...so invitingly...

It appears I was correct when I told Steph the whole world is on crack. The past day and a half has been a whirlwind of surprises and shocks, so abrupt in the way they just knocked me around. Naturally, while all this goes on, I also have to complete (read: begin) two essays, and also do three shifts at work.

I'll be sitting at the game tonight wondering if the puck would be so kind as to hit me in the head. In case any of you were wondering.

...the limit...

Rest in peace, Terri Schiavo.

...multiply, divide...

You won't see me today - I am hiding in Second Cup until further notice. By which I mean, until I finish my Bioethics essay that is due tomorrow (and I haven't started) or until 6pm, when I leave to watch hockey.

Tonight we wish broken legs upon a boy. But in a good way - in that theatre way. Capisce?

...flew out the door...

I'm pretty sure a big aspect of my growing up would involve learning to read my own emails from boys I like, without having to ask Farnam to read it first and prep me for elation or devastation, as needed. To her credit, today she finally refused to humour me. "Dude", she said, "just read it".

I did.

If things continue to drop slowly, so slowly into my field of vision, I will never be able to move on. Last week, my anthem was hateful. Today it sounds something like the hook to The Twist - "I want it, it is you; you are where I want to be".

Today's comfort and soul food: Amelie, ash reshteh, and a long walk in the sunshine listening to Dave Matthews, nostalgia como su voz.

...beyond the fringe...

Dishes like The Bloor Street Diner's "grilled chicken breast on rosemary focaccia" are meant to make you realise that you will never belong.

Inevitably, it will be the pommes allumees that will fail you. Seeking grace and elegance in your actions, you will invariably try and eat them with a fork. More precarious than little green peas, they will roll, deflect, and topple off your utensils. Looking around you warily, you notice the other charming young ladies in your vicinity picking them up carefully with their fingers, putting them in their mouths, and demurely brushing their hands on the napkins folded on their laps. You take note. And try again. Hoping no one is the wiser.

Word to the wise: Avoid the coffee, much too strong. And if there's anything those Yorkville Blondes need is more excitability. I work in the Manulife Centre, trust me I know.

Tonight's needed studying will be foregone in favour of Matt Mays at the Horseshoe. Any wishing to accompany us, jump on board and merrily!

...tu peux rien faire en tant qu'oiseux...

And so, the semester ends. Nearly, anyway. Officially there is one more week to go, but officially never really did it for me. The final French examination in the labo, took the form of a one-on-one interview with the T.A. - et donc, bien sur que j'avais l'air nerveuse.

Someone didn't get the memo that says "Hey! It's still March!" because while I'm hiding in the library, the day outside is 15 degrees and a sunny, spring-cool blue.

The Pre-Law Society sent out my leetle blurb about Power in Diversity, and we are very nearly good to go. Hurrah! 6 days from the event, 4 days from The Bloc Party (I will use all feminine wiles, monetary bribery and/or sexual favours to get in), 3 days from Erin's wedding shower, and 2 days from the opening that I will not be attending because I am not feeling so charitably inclined. Are we clear?

Working on summer scheduling and plans - thinking about travel arrangements. Fingers crossed that they work out, maybe baby because I want to

drive through deserts, and
be in four places at once;
drop in on an SLC punk, and
make Los Angeles bounce

all while reading Harry Potter to a half-American dancing king. Don't you wish you could come?

Fingers crossed that I get Americana in May, et puis la vie francaise vers le fin de juillet quand je me trouve a Perpignan. Just me and my mums, and a French coastal town with a final couple days in Paris, before Charles de Gaulle finally sends me on my way. Three weeks, three weeks, three weeks of Frenchiness.

Last night we talked about the most beautiful boy on campus, oh the snakey charmy slimey boy that he is (cheated on his girlfriend *twice!* last year). We brought out the picture, and there he was in all his Ralph Lauren sweaters and brown leather jacket beauty. "Is he really the most beautiful guy on campus" someone asked. "Ooooh yeah" pipes in Janet, eavesdropping from her room and now jumping into the foray. Well that same beauty is in the same library as me, as we speak. What are the odds, I ask you?

...tales of a boring bookseller...

i) Andre Benjamin was in the store last night, yay for celebrity hobnobbing. Dan got his signature on a disc, and glowed all day. The rest of us glanced over covetously.

ii) Finished Max Tivoli, have started "Middlesex" and "A Short History of Progress" simultaneously.

iii) It seems everyone is getting married - four (count them, four) women of my acquaintance and/or friendship are getting married in the next 5 months. None of them is over 24 years old. With each breath of marriage news to reach my mothers ears, she perks up and looks over at me with hope. I glare at her.

We aren't even grown ups yet! What are you doing getting married, it's like a horrible game of dress-up.

iv) On the plus side, I am going to be a bridesmaid in Vancouver.

v) With a pit stop in Seattle.

...looked for you downtown...

Michael Schiavo loses all credibility as his wife's guardian by the fact that he has a fiancee. Is it just me, or is that not a huge conflict of interest? The one person who insists Terri would want to die is the one person who's future with another woman depends on her death.

This whole thing is sick. Regardless of whether or not she should be allowed to die, depriving her of food and water is completely barbaric. What makes us think we can treat her this way because she is brain damaged? She is a person, and last I checked we can't choose to deny the people in our care access to the necessities of life because they aren't person "enough".

If Michael Schiavo doesn't want to care for his wife anymore, he should concede that care to the loving parents who want to care for the daughter they love. He can move on to the rest of his life in peace.

...hestitation's always mine...

i) Decemberists tickets!

ii) This week is passport application, hurrah! Yay road trip in the States.

iii) Sometimes listening to Metric annoys me because on some songs the keyboard is amateurish, and I think wow I could fix that up.

...it's wrong to want more than a folk song...

Pictures from Eid, as promised:

My immediate family, plus Khaleh and Amoo.

Pouneh (+ baby in tummy), Azar, my mom, Afsi, Atta, me, Dorinda, Alessia, Nazanin, Luca, Amir and my Khaleh.

Shahin, in the back, is the only new face here.

Our hosts, Khaleh and Amoo. They are the Bosses of my family, honestly. Like, Godfathers.

