Tuesday, July 10, 2007
We cater to all your needs
Fluorescent lighting. Air conditioning. Super high-definition plasma television screens. Household cleaners and potato chips and shaving cream and greeting cards. Blood glucose monitors and nicotine patches and erectile dysfunction aids and long-acting narcotics. White polyester jackets with permanent stains atop white shirts with permanent stains; black pants with unravelling hems; comfortable albeit ugly shoes. Compromised intellect all around. Cynicism and disdain and irritation and indifference, but mostly indifference. Worry and stress; pressure and judgement. There must be a drug for what ails me.
Fluorescent lighting. Air conditioning. Super high-definition plasma television screens. Household cleaners and potato chips and shaving cream and greeting cards. Blood glucose monitors and nicotine patches and erectile dysfunction aids and long-acting narcotics. White polyester jackets with permanent stains atop white shirts with permanent stains; black pants with unravelling hems; comfortable albeit ugly shoes. Compromised intellect all around. Cynicism and disdain and irritation and indifference, but mostly indifference. Worry and stress; pressure and judgement. There must be a drug for what ails me.
Friday, May 04, 2007
Three whole months, well, nearly...
An embarrassment to be absent for so long, though no one is keeping track. I happened upon an installation in a local gallery this past weekend, the crux of which is an old fashioned typewriter that is to be used by gallery goers to provide accounts of 'stories of invisibility'. Too timid to start typing then and there, and too hard pressed to come up with anything at all momentous, I refrained. But here is an example if not quite a story of invisibility: the web journal that nobody ever reads except for known unknowns, if that. There are, however, daily stories of invisibility, though none are of much interest. I am invisible at this very moment, though this information in and of itself is of very little consequence. Stories of invisibility seem to balance themselves with stories of visibility. Sometimes when I am unwillingly visible I long to be invisible, so we cannot always denote invisibility as a negative circumstance. For example, when I am working and come upon the realization that I alone am responsible for things no one else wants to be or can be responsible for, I feel more uncomfortably visible. Even if I try to be invisible, it is all for nought: I am sought out and pulled back into the realm of visibility. I often feel that my countenance is at complete odds with the environment. I do not belong there, can nobody see that? Or can they see it and are just too polite not to mention my overt physical displacement? This is, alas, all in my mind. I do not appear out of place. My visibility is expected, and the longer I stay, the more visible I become, almost like an image being burned into a pixelated screen. Even as I type this, I'm burning pixels into the screen. I leave a trail of pixels behind no matter what I do. I'm ensuring that my visibility is duly noted, though no one in particular is taking note.
An embarrassment to be absent for so long, though no one is keeping track. I happened upon an installation in a local gallery this past weekend, the crux of which is an old fashioned typewriter that is to be used by gallery goers to provide accounts of 'stories of invisibility'. Too timid to start typing then and there, and too hard pressed to come up with anything at all momentous, I refrained. But here is an example if not quite a story of invisibility: the web journal that nobody ever reads except for known unknowns, if that. There are, however, daily stories of invisibility, though none are of much interest. I am invisible at this very moment, though this information in and of itself is of very little consequence. Stories of invisibility seem to balance themselves with stories of visibility. Sometimes when I am unwillingly visible I long to be invisible, so we cannot always denote invisibility as a negative circumstance. For example, when I am working and come upon the realization that I alone am responsible for things no one else wants to be or can be responsible for, I feel more uncomfortably visible. Even if I try to be invisible, it is all for nought: I am sought out and pulled back into the realm of visibility. I often feel that my countenance is at complete odds with the environment. I do not belong there, can nobody see that? Or can they see it and are just too polite not to mention my overt physical displacement? This is, alas, all in my mind. I do not appear out of place. My visibility is expected, and the longer I stay, the more visible I become, almost like an image being burned into a pixelated screen. Even as I type this, I'm burning pixels into the screen. I leave a trail of pixels behind no matter what I do. I'm ensuring that my visibility is duly noted, though no one in particular is taking note.
Wednesday, February 14, 2007
Snow day!
I almost feel like a little kid again. Today was going to be a day of white-knuckle driving, but it has miraculously turned into a cozy indoor day during which I find myself with time to write a blog post while I sip on a gigantic cup of coffee and nibble on a peanut butter brownie.
The logical activity for me to embark upon today is preparation for the imminent move, but packing boxes may have to be postponed, as the boxes in question are to be found in the trunk of my car, which would require actually going outside and subjecting myself to the blowing snow and howling wind. Alright, I'm exaggerating...it's not that bad here, but over Hamilton way, my ultimate destination most days of the week, is a different story: they have been absolutely pounded with snow, hence my current state of inertia.
