Talkin' bout my generation

Sometimes just for a second with no fully formed logical explanation it seems to me that we're doing just fine.



(McGill's main campus, a few thousand kilometers from where I am now)

Almost paradoxical for me, but an excellent reminder

It's peculiar and unnerving in a way to see so many young people walking around with cellphones and iPods in their ears and so wrapped up in media and video games. It robs them of their self-identity. It's a shame to see them so tuned out to real life. Of course they are free to do that, as if that's got anything to do with freedom. The cost of liberty is high, and young people should understand that before they start spending their life with all those gadgets.
-Bob Dylan

Food (and instructions) for Final Exams

Ingredients:
-One (1) package of rice noodles
-One (1) bottle of peanut sauce on sale at PA
-One (1) package of spinach

Boil rice noodles. Douse in peanut sauce. Toss with spinach to assuage feelings of guilt brought on by poor nutrition. Put in tupperware.

Think about the behaviour of the heat equation (with solutions bounded at infinity) at the outside boundary of a threedimensional spherical domain.

Despair.

Open tupperware.

Eat noodles.

Do pushups.

Feel better.

Melodramatic personae, perhaps?


Summer Finn of Shinnecock, Michigan, did not share this belief. Since the disintegration of her parents' marriage she'd only love two things. The first was her long dark hair. The second was how easily she could cut it off and not feel a thing.

Not even to borrow, just to marvel at:

since feeling is first
e.e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

A missed connection

Female, Blonde. I actually can't see you right now but I bet you're reading a book on welding, eating french toast or listening to van morrison.... I need to see you more

I found this during a brief internet trawl as a break from studying. I wouldn't mind meeting (or being) this girl...

Songs about love and bacon and Nova Scotia

Pretty solid
Saw this man last night under a ship's mast in the biting chill of the maritime winds.

I wrote this while on the phone with a girl who wasn't interesting enough to listen to.

I don't remember the poem that followed, but I remember this, and your smirk and your swagger.

A wind in the door

Matted hair and little boys' parkas handed down, giant climbing packs on the metro, the winds of Halifax in my eyes, train horns sounding in the distances of my mind. The sidewalk salt and balmy drizzle of Montreal feel Atlantic.

I board The Ocean tonight.

No glove SO MUCH LOVE

Montreal does this thing where for four months of the year your days are slush and darkness. The monotony seeps in and the state becomes immutable. You no longer mind, you adapt and deal. Winter biking, impervious to the biting cold, skiing on the mountain to remember what the world outside the window looks like, drinking mugs of spiked everything and wearing grandfather's sweaters, you let grayhaze depression say hello but fight to not quite let it settle in. You get goodnatured validation looking at all the wellheeled Tranochildren who feel the need to wear $700 polar expedition parkas and $150 galoshes in the city while your outdated kamiks and softshell hold their structural integrity but turn greyer and filthier as the season wears on. You get slippers for the math building so you never have to go outside. You think about replacing your bike chain for an entire month.

Then one day the thermometer peaks just above zero and you notice it's four pm and still not dark and for the first time in months you take off your gloves and bike barehanded, the pleasure of the contoured handlebars under your softening callouses hard to explain. So you buy sausages at the butchershop and barrel down the streets off the Main with groceries on your back and your head full of the melodies and noise of the Talking Heads, grit from the salty snowmelt in your hair and glasses and teeth, hearing the ices finally crack.