Yet again…I know the nature of working on lay-out whatsoever is that you are always pressed for time…but I do think that attempting to get all the text and graphics up in less than 12 hours was a bit of an overshot. I got all the text up, but the visual art section is escaping me…I am going to retry it again this evening when I get home from making apple-crisp with Ana, but who knows how successful I will be. The good news is that I have finally managed to figure out how graphic converter works – there is so no need to purchase expensive software in this world.

I watched, for my History in Montreal class, Pierre Falardeau’s 15 fevrier 1839. Wow. Firstly, because I imagine few of my readers would be aware of this, one of my ancestors was hung on Feb. 15, 1839 as a rebel; his name was Amable Daunais and he actually is depicted in the movie as a very young man, very unable to confront his fate. This was an odd sensation – to watch the depiction by an actor of someone I have been told about numerous times as an ancestor (usually in a rhetoric of how because I speak English doesn’t make me not “pur laine”).

Secondly, I loved the rewrite of the Patriotes’ goal to independence and not proper representation. Considering the Quebecois had refused to align with the United States during the War of Independence, it was rather hard to believe that their goal was self-determination in an age pre-Nationalism. I have to write a review on the movie, and I imagine it will revolve around those two points. I think I can get quite a bit of marks out of the first one as our Professor is quite obviously interested in the depiction of public history and would be interested in how history gets passed down through generations. I need to find out a bit more about him, but I am going to be going to visit my grandmother for Thanksgiving and will have a chance to pick her brain for any information she might have.

The movie would have been much better if it had been a little less sentimental, much less polemic and accompanied by brie and wine.

I stole (ok, I took by accident, but I love hyperbole) a Professor’s copy of Death in Venice yesterday. I noticed because the postcard of the Cliffs of Muhrer that Lisa sent me from Ireland and which I use as a bookmark was not to be found within this edition’s pages. I have used a lot of different objects as bookmarks over the past couple of years which have seen me reading up to six novels/monographs at a time: receipts (my least favourite – too flimsy and inevitably something embarrassing was bought), movie stubs, museum entrance stubs, bills (again, identity theft anyone? I am stupid), pens (which fall out all the time), photographs, envelopes, objects I or someone else actually purchases with this purpose in mind, and, of course, postcards.

I like using postcards best. The letters written on the back are a great break from the reading of the book when I have had enough…the pictures are good distractors when my eyes get tired, they are pretty, they are just the right size that they don’t fall out or go un-noticed in between the pages. Before my memory was shot either from age or my recreational habits (gotta love that euphemism!) I used to just be able to remember the page I had last been at. Now I find myself re-reading four or five paragraphs everytime I return to a work…no wonder I am so much slower than I was in my International Baccalaureate days…

What do you use? What do you think it says about you?

In an article that appeared in the Thursday September 21st, 2006 edition of La Presse, the decision of UNICEF to discontinue the “tire-lires” fundraising drive that we have come to associate with trick-or-treating is recounted. This year is the fiftieth anniversary of the program which amassed over 91 million dollars (click

here for a link to the author’s article).

UNICEF has introduced a new fundraising campaign which gives the children apparently more initiative in choosing their method of supporting the organization (the article doesn’t provide the different options open to the students) and a more concrete model for representing the accumulated funds, i.e. bricks worth $20 to represent the building of a school. Reasons for terminating the program range from security risks voiced by parents and the difficulty in counting and depositing the change.

I don’t think I will be giving out candy this year for Halloween because I live in a basement with an unlit entryway…I don’t see very many parents encouraging their parents to venture down into my grotto (that and I’m a little broke to be buying other people candy). This will be the first year in quite a while that I won’t have been dressed up like a cat on October 31st passing out goodies. I used to collect my pennies for the entire month of October and keep them in a jar by the door to be meted out come trick-or-treating time. Last year, if I remember correctly, I encountered boxes around children’s necks for other foundations, like kystic fibrosis.

