The Ostrich Underground

Fasting will change you

2011-08-02T23:28:00.000-04:00

There's no knowing what goes on in other hearts.
And no telling what goes on in mine.
The tired patience that creeps up under the ribs,
The mellow that cools the burn of anger in the mind,
The faith that eases tension from the neck, the shoulders.
There's no telling what happens in the heart.

Down to the last bite

2011-08-01T16:54:00.000-04:00

It's 3:47 am.
On the plate in front of me: a piece of vegan polish sausage, about a cubic inch; five chic peas, with the skin of one additional chic pea, and about a quarter teaspoon of watery chic pea sludge that tastes of garlic and salt; the last two centimetres squared, or so, of a piece of buttered whole wheat toast.

This is a significant improvement from yesterday's suhoor.

I'm anxious about the time, as Fajr draws near.
Fighting against myself and my painfully slow eating.
Fighting against the thought that maybe I don't need these last bites to make it through the day.
Fighting against the anxiety of needing to hydrate and stave off heat.

Later in the day I will fight myself again.
I am almost always fighting something these days.
Almost always angry.

Other times I will find respite.
The familiar discipline,
the restraint against impulse,
it will quiet me.

I will grow gardens of patience.
Vines will climb up my anger.
New growth will push out of my soul.
Nerves full of anger will set loose singing blades of grass.

I wrap the last bite of sausage, with three fingers, with toast.
I scoop the chic peas up with a fork, poking the sludge onto my fork with a cautious finger.
I will take bites out of my anger, one at a time, every day, for a month,
until there's nothing left to eat.

Things someone really ought to tell you about Ramadan (Part 1)

2011-08-01T04:19:00.000-04:00

Pretty much everyone who knows me beyond a casual hello knows that I'm muslim, and that I fast during Ramadan. Those who know me a bit more intimately know that Ramadan is a big deal to me this year.

For reasons of health and spirituality, there was a time when I was a teenager when I was the only person in my household who was able to fast during Ramadan. My dad would sometimes get up to keep me company during sehri, and we often had family iftar time, but it was mostly a solitary game. I felt a deep sense of responsibility, fasting in hopes that my actions would turn out some benefits for my parents health, my brother's well-being. The last time that this was the case, the last Ramadan I spent at home, was in 2001, not long after 9/11.

After I left home, Ramadan became increasingly a challenge in my life. Removed from the everyday of my family's life, I had to find new motivation. It's not as though I loved or cared for my family any less. Being alone, or rather a lone muslim, and not having people around who recognize what you're doing, means you have to be much more committed. Suddenly I found that if I was going to live up to the many observances of Ramadan, I would have to do it for myself. This is a hard thing to do when you're 17 and you don't love yourself.

Ramadans 2002-2006, the Ottawa years, were awkward, and sometimes bleak. There are some amusing anecdotes (creative methods of trying to get up for sehri and fajr without disturbing the roommate I shared one tiny room with in my first year of undergrad) and some sad (fasting fewer and fewer days because of isolation, depression, and health problems). These years were peppered with a few bright spots, when I would have iftar at the home of old family friends, or manage to make the 10 hour trip home to spend Eid with my family.

I should note that my isolation in these years was both imposed and self-afflicted. There was no real community of muslims in my residence in first year. I tried to pretend I was brave, and went to a few MSA events, but mostly found myself alienated by what felt like hyper-virtuous, normalizing, mainstream muslims at the time. It was too much a reminder of the uncomfortable years of islamic sunday school, where I felt preached at by an imam whose social views and relationship to allah did not reflect my own, and where pre-teen peer pressure was more morally influential than the teachings of the qur'an. I chose to stay away from other muslims because I didn't trust them. I didn't trust the awe and surprise of people learning for the first time that I, a girl, was studying and living away from home, and amongst non-muslims. I didn't trust the pressure to change the way I related to allah and islam. I'm not proud of it, and I still grapple with these issues now. As a young adult, I let these things drive me away from the ummah.

The men in my life have made me wish I didn't have a body

2011-06-18T17:39:00.000-04:00

The men in my life have made me wish I didn't have a body.

The partner who took the bags of groceries out of my hands, because he was the man, despite my telling him I could carry them myself, so that my muscles shrank and my strength decayed.

The brother who would think it was okay for any man to stare at a woman's body if it were the type he thought a woman should be confident about, because he likes to stare at women's bodies too, and can't fault others for doing what he does, even if they are doing it to his sister, who doesn't want them to.

The friend who would fetishize my breasts, but who would not hold my body.

The father who treats his wife and sister with derision for the weight they have gained over the years, and asks me why I have gained a few inches, but doesn't think that this will make me feel worthless.

The partner who would use my body in ways I asked him not to, but would not help me through great physical pain when I begged him to.

The brother and cousin who tell me that if I were to keep my eyes lowered as a bride - a common custom that is supposed to convey modesty, but is also problematically gendered and normative - they would be be ashamed of me.

The friend who cherishes the way I make him laugh, the thoughts and understandings we can share, but who would never let me rest my head against his chest, or my hand over his heart.

The partner who would expect affection when it suited him, but who would not touch me when it didn't.

The colleague who would kiss me for helping him meet his idol, but not for being mine.

The uncle who would make sexual jokes that depict women as being valuable only for their sexual capacity, in the company of the family, and would not stop when we would tell him it wasn't funny.

The men in my life, they do not love me in a way that is kind to my body. They may love the person they think I am. They may love the wit and intelligence, the strength and the humour they see in me, but they do not love my flesh. The men in my life ignore the nerves and emotions tangled up in my body. I wish I didn't have one.

These are my minutes

2009-03-25T18:56:00.003-04:00

In the course of 15 minutes, you'd like to tell the world your story.

There's nothing arbitrary about these 15 minutes. They're all you have until you have to move on to a new life. Like the 15 minutes in a cab on the way to your lawyer's office, where you will sign the divorce papers your wife wants you to sign three months after confessing to you the affair she's carried on with a college TA, met long before your courtship began.

It's a pity, though, that these are the only 15 minutes you have, because these are my 15 minutes, not yours. In fact, those 3 minutes that just passed? They were my minutes. As well as the one I just spent in silence. In the remaining 11 minutes I will give the world a piece of myself. You sit here and languish.

I have memories that are disembodied. Lives lived long, long ago. The feeling of calves pulling tendons pulling ankles lifting soles from foam. Foam lifting from cement. Ribs and arms encased in thin layers of cotton, too cool for the early spring weather, eyes tilted up, neck craning. It's a memory I relive too often. A memory that reminds me of distance.

7 minutes. A confession: 7 and 5 is my favourite combination of numbers. 5, a precious increment, a tenuous age, an incising number of letters. Enough to encase a life, to convey a lifetime's sentiment. An infinite sort of number. And 7, of little consequence. But intriguing for its oddity, for its excessiveness. And together, so worthless. Such a trope. So overdone. A number I've little taste for.

I've got less and less time on my side, but still an ample supply. The trouble with time is that you may never know it's there, that there are vast seas of it ahead of you, and yet you will waste it like copper or water, left running, tossed carelessly into a city bin at the corner on your way to school. 2 minutes left.

This is not what I had intended it to be, but perhaps it will be, one day. In any case, the stakes are being set. A toe-dragged line in the gravel. A juice box and a cap in the grass. This is where I will make fortunes out of nothing. This is where I will begin again my life.

Today Is not a Day Worth Comemmorating

2009-02-15T22:57:00.002-05:00

Today is February 15th, and that is how I'll always remember it. A day after February 14th, a day before the 16th. Nothing in between.

There are many things I could say. Many things I could share. But I would tell them to the wind, and the wind would carry them away. There is nothing to stop the ebb of me on a day such as today. Nothing happens on this day.

There is a puddle of me spilling over itself on the floor. I'm a melting, lapping mess. I'm a pile of death and dust. Once this all was life.

I'll never forget what I held. I'll never forget the smell, the feeling, the colour. I'll never forget unfurling it, open, and letting the water carry it away. But that did not happen today. That was another day. And today, I have nothing to remember.

And Now, It's Tuesday

2009-01-13T12:31:00.002-05:00

You left me on a Sunday night. A week and two days later, I realized that for the first time in over two years, I broke a Sunday ritual of loneliness.

Every Sunday morning, for longer than I can remember, I have navigated my way over to PostSecret to share in the sadness and happiness of others. This morning, frightened by a fleeting moment of isolation, I made my way back there.

As I made the brief journey, I realized that never, in the past week or so, had it occurred to me to seek this desperate moment of human connection. The weekly ritual I've relied on to make it through so many weeks past is gone. Somehow, with you, I'd always felt just as alone as I didn't think I was. Now that you're gone, I'm free.

Now that you're gone, I know I'll never have to settle for being alone.

We Two

2009-01-10T22:49:00.002-05:00

We two,
We run at different speeds.

We thought
We were not alone.

We two,
We were never there.

You were always here,
And I...

We two,
We never found that place.

We never were so bright,
We never were so golden.

We two.

I was.

You weren't.

The Sarah Malik Revival

2009-01-09T00:02:00.003-05:00

Note: Just a little something I'm working on, in honour of being newly unburdened.

I'm back, bitches. I know you missed me.

The world has lifted its grey gauze from my eyes. Colours are brighter, they move, they have life. Lines and water move through my mind. Images like images, shot on a film reel. The feeling, the passion, my fingers, they wander.

The world has me shaken, it's loosened, it's cotton, and now I am filled with the sound. The music, it fills me. It comes up to my brain, it crests at my crown. It comes down through my throat and into my heart. It makes my eyes swell, so they live, so they cry.

I can breathe. I remember. I smell the sweet air. I taste the sweet salt and I breathe til I'm bare.

I am released. Thank God, I am relieved. I was in prison. I was imprisoned, and I had commit no crime.

I have freedom. I have love, and am free.

Understimulate Me.

2008-07-22T21:25:00.003-04:00

I've got the urge. That restless-fingered, half-lidded, soft and heavy kind of urge. I want to create something.

I've been itching here. Building up ideas. Building up desires. Biding my time.

It's now or never, world. Use me up, please. Take what I've got to give you. Once this is gone, there will be nothing left for a long time.

I'm hindered. I feel your bindings, they hold me back. I'd like to see you on the move. I'd like to see you put me in a cage, set me loose. Give me gold and diamonds, show me your poverty.

Mostly I want a wide open space. Somewhere I can spread my arms out wide. Something I can get up close too. Somewhere I can feel my wrists work. Somewhere my body will be free.

I want the colours. The red of a light. The ocher of a night sky. Green tar sands and the smooth, sapphire curves of your skin.

What are you doing, leaving me alone? I'm wasting away, and you're just letting me go.

Here I Stand (Shot 1)

2008-07-03T21:01:00.004-04:00

I walk this beat everyday. I keep my eyes on the horizon and my chin cocked low. As my soles hit the pavement I feel the shock of my shoulders fighting back against the momentum of being free.
They keep me grounded, my head, my neck, my shoulders, my eyes. I keep it going, keep the thoughts moving. I think because it keeps me alive. But I swear, I think these thoughts are killing me.
There's only so much a body can take, I think. THe smoke and the smog, eventually it will fill your lungs and nostrils 'til you're breathing grey dust. That sun will bake the youth right out of you and the carcinogens right into you. Your eyes are stained with cataracts of too much pain, too much grey, dead concrete. But for now, you're coming back. You're always coming back for more.
The way the rain flows these days, you wouldn't think she's got anything to worry about. She's all angles and strides, lean and slope. But she keeps going to keep the world from catching up with her.

Things that are Real

2008-05-16T15:57:00.002-04:00

The noises Sean makes when he snores
The curls of Sean's hair that I find when he's not here
Butter
The vibrance of wet red paint
The sweetness of Rooh Afza
Dark chocolate
Soap bubbles
The ten letters of my name
Blood
The scent of magnolias and cherry blossoms
Sand

Lines

2008-03-15T15:51:00.003-04:00

Sometimes you look for signs. For an indication. Other times you just know. There's no denying it. And at other times still, at other times you don't know what you don't know.

This is not one of those times. You asked if she was okay and see said yes. She didn't mean no, but she also wasn't okay. You wanted to help, but you didn't want to pry.

She's a hard kind of person to get a hold of. Most people don't know half of a story like hers. Most people wouldn't know where to start or where to end. But you know better. You know that a story like hers has no beginning and no end.

When you take her to bed and undress her, you don't see any scars. Her body is pristine. Soft and white, her cool skin blazes against her long black hair. You see past all this, and she doesn't know that you know. You can see it in the way she clings to you. You're always surprised at the strength she hides in those thin arms. The way she flexes them, squeezing tight around you, holding on to resist the urge for flight. She never clutches, she wouldn't, but you know from the way she holds you, she's afraid of being torn away.

Over all these years, she's never been as happy as you want her to be, but you've learned to accept it. You've given up trying to learn all the things you'll never know. It's enough, now, to know the scars are there. She'll tell you what she can, show you the things she can make you understand, but there are hidden parts, scar tissue that will always remain.

When she smiles you see those faint hints of sadness, etched by time into the contours of her skin, the colours of her eyes. It's part of her architecture. She's happy, though, and she knows you know it. For all your wishes that she could let the old pain go, she tells you, it's just something she can't let go. It's there, it's a part of her, and she's happy enough, she says. She's happy enough that she doesn't need to let it go.

Draw Lines, Write Days, Count Fish

2008-02-29T14:12:00.003-05:00

If you were to throw a dart at a map, there is probably some telling where you'd end up. Depends on the map, depends on where you aim, depends on how far left or right you're standing. A lot less is left to chance than you might think.

Take a good physicist, your high school math teacher, and, say, a travel agent, and I doubt it would take them more then a few hours to piece together the likelihood that you'd find yourself in Kuala Lumpur.

But then, maybe you're already in Kuala Lumpur. It wouldn't surprise me. I'm sure they have a few good physicists there.

More importantly, you left your map on the wall in your travel agent's office. With a dart in it. This isn't the worst thing you could do, because it's not too hard to find maps...around. But your travel agent is a bit miffed because she shares her office with the office of the motel her parents run and the dart is starting to spook everyone's customers.

None of this really matters, though, because you've found your way to a nice little complex geared towards foreign travelers and the plaster walls inside your little straw bungalow are painted your favourite shade of aquamarine. Plus, there's some rustling outside, which you know is your girlfriend shaking the city's sand and dirt out of the sarong she was wearing earlier. She's not the love of your life, but she's a good sport and she'll let you nestle up to her, even in this sweltering heat.

