So, I should be able to rant in a blog right? I mean, thats what all of these are for. Blogs I mean. All our personal angst about society. Well, my rants are repetitive. Everyone knows them. They're familiar. I'm comfortable with them.
Right now, mine is about hair. My hair specifically. Its a rebel without a cause and its on my head. I'm going to argue the fact that I am bald and some creature has decided to take up residence on my head. It doesn't know what it wants- much likes its owner. It goes in every direction. Its not soft, or shiny or pretty or anything. Its halfway between curly and wavy. It springs out, rises above itself and sits itself on my head, frizzling out. Its like a skittish cat that spazzes out and arches out at everything. Its some weird, indefinable brown. If it was long itd be an afro, but short its just fluff.
Sure it could be tamed. With a flat iron it looks good. Or with tons of product.
Flat ironing it actually makes it softer.
Whenever people play with my hair, they ask me if I have product in it. "Its so coarse" they say. And my reply is "Yes, I know. And no I dont have anything in it. Thats just my hair the way it is."
Ew.
And they stop playing with it, which makes me extremely sad.
I think they're scared of it. I don't blame them. I'm scared of it.
Whenever I look at it in the morning. Its truely frightening. So I dont do anything about it.
The thing is, I hide beneath my hair. It just sits there. It detracts from my confidence, from my appearance. I need to do something about it.
So. Here is my problem. What to do with it.
I like this--- a lot.
http://www.modelmayhem.com/pic.php?pic_id=487b3446cd494&date=2008-07-14%2007:11:04&id=382367&pid=7536935&the_count=42&group_id=
I think thats beautiful. But dreads are so much work. Ugh.
Then I'm just like I should just stay short. But I want to be able to play with it long. Hmmm. I never know what to do with this head of mine. HELP!
Friday, March 27, 2009
Thursday, March 26, 2009
Should
I should be researching for my sufism paper. I should be outside in the sun. I should be finding a job. And instead I am here blogging. For some reason that feels so much more productive than anything else. Go figure.
I was outside sitting on a picnic table that has been let adrift in the muddy mire of the backyard. I had apples drizzled with golden honey that seemed to glow in the sunlight. Clear sky overhead, sun filtering my eyelids. Not very encouraging to me to delve into all the books I have scattered across the table. Not at all.
I'd rather be a child right now- take off my boots and run through the mud. Roll around in it. Then run around campus, barefoot, covered in mud and hollering at the top of my voice. Thats what I want to do.
I am so childish.
I'm so sick of the endless research. Can't seem to concentrate. Instead my head drifts off in that light sunlight... what would I do if I wasn't in school...
Well, I would traipse myself off to Tunisia. And, under cover of learning Arabic and French (which I, of course, would do anyway) I would go to Circus School. I don't know why they have a circus school there, but they do. And I need a career and joining the circus at the moment appeals to me, so why not?
After gaining crazy acrobatic, trapeze, juggling, tight-rope walking, miming, clowning, contortioning skills, along with an amazing command of Arabic and French, I would hit the road. Join a circus or somewhat... I would go to Germany and buy candy. And learn to speak German. Then off to Italy- Venice for Carnivale, Las Fallas in Valencia and la tomotina, just to say that I did.
Lets suffice it to say my circus would hit up all of Europe. We would, of course, go to Istanbul. I would of course, have some sort of romantic drama in this circus of mine, probably with a trapeze artist. This will run sour and I will find myself fleeing from the circus under cover of night. A band of gypsies will take up with me. I will travel with them for a time, go through Turkey, travel down until I get to Southern Lebanon. There I will get caught in the crossfire between Israel and Lebanon. Disguised as a rock, or something else that can roll, preferably of its own accord, I will cross the border into Israel. Once there, I will head to Tel Aviv, where I will search in vain for some drummer I met in a bar in Halifax named Ofer.
After either failing or succeeding in this mission, I will head straight across the rest of the Middle East, disguised as a man, so no one will bother me. Once I have safely reached India I will throw off my disguise and head to Bollywood, where my circus training will serve me well.