I remember one year, when my family was having it particularly hard, I raided my UNICEF box sitting on my bed one morning when I was supposed to be handing it in. The $3.00 this act of theft brought me was dearly bought. I felt bad about it for years everytime I saw one of those orange boxes.

It seems weird, while people are questioning the worth of the UN as a body, that they are shutting down one of the most visible programs associated with an umbrella organization.

Early in the morning on Friday September 15, 2006, Winston Frederick Stein left this world for the next. Son of Winnifred and Frederick Stein and brother to Claire, Winston enlisted in the Canadian Navy and served his country throughout the Battle of the Atlantic. Married in 1947 to Winnifred Martin, he will be lovingly remembered by his wife, sons, Martin and Robert, as well as his grandchildren and nieces. “What we call the beginning is often the end. And to make an end is to make a beginning. The end is where we start from.” – T. S. Elliot.

What do you think? Is it better than most?

Went out to Peel Pub as planned on Thursday night. Managed to get 26 shots into my system somehow without paying for a thing. I have attributed this to the holy trinity of reasons: birthday, burial and “break-up” for lack of a better term. Rejection is rejection in any shape or form.

I had never been to the old Peel Pub, which supposedly was a dump, but the new one was kind of nice. Shooters at $1.25 is always nice, and there were lots to choose from. The company was great, at first i was worried about having invited tons of people who didn’t really know each other, but i will do it again without any qualms. I think people got along, everyone knew someone else, and it meant i was in on every round of shots bought. I rock. The french fries were pretty good too.

Though the sun is reflecting down onto the dark surface of my garments, I am not warmed. It is a beautiful, crisp day and surely the wind briskly smells of joys like apple-picking, thanksgiving and trick-or-treating. I am trying to recall a sense of elation I remember feeling a similar September afternoon but ten days ago only because I hear myself pronounce tritely, “I am so happy…”

Am I hungry or are these butterflies? Do I have a headache or are my eyes tired? Is my mouth dry and throat constricted or am I thirsty? Is this a laugh I stifle or a sob? A smile or a surrender? A sigh or a hiss?

Freud, like so many before him, argued that we only know happiness through contrast and lack. The reverse is not; sadness is not experienced as a contrast to its opposite, in fact, it is a state wherein even the memory of humming a tune, smelling a lover, or basking in a moment is alien. Grief is yearning to shed the moment, lifeless, through a memory…but I can only remember the language used to articulate it.

There is somewhere to go and things to do. The path is worn and I walk alone, recoiling…back from the shivering chill of my body in this external world and into myself…hoping something will disturb by reclusion and I will be able to spring anew…but how long to grow a new skin this time?

the saga of my undesirableness continues…

i am tired…oh so tired…

very happy Tim was here so i couldn’t do anything too rash…

i’ve had enough of this.

I am awake. I should not be awake, but I am in a self-questioning mode right now and it woke me up with a feeling of worry and regret in my gut. Not about the apartment, I am okay with that (I think), but rather issues of definitions and classifications. I am a firm believer in the power of language to rectify uncertainty.

I walked in to school yesterday. It took forty-five minutes and was awesome. It was a beautiful day and my t-shirt and jeans were appropriate. I watched many Westmounters out walking their dogs, saw a bunch of policeman guarding the flowers outside Dawson, and got to school feeling pretty pleased with myself.

I skipped a class because in a very fortuitous event, I ran into an old friend from CEGEP, Lorne, as I was walking by the metro. He was killing time between a dentist’s appointment and his scheduled tattoo getting session and we went out for coffee for a little more than an hour and shot the shit. It was great to see him more than once over a summer.

But class was on Proust, and as my current MSN display name indicates, Proust is god, so I ended up going to the later session of my class and, despite my sincere remonstrations of myself to not be as obtrusive in class as usual, I still was the only person other than Bryan to talk more than once. I love Proust. I am hoping he can put me back to sleep after this with his long-winded narrative.

