It's the end of the semester and I'm finding myself fussing over my creative writing portfolio, and hopelessly trying to decide which grad school to apply to after I graduate next year. Here are some humorous career options I've compiled for aspiring writers turned cynical :p
10. Babysitter – It lets you spend time with people who whine almost as much as you.
09. Janitor – Free access to a dumpster, which will come in handy for your piles of terrible scripts that need disposing.
08. Video Store Employee – If it’s good enough for Quentin Tarantino, it’s good enough for you. The only difference is that unlike Tarantino, you’re going to be a lifer, but that’s a minor technicality, right?
07. Copy Clerk at Staples– That way if you can’t write your own bestseller, you can steal it from the writer who brings theirs to make copies for mailing to publishers.
06. Satirical News Writer – When you’re feeling insecure about your own shitty writing and lack of wit, you can take cheap pot-shots at other aspiring writers like yourself.
05. Carpenter – With so much experience creating wooden characters, you’d be a natural. And if you’re going to bang your head against a wall every single night of your life, it helps to have a spare hard hat.
04. Proofreader – You’re not very good at analyzing important things like story and structure, but you’ve got a keen eye for spotting spelling errors. Good for you.
03. McDonald’s Cashier – It feels wrong, but at least you can pretend to be ‘slow’ and then everyone will leave you alone despite your crappy writing skills.
02. Bus Driver – When thoughts of suicide overwhelm you following your latest rejection, the prospect of taking 20 or 30 strangers with you off that cliff might be just enough motivation to not go through with it.Your lack of command of the English language might also come in handy in traffic jams.
01. Proctologist – Succeeding as a writer will probably involve an intimate knowledge of kissing other people’s asses, so you might as well make sure as many of those rear-ends as possible are in good working order.
(adapted and modified from an original list, posted at http://hollywoodroaster.wordpress.com/2009/09/25/the-top-30-day-jobs-for-aspiring-writers-and-why/)
Share a laugh with other beloved writers, my friends!
A.
Saturday, December 4, 2010
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Shakespearian sonnet.
Mother
My hand drawn happy faces on our napkins
would fade as their smiles wiped your tears,
late at night while you packed peanut butter
& jelly sandwiches, in my school lunch box.
Older I have grown but your tears renew
each day the Black Dog maniacally persists,
ripping to shreds the last of my fragile youth,
and despite his presence, I soothe you to sleep.
The ageless stray mutt menace leads recklessly,
so in the neon-lit room, limp you now lay on a bed.
I gulp bile back as the suction pump whirs inside you,
your gaze cast downward, into our tightly held hands.
Mother, when I see that look in your eyes,
I know that you're my only child.
My hand drawn happy faces on our napkins
would fade as their smiles wiped your tears,
late at night while you packed peanut butter
& jelly sandwiches, in my school lunch box.
Older I have grown but your tears renew
each day the Black Dog maniacally persists,
ripping to shreds the last of my fragile youth,
and despite his presence, I soothe you to sleep.
The ageless stray mutt menace leads recklessly,
so in the neon-lit room, limp you now lay on a bed.
I gulp bile back as the suction pump whirs inside you,
your gaze cast downward, into our tightly held hands.
Mother, when I see that look in your eyes,
I know that you're my only child.
Peristasis poem
Home
She slammed the door.
On picture day, she slammed the door in my face.
I had spent all morning picking a dress, but she slammed the door.
She grimaced at my unruly hair, even though I wore a pretty yellow dress I spent a whole morning choosing for picture day.
I felt cold.
She slammed the door in my face, her big camera hanging
from her neck.
The camera hung from her neck and I felt cold, but she didn’t take my picture, and just slammed the door in my face.
She slammed the door in my face.
“Mixed children make bad school photos,” she shrieked sharply.
I whimpered as she slammed the door in my mixed face, sorry I’d make bad photos.
Through tearful eyes I watch straight-haired 3rd grade classmates smile, shortly after she slammed the door in my face.
She slammed the door in my face.
“Not Black or White: no picture for you!” she repeats.
Neither White nor Black, I hear “go back where you come from,”
before she slammed the door in my face.
She slammed the door.
On picture day, she slammed the door in my face.
I had spent all morning picking a dress, but she slammed the door.
She grimaced at my unruly hair, even though I wore a pretty yellow dress I spent a whole morning choosing for picture day.
I felt cold.
She slammed the door in my face, her big camera hanging
from her neck.
The camera hung from her neck and I felt cold, but she didn’t take my picture, and just slammed the door in my face.
She slammed the door in my face.
“Mixed children make bad school photos,” she shrieked sharply.
I whimpered as she slammed the door in my mixed face, sorry I’d make bad photos.
Through tearful eyes I watch straight-haired 3rd grade classmates smile, shortly after she slammed the door in my face.
She slammed the door in my face.
“Not Black or White: no picture for you!” she repeats.
Neither White nor Black, I hear “go back where you come from,”
before she slammed the door in my face.
Monday, November 1, 2010
Re-Vision of the “Concept, Form, Voice” piece!
Hello folks-- wow it's been two weeks of mid-term madness!
I have now resurfaced, and have managed to re-vision one of my pieces, which still felt a little incomplete when I last read it. I hope this semi-breakthrough makes up for my lack of blogging these past two weeks.
If you're reading this you've most likely also made it through, and I warmly congratulate you! Leave it in the comments section, and don't forget to take care.
Pure love to all,
A.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Here it goes!
Re-Vision of the “Concept, Form, Voice” assignment.
Unctuous foamy cream slowly being lathered on by an “attractive” (read barely clothed and outrageously skinny) made-up woman, splashing hot water, and an expensive five blade razor. Those are the basic elements typically being advertised to women by marketers selling the work (note that I deliberately use the more negatively connotated word “work”, and I’ll come back to the reasons behind this at a later point) of leg shaving. However, I have recently come to view with a brand new set of lenses, the conscious gender role performance that is the action of removing hair off one’s legs.
It all started when I was approached by a 20-something man I didn’t know, half way through my usual workout at the O’Keefe Fitness center on campus. In loose silver shorts with a hefty tuft of chest hair protruding from his overly revealing v-neck muscle shirt, he walks up to me and says
“If you move your feet like this while lifting the weights, you’ll get a lot more out of your training.” Resenting this unrequested “expert’s help” interruption, I took my earphones off to politely decline further interaction, but before I even had a chance to say anything, he had already bent down and reached for my legs. As his hand briefly came in contact with my lower calf, he exclaimed “Holy shit! Your legs are hairy!”
Uncertain that I had heard correctly, I asked him to repeat. As his statement sunk in a second time, I shrugged with indifference, and then found myself responding with a defiant “Well, so are yours."
“It’s not the same: I’m a guy, and I’m supposed to have hairy legs. For a chick, it’s sick-looking and not right,” he replied. Not missing a beat, I fired back “And why not?! I have killer legs, and hair naturally grows there just like it does on a man.”
“Women are supposed to shave, so they look hot and smooth, and can be pretty enough to find a boyfriend or a husband. I’d never shag a girl if her legs weren’t taken care of,” he arrogantly added.
WOAH!
“Who the hell do you think you are, to believe you have the right to judge, police, and govern women’s bodies like that?!” I shouted, attracting the curious glances of all nine other people in the gym.
“Well—”
Cutting him right off, I made it clear he had chosen to get his macho on with the wrong girl, if he expected me to sit back and nod in agreement with his offensive bullshit. This, of course, led him to abruptly exit the premises calling out “Crazy bitch,” leaving me alone to think about all this, and pretty blue in the face.
A few months ago, as the summer sun slowly shied away, it was mostly laziness that got the best of the little leg shaving ambition I ever possessed. I’ve always been a lazy winter leg shaver—that’s nothing new. But as September progressed, shame and guilt-free for the first time ever, I began embracing the idea of hairy legs, because it meant less time in the shower and more time for breakfast part two, or morning writing. And this, year-long (here I come, Spring booty skirts!) However, when this guy bent down for my legs to get personal, he head-butted pretty hard into the political.
The systematic come and go of the blade as it glides from ankle to thigh seems fairly insignificant in itself, and so does applying hair removal cream or strips. Although, when you stop to think of it, this simple action is profoundly ingrained in our society’s standards of female “beauty,” which dictate that only hair-free legs can be beautiful. And who’d possibly want be viewed as other than proper and attractive, right?
On my way home from school later in that afternoon, I pondered “Why?” “Why did I ever bother to shave my legs in the first place, if it always felt like such a chore?” Did I ever really believe only leg hair-free women are beautiful? Or is he right, and I’m in a hairy denial process because I will indeed be single my whole life?
It’s while waiting to cross the street at a red light, that I remembered my delight (which now only seems like a really alien feeling to have in the context) at age 12, when I shaved for the first time. Mama had bought me a pink two-blade Bic razor, and to my father and brothers’ despair, I had occupied the only bathroom in our four bedroom house for a whole hour.
After that first time, I was never able to muster up the feeling of excitement again. But despite my intense boredom-related emotions, every few days for the next seven years, I’d prop myself up on the bathroom sink, and reduced to invisibleness any hair on my legs. Seven years…That’s a really long time to engage in an action that isn’t really thought out past the “every other girl does it, I might as well too” point.
The little pedestrian guy lights up, and as I cross the street I’m brought back to the language specification I made earlier. I used the word “work” rather than something neutral like “task” to make a distinction between shaving solely out of personal preference for the short-lasting smoothness; and shaving out of fear of being judged as unattractive and/or of being rejected by partners or friends.
And since in my experience “work” typically defines something most people “do” not so much for their personal enjoyment, but more in order to gain something (money, usually, but social approval in this case), I try to mark the two different intentions I think can explain the action of shaving.
Similarly to the confused and pushed around by society 12, 14, or 19 years old me who sat on a sink, the place where these two separate intentions get all tangled and hard to clearly define, is when blinded by neon bathroom lights, women stop (or fail to ever) actively think about the process of shaving. Because we have internalized these standards of beauty, I think many of us don’t exactly know what it really means to shave, or why (as well as for whom), we are doing it in the first place.
Turning the key in my apartment’s door, I realize that as a result, it gets very difficult to differentiate where the personal intentions ends, and where the political of the other starts. The more I think about it the flurrier the lines get, and I find myself wondering whether it’s still actually possible for a woman to completely disregard the social aspects of shaving, and to earnestly think she’s only shaving for herself.
In any case, to help move the Free Hairy Woman’s “cause” along, here’s a newsflash for you, Douche-Bag Gym Guy: it’s one thing to actually believe a woman’s only purpose in life is to make herself attractive for men, but it’s another to openly judge and attack those who don’t conform. And trust me—the last thing on my mind at 9:00 in the morning in a stuffy gym is marriage, let alone to a man (especially such a disrespectful one). So fuck off!
I have now resurfaced, and have managed to re-vision one of my pieces, which still felt a little incomplete when I last read it. I hope this semi-breakthrough makes up for my lack of blogging these past two weeks.
If you're reading this you've most likely also made it through, and I warmly congratulate you! Leave it in the comments section, and don't forget to take care.
Pure love to all,
A.
* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *
Here it goes!
Re-Vision of the “Concept, Form, Voice” assignment.
Unctuous foamy cream slowly being lathered on by an “attractive” (read barely clothed and outrageously skinny) made-up woman, splashing hot water, and an expensive five blade razor. Those are the basic elements typically being advertised to women by marketers selling the work (note that I deliberately use the more negatively connotated word “work”, and I’ll come back to the reasons behind this at a later point) of leg shaving. However, I have recently come to view with a brand new set of lenses, the conscious gender role performance that is the action of removing hair off one’s legs.
It all started when I was approached by a 20-something man I didn’t know, half way through my usual workout at the O’Keefe Fitness center on campus. In loose silver shorts with a hefty tuft of chest hair protruding from his overly revealing v-neck muscle shirt, he walks up to me and says
“If you move your feet like this while lifting the weights, you’ll get a lot more out of your training.” Resenting this unrequested “expert’s help” interruption, I took my earphones off to politely decline further interaction, but before I even had a chance to say anything, he had already bent down and reached for my legs. As his hand briefly came in contact with my lower calf, he exclaimed “Holy shit! Your legs are hairy!”