Bored of Bollywood, I will head to Bhutan, then go south to Bali. Somewhere along the way, I will learn Indian Dance, become a monk, ride an elephant, and acquire a monkey that will sit on my shoulder and constantly play with my hair (looking for fleas that won't be there, but it'll really just be like I'm always getting a head massage).
From there I will head up, go to Japan and live in a dojo until I become a master at aikido. Working my way down, I'll drop by Australia, say hi to my friend Phillip and then catch a boat to California. The boat will sink, leaving me as the only survivor. I will be stranded on a lifeboat with a tiger. We will come across a strange floating island, which turns out to be populated with carniverous plants, upon which I will elect to set myself and the tiger adrift again. We will eventually bump off the coast of Mexico. From there I will take a bus that looked like it was heading to the States, but instead will head down to Guatemala, where I will spend a few days reminiscing in Antigua.
I will then head down in the back of a pickup truck to Chile, meet up with my grandmother, then head over to Brazil. Eventually I'll get up to Venezuela, where I become an advisor to the Hugo Chavez government for a few years.
I will be forced to flee again when the circus I once travelled with comes to the country and the trapeze artist, intent on vengeance, will threaten my life. I will set off on a yacht, that gets wrecked off the coast of Cuba. From there, I will join Cubans in a raft and get to Miami.
Completely out of my mind.
I was outside sitting on a picnic table that has been let adrift in the muddy mire of the backyard. I had apples drizzled with golden honey that seemed to glow in the sunlight. Clear sky overhead, sun filtering my eyelids. Not very encouraging to me to delve into all the books I have scattered across the table. Not at all.
I'd rather be a child right now- take off my boots and run through the mud. Roll around in it. Then run around campus, barefoot, covered in mud and hollering at the top of my voice. Thats what I want to do.
I am so childish.
I'm so sick of the endless research. Can't seem to concentrate. Instead my head drifts off in that light sunlight... what would I do if I wasn't in school...
Well, I would traipse myself off to Tunisia. And, under cover of learning Arabic and French (which I, of course, would do anyway) I would go to Circus School. I don't know why they have a circus school there, but they do. And I need a career and joining the circus at the moment appeals to me, so why not?
After gaining crazy acrobatic, trapeze, juggling, tight-rope walking, miming, clowning, contortioning skills, along with an amazing command of Arabic and French, I would hit the road. Join a circus or somewhat... I would go to Germany and buy candy. And learn to speak German. Then off to Italy- Venice for Carnivale, Las Fallas in Valencia and la tomotina, just to say that I did.
Lets suffice it to say my circus would hit up all of Europe. We would, of course, go to Istanbul. I would of course, have some sort of romantic drama in this circus of mine, probably with a trapeze artist. This will run sour and I will find myself fleeing from the circus under cover of night. A band of gypsies will take up with me. I will travel with them for a time, go through Turkey, travel down until I get to Southern Lebanon. There I will get caught in the crossfire between Israel and Lebanon. Disguised as a rock, or something else that can roll, preferably of its own accord, I will cross the border into Israel. Once there, I will head to Tel Aviv, where I will search in vain for some drummer I met in a bar in Halifax named Ofer.
After either failing or succeeding in this mission, I will head straight across the rest of the Middle East, disguised as a man, so no one will bother me. Once I have safely reached India I will throw off my disguise and head to Bollywood, where my circus training will serve me well.
Bored of Bollywood, I will head to Bhutan, then go south to Bali. Somewhere along the way, I will learn Indian Dance, become a monk, ride an elephant, and acquire a monkey that will sit on my shoulder and constantly play with my hair (looking for fleas that won't be there, but it'll really just be like I'm always getting a head massage).
From there I will head up, go to Japan and live in a dojo until I become a master at aikido. Working my way down, I'll drop by Australia, say hi to my friend Phillip and then catch a boat to California. The boat will sink, leaving me as the only survivor. I will be stranded on a lifeboat with a tiger. We will come across a strange floating island, which turns out to be populated with carniverous plants, upon which I will elect to set myself and the tiger adrift again. We will eventually bump off the coast of Mexico. From there I will take a bus that looked like it was heading to the States, but instead will head down to Guatemala, where I will spend a few days reminiscing in Antigua.