By the way, the math teacher died of lung cancer with two devoted sons by his side, and the physicist you left behind in Kuala Lumpur when you decided to go to Thailand has started wondering, three years later, if you're ever going to send him that augury kit you said you would get him. Your math teacher was still a little pissed you never called to cancel before leaving for Kuala Lumpur, when he died.

But the sun is pretty hot, and you're on your sixth Singapori beer of the afternoon. Your girlfriend left you years ago when she realized you really would have let that scorpion have her if it meant saving your own ass, and you still keep that sarong she liked to wear in case she ever comes back.

You're lousy. You haven't shaved for days and your t-shirts are all yellowed and grayed from years of exposure to the sun, the dirt, and the sweat. The woman next to you on the plane keeps going on about how going to the Philippines had been a dream of hers ever since she was eleven and that foreign exchange student she used to call Timmy gave her a paper rose. She's obese, and sun burnt, and has awful curly blonde hair that reminds you of the lunch lady at your elementary school. You wish she would shut up, but when she giggles she kind of reminds you of your mom, who is going to be pissed when you show up on her doorstep after all these years abroad.

False Idol

2008-02-18T17:00:00.001-05:00

I've got a face full of doubt. I've got question marks where my eyes should be. I keep my eyes on the pavement, my head ducked down. I make myself invisible. This is not the man I meant to be.

I am a woman. I can't be defined on my own terms. Even to be more than just a girl, to be anything, I've got to find my masculinity.

I reside in an inner tension. I won't be resolved until I grow up. Become a man. I'm uncomfortable with my masculinity.

I'm ungendered. It falls away. I have no strength, no quality, I am nothing but enduring flesh. A weak sense of self will not do for me. I'm profound. I'm a picture of utility. I am rigour and insolvency.

A Song in Flight

2008-02-02T01:03:00.000-05:00

I was here, and when I wasn't they told me you had gone. You're beautiful to me. I turn my hand, I see a memory. A strand of hair and the light on your cheek. I'm alive, everyday, and you're a beautiful memory. So distant, so far. But the sights and the sound, the air and the feeling, it all stays with me.

I'm amazed, how beautiful you've become. How life continues. How there's so much I don't know about you. So much I haven't shared in. I'll always have those memories, green, golden, white. I'll always see your face, and know that you are happy. If there's anything left I can give, that's all that I would wish for you.

Go on, go happily. Live your life, and let it be as far away from mine as the rivers and roads should take it. Find joy, find love, and tell me nothing of this. I cherish a simple hope that wherever you go, you will go with joy.

Borderlands

2008-01-31T16:20:00.000-05:00

My life is a bit of a broken record. A crappy love song. The highs are high and the lows, so low.

I wish I had a crank. Drive it into the ribs and vertebrae at the base of my neck and wind it 'til all the vast expanse of feeling was bound up into one.

I want to make a coagulate mass of the sea that engulfs me. I want to feel regular. Normal. Stable.

I want to purge the haunting of pain from my heart, my wrists, my eyes. I want to tear away the long, thing, exacting fingers that clutch at my neck, my throat, at muscle and sinew, choking me, keeping me from breathing.

I want to win a losing fight. I want out into another life. I want to dive out of myself and into the deep, the dark clotted mire. I want to lay back into rivers of peace, soft, like waters, inching up along my cheeks and mouth. I want to be saturated.

I want a guide. I want to feel every measure of strength ebb from my body. I want rest. I want sleep.

I want it out, so far out. I want to push it out. I want it expelled. I want it out.

Machiavelli... Crazy Person?

2008-01-17T18:59:00.000-05:00

Premise 1: Knowing what a given thing is like does not liken one to the given thing.
Premise 2: Possessing certain traits does not mean that the external world or its constituent parts possess said traits.
Premise 3: A knowledge of how things have been in the past is of little consequence when imagining how things will be in the future.

You know how sometimes you stack several objects somewhat precariously, or try to lean a broom against a wall, and after letting go sort of hold your hands a few inches away, half worried the whole thing will tip, half trying to keep everything in place through the sheer force of the will power emanating from your splayed fingers?

It's hit and miss in physics. Your odds are even worse with people.

I think this is what I spend most of my time trying to do. Keeping it together. It would make much more sense to just try to stack myself neatly, with care, but the thing is, it's a shit metaphor. I'm not a pile of stuff.

It takes a lot longer to reorder your soul than it does to rearrange your closet.

This thing is going to take some time. I have to remember that. Probably a long time, with a lot of bad days, but not forever. Probably not a lifetime.

If there's one goal I can get behind, I think maybe it's dying happy. Which, of course, would mean not dying early. Which is maybe a sub-goal? Whatever it is, I can probably get behind it, too. Thus, my primary motivation in not killing myself is that it would directly impede dying happy. Way to go... rational choice!

Well, I can't damn well get it out of my system if I keep trying to hide it so other people won't worry about it, now can I?

Recycling

2008-01-15T18:52:00.000-05:00

You take the old, you make it new.

In conflict, this is a bad thing. Relatively, even worse.

Try expressing something original. It would be the first time you said it, no? Enough with Freud, and put away the ballistic jelly. It's time for words.

I lost my voice. Who lost whose voice? I lost your voice. Try something original.

Try saying something new.

My head is full of other people's ideas. My lungs are filled with artificial air. I'm living on borrowed being. Try saying something new.

I don't want to keep going over the same thing. Ooover and oooVer, and ooovEr again. But how do you start fresh without throwing everything out? If I rebuild, I keep the bricks, or the mortar, or the plans, or something else. What if none of it's very good?

I want to say something new. So do it. So go.

So one, two... three, and go.

GO!

1 lb.

2008-01-07T17:35:00.000-05:00

"But why are you sad? I mean, you seem sad, and you weren't so before."

Hallie thinks I am sad. Hallie is correct.

Hallie kind of reminds me of a garden gnome. She's little, and her face is sort of squishy looking because of her deep crease-y wrinkles. She also wears delightful skirts.

And she thinks I'm sad.

I am. I am sad. And I'm tired. Most of the time, most minutes of the day, I'd rather give up.

I'm faltering. I really don't believe I'm going to make it all the way. It would be nice if someone believed me. Who says it's all going to be alright?

Hallie also has a lisp, and not the greatest manners.

Life is Hard Sometimes

2007-09-24T00:11:00.000-04:00

It's a true story. I'm starting to learn things I didn't know before. I'm starting to learn how to live. It's a difficult process.

I feel as though I was just born, naked and shivering, into adulthood. The world can be frightening and painful. Stark and unwelcoming. I drag myself across the pavement, reaching out desperately for something to hold on to.

I know nothing, I see everything, I am learning how to live. This thing, it's opened up terrible and wonderful things in me.

List Items, Tagless

2007-08-22T19:27:00.000-04:00

A project:

No.

I can't do it.
I don't want to.
I want all my secrets back.
I want to confess all over again.

It's not cathartic.
It makes you weak.
It all comes back again.

This is not what I am writing.
I am not writing this.
Someone else is writing this.

I am disembodied.
I can shake this body.
I am talking nonsense.

Again.

This is healthy.
This is unhealthy.
This is healthy.
This is unhealthy.

Again.

Little

2007-08-07T21:00:00.000-04:00

I'm not as smart as I've been led to believe. I tend to forget this. Yes, it's true, I am quite intelligent. But there's a little circle here and a GIANT circle there, and only one of them is me.

I like being the little circle. I like being aware of being the little circle. It's important that I find things in the world, people, exceptionally, to remind myself that I am the little circle.

I don't think there's anything worse for me than being told that I am smart, or well put together. It deadens me. I live for learning. I live to grow. I live to see new things, to breathe new air, to walk barefoot on new lands, to drink in all the things I never knew I never knew. Tell me I'm smart, tell me I'm a found person, it's like putting a stopper in a bottle, like clipping a vine, like caging an animal.

I like being the little circle. I like knowing that a projection of me would only make the big cicle bigger. I like thinking that my brain is blossoming. A flower in bloom. I'm far from done. My brain is a geranium and my soul is it's stem and the sun and the sky and the rain will nourish them while my feet travel this earth picking up roots along their way.

Amen.

My Girl is an Icon

2007-07-09T22:25:00.000-04:00

My girl is an icon.
My girl is fast and red.
In her halcyon days,
My girl, she flew.

My girl is an icon.
She's fire engine red.
My girl can burn.
My girl can put out fires.

My girl's got big black eyes.
My girl's got hair.
My girl could take you some,
And she wouldn't aplogize for nothin'.

My girl's like clockwork.
My girl's a swiss watch.
My girl could drop you.
It's in those eyes, my girl.

My girl is rough and tumble,
She won't hold back.
My girl's like charcoal.
My girl's a brick wall.

That's what I said.

Do You Dare Me?

2007-05-22T09:26:00.000-04:00

I'm accustomed to learning things the hard way, and to not being happy. Generally, I reside at some traveling point along the axes of loneliness and panic.

Changes are afoot.

Life is moving forward, dear reader. Decisions being made, chapters being opened, breaks being taken. Choosing happiness is not an easy thing, I think. Not when life has conditioned you against it, at least. I've never been one to do things the easy way, never been much good at accepting help or seeking comfort. I also have a penchant for learning things the hard way, which makes the rapid-fire change-athlon risky business

Old Man Taylor, You're Not So Old.

2007-03-04T16:33:00.000-05:00

"You know the feeling you get when you fix your eyes on one point on the side of the road as you're driving by really fast? Sometimes I think that's life, all of it, just like that. Things stretch out in front of us, stretch out behind us, but the right now, it just goes by so fast. Too fast to really catch."

The above comes from a conversation I had earlier today with my good friend Graeme. The feeling I refer to is one I first became conscience of when working on... uh... the Thames River Project (?) with six other artists from my high school, some of whom were extremely dear friends.

The sentiment refers to the odd position in which many of us find ourselves at the moment. That terrifying, awe inspiring feeling when you're on the precipice of a whole new life, peering back at all the things you've come to know and love, trying to crystallize all the perfect parts so you can take them with you where ever you go. Graduation? Something like that. I'm waxing far too poetic. Ah, well. You love me, whatever.

Go see the painting. It's hanging in the guidance office at my high school. See if you can find our names, carved into the frame. And say hello to the Atrium, while you're there.

Roundup!

2007-02-24T13:13:00.000-05:00

Some days, I feel like the luckiest person in the world. Like, in a past life, I must have donated all of my organs for transplant after suffering fatal injuries while saving a busload of children from near death, my karma is so good. Ha. Tempting the fates, I can see.

I am lucky. Obscenely so. I have happiness, lots of it, and health, and, most importantly, love. So. Much. Love. I love more people than I can count on one hand, and I think that is remarkable. I have a life replete with love. Wow. Who can say that?! Who gets to live this life, to be this happy, to see and do these things? Who gets to be this person?! I do. It's a bloody gift.

it's weird though... i was thinking about all the stff that's going on in the next several weeks

it's kind of like going out with a bang... and now i am starting to get the oh-no-it's-almost-over feeling

what's almost over?

ottawa!

for me i mean

i will be leaving soon, and it's starting to get a bit.. nostalgic?

i here that

i mean, it's not like i'll be far, and i don't think it'll be hard for me to keep in touch with most, but still, i will miss hanging out in the market, and on elgin, and bytowne nights, and the diner, and zack's

and so many, many things

wow

i have really had a great life here

but for me, and this is what i'm posting about on my blog right now actually, home is really about the people

i definitely started to see how true this was of me when i went to hamilton... i've never been there before, but going to visit ciara, it definitely felt like coming home

that's why it feels like home. all of my friends are there. even though my family isn't (which in the past has made it feel like anything but home)... a lot of the people that I care about live in ottawa

but five years later, all the important people are still in my life, so i feel confident that the people i've grown to love in ottawa will stay with me too

they will be in your life, yes.

yup... that's the thing about friendship, it's sort of a lifelong quest... some people stay with you for the long haul, some come and go, but in the end, it's all about the sum of the love you've had

I have comfort, and passion, and desire and contentment. I have all these things, and more. Life is good. Life is brilliant. All I can see is blue sky.

What can I say?

2007-02-18T14:27:00.000-05:00

It's not that I'm in love with a man. I'm in love with a feeling. The feeling, however, is associated with a man. The trouble is that I can't dissociate the man and the feeling. Also, I can't get past the feeling. Clearly, I need to stop chasing the dragon.

Someone once asked me how I do it. How I survive without many of the crutches that students and humans rely on. Okay, he was actually just asking how I pull off all-nighters without cigarettes or coffee. I'm editorialising. For self-inquiry's sake. Shut up.

I live my life according to an ethos. Do not hurt. Yes, sometimes I hurt, but only to mitigate, an exercise in disaster aversion, the prevention of bigger hurts. My life is all about the economics of pain.

Levitas: light in weight; levity or lightness.
Gravitas: substance, weightiness; a serious or dignified demeanour.
Veritas: the Truth; truth, verity; objective verity; the actual state or nature of things; reality.

I have to. It's an addiction of it's own. I have my weaknesses, indulgences, yes. Regular type, like a penchant for sugar. Discipline, self-denial, spartanism. These are my quorum. Made ascetic by life, by myself, by so many before, and then nineteen, and so many after.

Nineteen. They burn.

I deny myself.

I deny myself indulgence in a great many things. Not because of a hallowed belief in discipline. Not because of a distaste for luxury. Because of the picture in my head. A girl, long, dark hair, half-lidded eyes, short black dress exposing thin, pale thighs. Falling. Against a brick wall, against crumbling asphalt in a dirty alley, dark and wet. Intoxicated, awash in sorrow, alone, scraped, empty.

It would be me. It is. So many girls. Lost little girls. I don't know how to find them. I left them behind. Tried to leave them behind. They came. They went. I can't find them. Leave them alone and they'll come home, dragging their tails behind them.

Save them. Count them. Collect them. Like hockey cards. Who are you now, who have you been, where has your soul come to rest?

It's an aggregate. Life, too. It's an aggregate.

So the answer, then,

There is no answer, my friend-not-friend. It's the wrong question, you see. I don't have a secret to surviving without consuming these things, without self-indulgence. I survive because I avoid the things that would consume me. Or because I refuse to feed that one all-consuming pain. It eats away, certainly, fangs trained deep, tongue leeching the life out of my heart, but I will not let it grow stronger. It will not defeat me.

My secret for all-nighters: gorp.

Gorp: a mixture of high-energy food, such as nuts and dried fruit, eaten as a snack.

