Ten Things I like about Katie Vikken
#1 She laughs like a giggler.
#2 Her glasses have the way coolest frames ever.
#3 She's frum Wawa, Ontario just outside of Thuh Soo...
#4 She does the most bang-up impression of the Teen Girl Squad!
#5 The way she sings is magical (I call it, "All out and why-the-heck-not?")
#6 She is a crazee MC and crazy loud.
#7 My impression has always been that she keeps her nose to the grindstone when it comes to her faith.
#8 Her last name has two Ks in it! (And she lets me call her KV!)
the series:
Silas: http://jesfffskah.blogspot.com/2006/09/draw-er-of-smirks.html
J-Rob: http://jesfffskah.blogspot.com/2007/01/title-less.html
Lydia: http://jesfffskah.blogspot.com/2007/04/one-thing-i-like-about-lydia.html
Paul: http://jesfffskah.blogspot.com/2008/04/10th-paul-post.html
Monday, 23 October 2006
yarr.. who ye be?
My pirate name is:
Mad Dog Vane
Part crazy, part mangy, all rabid, you're the pirate all the others fear might just snap soon. You tend to blend into the background occaisionally, but that's okay, because it's much easier to sneak up on people and disembowel them that way. Arr!
Get your own pirate name from piratequiz.com.part of the fidius.org network
Tim, I want you especially to do this one.
Saturday, 21 October 2006
maybe a little hyperactive
I can't believe I actually asked my (female) friend if a boy was "nice" tonight. Hahah... she was talking to him and.. well.. I guess I was ... not... talking........ and after he left I asked. I can be so highschool it's not even funny except that it is.
Last night from Colbert:"The pen is mightier than the sword [beat] if that pen is shot out of a gun."
I am going to sleep my FACE off tonight, it's not even funny. It's going to be magical, actually. I love sushi. This week, during all of this week I have been under-sleeping, malnourishing and over working the brain and the emotions. This sleep will be SWEET because I will get up when I feel like it.
I actually got the same thing last Saturday and it was glorious. I slept until 11 am (which seems early to me somehow) and I remember a distinct difference as I walked down the hall to the bathroom. I was fully rested. That is such a blessing.
Even now I sit here, a 30-minute walk from home at 01h28; I feel that slight total-body ache that we get when battling an influenza and my brain is shooting sparks and smoke from over-use. I feel great though (and I'm not actually sick so this is a DIFF'T kind of all-over ache) because I KNOW exactly how SWEET this sleep will be. That feeling I get when I relax all of my muscles as I lay on my bed (especially the back and neck) is absolutely glorious. It's almost euphoric. Generally, I try not to sit down or sit properly in the moments (or hours) leading up to bed time because more tension equals more relaxation! That is a bit sick now that I think about it.... but ... I'll do it again tonight, I promise you.
And now to spin it into a Christian allegory (can't get enuffa it!). How sweet will it be to plop unstressed, unworried onto the welcoming, familiar bed in Heaven when all our work is done? I want to push so hard on Earth that everything within me SCREAMS for terrestrial life to be over so that Heaven can be that much sweeter. Just as you cannot appreciate sleeping in without working hard most of the time, I don't know if I can appreciate the perfection and calm of the afterlife without toiling past exhaustion (suffering for a Name!) while I still can. Seriously, every time I hear about death, sickness, crying, pain, injustice, etc being done away with my emotions are stirred. It's just such a glorious promise and what makes it so great - for me - is that I can experience all of those things on Earth for 7 or 8 decades so that I truly appreciate being released from them. Imagine!... I can't put words on how I conceive of this idea; it's simply marvellous.
Last night from Colbert:"The pen is mightier than the sword [beat] if that pen is shot out of a gun."
I am going to sleep my FACE off tonight, it's not even funny. It's going to be magical, actually. I love sushi. This week, during all of this week I have been under-sleeping, malnourishing and over working the brain and the emotions. This sleep will be SWEET because I will get up when I feel like it.
I actually got the same thing last Saturday and it was glorious. I slept until 11 am (which seems early to me somehow) and I remember a distinct difference as I walked down the hall to the bathroom. I was fully rested. That is such a blessing.
Even now I sit here, a 30-minute walk from home at 01h28; I feel that slight total-body ache that we get when battling an influenza and my brain is shooting sparks and smoke from over-use. I feel great though (and I'm not actually sick so this is a DIFF'T kind of all-over ache) because I KNOW exactly how SWEET this sleep will be. That feeling I get when I relax all of my muscles as I lay on my bed (especially the back and neck) is absolutely glorious. It's almost euphoric. Generally, I try not to sit down or sit properly in the moments (or hours) leading up to bed time because more tension equals more relaxation! That is a bit sick now that I think about it.... but ... I'll do it again tonight, I promise you.