I look at this move as a great opportunity to reduce personal inventory, or as Ian Brown so unmercilessly called it in last weekend's Globe & Mail manifesto, culling. A harsh harsh word for an activity already fraught with anxiety and misgivings, especially for a person that can attach sentimental value to almost anything (that old concert ticket stub conjures up such fond memories!). I will make something clear at the outset, however: no books shall be harmed in the process. Culling of books is strictly forbidden. Every volume that resides with me in this humble abode shall travel with me to the next space. What gets culled is the stuff that causes the clutter, like all the amassed papers and magazines and otherwise useless nothings that serve no real purpose other than to occupy space and collect dust. That is what I aim to eliminate today.
Admittedly, it is a strange approach to take in that I am moving from a smaller space to a larger space. I could approach it in a different way, such that all my worldly possessions and then some could come along with me, but why carry so many useless tchotchkes along when all they will do is sit idly until it is time for them to be moved again further down the line. Cull them then, cull them all!
Not so easily done. I am reminded often of the woman I chatted with over breakfast in an oceanside inn in Newport, Oregon a few years back. She was a self-professed ruthless lawyer until she went on a pilgrimage to Macchu Picchu, and it subsequently changed her life. She quit her job and dropped most of her possessions and adopted the credo 'reduce and simplify'. I listened to her story and was mostly amused by her new-agey flakiness, but I still think about the reducing and simplifying idea all the time. Not to the monastic extent of eliminating most everything I own, but to an extent whereby I transcend my tendency toward materialism and become satisfied with the select few possessions that I consider essential to my small world life: books and bookmarks, pens and notebooks, computer and two or three accessories thereof, blankets and sheets and pillowcases, some clothing and some shoes, plus the most basic of worldly implements. That's all.
Oh, and furniture of course. A couple of new pieces would be lovely for the new place. Perhaps a teak wall unit and a Barcelona chair. But I swear that will be all.
I almost feel like a little kid again. Today was going to be a day of white-knuckle driving, but it has miraculously turned into a cozy indoor day during which I find myself with time to write a blog post while I sip on a gigantic cup of coffee and nibble on a peanut butter brownie.
The logical activity for me to embark upon today is preparation for the imminent move, but packing boxes may have to be postponed, as the boxes in question are to be found in the trunk of my car, which would require actually going outside and subjecting myself to the blowing snow and howling wind. Alright, I'm exaggerating...it's not that bad here, but over Hamilton way, my ultimate destination most days of the week, is a different story: they have been absolutely pounded with snow, hence my current state of inertia.
I look at this move as a great opportunity to reduce personal inventory, or as Ian Brown so unmercilessly called it in last weekend's Globe & Mail manifesto, culling. A harsh harsh word for an activity already fraught with anxiety and misgivings, especially for a person that can attach sentimental value to almost anything (that old concert ticket stub conjures up such fond memories!). I will make something clear at the outset, however: no books shall be harmed in the process. Culling of books is strictly forbidden. Every volume that resides with me in this humble abode shall travel with me to the next space. What gets culled is the stuff that causes the clutter, like all the amassed papers and magazines and otherwise useless nothings that serve no real purpose other than to occupy space and collect dust. That is what I aim to eliminate today.
Admittedly, it is a strange approach to take in that I am moving from a smaller space to a larger space. I could approach it in a different way, such that all my worldly possessions and then some could come along with me, but why carry so many useless tchotchkes along when all they will do is sit idly until it is time for them to be moved again further down the line. Cull them then, cull them all!
Not so easily done. I am reminded often of the woman I chatted with over breakfast in an oceanside inn in Newport, Oregon a few years back. She was a self-professed ruthless lawyer until she went on a pilgrimage to Macchu Picchu, and it subsequently changed her life. She quit her job and dropped most of her possessions and adopted the credo 'reduce and simplify'. I listened to her story and was mostly amused by her new-agey flakiness, but I still think about the reducing and simplifying idea all the time. Not to the monastic extent of eliminating most everything I own, but to an extent whereby I transcend my tendency toward materialism and become satisfied with the select few possessions that I consider essential to my small world life: books and bookmarks, pens and notebooks, computer and two or three accessories thereof, blankets and sheets and pillowcases, some clothing and some shoes, plus the most basic of worldly implements. That's all.
Oh, and furniture of course. A couple of new pieces would be lovely for the new place. Perhaps a teak wall unit and a Barcelona chair. But I swear that will be all.
Sunday, February 04, 2007
The dervish, she whirls
She turns and she turns and she turns. She stays mostly in one spot but at the same time goes oh so far away. Where she goes is known only to her and perhaps the others that turn next to her or not next to her. I suspect I will never know the place where she goes. It is not mine to know. A lot of faith and meditation and singlemindedness may allow for such a journey but it would only be the beginning. I am not sure that I even want to go there: I am only sure that I know she is happier no place else. That is the draw.
