There is sap on my hands.

I have to bring in two dozen cookies for Leadership on Wednesday. My brother needs to bring in two dozen cookies for Tuesday, and my sister needs some for Wednesday as well. This afternoon, my mother went all out, and tried to bake about a thousand of them. She faced a few setbacks.

My mother doesn't like it when we bother her when she's trying to create. She's a chemist and an artist at heart, despite her profession, and cooking becomes an act of deep concentration. Only after my brother and sister had been banished (she was somewhat less successful with myself, and was forced to listen to various tirades as she beat eggs and whipped butter with an almost feverish enthusiasm) did she begin to bake. Out came the recipes, the ingredients, the wooden spoons. Out came the flour and the baking soda.

Crash. Half an hour later, down came the Christmas tree.

My father and I spent an hour taking turns holding on to the trunk of the massive vegetable and stripping it of its numerous entangled garlands, while my mother ran around the kitchen and my sister, who was probably a large factor in the disaster of chipped ornaments, slunk into a corner. Fortunately, none of our favourite decorations suffered more than a crack here and there.

As I stood in the living room, fighting to keep the large conifer standing, I thought about other Christmas trees I had known.

I wish I had known my grandfather better. He became sick when I was young, and most of my memories of him after the age of four revolve around a succession of nursing homes and hospitals. One of my best and only Christmas with Grandpa memories is the silver tree. It was my favourite job, and while other people would go around the house hanging little springs of false misteltoe and of holly cut from Aunt Margie's backyard, my grandfather and I would retire to the den to assemble it.

The silver tree was very old, one of those artificial trees where each branch comes out of a tube made of brown paper. Each year at Christmas we would carefully pull each branch out of its tube, relishing the swish as each branch unfolded in the light, like a sword being drawn from its sheath. After Christmas had gone by, we would take the branches out of the holes down the side and gently replace them in the ancient box that we kept in the garage with that of the full-size tree.

My grandfather and I would work in an easy silence. He was patient, but he never condescended to my level; he expected a job well done, and I would try my hardest to please him. When the tree had finally taken form and he had place the final branch on top, we would bring out the boxes of decorations. The silver tree had its own ornaments, mostly smaller versions of the ancient ones that went on the large tree year after year. Some of them were faded with age, and most of them were very fragile, shattering at a touch.

The silver tree was very old, and every year just as beautiful. When I go to my grandmother's condo in White Rock this year, when I walk through the wide door into the white-carpeted, modern, and wheelchair-accessible apartment, I know the silver tree will be there on the coffee table from the old house, resplendent in a glory that can only be augmented by age.

Having somewhat righted the tree (and sawed a foot off the bottom), my father and I headed into the kitchen to hassle my mother. I tasted one of her concoctions, a chocolate-chip variety.

"Are you sure you put sugar in these, Mom?"
"Yes, I'm sure. I put everything the recipe called for! I just don't know why they're so crumbly and hard."
"Are you sure you put sugar in these, Mom?"
"Yes, I put sugar in them. I put everything the...uh, wait a minute."

They aren't bad, but I don't think I'll be bringing those in on Wednesday. Maybe I should make something with coconut.

Daze.

Begin again.

If anyone was walking in the park on Benny last night and saw a group of about ten teenagers huddled around a couple of lighters, it isn't difficult to imagine what they would have imagined. I'm going to make a huge assumption and say that they would probably have been wrong. We spent last night running around in the mud in the park on Benny with birthday cake sparklers, throwing them to each other through the air, watching them fly like fireworks, breathing smoke into the air on what I know I will remember as the last night before winter.

Scream thine joy unto the heavens.

So much for studying passe simple.

There was a blackout a few days ago. I remember thinking how neat it was to go to bed, unwashed and tired, blow out the candle, and snuggle into a ball, shunning the cold. It's not cool to be cold anymore. My little heater (the central heating ie radiator doesn't work in the attic) started emitting a bizarre and rank odour yesterday, and I didn't want to set the carpet on fire, so I tried to sleep without it. At about one in the morning, I traipsed downstairs to sleep for about three hours on top of the innumerable stuffed animals crowding my old bunk bed.

head. aches.

Surprisingly enough....

Aurora MacCallum

Extremely Insane

Extremely Insane

Not Fit for Society

Extremely Insane

Click Here to Find Out YOUR Psychiatric Evaluation at QuizGalaxy.com

Montreal is one small world.

I'm in guitar, just about to leave, and Neil's rummaging through his boxes to find his binder. Every time I have a lesson, he finds the binder, flips through until he finds my page, opens the rings, removes the paper, sticks it on his clipboard, and hands it to me to sign. Today, as he opens the binder, I catch a glimpse of the name on the very first page.

"Holy obscenity, Josh Harris?"

I went to elementary with this kid, or rather to a year and a half of elementary with this kid. I haven't seen him for over two years. That brings the total number of people I know who have been taught by my guitar teacher up somewhere around...what, seven?

Smooth it over and smile outside.

I feel like writing a blog.

I am extremely impulsive.

I've only just written the opening sentence and already I sense a slight tremor as some of you shake your heads, disagreeing. I understand why, too. I'm guessing that what ran through your head a moment ago was something along these lines:

impulsive=reckless≠girl who gets excited about shrimp

I am actually surprisingly reckless, but impulsive and reckless are not the same thing. I am impulsive. I do things when they come into my head, without bothering to think them over. I don't research, I don't wait, and I am known for making terrible mistakes (I usually recover from my stupid mistakes in Chess, but I am considerably less adept at Risk).

Example? Skiing. You do not want to watch me ski. My technique is terrible and my vision usually somewhat impaired by gear, but I bomb down those slopes and cut in front of everyone like the worst driver ever observed on our beautiful Canadian highways.

Example? Multiple-choice tests. "Ooh, well, I don't really know what the answer here is. I think I'll put B and forget about it." Note to self: It isn't always B.

Example? Don't stand near me when I get a distant look in my eye. Isabelle got winded yesterday.

Example? I hate it when teachers make you draw up a plan before they let you write a story. I really hate that. I like so much better to just pick up a pen and wait.

Example? My mom and dad brought home a dresser for me, but because they're pretty busy it just sat there for awhile. One day when I had far too much to do, I looked at the pieces on my floor and thought, I'm gonna put it together today. That's what I did.

Look, I could go on, but you really get the idea, and I have a sudden urge to go play Beethoven on the piano anyway.

I've completely lost track of time.

And the worst part is that I know it's actually really good writing.

Guys, guys. Wanna read the first sentence from my french book?

Antonine Maillet -- Pierre Bleu

Si le Grand-Petit-Havre n'avait pas traîné au lit, en ce matin de Noël de la deuxième motié du XIXe siècle, à cuver ses restes de réveillon et de songes effilochés... des songes d'impossibles messes de minuit, comme dans le temps, ou comme s'en pavanaient deux ou trois paroisses voisines avec leurs clochers qui se miraient dans la baie, si le Grand-Petit-Havre n'avait pas boudé le ciel et l'enfer et crié tout bas des injures à Celui qui tire les cordes du Destin, il aurait pu suivre l'enfant qui mettait ses pas dans les pistes du renard.

Do you know what this sentence means to me? I looked up eight words in one sentence. I looked up words in the definitions of those eight words. I still don't understand more than half of it. Do you know what this sentence means to me? It means nearly three hundred pages of looking up definitions of definitions.

Gahhh.

Happy birthday, Anneanne.

Three good things that happened today:

1. Volleyball.
Co-ed gym can be fun, and today was strangely so much fun that I stayed after class to show off my extreme lack of skills in the v-ball department.

2. I made Senior for the Quebec Provincial Honour Band.
I don't really know how this happened, because she was only going to nominate honour band members for senior. Maybe someone dropped out. Anyway, I'm pleased.

3. Late, drenched, frozen, and dirty, I threw open my front door, ran into my kitchen where my grandparents were, and screamed, "WELCOME TO MONTREAL!"

It's a shrink thing. Think of three good things that happened to you during the day before you go to sleep. I don't know if it's working wonders or if it's not related to my inexhaustably good mood for the past three days.

The most effective way to destroy your own hatelisting: join.

Large Y loops are linked with large imaginations.

"I'm trying to be human here."

-Shotty

If you never had to copy off me, you might have expected me to have neat handwriting. You might have expected me to have small, streamlined writing, omitting some letters, virtual shorthand -- the writing of a busy intellectual. Or you might have pictured middle-sized, perfectly straight, somewhat loopy letters that fit perfectly between the lines -- clearly an honour roll student.

Then you probably tried to borrow my biology homework. You very quickly regretted this action, because you could not make out anything past the date at the top right corner of the paper. My handwriting is not straight up and down, it is not streamlined, and it certainly does not fit between the lines. It is very, very angular, and it is incredibly messy.

On a single sheet of paper, one letter may vary in shape and size many times (I have particular trouble with m's, tending to add surplus bumps). I also have a certain penchant for writing directly over the lines, so that I take two spaces to write one line. Yet I don't really like to waste paper, so when I come to the end of the line with a long word, I do not divide it with a hyphen -- I cram it in at the end, usually distorting the shapes of the individual letters to the point when it is no longer discernable as one word.

I take notes with alarming speed and apparent efficiency. However, I alone am capable of deciphering my scrawl. Letters jostle each other, battling for space. Slowly the paragraphs begin to creep to the sides of the paper, sliding off the lines and forming a tangled mass on the ground. Lines, appearing to divide sections but in reality merely cluttering what remains of the paper, are present in abundance. I cross sections out, I insert entire chapters by means of the margins. And all this has much improved since Grade Seven.

