But the Octopus is our friend.

Every year at band camp, we play a variant of Never Have I Ever as an icebreaker game. The group forms a circle, with one person standing in the middle. They then say something they have done or mention an aspect of their character, and everyone who has done or is the same has to switch places. The person left in the middle goes next.

I'm actually not too keen on standing in the middle. I have a blog to rant about myself already, and I'd rather find out about other people. Besides, I always manage to embarrass myself somehow, and scare off the few kids who've made the mistake of talking to me.

I did get stuck there once or twice this year, though. (Apparently there are only three people in the band who play the guitar.) On one occasion in particular, I made the careless blunder of actually divulging honest information about myself.

'I'm really, really scared -- no, I'm terrified -- of squid. They're freakishly smart, and they have ten arms...and here's the thing. Scientists just keep finding bigger and bigger squid. I mean, they don't even know whether they should be making new species, like colossal squid. Lots of people are afraid of sharks but I'm just scared of squid. So I don't eat squid, so that when they all rise up and take over the world, I'll have more of a chance with them.'

Empty silence. Not a creature stirring.

I suppose I should have stopped after the first sentence, but no one was stopping me from going on about it, and I don't think that would have helped me very much anyway. The ignorance of the masses faced with the obvious impending disaster is staggering, much as it has been throughout history. Only this time, the danger is much greater than ever before -- colossal, in fact.

xkcd agrees.

It's 2009 in Tokyo. What's the big deal?

Fruit + OCD = best job ever

Friends,

I have finally found my calling in life.

http://www.ediblearrangements.ca/

Also, chemistry was horrible.

The Suspender Strut: A Comprehensive Guide

Not a natural-born strutter? Interested in improving your moves? Want to pick up an old skill again after years of disuse? Suspender-style strutting may be for you! Fast and easy results even with no previous experience, guaranteed!

Materials:
-1 pair concrete or imaginary suspenders
-1 empty street or corridor free of disturbances

Begin by walking down the street as casually as possible, wearing suspenders. What we're going to do here is ease smoothly into a strut from a normal walking style. Some of my contemporaries suggest slowing down before the transition, but I believe that the strut is best perfected at a constant speed, seeing as that's what you'd want to be able to do eventually. Do NOT come to a stop, unless your intent is more to perfect the Suspender Stance. It is VERY DIFFICULT to begin strutting from a standing position, and this should not be attempted by beginners!

Moving into the strut should be natural and fluid. You should be angling your head a little in the moment before the transition, with a slight sneer to one side of your lips, but try not to think about it too much. Glance nonchalantly off to the side, then snap suspenders once, very deliberately.

You should immediately glide into an arrogant strut. Work on improving the expressivity of the walk until you feel comfortable moving into it in public, with or without suspenders.

Congratulations! You have just mastered the Suspender Strut! Watch this space for more walking styles in the future.

I got brownies!

I've been sort of tired, busy, and apathetic lately (I fell asleep on the floor yesterday), and haven't been blogging so much, but I think my family's birthday gifts warrant mention.

From my grandparents: a bathrobe. To be honest, this is nothing near the strangest in the family history. My mother's side is generally a little more reasonable (no Uncle Andrew), but notable standouts include a set of combs (seriously, there were like 11 of them, all in this spacey metallic blue) and a can of aerosol deodorant ('See, I have the same one! Now we can smell the same!'). This also happens to be the second time they have given me a bathrobe.

Hm. You know, when I read that over, it really doesn't seem that unusual. Bit of a trend, actually. Gifts with meaning.

From my dad: Okay, I'm not completely sure of the most basic rules of parenting, but I should think that not allowing your daughter to wear her telephone number on her chest ranks pretty high. So it's probably not a good idea to give her three different shirts with her (nick)name, address, phone number, e-mail address, and musical instruments of choice proudly emblazoned across the front. Of course, the shirts are all far too large, and there will be no giving these to thrift shops.

One might think that things don't get any more beautiful, but the fun didn't even stop there. More personalized items were to come: paper and office supplies primarily, but also a stack of bizarre cards with moose on them. My reaction was difficult to gauge (sort of a bewildered speechlessness), so I'm not sure my dad realizes just how deliriously happy this makes me.

From my mom: It's a clock. That runs counterclockwise. The numbers are all on backwards, and the hands move in the wrong direction.

With hazelnuts actually.

The amount of cutlery I have in my room is staggering.

My notebook has not been completely silent lately, nor have I sworn off the late-night typing sessions, but still it has been nearly eleven months since I last posted a piece of writing.

While it is true that I have slowed the pace of my entire blog, the main reason for this remains that I cannot trust the Internet with my best work. My best work is always very much unfinished, and it would not do for another to steal my children away even before they are fully grown. (Which never actually happens.) I only ever post the bits and pieces here, the forgotten, the abandoned, the clutter in the corners of my hard drive.

If this seems a convenient excuse for poor quality, I must admit that my 'best work' is not much better. The difference is the amount of time I invest in finding slightly better words. (Blog posts are generally at the very opposite end of the language scale.)

I also have a paranoid fear of sharing anything current. The moment I show it to somebody, it becomes an established fact, a finished piece, carved in stone. Or so I seem to believe.

So much for that. I'm off to take a nap. Perhaps I'll come back soon and talk about my new books.

Why would you call this a 'cold'?

IT'S THE BEASTIE!

'Dad, in America, children have four rights: education, shelter, food, and stories. Read us some stories.'

-brudda

It's time for kids' books again! This is one of the most amazing ever. Be sure to read aloud with a heavy Scottish accent.

Also: check out the labels! I've broken my 'random useless pieces of uselessness' category into two: 'random useless pieces of uselessness' and 'highly unprofessional reviews'! For easy access of my most brilliant criticism.

Food OCD

I remember there used to be a commercial on when I was a kid. As is so common with advertising, I haven't the faintest idea what the product was...maybe cars or insurance or something. In the commercial, two executives in suits were standing next to each other; for some reason, they were holding slices of pizza. Then one of them paused, flashed a grin, and made an announcement that stirred my youthful soul.

'Crust first!'

He then proceeded to bite into the slice in exactly this fashion, and my little heart swelled as I gazed upon it. I, too, was a loyal and lonely devotee of that practice.

I've stopped eating pizza that way now, mainly because the older I get, the more I like the crust. But I still think we should have some kind of club. We could sit around a table and discuss our individual obsessiveness. Personally, I would always eat the crust, then begin at the point again and work my way through, but I've heard tell of those who start at the tip, then eat the crust at the halfway point. Everything goes in the Crust First Club.

Except people who don't eat the crust at all. They are the poor bastard children of the gastronomic OCD world.

And while we're on the subject: corn.

Hey, you knew it was coming up. I'm not actually picky about corn at all, but I know most of the world is divided over this issue. So what do you guys think: typewriter or spiral style?

My family has always believed that food should be an adventure. An adventure rife with urgency and peril.

