one of seven

Africa is a continent, not a country, far less a city or a primal villiage that we, in the west, seem to enjoy referring to it as. Africa is far more diverse than can be summed up in one word - unless you're talking geography. Lumping all "Africans" together is almost as bad as lumping all white people together, the Germans, the Americans, the Russians, the Irish. Better yet, it's as bad as lumping all Asian people together. When does it ever make sense to refer to a Chinese and an Indian person in the same title? How similar are those two people groups? When we use the term Africa we are making its people invisible and invoking strong connotations of poverty and "otherness" that we claim to know and care much about but would prefer to keep at arms' length. Watch your language.

wisdom, cribbed

A friend of mine recently posted a list on his blog of all the things he had learned during his university career. The list contained 26 things, most of which made me say, "Yep, uh-huh, that sounds right." Some of the things I was inclined to disagree with, some I could not connect with but, on the whole, the list was stunning, in both senses of the word. It's one of those things whose value increases with the addition of each subsequent part, though they may not be able to stand strong along. (Is that what we mean when we say something is worth more than the sum of its parts? The greatness was cumulative - run with that.)

5) That people aren't always what you think. You'll probably never meet a shallow person. You just need to listen, and ask the right questions.

10) That the future is scary only if you hang on to the past. Change is a chance to keep what you have, and add to it. It is change that has given you what you have today.

These two points were the ones that made me say, "Wow, wow, wow, wow, wow." Those are like successive waves of realization, perhaps of things like: how intensely true it is, how well said (i.e. concise and precise) it is, the profundity, the mild rebuke, the maturity and then there's a moment of silence after the fifth wow to say, "Yikes - all of that in one thought."
Mad props to the author of these. I commend you on the sage and simplicity.

for Monica

Dear, I promised you this information and here it is, as a post, for your very own entertainment.

The "fff" interposed in my name for this blog's URL stands for Fine Feathered Friend. A friend of mine was quoting me to another and prefaced it with, "A little birdie told me that..." I am not entirely sure about the leap from "bird" to "feathered friend" but it was definitely something I signed my emails with for a solid period of time.

Are you happy now? It's not very exciting but it's definitely true.

singing in ma hyead

Just when you think nothing is real anymore
Along comes the sun, changes your mind and you want
To do what is right; for once in your life make it work
But the harder it gets you make such a mess and it hurts....

When you feel weak and all alone,
And it seems you can't go on;
Just when you think of turning back,
Though you've got so far to go;
Whenever you need a friend,
Someone to hold again,
I'm here for you

Just when you think you've got what it takes to survive
You feel like you need someone else's advice.
You wait for the day, you constantly pray that it comes
The day when you see your life turn around just for once

When you feel weak and all alone,
And it seems you can't go on;
Just when you think of turning back,
Though you 've got so far to go;
Whenever you need a friend,
Someone to hold again...

I know that times are hard for you,
I'll be the friend you can turn to:
I will be there when you're feeling scared,
These arms will keep you safe tonight.

When you feel weak and all alone,
And it seems you can't go on.
Just when you think of turning back,
Though you've got so far to go;
If ever you need a friend,
Someone to hold again,
I'm here for you.

I'm here for you.


Again, if I figure out how to attach sound files to my posts here, I shall present the appropriate audio file here. I like this song and the lyrics speak nicely to my self. I used this song in the first Discipleship Group meeting I ever mediated because I wanted to talk about God's love in a multi-media way. I asked the girls in my DG to bring in an object that they loved and I forget exactly where that made sense.

[Lyrics: "I'm Here for You" from album Resurrection by E-17, © 1998]