I have begun to practice writing with my left hand, because I figure it won't be any worse. (Ambidextricity, if that is a word, runs in the family. I suppose that's another post though. Things that Run in My Family...besides being born in the wrong generation of course....) My writing is very distinctive, so don't ask me to forge something for you (Kaj).

This belief that what one thinks about one's handwriting is the equivalent of one's perception of oneself/one's looks is what baffles me. What would that make me? Widely detested? Sharp? Impossible to read?

I had a dream last night.

I really like these socks, you know.

Like snowflakes, we are each different, but we start out the same, tend to avoid standing alone, and all wind up melting on the ground anyway.

Five and a half hours.

My family went for dinner tonight with Vivian's family, as we often do. Vivian is one of our few friends, her office being beside mom's at the Saint-Mary's (they compose the entire force of cardiologists with offices at the Saint-Mary's). We went to Oggi, which is a great place, comparable with the restaurants we discovered in Florence and Venice. The food is great and the decor certainly memorable -- while the curtains, as I attempted to explain to Dad, didn't remind me of anything, they were certainly of the kind that could remind you of something.

When we met up with Vivian and her two little sons, I remember looking at her and thinking, I wonder if Vivian's going to have another kid. My idea wasn't actually that distinct, more of a Vivan-pregnant-hmmm, but it can be difficult to explain thoughts -- and some more than others. Because sure enough, halfway through dinner Mom turns to Dad and tells him that there's going to be a disruption in the cardiology schedule next summer.

Something pretty important has occurred to me. I used to believe that social people who were well-liked all had a projected image, and that nearly any interaction between two people was impaired by the image clash. I don't think that you have to invent yourself. I think there is a way to be at ease with the world without bothering to create a personality. This is kind of an optimist perspective, but I think I'll deal.

More and more I begin to understand that truth exists, and that everyone is capable of achieving it. Disputes over truth, while one of the leading causes of violence in our history, are against the nature of truth, for obviously each person perceives truth, if they do so at all, in a different way.

Oggi means today, but I am really taken with tomorrow.

Five hours.

Hunter's moon.

Everyone dreams of escaping. Everyone constantly wants an easy way out, a way to begin anew. Everyone wants to instantly attain hope and resolve.

Life's already begun. It started a long time ago, so long ago you do not understand that memory can have existed. Life has begun, and it is not about to do it again for you.

There is no easy way out. There is one very difficult way forward.

I'm sorry. I haven't slept more than five hours in the past two days, and this sort of made sense to me when I was typing.

Why Joseph is awesome.

Today I missed out on free vinyl cafe tickets. Tomorrow I'm going to switch guitar with my father and skip school to study math. I mean. Just joking. Right.

I'm beginning to clear up my room. It's been a long, slow process. I also went to badminton, which leaves very little time for math and blogging. However, I have a new notebook to replace my Drug Awareness one, and I'll probably be posting bits and pieces from there now and then. I was going to do that today but I left it in my locker.

Because how many people do you know who have the guts to start piano at fourteen? That's why.

Please don't stand so close.

There's something so very inspiring about the dark. Everyone is confident in the dark. You could be anyone in the dark, and anything could happen. Because darkness is both now and eternal. In the dark, you live for the moment, and you live forever.

Putting together a dresser has led me to understand (a) how much my hands shake and (b) how filthy my floor is.

Imagine how he felt when he lifted off the ground.

Being born in the wrong decade runs in the family.

Neil had a great, great analogy today. We were talking about how people become extremely polarized by something as simple and trivial as musical preferences. He didn't think that it was anything worth arguing about.

"It's like, if we were getting ice cream, and I said to you, 'I don't like vanilla.' You wouldn't be offended because I don't like vanilla ice cream, would you? You just like vanilla and I just like chocolate. There's no explanation for why I like something you might not."

I have often, as has Ariel and perhaps everyone reading this, wished I was born earlier. The world of our generation is -- in my opinion -- not only lousy but pretty boring. Turns out I'm not the only one, even in my family.

My father shrugs, almost mournfully. "I should have been born in the nineteenth century," he jokes. "I would have been normal."

My mother nods her head. Having been an only child for ten years and skipped two grades of school, she has always lived among people who are older than she has. "I should have been born earlier -- a decade, a century."

I'm not sure what they mean. From my perspective, the world of their youth is the ideal. Perhaps it was the same with their parents.

I've been spending more time talking with my parents of late. Maybe I'm avoiding the work that's piling up in the background, or maybe I've just realised how alike we are.

And Ariel: Happy perfect birthday.

REPEAT FROM SECOND POST EVER WRITTEN: I'm not depressed, I'm just pessimistic.

Merely Scratching the Dawn

Jocelyne, Kelsey has pointed out, likes musicians who are shy, addicted to drugs, and record mostly on their own. After watching far too many Goldberg Variations clips on YouTube, I have come across my defining preferences: passionate about their music and slightly out of touch with reality.

Although soaking one's hands in hot water before playing is a pretty good idea when my cold living room is involved.

...There I am.

Look what I found on my computer.

Cold. She gripped the object clasped within her fingers tightly, as if that action would alleviate the burning of frost on her lips and the stiffening of her limbs. She rose from her seat on the edge of the deserted square and moved to stand beside the broken fountain in the middle.

Her eyelashes scintillated with what could have been the remains of tears. In fact, a light snowfall that had never reached the ground had dusted her shoulders and face, a memory of angel breath sparkling in her long hair.

The air was utterly still, as though the world around her had shivered and died. The flowers strewn over the ground seemed to be left over from a celebration centuries before. There was no sound, no howl of wolf in the distance or scuttle of leaves across the paving stones.

She suddenly felt a wave of dizziness, and slid to the floor with a sharp intake of breath; nausea, acute pain, stars dancing before her eyes. She hovered for a while on the verge of consciousness, images parading through her mind.

She had been spared. She did not know what she would do, left to continue her people’s work on her own. She did not know how much longer she would live.

As the girl on the ground lapsed into deep slumber, the shadow in the air lifted and turned away.

Power. Sheer, pure power. And for what would you sacrifice it?

Centuries pass

We are the dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders Fields.

Every time I hear that stanza, I shall be reminded of the part in Nineteen Eighty-Four when Winston and Julia are standing looking out the window of their hiding place, talking quietly about their plans to oppose society.

“We are the dead,” he said.
“We are the dead,” echoed Julia dutifully.
“You are the dead,” said an iron voice behind them.

It’s hard to argue that the soldiers in Flanders Fields are the dead, but we all are really.

What I really want to know is, did all those people who went off and died for the children they would never meet truly believe that their selfless acts would have any impact on the progress of humanity? Did they believe that if the great war was won, we would learn from our mistakes so that future generations would not have to die in the same manner?

Because humanity never learns, I can only assume that they would not have believed their war to actually be the one to end them all. Perhaps they still had some hope that it would not happen again, but given our history this appears to be nothing more than a blindly optimistic daydream.

So why did they do it? Why bother to go off and fight, when you know it won’t make a difference and you’ll probably lose your own precious life in doing so? Why, when you know that your family and friends and all for whom you care are all, eventually, going to stop breathing anyway?

War is hardly going to end. I do not believe that we learn from our mistakes that quickly. I do not believe that incredible massacres will not happen again -- they happen as I type. Yet I do posess a very faint hope for humanity, and this is why: if the same species that invented the atomic bomb, that kills its own kind and other kinds, that has destroyed much of the planet and is working on what remains...if members of this same species will go to die for another, though they know their actions are futile...if they will go to die for another solely because they believe in their heart that they could not have done otherwise...if this can happen, there must be a chance, however small, that this species will recover.

The chance, of course, is very small. After all, this act we consider noble consists of running off to kill other people.

Took some pictures in an odd place today.

I wanna be a STAR.

How many generations does it take to catch on?

My mother and I were sitting in the car, driving home.

"My father used to write," she said. "I didn't know it for a long time, but he used to be good at it. I'm going to tell you what he told me once when I was around your age. He said, 'You know, I was good at writing once, but I stopped...started working...and I want to tell you not to make the same mistake. You have a real talent: don't stop using it.' "

She eased the car onto our street, staring ahead into the rain.

"But you did make the same mistake," I said.

"Well, I'm telling you, aren't I?"

There is an art to giving in.

Improvising is one of the hardest things in the world.

You know, I've figured out why they started selling poppies so early. It's so that people will buy more when they lose the first batch.

No posts in awhile. Not looking great for the future either. Again.

Halloween in Montreal West

What do I love most about Halloween? The frivolity of the secular no-strings-attached holiday? The candy? The sentiments of charity and plenty?

What I love the most about Halloween is how it helps me to see my neighbourhood in a different light. An orange rainy-autumn-evening light. The houses are all lit up, people are smiling...it's like Christmas, only instead of being at home with their family everyone has taken to the streets. And in Montreal West, there are a LOT of people on the streets, because over half the people living here have small children.

Today, I can say without fear of inaccuracy, was the best Halloween I have ever spent. Better than that Halloween when Jenna and I were small and we went through two haunted houses in one night. Better than last year, which I spent dancing in the rain.

