Myself and S. are watching all million hours of the Lord of the Rings trilogy in preparation of body and mind for going to see the Hobbit. We started the Two Towers today and I remarked:
"Gandalf is kind of the king of badasses, isn't he?"
S: "He's more of a battle mage than a wizard though."
It's heartening that we speak the same language.
16 December 2012
30 October 2012
Flying Is Never Really Boring. (at least for me.)
So I figured, a month later, that it might be time to regale you with the tale of my latest travel adventure.
You see, I had spent the summer back in Canada. I had gone to my Uncle's wedding at the beginning of June and I also took a summer job back at a department store.
But all of that is meaningless to this story. The point is to set the stage. By the end of the summer I was very eager to get back to my boyfriend and to England. It's strange having your heart and mind divided over two separate continents. You're never fully intact no matter where you are.
So I started watching prices for airline tickets. And thank you England Olympics 2012, you made that so excellent for me. Prices were over 3 times as much as the previous year, sometimes even more than that. Panic set in around my heart as day after day I scanned all the bargain sites, each wanting 4 digits or more for a one way ticket. Yes, or more. Not even for business class. I'm not sure how that works, are people actually shelling money out like that for something that is usually a quarter the price? Wackos.
So eventually I spotted one that was only a a couple hundred more than last year's one way ticket and pounced. I didn't think it was going to get any better than that. And I was right. The price went back up a few hours after I bought it. Phew.
This ticket alleged that I would have on 3 and a halfish hour stopover in Frankfurt and I was actually pretty okay with that. I was on my way, I had a date, I marked my calendar.
My Mother and sister were lovely and came with me to Vancouver and we had a really nice day before they took me to the airport. I was secretly glad that they came with me though I was just as prepared to say adieu at the ferry terminal to save them hassle.
The gateway by the cafeteria has always been a place of tears for me, whether I'm going or someone else is going. We group hugged, cried and I sped off before I needed SERIOUS tissues. Okay. So at this point it was pretty normal. I updated my BF about my whereabouts and estimated time of departure and settled in with my kindle.
Oh yeah! I was flying on a German airline, so everything was in German and everyone (nearly) around me was German. I watched, with great interest, as someone beside me in the waiting room got up and purchased an iPad from a vending machine. Imagine if that jammed? No thank you. I like my expensive retailing to be done in person thankyouverymuchsir.
Anyway, we got onto the airplane and I inwardly cringed to see that it was not a plane which had individual tv console thingies in the headrest in front of you. It had about 4 TVs hanging from the ceiling of the aisles and from my window seat, I couldn't see the top half of it. Which was okay because they showed This Means War and Mirror Mirror in German.
This was likely the first time I've ever had a lovely stranger sit next to me. (highlights have been a Spanish man with little english showing me half clad photos of his girlfriend(s?) on his phone and another man that slept with his head on my shoulder and cried out in his sleep if I moved.) She was a Polish Canadian woman and she was very interested in my life story. She worriedly asked me, having found out I went to art school, if I thought she had done her daughter a disservice by pushing her away from the arts she loved and towards Sciences in school. I...didn't really know what to say.
It was at this point that an announcement came on (in German) and EVERYONE started talking (in German) very excitedly. I don't know if I need to express that THIS WAS VERY WORRYING. Then everyone started pressing their faces to the windows on my side of the plane and I actually thought, "There's something on the wing!". But there wasn't, so breathe. Instead I was so lucky to be able to see a green streak dancing across the sky and reflecting off the clouds below us. This was the second time I'd seen the Northern Lights, but seeing it from an airplane was very exciting.
I got my camera out and prayed that I would be able to fully capture what it was I was seeing. It's very difficult to get a photo of a low light subject through double paned windows, as you just get the reflection on the outer glass of what is behind you. So I put my jacket over my head like I was an old-timey sort of photographer (thinking at the northern lights, "Look at the biiiirdie!") to block all the excess light and I got a couple fairly okay photographs of an unearthly greenish smudge on a black background. I was beyond excited. ("I'm like a real photographer!")
We landed in Frankfurt on time and I excitedly got up and gathered my things. This was when I heard an announcement (in German) in which the word "Manchester" popped up. This was my next destination so I froze. Um. I walked by the (my brain wanted me to write plane-mistress here, I don't know why. Maybe cos she was German. And intimidating.) flight attendant and timidly asked her what the announcement had said about Manchester. She narrowed her eyes at me, puffed out her cheeks in exasperation and just pointed out the plane door where this very excited looking man was anxiously gripping a clipboard. Next to him was a bicycle. With another glance at the attendant, I walked over to the man and asked him if there was a change to the stopover to Manchester. He nodded at me but it was very clear that he wasn't listening to what I was saying. So I just stood there and looked at him. After a moment he looked back at me. I looked at him. He looked at me. He cleared his throat. I scratched my wrist. I don't know why. It wasn't even itchy. But it was awkward. So awkward.
He turned away from me and shouted into the plane, "IF DERR IS ANYONE GOINK TO MANCHESTER, SEE ME PLEASE." and immediately about 6 people slunk up to him. So I slunk too.
He glanced over at me and said, "I vill help you in a minute please miss."
I said clearly, "I think I'm on your clipboard there, I'm going to Manchester."
"OH!", said he. He looked down at his clipboard. "Oh yes, you are being Miss Silvey?", correctly pronouncing my surname.
"Yes." quoth I.
"OH!" He boomed, "I am so so sorry, I was misunderstanding you."
He looked around, counting the people in front of him with his finger, shrugged his shoulders and grabbed the bike that was leaning against the wall. He swung his leg over it and took off down the hallway. About halfway down he stopped, looked back at us all confusedly looking 'round at each other, and called, "You are coming with me please, I will explain."
Very mysterious, this was. As one, me and my peeps walked at a fast clip after the German on a bicycle.
We walked for ages, and after a short while the German on a Bike was joined by a Second German on a Bike and they spoke hurriedly to each other in German whilst bumping into people with their bikes and parting a path in the crowd for the rest of us. (who were, by now, all sweating because we were jogging in an airport with all our bags after Two Germans on Bikes.)
We reached a desk in an abandoned hallway manned by two men behind (I assume) bulletproof glass. They held out their hand for our passports and stamped them and off we trotted once more. I was very confused and getting sort of panicky. The only other times I have my passport stamped is when I'm about to leave an airport to enter a city. Even that scary time when I stopped over in Beijing. (Another story, another time.)
Finally we reached a general space that had a food court. The Germans on Bikes parked their transports and finally explained that the flight from Frankfurt to Manchester had had an electrical failure of some sort so they had replaced the flight with a smaller plane and this meant that there wasn't room from the rest of us. He told us he needed our passports and half an hour to procure us another flight which would take us to Hamburg and then to Manchester, 3 hours later than originally planned. In apologies, they gave us all vouchers to use on food.
This would have been fine, but this whole area only had about a dozen seats for some reason. And they all had someone sleeping in them already.
Anyway, after this point it all proceeded uneventfully. I got to Hamburg, then to Manchester and took the train home from there. Where I slept for about a week.
It's all fun times and bicycles in hindsight.
You see, I had spent the summer back in Canada. I had gone to my Uncle's wedding at the beginning of June and I also took a summer job back at a department store.
But all of that is meaningless to this story. The point is to set the stage. By the end of the summer I was very eager to get back to my boyfriend and to England. It's strange having your heart and mind divided over two separate continents. You're never fully intact no matter where you are.
So I started watching prices for airline tickets. And thank you England Olympics 2012, you made that so excellent for me. Prices were over 3 times as much as the previous year, sometimes even more than that. Panic set in around my heart as day after day I scanned all the bargain sites, each wanting 4 digits or more for a one way ticket. Yes, or more. Not even for business class. I'm not sure how that works, are people actually shelling money out like that for something that is usually a quarter the price? Wackos.
So eventually I spotted one that was only a a couple hundred more than last year's one way ticket and pounced. I didn't think it was going to get any better than that. And I was right. The price went back up a few hours after I bought it. Phew.
This ticket alleged that I would have on 3 and a halfish hour stopover in Frankfurt and I was actually pretty okay with that. I was on my way, I had a date, I marked my calendar.
My Mother and sister were lovely and came with me to Vancouver and we had a really nice day before they took me to the airport. I was secretly glad that they came with me though I was just as prepared to say adieu at the ferry terminal to save them hassle.
The gateway by the cafeteria has always been a place of tears for me, whether I'm going or someone else is going. We group hugged, cried and I sped off before I needed SERIOUS tissues. Okay. So at this point it was pretty normal. I updated my BF about my whereabouts and estimated time of departure and settled in with my kindle.
Oh yeah! I was flying on a German airline, so everything was in German and everyone (nearly) around me was German. I watched, with great interest, as someone beside me in the waiting room got up and purchased an iPad from a vending machine. Imagine if that jammed? No thank you. I like my expensive retailing to be done in person thankyouverymuchsir.
Anyway, we got onto the airplane and I inwardly cringed to see that it was not a plane which had individual tv console thingies in the headrest in front of you. It had about 4 TVs hanging from the ceiling of the aisles and from my window seat, I couldn't see the top half of it. Which was okay because they showed This Means War and Mirror Mirror in German.
