Good night, and good luck.
31.12.08
17.12.08
Home, where my love lies waiting silently for me.
I'm home! After 11 hours of transit, I am back in the suburbs that raised me. Everything feels exceedingly familiar and it's very odd. Alone in the house today, I played Leonard Cohen and took a bath and made pea soup, then fell asleep in my airy, well-lit room reading the essays of Vaclav Havel. It's a nice feeling after dorm life, although dorm life has its perks as well.
I suppose now is the time to sort of look back on my first semester in University, although I'm of the opinion that people do too much looking back as it is. I personally am quite guilty of this - at one point I kept a journal, a commonplace book, a photo archive, a recording project and this blog. All of them were used only intermittently, so it's not as though I spent my hours scribbling away in a forgotten nook in the attic. (hello, Emily Dickinson!) I suppose I started this blog as a record of the things I found cool in life, but it eventually got more autobiographical, and consequently less general and probably less interesting. I don't mind that I have few readers - I fully understand that my life isn't actually that interesting to read about, but I still need to write about it. So, in that vein, I suppose I'll look back on my first semester in university:
I was on my own for longer than I'd ever been, and though there were some battles with bureaucracy that I lost spectacularly, I think I fared quite nicely. I joined the nordic ski team, which turned out to be the best decision of my university career so far. I took organic chemistry, which did not. I found out that Advanced Placement tests were actually out to get me. I lived in extremely close proximity to a roommate and found out that I wasn't nearly as insufferable as I thought I was, although I was lucky to room with the chillest person at McGill. I biked around a lot until I broke my bike. I mentally thrashed a bit. I met a person whose name could be pronounced either as a cracker or as a thousandth of the standard unit of mass in the metric system and fell in love with him after a spectacularly ill-advised bike trip. I made friends and acquaintances in a world unlike that of high school cliques. I listened to Leonard Cohen a lot, much to the chagrin of those around me. I missed kayaking. I played considerably less drinking games than is average but still managed to beat boys in them.
I'm glad to be home.
I suppose now is the time to sort of look back on my first semester in University, although I'm of the opinion that people do too much looking back as it is. I personally am quite guilty of this - at one point I kept a journal, a commonplace book, a photo archive, a recording project and this blog. All of them were used only intermittently, so it's not as though I spent my hours scribbling away in a forgotten nook in the attic. (hello, Emily Dickinson!) I suppose I started this blog as a record of the things I found cool in life, but it eventually got more autobiographical, and consequently less general and probably less interesting. I don't mind that I have few readers - I fully understand that my life isn't actually that interesting to read about, but I still need to write about it. So, in that vein, I suppose I'll look back on my first semester in university:
I was on my own for longer than I'd ever been, and though there were some battles with bureaucracy that I lost spectacularly, I think I fared quite nicely. I joined the nordic ski team, which turned out to be the best decision of my university career so far. I took organic chemistry, which did not. I found out that Advanced Placement tests were actually out to get me. I lived in extremely close proximity to a roommate and found out that I wasn't nearly as insufferable as I thought I was, although I was lucky to room with the chillest person at McGill. I biked around a lot until I broke my bike. I mentally thrashed a bit. I met a person whose name could be pronounced either as a cracker or as a thousandth of the standard unit of mass in the metric system and fell in love with him after a spectacularly ill-advised bike trip. I made friends and acquaintances in a world unlike that of high school cliques. I listened to Leonard Cohen a lot, much to the chagrin of those around me. I missed kayaking. I played considerably less drinking games than is average but still managed to beat boys in them.
I'm glad to be home.
12.12.08
Esto es très fun!
Well, my two hardest finals are out of the way. It was a bit of a personal hell - Dante has nothing on organic chemistry. In any case, provided I did not actually fail organic chemistry (despite the fact that the final made my soul bleed), I'm done it and good riddance. This was the course whose coordinator (a four foot tall fat man with round glasses and a nasal, high-pitched voice) made me cry during my first day at McGill when I asked to switch lab sections. This was the course where I was next in the alpahbet to a girl who regularly overdosed on ecstasy and attended all of one lecture during the entire semester, and hence she became my lab partner. This was the course where I spent three hours doing a microscale filtration and then proceeded to evaporate ALL of it in the vacuum. Add to that late-hour study sessions that induced slight delirium and significant panic while the Management students play loud rounds of beer pong below, and needless to say, if I pass the course, I will thank the gods and move on with my life.
The counterbalance to this hell is nordic skiing. There is absolutely no activity more fun than nordic skiing on a really really good day. There are some pretty bad days too - Klister and laclustre form and overly cold - but on good days it's really good (and on bad days it's still not bad, hehe). I went for the first time two days ago and it was as though the world was fixed. I used to love running, but I'm starting to think that it pales compared to coming to the team room, taking out my ancient combi skis, waxing with whatever comes to mind, and then flying through the deadly still white, the world muffled under my grooves. In the stillness of the smaller paths there is no evidence that the throbbing city has a chokehold on this mountain park. The branches bend under the snow, creating an archway of glory that seems somehow not quite as cold. And the best thing is that it need not end - the mountain is my backyard and playground until the snow thaws in late March.
There are few good ways to describe the weather and I dare not attempt it - in my school's poetry club we used to laugh at the poetry contest entrants who wrote tritely and predictably about things like rain and snow. (To be honest, that was a bit silly, given our respective levels of poetic prowess - i.e. not nearly good enough to be so pretentious.) But come. Find a pair of old skis- they don't have to be the flashy $900 Madshuses that the fat salesman tried to push at me in the ski store- and come to the trails of Mont Royal, to the Vermont backcountry, to the fjords of Norway, to the hills that we call mountains in the Czech Republic. (Don't tell the douchebags of the world, though. Perfection is better uncrowded.) And we'll ski and fall and cover the ground with not even a footprint left to tell the world we were there. Afterwards we can brush the snow off our hats and drink powdered hot chocolate and laugh easily, rejoicing in a world where the bullshit gets left behind and all that is left is the feeling of flight.
This is my backyard. Sure beats suburbia.
As regards the title of this post, it regards the incident where I fell flat on my face in front of the quebecois who was kindly letting me pass. I grinned shamefacedly, and he replied amiably, "C'est bon." As I got up and dusted myself off, I smiled back and said, "Gracias!".
The counterbalance to this hell is nordic skiing. There is absolutely no activity more fun than nordic skiing on a really really good day. There are some pretty bad days too - Klister and laclustre form and overly cold - but on good days it's really good (and on bad days it's still not bad, hehe). I went for the first time two days ago and it was as though the world was fixed. I used to love running, but I'm starting to think that it pales compared to coming to the team room, taking out my ancient combi skis, waxing with whatever comes to mind, and then flying through the deadly still white, the world muffled under my grooves. In the stillness of the smaller paths there is no evidence that the throbbing city has a chokehold on this mountain park. The branches bend under the snow, creating an archway of glory that seems somehow not quite as cold. And the best thing is that it need not end - the mountain is my backyard and playground until the snow thaws in late March.
There are few good ways to describe the weather and I dare not attempt it - in my school's poetry club we used to laugh at the poetry contest entrants who wrote tritely and predictably about things like rain and snow. (To be honest, that was a bit silly, given our respective levels of poetic prowess - i.e. not nearly good enough to be so pretentious.) But come. Find a pair of old skis- they don't have to be the flashy $900 Madshuses that the fat salesman tried to push at me in the ski store- and come to the trails of Mont Royal, to the Vermont backcountry, to the fjords of Norway, to the hills that we call mountains in the Czech Republic. (Don't tell the douchebags of the world, though. Perfection is better uncrowded.) And we'll ski and fall and cover the ground with not even a footprint left to tell the world we were there. Afterwards we can brush the snow off our hats and drink powdered hot chocolate and laugh easily, rejoicing in a world where the bullshit gets left behind and all that is left is the feeling of flight.
This is my backyard. Sure beats suburbia.
As regards the title of this post, it regards the incident where I fell flat on my face in front of the quebecois who was kindly letting me pass. I grinned shamefacedly, and he replied amiably, "C'est bon." As I got up and dusted myself off, I smiled back and said, "Gracias!".
5.12.08
From now on I don't care if my tea leaves spell Die Ron Die, I'm chucking them in the rubbish bin where they belong.
Perhaps it isn't a good thing that three years after reading Harry Potter, I can remember that quote, but I'm not clear on the facets of the new industrial space of the BMSI, despite having read about it yesterday several times. In any case, I'm done my Economics final and no longer care about rereading what feels like millions of Newspeak acronyms. I'm not an economics person, but I'm glad I took the course. It managed to broaden my horizons in terms of what exactly goes on in the world and why I believe some of the things I do. I think we tend to assume that we all have deep and valid reasons for certain courses of actions, but I was thinking about it lately, and some things have become a knee-jerk reaction for me. "Buy local! Stop buying clothes! Everything "non-mainstream" is automatically better than mass consumption! MNCs are evil! The corporate world is evil! Modern society is screwed up!" I try not to articulate these TOO much to avoid sounding like a self-righteous hippie, but they're - correctly or not - a part of my subconscious. I adopted a lot of these opinions at around the age of twelve, and they stuck with me, but truth be told I didn't really know much about how the world really works - things like WTO, subsidies, environmental bypasses and NGOs were all somewhat new to me. I still don't know much about how the world really works, but it feels simultaneously like a bit of the puzzle fell into place and like I have some sort of basis for reexamining my views on certain things. Hey-ho university disillusionment!
I must say, I've been better. It's a combination of stress, too much time on the computer, not enough time outside, and too much thinking and doubting. Nonetheless the past few weeks have included a trip to the Vermont mountains, a welcome visit from parents, traumatizing my younger brother, a psychoanalysis for which I got fifteen dollars, and my first 2k erg test. I'm going to get through these next few weeks, and then I'm going to go home and run twice a day and read books just because I want to and build fires and abandon the internet and go skiing and climb until my arms fall off and take baths and eat clam chowder and real food and visit trader joes and live in Jenkintown library and learn basic bike maintenance and go drink tea with my friend Brian and see the people I went to high school with and read Pushkin and write for once in my life and play instruments and bake christmas cookies and do household chores while listening to Leonard Cohen and Vangelis and Beethoven and sleep in my own room and trim the Christmas tree and go to winter concerts and speak Czech all the time.
It's going to be great.
My friend, descending from the highs of the Vermont mountains down to the civilized world below. Don't hesitate to climb
up just because you have to go back down.
I must say, I've been better. It's a combination of stress, too much time on the computer, not enough time outside, and too much thinking and doubting. Nonetheless the past few weeks have included a trip to the Vermont mountains, a welcome visit from parents, traumatizing my younger brother, a psychoanalysis for which I got fifteen dollars, and my first 2k erg test. I'm going to get through these next few weeks, and then I'm going to go home and run twice a day and read books just because I want to and build fires and abandon the internet and go skiing and climb until my arms fall off and take baths and eat clam chowder and real food and visit trader joes and live in Jenkintown library and learn basic bike maintenance and go drink tea with my friend Brian and see the people I went to high school with and read Pushkin and write for once in my life and play instruments and bake christmas cookies and do household chores while listening to Leonard Cohen and Vangelis and Beethoven and sleep in my own room and trim the Christmas tree and go to winter concerts and speak Czech all the time.
