too shocked to be hurt

We're reading a Gwendoyln Brooks poem that relies on its sonic qualities to put the reader in the place of the poem's subjects.
I was late for class because I was working on another assignment.
Apparently, the professor had asked the class to say the poem aloud to better grasp how the sound properties worked. Near the very end of the lecture (the part I was there for), he noted that speaking this poem is an especially uncomfortable thing to do - the class had just established that they were hesitant to recite aloud for fear of looking silly or getting things wrong - because it [applies] to a "constituency that, looking around the room now, we are not." And the Teaching Assistant directly in front of me sort of half-turned but didn't actually get his eyes around to me. (He had seen me come in late and was, apparently, the only person who knew I was in the room.)
My whole world just sort of shrank like a crumpled paper and then exploded back into form in a moment. I couldn't even feel myself blink because of the incredulity.

Now I must think --- if my professor had known I was there, would he have made the same comment and pointed me out? Would he have asked me to interpret? (I can see myself saying some regrettable things in response to this one...) Would he have said, "With the exception of one person, right, in a classroom of what?, right, - 60, 70 people?..." and continued on the same? (He interjects "right"s when he's externally processing something thick or delicate.) On the other hand, would he have not said anything at all? <-- that is the thought that scares me most, methinks. I have this intense, deep-seated fear and, I suppose, an inherent mistrust for large groups of exclusively white people. I'm sorry for that. I am sorry that I think this way. I need to change. What if he had made the exact same comment even if he had seen me in the classroom, ignoring my couleur? It boggles my mind to think that this was a moderately significant point in the course of this lecture that was essentially hinged on having a white majority class. (What is that?) Should his readings of texts not be independent of the people he lectures to? Maybe not. Maybe not, indeed; I'll leave that point alone.

I don't think I can even begin to touch upon the idea of "black language" and "white language" though the latter doesn't seem to exist. It seems to be the norm from which other "languages" deviate. What makes you think that blacks and whites are so different that we cannot speak the same language. Aside from localized slang, what is there? We're talking about subtext, aren't we? Are you saying that whites cannot read the Black Struggle? Can blacks read white language? Somehow I get the impression that we allegedly can. It's like, being segregated and oppressed, we were forced to create this series of knocks and clicks to communicate in the hull of a ship because only we know what's going on there. I'm making an analogy; I'm talking about our present-day ship. That's bogus.

When this poem was written (I think it was the 60s), I think the idea of being unable to read one another (blacks and whites, that is) was quite widely accepted. It's like..... hm. It may indeed have actually been a true phenomenon. But for seriously ------ this is not the 60s. I don't understand. I think we would get it (perhaps more especially in Guelph... maybe more so in upper years) if we weren't told that we could not understand by virtue of our race. That ain't right, that ain't right. It doesn't work that way.


arggh... I don't even know what I would say to this man, given the opportunity.

If I Had my Way...

my future vocation would be called "Artistic Scavenger." Done.

note to self:

Do not microwave hard-boiled eggs for more than 49 seconds.


[I heard the ceramic rattle on the glass microwave plate two seconds after the appliance had stopped running and I thought it was the bowl that had shattered. I was relieved but disturbed. I almost wish someone else could have been there because them laughing at me would have made the experience even more enjoyable. I don't understand eggs.]

battle scar gallactica

I was side-swiped by a malicious desk tonight. I was thrilled to see the bruise because, essentially, I don't bruise. I think it's fantawesome.

I have great respect for Billy Crystal. I watched "Comic Relief" a few weeks ago (from start to finish...that's four hours) and I have generally mixed feelings about it. However, what I think is worth dwelling on is my newfound appreciation and respect for the character (could we say moral fibre) for Mr Crystal. I mean, a) just producing (with Whoopi Goldberg and Robin Williams) such a program and doing so for the past 20 years is a great feat unto itself. I see that it's hard to resist patting yourself on the back, it's hard not to glory in your fame and it's hard not to accept the humanitarian award but I see something different with these three. Hosting a benefit for rebuilding New Orleans is not a career-builder, it's not. These three found eachother to be of like mind, way back in 87 (or was it 86?) and they put their money (time & energy) where their mouth was. I appreciate that. I appreciate people using their celebrity to help people that will never thank them, that may never meet them. I'm sad, I'm really very sad to see that so many people are enjoying their helpful ways and are stating and re-stating how wrong, tragic and unfair it is for a city to get its butt whooped by a hurricane and then be left to fix its own problems - that they implore their fellow men to give because their country needs them (because it's their country) and yet God isn't in it. How can you do something that seems to be so "good" and yet... is almost aimless or corrupt because it's not focussed on or dedicated to the Creator of the universe? I sad. But anyways... I can pray.