And now to spin it into a Christian allegory (can't get enuffa it!). How sweet will it be to plop unstressed, unworried onto the welcoming, familiar bed in Heaven when all our work is done? I want to push so hard on Earth that everything within me SCREAMS for terrestrial life to be over so that Heaven can be that much sweeter. Just as you cannot appreciate sleeping in without working hard most of the time, I don't know if I can appreciate the perfection and calm of the afterlife without toiling past exhaustion (suffering for a Name!) while I still can. Seriously, every time I hear about death, sickness, crying, pain, injustice, etc being done away with my emotions are stirred. It's just such a glorious promise and what makes it so great - for me - is that I can experience all of those things on Earth for 7 or 8 decades so that I truly appreciate being released from them. Imagine!... I can't put words on how I conceive of this idea; it's simply marvellous.
Wednesday, 18 October 2006
an email from a frizzend
I just got off the phone with my stepmom, I have to pass this on right away. Im worried I won't do this story enough justice, but I'll try to keep it all straight I'll give you the timeline as best I know.
Early 1990's Andy was diagnosed with Leukemia. From then until now he has gone through periods of it being really bad, and then times of being healthy.
Thanksgiving weekend my stepsister Jen was staying with him. Saturday morning about 3 AM he went into the bathroom and collapsed and went unconscious. So Jen called 911 and went to the Hospital. He stayed in a coma-like state for few days.
For a couple days, he had a moments of seeming aware, but didn't say anything coherent.
On Tuesday I emailed out asking you guys to pray. On that day my step mom Lois went to join Jen and help comfort her.
Around mid week last week, Andy's brother, Julian and his wife, Margaret - both doctors- had some serious discussions with Jen. As they watched Andy on life support, their medical training told them he was nearing the end. So discussions began about "pulling the plug"... My step mom said that midway through last week Julian said "The brother side of me wants to keep him alive, but the doctor side of me knows there is no hope"... He spoke to Andy's doctor. The doctor said it's not uncommon for people who are in comas to have moments of conciousness but then never truly regain it fully. It looked very dim. After much thought, Julian decided to go with "brotherly gut-feeling and keep believing".
As time went on, Andy's Priest came and read him his Last Rights. It seemed like this was it.
Andy was so weak that for the next few days the Palliative Care came to him, the medical staff were worried if they tried to move him up a floor that he would die.
But the family thought they would hold out a little while longer. They were convinced Andy was fighting for life, even though the staff were telling them otherwise.
Then Saturday morning my step mom started praying outloud in his hospital room. She was asking God to heal Andy. Then Andy made some kind of sound. Eventually he weakly asked for ice. So she got him some. As she handed it to him, he said "what are you doing here?" (She'd been there since Tuesday). To which she laughed and they chatted. Then he said he was hungry. So Lois went to the nurses but at first they said they weren't permitted to give him any food. Lois called Julian, who came in, took one look at Andy and asked for the doctor on call to come in. She changed the order so that he could have food, some icecream.
Sunday Andy's doctors came, my stepmom said "the doctors walked in and their mouths dropped wide open and their eyes big as saucers" at first they said nothing. Later doctor Sung said "this could be God or this could be science"
I told Lois many of you were praying over the situation. She replied "the power of prayer is incredible..." "Im so high about being part of this miracle. I can see that God was working and prayer's power can't be measured. Rebecca, please thank all your friends for their prayers - they worked. Tell them praying works"
Apparently Andy has been in and out of this hospital for like 16 years - the staff are talking about this alot. There is a buzz. The nurses are having trouble believing his recovery. The head nurse calls him "Miracle Man."
We know the real miracle man is Christ. Please pray this truth would be shared with Andy. Neither Lois, Andy or Jen to my knowledge know Christ personally yet.
Thank you thank you thank you for taking the time to pray on their behalf
Im shocked. I prayed, but not believing that God would heal Andy completely. My faith has grown through this, and God is bigger in my eyes.
Monday, 16 October 2006
M'm! Mm! Good!
I went to see Andy Warhol in Toronto last weekend but apparently he's been dead for a while now so I just popped in to see some of his works on display.
It rocked my world and blew my mind.
I understand NOTHING about fine art (or visual art or whatever term can be most accurate to describe this stuff) and I CHERISH that ignorance.
I enjoyed the audio commentary that was available, recorded mostly by the AGO's curator and partly by some of Warhol's friends & subjects. It told me of art-history-guru insights that I would never be able to infer. I was made privy to subtext or intertextuality that fully changes (and fortunately brings a deeper and broader understanding) how I percieve things. I love that Warhol lived recently enough that people who knew him, who were with him, who were part of his stills or his films, are still around and can offer us invaluable first-hand magnificence. I love that enough of Warhols ideas and philosophies were well known (or are they written down?) that the virtual tour guide could tell us, "Andy wanted to be Jackie Kennedy.." when describing this mock-film strip, multiple print thing of her publicity photographs immediately before and after her husband's murder. Warhol did the same with Elvis and Elizabeth Taylor (as a girl) and a bonus part of our audio commentary was a full recording of the featured song sung by Elvis ("Flaming Star") and Curator Dude told us exactly how the content of the film and the song fit into how Warhol perceived Elvis and how all of this was reflected in the art.
I wish I could create art with so much subtext. I'll admit that sometimes the reader reads too far and gives the artist more credit than is reasonable but before that I am always astounded at the amout of effort that goes into laying the foundation for a rich meaningful work. It shows seriousness and true commitment and for that I sincerely appreciate Mr Andy Warhol and find myself inspired by him.
