Au revoir.

For the next three weeks, I am going to become an Internet hermit. I am not going to post anything to this blog, answer any e-mails, or send any instant messages (unless I have a fair amount of free time in Computers). I'll be back around the 17th.

Unpolished.

I Am a Rock, S&G

I can't believe I've never written about this before. It's pretty much one of my favourite songs ever -- one of those rare recordings that speak to most people without becoming overly emotional and sappy. In fact, emotion is exactly what the song warns against. I think many consider it their personal theme song, or have at some point in their lives. I certainly do.

I have no need of friendship; friendship causes pain
It's laughter and it's loving I disdain
I am a rock
I am an island....

Three Cheers for Radiohead, the Red Hot Chili Peppers and the Box

Foap and sood drive?

Geography test: les combustibles fossiles. May 23. Six questions and a bonus. Bonus question: nommez les trois types de gaz naturel. Bonus answer: propane, butane, éthane.

See what a difference paying attention in class makes?

It's such a beautiful day. Perfect for sitting outside on the swing and reading Asimov in the late afternoon, and then running around with a camera in the evening, taking pictures of the pastel spring sunset -- a muted, more delicate version of a summer night. This I did, in my father's plastic clogs (rather too large) and my pink pajama bottoms, in between watching The Great Muppet Caper (one of the best movies ever, I'm convinced, and I'm jealous of the ride on the red double-decker bus) with my little sister and until my film ran out. The sky is now a beautiful blue-gray.

These times of beauty are why I do love Montreal-West, but I know there's more beauty out there in the world than I can imagine from my vantage point.

Funkin' it up.

Story Topic: My Earliest Memory

It isn't actually a topic for anything school-related, but my story would do well if it was. It's a cute one.

I'm two years old. Two years and a month, if you're looking for precision (although a post about distant memories is probably the wrong place to look). Christmas morning (OK, two years and a month less a day. There, you have my birthday now) at my grandparents', and I wake up and I go downstairs. All alone -- no one else is awake. I think. It's hard to remember everything.

Anyway, the first thing we used to do when we woke up on Christmas morning at my grandparents' was check the stockings lined up at the base of the stairs. That's not what I do, though...I guess tradition means little to a two-year-old. I head for the tree. It's illuminated in bubble lights and little coloured bulbs, with the softly lit pastel angel on top and all the family ornaments -- the silver one that sings, the snoopy bell, the ancient and brittle ones, Uncle Andrew's notorious orange Miss Wooster Christmas tree ornament.

Yet in my mind, the light is dim. It's strange how this, probably my oldest memory, seems to take on a strange, diluted tint in my mind's eye -- almost like sepia photographs. Yet the lights are on, the tree is clearly green, and under it...

...there is a bear.

A white polar bear, taller than I am, although he's sitting down, the hint of a smile playing about his lips. The entire world centres itself around him, focuses on the bear; he is the subject of the painting and the epitome of a moment that seems to last forever.

That's all. The bear was christened, rather appropriately, Big Bear. He would become one of the ruling elders of the growing society of Malcolm animals, and one of my dearest friends. Today he sits, a little dirty around the face and on the paws, beside the door leading into my sister's bedroom. Expect him to turn up again someday; Big Bear has a tendency to do so.

Slog on!

Is the geography test tomorrow?

I can't pay attention in Geography. I just do not posess the ability, no matter how I try. I can do my geography homework, and I can pay attention in biology, but there's nothing keeping me awake in room 104. Here's an example of a day I actualy made an effort.

Dupaul: Alors il y a trois types de gaz naturel le propane le butane et l'éthane....

Me: Okay, let me get that down. Propane...ethane...hm, ethane. Ethan. Ethan is a really cool name. I really like the name Ethan. (Writes ETHAN in notebook.) I wonder what kind of person Ethan is. Ethan Ethan Ethanethanethanethanethan....

(Twenty minutes and one drawing of a flying sheep later)

Dupaul: Alors on extrait les sables bitumineux en les mélangeant avec l'eau....

Me: Whoah. Guys? Guys? What the hell is she talking about? Guys? AHHHH STEPHANIE GIVE ME YOUR NOTES AHHHHH (Whips out purple pen, begins scribbling furiously.)

(Ten minutes and four pages of recopied notes later)

Dupaul: Alors le test sur les combustibles sera mardi.

Me: Okay. Okay. Thanks, Stephanie. Thanks a lot. (Head drops, hits desk.)

No, I don't want to be a doctor. I can't even play on my Montreal West soccer team without my failures haunting me.

Take it.

I have never been someone easily bothered by the lies parents tell their children. I don't feel that sheltering is a good idea in the long term -- the more protected a child is, the more inclined to rebell they are likely to be as an adolescent -- but I don't have a problem with inventing stories. Stories, or lies, are my lifeblood, and I would much rather encounter both fact and fantasy than be kept from knowing the truth. (In my case, of course, the distinction between fact and fantasy tends to blur. And sheltering, come to think of it, is a topic I can discuss fairly easily.)

I find it more interesting, however, when parents lie to their offspring without realizing it. Sometimes they retain the lies they were spoon-fed from their own childhood, and these lies metamorphose to valuable pieces of wisdom that must be shared. I speak not of the Tooth Fairy, but rather of false ideas that have been ingrained into our subconcious, white lies that are passed on with each generation.

