Heartbreak Warfare

On the eve of a huge exam and essay, all I can think about is you. Is it selfish of me to want to run into you? To place myself in situations so I can finally purge myself of every horrible and singularly lovely thought I've ever had about you? Have us stuck in a quiet piano room in Long & McQuade and hash it out until someone's crying or laughing or they shut the lights and tell us to lock up when the bloodshed is done?

That is Heartbreak Warfare.


I keep asking myself, why now. Why at this moment? Why mention it to me, why did she tell me that you had just broken up? I could have just as easily not known. I've tried again and again...many times, tried to think or go over events in my mind. Write you letters so I can finally be cleansed of any notion of you. So I can stop walking past the Globe and the Civic Centre without thinking of you. So that Militia Trail means nothing to me.
 
It's become a horrible game - a game of skirting around each other and making sure no one steps in, no one intrudes, reminds each other of their presence. They say maybe it was her - she changed you. Me, I don't think so. It wasn't all her; it was you too. How do I keep coherent thoughts on a steady flow when everything is convoluted? You are the one thing that was so multi-faceted, the one thing I just cannot seem to rationalize and work out - and that unnerves me. It has never happened to me before, that I am now unable to say your name outloud without a deep flush - a flush of anger and heat unexplained - rise up my face.
 
Where do I find the words from, how do I separate the emotions so that, even armed with the good word and its power, I can write it out? I want to yell at you and smack you really good and hard and at the same time, I just want to hug you - tired. I am tired of running about, running away. People are afraid of thunder and darkness, I'm afraid of stasis. But I'd like to stand still here with you.
 
The problem is that you're still on the defensive. Or maybe you're not. And I'm torn. Torn because I want so badly to just - fucking get rid of this horrid feeling of you, this memory; I want it to remain a memory, I want to step out of purgatory and either pass on or return back to life. It sounds dramatic but there is no more appropriate metaphor for someone who is so different now, it almost feels like He's dead.
 
What are you fighting for? Why are you fighting? What did I do? It was so abrupt...you gave me no explanation. And if I hadn't stood out in that hallway, outside of your apartment, tears in my eyes, asking why why why you would have said nothing. Is that really the kind of coward you are?
 
That is Heartbreak Warfare.
 
I catch myself thinking of you and then ruthlessly quash down any emotion that surges at the mere mention of your name. Move on. I tell myself, move on. I was never the girl who was attached, I was always the independent. But I can't stop myself from dreaming up ways to tell you about the pain - to hope for the chance to work this out or die trying. How far have we fallen? We're far away from where we first were...
 
I want to take hold of you and shake you back awake. I want to tell you to put your weapon down. I don't want to admit defeat - I want you to want to work this out. I want you to want this back. Make this landscape stand still, make everything go quiet. Suspend time and space. Put away emotions and memories. Just tell me how it is, how you feel, what you're like. Don't be passive, call out. This is no one's win, K. This is everyone's loss - this is my loss. There are casualties, there are. And no one wins.
 
That, too, is Heartbreak Warfare.
 
I'm afraid that someday life will take us so far - time and space will be more than temporal, they will be solid, physical. Even more so than today. And, at that point, it will be too late. I heard you loud and clear when I said goodbye, but don't you understand?! You can't just fucking bury the past and not look it in the face. You move on, yes, but not by stepping on remains. You always honour the dead. You never deface. Don't you know observation of those niceties aren't just niceties? Those are necessary.
 
And with this distance separating us, we'll never be able to work it out. We'll regret, always, not returning for last words, not coming back to hash it out. You might someday find the words to say what I know you feel and I might find a way to express my love and it will have been too late - life may separate us.
 
Why am I saying this? What good is this? Sometimes, there needn't be a purpose, just a trigger. Mine is rather funny: two summers ago was the last time I spoke to you over the phone. Do you remember what I was calling for? The John Mayer concert that we were supposed to go to together. And now, two years down the lane, everything is so fucking different. We aren't even speaking. You hate me and I hate you.
 
That is Heartbreak Warfare.
 
Battle Studies came out and setlists were made and two years down the lane, as I plan to attend another John Mayer concert, all I can think about is you. That's all that keeps pervading my thoughts, K. That last phone call, the potential. I never did go to the concert - how could I? How could I without you? It just didn't seem right. It didn't feel complete and it wasn't. What is the point of keeping up this pretense?
 
K: Please end this. Please mend it. Please let me end it. Let's end this Heartbreak Warfare.

Dear Alexander McQueen,

Please stop killing armadillos to make shoes. No, please don't pretend, as others going mental over your abominations are that this is in any way post-modern fashion. In fact, it's not really fashion at all. If you are trying to bring the back surrealist or dadist movement and undermine our sensibilities by presenting such - disgusting clunkers, may I suggest a nice healthy dose of Krazy Katz and Ignatz to wash away those Surrealist blues?

We can even tolerate those...strange stilters tiled with skulls and towering on unwieldy spindles of double platforms. Heck, if Chloe can pull off double platforms why can't you? But - erm, these are not shoes. Yes, of course, we agree with you: fashion is wearable art. These are not art. We're not sure what they are having never seen anything quite so ugly before. We will gladly pick up a pair of Uggs in exchange that each and every one of these...creatures be burned and stamped out.

Ohhh, you clever minx! People just love a trend! They love to be outrageous. Everything seems so accesible! We can have a piece of the fame by owning these shoes! And you know this don't you? Otherwise, what (besides a bad trip to the bathroom) could have prompted you to design these?

Are you trying to unleash an epidemic around the world, now you've heard we're overdue? Are you trying to wipe out any modicum of sanity we have left? May we point out that just because the crazies (gaga and cruella deville guinness) have decided to encase their feet in vases of the 6th century BC, we really don't take that kindly to someone trying to case us in goat's feet?

We hoped that your shoes possessed a shred of transcendental quality - that eventually they would grow on us like the 2008 product of the Madonna and Justin Timberlake collaboration. Rather, we suspect, things will start to grow out of it, soon, given its current toxicity. In any case, everytime we look at it, for some sign of redemption, it, if possible, becomes more and more hideous.

May we suggest, as an immediate tonic, that you return to the drawing board and give Manolo Blahnik a call? Heck, go crazy, make it a party and call Christian Louboutin. Being creative doesn't mean you have to be on crack. You don't have to be alone. Help them help you get through this. Return to us. Also, Lovers: wearing these does not make you a walking canvas - you'd have to be able to walk in them first. Oh and - where did we get with that burning idea...?

I am dissatisfied. I am disenfranchised. Jaded, politically cloudy. I am walking through a haze of pop-culture and the wisps of its thick smoke - thickest on the outside, not the expected centres - wrap around me, heady and beckoning. I stop and smile and walk on by.

No one wants anymore. Everyone is content. No one understands what Derrida was talking about when he uttered the word differance. Not only for linguistic purposes but as a catalyst, as an entire universe of pository change and action, of distinguish and the opposite of lingering, the opposite of stasis and homogeneity.

The problem is that no one wants to learn for the sake of learning anymore. No one wants to sit and wonder and then explore hidden meaning. Those that do, seek to be published, lust for recognition, of the kind that Emily Dickinson exchewed. There is no passion in their work, only a few dozen articles in a database to their name - and my, what a name they've established. Indeed, when they're gone this earth will remember their name, will whisper it on the wind, will bear a mark of their own arbitrary system of words and languages.

The futility of doing - well, anything, really strikes me hard. But that doesn't mean I don't want to do. Everyone looks at you all funny when you say things like - I lust for knowledge, I strive for truth, I need to learn, I want to project and effect and - most of all - i want to BE affected.

I'm tired of these fucking markham street car racers and people lusting for Benzs and lofts. Waiting for the start of life which equals economic independence - their new Promised Land. I'm tired of people earning degrees to try and be the next CEO under 30 who gets published like that is real self worth - the real startup, Canadian/American dream. They think that getting a boyfriend or a girlfriend is their milestone and it puzzles me. It puzzles me that it puzzles me.

Me myself, I am a bolter, a great big run-away-er so I'm not one to talk; my opinion is biased. I am scared of something that has no name, no face, no identity that I can concretely call out to. See a devil, call him by his name? I cannot. No interpellation. Running away is the only way I know how. Of course it's true, beginnings are the best. When everything is new, when change is still rife in the air, hanging on a low wing. But after that...routine sets in. Familiarity.

Sure, everyone wants a rock, a bastion, somewhere you can return, somewhere like home. But what happened to process? Why does no one value the process? Why can i kid myself and want to pull the wool over the eyes of others, make up excuses for the reasons that I'm doing these things, pursuing what I want to y pretending their goals to a bigger something? They're not! They are lives in and of themselves! They are valuable in and of themselves. I don't want this to be another Waterloo.

