"I want to marry all of my close friends,
And live in a big house together by an angry sea."

It Snowed Today.

Today, It snowed. First snow of the year. November 6, 2006.
And winter begins again....

Alright, so it has obviously been a very long time since talk like a pirate day. I could pretend I've had an eventful and thrilling month, but in all honesty it's been pretty much like every other month of the school year. Except for some splendiferous concerts. Jon-Rae and the river last Saturday, how do I even begin. In fact, the concert was too fabulous to talk about so I'm just going to say that it's in my top 5 George's nights of all time. It was that good.

And now on to Halloween. The traditional Fine-arts Halloween dance party. The social event of the Sackville year. This year the concert was by Gary Flanagan (the one man alive who could convince me to have children), the Bicycles, and Les Adorables. I actually had a costume this year too, for this first time since 12th grade! I went dressed as (hold your breath all of you Sackvillians, the rest of you, however, won't find this entertaining at all) THE WATERFOWL PARK! I must admit I had a blast thinking of it, putting it together, and showing it off. Except for those silly people who thought I was a bathtub (due to the proliferation of rubberduckies on my person) most people were pretty receptive to the idea. And the best part was, the costume was dancible. I am STILL sore from over 3 hours of continuous dancing... and it is Tuesday.

Not much else left for today, I have a couple nasty essays that are looking at me seductively and whispering for me to "come-hither." I wouldn't like to disappoint.

Arrrrr

Today, September 19, is International Talk Like a Pirate day. Aye, it be a good day says I.

School, and Beer, and Concerts

September, The month of school. I forgot just how much I resented feeling like every moment I'm sitting down and not doing anything I should technically be reading something... anything. It's been a week and a half, and I'm actually getting back into the swing of things which is quite comforting, as I thought I would be wandering around lost and forgetting to go to classes. As it stands, Ducky's and George's Fabulous Roadhouse have been my constant refuge. There have been plenty of shows and malt liquor to help me forget that I'm expected to learn for the next 8 months. But town is busy, my friends are back, I've seen Cuff the Duke and Shotgun and Jaybird, I've donated plenty of money to the estate of Alexander Keith, Film Society has started, and The Acorn is playing next month. I'm sure I'll survive. Oh yes... and I have all that reading to keep me occupied.

Bouquets of Sharpened Pencils

Today is August 28. In 4 days it will be September. In 9 days I will be back in classes. I haven't decided how I feel about that. But that doesn't really matter, because school will start and I will go to school no matter how I feel... The gods of academia don't give a damn about my personal preferences. They are vengeful gods. The real problem here is that my sleepy little town becomes daily less sleepy. It's strange, because I bitch and bitch all summer that there is no one around, but then they come back and make Ducky's and Bridge St. And campus all busy. Hmmm... Maybe I can prevent the return of all but about 10 people. That would really improve my year. I can truly see myself in a future as a hermit.

The Thumbs are NOT Green

I claim daily that I am not maternal. I'm not. Anyone who's seen me anywhere near a small child can attest to this; I'm impossibly awkward. Yet, there are many times in which my apparently non-existent maternal instincts kick in. The conversations with my dog, Digby, are one of these situations. But it is almost worse when it comes to the plants in my bedroom.

Today I re-potted Calvin and Penelope-the-Potted-Plant-II (Penelope-the-Potted-Plant having left this world for the next some years earlier). They were Desparate, though! Their little roots were coming through the pots. Calvin was a gift and managed to flourish and grow when I left him here for the two months I was in Saskatchewan. Penelope II was the first plant that I ever managed to keep alive. I am so paranoid that I may have killed both of them in the re-potting escapade that I know I'll lose sleep over it for the next few days. I am also plant-sitting for a good friend while he is away for the summer. His plants Doug, Douglett, Douglas, and Dougray (named by myself), are all fortunately alive... although somewhat worse for the wear. God knows why he would trust someone like me to care for their plants, knowing both my track record and and the personal strain that the responsibility of another life puts upon me. So here I sit, in wait, with my watering can and my tub of fertilizer in front of Trevor, Ivy, Calvin, Dougal, and Penelope II, and hope for their love, affection, and primarily, their good health.

Tiny Cities Made of Ashes

This weekend a large part of Sackville burned down; it was the last historic wooden building left downtown. An entire corner is now gone, at least three business destroyed, and 30 apartments reduced to rubble. It's an interesting walk into town now, with brick walls visible that were previously hidden and the charred outsides of the remaining structure. It wasn't all lost, though. Ducky's and Joey's, plus a few others are still standing.