What made Mr Crystal stand out for me was the dramatic presentation he did. It was a first-person narrative of some elderly jazz musician who told the entire love story of he and his beloved New Orleans. Speaking of love, the way he recounted meeting his wife was to say that he saw her somewheres (say in a restaurant or such) and one smiled at the other... and they've been smiling at eachother these past forty years. (awwwww) [Side note: "forty" is the only number name whose letters are in alphabetical order. The only one! Does that boggle your mind like it does mine?] He started the act by playing some clarinet solo (melodious and lively, seemingly introducing his character). It was just Crystal alone on a HUGE stage, kind of up-stage right, faced away from the audience in a greyish suit and fedora under a blue spotlight. He finished playing and began to tell. During one part where he talked about playing clarinet, a little 12-year-old boy dance-walked and mock-played clarinet (i.e. he made no sound) behind Crystal dressed as a young vaudeville or minstrelsy performer. It was cute and impressive for its artistic merits.
I was impressed by how well Crystal had his NO accent down; it was obvious he had worked on it and it was certainly convincing. ---this is key: the fact that he worked ahead of time to be sure he had appropriated an accen well shows how seriously he took the entire production. I love people who see details through.
In one moment, he talked to Bush (which was an odd breaking out of time context) and suggested that the President stop the war for one day - just one day - and send the millions he is spending there to New Orleans. Just one day ... maybe two. The audience applauded at this and I was impressed by the fervor in his voice; he was clearly partially ad-libbing.
The act ended when four or five other musicians walked out behind Crystal and started to play some NO-sounding tune. He joined in on clarinet (and this is the moment that I realized Billy Crystal can indeed play the clarinet - another reason for me to respect him greatly; he needed to practice and learn that piece for all of the 3 minutes he played) and walked out with the men.

I must say... I love it.

I just saw the three hosts on some CNN special with Anderson Cooper and they were showing some footage from Crystal's trip in New Orleans, particularly the lone man in the ninth district is spending every day building his house all by himself. The man cooks with butane, sleeps on a bed that is mostly newspapers and for serious is alone for miles and miles. He has had the house since the 1940s and is very much unwilling to relinquish it. Billy Crystal tells the man's story (on video and in the CNN studio) with serious passion but not a trace of pity. It seems he simply wants the story to be told. After the clip, when Cooper asked him some specific-type quest about the man (whose name I seriously should have remembered..) and Crystal answers in full; he rattles off some facts that you can only collect if you have a vested interest. Crystal wasn't memorizing a list to appear compassionate but instead telling things about the life of someone he listened to and cares about.

hmm hmm hmm.
Did I pledge/donate any money? No. I wanted to (and still do) because there is a real and great need. I felt, though, that I was giving mostly because my emotions were being manipulated (and it seemed like a tangible way to say thank you for the hilarity of the comics) and that must be true, else I would have given before this. I wonder....
I wonder how many people outside the U.S. refuse to give because they think the richest country in the world should be able to take care of its own. Yea, sure, but shouldn't the richest countries in the world be able to take care of their own (own world, that is)? Shouldn't we? What's the difference? Borders need tearing down.

I think this question its meant to be directed at one specific person but I think I'll post it here anyways. I can ask her some other day.

Do purveyors of postmodern art want to their work to be grasped by those outside the field? Is part of the art the mystery? I believe in po-mo art all the way. If you know me long enough that fact ought to make itself abundantly clear.

I'd like to explore this question further but I fear I don't have the brain space for it.