An example of this restlessness and a need for the organic, the inspiration, the process in my life: an essay assigned ot me. I will not write it if I feel even a bit of resistance. There doesn't have to be a spark of inspiration but if there is any resistance, if it doesn't flow - I will put it off 'til the process is organic, 'til it feels like its time, like its right. These are internal processes, inexplicable and complex.

It's not only that the fun of everything is gone. It's not only that I cannot enjoy what I'm learning or studying anymore. I would love to be a doctor but if I had to worry about getting into med school...I would shoot myself. Cutthroat, goal-oriented. End results. Investments with the dependent clause of profit. Why can't the dependent clause be independent experience? Why can't the process be cherished? Practicality shouldn't be made a part of casting yourself into the future; it should be a matter of dreams, of wants, not what is feasible and what you should do today to make tomorrow happen. Tomorrow is already happening; it's happening as a virtue of today. We are in residual time. No one understands that. No one values that - very few, at least.

Everyone just wants to know know know. Where where where. Where are you going? When when when. When will you be there. How how how. How will you get there. Where is there, I ask? What is this 'there'? Why must I know and, more foolishly, how can I know? Clearly, I am not going to be a psychic, nor am I a machine that can calibrate. How can you ask me to predict the outcome of Chaos Theory or how an infitesimal shift in action, in thinking, in movement can change in my path?

What is the point of these plans? But then again...how does one go through. For those of us floating in a sea of nothingness, negation, floundering, wishing we had some way - some outlet. Not merely only to show the world that we're progressing towards something but to feel alive, to justify to ourselves that we are proceeding to something. Some...goal. Some unforetold horizon.

I just want to run away. I want to run away and live in a chateau, reading books and drinking wine and living like a recluse, the oddity in the village like the author of Wide Sargasso Sea. I want to get lost in a marketplace in Morocco and resurface, a year later, at the base of the Himalayas. I want to make people smile, I want to educate. Enough of theory- I want to activate. I want to write stories and see them come alive on film. I want to listen - listen to others, listen to the Greats espouse their thoughts, study and observe nuances. Marvel. No one wants to marvel. I want to stay in while it rains for days on end and watch as the world goes by with Miles Davis in the background. I don't want to speak anymore.

Day <--> Night by Daphne Guiness

About a week ago I received a bill from my family doctor's clinic of all the services that I had used last year and I was assured that they were covered under OHIP.

"Dear Ms. MacKrekar" the letter read, "Please be informed that these services are covered under -"

Hang on just one bloody minute, I thought. I backed up, my eyes hardly believing that what I had just read could be true. Everyone always wishes for this when then get their credit card bills - hoping that all their extravagant purchases are sent to someone else while a batty old woman's can of tuna is the only thing listed on their own credit card bill - obviously the result of a bad mail switch.

For one wild second, this was me: it has finally happened, I thought. Canada Post finally messed up and sent me some old Scottish hag's bill. But upon closer inspection and second glance, I soon came to realize - this wasn't someone else's bill. This was MY bill. MY bill addressed to ME, Sarah Merekar. Or, MacKrekar, according to this doctor's office.

The lack of caring notwithstanding, I blinked and wondered at the level of incompetency and stupidity that must be rife in our society for someone to be able to mispell or enter incorrectly, someone's last name over and over and over again, especially if the creation of the bill was probably just a form to be filled in. All they had to do was enter the right bloody name. So shocked was I that I ran to fetch my health card and, of course, my health card informed me that my last name was firmly Indian, not some strange Scottish variant.

How hard, I wondered, how hard is it to spell a bloody name that isn't more than 10 letters long. It's 7 measly letters! Has anyone ever tried spelling OTHER brown names? They go on forever! Or let's take Russian or Polish names - those are just a long list of unfortunate consonants all rammed together, any sadist's dream. Or how many times can you say "polous" in one greek last name? My last name is not the hardest gawdamn last name in the world. In fact, all circumstances given, it is actually quite simple: two e's, two r's, a K, an A, and an M. And not in that order. It's so simple.

But no. No, they must mispell it. It's not such a big deal, really, people mess up names and last names all the time. Which is why Satish and Rajiv and Chandrashekar have to change their "ethnic" names to Saul and Ray and Charlie. And it was this, this very notion that annoyed the hell out of me. Once upon a time, I was indignant, yes, that anyone with an eastern name had to change it to something seen to be more "easier", more "integrateable" into Western culture. But now it struck me that besides all the tools of hegemony naming and renaming really introduce and apply, it was like a whole new identity. And here was a whole new identity being offered to me. A new form of imperialism? Maybe I'm too quick to judge, too quick to fly off the handle, to spout a theory. But I was affronted - affronted that they couldn't take the time to bother to check the spelling of my name when I, the ethnic "other" the eastern counterpart of Edward Said-like descriptions, would have to do so. And inexplicably puzzled that they had chosen, instead to give me a NEW name. For this is not a mere case of typos or letters being put in the wrong place.

Once - no, many times over - in grade school, I had a friend named Nadejda. The supply teachers would always pronounce it Nad-JYE-da. One day I got so annoyed at this blatant lack of care obvious idiocy that I blurted out loudly, "The E comes before the J!" I got detention for speaking outloud but I never forgot this moment. Thankfully, there are not many ways you can fuck up Sarah but a few had a hearty go at my last name - I got Marker, Meerkat, America, Mareep the Sheep (when Pokemon came out. dear god.).

But here is a psudeo-scot name being offered to me. Being fashioned and given, a new form of evangelical, Christian missionary. Here, it is not the Bible that is the Sign taken for Wonders. It is this identity, this new name, that, when donned, integrates me into the culture but also allows me to stand up, now in the skin of my conqueror and look back at him.

Madness, you may think. Post-colonial theory in a simple health letter? But intended or not, dormant or not, latent or clear, they are there. It is there. It is inherent. And whether the intention is there or not, whether the awareness is there or not, I am very aware. Very aware that it is NOT spelt MacKrekar or McKrakken or any of that. It's Merekar, thank you very much and I think I'll stick to that for now. Unless Gerard Butler seduces me and I succumb, of course.

I think this is so kickass:

UTH OYE

Design, check. Heart and soul, check. People ready, check. Sustainable development, check. It's simple, its clear, its sexy and its 100% wearable, non-shrinkable t-shirt love. So order away - I'm getting two. Handscreened pouch?? yes please. And its a great initiative....we should think of starting something simple like this here.

Plus the website is pure design, CSS style sheets and flash LOVE. So get off your lazy ass and contribute (in a microcosmic way) - UTH OYE!

"You know Pimmi sometimes when I look at them...I feel love which I almost cannot bear....If only their lives are happy - and for that I'm willing to take on every trouble, every sorrow in the world."
- Lalit Verma, Monsoon Wedding

Somewhere between reading the critiques of Adorno and the changing landscape of Coconino County with How I Met Your Mother running faithfully in the background, it hit me. It was amusing, yes...but these jokes on Canada...actually sort of bothered me. It's not the first time I'm hearing them, of course. And, okay, so the 80s lasted a little while longer here (judging by when I first arrived here...can anyone say pouffy hair?) but that quip about marriages not being really recognized as such? That was kind of sucky. Like how are money really isn't money.

Which is funny, of course, because Canada and the U.S. are on par. So what's there to get worked up about, they're only jokes. Yes. Yes, they're only jokes and they shouldn't matter and usually I snicker alongside with them. Like an outsider - in a very knowing, superior way. I guess the issue here is not so much the joke but the fact that I was bothered by it - which would, of course, signify some sort of identification.

And then it struck me...I am no more the outsider. Of course, I will never wholly say I am Canadian in the way my little brother will be able to - he was born here, and I was not. I've moved around everywhere and he has not. But after experiencing a smorgasboard of cultures, your mind always drifts back to where your roots are. And true as this might be...I think I have finally been in this place long enough to feel...annoyance when someone cracks a joke at our country. Canada, being that country. Mind you, when I think of Canada, I think of Toronto - and Toronto is pretty effing great. But this whole country is completely unexplored by me. And yes, those history lessons were a PAIN: a few provinces and 3 measly territories, no great history, no great global participation, pacifist, American-kissasses, always harping on the great glory of one thing or another (the russian hockey game or the suez canal crisis or that damned battle on vimy ride - my ears BLED).

But then I really thought about it - no bloodshed on our hands. No cultural hegemony. No massacres. No apathetic uninvolvement until we got hit cuz then it was our problem. No masquerading as the supporter in a war and then trying to take over when the war was won. No furthering of global expansion goals on the account of developing nations. No exploitation of resources when countries are at their most vulnerable. No masking all this under the Puritanical, pre-destined, biblical crap. No spouting of separation between state and religion, democracy and secularism when really it's there. No fallacy and failings of an American Dream.