My OAC Writer's Craft teacher asked us one day during the beginning of the year to go to the in-school libby and research a definition of "art". (Attention all teachers: this is a sick, torturous task; do not EVER force it on your students.) I came up with something obscure and I vaguely remember being in a rush to put something on the cue card so I could get back to class and hear what his answer would be. (Fourteen years of public education conditioning insisted that his - the teacher's - answer would be the RIGHT answer.) I don't remember his answer. I don't remember anyone else's answer. I don't remember the discussion (if we even had one) or what he did with the cue cards. (I imagine he'd have kept them, searching for gold. I'd do it.) I know that I've been trying to come up with a working, irrefutable definition since then but I have never expected to stumble upon something satisfactory. I don't think I've even come up against someone who was interested in discoursing on this subject since then because most of the people I know are not into discussing heavy for the sake of heavy (or for the sake of discussion - I'm easy). In fact, I think that most of the people I know (and probably most people in my society) dismiss any "art" that they don't understand, usually that kind that is not familiar and/or conventional. (Let me walk away from this vein because it's a full story and 18 posts in itself.) Less than a month ago I was walking westward on the north side of Ontario street in Guelph, looking at the lawns meeting the sidewalk and I realized that art is no more than the work of an artist and a big (buried) part of me let out a sigh of relief + joy. That's my definition and it works. I don't see any viable refutations or exceptions. I figure that what is called art and what is not, in terms of what each person on Earth produces, can only be dictated by the person who is creating. They are the ones who tell you that a flawless three-point turn on a gravel road is art. They understand cooking or smiling or sleeping as art (not "artistic", mind you) and, without a hard-and-fast definition of "art" ANYWHERE they cannot be argued with. So... art is the work of an artist. It's straight-forward, it's almost useless but it's the best I can do and it makes me satisfied.
It rocked my world and blew my mind.
I understand NOTHING about fine art (or visual art or whatever term can be most accurate to describe this stuff) and I CHERISH that ignorance.
I enjoyed the audio commentary that was available, recorded mostly by the AGO's curator and partly by some of Warhol's friends & subjects. It told me of art-history-guru insights that I would never be able to infer. I was made privy to subtext or intertextuality that fully changes (and fortunately brings a deeper and broader understanding) how I percieve things. I love that Warhol lived recently enough that people who knew him, who were with him, who were part of his stills or his films, are still around and can offer us invaluable first-hand magnificence. I love that enough of Warhols ideas and philosophies were well known (or are they written down?) that the virtual tour guide could tell us, "Andy wanted to be Jackie Kennedy.." when describing this mock-film strip, multiple print thing of her publicity photographs immediately before and after her husband's murder. Warhol did the same with Elvis and Elizabeth Taylor (as a girl) and a bonus part of our audio commentary was a full recording of the featured song sung by Elvis ("Flaming Star") and Curator Dude told us exactly how the content of the film and the song fit into how Warhol perceived Elvis and how all of this was reflected in the art.
I wish I could create art with so much subtext. I'll admit that sometimes the reader reads too far and gives the artist more credit than is reasonable but before that I am always astounded at the amout of effort that goes into laying the foundation for a rich meaningful work. It shows seriousness and true commitment and for that I sincerely appreciate Mr Andy Warhol and find myself inspired by him.
My OAC Writer's Craft teacher asked us one day during the beginning of the year to go to the in-school libby and research a definition of "art". (Attention all teachers: this is a sick, torturous task; do not EVER force it on your students.) I came up with something obscure and I vaguely remember being in a rush to put something on the cue card so I could get back to class and hear what his answer would be. (Fourteen years of public education conditioning insisted that his - the teacher's - answer would be the RIGHT answer.) I don't remember his answer. I don't remember anyone else's answer. I don't remember the discussion (if we even had one) or what he did with the cue cards. (I imagine he'd have kept them, searching for gold. I'd do it.) I know that I've been trying to come up with a working, irrefutable definition since then but I have never expected to stumble upon something satisfactory. I don't think I've even come up against someone who was interested in discoursing on this subject since then because most of the people I know are not into discussing heavy for the sake of heavy (or for the sake of discussion - I'm easy). In fact, I think that most of the people I know (and probably most people in my society) dismiss any "art" that they don't understand, usually that kind that is not familiar and/or conventional. (Let me walk away from this vein because it's a full story and 18 posts in itself.) Less than a month ago I was walking westward on the north side of Ontario street in Guelph, looking at the lawns meeting the sidewalk and I realized that art is no more than the work of an artist and a big (buried) part of me let out a sigh of relief + joy. That's my definition and it works. I don't see any viable refutations or exceptions. I figure that what is called art and what is not, in terms of what each person on Earth produces, can only be dictated by the person who is creating. They are the ones who tell you that a flawless three-point turn on a gravel road is art. They understand cooking or smiling or sleeping as art (not "artistic", mind you) and, without a hard-and-fast definition of "art" ANYWHERE they cannot be argued with. So... art is the work of an artist. It's straight-forward, it's almost useless but it's the best I can do and it makes me satisfied.
les collines sont vivantes
I watched about 90% of The Sound of Music last night for what is effectively the first time and I am cereally impressed. Number first, Julie Andrews is a fairly great actor and a marvellous singer. She was so stinkin young... running around with a short haircut and all. I have basically confined her to the Mary Poppins character in my head so this was cool.