It's going to be great.
My friend, descending from the highs of the Vermont mountains down to the civilized world below. Don't hesitate to climb
up just because you have to go back down.
16.11.08
Sunday morning, praise the dawning
This morning I woke up at 8:00 to mellow Czech folk music from my iTunes alarm. Unfortunately, at 8:02, the entire residence was woken by the piercing shriek of the fire alarm. I suppose this simply expedites my plans for the day, which are - drumroll please- to spend at least eight hours studying organic chemistry for my last midterm tommorrow. Thus, I urge you: If you have ABSOLUTELY ANYTHING else to do, please do it. I can't bear the thought of the rest of the world being that pathetic.
A Markovnikov addition. I understand it but am none the happier for it.
Also, the Velvet Underground are a good thing to listen to on a Sunday morning.
In physics, you don't have to go around making trouble for yourself - nature does it for you.
-Frank Wilczek
A Markovnikov addition. I understand it but am none the happier for it.
Also, the Velvet Underground are a good thing to listen to on a Sunday morning.
In physics, you don't have to go around making trouble for yourself - nature does it for you.
-Frank Wilczek
10.11.08
Everybody stand back (I know regular expressions)
It has been documented that I am a closet nerd. This is probably why I find xkcd funny and when someone raves to me about the shape of the graph of tangent theta squared, I think it's cute rather than worrisome. I see nothing wrong with nerd-dom, in fact. The stereotypical junior high school boy nerd story is a pretty great one - finding the light side of the sometimes awkward process of growing up, being socially inept, zits, insecurity, too many videogames, forming a microculture to protect oneself against a macroculture. Watching it from the outside, seeing the poor, besotted, spotty thirteen-year olds of the quebecois school across the way from me, it makes me smile. Huzzah for the emo kids and goths and mathletes and socially awkward gamers, for the boys who teach themselves the C-chord on the electric guitar in the basement in a sort of futile chase of cool. You'll get over yourselves, eventually. But treasure the halcyon Donnie Darkoesque times you get to experience before you get there. They'll be over before you know it, and there's something irreversible about it all.
I'm not sure why I'm waxing nostalgic about junior high - God knows seventh grade wasn't that fun. Now that I'm out of high school, at the ripe old age of eighteen, with life all figured out, I'm free to reminisce about the adolescence microcosm, AOL and junior high dances.
xkcd.com
This post is dedicated to my best friend Emily, who never let the large amounts of rather bad comic books she read get in the way of awesome.
I'm not sure why I'm waxing nostalgic about junior high - God knows seventh grade wasn't that fun. Now that I'm out of high school, at the ripe old age of eighteen, with life all figured out, I'm free to reminisce about the adolescence microcosm, AOL and junior high dances.
xkcd.com
This post is dedicated to my best friend Emily, who never let the large amounts of rather bad comic books she read get in the way of awesome.
5.11.08
Remember, remember, the fifth of November
Thank God. Watching the election last night was something I'll remember for the rest of my life. I'm Czech, and I was singing the American national anthem - with pride in my voice and heart for the country that partially raised me. The feeling was electric. When the screen announced that Barack Obama won the national election, the room erupted with screams. No words, just pure desperate vent of emotion.
And now we come back to the everyday. There are ideals to be upheld and love to carry and disillusion to face, but it will be remembered, and that night to me represents a hope shared by the sometimes disaffected kids of my generation. On the bright side, I just snuck the phrase "soon-to-be-ex-President Bush" into my hydrology (!) midterm (who gives a midterm the day after the future of the free world is decided?).
As Penny Lane said, it's all happening!
Incidentally, it snowed lately.
Campus in the brightness powder light.
And now we come back to the everyday. There are ideals to be upheld and love to carry and disillusion to face, but it will be remembered, and that night to me represents a hope shared by the sometimes disaffected kids of my generation. On the bright side, I just snuck the phrase "soon-to-be-ex-President Bush" into my hydrology (!) midterm (who gives a midterm the day after the future of the free world is decided?).
As Penny Lane said, it's all happening!
Incidentally, it snowed lately.
Campus in the brightness powder light.
3.11.08
This is England, this is how we feel
I have to confess: I'm absolutely terrified. I don't know what I'm going to do if the worst happens, and I have bad experiences with the ole U.S. of A. My father is cynical, my crazy liberal Vermont friend says there's no chance of the worst happening. Everyone in my residence has had literal, vivid nightmares and woken up in cold sweats. Meanwhile in my hydrology class I'm learning about the world literally collapsing around our ears. The status quo can't go on and I, the daughter of a post-communist credo, am tempted toward anarchy. Yes we can? We had better be able to. Because we already ran out of time. Maybe it's not visible in the Hollister-filled shopping malls of suburbia and the Gossip Girl on television, but time is out. The country's forests, lakes, and farmlands are dying, the Dow Jones is like a piece of sodden, rotting meat splayed to bits on Wall Street, all around the country and the world regular people are being, what is it, left behind. I'm not a weatherman, but I can sense the wind in my face and it's a gale-force hurricane.
I'm not naive. I know that a change in presidency won't fix everything and it'll take a whole lot of work to fix anything. But that doesn't mean that it doesn't matter. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin', that if this man doesn't win on Tuesday:
I may be tempted to go the way of the Clash.
I'm not naive. I know that a change in presidency won't fix everything and it'll take a whole lot of work to fix anything. But that doesn't mean that it doesn't matter. I'm not sayin', I'm just sayin', that if this man doesn't win on Tuesday:
I may be tempted to go the way of the Clash.
2.11.08
You may not have cold eyes, but you'll have cold feet.
I was biking down Rue Prince Arthur when a bike racer type pulled up to me and said something in French. I awkwardly smiled and replied my standard line, "Je ne parlais pas le francais." He grinned and told me "In French we have this expression. You may not have cold eyes, but you will have cold feet." He pointed to my birkenstocks, downshifted and sped off.
It took me about three blocks to remember the secondary meaning of "cold feet" in English and appreciate the appropriateness. The primary meaning, however, was more than clear. It's a totally stupid idea to wear birkenstocks in Montreal in November. I know this. I should attempt to be less of a fool.
The cold weather, however, means a proper Halloween. None of the crappy suburbia plastic decorations. The wind bites, the dark menaces, Montreal sings with its own eerie seductive wail. My Halloween, though not very spooky in and of itself, was fairly great. Several compatriots on the nordic ski team attended a funk concert of the New Groove Orchestra, which was relatively magical. Getting to said concert also had its own specific charms, as it meant riding double on Dorian (my old steel seventies bike and primary lover) with a friend from the ski team. We sped down Universite in a precariously exhilarating fashion. Riding double on a bike tends to be quite dangerous and rather fun. Because of a general lack of costume in the world, I lent out my various bits of clothing to various people and we painted faces. So it was two girls with pigtails and Maori-like warpaint weaving through the cars and pedestrians. In short, fun. Combined with the home-brewed beer and omeletes and gramophone records and general revelry, it was quite good.
The concert itself was more than good. Molly always raves about funk on her blog, and now I truly know why. Funk is just kind of fun. It's the type of thing that makes you want to crazy dance because the rhythm validates itself. New Groove Orchestra is a ten-piece(!) band with a five-piece brass section and an electrical frontwoman wearing a shiny leotard and huge afro. It was crazily intense and crazily fun. Even white a-musical girls from eastern Europe get mad into it, which indicates the general goodness. Incidentally, price of concert? $7 canadian. Whut?
We got funked.
(photo not taken by me, and not of the concert I went to, but features ngo, so one out of the three)
www.newgrooveorchestra.com is worth visiting.
It took me about three blocks to remember the secondary meaning of "cold feet" in English and appreciate the appropriateness. The primary meaning, however, was more than clear. It's a totally stupid idea to wear birkenstocks in Montreal in November. I know this. I should attempt to be less of a fool.
The cold weather, however, means a proper Halloween. None of the crappy suburbia plastic decorations. The wind bites, the dark menaces, Montreal sings with its own eerie seductive wail. My Halloween, though not very spooky in and of itself, was fairly great. Several compatriots on the nordic ski team attended a funk concert of the New Groove Orchestra, which was relatively magical. Getting to said concert also had its own specific charms, as it meant riding double on Dorian (my old steel seventies bike and primary lover) with a friend from the ski team. We sped down Universite in a precariously exhilarating fashion. Riding double on a bike tends to be quite dangerous and rather fun. Because of a general lack of costume in the world, I lent out my various bits of clothing to various people and we painted faces. So it was two girls with pigtails and Maori-like warpaint weaving through the cars and pedestrians. In short, fun. Combined with the home-brewed beer and omeletes and gramophone records and general revelry, it was quite good.
The concert itself was more than good. Molly always raves about funk on her blog, and now I truly know why. Funk is just kind of fun. It's the type of thing that makes you want to crazy dance because the rhythm validates itself. New Groove Orchestra is a ten-piece(!) band with a five-piece brass section and an electrical frontwoman wearing a shiny leotard and huge afro. It was crazily intense and crazily fun. Even white a-musical girls from eastern Europe get mad into it, which indicates the general goodness. Incidentally, price of concert? $7 canadian. Whut?
We got funked.
(photo not taken by me, and not of the concert I went to, but features ngo, so one out of the three)
www.newgrooveorchestra.com is worth visiting.
28.10.08
2,000 stairs to Valhalla
There are approximately 256 on the winding staircase to the Mont Royal observatory. It is a beautiful staircase, winding up the side of the mountain through the rotting masses of foliage. The firm wood of the steps, the simple utilitarian railing, the observation platforms, the respectable size of it. It's not a set of stairs, it's a staircase. zigzagging zigurats.
There was much consternation form the ranks of our motley crew when we discovered that this staircase was to be climbed nine times during Monday's practice. However, consternation quickly changed to resignation as we lined up at the very bottom and went up.
and up
and up
and up
and up.
And it felt good. It really did. At the end, that is. Heavy breathing turned to shallow breathing which turned to not breathing which turned to lightheaded euphoria and camaraderie. We hummed the tune to chariots of fire and gulped water and stared at the throbbing city below. At the end of it, in the little cove of the team room, twelve bodies lay in a circle, chests rising with full breaths of air.
I have never been that high. I'm not sure it it is possible to get that particular brand of ridiculously high on any substance, whether legal or illegal. The death of a body flying, a mind gone, a present and imminent physicality while the world screens slightly, legs shake, lines blur, quadriceps stop working and it's hard not to laugh for reasons unknown.
