Happy fifth anniversary, you crazy son of a bitch.
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Sunday, February 22, 2009
February
A new blog post?
Well, of course.
Why not? No reason.
Why? Mostly because I have a ten page story due tomorrow and I've three pages of it.
There's nothing to put you in the mood to write for fun like writing for a purpose. Oh, how divinely artistic am I feeling right now. What, you don't believe me?
Of course you don't, wily reader, of course not.
I've been having incredibly trippy dreams lately. The other night in my sleep I wrote an existential manifesto with the Feditor. I then apologized to him for having been so rotten lately, though I'm not quite sure what I've done. The next night I was seduced by the devil, who was, for some strange reason, a Ken doll and married already to Barbie, who was already there.
There's a scarf outside my window blowing in the wind, and the first time I saw it I thought it was a dying pidgeon.
I have to figure out whether it's appropriate to write short stories that have philosophical content, or whether that's just wanking. I have a feeling that it may indeed be cliché poseur french girl wanking. Oh, look at me! I'm bloody Sartre. Oh, wait. I'm not. Why? Because I'm doomed to be bloody Simone de Beauvoir.
When in the history of the world has a woman ever been on top without having been "a remarkable lady writer," or a "lovely female author?"
Is it too much to ask just to be a writer?
Saturday, January 24, 2009
And the Train Was Delayed
Because who doesn't love more ramblings at four in the morning on a train bound for, apparently, nowhere?
I apologize for not getting this out sooner as I have approximately two friends who actually read this blog and they're starting to get a little antsy.
I recently traveled by train from Montreal to Moncton, a trip that took approximately four hours longer than it should have, and this was the result.
It’s morning now, and I’ve just had another sleepless night of travel. I thought it would be easier on a train, but I still faced six hours of desperately changing positions before I found one that didn’t hurt my back. As you can probably guess, my Nyquil was nowhere to be found, most likely spirited away by my mother who, on reading this, will call me to tell me how she threw it out because I shouldn’t be taking it anyway. I paid good money for that acetaminophen/antihistamine blend, Mother, and would have appreciated it last night.
No matter. I can’t be upset. While I haven’t slept, the sun is shining and we’re whipping past snow covered trees which is so pleasantly literary that one can’t bear to be upset. Duke was a good choice for the morning’s music.
When I say whipping past, I of course mean slowly crawling past. Via decided to stop the train several times last night, and now because of the weather we’re inching our way through the snowy hills. I keep seeing Dutch flags everywhere. How I hate the Dutch. They do make good chocolate, though.
If you’re ever slowly winding your way through snowy terrain, I highly recommend the song Caravan. Nothing says travel like a lot of clip clopping and pounding drums.
Something I’ve learned about New Brunswick so far this morning: It’s very boring. Not a very interesting province at all. Unless you go to the ocean. I think I’ll be able to see the ocean in Moncton. I miss the ocean.
Last night I had a delightful seafood dinner and chatted with a nice woman whose name I cannot remember. She was originally from Ontario, but moved to New Brunswick because she loves the pace of it. I smiled and nodded. What she meant is that she’s kind of like an old person. That’s alright, though. We need people like her in the world to relax for the rest of us.
I may go and try to rustle up some food, now.
So, I was feeling a wee bit downtrodden, I suppose because of the lack of sleep and whatnot, but when I went to go get food I discovered the most delightful people.
The first person I met was Jean-Marc, who is a Columbia alum (Class of 2000 and then for his masters, 2002). He didn’t speak English very well, but we had a good long talk. Turns out that he’d lived in Furnald and East Campus, and we talked about Ferris and Lerner and all good Columbia things. He’s working for VIA now because he hated what he was doing in genetics, but apparently they pay $25 an hour and are looking for summer students. Hmmm…
While I was sitting and chatting with Jean Marc, two musicians popped into the lounge and asked if they could play. Though it’s against the rules, no one seemed to mind and so there was some lovely impromptu bluegrass. I left to go pack my things, as we’re now stuck behind a freight train outside of Moncton, and met a nice old lady who, as it turns out, is a bartender at the legion.
Thank God for caffeine, is all I have to say. Perhaps I shall go find those musicians again.
PS. I did find those musicians again. They were cool. You should go see them.
Monday, December 29, 2008
New Year's Resolutions
- Run more often
- Save my money for traveling
- Cook myself breakfast and dinner (read: buy groceries)
- Actually learn how to play the guitar
- Organize a battle of the bands
- Actually prepare for an audition
- Be environmentally friendly
- Be better dressed
Thursday, December 25, 2008
A Running Commentary on "It's a Wonderful Life."
Notes on Watching It’s a Wonderful Life.”
I’m watching It’s A Wonderful Life and I realized that I did in fact work for a building and loan corporation and that perhaps the field of work was not actually evil. This movie makes me really happy. “I don’t want Mrs. Bailey, I want my wife. Wait, that is my wife.” I love old movies because they’re the only ones that introduce us to the main characters without having to give us their internal monologue or slap us in the face with their characters. We begin as strangers and stay that way for a while. I like that in a movie.
No, don’t do it, George! Don’t accept Potter’s offer! He’s evil!