Uncertain that I had heard correctly, I asked him to repeat. As his statement sunk in a second time, I shrugged with indifference, and then found myself responding with a defiant “Well, so are yours."
“It’s not the same: I’m a guy, and I’m supposed to have hairy legs. For a chick, it’s sick-looking and not right,” he replied. Not missing a beat, I fired back “And why not?! I have killer legs, and hair naturally grows there just like it does on a man.”
“Women are supposed to shave, so they look hot and smooth, and can be pretty enough to find a boyfriend or a husband. I’d never shag a girl if her legs weren’t taken care of,” he arrogantly added.
WOAH!
“Who the hell do you think you are, to believe you have the right to judge, police, and govern women’s bodies like that?!” I shouted, attracting the curious glances of all nine other people in the gym.
“Well—”
Cutting him right off, I made it clear he had chosen to get his macho on with the wrong girl, if he expected me to sit back and nod in agreement with his offensive bullshit. This, of course, led him to abruptly exit the premises calling out “Crazy bitch,” leaving me alone to think about all this, and pretty blue in the face.
A few months ago, as the summer sun slowly shied away, it was mostly laziness that got the best of the little leg shaving ambition I ever possessed. I’ve always been a lazy winter leg shaver—that’s nothing new. But as September progressed, shame and guilt-free for the first time ever, I began embracing the idea of hairy legs, because it meant less time in the shower and more time for breakfast part two, or morning writing. And this, year-long (here I come, Spring booty skirts!) However, when this guy bent down for my legs to get personal, he head-butted pretty hard into the political.
The systematic come and go of the blade as it glides from ankle to thigh seems fairly insignificant in itself, and so does applying hair removal cream or strips. Although, when you stop to think of it, this simple action is profoundly ingrained in our society’s standards of female “beauty,” which dictate that only hair-free legs can be beautiful. And who’d possibly want be viewed as other than proper and attractive, right?
On my way home from school later in that afternoon, I pondered “Why?” “Why did I ever bother to shave my legs in the first place, if it always felt like such a chore?” Did I ever really believe only leg hair-free women are beautiful? Or is he right, and I’m in a hairy denial process because I will indeed be single my whole life?
It’s while waiting to cross the street at a red light, that I remembered my delight (which now only seems like a really alien feeling to have in the context) at age 12, when I shaved for the first time. Mama had bought me a pink two-blade Bic razor, and to my father and brothers’ despair, I had occupied the only bathroom in our four bedroom house for a whole hour.
After that first time, I was never able to muster up the feeling of excitement again. But despite my intense boredom-related emotions, every few days for the next seven years, I’d prop myself up on the bathroom sink, and reduced to invisibleness any hair on my legs. Seven years…That’s a really long time to engage in an action that isn’t really thought out past the “every other girl does it, I might as well too” point.
The little pedestrian guy lights up, and as I cross the street I’m brought back to the language specification I made earlier. I used the word “work” rather than something neutral like “task” to make a distinction between shaving solely out of personal preference for the short-lasting smoothness; and shaving out of fear of being judged as unattractive and/or of being rejected by partners or friends.
And since in my experience “work” typically defines something most people “do” not so much for their personal enjoyment, but more in order to gain something (money, usually, but social approval in this case), I try to mark the two different intentions I think can explain the action of shaving.
Similarly to the confused and pushed around by society 12, 14, or 19 years old me who sat on a sink, the place where these two separate intentions get all tangled and hard to clearly define, is when blinded by neon bathroom lights, women stop (or fail to ever) actively think about the process of shaving. Because we have internalized these standards of beauty, I think many of us don’t exactly know what it really means to shave, or why (as well as for whom), we are doing it in the first place.
Turning the key in my apartment’s door, I realize that as a result, it gets very difficult to differentiate where the personal intentions ends, and where the political of the other starts. The more I think about it the flurrier the lines get, and I find myself wondering whether it’s still actually possible for a woman to completely disregard the social aspects of shaving, and to earnestly think she’s only shaving for herself.
In any case, to help move the Free Hairy Woman’s “cause” along, here’s a newsflash for you, Douche-Bag Gym Guy: it’s one thing to actually believe a woman’s only purpose in life is to make herself attractive for men, but it’s another to openly judge and attack those who don’t conform. And trust me—the last thing on my mind at 9:00 in the morning in a stuffy gym is marriage, let alone to a man (especially such a disrespectful one). So fuck off!
Tuesday, October 12, 2010
Eavesdropping jewel of last week
Girl #1: Can you move left? Your hair’s blocking my view of the screen.
Girl #2: Why don’t you move your chair some, it’s not like the prof’s gonna care…
Girl #1: You never know, he could undercoverly suffer from O.C.D for like… perfect chair order. His mental health seems fragile enough as it is, and I don’t want to tempt him.
Girl #2: Wait. What? What are you talking about, he’s crazy?
Girl #1:Well, crazy’s a strong word, but haven’t you noticed he’s worn the e-x-a-c-t same outfit to all the classes of both courses he teaches us? That’s weird as hell. And he rambles to himself a lot, which is also suspicious for mental stability.
Girl #2: Ha. He doesn’t smell, so I figure he’s just like one of those cartoon characters; you know how in shows they open their closets and have a million of the same outfit on hangers? … And I don’t think undercoverly is even a legit. word…
Girl #1: Sure it’s a word. I just said it. Hahah, yeah. Maybe colorblind, style challenged, and strange cartoons do. Sure. Hey, listen, there’s really not enough room up here for me to move my chair, so will you move your head, please?? I can’t see anything!
Girl #2: Well it’s not like this documentary’s interesting anyway. Definitely not worth having a stiff neck over. Plus, not only the weird cartoon characters have that same-outfit-all-the-time syndrome! Look at Bart Simpsons! He’s got to be the poster child of cool cartoon people!
Girl #1: Yeah…I guess. But still, there’s a quiz on this after we see it, and I’m not good at bullshitting stuff.
Girl #2: Ugh, just relax. So what’d you do last night?
Girl #1*Sigh* If I do badly, you’ll have it on your conscience! I watched more “Glee”. Did you know dolphins are just gay sharks?!
Girl #2:O-M-G.
Girl #1: What?! What are you looking at me like that for?!
You’re not kidding, are you? You know what? Don’t even answer that, you hopeless child.
Girl #2: Whatevs…So are you gonna move, or do I really need to go sit all the way in the front row?
Girl #1:Yeah, go up front. I’m not moving for anyone who’s as gullible as you. Nuh-uh. Just not happening.
Girl #2: Okay. Fine. I don’t want to be a loner so I’ll stay here, but you’re mean and sour! Oh and by the way, your shoes put a clown’s clogs to shame. They really do.
Girl#1: So what? I’ve got big feet, nothing I can do about it. You, on the other hand, eat way too much pizza, and you have bigger belly rolls than me. Pig.
Girl #2: Bitch! I may have a bigger stomach, but your Confederation Bridge-long feet reek, and they stink up our dorm room! Use some foot odour controller, or something! And would you just move a bit, for Pete’s sake?!
Girl #1: No way that my feet stink, and dream on that I’ll move after what you just said! Pfffft. Especially not for someone who says “Pete’s sake”--That’s embarrassing.
Girl #2: Frig. You’re a gigantic doofus, and you’re stupidity inflicts the effects of a roller coaster of pain on my brain! Just stop talking.
Girl #1:Fine. Eat pizza till you die, and please watch the movie thing. You really need it for your education.
Girl #2: Oh shut it, will you? I wasn’t the one on academic probation last year! So if anything, we probably need it equally
Girl #1:That was really low, and it kinda hurt, but yeah….Let’s pay attention, I guess.
Girl #2: K.
(a few minutes later)
Girl #1: “Oh Dayuum! Dayyyuum, Girl! Can I tell you something? Dayum! The back of yo head, is ridickalous!”
Girl #2: HAHAHA! I can’t believe you even remembered how much I love that old video! Only you…Ah man….This whole thing was all pretty dumb, eh?
Girl #1:Yeah, it was. Sorry, girl. So we good?
Girl #2:Definitely. But about the smell of your shoes…
Girl #1:(death look) Don’t start. Look, the movie’s almost over, I have no idea what it was about after all. Do you?
Girl #2:Not a clue. Let’s ask, before the lights get turned on. Hey. Hey you! Chick sitting right in front of me with a lot of hair and an accent!
Girl #1:Oh, where are your manners? Her name’s Andréa, I think, she was in my group last week.
Girl #2:Andréa? Oh Dayum, Andréa. That’s a French-ass name, girl!
Girl #1:HAHAHA! Man, you have to stop quoting the “can I have your number” video, or everyone will hear us laughing. Alright. Let’s do this, there’s only three mins left of this. HEY! Andréa!
Me: Yes?
Girl #1: Yeah yeah, you. What’s the movie about, I saw you taking notes the whole time and actually paying attention. Help us out! Quick!
Me: Oh. Oh! Sorry… I um...I was..I was doodling. I really don’t know about the movie. Something to do with arts, and the transitions in styles from the olden days to modern arts? Yes. Something like that.
Girl #2: Alright, thanks anyway…
(The lights are turned back on)
Girl #1: Shit. She’s less helpful than I thought she’d be. She’s totally lying. Look at all that paper covered with ink..No doodles on’em. Pffft. Nerds.
Girl #2: Well, good luck to us, then, huh?
P.s: Confession-- Because I eavesdropped the whole time, I had to bull-shit the entire quiz too, and I’m also not any good at it. That is all.
Girl #2: Why don’t you move your chair some, it’s not like the prof’s gonna care…
Girl #1: You never know, he could undercoverly suffer from O.C.D for like… perfect chair order. His mental health seems fragile enough as it is, and I don’t want to tempt him.
Girl #2: Wait. What? What are you talking about, he’s crazy?
Girl #1:Well, crazy’s a strong word, but haven’t you noticed he’s worn the e-x-a-c-t same outfit to all the classes of both courses he teaches us? That’s weird as hell. And he rambles to himself a lot, which is also suspicious for mental stability.
Girl #2: Ha. He doesn’t smell, so I figure he’s just like one of those cartoon characters; you know how in shows they open their closets and have a million of the same outfit on hangers? … And I don’t think undercoverly is even a legit. word…
Girl #1: Sure it’s a word. I just said it. Hahah, yeah. Maybe colorblind, style challenged, and strange cartoons do. Sure. Hey, listen, there’s really not enough room up here for me to move my chair, so will you move your head, please?? I can’t see anything!
Girl #2: Well it’s not like this documentary’s interesting anyway. Definitely not worth having a stiff neck over. Plus, not only the weird cartoon characters have that same-outfit-all-the-time syndrome! Look at Bart Simpsons! He’s got to be the poster child of cool cartoon people!
Girl #1: Yeah…I guess. But still, there’s a quiz on this after we see it, and I’m not good at bullshitting stuff.
Girl #2: Ugh, just relax. So what’d you do last night?
Girl #1*Sigh* If I do badly, you’ll have it on your conscience! I watched more “Glee”. Did you know dolphins are just gay sharks?!
Girl #2:O-M-G.
Girl #1: What?! What are you looking at me like that for?!
You’re not kidding, are you? You know what? Don’t even answer that, you hopeless child.
Girl #2: Whatevs…So are you gonna move, or do I really need to go sit all the way in the front row?
Girl #1:Yeah, go up front. I’m not moving for anyone who’s as gullible as you. Nuh-uh. Just not happening.
Girl #2: Okay. Fine. I don’t want to be a loner so I’ll stay here, but you’re mean and sour! Oh and by the way, your shoes put a clown’s clogs to shame. They really do.
Girl#1: So what? I’ve got big feet, nothing I can do about it. You, on the other hand, eat way too much pizza, and you have bigger belly rolls than me. Pig.
