that’s all you need to listen to hundreds and hundreds of songs. Weird. It’s S.’s iPod so it’s all his music. It is both educational and interesting to listen to and see where our tastes meld and where they take sharp departures.
I should be working right now – but I thought I should also put something on here to let myself know that I’m still alive and capable of creating something independent of school work, even if it’s small.
That feels like an answer. An answer I needed.
Rebecca was here January 22nd 2007, and she was comforted.
That's enough for now.
Friday, January 19, 2007
Brighter days
I'm not feeling quite so overwhelmed now. I still don't have time to write more than a paragraph, but at least my soul doesn't feel like it wants to escape my body anymore...and I don't feel as stressed out...
Tuesday, January 16, 2007
Ashes
I feel like I am holding a monster at bay with a crucifix that I have only just realized is made of popsicle sticks.
Eventually the monster will realize I have no real power backing me up...
Eventually the monster will realize I have no real power backing me up...
Monday, January 15, 2007
Wednesday, January 03, 2007
Random Thoughts for the New Year
My youngest brother broke up with his girlfriend last night.
This time I think it might stick.
This is a first for our family, which continues youngest brother’s fine tradition of being the first one of us to do anything. It’s a little embarrassing as the oldest to have him constantly beat me to the finish with things, but then again there are some things I’m perfectly happy to watch someone else do them first so I can learn from their mistakes, or, even better, simply avoid doing completely.
I saw them together a few times over the holidays and they seemed okay but I knew from talking to him that things were pretty rocky. I’m not surprised they broke up, although I’m a little surprised that he did the breaking.
xxxx
My holidays have been pretty eventful, I suppose. I didn’t do a lot. I stayed at home for the most part, used the computer, burned myself some CD’s…did a bit of shopping and spent some time with family members…went to two family gatherings…went for a very long walk by myself…talked to S. on the phone…wrote…memorized lines…realized that I haven’t done any of my Faith and Art homework (sorry, Steve)…and I learned a lot about myself. Things I can honestly say I didn’t learn willingly. I’m egocentric and arrogant. I’m wilful and territorial. I also have a healthy dose of aggression.
I also came to the conclusion that two adult women who are related should never share a house for more than a week, and that if anyone uses the phrase ‘co-dependant’ around me again I may very well unleash some of my aggression on them. But both my mother and I are still alive so I would say the holidays were a success.
I think I can safely say that I have never been such a pain in the ass as I’ve been these holidays. I’ve been argumentative and in such weird moods. Even I don’t know why. I think it is a good thing that I’m going back to my own little village tomorrow – as much as my mother might miss me, she’ll be glad to have a break from me for a while.
xxxx
I bought a laptop in December. It was supposed to be here by now but Purolator lost it somewhere, so now Dell is looking for it. If they can’t find it (and I’m not sure how they will if the Purolator people can’t) then they are going to build me another one. I’m very impressed with Dell – not very impressed with Purolator. At least I’m still getting the computer, even if it will arrive two weeks later than it was supposed to.
xxxx
My cat has vanished again. When it gets cold he goes to his second family for better treatment, which I understand but it does mean that I don’t see him for months on end. He hasn’t shown his whiskery face the entire time I’ve been home. Instead, Mack (an orange stray) has been sunning himself on the deck. Emma, my dog, has been here and happy to see me. S. sincerely prefers cats to dogs – he thinks that dogs are useless – but Emma was here when Felix abandoned me for creature comforts.
I’ve been considering getting a kitten, and now I won’t feel like I’m betraying Felix quite so badly.
This time I think it might stick.
This is a first for our family, which continues youngest brother’s fine tradition of being the first one of us to do anything. It’s a little embarrassing as the oldest to have him constantly beat me to the finish with things, but then again there are some things I’m perfectly happy to watch someone else do them first so I can learn from their mistakes, or, even better, simply avoid doing completely.
I saw them together a few times over the holidays and they seemed okay but I knew from talking to him that things were pretty rocky. I’m not surprised they broke up, although I’m a little surprised that he did the breaking.
xxxx
My holidays have been pretty eventful, I suppose. I didn’t do a lot. I stayed at home for the most part, used the computer, burned myself some CD’s…did a bit of shopping and spent some time with family members…went to two family gatherings…went for a very long walk by myself…talked to S. on the phone…wrote…memorized lines…realized that I haven’t done any of my Faith and Art homework (sorry, Steve)…and I learned a lot about myself. Things I can honestly say I didn’t learn willingly. I’m egocentric and arrogant. I’m wilful and territorial. I also have a healthy dose of aggression.
I also came to the conclusion that two adult women who are related should never share a house for more than a week, and that if anyone uses the phrase ‘co-dependant’ around me again I may very well unleash some of my aggression on them. But both my mother and I are still alive so I would say the holidays were a success.
I think I can safely say that I have never been such a pain in the ass as I’ve been these holidays. I’ve been argumentative and in such weird moods. Even I don’t know why. I think it is a good thing that I’m going back to my own little village tomorrow – as much as my mother might miss me, she’ll be glad to have a break from me for a while.
xxxx
I bought a laptop in December. It was supposed to be here by now but Purolator lost it somewhere, so now Dell is looking for it. If they can’t find it (and I’m not sure how they will if the Purolator people can’t) then they are going to build me another one. I’m very impressed with Dell – not very impressed with Purolator. At least I’m still getting the computer, even if it will arrive two weeks later than it was supposed to.
xxxx
My cat has vanished again. When it gets cold he goes to his second family for better treatment, which I understand but it does mean that I don’t see him for months on end. He hasn’t shown his whiskery face the entire time I’ve been home. Instead, Mack (an orange stray) has been sunning himself on the deck. Emma, my dog, has been here and happy to see me. S. sincerely prefers cats to dogs – he thinks that dogs are useless – but Emma was here when Felix abandoned me for creature comforts.
I’ve been considering getting a kitten, and now I won’t feel like I’m betraying Felix quite so badly.
Monday, January 01, 2007
Interesting, for a non-morning person...
"You are Sunrise"
You enjoy living a slow, fulfilling life. You enjoy living every moment, no matter how ordinary.You are a person of reflection and meditation. You start and end every day by looking inward. Caring and giving, you enjoy making people happy. You're often cooking for friends or buying them gifts.All in all, you know how to love life for what it is - not for how it should be.
http://blogthings.com/whattimeofdayareyouquiz/ is where I got this particular quiz. Thanks, troll.
You enjoy living a slow, fulfilling life. You enjoy living every moment, no matter how ordinary.You are a person of reflection and meditation. You start and end every day by looking inward. Caring and giving, you enjoy making people happy. You're often cooking for friends or buying them gifts.All in all, you know how to love life for what it is - not for how it should be.
http://blogthings.com/whattimeofdayareyouquiz/ is where I got this particular quiz. Thanks, troll.
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