Oh, good. He realized it when he shook his hand. “You’re nothing but a scurvy little spider!”
You want the moon? I’ll throw a lasso around it and pull it down for you.
Oh, Uncle Billy, you are a silly, silly man!
George, you, however, are an angry man. You lash out when you are stressed. I think you need some sort of anger management. Maybe you should do some yoga.
“I’m not sleepy. I want to look at my flower.”
Oh, no! George, you are so sad. Noooooo! Don’t jump off that bridge. Goddamit! Commercial break.
Oh, how I love Canadian TV. They have the “Doncha put it in your mouth” commercial. Wow. That’s the most horrifying looking lion that I’ve ever seen:
I’m here to introduce the Lee Majors Bionic Hearing Aid. That’s so depressing. Dear Lord. He’s so old. WHY IS THE SIX MILLION DOLLAR MAN ON AN INFOMERCIAL? This is so upsetting. Commercial break, obviously.
“We don’t need any characters around to give the joint atmosphere.”
“Every time you hear a bell ring it means that some angel’s just got his wings.”
I missed the first half hour of the movie. What? The old man was going to poison a child? Why?
Oh, no! Now that he wasn’t born, the town has turned into a den of sin! Why doesn’t it snow anymore?
Oh good, everything is saved. And now I’m crying. This is beautiful. What a wonderful film.
Que sais-je?
I think I have pinpointed the most important philosophical question there is: que sais-je. Albert always said that the most important question is whether or not one should kill oneself when faced with the misery of absurdity. Now, I won't disagree that his question is indeed an important one, but it certainly can't be the most important question. You see, the absurdity of our situation is not that life is without meaning, but rather that we don't know whether or not it is. If there is a meaning, it's completely lost to us. Now, to all you ontological thinkers, I appreciate the effort, but the fact is that at the very end of the day, a leap of faith is required. One can't just say "God is this, and for this to be true it must exist in reality." Necessary existence is certainly an interesting concept, but not very wise.
To say that "God is this" in itself entails a leap of faith. How do we know that existence is a predicate? How do we know that reality actually exists? How do we know that infinity and eternity exists outside of their concepts, and how do we know that to say something exists in reality makes it so? How do we know that it doesn't? I think Pascal was right when he said that nothing can be proved without faith, which is really the only real indication of everything. One can say "I know," but the only way of doing that is through faith, and how can we judge the reliability of faith itself? Surely it's possible that what we "know" through faith is in fact Freudian garbage that we feed ourselves in order to survive. That would, of course, leads us back to Al's question, but the fact is that we don't know that it is. He presupposes that it is, and that's a rather unfair judgment. We don't know, and this is the most disconcerting and alienating thing of all. We want to trust things like reason and faith and mystic experience, and yet we tear them apart over and over again. We're so afraid to be wrong that we're willing to destroy everything we've built just to be right.
I know that it's perfectly rational to be a skeptic, perhaps the only rational thing to do, and yet it's possibly the most boring thing to do. There is no passion within skepticism. There is no power to my argument. Wolterstorff said that the greatest and most powerful reasons we have for anything are those that we found on our beliefs. I'm not even passionate enough to be an atheist; atheism denotes disbelief. To be agnostic is considered fence sitting. No fence sitting, said Pisani. It's apathetic. I'm not apathetic. I just don't want to be wrong. And I know that I am human, and I am not the first that has deconstructed her own life so vigorously in order not to be wrong that she's destroyed all truth. What do I know? I wish there was an answer, but the answer itself is a paradox, because the only thing I know is that I do not know. Well isn't that peachy? Socrates had it right in the first place! So why do we keep searching for answers?
Maybe our misery lies not in that we do not know, but that we crave knowledge that we cannot have. Celebrate the mysteries, we say, but then we search for the truth. We want to know. But secrets are fun, said a rather mysterious lover of mine. He had me there, but the truth is that they hurt us so terribly. We wonder whether things are so much worse than we ever imagined. We wonder why we cannot know. We wonder whether we are being punished, whether we all did something wrong and now we're banned from that knowledge and spend our time ruminating in our own guilt. Hell, we've made it a tenet of the Christian faith, haven't we Augustine?
That’s why it’s the most important question.
Maybe I have been thinking too much.
Sunday, December 21, 2008
A Travel Blog
Dear Albany Bathroom: Please Don't give me AIDS
OR
Never try to Write after Nyquil
I thought about publishing this while at the Albany bus station but that would entail connecting to the Albany bus depot wifi and I feel like that's about as safe as sitting on the toilet here without squatting. Seriously.
In light of my inability to sleep on buses I decided to take a little Nyquil in order to sleep. Good choice, but I think I might be slurring my words right now. I certainly can't type properly. I just wrote "publishishing." Right.
"Last call for 202," says the bus driver.
I almost just got on the wrong bus. Fantastic. I'm happy though. I met two travel buddies. Mark from Ottawa (who did the carpentry program at Algonquin in Perth) and the girl standing in front of me in line, who is quite nice, though a little butch. Mark has been living in New York for six months working as a bicycle messenger. That is super cool. I wish I could do something that exciting.