Girl #2: Bitch! I may have a bigger stomach, but your Confederation Bridge-long feet reek, and they stink up our dorm room! Use some foot odour controller, or something! And would you just move a bit, for Pete’s sake?!
Girl #1: No way that my feet stink, and dream on that I’ll move after what you just said! Pfffft. Especially not for someone who says “Pete’s sake”--That’s embarrassing.
Girl #2: Frig. You’re a gigantic doofus, and you’re stupidity inflicts the effects of a roller coaster of pain on my brain! Just stop talking.
Girl #1:Fine. Eat pizza till you die, and please watch the movie thing. You really need it for your education.
Girl #2: Oh shut it, will you? I wasn’t the one on academic probation last year! So if anything, we probably need it equally
Girl #1:That was really low, and it kinda hurt, but yeah….Let’s pay attention, I guess.
Girl #2: K.
(a few minutes later)
Girl #1: “Oh Dayuum! Dayyyuum, Girl! Can I tell you something? Dayum! The back of yo head, is ridickalous!”
Girl #2: HAHAHA! I can’t believe you even remembered how much I love that old video! Only you…Ah man….This whole thing was all pretty dumb, eh?
Girl #1:Yeah, it was. Sorry, girl. So we good?
Girl #2:Definitely. But about the smell of your shoes…
Girl #1:(death look) Don’t start. Look, the movie’s almost over, I have no idea what it was about after all. Do you?
Girl #2:Not a clue. Let’s ask, before the lights get turned on. Hey. Hey you! Chick sitting right in front of me with a lot of hair and an accent!
Girl #1:Oh, where are your manners? Her name’s Andréa, I think, she was in my group last week.
Girl #2:Andréa? Oh Dayum, Andréa. That’s a French-ass name, girl!
Girl #1:HAHAHA! Man, you have to stop quoting the “can I have your number” video, or everyone will hear us laughing. Alright. Let’s do this, there’s only three mins left of this. HEY! Andréa!
Me: Yes?
Girl #1: Yeah yeah, you. What’s the movie about, I saw you taking notes the whole time and actually paying attention. Help us out! Quick!
Me: Oh. Oh! Sorry… I um...I was..I was doodling. I really don’t know about the movie. Something to do with arts, and the transitions in styles from the olden days to modern arts? Yes. Something like that.
Girl #2: Alright, thanks anyway…
(The lights are turned back on)
Girl #1: Shit. She’s less helpful than I thought she’d be. She’s totally lying. Look at all that paper covered with ink..No doodles on’em. Pffft. Nerds.
Girl #2: Well, good luck to us, then, huh?
P.s: Confession-- Because I eavesdropped the whole time, I had to bull-shit the entire quiz too, and I’m also not any good at it. That is all.
Monday, October 4, 2010
Concept, Form, Voice.
Unctuous foamy cream slowly being lathered on by an “attractive” (read barely clothed and outrageously skinny) made-up woman, splashing hot water, and an expensive five blade razor. Those are the basic elements typically being advertised to women by marketers selling the work (note that I deliberately use the more negatively connoted word “work” in this text, and I’ll come back to the reasons behind this at a later point) of leg shaving. However, because of the experience I’ll expand on below, I have recently come to view with a brand new set of lenses the conscious gender role performance that is the action of removing hair off one’s legs.
It all started when I was approached by a 20-something man I didn’t know, half way through my usual workout at the gym. “If you move your feet like this while lifting the weights, you’ll get a lot more out of your training,” he said. Resenting this unrequested “expert’s help” interruption, I took my earphones off to politely decline further interaction. Before I had a chance to say anything, he had already bent down, and reached out for my legs. As his hand briefly came in contact with my lower calf, he exclaimed “Holy shit! Your legs are hairy!” Uncertain that I had heard correctly, I asked him to repeat. As his statement sunk in a second time, I shrugged with indifference, and then found myself responding with a defiant “Well, so are yours.” “It’s not the same: I’m a guy, and I’m supposed to have hairy legs. For a chick, it’s sick-looking and not right,” he replied.
Not missing a beat, I fired back “And why the hell not?! I have killer legs, and hair grows there naturally just like it does on a man.” “Women are supposed to shave, so they look hot and smooth, and can be pretty enough to find a boyfriend or a husband. I’d _never_ shag a girl if her legs weren’t taken care of,” he arrogantly added.
WOAH! This guy’s first infraction had been to invade my personal space by touching me without my permission. His second was to have assumed I required a man to “teach” me how to work out; when in fact I was perfectly fine on my own. His last statement, however, was deeply wrong on way too many levels. Unsure as to how to even react, I eventually settled on bewilderment and spat out “Who the hell do you think you are, to believe you have the right to judge, police, and govern women's bodies like that?!” Cutting him right off, I launched into a passionate defense of women’s rights to their bodies. This of course led him to abruptly exit the premises of the gym while calling out “Crazy bitch,” leaving me alone to think about all this, and pretty blue in the face.
On my way home I realized that even if it’s been a while since I stopped shaving my legs, I had never actually experienced the broader social and more “political” aspect of the personal choice I have made. The systematic come and go of the blade as it glides from ankle to thigh seems fairly insignificant in itself, and so does applying hair removal cream or strips. Although, when you stop to think of it, this simple action is profoundly ingrained in our society’s standards of female “beauty”, which dictate that only hair-free legs can be beautiful. So who’d possibly want be viewed as other than proper and attractive, right?
Well, this brings me back to the language specification I made earlier. I use the word “work” rather than something neutral like “task” to make a distinction between shaving solely out of personal preference for the short-lasting smoothness; and shaving out of fear of being judged as unattractive and/or by fear of being rejected by partners or friends. And since “work” typically defines something most people “do” not so much for their personal enjoyment, but more in order to gain something (money, usually, but social approval in this case), I attempt through language to mark the two different intentions behind the action of shaving.
The place where these two separate intentions get all tangled and hard to clearly define, is when women stop actively thinking about shaving because they have internalized through consuming advertisement and being brought up with these standards of beauty, what it really means to shave. As a result, it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate where the end of one intention is, and where the beginning of the other starts. The more I think about it the blurrier the lines get, and I find myself wondering whether it’s still actually possible for a woman to completely disregard the social aspects of complying with this gender role performance, and this, without mixing bits and pieces of both intentions while still thinking they’re only shaving for themselves.
It all started when I was approached by a 20-something man I didn’t know, half way through my usual workout at the gym. “If you move your feet like this while lifting the weights, you’ll get a lot more out of your training,” he said. Resenting this unrequested “expert’s help” interruption, I took my earphones off to politely decline further interaction. Before I had a chance to say anything, he had already bent down, and reached out for my legs. As his hand briefly came in contact with my lower calf, he exclaimed “Holy shit! Your legs are hairy!” Uncertain that I had heard correctly, I asked him to repeat. As his statement sunk in a second time, I shrugged with indifference, and then found myself responding with a defiant “Well, so are yours.” “It’s not the same: I’m a guy, and I’m supposed to have hairy legs. For a chick, it’s sick-looking and not right,” he replied.
Not missing a beat, I fired back “And why the hell not?! I have killer legs, and hair grows there naturally just like it does on a man.” “Women are supposed to shave, so they look hot and smooth, and can be pretty enough to find a boyfriend or a husband. I’d _never_ shag a girl if her legs weren’t taken care of,” he arrogantly added.
WOAH! This guy’s first infraction had been to invade my personal space by touching me without my permission. His second was to have assumed I required a man to “teach” me how to work out; when in fact I was perfectly fine on my own. His last statement, however, was deeply wrong on way too many levels. Unsure as to how to even react, I eventually settled on bewilderment and spat out “Who the hell do you think you are, to believe you have the right to judge, police, and govern women's bodies like that?!” Cutting him right off, I launched into a passionate defense of women’s rights to their bodies. This of course led him to abruptly exit the premises of the gym while calling out “Crazy bitch,” leaving me alone to think about all this, and pretty blue in the face.
On my way home I realized that even if it’s been a while since I stopped shaving my legs, I had never actually experienced the broader social and more “political” aspect of the personal choice I have made. The systematic come and go of the blade as it glides from ankle to thigh seems fairly insignificant in itself, and so does applying hair removal cream or strips. Although, when you stop to think of it, this simple action is profoundly ingrained in our society’s standards of female “beauty”, which dictate that only hair-free legs can be beautiful. So who’d possibly want be viewed as other than proper and attractive, right?
Well, this brings me back to the language specification I made earlier. I use the word “work” rather than something neutral like “task” to make a distinction between shaving solely out of personal preference for the short-lasting smoothness; and shaving out of fear of being judged as unattractive and/or by fear of being rejected by partners or friends. And since “work” typically defines something most people “do” not so much for their personal enjoyment, but more in order to gain something (money, usually, but social approval in this case), I attempt through language to mark the two different intentions behind the action of shaving.
The place where these two separate intentions get all tangled and hard to clearly define, is when women stop actively thinking about shaving because they have internalized through consuming advertisement and being brought up with these standards of beauty, what it really means to shave. As a result, it becomes increasingly difficult to differentiate where the end of one intention is, and where the beginning of the other starts. The more I think about it the blurrier the lines get, and I find myself wondering whether it’s still actually possible for a woman to completely disregard the social aspects of complying with this gender role performance, and this, without mixing bits and pieces of both intentions while still thinking they’re only shaving for themselves.
Monday, September 27, 2010
One inch scope into my life.
Andréa Peters
Creative writing.
A faint yellow hue in colour, the mass is mostly flattened, but rising and bruised looking in a few dirt spotted areas. Damn you inconsiderate litterers, I growl under my breath, as I think about the potential for long-term damages. Seated precariously on the small two person kitchen table, I carefully take my flat off, and stare at the grotesque squatter in silence.
Persistent and clingy, it slowly stretches in long pieces of thick mild cheddar cheese string-like goo, right onto my Kleenex protected finger. Gross. Searching the room for something better to operate with, I settle on a butter knife and a hard spatula, just in case a back up is necessary to kill off this tenacious parasite.
In need of a firmer grip, I move to the floor where I draw my knees in to my chest, and cinch the victim between my thighs. I vigorously tug and scrape until I’m all out of breath, and suddenly guilt-ridden, it dawns on me that I probably would have better control on my breathing if I stopped botching the headstand pose every time I do yoga.
Frustrated, I stuff my shoe in the freezer and turn the radio on. Pretending like I’m really doing the reading that was due Friday, I can’t help but cast sharp, occasional glances at the refrigerator door. Who in their right mind abandons their gum right in the middle of the hallway like that, anyway? To think it must have all started with a ton of sugar being poured into giant silver pots, which produced a sweet aroma as they heated up… I don’t know if it’s the jet lag effect to get on store shelves here in Fredericton that rendered my enemy so bitter, but there’s definitely nothing sweet about it anymore. Frig this. I don’t even chew gum: you’re going down, buddy.
The clock on the oven ticks behind me, and I impatiently fidget, feeling like I’ve been sitting here forever. I finally stand up, and retrieve my shoe from its temporary morgue to inspect the results. Still soft, for Christ’s sake. It’s been in there for like…at least five minutes! How long does it take for a gum to freeze? Ugh. Spitting one’s saliva infused trash on the ground in a public area so ought to be qualified as legally prosecutable behaviour.
“Oh would you just relax,” I hear the relentless little voice in my head taunting. “You’re freshly out of a job-- what better than scraping a gum off your shoe do you have to do with your life, eh?” My legs tremble and I set the shoe down without taking my eyes off of it, as if I were trying to psych it out before our dual resumed. However, the only thoughts penetrating the vault of my brain are pulling the plug on the phone to silence my concerned mother’s incessant calls, and watching reruns of Friends while eating a lot of marshmallows.
Yes. Watching Friends reruns is what I need to do, I think to myself. As I make my way to my room, wafts of a sickly overripe peach-like scent flood my nostrils, and I gasp for air. Good God, what is this thing? A radioactive Juicy Fruit?! Pinching my nose with my non-gum contaminated hand, I decide that I can’t do this any longer. It has to go.