Is it like avant garde jazz? Is part of the politics of it the fact that its proponents are both insiders and outsiders? Do you need the dividing line? I suppose that's like the need for modernism to exist beyond your post- prefix. No? Yes? hmmm Avand Garde peeps needed something to push against. I suppose they needed the Garde to be ahead of.

Such things! Bring me a like-minded equal!

I'm convinced.

I don't think that human beings are meant to eat lentils. The only time I can say that I like the taste of them is when it is completely obscured by other things in the dish. (That's not really the taste of the lentils then, is it?, you say. I agree.)

"Most negroes are natural valets and hair-dressers; taking to the comb and brush congenially as to the castinets, and flourishing them apparently with almost equal satisfaction."*

I get angry when I read this book. I don't like the words, the phrases, the opinions that are in it.
I exclaimed, after having read one of these such statements, "When are we going to read something that makes white people uncomfortable?" Then I realized that, if you are a reasonable person, racism will make you uncomfortable so race does not matter. In fact, I hope it makes your blood boil. But man! study one part of English literature history and you'll be bombarded by tales of slavery, slave narratives, slave ships, the slave passage, emancipation, civil war, etc. etc. etc. I wish it could be turned around on some other race some time. I don't mean that how it sounds. I wish there were no other occurence in the history of the world that could compare to African slavery but there probably is. I just... I want to see what it's like from the other side of the fence.
I sit in class, expecting to be defensive, partly because that's my nature (oft to my detriment) and partly because I don't think anyone else will be. This becomes more obvious to me in Guelph where I am usually either the only black person in the class or one of 2, 3, 4 (in a room full of anywhere from 20 to 200). I wish I didn't need to have this assumed connection or empathy that set my reaction apart from anyone else's. I wish I didn't feel the need to be a spokesperson like this because nobody else gets it. To you it's a sad story; to me it's a personal history.

What better way to end a post than with an old piece of creative writing?

Geneology

whips lay you open, the oil slick strips take your cries.
keep the wild; don't be broken. stay homeland in your eyes.

your no rights, no lefts, a dead Mother Voice; no mother's choice.

anger rises and becomes, is taught to hide; faces get older.
fighting past done for people unnamed, unmade yet.

take no shame, little sister, your hurt will fleet, strength arrives.

bond, bind, teach through trials, remain, sustain, continue, bide.
still worth something, still tag-less, be above, head high, be more.

The air - through which the lash whistles,
where lost cargo is thrown before water,
where manacles rattle, where hypocrisy drawls out,
where screams drive and penetrate,
where blood spatters - is the air I breathe.

I have no chains.
(19/08/05)

*p 170 Benito Cereno, Herman Melville. Melville's Short Novels, (c) 2002 by W. W. Norton and Company

Reasons why I Like the World

It knows how to do art.


There are times when I crave sadness, grief or extreme pain. I have wondered why for a very long time and a reached the nearest thing to a conclusion a few weeks ago. I want to feel an extreme of emotion, namely emotions I do not have much familiarity with.

I think that the world creates from sadness and pain art that I could never fully understand. I could never produce that way because I don't have that deep-down to access.

There was a time where I had access to these things and, in retrospect, I appreciate the quality of the work but I am repulsed by the content. (What a painful tension.)

I wish I could understand someone like Tim Burton. I wish I could get him. There are things I just don't know about and I think I'll never be allowed into his sphere.


Here's something I wrote in May of 2002 (age 17). I chose it because it presents a reasonably accurate idea of what my writing looked at at the time but it is also the least nauseating of my works from that time. I wrote some seriously silly and seriously crappy stuff.

Before I get to the main one, here's another weirdo. It shows the format that was, for some reason, popular with me-the fragmented & repetative stream-of-conscious type.

I just want to sleep
all the time so much
I'm tired
I'm too tired
I want everything to make sense or just go away.
I am no one to say this
I am no one to know fatigue
I am not real for sure
I am not tired enough to sleep
But I want to.

And nextly...

