Tiny Bubbles

The first time I had a pet, I was between the ages of four and six. My parents, who grew up on farms, had experience with animals but not in the purely domestic capacity. Since they are both sensitive to smells they continuously denied me anything with fur. And later, when I tried to get around that rule by asking for a reptile, the law expanded to include all mammals, reptiles, insects and birds. So I got a fish. It didn't last very long.

A few years later I was given more fish. Two fish, a snail and a plant living inside a very small box. I don't fault my parents, they never had fish as a pet; that was pointless when they were growing up. Overfed and lacking livable water conditions those fish didn't last long either. I didn't care to have any more fish after that.

Zip forward many years and I've met the Lad. He loves keeping fish and dreams of large tanks filled with brightly coloured creatures. I still feel that fish are food rather than friends but I desperately want a pet and until I move out I have next to no options.

It started out as a bet made on an impromptu bowling night. It ended with a ten-gallon tank which, as of yesterday contains three mostly content fish.

From left to right: Unnamed, P'tit Bec and Nova

Do you know how hard it is to take pictures of fish? The darned things never stop twitching! But I managed to do it this morning for all you lovely people.  I will eventually come up with a name for the one with the black tail. For those of you not in the know, P'tit Bec is French for Little Kiss. She and Nova are Sunset Platies and the other is a Red Wag Platy. I have been assured that my monstrous tank can hold ten of these suckers, but I have to add three at a time.

I'm already obsessed with them. I am determined to map their personalities and I spend a long time just staring at them swim around. What has the Lad done!?

Oh, and do you like that little house as much as I do? I spent a good half hour mapping out possible decor layouts for the tank. I think it matters more to me than it does to the fish though.



Full view of the Fish House



Self, Meet Self

Of all the possible ways to refer to the self I am most fond of author Terry Pratchett's so-called "black space behind the eyes". Within that space I am only vaguely aware of what I look like in the real world. In fact I'm larger than life in there and probably translucent while we're at it.

For this reason I find self portraits to be challenging. Rather than portray myself realistically I have a tendency to fantasize and satirize myself. There's little cartoon me's scattered all over my room; and yet they are not me. My self is the one I know most intimately. My flaws, hopes, joys, dreams, strengths and ideals are bound up in one very inadiquate and squishy packet that fails to communicate the very characteristics that compose it. And that, my friends was a very complex way of saying that I don't wear myself on my skin.

My self is in a constant state of flux. It shifts with every morsel of knowledge I aquire to the point where very few of my opinions can be pinned down. I can say with absolute certainty that I am not ready to be set in my ways and for that matter, I may never be. However, having to carry out round after round of verbal sparring with myself can have its pitfalls.

I don't always know my self and I would rather not pretend to. This blog is a rather convenient way of keeping track. With time I will probably look back on my very first posts and cringe with embarassement the way I do when I unearth a journal from my early teenage-hood. However, looking back through it will do more for my struggle for self-portraiture than any number of sketches.

Misdirected Effort

I make an effort to procrastinate since it's one of my favorite activities. When procrastinating I manage to get 'everything else' done. Unfortunately, I have yet to develop a completely foolproof system so that I can accomplish a goal by procrastinating on a dummy task. I must work harder to outsmart my own brain.

So instead of sitting down and drafting up a really engaging blog post I found a random number generator and a page of creative writing prompts. I rolled the virtual 346-sided-die and came up with prompt 129. The following story has nothing to do with that prompt. In fact I went so off topic that I wonder why I even needed to get the prompt in the first place.
So I give you the little story that happened instead.


Our Neighbor, Mr. Laurell

This morning there was a dragon behind the couch. It wasn't big although I didn't get a good enough look at it as the frying pan I was wielding got in the way.  At least it's better than the Centaur we had in here last week, I had a hard time explaining the arrows and the hoof prints to the landlord.

When we moved in, Mr. Laurell was perched on the wrought iron railing of his front steps. He observed us as we brought in our boxes, his expression never wavering from a contentedly curious smile. The next day I saw him on my way out. He was standing on his porch, a small, steaming cup in and the same curious smile. I waved. And then with all the enthusiasm of a toddler on a rainy day he leapt from the porch and jogged to the sidewalk to greet me, holding his cup aloft without spilling a drop.