Gorp, Sarah style:

2 cups Quaker Natural Granola, Oats, Honey, and Raisins

1 package Reese's Pieces or Peanut Butter M&Ms

1 handful All-Bran Buds

1/2 handful Almonds

1. Take bowl out of cupboard.
2. Take stuff out of cupboard.
3. Pour granola into bowl.
4. Swear a lot and get really angry during epic battle with candy packaging.
5. Get down on hands and knees to pick candy up off the floor.
6. Pour other stuff into bowl.
7. Mix contents of bowl.
8. Pull all-nighter.

Note: measurements are for the weak. I just pour shit in a bowl. No exact science bullshit.

That, plus I drink a lot of water, to the point that I have to pee at least once an hour. This does wonders for keeping the system alert.

Warm and Sunny Days, She is Leaving

2007-02-10T15:53:00.000-05:00

(The Dears and The Beatles)

I (heart) influences in art. They're like flavours. Hints. Things we don't know we've dreamt about. Little mysteries that will never be solved because we don't know they're there.

Or else they're just right there. For the taking, for the seeing.

It's intermediality.

Blessed postmodernity.

The Small

2007-02-10T15:46:00.000-05:00

Thing: The Ostrich Underground.

Thing: Thinking.

Thing: New series, new inspirations, and new outlooks.

Thing: Research vs. Life Experience.

Thing: Being dissappointed (in people).

Thing: Massages, and why they might just save my life.

You can't understand a thing until you stop trying to interpret it.

2007-02-10T15:08:00.000-05:00

My name is not Sarah, it is Sarah. Sarah. Seen-alif-ra'-hé. Sarah. It's a beautiful name, and it's all you need to know to understand me. It's a deep sounding name. Comes from the gut, the abdomen, and the deepest part of the respiratory system, right down at the bottom of the lungs. It's a deep sounding name, and it takes strength and some skill to say it. Also, determination. Ask me one day. Maybe I will sound it out for you. Sarah.

You can't understand a thing until you stop trying to interpret it. Interpretation entails assigning meaning. Making something - an idea, an occurrence, an object, or an emotion - digestible. Interpretation is an exercise in relating something to yourself. To your life, your experience, your universe. This will not help you understand things. To start understanding the world, you have to come to terms with the fact that you are not the world, and the world is not yours.

I live in the space between. In the grey zones. On the Fault Lines.

I find my hair lovely for two reasons: first, for being so black that it absorbs sunlight and gives me a feeling of permanence in life and possibilities of things being O.K.; second, for being thick, almost wiry. I like that my hair is tangible.

You can't expect to find the meaning in everything. You can't expect that you will understand everything, either. I do not understand measures of electricity. Amps, volts, hertz, they mean nothing to me. I don't know what they represent, either. Something about Coke bottles, and lemon meringue. Thanks for trying, Mr. Trudeau, thanks for trying, Karen.

My name is Sarah. You will never know me, because you do not understand that.

I forget, sometimes, most times, that we are not the same person. Or maybe I forget only on the odd occasion that we are. Either way, there are moments when we are not one hundred cents together, and those are the moments right before I realize how much you love me, and then I am dollars again.

There's a stranger in those photographs. I don't know who those women are.

Please don't compare her to me. Or her. We are very little alike. Or her, for that matter. There is very little that makes us similar, and yes, this is all about individualism, as that is what I am, in this context. An individual. You cannot divide me up into four women, expecting us to all be the same. We are not. We are different. I am different. I am not her. I am not the same. Can't you understand? Of course not. You don't even know my name.

Saturday Affirmation: I am not a GPA. I am not an ethnicity. I am not a last name or a religion. I am none of these things. I am Sarah. Say it.

Letters to Baby Sarah: Safe!

2007-01-28T19:07:00.000-05:00

Hey Kiddo,

I keep walking around distracted-like, back and forth pretty quickly across the apartment, mostly because I don't know what to have for dinner, which is a crock, because I really just keep forgetting that I'm having spaghetti. Ha, pssghetti. Hey, kiddo. And also because my head is full of thoughts. And do you remember the time that you and Dad and Asim were playing marbles in the living room and Dad broke Mum's vase with an over enthused chip of Asim's big green glass crock that reminds me still of old seven-up bottles from back in the times of seven-up being your absolute fave?

Everything was OK though. You're out! You're safe! You're out! You're safe! You're Safe! SAFE! Dad knew one hundred cents how to fix it and you were dollars, all three of you, and Asim felt bad so he told Mum, and she didn't even scream or get mad or mind even a little. Only pretend-like, tease-y with Dad, which made it even more fun.

So there you go, kid. One really truly happy memory, from me to you. Hallelujah!

But the point of the letter, little one, was not to tell that story. That's a bonus. Super-boni! Gratuit! No, the point is to ask you a question.

Do you remember the day you knew you would one day die? I remember lots of little thoughts you had, but I don't remember when you figured out life's big secret. I remember that you were a little bit afraid of sleep, because you figured out that sleep was just about the same as death, minus the wake-up-figure-out-set-yourself-straight part every morning. But that was not so bad, you thought, because you were okay with sleep being a little scary and death being not so scary. You figured there were worse things than death. Like stewing beef. And horror.

I remember you asking Mum when she would die. She took it as kind of funny, but also a great affront. You didn't think it was so bad, on account of death being a part of everything, and really the only given in life. Also, a big part of the question was trying to get at the heart of whether or not you would definitely definitely die, and, if so, when, or could Mum maybe ask God how?

We were standing at the kitchen sink! You learned a lot at the kitchen sink. Like your brother is your best friend. Like burning things with god in them. Like not asking questions of people who are afraid of the answers and maybe a little afraid that you know more than them. And not to ever ever swear.

Ha. I swear like a sailor.

Don't take oaths, and never say never, little kiddo.

Tahir Mamu and Amirah Baji weren't that important, in the long run, in teaching you about death. It taught you lots of other things, but you already knew the facts of death. It taught you about taking things in stages. And about separation, and separation anxiety. And grieving. And that grown-up people don't often know what to say, and will frequently say the wrong thing, like "Take care of your mummy." when you are 8 years old and thinking "Woah. I am just a kid. Who will take care of me?"

I hope that when I have kids I wake up every morning to find them in a different place in our house. And that the sun shines through my curtains warmth-inducing-like, every single morning.

Talk to you soon,

Roo.

Things Seemed Much Better Then

2007-01-25T15:08:00.000-05:00

I was just going through a few photos from the last Thanksgiving I spent at home. Everyone looked so healthy. I miss then. I know I wasn't in a great place then, I know that is was right before everything fell apart, but it was a beautiful time. The weekend was unseasonably warm. I remember sunshine flitting through apple trees. Changing leaves and the smell of fall. It was a good weekend.

My father is dying. I am almost certain of it. The doctors told him he had five to ten years to live, and in about two months it will have been eight. He looked much healthier two years ago. Now he looks, more or less, the way he did before the surgery. There's something about it. The look of someone who is content. Someone you love. Someone who is happy and healthy. It is satisfaction. Not for him, but for me. Now he looks grey. He is depressed. He is dying.

My grandmother's birthday either was two days ago, or will be in two days. It's not really her birthday, as she predates things like record-keeping in rural, late-colonial India, but legally, her date of birth is something to the effect of January 27, 1914. She is somewhere around 93. I think her name might be Khadija, but I'm never sure. My grandmother lived with my family for quite a while before I was born. She used to stay in what was once Asim's room and is now a meaningless, unused space with the most comfortable bed in the house. She left when I was 6 months old. I spent a few days with her when I was fourteen. It didn't mean much to me. I don't know if anything means much to her.

Asim and my grandmother used to wrestle.

I am convinced that she will bury us all. Not literally, since she pretty much has nothing to do with us, but I honestly cannot imagine the woman dying. Sometimes I wonder if this might be the case with my father. He wants to die. Really spends his days waiting for that moment to come upon him. But it's fatalism. He lives for death, and so he dies. He doesn't live at all. Just dies. But what if it takes him a long time? Losing him will be hard. Not losing him might be harder.

I am at a loss.

One Shoe On, One Shoe Off.

2007-01-19T23:57:00.000-05:00

And waiting to see what happens. Will I pick my shoe up off the floor, or will I let the other one drop? What I really want is for someone to come along and help me put my shoe back on, maybe even pull me up off the table and make me take a few steps. I need help. I need someone to be here. I need someone to ask me the right questions and push me to give the real answers and to be here, with me, when I fall apart.

I keep waiting for something. Waiting for the next little good thing. Waiting for this person to visit or that person to write or for some little task to be accomplished. Thinking it will help. Thinking it will change me. Thinking that the pain is going to go away. It doesn't go anywhere. It's always here. Always. It won't leave. I can't remember what it feels like to be happy. I can't remember what it feels like to not know that I would wake up the next day, or the day after next, feeling like my soul was being torn from an open wound in my chest. How's that for emo? Shit. Why didn't I get this over with when I was a teenager? Not age appropriate at all.

I remember one year... I think it was my seventh birthday, all I wanted was for my dad to be home. I didn't care about a party, or gifts, or cake. All I wanted was for him to spend the entire day with us. Alright, that's a lie... I also wanted him to wear his white dress pants and white and grey plaid shirt so that we would match, and I would possibly feel as happy as I appear to be in that photo taken back when I was four or five, at the Ijaz's during one of those sweet summer barbecues. But hey. I was seven. I didn't understand things like seasonal clothing, or middle-aged men letting themselves go, or the inappropriateness of white pants in most situations.

Or heartbreak. Dad went to the store that day.

I feel like I'm climbing up a mountain of sand that just keeps rising. It's near impossible to get my footing, and every time I sink down to my knees, exhausted and disheartened, I look up to see tonnes. Millions of years of life, bones and shells and god knows what, reduced to dust and piled before me. Impossible to sift through. Impossible to climb over. Waiting for the next warm breeze to come along so it can fall, cascading over itself, rushing to engulf me, warm from the sun, heavy as it buries me.

Some days I can't help but want to give up. Give in to the misery inside me. Sink down, close off, stop struggling against it. It's just. so. tiring.

I feel hopeless. Please help me.

Get Your Goof On

2007-01-16T20:04:00.000-05:00

I have a secret...

I am hilarious.

*Giant. Grin.* No, really. I'm a very happy person. Goofy beyond belief, once you get past the nervousness and the cut through the tension and find me in a place where I am comfortable.

Lately, however, by which I mean since I was about four years old, it has been near impossible to find that place. Thing is, I am tired of living in this itty-bitty shell. The innocent, bright-eyed, sweet person I was born as has not died. She's inside, trapped in a cyst I built to protect her. Today is an exciting day. I've found her, and she is, ever so cautiously, coming out to play.

Tuesday Affirmation: I will play. I will laugh. I will sing. I will nurture myself, and I will heal. Hell, I might even dance, eyes closed, arms in the air, smile across my lips. I'm alive, and I'm better for it.

Good lord, that sounds... so... not... like me. Okay. I'm going to get goofy, but let it be known, I don't want anyone buying me posters with motivational sayings. Or stuffed animals. Or bloody Chicken Soup for the Soul. I am going to get better, and I am going to do it with a sense of humour. Not with butterflies and puppies and touchy-feeliness.

Asim has a habit of telling me that one day some wonderful guy is going to come along and melt away my icy exterior, and everything will be all snuggles and bunnies and cuteness. I have insisted vehemently that this would not happen. I'm starting to think that we're both right. I find it hard to believe that I could ever not be dry-witted and sharp-tongued, as, frankly, I like to bite sometimes. That said, I'm excited to soften up. I will not, however, continue waiting for someone to come save me. I'm saving myself, and I'm doing it laughing.

The Good, The Bad, and The Ordinary

2007-01-14T18:59:00.000-05:00

I have days. Some of them are good, some of them are bad. I think I need to treat them all as ordinary. If I can figure out that a day is just a day, I think I might be better able to manage the bad days .

Today was a particularly good day. Last night, before going to bed, I decided today would be a good day. I made a list of things I would do, and although I have yet to complete every task on my list, so far I have been good. If I don't manage the last item... I'll be in a bit of a stitch in terms of important things I need to accomplish in my life beyond the problem, but it will still have been a good day.

Sunday Affirmation: Today I have learned that this thing is not all-consuming. I know how to swim. If it tries to pull me under, I will simply tell it to fuck off. I might need to invest in some water wings, just for days when I am tired, but I can handle it. I believe in my ability to swim.

I am determined to go to bed still feeling upbeat, still feeling like today was a good day. I have not pitied myself today. I've been doing things. Lots of things. Some things that I like, some things that were a bit mundane. The mundane bits were great. I was happy to be doing them, happy that I managed to shake off the lethargy, happy I could make myself function, happy that I forced myself not to dwell on all the shittiness. If I did it today perhaps I can do it tomorrow. And then again the next day, and again the day after that. Learning to live one day at a time is an interesting thing. Takes optimism. And a lot of practice.

Perhaps most importantly, today was a scratch-free day. No, better. Today was an itch-free day. Of course, I still have about five hours to go, but I have a good feeling. I'm not going to start counting days. I'm not doing this AA style, but I figure everyday that I don't get the feeling is a day I can be proud of.

There you go, Sarah. Someone loves you, and you know you can trust her. Next step, everyone else. Git'er done!

Letters to Baby Sarah: Blood-Letting

2007-01-13T12:47:00.000-05:00

Dear Baby Sarah,

How are you, love? Me, not so hot. I've been thinking about the blood-letting lately. Quite a bit. Not too healthy. I can't remember how old you were when it started. You were young though, probably younger than even I imagine.

I remember one time, well into the stress bleeding, it was you, your mother, and Asim. In the kitchen. This was after the hospital, I think. Things were good for a while after the hospital, but that didn't last as long as we had hoped. I can't really remember what the circumstances were that day, but I remember an orange towel. And... screaming? Mmmm... no, that's not fair. She wasn't screaming, but she was definitely doing that rueful, hateful bitch voice, with the murderous eyes and sneer that get me all raged-up and pissed these days.

She, of course, blamed Asim, who subsequently felt awful. I remember you thinking, very specifically, "It's not because of Asim, it's because of you."

It's funny how through all of it, we still managed to cling to all the little things that made life normal. It's true, yes, that you and Asim were fighting. Bickering. As a six-year old and a ten-year old, or whatever you were, are wont to do. Sick little thing that I am, I tend to look back on moments like that with this bittersweet, spiteful sort of joy. No matter how much they tried, no matter how hard they fucked with your head, you still knew exactly when they were being fuckers. You knew what made you normal, that it was okay to scream your little lungs out at your brother, not that either of us has ever screamed, ever, and you knew that the things they did were very much not okay. Even then, as a baby, you knew they were unnatural. That was not the way life was meant to be.