So okay. We might not have had major cultural movements. Our authors may be a snore because all they want to talk about sometimes are the Maritimes. Okay, so we only have one major national highway. But in a rare act of patriotism for a Western country (which is as close to patriotism for a western country I'll ever feel - besides New York, because that is not patriotism, that is love) I'll ever experience, I just want to say:

Our money is awesome and colourful. Our national anthem is great and not steeped in history. We glorify things that happened ages ago to nurse our wounded pride and keep the spirit alive. We don't get that involved and we like to think of ourselves as peacekeepers - heck, some of us even are. We don't have creative movie studios (we really don't have that many Jews...). And marriages here DO count. Love here IS real. Fall and Winter are separate seasons and we're a chartered plane ride away from the Aurora Borealis and land where the sun never sets.

And we DO NOT pronounce it "ABOOT".

You know what? I think it is distinctly unfair that Miranda, Samantha, and even Charlotte, have to bare their boobs but SJP never has to. I mean, seriously, why the discrimination?! Wtf is up with that? What could possibly be the rationale behind SJP never having to give us some of the ladies?

Not that I have a real hankering to see her ladies. But I just think...it's so discriminatory. In a sense. Because it's as if they're saying, look, she's the main character. Just to hit it home, just in case the fact that Carrie is narrating is not enough, we have to let you know that she's the main character and, as such, she's hella important. And she's just the right blend of neurotic, cynical, hopeful, witty like a man but fucks like a woman. She is the perfect blend of all equal parts of her girlfriends. She tempers everything.

And gawd, that is ANNOYING. Yes, you love Carrie the most because she is the most least craziest. She touches all departments. She obsesses, then she lets go. She's so...so...gah, she's so proverbial. So just in case all the blatant favoritism wasn't enough, we're not going to have her bare her drawers 'cuz no tasteful main character does that. Because, even though everything is in her point of view, she is still enigmatic and charming; she's crazy enough to have a one night stand but not so crazy that she'll show it like a two dollar whore. She's raunchy and proper.

Or is it because SJP is a producer? Or was it executive producer? Is it because she has a financial stake in it that she can't? You never hear her (Carrie) having an orgasm...the most she'll do is mourn. The closest we got to her having sex was Jack Berger and even then she had a bra on! And yet Miranda is yelling and screaming, Samantha is suitably outrageous and Charlotte is slow and sensual.

No, it makes no sense to me and I can't pinpoint the reason. I started to wonder if maybe it was because, eventually, as the show picked up, they realized that Carrie, with her love for Manolos, should be the bastion of fashion. That theory was quickly knocked down when I considered Miranda, Samantha and Charlotte. Look at Samantha! She's a bastion of fashion too! All of them are, in their own neat typecasts. The only one who breaks the mould is Carrie, and we're just supposed to agree with that; that's the reason, apparently, she gets laid so much. It's because she's "different". "Special". And not like, 'stop eating the paste' special, either. By the way, some of her outfits (most, really...50%) are just...stupid. They're not vintage, or cute, or M.O.D. or squarishly hip nor nostalgic enough about the 80s (or at least the screaming horror overpowers the nostalgia).

What I do love about Carrie, are her legs. Good thing they aren't covering those up. But really, it's made me wonder. Why no pecs Parker?

Goodnews: Interview rocked. I gots the job. It's a lateral move pay wise but more to do with setting the stage for future ambitions than any real money grab.

Badnews: EFFING WALLET GOT STOLEN ON THE EFFING VIVA. who the fuck steals wallets from people who are OBVIOUSLY students, wearing worn out coats from three years ago, so haggard looking from the work of a fake reading week that they are easily mistakeable for a bag lady on the GTA's most privileged bus system?! WHO DOES THAT?! and why the fuck do i have to file a police report! I refuse to say 'fml' though...that's just bad karma.

Goodnews: All 6 seasons of SatC in 5 days.

Badnews: the above might explain why i'm so behind on my readings. Through reading week. two responses, one essay, one midterm, shitloads of articles.

Weirdnews: While heading to york on the almost ghost-town bus, the bus driver had her DOG on the TTC. it was the ugliest most pathetic looking googly-eyed, mid-sized pooch ever. I wanted to throw up and cry at the same time because it was wearing a pink Zellers hoodie from the girls 2x section and a DIAPER. Well first, I just wanted to hurl. Then it started to whine. The shrillest whine in the world. My heart shattered but I think if my ears were made of glass, they would shatter too. I think it had the runs or something...dear god, it was just the most pathetic forlorn sick dog I have ever seen. gagagag.

Goodnews: I stole the last cookie from my little brother. Ahh, the life of the mundane.

Badnews: I'm psyching myself out for the first essay of the term. Im so scared it'll be a repeat of last year's first essay. I keep saying, SNAP OUT OF IT, you know this stuff! But the pressure is mounting. I know what to say but I don't know when to stop. Hopefully though, the right combination of that will make it like last year's shakespeare essay: stellar

News: Missed TEDxGTA. Missed A.D. Sad as hell. Mad as hell. And also: The UN teams up with the Interpol to form a Global police peacekeeping force. Ahh arbitrary, standardized rules, just what everyone loves.

SO. EFFING. PUMPED. FOR. TODAY!

Today is all about:

+

+

@

<3>

Put your hand up if you loved Slumdog Millionaire but then cursed that bloody Jai Ho fucking remix with the Pussycat Dolls and were shocked (and annoyed) about the Bollywood Hero American Television Show Dance in Times Square and are now miffed at the sudden surge of Indian psuedoculture in Western cinema and dislike the smell of representation and cultural production, oversimplification and culture as a resource.




P.S. I love Lisa Ray. Ever since Kasoor and who cares if her Hindi was dubbed. She rocks my world.

Exeter. Balliol. Brasenose. Magdalen. University. St. Hilda's. These consume my life at any given moment. If I keep readings or don't do the work I set out, I wake up in the middle of the night consumed by guilt and do it. Cannot rest, cannot sleep. Too tired to process. RUnning self into ground. But it's only starting. It's only just starting and I cannot be weak. There's still so much more to do, to come and this intensity is the only way I know how. Feel it full. Throw yourself into it. It is absurd. Keep writing posts but don't publish them cuz I'm too damn tired. Found some amazing blogs - stuff to make me think - stuff about the world - about expeditions and social conditions and policies and development.

There's a girl who's a friend of this guy I know...and she's taking her combinatorics/optimization degree and trying to figure out how to create sustainable social development. Bloody amazing. Sort of wish I were good in math so I could skip the discussion and save lives or build infrastructure. Must keep it brief...about to pass out from 14 hours of sleep over 3 days and a coffee high that's sending me crashing.

Soon enough. For now, The Economist on convergence:





P.S. Kate Beckinsale and Sophie Kinsella (real name, Madeline Wickham) went to Oxford. WTF.

Red Curtains

Recently, I bought some fantastic readymade curtains for my room. Well...red is a bit of an overstatement (if you're looking at it from a saturation standpoint) and also an understatement, if you're looking at it from a shade standpoint. It's more of a lovelt copper/auburn that glows a fierce and deep hue of red. I love waking up to it and feeling so utterly encased in a warm light, a cocoon that reminds me so much of when you're eyes are closed but you're looking at the sun - the light filtering in is bright but mellow, warm, not yellow, reddish.



I don't like using the word emo, but that's what I'm feeling. It doesn't happen very often (not unless its in a feeling-down-about-world-affairs-feel-their-weight-on-me sort of way) anymore. Perhaps writing off what I'm feeling in such a remorseless, thoughtless way is unfair of me and maybe I'm buying into pop culture more than I should. But...I have no words, none to describe what I'm feeling.



All I know is, now, I never feel like drawing the curtains, I'm sitting in a dark room with my father's office lamp (that I stole...it was mine first!) and tapping away at my desk...looking for a purpose. Looking for a reason to take action. It's not like I'm happily idle; I have a million things piled up. I finally finished an application last night and I have editing work for Existere - second round corrections are (mostly) in. It's due Friday but what is freaking me out is that we have to be ready by the middle of next week....the issue comes out on September 10th. Or it has to be in to the printers by then...I don't know. All I know is that there's shitloads of work piling up - and I have no will to do any of it. To even consider it. I'm imagining myself doing it; in fact, I'm feeling very go-getter, very productive. I have to start planning my duke of ed...I have to find money to take a dressmaking class on avenue rd. and find time to volunteer. I have to get involved, chase opportunities, be fresh and re-read last year's essays. Finish Benazir Bhutto's thoughts on democracy, and essays and lectures by George Steiner and Jorge Luis Borges, respectively. In other words, I need to get in gear for next year. I need to blow Johnathon Warren out of his Yale-educated mind.