Back on the kitchen floor in a strange contortion, I hold my shoe at eye level. I must have zoned out, because I’m surprised to feel my eyeballs going all crooked in their sockets, as I start to see this monster in double vision. Now that I’m really looking at it, I notice it sort of has the shape of a beaver. It must be a sign from my landlord, or something. I knew I should have picked up that nickel I dropped on the bus… There’s no way I’ll have next month’s rent money in on time, now.
I hear the lock on the door turning, and my mother erupts into the kitchen. Frantic, she inquires in a high pitched voice as to why I haven’t picked up the phone all afternoon. “Busy”, I murmur. She takes a long look at the two days old dishes piled up in the sink, at my tousled hair and food stained shirt, and she extends her hand towards me. “Give me that shoe; you’re doing it all wrong. You need Goo-Gone, for that stuff. Bring me my purse.”
Creative writing.
A faint yellow hue in colour, the mass is mostly flattened, but rising and bruised looking in a few dirt spotted areas. Damn you inconsiderate litterers, I growl under my breath, as I think about the potential for long-term damages. Seated precariously on the small two person kitchen table, I carefully take my flat off, and stare at the grotesque squatter in silence.
Persistent and clingy, it slowly stretches in long pieces of thick mild cheddar cheese string-like goo, right onto my Kleenex protected finger. Gross. Searching the room for something better to operate with, I settle on a butter knife and a hard spatula, just in case a back up is necessary to kill off this tenacious parasite.
In need of a firmer grip, I move to the floor where I draw my knees in to my chest, and cinch the victim between my thighs. I vigorously tug and scrape until I’m all out of breath, and suddenly guilt-ridden, it dawns on me that I probably would have better control on my breathing if I stopped botching the headstand pose every time I do yoga.
Frustrated, I stuff my shoe in the freezer and turn the radio on. Pretending like I’m really doing the reading that was due Friday, I can’t help but cast sharp, occasional glances at the refrigerator door. Who in their right mind abandons their gum right in the middle of the hallway like that, anyway? To think it must have all started with a ton of sugar being poured into giant silver pots, which produced a sweet aroma as they heated up… I don’t know if it’s the jet lag effect to get on store shelves here in Fredericton that rendered my enemy so bitter, but there’s definitely nothing sweet about it anymore. Frig this. I don’t even chew gum: you’re going down, buddy.
The clock on the oven ticks behind me, and I impatiently fidget, feeling like I’ve been sitting here forever. I finally stand up, and retrieve my shoe from its temporary morgue to inspect the results. Still soft, for Christ’s sake. It’s been in there for like…at least five minutes! How long does it take for a gum to freeze? Ugh. Spitting one’s saliva infused trash on the ground in a public area so ought to be qualified as legally prosecutable behaviour.
“Oh would you just relax,” I hear the relentless little voice in my head taunting. “You’re freshly out of a job-- what better than scraping a gum off your shoe do you have to do with your life, eh?” My legs tremble and I set the shoe down without taking my eyes off of it, as if I were trying to psych it out before our dual resumed. However, the only thoughts penetrating the vault of my brain are pulling the plug on the phone to silence my concerned mother’s incessant calls, and watching reruns of Friends while eating a lot of marshmallows.
Yes. Watching Friends reruns is what I need to do, I think to myself. As I make my way to my room, wafts of a sickly overripe peach-like scent flood my nostrils, and I gasp for air. Good God, what is this thing? A radioactive Juicy Fruit?! Pinching my nose with my non-gum contaminated hand, I decide that I can’t do this any longer. It has to go.
Back on the kitchen floor in a strange contortion, I hold my shoe at eye level. I must have zoned out, because I’m surprised to feel my eyeballs going all crooked in their sockets, as I start to see this monster in double vision. Now that I’m really looking at it, I notice it sort of has the shape of a beaver. It must be a sign from my landlord, or something. I knew I should have picked up that nickel I dropped on the bus… There’s no way I’ll have next month’s rent money in on time, now.
I hear the lock on the door turning, and my mother erupts into the kitchen. Frantic, she inquires in a high pitched voice as to why I haven’t picked up the phone all afternoon. “Busy”, I murmur. She takes a long look at the two days old dishes piled up in the sink, at my tousled hair and food stained shirt, and she extends her hand towards me. “Give me that shoe; you’re doing it all wrong. You need Goo-Gone, for that stuff. Bring me my purse.”
Sunday, September 19, 2010
Overheard jewels of the week.
In Gender Studies Class: 1:00pm
Guy: Gahhhh. I’m so bored, this is retarded.
Girl: You probs shouldn’t use the word “retarded” as an adjective…It’s not politically correct, and if prof hears you, she’ll hide under a table over it and you’ll ruin class.
Guy: Not you too…. Courtney’s cutting me off sex until I stop using it completely, because her cousin’s “challenged”, and she doesn’t want a family feud to break out when I go to meet them all for the first time on Turkey Day. It’s really hard to stop, and you know how much I love sex! Arrgghhh…Fuck me…
Girl: No thank you… I’d rather leave that to your boo once you become socially acceptable…
Guy: (death look.)
At Timmies on Prospect: 5:30pm
Kid (maybe 10?): Mom, can I have another donut?
Mother: Have another one, if you want to end up looking like your fat-ass excuse of a Dad. Sure.
Kid (turning to his father): Dad? Will mom love me less is I get fat?
Dad: (silent).
From my room, overhearing my Mom skyping with my twin, 8:30pm
Dave: So Mom, what’s Andréa up to, today?
Ma: “Patching up her slipper comfy jeans”, she told me earlier. They ripped in the thigh area.
Dave: Wooooahh! The twin’s got thunder thighs! HA!
Ma: David Joseph Peters!! Your sister’s thighs aren’t thunderous!
Dave: Yeah whatever! Mom, tell her on my behalf: “Be brave, Sis.” I tore through two pairs of shorts this summer. “It’s part of life, when you’re half black and got more booty than you know what to do with.”
Ma: Um…David. I’m sure she’ll appreciate your support, but her thighs didn’t get big, she just took a fall.
Dave: Soon or later, when she’ll have gotten over her denial, tell her to give me a call if she needs to talk.
At the grocery store: 9:00am
Guy one: Alright. Let’s start with the meats section. We need meat, dude.
Guy two: Wait up, look, there’s a brick of tofu here on sale. That stuff is like, crazy intense protein for super cheap!
Guy one: Yeah. And it’s also as tasteless and rubbery feeling as my prosthetic finger. No thank you, let’s get some steaks.
Guy two: I should have foreseen you pulling the fake finger card on me again…(pauses and erupts with laughter) See what I did, there? Get it? I made a pun with pulling and your finger… Ha…ha..HA!!
Guy one: You’re so lame; you should just go back to living with your mother.
(p.s: I need to confess I actually bought the tofu on sale. It really was a great deal.)
At the Harvest Jazz Festival:
Girl one: Man, she blows!
Girl two: You’ll need to be a bit more specific, here. We’re at a jazz concert, and I don’t know if you’re speaking of blowing horns, cock, or just in the general sense of things.
Guy: Gahhhh. I’m so bored, this is retarded.
Girl: You probs shouldn’t use the word “retarded” as an adjective…It’s not politically correct, and if prof hears you, she’ll hide under a table over it and you’ll ruin class.
Guy: Not you too…. Courtney’s cutting me off sex until I stop using it completely, because her cousin’s “challenged”, and she doesn’t want a family feud to break out when I go to meet them all for the first time on Turkey Day. It’s really hard to stop, and you know how much I love sex! Arrgghhh…Fuck me…
Girl: No thank you… I’d rather leave that to your boo once you become socially acceptable…
Guy: (death look.)
At Timmies on Prospect: 5:30pm
Kid (maybe 10?): Mom, can I have another donut?
Mother: Have another one, if you want to end up looking like your fat-ass excuse of a Dad. Sure.
Kid (turning to his father): Dad? Will mom love me less is I get fat?
Dad: (silent).
From my room, overhearing my Mom skyping with my twin, 8:30pm
Dave: So Mom, what’s Andréa up to, today?
Ma: “Patching up her slipper comfy jeans”, she told me earlier. They ripped in the thigh area.
Dave: Wooooahh! The twin’s got thunder thighs! HA!
Ma: David Joseph Peters!! Your sister’s thighs aren’t thunderous!
Dave: Yeah whatever! Mom, tell her on my behalf: “Be brave, Sis.” I tore through two pairs of shorts this summer. “It’s part of life, when you’re half black and got more booty than you know what to do with.”
Ma: Um…David. I’m sure she’ll appreciate your support, but her thighs didn’t get big, she just took a fall.
Dave: Soon or later, when she’ll have gotten over her denial, tell her to give me a call if she needs to talk.
At the grocery store: 9:00am
Guy one: Alright. Let’s start with the meats section. We need meat, dude.
Guy two: Wait up, look, there’s a brick of tofu here on sale. That stuff is like, crazy intense protein for super cheap!
Guy one: Yeah. And it’s also as tasteless and rubbery feeling as my prosthetic finger. No thank you, let’s get some steaks.
Guy two: I should have foreseen you pulling the fake finger card on me again…(pauses and erupts with laughter) See what I did, there? Get it? I made a pun with pulling and your finger… Ha…ha..HA!!
Guy one: You’re so lame; you should just go back to living with your mother.
(p.s: I need to confess I actually bought the tofu on sale. It really was a great deal.)
At the Harvest Jazz Festival:
Girl one: Man, she blows!
Girl two: You’ll need to be a bit more specific, here. We’re at a jazz concert, and I don’t know if you’re speaking of blowing horns, cock, or just in the general sense of things.
Friday, September 17, 2010
“Virtuous” Advice for Just About Anyone
(A little bit of silliness to jump start the week-end. If you'd like to add, have at it in the comments section :D)
When in a bad mood, keep still and silent.
If someone is explosive in front of you,
be silent and walk away backwards.
If you feel explosive,
try not to projectile flip out at anyone. And remember punching a wall will hurt.
If anything, you're best off remaining still and silent here too.
Baggy jumpsuits do not suit you, nor do they look cute, “earthy”, or virile.
Ever.
When tired, you get in a lonely, yet antisocial mood:
If you hadn’t noticed, it’s a terrible combination. Rethink this one.
Difficulties are abundant, but often sporadic in occurrence--
Cheer-up while you can.
Listen to the echo of your own voice. Avoid being nasal or strident,
or you’ll annoy yourself too.
Ordinariness can be restful,
so stop trying to be “interesting”, every once in a while.
Get _really_ lost once, and the next time you’ll know your way!
If you only have $2 to spend in a grocery store, buy broccoli.
(Fine. Popeye would disagree here, but trust me, on this one).
Your mother will call you back ten more times throughout the day. Let it ring, and finish breakfast.
When was the last time you changed your shoe insoles or dusted the fan??
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
Have a day,
And try to make it a good one.
:)
A.
When in a bad mood, keep still and silent.
If someone is explosive in front of you,
be silent and walk away backwards.
If you feel explosive,
try not to projectile flip out at anyone. And remember punching a wall will hurt.
If anything, you're best off remaining still and silent here too.
Baggy jumpsuits do not suit you, nor do they look cute, “earthy”, or virile.
Ever.
When tired, you get in a lonely, yet antisocial mood:
If you hadn’t noticed, it’s a terrible combination. Rethink this one.
Difficulties are abundant, but often sporadic in occurrence--
Cheer-up while you can.
Listen to the echo of your own voice. Avoid being nasal or strident,
or you’ll annoy yourself too.
Ordinariness can be restful,
so stop trying to be “interesting”, every once in a while.
Get _really_ lost once, and the next time you’ll know your way!
If you only have $2 to spend in a grocery store, buy broccoli.
(Fine. Popeye would disagree here, but trust me, on this one).
Your mother will call you back ten more times throughout the day. Let it ring, and finish breakfast.