I do not mean to overexaggerate the achievement of climbing 2000 stairs. My friend and private hero climbed Everest and died doing it - compared to that, 2000 stairs is not even worth mentioning. It's just that I used to be addicted to the edge and have since become complacent. I biked miles, ran ridiculous lengths, kayaked waterfalls, climbed things that scared me, and now I sleep and enjoy cookies more than I should. I miss the carnal, primordial knowledge of being alive at the brink of something. Comfort is good, but so is extremity. Even if it's found in a city park.
There was much consternation form the ranks of our motley crew when we discovered that this staircase was to be climbed nine times during Monday's practice. However, consternation quickly changed to resignation as we lined up at the very bottom and went up.
and up
and up
and up
and up.
And it felt good. It really did. At the end, that is. Heavy breathing turned to shallow breathing which turned to not breathing which turned to lightheaded euphoria and camaraderie. We hummed the tune to chariots of fire and gulped water and stared at the throbbing city below. At the end of it, in the little cove of the team room, twelve bodies lay in a circle, chests rising with full breaths of air.
I have never been that high. I'm not sure it it is possible to get that particular brand of ridiculously high on any substance, whether legal or illegal. The death of a body flying, a mind gone, a present and imminent physicality while the world screens slightly, legs shake, lines blur, quadriceps stop working and it's hard not to laugh for reasons unknown.
I do not mean to overexaggerate the achievement of climbing 2000 stairs. My friend and private hero climbed Everest and died doing it - compared to that, 2000 stairs is not even worth mentioning. It's just that I used to be addicted to the edge and have since become complacent. I biked miles, ran ridiculous lengths, kayaked waterfalls, climbed things that scared me, and now I sleep and enjoy cookies more than I should. I miss the carnal, primordial knowledge of being alive at the brink of something. Comfort is good, but so is extremity. Even if it's found in a city park.
26.10.08
Anatole France
"The average man, who does not know what to do with his life, wants another one which will last forever."
There may be a post coming up about Anatole France, for Anatole France is kind of ballin'.
There may be a post coming up about Anatole France, for Anatole France is kind of ballin'.
25.10.08
20.10.08
Bread and Games
Over the course of the past few weeks, somehow I have found myself entrenched in a million plots and sub-plots. Every move I make will potentially trigger a grenade in the minefield that has sprung up around me. It's extremely invigorating while at the same time quite distracting from things like chemistry and minerology. My classmates seem to need to relieve the stress of going to university with folly and jest and immaturity and intrigues and "that's what she said" jokes. If I went through the entire list of battles/skirmishes I am waging right now, it would look something like this:
The M.I.N.E. game: whenever anyone on the nordic team says the word that is spelled m.i.n.e., they do ten pushups, no matter the situation. This applies to coal mines as well, bonus points if that's the connotation.
The Game for Life: any beverage drunk using the dominant hand must be finished immediately. This is an intense endeavour that must be shaken on. I am slowly learning to do all things with my left hand.
The Surreptitious Game: is somewhat failing, and it's kind of a problem.
La semana cuando hablamos solamente español porque no queremos olvidar la lengua: My roommate and I both used to be quite proficient at Spanish before moving to a franco (hah, not the dictator!) country, and the regression is bad, so we're only speaking Spanish to each other for a week (any english is punished by ten pushups). My biceps are going to be ridiculous at some point.
The Frisbee-Rugby-Soccer-Tag Game: is another nordic invention. Has only happened once, but entirely worth it.
The How Many Brownies/Apples/Superfluous Utensils Can We Steal From Caf Before Anyone Notices: may have to start being done blindfolded. It's kind of easy.
Drinky-Laughy-Spitty: Get a group of friends. Hold hands. Gulp water, then try to hold it in while making each other laugh. Best played in a park at two in the morning wearing spandex.
Assasins: My floor is playing assasins and trying to kill each other. Doubt permeates the air. I can feel paranoia setting in.
The War with McGill Bureaucracy: is possibly the most intense, unpleasant and dire. A secretary/coordinator was extremely unpleasant to me today, but after facing Czech drugstore ladies/librarians/cashiers from the age of eight, things of that nature hold no fear for me. I was unpleasant back. My problems did not get solved, but she started being nice.
Capture the Flag: a fine tradition that accounts for, among other things, the shape of my left eyebrow is finding continuation. We managed to lose the flag, which is always a sign of a game well played.
Just call me Secret Agent Kamikatze, actually. Thank you.
The M.I.N.E. game: whenever anyone on the nordic team says the word that is spelled m.i.n.e., they do ten pushups, no matter the situation. This applies to coal mines as well, bonus points if that's the connotation.
The Game for Life: any beverage drunk using the dominant hand must be finished immediately. This is an intense endeavour that must be shaken on. I am slowly learning to do all things with my left hand.
The Surreptitious Game: is somewhat failing, and it's kind of a problem.
La semana cuando hablamos solamente español porque no queremos olvidar la lengua: My roommate and I both used to be quite proficient at Spanish before moving to a franco (hah, not the dictator!) country, and the regression is bad, so we're only speaking Spanish to each other for a week (any english is punished by ten pushups). My biceps are going to be ridiculous at some point.
The Frisbee-Rugby-Soccer-Tag Game: is another nordic invention. Has only happened once, but entirely worth it.
The How Many Brownies/Apples/Superfluous Utensils Can We Steal From Caf Before Anyone Notices: may have to start being done blindfolded. It's kind of easy.
Drinky-Laughy-Spitty: Get a group of friends. Hold hands. Gulp water, then try to hold it in while making each other laugh. Best played in a park at two in the morning wearing spandex.
Assasins: My floor is playing assasins and trying to kill each other. Doubt permeates the air. I can feel paranoia setting in.
The War with McGill Bureaucracy: is possibly the most intense, unpleasant and dire. A secretary/coordinator was extremely unpleasant to me today, but after facing Czech drugstore ladies/librarians/cashiers from the age of eight, things of that nature hold no fear for me. I was unpleasant back. My problems did not get solved, but she started being nice.
Capture the Flag: a fine tradition that accounts for, among other things, the shape of my left eyebrow is finding continuation. We managed to lose the flag, which is always a sign of a game well played.
Just call me Secret Agent Kamikatze, actually. Thank you.
18.10.08
If you don't know where you're going, any road will take you there; otherwise known as Epic Nights in Dorval
Unfortunately for me, George Harrison's cliched quote doesn't quite apply to a recent situation I found myself in. Our conundrum was more of the sort that we knew where we wanted to go, there were many roads, but none of them were accessible, we didn't actually know where we were, and it was two thirty in the morning and getting colder.
To explain:
A friend and I decided that we wanted to go climbing at Ringaud, a rock about 45 km from my lovely hovel on Rue University. Sans automotive transport, the best option was clearly to kick it old school and take our bicycles. This could theoretically have been a good idea had we a) had any vestige of a map or directions b) had set off about four hours earlier and c) had avoided a friend's home brew at a nordic sauna party before setting off. As it were, we set off at 11:17 p.m. on the dot, certainly not drunk but not completely ascetic either, and with a cry of "Westward ho!" started pedaling fiercely down Rue Maisonneuve. To those who have never biked in a city at night - there are few feelings like it. The wind, lights in the darkness, the fluidity of motion, two figures weighed down with giant climbing packs coursing though throngs of clubgoers and musicians headed off into the unknown.
This was chiefly the problem, of course -the unknown. Once Rue Maisonneuve came to an abrupt end, we were a bit short of options. The original plan was to follow Highway 40. Being the ultrabright (almost incandescent) individual that I am, I had pointed out the several structural flaws in this idea to my companion, but was waved off as a worrier. Thus we found ourselves in West Island suburbia staring at the ramp onto the highway. Companion kid flatly refused to take the highway, thus corroborating my initial stance on the issue. We biked around various sketchy areas until we hit Easton Road, whose familiar name compounded the irony of the unfamiliar surroundings. A late-night/early morning pedestrian informed us that we could take another route to get to the West Island shore and continue our trek, and after many minutes, many miles and many unspoken questions we reached a shining expanse of water. It was frankly a breathtaking sight - the lighthouse, the cold, the various signal lights conveying unintelligible messages to the dark. We sat in silent awe, then remembered the shreds of an agenda and spun off into the night.
At this point, however, it was two thirty in the morning. Instead of Ringaud, we were in Dorval, also known as Large House Suburbia of Quebec. Instead of the woods we were planning on crashing in, there were a few trees scattered in wide, rich-people backyards that bordered the shore. We were quickly running out of options. Sample conversation:
"Uh, we're screwed, do you know that?"
"Let's not be reactionary here!"
"Uh, okay, but we're still screwed."
"I'm cold and tired."
"Me too."
"Let's go to Ringaud."
"There is no [several expletives] way we are getting to Ringaud at all, ever. We have no [several expletives] idea where it is!"
"Sleep?"
"Sleep."
So we ended up laying our sleeping bags on some rich person's lawn on the waterfront and shivering for a few hours with intermittent sleep, then waking up to a true morning eudaimonia as the sun flooded the plain of water with unbreakable light. Unfortunately, this moment lasted only until we attempted to turn on our cell phone and realized that it was dead so our fellow climbers would have no way of knowing that we weren't actually in Ringaud and would therefore be driving there in vain. With this stark realization looming ahead of us, we opted to turn around, find a metro, and head back home. We got a few odd glances on the metro. By the time we got home, we were tired, sleep deprived, and somewhat in awe of what had transpired in the past twenty four hours.
The lighthouses on the St. Lawrence. Early morning clear-eyedness.
Train rails. It's possible to go to Ringaud for $8 canadian by train. Why this didn't occur to us I'm not sure.
Our bikes, leaning in exhaustion on the fence.
I believe my nordic team's captain sums it up best:
This probably can go on the list of "Stupidest things our rookies have ever done".
Word. Time to do laundry.
To explain:
A friend and I decided that we wanted to go climbing at Ringaud, a rock about 45 km from my lovely hovel on Rue University. Sans automotive transport, the best option was clearly to kick it old school and take our bicycles. This could theoretically have been a good idea had we a) had any vestige of a map or directions b) had set off about four hours earlier and c) had avoided a friend's home brew at a nordic sauna party before setting off. As it were, we set off at 11:17 p.m. on the dot, certainly not drunk but not completely ascetic either, and with a cry of "Westward ho!" started pedaling fiercely down Rue Maisonneuve. To those who have never biked in a city at night - there are few feelings like it. The wind, lights in the darkness, the fluidity of motion, two figures weighed down with giant climbing packs coursing though throngs of clubgoers and musicians headed off into the unknown.
This was chiefly the problem, of course -the unknown. Once Rue Maisonneuve came to an abrupt end, we were a bit short of options. The original plan was to follow Highway 40. Being the ultrabright (almost incandescent) individual that I am, I had pointed out the several structural flaws in this idea to my companion, but was waved off as a worrier. Thus we found ourselves in West Island suburbia staring at the ramp onto the highway. Companion kid flatly refused to take the highway, thus corroborating my initial stance on the issue. We biked around various sketchy areas until we hit Easton Road, whose familiar name compounded the irony of the unfamiliar surroundings. A late-night/early morning pedestrian informed us that we could take another route to get to the West Island shore and continue our trek, and after many minutes, many miles and many unspoken questions we reached a shining expanse of water. It was frankly a breathtaking sight - the lighthouse, the cold, the various signal lights conveying unintelligible messages to the dark. We sat in silent awe, then remembered the shreds of an agenda and spun off into the night.
