The only person who might, maybe, maybe read this is Lindsay. So...if you are reading this, hi. = ]

Uh...life update, quick.

I'm practicing my jazz brushes/cleaning my snare drum.

I've just come back from Happy Jew Year dinner.

University is sloww..

Someone who shunned me about a year ago has started talking to me again.

I got married to a Chinese revolutionary.

And we have cookies.

Such is life.

I haven't posted in forEVER! Gosh.

So, I have been skipping a few classes, I admit. But every single time I'm not in class it means I'm at home catching up on homework. Anyhow, I'm not posting for English. If you're an English teacher (ahem, Paul) - or anyone else, for that matter - either stop reading now or be forewarned, this is a waste of your time.


Dear Superanonymous,

Had I known four years ago that three years later you'd be telling me that I was part of some tragic past that you couldn't bear to face, I would have gone home and done everything in my power to forget your phone number, your address, your email, your name. I would have thrown out the cheap little amplifier that you left in my basement (it's still there, by the way, it just doesn't work). I would have never gone to some of the most beautiful places in this city, if I knew that coming back would bring about a wave of nostalgia, and with it a burden of regret...for not doing all of the above. Had we never met, I would be a content little shut-in

No love,

FFN.

I'm reading it again, and enjoying it a lot more the second time around. Also reading Night by Elie Weisel, and another book with a yellow cover whose title I can't remember.

My thesis addresses how consolation and comfort fight against protection and shelter, in relation to the two dying men in the novel. David and Samuel, that is. My arguments simply recount parts in the book that back up my thesis, and emphasize meaning. All that good stuff..

Not since my last post has anyone on my friends list from Paul's English posted anything. Lame, guys. Lame.

So I'm just sitting here, being colourful and I've been drinking more coffee - does caffeine REALLY keep you up? It's not making me less tired; just more jittery - and sleeping less to ensure I get that essay and those two research papers and that storyboarding assignment done by tomorrow. In case Paul is reading this: I'm not coming to class(es) tomorrow; I'm at home, finishing up everything. I'll be in at 3:00ish to give you the GALS and English stuff. So while I'm doing homework...


A Realistic Assessment?

I don't think I did well at all on the evaluated discussion. I stumbled over words, my answers were too long and carried with them very little meaning and little-to-no insight, and to be fully honest, I'd only finished the book that morning, and the last few pages were skimmed. I could have done better by taking the time to read from the moment we were given the book, as opposed to a week before the test. I could have done better by preparing notes on aspects of the book that I thought would come up in class. I could have done better by writing out a map of characters and their relationships and parallels with each other (which I ended up doing while writing the essay). I could have done better by practicing discussion with other people who had read the book. I could have done better by not putting my hand up just to agree with Calida. And last but not least I could have done a lot better had I ignored the timer. Gosh. What a failure.






Since I do use LiveJournal as a journal as well as an assignment, here's the journal part of it:

GAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
GGGGAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!
Stressstressstressstress.

I drink far too much coffee, and all it does is make me jittery, and make my stomach hurt. Not good! Do not want!

Dear Tabitha, I still haven't seen you since December first. You should probably mozy on down here.

I feel like someone's behind me, screaming at me to do these Consolation-related assignments. I don't mean that English is not a priority. It IS. I'm spending about 22 hours a day doing work for other classes. =/ I'll get around to it. So stop yelling at me! D:

But maybe, maybe, if I'm finished a lot of work, I'm going to see Liza Minelli this week. WOOOOOOHOOO.

It's getting worse and worse and worse and worse and worse and worse and worse. Kitty is far too faithful.

4 essays,
2 round tables,
1 research paper
2 other papers,
2 auditions
a group assignment
a few other small assignements

Can you say 'fuck'?

I'll do the blog assignment soon. Soonsoonsoon. If you're reading this I probably want to punch you. There, I said it. I'm working on other things.. I'll get it done soon. Soonsoonsoon..

Yes. At first it was tedious, but once I really got into it, I really, really enjoyed it. The language, in terms of narration at least, was fairly well distanced emotionally from the actually story, while remaining poetic at times, and consistently insightful. The stories were well woven together, I like that each character (or in some cases, pairs of characters) have their own distinct stories, and those stories aren't just background, that they really all tie in and come together to become *Consolation*. I like that John had a connection with everyone - even Hallam (I was disappointed at that part, very, very disappointed. Explain later). He had his relationship with Bridget, his secret visits to Marianne in the hotel, his relationship with David...I loved his relationship with David because he (John, I mean), seemed to be the only one who truly empathized with him (David, I mean), who really understood how he felt trapped in his condition, how he didn't want to be treated like a child, and how he saw the bright side of his state: I'm going to die anyways, so let me drink, let me pee 'like a man', let me walk, let me die.