Lisa’s mother made fried chicken and corn on the cob for dinner. Yum. I managed to convince her to drive me home and was sent with a week’s worth of cucumbers, tomatoes and apples. The glass of wine from dinner was starting to put me to sleep and I don’t think I lasted very long before passing out. I woke up around 10:30 to get into bed.

A couple of times the same snippet of conversation came up yesterday. It is related to my status as ultimate disclosure girl in a periphery way (as an aside, I am thinking of retitling this blog “ultimate disclosure girl: an epic adventure” any thoughts?). I hate lying. I embellish stories a lot, but no longer consider that the same as lying but rather a love of narrative getting the better of me. Outright lying and concealing of the truth bothers me. I purposefully craft scenarios to permit me a way out. I am doing this right now with my ex who suddenly showed up on MSN on Saturday and wants to go out for breakfast soon to catch up. I am avoiding truly updating him on my current status and doing so with tons of loopholes. When these loopholes close, I am going to be one unhappy person because I do want to stay in contact with him, but have no idea how. Six and a half years is a very long time to say good-bye to. Who am I if I deny the experience of those six and a half years? That is my entire adult life that I am reneging. I just can’t bring myself to do it, though holding on is bound to cause me considerable suffering. I guess I am a masochist at heart. In the words of a Silverchair song we used to listen to in Veronica’s basement incessantly but could never completely understand: “abuse me more…I like it.”

Last night (well, the afternoon really) I moved into my new place…no internet access, so entries are going to be back-dated for a while. You’ll just have to cope as I am not rich enough to get myself hooked up and supposedly my landlords (who live upstairs and are not super quiet, by the by) are getting high-speed and are interested in halfing the bill with me.

Okay…all that to get to my point. I promptly started reading Marcel Proust’s Swann’s Way as I have readings due for tomorrow, and the ouverture has this beautiful bit about how when you are falling asleep or waking up your mind replays all the rooms you have ever fallen asleep in. It was very fitting for my first night in my own place. I am loving this reading assignment.

I went out with Anabelle this afternoon. We walked from my place to the Eaton Centre, shopped for a couple of hours (I bought a black shirt for my grandfather’s funeral) and then got on the metro to go to Ana’s where we watched a Film Noir called Brick. It was my first of the genre. It was good. I had some trouble following the dialogue at times, but I think that may have had more to do with our watching the movie on a laptop than anything else. Ana then took me out for dinner (my birthday present) to St. Viateur’s on Monkland. The Moo Moo is awesome (roast beef, swiss, lettuce, tomato and Dijon mustard) but is beaten by their artichoke salad. Yum.

I walked home. I stopped at Pharmaprix to pick up some cotton. My landlords make quite a bit of noise when they walk. Not complaining, I am completely aware that this is the nature of a basement apartment, but that doesn’t mean I can’t do my best to muffle the various sounds. Yes, I know earplugs would be more effective, but I still want to hear my phone ring, my alarm sound and other IMPORTANT noises like the kettle boiling. That and earplugs make my ears hurt from the pressure. Cotton may not be as effective, but it is more comfortable.

Tonight will be my first night alone here. I think I will be okay. Back to Proust.

Written in class early this afternoon (why won’t McGill’s wireless give me a signal in the Arts building?):

And the sage of head-banging against the desk continues…

Yet again we are being given a synopsis of a book I’ve read from cover to cover. This lack of primary sources is driving me crazy. A great books curriculum is worth so much more than these survey classes. The Courtier is one of my favourite books (hence the citation on the top of this page) and this brief summary of it does not do it justice in the least.

Okay, and now we are discussing Lorenzo Valla, the author of the Donation of Constantine, possibly one of the wittiest works I have ever read and we are not even looking at the text. Why? We are being robbed of an opportunity to study something much more worthwhile so a professor can ramble on and on with everyone ferverently jotting down notes.

Evening update: moved half my shit in. My grandfather is in intensive care. His limbs are like ice, but apparently his core temperature is through the roof. The medications they are giving him conflict and are causing even more damage. It’s going to be a rough week-end.