Wallace Stevens. I don't think anybody better captures the way our words evade what we would mold them to mean, or the meanings we mull over and fail to capture everytime, than Wallace Stevens. And how, even when we can zoom to the word, there are truths and intimations that spill away from us and will not be arranged. Wallace Stevens, you are a delight. I never stopped loving you, not even after I wrote my Teagle on you and Marilynne Robinson in 12th grade and still didn’t understand you. I think I'm not alone in saying that you make Ghandi look like a child pornographer:
The Idea of Order at Key West
She sang beyond the genius of the sea.
The water never formed to mind or voice,
Like a body wholly body, fluttering
Its empty sleeves; and yet its mimic motion
Made constant cry, caused constantly a cry,
That was not ours although we understood,
Inhuman, of the veritable ocean.
The sea was not a mask. No more was she.
The song and water were not medleyed sound
Even if what she sang was what she heard,
Since what she sang was uttered word by word.
It may be that in all her phrases stirred
The grinding water and the gasping wind;
But it was she and not the sea we heard.
For she was the maker of the song she sang.
The ever-hooded, tragic-gestured sea
Was merely a place by which she walked to sing.
Whose spirit is this? we said, because we knew
It was the spirit that we sought and knew
That we should ask this often as she sang.
If it was only the dark voice of the sea
That rose, or even colored by many waves;
If it was only the outer voice of sky
And cloud, of the sunken coral water-walled,
However clear, it would have been deep air,
The heaving speech of air, a summer sound
Repeated in a summer without end
And sound alone. But it was more than that,
More even than her voice, and ours, among
The meaningless plungings of water and the wind,
Theatrical distances, bronze shadows heaped
On high horizons, mountainous atmospheres
Of sky and sea.
It was her voice that made
The sky acutest at its vanishing.
She measured to the hour its solitude.
She was the single artificer of the world
In which she sang. And when she sang, the sea,
Whatever self it had, became the self
That was her song, for she was the maker. Then we,
As we beheld her striding there alone,
Knew that there never was a world for her
Except the one she sang and, singing, made.
Ramon Fernandez, tell me, if you know,
Why, when the singing ended and we turned
Toward the town, tell why the glassy lights,
The lights in the fishing boats at anchor there,
As the night descended, tilting in the air,
Mastered the night and portioned out the sea,
Fixing emblazoned zones and fiery poles,
Arranging, deepening, enchanting night.
Oh! Blessed rage for order, pale Ramon,
The maker's rage to order words of the sea,
Words of the fragrant portals, dimly-starred,
And of ourselves and of our origins,
In ghostlier demarcations, keener sounds.
-Wallace Stevens
Just thought I would pay homage to the man whom I seldom fully understand but always think is brilliant. And his words, which are magic. And the poem from which the title of this blog sprung.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Still Waters Run Glossidently
What self-respecting girl doesn’t love Sex and the City? I believe the first time I watched the show was in boarding school, either during study hall on a “bathroom break” or after lights-out, with a towel shoved under a door so that we wouldn’t get the dreaded “7 to 7” punishment. Either way, it involved five of us huddled in someone’s room about a lap-top, watching sheepishly, yet with the kind of intensity and fondness usually reserved for mothers watching their slumbering, new-born kin. I, hopelessly nerdy and raised in a culture where they edit out the kissing between man and wife in such risqué features as “Free Willy” and “Home Alone II: Lost in New York”, was starry-eyed and hypnotized by Samantha’s flagrant use of sexually explicit phrases, by the prevalence of oral sex, and the casual partial nudity. It felt like that time in middle school when we all watched that movie “Wild Things” at Amy Dickens’ birthday party and pretended to care about the plot line when in actual fact, we were secretly roused and delighted that such movies exist.
The ingenious brain-child of Michael Patrick King followed me to Harvard, where hours were whiled away watching one of my best friend’s complete SATC DVD set (shoutout: Becky Hammer, HLS '09). O, how frequently traversed were those stone steps of C-entryway by a boxer clad co-ed, running from second floor to fourth floor, season 4 clutched in her grubby mitt. O, but how many course packs remained unread, calls unanswered, and parties unfrequented because of the siren song of the opening credits. How many meetings unattended and 11 AM classes slung by the wayside because I woke up at 10:59 AM, awakened my roommate who had class at 9 AM, and promptly popped in season six, disc 1. How many e-mails written to lovers and friends and TFs, alerting them of your inability to make it to the rendez-vous/dinner/meeting, because of the ol' you're-getting- over-a-nasty-cold-what-with-the-change-in-the-weather-and-it's-flu- season-and-who-knows-you-might-need-antibiotics-in-fact-you're-on-your-way-
to-UHS-right-now excuse, followed by a jaunty click of the mouse to send the lie along on its merry way, a double click on your Ibook DVD player to make the
screen larger, and 12 clicks on your cell to order cheese fries from Tommy's. For pick-up.
Many's the time I've wondered why I graduated with a degree in Biology, when among my supposedly knowledge-infused unmyelinated neurons, there remains but the faint tune of that French rap song they play in the series finale. Why was I wearing a cap and gown when my glial cells were kickin' back, with their feet up on the barcalounger, mulling over their failed relationships? Do you get a degree in slacking to the tune of a Jimmy Choo and witty, yet sexy, banter over a cosmopolitan?
I'm exaggerating. But if you made a pie chart of my time expenditure in college, I think you would be disgusted (and rightfully so) with the amount of time spent watching TV on DVD. I'm not displeased with the fruits of my college career, but I sure know that I didn't join a hell of a lot of clubs or attend X amount of stimulating guest lectures or make Y more friends, all for the sake of vicarious living. I blamed it on the ungodly schedule of the Harvard pre-med, but in actual fact, for the average Bio-er, I managed to get away with not studying too much through clever course selection and the ability to cram a semester's worth of material and class into two days during reading period. In actual fact, it is because of HBO that I was never part of Model UN or the Asian society at Harvard...that big one...what's it called?