[excerpts]

...what's right for she
and he
and me who's the
epitome
of stupidity.
Yes, sir
no, sir
can I have some corn, sir?
does it come with porn, sir?
yes, thanks for the basics
f*** you for making me sick
I won't pretend
that this don't send me
round the bend
unto no end.
I will defend only those
who I suppose have chosen to
deny and defy.
when the master looks down,
you see the fruit of your labor
and realize they do you a favor
as you decide to savor
the droplets of flavor that pour
from our sores discharging gore.
You'll notice your orders are
crushed on the floor as
we rock the boat and
flood the moat
and say we don't care
as you only stare.
you now know we're right,
envision our plight
and cower from fighting
the beasts you created
that you thought you hated
and as we stated,
you're dated, clean-slated.
cause as we've waited
you've just masturbated
and came to your own fate
that lives as death waits
to scream out of a dream...

This isn't very good but understand that it came from a real place in me that was more or less obliterated when I died to myself and the H-Spizzo took up residence. Sometimes I really truly miss it. (I need to work this out.)

in classsss-sss

My professor asked us where we had left off last class and some mumbled answers may have come out - I don't remember. Then she said, "Don't worry about answering; it was a rhetorical question." We barely respond. A few beats later she continues, "One of these days someone's going to give me a rhetorical answer." (My brain smiled.) I tried to think of what a rhetorical answer might be and lucky for me she added, "An answer that needs no question!" in a kind of absent-minded way. Then my face smiled. Ah-ha, I said. I haven't set my brain to actually think of this yet because I imagine it will require all my faculties. I'm excited to work on this.

From Philippians 2:8-9

"And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself and became obedient to death -- even death on a cross! Therefore God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name."

--These are notes cribbed from my most recent one-on-one time. I've chopped up Philippians on a mirror and inhaled it once or twice so when I come to it I feel a real struggle in trying to see something new. It's hard not to read in old patterns. The girl that I am discipling and I are taking a leisurely stroll through this book so here I be, getting a head start.

[What I hadn't planned to say was how interesting I find it that humbling one's self in the context of verse 8 is equivalent to accepting sin or becoming Sin. I also notice that anything LESS than being pure God is a humbling of Him. No casing can hold His glory which means He made a great sacrifice just to be here.]

Therefore means that becoming the ABSOLUTE LOWEST won Jesus the title of the ALL-TIME HIGHEST (for eva-eva).
This is a good piece of insight to reference when discoursing with somone who thinks they've hit rock bottom; someone who thinks you or He doesn't know what it's like. (He's been there, done that, bought the captives.)


Thanks be to God for new ways to read old hats.

Reasons Why I am Cool

#1 [the fact that I am enumerating this list as if I will come up with too many reasons to keep track of is a bit scary so feel free to call me on conceit when you see it]
I eat banana pancakes with clementines (I had no oranges; get off my back!) and sprinklings of icing sugar at 3.47 am.
eye m kewl

Why I Wish I Could be More Like...

...Wayne Gretzky. I think of this in comparison to Mario Lemieux's playing style. A biographical author wrote of Lemieux that part of the reason he never quite broke through Gretzky's stratosphere (injury plague aside) was that he only played his best when his dominance was challenged. Gretzky, however, played as if every game was his last; as if it was the most important one he would ever participate in.

I fell into one of the most hypocritical traps of my life last summer. I did things for the kids that I thought were cuter (or even that I liked more) in an extremely preferential way. My understanding is that I did it because I wanted to see them smile. Implicitly, I supposed I wanted them to like me. I am more than moderately ashamed of myself. What's worse, I'm not sure I would never do it again.

My professor gave us an extension on our term paper for another week (with th possibility of a further extension after that). I am more than happy + surprized and hope I will not take this for granted. I am getting the ulitmate catch-up time here, this week. whoop


Says Jim Cymbala in Fresh Wind, Fresh Fire, "Prayer cannot truly be taught by principles and seminars and symposiums. It has to be born out of a whole enivronment of felt need. If I set out to pray, I will soon run out of motivation and quit -- the flesh is too strong. I have to be driven to pray."

Another word: "Little is much, when God's in it" (Downhere).


The other day I thought about the idea of putting God first... and concluded that there is nothing I could reasonably make Him second to.

What could I do for my country? I don't even know how to vote and I have no intention of joining any armed forces. I guess I ought to keep praying.