"Lovely to see you again."

"Yes it is. We just moved in you know." I said, hoping for the standard bit of new neighbor banter.

"It's been quite a while but you haven't changed a bit, have you?" He peered  up at me over the tops of his glasses which were shaped, I noted, like stop signs.

I searched my memory and out came nothing. But then he grinned and patted my arm reassuringly.

"Oh never mind, you should be going. Do come over for tea some time and bring the young lady of course."

I could hear the gears in my brain groan in protest as they tried to navigate the conversational ess-curves at high speed. By the time I caught up to reality, the screen door was swinging shut with a muted 'squeak'.

Hours later at the office, I stopped speaking mid-sentence when I realized that when Mr. Laurell had reached out the pat my arm he had left the little cup behind. It had remained in the air, spinning demurely and all the white emitting a cheery puff of steam.

Coleen and I went over to tea a few days later. Mr. Laurell buzzed around us in an over-sized terrycloth robe filling this and fetching that. He told us that he used to be a mail-man and showed us a few pictures.

His home gave the impression of barely retained disaster. I swore to Coleen later that night that some of the walls were just tightly-packed piled of books. She laughed and I had to forget about it. We both thought he was a sweet, if flighty old man. So when he asked us a few weeks later to keep a few things for him while he cleared the house a bit we gladly accepted.

That's how we found out our neighbor, Mr. Laurell was a wizard. Now if only we could figure out how to hide the scorch marks on our carpet.

The Doodle Impulse

I find people don't stay still long enough for me to draw them and yet I love to draw from life.

If I drew the Lad every day it would never come out the same way. Contemplating faces is where I find my centre of calm. In each face I find a particle of truth.

Click

More rain, more wind, more floods, more fires. It's easy to get depressed when so many people in this country are under the weather in more ways than one. It could have been a bad day but then I heard this as I walked to the train.




Then the world got all cool. This last word must be said in a voice as smooth as butter on a hot pan, as luscious as chocolate drizzle and just as velvety. Also, it would be preferable if you had shades.

The rest of the day clicked. All it took was a song to remind me of my inner foxy lady. I was able to complete all my errands in an hour. I gathered together a lovely little gift for my belly dancing teacher as a thank-you for her support leading up to the competition and I made the train on time. I even had time to go grab a library book. Yes, I'm still reading for that challenge, I just haven't been reviewing. Sometimes I fall so deep into a book I can't explain what I feel while reading it.  That being said, I still want to talk about One Hundred Years of Solitude, and I will.

And because I'm sure you're all curious. The competition ... well it went. I didn't win anything but I had a great experience and my Mom bought me brunch.

On the Left you have the final version of my Cat Eye Makeup, and the most wonderful earrings I've ever seen.

On the Right is me in full costume with my teacher. She was so proud she was bawling her eyes out. You will notice that this picture was taken at the end of the day and I am much more dishevelled. 

There will be a video posted when I receive the DVD of the competition. I have no idea what I looked like, but people seem to tell me I danced well. When I was waiting to go on stage, it seemed like every other dancer went on forever. And then it was my turn. After a minute it was over and I couldn't believe it. I had done the best I could. I felt sexier than I have ever felt in my life as I prowled up and down the boards. I'm going to ride that feeling for a while. It must be good for my self-esteem.

The Rut

Many years of schooling (I don't want to count, it would be too depressing) have trained me to think in a certain way. Despite evidence to the contrary I still think of life in terms of chapters entitled Semester and Summer. Learning and paper writing compose the former and leisure and pleasure occupy the latter. I don't think that this is what teachers intended. This is probably why I'm still offended and slightly betrayed at the fact that I'm working when I should be lounging.

I am aware that certain schools are altering their system so that the year is composed of three terms rather than two. These terms are broken up by breaks lasting at least a month and the time spent in school is shortened. Technically, the length of an academic year stays the same, what changes is the sequencing. I like it and I don't like it. But I think the dislike stems from the long-developed habit of having a three month summer break during which I could forget about school completely. In terms of practicality it makes complete sense for both the teachers and students.