Which led me to wonder/begs the question/got me thinking...when the men have come and gone and in a city of so many people and at the end of yet another failed relationship and when you can't ever know if you can forgive if you can't forget and if no one knows when enough is enough or what we are all waiting for...why the hell do I like Sex and City so much? (If you don't get the references you probably should stop reading here).
I have asked myself a series of questions and have come to what are not the conclusions:
1) Is it because of the message it gives to independent single women that we can be successful, smart, sexy, and still find the time to accessorize? No, not really. In fact, the words "smart, sexy, successful, and single" are beaten to death throughout the show and one starts imagining what would happen if one actually referred to herself by some/all of these adjectives in the presence of anyone with half a brain, sense of humor, or sense of irony. Ostracization, awkwardness, and a sickening feeling that you have shattered one/all of the six pillars of self-esteem you so carefully have built for yourself would inevitably ensue. If you need a TV show to make you feel like it's OK to be single, maybe you should look for a boyfriend.
2) Is it because of the enduring ties of friendship that are formed and bound and maintained? Not so much. The friendship in the show, though endearing at times, seems to be fueled by love for shopping, alcoholism, lunching together, narcissistic tendencies, and, of course, untiring whinging about the opposite sex. One wonders what these women would discuss if not blow jobs and bad kissers or what would happen to their friendship if, horror of horrors, someone tried to cut back a little on the spending or didn't have 19 exciting new sex stories to share over fruit at brunch. As anyone who has ever had a real friendship knows, cocktails and mutual sluttiness do not a friendship make.
3) Is it because of how the show revolutionized the way women talk, think, and do about sex? Not really. That's probably why many women love it, but after an episode or two, the message is across: women can talk about sex in explicit terms and that's OK. Good stuff.
4) Is it because of the relationships on the show? I enjoyed them, but it can't explain the obsession. I'm not a machine. I too was rooting for Carrie and Big, for Steve and Miranda. Of course, also did I utter gasp after gasp of delight when Miranda turned to Big and said "Go get our girl". It was obvious to me that Carrie and Big are perfect for each other. But it is obvious to me if to no one else that Carrie and Big are perfect because of matched and unequaled selfishness, high-maintenance behavior, and rampant enjoyment of the high-life. Nothin wrong with that, but it don't exactly make you swoon.
I turned to another angle: maybe the show is character-driven and is made so irresistable to me because of the charming, every-man-like main character, Carrie Bradshaw. But let's face it: Carrie is kind of a grotsky little bi-atch. I was certain while watching the show that her grotskiness and her bi-atchedness were givens and was therefore shocked to find commentary and commentary, interview and interview zoom by with no reference to this by MPK or Sarah Jessica Parker. Apparently they are unaware. She smokes, she cheats, she lies, she whores around, she thinks she's charming as all get out, she's too cutesy, and worst of all, she is utterly self-absorbed in her friendships. I guess she could be the every-man. But only if the every-man is a full-on grostsky little bi-atch. But yet, she is "the glue that holds the group together" and the other women, truer to themselves and more honestly flawed, are merely "foils". And don't get me started on her job. Let's be honest. Carrie Bradshaw collects an apparently very decent salary for writing a weekly, mediocre blog. She is a blogger, that is all. She is paid a mint at a sweet job where all she does is troll around her apartment by day and troll the streets for men by night. She spends half an hour writing trite questions on her labtop about men and sex and becomes famous and rich for it. It's like Angelina Jolie becoming Goodwill Ambassador to the UN because she is famous and pretty and enjoys traveling. It's just kind of annoying.
This realization (that I find the characters pretty annoying at times) led me to wonder if the reason I love ths show so much is because the characters are constantly getting slapped in the face? Now, this is something I cannot criticize. The pie-in-the-face that is delivered to all the characters fairly regularly is indeed delightful. But it is not the answer.
So what is?
Sex and the City appeals to me because it is glossy and decadent. It is, in a word, glossident. It is a spiked, rated-R, Pixar fairy-tale for women of this age. It is the Chocolate Room from "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory", the Lost Boys from "Peter Pan", every page of InStyle, the sheen and shine of "The Incredibles", every layout in Vogue, every laugh in Friends, the shoes from Barneys, frosting at Magnolia, the lifestyle of Town and Country, the steam at Elizabeth Arden, the library from Beauty and the Beast, and summer at the beach in the Hamptons. Blended together, fitted neatly in a plush pink binder, and served with a side of crack. And that is why I like it. Nary a show can match it for this, so fastidiously detailed and extravagant is it in all the right ways. Its very fiber is composed of blatant and unapologetic materialism with full make-up, Chanel accessories, and air-brushed within an inch of its life. Indeed, every season reveals a fresh new face, fully recovered from a fresh new chemical peel until the final, glittering Season Six emerges in all its glory, absolutely stunning and so glossident you want to reach out and touch it. It is like Fawkes, the phoenix in Harry Potter, emerging from the ashes. It is well done to the point of being overdone, but you love it. You've fallen down the rabbit hole. This ain't technicolor anymore, baby.