Depressed about Blogging

Nothing ever changes. Nothing nothing nothing. Nothing changes because I don't know how to make things better.

Why must we be so impossible to satisfy?

I'm delirious again. I recognize it, but I cannot stop myself. And yes, I knew you were there, at that very instant. And yes, I knew you were going to talk to me, to speak those unique, particular words. But what good would it have done to say so? It's not like I'm always there.

If anyone asks, I guess I could just blame the Layers again, but it isn't really their fault this time. And we all know how much fun I have trying to explain the Layers anyway.

I'm sure poets cannot analyse their own work. That's why they write poetry, dammit.

EDIT: They say things have to get worse before....

Breaking News:

HOT CHICK PERFORMS ACROBATIC FEATS IN CROWDED SUBWAY; NOBODY NOTICES

Sparrow Despairs for Humanity

A young, attractive female was spotted swinging around the ceiling handholds on the orange line early this afternoon. Said female was apparently dressed appropriately for a workout, but after a few minutes of intense gymnastic action, left engaged spectators with the impression that she would be better suited to leaping off skyscrapers and battling bad guys in the dead of night.

The grand total of engaged spectators among two metro cars: four.

A first-hand account of this remarkable occurence comes from one Wistful Sparrow, a young woman who was visibly distraught over the unimpressive audience.

'It's just difficult for me to understand. I mean, this girl is right in front of their faces, flying around on the ceiling of the metro car. How could they not notice? How could anyone possibly be so blind?'

Further enquiry left unanswered the question of whether this incident was a recurring stunt. Updates will be reported on RFS as soon as possible.

This is kind of stupid and I think I might stop doing it if I don't start thinking of better ways to end my posts.

Best Sign Ever.

Jacob: 'I get all my stuff from China.' (Pauses.) '...That was a cheap joke.'

-- http://fuknus.chrisdamitio.com/?p=2496

This even beats out the one I found in grade seven. I have no words for it.

Also, this is my 365th post. Reflections and Fuzzy Slippers, now in page-a-day calendar format! Unless you need it for a leap year, in which case you'll have to wait a few days.

I've decided to start labelling all my fruit.

Creeping toward Nerdvana.

Dad: I barely even know who Sting is.
Mom: It's alright. He was kind of after your time.
Dad: I mean, I always...I always thought Michael Bowie was the lead singer of Sting.

I swear I become more of a nerd every day of my life. A true nerd, that is, not merely an academic overachiever, escaping from the headaches of all the P classes (Physics, Precal, Phys Ed and Phrench) into a fantasy world of solitary revelry. I am a hardcore sci-fi junkie, a hopeless internet addict, and an individual of what many would deem desperately poor musical taste. Seriously, it's just getting worse and worse.

I've spent a lot of time trying to come to terms with this aspect of my character, but I realize now that it really defines me as a person. It's part of who I am, and there is no changing it. I'm going to have to tell my parents someday, although something tells me that they won't be surprised, but I wanted you guys to find out first. You have been such good friends to me thus far; I knew you would support me in this.

That is that. I have plenty of new blog ideas, some of which will hopefully become realities once this busy spell ends, but for now I must away.

'Nerdery' is a good word too.

Pre-November Doom and Gloom

Math class free periods are pretty dull when there's nobody to talk to. And I quote:

why the hell why can't you all just never always
I'm not well acquainted with this cheery cheerful banter
banter is a closed door. I ramble and wander through the hallways looking for a way out of this goddamned bastard house there has to be a way something out there there has to
some people I think maybe have found it
but they're not telling. lots of reasons.
why why why and the hands my hand isn't there or not yet all pushing helping lifting reaching and music the music
November has truth more pure and fine and cold. August has memories.
ow ow ow my arm fucker shut it hurts
no way this can last forever but can any thing
your eyes your eyes -- veiled but I feel them faintly
it knows too much and I know too little
damn

you're a walker or a mocker

can I be both and neither?

I never want to leave this love

but I do want to leave this world

I guess that makes me pretty stupid not knowing after all my hair is everywhere

dandelion haloes

Oh, and if my recurring bursts of enthusiasm for Chopin nocturnes has led you to wonder what exactly I've been going on about, you might like to check out the one I'm playing this year at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-MzrAGZHDvo.

The hands will be back.

I am eyebrow retarded.

Looks like the Sparrow here's gone and got herself something new to talk about. World take caution, because Alicia has very kindly offered to try to teach me how to draw.

I figured I'd let you guys in on the training process (seeing as about 25% of you guys is already part of the training process) by posting periodic updates on my training. So here, without needing to abandon my last shred of self-respect because that shred has long since been lost, is the product of the first lesson. Click for bigger.

All right, so I won't be joining the ranks of the great romantic I mean impressionist masters anytime soon, but I think even this is a step above my customary doodles and wing people. It's obviously not finished yet, but already it could use a fair amount of cleaning up: the nose is rather wider and more bulbous than a human's ought to be, the face remains disconcertingly androgynous (recognizable as female, but only just), and the chin and cheeks look like the subject needs to bathe once in awhile.

However, let us examine the compelling evidence for this lesson having helped me: it's fucking shaded. For me, a pencil has always been something you sharpened after you broke it crossing out the last three paragraphs of your work, and only after you broke it crossing out the last three paragraphs of your work. Now here I am learning that the side of the pencil can be useful too. Whoodathunk.

In other news: My brother's guppy Diana gave birth to twenty little fry on Sunday. We wondered for awhile whether the one that we'd found was going to be an only child, then we found three more, and then it all went 101 Dalmatians. All I've got to say is that we better be careful we don't wind up with guppies in jars all over the house, like in that story we read in primary school.

And yes, she is named after the moon and fertility goddess (Roman equivalent of Artemis). The other three are Athena, Venus and Poseidon.

Too much too much.

Drug notebook time!

I love those drug awareness books. They're the perfect size for note-taking in science, brain-bleeding in math, and ripping pages out of to turn into WWI letters for english. Plus they have really cool high school kids on the front so we can really relate to the message.

This year, I made sure to get the one with the guy on it. An attractive specimen, as you can see:

Nevertheless, I feel he owes me a huge debt, as my slight alterations to his costume have made him about 1000 times cooler:

From possibly-toxic teenager to SUPER AWESOME SPACE PILOT in just a few easy steps. Amazing what a couple of Sharpies can do in the capable hands of a nerd girl.

I can't think of anything clever.

Cereal Battles

There are too many freaking towns in England. All I need is one largish town-like-agglomeration for my WWI letter, and I'm just far too overwhelmed by the possibilities to choose one. My dad's old road atlas of the islands has not helped at all; the maps look like paintings by Jackson Pollock.

(Click for close-up. Not that it'll help.)

It escapes me why anyone would turn to this book for reference. It also escapes me how so many people manage to fit into Europe, and still have room for fields and forests and the like. I gave up after twenty minutes of poring over the incomprehensible atlas, an exercise that only served to reinforce one of my core tenets: I am getting off this planet as soon as possible.

