music and purity

It's the beginning of a beautiful Saturday. The buds are starting to green the tips of trees, there's not a hint of a chill in the air, and I...

I am spending 8 hours of the day in a windowless computer lab that I work in. Drat!

Well, hopefully I will be productive, but the internet connection here is so much faster than our hotel-style internet at home, and I believe I will use the increased speed to obsessively search summer concert schedules instead of doing work. But seriously, I have to do work. There are 3 weeks left, and 4 major assignments to hand in before I am finished my first year!

Yesterday I spent the day at a sound studies conference, at which Brian was presenting a paper. The presenters were all fabulous; they discussed everything from the history of community radio in Canada (Brian), to progressive middle-eastern hip hop, to the creation of an audio guide of an old Irish community in Old Montreal. The best part of the conference, however, was the shmoozing part with all the free food and wine. After a few glasses, Brian and I decided to go out for dinner in Mile-End. I was scoping out a microbrewery/gourmet pizza place for the year-end event I am planning. I do believe that Sergent Recruteur with its fresh, fruity artisan beer and indescribably good pizzas, will fit the bill.

We moved on to a cozy live music cafe-turned dance spot at night, Casa del Popolo, to meet some friends, and then, finally to The Main for a late night snack (in my case a pickle). It was quite the day.

I went out and got a few of the CDs I have been meaning to purchase for a while now: Malajube, Arianne Moffatt, and Carla Bruni. Bruni's album is especially dear to me already, and if you listen, you will hear why. I am also loving London/Western/CHRW's own Basia Bulat. I had met Basia a few times at Western: she briefly volunteered at The Gazette and was also briefly in my Foundations in Singing class. I had often heard her radio show and a few of her tunes, and they were very cute and fun. Her new stuff is really special, and certainly worth listening to!

In more academic news, while doing research for my Media and Sexuality class paper on the Bush administration's sex education policies, I unearthed an interesting gem which is now the focus of my paper: the trend of purity balls. Please, read for yourself and let me know what you think of this kind of "party."

Thank goodness Canada has Sue Johanson. She would never stand for state-enforced teaching of misinformation

spring is here

Spring has arrived! All the roadside fruit stands are starting to overflow with goods again, and we have fresh fruit in the fridge. The last of the melted snow has swept away a season's accumulation of layers of dog poo from the streets, and new garbage bylaws are slowly but surely picking away at the landfill that is our neighbourhood. I also have a fresh bag of rooibos tea from my new favourite teahouse (John Company, in Mile-End). Sure I have 3 major essays to get to, but right now the feeling is springtime joy, and freedom!

goodness gracious

You know you've arrived at a crazy party when:

1) Your friends start getting tackled by random girls in metallic underwear

2) Beds and couches are sprinkled with rose petals

3) There is a wall covered in pylons that are filled with candy

4) You spend half the night handing out slices of gourmet cheeses to other guests

5) The walls are plastered in risque photos

6) Your boyfriend ends up in a torn, wine-stained undershirt

7) The host tells you he found grafitti written with butter on his bathroom walls

8) You narrowly missed a whipped cream fight

9) The shooter boy is wearing fishnet thigh-highs

10) The party's theme is "nearly nude"

to remember

On quieter days, I remember. There are moments when fragments come back to me, and the memories resurge as lucid visions.

The heaviness returns when I remember feeling outside a society before I started to learn one of its languages. I felt beside myself with restless frustration being there, and being willing to help, but not knowing where to start. The heaviness sets upon me when I remember the light touch of children's fingers, reaching out to me from floors of school classrooms, and from crowded clinics. I remember being led over dry, red earth through villages where mothers and daughters pulled small buckets of water out of the community pond. I remember marveling at the hilltop views of families whose house would be decimated the following week by the government . I remember little girls running around in tattered 1980s party dresses from the Western world (hand-me-downs from the "developed" world), and being disturbed by the different contexts in which these girls, and the dresses' original owners, would have been living. I remember the twisted irony of a young girl living right below the city's biggest hospital, but unable to access its services.