This was likely the first time I've ever had a lovely stranger sit next to me. (highlights have been a Spanish man with little english showing me half clad photos of his girlfriend(s?) on his phone and another man that slept with his head on my shoulder and cried out in his sleep if I moved.) She was a Polish Canadian woman and she was very interested in my life story. She worriedly asked me, having found out I went to art school, if I thought she had done her daughter a disservice by pushing her away from the arts she loved and towards Sciences in school. I...didn't really know what to say.
It was at this point that an announcement came on (in German) and EVERYONE started talking (in German) very excitedly. I don't know if I need to express that THIS WAS VERY WORRYING. Then everyone started pressing their faces to the windows on my side of the plane and I actually thought, "There's something on the wing!". But there wasn't, so breathe. Instead I was so lucky to be able to see a green streak dancing across the sky and reflecting off the clouds below us. This was the second time I'd seen the Northern Lights, but seeing it from an airplane was very exciting.
I got my camera out and prayed that I would be able to fully capture what it was I was seeing. It's very difficult to get a photo of a low light subject through double paned windows, as you just get the reflection on the outer glass of what is behind you. So I put my jacket over my head like I was an old-timey sort of photographer (thinking at the northern lights, "Look at the biiiirdie!") to block all the excess light and I got a couple fairly okay photographs of an unearthly greenish smudge on a black background. I was beyond excited. ("I'm like a real photographer!")
We landed in Frankfurt on time and I excitedly got up and gathered my things. This was when I heard an announcement (in German) in which the word "Manchester" popped up. This was my next destination so I froze. Um. I walked by the (my brain wanted me to write plane-mistress here, I don't know why. Maybe cos she was German. And intimidating.) flight attendant and timidly asked her what the announcement had said about Manchester. She narrowed her eyes at me, puffed out her cheeks in exasperation and just pointed out the plane door where this very excited looking man was anxiously gripping a clipboard. Next to him was a bicycle. With another glance at the attendant, I walked over to the man and asked him if there was a change to the stopover to Manchester. He nodded at me but it was very clear that he wasn't listening to what I was saying. So I just stood there and looked at him. After a moment he looked back at me. I looked at him. He looked at me. He cleared his throat. I scratched my wrist. I don't know why. It wasn't even itchy. But it was awkward. So awkward.
He turned away from me and shouted into the plane, "IF DERR IS ANYONE GOINK TO MANCHESTER, SEE ME PLEASE." and immediately about 6 people slunk up to him. So I slunk too.
He glanced over at me and said, "I vill help you in a minute please miss."
I said clearly, "I think I'm on your clipboard there, I'm going to Manchester."
"OH!", said he. He looked down at his clipboard. "Oh yes, you are being Miss Silvey?", correctly pronouncing my surname.
"Yes." quoth I.
"OH!" He boomed, "I am so so sorry, I was misunderstanding you."
He looked around, counting the people in front of him with his finger, shrugged his shoulders and grabbed the bike that was leaning against the wall. He swung his leg over it and took off down the hallway. About halfway down he stopped, looked back at us all confusedly looking 'round at each other, and called, "You are coming with me please, I will explain."
Very mysterious, this was. As one, me and my peeps walked at a fast clip after the German on a bicycle.
We walked for ages, and after a short while the German on a Bike was joined by a Second German on a Bike and they spoke hurriedly to each other in German whilst bumping into people with their bikes and parting a path in the crowd for the rest of us. (who were, by now, all sweating because we were jogging in an airport with all our bags after Two Germans on Bikes.)
We reached a desk in an abandoned hallway manned by two men behind (I assume) bulletproof glass. They held out their hand for our passports and stamped them and off we trotted once more. I was very confused and getting sort of panicky. The only other times I have my passport stamped is when I'm about to leave an airport to enter a city. Even that scary time when I stopped over in Beijing. (Another story, another time.)
Finally we reached a general space that had a food court. The Germans on Bikes parked their transports and finally explained that the flight from Frankfurt to Manchester had had an electrical failure of some sort so they had replaced the flight with a smaller plane and this meant that there wasn't room from the rest of us. He told us he needed our passports and half an hour to procure us another flight which would take us to Hamburg and then to Manchester, 3 hours later than originally planned. In apologies, they gave us all vouchers to use on food.
This would have been fine, but this whole area only had about a dozen seats for some reason. And they all had someone sleeping in them already.
Anyway, after this point it all proceeded uneventfully. I got to Hamburg, then to Manchester and took the train home from there. Where I slept for about a week.
It's all fun times and bicycles in hindsight.
12 May 2012
I Don't Drink. Really.
Don't get me wrong here, I really don't mind being around other people that drink. I'm not making any sort of judgemental stand here. Even back when I did have a few drinks I kind of liked it. I understand the appeal.
Thing is though, the appeal just isn't enough anymore.
I don't like the bad things it does to one's body, I don't like the way it makes me feel or act. I don't like not being in control of my actions or what I say. I hate the feeling after when I look back on what I said or did and how "ugh" I feel about it. Ashamed, I guess.
The only thing I really liked about alcohol was the sort of inclusion it afforded me. I generally stick out like a sore thumb in social gatherings. Having a drink in my hand sort of blended me in. And it also had the effect of making me more verbal. (I usually don't talk at all in social things)
It's interesting, now that I don't drink, how uncomfortable it seems to make people when I don't imbibe. Here in the UK, pub culture is a huge deal. It's tied into pretty much every social aspect of British life. If we go out to watch a match, it's in a pub. If we're meeting people for dinner, it's in a pub or we go to a pub after. The way it works is people take turns buying rounds for the group, that's just considered polite. I like it that way, really. It's very inclusive and generous in feeling.
Someone stands up and says, "what's everyone want?" and everyone rattles off their answers. "lager, lager, lager, ale, guinness, and..." and here they stop and look at me and at my BF, who is also teetotal, and we awkwardly go, "oh, nothing, we're okay." There's a look of confusion and they try again, "No, really though, what do you want?" We sort of just look at each other and go, "Um. Just a coke for me." "Lemonade for me please." If they're not used to us and our non drinking they sorta just blink and wander off in a daze like we just asked for them to please pee in a glass, that would be lovely thanks.
By the way, if you ask for lemonade here, you're gonna get something akin to 7up. I once spat back into my glass cos I just wasn't expecting fizz. I explained to my BF that real lemonade is basically sweetened lemon juice and he replied with this look of abject horror as he sputtered out, "WHY!?".
It's going to be interesting going back to Canada for the summer, not being a drinker. Some people think I stopped because my BF doesn't drink but that's sorta condescending. I honestly just don't feel the need anymore. When I did drink I didn't like it. If I could get a virgin bellini or caesar, I'd be all over that. It's just that I don't want to willingly take in something that's bad for my body, mind and self esteem. But if you enjoy it, then enjoy it. To each their own, eh?
Thing is though, the appeal just isn't enough anymore.
I don't like the bad things it does to one's body, I don't like the way it makes me feel or act. I don't like not being in control of my actions or what I say. I hate the feeling after when I look back on what I said or did and how "ugh" I feel about it. Ashamed, I guess.
The only thing I really liked about alcohol was the sort of inclusion it afforded me. I generally stick out like a sore thumb in social gatherings. Having a drink in my hand sort of blended me in. And it also had the effect of making me more verbal. (I usually don't talk at all in social things)
It's interesting, now that I don't drink, how uncomfortable it seems to make people when I don't imbibe. Here in the UK, pub culture is a huge deal. It's tied into pretty much every social aspect of British life. If we go out to watch a match, it's in a pub. If we're meeting people for dinner, it's in a pub or we go to a pub after. The way it works is people take turns buying rounds for the group, that's just considered polite. I like it that way, really. It's very inclusive and generous in feeling.
Someone stands up and says, "what's everyone want?" and everyone rattles off their answers. "lager, lager, lager, ale, guinness, and..." and here they stop and look at me and at my BF, who is also teetotal, and we awkwardly go, "oh, nothing, we're okay." There's a look of confusion and they try again, "No, really though, what do you want?" We sort of just look at each other and go, "Um. Just a coke for me." "Lemonade for me please." If they're not used to us and our non drinking they sorta just blink and wander off in a daze like we just asked for them to please pee in a glass, that would be lovely thanks.
By the way, if you ask for lemonade here, you're gonna get something akin to 7up. I once spat back into my glass cos I just wasn't expecting fizz. I explained to my BF that real lemonade is basically sweetened lemon juice and he replied with this look of abject horror as he sputtered out, "WHY!?".
It's going to be interesting going back to Canada for the summer, not being a drinker. Some people think I stopped because my BF doesn't drink but that's sorta condescending. I honestly just don't feel the need anymore. When I did drink I didn't like it. If I could get a virgin bellini or caesar, I'd be all over that. It's just that I don't want to willingly take in something that's bad for my body, mind and self esteem. But if you enjoy it, then enjoy it. To each their own, eh?
25 April 2012
Art School Confidential (For Reals)
So I've been having a lot of trouble lately, feeling sad about being so lost and without direction in my life. I keep catching myself looking back at my University days and feeling reeeeeally homesick for it.