I've always said that anthropology has ruined my life, it finds its way in everywhere. This is one of those times. Place. Place, in anthropology, is never as simple as a location. Places are always given meaning beyond geography or structure. The burned building in Sackville is one of those places, and had anything else been lost I think the entire nature and meaning of Sackville would have changed forever. Ducky's isn't simply a dirty bar, and Joey's has enough memories of family, friends, and first dates to make it more than a pizza place. It may be silly, but I would put more personal significance in Ducky's than I would in the entire campus of Mount Allison. Places only hold the meaning we imbue them with.

I guess Sackville is home then. I feel the loss of it's history, it's appearance, and it business too much for this to just be a stopping place for me. I guess I've put more of myself into this town that I liked to admit. Strange what a fire and a rundown pub can make one realize...

SappyFest Rocked my Weekend!

This weekend millions (Um... Maybe an exaggeration, but when you live in a town of 3000 any extra people seem like millions) of people descended upon Sackville for the Sappy Records independent music festival. Millions of people who for the most part all looked exactly the same - which is not necessarily my point here but will tell you something about the typical sackville resident and Sappy listener - were wandering around, going to shows, and drinking coffee. It's an unusual occurrence to see entirely unfamiliar people in town (despite predictable fashion taste), and I'm not going to lie, it made me slightly nervous. But the people are not necessarily the point either. The point is the music. It was fabulous. The shows were informal, laid back, and, well, wonderful. There is something very exciting about seeing your favourite singer (Ahhhem, Chad vanGaalen) just wandering around in your home town and talking to people you know. It's one of the plus sides about having a favourite singer who just happens to be best friends with your local musical celebrities. It made my little teeny town seem just a little bit more exciting for three whole days. That and the dancing, of course... And oh, there was dancing.

There was music coming from somewhere all weekend, barbecues, beer, art sales, and general festivities. Despite my exhaustion Saturday night's show was incredible. I finally saw B.A. Johnson and Windom Earle who I had heard so much about but never listened to. Um, dancing. Have I mentioned dancing? Let me just say that Windom Earle was MADE for dancing... Even for dancing up a slightly spastic storm right next to your professor/boss. And then there was Shotgun and Jaybird who played their usual, but always fun, set. And of course Chad vanGaalen, who played one of the best sets I've ever seen him play. It was one of the best live shows I've ever seen and I just wish that all of my friends could have been there to share the...Well, the dancing. And of course heard the splendid music. Then maybe some of them would know who I was talking about when I told them stories about my favourie bands....

I'm Not a Doctor, But I Play One on TV

I have a friend who is about to start medical school. She's almost a year younger than I am. This frightens me despite the fact that I am overwhelmingly happy for her. And I'm by no means frightened about her capabilities as a doctor, more so about my own inability to ever accomplish anything that takes that kind of determination.

In class during our first year of university we used to talk in pirate voices. We discussed the uselessness of conjugating French verbs while using phrases like "arrrgh matey" and "abandon ship." I realized when I heard her wonderful news last week that she must have been bringing the conversation down to a level I'd understand. Boy, don't I feel silly now.

Maybe I'm not entirely immature. I mean I almost always remember to water my plants and the door usually gets locked when I leave the house, but you'd have to be a fool to put your life in my hands. I'm determining, through my medical musings, that maturity must not come with age. I think it has to be some sort of genetic thing. I have a hard enough time going to three classes in a day and writing a paper at night let alone devoting my entire life to my own education. And a practical sort of education at that. No thank you. I will continue to be a pirate, skip classes and wallow in the world of liberal arts. But at least I know that there are people my own age who are actually capable of functioning in society and who will treat my ailments even if I describe my symptoms in the manner of Bluebeard.

Testament to my Nose

Just a reminder
of what I looked
like before we
forget forever

10 months can definitely alter how you think, what you recognize, and what you consider to be the normal (and preferred) version of your face. I took my nose ring out today. I hadn't had it in for even a year, but it had definitely become a permanent part of my appearance. It took a surprising amount of courage to take it out (yes, yes, anyone who had seen me over the past week knew how unpleasant it looked, and that it obviously had a vendetta against me inspiring it to grow that giant infected lump AGAIN). I think, like my last post, this can all come down to vanity. Vanity before health, and vanity before pain. haha, not that the same vanity didn't inspire me to take it out and rid myself of the giant red spot... which is still there, and actually much worse. Damn it, I liked my nose ring. I had become accustomed to seeing it there every time I looked in the mirror. It was actually a part of my face. It also took a lot of bravery and inspiration to convince me to get it pierced in the first place. So maybe I've lost something that meant something to me. Something that I had come to recognize as an element of myself. Or, maybe I'm just pissed off that it cost $60 to have it pierced, and that it hurt like Fuck to take it out.