The transition to the transcendental season 6 is palpable. Carrie went from looking like a recovering heroin addict with frown lines and lurid gray eye makeup to a ringlet-tressed, satin-skinned goddess in the most glossident clothing one could e'er imagine. Miranda went from looking like a man with all the wrong haircuts to absolutely beautiful, with all the right shades of eye shadow. Charlotte went from looking annoying and gorgeous to just gorgeous. Samantha hit peak in season 4 and then just kind of got old. But she was still glossident and her wardrobe was delightful. The costumes and props seemed to multiply as the seasons wore on, not only in number, but in lushness. Who got tired of watching Carrie pick out a shoe from her masses of Manolos? When she spreads the boxes out on her bed, you are accosted by the palate of colors--electric blue, plush red, dark green, deep purple, shining silver. The shoes are works of art, and there they are, nesting in soft, glossy paper in their hard, glossy white boxes. Nesting glossidently. What about when Charlotte wanders about her ridiculous apartment? When she is clipping lilies on that large, oak table in the foyer of the apartment, perfectly dressed, perfectly tressed and wearing a diamond ring (probably a blood diamond, but whatever), while the sun shines through the perfectly furnished set, who can resist? There is ne'er another word to use but glossident. When Samantha, outfitted in a bright blue silk top that is ruched about the waist and is simultaneously outfitting Smith in Yves Saint Laurent and D&G, it is just too glossident. And when Carrie undoes a huge, silken black bow atop a shiny white box to reveal that bright pink, Oscar de la Renta, crepey dress, it is glossident as balls. Who could get tired of those apartment sets, stunning earrings, pale-green crushed velvet dresses, canary diamonds, Pucci scarves, or Fendi baguettes and the air-brushing, oh the air-brushing? Maybe you, but apparently not me. That show is a feast for the senses, and that's the way I like it.
The ingenious brain-child of Michael Patrick King followed me to Harvard, where hours were whiled away watching one of my best friend’s complete SATC DVD set (shoutout: Becky Hammer, HLS '09). O, how frequently traversed were those stone steps of C-entryway by a boxer clad co-ed, running from second floor to fourth floor, season 4 clutched in her grubby mitt. O, but how many course packs remained unread, calls unanswered, and parties unfrequented because of the siren song of the opening credits. How many meetings unattended and 11 AM classes slung by the wayside because I woke up at 10:59 AM, awakened my roommate who had class at 9 AM, and promptly popped in season six, disc 1. How many e-mails written to lovers and friends and TFs, alerting them of your inability to make it to the rendez-vous/dinner/meeting, because of the ol' you're-getting- over-a-nasty-cold-what-with-the-change-in-the-weather-and-it's-flu- season-and-who-knows-you-might-need-antibiotics-in-fact-you're-on-your-way-
to-UHS-right-now excuse, followed by a jaunty click of the mouse to send the lie along on its merry way, a double click on your Ibook DVD player to make the
screen larger, and 12 clicks on your cell to order cheese fries from Tommy's. For pick-up.
Many's the time I've wondered why I graduated with a degree in Biology, when among my supposedly knowledge-infused unmyelinated neurons, there remains but the faint tune of that French rap song they play in the series finale. Why was I wearing a cap and gown when my glial cells were kickin' back, with their feet up on the barcalounger, mulling over their failed relationships? Do you get a degree in slacking to the tune of a Jimmy Choo and witty, yet sexy, banter over a cosmopolitan?
I'm exaggerating. But if you made a pie chart of my time expenditure in college, I think you would be disgusted (and rightfully so) with the amount of time spent watching TV on DVD. I'm not displeased with the fruits of my college career, but I sure know that I didn't join a hell of a lot of clubs or attend X amount of stimulating guest lectures or make Y more friends, all for the sake of vicarious living. I blamed it on the ungodly schedule of the Harvard pre-med, but in actual fact, for the average Bio-er, I managed to get away with not studying too much through clever course selection and the ability to cram a semester's worth of material and class into two days during reading period. In actual fact, it is because of HBO that I was never part of Model UN or the Asian society at Harvard...that big one...what's it called?
Which led me to wonder/begs the question/got me thinking...when the men have come and gone and in a city of so many people and at the end of yet another failed relationship and when you can't ever know if you can forgive if you can't forget and if no one knows when enough is enough or what we are all waiting for...why the hell do I like Sex and City so much? (If you don't get the references you probably should stop reading here).
I have asked myself a series of questions and have come to what are not the conclusions:
1) Is it because of the message it gives to independent single women that we can be successful, smart, sexy, and still find the time to accessorize? No, not really. In fact, the words "smart, sexy, successful, and single" are beaten to death throughout the show and one starts imagining what would happen if one actually referred to herself by some/all of these adjectives in the presence of anyone with half a brain, sense of humor, or sense of irony. Ostracization, awkwardness, and a sickening feeling that you have shattered one/all of the six pillars of self-esteem you so carefully have built for yourself would inevitably ensue. If you need a TV show to make you feel like it's OK to be single, maybe you should look for a boyfriend.
2) Is it because of the enduring ties of friendship that are formed and bound and maintained? Not so much. The friendship in the show, though endearing at times, seems to be fueled by love for shopping, alcoholism, lunching together, narcissistic tendencies, and, of course, untiring whinging about the opposite sex. One wonders what these women would discuss if not blow jobs and bad kissers or what would happen to their friendship if, horror of horrors, someone tried to cut back a little on the spending or didn't have 19 exciting new sex stories to share over fruit at brunch. As anyone who has ever had a real friendship knows, cocktails and mutual sluttiness do not a friendship make.
3) Is it because of how the show revolutionized the way women talk, think, and do about sex? Not really. That's probably why many women love it, but after an episode or two, the message is across: women can talk about sex in explicit terms and that's OK. Good stuff.
4) Is it because of the relationships on the show? I enjoyed them, but it can't explain the obsession. I'm not a machine. I too was rooting for Carrie and Big, for Steve and Miranda. Of course, also did I utter gasp after gasp of delight when Miranda turned to Big and said "Go get our girl". It was obvious to me that Carrie and Big are perfect for each other. But it is obvious to me if to no one else that Carrie and Big are perfect because of matched and unequaled selfishness, high-maintenance behavior, and rampant enjoyment of the high-life. Nothin wrong with that, but it don't exactly make you swoon.