But then I actually look past the hazy fond recollections and remember it was actually quite hard work and I wasn't really happy then either. A lot of this has to do with the fact that I was ALWAYS busy. I worked 30 hours a week and I did full time studies. Some days I was on Granville Island from 7:30 in the morning to 11:00 at night.
Oh, yeah, I guess I should put this into context. I went to art school. I started out at the local college and transferred into the university of my dreams. Or I thought it was. I fell into the same mental trap that a lot of people do. Art school is not that fun, everyone. It's full of self centred maniacs. And hipsters by the freaking dozen. Some of the conversations I look back on make me wince at the complete vacuousness.
When you're not IN art school, you think "wow, a chance and all those resources to create create create! You get a degree for doing something you love anyway!"
It really doesn't work like that.
When I moved to Vancouver and lived out on my own for the first time it was thrilling, exhilarating, amazing. I was and am totally in love with the city. I think that is the place where I have felt the most at home and a piece of my heart will always be a little sad that I'm not there. I think that most of my homesickness for my university days are actually just homesickness for being out and about in Vancouver.
Anyway. I was a transfer student, so I didn't do my foundation year there which meant that I was the new kid and I was pretty much an outsider the entire time I was there. I just couldn't seem to break into the cliques. I made one friend and that was in the end of the second to last year there, and it didn't end well.
It was actually pretty lonely. It's easy to forget about that. I had a job in a seafood wholesaler about 200 steps away from my uni. Both were in a high traffic tourist location in Vancouver, complete with panpipin' buskers. To this day the sound of pan pipes switches on the rage button in my head.
I HATE PAN PIPES.
So anyway. My major was in photography and for the most part I enjoyed learning how to utilise it. That's when we actually learned any technical skill. Art school focuses on the concepts behind art a lot. This is a lot more exhausting than you might think. The thing I point out to people that think art school is easy and I'm just frittering my time away is that art is all subjective. It's all about perception and one's personal reaction to it. That makes marking it REALLY hard.
In degrees that involve sciences and maths, there is a correct answer that one is able to reach. Do that, you get the grades.
In degrees that involve the arts, it's mostly down to how well you can articulate yourself (read: bullshit) and how well you execute your ideas. One could spend a whole year on one project and barely pass and one could spend on night on a project and get an A. I know, cos I've done both. It's easy to get B's and C's, it's pretty hard to get an A.
Art school begins with regimented and preconstructed projects. It's at this time that you're full of your own ideas and you're just bursting to follow them. You learn to reign that in and you try to stuff your own style into these projects that you're assigned. For instance, "In this project, you have to utilise these 4 elements of design and you have you use the colour green." or, "you have to successfully create an image that conveys the concept of inside/outside" or, "you have to build a giant item of clothing using things out of the scrap pile, you'll work in groups of 5 and in the end all your group mates have to fit inside the finished piece." All of those were real projects. It sounds stupid and it sounds easy. It's not. It really does end up stretching your mind in all sorts of ways. Because you have to come up with something that isn't stupid from something that sounds ridiculous. And you have to do it well.
I often had a hard time opening my mind in a way that wasn't a literal translation of the instructions. This made critiques hard for me because of all the eye rolling and scathing comments I had to endure.
The worst thing about art school are the critiques. You are assigned a project, you work on that project and then your class assembles and everyone talks about each other's work. Often it's just awkward cos no one cares or no one wants to say anything bad. Often it's just a waste of time. And just as often, I was completely bowled over by how much importance people would assign to such pointless efforts of time. But this is the nature of art. What is the point of it. Why is it important.
I'm going to give you an example.
One critique we held ended up being taken up by one project done by a student that had been at the uni for 6 years already. And all the professors loved this guy. He was completely in love with himself as well. (As all successful artists are.) So, this project. He had taken walks all around the city and he'd left his camera open. This means that there was nothing on the film, it was all burned away. It was as overexposed as it could be. But he then processed that film, exposed it to paper and developed that paper. The result was photo paper that was completely blank. He tacked these to the wall by the top two corners only, as the natural curve away from the wall made them sculptural as well.
We spent all 3 hours of the class talking about this. But maybe that means that this piece was a success. I suppose that's what makes a successful work, creating discourse. But I had this out of body experience where I was viewing all of this happening and I was thinking, "there are people out there doing things that actually matter, like saving lives or building cities and here we are giving the same amount to energy and concern to this."
I just don't have that essential element of narcissism that is required to be a 'successful' artist, and by that I mean one that is able to make a living from their work alone. One that has some renown in their field. Don't believe me? Listen to any artist talk about their work. If you really hate yourself, listen to Jeff Wall talk about his photographs or Tarantino talk about his films. I like and respect both of them for their work, but listening to them talk about it should be reserved for one of the circles of hell.
As you move on in art school, you reach a point where you are essentially given a blank canvas to do what you want. When you reach this point after so much time doing projects that were so structured, it's overwhelming. You blank out. It's almost terrifying. "what do I do?"
I don't think I ever got over that really. I still don't know what to do. By the time I had reached my final year of uni I was so burnt out from doing projects I didn't feel a connection to and listening to people prattle on about their process and their practice that I was entirely worn out. I didn't want to do it anymore. I was disillusioned from it. But at that point I had invested so much of my time, energy, money and emotion that it would be a waste not to finish it. At least, I told myself, if I changed my mind later I would have the degree. I'm glad I did.
Another aspect of the art institution is name dropping and networking. If you are good with people and good with rubbing shoulders, you're much more likely to do well. All of that is just so not me. I'm very introverted, self deprecating and I hate networking. I am not at all skilled with networking or selling myself to people. This is why job interviews dont' go well for me.
There is an aspect of ruthlessness that you need to be able to survive in the art world, and a skin much thicker than mine. You also need a very patient and understanding support network around you, one that will pop your ever expanding head when you need it.
It has been really difficult for me to get back my groove, art wise. I enjoy it. I love creating things, I love looking at what other people have done. I like to think about it. But sometimes when I am drawing, painting, photographing... that old feeling of exhaustion creeps back and kills it.
I have all this time on my hands, I know I should be using it. I"m going to give myself homework to do a little bit every day. I might try my hand at writing. I've come up with a children's book idea, I hope to write that out and draw for it somewhat soon.
In the meantime, I still look back on that time and I feel grateful for it. I feel that it helped me grow and it taught me a lot of things. But most of all, I miss the feeling of possibility.
I guess I have to work to get that back too. : )
But then I actually look past the hazy fond recollections and remember it was actually quite hard work and I wasn't really happy then either. A lot of this has to do with the fact that I was ALWAYS busy. I worked 30 hours a week and I did full time studies. Some days I was on Granville Island from 7:30 in the morning to 11:00 at night.
Oh, yeah, I guess I should put this into context. I went to art school. I started out at the local college and transferred into the university of my dreams. Or I thought it was. I fell into the same mental trap that a lot of people do. Art school is not that fun, everyone. It's full of self centred maniacs. And hipsters by the freaking dozen. Some of the conversations I look back on make me wince at the complete vacuousness.
When you're not IN art school, you think "wow, a chance and all those resources to create create create! You get a degree for doing something you love anyway!"
It really doesn't work like that.
When I moved to Vancouver and lived out on my own for the first time it was thrilling, exhilarating, amazing. I was and am totally in love with the city. I think that is the place where I have felt the most at home and a piece of my heart will always be a little sad that I'm not there. I think that most of my homesickness for my university days are actually just homesickness for being out and about in Vancouver.
Anyway. I was a transfer student, so I didn't do my foundation year there which meant that I was the new kid and I was pretty much an outsider the entire time I was there. I just couldn't seem to break into the cliques. I made one friend and that was in the end of the second to last year there, and it didn't end well.
It was actually pretty lonely. It's easy to forget about that. I had a job in a seafood wholesaler about 200 steps away from my uni. Both were in a high traffic tourist location in Vancouver, complete with panpipin' buskers. To this day the sound of pan pipes switches on the rage button in my head.
I HATE PAN PIPES.
So anyway. My major was in photography and for the most part I enjoyed learning how to utilise it. That's when we actually learned any technical skill. Art school focuses on the concepts behind art a lot. This is a lot more exhausting than you might think. The thing I point out to people that think art school is easy and I'm just frittering my time away is that art is all subjective. It's all about perception and one's personal reaction to it. That makes marking it REALLY hard.
In degrees that involve sciences and maths, there is a correct answer that one is able to reach. Do that, you get the grades.
In degrees that involve the arts, it's mostly down to how well you can articulate yourself (read: bullshit) and how well you execute your ideas. One could spend a whole year on one project and barely pass and one could spend on night on a project and get an A. I know, cos I've done both. It's easy to get B's and C's, it's pretty hard to get an A.
Art school begins with regimented and preconstructed projects. It's at this time that you're full of your own ideas and you're just bursting to follow them. You learn to reign that in and you try to stuff your own style into these projects that you're assigned. For instance, "In this project, you have to utilise these 4 elements of design and you have you use the colour green." or, "you have to successfully create an image that conveys the concept of inside/outside" or, "you have to build a giant item of clothing using things out of the scrap pile, you'll work in groups of 5 and in the end all your group mates have to fit inside the finished piece." All of those were real projects. It sounds stupid and it sounds easy. It's not. It really does end up stretching your mind in all sorts of ways. Because you have to come up with something that isn't stupid from something that sounds ridiculous. And you have to do it well.