I suppose that's why reincarnation has never particularly appealed to me as an idea. I really don't want to be here forever.

We'll let my absurdly itchy feel alone for awhile, as I turn to the reason I started writing this: my cereal issues. Not too much depresses me more than the idea of being born again as a dog, but cereal is definitely one of those few things. The reason, my friends, is that I am very, very easily bored, especially with food.

But maybe you've been there. You know when you get a new box of cereal, and maybe you've tried it before and maybe you haven't, but the point is you get it and you open it up and for the first few days everything is great. Then, after three or four mornings of eating it, you start to get really tired of it, but to the point where even the thought of it makes you feel nauseous. Fucking honey bunches of oats, I hate you.

And here's the thing: no amount of different types of cereal in the house will solve the problem. We have about fifteen different types of cereal in the house right now, counting hot porridge and the Froot Loops that we keep buying despite the fact that none of us has ever successfully consumed a complete bowl. It doesn't matter. Every morning is a stressful battle of wills between me and a couple of artificially-preserved grain mixes.

No, I can't just eat toast. Cereal is so much more convenient.

By the way, I don't know if any of you have met my latest favourite:

I had some aspirations for this post, but I realize it's all lost now. I'll just finish up with a quote about my favourite composer. Again.

...We must conceive of music, then, as always going on in this pleasant household, and of the fond parents violently distressed when they saw that their infant son reacted with floods of tears to the sound of music. They thought he hated it, and it was only when he began to pick out tunes on the piano that they realized he had been crying for joy. They had a hysteric on their hands, not a music hater.

-"Frédéric-François Chopin", Men of Music, Brockway and Weinstock

EDIT: I forgot to mention my brother's latest injuries! After having his right hand stepped on a week ago and displacing a tendon or something, he was tackled during a game of touch football last Thursday and wound up breaking his left clavicle! Word on the street is he's resolved to stay together and quit getting hurt, but some are skeptical about his promises.

And speaking of promises, elections are tomorrow, and I hope all you registered voters reading this have been thinking long and hard and intelligently about all the candidates. Personally, I have to confess a certain bias in favour of the old Rhinoceros Party. They really should have won a seat or two. There's also a monty python sketch about elections that the rhino party probably lifted some ideas from but I promised myself I'd stop bringing that stuff up on my blog.

NEW EDIT: I just thought you should know that I drew the saddest little wing guy ever on my desk in English last week. Bye.

Stupid hat.

Black, White, Rainbow

Alex: Yeah, I have to see a doctor about these migraines.
Me: I think it's all in your head.

This is why mathematicians should generally not write books.

Find the interval for which the distance that twice a number is from seven is always less than or equal to eleven.

Ridiculous. Instead of attempting to decode the problem, I elected to make a list of stuff I want in my Drug Awareness notebook. Here's a sample:

-white top hat
-white dress pants
-long white gloves
-rainbow trench coat

I suppose some of these merit explanation. For as long as I can remember, I've wanted one of those ridiculous long black trench coats that are neither warm enough nor cool enough and serve mainly to hide things under (watching The Matrix in English last year did not help this in the slightest). However, I really don't think that black is the creepiest colour someone can wear; white wins by a landslide.

In the last year, I've managed to pick up two very important additions to my monochromatic wardrobe. I bought a white blazer (blazer-like thing, really) in France and a black coat in July. And, apparently being blessed with the kind of good fortune a Scot should appreciate, I paid about $30 for each.

Several complications arose out of this. One, I swiftly realized that the best (creepiest?) thing to wear with a white blazer is white pants. Two, Kelsey had actually already (something like half a year before) purchased a (nicer) black coat, and you know it's unthinkable that two people in a group should be wearing black coats (no, but really. it would be a little odd). Three, I figured that the only thing neater than a black top hat is a white top hat.

Unfortunately, rainbow trench coats do not seem to exist. It's really too bad: just think of all the symbols something like that would combine.

Later in math, I was given back the notorious questionnaire in which I compared zero to the forces of darkness and the portal to a parallel world of emptiness.

Q. Why does zero matter when solving equations?
A. How can there be something without nothing? Once you begin to count, to understand the concept of 'some', you must follow that up with an understanding of the concept of 'none'. Zero is this concept.

made you look!

Life according to my favourite composer.

'I wish I could throw off the thoughts which poison my happiness. And yet I take a kind of pleasure in indulging them.'

Cheerful old fellow, this Chopin. I stumbled upon a collection of quotes and was impressed, although not surprised, by the intensity of his depression. The master of romantic piano music really needs to watch more Monty Python.

Here he is describing his accomodation whilst staying at Majorca:

'It's a huge Carthusian monastery, stuck down between rocks and sea, where you may imagine me, without white gloves or haircurling, as pale as ever, in a cell with such doors as Paris never had for gates. '

I could live without curlers, but white gloves are a necessity. Watch this space for more paleness.

Here he goes again, expressing my own and everyone's great doubts about it all:

'I am gay on the outside [...] but inside something gnaws at me; some presentiment, anxiety, dreams - or sleeplessness - melancholy, indifference - desire for life, and the next instant, desire for death.'

And finally, a long, long parade of doom and gloom:

'This bed on which I shall lie has been slept on by more than one dying man, but today it does not repel me! Who knows what corpses have lain on it and for how long? But is a corpse any worse than I? A corpse too knows nothing of its father, mother or sisters or Titus. Nor has a corpse a sweetheart. A corpse, too, is pale, like me. (There we go.) A corpse is cold, just as I am cold and indifferent to everything. A corpse has ceased to live, and I too have had enough of life.... Why do we live on through this wretched life which only devours us and serves to turn us into corpses? The clocks in the Stuttgart belfries strike the midnight hour. Oh how many people have become corpses at this moment! Mothers have been torn from their children, children from their mothers - how many plans have come to nothing, how much sorrow has sprung from these depths, and how much relief!... Virtue and vice have come in the end to the same thing! It seems that to die is man's finest action - and what might be his worst? To be born, since that is the exact opposite of his best deed. It is therefore right of me to be angry that I was ever born into this world! Why was I not prevented from remaining in a world where I am utterly useless? What good can my existence bring to anyone? ... But wait, wait! What's this? Tears? How long it is since they flowed! How is this, seeing that an arid melancholy has held me for so long in its grip? How good it feels - and sorrowful. Sad but kindly tears! What a strange emotion! Sad but blessed. It is not good for one to be sad, and yet how pleasant it is.'

Aspiring psychologists take note: here is a case study that can be diagnosed with just about anything. Great thesis topic.

Aspiring musicians: buy the nocturnes. And if you know any aspiring inventors named Doc, sign me up for the nineteenth century.

There's just no end to the monty python references.

This will not do wonders for my schoolwork.

Do not expect to hear from me for awhile.

I feel so very, very betrayed. I never knew Neil would let me down like this, but evidently he has less respect for the way I'm trying to cope with addiction than I had believed.