I turned to another angle: maybe the show is character-driven and is made so irresistable to me because of the charming, every-man-like main character, Carrie Bradshaw. But let's face it: Carrie is kind of a grotsky little bi-atch. I was certain while watching the show that her grotskiness and her bi-atchedness were givens and was therefore shocked to find commentary and commentary, interview and interview zoom by with no reference to this by MPK or Sarah Jessica Parker. Apparently they are unaware. She smokes, she cheats, she lies, she whores around, she thinks she's charming as all get out, she's too cutesy, and worst of all, she is utterly self-absorbed in her friendships. I guess she could be the every-man. But only if the every-man is a full-on grostsky little bi-atch. But yet, she is "the glue that holds the group together" and the other women, truer to themselves and more honestly flawed, are merely "foils". And don't get me started on her job. Let's be honest. Carrie Bradshaw collects an apparently very decent salary for writing a weekly, mediocre blog. She is a blogger, that is all. She is paid a mint at a sweet job where all she does is troll around her apartment by day and troll the streets for men by night. She spends half an hour writing trite questions on her labtop about men and sex and becomes famous and rich for it. It's like Angelina Jolie becoming Goodwill Ambassador to the UN because she is famous and pretty and enjoys traveling. It's just kind of annoying.
This realization (that I find the characters pretty annoying at times) led me to wonder if the reason I love ths show so much is because the characters are constantly getting slapped in the face? Now, this is something I cannot criticize. The pie-in-the-face that is delivered to all the characters fairly regularly is indeed delightful. But it is not the answer.
So what is?
Sex and the City appeals to me because it is glossy and decadent. It is, in a word, glossident. It is a spiked, rated-R, Pixar fairy-tale for women of this age. It is the Chocolate Room from "Charlie and the Chocolate Factory", the Lost Boys from "Peter Pan", every page of InStyle, the sheen and shine of "The Incredibles", every layout in Vogue, every laugh in Friends, the shoes from Barneys, frosting at Magnolia, the lifestyle of Town and Country, the steam at Elizabeth Arden, the library from Beauty and the Beast, and summer at the beach in the Hamptons. Blended together, fitted neatly in a plush pink binder, and served with a side of crack. And that is why I like it. Nary a show can match it for this, so fastidiously detailed and extravagant is it in all the right ways. Its very fiber is composed of blatant and unapologetic materialism with full make-up, Chanel accessories, and air-brushed within an inch of its life. Indeed, every season reveals a fresh new face, fully recovered from a fresh new chemical peel until the final, glittering Season Six emerges in all its glory, absolutely stunning and so glossident you want to reach out and touch it. It is like Fawkes, the phoenix in Harry Potter, emerging from the ashes. It is well done to the point of being overdone, but you love it. You've fallen down the rabbit hole. This ain't technicolor anymore, baby.
The transition to the transcendental season 6 is palpable. Carrie went from looking like a recovering heroin addict with frown lines and lurid gray eye makeup to a ringlet-tressed, satin-skinned goddess in the most glossident clothing one could e'er imagine. Miranda went from looking like a man with all the wrong haircuts to absolutely beautiful, with all the right shades of eye shadow. Charlotte went from looking annoying and gorgeous to just gorgeous. Samantha hit peak in season 4 and then just kind of got old. But she was still glossident and her wardrobe was delightful. The costumes and props seemed to multiply as the seasons wore on, not only in number, but in lushness. Who got tired of watching Carrie pick out a shoe from her masses of Manolos? When she spreads the boxes out on her bed, you are accosted by the palate of colors--electric blue, plush red, dark green, deep purple, shining silver. The shoes are works of art, and there they are, nesting in soft, glossy paper in their hard, glossy white boxes. Nesting glossidently. What about when Charlotte wanders about her ridiculous apartment? When she is clipping lilies on that large, oak table in the foyer of the apartment, perfectly dressed, perfectly tressed and wearing a diamond ring (probably a blood diamond, but whatever), while the sun shines through the perfectly furnished set, who can resist? There is ne'er another word to use but glossident. When Samantha, outfitted in a bright blue silk top that is ruched about the waist and is simultaneously outfitting Smith in Yves Saint Laurent and D&G, it is just too glossident. And when Carrie undoes a huge, silken black bow atop a shiny white box to reveal that bright pink, Oscar de la Renta, crepey dress, it is glossident as balls. Who could get tired of those apartment sets, stunning earrings, pale-green crushed velvet dresses, canary diamonds, Pucci scarves, or Fendi baguettes and the air-brushing, oh the air-brushing? Maybe you, but apparently not me. That show is a feast for the senses, and that's the way I like it.
Frindle: A reading rainbow with a pot of shame where the gold should be
I'm a pretty avid reader--I like biographies and other non-fiction, well-written fiction and poetry. For self-improvement, I'll even browse reference now and again. I like grown-up literature as much as the next educated person, but I don't think anything will ever surpass my love for children's literature. It has become evident at this point that I will never outgrow it. My knowledge of this genre is embarrassing, as is my surreptitious gravitation towards the Children's section at Indigo and Chapters. I think it was something to do with how we were raised, because my sister still loves it as well. The other week I was visiting her in Kingston and I had a giftcard from Christmas from Indigo. I've been trying to collect all the books I knew and loved as a kid for my children someday. So there we were, poring over the children's titles after giving the cursory nod towards the new fiction and the non fiction and all the other books that I will never buy but instead check out for free from the library. Especially when, evidently, half the books being published today are crap anyway. So, there I was, flush-cheeked and over-excited by the tantalizing aroma of a series of unfortunate events and george's marvelous medicine, when my sister came across a new series of books, the "Frindle" series.