Oscar and Shopping

"We live in an age when unnecessary things are our only necessities"
- Oscar Wilde

I have been thinking today about something my friend Jillian (an incredible yet highly unexpected source of insight) said about, well, consumerism: "I feel happier when I have pretty things" (this is possibly a female conclusion, the other half of the population may have to bear with me here), "and I get sad when I lose them. They just make me happy."

This is not a difficult concept for me to relate to; one only has to look my closet, jewelry box, or CD collection to know that this is very much the truth. But, does this necessarily make me vain? Does it make me an incurable consumer? Or, am I just trying to have the things I think will make me feel more like myself and appear more like myself to those who see me. All of this deep and philosophical thought was brought on by today's attempt to purchase a new pair of glasses. I wear glasses. I wear glasses everyday (not all day, but for quite a bit of it). Is it purely vanity that I want a new pair of glasses simply because I think they will look better than the ones I have (which, by the way, still work and fit fine), or, will having red glasses actually make me happier? I think that they will. This may be a specious conclusion based on Jillian's VERY vague evidence, but hey, I know what I'm trying to convince myself of. I think that every morning when I woke up and put on my new red glasses I would have a little flash of happiness. But, is that happiness enough to justify an entirely frivolous purchase of over $300? This is where my dear friend Oscar comes in. Mr. Wilde has written the above quote to persuade people like me that there is nothing wrong with being frivolous. In fact, I don't think there is a bit of dialogue in any of his plays that is NOT completely frivolous (however they do contain a lot more social insight than I really feel like writing about right now, as this is about ME, not Oscar). So, if we believe that I will actually be a happier person if I spend money and fill my life with things that I like, I should feel no buyers remorse and proceed to buy gas drive back to Moncton and buy my very sexy red glasses. However if we disagree, I should shut my mouth, save my money, and think more along the lines of my hero Friedrich Engels.
Am I simply perpetuating a fruitless capitalist glasses-buying cycle?

Political Philosophers Battle to the Death: Machiavelli vs. Engels

My dear friend and fellow student of politics Mark has recently called me "lame" because my blog is about, well, nothing. In honour of Mark I am going to write just a little about two of our favourite politicos, Nicolo Machiavelli and Friedrich Engles.

Mark is a staunch follower of Machiavelli, although I cannot determine why. I see very few similarities between a theorist who advocates violence, force, absolutism, oppression of the citizenry, and propaganda and my friend. Yet, there is one possibility: logic. Machiavelli proposes the most logical, most expedient, and most direct route to power. He is a proponent of the swiftest possible means to an end. And although I do not agree that destroying a population is the most morally sound way to commandeer their lands, or that allowing the population to legally and publicly kill the ambitious is an ethical way to prevent murder and crime, both work. Both work quickly. Both work well. At work today I was reading an article equating the logic and ethical principles portrayed in The Sopranos to the principles and theories listed in Machiavelli's The Prince. No one says that the Mafia is a good institution but hey, they get the job done, they get it done right, and they get it done fast; it's worked for centuries. Machiavelli must be on to something. So, Mark, although I do not believe that you are morally reprehensible, or even the slightest bit Machiavellian, I understand and appreciate your respect.

My love for Friedrich Engles exists on another plane entirely. I root for the underdog. I have a tendency to see those who have been ignored and try to give them some recognition - My favourite holiday is Groundhog Day. I feel that Engels has existed in the shadow of Karl Marx for long enough. This is not to say that I do not respect his politics. While I am not technically a socialist, I understand the principles behind the theory and do believe that they hold great potential for improving the state of the world's populations. However, strict socialism goes against most of the instincts of humankind and while it works in theory history shows that it rarely succeeds in practice

A little ditty

This one is pretty old-school. I thought it was pretty funny, though, so I am going to post it and open myself to vast amounts of mockery. Hell, what else are these things for. I believe this one was once part of a song, but I forget how it went.

Apparently Canadian Accents are Sexy/ What I've Given Up

A little bit of Mystery
A little bit of flirt
Just a little bit
of a too little shirt.
A little bit of who
A little bit of when
A little extra comfort
'Cause I won't see you again.
A little bit of no one knows
Even more of I won't tell
And an awkward night with all your friends
We never hid it well.