I am speaking of Mira Burke, a modern day dervish that some have called avant garde in her approach to the ancient practice. Her turning evokes all that she feels as she cyclically prays, because not only does she turn and turn and turn: her body wrenches with perpetual moments of true feeling as she does so, thereby changing an onlooker's response from the expected hypnotic transcendence to one of shared knowledge, shared understanding, shared feeling, albeit fleeting. So so fleeting.
The transcendence is only intensified by the accompaniment of Sufi-inspired electronic sampling provided by the Turkish-Canadian composer Mercan Dede. He and his Secret Tribe lull both the dervish and the onlookers into an altered state of consciousness by pairing electronic beats with the more traditional sounds of the drum, the clarinet, the kanun, and the ney. Dede rivals the dervish in his ability to captivate the audience [whether he is clanging his tiny cymbals or manipulating his mixing board or simply just moving to the music], but he is also in complete harmony with her. He has also been called a modern day dervish, so perhaps he goes to the same place as she does when he turns the music on his table. Perhaps they go together, leaving only their bodies behind. The closing of one's eyes renders their physicality inconsequential, leaving only the music, the haunting, beating, infiltrating music. But then the whirling would go unseen. The visual and the aural must go hand in hand.
All of this begins to fade as soon as one ventures from the dimly lit warmth of Trinity St. Paul's Church, into the biting cold of the unforgiving midwinter night. It fades a little further as you run to catch the streetcar to avoid waiting untold lengths of time for the next one to come screeching through the night. There are no dervishes on board, and if there were, they would be regarded with much disdain, because any overt sign of spiritual devotion is generally frowned upon in the public transit system. Of course, it is possible to go to a different place, that is to say, it is possible to transcend the here and the now by simply staring straight ahead into oblivion, or better yet, at a wall. No whirling necessary.
She turns and she turns and she turns. She stays mostly in one spot but at the same time goes oh so far away. Where she goes is known only to her and perhaps the others that turn next to her or not next to her. I suspect I will never know the place where she goes. It is not mine to know. A lot of faith and meditation and singlemindedness may allow for such a journey but it would only be the beginning. I am not sure that I even want to go there: I am only sure that I know she is happier no place else. That is the draw.
I am speaking of Mira Burke, a modern day dervish that some have called avant garde in her approach to the ancient practice. Her turning evokes all that she feels as she cyclically prays, because not only does she turn and turn and turn: her body wrenches with perpetual moments of true feeling as she does so, thereby changing an onlooker's response from the expected hypnotic transcendence to one of shared knowledge, shared understanding, shared feeling, albeit fleeting. So so fleeting.
The transcendence is only intensified by the accompaniment of Sufi-inspired electronic sampling provided by the Turkish-Canadian composer Mercan Dede. He and his Secret Tribe lull both the dervish and the onlookers into an altered state of consciousness by pairing electronic beats with the more traditional sounds of the drum, the clarinet, the kanun, and the ney. Dede rivals the dervish in his ability to captivate the audience [whether he is clanging his tiny cymbals or manipulating his mixing board or simply just moving to the music], but he is also in complete harmony with her. He has also been called a modern day dervish, so perhaps he goes to the same place as she does when he turns the music on his table. Perhaps they go together, leaving only their bodies behind. The closing of one's eyes renders their physicality inconsequential, leaving only the music, the haunting, beating, infiltrating music. But then the whirling would go unseen. The visual and the aural must go hand in hand.
All of this begins to fade as soon as one ventures from the dimly lit warmth of Trinity St. Paul's Church, into the biting cold of the unforgiving midwinter night. It fades a little further as you run to catch the streetcar to avoid waiting untold lengths of time for the next one to come screeching through the night. There are no dervishes on board, and if there were, they would be regarded with much disdain, because any overt sign of spiritual devotion is generally frowned upon in the public transit system. Of course, it is possible to go to a different place, that is to say, it is possible to transcend the here and the now by simply staring straight ahead into oblivion, or better yet, at a wall. No whirling necessary.
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
Wait, so it's Dion who has difficulty setting priorities?
The latest smear campaign from the Conservative Party of Canada targets Stephane Dion and his perceived inability to be an effective leader, using fellow Liberal Michael Ignatieff to drive the point home. I suppose Stephen Harper and his surly gang figure that the attack will be more effective if a colleague of Mr. Dion's does all the dirty work. But their hands still have stains on them. It would not be so despicable were we in the midst of an election campaign. But we're not. If they feel that it is necessary to air attack ads even before officially calling an election, it must mean that they know that the imminent budget will displease Canadians. They know, and we know too. It will undoubtedly suck. Yay military!