Let me pause here to bitch about book prices in general. What are these, slabs of gold? I don't need your gilt bindings or the hard-covers or the hand-tipped illustrations or any of that shit. Just give me some looseleaf bound together with some string or what-have-you and we're on. You know in college when you were writing a research paper and ended up printing off hundreds of articles from JSTOR or PubMed or the like? Remember how, after 10 or 15 articles, you made the switch to lined paper because it was more abundant and cheaper besides? Take a hint, publishers. Purchase some lined paper at Wal-Mart during the back-to-school sales in September and mayhaps you can make these babies a little more affordable. Need books cost 20-30-40 bucks a pop? Maybe we shouldn't blame the declining minds of the nation's children on negligent parents, poor school systems or video games. Just make the books cheaper. Let's call it the "No Book Left Behind" Act. I think Congress will go for it. Why is it that I can buy a DVD for 6 bucks but practically have to go without food for a week if I want the new Sophie Kinsella novel? I bought the Harry Potter movie for 1 dollar in Pacific Mall but I read the first five Harry Potter books, frantically and furtively crouched over in bookstores around the globe. It's seriously annoying. Thank god for that market in Bangalore, where I bought all the Harry Potters for a pittance. And what is with movies or tv shows where the characters become interested in a topic, go to a bookstore and buy 10 books on the subject? You see the character, overcome and consumed by some ridiculous mission, in a bookstore browsing through the aisles, indiscriminately piling books up in their arms and then, supposedly, heading for the cashier. I find those scenes highly unrealistic and frankly, offensive. Just once I would like to pile copious amounts of books into my arms and proceed to the check-out. Maybe it's my fault, though. Whenever I go into a bookstore in Canada or the States, all ready to buy a new book, I inevitably end up trying to read said book in the hour before I have to meet someone, deciding that the book is no good anyway without bothering to finish it, and going off to sephora where I end up spending probably the same amount of money on a lip gloss. Also, I DO like the gilt binding and the hardcovers and the illustrations. Oh well.
Oh yes, Frindle. The first rule of a children's lit junkie is to make sure not to get caught. There are exceptions, of course. For example, I doubt that a cashier would bat an eye if a hamster came into a bookstore and demanded the full set of Harry Potter books, hard-backed and with matching book-ends. Everyone reads Harry Potter. If you are buying the Eloise treasury, the complete works of Beatrix Potter, classic fairy-tales of the Hans Christian Anderson variety, or any book that is gloriously bound with its own little traveling case, you're home free, sans embarrassing deliberate un-eye contact with the cashier. These books are absolutely beautiful and they are collectible. They are of the sort that normal people stack on their shelves as decorations (but never actually read) to prove how whimsy-filled their lives are. They are widely loved classics and the cashier/attractive stranger in the more age-appropriate travel or history section need not know these books will be devoured by you upon your return to your home. Books by Roald Dahl or any kind of fantasy of "The Golden Compass" sort may also be excusable. Everybody loves Roald Dahl and fantasy is for all ages. Quirky, lesser-known books, such as E.L. Konigsburg's works, for example, "Up from Jericho Tel" or "A Proud Taste of Scarlet and Miniver" or "The View from Saturday Morning" may also eschew embarrassment. Likely, the cashier will not recognize these titles unless he/she is also a children's lit buff, in which case you are safe. If you are in Canada and female, buying the Anne of Green Gables/Emily of New Moon/Pat of Silver Bush/Magic for Marigold series is acceptable, as the act is patriotic and every little Canadian girl has read at least some of these books. Similar for the "Little House on the Prarie" and American readers.
It is books like "Frindle" with which you venture onto dangerous territory. My sister, lover of children's books, bless her soul, was caught, red-handed, wielding "Frindle". She was perched atop a small shelf in the Children's Department of the Princess Street Indigo Books, delving into the shananigans of Frindle and Co. while I, "Stuart Little" in hand, was deciding between "Fantastic Mr. Fox" and "James and the Giant Peach". She would occassionally remark on her approval of Frindle and the amusing nature of his high-jinks. When she was just about done the book was when it happened. She was caught by a peer, by a fellow grad student who also attends the prestigious Queen's University. The grad student was, incidentally, also purchasing a children's book, but it was one of the fantasy sort, the acceptable sort. My sister handled the situation admirably, laughing it all off, while I hid like a cowering dog among the Princess Collection. However, her face was burning for the rest of the afternoon.
Now, books like Frindle are ne'er for amateurs. Books like Frindle are about third grade boys/girls with penchants for mischevious behavior and their classroom antics. They cannot be described as whimsical, nor are they full of the child-like fancy that would warrant the young at heart's reading them. The writing is big and the book is often bright green with the main character's mug, twisted into a mischevious grin, tatooed on the front. He is often wearing a baseball cap, striped shirt and sneakers. He may or may not be holding a pencil, indicative of the classroom setting, while his nemesis (frowning) and his right-hand man (beaming) stand behind him. The teacher (scornful) may or may not be in the background, wearing those cat-eyed wire glasses and an argyle sweater with her hands crossed in front of her.
If you are a true lover of children's books, you know and love the sort of book of which I speak. These books are like crack to you and you fiendishly seek them out and read them in secret, like any good junkie. But really, you are less like a junkie and more like a dork, a dork with stunted development and possibly a genetic disorder or two. However, you are a well-read dork and will always have a fall-back career as a children's book editor. For your foray into Frindle territory means that you have broken beyond the boundaries of "normal" children's literature readership. You have arrived. Like everybody else, you appreciate "Where the Wild Things Are" and "Goodnight Moon" and "Popcorn" and "The Jolly Postman". (my favorites were "The Secret in the Matchbox", "Alexander and the No Good, Terrible, Horrible, Very Bad Day" and "Red is Best"). Of course you love Dahl and Knight and Mongomery and L'Engle. But let's face it: those children books are for pussies. We've all read the Newbury Award books and agree they are excellent. We all love "The Giver" and "Bridge to Terabithia" and "Number the Stars". Who hasn't read "In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson" and "Tuck Everlasting"? Those tear-jerkers like "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry", "Where the Red Ferm Grows", "Summer of the Monkeys" or anything classic like "The Yearling", "Little Women", "Black Beauty", "The Secret Garden", or "A Little Princess" are for amateurs. Duh, you like those.
