Lessons for the day

I've got 15 minutes to make a post for christmas day. Here's what i learned.



-some things never change.

- money cannot buy you happiness but it can stack up the resentment.

- The movie seven pounds should be entirely skipped or slept through except for the last 15 minutes in which everything comes together and you realize that your last two hours was for naught but also important if you like twisting senseless backstory, leaping in arcs when the story could have worked evern better in a linear, non artsy fartsy stupid muted metaphorical pretenious way. Clearly, my feelings on this movie are mixed as is the lesson itself.


- NEVER. EVER. EAT. AGAIN. A. BUFFET. OF. 250. DISHES.
- pulling a princess di/blair waldorf hurts.
- will smith can maintain one expression throughout an entire movie.

- screewriters should not be allowed to have a script directed unless it has been approved by five other screenwriters and Ron Howard. This rule does not include M. Night Shyamalan because he is clearly creating comedies. You have a hiddent talent, M. Night.

- brown people stare alot and it makes me want to fucking slap them.
- i will always feel like an outsider in this culture.
- PSP's have built-in update software
- Twilight Princess takes alot out of you because of the stupid fucking WiiMote.
- i am very shitty at confrontation, all of a sudden.
- some music can make you think and transport you no matter how hard you try to block out its effects.
- turtles on their backs must feel very in limbo and helpless.
- virgin mobile has awesome packages but shitty network coverage.
- richard branson must be assassinated, right after paris hilton.

- i need my moxy back. NOW. if found, call at once.

Come Undone

This is how the scene plays out.

She stepped off the bus with such a jump in her step, she might have been cuing the music. Her palms felt slippery on the handles as she descended. The churning pump of hydraulics got lost in the traffic and by the time she regained her bearings, the bus was gone.

This was one of the few places in Toronto that looked like suburbia had been kidnapped and forced to assimilate into a midtown setting. The strange thing was that suburbia seemed to be developing Stockholm Syndrome. It adjusted in sympathy. It looked...almost right, nestled where it was. A ravine overlooking the Don Valley Parkway. Woods and hills beside York Mills.

She turned right, into a neatly trimmed street, signalling the start of a planned neighbourhood. The front yards was sprawling and immaculate. Even walls of snow flanking the driveways couldn't hide the neatly trimmed winter shrubbery. She shivered and screwed her eyes against the wind. The sun mocked her plight, refusing to warm her, despite the black material of her oversized coat. Well screw you too, she thought, reading the numbers on the houses.

34. 34...34? Damn...20.

She walked along, silence mercifully pervading her head. There was no annoying tune nor perplexed thought process or random commentary running. Her stomach rumbled smugly. Oh, yes. She had forgotten about that. That strange sense of foreboding that was pooling relentlessly in the pit of her stomach since she got off the bus.

Ahh. 30...32..34!

So there she stood. In front of a two storey double lot, with no idea how she got those specs and a stomach full of liquid. She rang the doorbell.

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Reunions were messy affairs, usually. One met people they liked, missed, loved, disliked, were apathetic toward or whom they had completely forgotten. The gathering was small, as she liked her christmas parties to be. The grander the party, the greater room to fall, she thought. She was, of course, referring to the amount of booze peoplw tended to consume at larger parties and then proceeded to make a fool of themselves.

But she might as well have been talking about herself. She took a sip of Merlot and then - well, she not so much fell as completely plummeted from grace.

There he was.

It was like someone had turned up the volume in her mind; suddenly voices snapped and jabbered throughout her head. She couldn't make head nor tail of them but some sort of instinctual, emergency response told her that she should bolt. Now.

True to literary fashion, however, she stood frozen to the spot. She could neither turn this way nor that. It was a small mercy that she still retained control of occular muscles; she dropped her eyes into her glass. The bubbles were fast melting in the rich, red liquid. She counted them. If she had casually flickered her eyes upward, she would've seen that he was completely engaged in conversation.

As it was, the roots that left her feet planted to the parquet floors decided they had had their wicked way enough. She quickly moved to another part of the house: the basement. The pre-emptive tactic was perhaps uneccessary and a calmer person might have ventured so far as to say she was being utterly dramatic. But she was taking no chances.

A voice behind her made her jump.

"Refill?"

She turned around and poorly hid a sigh of relief at the sight. It was the host - er, hostess - Mish. Mish poured a new glass for her. She smiled in thanks and took a sip. "So...Kenneth is here."