*draws deep breath*

Today, my guitar teacher lent me the complete DVD set of Monty Python's Flying Circus.

Now, it's possible that he doesn't realize just how deep I'm in. Just how much of a flaming nerd I really am. But then, most people aren't exactly very public about this kind of thing. I felt you all should know only so that when you next observe me giggling uncontrollably for minutes on end in the middle of math class, you don't leap to the conclusion that I am insane. Crazy, yes. Not insane.

There was some more stuff that happened today but I can't remember it now.

EDIT: I've just realized that out of my five latest posts, four mention monty python, and the fifth is about science fiction. See, this is why I can't answer when people ask me what I want to do with my life.

Happy? Obviously, I'm ill.

I really love Greek names.

Well, it took me 356 posts, and in the end I didn't write it myself, but I've finally put my name on the blog. I know it comes as a huge revelation to most of my readers.

In the news today, Dufault has offered me a half-credit for doing one of my favourite things in the whole world: alphabetizing and organizing a bookshelf. Specifically, the one full of Smiley's books in 210. Both seem happy with the idea of somebody working on it, but I bet they aren't as happy as I am.

Also, after watching Life of Brian twice at Alicia's last Saturday, and after Orlando's failed attempts to pronounce 'real root' in math today, I've decided that I should try and go a whole day without saying the letter 'r'. Hopefully many ridiculous situations will arise.

Today my brother completely freaked the shit out of me with a fake egg, which he threw over my head. I lost consciousness for a fraction of a heartbeat, and when I came to I'd dropped my dishes in the sink and lost my spoon.

And finally, a link to one of my favourite things on the interweb. Visions of the future, as seen in the past. It's priceless.

Brothers, sisters, can't you see? The future's owned by you and me.

Castor and Pollux.

More books.

While Arthi fought yet another battle in the office on Friday, I found a Nebula Winners anthology on the lost-and-found shelf under the teacher's boxes. It looked lost and forlorn, so I (out of the pure and honest goodness of my heart) elected to give it a home.

As it turns out, one of the stories featured in the collection is Asimov's Bicentennial Man. The novelette (novelette? novella? short story? who cares?) happens to be one of my favourite Asimov shorts (and, if you know me well, you are probably aware that I have read far, far too many. they are mind-expanding), as well as one of the few stories that I suggest reading next to a box of tissues (lots of stories make me cry, but tissue tears are an entirely different brand of feeling, and one I believe others are more likely to share). Basically, it's about a robot who wants to be human. So yes, I guess you can bring out the transvestite comparisons. Recommended.

I actually remember seeing the movie once, a long time ago. Of course, it was considerably stupider and more glamourous. The inevitable casting of Robin Williams and addition of a love interest were a letdown, if an expected one; from there, it slid somewhat complacently into cliché. After all, the wonder of the original story is that only an author with such a stark, unornamented style -- a style stereotypically male and stereotypically haut sci-fi (bas sci-fi, or so I term it henceforth, being more along the lines of those horrifyingly fascinating space-erotica paperbacks) -- could pull off such a plot and retain his dignity.

So yes, it was probably worse than the film version of I, Robot, but I'm not absolutely sure. ('I'm Will Smith, I hate robots, I wear Converse'; cue incomprehensible but vaguely interesting car-robot-chases, and a little later you have one very confused fourteen-year-old wondering what exactly the answer to the mystery was, and who the robot referred to in the title is, and what any of this has to do with Asimov.)

Bugs.

It was huge. It was black. And it flew. Around my bed, to be precise. It was a battleship of a bug, an monster of uncountable appendages, ridiculous proportions, and an indeterminate number of body sections, all bound together by some mystical dark force. Had it not appeared to possess several times the requisite number of legs, I would have called it Death in insect form, but this unearthly beast was beyond classification in any known arthropod genus. As my body locked into position, my reflexes rejoicing at the advent of the crisis for which they had been designed, my highly-developed brain (nourished by the sort of novels one cannot admit to having read except among a trusted few) came to the logical realization that here, at last, was the probe I had so long expected to see. Here was evidence of extraterrestrial surveillance; I had known it all along.

Needless to say, my father was unable to locate the levitating Leviathan. While I searched the basement for harpoons, pitchforks, and holy water, he grabbed the net we used to catch tadpoles, fish, frogs, and the occasional budgie (what good would such a weapon have done him?) and poked around my room. I sleep with heavy books beside my bed now. (Which is true, but after all, I always have.)

Today, my brother was on the garage roof when he stepped on a bees' nest.

It isn't really my story to tell, but I have no doubt that it is one of the worst experiences of his life. I've never heard anyone scream like that before. He leapt down (eight feet up, and he leaps down?) and ran into the house, shrieking and flailing his arms, a cloud of striped warriors following him everywhere he fled.

'Get out get out!' I screamed. 'Go to the park! Go find mom at the park!'

Exit brother, unshod, tearing for the park, the hounds of hell at his back. Exit brother's friend, running for home and his own mother. Cut to attic, as I contemplate climbing out through the window. Close-up on lingering swarm in living room of house. Back to attic, with me pulling on pants and putting socks on -- two on my feet, two on my hands.

Brother's friend came back, bringing his mother, three other kids, and antihistamines. In honour of the fresh audience, I provided my best impression of a paranoid, senile widower.

Paranoid, Senile Widower (locally, Old Sockhands): 'Go away! Get out while you can!' (Waves socked hands.) 'They're all around you! They'll get you too!' (Runs down two flights of stairs, charges out front door. Socked feet, hands disappear into distance.)

And my brother. Panic attack, pink and swollen, chunks of skin missing. Mercifully, bones unbroken and allergically unreactive. But the trauma, and the pain.

Perhaps I'll just stop sleeping. I'll patrol the second floor, standing sentinel outside my brother's door, armed with a rolled newspaper and a rubber boot. And always, always watching for the Martian bug.

EDIT: I forgot. Get Fuzzy, I am shamed to admit, was today a fairly accurate reflection of the way my own mind works. I'll never make a politician.

The idyll.

Two books. Three days. Plenty of zeroes.

'What's so funny about Biggus Dickus?'

-Life of Brian

Honestly, if this lending of books proceeds in a way anywhere close to its current rate, this will be a hell of a year. I've had two people give me books to read since school started. And not just give me the titles, which is fantastic enough; I mean actually hand over the volume with a return-whenever date affixed.

On the first day of school, Frances from my homeroom lent me Good Omens, which Alicia has been telling me to read for a year or two and I've been resisting because I like to pretend I don't like Neil Gaiman. I'm almost finished. I thought about saving it, but I've never had much in the way of self-control. I figure I'll wind up with my own copy eventually anyway.

