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.