"You can do anything you want to."
"Everyone is good at something."
"Nothing is impossible."

Yet, upon brief examination, we discover that these are not as accurate as we would like to believe. "Nothing is impossible" cannot logically be true -- if nothing is impossible, then it is impossible that something should be impossible. How has a paradox become a parable? Why cannot we instead teach our children courage, courage to face both truth and lies without the support of comfortable illusions?

AHHHH 32 e-mails AHHHH

Shadow-dweller becomes us both.

From the back of my piano notebook.

Here is a list of some beautiful things.

-a starling walking on a front lawn covered in a forest of dandelions
-the golden-crowned bird that flew away from under my feet
-wearing indigo on a breezy day in May
-watching the bus leave, knowing that another will be there by the time I reach the station
-my own handwriting, free and unlike any other
-pink trees in Girouard Park and matching tulips
-looking up from underground
-walking downtown with piano scores in my backpack
-McGill College in spring
-children playing with a parachute in the park
-a well-deserved rest in a half-circle of park benches and trees in vibrant May dress with a bottle of Perrier and a book of Poe poems (and short writings)

A melody that you realize you have always known, a haunting lament for humanity, and a piece that defies description.

Recovered.

I wrote this awhile ago. You may have seen it before. I realize it kind of contradicts the previous post, but it's not meant to be perfectly realistic.

When there's nothing left but emptiness, when the coldest of dreams is the only comfort in a distant, bleak landscape of grey...when the stars are hidden, and the ocean is quiet and still, and silence replaces the screams of old friends and old enemies...when eyes are full of hidden shadows and words are whispered underneath the faroff sound of explosions, and hope is gone from the hearts of everyone -- still alive, though not living.

Hang onto your hopes, my friend.

What a stressful, unhappy, and cold day this was up to guitar. Walking to school in the bitter cold and the rain is not a pleasant way to begin. But at guitar...

Neil: "You were sounding pretty good, actually."

Sounding pretty good? I was improvising. My improvisation on the guitar is normally pretty weak. This is a combination of shyness and pure lack of technical ability (my picking has only recently improved past abysmal). Sounding pretty good? Hey, there's hope.

We'll be out of the machine soon enough.

In Defense of our Back Field

As high school students, we have all been called upon to lend our voices to numerous pleas for financial aid directed at the notorious English Montreal SB. The instance that most readily springs to mind is that of the latest building amenagement proposal -- the new gyms. This construction, scheduled to begin shortly, would cause us to lose our back field.

Call me crazy, but I'd rather have a seasonal green space to eat lunch, run around, and do gym than a building of low roofboards and cheap brick (if we are blessed with enough funds). Yet for a year I cheered at assemblies and helped fundraise -- like the stupid sheep I was, and am no longer.

I understand why some would want the gyms built, but I fear that some of us have simply not thought about it enough. It certainly isn't our fault, for blind following is encouraged and rewarded at every academic institution I have encountered. Yet why should we not be encouraged instead to formulate our own opinions? We are a school, a world of different people -- not one body, not one mind.

I oppose the plan. Some will disagree, and I am happy to encourage this dissent. Yet some, I am certain, will perhaps understand my opinions. Then, at least, we can form an opposition.

Only...only....

I think someone should come up with a better pronounciation of the word "subtle."

"There is nothing complacent about Bach."

-Earl

Kelsey has very kindly agreed to allow me to borrow her sax for a little while this summer. I figure I'll just learn an octave or so...the Baker Street solo...why not, right?

I don't have time (again) to post a rant, so here's some news.

NEWS: I can't play Bach. I love Bach, but I have a really difficult time getting my mind around the technique. My Beethoven piece is easy, because that's all dynamic contrast and angry flourishes. Bach is decidedly more subtle (harpsichord) in its intensity. I never know exactly what he's trying to say.

Impatiently pawing the ground

Whatever happened to grade nine?

"Guess we'll have to pick that up!"

-Neil on a dropped guitar pick

I don't really have time tonight to write a proper post. I don't really have any news either, or nothing that can be decently condensed into a couple of paragraphs. Of course, news has never been something in which I specialized.

I slept comparatively well last night, a full eight hours at least. I've never really been good at sleeping either, although I love dreaming and I am a total bitch when tired. Every night since I was young and small and sleeping meant missing things that happened around me, lying down and turning off the lights has been such a depressing idea. At night, peaceful solitude can become almost loneliness. Yet going to sleep does not become any easier even after I finally succumb to fatigue and collapse on my inviting, queen-size bed.

Night is the best time to think. I'm not the first person to say that...most have come to that conclusion through individual experience. All the emotions of the day, suppressed until that moment of impact upon pillow, come crashing down on me like a wheelbarrow of paving stones. And my memories, so carefully stored and lovingly cherished, begin to leak out of the corners of my mind and swirl around me. If I love to dream, I love even more to think, and it is unthinkable that I should each day pass up an opportunity to do so.

I never really understood how someone could have the ability to fall asleep practically on cue, so soon after deciding to do so. The sleeping state of mind is one I find difficult to attain. I don't know whether I envy them for this, although I would perhaps enjoy this talent during more during my down periods, which occur from time to time and notably when the moon is full. I have already written about my hamster-like insomniac antics, therefore I shall not repeat myself.

Soo. Anyone know what a bande infernale is?

This road is my road.