Jocelyne and Alicia came home with me. We didn't know where everyone else was, and we wanted to do something, so we walked around in the beautiful, beautiful evening rain and went to the park, where I spent a long time on the swings. (Typical). Now, just hanging with them would have so made my evening, listening to them sing and squeal (Jocelyne does a mean Guinea Pig imitation), especially since Alicia played guitar for me. There is more.

After they left, I decided to go bother Jenna. We spent an entertaining half-hour-plus walking between our houses (we ran into Weiner actually), which would also have made the evening on its own. Then I went and told Tal's parents to wish her happy birthday for me.

Tal lives across the street from me. She's a day younger than Jenna, but skipped Kindergarten. We were always together when we were younger, even though we were as different as could be imagined, but since I started at Royal West we have been seeing less and less of one another. I haven't spoken to her in about half a year.

On Halloween, you love the world and the people around you. You love the world, and you feel that the world loves you. For a brief period of time, before we must assume once more our starched uniforms. Tomorrow we have to tuck in our shirts again.

PS. I carved a soccer ball pumpkin this year!

I have a great store of advice on topics about which I know nothing.

Aaah, it burns.

Just make it all go away.

you the ghost
waiting outside my pitter patter pitter patter rain rain rain can't sleep rain rain rain
pounding against my window you
spoke again or so
I believed

You know what I like doing? I like raking leaves. I rake them into a pile, then I spread them over the lawn and rake them again. Does wonders for the grass, I'm sure.

I am SO not above ranting.

I shall now attempt to tackle yet another one of those topics that polarizes and upsets people. Especially me. It's another of my minor quibbles with an overused word, a quibble that has been blown way out of proportion by a mind lusting for appreciation (my own).

Pretentious.

In a world where everything and everyone is BLACKANDWHITEONEORTHEOTHER, we seem to be very often faced with two unappealing choices of adjectives, and very little hope of achieving an equilibrium between the opposites. These adjectives are then embossed on our foreheads, a permanent trademark astonishing in its restricting capabilities.

Loud or quiet. Nerdy or stupid. Leftist or outdated. Do you conform, or do you rebel? What would so and so do in such situtation? Superficial and brief analyses of character that mean more than truth. I am no less guilty of this than anyone else, but I resent the fact that I cannot break away. I resent the fact that, despite our desire for rebellion, we find it so difficult to be original.

Original. What does that mean? Creative. Innovative. Says and does things others have not thought of. Fun to be around. Will go down in history in some way. Inspiring. Unusual. Strange. Weird. Difficult to understand at times. Sees things a different way. Bold. Adventurous. Interesting.

It's more than this, though. I view true originality as a near-unattainable dream, a hope of somehow becoming more than a combination of genetics, instinct, and society. And it is near-unattainable in part because it does not exist among the BLACKANDWHITE adjectives. Instead, everyone seems to be either unoriginal (images of androids marching perfectly in step spring to mind) or pretentious.

According to the dictionary, pretentious describes someone "characterized by assumption of dignity or importance", "claiming or demanding a position of distinction or merit, especially when unjustified." Well, I'm sure this post could be considered pretentious. I'm sorry about that, guys, because I don't want it to be. I'm certainly not trying to assume an air of superiority.

But leaving my snobbish blog aside, have you noticed how often original or beautiful is substituted by pretentious? Think of music. (Simon and Garfunkel: assumption of dignity and importance or just really pretty?) Think of paintings and art. (No examples necessary.)

We're destroying our concept of originality by adding a negative connotation, linking it to this terrible word. How long before we are afraid to be original?

Birthday in a month

My mum bought some Wensleydale cheese with blueberries in it, and it was so not good. She also however bought almond butter and pineapple slices so guess what I'm having for lunch tomorrow.

I am also starting photography.

Nothing to say, again.

Translation: I like going really really fast.

My mom said something last night that made me feel incredibly happy.

"You should join track. You'd be good at it."

It is very rare that someone tells me I am good at any sport. For the most part, no one even bothers lying to make me feel better, because they know I'll see through it. I am not athletic. Point final, end of story. I enjoy sports, but no one picks me first for their team, and I can't blame them.

Maybe the reason I hated being called a nerd was because it was so close to the truth. (If nerds are people who like LOTR and prog rock and suck at basketball, count me in. Hey, I've even played Pac-Man!) But I'm getting off-topic again and should probably give some examples to illustrate my lack of athletic ability.

I love swimming (the water is the only place I could ever possibly be called graceful), but I'm slow. I love soccer, but I have no aim. I like volleyball and tennis, but my utter lack of ability has often forced me to seek out a court where I'm not always the worst one (anyone for badminton?). I have no endurance, for which Kelsey is probably deeply shamed on my behalf. I certainly can't dance -- it is impossible for me to walk down the third floor hallway without stepping on/running into/tripping over someone.

But sprinting, like biking and skiing, involves a sudden burst of immense speed and a short length of time. This I might be able to do. I wouldn't be the best, but I dare to dream that I would not be the worst.

It might have to wait for now, though. It snowed again last night, and I have never been this excited to get on the slopes.

It's too bad my priorities and my obligations contradict one another.

Now I'm going to pick raspberries.

It is snowing.

How awesome is that?

Should this be forgotten?

Here's an ethical dilemna.

If you were a doctor, and the man who was just brought into the hospital was a psychologist who had just killed his wife and daughters and attempted suicide...

Would you try to help him?

You probably would. You probably would help him, but I doubt you could feel like you had accomplished anything, that you had done something right.

Maybe you had some run-ins with the man in the past. Maybe you knew people who had been his patients. And now he's yours, and the autopsy of the three people he has shot has not even been completed yet.

Or maybe you aren't the doctor. Maybe you're a neighbour. A friend of the family, you have always regarded them as nice people -- hardworking, funny, easygoing. The two parents obviously loved their children and wanted to give them the best they possibly could. Then one day you check your inbox, and notice a message from the father. You scroll down and click on it, and what you read next will forever change your perception of the world.

There's one problem with my analogies. Even though I have mentioned certain elements that instantly make you think of one case in particular, I'm still not being specific enough. Because this happens. It happens every day, all over our poor, wayward world. It happens without anticipation, without justification. It happens, and it cuts those connected deeply. It happens, and it is forgotten without being understood.

So it happens again.

I have never cried when a person died. But I should be crying. I should be weeping, bowed over with grief and with desperation. I should weep, and then I should straighten up and be strong, and instead of crying I should go into the world and try, try to end evil, so that we should have fewer reasons to cry. I would not succeed, which might be a good thing. Yet I know that if I am to look back on life and think that I have done something right, I must find a way to fight.

The man in the hospital. Do we give him a second chance? Would giving him a second chance put others at risk? Does he want a second chance?

Lord, have mercy.

Why Leadership doesn't come first.

"It must be a camel."
"What?"
"You know. A camel."
"A camel?"
"Yeah, a camel. You know, in the desert...." (takes huge bite of sandwich)

(Me talking with Neil. I don't think you have to ask which one is Neil.)

Life -- looking slightly better. Today three fourths of the guitar lesson was us improvising on the chord Neil uses to tune. He was tuning, he played something, I said, "What's that?"

The beauty of dreams lies in their inability to transpose into "reality."

Not really a post, so much as a thought.

Today I had the most incredibly bad TUESDAYISH day ever. I mean, it was but for a few exceptions unspeakably bad.

What follows is one of those few exceptions.

I was walking home in the rain, all but completely soaked, still a block from my house, when this guy got out of his car or something and crossed the street.

"You want an umbrella?" he said, extending a black folded specimen.

"Nah, I'm good," I answered. Smiling.

"You sure?"

"Yeah."

He walked back to his car. I walked home.

Yeah, but I got first clarinet.

Computers class.

It was my fault, really.

I remember how I phrased the question. "Would you like us," I inquired, "to include the total discount as well?"

She paused for a moment. Well, actually, that's a lie.

"No, you don't have to. Well, actually maybe it would be nice, for presentation's sake. Yeah, maybe. You know, that reminds me of the time I had one of those scratch and save coupons, and I scratched it and I got five dollars off...."

(Some time later.)

"So I got the toaster for seventeen dollars off, it was one of those nice retro toasters. For awhile, all the toasters were ugly, so we just held onto our old one, which wasn't very nice, but now we have this new retro toaster that I got seventeen dollars off, and it really toasts so well."

Yep, that's Ms Shottenfeld.

Wish for a dream?

Lies. (sarcasm enclosed)

I'm tired. I'm tired of everyone lying, all the time. I'm tired of no one knowing what the truth is. Yet I don't know if I'm capable of hearing the truth.

Consider this. Most people are not going to tell their friend that they suck at what they like doing. I don't really see anyone coming up to me tomorrow and saying, "Fred you're so self-obsessed and you can't write, you really can't. You should also give up guitar now."

If someone told me the truth -- pure, brutal -- would I actually be happy? I speak not only of someone not telling me a white lie or being honest without reservation like Alec, although that does play a part -- I wouldn't like being told I need to shower more often. No, I'm going on one of my everything tangents. Hang on tight.

The problem is our apparent lack of concern for anything other than the mundane and the unimportant. The problem is that we are constantly lying to ourselves, telling ourselves to focus on the book report due in a week rather than the future of society or the critical state of affairs in corners of the world. If we lost this grey mass of illusion with which we swathe our souls, if our deceptions disintegrated and we were left standing free and naked, what then? Would we be better people, or would we just be very very lost?

It takes strength to perceive. It takes strength to see beyond surfaces, because simplification is the focus of humanity. So what if we exist in a world we don't understand, faced with an end we cannot halt, uncertain of any meaning in our actions? Narrow your horizons a little, my dear, and you'll be able to see what wonderful advances science has made. After all, where would we be without the toaster oven?