The fiasco with my sister prompted me to fashion a list of the kinds of children's books that are for the real junkies. That, for the thin-skinned and easily embarrassed lover of children's books,are simply unacceptable to be seen buying/reading at a bookstore or, even worse, borrowing from the library. This is true, at least, for young twenty somethings who are too old to read these books and too young to have children who will. Most young twenty somethings in bookstores are stationed by the magazine counter, pouring over US Weekly or GQ, depending on your sex. If you are like me, you enjoy many forms of literature, but you have read the books below multiple times and have deemed them worthy of having ,borrowing, or devouring greedily in a bookstore, crouched among the shadows. I have, of course, bought, borrowed, creeped, or all of the above, all of the below. I guess I'm just a cocksman. Or a children's lit dork who should embarrass more easily.
1) Frindle, obviously
2) The works of Beverly Cleary. If you know that there was a new Ramona book entitled "Ramona's World" out in the late 90s and if you have read it and it is in fact sitting by your bed-side, then you know too much. If you have read every single book Beverly Cleary has published, including the lesser known "The Luckiest Girl," "Emily's Runaway Imagination," "Socks," the Henry and Ribsy collection, "Otis Spofford" and "Ellen Tebbits," then you have read too much. If you hear the word "Oregon" and do not think of Oregon Trail, but rather the beguiling and charming culture of Oregon-residing children in the 1950s-60s-70s (depending on which series), then order the books from Amazon. (n.b. Do not buy "Otis Spofford" from a bookstore and return it after reading it twice. Again.)
3) Lesser-known works by famous children's books authors. This includes "Farmer Boy" or "The First Four Years" by Laura Ingalls Wilder. This includes the entire Austin (pilot: "Meet the Austins") collection by Madeline L'Engle, who wrote the well-respected "Wrinkle in Time" series. Also the Anastasia Krupnik series or "The One Hundredth Thing About Caroline" and offshoot "Your Move, J.P." by Lois Lowry, who wrote "Number the Stars". This includes all the Alice books by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, who wrote "Shiloh". If you're Canadian, it means the last two Booky books by Beatrice Myrtle Thompson and the two books that follow "The Sky is Falling" by Kit Pearson. These books are off-limits because it means you have sought out not just one, but entire works of a certain author. This is not normal behavior in most children, who read the more familiar, award-winning titles and begin to read other things or stop reading altogether. And even if said child did embrace these extension pieces, he/she should have forgotten about them by this point, in his/her early twenties, and not be trundling over to the check-out counter armed with "Alice in Rapture", "As Ever, Booky" and "A Ring of Endless Light".
4) Mrs. Piggle Wiggle books. To the untrained reader, the title sounds too ridiculous. Again, buying the pilot "Mrs. Piggle Wiggle's Magic" or "Hello, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle" is less embarrassing than buying, say, "Mrs. Piggle Wiggle's Farm", the last, poorest, and least well known of the series. You should not know about Mrs. Piggle Wiggle at all and you definitely should not know about her farm.
5) The Borrowers. My personal favorite. Again, buying "The Borrowers" is passable because it's a whimsical idea, but not "The Borrowers Afield," "The Borrowers Aloft" or "The Borrowers Afloat".
6) The Boxcar Children. Although, these, like Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys, may now be considered vintage and therefore no longer taboo. Reader's call.
7) Judy Blume books. Now these are tricky, as many of her books convey important messages to the pre-teen and adolescent. "Blubber," for instance, is about bullying and "Iggy's House" about racism. "Deenie" is about outward vs. inner beauty and "Tiger Eyes" about dealing with a parent's death. These books could, technically, be bought/taken out by a young teacher or an older sister. However, taking out a book such as "Are You There God, it's Me, Margaret", with the famous catch-line "We must, we must, we must increase our bust" and menstrual cycle discussion, is never OK. One might buy "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing" or "Superfudge", since those books were well-known, but the extension books like "Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great" or "Fudge-a-Mania" are probably unacceptable.
8) "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" or "The Best Halloween Ever". For though the surprising acts of the Hermans may still be a riot to you, it is doubtful that a normal person would share your opinion.
9) The Great Brain series. This is something you should have outgrown in second grade, at best.
10) "Gone-away Lake" and "Return to Goneaway". Aunt Minnehaha and Uncle Pin's cherry meade are not of interest to the common man, nor is the clubhouse of Portia and Julian. Go and pick up a People/Vanity Fair magazine instead.
11) The Ginger Pye series, "The Moffats", or anything by Eleanor Estes.
12) "Glass Slippers Give you Blisters"--you should not borrow or purchase this book, even if you did memorize the entire book word-for-word and recite it to your family during a particularly boring family trip to Hong Kong when you were 10.
13) "Happy Birthday, Little Witch" or the prequel.
14) "Peppermints in the Parlour"--the name of this book should indicate how boring it is meant to be. It is not meant to be a rousing read.
15) "Sideways Stories from Wayside School" and it's sequel, "Wayside Stories from Wayside School" by Lois Sacher.
16) Although "The Cat Ate my Gymsuit" by Paula Danzinger is doable, if you're clutching "There's a Bat in Bunk Five", "The Divorce Express", and "This Place Has No Atmosphere", you're clutching too much.
17) Goosebumps or any of the Christopher Pike books. Not my personal cup of tea, but not acceptable either.
18) "Bunnicula". The goings-on of a vampire-bunny who sucks the life-blood from vegetables should arguably never have been written of.
19) "If This is Love, I'll Take Spaghetti". Need I say more? If it was introduced to you by your librarian, Mrs. Arneson in eighth grade as a book appropriate for young ladies, it should probably not be introduced to the cashier at your local bookstore as your sole heart's desire.
20) And possibly the most mortifying--the Babysitter's Club by Ann M. Martin or Sweet Valley Twins by Francine Pascal. These are not to be borrowed or bought in any circumstance, not even on the internet. Also not to be bought are lesser known works of Ms. Martin, such as "Ten Kids, No Pets," since you obviously read all of the BSC series before venturing onto this shaky terrain.