That said, I didn't much care for the 1997 part of the story. Until, that is, I found out that the 1856 story - in which I'd invested much more attention and high expectations which were usually met - was just a pile of papers written by a character from the story I'd been half-skimming. But then again, isn't that what all books are? Ah, but only to one degree. Consolation, the 1997 part, is just that: a pile of paper loosely based on fact, written by some guy I've never met..but that pile of paper actually exists in reality, Michael Redhill actually lives and the fact that he has lived will always remain fact. The Hallam story is twice removed. But once you get into the world of the book, it seems that the 1856 story is only one step removed from reality, and what does that make the 1997 story? Reality. Or that's how it felt to me. It was an ingenious idea on Redhill's part, I think, but it disappointed me. I guess that means he's a good author; I was moved.

Ennis had my full interest, for whatever reason, from the part where he was taking Hallam's picture. Perhaps it was the idea that using a camera was more complex 160 years ago than it is today (duh), or perhaps it was the fact that he was directing Hallam to change his personality from J. Hallam, Apothecary to Jeremy, Jem, Papa. Perhaps it was just the fact that I was sitting at Kipling station waiting for a friend who had obviously caught a later bus, and figured I may as well settle in for a long wait. Either way, I fell for Ennis's character, partially out of interest, later out of pity. When he fell ill, Hallam sort of came to the rescue, Hallam assumed him drunk, and he said, "You hate me, Jem Hallam", that line showed some remorse, regret, even some fear, I think. It was one of the more poignant moments in my reading of Consolation. Anyhow, the way I saw Hallam helping the man recover could have been just...well, Hallam's a good guy...but no, I think he felt he had to help Ennis because of what he'd said earlier while talking to Miss Rowe as she criticized her church's stand on illegitimate children. It would have been hypocritical of him to say whether or not you help someone shouldn't be influenced by your opinion of them, and then to not help this man because of some friction in their past together. Ennis was ill, and Hallam's word, and his guilt - not the goodness of his heart - moved him to do what he did.

And back to the talking dog. I was in bed at three in the morning when I read the section where Bailey talks. I read it over the day of the test, when everyone was talking about a talking dog, and as I read I felt very stupid: how could I have somehow skimmed over a talking dog?! Tired? Excuses.. whatever. Fact is, I didn't like the section where John and Bridget met, and the talking dog had no excuse. None. Sorry, as much as I love this book, there is no excuse for a talking dog.

Anywhore, did I enjoy Consolation? Yes. But I read it in a week. Perhaps I will give myself a few months, then read it again in a less academic context, with no time limit, and no upcoming deadlines. Then I will have a chance to soak up every word, and really appreciate it for what it is.



PS: Something that made me feel quite at home reading the book was - as I read a majority of it on the subway - the fact that there was a mention of St. George Square as I passed St. George Station, and a mention of the intersection at Yonge and Bloor as I heard 'Arriving at Bloor, Bloor station'. It's a safe and wonderful feeling to know, if not what's on the characters' minds, at least what's in their view.

I celebrated love.

I started the day with Beckah (who I've not seen since grade eleven) and Beth (who I've only just met, and is awesome). Spent the bulk of it celebrating the thing I love above all else: music. Jazz, specifically. Then I went home to my family.

I love Beckah. I err.. like Beth. I love music. I lovelovelove jazz. I love my family. I even love public transit.

See? You don't have to be in a relationship to celebrate love. Single doesn't equal loveless; it's just that some of the people who spend too much of their time looking for love don't know where to find it.

<33

Much love,

BB.

I have the right to sound emo today. I hate life.

No matter how comfortable this chair is, no matter how dim the glow, no matter how heavy my eyelids feel, I will NOT go to sleep. Why? Because I'm terribly afraid of dying. Allow me to elaborate.

I am have heard that staying awake for too long a time can cause serious brain damage and can lower your life span. Ironic it is, then, that my fear of death fuels my need to cling to consciousness.

But it makes sense.

You see, to me, death is aptly described by the cliche, 'falling asleep and never waking up'. So why, if we are going to sleep forever when we're dead, do we need to sleep now? If death is an eternal sleep, then an average night's sleep is a very, very short preview of death; it's especially similar to me since I rarely sleep long enough to get the full REM going, and I rarely dream.

I do not fear sleep, I fear the concept of not living. It's an all consuming phobia. I lie in bed, awake at night, thinking of school, thinking of university, thinking of work, thinking of retirement, thinking of aging, and inevitably, thinking very, very unhappy thoughts. What if I don't even make it that far? What if.. what am I saying? I'll be dead!

So if I fear not living, and sleep is just a little snippet of death, why do I want to waste what little time I have, being unconscious? Sleeping? There's plenty of time for sleep later. After retirement, after school, after everything.