Then, today, I was looking at a book on Orlando's desk. The Nothing That Is: A Natural History of Zero. This, I said, must be the most amazing book in the world ever. (One of my dad's favourite phrases to use around me has always been, 'I've told you a million times not to exaggerate.') So she took the hint that I honestly wasn't really making and handed it over. (If the whole year of precal is spent talking about zeroes, infinity and math puns, I may actually learn to pay attention.)

My second driving lesson is coming up. I'm trying not to think about it. And for those who don't know I'm the worst driver in the history of the world, I am. I can't drive a car, I can barely steer a sailboat, and I'm just very happy that I've never hit anything worse than a mailman while biking. Hey, we should go biking soon.

EDIT: Oh, yeah, Sophia. What I actually wrote was: 'The powers of darkness. The void. The portal to a world of emptiness.'
What I should have written was: 'Zero is the mind-killer. Zero is the little death that brings total obliteration. I will face zero. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when zero is gone past me I will turn to see zero's path. Where zero has gone there will be zero.'
(In other words: Wonderfully confusing Dune reference!)
And yeah, I'm super glad you're in those classes. I'm stoked. It'll make it so much more interesting.

NEW EDIT: xkcd is my favourite webcomic. Not that I read more than one. Definitely not AHAHAHA. But seriously. I've been following for awhile, and it's consistently amazing; check it out down the right. And don't give up on it if the first one you read is about weird fetishes. (Not that anyone honestly would. Quite the contrary, I believe.)

I could have kissed them.

Are you saying that everyone who owns a bike store is a lesbian?

'You should not rub yourself with radioactive material.'

-Mr. Z

In the spirit of the last post about hair (hell, I could have a whole blog about hair. Oh, man. Oh man oh man oh man. That would be the best blog ever. I would read it every day. I wonder if it exists), I feel I have to take this other picture I stole from the mother internet and offer it once again up into her loving arms.

What is this (thing called love)?

Found in the notebook. Haven't the foggiest. It's like brain leakage.

Imagine that you're sitting in a little room.
And imagine that you have the power to stop all these nightmares with the pull of a single lever...but you do not pull the lever.

I think what I was getting at, actually, was that sometimes a good story needs someone to make a surprising decision at the moment of climax (yes, that is the appropriate term. I'm trying to be serious here people), a strange decision -- perhaps the 'wrong' decision. Or it could have had something to do with the fact that I had been sitting in the airport in Munich for three hours, and it was something like five in the morning Turkish time. Whichever.

I was going to end that post there, but I think I really have to share with all my latest musical obsession. No, not Kraftwerk. I'm talking about one of the foremost rockers of the modern era, the heart and soul of the ridiculously popular band called Radiohead (which I've actually already mentioned like three times on this blog. Damn I'm a nerd): Johnny Greenwood's hair.

I want this. So badly. It's entirely Ariel's responsibility to make sure I never get my hair styled (styled?) this way. The world is safe only so long as she is the one person with short black hair in the group.

However, no one is preventing me from morphing into one of these guys:

And, I mean, it's not like they're the only 70s scandinavian band with supernatural hairstyles and outfits from outer space. (Although I admit a particular fondness for those pants.) No, what kills me about this is Erik the Red in the corner there. I've only seen that expression once before in my life, and it was on a muppet.

It's all the fault of the dream.

As I Came Through The Desert

Written by James Thomson
From The City of Dreadful Night

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: All was black,
In heaven no single star, on earth no track;
A brooding hush without a stir or note,
The air so thick it clotted in my throat;
And thus for hours; then some enormous things
Swooped past with savage cries and clanking wings:
But I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Eyes of fire
Glared at me throbbing with a starved desire;
The hoarse and heavy and carnivorous breath
Was hot upon me from deep jaws of death;
Sharp claws, swift talons, fleshless fingers cold
Plucked at me from the bushes, tried to hold:
But I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Lo you, there,
That hillock burning with a brazen glare;
Those myriad dusky flames with points a-glow
Which writhed and hissed and darted to and fro;
A Sabbath of the Serpents, heaped pell-mell
For Devil’s roll-call and some fête of Hell:
Yet I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Meteors ran
And crossed their javelins on the black sky-span;
The zenith opened to a gulf of flame,
The dreadful thunderbolts jarred earth’s fixed frame;
The ground all heaved in waves of fire that surged
And weltered round me sole there unsubmerged:
Yet I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Air once more,
And I was close upon a wild sea-shore;
Enormous cliffs arose on either hand,
The deep tide thundered up a league-broad strand;
White foambelts seethed there, wan spray swept and flew;
The sky broke, moon and stars and clouds and blue:
And I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: On the left
The sun arose and crowned a broad crag-cleft;
There stopped and burned out black, except a rim,
A bleeding eyeless socket, red and dim;
Whereon the moon fell suddenly south-west,
And stood above the right-hand cliffs at rest:
Still I strode on austere;
No hope could have no fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: From the right
A shape came slowly with a ruddy light;
A woman with a red lamp in her hand,
Bareheaded and barefooted on that strand;
O desolation moving with such grace!
O anguish with such beauty in thy face!
I fell as on my bier,
Hope travailed with such fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: I was twain,
Two selves distinct that cannot join again;
One stood apart and knew but could not stir,
And watched the other stark in swoon and her;
And she came on, and never turned aside,
Between such sun and moon and roaring tide:
And as she came more near
My soul grew mad with fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: Hell is mild
And piteous matched with that accursèd wild;
A large black sign was on her breast that bowed,
A broad blackband ran down her snow-white shroud;
That lamp she held was her own burning heart,
Whose blood-drops trickled step by step apart:
The mystery was clear;
Mad rage had swallowed fear.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: By the sea
She knelt and bent above that senseless me;
Those lamp-drops fell upon my white brow there,
She tried to cleanse them with her tears and hair;
She murmured words of pity, love, and woe,
She heeded not the level rushing flow:
And mad with rage and fear,
I stood stonebound so near.

As I came through the desert thus it was,
As I came through the desert: When the tide
Swept up to her there kneeling by my side,
She clasped that corpse-like me, and they were borne
Away, and this vile me was left forlorn;
I know the whole sea cannot quench that heart,
Or cleanse that brow, or wash those two apart:
They love; their doom is drear,
Yet they nor hope nor fear;
But I, what do I here?

I love this poem so much.

I promise this is for real.

We all love it when people's names match them far too well. Such as that guy there, David Bird, who used to do the ornithology column in the Gazette and maybe still does. But nothing comes close to my mother's picks, drawn from personal experience, of the worst possible names a doctor can have. The worst possible names to hear over the intercom. The worst possible names to read on the door before you walk in for your appointment.

Dr. Deth and Dr. Grief.

First driving lesson was yesterday. It would have been amusing to watch. And...Radiohead in three. (Which hasn't really sunk in yet, seeing as I'd sort of given up on it.)

You can never be the person you were before.

