fruits and veggies

Okay, so I've taken a few minor breaks from my work...like day-long excursions to the north end of town. But breaks are necessary. Today I went up to the famous Jean Talon food market with my friend Nyambura.

Situated in the middle of Montreal's little Italy, at the north end of St. Denis, Marche Jean Talon has a long tradition of overflowing with arguably the best produce in the province (or so I'm told). In the warmer months, the market is outdoors; sheltered stalls packed with goodies line the sides of the market, and baked goods, spices and more veggies are in the centre. Now most of the goods have been moved inside for the winter, while the outside is a Christmas tree market. The smell of pine and spruce is a welcome reprieve from the subway air and polluted muck of downtown.

Inside the buildings there are literally towers of scores of varieties of fruits and veggies. Some of them I didn't even recognize. Piles of broccoli stretch 10 feet high, up to the ceilings. Intuitive employees watch which ones you are eyeing, and climb up to grab the best bunch for you. I've never seen anything quite like it.

Glossy black eggplants, fuzzy coconuts, dozens of varieties of apples in little baskets. It was a food lovers dream. I kept thinking of all the things I would cook, and tried very hard to figure out what a huge, tree stump/log-like species could possibly taste like. It reminded me of the time in Mwanza when I saw a jackfruit for the first time. The vendor, seeing my baffled expression, starting making fun of me and telling me it was a fruit bred with a reptile.

Also, the prices are simply unbeatable. I got 9 kiwis, 4 lemons, a bunch of tomatoes, 2 baskets of blackberries, some plums, a large bunch of baby bananas, and a giant avocado for $5.50. I haven't seen food prices this good since the Sunday markets in Mwanza. I would have gotten much more if I had brought a backpack or something, but I had no idea this place would be so...bountiful. Nyambura came prepared, and brought a bag on wheels. She filled it.

Outside the produce sections, there are rows of specialty shops with shelves stocked with oils, jams, pestos, and fresh juices bubbling in fountains. There are coffee shops and bakeries that diffuse smells of the sweet, warm and comforting variety. There are also many cheese stands, with towers of brie, camembert, and other out-of-my-price-range items. Those were especially hard to resist.

I spent the long subway ride back listening to Lily Allen. During "Nan, you're a window shopper," (great track), I became fixated with a little old lady dressed in an iridescent lavender trenchcoat, mauve pants, huge amethyst earings, a flowing pale purple silk scarf, a knit purple touque, and very strong violet perfume. She was so gaudily jazzed up that I wished I was related to her. That, and I was hoping I too would be that shamelessly tacky yet elegant, and taking the metro around town with a glittery purse, in my old age.

And now, on with the "important stuff".

greener grass

I am aching for all that I'm not doing. It's a weird restlessness that stirs my stomach, even when I think I'm calm.

The work seems neverending, and I just want to go outside.

I want some pocket money to buy nice clothes, or at least to do a value village shopping spree and feel rich. Right now my closet it full of out-dated bar shirts that somehow don't seem right for night classes in a cold building.

I want a whole bottle of wine.

I want to be as good a writer as my theory prof. He read a chapter of his book for us, and it's phenomenal. Did I mention he reminds me a lot of House? Except he's not mean, or a pill-popper. He wears hiking boots and cropped, plaid, dickies jackets.

I want a pet. Maybe a baby chameleon.

The end is almost, almost in sight.

Until then...

expecting the un/expected

Today I got lost while trying to take a series of metros and buses to work, but was taken under the wings of two Filipino ladies who are just learning their way around the city too. Maybe they were so nice to me because, as it turned out, they thought I was just starting high school. "You're 23? But you look just like a little child!" Meanwhile I've been thinking the recirculated air, an inconsistent skincare regime, and days on end of sitting have been rapidly aging me.

On Friday, Jennie and I were walking on Rue. St. Catherine, when a street evangelist looked me in the eye, and told us we were "going down with the demons" to the tune of a "walking in a winter wonderland". How quaint.