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"No, its fine" she protested.

"Don't be silly, it's so late. You can't be taking public transit so late!" Mish snapped.

"It's okay. You're on the way," he replied quietly. He busied himself with his jacket. She stood there dumbfounded, desparately clutching the handle of her gift. She realized what a giant idiot she must look like, with her mouth opening and closing.

"I'm not on the way," she said, finally. "In fact, I'm out of the way. I'm one exit above." Were they actually speaking to each other? She felt slightly giddy. She felt like clutching something more steadying than the gift bag. Like maybe his arms in that leather jacket- No, no, stop. No thoughts like that.

Her protest, however, fell on deaf ears: Mish was grabbing coats for other people. And he was busy looking for his keys in his jacket pockets.

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The negative spaces between two figures can speak volumes. The air between the passenger seat and the driver's seat seemed close and still. Within this hollow, there was a storm brewing. And they could both sense it.

There was so much to be said and yet everything wanting to burst out into the open after a year of being opressed and covered, seemed better left unsaid. The illusion that blanketed these negative spaces, poorly covered the moments past, was not coming undone. So why tug at those threads?

Her head was turned away, looking out of the window longingly. His eyes focused upon the road. His features knitted in concentration as he merged for a right turn. A choral ode retold of what had past and what was to come, born in the space between them. It sang about the sheer intensity of the moments, and the quiet days, the arguments, the misunderstandings. And it thrummed out an aching tune of loss.

The tall buildings gave way to open air and soon the highway swallowed them up. He accelerated and she instinctively tightened her grip on the armrest.

"Music?" he asked, finally. He still cast her no look and neither did she grace him with one of her own. On her part, she didn't think she could cranially stand to see what rested in his face. Or what didn't rest, more like.

"Always," she said automatically, barely above a whisper. Then, she realized the question. "Erm, yeah, sure." Her hand upon her chin, she stared out the window in silence. He looked over at her. Her small frame edged as far away from him as possible and, in many ways, she seemed the same, small, lost girl.

He flicked on the radio. Her intial response was not lost on him, but he said nothing. Mostly, he didn't know what to say. Neither of them knew where to start. They each had mentally lodged their complaints against each other in spare moments of the evening.

Along with her complaints, besides the hurting, there was much longing. She knew that this was not the case with him: he had only complaints. No longing. That was long gone. She deserved it, she thought without remorse. Still...it stung. There had been so many moments in which she had wanted some way out: some way to rectify it all or quietly apologize or...or...something! But nothing seemed alright; everything seemed too dramatic or laughable. She had been driven mad trying to figure out what to do.

And now here was the opportunity.

He decided that there really was no point in tugging at those strings. He would try to be affable. "So, how's your year been?" he asked.

She looked at him, then out onto the road ahead. It was just like the DVP to be jammed at 1 in the night. How was she? She contemplated a response that didn't involve how he pervaded her senses when she least expected. She couldn't come up with anything. Wine killed her creativity.

"Oh, you know. Fine. Yours?"

"Great. It's been a good first semester. Hard...but good".

"Good. Good..."

She bit down on her tongue and her eyes started to water. She wouldn't say it. She couldn't! She shouldn't. She wanted to wear him down, smoke him out of the fox hole. Guilt trip him. Granted, the last time she had done that, they had completely stopped speaking.

"Yeah...I basically just hang out at the library now."

"Lucky you," she commented.

"I play squash."

"Oh, I know."

"Right..."

Don't do it, don't do it, don't do it!

"Tell me something I don't know," she said.

"Um...well, I'm applying for med school this year. Early admission."

"Anything else?" She looked over this time, trying to see the cogs turning in his brain, see him getting shifty. Instead, he was quite unshifty. She looked away.

Catching the movement, he looked at her instead. Should he go there? Should he unravel those threads?

"How about you tell me?" he replied. "Why didn't you want to talk to me?"

She turned sharply. Her expression betrayed none of the turmoil she felt inside. "Why didn't you tell me about your girlfriend?" she ventured instead.

He braked abruptly and harshly. She steadied herself with the armrest and he swore under his breath. He turned to look at her sqaurely in the face. He refused to be riled.

"Why did you tell Lindsay you didn't want to talk to me?"