More Stuff I Like

So I went to watch Jenna figure skate yesterday. And besides being utterly, completely blown away by her extreme skills (and man, does she deserve them, what with all that perseverance and all), I have decided that male figure skaters are awesome. Either my brother will have to take up the sport (he's pretty skinny, after all), or I will have to marry one. Because you know what? It takes some serious guts to be a twelve-year-old in tight pants and pointed shoes, while all your friends are cutting each other up with sticks and little round black rocks. It takes a real man.

And no, not all male figure skaters are gay, although gay male figure skaters are probably about as manly as it gets. After all, as I've said quite a bit recently, man x man = man squared.

Today I saw Mama Mia! at the theater, and it was also a festival of awesomeness. Even more so than you might expect.

I'm home, by the way. I've kind of let this blog fall by the wayside a bit in the past few weeks, but that's typical of the summer. I'll be back eventually, with my customary force of spirit and acuteness of observations. Oh, and my caustic wit.

After all, I myself have never had an average mother.

Making a Tentative Reappearance on the Internet.

So you all know about Yalım, my lovably nerdy Turkish cousin who stayed with us for a summer and stranded himself in the middle of a lake while kayaking in Ontario. And you’ve all heard about the incredible age differences in my family, so that my father is two years younger than my grandmother and my other grandmother is younger than my great-grandmother. It isn’t too surprising, then, that Yalım is actually not my first cousin but my mother’s; his brother, Cağıl, is younger than my brother.

Here’s when the new details about my family come in. My grandmother has one sister and two brothers. The older of the brothers – the serious, nervous one – is the father of Yalım and Cağıl. My mother’s other uncle – the youngest of the family, the trickster, now the jolly uncle who speaks a grand total of perhaps fifty English words – also has two children: Eray (if that is how you spell it…) and Özge. Like my only set of legitimate first cousins (on my father’s side), they are two years apart, each in their early twenties.

They’re pretty awesome characters. Eray, 24, is much like his father: short, outgoing, and funny. He’s the sort of person who could probably blow cigarette smoke rings at fourteen (he certainly can now), the sort of person who didn’t know and couldn’t believe that we don’t have mandatory military service in Canada. Özge, 22, is a little more subtle: much shorter, understanding, and also funny. She’s the sort of person who doesn’t seem to mind that I only half understand her (probably very amusing) stories about Anglophone children she has met, the sort of person who wages long battles with the gearshift every time she tries to back the car up. Neither speaks English.

You made it through those three paragraphs; you really deserve some kind of story at this point. Unfortunately, I think most of the story has already been implied. Last night, the two of them decided to take their awkward, nerdy Canadian cousin out for a bit. Eray laughing at me for throwing a popsicle stick into a garbage can was a pretty good moment, but it doesn’t come close to the perfection of Özge attempting to explain how to open and close the electric windows of the car.

‘If you want to open it, you press down here,’ she informed me. ‘Pull up on the button to make the window go up.’

Well, we do have those in Canada.

Y and C are coming next weekend. Yalım’s in university now, and apparently has a girlfriend. Fingers crossed for him not to have become too cool.

I’ll post again about my favourite parts of this country: the landscape, the ruins, fragmented suggestions of an ancient time. I’m still gathering material.

Haunting memories of times you never knew in life.

Migraine Woes.

It isn't easy to write an exam when the paper ripples and the numbers won't hold still.

Summer stretches out before us, but I feel no relief, no euphoria, no pessimism...nothing at all, in a state of calm rather than a void of emotion. This has recently become more of a trend; an explanation, perhaps, for why I am a worse blogger than I ever have been. For this style of writing demands either an interesting life or the ability (or will?) to blow an average life to disproportional grandeur, exaggerating agony and distress. Neither applies or appeals to me of late.

I look back on my old blog posts, and they astonish me; I can't believe that I ever fretted about such things. I only need to do what makes sense to me, follow what I feel like doing, obey impulse without becoming too self-destructive. And I shall experience extremes of emotions -- highs and lows, as much as I ever have and more -- but rarely without genuine reason. If this is another level of maturity, it isn't what I expected.

It's been a creative day.

The stack of laundry on my desk is very impressive.

Upon arriving at band practice tonight, I noticed a number of things. The first was that I had completely forgotten my folder with all my scores in it.

'Ah, well,' I thought. 'I guess I'll have to depend on the other second clarinet for a change.' While the other second, of course, did not show.

This evening, I learned that I know all of my honour band pieces completely by heart.

It was amazing, though. If you asked me what the notes were, offhand, at a certain part of the piece, I wouldn't be able to answer. But when we began at the beginning and played through until the end, the phrases sounded out one after another -- perfectly. Better, in fact, than I usually play them.

Another thing I noticed was that Joseph and I were wearing the same shirt.

Every week since Cuba, a different member of the band has worn the dark blue uniform shirt we used there. It reminds me a lot of that improv game where your group has to count aloud, and if two people say the same number at once you have to start over.

So I guess we lost this time.

RFS on hold for awhile. Back sometime in the summer, I should think.

If lies are evil, why does believing in them make us so happy?

Thinking of You

Dear RFS:

I've been away for a long time.

I still love you.

The Guy is gone.

'Strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government.'

-Monty Python

Norman Bethune is being repaired, you know. On the way to the Old Brewery Mission on Saturday, we walked by his pedestal on Guy street. There was a solemn ring of pure black pigeons surrounding it, still in the blowing snow. They could have been in mourning.

Bunnies.

So I fainted. Again. Down and out, five and a half feet to the floor and lines dancing before my eyes when I was rudely awakened from my deep thoughts of dancing rabbits. My dad had just given me the hepatitis A vaccine in the living room (I was standing up; brilliant thinking, you two), a little more than a week before I went away to Cuba.

'Dad, my whole arm's numb.'
'Oh, really? The whole arm?'
'Yeah, no, I can't feel it at all.'

Two steps over, eyes roll over, over and out. My brother and sister were pretty scarred.

That was Sunday three weeks ago. Apparently I passed out mainly because I was (once again) dehydrated, which was because I was sick following the ski trip. I missed Monday through Wednesday, went to school Thursday and the next Monday (french project finally done!), and then I flew away.

But on Tuesday (the Tuesday I was sick), I finally acquired a very nifty little piece of plastic permitting me to enter traffic (although under supervision for a good eight months or more). So more potential trouble.

I've just read Sophia's blog; can you tell? (Oh and by the way Sophia, let me know if and when I can add you to my list again.)

Never break the chain?

I ache. All over.

Mom: 'Tu ne peux pas faire de l'origami en classe.'

Emma: 'I grecque.'

Mom: 'You can't do origami in class.'

Emma: 'I grecque.'

Mom: 'What?'

Emma: 'I'm saying "Why?" in French.'

About the numbers on those little fruit stickers.

One Wednesday in Biology:
"I know today is Friday...."

-Ms. F

Four digits: conventionally grown.

Five digits beginning with 8: genetically modified.

Five digits beginning with 9: organic.

Fruit stickers are a big deal in my house, as anyone who's seen the cupboards over the sink can tell.

Hey, it's groundhog time.