Clothe yourself in delusion, and walk your path with your eyes shut and your fists in your ears. Do not dream, do not wonder, do not consider anything other than the placing of one foot in front of the other. The faster you walk, the swifter you arrive at something you do not want to think about. If you walk slowly, on the other hand, you run the risk of contemplation -- and this frightens you, because it's entirely likely you will then begin to think about that thing you do not want to think about. You cannot remember anything earlier than five minutes ago, but there isn't anything interesting to remember anyway.

Hey, I just simplified life! Great! Now I can go do my book report.

Revelation of the month: I can't control the passage of time!

Thanksgiving.

I know exactly what's going to happen tonight.

At five forty-five, my uncle and his wife will show up. My mother will go downstairs to welcome them, and they will go to sit in the living room. My father will turn up and greet them warmly. No one will be eating because my uncle and aunt are fasting until the sun goes down, although they will probably have one of my aunt's spicy Turkish appetizers in hand as they walk through the door. I will descend the stairs to say hello before retreating to the kitchen to "study french"...and of course I am far more likely to wind up reading a book. My brother will lock himself away in a corner of the house.

At six o'clock, Pat will ring the doorbell. Before my dad met my mum, Pat did most of his shopping for him (apparently he always really liked carrots). Pat is quite a bit older than my parents, possibly in her early seventies. She lives alone and loves cats. My father will head to the kitchen to pour her some wine -- red, most likely.

At six thirty, Naomi will arrive, weighed down with an oversized bowl of homemade cranberry sauce. She puts orange peel in it. Naomi is someone I have known as long as Pat, which is all my life. She works at the hospital, has a son who doesn't talk to her much, changes her hair bi-weekly, and is very short. She will immediately head for the kitchen, where Pat and my mother will already be working. My uncle and aunt will not be alone, as I will have moved to the rocking chair in the living room, and my sister will be by this time bouncing around on the ground floor. No sign of my brother yet.

My mother will have made butternut squash, peas, and mashed potatoes. My father will be working on the turkey. The dressing is different every time, according to his whims (this time, he has added golden raisins and perhaps even bits of the croissants he bought yesterday morning). My brother and I will have set the table, a task we relish -- distributing Van Gogh placemats, hauling out the fine silverware, running around the dining room table until everything is perfect. Naomi will begin to set up, bringing the squash in -- Pat and I are huge squash fans.

My mother's favourite holiday is Thanksgiving, so it should come as no surprise that the dining room (only used on occasions such as this, New Year's and Easter) is painted a festive light orange. I have decorated the house with little squash, Indian corn and the tiny pumpkins we picked up at the farmer's market. My favourite is an extremely twisted little gourd that greatly resembles a bloated swan.

My brother (who will have materialised by this time) and sister will want to drink milk out of the little wine glasses we keep in the cupboard. I will pour their drinks, spilling at least once. There might be music in the living room -- at Christmas we put on the George Winston December album, and on new years' we have been known to play Tarkan. Maybe I'll put on a Rolling Stones record.

When it is dark and all is deemed well, we shall all move into the dining room, whereupon someone (probably my siblings in unison) will say grace. Then: passing around the dishes until everyone has some of everything they want. I love cranberry sauce; I put it on everything, I eat it with pancakes for weeks after. The mashed potatoes might be a bit dry, and we don't usually have gravy. My aunt will be vigorously shaking salt and pepper on everything on her plate, and my uncle will emulate her with a little more moderation.

We will begin to eat. The first thing out of anyone's mouth will be, "Ian, this turkey is so good." I'm predicting Pat. From there, where will the conversation go? Usually, it centres around all things old -- old movies, old television shows, days of old in Montreal. I will listen intently, slightly uncomfortable on my chair. The furniture in that room is beautiful, but the chairs are a bit wide and low for my liking. I'll probably have to keep getting up to go fetch myself some more of whatever I'm drinking. I'll pour a glass, leave the empty glass beside the sink, and go back when I'm thirsty again. I'm serious. That's what I do.

Talk may turn to Dr Shanks, the oldest of the old family friends, and not present at the table. He is in his mid-eighties, and every year we go out to his cottage in Sharbot Lake, Ontario. Mosquitoes, archery, and beautiful landscapes. Now, his far-younger wife of so many years and with whom he has three children is leaving him, forcing him to sell the cottage (in his family for generations!) in order to keep his apartment here. Dr Shanks is a painter, and doesn't hear very well.

My father, who is far more the life of the party and far better at telling stories or jokes than I am, will possibly go on a tirade about the dismal state of the country's future, at which point I will laugh and ask for more turkey.

I will probably be the first to leave. My family is huge on family dinners, but you're allowed to leave whenever you please -- none of this horrible asking to be excused business. I'll head to the piano, forgetting that we have guests who don't want to hear me, and play the right hand of the Minuet from Le Tombeau de Couperin. In due course, the rest of the group will retire to the living room, where we shall talk and eventually dine on pumpkin pie (of which I am not terribly fond, but is still better than cheesecake) and apple pudding.

Someone will put some music on. I'm sure this time. I'll become stressed about my music assignment and run off to stare at it for half an hour. Then everyone will leave, laughing as they walk out the door.

MOON

This is my 200th post.

Once it became evident that i was going to hit a number I had never dreamed of reaching, I planned to shut down my blog at that point. I do not intend to do that anymore, but this website is going to experience a few changes.

You may have noticed that posts have of late become fewer and further between. Do not expect a return to the old quotidienne. If anything, I will be writing less.

The thing is, I don't want this blog to be an obligation. I have far too many of those as it stands. I want this to be my place, my little fenced-off area of the internet where my thoughts may roam free. I don't really need everyone to always read it anymore, although I would be happy if you checked back here if you thought about it.

Because I will be posting less, I hope the quality and interest of my writing will be higher, although I can't really make any promises.

So was I born five days late?

Somebody spoke and I went into a dream

"She scold a gore! She scold a gore!"

-Ali B.

"So if x is four, y is two, z is sex...uh...Marco is passing notes to Hadas...."

-Mr Gallucci. Hadas isn't even in our class.

As some of you have heard, I experienced last night for the first time a dream that I woke myself up from because I was laughing. I don't know what I was laughing at. Someone said something funny in the dream.

I was therefore very very tired all day today. As I walked to school way too early, I started singing that bit from A Day in the Life that would describe this morning so well (woke up, fell out of bed, dragged a comb across my head etc.) and I realized a few things.

1. The wording is really cool. Made the bus in seconds flat? Why can't I talk like that?

2. The important words in most songs are not only stressed but are on more important notes (usually higher).

3. It's amazing how you can make a song with only a few different chords sound so good. Like Let it Be. That's four.

And here I was thinking most of the stuff I listen to was simple. Easy to play backup on, sure. But it makes me feel very small to think of the time and talent necessary to create something.

I now have a pair of dollar-store sunglasses in my locker, along with the Slinky, assorted magnets, pictures, napkins, light-tight container, rolls of film, frog t-shirt, cleats, extra lock, extra sweater, Venetian flags, newspaper clippings, and of course binders (but a hell of a lot more loose papers than folders).

Lucky thing we met. Or not lucky.

Dreams: Distant Bells

Today was a good day. I feel inspired to blog on good days.

I had a dream last night. It was an epic dream, long and complicated. When I woke up, I forgot everything. That doesn't normally happen; usually I retain some elements or at least the general feeling of the dream for awhile. Yet this morning I instantly forgot what I had been doing for the past few hours, except that in my dream I had forgotten something. I don't remember what I forgot.

Often I have dreams that create a history for themselves. For example, if I'm dreaming about walking down a street, I might dream about remembering walking down that street before. In this way, I can have déja vus about things that never happened.

I have also been known to switch characters. Most of my dreams read like stories, but stories that do not end when they are supposed to. Sometimes I start out as me, but run through a series of other people -- no matter what gender or what "side" they're on. And often if I dream about other people, they wind up becoming more of fictional characters, stitched together from my memories of the other people I have met. (I'm sure you combine your friends in your dreams, too.)

What about this feeling I've spoken of? It's difficult to pinpoint. Every dream has a certain distinctive...emotion, I suppose, or Sense. If I dream about someone, then see them the next day, I'll experience a rush of the feeling of the dream. When I lie down to sleep, I sometimes have a flashback of the previous night's dream, and it is the general feeling of the dream that explodes in my mind.

That's all for now. I can't arrange my thoughts in a reasonable order, and I have to go to guitar.

I'm actually pretty good at passing up opportunities.

Gazing at the Pale Indigo Sky

It was different when I came to Royal West.

Emboldened by the shared nervousness of the entire grade, I was outspoken among people I had not met before -- for the first time in my life since my talkative three-year-old days (and even then, by the way, I was shy around strangers). I was shy, but I was not afraid. I was tall, I was strong, I had to prove myself, and I revelled in the joy of the challenge. This was my opportunity, my chance to begin anew.

So it was for the first week. By the third day, I had completely adjusted to a rhythm that, although new to me, felt far more natural than my previous habits. I talked to people. I was naïve, I was happy, I said things without thinking or caring that I said things without thinking. I walked quickly through the corridors, but I watched every face that passed me by, memorising every detail.