That was the first time I realized what was going on. That is wasn't just the dry air, and that is wasn't your fault. The first time it occurred to me that this was something they could take care of if they had bothered, for about thirty seconds, to give a fucking damn. Sadly, you were well on your way to dying by then. I don't know when I started chronicling all their little failures, but this was a moment of beauty. All the blood-is-thicker-than-water bullshit they fed you, and they couldn't be bothered to look for a way to stop-up the blood spilling out all over their fucking home.

Then there was the scratching. You started scratching when you were pretty much already a spectre, but I liked it, so I kept it going. Neither of us really knew what was going on. Why we were doing it, what it meant, why it was happening. But I understand it now. I stopped scratching a while ago, not really, but kind of.

I still sit the way we would, still look for the outlet, but it's just not there anymore. I've had to find other ways to distract myself, to get it out of my system, but the idea is still there.

I started to stop after that time that your father caught me. He didn't know what was going on. Thought it was dry skin. Always the fucking dry air, no? Thought you were stupid. Thought you were stupid. He couldn't tell that you were already dead, but he thought you were stupid. Special, that.

To be honest, I can't really remember scratching after the first time I was caught. Not that any of it was better, or that anything went away. I just didn't want to get caught again. Didn't want to sit there while one of your parents wiped away the blood and tried to salve my legs, thinking I was a baby, thinking I was still you, thinking there was anything they could do to keep you healthy, to protect you.

That was right before things started to get really awful, the last chance for them to do something right, probably. Right before I got serious about it. Right after I figured out just what it was that we had been doing.

I don't know what it is with us and the blood. Something about life and warmth and pain, I'm sure, but it's one of the few things that I can't articulate. Maybe I just haven't thought about it enough, but - ... Oh. Man. I am funny. Who, writing about self-mutilation, says "Maybe I just haven't thought about it enough."? Only me. I am a funny girl. What I'm trying to say, darling, is that I haven't gotten to the bottom of it yet, haven't figured out what it means. It's a question that isn't exactly as pressing as a lot of the questions I have for life, or god, or whoever the fuck else, but it's one of the curiousities that makes us us.

Lately, and this is the part where I get not so good, I've found a new secret. When I left London I abandoned you, and that cost us both a lot. Nearly killed me, and was just another disgusting let-down in the history of Injustices Against Baby Sarah. But, as is generally the case, it caught up to me, and I started looking for an outlet. This is why I want to know what it is about the blood. Part of me thinks that if I could figure out why bleeding seems like such a relief I would be able to beat it. I don't know if that's true, but it beats what I'm doing in the interim. I haven't actually cut myself. Haven't bled myself in years, thankfully, but the temptation has been strong, especially as of late.

Usually it's just a one shot deal. I think it, I tell myself no, I don't do it. There are times, though, Baby Sarah, when I can't get the thought out of my head. So I've started scratching, in a new and different way. This time it's my forearms. Scratch them until the itch goes away, until I feel like I can breathe again, and my neck and shoulders relax a bit. It's good and bad, I guess. Good, in that fingernails are less dangerous than razorblades or whatever I might find in the kitchen, bad in that, you know, healthy people usually just leave their arms the way they find them.

I want to stop, little one. I really do. I'm working on words now. Hoping that writing to you will be enough of an outlet to get it out of my system. From what I can tell, based mostly on Asim, it will never really be gone, but if I can prevent any serious damage, maybe even be mostly happy one day, that's enough for me.

Thanks for listening,

Your Sarah

Letters to Baby Sarah: The Front Door

2007-01-11T22:43:00.000-05:00

Dear Baby Sarah,

I've watched you watching that front door. It's gone now. Kicked in, splintered, shipped off to a trash heap somewhere, I'm sure. Do you remember the holographic sticker outside? What did it say? La illa-ha? Assalamu Alaikum? No, you wouldn't know that. You were barely old enough for them to teach you to read it then. Fuck, you weren't even tall enough. I'm guessing the only times you really saw it were when they held you. Do you remember being held?

That door. It was painted a hideous shade of mustard.

You used to stand at the window by the door, mother yelling at you not to tug at the little sheer curtain, waiting to see who would come to see you. Hoping that whoever came would be full of love. I look out that window now and it's empty. The curtain's gone. There's a single dying flower in a faded plastic pot on the sill. You never see the people you love coming to hold you through that window. Not anymore. Sometimes I see people who love me leaving through that window. Mostly I just ignore it.

You've spent hours watching that door. Watching people come in. Watching people walk out. Watching, and waiting, hoping that someone would come sit with you so that you'd never have to be alone. On either side. I started sitting there with you a long time ago, and I never left your side. I still visit you there now, even though you've died.

Do you remember the sun shower? It was your first sun shower. You didn't know it was possible, and neither did I. That was the day we started believing in miracles. You were still in your nightie, off-white silk with ruffled cap-sleeves and brown checks. You loved that nightie, and one day it just disappeared. I remember Asim and Dad being outside, Asim laughing, both of them coming in from the car. You know better though, don't you? Asim was asleep. Your father wasn't home. Your father wasn't home when you started believing in miracles. That is probably a good thing, dear heart.

More than anything, you remember that door at night. You remember watching your father walk out that door. You remember feeling cold. Sometimes there were lights, sometimes there weren't. Sometimes there was a phone, sometimes there wasn't. Asim was always there, even though you don't remember that part. Sometimes he was out, or down, or trying to pick up the pieces, but he was always there, you playing in the back of his mind.

Watching him walk out that door into the dark filled you with the kind of dread no kid should ever know. I remember how you felt. A little sick, a little panicked, cold, trembling, and tensed. I've still got that sickening tension in me. It's really hard to make it go away, yeah?

Remember the last time he walked out into the dark? I remember it. I remember you telling me that you hoped he wouldn't come back. Funny, that. I think - I'm not sure, but I think - that was right around the time you decided to die. He came back, of course, just like he always would, but you weren't there to see it. And then there was the time you left your heart on the kitchen table for him to see when he came in. I had all but taken over by then, but he made sure you didn't have anything left to live on. You don't remember him coming in or out of that door after that night, and neither do I.

That door is gone now, and there's a new pre-fab aluminum door in it's place. Your mother wanted it. Wanted something that gave her a sense of security. It's a joke, of course, because the frame is still just as weak. The thing is, Baby Sarah, he was a fuck. He still is. I see him sometimes. He's probably not going to change, and he might die soon. I hope that when he does he doesn't find you. I hope I find you first, wherever you are.

I'll write again soon, I promise.

Ever yours,
Sarah

2006-11-21T16:07:00.000-05:00

Things That Make Me Go 'OW'

In honour of my recent ailment, I have decided to compile a working list of things that cause me stress. Feel free to make mention of glaring oversights, or to suggest things I may not have considered.

Credit Cards (specifically, the needing of in order to make reservations at fancy-pants hotels in other cities for foreign dignitaries)
MY BOSS
MY JOB
My parents
Denis #@?&*%# Bouchard
Reimbursement forms
Petty Cash Claims
Anything attached to a policy, requirement, or code of conduct at the University of Ottawa
Natalia Leshchenko. Delightful in person, very well-dressed, but a touch high-maintenance

2006-10-28T14:06:00.000-04:00

I'm Going to Hell, and You Can't Stop Me!

No, really. And don't try to tell me I'm not, either. I'm going to hell. I deserve it. Why? Because instead of getting my ass out of bed and joining the action against the war in Afghanistan today, I... forgot. I forgot the time. I forgot the place. I forgot that today I could enjoy the rare opportunity to make manifest some of my deepest and most formative values. It's not okay, it is a big deal, and I'm not being overdramatic. You forget to buy milk. You forget to change the fucking toilet paper. You don't forget peace. A world of war, or a world in which I do nothing, not even my very least, to prevent war and the spread of violence, is my own personal Hell.

On the flip side... I'm still going to Hell. I know a lot of people disagree with my ideas. There is quite a bit of support out there for this war, and I'm still coming to terms with the idea of speaking out against something that implicates so much effort and sacrifice and so many human lives, including those of a great many people I care about personally. This being said, I cannot support this war. I cannot support any war, but this one is contentious. I'm not anti-nationalist, and I'm not a pacifist. I don't believe that the reasons that each soldier chooses to fight are invalid, and I do support the banner ideals behind this war. Nonetheless, I don't support this war.

Up until now I've been worried that my reasons were not strong enough, that I needed to come up with something more substantive to justify speaking out against Canada's involvement in Afghanistan. I was wrong. I have three justifications, or at least, three main justifications, for speaking out.

The costs. Be they human, social, economic, or moral, the costs of this war are astronomical. For the United States this war has cost one tanked economy, countless children 'left behind', a great many human lives, and an immense number of missed or lost opportunities to create progress through technological, educational, and medical programming. For Canada, this war has cost lives, social programs aimed at promoting the health and status of the poor, the disabled, the marginalized, and women, and the last vestiges of a respectable international reputation. This doesn't even begin to compare to the costs being borne by the people of Afghanistan, where reports indicate that quality of life has declined in many regions from the standard under the Taliban. I could go on, and on, and on.
Responsibility. By taking up the war in Afghanistan, Canada is letting the U.S. off the hook, both internationally and domestically. The war on Iraq was a bit of a circular wag the dog - it left the Bush administration with something to show for its unending War on Everything for a time, but soon the same heat that had been coming off of Afghanistan for months began to make Iraq fester as well. George W. Bush likes to start things he can't finish. Either that, or he just gets bored with things, and doesn't want to finish. The man is good at destroying, but not so great when it comes to creating - failed attempts at rebuilding in Afghanistan, in Iraq, failed attempts at improving the American education system - show me something that Bush has actually seen through, from start to finish, with a progressive, constructive result, and I... well, I won't stop criticizing, but I'll at least give him what little positive credit he deserves. Anyway, all that to say... by stepping into the U.S. role in Afghanistan we've basically let the U.S. and the Bush administration off the hook. They made a great big mess, and now we're haphazardly sweeping it up, letting them save face domestically, by ducking out of one of many unending wars, and internationally, by refocusing the world's attention from failures in Afghanistan to yet another pressure point on the axis of evil. Which brings me to my third justification...
Enabling. The U.S. military is designed to support two theatres of war, one major, one minor. The major, at the moment, is Iraq. The minor was Afghanistan, until that started getting a little too ugly for Bush's liking. Now, with Canada happily stepping in from second string, the U.S. military is free to take on its exciting new conquest, Iran. We're not helping to rebuild the world piece by piece. We're not creating a model by which other failed states can rescue themselves. We're not making strides towards world peace. All we are doing is enabling the Bush administration to start yet another war that it will not finish, that will accomplish little or nothing, that will leave yet another state in shambles, yet another people raped, broken, diseased, dying, and in a state of volatile insecurity. Good on us.

So there. That's what I've got. I feel quite comfortable with it. So maybe it means I'm going to Hell. Fine. I only wish you'd join me.

2006-10-01T15:41:00.000-04:00

Is it Really Worth Saying the Things You Think You Should Say?

There are a lot of things that I want to say. A lot of things. The problem, or the hesitancy, is... well... I'm afraid. I'm afraid of the consequences of these things I want to say. Not because I think these things might hurt anyone, or because I think they may incite anger towards me. No, I'm afraid of what I will have to do if I say these things and life goes on as if I had never said them.

I suppose it's fear of rejection that's really keeping me at bay. What happens if, when I tell these people how concerned I am, they shrug it off, and nothing changes? How do you ask someone to make you a priority in their life? If they don't, how do you go on from there? It's not like I've never been cut out before, and it's not as though I've never done the same, but I don't know if in these particular cases I will be able to handle the losses and the pain it is going to entail. Well, that's a lie. Of course I can take it. I've survived much worse. But I don't want to!

I don't want to lose these friends, or to just sit by and let the distance increase. Of course, if I say nothing, I will just stand here, watching it happen, knowing I did nothing to change it. If I say the things I want to say, and the distance continues to increase... I can say that I tried. But I think that's bullshit. Who cares if I tried? I certainly won't, not if I'm still losing things that are very important to me. God damn. This is shitty...

2006-08-31T10:51:00.000-04:00

A Close One

Okay, so I'm not going to tell you all about how I was a prostitute for a day, because by now all but the *counts on fingers with squinty eyes rolled up as if peering into brain* four of you have heard it already. The rest of you will have to wait. Hopefully not two months. I woke this morning to discover I had not yet been dropped from April's blogroll. I am, however, dangerously overdue, so hear goes!

I recently spent some time with the 'rents in London Town. One particular day left me inspired to write. Why I didn't write then I cannot tell you. Yes I can. Because I was on vacation. And I've been overworked all summer because of my own inability to push back. But that's been rectified. But I was tired, alright?

Anyway, yes. Inspired to write. Actually I think there may have been a few such days, but I can't remember them very well, and the ideas coming out of this particular day have come full circle, so again, here goes.

It was a pretty typical Sarah-in-London day... Sarah sleeps in, Sarah gets up shortly before mother leaves, Sarah has some breakfast, Sarah retires to couch to read, father takes mother to work/school, father comes home and cooks something for dinner. While father is cooking dinner (I think this may have been okra day, which would explain my impromptu irritability)I was suddenly overcome with a bad case of the fidgets. This was definitely not the I've-been-in-the-same-place-doing-nothing-too-long kind of fidget. Because I hadn't been. Nor was it the I-need-work-off-some-excess-energy kind of fidget, as a) I was pretty active on this particular trip home, and b) after the hellish stretch of work, work, moving, and more work I had just endured I definitely had no excess of energy. No, this was more the what-the-hell-is-wrong-with-my-environment kind of fidget.

And now, a little personal history: When my brother and I were children we used to liken our mother to Danny Tanner. Remember Danny Tanner? Of course you do! Who doesn't remember Danny Tanner? Well, I must tell you, Danny Tanner couldn't hold a candle to my mother. When that woman wanted something clean you had better be sure that not so much as speck was missed by your duster or a thread was hanging out of your underwear drawer. I once made the mistake of thinking I would get away with shoving all my blocks into my closet and closing the door. For the four years until we moved out of that house my mother would check the closet after I cleaned my room. So yes, mother of my childhood. Neat freak. You might think that explains a lot about me. You'd be mostly right. And also a little wrong.