The lightness returns as I recall walking through the dry season fields every morning, waving at the little faces peeking out at me through school windows. I remember being invited to sit down to tea by mama Rajabu and Ana, the ladies who ran the small tea stand under a black tarp for the workers who bundled coal for stove fuel. I remember the night markets lit up by candles, with women selling sweet, baby bananas and roasted corn by the roadside. I remember taking my watercolours outside and painting quietly, until half a dozen neighbourhood children shyly appeared and asked me if I could paint them into my picture of the street. They taught me the words for all my surroundings, which I included in the painting as a Swahili lesson for myself. I remember singing together with Mama Joyce's children and grandchildren, in their impeccably clean living room. I remember taking crazy buses all day with Pendo, to go up to the hills of Mwanza to visit her mother, who showed me her beautiful rug designs and her ducklings. I remember smiles, and hands reaching out to hold mine.

And in these moments, I am overwhelmed with guilt for forgetting, even for a moment, the feeling of being in Tanzania, the feeling that I vowed I would keep close to me at all times. Why does the relative luxury of our lives cause us to forget? Should not the stark contrast between my lifestyle and the disparate conditions of other parts of the world be a constant reminder? I take these moments to sit down and remind myself, lest I forget.

green daze

After a week of snow, melting slush, street fires, smashed windows, and humiliating myself in class among other such events, a weekend-long St. Patrick's day celebration was certainly welcomed. Saturday/Sunday stood as the last couple of freedom-filled days before delving into all the year end madness. How is the school year already coming to an end? Seriously, what have I been doing?

Alas, St. Patrick's day was spent sipping creme de menthe with Bailey's on the rocks, and drinking convenience store beer on the streets in the snowy weather, while waiting in line at the crowded pubs, playing my Irish tin whistle for adoring fans, and bashing my knee into a parking metre while jumping to grab icicles. Sunday we dragged ourselves out to watch Montreal's famous St. Patrick's Day parade to marching bands, giant St Pats on wheels, dogs dressed in costumes, and for me to have my foot essentially puked on by a small child.

After the parade, we had some guests over, and I cooked a large "Irish" brunch of soda bread, cooked cabbage, scrambled eggs with brie, breakfast sausages, and shamrock shakes. I was full for the entire day after that spread, let me tell you.

I find it kind of ironic that my academic research entails the use of blogs for sharing human rights and world health issues, and here I am detailing my Sunday menu to you. That's something I gotta work on--you know, not being a giant hypocrite. But life is about balance, isn't it? My brain is full of school stuff by the time I come to write here, so all I have left to share is a mundane collection of thoughts and events. But that's going to change over time.

Also, it's driving me crazy that all of the funniest, juiciest things I want to share don't seem appropriate for such a public realm. You know, the best stuff that spills out like beer on a bar table (or due to it), or the legion of characters I've been meeting. However, rest assured that a tell-all book is on the way. Those of you who might think grad school is only about dusty books might be interested to hear the tales I've been observing, experiencing and collecting. I'll find a way to share, somehow.

Right now the promise of spring temperatures have me hoping wistfully that the rest of the week will seem less dismal.

give and take

"Taking is too easy, but that's the way it is."
-The Spice Girls



I came across an issue of Photoshop magazine a while ago that instructed nerds like me how to touch up old film photos, and even make them look like oil paintings (and not in a cheesy, one filter kind of way either). That activity, for now, is my pet procrastination project.

You see I have this new thing about being productive. My life for the last couple of months has been all about consumption: consuming readings and books, consuming countless movies from Movieland (the great video rental place down the street), consuming many glasses (ahem: bottles) of wine and late-night General Tao tofu at one of the various noodle houses in my hood, consuming albums of new music, and spring 2007 fashion photos. In fact, first semester, one of our profs actually told us that it is our responsibility to consume as many cultural products/news items/trends/ideas as possible. I've taken heed, but I'm afraid I've been consuming overzealously.

But what fun is life if you're not also producing things with your own hands and mind? I feel I've accomplished a lot this year, but I sometimes don't have sense of accomplishment. So lately, I've been consciously steering farther away from Facebook, and closer to: my guitar and my songwriting, my photography, my academic writing, you get the point. I want to give things instead of just taking. But Geri and the girls had it right--taking is so easy.

Anyways, here are a few samples of my works in progress. They're all from my high school and undergrad makeup portfolios (some are just makeup, some are makeovers, as you will see).