At this point, however, it was two thirty in the morning. Instead of Ringaud, we were in Dorval, also known as Large House Suburbia of Quebec. Instead of the woods we were planning on crashing in, there were a few trees scattered in wide, rich-people backyards that bordered the shore. We were quickly running out of options. Sample conversation:
"Uh, we're screwed, do you know that?"
"Let's not be reactionary here!"
"Uh, okay, but we're still screwed."
"I'm cold and tired."
"Me too."
"Let's go to Ringaud."
"There is no [several expletives] way we are getting to Ringaud at all, ever. We have no [several expletives] idea where it is!"
"Sleep?"
"Sleep."
So we ended up laying our sleeping bags on some rich person's lawn on the waterfront and shivering for a few hours with intermittent sleep, then waking up to a true morning eudaimonia as the sun flooded the plain of water with unbreakable light. Unfortunately, this moment lasted only until we attempted to turn on our cell phone and realized that it was dead so our fellow climbers would have no way of knowing that we weren't actually in Ringaud and would therefore be driving there in vain. With this stark realization looming ahead of us, we opted to turn around, find a metro, and head back home. We got a few odd glances on the metro. By the time we got home, we were tired, sleep deprived, and somewhat in awe of what had transpired in the past twenty four hours.
The lighthouses on the St. Lawrence. Early morning clear-eyedness.
Train rails. It's possible to go to Ringaud for $8 canadian by train. Why this didn't occur to us I'm not sure.
Our bikes, leaning in exhaustion on the fence.
I believe my nordic team's captain sums it up best:
This probably can go on the list of "Stupidest things our rookies have ever done".
Word. Time to do laundry.
15.10.08
And I guess, but I just don't know, and I guess that I just don't know
My last midterm was yesterday. "Happiness is a warm gun" was stuck in my head for a good portion of it. By the time I stumbled bleary-eyed out of the lecture hall at 8:30, I wanted to do anything organic chemistry, so I ran up Mont Royal barefoot. Running up Mont Royal barefoot is not a good idea during the day in the middle of August, and at eleven at night the foolhardiness of said plan was grudgingly acknowledged by all involved - nonetheless it was a highly pleasurable experience.
This is my chief conundrum with university, and oh, what a pleasant conundrum it is. There is so much to do, and it seems that day-to-day life requires a level of intensity that I haven't used for a while. School is hard for the first time ever, and freedom is unlimited for the first time ever. The past few days have been in the sign of long runs, longer conversations about Latok II, mindblowing acoustic concerts, bike rides to Parc Lafontaine, floral shirts, tam tams, changing leaves, the discovery of excellent pubs (and a few bad ones along the way), bleary-eyed morning training, but also a new addiction to coffee (straight, black, 60 cents from the Architecture Cafe with yer own mug, makes me feel like a superhero for about 45 minutes) and five-hour study sessions in the engineering library. I am realizing that everything requires my full and undivided attention - I have to be fully present in everything I do. Studying, training, fun, longboarding, climbing, revelry, ill-advisedness, sleep, attempting to cook things, all of it. And it's great. I used to be an intense person, and I'm coming back to it. And it's going to be fun.
Stencil grafitti from Prague. It's intense and raw. I will be, too, by the time I get off my roommate's bed and go to class.
This is my chief conundrum with university, and oh, what a pleasant conundrum it is. There is so much to do, and it seems that day-to-day life requires a level of intensity that I haven't used for a while. School is hard for the first time ever, and freedom is unlimited for the first time ever. The past few days have been in the sign of long runs, longer conversations about Latok II, mindblowing acoustic concerts, bike rides to Parc Lafontaine, floral shirts, tam tams, changing leaves, the discovery of excellent pubs (and a few bad ones along the way), bleary-eyed morning training, but also a new addiction to coffee (straight, black, 60 cents from the Architecture Cafe with yer own mug, makes me feel like a superhero for about 45 minutes) and five-hour study sessions in the engineering library. I am realizing that everything requires my full and undivided attention - I have to be fully present in everything I do. Studying, training, fun, longboarding, climbing, revelry, ill-advisedness, sleep, attempting to cook things, all of it. And it's great. I used to be an intense person, and I'm coming back to it. And it's going to be fun.
Stencil grafitti from Prague. It's intense and raw. I will be, too, by the time I get off my roommate's bed and go to class.
11.10.08
It's Canadian Thanksgiving
which means, in effect, that almost no one exists in residence. They've all fled to Kingston and London and Hamilton and Sackville, places that sound mysterious and foreign but can actually be found by throwing a handful of darts at southeastern Canada. So it's just me and a handful of Americans and Vancouverites, bonding in solidarity over being left behind.
Actually, I really like it - being left behind that is, as my thirteen-year-old self used to rail against President Bush's child education policies. I like the strangely quiet feeling of a student residence when the students have left. There is no beer pong on the kitchen table. No one is blasting the trance remix of Beethoven's ninth from the second floor. The television room is empty even though there's a hockey game on. The few of us are like survivors marooned on a ship that even the rats are leaving. Together we are still loud and ebullient, but our cries sound hollow against the walls of a castle meant for more occupants.
Tommorrow it'll be back to the strange and sometimes surreal normality that is cohabitation with two hundred people, but for now we'll watch the silence for signs of movement.
Actually, I really like it - being left behind that is, as my thirteen-year-old self used to rail against President Bush's child education policies. I like the strangely quiet feeling of a student residence when the students have left. There is no beer pong on the kitchen table. No one is blasting the trance remix of Beethoven's ninth from the second floor. The television room is empty even though there's a hockey game on. The few of us are like survivors marooned on a ship that even the rats are leaving. Together we are still loud and ebullient, but our cries sound hollow against the walls of a castle meant for more occupants.
Tommorrow it'll be back to the strange and sometimes surreal normality that is cohabitation with two hundred people, but for now we'll watch the silence for signs of movement.
1.10.08
A dep, a plum, a cat
The air is changing. It's crisp, it's cool, the wind blows so that running nordic practice in shorts against the failing sun feels sharp in some way. There should be bagpipes in the background. I feel the continent beyond the borders of the island, pressing in in all its vastness. I envision the leaves changing across the Ontario forests, the cold wind across the Yukon plains, the Northern Hemisphere beginning its tilt toward darkness.
I felt this especially at five last night when I took a solitary bike ride through the St Laurent/Prince Arthur area with no goal in mind. It was typical fall weather all around and I enjoyed just wandering and looking around and trying not to get hit by anything or hit anything.
Oh the things you will see!
A canada postal truck, with a beautiful girl on a bike in the foreground.
A depanneur. Beer, wine, and ice cream. Because that's all you need for happiness. Note it doesn't say "a passing organic chemistry grade, a boyfriend named Bob Dylan forty years ago, and a 15-minute 5-k time". Let's stick with the basics here.
A cat, getting all up in my grill. This shot is particularly bad even by my rather abysmal standards, but the cat was soft.
A dog on a roof. I was getting ready to go climb it and save it, but a short guy with a peacoat came up to me and said "Le chien est ok" by which I inferred that all was well in the position of the dog in the world.
A chalk sidewalk proclamation. I wish I still surfed something other than the Internet. I hear the Gauley calling.
Me, sitting on a stoop in the only clothing that was still clean at that point (boxers and an army jacket - it was the day before laundry day, hence what I wore to class, and practice, and dinner) and clutching a tray of cheap plums bought on a whim. I later lost one when trying to capture the cat better. That failed. Never let it be said I don't suffer for my art.
Initially, I typed "from", instead of "for". Freud may have something there.
I felt this especially at five last night when I took a solitary bike ride through the St Laurent/Prince Arthur area with no goal in mind. It was typical fall weather all around and I enjoyed just wandering and looking around and trying not to get hit by anything or hit anything.
Oh the things you will see!
A canada postal truck, with a beautiful girl on a bike in the foreground.
A depanneur. Beer, wine, and ice cream. Because that's all you need for happiness. Note it doesn't say "a passing organic chemistry grade, a boyfriend named Bob Dylan forty years ago, and a 15-minute 5-k time". Let's stick with the basics here.
A cat, getting all up in my grill. This shot is particularly bad even by my rather abysmal standards, but the cat was soft.
A dog on a roof. I was getting ready to go climb it and save it, but a short guy with a peacoat came up to me and said "Le chien est ok" by which I inferred that all was well in the position of the dog in the world.
A chalk sidewalk proclamation. I wish I still surfed something other than the Internet. I hear the Gauley calling.
Me, sitting on a stoop in the only clothing that was still clean at that point (boxers and an army jacket - it was the day before laundry day, hence what I wore to class, and practice, and dinner) and clutching a tray of cheap plums bought on a whim. I later lost one when trying to capture the cat better. That failed. Never let it be said I don't suffer for my art.
Initially, I typed "from", instead of "for". Freud may have something there.
29.9.08
My own lack of posting
is discouraging me. I feel I have plenty to say but not enough time or conherence or general organization. Midterms are upon me like a cross between a vulture, an angel of death, and Addis Ababa, and overconsumption of muffins is doing nothing to help anything. In conclusion, posting will be sporadic until life settles in again and I stop eating muffins.
This is where I live. It is a chaotic place.
"I used to be with it, but then they changed what it was."
-my downstairs neighbour, lying on the floor in her pajamas and displaying a considerable lack of consternation over the fact.
In other news, I met David Suzuki the other day (and by met, I mean stared out the window at and wikipeia'd to fill the gaping holes in my Canada knowledge). He came to the football game that rages next to my hall every Sunday afternoon. That in itself is annoying, mostly because my library gets shanghaied so that the VIP club of the Montreal Alouettes can go feel important in it, but I can now say that the greatest living Canadian has been to my house. Success much?
This is where I live. It is a chaotic place.
"I used to be with it, but then they changed what it was."
-my downstairs neighbour, lying on the floor in her pajamas and displaying a considerable lack of consternation over the fact.
In other news, I met David Suzuki the other day (and by met, I mean stared out the window at and wikipeia'd to fill the gaping holes in my Canada knowledge). He came to the football game that rages next to my hall every Sunday afternoon. That in itself is annoying, mostly because my library gets shanghaied so that the VIP club of the Montreal Alouettes can go feel important in it, but I can now say that the greatest living Canadian has been to my house. Success much?