'I love watching rich people fight. I don't know why.'

-Mr. Z on professional hockey

Today was perhaps the most amazing day skiing I've ever had. In past years, on powder days, I'd tear down glades at top speed hoping not to crash into anything. I feel more like I'm flying now. I am completely in control of nearly every move I make. I can go anywhere I want on the trail...up, down, sideways, into the air. It's an agility utterly foreign to someone who can't walk to school without pirouetting across the sidewalk, no matter how much salt has been laid down to eat the ice.

Skiing, part two.

Three twenty-five, at the top of Tremblant, our bus at the bottom of the north side, and nothing to take us there but black diamonds. Looking back now, I realize that only I had any inkling of what was to come, for only I was both an advanced skier and a beginner snowboarder. Amanda cannot be held responsible for this adventure, nor can her friend. If I was less of an idiot, I would have told them to switch again. I would have told Amanda to take the chair down. I might even have proposed an exchange myself, offered my friend my skis. Yet as Amanda, on a snowboard for the first time in her life, slid over to the top of the nearest expert trail, the only phrase I saw fit to utter was, 'We're fucking screwed.'


The first part of the trail was the steepest part, and I don't know how they did it.
In fact, we didn't really hit the wall until about two-thirds of the way there, when Amanda had a breakdown.

'I can't do it.' She was sobbing. 'There's no one here to help us. They're gonna leave without us.'

Who could blame her? She was panicking. Her feet strapped to a board, she had practically no control over her own fate. The ski lift we had taken up had ground to a halt, and we were, it was becoming evident, rather late. We had seen no one else since the top of the mountain.

'They won't. Absolutely not. And if they did, my parents would come pick us up.' Of course, I wasn't so sure about any of this. I can't imagine my mother being too pleased to drive to Tremblant and back in order to pick up her vagrant] daughter. 'Come on. I'll help you down.' I stretched out my pole to her, but she didn't move.

'Do it. Do it.'

My Ben Stiller impression could not fail me. Her hand swung out and tightened. Slowly, gently, I moved forward, immensely thankful for my newfound control of my speed.

Much of the remainder of the mountain was descended in this fashion. We stopped. We started. She fell. I pulled her behind me. And then, as suddenly as the clouds parting after an epic rainstorm, the mountain fell away, and I saw paradise before us. The ski chalet could not have shone with more radiance had it been fashioned of pure gold.

'We're there,' I breathed. 'We made it. Alex! Alex!'

For a moment, for eternity, the three of us stood on the slope, gazing down at the bus, at the four or five red-suited figures far below. And, like a starving man who feels that food has never tasted so wonderful, I thought to myself that not once in my life had I been happier to see a parking lot.

We came down slowly. When we were at the bottom, we took off our skis, our snowboards, and began the trek to the parking lot -- elated, exhausted, and a little terrified of what we might find when we climbed onto the bus. I am certain that I do not exaggerate when I say that bonds were formed by that descent, where bonds did not already exist. Was it the stupidest thing I ever did? Probably not, but it's somewhere up there. Do I regret it? Not for a moment, but I'm glad we came through.

Tim glanced at us as we passed him. Winked.

'In trouble already, I see.'

Some of my favourite picture books

Yay, another list of favourite things.

1. Mister Got To Go: The Cat that Wouldn't Leave (Lois Simmie)
Beautiful. This is a beautiful story. It's about a cat that comes to live in a hotel -- the Sylvia hotel in Vancouver, to be precise.

2. Don't Let the Pigeon Drive the Bus! (Mo Willems)
None of the sequels to this book come close to achieving the perfect brilliance of the first one. It's about a pigeon who wants to drive the bus. And you aren't going to let him.

3. Cinder Edna (Ellen Jackson)
This is the best short Cinderella parody I've ever read. And I've read far, far too many.

4. Matthew and the Midnight Pirates (Allen Morgan)
My family has a bizarre obsession with the matthew and the midnight etc. books. I don't really understand it, but this particular one has a few fantastically funny scenes.

Jazz band....

'Pretend you're a rock star. Which doesn't necessarily mean you're good. It means you're a rock star.'

-Neil

Just when you think you've got everything figured out, life throws the possibility you never even considered in your face. I've said and thought it so many times that it could be my personal motto, but I am continuously surprised by situations in which I encounter this unpredictability, situations so steeped in irony that I feel I could either drown or brew some hot, exotic irony tea.

In order to introduce you to my latest meeting with my maxim, I must provide a brief backstory of my half-year (so far) in the Jazz Band.

Benny Goodman may have filled concert halls even through the glorious seventies, but we mediocre high-school clarinetists are not as well-received in the jazz world. I joined the Jazz Band this year partially because I love jazz, and partially to acquire a foothold should I choose to try out for a place in the rhythm section next year (keys). I have often looked back. I love the clarinet, and I enjoy nearly all of the music, but the fourth bleeding trumpet part is only more boring if you play it on an instrument that is actually far quieter than the horn, and I was almost instantly disappointed by the lack of improvising opportunities. It follows that I never practice; it hardly makes a difference.

In March, the band is going to compete at the Jazzfest. I'm sure you can imagine that I wouldn't be terribly excited about this, but that's actually short of the truth: I'm not even going, because I won't be in town. Of course, when Fortin sent out e-mails with the MP3 file of the song we are required to play for the festival, I wasn't exactly going to make an extraordinary effort to sit down and listen to it, especialy since I was pretty sure my part would consist of three-note patterns interjected throughout the music. In retrospect, I could have played it once or twice, but it came at the same time as all the MP3 material for upcoming honour band projects, some of which I had to learn for the January concert.

Fortin handed out parts to the jazz piece the thursday before last. Because I had never encountered it before, I was a little slow to realize that he had given me the first trumpet part.

'Yeah, so I need the fourth part, right?'

He nodded emphatically. 'Yes, you do.' Then, the terrible, terrifying words: 'Fourth trumpet has a solo.'

Something happened to my stomach as I stood there staring at him with my mouth open. I'm not sure now whether I was considering the ridiculous humour of being given a solo for the one piece I would never play in public or contemplating my impeding doom. I hadn't listened to the piece. I hadn't seen the piece. And (as you probably know) I sure as hell can't sight read in Bb.

It's a stretch to say I played the solo with the band, but I did manage to get a phrase in once.

When did we all get so big?

CEGEP issues

Sometimes when I want to make myself really depressed, I'll go through university and CEGEP pamphlets with a black sharpie and cross off everything that I would hate studying. I don't know why I do it, because I'm always left with the same disciplines. Commerce, law, engineering, medicine, education, drama, dance, and fine arts disappear swiftly, followed by biology, geography, and all the obscure degrees about specific cultures, specific religions, and dentistry. Of course, I really do like a lot of things about biology, geography, and even medicine, but our society has become so specialized that dabbling is very difficult. Once I've brushed all these off the map, I'm left with biochemistry, physics and chemistry, music (composition, performance, and theory), philosophy, and English literature. Which is, you know, just six too many.