I will then head down in the back of a pickup truck to Chile, meet up with my grandmother, then head over to Brazil. Eventually I'll get up to Venezuela, where I become an advisor to the Hugo Chavez government for a few years.
I will be forced to flee again when the circus I once travelled with comes to the country and the trapeze artist, intent on vengeance, will threaten my life. I will set off on a yacht, that gets wrecked off the coast of Cuba. From there, I will join Cubans in a raft and get to Miami.
Completely out of my mind.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
Crushed
I've become preoccupied with worrying. All the time. Instead of sitting and enjoying the here and now I am constantly thinking and worrying... about how I can't get ahold of the people subletting from me, about if I'm going to be able to find a subletter for the summer, about where I'm going to be this summer, about my loan going through and actually paying for this summer.
But... I'm finally in a good position. I should be able to relax. I live in a wonderful,crooked house with an orange color scheme on the outside. I really need to take a picture of it- well I'll give a visual.You walk up onto the porch, open a ridiculously heavy wood door, then you have to lean on that while I open the other door,which is always locked. In contrast to the really heavy other door, this one always floats away from me before I can get my key out. Step inside, and you see a little front room with two love seats that no one ever sits in facing each other. The guy who lives on the first floor studies law, and he might be walking back n forth between the kitchen and his room. He usually lets the people in who've forgotten their keys. He's on something he calls the warrior diet. He only eats one meal a day and it consists of about 3 pounds of meat or a million eggs. I don't know how he does it, but it works for him, because he's jacked.
Anyway, go up the stairs. Theres two staircases to the 2nd floor. One is really nice, with a tall window that dusty light pours through. It looks out to the wall of the house next door. Then you have to turn the corner and continue up the narrow servants staircase to the 3rd floor. Theres 3 doors closed- mine is number seven, though you can't see the seven. The doorknob is brass and ovular- I am an attic dweller. My futon bed is pushed next to a window which faces a window to the other house. The ceiling is angled and I have a skylight that looks out onto a chimney and 3 stars. I live next door to two pigeons who are very much in love and have decided to start their family right outside my window. They haven't been discouraged by the strange human who sticks her head out the window and flaps her arms at them- they've just moved their nest down a few feet. I still hear their pigeon love.
I really need to not worry about things so much. Everything will work out. I try to keep reminding myself that I will be fine. I will always be fine, even if, god forbid, I am on the streets. People will always survive. Not that its likely for me to ever be on the streets. I know that I'm welcome in my parents home before it gets to that point. Worrying is so pointless and takes up so much energy. Such a waste.
I really must learn how to turn my head off. Or just focus on the now. FOCUS.
But... I'm finally in a good position. I should be able to relax. I live in a wonderful,crooked house with an orange color scheme on the outside. I really need to take a picture of it- well I'll give a visual.You walk up onto the porch, open a ridiculously heavy wood door, then you have to lean on that while I open the other door,which is always locked. In contrast to the really heavy other door, this one always floats away from me before I can get my key out. Step inside, and you see a little front room with two love seats that no one ever sits in facing each other. The guy who lives on the first floor studies law, and he might be walking back n forth between the kitchen and his room. He usually lets the people in who've forgotten their keys. He's on something he calls the warrior diet. He only eats one meal a day and it consists of about 3 pounds of meat or a million eggs. I don't know how he does it, but it works for him, because he's jacked.
Anyway, go up the stairs. Theres two staircases to the 2nd floor. One is really nice, with a tall window that dusty light pours through. It looks out to the wall of the house next door. Then you have to turn the corner and continue up the narrow servants staircase to the 3rd floor. Theres 3 doors closed- mine is number seven, though you can't see the seven. The doorknob is brass and ovular- I am an attic dweller. My futon bed is pushed next to a window which faces a window to the other house. The ceiling is angled and I have a skylight that looks out onto a chimney and 3 stars. I live next door to two pigeons who are very much in love and have decided to start their family right outside my window. They haven't been discouraged by the strange human who sticks her head out the window and flaps her arms at them- they've just moved their nest down a few feet. I still hear their pigeon love.