But I also feel like I want to light a room with a thousand light bulbs and then smash them all. On occasions like these, I need to sit back and absorb. I need to...I don't know, get lost. Synthesize. I'm feeling tired, gross, icky. I'm feeling drained - not of energy or hope...but of will. Of reality.I'm tired of the 9 to 5, the children, walking to work and back every morning routine. This is why I could never be married. Domesticity makes me itchy. If I ever had to care about carpool and PTA meetings...I'd stick my head in the oven too, minus the lovely poetry. (not that that's why she stuck her head in the oven by any means...)



It makes me numb. It makes me smile falsely at the parents of the school where I work when underneath I'm too exhausted to even produce a halfway decent insult about the correlation between their children's level of indiscipline versus the cars they drive. It's a positive one, needless to say.

Sometimes, it's not enough...and sometimes, there's just too much. So I'm now going to go drown myself in A Bit of Fry and Laurie and finally watch Kaminey. Vishal Bhardwaj + Shahid double role. This, I gotta see.

This was bound to happen. Lots to consider. Many things come to mind; one of them: do what you have to do so you can do what you want to do.

Liz coleman says: What do you do when you are feeling overwhelmed?

Answer: You have a mind. And you have other people. Start with those.

Mmm...Shoes.

The story of Beatrix Ong and the Hermos boot

YEAH. Enough said. These are quite possibly the sexiest boots alive. They are so beautifully English - I could wear these on a dozen things. I am quite obsessed with British things (must be the occupied Indian in me). They are just the most perfect riding boots...that alternate as a piece de resistance. I mean...you could walk around naked in those boots and still be classy. Not that I would walk around naked in these...I have yet to build up a body for that - currently I'm alternating between Bridget Jones on my lower half and someone thin on my upper half. What I'd like to be is April Wilkner all over.

And just because I love her so much - APRIL SPAM

Back to the boots:

Of course, at 198 quid, these are understandably out of stock. Sounds like a bit of a sham, very sketchy, really, because the official site states them for £264. Which...when you do the conversion, comes to about $479 CDN. Which, along with delivery/shipping makes me shiver in my knickers that this is wholly more than I pay on a visa bill in a month. It is nearly half my limit and that is...scary as shit. It is not more than I would pay in rent, since real estate is not really THAT down in Toronto. The only reason that keeps resounding in my head is that perhaps I should invest them now because this is one of the last times in my life where I won't have to worry about rent.

Also, I hate that I'm doing such a silly, frivolous post; the poor-rich girl likes, all she worries about is if she can afford shoes. But seriously...I would live in these shoes. Also, women are justified, especially single ones because they are prey to the metropolises they live in and have no one to badger about leaving the toilet seat up. So they must occupy themselves with shoes. Personally, in my experiences, shoes are a better investment anyway. Though the bitches will sometimes pop their heels or break a strap if they're feeling particularly underloved.

Really don't know how/when I'm going to be able to shell out enough money to buy these but, essentially, I must raid my the cracks of my couch and under my bed and in old jeans pockets before november. This is rather inconvenient, me falling in love with these shoes because I was kind of saving up for these (much less expensive but no less sexy in their own right) Steve Maddens:

So BRIGGHT

God...they're sexy. The boots. And I would finally own a piece of the british brilliance that is beatrix ong. Someday, I will not be poor. And by not be poor I mean able to afford shoes on a whim despite exorbitant rent-like prices.

OH shit. I really really miss Singapore and I want to go back, like now. Back to Takashimaya and orchard and bukit timah and jalan besar and mee goreng on sentosa and shopping at kallang and taking the mrt everywhere. shitshitshit.

What-ifs, Wherefores, Why those

Returning from abroad is exhilirating. It is energizing. It is exhausting. It is like a beginning to the shining middle and an end to that rotten beginning. It is also rather dangerous because this very illusion of new found hope starts to get you dreaming - dreaming like you might have scarcely dared to before.

It fills you with a vigour upon whose pace you travel with such speed and motivation that it scares even you. That feeling of expanse and a deep connection with the earth, real, hard, terra firma can do that to you. It is rather dangerous, really, all the things you see yourself accomplishing and daring to hope as you might have never hoped before.

Change is a very organic substance and is, I believe, the base of every single thought, phenomenon and action in this world. The difference brought about by change; Derrida, he was on the right track. That idea of difference is the power that change grants and there is no power so heady nor so combustible or useful as change. It fuels originality in thought, in design, in life, really; our need for change makes us think, wonder...so I quirk one eyebrow up and ask the most quitely dangerous question: what if?

What if, indeed. What if - so many things! Where to begin, and where to go once the beginning has been determined? And it has...my beginning has been 20 years in the making...but whence to proceed from here? There are about a million and one possibilities and iterations and I almost wish I could send out a dozen copies of myself to take different tracks and report back to me upon merger 40 years later.

I promised myself that I wouldn't be overwhelmed and inundated; that I would relax and take it as it comes. So far, that is proving to be the right thing to do, even if it is rather (read horriblee) hard for me to do. I keep having to shift my mind away from the niggling thoughts but I think eventually that will become second nature. There is really just so much to tackle: pick your cause. I'm having a hard time (or was) picking mine. Which is funny because no one really asked me to pick in the first place; everyone assumes students will eventually leave their shelter of hallowed halls and change the world in new and wonderous ways. The problem is that I love it all too much. I love it all, I'm passionate about most things and am far too interested and curious for my own good. Also, I don't trust our generation to be the same way; very few of them are and of those few, you must weed through the self-proclaimed, arrogant and pseudo-intellectuals to reach the actual stars. So I feel it is encumbent upon me to pick all causes and save the world - oh, I almost long for the days to come when I'm 28 and disillusioned and bitter like Ryan Gosling in Half Nelson.

I find myself lingering on every sight and sound that passes my way with a new energy that has been missing for almost four years now. It is surprising what a new wardrobe can also do. Filling one's life with only the pieces that make you happy and energized and...important. There is nothing like it. And if I sound unbearingly optimistic, I don't apologize but only hope to re-iterate that I am a realist - who is currently on a high.

It seems strange to say it as a marker of what seems so right these days but my skin seems softer, my sleep feels deeper and hair looks nicer, even if I've tumbled down from bed. Maybe this feeling will fade and maybe it won't but, as of now, I'm not too worried either way. Yes, I am sunk in debt; yes, I am not nearly as mobile as I would like. But...its not like those things seem any smaller; only more doable- more changeable, more manageable. More likely. This life seems more likely, no matter what track.

As a sign, when my mind starts to wander and ponder on the various alternations of futures that could be and makes mini, start-plans as to how to get there, I instantly feel nauseous. But now I am really enjoying going through all the what ifs and thinking further, without the strain of actually trying to make it happen. I guess I am saying - I'm happy to be in the moment, allowing myself that luxury (for once). The what-ifs don't come accompanied by can-dos. They just stay their lovely old states of what-ifs.

What are the what-ifs? Good gosh, too many.

What-ifs to scripts and novel ideas. What-ifs to getting published. What-ifs to volunteering and teaching in Macchu Picchu and exploring the Himalayas. What-ifs to leaving civilization for a few years and changing the face of education and misguided mindsets. What-ifs to writing for Conde-Nast and National Geographic (*faint*). What-ifs to Brown and Rhodes, browsing beaches in Maine, to Carnegie Mellon. What-ifs to street theatre, kathak dancing, scholarships to Delhi. What-ifs to curating or publishing or designing or working at the MMoA/Bartle-Bogle-Hegarty. What-ifs to dual citizenship and splurging rent money on Jimmy Choos. What-ifs to working for idols and invitations to premiers at Leicester Square. What-ifs to changing the face of inspiration. What-ifs to meeting and falling in love to changing lives and healing them. What-ifs coming to terms with all the past and forgiving and moving the fuck on.

So here's to all that was- that can be, that will be and, mostly, that is.

That Great Philosopher, Mick Jagger

Last night, Singapore time, I was trying to sign up for my classes. And I found that, thanks to some stupid technicality and the fact that I am a mere 3 creds away from being considered a third year student, that I cannot take third year courses. Even though I am a third year student. I kept panicking. I kept trying to call the English Department, I kept getting impatient and angry at their lack of knowledge, their response. That I, the student, had to outline to these dunderheads my situation and then light the path of solution and problems with the solution FOR them. That I had to wait for a response from people who seemingly sit on their ass and do nothing while a whole ocean and several countries or a whole ocean and half of america separate me from Toronto.

So I raged. I cried. I stormed. I left a long, detailed, slightly-shaking-with-anger message on the Undergraduate director's answering machine. After thinking bitter, surging thoughts of the level of incompetency in departmental offices of academia, I fell asleep.

They say everything looks better with sleep, but this is rarely, if ever, true. I was just as angry, just as annoyed and panicking jsut as much in the morning. But the plight of the situation and my own mental neuroticies spurred me to think of another way to reach the same goal. I couldn't do anything; I might as well sit back. I realized, I was re-evaluating, as we must do, when things aren't going our way.