Last night we checked out a very cool, purely francophone bar in the east plateau, La Quincaillerie.

Cooking things I once found difficult to pull off, like crepes and butter chicken. And, leftovers combined to make butter chicken crepes. Also, Rozlyn's vegetarian pineapple curry dish. I can't wait to go home for the holidays and cook (and eat) up a storm.

The internet is a scary place for creepy, anonymous critics. I can't tell you the number of comment sections I've seen lately plagued by scathing cattiness and creepy critques. Some criticism is constructive, of course, but some of it is as debased as the posts it seeks to criticize. Gawker, for example, is full of absolute garbage in the comments sections. One of Gawker's main victims is one of my favourite bloggers, Brooke Parkhurst. First of all, the people at Gawker seem like gossip queens and kings on speed. Second of all, I wonder if commenters think their criticisms (which are sometimes intelligent, and justified) will actually cause the blogger in question to change his/her character? Self-absorbed bloggers don't appear to change their stripes, as far as I can tell thus far. Well, I guess we bloggers know what we're getting into when we put ourselves out there.

I'm going crazy from the prevalence of elitist speak in this academic world. Judith Williamson said it best when she explained that academics are no smarter than anyone else, they've simply chosen a different career path. Come on! We don't need to theorize everything, people! Sometimes, you just have to have a drink, and realize that staring at cracks in the wall, playing video games, and eating chocolate pudding are just as important.

And, Kareoke. Kareoke is always important.



more kareoke pictures

contagion

"Defense against the spread of germs has kept pace with the onslaught of increasingly efficient speed of communication: it is the old story of the contest between armour-plating and the armour-piercing shell, each in turn having the advantage"
-from Germs and Diseases by Andre Siegried

So I'm writing one of my final papers on biological warfare, threats of "foreign" disese and discourses of contagiousness during the cold war. It isn't exactly elevator conversation. I got halfway through explaining how anthrax really does seem to be the most effective, and frightening bio weapon, when I noticed half a bus of people had gone silent and were all staring at me. It's a really creepy topic. It's also very weird to read about how people always try to label a disease as "foreign." For example, many people racistly argued that the black plague was brought to Europe and South America by the slaves, when it was really transported by rats in the horrific conditions of the slave ships. More recently, I remember SARS being referred to as an "Asian" disease, which hopped on some planes and travelled into Toronto.

In a lot of cases, these diseases have no connection to the people of the countries the "originate" from. They are viruses, vectors and parasites that use humans as hosts. They are not the fault or characteristic of the people who are afflicted by them. They are also not very easily transmitted. Calling a disease Asian just fuels the racism of the ignorant. Sheesh. Also,I seem to remember, not too long ago when people refused to visit us in the deep suburbs, simply because we lived too close to the "contaminated" Toronto. These people certainly didn't want to be ostracized by their neighbours. As you may recall, not only was that the summer of SARS, but also of [one suspected case] of Mad Cow Disease in Alberta. That was a tough summer for Canadian tourism. Too many people have watched Outbreak and the ridiculous footage of thousands of people wearing surgical masks around the city.

I worked as a SARS screener for a summer, in a retirement home. Fascinating to see some people drown their hands in the antibacterial lotion to arm themselves against an airborne disease. Other people just laughed at me in the mask, and carried on to visit their grandparents. There are different levels of fear I suppose.

I've also had many friends who have worked as West Nile exterminators during the summer. From what I understand, their jobs consisted of seeking out mosquito havens (see image above) and draining them, or blasting them with pesticide. I wonder how effective that was? Aussie?

But yeah, some of the diseases I am reading about are legitimately terrifying. The thing is, that the scariest diseases always seem to be the ones we consider foreign, because our standards of living protect us to a great extent. As Siegfried's book Germs and Ideologies notes, "The plague is a virulent disese peculiar to certain countries. In all these countries its virus must exist, ready to resume its active from whenever the conditions of climate,poverty or famine give it a fresh opportunity." Those countries with the worst conditions are at the mercy of these diseases, and yet we have the arrogance to call them foreign, as if the disparity of living conditions is in no way connected to us.