When was the last time you changed your shoe insoles or dusted the fan??
Yeah. That’s what I thought.
Have a day,
And try to make it a good one.
:)
A.
Monday, August 23, 2010
Time to do an oil change..
Hi all,
Where to start? First off, it's been way too long a time since I last posted here; and I must confess my summer plan to keep a paper log and to post it all once back from my 10 weeks in camp Argonaut, has became more and more of a black hole of guilt as the long sunny days stretched out and my farmer's tan worsened.
But now I'm back home again, and pleased to report I am gearing up for another school year at STU. Consequently, that means getting back into the motions of sharing the ton of words that are in my head and just ready to surface on here. In the end, I wish to make it up to you's for my long absence.
I'm mass-sending lots of love to anyone reading this, hoping it'll put a smile in your eyes and a sparkle in your heart. Take good care until next time.
A.
Where to start? First off, it's been way too long a time since I last posted here; and I must confess my summer plan to keep a paper log and to post it all once back from my 10 weeks in camp Argonaut, has became more and more of a black hole of guilt as the long sunny days stretched out and my farmer's tan worsened.
But now I'm back home again, and pleased to report I am gearing up for another school year at STU. Consequently, that means getting back into the motions of sharing the ton of words that are in my head and just ready to surface on here. In the end, I wish to make it up to you's for my long absence.
I'm mass-sending lots of love to anyone reading this, hoping it'll put a smile in your eyes and a sparkle in your heart. Take good care until next time.
A.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Random bits and pieces..
Hi folks,
Between the two jobs, 5 courses, cadets, sports, and the upcoming exams- I've lost the time I used to make to blog...It's been a rough patch. Nonetheless,I've been noting some stuff, so here are a few partial thoughts of mine...
* It is the nothingness of some things that make them what they are. If you mold a cup, you have to make it hollow: it’s the emptiness within that makes it useful. In a house or room, it is the empty spaces- the doors, the windows- that make it bearable and useful. They all use what they are made of to do what they do, but without their nothingness, they would be nothing. If we're quick to recognize the uses of hollowness in material objects, why is it that as a society we're too preoccupied with our own things to notice when this emptiness is foraging its depth-less hollowness in people too?
*Why do we say look, when we really mean- listen? They are not synonyms.
* What you can’t have you pretend you don’t want. What you long for, you scorn the most.
* Nothing is real until is imagined. We are what we imagine ourselves to be. Other people are what we imagine them to be, in accordance with what they want to be seen as...So what's the point of fussing over our physical images, if it's all in the head?
* I require nothing less then perfection of myself, first time.
* Tears are seashells of silence, in the form of a fluid canopy of desperation.
* Waiting is: a state of inactivity in readiness for further use.
* Cunt? Oh no thanks, it keeps me up at night…
* A piece of writing is stored energy. Reading is the transfer of that energy. The translation process to a reader, in a way that simply takes your head off. Maybe every 10th reader connects with the words, and has that same experience you did or intended when you wrote…Language is a part of the wild. Its own organic process. I am willing to take a chance at it.
Take care,
A.
Between the two jobs, 5 courses, cadets, sports, and the upcoming exams- I've lost the time I used to make to blog...It's been a rough patch. Nonetheless,I've been noting some stuff, so here are a few partial thoughts of mine...
* It is the nothingness of some things that make them what they are. If you mold a cup, you have to make it hollow: it’s the emptiness within that makes it useful. In a house or room, it is the empty spaces- the doors, the windows- that make it bearable and useful. They all use what they are made of to do what they do, but without their nothingness, they would be nothing. If we're quick to recognize the uses of hollowness in material objects, why is it that as a society we're too preoccupied with our own things to notice when this emptiness is foraging its depth-less hollowness in people too?
*Why do we say look, when we really mean- listen? They are not synonyms.
* What you can’t have you pretend you don’t want. What you long for, you scorn the most.
* Nothing is real until is imagined. We are what we imagine ourselves to be. Other people are what we imagine them to be, in accordance with what they want to be seen as...So what's the point of fussing over our physical images, if it's all in the head?
* I require nothing less then perfection of myself, first time.
* Tears are seashells of silence, in the form of a fluid canopy of desperation.
* Waiting is: a state of inactivity in readiness for further use.
* Cunt? Oh no thanks, it keeps me up at night…
* A piece of writing is stored energy. Reading is the transfer of that energy. The translation process to a reader, in a way that simply takes your head off. Maybe every 10th reader connects with the words, and has that same experience you did or intended when you wrote…Language is a part of the wild. Its own organic process. I am willing to take a chance at it.
Take care,
A.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Only a few more hurdles until March break!
Hey all,
Just a quick note to say I hope everything is good and joyful; and that I'll be posting new creative writing and other forms or musings after mid-terms!
Don't be shy to leave comments, ideas, suggestions, kudos and such in the "comments box"!
Take care, folks.
Andréa
Just a quick note to say I hope everything is good and joyful; and that I'll be posting new creative writing and other forms or musings after mid-terms!
Don't be shy to leave comments, ideas, suggestions, kudos and such in the "comments box"!
Take care, folks.
Andréa
Honey, you need a more secure career…
(Rewritten on January 17th 2010)
With my gymnast Barbie in one hand, and my grade two report card held firmly in the other, I run around the house in a sparkly spandex leotard, shouting “I’m ready! I’m ready! Where can I join the circus?” My mother, pressed flat against the living room wall to avoid a collision, promptly halts my bee-like circuit and says
“Andréa Lucie Peters, how many times do I have to tell you not to run inside? And take last year’s Halloween costume off right now, or next time I do the wash it’ll disappear for ever!”
Ouch. Not such a good start to the summer vacations. Immediately I stop in my tracks, and can tell that she awaits some sort of brilliant explanation from me. Judging by her raised eyebrows – it better come soon. I rack my brains for something clever to say, but my head is a whirl wind of useless snippets of ideas. Two minutes pass, and I can’t stand the silence anymore so I blurt out something like
“Mama, Mama! I got all A’s on my report card today so that means that I must really be getting smarter and Miss Carter my gym teacher said nobody does somersaults as well as me in all four of her classes! At recess I can stay hanging upside down from the monkey bars the longest and I go the fastest on the swings so will you drive me to a chief clown right now?!!”
I gasp for air, and from mom’s startled expression, I start to wonder if she noticed I forgot to say please… Another long silence goes by before she takes me by the hand, and says these five little words that are never good news “Andréa, we need to talk.”
Triple poop. That’s a definite No for the circus. Slumping in an armchair, I expect the usual introductory talks about how much of a “safety hazard” it is to leave my cow print rubber boots laying in the entryway, or why I should seriously stop watering her plants with orange juice because despite what I think, it does not help them grow. Instead, my mother cuts to the chase and begins throwing around big words like “life opportunities” and “retiring pension plans” in the conversation.
“There’s something you need to understand. Daddy and I work very hard to provide everything you and your brothers need. This means that even if the money we make isn’t that good, it’s at least enough to feed, clothe, and give you a home. We get an honest pay for an honest day of work, you know? But these circus people, they’re not our kind of people, okay?” I don’t really get it, but I think it best at the time to nod anyway while she goes on
“Honey, you need a more secure career. Wanting to join the circus was okay as long as I thought it was just in your imaginary world, but it’s starting to go too far, now. You really need to let that dream go and focus on doing well at school, so you can have a good job when you grow up. Something that’s more important than swinging off a trapeze, alright?”
Frantically, I try to interrupt this horrific talk and say “You don’t understand, Mama! I’m meant to be in the circus, it’s my destiny!” But she doesn’t look convinced.
“Andréa”, she warns, “I don’t want you to talk about joining the circus anymore. Do I make myself clear?” I nod again.
“How about becoming a doctor? Or a lawyer? Think about it, it wouldn’t even matter there that you’re so accident prone. Isn’t that great?!”
Unsure as to why I’m supposed to feel better by hearing this, I start tearing up. Mom pats me on the head and gives me a tissue, saying in a motherly tone how it’s not the end of the world because I won’t even remember it the day I get married; that it’s just a silly dream job anyway.
I hiccup and protest “But Mama, what I am gonna do with my life now, if I can’t join the circus?” She takes off towards the kitchen and says over her shoulder
“Well, you could certainly begin by putting away your rubber boots, don’t you think?”
With my gymnast Barbie in one hand, and my grade two report card held firmly in the other, I run around the house in a sparkly spandex leotard, shouting “I’m ready! I’m ready! Where can I join the circus?” My mother, pressed flat against the living room wall to avoid a collision, promptly halts my bee-like circuit and says
“Andréa Lucie Peters, how many times do I have to tell you not to run inside? And take last year’s Halloween costume off right now, or next time I do the wash it’ll disappear for ever!”
Ouch. Not such a good start to the summer vacations. Immediately I stop in my tracks, and can tell that she awaits some sort of brilliant explanation from me. Judging by her raised eyebrows – it better come soon. I rack my brains for something clever to say, but my head is a whirl wind of useless snippets of ideas. Two minutes pass, and I can’t stand the silence anymore so I blurt out something like
“Mama, Mama! I got all A’s on my report card today so that means that I must really be getting smarter and Miss Carter my gym teacher said nobody does somersaults as well as me in all four of her classes! At recess I can stay hanging upside down from the monkey bars the longest and I go the fastest on the swings so will you drive me to a chief clown right now?!!”
I gasp for air, and from mom’s startled expression, I start to wonder if she noticed I forgot to say please… Another long silence goes by before she takes me by the hand, and says these five little words that are never good news “Andréa, we need to talk.”
Triple poop. That’s a definite No for the circus. Slumping in an armchair, I expect the usual introductory talks about how much of a “safety hazard” it is to leave my cow print rubber boots laying in the entryway, or why I should seriously stop watering her plants with orange juice because despite what I think, it does not help them grow. Instead, my mother cuts to the chase and begins throwing around big words like “life opportunities” and “retiring pension plans” in the conversation.
“There’s something you need to understand. Daddy and I work very hard to provide everything you and your brothers need. This means that even if the money we make isn’t that good, it’s at least enough to feed, clothe, and give you a home. We get an honest pay for an honest day of work, you know? But these circus people, they’re not our kind of people, okay?” I don’t really get it, but I think it best at the time to nod anyway while she goes on
“Honey, you need a more secure career. Wanting to join the circus was okay as long as I thought it was just in your imaginary world, but it’s starting to go too far, now. You really need to let that dream go and focus on doing well at school, so you can have a good job when you grow up. Something that’s more important than swinging off a trapeze, alright?”
Frantically, I try to interrupt this horrific talk and say “You don’t understand, Mama! I’m meant to be in the circus, it’s my destiny!” But she doesn’t look convinced.
“Andréa”, she warns, “I don’t want you to talk about joining the circus anymore. Do I make myself clear?” I nod again.
“How about becoming a doctor? Or a lawyer? Think about it, it wouldn’t even matter there that you’re so accident prone. Isn’t that great?!”
Unsure as to why I’m supposed to feel better by hearing this, I start tearing up. Mom pats me on the head and gives me a tissue, saying in a motherly tone how it’s not the end of the world because I won’t even remember it the day I get married; that it’s just a silly dream job anyway.
I hiccup and protest “But Mama, what I am gonna do with my life now, if I can’t join the circus?” She takes off towards the kitchen and says over her shoulder
“Well, you could certainly begin by putting away your rubber boots, don’t you think?”
Madame Leclerc, why is there a dirty sweater in my cubby?
(Written on Feb 12th 2010)
On a bright morning in the month of May, I was woken up by birds who chirped by my window. As custom, I ran across our shared room to enthusiastically nudge my twin brother on the shoulder, knowing that today just had to be the day.
“David, David! Get up!! The sun’s shining, and we need to do this –now–, before Mom and Dad wake up!” He groaned and looked at his Superman watch
“Andréa, you slime-head, not this again? We still have an hour to sleep before breakfast. Go back to bed, and leave me alone. This is stupid anyway.”