les temps passé

There are many things that I envy of previous eras. I could give you a list of what I covet from each century, and for each decade of the last century but there is one thing that I realized I do not envy from times passed.
Once while watching an episode of Little House on the Prairie many years ago (a rare occurence for myself), I noticed that characters would use the name of the person they were speaking to numerous times in the address. "Charlie, I don't know what it is about those horses that attracts you so much. I think, Charlie, that maybe you ought to spend more time in the school house than the stables; don't you agree, Charlie?" I don't think I exaggerated. At the time, I made my remark aloud and my mother said that it was common for the time period. (If she was wrong then that's cool. My opinion is the same.)
Personally, I find it much more pleasant to have my name called less frequently in a conversation, rather than more. If you are already talking to me, you don't need to use my name for you already have my attention. If you are going to use my name, however, it means that you want me to know that talking to me is not like talking to anyone else, at least for this moment or this thought. People usually address me when they are about to confide in me, about to compliment me, apologize to me, rebuke me or tell me something that is imporant to them. It feels good to know that you are unique to someone. In fact, I know this is something that I crave from people, more so with closer friends and - just my luck - I hear my name used this way only with close friends, say, three of them. It happens with family some times, too. I love it. I love it when I don't expect it. Ahhhh yah.

more underbrush

[Editor's note: I should have pulled this out long ago. I should have just published it; gotten it over with. I'm trying to fix my milestone placements... this will "help" a bit.]

from an email...

"She uis actually pretty interesting because she is an Ameican missionary who came to QC and depression hit her up north in Chicoutimi.. she says that she was just NOT fittting in with the french.. to the anglophones who are reading this, if you have not felt any cultural differences yet in QC than you cannot say that you really immersed here.They are real, just as much as if you go anywhere. I hope to go have a coffee with that lady to hear more about that. I have a heart to reconcile the two cultures and languages but ignoring differences, in my opinion is not a real solution. Let us not turn a blind eye to cultural differences and frustrations like they were doing in their so-called mulitcultural non-racist eduaction in the 50's. Any thoughts on that anyone?"


....much to think about.

trealing

"Stuck in a basement, sittin' on a tricycle, girl getting on my nerves;
Goin out of my mind, I thought she was fine, don't know if her body is hers."

If you recognize those lines, I hereby give you mad props.

I'm a bit static at the moment and it's weirding me out. What should I say? I think I need just to move. I need to lean forward until my foot swings out to stop me from hitting the pavement. I cannot help but wonder if it's possible that I write too much. I want a bicycle. They're amazing, are they not? I am paranoid about theft. Why do people steal bicycles? It's silly.

I finished writing all of my final examinations and I feel good. I felt so good last night that I almost felt bad. If something is good enough, I will find something bad to balance it. This is not because I think having fun or enjoying one's self is a bad thing, it's because I do not want to waste the opportunity wherein I am more capable of dealing with ugly things. The day that my G1 was mailed to me was the day that - before I opened the envelope - I cleaned the entire house, especially my room. I think to myself, "I am too happy at this moment, let me convert that intense emotion into motivation for doing things I usually avoid or defer. I think that it is a fine policy; it works for me. One downfall is that it means I cannot do things I need to do without having something great to push me [in an exaggerated way I say this] and the other time it causes problems is when I delay things which affect other people. I have learned about those, though. There are some times that you can make a person wait - even 10 minutes too long - and it is BAD NEWS all around. I hate those moments with a passion.

misnomer

Sometimes when I misread things, the mistaken version makes me laugh. Usually, this happens when I am walking alone and see a sign or someone's T-shirt and, after I realize my mistake, I spin a weird-o story to make things make sense.

On my way back from the corner store this afternoon, I saw a red emergency vehicle. I thought the gold lettering said FIRE INTERVENTION and my mind started breaking it down to figure out why it owuld have been worded that way, what kind of person would have composed it, all possible interpretations, what its predecessor would have said, etc. - the same thing I do with any other piece of writing. Then I realized it said, FIRE PREVENTION and I did not have much to play with. I mean, the first one was funny and weird but the second one just made too much sense to guess about.

Fire intervention. What could a fire be doing that would require intervention from say, other fires, small animals, marshmellows, etc? (I am going with the popular understanding of the word, here.) What could a fire be addicted to that would be so harmful it would be forced to join a support group to help it out of the addiction. I don't understand. Fire... I never thought much of it having a personality so I don't know what its weaknesses might be. Perhaps I will think more about this and get back to you but it is likely that I will not be motivated enough to sit and write if I figure something out. I'm lay-zee like that.

to-night

I am feeling bored and quite restless. In a mood like this, I am willing to do more things than I normally am to pacify myself. On a normal day I care a great deal about my own comfort but on days (or in moments) like this, it's absurd, really and I often do things that I regret. Many unique things happened to me this evening and not one of them can I easily process or file away like I've understood it. I need to put my yoghurt away.