"Why did I have to hear about this from some random girl in the summer?"

He growled in frustration. The small sound did not go unnoticed by her. "Why," he tried again, "Did you not want to come tonight?"

"Why did everyone else but me know?"

"So suddenly...you hate me," he finished.

"I thought we were friends!"

"Answer me," he said. He was thoroughly annoyed at her audacity.

"You first," she countered. Little red spots danced in front of her eyes.

He took a deep breath. "I thought you'd find out eventually."

She glared at him. Was he serious? "Of course I found out! It's how I found out that is the problem."

"Oh?" he asked, frost nipping his words. It took alot to get him angry and have it be displayed. For now, he couldn't recall a more aggravating moment in his life. "And how was that?"

She swallowed. "From someone else," she said slowly. Her anger slowed down. It was getting ahead of her. Better keep that in check. She opened the floodgates of sadness and it washed over her as the memory flooded back.

"I asked about you. I hadn't heard from you since the concert. Two months. You didn't call. You didn't even return my call. I had to ask some random girl I work with about you. And somehow she not only knew how you were but that you were seeing someone since February."

The silence that followed this was deafening. A combination of what she said and how she said it stopped him cold in his verbal tracks.

"I thought we were friends. But suddenly, Mish knew. This girl knew - this random person who had no prior or deep knowledge about you. Didn't you think I would be happy for you? Didn't you - what did you think? Did you think at all? You don't owe me anything...we weren't freshly broken up or anything. But...I would've thought on the basis of being friends...you would've told me."

As they finally passed Sheppard, the DVP merged into the 404. He kept a steady eye on the speedometer, then put the car into cruise.

What could he say? What did he honestly think? He hadn't considered it so in depth but he should've considered that she would. He mentally kicked himself.

"I...I didn't think," he finally said.

She looked at him mournfully. He finally caught her eye. Guilt shook its chains, menacingly. "Exactly."

He sighed in frustration. "Fine, I didn't tell you! I'm sorry. I should've told you. I don't know why I didn't tell you, eventually. I guess I didn't think it would be such a big deal."

"It wasn't. It's not. But when you didn't tell me...it became a deal."

"Whatever. Look, I didn't do it intentionally. I just - you know me. I don't announce these things. People just...know or they don't."

"Yes. I am people. Clearly."

"That's not what I meant and you know it," he said, defensively.

"Who can say for sure?" she intoned, maddeningly. "I don't really know you at all anymore."

"Okay, make up your mind. What exactly do you have an issue with?" he asked, anrgily.

"Shall I make a list?" she replied, scathingly.

His knuckles turned white on the steering wheel. "A list would be nice, yes! Maybe then I could keep track of your erratic-ness!"

"You don't even know what that means!" she yelled.

"It means you're crazy!"

"I knew it! I knew all that buddhism, sagely bullshit you keep up is not true! You're human! You get angry! So let it all fucking out!"

"What the fuck are you talking about?!"

"I'd rather be erratic than a sell out, Mr. I'm-too-good-for-everyone-else."

"When did I ever say that?!"

"Actions speak louder than words," she said, infuriatingly smug.

That was it! He merged into the right lanes and finally pulled to a stop at the side of the highway. He put the emergency blinkers on and shut off the car. He turned to her, one hand on the steering wheel.

"What is wrong with you? Why do we always argue?"

"Because you're always wrong," she replied curtly.

"So why the hell are you here?!" he yelled, furious at the situation.

"I didn't have much of a choice, did I?" she whipped back.

He gazed at her furiously, while she returned the death glare. Neither one turned away.

His breathing finally slowed and he looked away. "So you didn't want to talk to me because I didn't tell you?" he asked, incredulous.

"I never said I didn't want to talk to you," she replied, her voice only slightly shaking.

"You did! Lindsay said you didn't want to talk about me or something," he accused.

She scoffed. "The conversation was as follows: Lindsay asked me about you. I said, can we please not talk about him. She asked why, I said, I just don't feel like going there. Maybe some other time."

"So you didn't feel like going where? You said it as if there have been events in the past or things I've done plauging you other than this!"

She gave him a long, piercing look. "You haven't done anything. And perhaps that's the biggest thing." Her voice turned soft and shaky. "You've changed." She looked down in sadness. "You're not you anymore. You're this...other person. This...grander, better person. You've fashioned this strange shell for yourself. And I don't know who you are on the outside." She looked up at him, in earnest, almost as though she was desperate for him to understand her. "You think you've found yourself, right? But who have you lost in the bargain?"