21) Even worse may be Highlights. I don't know where you would get your hands on these magazines, but if you see them in a doctor's office, restrain yourself from the temptation of Goofus and Gallant and the thrill of finding 13 random objects (including a toaster, a mug and a pencil) in a picture of a forest.
22) Even worse may be the Berenstein Bear collection. For although you may delight in the pictures of Brother and Sister Bear's newly cleaned, and organized room in "Messy Room" and the charming house-shaped night light in "Afraid of the Dark", it just isn't normal.
Let me pause here to bitch about book prices in general. What are these, slabs of gold? I don't need your gilt bindings or the hard-covers or the hand-tipped illustrations or any of that shit. Just give me some looseleaf bound together with some string or what-have-you and we're on. You know in college when you were writing a research paper and ended up printing off hundreds of articles from JSTOR or PubMed or the like? Remember how, after 10 or 15 articles, you made the switch to lined paper because it was more abundant and cheaper besides? Take a hint, publishers. Purchase some lined paper at Wal-Mart during the back-to-school sales in September and mayhaps you can make these babies a little more affordable. Need books cost 20-30-40 bucks a pop? Maybe we shouldn't blame the declining minds of the nation's children on negligent parents, poor school systems or video games. Just make the books cheaper. Let's call it the "No Book Left Behind" Act. I think Congress will go for it. Why is it that I can buy a DVD for 6 bucks but practically have to go without food for a week if I want the new Sophie Kinsella novel? I bought the Harry Potter movie for 1 dollar in Pacific Mall but I read the first five Harry Potter books, frantically and furtively crouched over in bookstores around the globe. It's seriously annoying. Thank god for that market in Bangalore, where I bought all the Harry Potters for a pittance. And what is with movies or tv shows where the characters become interested in a topic, go to a bookstore and buy 10 books on the subject? You see the character, overcome and consumed by some ridiculous mission, in a bookstore browsing through the aisles, indiscriminately piling books up in their arms and then, supposedly, heading for the cashier. I find those scenes highly unrealistic and frankly, offensive. Just once I would like to pile copious amounts of books into my arms and proceed to the check-out. Maybe it's my fault, though. Whenever I go into a bookstore in Canada or the States, all ready to buy a new book, I inevitably end up trying to read said book in the hour before I have to meet someone, deciding that the book is no good anyway without bothering to finish it, and going off to sephora where I end up spending probably the same amount of money on a lip gloss. Also, I DO like the gilt binding and the hardcovers and the illustrations. Oh well.
Oh yes, Frindle. The first rule of a children's lit junkie is to make sure not to get caught. There are exceptions, of course. For example, I doubt that a cashier would bat an eye if a hamster came into a bookstore and demanded the full set of Harry Potter books, hard-backed and with matching book-ends. Everyone reads Harry Potter. If you are buying the Eloise treasury, the complete works of Beatrix Potter, classic fairy-tales of the Hans Christian Anderson variety, or any book that is gloriously bound with its own little traveling case, you're home free, sans embarrassing deliberate un-eye contact with the cashier. These books are absolutely beautiful and they are collectible. They are of the sort that normal people stack on their shelves as decorations (but never actually read) to prove how whimsy-filled their lives are. They are widely loved classics and the cashier/attractive stranger in the more age-appropriate travel or history section need not know these books will be devoured by you upon your return to your home. Books by Roald Dahl or any kind of fantasy of "The Golden Compass" sort may also be excusable. Everybody loves Roald Dahl and fantasy is for all ages. Quirky, lesser-known books, such as E.L. Konigsburg's works, for example, "Up from Jericho Tel" or "A Proud Taste of Scarlet and Miniver" or "The View from Saturday Morning" may also eschew embarrassment. Likely, the cashier will not recognize these titles unless he/she is also a children's lit buff, in which case you are safe. If you are in Canada and female, buying the Anne of Green Gables/Emily of New Moon/Pat of Silver Bush/Magic for Marigold series is acceptable, as the act is patriotic and every little Canadian girl has read at least some of these books. Similar for the "Little House on the Prarie" and American readers.
It is books like "Frindle" with which you venture onto dangerous territory. My sister, lover of children's books, bless her soul, was caught, red-handed, wielding "Frindle". She was perched atop a small shelf in the Children's Department of the Princess Street Indigo Books, delving into the shananigans of Frindle and Co. while I, "Stuart Little" in hand, was deciding between "Fantastic Mr. Fox" and "James and the Giant Peach". She would occassionally remark on her approval of Frindle and the amusing nature of his high-jinks. When she was just about done the book was when it happened. She was caught by a peer, by a fellow grad student who also attends the prestigious Queen's University. The grad student was, incidentally, also purchasing a children's book, but it was one of the fantasy sort, the acceptable sort. My sister handled the situation admirably, laughing it all off, while I hid like a cowering dog among the Princess Collection. However, her face was burning for the rest of the afternoon.
Now, books like Frindle are ne'er for amateurs. Books like Frindle are about third grade boys/girls with penchants for mischevious behavior and their classroom antics. They cannot be described as whimsical, nor are they full of the child-like fancy that would warrant the young at heart's reading them. The writing is big and the book is often bright green with the main character's mug, twisted into a mischevious grin, tatooed on the front. He is often wearing a baseball cap, striped shirt and sneakers. He may or may not be holding a pencil, indicative of the classroom setting, while his nemesis (frowning) and his right-hand man (beaming) stand behind him. The teacher (scornful) may or may not be in the background, wearing those cat-eyed wire glasses and an argyle sweater with her hands crossed in front of her.