I really need to not worry about things so much. Everything will work out. I try to keep reminding myself that I will be fine. I will always be fine, even if, god forbid, I am on the streets. People will always survive. Not that its likely for me to ever be on the streets. I know that I'm welcome in my parents home before it gets to that point. Worrying is so pointless and takes up so much energy. Such a waste.
I really must learn how to turn my head off. Or just focus on the now. FOCUS.
Monday, March 9, 2009
Ponder
Every year it seems I go through this phase where I have a minor freak-out about my life. Well, maybe not so minor, as I'm sure many people can attest to the fact that I mull endlessly over the same subjects, going forward in such away that I arc around, ending back where I started. Just going in circles, repeatedly. And in the end I do nothing, decide nothing, or come to some definitive conclusion that two minutes later will be nullified by a new thought on my part. Sometimes I wonder how my friends put up with these circuitous conversations of mine that usually involve me responding to their suggestions with an "I know" and basically just answering my own questions with more questions.
The problem is, I feel I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing. Probably something akin to what every university student feels, I wonder at what exactly I am studying, why, what I'm going to do with it, and am I likely to actually have a career after this... Right now, I am a declared international development, spanish, and minor in journalism student. But I have a problem with that. First off, I didn't really want to do international development- it's too ideological. I want something concrete, something practical- I dont want to study the theories of development or argue the definition of a developing country. The fact of the matter is, those are just arguments based on every conceivable different perception people could have- and as much as those are interesting, they don't offer any sort of solution to the problems that exist.
So, in short, I found my major to be too fluffy; and dropped the 2nd half of the course.
In the end, I've decided to try and go for Middle Eastern Studies- I love Arabic, and for some oddish reason I am drawn to the history, stories, and culture of the Middle East, North Africa, and further. I suppose that that interest was first sparked when I noticed in Central America the extent of influence the Arabs have over Spanish Culture. Every other girl in Guatemala was being being christened Fatima- a phenomenon in my eyes as that name is that of the Prophet. Not something I'd expected in the middle of Central America, a predominantly Catholic and sex-obssessed part of the world.
I also remember a chocolate shop run by a man named Abderahman, whom everyone called Ishmael since they couldnt pronounce his name. But I loved it, the way the mouth comes together then parts, the toungue touching the roof, flattening, fluttering for the rrr, and the tip carressing the breath of the h in the middle. His accent, the chocolate and the strange fact that Arabs were present in this place that breathed and lived in color and heat etched in me a curiosity for the culture that has driven me to study it today.
It's all well and easy to romantisize about this passion for Arab and Hispanic culture. In order to study the Middle East however, I need to transfer. Easier said than done. I'm currently in limbo for next year as I wait for McGill's rejection or acceptance. I'd apply to U of T, but right now the finances will only allow for applications to one school.
Then comes the bit that has been driving me loony for the past few weeks.
What do I do after? What sort of career am I looking at? Work in the foreign service? For the States? Which, I'm sorry, but after living in Canada for the past few years, doesnt feel all that much like home? Oooorrrr, say I do take up journalism. I hate that sort of writing. Business? Um, no. Not an option. Not even conceivable. Or human rights law- now that sounds cool; but thats the problem. It all SOUNDS good. Getting a masters sounds good. But how much do I actually want to do that. Why do I want to do that.
I've found myself neglecting all those things that I once found important... my writing, my music, my sketches, and reading. My consistent need for physical activity. I cannot concentrate on the work I get from school- there is no passion or drive for it. I get no satisfaction. And I find myself wondering where it all went.
I remember back in the day, back in the day being high school, that brief period where everything I did was infused with this singular purpose. I had a goal, I knew what I wanted and I worked to get there. But I didn't get there, and now I'm not even sure if I would have wanted that or not. When I was interested in something, I researched it and read about it. I was inspired to draw, would spend hours doing that. When I was restless I went out and climbed a tree or could take it out on the playing field. When I was plagued with insomnia I would read or write, filling notebooks, feeling each time like I was expanding, growing to something. Now I just lie there. And I mean that for everything. My mind wanders.