Even though I technically don't have to think about school until September (What? Old habits...) I have discovered that text books will not rain down from the sky if I attempt to do some learning outside of Semester. I find myself laughing at how belief can become entrenched in action to the point where it is no longer questioned. When an Anthropology professor brought it up I didn't get it. Now I do.

Lecture recordings, videos and transcripts from major universities are being made available for free online. They are not for credit but rather for the joy of learning. For a long time the concept of 'pleasure learning' was baffling; 'why would you subject yourself to more schooling than you have to?' I would ask. I have to say, I get it now.

Without the added pressure of reading, deadlines and grades, listening to lectures becomes a pleasurable experience. I'm slowly breaking *is that a badger!?* years of habit and it feels both weird and nice. Although, have some sympathy for the people with whom I shall converse, because I like to share the things I learn. Hold on to your ears folks because I'm about to talk them off.

Routine: A Personal Essay

               You always need to have a plan. The necessity of structure, organization and predictability are hammered into you before you are even born. Routine is good, it makes life easier to manage. If you pay attention to all the magazines, T.V. shows, books, blogs, podcasts and ads then you get a general idea of what the expected routine looks like. Largely it involves getting things 'right' - sleep, water, diet, exercise, work, money, relationships; everything has to be right. I'm not fond of right and there are a few reasons why. Firstly, it means I constantly have to watch myself to make sure I'm not straying into the wrong. Second, sticking to the predetermined routine makes me feel like a machine rather than a person. And lastly, there is the guilt and self-loathing brought on by the fact that what is deemed  'right' does not make me happy. Teachers would always correct me for making generalizations so I have to wonder why most people are trying to structure their lives around one.

              Everything comes down to a series of lists. If you spend as much time on the Internet as I do then you must be aware of the popularity of lists. The world and everything in it is being reduced to the Top 5, Top 10 or (if they're feeling generous) Top 100 and who has time to read that last one? I don't mind lists when it comes to naming favorites or shopping but there are things in life that should not be listed. To name a few I would say: Keys to Happiness, Steps to a Good Relationship, and Raising Children. You don't have to try very hard to find these lists - they're everywhere. These lists are attempting to quantify subjective experiences which can lead to destructive behaviour. During rare moments of clarity I catch myself being affected by these lists, particularity the ones that deal with relationships. A good relationship is, according to these lists, supposed to progress from A to B to C, contain milestones 1, 2 and 3 and have features x, y, and z. How many promising relationships have been torn apart because one of the participants needed to adhere to the list? Despite being aware of the pitfalls I too have fallen victim to list-begotten doubts. The same applies to personal fulfillment, wellness and success. If you're constantly living to check things off a mental list what are you missing?

              Apocalyptic visions of the future often involve robot takeovers or the complete pacification of the human race. The end of the world is when we cease to be a collection of individuals. Biomedicine interprets the human body as a machine. Many employers see workers as output mechanisms. Corporations have numbers instead of customers. In many little ways were are reduced to parts like a piece of furniture from Ikea. A machine can only function according to its programming. Now think of all the programs that you've had to follow in your life: lesson plans, rubrics, diets, fitness plans, work projects, social programs, bureaucracy. I knew so many people in high school who were sure that their life plan was rock solid and who would not deviate from it at the risk of being a failure.
There is an important feature in building design known as the joint. Of this there are several different kinds what the ones I'm thinking of are control joints and expansion joints. Now bear with me, I spent several years being groomed for a career in architecture so for me this is a good metaphor. Control joints are the kind you see in sidewalks.

They are made when the concrete is poured. Their purpose is to localize cracks and strengthen the overall unit. The principle is that every substance on the planet moves; contracting, expanding and vibrating at its own rate. Because these pieces of concrete are not free to move, the tension in the material will cause cracks to form. Instead of having cracks form all over the place, the control joints concentrate the cracks and preserve the integrity of the sidewalk. Expansion joints work on the same principle except that they allow for movement between different materials that must be attached together.

Now that I've bored you to death I'm going to elaborate. Structural rigidity leads to cracks and ultimately failure. The stress of holding too tightly to a set plan will eventually make you fall apart. For this reason you have to allow cracks to form, you have to be flexible and you have to accept that you will not remain flawless. You, like all substances on Earth, contract, expand and vibrate at your own unique rate so why would you adhere to a plan that was not built for you?