I often had a hard time opening my mind in a way that wasn't a literal translation of the instructions. This made critiques hard for me because of all the eye rolling and scathing comments I had to endure.
The worst thing about art school are the critiques. You are assigned a project, you work on that project and then your class assembles and everyone talks about each other's work. Often it's just awkward cos no one cares or no one wants to say anything bad. Often it's just a waste of time. And just as often, I was completely bowled over by how much importance people would assign to such pointless efforts of time. But this is the nature of art. What is the point of it. Why is it important.
I'm going to give you an example.
One critique we held ended up being taken up by one project done by a student that had been at the uni for 6 years already. And all the professors loved this guy. He was completely in love with himself as well. (As all successful artists are.) So, this project. He had taken walks all around the city and he'd left his camera open. This means that there was nothing on the film, it was all burned away. It was as overexposed as it could be. But he then processed that film, exposed it to paper and developed that paper. The result was photo paper that was completely blank. He tacked these to the wall by the top two corners only, as the natural curve away from the wall made them sculptural as well.
We spent all 3 hours of the class talking about this. But maybe that means that this piece was a success. I suppose that's what makes a successful work, creating discourse. But I had this out of body experience where I was viewing all of this happening and I was thinking, "there are people out there doing things that actually matter, like saving lives or building cities and here we are giving the same amount to energy and concern to this."
I just don't have that essential element of narcissism that is required to be a 'successful' artist, and by that I mean one that is able to make a living from their work alone. One that has some renown in their field. Don't believe me? Listen to any artist talk about their work. If you really hate yourself, listen to Jeff Wall talk about his photographs or Tarantino talk about his films. I like and respect both of them for their work, but listening to them talk about it should be reserved for one of the circles of hell.
As you move on in art school, you reach a point where you are essentially given a blank canvas to do what you want. When you reach this point after so much time doing projects that were so structured, it's overwhelming. You blank out. It's almost terrifying. "what do I do?"
I don't think I ever got over that really. I still don't know what to do. By the time I had reached my final year of uni I was so burnt out from doing projects I didn't feel a connection to and listening to people prattle on about their process and their practice that I was entirely worn out. I didn't want to do it anymore. I was disillusioned from it. But at that point I had invested so much of my time, energy, money and emotion that it would be a waste not to finish it. At least, I told myself, if I changed my mind later I would have the degree. I'm glad I did.
Another aspect of the art institution is name dropping and networking. If you are good with people and good with rubbing shoulders, you're much more likely to do well. All of that is just so not me. I'm very introverted, self deprecating and I hate networking. I am not at all skilled with networking or selling myself to people. This is why job interviews dont' go well for me.
There is an aspect of ruthlessness that you need to be able to survive in the art world, and a skin much thicker than mine. You also need a very patient and understanding support network around you, one that will pop your ever expanding head when you need it.
It has been really difficult for me to get back my groove, art wise. I enjoy it. I love creating things, I love looking at what other people have done. I like to think about it. But sometimes when I am drawing, painting, photographing... that old feeling of exhaustion creeps back and kills it.
I have all this time on my hands, I know I should be using it. I"m going to give myself homework to do a little bit every day. I might try my hand at writing. I've come up with a children's book idea, I hope to write that out and draw for it somewhat soon.
In the meantime, I still look back on that time and I feel grateful for it. I feel that it helped me grow and it taught me a lot of things. But most of all, I miss the feeling of possibility.
I guess I have to work to get that back too. : )
24 April 2012
Sorry, I'm Not That Great (with keeping in touch)
Anyone I left back in the home country will know this. I tend to just let myself fade out.
But I'm gonna be better! I'll write a real post soooooon!
But I'm gonna be better! I'll write a real post soooooon!
07 March 2012
Yes, I am Involved with a person outside my race.
This is an issue that I am loathe to write about, mostly because it is deeply personal and one would hope that we were beyond this sort of thing.
I cannot understand why people around me in an immediate sense and a secondary sense feel that they are entitled to comment on or to demand details about my personal life based entirely on their perceived stance of concern, superiority or just plain ignorance.
I have been involved with the same person since I was 16 years old, albeit it was mainly long distance peppered with long overdue trips to see each other. That in itself was a challenge both for myself and for the people around me. But that is now irrelevant as I am in my mid twenties and we live together. The very fact that we made it this far for this long should stand as a testament as to how committed we are to one another, especially as we have outlived many 'normal' relationships and marriages. Anyone that knows me knows the kind of obstacles we've faced, especially in the last few years.
What I'm coming to realize is that maybe all this time it wasn't the long distance nature of things that really irked people like they claimed when they would pull me aside out of 'concern'.
It seems that most people have a fatalist attitude to the most relationships whether it be their own or someone else's. This isn't anything new. Divorce rate is going up, people just aren't willing to stick with their choices. I know not all relationships are able to survive, that isn't a practical way to look at things. I don't condone abusive relationships, for instance. Nor do I think you should stay together if there is no feeling between you. Those are real issues that legitimately end in separation or divorce if one is lucky or strong enough, depending. But those are not issues that pertain to him and I.
My boyfriend is an Arab and a Muslim. There, I said it. And now cue the chorus of quickly intaken breaths, the hands to hearts, the fainting, the puking, cursing, peeing, whatever form your chosen mode of shock and disgust might take. I myself am a combination, like a lot of Canadians, of predominantly white ethnicities mixed in with some Aboriginal. People that look at me would see my dark hair, dark eyes, strong eyebrows and white skin. I guess it's the latter that makes a difference.
Since the beginning of my involvement with my BF there has always been a certain amount of issue against his alleged threatening background. The guy is British, people. He has a full out English accent. He's grown up all around the world. Even if he did grow up in the Middle East it wouldn't matter. A lot of his, and therefore my, friends grew up in Middle Eastern countries and they are absolutely lovely. They have actually for the most part been better friends and people in general in times of need than the people that perceive them as violent and savage and were meant to have my back. (And this is in large part because of their upbringing in Islam which focuses on helping their fellow man, being kind and being generous.)
This sort of behaviour towards my involvement with an Arab is reminiscent of what one reads about biracial weddings between people of white and black descent from decades ago. It seemed to be even more shocking if it was a white woman that was marrying a man of colour, like she'd been tricked or coerced or maybe she was mentally ill and didn't know any better.
The ostracization (now a word, okay?), segregation and disgust over such relationships is now widely looked at with shame. But it's also something we generally look at as in the past. I know it's not completely old news, I know it still happens but one has to agree that we kind of log it away along with separate water fountains and bathrooms. At least I hope we do.
I suppose that since we have vilified Middle Eastern people in the press for so long, it's become somewhat socially acceptable to immediately see a beard and brown skin and panic. White guilt now suppresses that when it involves a person of African descent, at least in a person deemed to have good manners and an open mind. When I traveled to Dubai a few years ago, a lot of people practically tied me down fearing I'd go and have my head chopped off or I'd come back a broken woman or I would just plain not come back. My family were in a complete frenzy of worry on my behalf. I can't entirely blame them as none have traveled outside of North America and even for me the idea was quite daunting.
Something you learn from traveling is that it really is a global community; every country is populated by people thinking, hoping, wanting, doing the same things. Wondering about the weather next week, writing down shopping lists, running after toddlers, going out for sushi, calling friends, stressing over work, striving to be a better person, etc. It's all the same. Circumstances and environment differ, but we're all struggling through the same ordeals.
And that's the thing, isn't it? It really depends on where you're born and who you are born to. You deal with what you are dealt. Your perception of the world differs because of that, as do your choices and situation. If my predominantly atheist or christian family and friends were born in the Middle East, they'd almost certainly be Muslims. Muslims that would fear and perceive the west as a looming threat to their rights and culture.
I want to say right now that I am absolutely sick to death of hearing people ask me if I have seen the film "Not Without my Daughter." about a woman whose husband takes her back to see his family in Iran only to revert into the apparent brute he was hiding all along, forcing her into a Burqa and stripping her of all her rights, including the right to leave the country or to do anything but sit in a dark room. All based on a true story and it is a harrowing one. (What's ironic is Arabs would point out that Iranians aren't Arab, they're Persian. Everyone shifts the blame along, really.)
These are my issues with that film being used as proof I'm in trouble. One, it is produced by Hollywood. Two, abusive husbands are not solely Arab. Three, unequal marriage and bullying over child custody is not limited to one colour either. This sort of hostage taking, abuse and general brutishness happens in households of every colour, religion and region. Four, the film came out in 1991. Check your dates on the Gulf War, please. Shock! Surprise! 1990 - 1991. The ending scene of her stumbling onto American soil and seeing the American flag flapping triumphantly in the wind isn't a coincidence. Remember how a lot of baddies in film and media during the Cold War were Russian? Yeah, that. The formula doesn't change, just the skin colour.
Because people think I'm in constant danger they feel that gives them the right to say whatever plummets out of their mouth. I have been asked if my BF is a terrorist so many times. I've been told that if we get married I will have to walk 4 paces behind him and wear a Burqa. I've been told that Arab men just want white women to get a hold of their family's money. (Ha! That's gotta be out...) I've been told I won't be allowed to work, I won't be allowed to wear make up, I'd be giving up my freedom. Quite a few of these are delivered with laughter like it's a joke.