I like my hair. I like taking care of myself. I like doing well academically. I will soon start studying and make a sad and sordid run of it.

sordid adj.
1. Filthy or dirty; foul.
2. Depressingly squalid; wretched: sordid shantytowns.
3. Morally degraded: “The sordid details of his orgies stank under his very nostrils” (James Joyce).
4. Exceedingly mercenary; grasping.*

I think that is what I meant. If you put all of those meanings into a large pot and boil them down (inextricably combining and weakening the individual parts) then you get what I am looking for.

Like most people, I like to think that I have friends. Unlike most people, I am not great at reading people. I do not know how to give proper credit to people though giving credit where it's due is one of my most passionate hobbies.
I am a firm advocate of giving people the benefit of the doubt. I work very closely with deductions on a moment-to-moment basis. These two things usually lead me to being misled by people. It's hard to explain but I find this situation analagous to a game called Mastermind. With five slots and five colors to utilize, you establish a pattern and hide it from me. I then try to guess what your pattern is by suggesting patterns with colors and slots of my own. After each attempt, you tell me how many correct positions and how many correct colors I have selected but you do not tell me which or where. If my first guess contains all purple and you give me no affirmation, I will not use purple in subsequent guesses (unless I am using it as a control element to check something else). I have played a game or two of Mastermind wherein a mistake with the feedback was made and all future guesses were skewed because, in the head of the guesser, purple was simply not an option. With that assumption, few other things can or cannot be. Do you see where I am heading? I generally do not forsake purple until YOU have told me to and that is what makes me especially shocked when I see your pattern might include some 50%-red, 50%-blue color. Do you want an example? Here's a paltry one because I've got nothing better at the moment: Person X does not enjoy literacy. They enjoy not reading nor writing and so, when forced to do either, they sloppily cut corners to escape as unscathed as possible. If I recieve an instant message from Person X, I am already shocked that they took the time to compose and send. If I see that their message is puntuated, properly capitalized and elaborate I am already 90% sure that the person who sent the message is in fact not Person X but someone else masquerading as them. I watch people's details so that I can detect them well. Like a stalker, I probably know if you're left- or right-handed, how many siblings you have, what instruments you play, what class of driving liscence you have, the kind of jokes you detest, the kind of quips that make you laugh, what country you were born in, how many languages you speak (and at what fluency level), whether or not you're a believer and for how long and many other things that are more difficult to articulate but still important to me and my understanding of you. Each of your details is displayed on a red flag planted in the ground and so, the more flags that I am aware of, the better I can manoeuvre the minefield. I guess not everyone is that hostile but hopefully you understand what I am saying.

*http://dictionary.reference.com/search?q=sordid

a chewing-gum thought

I love how the world's man creates absurdly high expectations and standards for women and then complains that she has no self-confidence.

filing time (2)

If I wanted to punch you would you hold still? Pardon me while I empty my brain. I'll plug some kind of vacuum device into my cranium and let things go.

To-day I made a new friend and I killed another. (I will not graduate with a degree in Music, it will be a Bachelor of Vagueness and Cryptology. Something wants me to think that "cryptology" is a real word.) If I wait a while and chill a bit, I think think the good will outweigh the bad. Not only do I scream at the world on a regular basis but it somehow refuses to talk back. Writing that now made me think of something I wrote three years ago. I am a writer at heart; know that.