22.9.08
The Laurentians, Nutella and Love
Three hours of sleep, a jar of Nutella, a packet of artificially flavored maple cookies, and climbing shoes. Such were my worldly possessions at seven in the morning on Sunday. Trudging through the student ghetto, bundled up against the cold and shivering slightly, heading to the corner of Milton and St Urbain where, in theory, there might later a car of unknown description and origin whose destination might or might not be some mountains somewhere north of the city, life didn't seem all too rosy. I had signed on to a climbing trip in the Laurentians and was feeling rather apprehensive about my decision. Catastrophic scenarios ranging from mean climbers to not being able to climb anything to getting caught in vicious Quebecois weather ran through my head. Had I owned a phone, I would have probably called my fellow climbers and told them that I had come down with the black death and to go on without me.
Amazingly enough, nothing of the sort happened and what ensued was a day nothing short of magical. Beautiful multipitch routes from which it was possible to stare at the majesty of maple forests whose leaves were just beginning to change colours. Nice, very experienced climber folk who were willing to take pity on someone with limited skill and a lack of gear. French jokes that I couldn't understand. Chocolate bread. The feeling, after months, of crimps beneath my fingers and the slab through the rubber of my mythoses. The sort of graceful vertical ballet that is chimney climbing. The endless below. Good vibes. Strange music. Pleasant tiredness. It was the first time since coming to Canada that I'd been out of the city, and it was a much-needed respite.
It looks like a black widow spider, but it's actually a skinny French girl named Myriam who likes food, cigarettes and, uh, climbing 5.10.
Afternoon delight.
Last send.
Embarking home.
There were stars above us on the ride back. I haven't seen stars, other than one or two that fight through the searchlights of Montreal, for a while. There is something to be said for the vibrant orange glow of Montreal, but I had missed them.
Dobrou noc.
Amazingly enough, nothing of the sort happened and what ensued was a day nothing short of magical. Beautiful multipitch routes from which it was possible to stare at the majesty of maple forests whose leaves were just beginning to change colours. Nice, very experienced climber folk who were willing to take pity on someone with limited skill and a lack of gear. French jokes that I couldn't understand. Chocolate bread. The feeling, after months, of crimps beneath my fingers and the slab through the rubber of my mythoses. The sort of graceful vertical ballet that is chimney climbing. The endless below. Good vibes. Strange music. Pleasant tiredness. It was the first time since coming to Canada that I'd been out of the city, and it was a much-needed respite.
It looks like a black widow spider, but it's actually a skinny French girl named Myriam who likes food, cigarettes and, uh, climbing 5.10.
Afternoon delight.
Last send.
Embarking home.
There were stars above us on the ride back. I haven't seen stars, other than one or two that fight through the searchlights of Montreal, for a while. There is something to be said for the vibrant orange glow of Montreal, but I had missed them.
Dobrou noc.
18.9.08
Things I love about my life
Thursday is a good day, usually. Of late, it has been a bad day, as my schedule insists that I wake up at seven, attend my two hardest classes and show up to a rather tedious lab, but on the whole I rather like Thursdays. Thanksgiving (which it looks like I won't be attending, so we'll just have to throw a rather intense, um, sit-down dinner here at Douglas Hall) is classically on a Thursday. I like that. It's a good day. So I decided to make Thursday my "sing life's praises" day. It wasn't actually my own idea, a rather more well-known blogger has been doing it for a while, but in any case, here are the things that make my life ever so worthwhile of late:
H3
I don't know how I managed to be placed in the best floor of the best house at the best residence at McGill. Nothing in my track record indicates such a brilliant amount of luck, but I did. Our floor is quickly becoming quite the institution. It seems to be made up of the perfect combination of kindness, cynicism, guitars, extremely inappropriate humor, banana mush, bad ideas, and gin. Coming to our tiny, postered, duct-taped hovel after a long day is starting to feel like coming home.
The prevalence of bicycles
My little red trash-picked beauty with its milk crate in back is not out of place here in the slightest. The bikes are everywhere. Around campus and Montreal, it is de riguer to see businessmen and little chic French girls and scientists and kids and parents zooming around on their beautiful machines. Coming to class I see bikes chained to all available surfaces and some of the unavailable ones. In a small way, it gives me hope for humanity.
The tunnel between Stewart and MacIntyre
My favourite library on campus is the Ossler Medical History library - it has really cool architecture and no one goes there because it's filled with books like "La Historia de la Neurologia" (32 volumes in fact, all in Spanish, all lovingly bound and stored away to gather dust.) The tunnel that leads to the MacIntyre (where Ossler is) is a spacy boxy futuristic hollow that is almost always completely deserted. Furthermore, the acoustics of the place mean that if one walks loudly, the halls reverberate with a crazy booming cacophony. If, hypothetically, upon realizing this, one starts stomping up and down, it sounds like all of MacIntyre, nay the world, is crashing down around one's ears.
The nordic team
The nordic team deserves its own post. A member for nary a week, I am already in love with it. We are a varsity sport who, instead of receiving an office like the rest of the varsity sports, resides literally in a broom closet under the stairs (I am, in fact, turning into Harry Potter) with about 30 pairs of sharp bamboo sticks. We bitch about klister and run really fast. There is also the prospect of red spandex in the near future. Love.
Juice boxes
For takeout lunch, we get juice boxes. This completes my morning every morning.
Longboarding
I recently started stealing a friend's longboard out at night and promptly made the decision to not eat, be clothed, or drink for months if necessary in order to procure one. I suck, and I look like a fool, I'm sure, but I don't care. I haven't enjoyed the raw movement of something this much since I started climbing.
Doing shots of Emergen-C with my roommate in order to ward off disease and cold and a familiar throbbing sensation. Emergen-C in general is sometimes pretty foul and only to be drunk on climbing trips and in the rain at Teeter's when it's really the only thing to do other than cry, but my parents accidentally bought me "Lite Emergen-C with joint supplement". It crossed the line from passably foul to epically bad - bitter, sour, sandlike, a distressing colour, in short all the ingredients for a really horrendous time. The sensation itself isn't pleasant, but it really is the single best way to prevent colds and other ailments, so all is for the best, and it's worthwhile just because it's so bad. Especially when the the "Here's to" song is sung while doing so.
H3
I don't know how I managed to be placed in the best floor of the best house at the best residence at McGill. Nothing in my track record indicates such a brilliant amount of luck, but I did. Our floor is quickly becoming quite the institution. It seems to be made up of the perfect combination of kindness, cynicism, guitars, extremely inappropriate humor, banana mush, bad ideas, and gin. Coming to our tiny, postered, duct-taped hovel after a long day is starting to feel like coming home.
The prevalence of bicycles
My little red trash-picked beauty with its milk crate in back is not out of place here in the slightest. The bikes are everywhere. Around campus and Montreal, it is de riguer to see businessmen and little chic French girls and scientists and kids and parents zooming around on their beautiful machines. Coming to class I see bikes chained to all available surfaces and some of the unavailable ones. In a small way, it gives me hope for humanity.
The tunnel between Stewart and MacIntyre
My favourite library on campus is the Ossler Medical History library - it has really cool architecture and no one goes there because it's filled with books like "La Historia de la Neurologia" (32 volumes in fact, all in Spanish, all lovingly bound and stored away to gather dust.) The tunnel that leads to the MacIntyre (where Ossler is) is a spacy boxy futuristic hollow that is almost always completely deserted. Furthermore, the acoustics of the place mean that if one walks loudly, the halls reverberate with a crazy booming cacophony. If, hypothetically, upon realizing this, one starts stomping up and down, it sounds like all of MacIntyre, nay the world, is crashing down around one's ears.
The nordic team
The nordic team deserves its own post. A member for nary a week, I am already in love with it. We are a varsity sport who, instead of receiving an office like the rest of the varsity sports, resides literally in a broom closet under the stairs (I am, in fact, turning into Harry Potter) with about 30 pairs of sharp bamboo sticks. We bitch about klister and run really fast. There is also the prospect of red spandex in the near future. Love.
Juice boxes
For takeout lunch, we get juice boxes. This completes my morning every morning.
Longboarding
I recently started stealing a friend's longboard out at night and promptly made the decision to not eat, be clothed, or drink for months if necessary in order to procure one. I suck, and I look like a fool, I'm sure, but I don't care. I haven't enjoyed the raw movement of something this much since I started climbing.
Doing shots of Emergen-C with my roommate in order to ward off disease and cold and a familiar throbbing sensation. Emergen-C in general is sometimes pretty foul and only to be drunk on climbing trips and in the rain at Teeter's when it's really the only thing to do other than cry, but my parents accidentally bought me "Lite Emergen-C with joint supplement". It crossed the line from passably foul to epically bad - bitter, sour, sandlike, a distressing colour, in short all the ingredients for a really horrendous time. The sensation itself isn't pleasant, but it really is the single best way to prevent colds and other ailments, so all is for the best, and it's worthwhile just because it's so bad. Especially when the the "Here's to" song is sung while doing so.
14.9.08
Don't be snitchin', yo
I am a nerd. It is useless to deny it. The realization was really driven home when I found myself, on Saturday afternoon, running around a venerable-looking green with thirty other people, playing none other but the greatest imaginary sport ever invented, Quidditch. Despite the sport's unrealistic qualities, however, it was probably the funnest hour and a half of the week. The group of us quickly became a spectacle, attracting amused/bemused faces and more than one envious glance. The thing is, Quidditch is intense. We play contact. We shove and yell. We throw balls at each other. The game was a festival of spirited rivalry and youthful ebullience while at the same time a laid-back bunch of people who knew this was in fact a very silly thing to be doing - and were okay with that.
I think I may actually have outnerded myself beyond the boudary of respectable limits. You see, for the first two games of the afternoon, I was the Snitch. In the college version of Quidditch, the snitch is a person who runs around the entire campus with a sock, chased by two random other people. In practice, this meant I discovered many fun and out-of-the-way nooks, gutters, construction sites, and other off-limits locales while sprinting up Docteur Penfield in a most unnatural manner, chased by two people on brooms.
LARGE GROUP OF WELL-DRESSED GIRLS: Oh, look, they're playing Quidditch! That's so cool!
ME, SPRINTING AROUND THE CORNER: SHIT! I'm the Snitch!
(thirty seconds later, two large guys on brooms come running by)
LARGE GROUP OF WELL-DRESSED GIRLS: Go Snitch go!
McGill's Quidditch team is a fairly new institution, having been started this year by our rez, Douglas Hall. Interest is sky-high, suggesting either a severe case of suspended adolescence for all of us or just awesomely immature fun.
We also have a crest, granting instant credibility to any project we undertake.
I think I may actually have outnerded myself beyond the boudary of respectable limits. You see, for the first two games of the afternoon, I was the Snitch. In the college version of Quidditch, the snitch is a person who runs around the entire campus with a sock, chased by two random other people. In practice, this meant I discovered many fun and out-of-the-way nooks, gutters, construction sites, and other off-limits locales while sprinting up Docteur Penfield in a most unnatural manner, chased by two people on brooms.
LARGE GROUP OF WELL-DRESSED GIRLS: Oh, look, they're playing Quidditch! That's so cool!
ME, SPRINTING AROUND THE CORNER: SHIT! I'm the Snitch!