Just my family, aren't we cute? I'm the shortest, bah. Even my mother is taller than me, sigh. Actually, as of last month my 9 year old cousin Rebecca is also taller than me. If I wasn't so darn cute short, I'd be sad. Maybe.

...why would I [do]...

i) The essay is finished but too long. Not caring, it will wait for editing on Monday. Bioethics, you're up.

ii) Frustrations, the story of my life as follows: Girl likes boy. Boy, seemingly, likes girl but doesn't call. You know who does? The boy's friend, who the girl confessed all too. Boy's friend asks girl out.

What the hell is going on?

And p.s. what kind of policy is this? Some girl you barely know tells you she's in love with your friend, and you ask her out? I do NOT understand. Also, not knowing what to do. This is all his fault - why he had to be a jerk, I don't know. Because now I'm hung up on a jerk when there's a nice guy around. At this point, the world can eat itself as far as I'm concerned.

iii) The next doors are doing construction, and it is loud and obnoxious. They tore up our joint path, and now there's no way to our door except sketchy cardboard over lots of mud. When I asked them about it, they knew no English and couldn't tell me when it would be done. I think their intention is to repave the path, but how are we supposed to get to our apartment when they do? Wanting to break things, now please.

iv) Inna, I solved the mystery of the Decemberists. Call me please.

...detoxifiers and chicken focaccia...

Reasons why I love Javaville (aside from the yummy food, great juice, hyper espresso and kidsrunningaround/writersinthewindowbooths/newspapersonarmchairs atmosphere:

Within the three hours I have been here so far they have played Frou Frou, Metric and Feist. Hurrah to feeding my addiction to girly pop-rock and indie flavour, hurrah two of three being local.

I am trying to upload pictures of Eid for all to see, but I can't make heads or tails of FTP on Mac. I knew how to do it once because I did do it once. But... I don't remember how, and I am having very much trouble with it. I think it must wait until I get onto a PC at the library. So... slowly, slowly it comes.

2126 of 4000-ish words, oooh I am going so loverly on this.

...i can drive (twist)...

Big opportunities can pass by unnoticed. Your gravitational pull did attract one recently for a few orbits, but you missed catching it. Be sure not to miss your second chance when it comes back for another close encounter.

Phil Booth is starting to piss me off - telling me what's coming but not what to do about it, how to implement. Completely useless.

I am hiding in Javaville today, all day. If I manage to finish anthro and part of bioethics before 8pm tonight, I am allowed Danny Michel. If not, then no dice.

...let's drink to the military!...

To the people of the Land of the Rising Sun: Hell. Yes.


Beautiful outside, gorgeous spring. The perfect kind of weather to go walking around on sidewalks with no more snow, smelling the dirt again. Listening to Metric on my IPOD! as I go. Oh baby, how did we get by without it?

Tonight is dinner at Pomegranate, then writing linguistic anthro. Tomorrow is linguistic anthro which will be finished, bioethics, then French. Sunday is work. Monday is work. Tuesday is work. Wednesday is martinis, in excessive amounts. And that's as far in advance as I can plan.

I think at one point maybe I was inspired. Lately, all I can do is look around me watching others' inspirations, others' creativity. Ask them for music advice, consider cutting my hair androgynously short like theirs. Wearing green scarves as belts.


Addendum: Between April 2 and May 21st there are 9 shows I want to go see. In chronological order, not any other - Bloc Party, Weakerthans, Zap Mama, Billy Idol (omg can you imagine?), The Shins, Ani DiFranco, Arcade Fire, Gang of Four, and Decemberists. Somewhere in there, Deanna says there is also a Killers concert. Which means... 10, not 9 shows. All will be seen. Yes?

...infidel to die for...

I don't know if it's because they use the word "infidel" in the lyric - I mean, obviously it's more than that, but that's a part of it. "Infidel" is one of the most sensual words in the English language, I am convinced. That's why "Beloved Infidel" was always such a strong title.

The point is, "The Twist" by Metric is the most gripping song I have heard in AGES. I can't even remember when that last happened to me, when you hear a song and have to listen to it again and again forever because it is that good, and then with the goosebumps.

So, find. Buy the CD "Grow Up and Blow Up Away". Support ye Canadian musicians. And um... love.

...do your thing...

From The Toronto Star:

You've been preoccupied with a string of challenging situations, which has left an important someone feeling neglected. Keep that up and you will have to face some unpleasant repercussions. It's a good time to take a break and spend some quality time with that special person.

Alright, which of you is it? Come on now, quality time calls.

...swear i was born right in the doorway...

In preparation of classes ending next week and having more time to read, I spent almost $100 on books yesterday. That included my 30% discount, and gives you an idea of how many books I bought.

Tonight there is a predicament. There is a show. I want to see the show, very much. But we now find out that the singer is friends with certain people who, the way I am feeling today, are best avoided because they are too complicated for my head to understand. Granted, there's no saying that these people (read: person) will be there, but if they are - well I don't know. I'm confused.

Apparently, you're never too old to play head games. It is never outgrown.

Oh, the love is fading... accursed eternal optimism had me blindsighted, but the shades are slipping off.

...multiple sentiments, in equal measure...

Out of Naprosyn, oh god. All out. And here we have feelings of impending doom. Also, pain.

The word on the street has me running Harry Potter activities for the 6-12's on Friday. Equal parts excitement and panic, my first solo planning.

We are concerned about the boy. There are stories, and there is gossip. We wonder and fret, because somehow now he's a stud, and stud's are always dangerous. As if he wasn't enough, already. So I would like to know both sets of stories about what happened with both those particular sets of girls. And I would like to know now.

...waiting for the lottery...

Tuesday morning (functional):

The search was on for the perfect eggplant. It took an hour and three different fruit markets before I found one to which I could resign myself. The most tangible sign yet of spring approaching: the smell of the fish markets permeating Kensington.

Tuesday morning (emotive):

Yours is the first face that I saw
I think I was blind before I met you
I don't know where I am, I don't know where I've been
But I know where I want to go

So I thought I'd let you know
These things take forever, I especially am slow...

And you said "This is the first day of my life
I'm glad I didn't die before I met you
Now I don't care, I could go anywhere with you
And I'd probably be happy...

Besides, maybe this time it's different
I mean I really think you like me

...amateurish, incontent...