Somewhere along the way my mother changes. After we moved to the store she stopped badgering me about the state of my room - although that may have had more to do with me than her. It took a long while, and it certainly intensified before dying away, but it did. It just up and disappeared. Perhaps it was a reordering of priorities after a multitude of family crises. Perhaps it was a natural relaxation after my brother and I moved out. Hell, maybe she just got tired of trying to be like her older sister after forty-some-odd years. Whatever it was, she dropped the need for neatness like you would a vase you got from your third-cousin when you graduated high school that's too hideous to keep within fifty feet of your home and too much of a cruel joke to pass on to an unsuspecting acquaintance. No looking back.

Good God where the hell am I going with this?

Oh right. End of history lesson.

So these days, if you were to surprise my mother with a visit (while she was still asleep, of course, because despite not caring about the everyday, the woman can still save face in ten seconds flat) you would find what appears to be the aftermath of an explosion of kitsch, bad taste, and pennysavers strewn about the living room. This of course, causes serious offense to my clean-lined, tucked away, bookshelves and big art sensibility.

So on okra day, after sufficiently tiring out my eyes with a great book, I managed to let the state of my mother's living room work me up into quite a state. There was some silent what-the-fucking and some not so silent complaining at my dad, and it took all I could muster not to tear down everything in my mother's carefully constructed world. I asked my dad what he would do to fix the space, but quickly dismissed him when he basically suggested that we rearrange the dead and dying sofa set and bring back the dining table so the space would look exactly as it had for oh so many years. If my mother and I can agree on nothing, at least we both believe that there's no sense going back to having things the way they were if that way didn't work before.

What ultimately stopped me from pitching half the contents of the room in the trash was a realization that I had just stepped into the same fury for control that made my mother seem so scary for so many years. As one would hope, as an adult I've come to understand my mother and many of her mad behaviours much better than I could have hoped to as a child or teenager. I've even managed to forgive much of her tyranny now, knowing how easily one might become that tyrant. There's no question that my mother has passed on a lot of her defining traits to me. The crazy, the control issues, the propensity for volatile flipouts... sigh... What would we be without them? Although it might have been easier, perhaps less painful to have a mother who was not a nut... I did. An now, knowing that I'm a nut, I'm definitely grateful to have her with me. If there's anyone who will ever understand all the things I've kept from the world, anyone whose mistakes I can learn from, anyone whose faults I can call my own, it's definitely my mom.

2006-06-25T19:32:00.000-04:00

Whatup?

Hey, it's me.

Just calling to see if you wanna
hang out, ride bikes,
do nothing til we're blue in the face.

Mom could make rice chips
and we could drink limeade
and things could be simple again.

We could make noises
and grow avocados
and swing from the rafters and sing.

When we grew weary we'd collapse onto couches
and drink memories of summer days in.

When we grew tired we'd retreat to the backyard
and lay our heads close to the ground.

The trees and the sky
would wish us good night
and you would be with me again.

2006-05-26T11:16:00.000-04:00

(The Long Awaited) Something Like a Chameleon Parte Deux: Why Learning to be Properly Socialized Has Convinced Me That I am Innately Evil

Okay. So you did not hold me to it very long. I told you too. There's a good chance I would not have felt the compulsion to post today had it not been for the daily increasing salience of the threat of being dropped from April's blogroll. Also, I've more or less forgotten what I actually included in "Something Like a Chameleon." This post, therefore, might end up a mix of things, might segue with a complete lack of style and grace into new things that I think I'd like to tell you, dear readers.

And I'm spent. Maybe I'll continue this at work? No. I'll go rinse my bowl and get a pear, and then try again.

I rinsed my spoon as well. And contemplated putting away my iron. And noted that we should dump out the salt and pepper shakers because Joanne, possibly evil landlady, sanded the wall behind them while they were still sitting in their spot on the stove, probably filling them with gross toxic wall dust.

Okay, so why am I evil. Something about being an elitist bitch. Something about little moments of thinking I'm better than people. No, that's not even it. That I figured out without socializing. It's being able to turn on and off. To pretend that I am something that I am not, that I know I am not, fully aware that I am imitating the people around me only in the interest of extracting something from them. I can't quite identify what it is that I want, what I'm trying to get, but I know that it's something innocent and unsavoury all at once. Something that makes me think there's something deeply twisted and dangerous inside my mind.

I'd go on, but the mentor just called. Off to be dutiful. I'll tell you about it later.

2006-04-17T11:46:00.000-04:00

Something Like a Chameleon

Of course, my relationship with people is quite different. In all honesty there are very few people with whom I feel comfortable, very few instances in which I feel that the people around me are congruous, or counterbalanced, or complementary to myself. Most of the time I feel alien, apart from other people. This, of course, is when I break out the wallflower version of myself, or even worse, the socializing version of myself.

Imagine, if you will, a documentary narrative running through your head every time you find yourself in a group larger than four or so people. When I wallflower, at least I get to be that narrative. Everything I hear and see I may register where I will, observing natural people in their normal environment from my quiet little corner. When I socialize, however, the narrative keeps running, and I become subject. The narrative, of course, knows that I fake, that I play at being a real person, and hearing it run through my head I struggle against the urge to tense inside and retreat.

***
Maybe? Maybe not? I have noticed, as of late, that I have a bit of a knack for blending in. Not wallflowery, disappearing blending in, although I think I do a fair bit of that, but the inconspicuous, seeming like I should to be precisely where I am sort of blending in. Perhaps I give myself too much credit, but I cannot remember, ever, feeling as though I had stepped into the wrong space.

I do not know what or why this feeling is. In every city, on every continent, I feel as though I have never moved, as though the thousands of kilometres were nothing more than a change in scenery, a faint wash on the foreground of my life. Nothing moves around me, you see, only inside me. There are worlds inside me.

2006-04-09T19:38:00.000-04:00

{Posting About [Nothing} to Post About]

I mean really. It's not as though there has been a lack excitement in my life in the past five or so weeks. It's not as though I've told anyone about all the excitement. It's not as though there's any legitimate reason I haven't written about all the adventures I've had as of late. I mean, I could try the I've been really busy with school and work and all the other things that make up my life excuse, except that, although I truly have been very busy, I've also been procrastinating to excess. In fact, this post is really just me, procrastinating again, and yet not writing any of the more interesting things I have to tell all *squints at ceiling while counting on fingers* five of you. So here are the posts that you should be getting out of me in the next few weeks:

Something Like a Chameleon
Something Like a Chameleon Parte Deux: Why Learning to be Properly Socialized Has Convinced Me That I am Innately Evil
What's Brown, Happy, and Legal All Over?

Okay. So that's only three. There should be more. There is definitely more to be told. But three posts is a decent amount to catch up on. Hold me to it. Seriously. If not, so much of my oddness will just sublimate into nonexistence, and sublimated oddness is really just missed opportunities to enjoy life.

Oh, and I was going to dedicate an entire post to that time that I almost died at the Met. See. It's already going! Hold me to it people!

And why I'm so terrible at expressing myself vocally! Seriously people, this is gold! Just passing you by!

2006-03-01T12:31:00.000-05:00

So C'mon Fatso

Happy March, World!

Today is a day. A big day. A day that marks many a thing. Many a thing for many a person. I am one such person, and today does, indeed, mark many a thing for me.

Things that today, being a big day, a March First kind of day, marks for me:

the beginning of the March to June stretch, my favourite time of year, a time of transition and moderate humidity and absolute prettiness and nostalgia
the end of my second last month as a twenty-nothing
the official beginning of Sarah having less than two months of her big fat smelly undergrad left
the point at which the countdown to New York becomes panicky-scary

That's enough of that for now.

This month, if what I think I can feel is true, is going to be a good month. A good, goofy month. Go now. Be good.

2006-02-24T13:15:00.000-05:00

Take Me Out at the Dreams

The smell in the air, the blue of the building, the dark, wet gray of the pavement below. There was a humid wind that carried the scent of the rain and the clouds to me, buffeting my cheeks and stirring my heart.

The kites in the sky, crashing, soaring, falling, and flying, while strings of glass and sand cut through the sky 'til we were sore and bloody. The shouts of children, the shouts of men, the sweet smell of the rain in the humid spring air. Oh the sweet smell of rain.

I wore blue linen and lace, the smell of fresh linen and starch about me. The breeze made me shiver as I watched the world move over a ledge, watching reds and blues cut through the brilliant green and grey below.

You were young, I was younger. No one ever knew.

When you crept up behind me my brooding soul was lulled. When you caught my shoulders my heart jumped back and my breath caught against a knot in my throat. A shock, a gasp, and a lifetime passed in that one moment.

We've moved away from those worlds, to new and unusual places. You were never there, and you never will be more. I will always look back, on grey days when warm winds soothe my passionate soul, and remember for one day that I loved.

2006-02-23T11:42:00.000-05:00

The "Shut Up, Graham" Trifecta

Note: The "Shut Up, Graham" Trifecta is not actually included in this post, but one day I will needlepoint it, and you will understand.

I've been tagged by Miss April, and so, here goes!

Four jobs I have had:

Research Assistant to Dominique Arel, School of Political Studies, University of Ottawa
Assistant Co-ordinator, Chair of Ukrainian Studies, University of Ottawa
Project Officer, Outreach, Social Development Canada
Child Labourer, Park's Variety

Four movies I could watch over and over:

I (Heart) Huckabees
Monsoon Wedding
A Very Long Engagement (or anything directed by Jean-Pierre Jeunet, really)
Igby Goes Down

Four books I could read over and over:

Jane Urquhart's The Stone Carvers
Robert Cormier's The Chocolate Wars
Sherri S. Tepper's The Gate to Women's Country
Frances Hodgson Burnett's The Secret Garden

Places I have lived:

London
Ottawa

Four places I have been on vacation:
I've only really been on vacation once, in Chicago, but some of this might count.

Pakistan (Islamabad, Lahore, Wazeerabad, Karachi)
Chicago
Montréal
Toronto

Four websites I visit daily:
Are you kidding me? The only thing I do on a daily basis is brush my teeth! If I did have any sort of regular internet habits, the following would be included therein.

Feria Films
Environment Canada
The Globe and Mail
Girls Are Pretty

Four favourite foods:

Palaak (Spinach), especially with paneer (a very, very mild, unripened cheese)
Samosain
Daal Chawal (Lentils and Rice)
Spaghetti al Pomodoro

Four favourite non-alcoholic drinks:

Water, bitches!
Limeade
Grape Juice
Orange Juice, with pulp

Four favourite musicians:
Yeah, some of them are bands, I know. My favourite music often comes from bands, so you'll just have to accept it.

Paul Simon
Ella Fitzgerald
Coldplay
The Kaiser Chiefs

Four places I would like to be right now:

The Amazon Rainforest, without the constant conflict and threat of deforestation
Roma!
Buenos Aires
London

Last four books I read:
Thank you, Children's Lit.

Louisa May Alcott's Little Women
J.M. Barrie's Peter Pan
E.B. White's Charlotte's Web
C.S. Lewis' The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe

Last four movies I have seen:

Proof
Shaun of the Dead
Elizabethtown
Matchpoint

What's on my desk right now:
I'm at my parent's house, but I think what's on my desk at home is far more entertaining, so that's what you're getting!

Rubber ducky bubble dispenser (affectionately refered to as "Bubble Duck") from Canada's Wonderland
Plastic ostrich figurine from Chels
Popple's Mug that I've had since infancy, containing an assortment of pens, highlighters, scissors, etc, as well as several floppy pencils from Ruth
Painted tile from Cuba, via Emily
Bowie, the cat, most likely
A whole lot of stationery and documents for work and school
A stack of books that I haven't read and don't really want to, beneath a glass vase, containing a pink silk scarf, unless I put the scarf away, in which case, just a glass vase
Several photos of friends and family from London
Assorted computer equipment
A CD containing footage from Darfur, which I've never watched
An "Out, Out, Damned Spot!" eraser, which Chels brought back from a trip to Stratford

Tagging: Chelsea, Ciara, Ben (who I don't think reads here, but what the hell)

2006-01-28T14:27:00.000-05:00

Two in One Month? Too Soon!

Never!
I couldn't decide what I wanted to do now that I have finished mi composición de español. So what did I decide to do? I decided to post, that's what. Of course, I don't really have anything of interest to say today. Nope. Nada. I don't so much as have one of those inane philosophical ramblings in which I say a lot of things that no one can decipher and never quite come across the point that I set out to make and subsequently stimulate no reflection or desire to comment, indeed, nothing but a little WTF?ing, in my readers.

I do, however, have a very important recommendation for all of you. Go find Beck's Satan Gave Me a Taco, and listen to it. Listen to it well, my friends, for you will be amused.

2006-01-26T12:17:00.000-05:00

Maybe it's the Sunshine

WHEEEEEEEEE!!!

I seem to be in an almost interminably good mood these days. Note: I emphasize almost in the preceding sentence, as my mood has turned to crabbish a few times this week, and I seem particularly to be taking it out on poor Miss Andrea. Even the election of that Neanderthalic excuse for a political party has not got me down.

Maybe it's the longer days. Maybe it's the good many people whom I enjoy but have not seen in far too long surrounding me again. Maybe it's the incrementally increasing control I have over my education. Maybe it's the courses I enjoy governing my education. Maybe it's me finally learning to insist on my own sanity.

Whatever it is, there's always a little inkling, a nagging fear that it's about to come crashing down again. I'm trying to be more careful, more diligent, more responsible this time. It would be nice to keep coasting this way, but I know that's not in the cards for Sarah. We'll just have to take it at a trotting pace and hope there's no need for sprints, but be ready for them if they come.

Good little turtle.

Confused enough now?

2005-12-26T15:07:00.000-05:00

The Things That Make Us Richer

"I lower the window. The warm salt air whips the hair off our faces, bringing with it the promise of our summer and more flights landing, more compatriots returning, the city once again infused with amity and opportunity, because we're only twenty-four for fuck's sake.

I tuck my Palm safely back in my purse, one souvenir housing another. Suddenly the dark sky is ablaze with Memorial Day fireworks, a glorious burst of pyrotechnics shimmering over the water, making a blurred rainbow as we barrel over the patched tar. I nudge Kira awake, "Look." She grins, the lanes clear before us as we accelerate." - Citizen Girl, McLaughlin & Kraus

The paragraphs transcribed above are the last in the most recent of my literary conquests, Citizen Girl, a well-timed gift from April. Although I found myself irritated through most of the book, April's guess was right, Girl probably is the "kind-of, maybe, sorta, surreal [me] of the soon future." Or maybe the even sooner present, and even the not so distant past. It's no coincidence that the passage that appealed to me the most was the passage with the most perspective, the most wisdom, and the most distance from the crap of Girl's everyday life.

It's easy to get bogged down, or caught up, or really terribly lost in the crap we deal with every single day. One of the few odd sayings that I've hung onto in my few short years is 'life is what happens while you're busy making plans'. Too often I let the battle of the future and the present get explosive, way out of hand, and far too off-balance.