I suppose liberal arts is an obvious CEGEP option for those as undecided as I am, but that sort of knocks out any higher level of science. On the other hand, the science program offered at Marianopolis seems a little dull to suffer through for two years. The required courses are pretty well what you'd expect -- math, math, math, chemistry, and stupid things like magnetism -- but the elective courses are nothing short of a major dispapointment. Basically, you take 9 required science courses, and then...then, you get to choose three more science classes.

As for music, well, let's just say chances are lamentably slim when you play the piano and can't sing for your life, although, thanks to my McGill exams, I technically already qualify to apply. Adding to the general confusion, the prospect of spending two years with entire classes of pushy musicians is not exactly the most appealing thing in the world, but I would love to study music in university, in any capacity.

Of course, my concerns are probably of little consequence. Fast forward a few years, and I'm still going to be an aging eng-lit student, perpetually dreading unplanned encounters with my landlady, surviving off whatever I manage to collect at the bar where I play my own shitty rock tunes.

See how masterfully I've been thus far able to avoid studying for tomorrow's 536 exam? By attempting to convince myself that it doesn't matter?

What I REALLY need is a band.

My Favourite Internet Radio Stations

For me, the idea behind listening to the radio is to find music I've never heard before, so all those classic rock biggest hits of all time stations don't cut it, unless I'm in a car with no CD or tape player.

a. Aural Moon
Prog station. Sometimes a little scary -- progressive rock is comparable to science fiction -- but great if I'm in the right state of mind. Beautiful name, too, although the site itself isn't that pretty.
http://www.auralmoon.com/

b. BAGel Radio
Such an awesome website. It makes me so happy every time I decide to check it out. Like c, this is more of an indie station -- less-known music from the current era. Very interesting links.
http://www.bagelradio.com/blog/

c. CBC Radio 3
Canada's own web station for newish artists, so it has that extra bonus of being close to home. Because, you know, all my favourite bands are canadian. Seriously, though, this is pretty sweet -- it has a stream I believe, but you can browse through all the artists and hear anything you like, then add those to your personal playlist.
http://radio3.cbc.ca/

d. Technicolor Web of Sound
This is pretty well my dream website. It's entirely devoted to psychedelic rock, so most of what they play is from obscure bands with names like The Magic Mushrooms, Acid Talk, and Strawberry Alarm Clock -- bands that perished with the arrival of the seventies.
http://www.techwebsound.com/

Skiing, part one.

'It smells like Jesus.'

-Alex

I'm a little apprehensive about telling this story, because it seems to me like a good one. It lives in my head, but maybe that's because I lived it.

It happened yesterday.

'So, Mom.' I asked. 'Did you realize that we were forty-five minutes late coming home from skiing?'

'Why were you forty-five minutes late?'

'Three idiots got lost on the mountain.'

'Oh, be fair. You don't know they're idiots.'

'Well, one of them is certainly a pretty big idiot. And I don't care if you rented movies or not, because I've had enough action for one day already.'

Last year, I spent most of my saturdays skiing with two other girls. One currently lives in Germany, and one, named Amanda, currently lives in Montreal. She doesn't live anywhere near me, so I was very pleasantly surprised to find that she is on the same skiing bus as me, as well as in the same class (with the same teacher as last year). She had enlisted about six other people to join skiing with her, notably her best friend Alex, a beginner-intermediate snowboarder (better than I am, not as good as Kelsey). Naturally, these two are fantastic individuals -- intelligent, multi-lingual, friendly, the whole bit -- to the point where I am quickly able to overcome my shy nature and enjoy the day I spent with them.

And it was a beautiful day. The snow wasn't great, but the slopes were relatively ice-free, and everyone seemed to be in a good mood. At one point, we ran into Tim, my instructor from two years ago, who cheerfully confided to his class that I had always been a known troublemaker. Tim was the sort of guy who wore a bandanna beneath his helmet, brought his girlfriend to some of our lessons, and once told us that he had always tried for a 69 average in school. Hey, he makes as good a prophet as I can imagine.

Amanda and Alex an into a couple of girls they knew from school in the afternoon, and we spent some time with them as well. It was close to the end of the time we had there that Amanda decided to trade her skis for the snowboard one of the girls was riding, to try the sport for the first time. I won't lie; I was excited at the prospect of it, and though a little nervous about her desire to take the chair lift, I knew there were plenty of easy trails off the halfway lift.

Of course, after consuming impressive quantities of caffeine and sugar, helping Amanda with her boots, and hiking up from the ski racks, we discovered that we had missed the closing of the halfway lift by five minutes. I shook my head.

'We can't take the lift that goes to the top,' I said. 'The top of the north side is almost entirely black.'

'No, there's one easy one,' Amanda reminded me. 'We took it this morning.'

She was itching to go, afflicted with the rare and potentially dangerous combination of daring and lack of information. We didn't have the heart to say no; what of being perhaps five minutes late? The easy trail wouldn't be too difficult if we helped her down it gradually and patiently

I have nothing but good memories of the optimistic journey up, of advice shouted her way and a pleasant discussion on whether she would fall at the top of the lift. When we arrived, however, I cannot say I noticed whether she did; for there it was, a deep wound in whatever plans we had been foolish enough to make: a bright orange rope stretched across the beginner trail. Closed.

Part two will continue the story, so don't read it if it's not interesting so far -- you can probably extrapolate anyway.

Have you heard? -- the word is love!

Fletcher has a cameo appearance in this.

I wrote a lot on the plane home from Vancouver.

Casting her fears aside, she leapt over the top of the spidery wrought-iron gates; her white dress floated out around her as she dropped to the ground. As her pale, sandaled feet met the dust on the other side, her mind flew briefly to Simone, to the uneasy question of whether she had found the black case hidden in the rosebushes.

Tom: 'No, it's pretty good. I like the use of...English.'

Picking herself up, she glanced around warily, expecting an ambush that never came.

It seemed to her that she had come to a fork in the road her life had been taking. In the moment that she had shut her eyes and sprung across the tall fence, her choice had been made. The fall to earth had decided her fate.

‘Your metaphors could use a little innovation.’

Startled, she looked up. There, three feet above her left shoulder, was the waif, tossing a small red object from one handlike extension to the other.

‘You followed.’

Etc, etc. The trouble is, I was trying to write a picture book. The idea was to get Emma to illustrate it and give it to mom for her birthday. (It was a great idea, I thought.) I'm just thinking that it might be better to write it in more Emma-appropriate prose. (I tried. It's a lot worse, normally.) It also sounds a little like something that was written on an airplane. (Much more so further on, when the clouds and stuff come in.) So as usual, I wind up with something I don't know what to do with. I could publish a collection of bits of things I don't know what to do with.

On Simone: In Vancouver, we found a picture of the band Au Revoir Simone somewhere, and one of the girls looked a little like an older, prettier, and more refined version of myself.

I don't belong.