Just when you thought I couldn't get any... what's the word, kitschier?... I go and buy an ipod. A little part of my soul feels weak and shallow, but the rest of me is retardedly excited. Hurrah for impulse shopping.

"Out of sight, out of mind": I hate that it's a reality for some people. Because you haven't thought about me all week, not once. "You don't know that", say my friends. Yes I do. You just know sometimes, and this is one of those times. Maybe if I was a gourmet chef. Or something.

Clearly we will not be going to the opening. We will go on the third night, but the boy definately doesn't deserve our glory at the all-lauded opening night. I categorically refuse.

...mission accomplished...

Notes on the best night of the year:

i) My Italian sister-in-law can Persian dance better than I can. There is simply no justice.

ii) When meeting future husband, say something. I could be wrong but I'm pretty sure men like women who can string a few words together and not just stare at the floor.

iii) Re: future husband - never again let your cousin do the introduction, even if they *are* good friends. Keep in mind that you have known him your whole life and he has *never* had any tact, why should he begin now?

"Yo Jian. This is Sanam - she's been bugging me to meet you all night". Excuse me, big mister CBC man, I'm just going to fall into that crack in the floor over there and die. But it was nice to meet you.

iv) Re: future husband (again) - get bigger boobs. I got *nothing* on that girl in the black diamond dress with the big curly hair ("Frizzy! It was frizzy!") who was talking to him all night.

v) Morteza tore the roof down, he was incredible. Completely incredible. So much energy, and all the best shad songs, we danced all night. By which I mean, my friends and family danced and I made some vaguely dance-like awkward motions with my arms and shuffled my feet a bit.

vi) Oh my god but my outfit, the biggest hit. It was loved loved loved, damn.

vii) It's somewhat comforting to know that whatever else in the world may change, Ferdawsi will never change: same high concentration of overly-sexed tarts and ginowannabes, same mothers trying to feist their daughters onto the most eligible bachelors (my mother is no exception - she only gave it a rest last night because seeing me speaking twice to Jian she thought I was making good enough headway on my own), same incomprehensibility of having TWO meals brought out expecting you to eat both, same delicious asparagus soup...

viii) Dorinda: she's a funny girl that one. Almost gave me a coronary on the dance floor with one of her more creative exercises (read: dancing me right in front of the boy, and *leaving* me there, no warning) but she had great intentions.

...bullet time (1999)...

Sale no mobarak!!!

2:30 a.m. and I write this as I wait for my turn at the bathroom, and the chance to get a pound of makeup ($211.34 worth of it, good god) off my face. Three cheers for Mitchella from Biotherm Boutique for that.

Party tonight with many cool children, the girls lost at scene it and cannot hold our heads up for shame. They all looked so good though it balances out. You can't win them all.

No posts tomorrow, no time - just panicked rushing, lots of parties, three new outfits and a dance card.

...coming down...

I'm not

a gourmet chef
writing a book
a music queen
a social b-fly
going to get the boy

This is me post introspection and the active decision to pursue pragmatism - three cheers for reality! Four days of comfort shopping in one week is what should have made me phase you out (today being a mini change purse in flower print, and a black gathered v-neck polo).

I'll let Rocky Horror put some bounce back in my step, and we will forget this sad state of affairs. Ok?

...neighbourhood #3 (power out)...

Friday sees newfound optimism. After a week of most of the free world bailing on me time and time again, today will be better because I will it to be so.

Lesson the first: When you make plans with people, don't take them seriously. They may not necessarily keep them. Not angry, but used to it. Thankfully, the world is a little more kind than that and one plan taken away, drops a better one on the plate. A plan delicious like a potato latke, crispy on the outside and melts within.

So raise your glass to potato latkes, and to heavy duty narcotics. They have nothing to do with each other, but both were elements of yesterday (imaginary and otherwise). The only person who would get any of this isn't going to read today, so it's written for no reason at all, it seems.

...melodies rhapsodical and fair...

An incredibly huge congratulations to my cousin Sam for the opening of the PUBLICity exhibition tonight. The pictures were great, the other artists were fantastic as well, and I had the opportunity to buy some great photos - all small ones, since I am poor, but still a nice thing to have.

Later was a late night girls-night sushi feast at Hosu with Marjan, Niloo and Banafsheh. So much good food, yum.

There was talking with the boy today, finally good god. I probably shouldn't have let bygones go just so easily, I am made of tougher stuff than that after all, but he apologized so prettily. We hope he really does make time in his oh so busy schedule to spend some with me.

Song of the day: "Sixteen Military Wives" by The Decemberists. A brilliant little political manifesto with a catchy hook to boot.
Site of the day: quirkyalone made my day. My score? 96 - very quirkyalone. Loves it.

...philosophy syndrome groupie...

Listening to "BJ Don't Cry" I'm rapidly realizing that the only way this song was written was probably with the influence of many a recreational drug. Which, obviously, makes me question my future marriage to it's lyricist. Oh Jian, what did you write...

Farnam doesn't know it yet, but if she comes down tonight she will be seeing Jian in all his glory. I would have told her, but I wanted her to come for better reasons than that. This can be the icing on the cake. Of course, if she decides she's too lazy, then I will tell her and when she comes upon that announcement, I will be slightly devastated that I didn't merit the shlep but a crazed Persian media personality did.

For some reason, before I started blasting Moxy Fruvous while getting dressed I had been listening to Phil Collins. Yeah. I don't know why either.

...where do human beings come from...

The first call was to get me out of the house and to the G for Nik-Ro's birthday, to which I eventually agreed despite having just been in bed reading, pj's and all. The second call, as I was scrambling to get ready and out the door in 4 minutes flat was to tell me to dress up, because the boys were wearing suits. Exchanged my cowboy shirt for a collared white and grabbed my blazer when the third call came. "Dress like a girl dress-up!" says my girl. All these complications when all I want to do is get out of the house. Exchanged blazer for pink angora, pearls and black pinstripe pants and finally hit the road. Realize on the way that black bra shows through pink angora, don't go back because hey, it's hot.

I love how earlier in the night I promised I would stay in and read tonight. Instead I shlepped all the way back to the old digs for an hour and a half, just.

Not too many people would incite me to hop out of comfy bed and comfier pajamas. You have to be a fencing, linguistic-ing, American of Polish descent. Who drinks White Russians. And has a lot of demands for his friends wardrobes on his birthday extravaganza.