I do not look at people who pass me anymore. If I see a friend, I will smile or reach out a hand (and probably look stupid through doing so). Yet I have acquired the customary high school Aloof and Distracted Air and Demeanour. My eyes are glazed when I stroll the hallways on my own, like most eyes around me. I am particularly good at this.

I can trace the origins of this tendency back to the eighth grade, when I moved up to the third floor. I was no longer one of the cherished and separated babies of the institution. And suddenly, things began to change far more quickly than I had ever imagined.

Enter grade eight. Enter drugs, enter true dating, enter advanced classes, enter that horrible feeling of being ignored, left behind. Enter a world where everyone analyses themselves constantly, trying to prove their depth of character. Enter hair straighteners and crises among friends. Enter skipping school, enter lying. So much lying, and I was so easy to lie to.

What about me? I suppose I developed a Personality, specially designed to be perceived by those I did not know well. I suppose I began to let more things go, learning that even on the battlefield, laughter is far stronger than insults. Perhaps I became more eloquent when speaking. Perhaps my horizons stretched a bit. And I began to be too important to look at people.

I am still the girl. I am still that bizarre, overly dramatic, Floyd-obsessed, long-haired, quiet, somewhat unremarkable, somewhat annoying, pen-pushing aspiring musician who was – and, more importantly, who will be.

Today we stand among the ashes. The dust moves a little in the breeze, as we hope for another dawn. We do not know what to do. We do not know what lies ahead.

But I am not afraid.

I think I would love it.

ALL beginnings are new beginnings.

What a great day. What a super-fantastic-jumpingupanddown day.

1. Shop: I have a 73 average!

2. Geography: Well, hopefully I didn't fail the test, like a third of the class did.

3. French: Okay, this was incredible. That test I thought I failed? I got perfect. *utter breathtaking shock* I'm gonna shut up from now on until I actually know I failed. I then spent the remainder of the period cutting and stapling my sweater.

4. Music: obviously amazing. I have to take music in grade ten. It's the only thing I look forward to at school.

5. Lunch: Strawberries!

6. Bio: Test postponed! Alicia and I wrote letters.

7. English: I actually listened to Gordon today. You know, it's astonishing the amount of tripe spewing from her mouth. If you take the time to listen, you never know what you might learn about our species. That wore off though, so Marisa, Jocelyne, and I devised evil plans for the future.

8. Photography: I love this year. I really really do. I have a light-tight canister with two undeveloped rolls of film in my locker, seeing as I had to leave. It's great though. Whoo.

9. Guitar. We were both in full form today, and had some great conversations about the awesome power of the metronome and the awesome blandness of the bilge on the radio. And did you know that Ken wotsisname of the MSO conducted some for Frank Zappa?

Neil: Every time I hear that song [Comfortably Numb], I think of Bob Dylan. And I don't know why, but it's really funny. You know who it was that put that idea in my head?" *insert long and very entertaining story about what Frank Zappa said about Bob Dylan or to Bob Dylan or about/to a Bob Dylan imitator* Yeah, so that's why I think of Bob Dylan when I hear that. And all that to say, there are a lot of songs written in the relative minor of D.

I could go into how small the English-Speaking Montreal community is, seeing as Sara and my father (who has started taking guitar lessons. Isn't he great?) are now connected in more ways than two, although they have never met. I won't.

If you look at fiction through the ages, a number of interesting patterns begin to surface. What I like the best, however, is the advent of the Fantasy genre (happens to be my favourite, and is NOT EVER to be confused with Sci-Fi in my presence). Fairy and folk tales from once upon a time often run along some variation of this: poor person becomes rich person (often because of their cleverness or kind nature). Obviously, when times were so harsh, many people wanted to escape from reality by imagining that this was possible, that if they were lucky or nice or smart, they could rise above their humble beginnings and live happily ever after.

Fantasy is a story set in a different world. Not a different country. Not a different social class. A world new and yet-unspoiled by human greed. Writers and readers have come to a silent agreement that the tales of success in this world are no longer; instead, we dream of some miraculous rebirth, some way to start over again. We've given up hope for our own world.

Dear Master Noran: I need your blogdress.

Autumn is.

Tigereye, rosy sky

“Sorry I’m late. I took a shortcut.”

-O'Neil

http://www.explodingdog.com/january2/mylifeisboringnow.html
http://www.explodingdog.com/january2/youresoboring.html

Seriously. Life is boring. Grade Nine is boring. Nothing’s happened so far. Nothing to say, nothing talk about except how much we hate advanced subjects. Nothing, nothing, nothing. This blog is going to go on quasi-temporary hold in a little while, unless life picks up.

Today was boring. Tuesdays often are. In music class we listened to some monks chanting plainsong. Photography is going to be UBER-AWESOME this year. I have a biology test tomorrow. I. Hate. Tuesdays.

This is going to be the last post about nothing. I promise. From now on, I’ll always have some central idea, some scene to describe. The blog needs to change, become not an obsession but an outlet. I was planning to shut this site down at post 200 (we aren’t there yet), but I have some ideas for what I’m going to do. I’ll let you know. I’ll keep you posted.

There is nothing left but faded light. I call on the sun.

And now I don't even have a radio.

My grandparents are going to live here for half the year. It's official now. It's been a discussion for years, and they're finally deciding to look for a place.

My mom and dad were talking about their retirement, probably related to this. I, being a little bit tired and light-headed, was too late to stop myself from bursting out, "I never want to retire." It's true, though.

This weekend I sent off titles to Sam Brown of explodingdog fame with Jenna, then was at Alicia's party. Photography will be fun this year. I had some more stuff to relate, more interesting than this, but I've just lost a very depressing battle with the air conditioner and my parents and I need to do my math homework.

But seriously: if anyone is SERIOUSLY SERIOUSLY getting a band together, I want in. I've wanted in a band for years, but no one's ever been interested.

Can't fall off the floor.

Sketching clouds in the sky

This week has been way happier than that depressed week (not last, but the one before), but that's because I've been stupid this week. But wow, French today was the greatest.

I seriously love Goudreau. And no, this isn't new. But come on...who else could make Francais Langue Maternelle one of my favourite classes? Today was the best ever, as anyone who has her can attest to. She sat us on the floor and read us a story (Rapunzel). She did all the voices, too. (She's great at impressions. She did a fantastic one of Alec earlier in the class.) And then there was her soontobe famous comment on her Witch Voice: "Eh, c'est comme Madame Shottenfeld, non?"

Err...today at lunch there was that argument about going with Alec to Chien Chaurd, and Kaj had to go and make it personal and REALLY put Kelsey on the spot. So I said I'd go with Alec, and that I did...sort of. I met him and Isabelle on the way back. Kaj's a bit too hard of a parent, but he's right...I'm not doing that again. He's got to learn.

Now you're completely lost, but I can't really explain it more than that without having everyone know just how stupid the argument was.

I failed the math test. I think everyone thinks they failed the math test. David Chen probably thinks he failed the math test. But he probably didn't. And I probably did.

I guess it was worth a shot.

More.

Every instrument, says Ms Purdy, has some eccentricy that makes it difficult to play. So what's difficult on my instruments? Well, on clarinet it's quite obviously playing the notes in the highest register softly, as well as slurring when it involves hitting the register key. On the piano, I have the most trouble with slurs -- it's very difficult to slur on a keyboard. Involves a wrist motion that I have never mastered. The guitar can be hard, but I have a huge problem with sight reading on the guitar. Yes I do have sight reading problems, period, but it's particularly difficult when you're playing something with so many different positions...there are a lot of ways to play the same note on the guitar, and it's very confusing.

Today I ran into Jen and friend at the patisserie, which was really really nice. She's in nursing. What a surprise.

Yay, guitar!

“Irrational numbers make no sense.”

-Neil

This weekend we have both Rosh Hashanah and Ramadan. What are the chances of that?

I actually had a pretty good day today, in spite of finding out that we have three ITT tests instead of one and nearly losing my Slinky. Geography was actually fun: I spent most of the time talking about Liechtenstein and Somalia, rattling off facts remembered from grade six. (Dupaul asked us what we thought Canada’s image was, how other countries see it…and all I could think of was that Monty Python skit with the cross-dressing lumberjack.) And… I actually have time to write today.

I love my guitar lessons. Walking up those steps (not falling apart anymore, after they retiled the place) and entering that world, a world where every living soul wears jeans. Six rooms, posters, miniature Christmas tree, and three chairs beside the door. Really, though, it’s all Neil.

My teacher is the only Anglophone teaching at the place, and he must be the most popular guy there. However, he doesn’t really follow the rules, which annoys the dude in charge (Denis). He doesn’t use the books, he doesn’t encourage his students to take part in any of the concerts, and he gives everyone discounts. (He also does a great imitation of Denis’s accent.)

I don’t really know anything about Neil. I know he was a terrible student, I know he loves reading science books but just cannot grasp math, I know that when he took up the instrument he had so little of an ear that he couldn’t tune it. I know his opinions and ideas on a wide variety of subjects, including Cookie Monster, good quality sunglasses and that guy he saw playing at Lionel-Groulx. I know he has an answering machine but no cable.

But if you asked me about how old he was, I couldn’t begin to guess. I probably know more about Ms Purdy than I do about Neil (for example, her husband Mr Cox is Jenna’s music teacher and she has a dog named Biscuit…Biscuit Purdy, not Biscuit Cox).

Speaking of Ms Purdy, Alec got 20/20 on his music test today. I think we should all be very proud.

Who knew chicory and endives were related?

I seriously don't remember anything that happened before lunch today.