Imagine for a second that you're my friend and you're just telling me you're getting engaged and I, with my concerned face on, gently tell you that maybe you shouldn't because I heard that white guys like to love their wives in the face with their fists. Do you see how sickening that is?
I'm not even going to enter into the religious aspects, at least not right now. The only thing I will say on the matter right now is that whenever I have taken abusive concern from people (because that is how it feels) on my relationship and they base their accusations on my BF's religion, I just ask if they know any Muslims or if they know what Islam is. Oftentimes they can't answer even "what is the difference between the word Muslim and Islam?". To the Christians I relay that Islam accepts and respects Jesus as a prophet. Should see their wild eyed confusion then. But enough of that for now.
So if my BF decides to let his beard grow in (something he never does if there is a flight or a trip coming up for fear of harassment) he is usually treated with suspicion and fear. Whether or not you're clean shaven doesn't have anything to do with how you treat women. I don't really have anything to fear when going out in public with him cos he is really the best body guard. He'd hate to read me say that but it's true and we both know it.
This has turned pretty long and rambling but what I want to say is that my involvement with a man of a different colour doesn't put me in any more risk than getting involved with a man of any colour. Relationships are tough for the most part anyway. People say "well, he might change..." like he's a time bomb waiting to go off. People, that is true of ANY person. You're taking a risk in any relationship. Please don't burden me with your prejudices and racism. Just because you are spouting your racial profiling out of concern doesn't mean it is any less racist. That is your problem, not mine.
I cannot understand why people around me in an immediate sense and a secondary sense feel that they are entitled to comment on or to demand details about my personal life based entirely on their perceived stance of concern, superiority or just plain ignorance.
I have been involved with the same person since I was 16 years old, albeit it was mainly long distance peppered with long overdue trips to see each other. That in itself was a challenge both for myself and for the people around me. But that is now irrelevant as I am in my mid twenties and we live together. The very fact that we made it this far for this long should stand as a testament as to how committed we are to one another, especially as we have outlived many 'normal' relationships and marriages. Anyone that knows me knows the kind of obstacles we've faced, especially in the last few years.
What I'm coming to realize is that maybe all this time it wasn't the long distance nature of things that really irked people like they claimed when they would pull me aside out of 'concern'.
It seems that most people have a fatalist attitude to the most relationships whether it be their own or someone else's. This isn't anything new. Divorce rate is going up, people just aren't willing to stick with their choices. I know not all relationships are able to survive, that isn't a practical way to look at things. I don't condone abusive relationships, for instance. Nor do I think you should stay together if there is no feeling between you. Those are real issues that legitimately end in separation or divorce if one is lucky or strong enough, depending. But those are not issues that pertain to him and I.
My boyfriend is an Arab and a Muslim. There, I said it. And now cue the chorus of quickly intaken breaths, the hands to hearts, the fainting, the puking, cursing, peeing, whatever form your chosen mode of shock and disgust might take. I myself am a combination, like a lot of Canadians, of predominantly white ethnicities mixed in with some Aboriginal. People that look at me would see my dark hair, dark eyes, strong eyebrows and white skin. I guess it's the latter that makes a difference.
Since the beginning of my involvement with my BF there has always been a certain amount of issue against his alleged threatening background. The guy is British, people. He has a full out English accent. He's grown up all around the world. Even if he did grow up in the Middle East it wouldn't matter. A lot of his, and therefore my, friends grew up in Middle Eastern countries and they are absolutely lovely. They have actually for the most part been better friends and people in general in times of need than the people that perceive them as violent and savage and were meant to have my back. (And this is in large part because of their upbringing in Islam which focuses on helping their fellow man, being kind and being generous.)
This sort of behaviour towards my involvement with an Arab is reminiscent of what one reads about biracial weddings between people of white and black descent from decades ago. It seemed to be even more shocking if it was a white woman that was marrying a man of colour, like she'd been tricked or coerced or maybe she was mentally ill and didn't know any better.
The ostracization (now a word, okay?), segregation and disgust over such relationships is now widely looked at with shame. But it's also something we generally look at as in the past. I know it's not completely old news, I know it still happens but one has to agree that we kind of log it away along with separate water fountains and bathrooms. At least I hope we do.
I suppose that since we have vilified Middle Eastern people in the press for so long, it's become somewhat socially acceptable to immediately see a beard and brown skin and panic. White guilt now suppresses that when it involves a person of African descent, at least in a person deemed to have good manners and an open mind. When I traveled to Dubai a few years ago, a lot of people practically tied me down fearing I'd go and have my head chopped off or I'd come back a broken woman or I would just plain not come back. My family were in a complete frenzy of worry on my behalf. I can't entirely blame them as none have traveled outside of North America and even for me the idea was quite daunting.
Something you learn from traveling is that it really is a global community; every country is populated by people thinking, hoping, wanting, doing the same things. Wondering about the weather next week, writing down shopping lists, running after toddlers, going out for sushi, calling friends, stressing over work, striving to be a better person, etc. It's all the same. Circumstances and environment differ, but we're all struggling through the same ordeals.
And that's the thing, isn't it? It really depends on where you're born and who you are born to. You deal with what you are dealt. Your perception of the world differs because of that, as do your choices and situation. If my predominantly atheist or christian family and friends were born in the Middle East, they'd almost certainly be Muslims. Muslims that would fear and perceive the west as a looming threat to their rights and culture.
I want to say right now that I am absolutely sick to death of hearing people ask me if I have seen the film "Not Without my Daughter." about a woman whose husband takes her back to see his family in Iran only to revert into the apparent brute he was hiding all along, forcing her into a Burqa and stripping her of all her rights, including the right to leave the country or to do anything but sit in a dark room. All based on a true story and it is a harrowing one. (What's ironic is Arabs would point out that Iranians aren't Arab, they're Persian. Everyone shifts the blame along, really.)
These are my issues with that film being used as proof I'm in trouble. One, it is produced by Hollywood. Two, abusive husbands are not solely Arab. Three, unequal marriage and bullying over child custody is not limited to one colour either. This sort of hostage taking, abuse and general brutishness happens in households of every colour, religion and region. Four, the film came out in 1991. Check your dates on the Gulf War, please. Shock! Surprise! 1990 - 1991. The ending scene of her stumbling onto American soil and seeing the American flag flapping triumphantly in the wind isn't a coincidence. Remember how a lot of baddies in film and media during the Cold War were Russian? Yeah, that. The formula doesn't change, just the skin colour.
Because people think I'm in constant danger they feel that gives them the right to say whatever plummets out of their mouth. I have been asked if my BF is a terrorist so many times. I've been told that if we get married I will have to walk 4 paces behind him and wear a Burqa. I've been told that Arab men just want white women to get a hold of their family's money. (Ha! That's gotta be out...) I've been told I won't be allowed to work, I won't be allowed to wear make up, I'd be giving up my freedom. Quite a few of these are delivered with laughter like it's a joke.
Imagine for a second that you're my friend and you're just telling me you're getting engaged and I, with my concerned face on, gently tell you that maybe you shouldn't because I heard that white guys like to love their wives in the face with their fists. Do you see how sickening that is?
I'm not even going to enter into the religious aspects, at least not right now. The only thing I will say on the matter right now is that whenever I have taken abusive concern from people (because that is how it feels) on my relationship and they base their accusations on my BF's religion, I just ask if they know any Muslims or if they know what Islam is. Oftentimes they can't answer even "what is the difference between the word Muslim and Islam?". To the Christians I relay that Islam accepts and respects Jesus as a prophet. Should see their wild eyed confusion then. But enough of that for now.
So if my BF decides to let his beard grow in (something he never does if there is a flight or a trip coming up for fear of harassment) he is usually treated with suspicion and fear. Whether or not you're clean shaven doesn't have anything to do with how you treat women. I don't really have anything to fear when going out in public with him cos he is really the best body guard. He'd hate to read me say that but it's true and we both know it.
This has turned pretty long and rambling but what I want to say is that my involvement with a man of a different colour doesn't put me in any more risk than getting involved with a man of any colour. Relationships are tough for the most part anyway. People say "well, he might change..." like he's a time bomb waiting to go off. People, that is true of ANY person. You're taking a risk in any relationship. Please don't burden me with your prejudices and racism. Just because you are spouting your racial profiling out of concern doesn't mean it is any less racist. That is your problem, not mine.
03 March 2012
Highschool is a Liar Liar Pants on Fire.
I went through elementary school figuring that High School held a lot of my burning questions. What will I be like when I'm an adult? What kind of car will I drive? What sort of friends will I have? Will I have lots? What will I be when I grow up? What will I look like?
This formula made me miserable. I didn't really fit into any of it and I couldn't see a way I could stuff myself into it. I guess I gave up on it because I felt it was a lost cause. I started to obsess about just getting through the high school years and getting into university. High school told me that that was impossible unless you were in every extra curricular activity and were at least on the honour roll for every report card. Teachers told me to aim lower.