Some of the long thisiswhatyoushoulddoinlife ballads were irritating, some moments bowled me over with cheesiness and some songs made me smile like an idiot the whole way through either because of memories I have attached to them, because the words are goosey or because the person playing and/or singing was doing a fantastically quiet good job. I appreciate the times when it was proper to know music, like we should know who our Prime Minister is or how to get to City Hall.
I kick myself for falling asleep before seeing the conclusion of the film b/c I imagine it was either amazing or dumb (as in wishy-washy happily-ever-after cheap). The closing (the denoument or whatever) of a film is pretty much the largest deciding factor for me in what I think of the entire thing.
Some of the long thisiswhatyoushoulddoinlife ballads were irritating, some moments bowled me over with cheesiness and some songs made me smile like an idiot the whole way through either because of memories I have attached to them, because the words are goosey or because the person playing and/or singing was doing a fantastically quiet good job. I appreciate the times when it was proper to know music, like we should know who our Prime Minister is or how to get to City Hall.
I kick myself for falling asleep before seeing the conclusion of the film b/c I imagine it was either amazing or dumb (as in wishy-washy happily-ever-after cheap). The closing (the denoument or whatever) of a film is pretty much the largest deciding factor for me in what I think of the entire thing.
Friday, 13 October 2006
Thursday, 12 October 2006
O' Canada
Oh, Canada, how amazed I am to see your uniqeness.
Is it early or do I just not pay attention to weather patterns? It snowed today. I first saw it about five minutes ago and now it's stopped.
What I love about this particular first snowfall is that I was actually excited and enchanted by it like the people who live in non-snowy countries are. There's something I never expected to have. I am jaded; I don't deny it. It made me smile smile smile.
I was leaving a lecture hall and I saw reflected in the glass doors ahead of me small, light-colored things blowing around outside. I wheeled to make sure it was only a flock of tiny leaves but I was oh-so wrong. I've never wheeled, shocked at the sight of snow. Serious.
Something else I wanted to say about Canada and I forgets it now. Someone was talking about Canadian achievements or the military or something distinctly Canadaian and I had a flush of emotion hit me like, Oh it's good to be one of these. I can't really explain that home-town (or rather home-country) but it was real. Yikes.
Is it early or do I just not pay attention to weather patterns? It snowed today. I first saw it about five minutes ago and now it's stopped.
What I love about this particular first snowfall is that I was actually excited and enchanted by it like the people who live in non-snowy countries are. There's something I never expected to have. I am jaded; I don't deny it. It made me smile smile smile.
I was leaving a lecture hall and I saw reflected in the glass doors ahead of me small, light-colored things blowing around outside. I wheeled to make sure it was only a flock of tiny leaves but I was oh-so wrong. I've never wheeled, shocked at the sight of snow. Serious.
Something else I wanted to say about Canada and I forgets it now. Someone was talking about Canadian achievements or the military or something distinctly Canadaian and I had a flush of emotion hit me like, Oh it's good to be one of these. I can't really explain that home-town (or rather home-country) but it was real. Yikes.
the opposition
What's worse, a cold porcelain toilet seat or a warm one?
What's worse, moment the stifling smell of a public bathroom without ventilation hits you or the moment you realize you can't smell it anymore?
hahah count your gross blessings.
What's worse, moment the stifling smell of a public bathroom without ventilation hits you or the moment you realize you can't smell it anymore?
hahah count your gross blessings.
Wednesday, 11 October 2006
in a basket
A few things:
My mother said on Friday/Saturday morning that, "the rich stay rich by acting poor and the poor stay poor by acting rich."
Take a minute to absorb that and let me assert that I think this statement applies perfectly well to a relationship with Christ. With Him, we are abundantly rich in all ways but we can only truly know that with humility. Eh? eh? does it work?
Oh, and living a life in want happens when we claim to be self-sufficient and have all things. It's a funny ol' worl' i'n't i'? (That's a cockney-accent quote from some film I can't recollect at present. It might be Carrots of the Pirebbean.)
I also wanted to mention that I was thrilled to have the opportunity to take my six-year-old brother to church with me this past Sunday. I was fixing to ask him but my Dad beat me to the punch, slyly fanangling to see if I'd oblige. He made the little one put on some proper clothes (when he was done, Dad called him "Tiger Woods" so try to imagine the khakis and yellow golf shirt), gave him a loonie for the collection plate and a toonie for a treat afterward.
It's good to get him alone because children need attention and I know that. I have much more patience when it's us two and when I am mentally prepared. We switched seats three times (we) but he switched about 20 or more, bouncing around like a dorkus, playing with the Spiderman toy he'd found on the way and flipping through pew Bibles. When he saw the row of kids his age centrefront, he wanted to join them but the seats filled up before he got there. I told him the row was special, for kids who were going to Sunday school, trying so very hard to not set up a false concept of privalege or hierarchy that should NEVER exist in a church. Ai.. I was af-f-f-fraid. After a moment or two he proclaimed that he too would like to go to Sunday school so I said that when the kiddies were called out, he could go, too.
