Location North Van, B.C.
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Monday, October 02, 2006
Am so moved.
In both ways =)
3:20 PM ]
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
Am now on vacation.
Expect an overhaul vera vera soon.
11:45 PM ]
Monday, July 10, 2006
There's always those points in life when one says to oneself something along the lines of..
I can't stick my hands in that.
WHERE'S THE GLOVES, MATE?!
So here's to navigating my cess inclined pool with the water guy and learning a few things that Dad never told me. Really, when the filter starts draining for no reason, you've got a problem. Knowing really nothing at all about pool maintenance, I combated such a happening by madly grabbing the skimmer and literally paddling water into the pump.
Und zis ist nicht so gutt! (Germanic-english turns me on)
You'd think after 20 minutes of doing this one would figure out that that was not the answer.
I've always been a little slow on the uptake however.
But yes, as my birthday is in three days (yes to July 13th!) I'm starting to let myself dream of pool parties in water that is not a rancid green. Nay! I WANT SPARKLING HERE PEOPLE!
So pray with me to the pool gods folks.
3:53 PM ]
High and Grounded
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Having lived in the same house for close to fourteen years, grounded ain't even the word for me anymore. Strip me of all senses and I can almost gauruntee this girl would be able to navigate quite beautifully down the thousands of stairs. Hell, she'll be confident enough to jump the last three and crazy enough to let herself tumble headfirst into the couches.
Call this my false sense of teenage immortality.
But really, we've all read before about people's takes on where they live. I say where they live on purpose because there seems to be a regular shortbus of people who feel the place where they lay their heads so to speak are anything but the places they feel connected. It seems that wherever you look, people are busy being inhabitants. But inhabitants. Merely inhabitants. Where they are is not where they really want to be, rather, just a place they're tied down to by.. well.. money. Some of these people reminisce about their past lives - of childhood - different chapters is their lives - or homes in different countries, and sometimes I feel lucky because I am exactly where they once were. Yes, hullo! I'm seventeen, just graduated, and living at my childhood home. I'm in the place many would never return to for the world, and also the place many would give a soul to be in. I'm tucked away in the familiar and oh baby, it's warm, soft.
You can right well tell my mom uses Downy on the sheets.
Another sense that I get from these stories, are a sense of limbo. There, it's transgression city. It's a quest for finding that home , rather than just the right address where you've paid for the bills and think awhile before sleep. Most of them are constantly moving. Most of them are constantly pushing forward towards what they want. What they envision as being their haven. All the shit of life, the emotional baggage, most will believe in finding that end someday. Someday they will be able to just save up enough to go there. And there is whatever they want it to be; it's a house, a car, a dog, loving arms, truth, love. It's (akin to the world) also unconventional and original to each person. Whichever, for most, its' out there on the horizon, beckoning to all nomads and people caught in between their dreams. I say most because I think their are a lot of lives out there that are stagnant. Home is still beckoning, but it's hazy and forgotten. Life is passive and hazy and if you just pretend a little it feel almost as warm, soft, and downy as lives of old or the imaginings of a less scarred person in a less scarred time in their lives. You're hollow now. Please, read "The Hollow Men" and you'll know exactly what I mean.
This is a place that I never want to be caught in for long.
But I do feel like I am due for a change.
Conscious of my age and experiance, I can still venture to cling to my idea of a home, and calm yourself folks, it ain't a place of puppy dogs or rainbows or any such things that come with a pinch of sugar. I'm also aware that plans go askew and the lack of control one seems to inevitabely have. Like the saying goes: Shit happens.
So when we went house shopping the other day, I saw it as a bit of a half way point. Yes, I'd be cheating the system. This home, the one I've been in for fourteen years, holds all the stigma for my mother that only a broken marriage of twenty five years can bring and she wants a change. It would, though not making me fully independant yet, would bring me closer to the college I've been accepted into for this coming year and allow me a place to stay before I transfer elsewhere (Ireland anyone? =)). It would force me to pack up everything in my current room and let some of the extra stuff go. I just keep telling myself that I'm seventeen and have at least a little bit of time. No jumping a boat to Botswana for me quite yet.
Looking forward to a life in transgression seems odd, though it's all me trying to get closer to that home you read about from other people. I want to make a life for myself, and one that's surrounded with all loving people, fuckups you think are bad but turn out good, and just movement. I want to keep moving forwards and it's that simple.
Tumbling headfirst into couches will always be a must.
2:25 PM ]
Take This With a Pint.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Alright, so.. I've been dreaming lately.
Please, hold thine glares of skeptism.
And I woke up last with the dawning realization I'd just gone through the same dream for the third time.
Going to University in Ireland?
I'm going crazy.
Evidently this whole figuring out one's life thing has made me subconciously yearn for the emerald isle and whatever little grasp I have of the place. I've decided that there really isn't any logic to it all, unless somewhere in my mutt-like history Irish roots are kicking in. That, or I've had one too many hits from Flogging Molly Pounded into my head. Ha! Hits to the head?! GET IT?!? Oh god..
Excuse me while I jot to the fridge for a pint and run after that there yonder rainbow to get me some lucky bloody charms.