He faltered. He felt his anger melt away at the look in her eyes. It always surprised him that such a biting creature could be so earnest in her stance. "That person was weak. I'm stronger now. He didn't understand anything."

She shook her head and looked down. Tears silently filled her eyes. How to tell him how much she hated him like this?

He cocked his head to one side. Was she crying?

"That person was human. He hurt. He could fall. He was sincere and he was just....he was perfect." Her voice shook and she looked up at him. A shimmer in her eyes translated her deep-vested feelings into drops. "You took that person away from me."

"I...I didn't tell you because maybe I just needed a break from thinking about you. About you. Always you. It's always about you."

"It's not about me this time. It's about you. Where have you gone?"

"I'm right here!" Then, more quietly, "I'm right here. I'm always here for you."

She shook her head. "No. Someone else is here. This person is callous and strange and shallow. I don't know how to explain it! I just...I miss you."

He was silent as he contemplated those words. "I'm with someone else now."

"What? No! That's not what I'm saying!" she yelled in frustration. "Never mind."

"Why didn't you want to talk to me? Or about me?" he tried instead.

She leaned her head back on the head of the seat in exhaustion. Her tears were slowly drying. "Because," she said, in a tired voice, "I was sick of not knowing. You're horrible at keeping in touch. Everyone kept asking me about you, how you were doing et cetera and I just kept getting more and more annoyed at the fact that not only did I not know and why the hell was everyone asking me as if I'm an authority on the subject of you but you didn't even bother to update me."

"I'm sorry." His voice was soft, reflective. "I should have told you. I should have kept in touch."
There was a pause. "If you were hurting so much about this...why didn't you tell me? Earlier?"

She sighed. "Subtelty is not your thing."

"I'm a guy," he said.

She stared at the roof of the car, only vaguely aware that her toes were starting to go numb. "No," she said to herself. Then she turned to him.

"No. You are a guy. You were the one."

In Comprehension

I don't understand people who get married early in life. Youth marriages. I mean, I want to keep an open mind and not be judgemental and I'm trying very hard not to be but I cannot help that quizzical brow and the wrinkling of the nose, so automated in its reaction to the words "getting married - young".

I don't know why I'm so averse to it, but its understandable, I suppose, what with all the socialization, western thought and technique and sacrifice of family for the sake of progress. We seem to be bombarded by those. The accomplishments and milestones, the set courses in life that you must run. Times have changed and so have goals. Along with those, man's ambition has evolved in pockets of the world. Globalized, urban pockets, that is. Anything else is backcountry, right?

That sort of dismissive mindset really disgusts me. That progression is the only thing that is right, that the corporate culture is the only one with sense. Humans are individual and with their own sensibilities so the lifestyles they live are only a reflection of that. Youth marriages are hard enough without the rest of the Western world casting a pathetic look in your direction.

I might not be a look-caster but I am most certainly a nose-wrinkler. I feel a sort of distaste or a gap in comprehension when I hear about people within this western society, this immediate metropolitan atmosphere, who sign their lives at 18. It is as though there is a fence, then a chasm and then another fence and I can't seem to make the jump of recognition from one fence to the other.

Of course, the first thing I try to do when synthesizing a foreign practice is place myself, free of inhibitions, into it. That's where I believe understanding and tolerance comes from. Acceptance. And to a certain, extent, I completely understand. Objectively speaking, I am able to make that leap of comprehension. But when I apply my character and my understanding of this western youth's character to the concept of early marriage, something doesn't click. Something is amiss and I can't take the leap of faith, though comprehension is there.

Yes, most youth on this continent are serial monogamists or one-night-standers or experimental. In antiquity, the cap on life was 27. Then, it was 35. Now, it's 75. The more time we take to "get settled", the greater our obsession to prolong our lives. And it is this same society who falls prey to these preset notions of when one should have a job/car/mortgage/whitefence/children that creates these standards. So as life prolongs, so to do our list of things we wish to accomplish or must needs do before we can be married or settled or tied or however else one may wish to see it.