The service started with a brief introduction and three songs that were extremely upbeat. (It actually made me slightly uncomfortable.) I told my brother that he didn't need to stand and so he sat, mesmerized for a bit. He peeked to see if I was singing and halfway through the second song he stood up, too. [I have nineteen minutes before my bus comes....] He asked me half a dozen times when he could go out with the other kids and I honestly don't know what appealed to him about that so much considering that he'd be away from anyone he knew and he had never been to Sunday school so he reasonably would not know what to expect. (In retrospect, I can see how he might have been pursuing a cute little brown girl who was being nice to him.) Afterward (P.S. GREAT sermon about perpetual thankfulness), I went to find him in the room behind and he asked me to hold the small slip of paper he had been given so it wouldn't get folded. (How nice, I thought, that he's not going to rip this up and call it stupid which is very characteristic of this boy.) We left quietly and headed toward Subway (I wanted to feed his face AND prolong the outing). He told me that he had SO much fun and that he watched a play about people saying good things and bad things. (Later that afternoon he told us about different chapters - or "chackters" as he called them - of good behavior but I'm not sure if he was just pulling that out of a hat.) He went to get his Doritos and a Sprite b/c that's what he loves and then I led him into Subway. At first he didn't want to go in then he refused to order a sandwich so I proceeded with my own order. Note that the time is now almost noon and the chips may in fact be his first food of the day. When my sandwich was being wrapped up, he said, "I want tuna!" in that sideways whisper, quick and slip-it-in-there way (I can't really explain it but it's also typical of him) so I went back and ordered it for him. He said he wanted ketchup and mustard on it.
ha
that still makes me smile.
Oh and tomoatoes, too, he wanted. I forgot that Subway doesn't carry ketchup but he took it perfectly well which was very relieving. We sat and ate and he enjoyed his food which made me more happy than you can understand. This kid is surprizingly hard to please. He would take a bite and say, "Oh!... that is SO good!" as if he was an adult eating tiramisu or something. He remarked on the taste a handful of times and I was way glad this kid was ACTUALLY eating something remotely healthy.
Later in the day when he was taking a bath, he mentioned again how much fun he had had in church and also told his mom about it when she got home.
Yay for good first impressions! He did go with me once before but I imagine he may have been too young to remember it. Also, he wanted to leave before the Sunday school/the service was over so that can't be great.
My fingers are getting stiff it's time to quit. More later. Maybe. <--- sentence fragments
My mother said on Friday/Saturday morning that, "the rich stay rich by acting poor and the poor stay poor by acting rich."
Take a minute to absorb that and let me assert that I think this statement applies perfectly well to a relationship with Christ. With Him, we are abundantly rich in all ways but we can only truly know that with humility. Eh? eh? does it work?
Oh, and living a life in want happens when we claim to be self-sufficient and have all things. It's a funny ol' worl' i'n't i'? (That's a cockney-accent quote from some film I can't recollect at present. It might be Carrots of the Pirebbean.)
I also wanted to mention that I was thrilled to have the opportunity to take my six-year-old brother to church with me this past Sunday. I was fixing to ask him but my Dad beat me to the punch, slyly fanangling to see if I'd oblige. He made the little one put on some proper clothes (when he was done, Dad called him "Tiger Woods" so try to imagine the khakis and yellow golf shirt), gave him a loonie for the collection plate and a toonie for a treat afterward.
It's good to get him alone because children need attention and I know that. I have much more patience when it's us two and when I am mentally prepared. We switched seats three times (we) but he switched about 20 or more, bouncing around like a dorkus, playing with the Spiderman toy he'd found on the way and flipping through pew Bibles. When he saw the row of kids his age centrefront, he wanted to join them but the seats filled up before he got there. I told him the row was special, for kids who were going to Sunday school, trying so very hard to not set up a false concept of privalege or hierarchy that should NEVER exist in a church. Ai.. I was af-f-f-fraid. After a moment or two he proclaimed that he too would like to go to Sunday school so I said that when the kiddies were called out, he could go, too.
The service started with a brief introduction and three songs that were extremely upbeat. (It actually made me slightly uncomfortable.) I told my brother that he didn't need to stand and so he sat, mesmerized for a bit. He peeked to see if I was singing and halfway through the second song he stood up, too. [I have nineteen minutes before my bus comes....] He asked me half a dozen times when he could go out with the other kids and I honestly don't know what appealed to him about that so much considering that he'd be away from anyone he knew and he had never been to Sunday school so he reasonably would not know what to expect. (In retrospect, I can see how he might have been pursuing a cute little brown girl who was being nice to him.) Afterward (P.S. GREAT sermon about perpetual thankfulness), I went to find him in the room behind and he asked me to hold the small slip of paper he had been given so it wouldn't get folded. (How nice, I thought, that he's not going to rip this up and call it stupid which is very characteristic of this boy.) We left quietly and headed toward Subway (I wanted to feed his face AND prolong the outing). He told me that he had SO much fun and that he watched a play about people saying good things and bad things. (Later that afternoon he told us about different chapters - or "chackters" as he called them - of good behavior but I'm not sure if he was just pulling that out of a hat.) He went to get his Doritos and a Sprite b/c that's what he loves and then I led him into Subway. At first he didn't want to go in then he refused to order a sandwich so I proceeded with my own order. Note that the time is now almost noon and the chips may in fact be his first food of the day. When my sandwich was being wrapped up, he said, "I want tuna!" in that sideways whisper, quick and slip-it-in-there way (I can't really explain it but it's also typical of him) so I went back and ordered it for him. He said he wanted ketchup and mustard on it.