Click here for more.

images and quotes of the week

Quotes of the week

"Sweetie, you are in the wrong neighbourhood to be ordering a poutine 'straight-up'"
- A flamboyant waiter to me, after I made a faux-pas when ordering in the gay village.

"When a chick says 'maybe', you say 'yes'."
- A loudmouthed guy in Harveys at 2 am after spitting on the floor and rubbing the spit around with his foot. He was 100% class.

Me: Yep, so one more year or so of school and I guess it's time for the real world, eh?
Dad: Well, if that's what you're planning.
Me: I'm just really sick of people referring to the "real world." It's so condescending, as if what other people are doing or working on isn't real enough.
Dad: Don't listen to any of them then. After a while you realize that everyone has their own "real" world, some being more or less real than the others.
Me: Well, that's refreshing.


Skating under the pink, late winter sky at the Old Port



Brian and Rick skating.






Me trying to skate with hockey skates for the first time. Pathetic.

you can do better than that

It is exactly 15 days into the 40 days of Lent. I am not Catholic, but I have always thought that this ritual of sacrifice is a good thing, especially during this time of the year when I am typically "mowing down" on comfort foods and hibernating.

So I've given up (all) sweets, and Brian has given up meat. Neither sacrifice is an easy feat.

After two weeks of drastically altering my diet--and I mean drastically because I normally live off pastries, chocolate bars and giant chocolate chip cookies--my body feels refreshed and somewhat thankful.

Brian is not as happy with how Lent is treating him. Even though I have been trying myself to abstain from meat so as not to make things harder for his carnivourous appetites, he insists on eating many sweets in front of me, including my heart-shaped box of Lindor chocolates that he gave me for Valentines day. He also shakes the wrappers in front of my face so I have to smell the delectable, forbidden goodness of the chocolate.

It's getting easier though. And Brian is expanding his usually meat-dominated cooking repetoire to include veggie chow mein, eggplant parmesean, and various vegetable stews. He has even agreed to try meatless meatballs.

Now when I even have a green tea latte my body goes into a crazy sugar high that hints strongly of my former dependency on all things sweet. Despite my cravings, and despite my shameful withdrawal symptoms, I feel oddly proud.

This process has made me develop a creepy habit to pass the time while I wait for buses, sit on buses, wait in lines, and work out. I constantly find myself wondering what other people have/would-have-if-they-did-this-sort-of-thing given up? This gets me wondering about other peoples' vices, and also wishing certain other people would give up certain things. For example:

1) The student who never fails to have some kind of crisis every time I am at work and spends at least 2 shifts of 15-20 minutes talking on the free phone (which is right beside me), looming over me, and asking his mom/brother/girlfriend "nellie"/group member to email/bring/do something for him that he forgot to do.
--> this guy should give up depending on others and getting in peoples' personal space.

2) The people who sit right next to me on the bus after eating a large and heavily-scented meal
--> these people should give up: onions, garlic and other noxious food items before getting on public transit.

3) The people who get on the elevator and furiously push their floor button and the close door buttons incessantly, and after every stop the elevator makes.
--> These people should give up impatience

4) Many people at the variety of art festivals I've been to lately, and certain people at the gym whose armpits always seem to be near my face.
--> these people should not give up deodorant.

I'm not normally this moody, so I'm blaming it on the sugar deprivation.

white night

More

we dream beneath ceilings

In my old basement room, I always tried to bring a little incandescent starshine in to brighten up the gloom. On lazy nights in, or in a post-bar haze, I would lie in bed and look up at the lights to relax.

I guess it was the closest thing to stretching out on the deck, or the top of the big hill at my cottage, wrapped up in sleeping bags during shooting star season, trying feebly to name constellations.

I miss the wide expanses of the countryside. But tonight's activities will tide over those longings for a while, hopefully. Tonight is Nuit Blanche (aka "The All-Nighter) across all of Montreal. All the spaces that are usually closed (especially during the wee hours of the morning) are open tonight. Art galleries, theatres, rooftop hotel pools. I can't wait. I am especially excited for the planetarium show on this eve of the lunar eclipse.

Details after tonight.

For last night's photos from the opening night party of Art Matters click here.