He rolled over and pulled his bedspread over his head. Clearly, he did not understand how important this was, so I repeated while enunciating more, hoping he might have just misheard me the first time. “Go to bed, Andréa. I don’t want to get up now, and I told you already!”
I jumped up and a down a little, pleading,
“but David, it’s now or never and I want my Spice Mice tee-shirt, TODAY!”
“Oh who cares, about the Spice Girls anyways? Superman can fly, at least. All they do is sing and dance around –Yooppi...”
“I care!! I know mom and dad bought me a tee-shirt with grandma’s heritage money; I heard them talking about how guilty and bad they felt about it last week! If we do something really really nice they’ll want to reward us, so that rids them of the guilt, and I get my tee-shirt today! Now get up!”
He studied me carefully before saying,
“Well, what do I get if I help you sweep all of this winter’s sand out of the driveway?”
I beamed, pretty proud that my master plan was starting to work out. “You, David, get the brand new remote controlled car I spotted Dad with in the garage, yesterday. And if you help me convince them it is warm enough out to let us go to school without a coat today, so everybody can see my pretty tee-shirt right when I walk in, I won’t tell you like Joanie Richards and that you got in trouble at school for pushing her at recess.” Suddenly, I had all of his attention.
“ Andreeeeeeaa!” he squealed, “You can’t tell I got in trouble or else I’ll have to wait ages to get my car! And I don’t even like Joanie, girls have major cooties!” I grinned.
“So, it doesn’t really matter if I tell her you like her, then?” I asked.
“Fine. Let’s do this. But you better pinky-swear to not tell on me!”
“Done!” I replied.
As I sat an hour later eating breakfast in my super amazing cool tee-shirt, the news played on the radio. I saw Dad’s thick eyebrows frown and he put down his fork to listen, but I didn’t make anything of it at the time. On my way to the bus stop I dribbled with rocks on the sidewalk, and sang to my purple puppet gloves, ecstatic that today we’d finally get to finish the art project we had started the previous Friday.
Our bus was always early and when I got to school, the classroom was empty aside from my third grade teacher, Madame Leclerc. I dashed to my little wooden locker in the hallway and shoved my lunch box in my cubby, but it fell right back out. So I tried a second time, and it fell back out again. Getting annoyed, I reached in to see what was in the way, and pulled out a light blue sweater that looked gray, and had holes in it. It stunk ten times worst then my bowling shoes, so pinching my nose, I brought it to my teacher and asked
“Madame Leclerc, why is there a dirty sweater in my cubby? I cleaned it on Friday like you told me to, and this is not mine.”
“Hi, Andréa. Nice tee-shirt! Look, I have someone for you to meet.” She walked me to my desk beside which another orange plastic chair had been brought. A scrawny and frightened girl about my height sat in it. Madame Leclerc made us shake hands, but neither of us had spoken yet, so she took the lead.
“Andréa, far far away from here, there’s a country called the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and one of its provinces is called Kosovo”.
I interrupted before she even had the chance to tell me: “Why is she here, Madame Leclerc?”
“You see, Andréa, in Canada we are all of different ethnicities and live in peace, but this little girl’s name is Besa, and her country has been at war for a very long time, now. She’s eight years old too, but she lost her family in bomb explosions last week, and has been chased out of her country by soldiers, along with almost one million more of her country’s people. The military base where your Daddy works has a big aircraft hangar where 300 refugees are sleeping and living right now, until their hospitality requests are processed by our immigration system. They arrived this morning, and the Red Cross thought it best to keep her busy here while they searched for a surviving family member. The older children are in other classes.”
My mouth hung open as I tried to process all this. Only two words stuck out: war, and hangar. “So you need to be nice to her, okay? I’ll be right back”, said Madame Leclerc. I was left alone with her, and I didn’t know what to do. We stared at one another in complete silence for what must have been the longest time ever. Her tee-shirt was ripped, she had odd slippers on that were too big for her feet; and her hair was matted with blood and dirt. I feared if I looked longer, that I would offend her. So I looked down and whispered “bonjour”, but she didn’t answer. I had no idea what language she spoke, so I hesitantly smiled. Though her lips did not move fully upwards, I could see a hint of a smirk at the corners of her mouth.
I tried thinking as hard as I could about what all this meant to me. The only thing I understood of faraway wars was that for six to eight months at a time, I only got to talk to my Dad once every second week on a staticky line, and that this made my mom cry a great deal. My brothers and I knew better then to put up a fuss about taking a bath, or to fake sick to skip school when mom cried. No, during what we called “Dad’s adventures”, we had to complete our homework straight upon our arrival from school, and could only play after dinner if our chores were done and if we remained quiet until bedtime crept around. When Dad wasn’t there, nobody read to me at night. So instead, I often stared out the window wondering how many tied sheets I would have to throw as high up in the sky as I could, in order for it to hook on a star and allow me to climb up to the moon. I thought about how it would feel to sleep in a big and dark hangar with a lot of other people in it, but I couldn’t imagine it.
Pulling me out of my distant thoughts as she gently tugged on my sleeve, Besa pointed to the crayon drawing of my dog I had scotched-taped to my desk the month before. I thought she might want to color, so I took out my construction paper and crayons, and suddenly realized I didn’t feel like working on my art project at all anymore, so I just looked at her as she drew a little figure in a yellow dress in front of a small wooden house, and wrote on top “Home”. She drew several other little figures and two dogs on the picture, and all of them had a big red question mark on top of their heads. Her dark and sunken eyes filled with tears, and my heart tightened. I didn’t know how to speak English or her own language, but I just reached out for her hand and held it tight.
Madame Leclerc eventually came back, and Besa was brought to the school infirmary to bathe and change. Just before lunch time and the end of our science class, Madame Leclerc said to follow her to the hallway, where a Red Cross worker invited us to join the refugee’s barbecue in the school yard. Besa ran to the hot-dog station, looked at them uncertainly, and began wolfing the hot-dogs down even without ketchup on them. Every one else also seemed really hungry, but I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. I sat alone on a nearby playground bench, and watched them all for a long while. Quiet, hatched conversations; filthy hands and clothes, and an overwhelming joy to be here, seemed like the most apparent features in the large group of refugees.
I just wanted to rush home and throw out all of my brothers’ play war action figures because it didn’t seem fun anymore, but I didn’t move. Now I understood why Dad never talked much about his UN peace making and keeping missions. I had never known war was so ugly, and couldn’t believe this was Besa’s daily life. I felt ashamed of sticking out like a sore thumb in my new t-shirt, and wished I had my coat to cover it up. As I sat there, I remember thinking this was the first time I felt so intensely what I later came to know as “despair. ”
The next few days are a blur, as I spent them playing outside with Besa, in class, in the cafeteria sharing my lunch, and at the hangar listening to the elderly refugee’s singing. I had taught Besa a few French words, and she walked around repeating them to everyone even though no one else understood her. It kind of warmed my heart a little that she found joy in doing so. In return, she had drawn several pictures of the war in her country for me, and had taught me two traditional songs. On Friday of the second week after Besa’s arrival, I was cleaning my cubby before heading home for the week-end, and decided to fold my new Spice Mice tee-shirt and hand it to Besa before getting on the bus. I had noticed how much she stared at it in class, and wanted to share even though I knew I would miss it a lot. It just didn’t matter, in comparison to the warm smile my small gesture put on her face.
As I waved her “later” from the school bus’ rear window, her drawing still in my hand, I thought I was lending her my tee-shirt just for three nights so she could feel special too. I thought she would be my friend forever because she was the only one in our whole class who didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t like Sailor Moon, and who didn’t tease me because of my wild hair. I thought we would soon learn each other’s languages to be able to play something else than mime games and drawing interpretations.
When I came back on Monday morning eager to see my friend again, Madame Leclerc took me outside the class and told me Besa had been sent back to her country until our government could find the appropriate papers to prove her identity. I burst into uncontrollable tears at the news, because I knew that wherever she was, Besa was alone and afraid. Madame Leclerc then brought me to the Principal’s office to wait for my Mom to bring me back home. While waiting, I sang one of her songs to my purple gloves, but it brought me no comfort. I wished I had at least gotten to say goodbye.
Ever since, I wonder if she found her family and dogs. I wonder if she was allowed to come back to Canada as a permanent citizen, and I wonder if she remembers me a little bit. I also wonder if someone cared enough about her to clean or replace her dirty sweater, and if she still has my shirt. I wonder if she’s sort of happy, but mostly, I wonder if she’s still alive and safe. I just hope she doesn't remember my disgusting ignorance of her and her people’s brutal reality, prior to my exposure to them. Because I didn’t want her to make her feel like she didn’t belong here, as a result of being too privileged to take interest in other’s misery unless it directly affected me.
Two months later, I learned Dad would have to go over there to help make the peace, and for eight months, I desperately hoped he would see her again. When he came back, Dad told me he had heard from Red Cross officials that Besa had received Brazilian citizenship, and was doing well. But I’ve never had enough courage to ask him for the truth.
On a bright morning in the month of May, I was woken up by birds who chirped by my window. As custom, I ran across our shared room to enthusiastically nudge my twin brother on the shoulder, knowing that today just had to be the day.
“David, David! Get up!! The sun’s shining, and we need to do this –now–, before Mom and Dad wake up!” He groaned and looked at his Superman watch
“Andréa, you slime-head, not this again? We still have an hour to sleep before breakfast. Go back to bed, and leave me alone. This is stupid anyway.”
He rolled over and pulled his bedspread over his head. Clearly, he did not understand how important this was, so I repeated while enunciating more, hoping he might have just misheard me the first time. “Go to bed, Andréa. I don’t want to get up now, and I told you already!”
I jumped up and a down a little, pleading,
“but David, it’s now or never and I want my Spice Mice tee-shirt, TODAY!”
“Oh who cares, about the Spice Girls anyways? Superman can fly, at least. All they do is sing and dance around –Yooppi...”
“I care!! I know mom and dad bought me a tee-shirt with grandma’s heritage money; I heard them talking about how guilty and bad they felt about it last week! If we do something really really nice they’ll want to reward us, so that rids them of the guilt, and I get my tee-shirt today! Now get up!”
He studied me carefully before saying,
“Well, what do I get if I help you sweep all of this winter’s sand out of the driveway?”
I beamed, pretty proud that my master plan was starting to work out. “You, David, get the brand new remote controlled car I spotted Dad with in the garage, yesterday. And if you help me convince them it is warm enough out to let us go to school without a coat today, so everybody can see my pretty tee-shirt right when I walk in, I won’t tell you like Joanie Richards and that you got in trouble at school for pushing her at recess.” Suddenly, I had all of his attention.
“ Andreeeeeeaa!” he squealed, “You can’t tell I got in trouble or else I’ll have to wait ages to get my car! And I don’t even like Joanie, girls have major cooties!” I grinned.
“So, it doesn’t really matter if I tell her you like her, then?” I asked.
“Fine. Let’s do this. But you better pinky-swear to not tell on me!”
“Done!” I replied.
As I sat an hour later eating breakfast in my super amazing cool tee-shirt, the news played on the radio. I saw Dad’s thick eyebrows frown and he put down his fork to listen, but I didn’t make anything of it at the time. On my way to the bus stop I dribbled with rocks on the sidewalk, and sang to my purple puppet gloves, ecstatic that today we’d finally get to finish the art project we had started the previous Friday.
Our bus was always early and when I got to school, the classroom was empty aside from my third grade teacher, Madame Leclerc. I dashed to my little wooden locker in the hallway and shoved my lunch box in my cubby, but it fell right back out. So I tried a second time, and it fell back out again. Getting annoyed, I reached in to see what was in the way, and pulled out a light blue sweater that looked gray, and had holes in it. It stunk ten times worst then my bowling shoes, so pinching my nose, I brought it to my teacher and asked
“Madame Leclerc, why is there a dirty sweater in my cubby? I cleaned it on Friday like you told me to, and this is not mine.”