(thirty seconds later, two large guys on brooms come running by)
LARGE GROUP OF WELL-DRESSED GIRLS: Go Snitch go!
McGill's Quidditch team is a fairly new institution, having been started this year by our rez, Douglas Hall. Interest is sky-high, suggesting either a severe case of suspended adolescence for all of us or just awesomely immature fun.
We also have a crest, granting instant credibility to any project we undertake.
10.9.08
ALTERNATIVE ROLE MODELS FOR IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG GIRLS (ARMFIYG), Installment 2
I like being a girl. Most of the time I sort of feel bad for guys. They seem to have set silly rules for themselves about manliness and credo (Credo. Great name for a horse, by the way) and don't get a full range of opportunities. Girls can do just about anything, really, and they don't have to necessarily beat people up over it. Growing up a child of the post-feminist world, my mommy said I could do anything I wanted, and it's actually true - as a girl you can do quite a lot without ever having to worry about things like masculinity and honor and how to get the girls to like you.
However, I feel that there is one thing worth being that a girl intrinsically can't be - an English gentleman. You see, my biology professor is an English gentleman. His name is Graham Bell, which means that all he's missing to perfection is an Alexander. He's an eminent researcher who treats his undergraduate students with a sort of dismissive distance. He's old. He has a sort of wavy British hairstyle, a khaki suit, and an air of intellectual respectability. He has a cynical sort of dry humour. He was presenting etymological diversity and noted that there were over 300,000 species of beetle in the world.
"Of course, one must question whether there is really a need for 300,000 species of beetle. And the answer of course is that there isn't a need, it just sort of happens that way."
I like that Professor Bell has no need to be accepted or liked by his students. His personality is staid and solid. His familial relations or financial situation could be a total wreck (and I certainly hope it isn't, because that would be a shame), and he would lecture on, unfrazzled and perhaps only slightly more brusque. It's the characteristic stiff upper lip and cynically amused stance towards the world that several of the older men I know posses, and I respect it mightily.
We of the fairer sex can't do the English gentleman thing. I'm currently not legal, let alone eminent, wise, and respectable, and I feel that even when I'm seventy and perhaps a researcher myself, I won't be able to wear a Donegal cap and khaki suit with impunity. It just doesn't fit. That doesn't mean that I can't have Professor Bell as a role model. We can all strive for stoicism, respectability, intellectual achievements, and a dryly good-natured life perspective. Pipe and tweed not required.
Incidentally, when the Germans were bombing the daylights out of London and the world was on the brink of utter destruction, another British gentleman I hold in great regard, Winston Churchill, put the following signs all around London:
Stiff upper lip indeed.
However, I feel that there is one thing worth being that a girl intrinsically can't be - an English gentleman. You see, my biology professor is an English gentleman. His name is Graham Bell, which means that all he's missing to perfection is an Alexander. He's an eminent researcher who treats his undergraduate students with a sort of dismissive distance. He's old. He has a sort of wavy British hairstyle, a khaki suit, and an air of intellectual respectability. He has a cynical sort of dry humour. He was presenting etymological diversity and noted that there were over 300,000 species of beetle in the world.
"Of course, one must question whether there is really a need for 300,000 species of beetle. And the answer of course is that there isn't a need, it just sort of happens that way."
I like that Professor Bell has no need to be accepted or liked by his students. His personality is staid and solid. His familial relations or financial situation could be a total wreck (and I certainly hope it isn't, because that would be a shame), and he would lecture on, unfrazzled and perhaps only slightly more brusque. It's the characteristic stiff upper lip and cynically amused stance towards the world that several of the older men I know posses, and I respect it mightily.
We of the fairer sex can't do the English gentleman thing. I'm currently not legal, let alone eminent, wise, and respectable, and I feel that even when I'm seventy and perhaps a researcher myself, I won't be able to wear a Donegal cap and khaki suit with impunity. It just doesn't fit. That doesn't mean that I can't have Professor Bell as a role model. We can all strive for stoicism, respectability, intellectual achievements, and a dryly good-natured life perspective. Pipe and tweed not required.
Incidentally, when the Germans were bombing the daylights out of London and the world was on the brink of utter destruction, another British gentleman I hold in great regard, Winston Churchill, put the following signs all around London:
Stiff upper lip indeed.
7.9.08
Search not in vain
The nights are not yet cold. They will be soon. The arctic darkness is coming, and I welcome it with open arms, primarily because if I welcomed it with clenched fists and crazed desperation in my eyes, it would make no difference. I would still be but one figure dressed in an expedition parka and purple rubber boots, clutching the railing with a skeletal hand as my own two feet slid out from under me, searching in vain for a docking place in the maelstrom of snow. Resignation and determination are half the battle.
Meanwhile, however, it's lovely out. It's about sixteen degrees today, which isn't bad. The nights are not hot but not cold, a sort of mild clime that allows us to wander for an hour late one night in search of the perfect peace of pie. Pie is peaceful, you see. It represents the home and hearth, indulgence and relaxation. The promise of just a piece of this makes it worth an hour long search. A kind friend with a slight knowledge of Montreal enticed us too look for a very specific pie-vendor named Rockaberry's, and what a hunt it was. We wandered up and down streets, through parks where the complacent hoboes sat and past interesting-looking bars, eschewing these oases in search of a higher, more ethereal experience. It was an hour of meandering north, then south, then west, then north, then south, playing in fountains and meeting significantly inebriated classmates on the way. At one point I gave up all hope of the vision of sweet solace, trying to resign myself to a new, unbaked reality. It was at that moment, at the brink of desperation, just when all hope was lost, that a peculiar sight met my eyes - a round sign, unremarkable among the myriad round signs that line Rue Prince Arthur, except for one magical word. Rockaberry's.
The next ten minutes were a heady rush. Water. Hungry eyes eating the windowpanes of the display case that held treasures with unknown names. Toblerone Cheese Pie. Wildberry Crumble. Truffle. Apple. Rutabaga. Signs in French of unknown origin. Love's labours not, in fact, lost. The tension was palpable.
Everyone says the first bite is the best. Of course it is. It's the classical cliche and it's classically true. Sometimes in an oversatiated world, where everything is so easily accessible, there is a tendency to forget the feeling of want. It's a good experience, I feel, to test an extreme. This is why people climb 5.14, or run naked, or throw paint on canvas in abstract chaos, or design haute couture for $40,000. Wandering around Montreal (clothed, only slightly starving) doesn't seem extreme, but the intensity of the first bite of truffle pie, in the first second, I think, is comparable to falling in love or jumping off a cliff.
So go, starve. Then eat truffle pie.
Ironically enough, the $7 (!) I paid for truffle pie was my greatest food expenditure for the weekend. Other than that, I subsisted mostly on rice, pilfered bagels and yogurt, and various beverages. I could get good at this college thing.
5.9.08
How to deal with university bureaucracy
1. Realize that you don't have courses for the winter semester and that you probably missed the boat on this one as well.
2. Receive concerned sympathy from friends.
3. Get advised by the third year student that McGill assigned you instead of an advisor, who looks at you with impotent consternation and gives you a list of offices where they might also look at you with impotent consternation.
4. Run around campus. Trek to small, ugly, out of the way buildings, most of which are on top of various mountains. Get harrangued by small men who have not enjoyed intimacy with their spouses for at least six months and feel the need to take it out on their young, innocent students. Alternately, get stared at blandly by doe-eyed secretaries who would much rather be reading Cosmo right now.
5. Have it indicated to you that you are an untermensch by a francophone porter. Start responding in French, then realise that you really don't have to stand for this shit and reply "Thank you for your time" in very distinct English with slightly sardonic subtones.
6. Visit the orientation centre. They won't tell you anything but you will receive a cookie. You may still be royally fucked, but you now have a cookie. Look upon this as a marked improvement in your fortunes.
7. Sit for an indeterminate amount of time in a small dingy hallway waiting for an advisor that is at a doctor's appointment and will return on Monday.
8. Run into some anarchist-leftist kids who hand you a handbook-zine that tells you, among other things, when Kaddafi was "democratically elected" in Libya and how to transfer to Concordia, where apparently the level of oppression by capitalists and multi-national corporations is smaller. Consider this briefly out of desperation. Smile politely and resist the urge to tell them to vote for Obama.
9. Panic. This won't help. Do it anyway.
10. Cry. See above.
11. Consider running away to Morocco or lighting something on fire.
12. Come back to dorm and chill with lovely roommate, who doesn't have courses for winter either. Worst comes to worst, you two can hang out with the hobo-climbers on Mont Royal come February.
2. Receive concerned sympathy from friends.
3. Get advised by the third year student that McGill assigned you instead of an advisor, who looks at you with impotent consternation and gives you a list of offices where they might also look at you with impotent consternation.
4. Run around campus. Trek to small, ugly, out of the way buildings, most of which are on top of various mountains. Get harrangued by small men who have not enjoyed intimacy with their spouses for at least six months and feel the need to take it out on their young, innocent students. Alternately, get stared at blandly by doe-eyed secretaries who would much rather be reading Cosmo right now.
5. Have it indicated to you that you are an untermensch by a francophone porter. Start responding in French, then realise that you really don't have to stand for this shit and reply "Thank you for your time" in very distinct English with slightly sardonic subtones.
6. Visit the orientation centre. They won't tell you anything but you will receive a cookie. You may still be royally fucked, but you now have a cookie. Look upon this as a marked improvement in your fortunes.
7. Sit for an indeterminate amount of time in a small dingy hallway waiting for an advisor that is at a doctor's appointment and will return on Monday.
8. Run into some anarchist-leftist kids who hand you a handbook-zine that tells you, among other things, when Kaddafi was "democratically elected" in Libya and how to transfer to Concordia, where apparently the level of oppression by capitalists and multi-national corporations is smaller. Consider this briefly out of desperation. Smile politely and resist the urge to tell them to vote for Obama.
9. Panic. This won't help. Do it anyway.
10. Cry. See above.
11. Consider running away to Morocco or lighting something on fire.
12. Come back to dorm and chill with lovely roommate, who doesn't have courses for winter either. Worst comes to worst, you two can hang out with the hobo-climbers on Mont Royal come February.
3.9.08
La Vie en what?
September first was the last night of the Festival Des Films Du Monde. We found this out by accident when running around the city with a few fellow active kids and decided to tell the entire house about it. In no time we had amassed a sizable collection of people who all trooped down the mountain to see the last free outdoor screening of La Vie en Rose. It was a pretty cool concept - so many people crowded in a public space in front of the Hyatt hotel, lounging around on the ground watching a film together. In a typically Quebecois move, however, the organizers decided to omit subtitles, with the credo that subtitles make one weak. (That may not have actually been what they said, but I am allowed to make this up as they did not repeat it in English.) Now, I like subtitles on when I watch a movie in English, despite being quite fluent in the language. In this case, I simply did not understand the plot, and that was excellent! La Vie en Rose is a very powerful movie with amazing scenery, composition, and music. Not being able to listen to the words, I was free to experience it at a lower (?), more imminent level, just enjoying the flow and intent of people I couldn't understand.