An actual bio warfare attack could go undetected. That is what makes me the most uneasy. However, my point is that we should inform ourselves before pointing fingers, and hiding.

The only thing I'm worried about catching is some of the cynicism and antisociability that seems part of being a grad student. There are some awesome people, don't get me wrong. It's more the atmosphere of nerd-level education I guess. But I'm determined to keep my idealistic ways. I don't want to be a cynic. That's what I have Brian for :)

Anyone getting a flu shot this season?

Also, if you want some cheesy information on bio warfare from 1952, check this out.

The McGill Ghetto: a study in place machismo

The weather sucked. Sometimes ugly is pretty. Sometimes handsome is pretty.



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divine doubt

She pulled the scrap of paper from her pocket again and looked at the scrawled words doubtfully.

"Are you sure this is the right place? I asked.

Somehow, it didn't have quite the vibe I expected. Before we could second guess the directions, the front door swung open and we were greeted by a petite, dark-haired, green-eyed lady who stared back at us with wide eyes.

"Yeah, yeah, this is it, this is me. Come on in, girls."

We looked at eachother apprehensively and stepped in. Once inside, things started to make a little more sense. The air was thick with a sweet, spicy aroma that was both herbal and feminine. Every available surface was covered in a sculpture of some kind of mystical creature. The effect was classy and intriguing, rather than kitschy. She gave us blueberry tea and told us to drink it slowly while trying to relax. Was I being drugged? Before I could ask what was next, she disappeared behind a japanese room divider. 5 minutes later, I would experience my first psychic reading.

That was just about 5 years ago now. Green-eyed L. read our tea leaves and tarot cards, and mapped out a series of dreams and nightmares for us. In a matter-of-fact tone, she told us things we found surprising, obvious, or impossible. We went in together, so I guess you could say we are privvy to eachother's fortunes. You might think this would have become a bonding point for us, but the truth is we barely speak of it. Perhaps the way L.'s predictions unfolded over the following couple of years, and had a creepy way of turning out, was too close to the book for us. Too much.

Does this make me a "believer"? Not necessarily. But throughout my life I have always seemed to attract people with all kinds of lessons and messages for me. These encounters have left impressions, and I'm too impressionable to doubt the mysteries of this life. I'm not a fatalist, but I do tend to follow the road as it unrolls before me. If I didn't do this, my life would have been very different. Maybe it's more about faith than fate?

I'm always equally curious about those who gravitate towards the paranormal or "new age", and about those who abhor it. Where does the trust and fascination, or skepticism and dismissal come from? Who are the people who look to these kinds of sources for answers or insight? What makes some want to know, and others afraid to? When are the moments that we do decide to look for guidance; when we're most despairing, or most confident? Is it the vanity of youth, or the uncertainty of mid-life that brings us to ask questions?

Are we always wondering if we have yet become the people we are meant to be?

On some days, crystal balls seem like they could be practical, household devices. Other days I won't even glance at a horoscope in case tells me something I don't want to know about the day. Is visiting a psychic like a life spoiler? Is it only for the weak, the weird, and the lonely? Or could it be for anyone? Is there such thing as practical magic?

The centre for all things "magical" in Montreal just happens to be located within a block from our apartment. Maybe I'll stop in next week to look for some answers for these questions.

a friday afternoon off

Besides trying my best to look like a manatee pressed against aquarium glass (see above), I have been trying my best to capture one neighbourhood, or facet of the city at a time. I'm also trying to do this before the whole city is covered in a texture homogenizing blanket of snow. Lately I've really been enjoying the photoblog "A Walk Through Durham Township," so I guess I could say my new ideas of photography as a kind of meditation come from there.

electronic chords and floating orbs

Imogen Heap played at Metropolis, here in town last night. First and foremost in my mind, the mystery behind the creepy cyborgian sound of her voice in hide and seek was solved. She sang in unison with her key-tar (see left) with an organ effect, and also had a voice effect on top of it. Very cool, and somehow less scary now. Surrounded by a space station like console of musical gadgets and toys, and a clear plastic grand piano which held her keyboard (and was lit up by fibre optics of alternating colours), the lady showcased her unique and addictive performance style. Overflowing with talent, lacking in any pretentiousness, she was a star and a hostess with English sensibility and graciousness.