“Hi, Andréa. Nice tee-shirt! Look, I have someone for you to meet.” She walked me to my desk beside which another orange plastic chair had been brought. A scrawny and frightened girl about my height sat in it. Madame Leclerc made us shake hands, but neither of us had spoken yet, so she took the lead.
“Andréa, far far away from here, there’s a country called the Federal Republic of Yugoslavia, and one of its provinces is called Kosovo”.
I interrupted before she even had the chance to tell me: “Why is she here, Madame Leclerc?”
“You see, Andréa, in Canada we are all of different ethnicities and live in peace, but this little girl’s name is Besa, and her country has been at war for a very long time, now. She’s eight years old too, but she lost her family in bomb explosions last week, and has been chased out of her country by soldiers, along with almost one million more of her country’s people. The military base where your Daddy works has a big aircraft hangar where 300 refugees are sleeping and living right now, until their hospitality requests are processed by our immigration system. They arrived this morning, and the Red Cross thought it best to keep her busy here while they searched for a surviving family member. The older children are in other classes.”
My mouth hung open as I tried to process all this. Only two words stuck out: war, and hangar. “So you need to be nice to her, okay? I’ll be right back”, said Madame Leclerc. I was left alone with her, and I didn’t know what to do. We stared at one another in complete silence for what must have been the longest time ever. Her tee-shirt was ripped, she had odd slippers on that were too big for her feet; and her hair was matted with blood and dirt. I feared if I looked longer, that I would offend her. So I looked down and whispered “bonjour”, but she didn’t answer. I had no idea what language she spoke, so I hesitantly smiled. Though her lips did not move fully upwards, I could see a hint of a smirk at the corners of her mouth.
I tried thinking as hard as I could about what all this meant to me. The only thing I understood of faraway wars was that for six to eight months at a time, I only got to talk to my Dad once every second week on a staticky line, and that this made my mom cry a great deal. My brothers and I knew better then to put up a fuss about taking a bath, or to fake sick to skip school when mom cried. No, during what we called “Dad’s adventures”, we had to complete our homework straight upon our arrival from school, and could only play after dinner if our chores were done and if we remained quiet until bedtime crept around. When Dad wasn’t there, nobody read to me at night. So instead, I often stared out the window wondering how many tied sheets I would have to throw as high up in the sky as I could, in order for it to hook on a star and allow me to climb up to the moon. I thought about how it would feel to sleep in a big and dark hangar with a lot of other people in it, but I couldn’t imagine it.
Pulling me out of my distant thoughts as she gently tugged on my sleeve, Besa pointed to the crayon drawing of my dog I had scotched-taped to my desk the month before. I thought she might want to color, so I took out my construction paper and crayons, and suddenly realized I didn’t feel like working on my art project at all anymore, so I just looked at her as she drew a little figure in a yellow dress in front of a small wooden house, and wrote on top “Home”. She drew several other little figures and two dogs on the picture, and all of them had a big red question mark on top of their heads. Her dark and sunken eyes filled with tears, and my heart tightened. I didn’t know how to speak English or her own language, but I just reached out for her hand and held it tight.
Madame Leclerc eventually came back, and Besa was brought to the school infirmary to bathe and change. Just before lunch time and the end of our science class, Madame Leclerc said to follow her to the hallway, where a Red Cross worker invited us to join the refugee’s barbecue in the school yard. Besa ran to the hot-dog station, looked at them uncertainly, and began wolfing the hot-dogs down even without ketchup on them. Every one else also seemed really hungry, but I felt sick to the pit of my stomach. I sat alone on a nearby playground bench, and watched them all for a long while. Quiet, hatched conversations; filthy hands and clothes, and an overwhelming joy to be here, seemed like the most apparent features in the large group of refugees.
I just wanted to rush home and throw out all of my brothers’ play war action figures because it didn’t seem fun anymore, but I didn’t move. Now I understood why Dad never talked much about his UN peace making and keeping missions. I had never known war was so ugly, and couldn’t believe this was Besa’s daily life. I felt ashamed of sticking out like a sore thumb in my new t-shirt, and wished I had my coat to cover it up. As I sat there, I remember thinking this was the first time I felt so intensely what I later came to know as “despair. ”
The next few days are a blur, as I spent them playing outside with Besa, in class, in the cafeteria sharing my lunch, and at the hangar listening to the elderly refugee’s singing. I had taught Besa a few French words, and she walked around repeating them to everyone even though no one else understood her. It kind of warmed my heart a little that she found joy in doing so. In return, she had drawn several pictures of the war in her country for me, and had taught me two traditional songs. On Friday of the second week after Besa’s arrival, I was cleaning my cubby before heading home for the week-end, and decided to fold my new Spice Mice tee-shirt and hand it to Besa before getting on the bus. I had noticed how much she stared at it in class, and wanted to share even though I knew I would miss it a lot. It just didn’t matter, in comparison to the warm smile my small gesture put on her face.
As I waved her “later” from the school bus’ rear window, her drawing still in my hand, I thought I was lending her my tee-shirt just for three nights so she could feel special too. I thought she would be my friend forever because she was the only one in our whole class who didn’t seem to mind that I didn’t like Sailor Moon, and who didn’t tease me because of my wild hair. I thought we would soon learn each other’s languages to be able to play something else than mime games and drawing interpretations.
When I came back on Monday morning eager to see my friend again, Madame Leclerc took me outside the class and told me Besa had been sent back to her country until our government could find the appropriate papers to prove her identity. I burst into uncontrollable tears at the news, because I knew that wherever she was, Besa was alone and afraid. Madame Leclerc then brought me to the Principal’s office to wait for my Mom to bring me back home. While waiting, I sang one of her songs to my purple gloves, but it brought me no comfort. I wished I had at least gotten to say goodbye.
Ever since, I wonder if she found her family and dogs. I wonder if she was allowed to come back to Canada as a permanent citizen, and I wonder if she remembers me a little bit. I also wonder if someone cared enough about her to clean or replace her dirty sweater, and if she still has my shirt. I wonder if she’s sort of happy, but mostly, I wonder if she’s still alive and safe. I just hope she doesn't remember my disgusting ignorance of her and her people’s brutal reality, prior to my exposure to them. Because I didn’t want her to make her feel like she didn’t belong here, as a result of being too privileged to take interest in other’s misery unless it directly affected me.
Two months later, I learned Dad would have to go over there to help make the peace, and for eight months, I desperately hoped he would see her again. When he came back, Dad told me he had heard from Red Cross officials that Besa had received Brazilian citizenship, and was doing well. But I’ve never had enough courage to ask him for the truth.
“Feh” #3
(Written on October 12th 2009)
Whoever said booze is a man’s best friend was – lying –. A single look at the empty bottles and the ill-colored lemon slices strewn around me is all I need to assure you the contrary. I say to nobody in particular with a very dry and foul tasting mouth: Tequila, you've done it again, you dirty skank…
Now sprawled out on my car’s back seat, I consult my watch. It is Monday morning and as if waking up in fetal position with a throbbing headache in an unknown parking lot wasn’t awkward enough for starters: my cell phone is dead, and I’m still in Friday night’s elastic party pants. Must I add that my shirt smells like anything except fresh? Sort of mimics the scent of a cross between fish food and old hockey gear, I think. However, I’d have to check to be sure, to tell you the truth.
Greasy McDonalds temptingly creeps up in my mind, and looking in my pockets for some change, all I find to help me piece the week-end together is a crumpled paper with edges fuzzy and frayed. I scrunch my eyes as I contemplate the piece of paper, but the printing is too faded to clearly read out a girl’s number or any other clue indicating my nightly whereabouts. My vision becomes blurry, and I start to distinguish the letters “F..e?...” and “h.” That’s all I get? “Feh”? What does that even mean?!!
Good thing I’m only two hours late for work and am not quitting to become a private investigator, because at this rate, I’ll never find how what the hell happened to me…
Whoever said booze is a man’s best friend was – lying –. A single look at the empty bottles and the ill-colored lemon slices strewn around me is all I need to assure you the contrary. I say to nobody in particular with a very dry and foul tasting mouth: Tequila, you've done it again, you dirty skank…
Now sprawled out on my car’s back seat, I consult my watch. It is Monday morning and as if waking up in fetal position with a throbbing headache in an unknown parking lot wasn’t awkward enough for starters: my cell phone is dead, and I’m still in Friday night’s elastic party pants. Must I add that my shirt smells like anything except fresh? Sort of mimics the scent of a cross between fish food and old hockey gear, I think. However, I’d have to check to be sure, to tell you the truth.
Greasy McDonalds temptingly creeps up in my mind, and looking in my pockets for some change, all I find to help me piece the week-end together is a crumpled paper with edges fuzzy and frayed. I scrunch my eyes as I contemplate the piece of paper, but the printing is too faded to clearly read out a girl’s number or any other clue indicating my nightly whereabouts. My vision becomes blurry, and I start to distinguish the letters “F..e?...” and “h.” That’s all I get? “Feh”? What does that even mean?!!
Good thing I’m only two hours late for work and am not quitting to become a private investigator, because at this rate, I’ll never find how what the hell happened to me…
"Feh" #2.
(Written on October 12th 2009)
The photograph’s camera systematically goes off, and mesmerized I watch all shapes of astonishing legs strutting down the cat walk. In exceptionally outlandish and eccentric hues, shiny sheer fabrics, and haunting patterns, “Feh”- The Collection, has come to life. I can see the disgust and disapproval painted in the spectator’s eyes, and I know from the twitches of their mouths that they absolutely hate it. But at the end of the day, I make the big bucks, so they can just sit it out! Seven years, that it took me, to put this very moment together. The lights are low, the echo of stilettos soft- I haven’t a place to go. Here I am, in this constant state of going nowhere.
From behind the stage I hear the thoughts of my fidgety models: “I can’t believe I’m doing this. What are my parents going to say?” I half chuckle to myself, and deep in my soul, I can assure you it’s something of this nature…. “We worked so hard to raise her well within our meager means, and this is what she’s doing with it?!”
Provocation is a peculiar route to take, in life. But I’m certain that this time it’ll pan out; as soon as these semi functional closed-minded idiots take their heads out of their asses, and find it in their hearts to accept the richness of the challenges it has to offer. No rewards ever come from social loafing like a poor sheep in a vast green field… It’ll all be okay, I can feel it.
The photograph’s camera systematically goes off, and mesmerized I watch all shapes of astonishing legs strutting down the cat walk. In exceptionally outlandish and eccentric hues, shiny sheer fabrics, and haunting patterns, “Feh”- The Collection, has come to life. I can see the disgust and disapproval painted in the spectator’s eyes, and I know from the twitches of their mouths that they absolutely hate it. But at the end of the day, I make the big bucks, so they can just sit it out! Seven years, that it took me, to put this very moment together. The lights are low, the echo of stilettos soft- I haven’t a place to go. Here I am, in this constant state of going nowhere.
From behind the stage I hear the thoughts of my fidgety models: “I can’t believe I’m doing this. What are my parents going to say?” I half chuckle to myself, and deep in my soul, I can assure you it’s something of this nature…. “We worked so hard to raise her well within our meager means, and this is what she’s doing with it?!”
Provocation is a peculiar route to take, in life. But I’m certain that this time it’ll pan out; as soon as these semi functional closed-minded idiots take their heads out of their asses, and find it in their hearts to accept the richness of the challenges it has to offer. No rewards ever come from social loafing like a poor sheep in a vast green field… It’ll all be okay, I can feel it.
Postcard Stories- "Feh" #1
(Written for fun on October 11th 2009)
It’s 11 pm, and I throw the “single’s special” Thai takeout box out. I’m 37, I haven’t had sex in 14 months and three weeks, and the only things to my name are this crummy little home and a graying hamster. Through my bedroom ceiling, I hear my newlywed neighbour’s laughter, accompanied by the custom racket. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Fay and Andrew, who met through a hiking group.