Alicia said that this blog is the mask I use to hide my face, and that someday the mask shall become my face.

Hm. Sounds somewhat V for Vendetta. I'm not sure I ever had a face to begin with, so who needs to mask it? Anyway...let me know if the mask starts looking too much like me, if it already doesn't.

So.

I forgot that we were having those injections today. I seem to forget a lot of things like that. Basically, I talked my nurse's ear off the side of her head. I knew she was the right person to go to when she started waving, and I waved back, and she waved some more, and then I realized she was calling me. She then made the mistake of asking me what I had for lunch, which prompted me to go off on a tangent about Akhavan. Then I ranted a bit about how I could never find my vaccination booklet (when in fact I had simply forgotten I would need it).

I used to actually like vaccinations in grade four, because it was the greatest equalizer ever. Everyone was freaked, and everyone was in the same situation, and for a change I wasn't the freak who was worried about nothing. In fact, I usually didn't worry. In fact, I usually forgot.

And I was able to stay there for about fifty minutes today. I would have spent the whole last period there if I hadn't left my backpack in the music room, but I guess the nurse was kicking people out anyway. (This is where having unremarkable brown hair is useful).

I have a francais test tomorrow, and I'm really freaked. So I'll just be lazy and post this transcript of me talking to Kaj on the way to Geographie.

Kaj with headphones
Me: Hey.
Kaj: ...
Me: Kaj!
Kaj: Nmf?
Me: Oh, whatever.
Kaj: ...
Me: Um, have you seen Alec?
Kaj: Wha?
Me: Alec!
Kaj: Alec?
Me: Never mind.
Kaj: ...
Me: Bye.
Kaj: Wha?
Me: GOODBYE, KAJ.
Kaj: Mmf.

I realize this post lacks any new material (ie. stuff I haven't already said to everyone) but like I said...lazy...tired...boring day...nmf....

Pity is for the weak too.

Back to Badminton

When I swam for the Swim Team, I would often find myself thinking about the strangest things during practice. Try it. Swim a dozen laps or so and you'll understand what I mean. Whether this is caused by the mundane nature of the exercise or the desperate countdown as you pray for the end of the drill, it is certainly an interesting phenomenon.

Badminton is a lot more active, and you can talk to the other person instead of being locked inside your own mind as you paddle for so many meters. Yet I still find myself asking myself certain questions as I smash smashes and...er...hit backhands.

Why am I doing this?
Why did I take a shower before I did this?
Shouln't I be reading L'etranger?

Otherwise today was rather unremarkable.

How are we supposed to know whether you need to pretend if you won't let us see you without pretending to be?

Welcome to the routine. ...and the headphones I bought today smell like Kelsey's basement.

I told my parents about Ms Purdy skipping around the room yesterday. They laughed.

Am I missing something here?

Marmalade skies

"We are the kids of the future."

-Alec

You know how they say that, after awhile, old married couples begin to talk and look alike? That makes the most perfect sense to me. I find myself taking on some of my friends' habits all the time.

Take Kelsey, for example. We've been married for nigh on two years now, and I know I've changed because of her. I often find myself using Kelsey expressions when I speak, or taking on a Kelsey tone of voice, and I've developed a great liking for waving at passing cars. Yesterday when we were all singing Tainted Love on the metro...that was great, and I didn't even think about it then. But I realise now (yes, that is a Kelsey expression) I would probably not have done that before I knew all of you.

Also, I think I should talk about my brother's socks. Emotional attachments. He never takes them off. Occasionally -- very occasionally -- he will change them, but never-and-I-mean-never try to pull them off his feet. He sleeps with socks on. He sleeps with socks on in the summer. I love socks -- I have more pairs of interesting socks than I do any other articles of clothing -- but I really only wear them when I have to put on shoes, and I wear sandals whenever possible. My brother avoids sandals.

Sorry. Had to pause to pull my socks off. They're nice new knee socks that actually stay on your legs without slipping down. I have black, grey, and (yes, Ariel) white. I'm not as crazy about blue, although I have an old pair of those.

Anyway. Jacob made me laugh at lunch today, which of course is not unusual in the slightest. I had several subs, although Gordon was, unfortunately, there. I'll rant about the assignment we've been given later. After school Alicia and I hung out at the church and took pictures. I'm sure Ariel got a great role, and hopefully Jocelyne is well.

I'm sorry I've been neglecting e-mails/msn/virtually everything else on the planet, including my new sheet music. It's this horrible langue maternelle thing. And math. And Shop. I am so failing shop, which is a shame because I like it.

Also it looks like I'm going to have to choose between photography (which I really like) and the job the Mo-West Children's Library offered me on Fridays (which I've been hoping for pendant des annees).

I really wish I could post a picture, but it's not working. I'll try later.

I'm not just your actor. I have my own play.

Today.

Today we all piled onto a bus and went out to the Old Brewery mission to serve food. With 'we all', I refer to Kelsey, Jocelyne, Alicia, Isabelle (new leadership recruit!), myself, and four others from the club. Although I had been before, it was still an illluminating experience. I think it's interesting how many of the employees were people who had been on the other end, people who experienced life at a low and worked their way back into civilization, then determined to help out others in the same situation. That's probably a very common thing.

That, of course, is because we as humans posess an indeniable talent at denying the existence of whatever problem we can. Living in our bubbles, we can only reach others when our bubbles collide.

Speaking of colliding bubbles, I saw Alanna DiThomaso on the way home. That was nice and unexpected. And speaking of nice, unexpected colliding bubbles, the bus driver was extremely nice to me and didn't fine me something outrageous me for getting a transfer from the wrong metro station. That's the first recorded incident of someone in the Montreal Public Transit System being nice to Fred.

Computers today was hilarious. Kelsey and Weiner left to print up letters at the office, and Shotty decided that she couldn't teach the lesson until they came back. They came back six minutes before the bell. And in Math the entire class managed to trick Kelsey into believing we had all been doing review until she came in (when the test had actually been postponed).

Life does go on, but today has been a dark green and silver Thursday, a day fraught with retrospect and ruminating. Life does go on, and it will, it will tomorrow and the day after. Our species adapts very well: we have to be adaptable in order to survive and make progress, to put the past behind us.

Sooner or later, though, the past is bound to return in a format we have not seen before. History does not repeat itself exactly as it was, but rather rearranges itself in order to throw us off course. And every time, we fall into its trap, biting the lure, completely unsuspecting and unprepared.

We adapt, but we never learn.

Hope always, and we are with you.

Yesterday.

Ah, lovely math. Math that prevents me from blogging on the one day I feel that I need to say something or explode. Math, preparing for a test that was cancelled.

To begin with, a triviality.

Yesterday Alec called me opinionated. This, I admit, does not put him on my list of People I Like Lately. You see, this is a very unfair thing to call someone, because it is impossible to argue. "No, I'm not opinionated." If one side of a debate is impossible to argue without proving the other team's ideas, that debate cannot take place.

And let's look at why he called me opinionated. Something to do with pronounciation of a word. Something to do with the word Celtic.

Now, no matter HOW I say this word, someone tells me that I'm dead wrong. So I asked my dad (who took Gaelic lessons for a bit), and apparently the word comes from a Gaelic one...something like Ghaeltahg. It's not spelled like that, but that's how it sounds. If I'm not mistaken C and K are pretty recent additions to the language.

So let's not have any more of these Seltick/Keltick arguments. I'm sick of 'em.

Back to Alec: I don't remember exactly why he called me opinionated, but he did, and it had something to do with me being sick of Seltick/Keltick arguments. According to Alec, I'm not very supportive of other people's opinions. Hey, that's probably true -- although I wouldn't have said it, no one likes that said about themselves -- but by saying it he was being unsupportive of my opinions. And, of course, I can't argue that point.

Call me opinionated, friends, but I think we should just knock that horrible word out of the language. Everyone has the right to their opinions, the right to express their opinions freely. I am completely in agreement that no one's ideas should be suppressed...and that's why I hate the word. By accusing you of suppressing other people's opinions, it in fact is suppressing your own.

See, Alec? You can't win. I've got a blog.

Now...Dawson.

Well, I don't need to go into details on how horrible it is. I can't do that anyway; I don't fully understand it. I wasn't there. What I do find interesting is how it seems so much worse for us because we know so many people there. Completely understandable, but interesting.

If I had a sibling there, I would be shaking as much as Ariel was until she found out her sister was okay. But no matter where this happens, people will have siblings there. We simply cannot visualize the horror unless we recognize the eyewitnesses broadcast on our national news. After all, humans are intelligent but narrow-minded by nature, and this is why we rely on routine.

So many people today told me that we cannot allow something like this to disrupt our daily life. Oh? Why the hell not? Any senseless murder of young, innocent people...any murder...should be allowed to disrupt our daily life as much as it likes. Out of the lips of those same people came the practiced affirmation that this was a reminder of the unpredictable nature of life, and of all the evil in the world that still needs fixing up (practiced affirmation has been paraphrased).

What good is a reminder if you forget it so quickly?

In my opinion, (and call me opinionated if you really want to, but I would prefer arrogant, obnoxious, narrow-minded or really almost anything else) everything and anything should be allowed to disrupt our daily life. If something makes us reflect on our position in the universe, then for the sake of all things beautiful don't throw that moment away, because it could be a long time before it comes again.

To all those affected by the Dawson incident and many parallel, unreported incidents around the world, I would wish hope. You are in our hearts.

Did you know?