Little Miss Popular...

70 people have looked at my profile and read my silly online journal. Who are you? Let's solve this mystery once and for all.

"I'm Gonna' Quit These Rambling Ways"

(this works best if read while listening to "Don't Think Twice" by Bob Dylan)

I have become very fickle in what I consider "home." While watching a band from my town play in another city this weekend I became a proud Sackvillian - glad that I knew the words to the songs, that I knew the band members, and that I got the jokes about life in Sackville that the rest of the audience didn't understand. Yet, when I am in Sackville there is very little sense of "home" here for me. Yes, it is where my family lives (well... My parents anyway) and where my house is, but it is not where I find most of my friends, any history, or any sense of my identity. I have been rather nomadic for most of my life, and have always had difficulty with the concept of "home." In all of the traveling I have done I have visited places in which I have felt more at home than anywhere I have ever lived. On the other hand, I visit Halifax and feel at home in a city where I haven't lived for 10 years - yet I felt no sense of permanence when I did live there. I have heard people speak of the concept of a "spiritual home" which is a little bit out-there for my usual tastes, but it is actually something I can relate to very well. So while I root-on Sackville musicians, cheer when a Saskatoon sports team wins, and am proud to show any of my friends around Halifax, these are not the places where I want to spend my life. Look for me in Edinburgh.

Poetic Phobias...

(To be read as a recitation to small school children)

The Monster that Ate Sackville
A-A-Ahem

I see them everywhere I go
Parading down the street;
Obsequious rubber rainbows
On other people's feet.
Without a thought for style or taste,
In hole-filled shoes they walk;
One day will all of Sackville
Be a victim of the Croc?

Sackville in the Summertime

ENNUI. Always one of my favourite words, which I am only now beginning to grasp the meaning of. Something that is not quite boredom; it is less immediate than boredom. It is a general disillusionment with daily life. A constant feeling of "been there, done that" that can plague the kind of quiet day that we all wish for at other times of the year. Three weeks in a small town in summer provides the perfect image of ennui. Come September I will be thrilled to have any day in which my biggest plans involve walking for a coffee and sitting for two hours in the sun. Yet today, this idea hits me with the sense that a little bit of stress, or speed, or drama is necessary to keep me going, and to keep me interested. As much as Bridge St. will always provide me with coffee and conversation, and that a quiet walk is guaranteed to put me in a good mood, I have begun to avoid my favourite school-year pastimes of relaxation. I am creating for myself the elements of drama and conflict that are such constants for me in situations where they are not present. The part of me that remembers Saskatoon and the exaggerated importance of the smallest events has spoiled me for complicated experiences. I realize (with the most logical and reasonable part of me... which does not always receive the most attention) that I should be perfectly content with this month of respite from stress and action. I should treasure spending my days working and writing and sitting before I have to deal with all of the other people and activities who will eventually and undoubtedly demand my time. Yet I also feel like I am missing out. I am missing out on the kind of social contact that keeps me sane throughout most of the year. But for now I will continue to remind myself that slow can be good, that I don't always need drama to survive, and come November I will be glad for even three hours spent as I have spent this week, let alone an entire day.

Slanted

I should begin this with a warning, Occasionally very bad poetry will be posted. Most of these are pretty old; I recently found them in a journal in my bedside table. I thought I'd get them out in the fresh air and see if they improve with the new perspective.

Slanted

It's amazing what sharing a bed
Leads one to realize
About a foundering relationship
Sleeping with you,
Your mass
In the centre of the bed
Made me roll closer.
When you moved away
(When, not if)
I still rolled;
Making myself uncomfortable
Trying to resist
Lying awake on my slant
Thinking of ways to keep my distance.
Neither of us wanting to meet in the middle,
Both victims of your gravity
Your bed became the perfect metaphor
Of an imperfect balance,
Of typical,
One-sided love.

The Beginning

In considering the thought of starting a blog I realized the three ideas, or possibly fears, that made this a rather daunting process for me. One, which is the most likely scenario, is that no one will read anything I write here and that that my attempts at recognition and permanence will useless. The second is the exact opposite, that my words will be read; automatically opening myself to the judgment and criticism of others. My final worry is that of my thoughts and musings becoming permanent. The words that I write here will be permanent. They will last long after I have forgotten them and long after the emotions that inspired them have passed. But, In my own vanity, I will continue - and be constantly curious about whether I am still as anonymous as I believe myself to be.