The latest smear campaign from the Conservative Party of Canada targets Stephane Dion and his perceived inability to be an effective leader, using fellow Liberal Michael Ignatieff to drive the point home. I suppose Stephen Harper and his surly gang figure that the attack will be more effective if a colleague of Mr. Dion's does all the dirty work. But their hands still have stains on them. It would not be so despicable were we in the midst of an election campaign. But we're not. If they feel that it is necessary to air attack ads even before officially calling an election, it must mean that they know that the imminent budget will displease Canadians. They know, and we know too. It will undoubtedly suck. Yay military!
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
Lobotomy not required
Lately I have felt as though I have been living in cloud cuckoo land. I am unsure how this state of mind has come into existence. A new sense of optimism is the ostensible cause of this mindset. The cause of the new sense of optimism, however, remains unknown, having obliquely arisen from a previous state of mind that I am only able to identify as 'not optimistic'. Despite the occasional unpleasant circumstance that may arise in the course of a life, I am always able to shift my headspace back into a place where things are good and tolerable and not hopeless. Small small things are able to instill in me an enormous sense of wellbeing. Has this anything to do with getting older, wiser, etc.? Or has it more to do with casting a blind eye on all the worldly matters that normally make one cynical and pessimistic? Perhaps it is just a realization that cynicism and pessimism are mostly pointless activities. This is not to say that my outlook is devoid of either of these things, just that I happen to be carrying around a little less of each for a change.
Lately I have felt as though I have been living in cloud cuckoo land. I am unsure how this state of mind has come into existence. A new sense of optimism is the ostensible cause of this mindset. The cause of the new sense of optimism, however, remains unknown, having obliquely arisen from a previous state of mind that I am only able to identify as 'not optimistic'. Despite the occasional unpleasant circumstance that may arise in the course of a life, I am always able to shift my headspace back into a place where things are good and tolerable and not hopeless. Small small things are able to instill in me an enormous sense of wellbeing. Has this anything to do with getting older, wiser, etc.? Or has it more to do with casting a blind eye on all the worldly matters that normally make one cynical and pessimistic? Perhaps it is just a realization that cynicism and pessimism are mostly pointless activities. This is not to say that my outlook is devoid of either of these things, just that I happen to be carrying around a little less of each for a change.
Sunday, December 31, 2006
Nowhere girl*
How negligent I would be if I didn't add one more post to this mostly defunct blog before the year ended. Of course, my mind turns to the new year, and all of the potential that it holds in store. All fresh, all shiny, no mistakes.
My new year's resolution is to move to Park Slope, Brooklyn and accidentally bump into Paul Auster on Seventh Avenue, and then proceed to ask him if he knows of any local shops that sell blank notebooks of a decent quality, as I am new to the neighbourhood, and would like to avoid commuting to Manhattan to procure said item (akin to the manner in which Nathan asks the Beautiful Perfect Mother if she knows of any art supply stores in the neighbourhood in The Brooklyn Follies). Of course, Paul would venture to inquire about my inclination to write, and the conversation would build upon that, necessitating a move to a local coffee shop where the two of us could properly discuss matters pertaining to the topic of interest. I don't think I need to mention that Paul and I would become fast friends.
Aside from resolutions that involve stalking great writers and obtaining citizenship in a foreign country, I have to make an effort at other more tangible things. These things include, in no particular order:
* The song of the same name was playing on the radio when I started writing this post, and at that very moment I felt completely like a nowhere girl. As time has a way of flip-flopping our emotions, I am confident that I will no longer feel like a nowhere girl in a very short time.
How negligent I would be if I didn't add one more post to this mostly defunct blog before the year ended. Of course, my mind turns to the new year, and all of the potential that it holds in store. All fresh, all shiny, no mistakes.
My new year's resolution is to move to Park Slope, Brooklyn and accidentally bump into Paul Auster on Seventh Avenue, and then proceed to ask him if he knows of any local shops that sell blank notebooks of a decent quality, as I am new to the neighbourhood, and would like to avoid commuting to Manhattan to procure said item (akin to the manner in which Nathan asks the Beautiful Perfect Mother if she knows of any art supply stores in the neighbourhood in The Brooklyn Follies). Of course, Paul would venture to inquire about my inclination to write, and the conversation would build upon that, necessitating a move to a local coffee shop where the two of us could properly discuss matters pertaining to the topic of interest. I don't think I need to mention that Paul and I would become fast friends.
Aside from resolutions that involve stalking great writers and obtaining citizenship in a foreign country, I have to make an effort at other more tangible things. These things include, in no particular order:
- reading more
- writing more
- learning more, perhaps through the auspices of reading (see above), or by simply taking a course or two
- finding a new apartment
- making a decision about work, as in whether to stay or leave
- writing more
- writing more
* The song of the same name was playing on the radio when I started writing this post, and at that very moment I felt completely like a nowhere girl. As time has a way of flip-flopping our emotions, I am confident that I will no longer feel like a nowhere girl in a very short time.