Marriage takes up responsibility and most kids (I use this term to encompass teens and the early twentysomethings) run far, far, far away from something even remotely resembling or reeking of responsibility. They cannot lift their heads enough to take responsibility of their own world. How might they ever hope to raise a family unit? Some people are judt dumb and walk into marriage blindly, like its a cakewalk. They don't realize what sort of committment it requires, and how much sacrifice it calls on. Then they file for divorce and when they're 30, they use it as an anecdote at weddings and when they've popped back one too many. Others do realize it and are willing and ready and eager. They are sincere and fully understanding of what marriage entails.

That is what scares the bejeezus out of me. That, knowing what it takes and what it entails, the amount of sacrifice and such, they still walk into it and try and make it work. Quite a few early marriages are residues of unwanted pregnancies. From those, only about half survive and end in bitter, closeted resentment or boring, routine lives anyway. The rest are mutual and steeped in love but aren't able to face the storms without being weathered down in sanity.

The thing is...I don't look down upon early marriage. I just feel...there is so much of the world to see and experience. And yes, seeing it with the one person you love...why would anyone deprive themselves of that? They shouldn't and they wouldn't. But that rosy picture is only there for a moment. My own distrust of early marriages, I confess, might have something to do with my distrust in marriage at all. But I'm not allowing that to cloud my thinking. I'm saying, maturity is something one cultivates in hindsight. And marriage is not a game...it's a real collaboration of two people, as different as one another, and is binding. Early marriages often lack maturity, especilaly when surrounded by the metropolis. Because then you must tie in ego and colour the picture red with ambition and lust and gloss. Working together is hard enough...but working through all that - does one in this western culture really have the maturity to deal with something like marriage?

No. Yes, I will give my sound opinion on this: the answer is no. The evidence? The amount of divorce. Okay, so you cannot distinguish which of these divorces are the result of early marriagae or not. But that is not my point. I'm saying, that the rate of divorce is so high is very telling because, if those married at a later point in life cannot hope to make it through without calling it quits, what is the guarantee that the younger ones will? Yes, there is no guarantee. And yes, age does not necessarily equal maturity. But the thing is, out here, it is so easy to file for divorce. There is little to no cultural stigma attached to getting a divorce or being the child of a divorced parent and a part of a blended family. This is not true for all cultures or all parts of the world. The very fact that the rate of divorce is so high speaks only of the fact that people are just not willing to try and give their marriage a chance. Divorce is like their rainy day colouring book. People use it not as a last resort but as a first, one-way ticket out of a sticky situation. It's like a Get Out of Jail Free Pass.

So early marriages freak me out because, personally, I am selfish. I couldn't imagine giving up my life before I had to. Personally, I am never going to get married, but I do envy those people that have a leaning towards the white-picket fence life. I love that there are people around me who do want to have a husband or wife and share a love that is founded. I am skeptical of such a love - but for myself. I believe that this love is there for other people - I am just not born with that luck nor feeling.

But anyhow, my freedom is very precious to me. I cannot even be in a relationship that doesn't get me antsy past one month. I'm notorious like that; everyone knows a runaway bride like me. Fine. The situation of early marriage could never appeal nor ever synthesize with a character like mine because everything I've fought for in my life goes against the very statement of marriage. Plus, I've never witnessed a marriage ever actually work, thus my skepticism.

But when I apply the theory of early marriage to myself, ignoring my character, I find that it makes sense. As long as you know what you are in for, it makes perfect sense that you not waste time and start living with the one you love, for you will do it sooner or later. And why later than sooner? It still, however, scares me to no end.

It's not the sex, it's not the finances, it's not the thought of kids, or routine or eternal happiness & mediocrity. Well, it's not just that. It's the fact that the cap on life has changed. Even in culutres around the world, even in traditionalist, or rural areas, humans lives have changed. The time we have on earth has shifted. Someday, it might shift again. Maybe I am the byproduct of the ambition so secretly bred in this metropolitan atmosphere. But I just feel that in this long life, with this shift and change in time, there is so so so very much to see and do. There is so much to touch and feel. You could make your own personal imprint in the world. Or you could make your own personal imprint on the world.

All I can think of when I think of early marriage and this concept of a grander life and the fact that I view marriage as an end of an era is this:

Thetis: I knew they would come for you...long before you were born. I knew they would come. They want you to fight in Troy.

Achilles: Mother. Tonight I decide.