Two weeks ago I took the challenge to write down all the prayables I could from an hour of news coverage and work them for the remainder of the week. The theme was our government; I realized how important it is to pray for the Canadian government. I don't feel a need because Canada is safe(er), healthy(ish) and fairly rich. I feel like I'd be rocking the proverbial boat. I am content so let me not lose all on account of greed. People say (or someone said) that, as long as we are OK with being good, we will never be great and I am inclined to agree. I would not, however use such words because, when it comes to humans, the term "good" is toujours problematic. As long as we are satisfied, we will stop moving toward what God wants for us. That sounds almost harsh and defeating but I cannot deny the truths in it. In this experience I also had realized to me the importance (that word here fails me) of a ministry like Campus Crusade for Christ. With this prayer challenge I was asking for officials to "do the right thing" in not so many words; for them to be forgiving and for justice to be served and I thought, hey, how swell would it be if all the men and women in power in my country knew the great I Am. I'm not asking for a Christian nation (that's about as palpable an entity as Christian music) nor am I asking for political addresses to be decorated with churchy words [yes, I'm writing against the Bush administration] but I want these people, in their hearts, to be in the positions they are for God's sake. I want to live in a country where my Prime Minister's first priority is God. (How can we lose?) If God wants him/her in that position (and if they are godly indeed then this will be true) then God will do great things through that servant for the country but hey - that doesn't mean that people of any other faith system need to be isolated (marginalized?) or even explicitly aware of the PM's beliefs. It will of course leak and reek through his clothing but whatever. that can't be helped. I like 2 Corinthians.

What do you EAT..?

My friends, vegans can eat very well if they do their research and are blessed with well-stocked stores and well-funded budgets.

This didn't turn out as pretty as I'd hoped but rest assured that there are infact bananas and chocolate chips hidden in there. This whole package is most certainly 100% a-vegan. Done.

frum my good friend John Dore:

At the end of September I saw John Dore on Comedy Now! and I knew it was going to be great even before his set aired. Dore used to be a sort of co-host with Ben Mulroney on Canadian Idol and I absolutely loved his stuff on there, though it was just silly snipits between segments. He, honestly, is one of them unappreciated types. It's almost like he's too funny that people aren't willing to meet him halfway. (It's like trying to win at the board game Sorry! when you continuously over-roll.)
Anyways, here are my champ quotes:

"My mother used to swear all the time - she's that kind of woman, that's how she dealt with her problems. [pause] I'm telling you - if the washer and dryer had self-esteem they would have committed suicide by now."

"I used to play cowboys and Indians when I was a kid but I can't call it that now [beat]: it's not politically correct. [pause] And that's OK, I'm fine with that. [pause] I can call it cowpeople and Indians..."

Why I Wish I Could be More Like...

...Adam Sandler. In his films, he gives props to the musicians that he likes and he does it in the greatest, subtle, end-of-story kind of way. I wish I had an example. The Cranberries come to mind, from Click where he used their song as his first-kiss song and then used them again to perform live at his son's wedding but that's not as cool as it gets.

--
I saw a guy on the bus with one black eye, one swollen eye and not much to smile about. I kick myself for being unable to NOT stare at him but I wanted to figure out if this was the result of a hockey game/fight or a mugging or a drunken parent - I donno. It wasn't exactly a stare it was more of a glancing and glancing back every 2 or 3 minutes which is almost better but not quite. The look on his face was something like perpetual discomfort or embarassment that only comes after a deep hurt. Maybe you know this face, maybe you don't.
I don't quite understand how my feelings toward this guy were so strong, I mean...even if I did know him, what could I do? Sometimes serious hugs don't cut it (and of course, sometimes they do). I think I imagine myself holding his cheek and saying the motherly, "Oh my poor baby," looking on with a broken heart, perhaps like a curator would see Dali's canvas torn from its frame, the wood splintered and strew about the room. It's a special kind of pain to see a masterpiece destroyed. Fortunately for this guy, he can at least physically heal. Man! I sent away for my magic wand ages ago and yet here I am, still unable to solve the world's problems with a little wave and... a-bippity..

--
I overslept this morning and I feel horrible about it. I let it totally ruin my last weekend and it aint happening again. The King forgave me for spitting in His face (the King!); surely He will have mercy on me now, again.