(The dress-up thing was understood later. "Look! I'm in my birthday suit!", he cries as I come in. Ha.)

...suspended in his fingers...

I'm not sure, exactly, what it is I am doing (or not doing, as the case may be). But whatever it is, I can't be doing it right because, well look at me. Hardly the poster child for emotionally successful.

Phil Booth was completely useless today. Unless he was absolutely correct and his line of reaping the benefits of my lessons implies that there needs to be a direct action taken on my part. I'm not doing anything active at the moment. It could be I need wine. I am sure I need half a dozen things.

Re: public bathrooms. Lock the door. Please. Oh please, for the love of god lock the door. You're in university, at the greatest institution in this country. At least pretend that you got in here for good reason.

I am waiting for Farnam and fire. I have an invite to a party on Saturday, I want to bail on a party on Friday, I want to be at the Rivoli right now, and Lula Lounge tomorrow night, also the premiere of PUBLICity. Notice how nowhere in the next few days is there time for me to write the three essays that still beckon perilously.

...the infanta...

Listening to: Picaresque, from The Decemberists curtesy of Miss Lizzy.

Yesterday we were talking about the fact that Sally Burke's character in The Dylanist reminds me of Lizzy. Later that night and reading into chapter 32, Sally's boyfriend Owen called her Miss Lizzie for no reason that was explained in the book. And I thought is it possible that the book heard me, and put that reference in just to give validity to my comparison?

Waking up to a migraine I missed both meeting and class, and studying and any intention of looking presentable aujourd'hui. Red-eyed beast that I am finally dragged myself out of bed around noon and made rice. Chatted with the roommate who finally came home, my British tea-brewer, and a new Vancouverite who hadn't been heard from in three weeks - and so despite overblown abject misery, my day has some perks already.

From here on in, things can only get better, and very rapidly, too. You have plumbed the extreme depths of a difficult situation and now you are going to start reaping benefits of your lessons.

Excellent. Phil Booth is finally sending some love my way.

...replace bread with blond head; then hit...

Walking home to an ex-boyfriend in front of the house, ask me if I understand. My roommate says I don't own the street. This is me being irrational, but as far as he is concerned, I do own this street. Not only do I own it, but I own the air around it. Also, that patch of half-frozen ground in front of the house (and accompanying air) that the girl was standing on. Yes I have been civil of late, but only when I have had somewhat anticipation of the possibility of a run-in (i.e. being on campus) and am thus prepared and in my element. But having already had a shitty day, and no anticipation, forget it.

I stormed inside, slammed the door - god help the boy if he saw me now, because there could have been no illusion of grownup. Not that he's calling me anyway. But still. So yes, slammed the door. Roommates were having batting practise with loaves of bread. I could have invented my own batting practise targets at this point.

Blaaaah. Called Rachel, spoke of shoes. Was made momentarily happy, or at least distracted anyway. Will read more Brian Morton, maybe some poetry because I haven't read poetry in so long. Will not, in fact, read anthropology tonight (despite having vowed to Rachel that I would). Sleep, wake, shower, meeting, study, study, class, study, tutorial, work, study, class, fire ceremony, and sleep tomorrow.

...transient attacks and an italian mouse...

I hate adults. I hate them in all their manifestations.

I hate the blond-haired, pearl wearing, Prada bag holding cultural precious ladies who talk to you against a bookshelf in the Health section.

I hate the curly-locked black plastic frame wearing artists who would not approve.

I even hate you. Hate the fact that you aren't calling. Hate your busy schedule. Hate art shows and Irish pubs. Did I mention that you aren't calling? WHY?!!!

I have no answers. All I have is half a girl guide cookie, a self-portrait of Geronimo plastered with stickers, and the beginnings of a zit four days before Ferdawsi. Even the fact that I have hot new shoes again today makes little difference right now.

...mushaboom...

For Sepi, because her comments aren't working and it makes me sad:

I'm not sorry about your old blog either. As lovely as pink is, I love the current state of things on your blog. That whole "that broken girl" thing always made me sad because you were so clearly not broken, and I love the uberconfidence that you shine these days. Also you seem generally much happier, which is lovely.

C'est tout - coffee with Farnam this morning, now I'm skipping class to pick up the last couple of things for Eid and see my doctor before starting work at 1. Today is Geronimo Stilton in the store.

And my inbox is still empty.

As is my telephone call log.

...my life isn't as long as yours...

"They aren't like us" she says, referring to boys of course. I can responsibly deny that statement though because after two hours in Second Cup observing what boys do talk about, I can say with certainly that not only are they very much like us, they are at times even worse. They, too, talk about girls and analyse every moment and gesture, and hair flick for signs of interest. They agonize and are plaintive, but throw in elements of arrogance for flavour. "She wants to do me soooo bad" was heard. Please.

So considering my prompt response on advice from Farnam to minimize agony, this meandering lack of effort on his part is very inconsiderate.

And very annoying.

On the plus side, I got through 12 chapters of Japanese-English language contact, with cultural significance. I'm so goddess-like in my goldenness that I will bright you out. My professor is going to love me forever, and let me be her research assistant next year because I want I want I want to be. She's working on the most incredible projects, I will woo her until she acquiesces.

...retour a la chance...

Inna, god DAMN it. After seeing the 1 new message cue on MSN, I almost could have cried for the disappointment.

(I love you).

On that note, I am going to Second Cup.

...tell your father, I said hello...

In my dreams I have the elegance and poise of Anna Wintour, with the ice-queen demeanor. Nothing phases this woman. You'd never catch her reloading her inbox every 10 minutes for signs of life.

At least, in the real world I have pretty shoes. Today is white ballerina flats from Aldo to match the ruffly (this season I am all about the ruffles) chemise from the Gap. Those, with capri light denim and soft curls will be Eid on Sunday morning. I refused to try on the top initially, thinking that the empire waist wouldn't suit the busty me. Also, it's from the Gap which means it is targeted for those flat waifs (probably blonde, too) who predominate this city. But my mother insisted, and so it was worn only to find that it fits perfectly. It seems that in my relentless pursuit of the skinny, I've lost my pride and joy, my... showgirls. It would make me tear up, but I much prefer being a size 2 with a small B-cup than my former self. 2 is such a pretty number. You know?