Despite 'knowing' that I shouldn't let plans for the future get ahead of the present, however, I consistently fail to find the appropriate balance between what I should be or am doing now and what I should be or am will do in the future. The result of this ambiguity in my life, of course, is stress. Stress about what I'm doing wrong, stress about what I should be doing differently, stress about how it is all undoubtedly going to damn me to a future in a burger joint or a temp agency or, most likely, a high security asylum.

I'd like to conclude with some sort of hopeful solution for my future, some compact panacea, but I simply haven't got it. This isn't one of those Sarah has to have the answers moments, though. I know I'm going to spend the rest of my life constantly negotiating between the situations I find myself in and the life I wish to live. In the meantime though, during the few short breaks I take from my everyday, I'd like to leech every moment of clarity and bleed it dry, hoping to bottle for a few lasting moments the magical stuff of clarity, of perspective, and of calm.

2005-12-24T13:10:00.000-05:00

Faire Face

Sometimes when you face what you, or others, or you and others think is your worst fear, you become acquainted with much deeper, darker, more insidious and intimate fears. Sometimes the fears that emerge as you battle nemesis are mundane, cliché, even pedestrian. Sometimes they are both, and sometimes you think you are not the only one, you're just the only one weak one.

I am afraid of failure. Sometimes you need to shut the fuck up, because if you feel this way, then what is everyone else supposed to feel? No, it's not easy playing the wünderkind. It's not so easy to play anyone else either. I am afraid of becoming more and more like my mother. Sometimes you're just like everyone else in the world. Sometimes you're not. Sometimes you need to take stock of what you have, what you can learn, and what she has to offer. And sometimes you should go see a shrink. I am afraid of fading away. Sometimes you and the rest of the world are right on par with your narrow-minded senses of self. Sometimes you miss the bigger picture. Sometimes you forget that you are still only twenty. Sometimes it doesn't matter, because you don't know how to make the panic go away, and every time you think about how much you have to do in one short lifespan you shrink away and wonder how anyone is brave enough to take on this world.

Sometimes you need to see things for what they really are. Sometimes you think of that episode of Buffy and wonder if that's how it really is. Sometimes that has nothing to do with your neuroses, its just an entertaining fantasy... and... uh... sometimes that points to a deeper problem. Sometimes the most frightening things in our lives are not our fears, but their consequences, their implications, their repercussions. Sometimes these repercussions are what we really fear, and we are simply incapable of putting a name and a face to those fears.

Sometimes we need to do it anyway.

I am not afraid of failure. I am afraid of not accomplishing. I am not afraid of becoming more and more like my mother. I am afraid of inheriting (only) her weaknesses. I am not afraid of fading away. I am afraid of never making a difference.

Sometimes you try to close a chapter without knowing the ending. Sometimes you lie and tell yourself you can move on with your life without seeing what comes next in your small sagas. Sometimes they eat away at you all the same, underneath the surface, or crawling slowly across it. Sometimes you live your life just to validate your own existence, just to make yourself feel better about all the things you let fall away. Sometimes you're selfish and a child and no amount of reassurance will make you stop asking for more. Sometimes you need to take the time to live out the pain, live out the tragedy, live out the reality of having to deal with a new reality. It's just that time. It's just that way. There's nothing left to do but stand and stare at your contortion-act life, letting your heart pound and your tears stream as it twists and bends all the way off the plane that you thought was the ideal you. Then you sit, and you take a moment, and you lie flat, and you start to reconstruct. You build your new horizon and you make yourself proud. You do it because you have to, or because you can, or because of whatever else might lie in between. You do it for yourself, and you do it because the only choice we have in life is to just keep on living, because our lives are all we really have.

Postscript

Ha.

And sometimes the only person who can stop the pain is the only person who won't. Sometimes the only thing you feel you can do is to swallow and move on, but when that panic creeps up, when your neck and shoulders tense and you feel that familiar knot in your chest you suddenly find yourself thinking

"Emotional bulimia would be nice."

Sometimes you wish you could induce, expel Mark Salter from yourself, and flush him down a toilet.

2005-12-24T11:33:00.000-05:00

My Gift to You

Take one part fatigue, one part writer's block, and one part forgetfulness. Stir. There you have it. A desperate measure. In an effort not to get dropped from April's blogroll, I am posting pre-emptively. A real, respectable post will be added soon, hopefully later today, shedding light on my two month absence.

2005-10-27T11:55:00.000-04:00

Shut Up Rory

It occurs to me that this may be a philosophy I should take on in life. Today I would like to drop out and travel across the continent reading Jack Kerouac.

With love,

Sarah

2005-10-12T23:53:00.000-04:00

Maybe I just don't want to change right now. Okay?

I was still far too energized because of Activism Class, still far too hungry from my barely noticeably broken fast, and well away from any state of preparation for sleep. Glancing at my monitor, a thought from earlier today popped into my head. "That picture," I thought, "has been my desktop background for far too long." And so, despite a small voice inside my head (specifically on the right side, slightly above eye level, too far back to be frontal, but too far forward to be in the middle, probably a centimetre or two before the ear) telling me 'you don't want a change... you're not feeling a change,' I opened my browser and began my occasional routine of searching for rain and cityscapes. Although I found no shortage of lovely pretty things to make my own, I was unable to find something that appealed to that certain spot in my heart, that evoked my latent desire for new frontiers.

My desire to cling to an admittedly drab background picture has left me wondering at some other aspects of my recent behaviour. Today, in a meeting in my very demanding and very gratifying environment of work, I balked internally when D mentioned that I would be leaving after this year. I am fairly certain that my eyes attempted to abandon my face, and I had to restrain, with some difficulty, the desire to pipe up with something to the effect of 'actually if you'd like I could stay on another year or so... I know I won't be a student anymore, but I really don't have much planned for my immediate future, and I find it both challenging and comforting here.'

I've also been back and forth over the past few days on the matter of my hair. I cannot seem to decide what it is that I would like to do with my head. Yet another frivolous matter of no great consequence. And yet I cannot seem to settle into the idea of change this year. I imagine that, despite all efforts at failure, I will be forced to once again come to terms with change when I am handed a degree and told to graduate on to something grander. Until then, though, how do I contend with change?

Normally this would be the point in discourse where I come up with some manner of summative solution, and a slightly open-ended concluding statement that leaves room for individual reflection. Sorry, dear reader. I'm just not there yet. How do I contend with change? How do I contend with change? I do not know. I really do not. I am at a loss. I usually deal with change quite well, welcoming it and hoping for new and exciting challenges. Perhaps it is because I truly feel challenged for the first time that I do not feel ready to move on. At the moment I am gaining so much from life that I do not wish to end this stage of life before I have enjoyed all it can offer me.

Although I perform best when I am busiest, perhaps my constant occupation prevents me from savouring each of the remarkable opportunities presented to me this year. And how odd, as it is the occupation that I savour the most.

2005-09-18T17:19:00.000-04:00

Drowning, or the Downside of Desirability

In actuality, my nightmares are most likely panic attacks that occur during sleep. Chances that the nightmares of many can be described as such are high. Lately, though, I have the feeling that the boundaries between life and dreams are starting to fade. Perhaps it's a product of not sleeping enough. Even my subconscious is infected by the rushed pace of my life, unable to torture me sufficiently in my sleep. Perhaps it's a product of the exhaustion. While my body rests my mind succumbs to the quiet as best it can. Perhaps it's the precursor to something deeper, more insidious. Perhaps the panic in my chest and the fear creeping up my neck and shoulders across my skull is my signal. Soon I'll step out, fall down, and no one will know what happened, but everyone will know that I couldn't do it. All this from my drowning laundry.

2005-09-12T23:42:00.000-04:00

Inaction's Back. Or Some Such

After an unintended two month hiatus, I have returned. Ah yes, just the stellar opening line I was hoping for. Many things have changed, of course. New apartment, new room mate. Other things too.

After having my best semester yet, and yes, this is the part where I confess *cough*brag*cough* about my +A from Wolfgang, I am now in fourth year. It's a similar experience to grade 12, when, despite not feeling any less like the kid I am, all the little ones appeared to be infants with over-laden rucksacks.

New revelation: I can be of interest to very intelligent people. I've always known it's not too difficult to impress very intelligent people, but to capture their interest? That, to me, says sexy. I've been hobknobbing, and so far have managed more than one double take from a slightly disarmed professor.

And with that, I am going to cut this entry short. I've broken my 'never write about the mundane aspects of your life outside of the abstract' rule. Icky. Now all I have to do is start behaving in a manner I don't find personally offensive again.

I'll try this again later.

Welcome back,
Love,
Sarah

2005-07-12T18:26:00.000-04:00

Today's the Day

After a long wait and a lot of putting off, I've finally decided to post that pesky update on The September 12 Project. The project began on April 9, 2005, and since then I have received an oh-so-stunning total of 1 response. To my supporter: you know who you are, and I thank you kindly!

The question I pose as the launching point of the project is: "On September 12, 2001, what did you want the world to be?" I left the question very open-ended and vague, not wanting to limit responses to a particular framework or topic. From the feedback I have received on the project, however, it seems that the question is a bit overwhelming.

In an effort to inspire a greater response, I am going to share a few of my ideas, the general topics that ran through my mind on September 12 and the following few weeks. To begin, it's only fair that I expose the most fundamental question in my project:

"What is peace?" As a general rule, peace is defined only negatively, the absence of war, the absence of violence, the absence of tension, hatred and animosity. Unfortunately, we seem to only have an idea of what peace is not. I'd like to establish some idea of what peace is, what conditions constitute peace, and how one might identify a partial or whole state of peace.

Feel free to comment directly on the question of peace, to let your answer address the question indirectly, or to ignore the question entirely.

And now, a list of questions that I hope do absolutely nothing to narrow your thinking, but do inspire your minds, pens, or keyboards.

What type of reaction did you hope for (from peers, communities, families, political representatives, other countries, religious leaders at the community and international level, etc)?

What type of reaction did you fear (from peers, communities, families, political representatives, other countries, religious leaders at the community and international level, etc)?

What was your greatest concern? (environment, censorship, travel, security, trade, war, foreign aid, intolerance, politics, economics, etc)

Did you hope the events of September 11 would inspire change? If so, what changes did you hope for?

Did you hope that the events of September 11 would change nothing? If so, why?

To include a personal response in The September 12 Project:

post your personal response in the comments section

e-mail september12project@yahoo.ca

And please, please, please, please, please, share this with your friends, family, and mortal enemies.

Thank you,

Sarah

2005-06-17T16:48:00.000-04:00

Taking the High Road

"Perhaps, in many ways, the cookie represents at that is wrong with advanced civilization. People are so enamored with the luxuries afforded to them by their cherished technogolgy that they often forget the deeper joys of life." - koalaMan, The Four Ninja Food Groups

I've been having trouble with the high road this week. Not with taking it, but with my faith in the ability of others to take it. When did the social constructs of karitas, love, community, and friendship go out of style? More importantly... why did they go out of style?

If you have nothing to say in response to that, say something nonetheless. A fun little game that I picked up I-don't-remember-where. What does the dubya in dubya really stand for? Some of my personal favourites include:

War criminal

Wanker

Why the hell am I the president of the United States of America?

~~Disgust.~~ Discuss.

2005-06-13T00:25:00.000-04:00

"If 5 mins of your time could save a life, why don't we deal in hours?" - MBLOG

More fodder for thought on poverty in Africa:

“…Instead of Saudi Arabia's oil wealth being used to "save Africa," how about if Africa's oil wealth was used to save Africa--along with its gas, diamond, gold, platinum, chromium, ferroalloy and coal wealth?

- Naomi Klein, A Noose, Not a Bracelet

From the management:

The September 12 Project is over two months old. Look for a progress update soon.

2005-06-12T01:34:00.000-04:00

1:34, Hot Hot Hot

A fly landed on my monitor. I chased it with my cursor. It freaked and flew away. Sorry little fly. The heat is a-makin' me crazy!

2005-06-08T11:45:00.000-04:00

"If everyone who wants to see an end to poverty, hunger and suffering speaks out, then the noise will be deafening. Politicians will have to listen." - Archbishop Desmond Tutu

From Sarah:

Today I joined thousands of Canadians pushing for the Government to recognize and support work being done around the world to end poverty. Is it an idealistic goal? Most certainly. But ideals and reality do not have to be as irreconcilable as many imagine they are. All it takes is one step. It's not a leap of faith. Just one brief moment of trust and belief that despite all pessimism and fear, we still have our voices, the power and reason to recognize suffering, and the kindness of spirit to do something about it.

From Make Poverty History:

Right now, there is active campaigning in over 50 countries around the three core demands: More and Better Aid, Make Trade Fair, and Cancel the Debt. In Canada, we're also campaigning to End Child Poverty in Canada.

Go to http://www.makepovertyhistory.ca and sign on to the campaign yourself.

There is no time to lose. It doesn't matter who or where you are, your voice is critical to the success of this campaign. This is a rare chance to join me and thousands of others across the planet to once and for all make poverty history.

What you can do right now:
Sign on to the campaign
Tell Paul Martin to commit to a timeline for 0.7%
Click others into action - forward this message to your networks

2005-05-31T15:02:00.000-04:00

WHAM! Pineappled!

Today has been a good day. Terribly unproductive, but one of the best days I have had this month. And I have not so much as left the house yet. Things that make today wonderful:

wedding planning
unexpected conversations with wonderful persons
plans falling apart, only to come together perfectly
barbecues
foreign adventure
pineapples

I opened the pantry in hopes of finding a cracker. A cracker for a snacker, you might say. As I was closing the Breton box, cracker in mouth, I looked up to the top shelf of the pantry. And that's when it hit me. WHAM! PINEAPPLED! Right between the eyes! Note: I was not, in fact, literally marked by the pineapple. But it was a shocker, let me tell you. Oh yes, that is what I was just about to do... Now normally the site of a pineapple would not inspire nearly so much shock and awe in me, but this was an exceptional little pineapple. In the nearly two years that I have inhabited this apartment, you see, there has never, (no, never) been a pineapple to inhabit it with me. You might say the 99 is a pineapple free zone. Note: people might look at you funny if you did, but you just might anyway, you crazy nut, you. So the sight of a pineapple was a highly unusual and foreign experience. Kudos, young produce, for you have braved the treacherous journey that is... being purchased and carried home by Angela!