I suppose that brief period of purpose in life coincided with my believing full-heartedly that I would go into the military. Sea Cadets- as though the uniform gave me a purpose. Its difficult now to imagine myself being that way- but I was. And I liked it. As much flak as the military gets, and as much flak as I give it myself, the year or so that I spent going to drills was a time I felt like every part of me was being fullfilled. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, I felt in tune. I'm not sure when that came crashing down- maybe after boot camp, maybe after I started going up in rank and started seeing my personality become different with authority. Maybe it was getting a boyfriend.
I don't remotely want to join the military now.
But I want to know what happened to my self-discipline. What happened to my sense of purpose.
I stop and ask myself what I'm doing, where I'm headed, and I do not know.
I do know that I'm not going to KNOW anytime soon. I do know that I'm probably going to be going to school for a very long time.
Part of me is too impatient. I want to be out now. I want a career where i can see my own handiwork, where I can see what I've done with my hands. I remember how satisfying it was to work in the carpentry shop in Guatemala, to see something come together and take form beneath my hands.
When I'm by the sea I wonder how it could be possible for me to not be doing something that requires me to be there. That passion has always been there.
I'm going to run away to the circus; I need a career.
I discussed taking circus classes with my friend Sean, then dismissed it as folly. His response was one of my favourites. "Embrace your eccentricities Brittany. No one else is going to do it for you. Just do it."
Then I found out about the National Circus School in Montreal where you can earn a bachelor degree in circus studies. I wonder if my parents would support me in that. Don't think I'd get past auditions- this is for agile people who have backgrounds in dance gymnastics, and dont have a bum knee that acts up like an old man's on rainy days. Still I think what if.. What if? I mean, I'm only yound and foolish once- my body in a few years won't be able to even begin this stuff. May as well try when I can.
- I dont think anyone is going to take that one seriously.
The more I think about it, the less certain I am about what route to take. Where to go.
I started seriously thinking about becoming a professor. That would require a masters. I'd need an honours. Ummmmm...... I don't even know what school I'm going to be at, let alone if my grades are good enough- let alone the major I'd be doing, considering I dropped the intro class for mine.
I'd like things to be simple. I'd like to learn a trade and study part time until I actually know what I want to do academically. I want to find my inspiration again.
Its time for some soul-searching and decision-making. I guess what I'm missing is some sort of goal. I need something to work towards... it could be im overwhelmed at all the possibilities. Or frustrated at the lack of resources. I just need to settle on something.
The problem is, I feel I have absolutely no clue what I'm doing. Probably something akin to what every university student feels, I wonder at what exactly I am studying, why, what I'm going to do with it, and am I likely to actually have a career after this... Right now, I am a declared international development, spanish, and minor in journalism student. But I have a problem with that. First off, I didn't really want to do international development- it's too ideological. I want something concrete, something practical- I dont want to study the theories of development or argue the definition of a developing country. The fact of the matter is, those are just arguments based on every conceivable different perception people could have- and as much as those are interesting, they don't offer any sort of solution to the problems that exist.
So, in short, I found my major to be too fluffy; and dropped the 2nd half of the course.
In the end, I've decided to try and go for Middle Eastern Studies- I love Arabic, and for some oddish reason I am drawn to the history, stories, and culture of the Middle East, North Africa, and further. I suppose that that interest was first sparked when I noticed in Central America the extent of influence the Arabs have over Spanish Culture. Every other girl in Guatemala was being being christened Fatima- a phenomenon in my eyes as that name is that of the Prophet. Not something I'd expected in the middle of Central America, a predominantly Catholic and sex-obssessed part of the world.
I also remember a chocolate shop run by a man named Abderahman, whom everyone called Ishmael since they couldnt pronounce his name. But I loved it, the way the mouth comes together then parts, the toungue touching the roof, flattening, fluttering for the rrr, and the tip carressing the breath of the h in the middle. His accent, the chocolate and the strange fact that Arabs were present in this place that breathed and lived in color and heat etched in me a curiosity for the culture that has driven me to study it today.