I'm studying, allegedly. In the middle of reading James Stanlaw's dissertation on Japanese-English language contact, I am taking too-frequent breaks to devour several pages at a time of The Dylanist. As far as scholarly methods go, I'm sure this one isn't sustainable in the long run.

Ack - reloaded again. Nothing yet. *Sigh*. Just... err... shoot me. Please?

...goddamit, they were right...

Re: chivalry is dead.

I full-out physically cringed when I hit "send".

Why is all of this so nerve-wrackingly frightening, so intense? It can't be good for the looks. Wrinkles and stuff, from stress? Totally counterproductive.

...you will be tested on this stuff...

Listening to: Yann Tierson, C'etait Ici Live.

Rose is amused by my obvious distraction and absentminded adoration - she spent the afternoon singing me love songs circa the 1930's. Says "I'll have you married in no time". Jumping the gun just a little bit, but is cute nonetheless. An early evening email had me riding cloud 32 into the last half of my shift; another just a couple of hours later effectively ensured I would think of nothing else all evening, smile more than is natural and thus be questioned, and spend dozens of spare moments calculating a complex scheduling maneover worthy of the greatest managerial leaders all so I can fit him in somewhere this week. In between the three essays, Ferdawsi shopping, haft-sin setting, two party having insanity that beckons until, blissfully, the madness ends Sunday night.

An email from Saba this morning, calming me from my morning panicked tears to her by MSN - I tell her now that the day made me see I don't have very much to worry about. Go steady, go careful but it's going. For me and me alone, is what he said.

On the way home, a lady on the subway gave me a piece of paper with a phone number on it. Told me to call her if I felt I needed direction and the support of a community which would cherish me. Just one of the bizarre elements which have made the past 24 hours more than a little incomprehensible.

This week's book, have just finished: "An Underachievers Diary" by Benjamin Anastas. Compelling and telling, given the situation rather endearing.

...in other words...

Why I may not get out of this week alive:

i) Three papers that need to be written. French, Bioethics and Linguistic Anthropology.
ii) Embracing Cultures crunch time, getting the campaign underway
iii) Zinzi's party extraordinaire - the girl has pulled out all the stops: strippers, a fire eater, champagne in kegs, it goes on
iv) Chahr-shambeh soori party? Farnam? - Can't be at the blue house, it is studying.
v) Four shifts at work, three of them covering March Break activities and programs for the kids
vi) Serious distraction in the form of one 30-year old actor who has taken up residence in my head, and is partying it up therein

Requesting all manner of prayers and crossed fingers sent in my general direction.

...tu changes la balance...

I'm floundering in the face of your insecurities, wanting to shake you out of them - "grow up, I like you!" I would shout.

It's the vulnerability that comes from liking someone new so much that makes it so hard. I liked it better when I was a tough cookie, knew the steps I was walking.

...how many acres, how much light...

Do you know I've been sitting here for fully 10 minutes, not writing a word because the words don't come? No sentences anyway, not enough left free in my head to handle grammatical structure. Everything taken up, so taken up.

So I will be brief, and encompass the main elements. The rest can be filled in.

Hair stroking, I feel like a cat. His hand on my ankle says he likes the boots. Wanted to keep my scarf for six weeks, I ask him why and he brings both ends to his face, breathes them in. He likes my scent.

Back at home, I was on the couch for too long not moving. My hands were over my face, and I just sat. So nervous, I wanted to go in my bed and cry despite having just had such an incredible night. Just scared and wanting so much for it to work. Feeling like I'm 12 ("Do you like me?" Check the YES box) Janet looks over, can't believe the state I'm in. It's new, there hasn't been a state like this in a very long time. She notices, recognizes it's different. Recognizes that that's dangerous.

I forget to tell her about the way his hand went to my stomach, when he was leading me to a painting on the wall. Oh boy, oh boy...

...the scene is set for new lovers...

What we thought was a once-only breakup sex has suddenly hit a month's occurrence. And it doesn't even end there and I have to admit I was a little incredulous when she told me. "Now you guys are having lunches?!"

"What's wrong with that?", she asks, getting defensive. I was quick to elaborate - "Nothing, only you guys are dating again". Adamently, "No, we're not", she insists, "it's just lunch! Lunch means dating?"

I don't know about you, maybe there's some deep philosophical component to dating that I'm missing. But to me, you're having lunches with someone, hanging out with them, and having sex with them: all elements which scream "dating".

"Look we're not dating, it is just casual sex".

"Yeah, casual sex with a few dates on the side". I'm not being convinced.

"Whatever, I don't have time to argue this anymore. But I'm 'sleeping over at your house' tomorrow night." This for the benefit of her parents, we understand?

Clearly, they are dating.

...but wait, the babies haven't been born...

Listening to: Mushaboom by Feist on the hottest CD of my week, so smooth just slides down easy, loverly. Elements of old school disco and understated emotion, always appreciated.

At 7pm, after just having finished a quiet dinner with my mom I get the call from Youthography. "Can you come for a focus group tonight?", they ask. Tonight? As in the night in which currently we are past 7pm? The focus group was at 8:30. Hung up, grabbed my coat, kissed my mom and said I'd be back in a few hours. Hopped on the train again, and down we go to the club district. Two hours of "focus"ing later, I'm exhausted [but rich] and, plein de panic, planning tomorrow.

As it stands:

8am: Be home, and get dressed/fix hair. Accessorize. Pack tote bag for the day. I.e. makeup, healthy snacks, work uniform, cd player.
11am: To the public school we go, for Friday mentoring.
1:30pm: Steal one blondie from the east coast for lunch, though she doesn't yet know it yet. Hug one scandalous Rwandan, but nothing more.
5pm: Sell books.
11pm: Drink with the friends. See about a boy. Get action. (Hair this hot = not to be wasted)

The thing about focus groups, going back to that, is that you can't stop stupid people from being involved. There is no stupid filter. So annoying creatures like Mike from York University (heaven help me, but of course he goes to York) participate, and you have to humour them when they talk about how the media publication we are critiquing today isn't as credible as other news sources like ABC and CIBC.

Err...

...can you keep up?...