Fact about Fred: Fred has had English before Math for three years now.

Yep, Sophia. Tuesdays are terrible.

As I write this I consider my page on page of math homework that I don't understand in the slightest. Kelsey sent me her notes, which was very kind of her and I am eternally in her debt. But I still don't understand the homework in the slightest. I don't even have my math textbook, because someone -- Kelsey? Fotar? -- told me that it was just the reverse of the sheet he gave us yesterday.

Let me backtrack a bit. I had two dentist appointments today -- orthodontist and Dr. D, who happens to be Kristen's dad. This means several things -- one, I can't taste anything. I mean, I really cannot taste a thing. I understand completely how Kelsey felt after swallowing that near-entire package of Ice Breakers. Two, I missed four periods and had to hit Kelsey up for everything, as usual.

On the way home from the dentist's after school, I encountered a pair of little elementary kids selling chocolates on the sidewalk to raise money for their school. They were very polite.

"I'm really sorry, but I don't have any money." This was true. I gave the last twenty-three cents in my wallet to Kelsey yesterday.

"It's okay, you can take one anyway. You don't have to pay us." A smile. "We gave some other people free chocolate too, don't worry."

I didn't take any chocolate, and I actually regretted not buying any. I did walk away happy. This making cute little kids sell chocolate is an excellent marketing ploy, especially when they're so cheery and decidedly not annoying. I'm not renting out my sister right now, but it would be a great sales strategy if I ever needed to sell the hated candy.

I have to go ask my mother to decode the Gallucci/Traikov transmission. Cheers.

Outside of time, observing inescapable death.

Quotes....

You may have observed my penchant for using quotes to introduce or close my posts. I present to you, now, a list of some of the best quotes of the grade eight year. Some are reprised, others have never before been published in the world of Reflections and Fuzzy Slippers. I'm sorry, but I have to get this done before we get really into this grade.

Here is when you groan, Kelsey, and tell me that it's not funny after six months. The Indian Sea, Kelsey. The...yeah.

Isabelle: "Et je l'ai tue...un peu?" (history oral)
"Well, I had to put them there. They looked lonely." (playing Risk) AND
"But why do I HAVE to conquer America?" (likewise)

Liam: "I wish I'd gotten up earlier so I could have had waffles." (outburst during French class)

Kaj: "Mr Gow, I have a hair in my eye." (Mr Gow: Kaj, deal with it.)
"There are a lot of ugly porn stars." (On Kelsey's affirmation that porn star was a possible profession. Kelsey was not pleased.)

Alec: "They torture the baby veals!" (It's Alec. No explanation necessary.)

Kelsey: "A lot of people are average height." (It's Kelsey.)

Matthew L: "Mrs Robinson, I do believe you're trying to seduce me." (To Mrs Robinson of EBS. Such a great kid, this Matthew.)

Effervescing Moose. This week starts out better than last.

"I sat on myself and now I'm a flower."

-Alicia

I'm always happy after I get new sheet music. It's like new-book-high, only it lasts far longer. Right now I have been stimulated to effervescence.

Many things made this day unforgettable. I got 20 on my music test, which is more than enough to brighten my entire world. Lunch was great...listening to Kaj, Alanna, and Michelle face off. I amused myself with a Sharpie for the entire day, and tomorrow I get to sleep in and not have to turn in any homework.

By far the ultimate best moment, however, was when me/Alicia/Jocelyne/Kelsey were trying to scrounge up enough money for a small slush. We needed forty-five cents, and were trying to come up with creative ways to acquire said small change. I suggested we busk, which we probably would have ended up doing had not Kelsey chosen the right moment for her outburst.

"Come on, it shouldn't be that hard to get someone to give you 45 cents," I said. "I'm sure you can think of something."

"Like stripping?"

I opened my mouth to say something along the lines of, yes Kelsey I'm sure that would work, but at that moment the man who had been standing behind us spoke up.

"I've got five dollars," he joked. "I could go up to ten."

I was still determined to say something. "Come on, Kelsey. Forty-five cents."

"It's only forty-five cents you need?" he said. "Why didn't you say so?" He handed Kelsey a toonie. "I have a daughter who's in high school, and I don't want her stripping either."

And that's how Kelsey got money for being herself. She really doesn't need to try.

MoWest badminton starts soon! As do piano and guitar...I'm so pleased to have sheet music! And I got twenty on my music test!

You have beautiful eyes.

Why my dad is awesome.

There are a few things you should know about me and church.

First of all, I'm not really willing to discuss my religion or faith right here, right now. But I don't go to church because of religion or faith: I go because I know it's important to my dad. I have grown to appreciate and even like a good number of the people there, but it's still not really my thing. You have probably noticed that I have a tendency to refer to it as "my dad's church," never as "my church" or "my family's church" (the latter being the least accurate, considering my mother).

So it's not that bad, and I do like to see Alienor/Rebecca/Carole&Ruth etc. I still like to put up a good fight, though. This morning I walked into my parents' room, fell onto the bed, and addressed my father in a slow drawl.

"Dad, you know that song they make the kids sing in Sunday School? The one that goes 'I am the church, you are the church, we are the church together?' The idea is that the church is more than a building, but is a whole bunch of people." My mother began here to laugh, sensing the direction I was heading in. "So if everyone is the church, why does everyone have to go sit in a building every Sunday?"

My father was ready with his rebuttal.

"The answer to your question, dear, is that the song has another part that they don't make them sing. It's the sixth verse." He began to move his hands in a classic dancing technique. "I have a father, you have a father, he makes us go to chuuurch."

Mom laughed again. "Your dad's on a roll today. I don't know what he had for breakfast, but we should all have some of it."

"Muesli," I said. (My parents and I had a discussion once about muesli. I said something like, "Muesli makes it easier in the mornings." My mom told me that sounded like a laxative commercial. We laughed. Yeah.)

He wasn't finished. "I have a father, you have a father, and he is such a jer-rch."

Tom, who was listening from his room, yelled, "It's jerk!"

"It's the Old English variation. You know, ch instead of k." He turned back to his guitar tabs.

"Can you imagine being married to him?" asked my mom.

This evening we decided that I'm going to be the kid who keeps calling them up and asking for money. "After all, your interests are music and English," Dad pointed out, "both of which are financial losers."

Speaking of music, I think Le Tombeau de Couperin is going to become one of my Dance Macabre-style fixations. I'll play it. Someday.

Don't worry about it.

Dancing with blue glow sticks

My brother had his birthday party at Laser Quest today. It was very nearly the biggest disaster in the history of my family’s birthday parties. Far worse than that time we didn’t know we had to fill the piñata ourselves. It did work out in the end, but it will doubtless be a story my mother tells at the thanksgiving dinner table.

The day started out well. Mom and I went to Vincent-d’Indy to look for exam pieces, and I found four. They are extremely depressingly difficult, and I’m really freaked out that with piano, clarinet, français, advanced math, leadership, photography, and eventually skiing/snowboarding etc…I’m going to have a very much too-full year. But I’m going to learn the Minuet from Ravel’s Tombeau de whoosits, and it’s way too pretty for me to give up on it. I have to go back for list two (classical classics…Mozart, Beethoven and the like. I really hate this list) and list three (romantic period…Chopin etc. I really like this list). As always after I have new pieces or books, I feel wonderfully optimistic.

Yes, I know I have a clarinet test this week. Shut up, okay?

We came home, and my mum decided to call Laser Quest to confirm, completely on a hunch. She had told them we would have ten to fifteen kids. Turns out they only reserved eight spaces.

Yeah.

Well, with my mother’s brilliant problem-solving skills, we eventually sorted things out. Most kids wound up playing one game. Owing to a concatenation of events, I played both games…I scored 509 in the second round, which made me happy. (I actually thought I had done really poorly. I got mad at this one guy in a Pink Floyd t-shirt who shot me once…and once too often!…so I followed him around for a bit. He must have hated me.)

My mom said, “I have a very serious teenage daughter. She is very environmentally conscious, reads labels, is very careful about what she does and what she eats, and likes shooting people.”

Now I sit here with two blue glow sticks on my desk and Saturday Night Oldies (which I haven’t missed this week! miracle!) on the radio. Eating leftover grated coconut. I like coconut.

And the question of the week is: am I the only one who thinks about the waste generated by condom use?

Why are exam pieces so boring?

It may have been a bad idea to choose L'Etranger for Francais class. It may have been a bad idea to be in the class in the first place. It seems like a really good book AND it came with about 100 pages of notes at the end, but I find myself looking up every seventh word. I'm trying to be good and look them up in the Petit Robert instead of a French-English dictionary, but sometimes the definitions themselves are too complicated for my little anglophone mind to process.

Take this one: I had forgotten what the word vis meant, so I looked it up. Here's what it said: tige de metal, de bois, presentant une partie saillante en helice. Do you know what it said in the French-English dictionary, friends? Screw.

I'm sure the first explanation is far better if you're one of those people who don't get a headache when looking at saillante and helice in the same sentence, but sadly this has been the story of my life for a little while. I've read a grand total of five pages.

The marriage booth today was insane. We counted up our earnings at the end, which came to eight fiftyish...a considerable profit even after subtracting the cost of the pipe cleaners, and especially considering that most of that was donations. Yay for leadership! The Grade Eights (as I predicted) went a little bit crazy about it. That guy Charlie who was married five times? Yeah. And Alanna went a little bit crazy when we ran out of pre-printed certificates and had to begin writing up our own. Insemination, anyone?