Things I got:
-The movie's heroine was Edith Piaf.
-She grew up in a whorehouse.
-She sang chantons.
-She occasionally freaked out.
-At one point she had eye problems.
Things I did not get:
-Edith Piaf had a child.
-This child died.
-Edith Piaf took heroin.
-Edith Piaf died.
Among many others. I feel that I essentially missed the plot, but that's okay. It was a bit surreal, because I was thinking of my own things while watching an intense movie and it all kind of merged. The morning after, I had classes, which were intense. I am caught between panic and euphoria. Last night we sat around the common room playing Leonard Cohen on guitar and singing, just for fun. And it was breathtaking in a completely unassuming way. Last morning I ran around trying to get my paperwork together feeling so stressed I nearly cried. And it was horrible. Life will be good. I hope.
And I take a bow and exit.
28.8.08
Je me souviens.
I remember. Really, I do. I'm not sure what I remember, but whatever it was, it was important.
The tally:
Days in Montreal: 4
Bordellos spotted: 17 (conservative estimate)
Petitions to save the animals signed: 2
Bikes: enough to be comforting
Hippies: enough to be disconcerting in a good way
T-shirts that say "Harvard: The McGill of Canada": enough to be horribly, pretentiously annoying
Interesting people met: 100000000
Stupid people met: less than previous number but substantial
Times snubbed for being "anglo": about 3, so not too bad, and the bird is always an option
Beer: ever-present and absolutely unquantifiable
Times fought with McGill bureaucracy: about 678
Times beaten by McGill bureaucracy: about 678
Montreal is treating me well, on the whole. Entering a new social scene is always interesting - it's a bit like junior high, except without the horrible complexes. The city has a sort of vibe that I recognize from somewhere (probably home), and while frosh week has the vibe of silly-American-frat-drunken-sexual-debauchery that I always tended to avoid in my snobbery, the ebullience of youth is everpresent and thrilling. The joie de vivre is quite apparent - openair markets where the storeowners smoke blunts during cash transactions, the artsy types, the cafes, the film festivals... I have not yet managed to explore the whole city, clearly, but I'm looking forward to it. On the first night, I returned from a farewell dinner with family to a deserted dorm because everyone had gone to dinner as a house, so I found a girl in the same predicament and we grabbed a bottle of wine and wandered the streets in a sort of happy carefree mood.
The view of my dorm and Montreal from Mont Royal (not taken by me), which I ran up with a rather cool girl from Alaska.
The tally:
Days in Montreal: 4
Bordellos spotted: 17 (conservative estimate)
Petitions to save the animals signed: 2
Bikes: enough to be comforting
Hippies: enough to be disconcerting in a good way
T-shirts that say "Harvard: The McGill of Canada": enough to be horribly, pretentiously annoying
Interesting people met: 100000000
Stupid people met: less than previous number but substantial
Times snubbed for being "anglo": about 3, so not too bad, and the bird is always an option
Beer: ever-present and absolutely unquantifiable
Times fought with McGill bureaucracy: about 678
Times beaten by McGill bureaucracy: about 678
Montreal is treating me well, on the whole. Entering a new social scene is always interesting - it's a bit like junior high, except without the horrible complexes. The city has a sort of vibe that I recognize from somewhere (probably home), and while frosh week has the vibe of silly-American-frat-drunken-sexual-debauchery that I always tended to avoid in my snobbery, the ebullience of youth is everpresent and thrilling. The joie de vivre is quite apparent - openair markets where the storeowners smoke blunts during cash transactions, the artsy types, the cafes, the film festivals... I have not yet managed to explore the whole city, clearly, but I'm looking forward to it. On the first night, I returned from a farewell dinner with family to a deserted dorm because everyone had gone to dinner as a house, so I found a girl in the same predicament and we grabbed a bottle of wine and wandered the streets in a sort of happy carefree mood.
The view of my dorm and Montreal from Mont Royal (not taken by me), which I ran up with a rather cool girl from Alaska.
22.8.08
They Started a Country and Nobody Came
You know those t-shirts.
You know, those ones about Canada. Although they take a gently mocking tone towards our big friendly neighbour up North, I can't even mock Canada. To me, Canada is awesome. Although I've only lived there briefly, I am now returning after a quite prolonged hiatus to go study university. I could not be more excited. To me, a Czech kid educated in the States, it's a land of liberal politics, laid-back people, moose and confusing things like CEGEP. I am pretty sure all my notions about the place are wrong, but that's okay! This is also the reason why my blogging may be sporadic in the near future.
See you in Montreal.
You know, those ones about Canada. Although they take a gently mocking tone towards our big friendly neighbour up North, I can't even mock Canada. To me, Canada is awesome. Although I've only lived there briefly, I am now returning after a quite prolonged hiatus to go study university. I could not be more excited. To me, a Czech kid educated in the States, it's a land of liberal politics, laid-back people, moose and confusing things like CEGEP. I am pretty sure all my notions about the place are wrong, but that's okay! This is also the reason why my blogging may be sporadic in the near future.
See you in Montreal.
21.8.08
19.8.08
Never get out of bed before noon.
Oh, Charles Bukowski, how I wish I could take your advice. Lately my schedule has been: get up at six to run, spend a day running errands and making social visits, watch Pulp Fiction until one in the morning, decide that going to sleep would be depressing and to that end enlist a friend to come watch the meteor shower with until three, and then do it all again. The reason for this mess is my impending departure towards university, which happens to be in another country, and which is giving me a feeling of looming existential crisis.
Then again, when one gets up early, one gets to see sunrises like this one:
This is how the sun rose over Oxford one morning in 1998, courtesy of National Geographic. While my sunrises are not quite as epic, given my current locale, I overwhelmingly enjoy mornings. The feeling of potential, the feeling of rightness in the world, the silence of a world still asleep... I wrote this two years ago on a particularly memorable lonely dawn.
Good Morning
the stark gray of dawn
so cold anonymous welcoming
(walk the middle of the road)
a yellow line down a gray road over gray fields under gray skies
envelops
the grateful silence - the grateful death
the freedom to throw murky thoughts out
and set them on fire through the morning light
clear-eyed
lie on dew-soaked grass
watch the trees billow in the wind
watch the road
the yellow line that never ends
that goes to everywhere and every soul
watch the figure laying in the clammy grass
and know
that this is what is
and that something will be
and that's not that bad
not bad at all
Then again, when one gets up early, one gets to see sunrises like this one:
This is how the sun rose over Oxford one morning in 1998, courtesy of National Geographic. While my sunrises are not quite as epic, given my current locale, I overwhelmingly enjoy mornings. The feeling of potential, the feeling of rightness in the world, the silence of a world still asleep... I wrote this two years ago on a particularly memorable lonely dawn.
Good Morning
the stark gray of dawn
so cold anonymous welcoming
(walk the middle of the road)
a yellow line down a gray road over gray fields under gray skies
envelops
the grateful silence - the grateful death
the freedom to throw murky thoughts out
and set them on fire through the morning light
clear-eyed
lie on dew-soaked grass
watch the trees billow in the wind
watch the road
the yellow line that never ends
that goes to everywhere and every soul
watch the figure laying in the clammy grass
and know
that this is what is
and that something will be
and that's not that bad
not bad at all
18.8.08
The Cinema Effect
Oh dear. It's been a while. I've been neglecting my blog to go gallivant in the wilderness with some rather cool people (an entirely blissful, deep, and indescribably brilliant experience - I feel a bit like Gandhi right now, except less skeletal). Before said blissful, deep, and indescribably brilliant experience, I went to Washington D.C. to show a European pseudo-relation the wonders of my adopted country. While of course showcasing the quite impressive might of the American government (every Federal Bureau, Department, Institute, Association and the like has a stone-facaded office in D.C., really driving home the point that this country's government does lots), the capital is also a haven of museums. I love museums. Really. I like the concept of a museum. I like its atmosphere, its venerability, everything. I'd been to most of the D.C. museums, having lived there before, but there was a new one for me - the Hirshhorn. The Hirshhorn is the artsy modernist weird museum. It's D.C's MoMA. The installations are excellent, and for a short period of time right now the museum has an exhibit called the Cinema Effect.
The Cinema Effect is indescribable. (Don't you hate that word? Whenever someone is at a loss for words (ehm, Buddhists, I'm looking at you), they just stick on "indescribable" and consider the affair wrapped up. Maddening.) It's an exhibit meant to convey the wonder of cinema. I didn't see all of it, because I spent almost all my time in one room watching Isaac Julien's 2005 documentary Fantôme Créole which showed simultaneously the scenery of Scandinavia and Burkina Faso. No words, just images and some background noise. One one screen there would be the dusty streets of the cities of Burkina Faso and advertisements for Coca Cola in French, and on the other a northern polar wasteland. The characters (random people with no lines) would merge from one screen to the other. The camerawork was magnificent and did a good job of highlighting the entire point of the exhibition, which was about how the art of cinema seduces the viewer into believing that the screen is reality. While of course the screen is constructed, the detail makes the film very true to life while at the same time being larger than life. You seem to be transported to the shot while knowing it's not real.
It's funny where you can find meaning. This weekend, I found meaning in the fake reality of the Cinema Effect, but I also found meaning in the exeperiences of being a camp counselor to small girls and driving on the highway under a red moon listening to David Bowie. I yearn for more of these.
8.8.08
ALTERNATIVE ROLE MODELS FOR IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG GIRLS (ARMFIYG), Installment 1
I have a friend who has a sister. She's going into seventh grade and seems amazingly nice and levelheaded for going into seventh grade (I hated seventh grade - social awkwardness and trying to fit in among the prostitots was not one of my strong suits). I was over his house the other day when I heard her pick up the phone with a cry of exasperation- Not again! It turned out that Hannah Montana had been calling the house incessantly all day, promoting a line of back-to-school supplies that featured (guess who? you're right!) emblazoned on the covers. This, to the bitchy femminist in me, raised two important questions: A) How low can advertising stoop? To pester defenseless individuals in the throes of puberty and attempt to brainwash them into buying unnecessary and hideous goods made in China OVER THE PHONE? and B) Hannah Montana? Srsly? Do tween girls not deserve a better role model than a plasticky blonde faux-teenager?
In a vehement and far-reaching (read: limited to the very limited audience of this blog) contra-Hannah Montana campaign, I present to you:
ALTERNATIVE ROLE MODELS FOR IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG GIRLS
Installment 1: Patti Smith
I never was too much of a hero-worshipper in junior high (I am not exactly bragging here, I was simply too clueless to know what was "in" and never really figured it out), but I figure that if you want to worship and revere someone, they had better be bleeding awesome. An excellent role model would be Marie Curie, Jane Goodall, or the female president of Liberia, but I figure it's hard to explain the obvious glamorous mystique of nuclear scientists and primatologists. Patti Smith has mystique to spare. She's a singer, like Hannah Montana, but that's where the similarity ends.