Jimmy Phuon is my new lover. He took to my head with his man hands and his scissors, his Catwalk products and Babyliss iron and left me with a slick, straight, long cut with edgy layers throughout. Like a model, no word of a lie.

He is clearly with the talent. Also, with the providence because on my way home from seeing him, I walked past my ex and his girlfriend who both looked their usual dirty hick. Today has loved me more than I can even give words too.

I don't want to write anymore. I'm going to go eat dinner, and maybe back to the mirror to look at my hair.

...last night house...

Let's get one thing straight: it isn't that I "skipped" class. It isn't like I was skipping along, singing a song and decided that we wouldn't go to class today. You can ask anyone, but my intention all day was to go to anthropology. Is it my fault that I got distracted by the talking of a boy, and the handspunchstomachfake thing (whatever *that* was about) and completely forgot that a) Ashley and Farnam were waiting for me upstairs, and b) that I had a class to go to?

I maintain that it is not my fault.

Sitting in Robarts, I am meant to be focused on work but as you can see it isn't going very well. It seems that even holed up in the ugliest building on campus, I am having recurrent thoughts of my earlier distraction. This is problematic because going out Friday and Saturday, and being somewhat occupied tomorrow night, today was supposed to be my buckle down and work day. Alas...

So yay to Friday. And yay to me. Yay to Boston Cremes, to linguistic anthropology, to postcards and websites, and to two nights in a row, to come.

...overly medicated, slightly insane...

Our lives depicted in the simplicity of plastic buttons -

Mine: "I will not obsess. I will not obsess. I will not obsess".
Farnam: "It's such a beautiful day, I think I'll skip my medications".

You are a hopeful person. Plenty lays you low, but nothing ever keeps you down for long. You are in the process of turning an obstruction to your advantage. A roadblock has buffeted you into something far better.

Okay - if that lack of conversation was supposed to be a great thing in disguise, that's a pretty damn great disguise. I'm not seeing it yet. Good fortune? Are you there?

...her interests are classical at best...

So, I wanted to see you tonight. Don't let the fact that I was in repeats and missing make-up convince you otherwise - I wanted to see you, and talk to you, tonight. Red backpack, you bolted so fast no looking back. Your friend came in later, and I was floored because she is a grownup. And beautiful. A beautiful, grown-up grownup. I can't even pretend. My skin is too new.

Nothing happened tonight. And by nothing I mean, I was cranky and surly, not to be approached except for one brief moment when a cloud lifted over kids (literally, not metaphorically) and the upper section was bathed in sunlight. It did not last nearly long enough, but it did help.

Do you believe in signs?

I gathered the last book off the floor before going on my break, a thick political science book. As I walked up the stairs, I haphazardly faced it over: a biography of Henry Kissinger.

The cereal I went to buy on Sunday, on a whim: a Survivor special edition, with sweepstakes offer.

I want nothing more than for these random coincidences to be proof from the universe that it is conspiring to help me. That, and martinis tomorrow night.

...business reply mail...

If you happened to see the New York Times fashion pulse on Monday, you would have seen what as of yesterday became my Ferdawsi outfit. Nearing panic at the rushed date, the biggest load is now off my mind because we are good to go. We are now poor, but at least we are good to go -

Black/gray/beige/pink printed ruffle skirt in four thinthinthin tiers and black lacy camisole from Club Monaco. It had literally *just* come in. If you ever watch Cityline (which I adore) stay tuned for their fashion show tomorrow because you might see it on the show. Marilyn Denis was in love with this skirt, and was trying to squeeze it in for the show (three cheers for me as inspiration).

Says Rachel's mother, re: the boy man - "Sanam, we would be very uncomfortable with this". With that sentence I knew where Rachel got it from, that ability to say something with the underlying threat of harm. What Rachel's mom really meant was "We would be uncomfortable with this, and god help you if you go against the concerns of the family", mob(m) style. Reminds of me when Rachel says "We agree to disagree". You know that's not really what she means. What she means is "It's fine if we disagree as long as we disagree my way".

I casually broached to my mother, and she wasn't too concerned. The usual 'age isn't black and white', 'just be careful' RATIONAL arguments. I am impressed with my mother's cool.



In something completely unrelated, I really need something to happen tonight. As in, I'm dying from it. Tonighttonighttonight.

...thirst and hunger, and you were the fruit...

I can't be more than 10 minutes away from my destination. 5 minutes on an ordinary day, but this isn't an ordinary day and I am wearing pointy heels. No matter how you look at it, I am very much close by and could be there even now if it were not for the rain, this brief thunderstorm which came out of nowhere in the two minutes wherein I ran into the library to use their bathroom. Now I am stuck, and taking up time by typing aimlessly in here.

I made Chinese noodles with a vegetable stir fry for lunch. I hadn't cooked in almost a month, haven't had the time. That's probably why I forgot to put the soy sauce in.

It's not just restlessness that makes me want to get out of this building - I'm constantly ill at ease in here. Too many non-anonymous people in one place, and past encounters, near misses. Just oen of many hated things I put up with for the convenience.

There. The rain is slowing down - that's my cue.

...cool down...

I'm sure dozens of things must have happened today.

I mean, it is just impossible for the only thing to have happened today to have been you holding that congrat-comrade high five several seconds more than necessary, drifting your fingers across the inside of my palm as your hand finally disengaged.

Even if that is the only part of the day I remember.

...must be fine, cuz my heart's still beating...

i) The other day I read a comment on Dodgy's blog written completely in capital letters. "No need to shout", says another commentor. This started me thinking about what we have done with online communication, the extent to which it has progressed which makes it seem little different from a verbal conversation.

Using quotation marks, asterix', underlines and bolds, or capital letters we portray every nuance that we would ordinarily use when speaking. It used to be that I hated talking on MSN because it was so easy to get misled. You couldn't get your "tone" across, so something said in joking sarcasm could be taken literally, leading to problems all around. Now, online conversations are so real to me that they seem completely indistinguishable from spoken ones. "I talked to Javod last night", I told my roommate a couple days ago. "Oh, did you call him?" she asked. I told her no, I had talked to him online - but truthfully, the back and forths, the expressions, are so real that I could almost hear his voice.

This doesn't have a tangible point, I don't think. Maybe just my bewilderment at the advances of technology and how we incorporate it into our lives. Where will it end? It is very strange.