2005-05-30T12:48:00.000-04:00

Dancing Records, Wooden Spoons

I tend to forget that no matter where in the world a person is, the one thing that remains constant is the inconstancy of time. All over North America today there are people cursing their double beds, their dressers, and those cumbersome armoires, wishing they did not have to move from this apartment to the next. People frantically scrounge for first, last, or even just next month's rent. People forget and then recall again with a pang and a turn of the stomach that there are phone bills and mortgage installments to be made. And this activity continues in perpetuity, biweekly, and month after month, never changing, while nothing stays the same. Such is the nature of the capitalist maze, I suppose.

This post is dedicated to Alison and April, in hope that their transitions are without event, and to the 99, which will soon be no longer.

2005-05-27T00:10:00.000-04:00

"...a sense of the gravity of knowledge..."

Hmm. Well. I think it might have something to do with knowing something terrible, knowing that you will always know it, and knowing that you have a lot of power to affect such a terrible thing. Sort of a pandora's box thing, mayhaps?

2005-05-23T00:13:00.000-04:00

Elegy for a Test Tube Vase

It travelled over 3000 kilometres, and a curtain killed it.

2005-05-14T11:48:00.000-04:00

Lluvem

There's a quaint little bookstore that I frequent with my husband (Carlos, this morning). Today we were on our way to the hospital, when Carlos decided he needed reading material. The impending birth of a child, it seems, would not be entertainment enough. After Carlos pulled up across from the bookstore, I sighed, conceded, and waited as he turned in to the alley leading to Lluvem's customer parking. By the time we had pulled into the alley, not even parked yet, several years had passed, and our daughter groaned from the back seat as dad got out to spend yet another 'jiffy' in our favourite bookstore. It was raining lightly, as it is now. The mists come lightly, softly, and few by few. They bring with them the sadness that one knows after the anticipated end of a long period of happiness. A pink and brown brick library, on a downtown street, in the middle of a shower. If ever it were so...

2005-04-22T12:44:00.000-04:00

I Was Born on a Tuesday

Today is yet another last day of work for she who would be called Sarah. There are a few important details that I fear have not been addressed in full, but I don't fear enough to really care. But this is not what we are here to discuss.

The September 12 project is progressing, if only in my mind. I have devised a number of strategies in the 11 days since I lanched the project. I have yet to receive any responses, but am quite confident that I shall. But this is not what we are here to discuss.

Today I am amused by simple, frivolous things. Things like bangles and toile, feathers and lemons. But this is not what we are here to discuss.

I was born on a Tuesday. Twenty years later a man named Karol died. But that is not what we are here to discuss.

2005-04-20T12:19:00.000-04:00

The Kubler-Ross Model of the Death of Rock and Roll

Public places. You should always meet in public places. Furthermore, those public places should be populous, but not so populous as to be overcrowded. Do not meet at Dundas and Spadina. That is not the best option for you, as you find the sight of bodies in a window painful. Meet, instead, further South on Spadina or, far better, on Queen. There you will be carrying a book, wearing a necklace of blue and green glass, and pondering the purchase of a paper lantern. The Buddha on your wrist and the one in your purse wink at the Buddhas in the store windows, and you wonder how many Buddhas have been missed, lost, or forgotten. You don't know it, but your heart is about to break.

2005-04-19T15:27:00.000-04:00

Random Good Sandwich, Hot Feet

sliced smoked tofu roll (from Ying Ying Soy Food)
peanut butter (would have been better with crunchy)
mustard
red pepper (sweet, not hot)
cheddar cheese (old equals good)
lettuce (with two t's, iceberg or leaf)

It wanted pickles (dill).

The out-of-doors temperature is currently 23 degrees centigrade. I have not visited the out-of-doors for roughly 7 hours and 17 minutes. I removed my shoes 13 minutes ago, and my feet are no longer hot. It strikes me as odd that we spend so much time inside, away from the earth and real things. My co-workers held a farewell gathering for me this morning, as I will be gone as of Friday. We expect lightning and thunder this evening. The banana chocolate chip muffins were excellent. The gathering reminds me a bit of a wake. I wonder how many times banana chocolate chip muffins have been served at wakes. I think this is a terrible post. I am excited.

I did not drink the coffee.

2005-04-15T12:49:00.000-04:00

The First Intelligent Thought I've Had in Response to Morgan Spurlock's Super Size Me

It occurred to me today that in his documentary Super Size Me, Morgan Spurlock, perhaps inadvertently, reinforces antiquated gender norms. In the course of the film, Spurlock introduces the audience to two important members of his private life: his mother and his girlfriend. In some earlier scenes, he describes the way things used to be, when families cooked at home and ate in restaurants only on the rarest and most special occasions. Most of his own childhood memories of his mother, he says, are of his mother in the kitchen. Flash forward twenty-something years. Spurlock introduces us to Alexandra Jamieson, then girlfriend, now fiancée, long time vegan chef and holistic health counselor. So Spurlock swapped his healthy home cooking mom for a woman who cooks for a living. I am not trying to call into question Spurlock's motivations or to insinuate that he allows his personal life to influence his objectivity; I simply feel that beneath the obvious theme of his film, Spurlock has allowed old-fashioned gender roles to fester. In the film, Spurlock presents himself as a man who depends on the women in his life to keep him healthy. As women, over the past few decades, have made their exodus from the kitchen to the office, they have had less time and energy to focus on keeping themselves and their Morgan Spurlocks healthy. So I guess my question would have to be... of all the fast food tycoons in the world, how many go home to a wifey and a home-cooked meal? Discuss.

2005-04-09T11:21:00.000-04:00

On September 12 2001, What Did You Want the World to be?

This idea occurred to me not more than an hour and a half ago. I was lying in bed, trying to decide whether or not to brush my teeth, when my eyes landed on the Bush-Martin '04: Wrong on Star Wars button on my bulletin board. This, of course, led me to think about the march against Bush in November, which inevitably led to thoughts of September 11 2001. I thought about tragedy, and how politicians often mar the memory of such events on major anniversaries by using the opportunity to trumpet their successes. I found myself wondering what the world has actually accomplished in the days since 9/11. And then it hit me.

What if someone were able to look at what the world was at 7 am on September 11 2001, and at everything that happened between then and September 11 2006, and challenge the trumpeting that inevitably will go on? What if someone took the time to reflect on what has happened and on what the world has or has not become since then? With this post, I announce the official launch of what I will pretentiously call The September 12 Project.

The September 12 Project is about hope. I want to find out what we've done, what kind of progress the world has made since 9/11. Essentially this is going to be one giant research project for Sarah. And Sarah needs your help.

I want to use a human perspective in my research, because I believe the human perspective is left out of most contemporary political and economic work on the subject. So I ask you, please, answer the question "On September 12 2001, what did you want the world to be?" If your answer is short, feel free to leave it in the comments section at the bottom of this post. If not, you can e-mail it to september12project@yahoo.ca. If you wish to remain anonymous, feel free to withhold your name, or to indicate to me in your comments that your name should be kept private.

I am committed, on the 5 year anniversary of 9/11, to releasing a report on your testimonials. In order for this project to be successful, however, I need as many participants and as much publicity as I can possibly get, so please, send this post, using the e-mail link below (the envelope icon) to forward on to anyone who might be interested.

5 years later, perhaps the world really will be a better place. At the very least, I'd like to inspire people to think about what they do want for the future, and what they can do to help. Thanks for taking the time to read this, and I hope to hear from you soon!

Addendum: While I make no secret of my own political leanings, I am absolutely open to those who would like to express opinions contrary to mine. In fact, I encourage it! My goal, as a political scientist, is to get as wide and varied an array of opinions as possible!

2005-04-08T10:59:00.000-04:00

Wriggles and Snaps

I am excited. Very excited. And disappointed all the same. I do not know what to make of myself at present, and I spend far too much time trying to decide what to make of myself in the past and future. After a string of frustrating meetings and slow days, I found myself lapsing into the same stewing and muttering behaviours that I find so unhealthy in my mother. As per usual, I take for granted all the wonderful little things around me. Friends that care for me, and make it very clear. A future full of so much excitement and opportunity that I might collapse under the weight of it all, rolling with laughter as it topples over. Commitment to a cause that I know helps people in exactly the way I think I should help people. Direction, however broad and meandering, towards a goal that really does seem bright. So today, instead of complaining and going on, I'm going to do something that I do both rarely and not nearly often enough. Thank you. Thank you Chelsea. Thank you Kristin. Thank you Sofie. Thank you Andrea and Ciara. Thank you Raja and Jenn. Thank you Katherine. Thank you Ky and Kari. Thank you Jennifer. Thank you Asim. Thank you Emily. Thank you Jason. Thank you Andy. Thank you Aveleigh and Dmitry. Thank you Kate. Thank you Nicola and Deb. Thank you Tim. Thank you Tim. Thank you Aaron. Thank you Laura. Thank you Melissa. Thank you Penny. Thank you Leslie. Thank you Shirl. Thank you for all the happy moments you have given me, and for all the hope you give me for the future.

"But trust me... on the sunscreen." - Mary Schmich

2005-04-05T18:10:00.000-04:00

The Randomly Hip, OR The Tragically Absurd

At frequent, random intervals throughout the day I've had a single line of The Hip's 'At the Hundredth Meridian' playing in my head. Now, normally, having any amount of almost any Hip song lodged inside my skull for any amount of time would leave me quite irate. Note: of course, as Hip songs tend, in this country, to receive what I feel is an exorbitant amount of play, they are more or less permanently lodged in my skull, which may explain my volatile potential for nastiness. However, this particular case of the Tragic Plague came with a rather amusing little antibody. I seemed to have replaced eulogy with the ever so much more amusing eugoogoly. So forget Jimmy Eat World. Get Ry Cooder to sing my eugoogoly!

2005-04-01T14:14:00.000-05:00

Attaque à Main Armée de Café

Ah the wonders of web-based translation. I can mug a person in French. I can mug a person with coffee in french. But I certainly cannot say mug - or coffee mug, for that matter - in French. So please do not ask me to. I do find it ironic, though, that my weapon of choice also happens to be my kryptonite. Note to self: must write script for the movie Unbreakable 2: Attaque à Main Armée de Café, and send to M. Night Shyamalan. OR must write script for the movie Unbreakablesque, and send to the brothers Chaps.

2005-03-15T12:37:00.000-05:00

T-Shirt Ninja, and Other Non-Threats

I'm guilty, I'll admit. I realized this morning, or possibly last night, while washing my face, that I, despite my years of training in you-should-know-betterology, have indulged in one of the greatest sins of all mass media consumptiondom. Yes, it's true, I've been thinking in goodguy/badguy terms. Now, I know, I am painfully aware, that there aren't really good authoritarian dictatorships and bad authoritarian dictatorships, there are no good and bad rebel insurgents, but some part of me still struggles to dichotomize international and global conflict into manifestations of the forces of good and evil.

Perhaps this urge stems from the black and white dichotomies of my religious upbringing. Or maybe I'm just an optimistic little idealist? I feel the need to box up warfare and pull it apart because, apparently, in my merry little world if I can definitely pick a goodguy and a badguy, then I don't have to accept that world peace isn't just impossible, it's improbable. If I can find a goodguy, the world will have its hero.

Never one to hang on to irrational ideas for *ahem* much longer than I know they're irrational, I've revised my thinking on goodguys vs. badguys. Turns out, the goodguys and the badguys are really all just guys. Guys with guns. And if you're looking for someone to stick up for, or whose side you can take with a conscience free and clear, it's the ones without the guns you want.

2005-03-14T13:07:00.000-05:00

If I Got Up and Left

During my absence, the urge to abandon my life has been growing inside me, somewhere along the back of my skull. Note: yes, it really was more neglect than absence. The mass of the bug grows, like black velvet sludge, atop my brain, pushing against the walls of my skull, while it's tail slithers and snakes through my body. It creeps down my throat, entwined in my vocal cords, and wends its way around my lungs and liver. My intestines and uterus are hidden in the coils of this sly black adder. And it splits, ever so gracefully, to pull at the muscles of my thighs. The tails of this, this snake, this thing, this urge, are tied taut at my ankles, so thick that my knees cannot be kept still more than twenty minutes. It pulses, rolling its sinews inside me, urging me to go.

2005-02-16T12:36:00.000-05:00

Mother Nature Knows No Vanity

These days the sidewalks of Ottawa City flow like tiny torrents of Hell. Looking out my 13th floor window, all I see is white. Muted, bloated, grayish white, punctuated by the occasional barb of a barren brown tree or ominous gray of some foreboding office tower. The buildings seem to cry out, "Flee, Sarah, Flee! Tear yourself from our bosom before we do imbibe you and leech out your precious spirit!" And so I flee. I flee from that window where the office towers pulse with yearning, reaching desperately while bidding me go, their windows glassy and dead. I flee to my memories, where magnolias perch calmly, peering down at me quizzically as I walk slowly through their shade. Where green marble and grey cement shine through bleak days. Where low-lying buildings in purples and reds collapse with laughter behind me. I long for the freedom of small dark rooms with old linoleum floors and poor insulation. I long for imperfection and excitement. I long for the humidity of melting snow and the hum and babble of bridges and atria. My eyes are lifting, filling with foliage and tropics. Oh can't you smell the spring?

2005-02-12T20:02:00.000-05:00

Rage, Rage, and Passionate Cries

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Dylan Thomas

2005-02-11T12:08:00.000-05:00

Where Do We Go From Here?

A number of events of little significance have got me thinking, as of late, about what I need to do with myself before I die. I have either an infinite or an infinitessimal amount of time left; while I'm not particularly fearful of my own death, I am, at times, apprehensive of what will happen to me in the moments between now and then. What will I do, what will I see, where will I go? Will I stop dropping my freaking cheerios on the floor of my cubicle? I've always had a somewhat morbid view of my own future, expecting it to be rife with intense heartbreak and disease or mortal injury. Is my obsession with tragedy and passion just girlish fantasy, or could there be something more, something real in my dreams? A few people close to her believe that my mother has a certain amount of metaphysical power, that she can will changes into the lives of others. Could it be possible that I will tragedy into mine? Or is my awareness of mortality simply so excessively accute that it permeates my vision of life?

2005-02-08T13:47:00.000-05:00

Addendum: Melancholy and Laughter

I have added a slew of links to the Weblogs and Journals section of the sidebar. For perspective into the muddle that is my mind, please peruse. I stongly suggest some of the items available at Girls are Pretty, as they reflect with remarkable accuracy my own morbidity.

2005-02-08T08:57:00.000-05:00

When You Just Want to Kick the World in the Nads

Disclaimer: I hate EVERYTHING, and will likely do so until two hours after falling asleep tonight.