I knew my end goal and decided that, before freaking the hell out, that I might as well see if there were any way to get what I wanted, what I needed, to be done if I took another tack. I'm not going to give up by any means - I am still going to rage and storm and push until they give me third year classes. But...I will be okay and the world will not collapse if, in some bizarre and alternate universe that I don't get these classes.

Mm, perspective, it is a lethal weapon. Would I be able to breathe were in toronto? Would I have ben able to let the matter lie so quickly and decide to search for an alternate solution so quickly had distance and three time zones not separated me? Probably not. I would've charged over there the next day and demanded to be seen, and then using my Inherent SuperPowers of Rhetorical Persuasion (also known as annoying persistence like that of a housefly), I would've gotten what I wanted.

But then I remembered those famous words, bless their drugged british rock hearts: you can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes...you get what you need.

Which allayed my fears only slightly but worked to calmm me. Speaking to a friend this morning (her night), she updated me on her life. Telling me that she was going to be coming to the same university as me and then outlining her thoughts, her goals. I started to think...gosh, I didn't see that happening. Who would've thunk it? Could I have ever honestly imagined that, a year later, she would be at the junction where I was, a year earlier, emotionally mature and ready to explore? No. Again, time and space grants you many boons; one of them is this. As ecstatic beyond words I am at the fact that she will be in toronto, that I will get to see her and that FINALLY she will be purusing what she wants, I realized again:

What she wanted changed so dramatically. A year ago, if you had asked her what she wanted, it would've been something completely different. And yet, here she was, standing at this crossroads, ready to take the plunge. She tried to plough through...then she tried to change her life. And maybe it's not what she originally wanted. But she got what she needed baby. She got what she needs. I am proud of her - and equally astounded with the veracity of those words.

Seeing this in action...sort of blew me away. Filled me with disbelief and then gratitude that I could see these eternal words in play. Put things into perspective further for me.

Because you can't always get what you want. You can't always get what you want. You can't always get what you want. But if you try sometimes....you get what you need.

Ohhhh baby.

Love...And Other Disasters.

It seems inevitable. You know that thing...that phenomenon? The one where, as soon as you become acutely aware of something or a realization occurs, that thing starts to show up everywhere? You notice it everywhere you go; or it really becomes that ubiquitous, as though the universe may be trying to setting up Vegas-style neon coloured signs of what to focus on. For me, all signs point to single-girl-dom and city-life.

After sightseeing for a few days, I hunkered down to a spate of movies, courtesy of HBO and Star Movies. I caught Love and Other Disasters. Others may scoff at her but I think Brittany Murphy is a top-class actress and totally underrated. If you look past the blonde locks and breathy voice, you'll see that she nails her characters with an air of unpractised ease. In Love and Other Disasters, she was playing a 20-something American intern at UK Vogue and I thought she pulled off the in-between accent so well. You know, the one that's hardest to do - because she was in the middle of an American accent but aptly stressed the right words with just the right amount of inflection. And she was consistent. Also, her choice of movies = impeccable and interesting.

Anyway, the allure of the movie (besides Santiago Cabrerra...dear god, I could just spread him on a cracker...) was the city of London. Which, of course, is vastly different from New York City. The main practices are the same - fashion, love, sex, nights out, local watering holes, gay roommates and sky-high rent - but the people, the attitudes are worlds apart. Which I thought the film captured silently and particularly well. You could spot it if you were looking at it.

Being in Singapore, which is a perpetual city and damn proud of it, reminds me of the lonliness of being within a city crowd. The consuming ache you feel after you step back on to the curb, after having just been in a crowd of poeple crossing the road and yet wanting absolutely no one to jostle you.

The shopping here is...unbelieveable. I've been to new York so many times now that the shopping just doesn't faze me - plus some of the hype is just that: hype. You have to know where to look, where to shop. And while that is true even of Singapore, where Fendi and Vuitton lives near vintage, somehow, it seems like everything is alot more accessible here in Singapore. Probably because I could catch a ride and cross the country in less than 20 minutes. Me, myself, I've been gorging on the piles of one-of designs and dresses, nameless t-shirts, funky shoes. Appearance here is a huge deal. I'd wager that, on average, Singaporeans spend at least 100/wk on shoes and clothes. Easily. And that is just the low end. Shopping is the national pastime here.

The level of safety is also amazing. I can catch a cab at 2 in the morning, hop up to a eating centre (yes...this is Singapore's second national pastime...and yet somehow everyone is super skiny. You thought French women were elusive...but these people are just magical - or very scary) and not worry about where I am or what time it is. As a chick...it's refreshing. Because, yes, you could hop a cabbie in NY or T.O. but there are always places that you know you shouldn't be going. It's not really like that here.

I don't know if I've spent money wisely perse, but I certainly know that I've bought from the heart. Each and every single one of my purchases has been completely whimsical, instinctual, with the speed of love-at-first-sight, not paying heed to the amount of money remaining until it was all gone. In my defense, I did take the time to feel slightly guilty (also known as Post-Shopper's Guilt Syndrome) but then rationalized that this is what I had set the money out for in the first place. And even though I got a few items for a...larger amount of money, I'd rather have quality than have multiple copies of the same shitty t-shirts. So many dresses! It was every girly-girl's vintage bohemian dream. I really must post pictures of my finds...they're like treasures.

When the money was gone, I spent a day in mourning of all the shoes and dresses and skirts that would never know a home in my closet and then moved on to sightseeing. Not really much to see - this is my second visit here. And the allure of the animal zoos, bird parks, butterfly conservatories has now been replaced with the grown-up 20 year old realization that zoos are hot and smelly (and how many variations of an elephant can you see?), birds poop alot and butterflys are beautiful but giant INSECTS. So I focused more on my surroundings, the people, the places, the smell. The good, the bad, the facades, the lights.

I missed Singapore Fashion Week so the Marc by Marc Jacobs exhibit was gone. But I did pay a visit to the National Museum of Singapore, the Ancient Civilization exhibit and the Singapore Art Gallery. Nothing really compared to the National Reserve Library, though. The nerd in me (which is 99/9% of my being) screamed for joy and was shamelessly and lustfully infatuated by the gorgeous library of glass and mahogany and steel. I finished off some research for my Saudi project, got a few sources. Nothing could parallel the feleing of immense...belonging and peace that settled over me as I got back to academia for three hours. Wow...guess this is proof beyond doubt of my hermitaged future.

I also hit the (Eye of London) Singapore Flyer. I insisted we go at nighttime, because city lights are what my heart soars highest for. Pictures to come, I had a shitty disposable with me so once that gets developed...=( but anyhow, it was nothing short of magical. Granted, I kept trying to super impose my beloved NY skyline on the view at the very top but Singapore is really booming - and beautiful beyond words at night. I reckon that in a couple of years, they'll have a killer skyline of their own. Of course, NYC shall still eternally pwn them. The cabin itself was gorgeous, especially at night, all lit up and spacious. My girlfriend kept telling me with a pang that though she loves being single, she wished had an on-call boyfriend to spend romantic moments like this with. I kept telling her I wished I had a digital SLR for moments like this. She told me my priorities were worrying.

The quiet days are now coming to an end, what with my three younger cousins returning but not before I had a chance to visit Chinatown, wherein I proceeded to buy dirt-cheap crap for friends and Little India (wherein I got stared down by women and ogled by men like the foreigner I am). After some healthy haggling in Pagoda Street, I ended up getting some fabulous kimono-type bathrobes for Mother and I. If I spoke like that I would say that they were really quite a steal - that is a big if, however. In Little India, it started to rain, thankfully, so people ran out of sight and into shops while I stayed out and got drenched but got some lovely shots of alleyways and gaudy Christmas lights strung over shops. Amazing.

I also applied for the TIFF as a volunteer but ended up doing the most effing STUPID thing. I hit the submit button without sending my resume in. So after freaking out for three minutes, I then filled out another application and realized that, if I were the interview people, I'd disqualify me just for erring in such a large way, taking it as an ominous sign of volunteer incapabilities. Fuck man. Fingers crossed though - hopefully, they won't notice; besides, there are so many Sarah's in the world, bless their souls. It's easy to get mixed up, right? That's what I keep telling myself, at least.

OOh! I also got a chance to see the very cool, very hip, soul-pumping, adrenaline-chugging band, Voodoo Singapore. In front of Paragon, a group of six or seven boys smashed the living daylights out of drums and various percussion instruments in an unbelieveable coordinated effort and produced some of the most beautiful music I have ever heard. I'm making it my personal mission to spread the word about them - it was so capturing, like nothing I've ever heard before. It made me wish I was their manager or I was the daughter of some hot-shot music producer or record label head honcho bloke because then I could totally pass on their music. The way they jsut had SO much fun working off each other, working the crowd, killing the beat on those drums - unbloodybelieveable. I'm in love. With music. Again. Sigh. Open air music gigs are alot more fun than those within an arena or club or indoor space. I guess it depends on the bands and their audio acoustics but I could say without fear of argument that percussion was made for an outdoor jam session. Check them out at http://www.myspace.com/VoodooSG. I keep trying to find some vids on youtube...so far a no-go. But the outdoor busking is sure to continue and, like a true groupie, I shall surely follow.