ha
that still makes me smile.
Oh and tomoatoes, too, he wanted. I forgot that Subway doesn't carry ketchup but he took it perfectly well which was very relieving. We sat and ate and he enjoyed his food which made me more happy than you can understand. This kid is surprizingly hard to please. He would take a bite and say, "Oh!... that is SO good!" as if he was an adult eating tiramisu or something. He remarked on the taste a handful of times and I was way glad this kid was ACTUALLY eating something remotely healthy.
Later in the day when he was taking a bath, he mentioned again how much fun he had had in church and also told his mom about it when she got home.
Yay for good first impressions! He did go with me once before but I imagine he may have been too young to remember it. Also, he wanted to leave before the Sunday school/the service was over so that can't be great.
My fingers are getting stiff it's time to quit. More later. Maybe. <--- sentence fragments
Monday, 9 October 2006
clap
My dad said, "That's it?" after I told him I wanted to teach music for a living.
"What do you mean, 'That's it?'," I snapped before I realized.
He asked if I wanted to do something bigger or better and that's when I left the conversation. I was definitely still sitting on the couch listening to what he was saying but I was done talking.
what the junk?... is all I have to say.
What's it like to have your future ambition, passion, life goal belittled by your parent? Oh, well, it's a joy.
I think that if this sticks in my head long enough, I might bring it up again.
"What do you mean, 'That's it?'," I snapped before I realized.
He asked if I wanted to do something bigger or better and that's when I left the conversation. I was definitely still sitting on the couch listening to what he was saying but I was done talking.
what the junk?... is all I have to say.
What's it like to have your future ambition, passion, life goal belittled by your parent? Oh, well, it's a joy.
I think that if this sticks in my head long enough, I might bring it up again.
Sunday, 8 October 2006
swimp
Wanna know what my problem is? Well one of them is that I think everything is about me. It's sick, twisted, far-reaching and possibly getting out of hand. It's a horrible reflex that I find my self helpless to prevent or alter.
I am obsessed with censorship in many ways.
I crave sleep, stability, cleanliness and order.
I want to be ME without the viewers but that is becoming more and more impossible. It is becoming clear again that I want too much.
I am obsessed with censorship in many ways.
I crave sleep, stability, cleanliness and order.
I want to be ME without the viewers but that is becoming more and more impossible. It is becoming clear again that I want too much.
Friday, 6 October 2006
People do exactly what they hate the world for doing.
In your understanding of Biblical principles and ideas, what you take is what the church has done for the past two millenia. Your understanding of women being men's helpers is that she is "subserviant", a slave and basically worthless; inferior. You're wrong and the church has been wrong for a long time in how it interpreted Biblical directions. God didn't say, "OK ..... this half of the popuation, you can exploit and abuse... this half of the population," arbitrarily dividing the world. God said, "You're both made in my image and so you're equal. I want one of you to lead and one of you to help."
[Did you know that the H-Spizzo is meant to be a helper, just like Eve?]
If you went to the text and read things in Genesis and Ephesians and all that - oh and the Gospezillios, maybe even Acts, too - you'd understand that it's not what you think, not what people misinterpreted and not what seems the norm. Especially in the New Testament we see that Jesus wanted to raise the status of women which means that the people of the Old Testament must have gotten it wrong, too. [How can God have one part of Himself being superior to another? It doesn't work; He's perfect across the board.]
To my title: people hate that the world established a harsh and suffocating patriarchal system for so long because someone along the line misinterpreted the Bibs and then the church disseminated it mercilessly for a long time. Now today people take what their Sunday school teacher said, or they take what Geoffrey Chaucer said and assume that because these people are so close to the Bible, because they're supposed to know what they're doing, that what they are saying is what the Bible is saying. Clear? People's interpretation of Christianity these days, by and large, is based on the world's presentation of Christianity is and no body wants to take the time to refrence a primary source anymore.
---
I think I fouled up in my class. I'm always itching for something to say and this is the last seminar we'd have to talk about Paradise Lost. I said something that seemed a little too off-topic, a little too soap box-y and was way obviously NOT for academic but personal interest. Yikes.
Last time - the last two times - what I said went over well. It either sparked discussion or raised eyebrows. I think I said what I was supposed to say. Now, I probably just crossed a line. Now I've officially been sanctioned into the preachy box. oh well. We'll see what Mansfield Park can afford me.