Nature, however, gives me no choice. I am not an insomniac, but I would gladly step into one's shoes, just for a month. Just so I could lie down, stay awake, and welcome all the haunting thoughts to come flooding in, to welcome all the futile tears to come flooding out, and to be glad that for four or five extra hours a night, I can be there to feel their sting.

Dear Mother,

You are not likable when you throw stuff. In fact, words like 'bitch', 'cunt', and 'waste-of-space' come to mind. Just imagine how you'd feel if I threw your stereo across the hall because I don't like the way it's situated? Not very good, hmm? So we're at an understanding then? No? Then fuck off.

Sincerely,

BB.

I have watched my grandma's opera tapes, listened to recordings of opera singers, but only twice in my life have I ever seen a live opera show. The first time was a couple of years ago, when I went with my ex girlfriend to see The Magic Flute. And while the music was gorgeous, it was disappointing for a few reasons:

1) We left at intermission.
2) It was an English translation, and an awkward one at that.
3) It was a dress rehearsal and it seemed most of the singers weren't giving it their all.

Today, when we all went to see Fidelio, I was awestruck; my only complaint is that my eyes darted too much because of the surtitles. The music - especially at the beginning and at the end - was unpredictable; it seemed to be going somewhere, but it was hard to tell where, and every step was worth it.. The setting was beautiful. The casting was perfect. The acoustics were absolutely dead on. It was a dress rehearsal, but aside from the cameras and the lack of audience members.. it didn't seem like one.

Thank you again for inviting me, Sonya. If you read this, <3.

A probably irrelevant question that's been bothering me ever since I got off the train today was...just how much of Frank Sinatra's fame and fortune did he really deserve?

Now don't get me wrong, I'm a HUGE fan of his recordings. Note, though, that I say his *recordings* as opposed to his *music*. From what I heard (I haven't done extensive research on it), Frank Sinatra never actually wrote music. I'm sure it's well known already that the more famous hits associated with his name: 'New York, New York', 'Mack the Knife', 'My Way', and the one stuck in my head right now, 'Fly Me to the Moon', were not written by him. While I am a huge fan of his interpretations, the arrangements are not, to my knowledge, *his*.

I'm a strong believer in credit where credit is due. So what I'm trying to figure out is, how fair is it, when someone came up with the basic chords and melodies for the songs he sung, someone arranged big-band versions, some others played instruments on the recordings, he sung on them, and all they get is the credit in the back of the booklet, sometimes not even that?

It's arguable, even, that Sinatra never even threw any of his own creative expression into the recordings, that aside from his voice, he really added nothing to the songs..so why is it fair that I say I am a fan of Frank Sinatra without including everyone else hidden in the fine print of the record booklet?

That being said...

R.I.P. Frank Sinatra.

My dad asked me what I really expected from Obama the other morning. I said something along the lines of 'less fuck-ups, if it's not too much to ask'.

It's easy to put all your faith into one man just because he's charismatic and determined. But once you've put him up to these ridiculous expectations, like he's going to get the U.S. out of every hole it's in right now, like he's going to close Guantanamo Bay, and all the prisoners will come out reformed with a new perspective on life, like he's going to magically turn all debt into surplus, like he's going to pull out of Iraq immediately and it'll stabilize itself...

Okay, I'm exaggerating, but you see my point, right? I expect him to do no worse than George Bush. With such expectations it's hard to be reasonably disappointed.

By the way, I would really like people to stop turning him into a commercial celebrity.

Also, shut up about his race. We KNOW he's the first black president. Historical? Maybe. It was also a pretty close call. Racism is just as rampant now as it was in October, as it was in 2007, and for quite a while before that. All the emphasis people continued to put on his race after the initial shock when America LIKE, OMG, ELECTED THE FIRST BLACK GUY TO BE PRESIDENT, is a little racist in itself.

So I know he's a great speaker, but shut up about how good he is for America, until he does something for it. KTHXBYE!

No comment.

I only don't want to be here because you don't want me to be here. Get it? Got it? Good.

Hey, Karma! Way to kick me while I'm down! So I'll make it really short for you readers: Back in September, on her birthday, I called an old friend, hadn't spoken to or seen in two years. We met up, hung out, and I thought it was rather rad. Before I left she said 'call me again sometime'. And so I did, in November. Then again in January, that was yesterday. She told me she got email. Gave me that. I added her, we started talking online. Then she asked why I cared to talk to her. So I told her. Then she said she felt guilty that I thought highly of her, because she wanted to cut off all contact with her past, and 'as wonderful a person as you are', that included me. So I told her even though people and situations needn't be connected, and I've changed just as much as she has.. I won't argue and 'bye!'. It's not easy to explain.. what a real friend means to me. It's no easier to explain how happy I was to have finally contacted her this September. And it's pretty damn hard to explain how I felt after that.. last night. The best way to explain it, I suppose is.. vomit.