It's all well and easy to romantisize about this passion for Arab and Hispanic culture. In order to study the Middle East however, I need to transfer. Easier said than done. I'm currently in limbo for next year as I wait for McGill's rejection or acceptance. I'd apply to U of T, but right now the finances will only allow for applications to one school.
Then comes the bit that has been driving me loony for the past few weeks.
What do I do after? What sort of career am I looking at? Work in the foreign service? For the States? Which, I'm sorry, but after living in Canada for the past few years, doesnt feel all that much like home? Oooorrrr, say I do take up journalism. I hate that sort of writing. Business? Um, no. Not an option. Not even conceivable. Or human rights law- now that sounds cool; but thats the problem. It all SOUNDS good. Getting a masters sounds good. But how much do I actually want to do that. Why do I want to do that.
I've found myself neglecting all those things that I once found important... my writing, my music, my sketches, and reading. My consistent need for physical activity. I cannot concentrate on the work I get from school- there is no passion or drive for it. I get no satisfaction. And I find myself wondering where it all went.
I remember back in the day, back in the day being high school, that brief period where everything I did was infused with this singular purpose. I had a goal, I knew what I wanted and I worked to get there. But I didn't get there, and now I'm not even sure if I would have wanted that or not. When I was interested in something, I researched it and read about it. I was inspired to draw, would spend hours doing that. When I was restless I went out and climbed a tree or could take it out on the playing field. When I was plagued with insomnia I would read or write, filling notebooks, feeling each time like I was expanding, growing to something. Now I just lie there. And I mean that for everything. My mind wanders.
I suppose that brief period of purpose in life coincided with my believing full-heartedly that I would go into the military. Sea Cadets- as though the uniform gave me a purpose. Its difficult now to imagine myself being that way- but I was. And I liked it. As much flak as the military gets, and as much flak as I give it myself, the year or so that I spent going to drills was a time I felt like every part of me was being fullfilled. Physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually, I felt in tune. I'm not sure when that came crashing down- maybe after boot camp, maybe after I started going up in rank and started seeing my personality become different with authority. Maybe it was getting a boyfriend.
I don't remotely want to join the military now.
But I want to know what happened to my self-discipline. What happened to my sense of purpose.
I stop and ask myself what I'm doing, where I'm headed, and I do not know.
I do know that I'm not going to KNOW anytime soon. I do know that I'm probably going to be going to school for a very long time.
Part of me is too impatient. I want to be out now. I want a career where i can see my own handiwork, where I can see what I've done with my hands. I remember how satisfying it was to work in the carpentry shop in Guatemala, to see something come together and take form beneath my hands.
When I'm by the sea I wonder how it could be possible for me to not be doing something that requires me to be there. That passion has always been there.
I'm going to run away to the circus; I need a career.
I discussed taking circus classes with my friend Sean, then dismissed it as folly. His response was one of my favourites. "Embrace your eccentricities Brittany. No one else is going to do it for you. Just do it."
Then I found out about the National Circus School in Montreal where you can earn a bachelor degree in circus studies. I wonder if my parents would support me in that. Don't think I'd get past auditions- this is for agile people who have backgrounds in dance gymnastics, and dont have a bum knee that acts up like an old man's on rainy days. Still I think what if.. What if? I mean, I'm only yound and foolish once- my body in a few years won't be able to even begin this stuff. May as well try when I can.
- I dont think anyone is going to take that one seriously.
The more I think about it, the less certain I am about what route to take. Where to go.
I started seriously thinking about becoming a professor. That would require a masters. I'd need an honours. Ummmmm...... I don't even know what school I'm going to be at, let alone if my grades are good enough- let alone the major I'd be doing, considering I dropped the intro class for mine.
I'd like things to be simple. I'd like to learn a trade and study part time until I actually know what I want to do academically. I want to find my inspiration again.
Its time for some soul-searching and decision-making. I guess what I'm missing is some sort of goal. I need something to work towards... it could be im overwhelmed at all the possibilities. Or frustrated at the lack of resources. I just need to settle on something.
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