There is alot more to come, I'm sure. These past few days have been quite and lazy. Still, there's to weeks more before I return to reality and do things such as apply to OSAP and argue when I get turned down because my father makes to much, trying to swing the fact that I am an independent and no longer a minor, look for places to live in T.O., and scrounge up money for living. =)

Tune in next time as Sarah tries to look for an internship in 2010 at Conde Nast and Mirabai Films.

cheers.

Fresh Eyes

Being here in Singapore is not merely giving me a chance to explore a new country. It is also allowing me some much required brain space, breathing time, peace and quiet from the regular, tumultuous cataclysms that is my life in toronto.

I keep writing posts and then not publishing them because they are too long-winded, too detailed. And yet, they work; they slowly draw out the emotion into words like pulling at a loose thread in a spool and watching it unravel. The heap of thread is still there...but it is not so tightly wound.

So it is that these words make me feel. Anyhow, something short and sweet; not resolutions but decisions that I have made in my life, about my life that is going to and will change. In no particular order...

I am going to move out. I must. It is essential if I hope to stay alive and not jump off a cliff. This will entail applying for osap, maybe dropping my cellphone service to a monthly top-off, picking up two extra jobs through the summer and applying more rigorously for scholarships, looking for a roomate and starting the house-search now. Buying furnishings and keeping them stocked fro the day I move out. Which will be by May 31st 2010.

I am going to work out, in a strict regime, every single day. Either a workout or cardio or both. Every Monday, Wednesday and Friday. No more stupid, fat, body. It is so unattractive not because thin is in...but because its just a sign of how much I don't give a shit. No more apathy. I still love food...shall always love it. But...time to get healthy and not be a couch-rhino. Basically, the idea is to stop ignoring me; to take care of me. Not be lazy...be proactive. Sounds so New Age, I know, but I've been driving myself into the ground and quietly sitting in bed. NO More! I'm going to pay attention to my hair and skin.

I am going to be more organized. Because, in order for these things to fall in place, to get those jobs and pay attention to me, I must be organized. And I will be. No more age-old procrastinator...still going to be laidback, not uptight or dragon-lady about things. But just...care more. Not put things off.

Be more passionate. Well...express that passion instead of just merely bottling it up. Goodness knows I've got oodles of moxy; moxy is practically pouring out my ears.

Treat myself with something classy every once in a while. Not worry that it is frovolous and materialistic. The day will come, I am sure, when I completely shun society and go to live in the mountains like a monk (goodness knows I've been contemplating that over the last year).

Save up enough to retake driving lessons and get my G.

Not be so elitist. Somethings, however, like Miley Cyrus and the new 90210, are unforgiveable.

Stop running away. Stop being so angry. Or...being proactively angry...not explosively so.

Smile more.

Leave in peace. Live in peace. Try not to get bogged down by stupid family shit. Because, soon, that will all be gone. Or at least, the DVP will separate us.

Put Your Records On.

Girl put your record on / Tell me your favourite song / You're gonna find yourself somewhere Somehow

(A.D., you're mine. We are already together. Forever. And I'm having the time of my life with you.)

Moving Pictures

I'm very grateful. For music, for art, for pictures, still, moving, for imagination, for creativity, for immportality, for this plane of existence.

fuck yes.

So Its Not Just Me

Recently, I had an idea for a writing project and so, in research, I started to read Zadie Smith's White Teeth. For all hermits and rock dwellers out there, I'll reiterate: White Teeth is Zadie Smith's debut novel, for which the literary aniticipation was SO high (i dont even know how she got it that way but hell, she must have an amazing Ari-Gold SuperAgent for a literary agent, to get a bidding war started over HALF a manuscript) that when the book finally came out, the literary community pounced on it.

And yet...reading this, I could only maintain my quizzical brow. How to describe White Teeth in non-derogatory terms? How to say how bad it is in a helpful manner without moaning about the utter waste of time it was? How to exlain/understand why the fuck it was so loved? Okay, well that's an easy one. This was written around the Bend It Like Beckham time in England. To give it fair credit, BilB was in 2002 so I'm not insinuating that White Teeth is apeing. But the Asian London fad is hard to miss. Think Jay Sean and all.

But, honestly, for the quality of the book and the sheer number of utter stereotypes in the lives of Black and Asian Londoners relative to white Londoners is...appalling to say the least. There is not one redeeming quality to the book. Not even the wry smile it pulled from me at the butchering pigeons/halal meat shop can redeem the 480 pages of the great big NOTHING I just had to put msyelf through.

And for what? To read some mixed, divorced, over-privileged, 20 something, child's take on what culture is? I agree wholeheartedly that writing about culture - especially one that isn't your own - takes a huge amount of courage. Because you're always going to run into people who say well THIS is not the correct representation of me or my culture, this is not our people's general attitude, don't generalize, blahblahblah. And I get that, truly I do. Because, culture in itself is sort of a generalization too, isn't it? Any culture for that matter - the mere meaning of the word groupds together a mass of people. So, yes, there are going to be generalizations.

But my gosh! At least make it the right KIND of generalization! At least get it right. I'm not indignant because I'm Asian or I was a Londoner or anything. I'm indignant because the author seems to have taken NO pains whatsoever to research! To immerse herself, meet with people who are different, to truly go out there and capture the soul of a peoples. And for crying out loud, she had a 6 figure paycheck as an incentive! What was she doing sitting on her ass, screwing about with pre-Nick Laird-boyfriend??!

There are tons of people who swear by the book, tons of people (Salman Rushdie included) that would gamble their literary reputations (as the endorsements littered on the jacket of the book can only lead me to believe) on what they think is the utter bible penned by a 20 year old with amazing insight into cultural communities and immigrants of London.

Let me tell you: it is not. Here's what White Teeth is: it is a mish mash of stereotypes - horny brown man, disgruntled white man, radical youth, absolutely 1 dimensional wives...the list is endless. And the reason it is so revered is because White Teeth...is for white people.

Seriously. The ones who put this book up on a pedestal are either naive people who tend to like their cultures oversimplified, commoditized and packaged, the people who have NO insight into multi-cultural lives or have lived around immigrants and are delusional enough to think that they are "in the know".

Yeah. Okay. LOL, is what I gotta say to that. It is utterly insulting, I think, that the author thought that she would sit in her apartment (and the apartments of others) and pen characters that are empty, hollow, and complete caricatures of just about every South Asian stereotypes you might have come across. The book lacks focus - what is she talking about? Love? Friendship? War? The Immigrant status? What? And more importantly...why do I care?

I'm an immigrant, technically speaking. Born in India, never lived there, move to Bahrain, then to London, then to New York back and forth and Toronto. I couldn't say I fully understand culture but I love to steep myself in it. I couldn't define it (at least not in such flat, dry terms as Zadie Smith) but I feel it all around me. Smith, on the other hand, is trying to package a Bollywood Crossover, an cheap imitation of Nair (in terms of pull of different cultures) and Rushdie in literary style, trying to write on the lives of people she clearly has no knowledge of...and doesn't seem to want to take the effort of getting to know!

While her use of colloquial dialogue is accurate, at best, the rest of the novel completely falls short. I don't know how she expected us to eat this garbage up; honestly speaking, i'm quite surprised. Her mother is Jamaican and her father is English and you'd think that she might have some empathy and understanding for stereotypes and the way they ensconce. But no...I have read English authors with more authority and panache with a similar topic, who excute a story in a much more unassuming, less brash, not as pretentious manner than what White Teeth has done with its poor, lifeless characters.

My thoughts, after reading such a massively POINTLESS novel are as follows: how dare she waste trees for this? How could they pay her so much money to spew out crap that she has clearly taken from silly crossover movies and the new "south asian author" fad that is going on? It is like she sat home and watched television, possibly re-runs of Skins and wrote this. Unbelieveably insulting that she clearly did NO research.

Not only is it slightly incoherent, what with the pastiche of timelines but its characters are unbearable. On more than one occassion I wanted to smack Samad and the lot (maybe not Clara though) because they were SO. RIDICULOUSLY. PREDICTABLE. This should have been marketed as a satire, seriously, because that is the only way I can take it seriously. If I knew that the book was aware of the caricature it was drawing up and thus mocking books that take this pretentious tone on the subject of immigrant-fare then I would've understood, maybe even clapped.