I had this crazy dream that I'd get into art school, learn a skill set and that would equal a path into my chosen field, which was photography. That's a whole other blog post.
I guess this is on my mind a lot because so many people I know have degrees, they put the time in at university, some even flew through it with stunning grades. But the common theme I found was that hardly a one of them seem to be any more set for a fulfilling career than I am. So many fall into the mundane and stay there because there just doesn't seem to be anything else and then the rest of life falls down around you (settling down, pregnancy, family, illness, disability, loss) and you just do what you can.
Teachers are adults. They know all of this but they still don't tell us. CAPP (career and personal planning) class can kiss my hiney because it's the most fraudulent class there is. Very few 16 year olds know exactly what they want. Very few 25 year olds know what they want. I would hazard to say that there's no age limit on that. CAPP taught me that if I went to university, did well, I would be welcomed into the ranks of my chosen field. My very aptitude in some respects practically guaranteed it.
This is what CAPP should have been about.
There are no guarantees. I know people that didn't even finish high school and they're in jobs that make them very happy. I know people that failed high school and they will probably work in retail or customer service till they retire. I know people that have 800 degrees and they're still not doing what they want. I know people who excelled in the school system, secondary and post secondary, and they are doing really really well.
I suppose there isn't a right answer. I suppose you don't always know what you want or where life will take you. I just think the bubble needs to be popped and that the skill sets taught to young adults need to focus less on getting through the system and more on being an individual capable of taking their individual choices and seeing them through.
I also think it wouldn't hurt for there to be some learning focused on whether University is worth the life long ball and chain of student debt just for the sake of Taking The Next Logical Step.
Learning is a precious gift, but institutions aren't the only place it's possible to learn anything worthwhile no matter what they tell you.
I guess that's pretty naive but I think it's something that most kids seem to believe will be opened up for them upon entering the fortress like building of High School.
When one starts High School, you step into a world completely set apart from your expectations. You don't typically find a preformed group of aggressively bubble gum chewing hair twirling blonde bitches. There aren't letter jacket wearing tobacco chewing beefy jocks waiting to flush your hair in the toilet. That group of offbeat colourful oddballs you might've hoped to join? (I mean, they have the best storylines in all the tv shows and movies.) They don't really exist.
I mean, yeah, that stuff does happen but not in such a clearly defined and segregated way.
All that moaning aside, because that isn't really what I wanted to moan about, High School just didn't prepare me, or really anyone I know, for the reality of life. And that reality is anything goes.
This formula made me miserable. I didn't really fit into any of it and I couldn't see a way I could stuff myself into it. I guess I gave up on it because I felt it was a lost cause. I started to obsess about just getting through the high school years and getting into university. High school told me that that was impossible unless you were in every extra curricular activity and were at least on the honour roll for every report card. Teachers told me to aim lower.
I had this crazy dream that I'd get into art school, learn a skill set and that would equal a path into my chosen field, which was photography. That's a whole other blog post.
I guess this is on my mind a lot because so many people I know have degrees, they put the time in at university, some even flew through it with stunning grades. But the common theme I found was that hardly a one of them seem to be any more set for a fulfilling career than I am. So many fall into the mundane and stay there because there just doesn't seem to be anything else and then the rest of life falls down around you (settling down, pregnancy, family, illness, disability, loss) and you just do what you can.
Teachers are adults. They know all of this but they still don't tell us. CAPP (career and personal planning) class can kiss my hiney because it's the most fraudulent class there is. Very few 16 year olds know exactly what they want. Very few 25 year olds know what they want. I would hazard to say that there's no age limit on that. CAPP taught me that if I went to university, did well, I would be welcomed into the ranks of my chosen field. My very aptitude in some respects practically guaranteed it.
This is what CAPP should have been about.
There are no guarantees. I know people that didn't even finish high school and they're in jobs that make them very happy. I know people that failed high school and they will probably work in retail or customer service till they retire. I know people that have 800 degrees and they're still not doing what they want. I know people who excelled in the school system, secondary and post secondary, and they are doing really really well.
I suppose there isn't a right answer. I suppose you don't always know what you want or where life will take you. I just think the bubble needs to be popped and that the skill sets taught to young adults need to focus less on getting through the system and more on being an individual capable of taking their individual choices and seeing them through.
I also think it wouldn't hurt for there to be some learning focused on whether University is worth the life long ball and chain of student debt just for the sake of Taking The Next Logical Step.
Learning is a precious gift, but institutions aren't the only place it's possible to learn anything worthwhile no matter what they tell you.
02 March 2012
Voter Fraud in Canada.
If you felt that the last election didn't and still fails to represent you as a Canadian then it might just be good intuition.
Apparently there was some intervention in the last vote. As many as 45 ridings reported fraudulent calls directing people to false voting stations and despite this Elections Canada and the RCMP are only looking into one case. This is a petition that looks to change that and possibly lift the veil on this ploy.
You just have to add your name and your email address, these people won't spam you if you choose you don't want them to contact you on other world issues though I recommend you let them pass on the information they have to give. It's literally 45 seconds out of your day.
I don't normally push my own beliefs and agendas on Facebook or Twitter or whatever as I know people don't want it waved in their face and will usually skip over it anyway. But considering the choices our government has made in the last while and how it makes me feel as a Canadian abroad and how it makes other people of other countries look at me and my country I just feel ashamed.
And now I just feel let down. People joke that we are America's Hat or America Lite but I never want that to be the case. I don't have anything against Americans as a people, please understand that, but I do not want to be lumped in with the decisions and the policies their leaders have branded them with.
It feels like that's the way we are going and it's heightened for me because of the fact that I have been in the UK for 6 months. The Canadian identity I'm proud of is one of tolerance, acceptance, humanity and it is multi-cultural. It believes in the rights of its people and their choices. It supports green initiatives.
I know this was super long winded but please read and sign the petition and pass it along. We don't often make our voices heard as a country and it's that sort of complacency that allows this kind of immoral and deviant political tactic.
XO
Manda
http://www.avaaz.org/en/
Apparently there was some intervention in the last vote. As many as 45 ridings reported fraudulent calls directing people to false voting stations and despite this Elections Canada and the RCMP are only looking into one case. This is a petition that looks to change that and possibly lift the veil on this ploy.
You just have to add your name and your email address, these people won't spam you if you choose you don't want them to contact you on other world issues though I recommend you let them pass on the information they have to give. It's literally 45 seconds out of your day.
I don't normally push my own beliefs and agendas on Facebook or Twitter or whatever as I know people don't want it waved in their face and will usually skip over it anyway. But considering the choices our government has made in the last while and how it makes me feel as a Canadian abroad and how it makes other people of other countries look at me and my country I just feel ashamed.
And now I just feel let down. People joke that we are America's Hat or America Lite but I never want that to be the case. I don't have anything against Americans as a people, please understand that, but I do not want to be lumped in with the decisions and the policies their leaders have branded them with.
It feels like that's the way we are going and it's heightened for me because of the fact that I have been in the UK for 6 months. The Canadian identity I'm proud of is one of tolerance, acceptance, humanity and it is multi-cultural. It believes in the rights of its people and their choices. It supports green initiatives.
I know this was super long winded but please read and sign the petition and pass it along. We don't often make our voices heard as a country and it's that sort of complacency that allows this kind of immoral and deviant political tactic.
XO
Manda
http://www.avaaz.org/en/
29 February 2012
Leap Year
So today I learnt that Leap Year is meant to signify a day of doing things one wouldn't normally do. Apparently this is mainly played out by women being allowed (?!) or expected (...?) to do the proposing in relationships. And I heard that if she's rejected then you have to give her a box of rescued cats and a book on crocheting and knitting to usher her into her old maid days. If she's over 19, then you just put her down.
This might be dated information.
This might be dated information.
04 February 2012
My Friend Rhonda
Probably gonna embarrass the both of us by doing this but I just feel the neeeed.
Was one of those weird situations where you meet and find out all the weird near misses and connections that preceded. Her father-in-law worked with my Dad for, like, a decade and we both worked at the same place at different times. Probably if we'd met then we wouldn't have been friends as the age difference was just enough that I'd be super lame. Well, lamer.
Anyway, I worked at Sears in Nanaimo, she worked at Sears in Victoria and her and her hubby Will were lucky enough to come move to Nanaimo. I know they've neeeeever regretted it. (Sarcasm)
I"m super awkward and I don't like stranger danger which is weird cos in the capacity of dealing with the public, I seem to be fine. I guess it's the threshold of meeting people in a personal sense, ie. coworkers, friends of friends, friends of boyfriend, etc. that makes me uncomfortable.
So my Dad told me, through the grapevine, that she was transferring to my store and he thought it was into my department. I'd just graduated high school the year before and was going through this weird time where I just mutually didn't see or hear from any of my old friends. I was kind of a hermit.
So I was sort of weirdly aflutter about meeting this new person who seemed to pop out of my family woodwork. I looked at the schedule and saw when she was coming in the first time, a few hours after I started. I was nervous cos, as I said, stranger danger.
Anyway, I was coming back from my break and putting my bag away and she arrived and I, because this is what I do, just burst out my salutation. Kind of like this.
(like the knee high socks, Rhonda?)