What kind of half-sane person, goes hiking for fun?! It takes a ton of effort, you sweat like a beast, you’re in old jogging pants; and worst of all, you find yourself in what some people call – nature! Needless to say, I don’t get it. Apparently, some Cupid of a Fall tree was whispering through its leaves: “Attention male hikers, all paths lead to Mount Fay”, because here I am, bitter divorcee, once again exuberantly coming face-to-face with their rotted “joie de vivre”.
I loathe admitting it: but I’m a bit jealous of this brunette happiness-owner. Even if she seems to enjoy picking up her dog’s feces on her morning walks way too much for my liking. And then it begins.
“bang. bang. Bang. Bang. Bang!”…
“Ahhhhhh!”
“How’s that? Yeah?”
“A little to the left, Honey… Oh yeah! Just like that!”
This is IT! I can’t cope anymore! As I get up and reach for the broomstick in preparation for my fierce and routine retaliation, overwhelming groans and moans float down to me
“Aaahhhhhh, Faeeeeehhhhhh!”
It’s 11 pm, and I throw the “single’s special” Thai takeout box out. I’m 37, I haven’t had sex in 14 months and three weeks, and the only things to my name are this crummy little home and a graying hamster. Through my bedroom ceiling, I hear my newlywed neighbour’s laughter, accompanied by the custom racket. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome Fay and Andrew, who met through a hiking group.
What kind of half-sane person, goes hiking for fun?! It takes a ton of effort, you sweat like a beast, you’re in old jogging pants; and worst of all, you find yourself in what some people call – nature! Needless to say, I don’t get it. Apparently, some Cupid of a Fall tree was whispering through its leaves: “Attention male hikers, all paths lead to Mount Fay”, because here I am, bitter divorcee, once again exuberantly coming face-to-face with their rotted “joie de vivre”.
I loathe admitting it: but I’m a bit jealous of this brunette happiness-owner. Even if she seems to enjoy picking up her dog’s feces on her morning walks way too much for my liking. And then it begins.
“bang. bang. Bang. Bang. Bang!”…
“Ahhhhhh!”
“How’s that? Yeah?”
“A little to the left, Honey… Oh yeah! Just like that!”
This is IT! I can’t cope anymore! As I get up and reach for the broomstick in preparation for my fierce and routine retaliation, overwhelming groans and moans float down to me
“Aaahhhhhh, Faeeeeehhhhhh!”
Dawned Upon
(written on November 23rd 2009, in celebration of Auntie Sasha's 2 year of recovery b-day :)
I know you've seen her eyes
twisted in our most natural mirror;
to observe her reflection there
is to see through our life so much clearer
Do you greet her with a smile?
as her body is mangled to your horror
will she think back for a while,
before her puke hits the bowl’s water?
Stranded by
a darkened night’s embrace
nothing stands between the road
and my pounding feet
Up high in my mind’s sky I reach
with pulsing fingers of thoughts outstretched
a melody made of tangled stars
freely unsealed from my lips,
humming ugly untold truths
A rhythmic pattern undisturbed
the echo lost in time
bullets of sweat drip down,
my burning eyes soul search
the stern silhouettes of passersby’s
Feeling
as if everything and nothing matters
my heart races
in synchrony with the tick of my watch
I’ve got nowhere to be
but everywhere to get to
Nothing to stop me,
shielded from grease glazed billboards
hushed comments in the halls,
a shriveled salad’s stare
scaled numbers dropping
and my husband’s averted glances.
A loose sweater and runners soon thrown on
again brings us to circling thoughts:
nothing to stop me
until the moment
dawn breaks
My mind’s of steel,
but when the sun shines out
daily hassles devour me
and the night’s peaceful space
fills up again
Weighing
too much to bear
it sits on
my frail shoulders,
unmovable
Until dusk’s
calling back out to me
my friend’s concerns I ignored.
One last race, it tells me
Its gentle whisper turns into hated roars
gentle whisper turns most to the most
feared and hated roars
a rocking breeze begins to brew
and follows through to find its mark
Orion with a word,
persuades me to take a blind step in the dark;
a little further, just down this hill, he insists-
how could I refuse?
A rhythmic pattern undisturbed
the echo lost in time
bullets of sweat drip down,
my burning eyes soul search
the stern silhouettes of passersby’s
The rocking breeze seethes some more
and it follows through to find its mark,
Orion swallows the dusk, and thrusts his
fucking dagger straight through my heart
It renders me in the nick of time
more than ever
alive,
and at last able to take
my loved ones lent hands
This was for the best,
as the only thing I had left
for them to find after my death,
was just a small note to say
that I’d been buried at sunset.
I know you've seen her eyes
twisted in our most natural mirror;
to observe her reflection there
is to see through our life so much clearer
Do you greet her with a smile?
as her body is mangled to your horror
will she think back for a while,
before her puke hits the bowl’s water?
Stranded by
a darkened night’s embrace
nothing stands between the road
and my pounding feet
Up high in my mind’s sky I reach
with pulsing fingers of thoughts outstretched
a melody made of tangled stars
freely unsealed from my lips,
humming ugly untold truths
A rhythmic pattern undisturbed
the echo lost in time
bullets of sweat drip down,
my burning eyes soul search
the stern silhouettes of passersby’s
Feeling
as if everything and nothing matters
my heart races
in synchrony with the tick of my watch
I’ve got nowhere to be
but everywhere to get to
Nothing to stop me,
shielded from grease glazed billboards
hushed comments in the halls,
a shriveled salad’s stare
scaled numbers dropping
and my husband’s averted glances.
A loose sweater and runners soon thrown on
again brings us to circling thoughts:
nothing to stop me
until the moment
dawn breaks
My mind’s of steel,
but when the sun shines out
daily hassles devour me
and the night’s peaceful space
fills up again
Weighing
too much to bear
it sits on
my frail shoulders,
unmovable
Until dusk’s
calling back out to me
my friend’s concerns I ignored.
One last race, it tells me
Its gentle whisper turns into hated roars
gentle whisper turns most to the most
feared and hated roars
a rocking breeze begins to brew
and follows through to find its mark
Orion with a word,
persuades me to take a blind step in the dark;
a little further, just down this hill, he insists-
how could I refuse?
A rhythmic pattern undisturbed
the echo lost in time
bullets of sweat drip down,
my burning eyes soul search
the stern silhouettes of passersby’s
The rocking breeze seethes some more
and it follows through to find its mark,
Orion swallows the dusk, and thrusts his
fucking dagger straight through my heart
It renders me in the nick of time
more than ever
alive,
and at last able to take
my loved ones lent hands
This was for the best,
as the only thing I had left
for them to find after my death,
was just a small note to say
that I’d been buried at sunset.
The Dough of Life
(written on September 20th 2009)
“Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise”.
- Still I rise, Maya Angelou
Millions of centuries old,
bottom-rung pittance to the fool
but food of the Gods to the poor;
a recipe whose main ingredient is faith,
grown until tall in breezy fields, and
present every step of the run.
it’s kneaded in every niche of the world,
and is introduced shortly after birth,
as unwavering golden sums,
Just like moons and like suns.
A sustenance best served warm and with love,
rooted at the core of many cultures,
an antidote to hunger and revenge,
a fresh scented start to a day,
risen from lively ashes-
a nurturer's creation built with pride
it emerges with crust on all sides,
the greatness within waiting to be
an ally through thorns, that guides
With the certainty of tides.
Existent in many forms,
rolled, sliced, or bundled-
but nonetheless carried throughout the day,
a promise that my feet must keep going,
each step illuminates the next; into a moral quest-
and as a reckless constellation’s star in the night’s sigh,
I try to elucidate why some people will kill for more,
while others are happy to have only its crumbs;
the path of a colorful kite in the sky
is just like one’s hopes springing high.
In solitude I lit the past with tomorrow’s fuel,
and with it I lit my wildest grains of dreams,
horses rush freely,
into a vast universe of half-chances.
while valiantly testing the limits of unfeasibility,
tears occasionally wipe pain from my profile,
but never strength from my heart,
I think to myself before I lie.
just like yeast in the batter of life-
Still I'll rise.
“Just like moons and like suns,
With the certainty of tides,
Just like hopes springing high,
Still I'll rise”.
- Still I rise, Maya Angelou
Millions of centuries old,
bottom-rung pittance to the fool
but food of the Gods to the poor;
a recipe whose main ingredient is faith,
grown until tall in breezy fields, and
present every step of the run.
it’s kneaded in every niche of the world,
and is introduced shortly after birth,
as unwavering golden sums,
Just like moons and like suns.
A sustenance best served warm and with love,
rooted at the core of many cultures,
an antidote to hunger and revenge,
a fresh scented start to a day,
risen from lively ashes-
a nurturer's creation built with pride
it emerges with crust on all sides,
the greatness within waiting to be
an ally through thorns, that guides
With the certainty of tides.
Existent in many forms,
rolled, sliced, or bundled-
but nonetheless carried throughout the day,
a promise that my feet must keep going,
each step illuminates the next; into a moral quest-
and as a reckless constellation’s star in the night’s sigh,
I try to elucidate why some people will kill for more,
while others are happy to have only its crumbs;
the path of a colorful kite in the sky
is just like one’s hopes springing high.
In solitude I lit the past with tomorrow’s fuel,
and with it I lit my wildest grains of dreams,
horses rush freely,
into a vast universe of half-chances.
while valiantly testing the limits of unfeasibility,
tears occasionally wipe pain from my profile,
but never strength from my heart,
I think to myself before I lie.
just like yeast in the batter of life-
Still I'll rise.
The Diary
The Diary ( written on Dec 8th 2009)
Clumsily strewn on a page, are
the words of my first journal
Entry.
a sentinel waved me through,
the gate of heightened
living.
Leaves of paper roses
awaken by my pen’s irrigation
felt-embedded musical notes,
that wildly rip through silence
just like a child’s carefree laughter,
echoing from a nearby playground.
Seated in a desert garden with
the sun’s warmth on my neck,
as sand is to glass, through careful revision,
my gritty parchment thoughts born of dark ink sputters,
helped me see clearly.
at the terminal of a bound book,
arrival of my mind.
Flipping through the catalogue that is my head
nomadic words traveled around the world.
moved to another place-
by them,
a tempestuous deluge of ideas at sea,
who resemble a stray creature starved for more.
Writing is the punctuation
of our fast-lane lived lives,
and as I began to welcome
my arsenal of sewed opportunities,
letters became the bridges to my heart.
A reflection of a road’s crackled pavement-
yet a treasure hunt
with no certain destination.
Eastings that softly fall off the map,
each line, a new Spring’s unearthing.
Syllables linked together,
their own flowing embrace.
into lofty air-
majestic white birds fly,
whispers of forming words, alive in my ears-
tamed bulls, teased by a handkerchief.
It’s then that I discovered,
a great deep beauty,
called my-
Imagination.
Clumsily strewn on a page, are
the words of my first journal
Entry.
a sentinel waved me through,
the gate of heightened
living.
Leaves of paper roses
awaken by my pen’s irrigation
felt-embedded musical notes,
that wildly rip through silence
just like a child’s carefree laughter,
echoing from a nearby playground.
Seated in a desert garden with
the sun’s warmth on my neck,
as sand is to glass, through careful revision,
my gritty parchment thoughts born of dark ink sputters,
helped me see clearly.
at the terminal of a bound book,
arrival of my mind.
Flipping through the catalogue that is my head
nomadic words traveled around the world.
moved to another place-
by them,
a tempestuous deluge of ideas at sea,
who resemble a stray creature starved for more.
Writing is the punctuation
of our fast-lane lived lives,
and as I began to welcome
my arsenal of sewed opportunities,
letters became the bridges to my heart.
A reflection of a road’s crackled pavement-
yet a treasure hunt
with no certain destination.
Eastings that softly fall off the map,
each line, a new Spring’s unearthing.
Syllables linked together,
their own flowing embrace.
into lofty air-
majestic white birds fly,
whispers of forming words, alive in my ears-
tamed bulls, teased by a handkerchief.
It’s then that I discovered,
a great deep beauty,
called my-
Imagination.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