Rrrrrrr. ARRRRRRRGH. GAAAAAAHHH!

2005-02-03T22:39:00.000-05:00

You Know, You Can't Just Run Around Willy Nilly Making Up Acronyms.

My father, new to the world of instant messaging, is rapidly adopting a number of the annoying habits normally attributed to preteen and adolescent IMers. Coupled with his general infantility, this can create what many mothers and pseudo-mothers affectionately refer to as a handful.

Dad:
but what the heck is wha ja guh

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
"wha ja guh?" is my reaction to you making up msn language

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
you know, you can't just run around willy nilly making acronyms

Dad:
wot i do?

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
wjg is not a valid acronym

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
where joo go is not a commonly used expression, and therefore not acronymable

Dad:
that's just what u wrote........where joo go

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
i am aware of what i wrote

Dad:
stop using words I cant pronounce

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
the offense was commissioned when you decided to acronimify the phrase

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
stop using acronyms that aren't legitimate msn fodder and you have a deal

Dad:
kaaki tu angraizi di lat punrahee hain! (Note: unapproximable punjabi interjection)

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
aha! don't try and wile your way out of this with foreign languages!

Dad:
don't try and what?

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
wile your way out

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
like, use your wiley charms

Dad:
my name is not wily coyote (Note: Unforgivable. Who doesn't know that it's Wile E. Coyote?)

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
are you a coyote? i think not

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
precisely

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
so no wiling

Dad:
you're so cute when u r mad!

Dad:
oops was that wily too?

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
i'm not mad

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
and no... i think that was patronizing, father

Dad:
crazy?

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
oh that mad

Heavens to Murgatroid!:
well yes, i am that

2005-02-01T13:10:00.000-05:00

Hurry up Sarah, There's a Doggy Coming! And Other Such Lies

When I was a very small child my brother used to walk me to and from school. Our relationship was not completely antagonistic, but was often so. Walking anywhere these days, I can always here the crunch and squish of snow and slush beneath my feet. I was reminded on a recent walk home from work of one of the obscure barbs that my brother once threw my way. I was told that the level of noise that I made in my clunky plastic winter boots was simply abhorrent. Further to this point, my brother informed me that no man would ever love me if I continued to walk so loudly. In truth, I cannot recall his exact words. He may in fact have told me that no boys would ever like me. Although these days I tend to disarm people with my ninja-like stealth, I have, in fact, never been loved. Single. Solitary. Tear.

2005-01-30T02:30:00.000-05:00

Subconsciously, it's Anything but Traumatic.

Two days ago you said that you had something very important to tell us. You were very excited. Mom and Dad got very excited because they thought that you were finally not living in sin. You were not, in fact, not living in sin. But you told us that she was pregnant. Dad threw an empty cardboard box at your head. It hit you directly in the face. The impact set off a fit of rage comparable to a hyperactive thirteen year old boy having a temper tantrum. I could not help but laugh. Not outright, the way you would if you saw someone slip and fall on their ass, or if you heard a teenage girl on the bus speaking earnestly about, well, anything that teenage girls speak earnestly about. This was silent laughter, the sort you keep to yourself. That inward snicker that becomes your only defence against the unruly and the totalitarian. And then I realized that I've been doing it, without realizing, my entire life.

2005-01-27T13:40:00.000-05:00

PRESENTING TITANIC IN 30 SECONDS (AND RE-ENACTED BY BUNNIES)

Through random chance, slight web log addiction, and utter workplace boredom, I've stumbled upon the most amusing animation site I've been introduced to since becoming acquainted with Homestar. I recommend the Icon Story.

2005-01-24T10:50:00.000-05:00

Could of? Would of? Should of?

Question: why is it that so many people do not understand the subtly blatant art of contractions?

I've never really been one to heed the shrill cry of grammar harpies; frankly, I couldn't care less about the use of contractions in everyday speech. Or writing, for that matter. But for the love of crap, people! You've got to know what they mean! It's not like these are particularly challenging concepts. The 'it's's and 'what's's and 'must've's of the world are pretty straight forward. Most people understand these contractions quite well, and yet a large portion of this most is at a complete loss when it comes to translating meaning into text. So here, kiddies, is a simple grammar lesson from Sarah, honourary harpy:

've >< of; 've = have. HAVE. For the love of crap, HAVE!

Thank you, and good day.

2005-01-21T15:22:00.000-05:00

The Lost Lamb, The Lost Bread, The Lost Boys

Lyla Jones claims that she is like a little lost puppy making her way back home. I, on the other hand, feel like a baby whose mother left her on a doorstep in hopes that she would be taken in and find a better life. Of course, my 'mother' is acting more on her own desire for a better life than her desire for me to have one. And she left me on the doorstep in -40 degree weather. I keep trying to tell myself that I should not be as distraught as I am. In the overarching web of the world, this is not so devastating a life event. Nonetheless, my neck is starting to stiffen and I can feel a familiar tightness, the sort that tends to preceed the formation of a lump in my throat, pulling against my chest. Eid Mubarak Sarah.

2005-01-19T13:51:00.000-05:00

Please, Could you not?

Everyone has a few little things that make them cringe. Not everyone can rank them, though. My top X please-could-you-nots:

Write little notes in my planner or on my notes. Pencil is forgivable, but ink shall incur my wrath.

Eat or chew, even for a few seconds, with your mouth open

Call me "Sarah Malik" with those horrible, grating, short North American a's

Leave used tissues lying around. Under pillows, in blankets, on couches and tables... the answer is always EWW!

Stare - at me, or over my shoulder - from within two feet of my side

2005-01-16T14:50:00.000-05:00

"She can almost forgive capitalism for that."

Where would I be without any of the smallest things that have made me myself?

"Only the best art can order the chaotic tumble of events. Only the best can realign chaos to suggest the chaos and order it will become." - Michael Ondaatje

Perhaps my life is just that. A set of little baubles, events and plans and people, coming together and falling apart, moving in and out of the foreground like ants on a grass curatin in the wind.

2005-01-12T11:31:00.000-05:00

Sinking In

Back in the soul trap that is the government, I'm not quite as despondent as I was the last time around. I'm not sure whether my current situation is better than my previous situation or not. These days the tedium is mostly characterized by a lack of things to do. The boredom is punctuated by a few very interesting projects, but, for the most part, there is less punctuation in my boredom than one might find in a second grader's failed attempt at grammar homework. I suppose I should not complain though. No, wait, the purpose of this entry was to find out whether or not I still have reason to complain. Note to self: when contradicting self, there is no need to make note of said contradiction in a recorded media which can be retrieved and used against self to prove self's mental inadequacies. In my previous situation I was constantly tense because of the overwhelming amounts of tedious data work that was piled atop me. So I guess the titanic clash today equals Situation: Overwhelmed-with-Tension VS. Situation: Underwhelmed-with-Boredom. Who will win? They say that only time will tell, but we all know I'm too impatient to wait for time.

2004-12-24T13:00:00.000-05:00

Turning Away at the Gates

Living in religious tension overkill again for the past few days, I've been letting my mind wander in the direction of heaven. Last May or so I realized that I wasn't sure if I wanted to get into heaven, even if I could make it past the gates. According to 'my' religion, my top three favourite people would not make it in with me. Realizing this, I thought, well, if the people I love the most won't be there with me, than it's not really heaven is it? So maybe I don't deserve to go to heaven at all. I remember reading one of those really normative story books, the ones that blatantly try to shape children's morals and opinions, when I was about seven. In the story Muhammad told someone that they should love God more than anything or anyone else. Not I. So if I don't place God at the highest echelons of my heart, perhaps I'm not worthy of heaven. I don't know how I feel about this. I just might be better off without it.

2004-12-16T14:17:00.000-05:00

Stripes

Another one of those days. I went to four stores in search of a January student pass, but my search was unsuccessful. I was hectored at the security desk by a man who was displeased with my choice of identification, and again at the elevators by a man who paid little attention to detail. On my way back from Tower B I decided to stop for a slice. In the pizzeria I was hit on by a dangerously charming Lebanese pizza boy, the toppings were very fresh, and my crust was crisp and not at all greasy, just the way I like it. While at the pizzeria, and on my way home, I saw a boy, the same boy, wearing the same striped sweater and the same striped scarf, three times. I was struck by the striped boy, because every time I saw him I had the distinct impression that he was headed in the direction opposite to the direction in which he intended to proceed. I was also told that I use my vocabulary to "dazzle" readers. There are stripes here where there shouldn't be.

2004-12-01T23:35:00.000-05:00

In all the Excitement...

I need someone that I can trust to lean against and keep me warm. I need someone who'll hold my neck and bring me ibuprofen when I'm too stubborn. I need someone to collapse into and lose my strength to and be sick and be helpless around. I can do a lot, but I can't do it all, and I certainly can't do this alone. I need a solid suit of armor with warm, soft insides where I can hide away and be small in the dark. I need a coconut boat and a teddy bear skipper to take me away to a sea of sleep and dreams.

2004-11-30T23:42:00.000-05:00

Arms are for Hugging, and Other Cliched Criticisms

A month and a day after my foray into freedom, I've realized that today would be an excellent day to let you know just how I am enjoying said freedom. Today I condemned a regime that has terrorized the world for over four years. Today I exercised my right to have a voice. Today I told the world that I could not and would not be an accomplice to murder and injustice around the world. Today I marched through the streets of Ottawa and told George W. Bush NO.

The most profound lesson I learned today was that even in a country that claims to be a bastion of democracy, that boasts one of the highest national literacy rates in the world, and whose people claim to be so aware of and so opposed to the unjust and illegal actions of the Bush regime, people are still severely ignorant. Canadians don't seem to be aware of our own contributions to the violence in Iraq, to the spread of the AIDS virus, and to the arbitrary detention of people who have not been formally charged with any crime both internationally and within Canadian territory.

What pains me even more is that of those who are aware, very few are actually willing to make even the smallest personal effort to hold their fellow human beings accountable. In North America we have the right to protest peacefully, yet we content ourselves to watch events unfolding on television. We have the right to free, fair, and democratic elections, and yet our leaders continue to take power from corrupt and widely unsupported elections. It seems to me that only when our own children are starving, our own police are being turned against us, and our own cities are being bombed with Canadian-made artillery shells, only then will we Canadians abandon our terminal apathy.

2004-10-29T10:28:00.000-04:00

The World is Almost My Oyster!

I'm about an hour and thirty-one minutes away from being unemployed, and it's a sweet, sweet feeling. It's funny how a person can feel so much richer on the brink of losing so much potential income. Ah well. Aside from the frequent murderous head pains, this has been the greatest week I've had in longer than I can remember. Actually, even with the pain, it's been pretty damn great. There were a hell of a lot of disappoinments, but it's really okay because things can only get better from here.

2004-10-25T10:12:00.000-04:00

It's a Shooting Pain... It Shoots from Foot to Foot

I think that's how it goes. It also goes something like, seizure, thinking you're dehydrated, realizing you're not, realizing that five days of head problems could be more serious than you'd like to admit. Has she gone to the doctor yet? Of course not, she's Sarah. She's too busy thinking about relatively insignificant things to be worried about her health. So I'm opening her up to the diagnoses of the masses. Symptoms:

head pain, occasionally very intense in the right temple, usually an overall brain ache, hurts at the back of the skull much more than it should when I shake my head a very little bit;
neck pain, pretty much the usual, but the muscle stiffness extends along my back down to about the bottom of my rib cage;
jaw pains, intermittent over the past week, a dull my-teeth-are-too-big-for-my-face-and-are-all-rubbing-together sort of pain

Any thoughts?

2004-10-23T22:35:00.000-04:00

What to Do When a Wolf Chases You 700 Kilometres and Tries to Eat You, Causing You to Have Seizure-Like Panic Attack:

Dear Geneviève,

During the past few months I have experienced a great deal of stress that has affected my ability to work and has affected my daily life. I find that overall, the level of stress I am experiencing at work, in my academics, and in my personal life is steadily increasing. After reflecting on this problem for a few weeks, I have decided that it would be best for me to resign from my position here at ***. As you know, I have had ongoing pay and employment status problems with human resources since September, and during the first three months of my time at *** had no fixed work station. I feel that these issues were not addressed in a timely fashion, and that the delays in these matters contributed greatly to the work-related stress that I have experienced. I feel that the manner in which these issues were handled indicates a lack of respect for my role and the contributions I have made. Had these issues been handled differently, I believe I would not have experienced the same levels of discomfort and stress.

During the summer, when I was not trying to balance my studies with work, I was able to cope with this stress better than I have since commencing school in September, but I nonetheless saw negative impacts of work-stress in my personal life. Now that my main focus is my academic work, I find that I do not have the time or energy to maintain productive work levels at work and at school. The weight of my work-related stress coupled with the stress I expected to encounter at school is becoming quite overwhelming. Thus I feel that my best option at this point is to leave *** so that I can focus on my studies and hopefully forget the stress associated with my time here.

It is unfortunate that these issues did arise, because apart from them, I found my experience with the ************************** quite satisfactory. I am grateful for the learning opportunities that you and the team have provided me, and for the friendships that I developed here at ***. I would like to thank you for the guidance you provided me, and for acting as an advocate for me in situations where I could not do so myself. I know that you made every effort to resolve these issues, and although it would have been ideal if neither of us had to deal with the stress of these issues, I am glad to have had someone as kind and genuine as yourself to share the weight of these challenges. I hope that we can continue this relationship and perhaps work together again in the future.

Sincerely,
Sarah Malik

2004-09-26T22:54:00.000-04:00

Please Charles, No!

Last night I witnessed a genocidal apocalypse. Note to self: consider the option of taking this as a bad sign for POL 3162, Political Violence: The Comparative Study of Mass Killing. There were two sets of bleachers, each on opposing sides of the room. The room was surprisingly small for the considerable number of bleachers and bodies and significant amount of free floor that it housed. We were all dressed in dark grey-blue uniforms, which we had been wearing at the institute we had recently escaped from. Various members of the X-Men and several people whose identities I cannot recall filled the bleachers on both sides of the room. I cannot remember what he said, but in a telepathic communication Charles Xavier made a fatal error. The impostor using Xavier's mind failed to recognize that his assumptions about me were incorrect, and I was able to inform a few members of my team (actually just the people seated on my side of the room, which also happened to be Xavier's). Somehow, despite my warning and the team's disloyalty to Xavier, he managed to slaughter all but myself and three or four girls of roughly the same age. We awoke in the next room to see the after-effects of a nuclear holocaust through the windows. As we tried to rebuild some modicum of comfort I could not help but think of the blue-faced bodies stirring in the next room.