Maybe the same week or the same day or the same sentence, I don't remember which, I asked if she would like to hang out lol and she said yeah, sure. See? you had a chance to escape!
I found out she lived just down the road from me, even better. So we decided on going for a walk to get some tea/coffee. On the day, it was raining really really hard. Like, sideways stinging rain. But I was game if she was and I guess she was cos we went anyway. Thus began a super extra trend of going for walks in stupid conditions.
I am really glad that she stuck it out cos who else would appreciate the finer nuances of saying gross words in gross voices? I think it happens every time we see each other. And the voice that other people assume is an accent.
When Rhonda told me she and Will were expecting I was SUPER excited. I won't deny it was a small part of why I moved back from Vancouver to Nanaimo, heh. Rhonda's pregnancy gave rise to an awesome practice that is buying a cheese pizza and putting as many toppings on it as possible. She's a super pro at this game cos, like me, she likes to eat everything. Except cilantro.
Anyway. The point I'm trying to make is sometimes someone walks into your life and you're the better for it. I haven't held on to many friends but I'm really glad I've clung to this one. Thank you buddy, and thank you for still being my friend half a world away.
sniffle.
Mees you.
Was one of those weird situations where you meet and find out all the weird near misses and connections that preceded. Her father-in-law worked with my Dad for, like, a decade and we both worked at the same place at different times. Probably if we'd met then we wouldn't have been friends as the age difference was just enough that I'd be super lame. Well, lamer.
Anyway, I worked at Sears in Nanaimo, she worked at Sears in Victoria and her and her hubby Will were lucky enough to come move to Nanaimo. I know they've neeeeever regretted it. (Sarcasm)
I"m super awkward and I don't like stranger danger which is weird cos in the capacity of dealing with the public, I seem to be fine. I guess it's the threshold of meeting people in a personal sense, ie. coworkers, friends of friends, friends of boyfriend, etc. that makes me uncomfortable.
So my Dad told me, through the grapevine, that she was transferring to my store and he thought it was into my department. I'd just graduated high school the year before and was going through this weird time where I just mutually didn't see or hear from any of my old friends. I was kind of a hermit.
So I was sort of weirdly aflutter about meeting this new person who seemed to pop out of my family woodwork. I looked at the schedule and saw when she was coming in the first time, a few hours after I started. I was nervous cos, as I said, stranger danger.
Anyway, I was coming back from my break and putting my bag away and she arrived and I, because this is what I do, just burst out my salutation. Kind of like this.
Maybe the same week or the same day or the same sentence, I don't remember which, I asked if she would like to hang out lol and she said yeah, sure. See? you had a chance to escape!
I found out she lived just down the road from me, even better. So we decided on going for a walk to get some tea/coffee. On the day, it was raining really really hard. Like, sideways stinging rain. But I was game if she was and I guess she was cos we went anyway. Thus began a super extra trend of going for walks in stupid conditions.
I am really glad that she stuck it out cos who else would appreciate the finer nuances of saying gross words in gross voices? I think it happens every time we see each other. And the voice that other people assume is an accent.
When Rhonda told me she and Will were expecting I was SUPER excited. I won't deny it was a small part of why I moved back from Vancouver to Nanaimo, heh. Rhonda's pregnancy gave rise to an awesome practice that is buying a cheese pizza and putting as many toppings on it as possible. She's a super pro at this game cos, like me, she likes to eat everything. Except cilantro.
Anyway. The point I'm trying to make is sometimes someone walks into your life and you're the better for it. I haven't held on to many friends but I'm really glad I've clung to this one. Thank you buddy, and thank you for still being my friend half a world away.
sniffle.
Mees you.
24 January 2012
Laura's Little Bakery: Cupcakes for the win!
So I met a lovely lady named Laura (how is that for alliteration, high school english teachers) a few days ago. She has just (as in yesterday) opened a new cupcakery shop in town and it's super awesome. There's something really nice about a city that truly embraces and supports a local business owner and really, you have to be a villain to not appreciate a cupcake.
So... I met her through Saif who knows through her through the weird connectedness of twitter. He asked her if she was hiring and she asked if I could drop off my CV the next day. Yes Please! I can't actually describe how perfect this sort of job is for me, my waist line notwithstanding. I told my Mum and my friend Hillary and they were both like, "Wow, that's perfect for you". Here's hoping. The espresso machine is different to the one I'm used to but I should be able to handle it.
The place is called Laura's Little Bakery, and Laura herself is really lovely. It was one of those weird times where you meet someone for the first time but it's kind of deja vu-like, like you've met them before. I don't feel so dorky saying that, cos she commented on it too. I felt pretty comfortable fairly fast around her which is unusual for me, as everyone knows.
She offered to give me a trial at first and I was all butterflies in my tummy about it, but she had to get back to her baking as it was the evening before she opened shop. Saif and I went for groceries next door at Tesco and I kept feeling guilty because she looked like she might have needed a hand and she was there by herself, trying to pull it all together. Pretty impressive, but I just had this niggling feeling and I told Saif, who told me to just go ask her. I went back and asked if I could help with anything and she let me. : ) I felt like a weirdo and I was worried she'd feel I was trying to force her hand in hiring me, but she told me she appreciated it and that it showed initiative. Well, I'll be.
I hope I was helpful in the end, I washed up the dishes, mopped the cafe floor, washed down the counter tops... trying to also keep out of the way cos she seemed to have about 8 hands doing 8 different things at once.
She dropped me off at home with some cupcakes and I settled down with a cup of tea to see that she had tweeted about me. "A very lovely girl offered some help this afternoon which was truly amazing and one way to get yourself hired on the spot! :)" Sounds promising. Did I pass the trial? : D
I guess I'll have to wait to find out.
All in all, I'm pretty excited to start on Thursday.
This is Laura. If you're in Liverpool please stop by and support this super worthy little cupcake cafe.
So... I met her through Saif who knows through her through the weird connectedness of twitter. He asked her if she was hiring and she asked if I could drop off my CV the next day. Yes Please! I can't actually describe how perfect this sort of job is for me, my waist line notwithstanding. I told my Mum and my friend Hillary and they were both like, "Wow, that's perfect for you". Here's hoping. The espresso machine is different to the one I'm used to but I should be able to handle it.
The place is called Laura's Little Bakery, and Laura herself is really lovely. It was one of those weird times where you meet someone for the first time but it's kind of deja vu-like, like you've met them before. I don't feel so dorky saying that, cos she commented on it too. I felt pretty comfortable fairly fast around her which is unusual for me, as everyone knows.
She offered to give me a trial at first and I was all butterflies in my tummy about it, but she had to get back to her baking as it was the evening before she opened shop. Saif and I went for groceries next door at Tesco and I kept feeling guilty because she looked like she might have needed a hand and she was there by herself, trying to pull it all together. Pretty impressive, but I just had this niggling feeling and I told Saif, who told me to just go ask her. I went back and asked if I could help with anything and she let me. : ) I felt like a weirdo and I was worried she'd feel I was trying to force her hand in hiring me, but she told me she appreciated it and that it showed initiative. Well, I'll be.
I hope I was helpful in the end, I washed up the dishes, mopped the cafe floor, washed down the counter tops... trying to also keep out of the way cos she seemed to have about 8 hands doing 8 different things at once.
She dropped me off at home with some cupcakes and I settled down with a cup of tea to see that she had tweeted about me. "A very lovely girl offered some help this afternoon which was truly amazing and one way to get yourself hired on the spot! :)" Sounds promising. Did I pass the trial? : D
I guess I'll have to wait to find out.
All in all, I'm pretty excited to start on Thursday.
This is Laura. If you're in Liverpool please stop by and support this super worthy little cupcake cafe.
15 January 2012
Why I, Very Understandably, Don't Like Geese
When I was a wee one, we went to Westwood Lake for a day. I was happily splashing about and spied some of the EVIL EVIL geese that make a home of the lake and a toilet of the beach. I was SUPER excited and wanted to feed said geese cos that's just how a toddler brain works.
So I grabbed whatever food I could get, I don't even remember what. It could have been a stick or some mud to be honest, but let's pretend it was a peace offering of some yummy bird friendly bread. I marched up and gently gave the food to the nearest, and as I remember, biggest mega goose ever.
The goose was at first surprised.
Then this happened:
It HISSED at me with it's tongue vibrating indignantly, it spread its wings and then this happened:
I must have blacked out cos I don't remember anything but running away forever.
The End.
So I grabbed whatever food I could get, I don't even remember what. It could have been a stick or some mud to be honest, but let's pretend it was a peace offering of some yummy bird friendly bread. I marched up and gently gave the food to the nearest, and as I remember, biggest mega goose ever.
The goose was at first surprised.
Then this happened:
It HISSED at me with it's tongue vibrating indignantly, it spread its wings and then this happened:
The End.
14 January 2012
Benedict Cumberbatch
Is a very British name.
He's playing Sherlock Holmes in a modern interpretation on the BBC. It's pretty good, guys, check it out.
He's playing Sherlock Holmes in a modern interpretation on the BBC. It's pretty good, guys, check it out.
13 January 2012
Memory # 2, or, One of the Best Christmas Presents Ever
There was this Christmas when I was about 10 and Alex, my sister, 2.