I have often wondered: if all of the hard- and soft-copy Bibles or Holy (Christian) Scriptures on Earth were obliterated (assumedly under persecution), would we Christians, between all of us, have all of it memorized? I mean seriously. I know there's this dude who memorized all of the Gospel of Luke (and turned it into a [play]), I have known a couple peeps who are trying to memorize Romans, surely those li'l books (do we call them Epistles?) like Philippians, Ephesians, Colossians and Galatians are so rich that we memorize and 0ver-quote all of them. "I got James 3!" she exclaimed excitedly as if it had just occured to her, shooting her hand up like the seven-year-old on the carpet who knows how many legs a spider has. Basically, I think we have the New Testment covered and I think they're playing Extreme in the Bullring here now and I am WAY jealous. What about OT? (Who memorized/memorizes Numbers? Ai. I hope someone does it because we gotta have it. I remember a poetry meeting a couple years ago (four?) where a speaker said that people are persecuted because of their poetry in places where it's the social critique, the satire, the tricky political nursery rhyme kind of poetry. As a result, men should memorize their works so it can never be taken away.
That guy was cool. He reminded me of my uncle Errol. He did a poem called "God is a Democrat" and the audience was to stomp on the beat, joining in on the refrain:
God is a democrat [stomp, stomp]
[stomp] You can bet your life on that.

I dunno what more to say about that.

Why I Wish I Could Be More Like...

...Superman. When watching Smallville, I often find myself saying, "No, no, don't go in there!" or cringing or squiriming when Clark Kent seems to be doing some leaping in advance of the looking.

He'll rush into any building, any situation, any terrain without any forethought (it seems). And yet, when has this backfired on him? Clark has super-human, strength, speed, hearing and let's not forget he can both fly and shoot x-rays from his eyes. So... what does he have to fear?


I wish I could walk into any situation, especially the ones in which I have a vested interest and where there is a serious urgency/emergency, without stopping to think or plan or weigh the costs. What a luxury and what freedom!

quote

"You know what’s worse than the fear of telling the truth, Mr Kent? The fear of uncovering it."
True or no?

a.k.a. "large parcel"

Today was honestly one of the best days of my life.

Nothing montumentally great happened but the past 18 hours have been marked with many small joys that, compounded, make eachother seem greater, (God seem lovlier) and the whole journée sweeter and sweeter.

I wanted to focus this blog on the phrase, "my professor gets me," but the joy of that moment is connected to so many other moments that now I need to re-think whether I am ready to open the floodgates. I met some new people tonight (three!) and I remember all their names and faces! Yes! This is especially wonderful to me becuase I was thinking tonight in particular that part of my responsibility of being an upper-year student familiar with all things C4C, Guelph and university is meeting new people. This is how churches stay alive (that and people have babies). This is how I resist cliques. [Editor's note: it is pronounced "cleek". It is French.] This is how I stretch myself and how I return the favor of all those upper year folk who talked to me during my first year (a heck of a lot! now that I think about it) and I am ever grateful to them.

I met these girls, I like them and I will remember them. Whoop-to-the-ee.

Also tonight I made a friend of mine laugh in a sneaky, crunchy way. I can't even describe it but it was almost raunchy. It was delectable, I'd say. Maybe we could call it borderline laughter. You know how some things are funnier because they are forbidden? It's exactly that kind of laughter, exactly that.

I sure got validated a few times today. I wonder if people might stamp a card for me. One professor - the one who "gets" me - was willing to answer a question after lecture that was NOT directly related to his class and not only did he patiently endure my muddled and rushed words, he finished my thought, showing me that he understood what I was saying and that he agreed with me. This is no trivial point either. In an alternate universe, we would WAY be friends. Also in the alternate universe, I might WAY be my other professor. Our brains seem to work the same in an obscure & uncanny way and so far it has only yielded good times. A 14th-century French (essentially European) mode of composing, the ars subtilior, is mannered like post-modernism. "Yes, that's true.... yes, that's a good connection to make.. it's like they push something to the furthest extent it can go and then abandon it -hahhaha. Yes, that's a great connection to make... [way to think about it]." She had this look on her face that was a mix of surprize, teacherly pride and something else. I was thinking that the modes were both "weird for the sake of weird" though I know that is a very trite way to describe p-m'ism.