Last night on Futurama, I saw that their "society" had advanced to the point that they had an insane asylum for robots. Later on in the episode I saw a 7-11, and that comforted me. It seems that no matter how much things change, we will always have 7-11.

ii) The Keds ad spread in this month's Vogue power issue is about being cool. Mischa Barton sits posed bare legged in her keds, chin on her heads looking beautifully golden, All-American. "Be Cool" says the line above her, the new slogan of the Keds brand.

At the top of the opposite page, the following is written:

Cool isn't a fad.
Cool isn't pretense.
Cool isn't wearing a mask that doesn't fit.
Cool is a label that says you and not somebody else.

www.keds.com/mischabarton - Log on to see what else Mischa thinks is cool.

That blatant hypocricy frustrated me to no end last night.

iii) So close to finding a dress yesterday, I had it on hold for a second fitting that my mother would also attend. I thought, from past experience, that she should see it before I bought it - good thing too, because she completely hated it. I still don't understand why. A skinny black tube dress, fitted not slinky, and classy. Bias cut sash around one side, low on the hip. She thought it wasn't dressy enough, was inappropriate for the event, and was too "old" for me. Like something you would wear to a funeral. I'll tell you something though, I would be really offended if someone wore a dress like that to the funeral of someone I loved.

I am panicking somewhat. We are now only three weeks away, and no dress. Monday brings a trip to Yorkdale and fingers crossed.

In a more positive light, I did find jewelery for the as yet nonexistant dress. Rachel and I stumbled by chance on a new jewelery gallery from Mexico City with the most incredible, unique things. I have never seen anything like it - pieces made with different sized, different coloured stones which don't match but fit perfectly together, despite their lack of symmetry. My mother adored it, and it was decided I will get a set to match a dress, once it's found. Pricey but well worth it for it's one-of-a-kind-ness. Patterns wound in thin thin thin silver wires, you have to be so careful because they bend easily. I bought two pairs of earrings last night, and one bent slightly just in transit. Completely lacking functionality, it took me a full 10 minutes to get the earrings in, and a panicked five learning how to get them out.

iv) While I was trying to fall asleep last night, it suddenly occurred to me that I was wrong. He isn't leaving for two weeks, but for five. Two weeks are just the rehearsals, but it didn't even occur to me that he would be gone during the entire three week run of the show. Which makes my situation in the next few days slightly more pressing.

When you think about it, this is all Greg Behrendt's fault, and by extension Farnam's. Because it is directly a result of that horrid book that I am not making moves, superstitiously waiting for him to do so. Come on, shy guy, get with the program...

...i am a trinity, i am a ghost...

It must be something in the air [something we haven't said]. It's a rainbow of moods, but with so many strong colours that mixing us all together just makes a dirty brown. He's blue, she's pink like her rain coat, and I'm green: with flu, with envy, with dizziness over dodgeball on a Saturday approaching and a boy.

I think I am going to stay in tonight - I'm afraid of clashing.


The only thing that has been bringing me back home every few days is the fear that soon I really will be forgotten entirely. When I realise that the uncomfortable, awkward sensation that settles over me here is invisibility, I'm sure I'll stop even that. The only thing worse than realising you no longer belong, is seeing you are no longer relevent.

...at four o'clock on a summer morning...

I spent the night flipping through Rimbaud's poetry.

Elle était fort déhabillée
Et de grands arbres indiscrets
Aux vitres jetaient leur feuillée
Malinement, tout près, tout près.

That's two night in a row I have gone back to this one - I don't know why this particular.

The strain of every night another thing to do, every day crammed full is getting to me a little bit. I need to have a sleep day, one day in which to catch up, to stay in bed the entire day without moving without feeling guilty. It won't be this week though, that much I can guarantee.

Event notice: March 16-23 is the PUBLICity photography exhibit at Toronto Free Gallery, and my cousin Sam's work is among the 7 photobloggers being shown. Make a trip down to see it, it should be lovely.

...cunningly and close, quite close...

You are my happy Friday night surprise. I was walking past the balcony when I saw you turn and head towards the door; running down the stairs, the motion caught your eye and you turned towards me, walked towards me. I was this close to missing you entirely.

"Hello Superstar", I said, self-sure for once and with strong voice, laughing. "Hey Hotshot", you parried back (a little lamely, you're cute like that). Is this how we will begin?

Liking you this much means that I have to forgive the small imperfections: unabashed addiction to Survivor, of all things. Besides, I'm banking on the same consideration when you discover that the song which makes me tremble every time is Chris Gaines' "Lost in You".

...a poem, a poem (a pie?)...

The word from my anthropology professor, re: my nerdy/excitement final paper topic, slightly divergent from the course requirement but interesting in the extreme. She says: "A very creative idea, and one that I am inclined to allow". The only catch? Has there been enough research done, and can I find it? I am to email her on Tuesday and see what she has come up with. This puts me perilously close to the deadline of the paper if it turns out the topic is a no-go. Oy, why couldn't I just pick a dull easy topic like everyone else?

*Answer: Because I am a superstar*

The boy was all about the touching today, and I think his mind is unbalanced. I am a confused duckie, I need smoke signals and brush fires. Subtlety is not for the masses, they all lied to you.

Then, later there was a moment when I wasn't sure I heard what I thought I had heard, because if that was really what was said - well, the implications are nicely mammoth. A huge, hairy mammoth mammal from the paleolithic age. Clearly, I have lost my mind. Incoherence abounds, and I haven't even had coffee. Que pasa?

...I apply my personality in a paste...

Watched "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" last night - it took my breath away. What a fucking incredible movie.

Have finished "Rituals", and am starting on "The Pornographers Poem" on a recommendation.

I'm in that stage that everyone gets to at least once. I have nothing creative, or really at all, to say. As if every sequence of words I could come up with has a boulder the size of a hippo in front of it.

But, at least I may have found a dress yesterday - on hold at RW & Co until the mother approves.

...adjustor...

For Kristen: The Kratt brothers will be on The View Friday afternoon at 4pm, with some of their favorite animals from Zaboomafoo.


I'm sick and I have a headache - there will be no more writing for me today. Be grateful: it saves you incessent blabbering reminiscent of "Fell in love with a boy". I'll save that for another day. Maybe Sunday?