She was old enough to be sad about there being no snow on Christmas, which we were used to cos at my Gran's house, we usually have at least a little bit. When I was wee, my Gramps used to tell me it was my job to shovel one of the following off the roof: a) the snow or, b) reindeer poop or, c) both. I was mostly sure it was a joke so I'd laugh big along with the adults but secretly I'd wonder, heh.
So yeah. We had the green Christmas blues.
This is us being sad. Or maybe we didn't have vertabrae.
But in any case, my Dad and my Uncle disappeared for a few hours while we moped about, probably being quite annoying.
They came back in the late afternoon with a truckload of snow! It was awesome. They'd driven the truck up some mountain, I don't even know where, and shoveled it into the back, came back and shoveled it all into an amazing waist deep pile of snow in the front yard.
Alex and I played and frolicked and ate as much snow as we could. We came in when it was dark, rosy cheeked, exhausted and happy. So thanks Dad and Uncle Lee.
(Also, I didn't do a great job of expressing the wonder of my Uncle Lee's mullet in those days. I am sorry.)
Just goes to prove that it isn't the big price presents that mean the most.
She was old enough to be sad about there being no snow on Christmas, which we were used to cos at my Gran's house, we usually have at least a little bit. When I was wee, my Gramps used to tell me it was my job to shovel one of the following off the roof: a) the snow or, b) reindeer poop or, c) both. I was mostly sure it was a joke so I'd laugh big along with the adults but secretly I'd wonder, heh.
So yeah. We had the green Christmas blues.
But in any case, my Dad and my Uncle disappeared for a few hours while we moped about, probably being quite annoying.
They came back in the late afternoon with a truckload of snow! It was awesome. They'd driven the truck up some mountain, I don't even know where, and shoveled it into the back, came back and shoveled it all into an amazing waist deep pile of snow in the front yard.
Alex and I played and frolicked and ate as much snow as we could. We came in when it was dark, rosy cheeked, exhausted and happy. So thanks Dad and Uncle Lee.
(Also, I didn't do a great job of expressing the wonder of my Uncle Lee's mullet in those days. I am sorry.)
Just goes to prove that it isn't the big price presents that mean the most.
12 January 2012
The Sunset A Few Hours Ago:
Better than T V. Except British TV that doesn't have censorship. Would have blown 14 year old me's mind. Late night Showcase has nothing on British Television. For reals.
How I Moved A Fraction of my Stuff to the UK.
So, I had a huge dilemma when I was packing to move country.
20 kg limit on checked baggage, 5 kg for cabin.
My suitcase weighs 7.9 kg (which is light for the size, trust me. I weighed quite a few.) and my carry on was 3.1 kg (ugh, should have used a backpack I guess) That took away 11 kg of my allowance, so I really only had 14ish kg to work with.
My carry on hit its max weight as soon as I put my laptop and laptop accessories in it. I seriously would have looked like a tool when I had to open my bag to be scanned cos now you have to take your laptop out of your bag and have it scanned separately. So. The laptop would have gone through the X ray machine... followed by an empty suitcase...
Also, I would have looked like I was 3 and my Mummy had let me pack one of my bags all by myself so I'd stop whining that I wanted to pack my own stuff like a big girl.
I started by sorting down my clothing big time. I wanted to take things that would work for the winter cos that's what I was going to be moving into which meant I was packing all my heavy clothing which meant fewer items. Then I had to consider any valuables I had to take like letters and cards, photos, sketch books and journals, important papers, my expensive face wash and cream, etc. In the end, only a 3rd of my suitcase was clothing.
And the rest was all heavy stuff. I'll draw you a diagram of the situation I had at hand.
Soooo, I came up with this frenzied plan.
I would dress myself in as many layers as I could manage without killing myself through suffocation and without tipping people off. I would be my own suitcase!
This is what I came up with.
I even had another dress and a shirt stuffed down the sleeves of my winter jacket.
I should mention here that on this day, we had the hottest day of that year. It was something like 30 or 32 degrees and I was wearing a fur lined winter jacket over multiple layers.
I looked like a crazy bag lady lugging her home behind her in her suitcase. I guess now that I say it out loud/on blog, that is sort of what I was doing.
I also had my camera bag, my purse and a laptop bag in addition to my carry on which were dangling off one of my arms. I got to the check in, they weighed my bag and I still had to pay an extra $100 for the over weightness of it. I don't want to know what the price would have been if I hadn't taken my precautions.
I was feeling pretty faint after that from being over heated and probably dehydrated in addition to the undercurrent of hysteria at leaving my homeland for a pretty new adventure. I went to the bathrooms and I stripped down to the comfiest combination from my many layers, stuffed it in my carry on bag and draped my coat over my many extra bags to go to duty free to buy a chocolate bar and some water so they'd give me a big bag to put it all in and make me look legit. :D
At the gate, they reiterated that it was important that no one's luggage be over 5 kg and I guiltily shuffled around avoiding eye contact and going quietly insane at the thought that I'd have to put all the layers back on for a 9 hour flight stuffed into the economy section of an economy flight. But the lady hefted my bag in her hand like she was she hulk, she gave me a look and she shrugged. Thank. Goodness.
I realize they have restrictions for a reason but come oooooon. I just wanted my stuff. We didn't fall out of the sky, so it's all good. : D
PS. I feel I should also mention that the only other thing I had packed in my carry on was a fuzzy blanket that my Aunt Valerie had given me for my birthday a few years ago and I have taken on every international flight since. I am the actual coolest.
20 kg limit on checked baggage, 5 kg for cabin.
My suitcase weighs 7.9 kg (which is light for the size, trust me. I weighed quite a few.) and my carry on was 3.1 kg (ugh, should have used a backpack I guess) That took away 11 kg of my allowance, so I really only had 14ish kg to work with.
My carry on hit its max weight as soon as I put my laptop and laptop accessories in it. I seriously would have looked like a tool when I had to open my bag to be scanned cos now you have to take your laptop out of your bag and have it scanned separately. So. The laptop would have gone through the X ray machine... followed by an empty suitcase...
Also, I would have looked like I was 3 and my Mummy had let me pack one of my bags all by myself so I'd stop whining that I wanted to pack my own stuff like a big girl.
I started by sorting down my clothing big time. I wanted to take things that would work for the winter cos that's what I was going to be moving into which meant I was packing all my heavy clothing which meant fewer items. Then I had to consider any valuables I had to take like letters and cards, photos, sketch books and journals, important papers, my expensive face wash and cream, etc. In the end, only a 3rd of my suitcase was clothing.
And the rest was all heavy stuff. I'll draw you a diagram of the situation I had at hand.
Soooo, I came up with this frenzied plan.
I would dress myself in as many layers as I could manage without killing myself through suffocation and without tipping people off. I would be my own suitcase!
This is what I came up with.
I even had another dress and a shirt stuffed down the sleeves of my winter jacket.
I should mention here that on this day, we had the hottest day of that year. It was something like 30 or 32 degrees and I was wearing a fur lined winter jacket over multiple layers.
I looked like a crazy bag lady lugging her home behind her in her suitcase. I guess now that I say it out loud/on blog, that is sort of what I was doing.
I also had my camera bag, my purse and a laptop bag in addition to my carry on which were dangling off one of my arms. I got to the check in, they weighed my bag and I still had to pay an extra $100 for the over weightness of it. I don't want to know what the price would have been if I hadn't taken my precautions.
I was feeling pretty faint after that from being over heated and probably dehydrated in addition to the undercurrent of hysteria at leaving my homeland for a pretty new adventure. I went to the bathrooms and I stripped down to the comfiest combination from my many layers, stuffed it in my carry on bag and draped my coat over my many extra bags to go to duty free to buy a chocolate bar and some water so they'd give me a big bag to put it all in and make me look legit. :D
At the gate, they reiterated that it was important that no one's luggage be over 5 kg and I guiltily shuffled around avoiding eye contact and going quietly insane at the thought that I'd have to put all the layers back on for a 9 hour flight stuffed into the economy section of an economy flight. But the lady hefted my bag in her hand like she was she hulk, she gave me a look and she shrugged. Thank. Goodness.
I realize they have restrictions for a reason but come oooooon. I just wanted my stuff. We didn't fall out of the sky, so it's all good. : D
PS. I feel I should also mention that the only other thing I had packed in my carry on was a fuzzy blanket that my Aunt Valerie had given me for my birthday a few years ago and I have taken on every international flight since. I am the actual coolest.
11 January 2012
The UK tricks me - Part 1
When you want to take a shower here you have to deal with a hidden, but candy red, switch not located in the bathroom or around the shower but usually placed outside. (The correlation didn't occur to me, the switch looks too important and self-destruct-like. I had to be shown.)
You have to turn it on and wait for water to be warmed up. Then you get in the shower and there's some kind of console in there with more than one dial and a few buttons, depending on the console. Most of my showers are spent with me turning one dial and then the other SO SLOWLY because if I turn it one mm too far it's either ice or skin peelingly hot.
The sweet spot is like the deactivate button in Sylar's head/body long after the Heros writers started phoning it in: In a different place every time.
I miss dill pickles.
They don't have dill pickles in UK supermarkets, they have gherkins and they're sweet. Gross.
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