Thetis: If you stay in Larisa, you will find peace. You will find a wonderful woman. You'll have sons and daughters, and they will have children. And they will love you. When you are gone, they will remember you. But when you're children are dead and their children after them, your name will be lost. If you go to Troy, glory will be yours. They will write stories about your victories for thousands of years. The world will remember your name. But if you go to Troy, you will never come home. For your glory walks hand in hand with your doom.

That Day at That Place with Those People

I spent the day with my high school friends. I dont think of them so much as "high school" friends as I do just "friends". I guess its because I didnt make any "university friends" and the one that I did is too cool to be factioned or grouped in any which manner. I have friends, just friends, only friends, no prefix or suffix. They are very close to me. I'm happy beyond words that these people are back.



Visiting UHS was lovely and painful at the same time. I don't know what it is about that place. I'm so in love with it. I'm so in love with it and yet I hurt to see how much it has changed and how much faded glory it is trying to retain. Arts York is getting diluted. Going back there was a big reminder of that. I had forgotten, not facing it, not confronting it, because with all the pain this was too much to take.



But it's gone. Or going. Or getting there. Some of the teachers are still the same. J, for example, is still J. I find myself wishing that I was less of me and more of someone else with him though. I feel like a radio frequency...sometimes we hit in sync and there's perfect synergy and other times...I just miss the boat. It is tiring sounding like a broken record. I have about 4 or 5 emails sitting in my inbox that I haven't sent but written to him anyway that I've meant to sent but never quite could hit that send button. One of them even has the lines, "In the offchance that I hit the button and finally send this and you finally get this..." Sad. Indeed.



Slade. Slade is still Slade and my god, watching him and J go back and forth is pure entertainment, the likes of which even good money couldn't buy. Or bad money, in that case.



But god, this time was the first time I've ever felt pain going back. There has always been a sense of pride, of nostalgia, of misty, foggy-eyed comfort. But never this pain. The hallways, those hallways that we walked. I expected to see something at every turn. I expected to see them kissing, to see them holding hands. That yearbook office, I remembered the tie and the guitar and Parachutes and how hard he tried to impress her and how she completely turned a blind eye. The library, the library, full of its books, the study rooms, the bio, the exams, the shitty laptop, the linux system, the way he fixed her laptop. The way he said he felt like Sid in DHC when he was painting that painting for the woman he loved.

I found out that one of my teachers died the sunday before the monday that I visited UHS. She retired a year earlier (which I also didn't know) and on all my visits to UHS, I hadn't once thought about going back to see her. And then, when I hit the humanities office, they tell me, go away, J is in history. I say, I'm not here to see J, where is Ms. Brigham. And it all comes out. She died from cancer the very day I remembered her. I was absolutely heartbroken.

Alot of things in that place are leaving, dying. The Arts York program, for example, is being completely effing butchered because some crapass other schools are bitching about the unfair advantage we have. Well fuck you, because other countries have international schools and other forms and rungs of entrance exams. We have arts york. We pool talent and the program is invaluable. Its not a question of whether the druggie school, Alex Mack deserves this or not. It is that UHS doesn't deserve this; they don't deserve to have their resources spread thin and their talent diluted. They don't deserve to have their program watered down and taken away from them. These kids deserve this experience of a school that was a legend in itself, an incubator for greatness from all walks of life. Another heartache.

Slade will be gone by the end of the year and so will Salina because she is finally graduating, bless her lovely soul. I am really excited for her. Gawsh, she is going to be uber-amazing. More so than that, actually. Well, she already is but now she will rock the spheres of everyone pretentious idiot at OCAD or Sheridan or wherever she chooses to go. So Slade is gone and Salina is gone and Wozniak used me as a speech for Waterloo to his data class, so he's as good as dead for me. J's left but his amusing tidings and testy stints with admin leaves me sure that it's not for long. I hope it is though...that place needs some lost lustre retention and, imho, J is the only one that retains the flavour of old, spunky, outside of the box, new thinkers, art nouveau, experience extraordinaire UHS.

So...

...this was interesting.

Clickity.

In other news, I'm very depressed right now. So I'm going to buy a shitload of stuff to help and fill that strange gaping hole in my heart. I'm going to buy the Baraka box set because I am a nerd and the audrey hepburn box set because i'm ms. couch-potato-destined-to-be-cat-lady. And then maybe i'll finally buy a new phone or a bus ticket to new york, not sure which yet. and some books. And then some chocolate. And maybe i'll clean my room. Or not. Or I will build a time machine and go back to april of 2007 or august of 2007, yes, august of 2007. And change everything around.