...look how pretty he is...

That's exactly what I needed to make me feel amazing yesterday - Elzbieta in her gorgeous Polish accent saying to me "You look beautiful! Your eyes are so enormous, how you do that? You look like million dollars!"

Logic. The very word would make any lover run a mile. But that was just it. It had to be entirely logical, going to bed with such a person. You knew it would happen because it had to happen. The only thing left to be done was to inform the other person. That was the seduction. The certainty of the outcome was a great help. That, and the strange contradiction that the bed bit was not the main thing at all... He had been declared mad by his friends as he was off on one of his missions again, flying to the other end of the world merely to follow a line, a thought that someone had left in him and that he had to verify at all costs. Was it so or was it not so? Would he have a chance, with that person, of a life that, if he chose to take it, would become a reality? That was the point. The search was a labor of love, but he could not explain this to anyone.

"And if you're not in tune?"

No. Quite clearly, no one understood aything about it except the women themselves. And then you were in tune.

~From "Rituals" by Cees Nooteboom

...everybody's been through something...

What we would like of today is for me to suddenly develop the ability to be in more than one place at any given time. The music starts tonight, and several times over the next couple of days we are facing the problem of two shows playing simultaneously at different venues, and my desiring to be at both.

For example: Friday night has Lal at El Mo from 1am, but Jully Black playing Guvernment at midnight. Not to even mention Australia folk roots at Cameron House, which is killing me inside because Jodi Martin will be there and she is my heart. Working Friday nights is killing me, because all the best shows are on Fridays. I want to switch-, switch-, switcheroo.

Whatever else happens though, Saturday we will be at Cameron House - Bonnie Piiinnnkkkkkk!!!

...telling stories...

An eventful, in no way inconsequential day:

Fear was in the library around noon. I was supposed to meet Iman at 1:00pm at Bloor Street Diner, so when it hadn't left by 12:45 I started to get concerned. Sent an emergency email to a boy, who came and rescued me (note to self: find new place to study on campus). Iman was met at 1:06pm, no harm done for minor tardiness. No harm except that I was queasy and unnerved all day, with an eye constantly open around me for any signs, feet ready to bolt if necessary.

This turned out beneficial in one manner at least - Richard Branson at the store today, I spent three hours on crowd control + general "ready for anything". My uneasiness from the day amounted to me being on the look out for any one who didn't belong, or had any elements of creepy. Sent security on two suspicious people, brush hands oh so good at my job.

Because insanity follows in my wake, tonight was also inventory so Iman, Natalee and I spent the evening getting the prep work done for that in Kids. Ooooh excitement, I am going to request the inventory overnight next year. I love learning all these new things.

I also love the boy man. Iman thinks she's clever and so has started calling him "the one". "How are things progressing with 'the one'?" she asks me every chance she gets. They aren't. No progress, because I am a paralysed pre-adolescent in the face of him and really, can do nothing. Surpassing all levels of loserhood, I have progressed to the point of counting on my fingers the number of times I talk to him in a day (5). Even if it's just a couple of words. That counts. Counts as what, I know not. But it does.

Errr... I'll stop now. Javod is saying something about actively stopping myself from blogging. Something about harnessed energy... America? I'm not really listening. Active that, you Oklahoma bum.

...tunnel in the way we secure...

I am increasingly frustrated by those praising Irshad Manji's eloquence, her well-spoken diatribes. How you say something is never as important as what you say, and when it comes down to it, her claims to make an intellectual contribution to current discourse IS the issue. That is entirely the issue, and the problem is she has consistently failed to make any such intellectual contribution.

I have been fascinated by Irshad Manji for the past year and a half, after first coming across her book at the end of high school. Since then I have also read her other angry manifesto "Risking Utopia". The same biased, confrontational debates dominate that book. Her dismissive tone is evident even in the international titles of her work: Italy - "When you have stopped to think", Quebec - "Muslim, but free", Denmark - "Problematic Islam".

No one will deny that it is important to have dialogue and discussion, to hear all opinions, to have intelligent debate and seek the truth. But that requires participants to, at the very least, be accountable for what they say. Beyond that, it asks that you argue rationally and refrain from emotive statements hurled with pervasive negatism, and to source a broad array of thought rather than inferring generalizations from isolated anecdotes. She contends that she wants to reach Muslims everywhere, to persuade them to think critically about their faith, to ask questions, to seek free thought. With her annoyingly illinformed analysis of both political and historic events in Islam, such poorly supported accusations such as Muslims being complicit in the Holocaust (completely disregarding the efforts in the Second World War of the Palestine Regiment), or Islam being fundamentally based on misogyny and conflict, and her implied dismissal of black Muslims (particularly of East Africa) she alienates the very people she professes to want to reach. More likely, she really only serves to secure many Muslim-bashers in their primitive "Islam bad, us good" mentalities.

For many reasons, The Trouble with Islam is a noteworthy book. Muslims do need to think critically about their faith and how they practise it. Manji says a lot of things worth listening to. Unfortunately, most of her more valid arguments are too often overlooked in the face of her naive and one-sided statements. That kind of poor scholarship is, more than anything, just frustrating in someone so bright who really could have a great impact on the modern practise of Islam if she could just get over her fundamentalist approach, and her attitude that she deserves instant credibility for being a) a woman, b) a lesbian, c) a "reformed" Muslim. Allowing her unquestioned access to the intellectual forum is some kind of perverse affirmative action.

On a side note, it is really interesting to me that Manji quotes Naomi Klein on her book because she has as much disrespect for Manji as many of us do.

...they mistook the Movements and walked backwards...

Climbing, literally it felt like climbing, over the snowdrifts and slushbanks between our blue house and Carr Hall. Starbucks is not a mirage, but a one-stop sanctuary on the way, thank god. One peppermint mocha later, I am sufficiently caffeinated to continue the journey.

What I would say to you is this: "Do you see the lengths I go for you? I'm a child of the tropics and I braved the untamed winter, for you. Sunk knee-deep into the white valleys and waded through the grey-brown intersections of the urban core".

He'd tell me something profound and wise, worthy of his scholarly status: "Don't be silly, you didn't do this for me but because you value your education".

Yeah. No, I'm pretty sure it was all for you.