--

ٱ

I am in a box. I don’t know how many sides there are because my eyes are flooded with tears. It doesn’t matter; I know that. Each and every side I bang on bruises my hands and grates my knuckles identically. They’re all the same; relentlessly captivating. I tried to guess how many sides there were by counting the number of echoes. I keep screaming at the top of my lungs; the walls all absorb the sound and pass it to each other, like some twisted game of keep-away. And I can never count all the reverberations because soon I’m screaming or crying again.
As much as these walls appear to mock me, they don’t really know what it is that they ridicule. I know that even metal would sympathize if it knew I was screaming, "YOU’RE HURTING ME! LET ME OUT!" Cold hard steel really does have an ounce of decency in it somewhere, believe it or not. But right now, these steel walls' number one priority is being steel walls. They want me to stay within them to admire the handy work. The texture, the joints, the perfect ninety-degree angles, the color, the temperature: by their own standards, they are very good walls. I recognize that and I would tell them that if they would just turn around and face me. Apparently, a wall takes its compliments best with its back turned and mind pre-occupied.
This much screaming and sobbing is hard on the human lungs. I am strong but I cannot survive without Oxygen any better than the rest of us. When I start to scream for air, the echoes miraculously stop. The walls no longer conform to the Laws of Physics; they’ve moved on to bigger and better things. Now I can hear my wailing and shameful tears in all their disgusting glory. Why would steel be interested in this noise? There is no light so it’s impossible to tell if I’m blacking out and about to faint. But my knees grow weaker and I can’t help but to continue screaming when I know it’s the reason there’s not much left to breathe. My screams shrivel into weeps.
The precise moment before I relinquish consciousness, the walls snap to attention, dissemble completely and, for a split-second, blind me with outside light, stunning me enough that I forget to inhale. They then reassemble the opposite way to look me (in)directly in the eye. The configuration isn’t the same as before so the walls are having trouble staying put and can no longer brag about their great wall-ness. As my gasping and writhing becomes more subdued, they speak, all concern for their favorite audience member. "Sorry we didn’t notice your asphyxiation sooner. Here, have all the Nitrogen you want." Even as my brain tries to shut down, I am able to say what I really need but the walls have resumed their former position, assuming that the problem is solved on account of their oh-so-generous donation. I am blinded again for that moment during their change of configuration but this time I remember to snag some air. It is barely enough to say, (with no resonance) in a scream drenched with tears, "Let me die," before I pass out on the steel floor, bringing the walls down with me.
(15/07/03)

--

Go listen to Liszt's Un sospiro and tell me if you are not moved by its beauty. No, seriously - who writes things like this? Who has that kind of gloriousness sitting inside their head and proceeds to drop it with ink onto paper? Ahh.. it's ... I love what Schubert does with music. Schubert, Pergolesi, Vivaldi (usually) and Liszt, I think, I like, too. I can say this now with different thoughts and perspectives after listening properly to some of their works - along with many other canonical works of the Western world - for a course at university that these are the artists whose crafts move me, either into euphoria or creativity.


I think I will sleep on the floor to-night. I am tired of standing up for myself. Here's an excerpt from a book printed in England in 1987:
"There once were three golliwogs who were most unhappy in the nursery cupboard. None of the other toys liked them, and nobody ever played with them.
"Their little mistress, Angela, never even looked at them as she was always playing with her very pretty dolls." (7)
golliwog n. A doll fashioned in grotesque carticature of a Black male.

I am not a black person, I am not a white person, I am not a mulatto, I am not a half-breed, a wigger, a nigger or a poser. I am not brown, am not a "what are you, anyway?" and I am NOT coffee-colored. I am not an insect smeared across a windshield or an ancient text to be scrutinized and laughed at. I am a person. If you're trying to figure out who I am, ask me. If you want to talk and joke about race with me, let's set the boundaries and avoid double-standards. (Let's try the same jokes with the race reversed when you're the blatant minority.)
Race is important and beautiful but it stops with the visuals. After that, you're calling personality traits and cultural trends genetic and that's not cool or accurate.
Let's have a moment of transperancy. Yes, I am talking to specific people because I am cowardly like that. But, I also write to sort out my thoughts for my own sake. I am not really into being angry at an unseen animal that is asleep in its cage. Go wake the beast, calm it and part ways peaceably.

Hey, apparently dictionary.com thinks Black people get a capital B but white people keep the lower-case w. I am curious about the reasons for this.

This post is SO over.

[K.S.: if this is the first post you read then I am sorry. I don't always post angry rants so go read something else less scary to balance out.]

question

CAN SOMEONE PLEASE TELL ME WHEN GETTING YOUR WISDOM TEETH OUT BECAME A BIG DEAL?