In that first class I mentioned, I had an assignment due and I started working on it approximately 17 hours before the submission deadline. (Hmm .. "submission deadline" is that like the "I do" moment for women?) No, that's not true, I did about two hours of preparation the day it was assigned which was two days before it was due. I kinda like this two-day assignment deal. You pretty much start working AT the last minute. Glory. I prayed that same ol' prayer I have prayed a million times since grade 7 (give or take a few years) that I would not slack off, - in later years - that I would not fall asleep (or pretend to "nap") and that I would NOT get myself into this position again. I am not faithful to my prayers as my GPA might tell you. Anyways, this time I worked at the libs for about 2 hours then came home at 10 o'clock. I tooked a shower, eated, watched some tele and all of a sudden it was midnight. (Owch.) I thought, How do I keep doing this? It is such a regular thing for me. When something is due, I don't go to sleep before midnight, probably not before 2 and often not before 4 or 5. I'm cool with that because I likes the night but when I get tired and I know I won't wake up easily and the work is not finished, I start getting scared. "Scared" is the word for it. This time the H-Spizzo disguised itself as my inner voice and said, "Don't let your past failures cripple what you're about to do," and I was like FO' SHEEzy. I turned a corner. I turned a corner. I don't understand how I stayed so focussed, I don't understand how the assignment worked out so well I very MUCH don't understand how I even got up at 7 when I went to bed at 5.30 (who does that??) and how I made it through three classes and two appointments without nodding off or even feeling tired. Oh and apparently I'm still fertile.

That second appointment, the man I saw about the horse, was pretty nift. I was feelin the nerves a bit but I stopped by the altar to drop of a few things ("a few" in this case meaning "every-") and told Jesus He had to walk in before me. I kinda pushed Him with my extended arms and grabbed onto his cloak as I shuffled in, peeping from around his hips, every now and again. The editor said he'd sell me the horse ... oh and publish my article. I uh.... I don't really know what to say about that. :

The first class of the day was prety awesome because the discussion went deeper than I would have expected, especially because our regular Teaching Assistant was absent and so we were with a girl we'd never met before. It started off shaky but eventually got into outside-the-classroom greatness that doesn't come around so often.

My pet project has offically taken off and I am excited with the degree of professionalism I get to work with. God did a little of His sneaky confirmation business (the, "Here, I'll make details x, y and z work out for you," thing where x, y and z happen to be the foundation, the first floor, second, roof and trimmings and z is the passion. Hmm, yea, OK I'll do the "rest" of the work...).

The day finished with greatness and just a sprinkling of disappointment: I ate one of my new fLavorite foods but couldn't make it to 2 am (scandal!) to watch Smallville. I need to learn how to rent season DVDs. That would be easier on my 08h30 classes. Here is the food:


froot (grapz, banans and strawbs) +
apple and the cinnamon garganzola +
peach yoghurt

---
Yesterday I wandered into the Bullring to do some work and wonderful guitar strains made their way into my ear. The weirdest part is that I know this guy; I've known him for 3 or 4 years now but I had never heard him play until a week ago. Now he's on stage and playing again, just him, and I can't believe how great he is. Talk about soul... how do you extract so much goodness from six strings and a box of wood? I had just opened my book and then I hear some singing and my first thought was, "There's only one person on stage!" and then I turn to behold one of those "double-threat" guys. Ai.. I cannot even describe to you... I won't try. But I will post what I was inspired to write:


flat three
flatten me

you twitch and
squirm like a
robin’s worm
as every turn
and strum and um
… each word or
strain, vocal run and
sprain
tries its hardest,
flambés the artist
to hold the
music or
boldly peruse it,
refusing quiet.

how is it,
I inquisit,
that in a room of
90 ears
it appears
no one fears
- like I - to
miss a note
or tears (they
cry) to
try to
permanently quote
it all, lest it fall to
forgotten-ness
or worse than this:
mediocre-ness.

does it hurt
when you flirt
with laryngitis?
it aint right,
this explosion
or expressive
implosion
of greatness-
can’t fake this.


forget training,
rehearsed straining,
feigning propriety,
clear notes and
piety: in an hour’s
concert fling,
you re-taught me
how to sing.