You see, unlike Hannah Montana, Patti Smith invented punk.
Unlike Hannah Montana, Patti Smith came from a poor family, couldn't afford college, started working in a factory assembly line before getting fed up and running away to Paris where she made her living as a street performer.
Unlike Hannah Montana, Patti Smith has been performing since the 60's, writes her own music (obviously) and has become much more famous than most of the rock and punk guys of her day despite existing in an era where women in rock were unusual if not downright rare.
Patti Smith is a legend, and rightfully so - she's talented, she isn't afraid to find the limits of modern music and push them, and she can be very successful in a male-dominated genre of music while remaining feminine and sexy.
You see, Patti Smith is also beautiful.
Don't believe me?
Witness:
versus:
Srsly? Is there even a contest?
In a vehement and far-reaching (read: limited to the very limited audience of this blog) contra-Hannah Montana campaign, I present to you:
ALTERNATIVE ROLE MODELS FOR IMPRESSIONABLE YOUNG GIRLS
Installment 1: Patti Smith
I never was too much of a hero-worshipper in junior high (I am not exactly bragging here, I was simply too clueless to know what was "in" and never really figured it out), but I figure that if you want to worship and revere someone, they had better be bleeding awesome. An excellent role model would be Marie Curie, Jane Goodall, or the female president of Liberia, but I figure it's hard to explain the obvious glamorous mystique of nuclear scientists and primatologists. Patti Smith has mystique to spare. She's a singer, like Hannah Montana, but that's where the similarity ends.
You see, unlike Hannah Montana, Patti Smith invented punk.
Unlike Hannah Montana, Patti Smith came from a poor family, couldn't afford college, started working in a factory assembly line before getting fed up and running away to Paris where she made her living as a street performer.
Unlike Hannah Montana, Patti Smith has been performing since the 60's, writes her own music (obviously) and has become much more famous than most of the rock and punk guys of her day despite existing in an era where women in rock were unusual if not downright rare.
Patti Smith is a legend, and rightfully so - she's talented, she isn't afraid to find the limits of modern music and push them, and she can be very successful in a male-dominated genre of music while remaining feminine and sexy.
You see, Patti Smith is also beautiful.
Don't believe me?
Witness:
versus:
Srsly? Is there even a contest?
5.8.08
A rose by any other name
The Daily Telegraph is quintessentially British and I love it! I was coming back to the states from the Czech Republic via London Heathrow and picked up a complimentary copy. It's amazing. The letters to the editor are full of dryly witty commentary on the various members of Parliament "going to the country", and people write their news providers with droll anecdotes regarding names:
SIR - As a young, newly married, personal assistant in the Ministry of Home Security war room I was greeted by a jovial Army major who said: "Mrs Shimmons, I love your new name. It makes me feel drunk when I'm not."
Rosemary Shimmons
Eastbourne, East Sussex
Sir- Imagine our delight at school near Bristol when our dear Rev Mr Ball was made a Canon
Elanor Norman
Hammoon, Dorset
Sir-Many years ago the telephone rang on Christmas Day in the porters' lodge at JEsus College, Cambridge.
"Hello, is that Jesus?" asked the undergraduates on the line.
"Yes," said the hapless porter.
They started singing "Happy Birthday"
The sports pages of the Daily Telegraph boast the full horse-racing listings. Jockeys are very inventive with their horses' names: there were steeds dubbed Finnegan McCool, In Transit, Charles Dickens, Ykikamoocow, We're Delighted, Can Can Dancer, Censored, Cocktail Party, Mykingdomforahorse, Faintly Hopeful, and, my favourite, Shouldn't Be There. I am tempted to begin a career in the equestrian sphere merely to get to name my horse.
Oh Britain.
I leave you with my absolute favourite quote from Hard Day's Night:
Reporter: What do you call that hairstyle you're wearing?
George: Arthur.
Sexiest eyebrows ever.
(Harrison Quote findage props to Emily. I feel that "Arthur" is the Buddhist koan that exactly explains the meaning of my life in some obscure way.)
SIR - As a young, newly married, personal assistant in the Ministry of Home Security war room I was greeted by a jovial Army major who said: "Mrs Shimmons, I love your new name. It makes me feel drunk when I'm not."
Rosemary Shimmons
Eastbourne, East Sussex
Sir- Imagine our delight at school near Bristol when our dear Rev Mr Ball was made a Canon
Elanor Norman
Hammoon, Dorset
Sir-Many years ago the telephone rang on Christmas Day in the porters' lodge at JEsus College, Cambridge.
"Hello, is that Jesus?" asked the undergraduates on the line.
"Yes," said the hapless porter.
They started singing "Happy Birthday"
The sports pages of the Daily Telegraph boast the full horse-racing listings. Jockeys are very inventive with their horses' names: there were steeds dubbed Finnegan McCool, In Transit, Charles Dickens, Ykikamoocow, We're Delighted, Can Can Dancer, Censored, Cocktail Party, Mykingdomforahorse, Faintly Hopeful, and, my favourite, Shouldn't Be There. I am tempted to begin a career in the equestrian sphere merely to get to name my horse.
Oh Britain.
I leave you with my absolute favourite quote from Hard Day's Night:
Reporter: What do you call that hairstyle you're wearing?
George: Arthur.
Sexiest eyebrows ever.
(Harrison Quote findage props to Emily. I feel that "Arthur" is the Buddhist koan that exactly explains the meaning of my life in some obscure way.)
28.7.08
You won't fall up and we'll find you at the bottom.
The above is a Czech climbers' saying meant to make you feel safe about the whole climbing bit, and it explains the whole climbing mentality quite nicely. My trip to the Alps was, of course, amazing, despite inclement weather and illness. We started out in Austria, but after several days of climbing rocks in the rain (which is an entirely stupid idea, as rain makes things slippery) we transferred to the Italian Alps, the Dolomiti. The weather there was sunny to the point of tanning, the mountains were bigger and more epic, the parking lots (where we typically slept, being the hoboes that we are) drier, and the community was vibrant, so a good move on all fronts.
One of the more interesting aspects of traveling to foreign countries is the language barrier. It's weird how despite traveling considerably, I'm usually either in English or Slavic speaking countries so I can kinda tell what's going on. Climbing expeditions to Germany and Austria are typically the exception, but since I've been there a lot in past years I've gotten very good at not understanding German. In Italy I was confronted with a completely new type of Foreign, and I'd find myself listening to shop ladies and being like "yes, yes, your language is very sexy, I agree, but I have no idea what you're saying." In addition the climbing community is very international, so typically the Croatians can't understand the Danes, the Germans can't understand the Slovenians, the Italians can't understand anyone and no one speaks English, but everyone wants to say hi to each other. While I can normally distinguish the languages, I feel that subliminally they all kind of register as "Foreign", so I pick a language at random to try to communicate in and it tends to be the wrong one, leaving fellow mountaineers perplexed in the face of my inept attempts at goodwill. Occasionally we would meet fellow Czechs but we'd end up saying hi to them in German or French or something. Kind of a bizarre situation.
A mountain goat! It seems much more at ease among the wet rocks than I was.
The cows seem to regard the approach path as their own personal autobahn. Getting them to move is occasionally tricky. We have fights. They go:
Me: Move.
Cow: Mooo.
Me: Seriously.
Cow: *impassive stare*
Me: Stop staring at me.
Cow: *continues the same*
Me: *violent shove quite out of character for an about-to-be vegetarian*
Cow: Mrf. *slowly saunters off path*
Clouds above the Italian mountains. Much more impressive and breathtaking in real life.
I rather like this picture. Everywhere in Europe the mountains have crosses on them, usually lugged up by some brave soul eighty years ago or so, but oftentimes mountains and mountain huts all over the world have Buddhist prayer flags flapping in the wind as well, which wouldn't seem to make sense since they're dedicated to the Tibetan mountain gods that don't technically reside in Northern Italy, but they don't seem out of place at all and unintentionally two completely different perceptions of the world end up quietly coexisting, both in agreement about the presence of the mountains.
One of the more interesting aspects of traveling to foreign countries is the language barrier. It's weird how despite traveling considerably, I'm usually either in English or Slavic speaking countries so I can kinda tell what's going on. Climbing expeditions to Germany and Austria are typically the exception, but since I've been there a lot in past years I've gotten very good at not understanding German. In Italy I was confronted with a completely new type of Foreign, and I'd find myself listening to shop ladies and being like "yes, yes, your language is very sexy, I agree, but I have no idea what you're saying." In addition the climbing community is very international, so typically the Croatians can't understand the Danes, the Germans can't understand the Slovenians, the Italians can't understand anyone and no one speaks English, but everyone wants to say hi to each other. While I can normally distinguish the languages, I feel that subliminally they all kind of register as "Foreign", so I pick a language at random to try to communicate in and it tends to be the wrong one, leaving fellow mountaineers perplexed in the face of my inept attempts at goodwill. Occasionally we would meet fellow Czechs but we'd end up saying hi to them in German or French or something. Kind of a bizarre situation.
A mountain goat! It seems much more at ease among the wet rocks than I was.
The cows seem to regard the approach path as their own personal autobahn. Getting them to move is occasionally tricky. We have fights. They go:
Me: Move.
Cow: Mooo.
Me: Seriously.
Cow: *impassive stare*
Me: Stop staring at me.
Cow: *continues the same*
Me: *violent shove quite out of character for an about-to-be vegetarian*
Cow: Mrf. *slowly saunters off path*
Clouds above the Italian mountains. Much more impressive and breathtaking in real life.
I rather like this picture. Everywhere in Europe the mountains have crosses on them, usually lugged up by some brave soul eighty years ago or so, but oftentimes mountains and mountain huts all over the world have Buddhist prayer flags flapping in the wind as well, which wouldn't seem to make sense since they're dedicated to the Tibetan mountain gods that don't technically reside in Northern Italy, but they don't seem out of place at all and unintentionally two completely different perceptions of the world end up quietly coexisting, both in agreement about the presence of the mountains.
18.7.08
brb...I´m climbing the Alps
If I had an instant messenger in Europe, that would be my away message. Is that not lovely? I shall be away for about two weeks or so, we shall see.
I leave you with quotes from my favourite nerd, Douglas Adams.
"In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move."
"Life... is like a grapefruit. It's orange and squishy, and has a few pips in it, and some folks have half a one for breakfast."
"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."
"It is a mistake to think you can solve any major problems just with potatoes."
I must say, this brings back wonderful memories of rainy days in eighth grade.
I leave you with quotes from my favourite nerd, Douglas Adams.
"In the beginning the Universe was created. This has made a lot of people very angry and has been widely regarded as a bad move."
"Life... is like a grapefruit. It's orange and squishy, and has a few pips in it, and some folks have half a one for breakfast."
"I love deadlines. I like the whooshing sound they make as they fly by."
"It is a mistake to think you can solve any major problems just with potatoes."
I must say, this brings back wonderful memories of rainy days in eighth grade.
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