I don't understand.

the patriot in me

Population by year:
persons (thousands) 2001------------2002----------2003----------2004---------2005
Canada.............31,021.3.....31,372.6....31,669.2....31,974.4.....32270.5
Nfld & Labrador......522.0..........519.4........518.5.........517.3........516.0
PEIsland................136.7............136.9........137.3.........137.9.......138.1
Nova Scotia............932.4............934.5........936.3........937.5.......937.9
New Brunswick.......749.9............750.3.........751.2........752.1......752.0
Quebec................7,397.0.........7,445.7.......7,494.0.....7,547.7.....7,598.1
Ontario..............11,897.6.......12,102.0.....12,259.6....12,407.3...12,541.4
Manitoba.............1,151.3.........1,155.6......1,161.6......1,170.2.....1,177.6
Saskatchewan.......1,000.1............995.9.........994.5........994.3........994.1
Alberta................3,056.7..........3,116.3......3,159.6......3,204.8.....3,256.8
British Columbia..4,078.4..........4,115.4......4,154.6......4,201.9.....4,254.5
Yukon Territory.......30.1..............30.1...........30.6..........30.9.........31.0
NW Territories........40.8..............41.5...........42.2..........42.9.........43.0
Nunavut.................28.1..............28.7...........29.2..........29.7.........30.0

Note: Population as of July 1.Source: Statistics Canada, CANSIM, table (for fee) 051-0001.Last modified: 2006-03-03.
http://www40.statcan.ca/l01/cst01/demo02.htm?sdi=population

I love Canada and I would die for it. (Yes, that means I would join the army.) I was talking with a friend of mine (who presently schools in Saskatchewan), we'll call her "Wheaty", the other day about how the western provinces do not like Ontario, especially its capital. [A few days before this, a friend who had spent a summer in Calgary said that, every time she explained where she was from (Belville, Ontario), people said, "Oh, welcome to Canada!" To be honest, I was mildly shocked by this comment and that unfortunately proves the validity of it. i.e. I am so arrogant that I do not know how much my neighbours hate me.] I mentioned to Wheaty that the population of Toronto is greater than that of Saskatchewan, a statistic my mother was fond of telling us as children. I thought the pop'n of Saskatchewan was 2 million but that would make it half of Toronto's size and that did not sound right. I found the above chart on the Government of Canada's website and discovered that Toronto's population is more than four times that of Saskatchewan's. My friend is a Windsor native and so she feels where I'm coming from. We like to think we cannot help it that our province is so populated. Recently, someone pointed out to me that we (Ontarians) do to Canada what the US of A does to the world and so someone like me (who often complains about the Americans) should keep her mouth shut. I'm not sure about this case. I do not think that Ontario is quite as power-hungry and careless as the US but I have a skewed perception from inside the belly of the beast here. A quotation from my friend to sum up a popular viewpoint, (an Ontarian talking to a Western Provincer): "Well, maybe you guys should become more populated and then maybe we'll think about you." Hahaha. [cue awkward laughter] This friend said she wished her roomate was around to hear that comment because she is a Saskatchewan native. (Nothing like hitting them where it hurts, eh? That's on of my specialties. More on that later.) Another roomate pointed out that L.A. and its immediate vacinity has the population of Canada. That was a slam in my face. On the other hand, I still love Canada to pieces.


Here's a thought: every time someone asks me if I'm going home for the weekend or for Easter or Reading Week or summer I feel like I'm being smacked across the face. Why? Because I don't really have a home and every times someone asks all the negative feelings surrounding the truth flood to my brain and say, "Psst... are you sure you've dealt with this yet?" It's weirder when I tell people my sitch and they forget (repeatedly). I suppose I cannot expect people to remmeber that I am in a different situation from them and everyone they know and there is nothing external to remind them of it, but I do wish people knew. Then I wonder if I should mail or hand-deliver the invitations to my pity party. I'm never going to live with my mom (or dad) again. WEIRD. Here's a slice of metonymic advice: do not take for granted the fact that you have a bed waiting for you somewhere that you can always come back to. (Hey, let me not take for granted that I even have one bed while I think about the men I passed about 20 times during my 5-day stay in downtown Toronto over the Christmas break who sleep in boxes on air vents. Don't let that be a cheesy or cliche statement. Sleeping on an air vent while people walk by, disgusted, disinterested or disinclined to stop is a stupid and angering unnecessary thing.)