15h34 02/11/06

sVhhl

"Desitny is another word for not having a choice," - a quote that sounds profound (in the flippant way that we self-righteous tend to adopt) but that I totally disagree with. Actually, I think I just want to call it bogus and bunk; I'm not sure I could actually disagree with it.
First off, destiny is such a loaded word that its denotations are completely gone so I'm not even sure what I'm dealing with for true.
Secondly, no. The line was delivered by a semi-stubborn teenager stereotype (being extreme in this moment) so I think it was more of a snappy come back than anything, said in the same way one might say, "Your face is destiny," or, "Your mom is destiny."

the following post is not suitable for young children. Viewer discretion is advised.

What's the grossest thing I've ever had to do?

I fed the cat in my house a liquidy food (she had been on the crunchies since forever) and the next morning, I found a bloppy poo-trail from her litterbox. (This happened two days in a row, for the record.) The best part was that it started out bloppy (I mean, it must have been to leak from her anus) but by the time I got there it was hard so this was no wipe-wipe job. It was a hold-your-breath scrub. I feel sorry for her.

I think the same thing happens to humans when they eat no-fat chips, especially Pringles. You know - the kind that were in the news 5 or 6 years ago and banned in Canada... yea, they allegedly caused anal leakage. That's not cool.


I caught myself being disappointed about 10 minutes ago that I had found out my 08h30 class was cancelled for tomorrow. Then I took the spliff out of my mouth and threw it away. hmm

All Hallows Eve

Here are my three favorite Hallowe'en 2006 costumes.

#1 On the northbound Yonge/University subway Saturday night, I saw a guy dressed as a Hudson's Bay fur trapper. (I'm pretending he was a fur trapper; I'm not sure if that's exactly what you'd call him.) He had the red-yellow-green-blue stripe classic woolly HBC as his coat & pants, some crazy toque, an apple-red scarf, a hide satchel, moccassins and something in his hand, maybe a walking stick, a harpoon (?), maybe he was carrying snowshoes or something but it was simply GLORious. I enjoyed it. I may have come close to hyperventilating.

I concluded that I like the costume so because it is explicitly and fully Canadian, because it is unique, obscure and weird and because you would need to be of above average intelligence to wear something like that - I was impressed with the guy.

#2 This morning I got off the bus at the top of campus and so did Charlie Chaplin. I didn't see him on the bus nor did I see him in the crowd until it dispersed a little and then I had the pleasure of walking behind him for the 3 or 4 minute journey to class. This guy was immaculate! He had the right jacket, the white shirt that protruded from underneath, the pinstripe pants, the SHOES -my goodness the shoes!- they were bulbous! I do not understand where one finds such treasures but this guy knew what he was all about. He had the cane, the bowler, the dirty moustache and best of all he had the walk, the heel-click and the pantomime (including whistling) down for rizz-eal. One thing I didn't get was how he managed to go to class (yes, I saw him enter a MacKinnon classroom) without any books. He wa'n't carrying no bags or nuthin... but I appreciate the gesture for the sake of the costume.

#3 When I came home tonight, there was a group of four guys going downtown. One was a police officer, one seemed obsessed with knock-knock jokes (?), one was Waldo (from Where's Waldo books, complete with cane, dorky glasses and scroll - no book) and the other was a green dinosaur. I don't think he was any animal in particular, just a forest green full-body dinosaur with triangular scales all down his spine (from head to tail). It was way cute. I tried to take a picture (which, yes, makes me a bit of a creepy stalker) but it didn't turn out so well.



The costume must have been home-made it was so plain and so .... I dunno. You would only do it because of what it isn't or because of what it outside-means not for what it it really is. Good times on the ranch.


Final comment:
I scrawled this on the bus:
A Harley Davidson hat and single-strap army-green backpack got on the last #4 York Road bus on 31 October. After an entire day of deciphering, scrutinizing, laughing and applauding, my firs tthought at seeing his packer-taped carboard box of six 2L Colt bottles was, "What's his costume?"