And to think: the painting of such a ridiculous, farsical image of immigrants from the country that gave us John Berger and the Ways of Seeing. For shame.

The book is serious. It is not a satire. It is not a farce. And it has been nominated for awards and the like. THAT is the satire, that is the comic tragedy, I think!

Which means two things: people are easy to amuse; everyone is looking for an easy packaged image or representation and nobody wants to question; everyone is happy getting fed utter bullshit.

And those literary awards are published by idiotic people who consider themselves scholars but eat up Deepak Chopra and Yoga like its going out of style and love Indian culture for its "bright colours" and "beautiful rituals" and "diverse people" and all that other people-commoditizing-a-culture speak.

Culture is a lot of things. I wouldn't presume to be the expert on its definition. But I know one thing for sure: culture sure as hell isn't White Teeth. If I didn't have any backbone, I would say I wish I had capitalized on this, thought of doing this first; I wish I had though to throw in stereotypical, idiotic, careless, farsical caricatures of several characters and show how their lives are all connected like a twisted version of Love, Actually.

Major Fails. Actually.

North South East West

An old girl am I
Wear my grandmother's pearls girl, am I
Been all over the world kind of girl
Looked in every nook and cranny,
been down the winding streets only
lonely

In the South,
was a Mexican mistress
she awaited my return
to hear my stories of gold

through the gulleys, children roared
while machines played ring-around-the-rosey.
Not a pocket full of posies, had I
Only a handful of sorrows
and now it was all told.

So I hitched my sack and bid farewell,
kissed my mistress to make it last.
Turned my eyes against the sun
I heard, overhead
the call of
The North -
what more to be said?

Such a varied landscape,
The North:
from East to West
or East, West?
or West. East.
all of nature seems the same to me
and for some silence in mind,
I forsake society.

Travel the road,
the craggly rocks,
kindly now, like an old man's smile,
plenty of tooth, but
no life and I whisper,
grateful, grateful even...
to be alive.

- Remnants of the essence and wisps of a poem I dreamt

Rampant thoughts on a mock European bus

Thankfully, I caught the ghost bus this morning. The Viva, which is Toronto/GTA's pseudo-european answer to express bus service in an area only recently cultivated for the housing boom but was previously acres of desolate farmland, is usually jam packed in the morning, especially by the time it gets to Woodbine & Hwy 7.

The ghost bus was characteristically quiet this morning. Not too many occupants, and empty seats. I stretched my legs at leisure and piled the adjacent seats with my so-heavy-could-be-carrying-a-corpse backpack. So there I sat, with bright, sharp morning sunlight streaming in and hiding the fugitive wind of a cold March morning, blaring my John Mayer.

Whether or not you mean to, it's always fun to listen to people's conversations, and hard to miss if they're talking particularly loud. There were two guys talking about...anything and everything. Aah, just my type of conversation (no sarcasm intended). I paid no attention - they were talking about the Bible & hypocrisy (man, is that a tired topic) - but then the words "Loan payback" drifted to my seat and tapped me persuasively on my shoulder. And so the volum on my ipod dropped to a hum.

I didn't care much for the particulars: the amount of his loan or anything like that. These guys were talking about being students and their plans for LIFE. It's been plaguing my own mind for a long while now so I decided to learn what I could.

They were just as green as me, of course, not really veterans in being homeless/penniless students but...their approach was different. Their outlook was what I like to adopt and stick to on good days and that I hopelessly drop and succumb to fear on bad days. Naturally, for me, there are more bad days than good; funny how that works. They figured, whatever happens, happens.

So this was the gist of the conversation:

Boy 1: ....and I've got my OSAP loan and line of credit. I figure I can at least pay off my line of credit

Boy 2: How much is your line of credit?

Boy 1: Oh...like 18, 20K? Yeah, it's not too bad...it's a mountain but it's a doable mountain, you know? Like I could work for a year straight and just pay that shit off so it's not too bad. Like, right now I make all the minimum payments...and there was a point in time where I'd make like a full payment....yeah, me and my parents were really good at that time. We'd talk and all, our relationship got better and I kept paying the full amount for like six, seven months straight. But then...man, I don't even know what happened but I stopped paying full...and I even missed a payment. So my dad got really pissed. Whatever man.

Boy 2: Hah. Shit. So what do you think?

Boy 1: Seriously, man, I don't care. My parents are all like, what the hell are you going to do with your life, you're not getting an actual degree of use, you're going to be homeless and live in a hole. And I'm like, what the hell? How do other people live? Like, there are so many kdis with Arts degrees and they're actually doing stuff with their lives, you know? They figure things out, I will too.

Boy 2: Mhmm...

Boy 1: Like, they work, pay, go to school. They travel. Okay, there's this guy I know. He's in university and this summer he's going to BC 'cuz he's writing this book. Artists and Life Art or something like that. And he's doing this project, you know? And he's like, if I'd come out and help him with research and editing, he'd pay for my flight ticket. Crazy, right? But here he is, doing something with his life. Stuff like that.

Boy 2: For sure man. Like people just get caught up in work and jobs and whatever.

Boy 1: Exactly. There's this girl I know. All she does is work for a year, saves up as much as can. Puts half toward her tuition and then save the rest for traveling. That's all she does: works and travels. And then the next year she goes to school. Like that's amazing you know? She fucking knows how to live her life.

Boy 2: Are you serious? She just...travels?

Boy 1: Yeah man, she takes like 3 or 4 jobs through the year and earns all she can. It's crazy. And so awesome. But you know what, that's the way to be! Like, I'm not worried about stuff. There's no rush for me, and people figure things out, you know? Just because you're an Arts grad, doesn't mean you're going to be broke. It annoys me when people think that way or say that to you.


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I found this to be...not quite an eye-opener, because I've met and talked to people like this before. But to have this to consider in the morning, when I've been thinking about this all along...to have it come from strangers was...thought-inducing.

Because it's something that is hard for me to grasp or fully apply to my own life. I'm torn between being an idealist and just being...practical. And the biggest struggle for me right now is, yes, the money, yes what the hell am I going to do in the future, but also, when the hell is it going to finally happen. There's honour...doing the right thing at the right time, finishing a degree in four years getting a job, making some money to pay back those loans. And then there's freedom where someone like the aforementioned girl works and lives her gawdamn life!

I don't know the answers to anything yet, and my head was swimming, hearing this. It wasn't a new sentiment. It's been expressed before. But in trying to apply it to my own life, I'm held back by fear. Great and immense, bottomless fear that doesn't usually tinge my behaviour or my thoughts.

A very big part of me is still stuck in that room in Waterloo, worrying about honour and freedom and the cost of pursuing your dreams and the tradeoffs, the sacrifices, the depression, the idealism, the follow-through and the potential for failure. A big part of me is still that timid girl crying over the phone, is still battling with my father, is still lacking coherency and stability. Is still missing in action in a very big way.

And as though my ipod could read my mind (and I swear it does this often), their conversation prophetically ended to the beginning of Dave Brubeck's Take Five. Life is so uncannily stylish, sometimes, it's scary. Take Five indeed.

Occupational Hazard.

It is really very annoying when you hit that age - that really annoying age where people can't tell how old you are. At least...that's what has always happened with me. People can never tell how old I am - either i'm 12 or i'm 21. It's very strange, not to mention, extremely bloody annoying.

I'm wary of walking down the street with my parents. I now refuse to walk down the street (or anywhere for that matter) with my father, alone, if my mother is not there. Because - YES, this actually happens - people think I'm his wife. And that has such icky connotations, I can't even begin to unpack it, besides not wanting to unpack it. My mother and I look alot alike - and so people think "hmm, they are sisters". And this is really fucking annoying. Because, yes, my mother looks young....but she does not look THAT young. so either I look old and tired or she looks sparkling and young...which, no offense mom, you don't.

This is the occupational hazard of having parents that are far too young to be your parents. It's very annoying; either you're the wife or the dumpy sister and I want to scream at people's extreme stupidities for generalizing and thinking one way or the other. Having young parents is solely embarassing and, even though they can get you underage drinks, and you could potentially party with them doesn't mean you WANT to.

It was absolutely mortifying, for example, when my father would come to pick me up in his rare occasions of fatherly duty from my high school. And there would be a group of afghan girls that would stare and giggle as he passed. It was really quite nauseating, the way they would look back and pointedly stare him down, as if baiting him. It made me gag, not only at the process of the main human mating ritual (because this stare was not only reserved for him - it was pretty much there for any male in the school, the attitude being, look, drool and don't touch; affirmation basically, ugh, sickening) but because my father was the object of it.

My parents got married young - 21 (well...it's young in my books) and had a kid the very next year. So basically they were kids having a kid (and I turned out really messed up and neurotic for it). While all the other parents are now 50 or approaching such, my parents are approaching 41 or 45.