Hesitation and Reluctance

I am looking down at a few generations' ingenuity and improvement, seeing a three-part braid made of many thin strands, bound, part of a larger, inter-dependent and stable network. It is wet and slimy, darkened from years of being both, soft but hardly weakened.
My hands are broad, strong and worn by my trade. This equipment makes sense in my hands and the feel is more familiar to them than a knife's handle or a friend's palm.
I am bent by the shore in a position that is almost standing but not quite sitting and my knees will soon start complaining about being forced to straddle poses. I look ahead and see my livelihood, where my identity lies and where I can excel better than anyone I know. I am adept at my craft and I love it... but my stomach is churning uncertainty. My mind starts wishing a huge fish would spring up and swallow me whole to make this moment of turmoil end. I wish my knees would collapse and render me immobile or that I would suddenly lose my mind and be unaccountable.

I straightened up but did not loosen my grip. I looked down at my hand again and realized that all I was holding was a rope lattice. I looked ahead and suddenly did not feel so much at home, knowing this place would never miss me; it would hardly wait for someone to replace me.
The gravel underfoot crunched as my ankle copied the snap movement of a batter as he steps into the pitch but I froze there. My fingers were still entangled. I turned round and slowly unwove the mess from my right with the shaking digits of my left and, with a nod, let it fall to the ground. I marched, empty-handed, absent-minded yet decided, banking heavily on the expectation that leaving my place of comfort and confidence for a place that opposes all I have known is the Way to go.


"Come, follow me," Jesus said, "and I will make you fishers of men." At once they left their nets and followed him.

The Mad and Unthreatening Return...

...of quotations from The Colbert Report.

While talking with a governor from a U.S. district
Colbert: You voted against a federal milk advertising campaign.
Governor: Yes.
Colbert: Why do you hate children's bones?

The in-studio guest for the night was Frank Vincent, author of "Man's Man", a veritable handbook of what is characteristic of a man's man and what is not. Apparently mayonnaise is not very manly. Vincent and Colbert were discussing facial and body hair and Colbert declared, "From the neck down I'm like an eel. [beat] I could slither around a rock at high tide."

Ladies and gentlemen, consider that a mark of high intelligence. Some of the fine-tuning aspects of humor revolve around syntax and details. If you can be specific, thorough and coherent with your joke the funny factor increases significantly. This about the style of someone like Dennis Miller or Greg Proops. On the spot, they add to a joke with well-stated, specific facts and you're just like, "Yea! .. Ye--yea!" - your brain can't stop agreeing. Dennis Miller is actually better at doing this when it is planned ahead but he is the king of the extensive, accurate punchlines. (Go watch his show right now.) Part of the effect with this kind of humor depends on delivery which must be calm and off-hand. Man, I have been studying comedy for so long now it's a wonder that I still find things funny.

Friday night

I feel like I want to write something about this evening but I do not know what to say. There's too much to say. I enjoyed myself and I enjoyed this final day of classes in the 2005-2006 school year.

I saw an old friend this evening and interacting with her was something else in a handbasket. I am utterly amazed: how can I not talk to you for almost EXACTLY one year and when we see one another it's as if we spoke last week.

I am being sincere here: it was disgusting. I was too shocked to even notice. Crazy, crazy, crazy and I love it. I suppose it helps that we have a mutual friend who we both see quite often. Nonetheless this and she were one of my highlights of the evening.

For the record, it was the Campus Crusade for Christ final banquet and there was a general air of positivity running rampant through the night. I like that. I like seeing people be happy solely to be with people. I like talking to brilliant minds who listen and challenge. I like genuine smiles in pictures. I like genuine people. I like Rebecca Napier. (ha! she's going to be the only one who gets her proper name in here and she doesn't even read my blog.) I like well-chosen dresses and smart suits. I love the cycle of thank-yous. I like walking around and seeing that most people are not intimidated by me (this is rare). I like the piano, I love great pianists and appreciate mad violinists. I like the Greek letter delta, as a side note. I like how a little bit of short-lived uncertainty in a creepy act can make it funnier. It's the what the heck? moment that dies with the end of the question. ha

I learned some things this evening. I had a good conversation with someone I usually try to avoid talking to because of personality clashes (I think this is the reason). I suppose it helped that we talked about something bigger than ourselves and I was very close to enjoying the conversation.