              We are all familiar with guilt. It nags at the back of our minds as we reach for a second slice of cake. It claws at us when we think about skipping a trip to the gym to finish a good book instead. Guilt lurks behind every box of cookies, every window of free time and of course, every mirror. Guilt is like that little girl in horror movies; she's always there in the corner of your eye humming a sinister little tune. When I didn't finish college in the two years it took my friends to do so I was bogged down in self loathing. I had chosen to do a a three-year career program and a year of Science instead of university prep but I still felt I had failed to keep up. When I finally entered university these same friends were in their final year. Facebook made me aware when people I knew were going to the gym, shopping, travelling and generally having fun (without me). Because I wasn't where they were I felt guilty. I focused on what I hadn't achieved and what I didn't look like rather than what was good about my life. Something tells me that this is a familiar pattern for many people. We are acutely aware of the standards we have "failed" to live up to but we fail to realize those same standards are not right for everyone.

             I remember my parents telling me not to compare myself to my friends, but when I received a grade that they felt was sub-par they would immediately ask what my friends had received. I know that now to be a mixed message, but at the time I only understood that the only time my results mattered was when someone else had better ones. In much the same way we are always made aware of how someone has a better routine than ours. Theirs is healthier, more productive and makes them happier while the rest of us are failing at life. Finding what works for you is a tricky venture, and I spend much of my time fending off the little voice that tells me I'm doing it wrong. Who is that voice, I wonder. It's the lists talking. They glare at us from their fanciful yet organized pedestal. They make us feel guilty for deviating from the norm and for not having achieved all the Steps to Happiness and Success. While I do not disagree with the notion that people need routine and structure I wonder why mine has to be like everyone else's. I have a plan, but it can change. In fact, I rather hope that it does because I like surprises.

Smiling Through the Rain

Despite my best efforts I got wet today. While I could have walked to the train station using the long, convoluted paths of the underground I chose to get on a bike and ride. So, I did in fact bring this on myself.
You couldn't blame me, though, if you saw these tunnels. Most of the time it's not obvious where you're headed as the tunnels become malls which become office complexes which morph back into tunnels. There is also more up-and-down than a roller coaster.

Because of this I chose to bike. The rain had been stopping for five minute windows and I had forgotten it was a ten minute bike ride. But we grin, and we bear it just like I bore the wet seat of my pants for the train ride home and I still think it was worth it.

I'm counting the days to my road trip with the Lad. We're going to Niagara Falls for a few days (I've never been but he has) and his wonderful self has agreed to go wine-tasting with me in the Niagara Valley (I'm giddy). Our last road trip was two years ago when we journeyed to Prince Edward Island. Sometimes I hook my computer to the big screen TV and run a slide show of the pictures to some cheesy romantic music.

When it's been raining for a whole week I look to nostalgia to lighten my mood. That, and trying my hand at making some Rustic Flatbread. My forearms hurt so much I'm tempted to stick them in the freezer. Apparently I need to stretch before kneading.

Wet Feet

Not even gallons of rain can dampen the feeling I get from my happy shoes. However, I have been very blue during these last few days for reasons which I would rather not get into for fear of ranting. I'll get over it.

Generally it's been a rough beginning to the week. I had three cavities fixed which required a good deal of numbing agents and so many drill bits I thought they were building a house in there. My skull got such a rattling that I'm still sore. And oh did I whine about it.

I'm told you have to indulge your inner child which, in my book, does not mean restricting it to the pleasant childish reactions. I'm going to have to throw a hissy fit once in a while - that is all I'm saying.

The greater part of my weekend was spent practising make-up for my competition next weekend. I've been beating off panic attacks with a stick. So, because I like sharing pictures, I'll let you have a glimpse of my inner drag queen*.

Admittedly it doesn't have the va-va-voom I'm going for. But I'm building something and after examining the pictures I understand that the eyes have to be at least five times more dramatic. On the bright side, the foundation looks good in pictures; small victories.

* I use drag queen in the best possible sense. I'm recalling the lovely one who served us drinks at the very first club I ever went to.