I've discovered that the best bus music is that of The Decembrists. Maybe it's because I don't know any of their endearingly mellow music, but the fact is that I did finally fall asleep about half an hour ago, only to be roused from my slumber to spend half an hour in this hellhole that is Albany.
I was thinking about something while travelling through the Lincoln tunnel. It may have just been the hallucinagenic effects of Nyquil (of which I hold there are many), but I feel like driving at night is something that perfectly mimics the flow of time. All you can see are the lights rushing past the window and suddenly you feel as if you're perfectly static in a rushing stream of light. Kind of like retro renditions of time travel. I feel like that about time when I'm on the bus. I can see the destination, I know where I was, and I feel as if I'm in a state of limbo until I get there - how terribly surreal.
* * *
At three a.m. I am woken by a screaming child. I may or may not have been sleeping, I don't really know. Really? Really? Who gave this child chocolate? Who decided that the candy bar was a better choice for a snack than the bag of chips? For God's sake, people. Let's think before we wire our children up, shall we? No!I see you at that vending machine! NO! For the love of all that is holy, do NOT give that child that chocolate bar.
Alright, he's pretty damn cute. He just tried to eat his little sister's face. That's almost cute enough not to be killed by me. He and his sister are half asian. Little half asian girls with pigtails are the cutest ever. (We're at the border, by the way. Perhaps Dad should take the kid outside and let him run around in the freezing cold for a while, hmm? Yeah, that should do it.
* * *
It's around 5am. We're arrived in Montreal in time for the Ottawa bus only to learn that there is, in fact, no 5am Ottawa bus. Good thing I have my handy-dandy netbook so that I don't go loco and take out my rage on anyone... Where is that little boy, anyhow? Seriously, though, people, control your children.
A man has just fenced us off from the doorway. Does that mean we have to move? My bag is quite comfortable and I would be very unhappy if I had to move at all. WHY IS THIS BUS STATION SO SKETCHY? We're standing. I see it is time for standing now. I don't want to stand. Why are we standing? You know, if we all choose to sit, we can be all in this together... hmm? How does that sound, Mark? What about you, handsome fellow sitting behind me? Alright, we're sitting. Peachy.
I hope you all like this flow of consciousness thing because it's the only thing I can do without screaming at five am. Also, thank you to Zack for your music. Nothing cheers up the Montreal bus station in the wee hours of the morning like some Benny Benassi. Mm.... I can pretend I'm out having a good time rather than stuck in a bus depot doing nothing. I wonder how these people would feel if I started an impromptu dance party. *Looks around* They do not seem like the dance party type.
I wish I could elaborate on my whole "Flow of time" thing. It's just a wierd feeling, you know? Back in the day I used to wish the things that I was doing could just be skipped. As in, suddenly I could be forward in time and could have no recollection of the boring things, kind of like in that Adam Sandler movie. I THINK I HAVE SUBCONSCIOUSLY BEGUN TO DO THIS. I am so conscious of the fact that these memories will be practically erased from my consciousness that I pay them absolutely no heed. Almost eight hours have passed and I have neither recollection nor memory of this passed time.
Methinks the Nyquil takes its toll.
Okay, Benny Benassi. You need to be turned off right now.Ah, a little Coldplay. How calming. Oh, hey. I'm right at the start of the line. Huzzah! I think I'm going a little bit stir crazy. Look at that, people. Look at that clock. Thirty six minutes have passed since I have sat down and I have absolutely no recollection of this time passage. There is something wrong. I know that in what feels like a moment (or it will once I'm there) I'll be coming back home to school. A few minutes after that and I'll be done the school year, and then college, and then a few more and I'll be old and I'll die. This is very disconcerting. With every minute that passes my memory is condensed further and time, relative time, is ever so much shorter. When I was younger everything took forever. Now it is gaining speed exponentially.
Of course, this begs the question: does time exist at all? Trippy. I haven't learned the answer yet. Perhaps one of my classes this year will tell me. Dear Mr. Professor: does time exist? Why yes, dear student. Time is a dimension. Great, problem solved. Wait, what the hell does that mean for me? I know, I'll go and watch that ten dimension education video again. That will tell me.
The time is now 8am and I am sitting in the Ottawa bus depot waiting for mother. I managed to sleep some on the way here so I may not have to kill myself in four hours when it's time for work anymore. Funny story: I picked up a bottle of vitamin water when I rolled in just a moment ago and imagine my surprise when I realized that it's sold as a medication here. Go figure.
Alright, time to go home. I hope you enjoyed my sleep deprived ramblings.
Alyssa
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Every so often I run across someone airing some very dirty laundry on Facebook. As a writer, I feel that it's my duty to observe and report, though at times like this it seems rather villainous. I sometimes wonder if I'll get in trouble for reposting this, but I feel as if you're already writing to an audience of over seven hundred people, you probably won't mind a few more, especially given that this is indeed a rarely viewed blog.
I'm not sure when we became the generation that privacy forgot. I remember the days when it was indecent to drag this sort of thing out into the light, but here it is for everyone to see.
God have mercy on our souls.
A.T: I might've saved a little trouble for the next girl, cause the next time that he cheats, you know it won't be on me.