Siesta

Perhaps the most perfect thing about my time here is that in one moment I can absolutely love life and totally curse my existence for different and overlapping reasons.

That, in one moment, I am utterly thankful for all the stupid small things and completely unhappy with the state of things at large.

That everything - music, colours, life, love - is, beyond a shade of doubt, tumultuous and yet alive in every notion and aspect.

That I am who I am and though I totally hate who I am, I wouldn't change anything. That I can look forward to silly feel-good movies, and dream and talk and retain a shine and twinkle. Possibly, I am describing some sort of bipolar attitude here but hey! What is the point of all of this - all of THIS - if one cannot feel every single expression and emotion that may come their way?

I'm completely lost and I dont know what the fuck I'm doing with my life. I know I'm meant for great things but that definition is relative. All I know for sure right now is that everything is imperfect and perfect and beautiful but destroyed.

And you wouldn't want it any other way, no, because then neither could you appreciate the beauty without pain nor pain without beauty.

May the beautiful destruction never end. And if it must, may every last drop of love and emotion and thought be expressed before everything finally shuts down for the turn of the era.

Fashionopathy

So I don't know whether to rave about this or to rant. It could really go either way here; I could make this bloody or I could gush.

I suppose if I were to say that I absolutely love this outfit by Lanvin, it would be because of its simplicity. It is brilliant in its simple lines. The colour is just subtle and plain enough to let your natural skin tone shine through and its elegant, flowing lines remain unassuming because they are not stitched or pulled into place, but they simply flow on the wearer's body. The main line draws your eye from Katie's right shoulder, straight down to the narrow hem, giving it a very fifties look with a toga twist. The Christian Louboutin's are this outfit's real saviour adding not only height but making the outfit decidedly soft and feminine. The lines in the dress are accentuated by her own curves which is why she is able to work the outfit so well. Katie's pert hair doesn't hurt either.

If, however, I confess that I hate this outfit, I would be completely remiss if I didn't point out that it is merely a sack that looks (thanks to its bland colour) to be made out of twine that has been knotted and hemmed to be able to somehow enter society sans the hobo tag. It's a little short of the outfit for the Paper Bag Princess and even Robert Munsch might not want his heroine wearing this. Points for the Christian Louboutins and the perfectly toned upper body, however, that only slightly made up for this sack - er, dress. But honestly, if you wanted to show those two things off, you might as well have just come naked with the Louboutins on, the effect would have been less devastating to the eye, I think. Perhaps next time we'll see Sienna Miller in a towel and Manolo Blahnik. Oh no, wait, that already happened.

It's interesting because while spotting her strolling in Central Park during her stage time on Broadway, Katie clearly decided to cash in on the fashion boho warp scene that everyone seems to be trying out. People say, "I always wear what's comfortable for me" or, "I believe in individual voice through fashion", and the ever popular, "I don't follow trends, I make them. I wear what I feel like." That, my lovelies, is a load of old tosh. Or at least...it is with most tweens. For some reason, there are a select few group of people who seem out to prove to the world their individuality by pairing random shit with random crap. For instance, high-heeled hooker boots, plaid shirt and a long thin gold necklace ending in a bling pendant with shitty out of bed hair. I mean, honestly? I don't need to see that; that's not fashion, that is the leftovers of your closet on laundry day. Feel comfortable in it? Great! Good for you! Want to stroll in the streets with it? Power to you! Just don't label it fashion. For godsakes! Katie Holmes decided to do the same thing: she took gigantic painter/plumber jeans and rolled up the hems, pairing them with moccasins, a beaten vintage leather brown bag and a giant thinly knit sweater and mahousive goggles - er, I mean, glasses. I thought she looked fine, whatever, it's comfortable right? But when people started trying to gauge the next fashion trends from what she was wearing, I got pissed. I'm not going to judge her weekend wear, because it's NOT fashion. I'm not trying to define something like fashion because to me it is an art form. It could go both ways, which is really what I'm trying to say with the Lanvin dress above. You could love it or hate it or both. But honestly? A trend is Fedoras. A trend is not sweatpants and stilletos.