I am fully aware of music journalism's fixation on the appearance of female musicians, but she seems to have a lot of fun with her image, and her aesthetics are part of her schtick...so, clothed in a dark rose taffeta corset and ball skirt, fastened with lime green laces, and a pale pink faux fur stole, she looked like a lady of the court. Her giant updo/fauxhawk (complete with pink feathers) also added a bit of punk sensibility to her onstage attire. Fun!






And, what a multi-tasker that woman is. She manipulated countless loops, effects, played keys, and sang with her loopy, scratchy, ethereal voice on top of it all. Any flub that came up during this tour kick-off, was passed off with a laugh or some quick British humour. She was laid back, even grinning when one of her supporting musicians forgot to come onstage for a song, and crept in sheepishly half-way through the number. All this transpired under 4 illuminated orbs that played videos of her doing 90s dance moves. Posh and talented, she put on a great show, and I can't wait to see her again.



Also, any artist who has flamingos in her promo merch has my stamp of approval.

innocence and experience

"I must create a system or be enslaved by another man's. I will not reason and compare: my business is to create"

- William Blake

For a variety of reasons, it is really easy for people around my age to be hard on themselves. Many people, it seems, are wondering if what they are doing right now is the right/best/admirable/acceptable thing that they can be doing with this time, with their lives. The easiest way to create a set of criteria with which to be hard on oneself, is to look to others. And it is becoming easier and easier to do just this. I state the obvious when I note that programs like Facebook and Myspace (and of course, blogs) are becoming voyeuristic, time-eating (albeit fun) traps for many people. With a few clicks, it is possible to see everything from who did what over the weekend, to who is single or in what other kind of relationship, to what jobs people have (or want to have). It's certainly a great way to keep up with what our "friends" are doing, but I also feel like it's becoming too much about keeping up.

I'm not claiming for a second to be immune to this. Countless times I have asked myself whether I would/should rather be working, travelling more, eating less, or sitting on my couch instead of doing what I am doing. I even look to the activities of people I fuzzily remember from various places who happen to be on my list, and wonder if what they are doing, is what I could be doing instead.


I know for a fact, however, that I am not the only one who wonders while wasting her time. But while questioning ourselves holds a certain value i.e. "Yes, okay, I've seen those other options, and I am sure I want to be where I am," or "Well that other stuff looks a little more appealing; maybe I should seriously reconsider what I want to do with the next couple of months," ... I also really believe these comparisons to be harmful. If it gets to the point when other peoples' activities cause you to feel bored, jealous, or even ashamed, this is a problem.

Because life on these interfaces is not real life. We all know that. Just as blogs share tasteful, selected tidbits of real life, Facebook and Myspace break our lives into profile categories and (for the most part, though there are exceptions) shitty quality bar-life pictures. How many times have I read someone else's description of an event and thought "Hmmm, I really don't remember things happening like that at all"?

But who knows? It is someone else's memories, reality, and how they remember, or choose to show their memories to others, is not (or really should not) be my concern. Keeping up with the news feed is in nobody's best interest, and yet we are still curious. The stretch of text and photos is the new yardstick against which we measure our own worth as young adults.

I think of this point in my life as a divergence of paths. And I refuse to feel that such a cliche metaphor is dead. It seems two paths are presented: one is comfortable, guided by the expectations of others, and lit by the bright lights of conformity. The other catches my eye immediately, but still scares the hell out of me. It offers no promises, and is dark and cool, with an atmosphere thick with anticipation.


This seems to be the point in life where we are "fully cooked" as Rozlyn always says, and have to decide what to make of our shapes. Being young and foolish is no longer an excuse not to do something with ourselves, but there is a dangerous temptation to do what might ultimately be foolish.