I'll simply have to look into it.
Just meeting this guy would make it worth the while..
2:06 PM ]
Am Hella Pissed.
Thursday, June 15, 2006
IF ANYONE KNOWS HOW TO FIX THE APOSTROPHES LET ME KNOW AND I SHALL NAME MY FIRST BORN AFTER YOU.
Yes. I'm at that point.
But not actually..
Never one to think that life was a bowl of cherries, as I took a stroll down Doran the other day I made sure to notice the fact that two houses had been built into the place of one.
”Oh, aye, tis the way of the world..” thought I.
(I seem to be favoring the Old-Irish-Woman-Bag-Voice in my head recently. It’s troubling really.)
Despite this observation, it was blithely that I continued to totter my way to school; soaking in suburbia whilst knocking the back of my shoes against a mosquito bite on my calf. As I hit Mountain highway I even paused for a moment, marveling at the lavender smog on the horizon. ”Din’t cha’ think it’s pretty then?” I mused, breathing in deeply the chalky air.
North Vancouver. Second best city to live in aside only from some place in Austria.
Or was it Sweden?
No matter, fuck – the point was, that as I stumbled finally into class I could not help but also observe the somewhat manic grimace on my teacher’s face.
The kind of teacher who was infamous for fondling guns courtesy of WWI (ah the joys of testosterone, collecting things, and deepset love for history. It’s a fatal combination for any late attendees, school shooters, or sniper shots into the school library.) and instructing all of his classes to purchase a sterling silver, personally monogrammed condom case else they might face the joys of parenthood and be consumed with self loathing and a love of botchi for the rest of their sad little lives.
Essentially he’s got “I’m a witty, English, sonuvabitch – and I don’t give a fuck” and I love him to pieces.
I mean come now, anyone who’s traveled the world many times, know how to ride motorcycles and sail gorgeous Catalinas, and quote everything from pub songs to operatic verse – is fine as a fox in my eyes.
And yet on this particular morning (at 8:00 am might I add), the bloke seemed a little too cheery, and it was the kind of cheery which seemed too alike the face made by children who crouch about slugs with their salt shakers. I stared suspiciously from behind my coffee mug.
This is just a taste of how the class continued:
”So what’s the problem with disappearing rainforests?
Well, let’s take Brazil for example. The tropical rainforests in Brazil are (as you all know I can imagine) surrounded by Savanna. Picture lions and monkeys and gazelles. That shit. The farmland over there soon became unable to support the countries people and so the government came up with a plan. Yes, they found that it was extremely cost effective to give poor farmers ten acres of land, but more specifically, ten acres of rainforest land to farm and develop for them for FREE. See they say “go, have the land but it’s up to you to till the soil..” and the poor farmers become happy. Yes they do (take into account condescending voice). So what do they do children? They burn it! Yes they do! And oh look! The ash from the fire (the fire which they used to burn down all the rainforest) makes the soil fertile so their crops are very successful for the first three years. Uh-oh. But on the fourth year (dun dun dun) the crops don’t grow anymore, so the little farmer is more than happy to give his plot of land to the cattle ranchers! Ah yes! The cattle ranchers! And so they come in with their cattle and what do the cattle do?! THEY EAT THE GRASS. (Astounding I know.) But when they eat the grass, oh no, they remove the roots which help hold the soil together. This creates desertification!
And so that’s why you shouldn’t eat beef. Here’s a plan. If you want to save the world, don’t eat beef – eat brazil nuts.
You see, brazil nuts are one of the few crops on the planet that can’t be farmed. They have to grow in a forest to, you know, work. And so, if you were to eat lots of brazil nuts, you’ll build a market. The brazil nut farmers will begin to speak up when the government keeps giving away acres of forest random farmers who’d clear the land because they’d want to keep the money rolling in. Hell, they’d get some political gout.”
I listened to all this. I watched him as he stalked about the class, deadly serious. It continued.
”So once you’ve given up on hamburgers and starting eating brazil nuts and want to save some work go put on your Armani suit and Italian loafers and go talk to the lawmakers. On no accounts should you put on your bloody hiking and chain yourself to a tree.
The fucking granolas will save a tree – it’s the lawmakers who will save a forest.”
He went on to lament about our own Canadian old growth forests. Spoke about everything from tree farming to the killer pine beetle. All the horrors of the world were mentioned and ticked off. At the end a silence fell.
”If you’re not depressed yet, you’ve learned nothing.”
It was not until a little later in the class that he brightened up.
”Way back in the Vietnam War (1975 I might add), medical professionals had the benefit of examining many dead corpses. These were mainly twenty two year old men who’d been shot to death. Now, when they opened up their veins they found arteries that were so clogged they resembled those of a 60 years old – definitely not those you’d expect from a 22 year old. And you know what they blamed it on? The ruddy hamburgers. Ronald McDonald’s a prick.
But don’t fear, fast food’s everywhere nowadays. We can all die equally.”
When finally the end bell rang he spoke up one last time, uttering the words which would plague my thoughts for at least five minutes after that. And hell, in this desensitized world, that’s saying something.