[I wanted to blog about that first seminar because it was ground-breaking, at least in myself. .. I oughta do that.]
[Did you know that the H-Spizzo is meant to be a helper, just like Eve?]
If you went to the text and read things in Genesis and Ephesians and all that - oh and the Gospezillios, maybe even Acts, too - you'd understand that it's not what you think, not what people misinterpreted and not what seems the norm. Especially in the New Testament we see that Jesus wanted to raise the status of women which means that the people of the Old Testament must have gotten it wrong, too. [How can God have one part of Himself being superior to another? It doesn't work; He's perfect across the board.]
To my title: people hate that the world established a harsh and suffocating patriarchal system for so long because someone along the line misinterpreted the Bibs and then the church disseminated it mercilessly for a long time. Now today people take what their Sunday school teacher said, or they take what Geoffrey Chaucer said and assume that because these people are so close to the Bible, because they're supposed to know what they're doing, that what they are saying is what the Bible is saying. Clear? People's interpretation of Christianity these days, by and large, is based on the world's presentation of Christianity is and no body wants to take the time to refrence a primary source anymore.
---
I think I fouled up in my class. I'm always itching for something to say and this is the last seminar we'd have to talk about Paradise Lost. I said something that seemed a little too off-topic, a little too soap box-y and was way obviously NOT for academic but personal interest. Yikes.
Last time - the last two times - what I said went over well. It either sparked discussion or raised eyebrows. I think I said what I was supposed to say. Now, I probably just crossed a line. Now I've officially been sanctioned into the preachy box. oh well. We'll see what Mansfield Park can afford me.
[I wanted to blog about that first seminar because it was ground-breaking, at least in myself. .. I oughta do that.]
Thursday, 5 October 2006
AND rave
How do I put this?
I'm not six years old and I take responsibility for my decisions.
While I understand that you're trying to help me out, I find it almost insulting when people tell me the vegan options of a meal. First, I can see. Second, I already looked and third, I didn't come here to eat. It's always the same; always for always, always. I know about all the restrictions I will have, I know about the ways I need to compensate, I know that certain restaurants have nothing for me and I am SICK of being told that, "They have vegetables.. " or "..salad.." It drives me mental, after 3 three years it's getting on my last nerves. When I go out to eat with you, I'm going out to eat WITH YOU, not TO EAT. A word to the wise: don't patronize.
I'm not six years old and I take responsibility for my decisions.
While I understand that you're trying to help me out, I find it almost insulting when people tell me the vegan options of a meal. First, I can see. Second, I already looked and third, I didn't come here to eat. It's always the same; always for always, always. I know about all the restrictions I will have, I know about the ways I need to compensate, I know that certain restaurants have nothing for me and I am SICK of being told that, "They have vegetables.. " or "..salad.." It drives me mental, after 3 three years it's getting on my last nerves. When I go out to eat with you, I'm going out to eat WITH YOU, not TO EAT. A word to the wise: don't patronize.
Monday, 2 October 2006
the things I learned:
#1 sleeping bags WORK
#2 (some) tomatoes (can) taste good
One - I have been boycotting sleeping bags for many a year (maybe ten?) because mostly I think they're a joke. I thought, "How is that different from a blanket?" I also find them extremely frustrating b/c of how much they restrict movement and how most are not made to work for people of my height. (Somehow it seems like a fire hazard, too.) I honestly still am not a full on convert; I think they're dumb.
However, this weekend in Haliburton with the glorious tempatures that keep margarine solid and milk fresh in the open air (yes, I conducted studies), a sleeping bag saved my day. I had planned to bring two blankets with me, one reg'lar itchy-wool and one electric. Think about THAT for a moment! An electrically-heated blanket - OH the joy! The best part about it was that I would be beating the system that had ritualistically beaten me year after year. Five minutes from my departure destination I realized I had left the magic one at home. Ai, such heartbreak. I couldn't get back home in time IF we left at the time we were meant to. Unfortunately for my sense of regret and frustration, we did not leave for an extra sixty-five minutes after I originally expected. Oh the pain... THE pain.
The first night was brutal. I often try to stay awake later in these situations so I can spend less time struggling to sleep but even in those six hours I found some mega torture. I had by this point consented to use someone else's sleeping bag and I slept with three pairs of socks, plus a friend's slippers, my pyjama bottoms on top of my day pants, my thick hoodie and fall jacket on top of the T shirt and gloves and still found myself writhing and shivering and cursing my forgetfulness. I took some kind of sick pleasure/solace in knowing that EVERYONE had had torturous sleep that night. (I think we actually can become acclimatized in that short period because the next day was easier to bear than the first. It does help that the sun was a-shinin'.)
On the second night, I had on my longjohns under the pyjama bottoms, my A-shirt, T-shirt, long-sleeve shirt, and fall jacket, three pairs of socks and gloves AND (oh miracle of miracles) the staff had bought us space heaters. Huzzah! It was a good and humbling ordeal, I'm not gonna lie. I was expecting a toasty, blissful sleep at my last retreat; a veritable triumph to end my four-year madness streak but instead found myself borrowing piece by piece my heat supply from generous donors. There is a verse... about God humbling the proud - taking them down in one foul swoop - and then building them up bit by bit and I love it. It's the perfect system. If we were instantly/drastically reinstated to our former place, we'd be like, "Whoo! That was weird!.... hm. I hope that never happens again," and keep going on with life as if we had merely experienced an intense pang of pain in our chest that restricted breathing and blinded sight for about five seconds but passed as abruptly as it arrived.