The way I consider growing up is to learn how to handle money, while recognizing money can not buy you class. Also, to treasure the things in your life, but to not be made by, or identify yourself with those things. To accomplish something at this point is fine-tune your character, not be lured back into the hedonistic realm of what is really expired infantilism. To realize that you are defined by what you mean to those you care about, not by how you might inspire envy in strangers. To be proud of the life you lead in reality first, and then let it be reflected back here online (if it can be), instead of building a cyber facade behind which there lies a half-satisfied person filing his or her nails on the bed, waiting for comments to pop up.

I suppose I am brought to these thoughts by two things:

1) The strange contrast between lived profiles and wasted real-life potential in my younger peers, and

2) The pride I feel for so many people who, despite everything they have to be proud of, seem to be doubting themselves, yet judging themselves unfairly by rules that have no basis in reality.

Ironically, I have spent time online here instead of working on a presentation for tomorrow, but this seemed important to me tonight. And, as much as possible, and increasingly, I am trying to follow my heart rather than a sense of obligation.

petit portrait d'une ville

Sittin' here sipping on orange blossom tea. Thinking about big cities and anonymity. New music is up my sleeves. Hoping my past won't forget about me.

I've thought a lot lately about what I would do were I invisible, and my intentions would have nothing to do with Clay Aiken and his creepy lyrics. I would take a vow of silence for a year, and do a round-the-world trip with my invisible backpack. By not speaking, or being seen, I feel like I would be in a good position to try to understand what is going on in places with politics I cannot currrently wrap my head around. In my language-transcending silence, I could maybe learn a thing or two. But then I guess people would need to know where my insights came from. Damn.

Long distance feels longer when I'm out of long distance phone cards. But we're all spread out, and spreading out, aren't we? Christmas seems like the space of time that everything will come together, when we come home.

There's a hint of frost on the tips of the air that tingle my nose. The smell of coffee is diffusing profusely from the 5 coffee shops near the bus stop. Wood-fired bagels are carried past me in bags, and I turn my head to stare after them longingly.



Books, books, and more, and research galore. My head hurts and the end of class, and it never has before. Before this year, anyways. My one prof has an endearing habit of messing up his hair as he lectures. By the end of class it sticks out, all static-charged, in a million directions. My other prof lost his voice and told us he is suffering from a bad cold. I suggested he try lemon and honey. He said he might prefer whiskey. We have a bit of a piece of work in my third class. His intentions are good, but I've heard the phrase "white supremacy" used inapproprately more times than I've cared to in the past 2 months. At least he spices things up.

Speaking of spice, I'm going to a "Spices of Life" lecture next week, on food cultures and food prejudices. Who knew these kinds of things were out there? I'm also missing Clinton's visit next Weds due to class. I was going to be a door person at this Millenium Promise event, but alas, academia takes precedence.

Got tix for Imogen Heap on Tuesday. And to think her voice frightened the hell out of me when Mandy first introduced me to her stuff.Also, I found a new place for cocktails. Sir Winston Churchill makes amazing Amaretto sours, and they only cost $2.50. Brian had a scotch and soda for the same price, though this "man drink" was just about the worst thing I've ever tasted.

A novel city takes on an ordinary vibe, once the tourist period is over. That moment, however, is when the nooks and crannies start to appear. And how you find Taiwanese iced mint green bubble tea on the cheap. It's also when youstart to notice how cute little kids look with huge umbrellas, how the man with the cane and the leather pants always dodges around other pedestrians with cat-like reflexes, how the guy who sings on the street near Parasuco and the Paris Cafe has a pretty decent voice, how hot the air in the metro is, how pigeons puff up their feathers and actually look adorable when it's cold out, how some pockets of the city are oasises of silence amidst the mess, how hot chocolate with whipped creamis the best thing to come home to, and how living alone would not be half as fun as living with a bossy but supremely generous and cute person.

I spray painted my gold She-ra boots white! How's that for a budget wardrobe piece?