”Life’s funny you know.
You spend your twenties being bloody mental. You drink and drive and perform all kinds of sexual athletics.
And then you spend your thirties frantically wondering about whether or not you’d caught AIDS while performing said sexual athletics in your twenties.
You spend your forties worrying about heart attacks because of all the French fries you ate while you worrying about getting aids in your thirties because of the sexual athletics you performed in your twenties.
So you spend your fifties worrying about whether you’ve gotten cancer from the smoking two packs a day while you were worrying about the heart attacks from your forties that were inspired by the greasy food you ate in your thirties while wondering whether you’d gotten AIDS from the sexual athletics you’d performed in your twenties.
And then you spend your sixties wondering why the hell you hadn’t worried about things like Syphilis in your forties (it’s common knowledge that these sorts of things can lay dormant for twenty years).
And then, if you get to seventy, life is good.”
Thank you Mr. Scott.
It’s safe to say I took a lot of it with all the grains of proverbial salt imaginable. However, as I walked home that day, I’d like to think I saw a few more things for what they were and was less inclined to merely observe blindly.
That, or I’m eating too many brazil nuts and my stomach is quavering thinking about a life without meat.
I’ll figure out this whole save the world thing with baby steps.
Fast food’s the first thing to go.
1:55 PM ]
Saturday, June 10, 2006
It was just a few weeks ago that I went over to my father's house for dinner.
Wait no, let me rephrase: was picked up under the pretense of him spending some quality time with me. Always the resourceful one, I'd schenagled the presence of boyfriend into the dining experience, thus effectively quelling any chance of my father trying to make serious conversation.
[ On a digressive note, these conversations always include such catch phrases as: "So how's school going?" followed neatly by the always classic: "you working still? Oh, good girl". Well ain't that just a pat on the head. Now let me just tell you for your sake that it's safe to assume that the stereotypical separated father character listens to his teenage daughter's response and barely hears the answer. He quickly moves on. Multiply this by the fact that father seems to have a rare form of Alzheimer's and is able to have the same conversation 95 billion times (or, you know, the three times I've seen him since 6 months ago.)
That said, on a last diverting thought, I must take the time to highlight the fact that I am not bitter. I'm happy with the dinner every once and awhile and grab the mint on the pillow on the way out. My relationship with my father is like a dentist appointmen - a large man ducking into your personal space with a drill saw and that hideous apron. You have to let it happen, hell, sometimes you might even be thankful for the change of pace, but largely you'll always still rely on the secretary calling and reminding you about the appointment. I'm not sure if I'll ever be one to dance on the proverbial door of my dad's doorstep, waiting for the bonding to occur (or at least some creamsicle flavored mouth stuff).
So yeah. No to bitterness.
And I really don't think I'm that much in denial either, thank you very much. ]
ANYWAYS. Chinese food had been the food of choice. We chowed down in this restaurant and ordered everything from pe-king duck, to sweet and sour sauce, and popcorn crab (apparently, years ago, my Dad had been called in with his partner to this same restaurant under different owners. Something had happened, a fight I think, and the two of them were waiting for the rest of the police to arrive. And how do you think they passed the time? They raced crab from the tanks. That's right. Crab races). Distracted by the multitudes of food the dinner went quickly (aided by the fact I was wearing pretty new shoes, and the waitress spilled water over Andie's friend). When we finally did reach my Dad's house again, I was already raring to leave. Not only was this because I'd successfully completed four hours with father, but also I'm somewhat anal about taking the pill at exactly the same time. Both of these being fabulous excuses in my eyes, I made sure to drink down coffee very quickly, and start prompting my sister for her trademark talent for getting out of things. As I've always connected patting one's knees in a final matter as a clear pointer that they're about to leave, I was midway through a series of sharp, tactful pats when my Dad stated the following:
"So, I got you a laptop for your graduation."
WHAT?! Thinking I"d heard wrong, I just stared unmoving.
I blinked and that was all.
"Mia I got you a laptop."
That third time finally penetrated.
"WHAT? WHAT? WHAT?! HOW?!? WHAT?!!!!"
I just sort of sat there, hyperventilating and talking very fast. I sent very hectic glances at the boy and as Jozef would say: my mind was like Teflon. Nothing at this point was sticking. Finally, I got my wits together enough to formulate a sentence.
"Dad.. you didn't have to do this.."
"I don't have to do anything.."
Yeah, that was his answer. What a joke. Throughout this little episode I was amazed. Never in my wildest dreams was I expected a laptop, or even a gift.
So it was all fine and dandy until I got home that night and was told by a very angry mother that, in fact, SHE'D been the one to organize this, and it had been my entire family on both sides who'd contributed to it. So simplified down, my father had effectively taken all credit and had given it to me early. That's nice.
But despite the fact that this things got a bit of stigma surrounding it, I'm appreciating it while making sure my mother doesn't get to see it that often. The sight seems to send her into blind rage. So ha, it'll stay in my room for awhile. This thing is beautiful, and being able to work anywhere from my room to outside at night will be fan-fricking-tastic.
Hereâ€™s to controversy.
5:15 PM ]