The curse (or blessing) of the genes in our family makes it so that all the women (on my mother's side) are slight and...lineless for the most part. My grandmother is 65 but looks like she is 50. It's really quite disconcerting. My mother, similarly, is 43...but pretty much looks like she is 32. But, no, I will NOT concede to the fact that she looks my age (and I, by default thus look her age) because that is a first-glance exaggeration.

The non-aging thing got passed on to me. Generally, women who are shorter and slighter look younger anyway, but at least my mother looks mature. I am on the short side, with a slight build and - I have glasses. Shit. I...look like a woman-child, which is very annoying. When I dress up, however, I look like I'm ready to bust a move because I'm naturally curvaceous yet my face is young. It is very, very annoying. I am a woman child and that makes me sad. It also gives me no hope for the future because I will forever look young (kiddy young), and not tall and amazing like that KT Tunstall song.

And its not just getting carded - who cares about that crap. It's the fact that, when I was in grade 7 and I wore dorky butterfly clips, this really big boobed fast assed blonde is like omg are you in grade 3? even though our classes were RIGHT next to each other and i was a chatterbox so she knew who i was. Dumb cow.

I really just wish people would stop generalizing, however, and use their brains. My friend, Katharine has a fifteen year difference with her little brother - me, i'm not so bad, its only a 10 year difference with my younger brother. Yet, whenever she was out for a walk with him, or pushing his stroller, people would shoot her dirty looks. They all automatically assumed: teenage pregnancy.

You know what? Fuck you. Pardon my french. But wow, can you not take TWO seconds to UN-generalize and UN-assume about people? Is that so hard? To look at people and NOT cast a judgement on what infitesimal detail you THINK you've discerned? Upon close inspection, me and mother not only look differentiable, but it is clear who is the mother and who is the daughter. But people always fucking generalize: "Oh my god, you two are sisters!" And it's not just flattery; people with no motives, nothing behind their words other than what they think is keen observation, will say this. And it gets me angry. Not because this means either that she's impossibly young or that I'm glaringly old. But because, people are constantly generalizing. About everything: culture, hair, race, clothes, what have you.

And quite frankly, it's disheartening.

So next time you see a really old guy with a really young chick. Don't pass judgement. Don't try to figure out their relationship - it doesn't concern you! Marvel at them individually, if there is anything to marvel at and make rational statements. And to all afghan girls at Marc Garneau, my father is not on the market. So piss off.

Cheers.

pre exam musings

Gosh, I absolutely LOVE The Who. Behind Blue Eyes? That was more than just genius, you cant even label it genius and then slide it aside, no no, it has a very eerie quality to it. In its quiet, seething anger. Melancholy but bubbling at the surface.

Piano, piano, piano, piano, buildup, climax, BAM! BAMBAM! BAM! BAMBAM! Omg absolute and utter LOVE. This song hits me SO very hard and I'm absolutely in love with it. And not just the intro. The best part is picking out the various variations in key during the intro, feeling with every nerve the anticipation. It's enough to drive anyone mad - the best kind of music.

I really need to learn how to play Baba O'Riley/Teenage Wasteland...I would so teach myself but I have no piano! *cries* If only I were back on res. I used to skip the caf (and actual people) and go up and play coldplay all afternoon. I miss res...or rather, I miss being on campus. The all night study session...the coffee rings on my books. It was grungy but enchanting in a strange way.

I traded all the coolness and freedom for good meals and roof over my head. And a steady inflow of television. And my own room. Godamn, I am SUCH a sellout. What they say about students - that they're starving and maniacal and will go almost anywhere for food? - is true. If I wasn't so sickly complacently placated with things like not having to pay rent...I would be disgusted with myself. But somehow I don't think an Arts degree is worth 20K. No offense arts/humanities kids...I feel your pain, i do. blame the childhood indian guilt-tripping, okay?

I really do hate this place though. The worst is having left and then having to return. shit. okay. an end to this pointless post. Just to say - really need to find myself a piano.

Oh - on a side note: I'm heading to London for the weekend. First weekend I've had off in a very long long time. i hear western's the place to be HARHAR. Shall...nerdly party with ter and whatnot. Long live the lost weekend? I'm also excited for july - montreal + russell peters! holy crap! We're most probably going to absolutely paint the town an invisible shade of red. For now, I must go study for Bio. I have House M.D. on in the background as I work out pedigree and genetics charts. It's a nice catalyst <3. Gawd, I do love this show. And wow, this is such a nonsense sporadic post. Oh well. Sense is for sods.

Cheers.

Laugh. Out. Loud.

Thank God for ONN:

(Au)Oral 808s

One of the reasons that I love lofts is their ability for excessive echo. To me, nothing is more sexier than an expensive set of best-that-money-can-buy speakers filling an entire space - every nook and cranny, every converging corner of a space - with beats. With music. Those 808s, the lovesounds, the aural manifesto.

It don't matter whether I'm bleeding Jazz or seeping Soul, if I'm in the mood to dance to pseudo-rave or dance to house. Sometimes it is undefinable and guilty of genre tripping. Every gram of music that hits me, I fall in love with. I would be absolutely no where without it. This is one love affair that will possibly never end - I'm in too deep.

Music puts me in a whole other world; it is an alternate universe where everything is logical and flows so well all at the same time. Some people use music to set a mood. I say allow it to respond to your mood. When everything is quiet in my mind, like a gas within a test tube, my mind fills with an orchestra of my most cherished sounds. I crave better headphones to be able to track and feel every single twist and turn, every shot of instrument. It flows in my veins and fills even my breath with a beat. It challenges my pulse, sedates me and prods me at the same time. I've never met such a flighty temptress as music, nor ever had the pleasure to play second fiddle to a more commanding mistress.

My awareness of music started at a very young age, on the merits of the 90s and a very strange relationship with my father. The double advantage of having two mother tongues, two identities made me open my eyes, to a quality of music that transcended mere words or regions. It began in Bahrain, every Wednesday night Hollywood musicals and Bollywood singsong. It manifested into a fondness that solidfied in Queens, New York. It returned to London, just off of Kilburn and trickled through the streets of Hounslow and Southhall in a garishly obvious manner. Then, it was silent for quite a while, awakening every year in the summer of Manhattan. I do not know when music became about textures, flowing in ribbon-like rivers; when it became about a defining stance, or when it transformed into a heady drug.

When I arrvived in Canada, I became very self-conscious about my music. I began to brand and classify. I began to hide it all away from others. I didn't expect many to understand. At first, I didn't understand the true spectrum of the essential listening. There was so much standard music that I hadn't even heard of.

Aural tradition and I slowly picked up the pieces. I understood the great fashioners of rock, the Kurt Cobain, the Stairways, the Doors. My curiosity piqued at trips to the then-Soho with The Ramones playing out of lofts and that's when I knew. It didn't matter if I was listening to A.R. Rehman or AC/DC. It was all just one in the same language, utterly beautiful in its creation.

I'm very close to my music. I love my iPod not because of its quality or its feature (well maybe a little because of that) but just its sheer ability to set my scene anywhere I go. For me, it is like a piece of me. That sounds conceited but when I lost my first iPod to the wiles of this world, I grieved like I would grieve for a friend. I was so lost without it. I had to have my music. It was my only comfort in a world so forgone. I still believe that the thread of music spells out my life.

So where did this all come from? Well, I was sitting on the bus one too-early morning and amidst all the mediocre music I had put on for the sake of it and out of the blue came 3 by 5. I don't know how, but a day that was doomed spun and turned on its head. And I partially attribute that to music for its strength (though Don Miguel Ruiz may have had something to do with the other part).

Because music is so important to me, like anything that loves too deeply, I let it blind me. I couldn't stay open to music because I had such a severe definition of what music should be and do. I became an elitist and expected music to have and be and do something for me other than just being itself. Without even realizing it, I cast out music that I didn't understand (like Rap) and my extreme dislike for the obvious slaying this genre of music was doing to the very definition of music turned into a gavel for my judgement.

But eventually I realized. Music frees all borders. It brings you closer. It's beauty is that it can fit in a genre and then yet completely not conform. It is malleable and undefinable in its definity and possibly the only definite thing about any sort of music one listens to is that it is all subjective. What I like is a direct reflection of me. What someone else likes is a direct reflection of them. It is a characteristic, a consequence but it should not be used as a judgement.

Today, I absolutely revel in its undefinity. Every track that I have, that I have the privilege of being able to to listen to, is a spiritual journey for me. Sometimes it's sad, sometimes healing, sometimes funky. But always it is music.

Other people fall out of love as they grow older. It becomes a collection of the greatest hits or current UK Top 40s for them. It is a trend. Their lives take over. I don't feel that happen yet, with me. Music matters to much for me not to want to explore and hear more than the Singles chart. I wouldn't have it any other way.

May the era of Aural 808s live on.