Two - I was eating some basic, basic salad this weekend with the French dressing. It was cool and all, I love the lettuce and the good dressing combo (always a hit) but I was not too keen on the presence of a large chunk of tomato. I honestly loathe the raw tomato and avoid it whenever possible. It's like only thing my conscience will allow me to walk away from, unfinished, on my plate. This one, however make its way into my craw before I could stop it (I think I was very mentally distracted and just stabbing and shovelling whatever was in my bowl) and I tried to ignore it as I usually do with ugly foods but found instead a lovely taste in TWO parts, not just one. It tasted great and then there was this roundhouse BAM after word saying, "Yia! Respect it!" I'm not a convert yet but I'll certainly cease the persecution.
--
Today I discovered with some sadness and some surprize that I was too tired to care about English. And by that I mean English for the sake of English. I mean.. I sat through two classes and let lectures roll off my back. I didn't care about what the prof cared about, I didn't care about what the information meant to me, to the class, to English in general, to the authors we were discussing OR their legacies. It's weird; I was not myself. I can't even express this. It's so post-modern-y that it's dirty.
#2 (some) tomatoes (can) taste good
One - I have been boycotting sleeping bags for many a year (maybe ten?) because mostly I think they're a joke. I thought, "How is that different from a blanket?" I also find them extremely frustrating b/c of how much they restrict movement and how most are not made to work for people of my height. (Somehow it seems like a fire hazard, too.) I honestly still am not a full on convert; I think they're dumb.
However, this weekend in Haliburton with the glorious tempatures that keep margarine solid and milk fresh in the open air (yes, I conducted studies), a sleeping bag saved my day. I had planned to bring two blankets with me, one reg'lar itchy-wool and one electric. Think about THAT for a moment! An electrically-heated blanket - OH the joy! The best part about it was that I would be beating the system that had ritualistically beaten me year after year. Five minutes from my departure destination I realized I had left the magic one at home. Ai, such heartbreak. I couldn't get back home in time IF we left at the time we were meant to. Unfortunately for my sense of regret and frustration, we did not leave for an extra sixty-five minutes after I originally expected. Oh the pain... THE pain.
The first night was brutal. I often try to stay awake later in these situations so I can spend less time struggling to sleep but even in those six hours I found some mega torture. I had by this point consented to use someone else's sleeping bag and I slept with three pairs of socks, plus a friend's slippers, my pyjama bottoms on top of my day pants, my thick hoodie and fall jacket on top of the T shirt and gloves and still found myself writhing and shivering and cursing my forgetfulness. I took some kind of sick pleasure/solace in knowing that EVERYONE had had torturous sleep that night. (I think we actually can become acclimatized in that short period because the next day was easier to bear than the first. It does help that the sun was a-shinin'.)
On the second night, I had on my longjohns under the pyjama bottoms, my A-shirt, T-shirt, long-sleeve shirt, and fall jacket, three pairs of socks and gloves AND (oh miracle of miracles) the staff had bought us space heaters. Huzzah! It was a good and humbling ordeal, I'm not gonna lie. I was expecting a toasty, blissful sleep at my last retreat; a veritable triumph to end my four-year madness streak but instead found myself borrowing piece by piece my heat supply from generous donors. There is a verse... about God humbling the proud - taking them down in one foul swoop - and then building them up bit by bit and I love it. It's the perfect system. If we were instantly/drastically reinstated to our former place, we'd be like, "Whoo! That was weird!.... hm. I hope that never happens again," and keep going on with life as if we had merely experienced an intense pang of pain in our chest that restricted breathing and blinded sight for about five seconds but passed as abruptly as it arrived.
Two - I was eating some basic, basic salad this weekend with the French dressing. It was cool and all, I love the lettuce and the good dressing combo (always a hit) but I was not too keen on the presence of a large chunk of tomato. I honestly loathe the raw tomato and avoid it whenever possible. It's like only thing my conscience will allow me to walk away from, unfinished, on my plate. This one, however make its way into my craw before I could stop it (I think I was very mentally distracted and just stabbing and shovelling whatever was in my bowl) and I tried to ignore it as I usually do with ugly foods but found instead a lovely taste in TWO parts, not just one. It tasted great and then there was this roundhouse BAM after word saying, "Yia! Respect it!" I'm not a convert yet but I'll certainly cease the persecution.
--
Today I discovered with some sadness and some surprize that I was too tired to care about English. And by that I mean English for the sake of English. I mean.. I sat through two classes and let lectures roll off my back. I didn't care about what the prof cared about, I didn't care about what the information meant to me, to the class, to English in general, to the authors we were discussing OR their legacies. It's weird; I was not myself. I can't even express this. It's so post-modern-y that it's dirty.
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