I heard something this evening that I decided to take seriously and it was a strange paradigm shift. They said, "We don't mean this, even if that's what it sounds like, even if that's what history and sociology have taught. We mean this instead: believe it." And I suspended doubt to say, Hey, let it be true, and that was a good moment for me. I need to do this more often. I am more skeptical than I admit to. It bothers me that I cannot post on this blog the way I once did - no matter how hard I try - since the start of this semester when a handful of people joined my readership.

I believe in honesty, transperency, sincerity and freedom of expression. I believe in being real, perhaps more than the others.

I hope my friend wins some hot-dogs before the Winter semester officially ends and I will do my best to cheat the system in submitting crosswords in his name to see that goal be realized.

Lastly, I will add that I like Fish and what is most fascinating about this is that I do not know why. There are no oustanding characteristics that make me say, "Yes! I LOVE that!" It is the generally appealing nature of the Fish. Maybe that sentence was too vague to be accurate. If I remember when I met you and when our friendship took a step to the next level, the relationship will most likely not grow very close or last very long. However, if I cannot pinpoint any pivotal moments in our history, you are definitely a keeper. Fish, I honestly do not remember the first meeting, the first mayo moment, the first I-respect-you moment, the first laugh, the day inhibitions went away, the first time I got your telephone number, the first house visit, the first time I truly cared about what was going on in your life or the day I realized I could be myself with you. Retrospectively, I see you coming out of nowheres, some kind of unobtrusive, immovable presence. I know that sounds awkward. What's more, I am picturing a three-dimensional cone to represent you. The end of the story is that, even though I be a vegan, I love Fish. Amen to that.

How was your weekend?!?!??!!

Say that with as much annoying pep as possible.

Here is one highlight from my weekend that actually occured on Monday but I was still not back in Guelph so I count it part of the fin de semaine.

My brother woke up around 11 after being very well rested and the pitch of his voice shocked and entertained me by how low it was. My brother's voice is normally low and everyone's voice is lower when they awake because their vocal chords are relaxed. This was absolutely disgustable. Usually, he sings an octave below what I sing and I am already on the lower side of the alto range. If I knew how, I'd add to this post an excerpt from "La Serva e Padrona" by Pergolesi to show you the lowest note I've ever heard someone sing - an Eb on the first ledger line below the bass clef. On Monday morning, my very own brother sang the C below that. I was absolutely disgusted. I was also a bit frustrated (and slightly surprized at this) because when I experience music, I file it away for many reasons and one of them is for utility. I am very aware of how I steal from other musicians. When I hear someone sing or play in a way that makes me go "shibby!" then I think, what can I write/arrange for this person? With a voice like my brother's it would be a shame to not have a showcase for it. He seems to think that he cannot sing well and thus does not try very hard and gives up easily, probably more so when my sister and I are around. As far as I can tell, there's no way he was skipped by the music gene he just needs a dose of confidence and coaching.

It's over.

The Patriarch

Here is a story my oldest brother just told me that makes hilariousness to my life:

My dad is a home renovator by trade, trained in engineering/drafting/cabinetry, etc. and at present he is renovating the kitchen. No one in that house drinks wine but my Dad is building a wine rack. My third brother walked into the kitchen one day while Dad was working on it....

Brother: Dad, why are you building a wine rack? We don't even have any wine bottles to necessitate an entire rack.
Dad: I don't know where we're going to put it, [indicating a few locaions] over there or down here.
Brother: But it's like building a gun rack without even owning a gun!
Dad: Fine then -- we'll buy a gun!

Ahhh.. I hope you get it.

Festival of Planning 2006

Here's what KV said on Friday, the only quotation I wrote down from this weekend:
"Can we brush our teeth first and then be rebellious?"

Here are the other two things I "got" from this weekend:
I love consonance and I need to be in the midst of music for all the days of my life - no question.
I need to be blameless in terms of my time management (especially with sleep) because I am a leader. [The great thing about this one is that, the girl, whose presence convicted me of this, soon after gave me a note that said she looked up to and trusted me. How cool!]