Also, it helps to have contacts in the office. And Alicia is great at wedding vows.

I think extended homeroom has been the best part of the day all this week. I have become very attached to my tri-Marco Salle 314. After school I unfortunately didn't have much time to stick around, but Alicia and I talked a bit. I'm sorry I haven't been writing much this week or today...it's been a tough five days, I suppose.

Well, I think we knew this would happen eventually.

Today I walked along westminster in my green dress eating a tomato.

My father was the second-last person to get into medical school in his class. He graduated among the top students. He used to tell me that it didn't really matter where you started out from so much as how hard you worked. People who put a lot of effort into life are ultimately the ones who are the most successful.

Some of us at Royal West were probably too used to riding on natural ability. Others, like Isabelle, have always been hardworking and talented. With every year, however...whenever work becomes more necessary...I find myself working less and less. I have always relied on inspiration, and it is becoming clear to me how little natural ability I actually possess.

I think walking along the train tracks was something I really needed to do.

You promised me the world, but all I wanted was the truth.

Birds.

Good days are when we don't think, and I have done a fair amount of thinking today, if at the wrong time.

So it's time for me to introduce you to the pets. The birds. Okay, it's sunk in enough.

For those of you not familiar with Kiwi, she is a green budgie that we first observed at our bird feeder one day in the spring of 2004. Concerned as to whether a tropical bird born in a pet store could survive in the wild of Montreal West, we bought a cage for her and attempted to domesticate the creature that had been menacing our sparrows for weeks. When no one claimed her, we did. She was slow to accept us as friends, although with patience we found her to be smarter than we expected. Personality-wise she is somewhat like my mother and somewhat like me -- for she can be sweet, but most of the time she is just very strange. (More on that later.)

Last Saturday, my family came home with another bird. I flipped. Budgies are not lovebirds; they are perfectly happy on their own. However, they do stop talking to everyone else when they have a companion to chatter at -- I've seen her with mirrors. As well, we have no idea about this bird's gender, which could cause complications.

The new bird (which my brother has threatened to call Gregory) was set up in the living room before being transferred to my brother's domain. It was terrible. I fell in love with the little feathered thing right away. It had something to do with his oversized eyes. Far younger than I had ever known Kiwi to be, he is blue with a cute song and a timid nature. Somewhat like my brother, minus the blue and the cute song.

The two birds haven't met yet, and Kiwi is still the strangest budgie I know. This morning she was out of her cage for awhile before she landed on the table and began to investigate. Coming across a pile of cutlery, she had one of her inexplicable Bird Ideas. Before we could anticipate her diabolical plan, she was throwing forks at my brother.

And no, I have no idea how a bird tiny enough to perch on fingers can lift a fork, much less throw it around. But Kiwi's always been a bit of a mystery.

Memo: Shut up! Shut up! Shut up!

It's NOT Monday.

Today didn't start out too well (as in zit-under-nose-and-wore-wrong-skirt-to-school kind of not-well) but it certainly improved as the day went on.

First period Francais was intimidating, especially when she handed out that list of Approved Francophone Authors and told us to choisis un livre par mardi prochain. Gym was not as bad as it could have been, and Alicia did have that great line about football positions sounding a lot like sex positions. Oh, and I kicked the football. Sort of. Whatever I had after...oh right, it was Bio. Well, that film was completely lost on me, although I do remember thinking that the music could have been improved on.

I think that the bell went off during every class today. Well, no. Computers finished before the bell. Anyway.

Getting to English was the most fun I've had in a long time. That huge backup at the west wing doorway must be pretty close to unprecedented. It was the greatest -- hey look there's Jocelyne! And there goes Kaj...I'm missing my English test! Hey, who was that trampled over there? Oh well....

Yeah, I know mine is a sad, sorry existence. Moving on. You should all join Photography.

I actually finished the English test fifteen minutes before the end of the class, which is definetly unprecedented. Lunch was very fun, even though everyone left us alone, and then I had double Kelsey. Math was far more intimidating than Francais and computers was excellent, especially when Shotty apologized to Kelsey.

Oh, and Kelsey? I told you Knitting Guy existed! I knew he existed! I BELIEVED in him....

Hmm. The leadership meeting after school put me in a good mood. Apparently the four of us are going to be taking over from Shannon & Asma & co, which makes me feel more important than I am. Then we got slushes, and I spent an hour trying to get Kelsey home, spending money on Kelsey, and listening to Kelsey talk. It was great.

To completely change the subject, I have a strange tendency to think a lot about goodbyes. Every time I say goodbye to someone, or goodnight, or even go upstairs and leave them for two minutes, I think, What if they never saw me again, and that was the last thing I ever said to them? What if those were my last words? Usually they end up being pretty stupid last words, and I decide that I can't possibly be about to die because those are pretty stupid last words.

But if I ever make an overly dramatic exit, you should have a pretty good idea of what I'm thinking. (And no, I don't have a pretty good idea what I was thinking when I decided to tell you this.)

Now I leave, knowing that I have stacks of unfinished homework and unwashed laundry. *makes overly dramatic exit*

Here's to unboringness!

they say even a broken clock is right twice a day

...which is more than can be said for most clocks. The majority are set to somewhere around the actual time, and remain somewhere around the actual time. But a broken clock gets two beautiful, spot-on perfect moments in every day. After all, that can happen when you step outside of normal.

Today was the last day at the pool, which means that three of my genetically-related fellow lunatics and I had to go jump in the water for an hour or so. We have this bizarre ambition to be in the pool five months out of the year. (Unfortunately, exams and travelling ruined this for me in 2006.) Nothing else happened this weekend, except that I recorded myself playing arpeggios on the guitar and had fun coming up with a stage name.

I can't help looking over my shoulder as I write this. The fact that the attic stairs don't have a door to block them off never really bothered me until that day I was trying to play clarinet and turned around to see my sister's friend-who-lives-next-door, Maia, watching me. Now, Maia has a tendency to come in when I least expect her to, but this really freaked me out, and I'm afraid that someone will materialize there again, appearing as suddenly as she did. I don't really have anything interesting to hide, but that does not make it any less of a shock.

Blah.

Goodbye summer.

Sorry I posted so many times yesterday. I suppose I had things to say. And it's true that yesterday I will remember for a long time, permanently etched into my mind as The Day Jocelyne Dropped the Umbrella on Us.

Today Jenna, Rachelle and I went to Monkland and had Second Cup coffee slushes and Mentos. Then we went back to my place, played Blurt and piano, had food and watched the sky. AND I got to see Jenna's beautiful GarageBand songs. (If you know of anything good like GarageBand for Windows, let me know. I'm trying to do some research; it could be useful in future.)

Listened to music too. Unfortunately Tainted Love was and is lodged in my brain, so now I have to go replace it with Lucifer Sam or something. See you.

And we're more helpless than even we know.

Last post of the day. I promise.

I can't believe we all fell for "Magic Slushes." Let me explain. Kelsey once asked the guy at the Hotdogerie what his favourite flavour was, and -- possibly not wishing to delve into the mess of obscure flavours hidden under the counter -- he answered, "Well, I'm going to have to say Magical."

So today Alicia and I ordered Magical Slushes. And you know what? He just picked two random flavours and mixed them together. And we believed in the magic!

I tell ya. The process of disillusion is a terrible ordeal.

Nearly a very bad day.

This morning I was talking to Noah.

"Are you in Honour Band?"
"No.... (laughs) I blew my audition."
"I blew my audition too in Grade Nine, but halfway through the year she asked me to join...someone quit or something."

Now, that made me feel happy. Not because I expect to be in the band anytime soon, but it's good to know someone who screwed up as badly as you did. (Although I sincerely doubt that is the case.) And it's always nice when people try to make you feel better.

Today was almost terrible. I forgot my Math homework, but he didn't call on me. I had to sit through two assemblies, but I didn't have to do my English test. And after school was incredibly fun, more fun than I have had in awhile. After all, what could be more fun than sitting in a park listening to Jocelyne sing her future hit single, Twang?

I'm so sorry to disillusion you, but you're worthless.

Or I could just join lighting crew.

On my way home yesterday, I stopped in at Bonder's to pick up a gift certificate, as requested by my mother. The lady behind the cash seemed to have a difficult time finding the certificates. She rummaged around the desk for a good something minutes before calling over another guy so that they could rummage together. They seemed to be in agreement that "she," whoever "she" is or was, had placed the items in a blue folder, but the blue folder in question was proving difficult to locate.

As I stood there, my mind (as is its custom) drifted along various pathways of thought, before settling on the fact that there seems to be a lot of our grade in the Honour Band. Now, this in itself is not a troublesome thought, but it invariably leads to one that is -- my Honour Band audition. Fortunately, the pair found the certificates (they were in a black folder) before I had the time to remember that and, after listening to the lady mutter about what "she" was going to do to her, I headed home.

The audition was, quite simply, extremely bad. I didn't know my audition was going to be on the first day, so I had left the clarinet I had actually been playing for weeks at home; my reed was too old; I completely blanked in the first line of music. I really, really, really hate sight reading under pressure...it always gets me at the McGill piano exams too.

I seem to have quite a streak going, and I would really like to break it. I have blown every audition granted to me. For Bardolators it didn't matter so much because I can't act anyway. For Chicago it didn't matter so much because I can't sing anyway. I actually cared about the band audition, and I'm never going to forget screwing up on it.

Especially not if I screw up again this year. Which I won't. Which I can't.