If you are a true lover of children's books, you know and love the sort of book of which I speak. These books are like crack to you and you fiendishly seek them out and read them in secret, like any good junkie. But really, you are less like a junkie and more like a dork, a dork with stunted development and possibly a genetic disorder or two. However, you are a well-read dork and will always have a fall-back career as a children's book editor. For your foray into Frindle territory means that you have broken beyond the boundaries of "normal" children's literature readership. You have arrived. Like everybody else, you appreciate "Where the Wild Things Are" and "Goodnight Moon" and "Popcorn" and "The Jolly Postman". (my favorites were "The Secret in the Matchbox", "Alexander and the No Good, Terrible, Horrible, Very Bad Day" and "Red is Best"). Of course you love Dahl and Knight and Mongomery and L'Engle. But let's face it: those children books are for pussies. We've all read the Newbury Award books and agree they are excellent. We all love "The Giver" and "Bridge to Terabithia" and "Number the Stars". Who hasn't read "In the Year of the Boar and Jackie Robinson" and "Tuck Everlasting"? Those tear-jerkers like "Roll of Thunder, Hear My Cry", "Where the Red Ferm Grows", "Summer of the Monkeys" or anything classic like "The Yearling", "Little Women", "Black Beauty", "The Secret Garden", or "A Little Princess" are for amateurs. Duh, you like those.
The fiasco with my sister prompted me to fashion a list of the kinds of children's books that are for the real junkies. That, for the thin-skinned and easily embarrassed lover of children's books,are simply unacceptable to be seen buying/reading at a bookstore or, even worse, borrowing from the library. This is true, at least, for young twenty somethings who are too old to read these books and too young to have children who will. Most young twenty somethings in bookstores are stationed by the magazine counter, pouring over US Weekly or GQ, depending on your sex. If you are like me, you enjoy many forms of literature, but you have read the books below multiple times and have deemed them worthy of having ,borrowing, or devouring greedily in a bookstore, crouched among the shadows. I have, of course, bought, borrowed, creeped, or all of the above, all of the below. I guess I'm just a cocksman. Or a children's lit dork who should embarrass more easily.
1) Frindle, obviously
2) The works of Beverly Cleary. If you know that there was a new Ramona book entitled "Ramona's World" out in the late 90s and if you have read it and it is in fact sitting by your bed-side, then you know too much. If you have read every single book Beverly Cleary has published, including the lesser known "The Luckiest Girl," "Emily's Runaway Imagination," "Socks," the Henry and Ribsy collection, "Otis Spofford" and "Ellen Tebbits," then you have read too much. If you hear the word "Oregon" and do not think of Oregon Trail, but rather the beguiling and charming culture of Oregon-residing children in the 1950s-60s-70s (depending on which series), then order the books from Amazon. (n.b. Do not buy "Otis Spofford" from a bookstore and return it after reading it twice. Again.)
3) Lesser-known works by famous children's books authors. This includes "Farmer Boy" or "The First Four Years" by Laura Ingalls Wilder. This includes the entire Austin (pilot: "Meet the Austins") collection by Madeline L'Engle, who wrote the well-respected "Wrinkle in Time" series. Also the Anastasia Krupnik series or "The One Hundredth Thing About Caroline" and offshoot "Your Move, J.P." by Lois Lowry, who wrote "Number the Stars". This includes all the Alice books by Phyllis Reynolds Naylor, who wrote "Shiloh". If you're Canadian, it means the last two Booky books by Beatrice Myrtle Thompson and the two books that follow "The Sky is Falling" by Kit Pearson. These books are off-limits because it means you have sought out not just one, but entire works of a certain author. This is not normal behavior in most children, who read the more familiar, award-winning titles and begin to read other things or stop reading altogether. And even if said child did embrace these extension pieces, he/she should have forgotten about them by this point, in his/her early twenties, and not be trundling over to the check-out counter armed with "Alice in Rapture", "As Ever, Booky" and "A Ring of Endless Light".
4) Mrs. Piggle Wiggle books. To the untrained reader, the title sounds too ridiculous. Again, buying the pilot "Mrs. Piggle Wiggle's Magic" or "Hello, Mrs. Piggle Wiggle" is less embarrassing than buying, say, "Mrs. Piggle Wiggle's Farm", the last, poorest, and least well known of the series. You should not know about Mrs. Piggle Wiggle at all and you definitely should not know about her farm.
5) The Borrowers. My personal favorite. Again, buying "The Borrowers" is passable because it's a whimsical idea, but not "The Borrowers Afield," "The Borrowers Aloft" or "The Borrowers Afloat".
6) The Boxcar Children. Although, these, like Nancy Drew or Hardy Boys, may now be considered vintage and therefore no longer taboo. Reader's call.
7) Judy Blume books. Now these are tricky, as many of her books convey important messages to the pre-teen and adolescent. "Blubber," for instance, is about bullying and "Iggy's House" about racism. "Deenie" is about outward vs. inner beauty and "Tiger Eyes" about dealing with a parent's death. These books could, technically, be bought/taken out by a young teacher or an older sister. However, taking out a book such as "Are You There God, it's Me, Margaret", with the famous catch-line "We must, we must, we must increase our bust" and menstrual cycle discussion, is never OK. One might buy "Tales of a Fourth Grade Nothing" or "Superfudge", since those books were well-known, but the extension books like "Otherwise Known as Sheila the Great" or "Fudge-a-Mania" are probably unacceptable.
8) "The Best Christmas Pageant Ever" or "The Best Halloween Ever". For though the surprising acts of the Hermans may still be a riot to you, it is doubtful that a normal person would share your opinion.
9) The Great Brain series. This is something you should have outgrown in second grade, at best.
10) "Gone-away Lake" and "Return to Goneaway". Aunt Minnehaha and Uncle Pin's cherry meade are not of interest to the common man, nor is the clubhouse of Portia and Julian. Go and pick up a People/Vanity Fair magazine instead.
11) The Ginger Pye series, "The Moffats", or anything by Eleanor Estes.
12) "Glass Slippers Give you Blisters"--you should not borrow or purchase this book, even if you did memorize the entire book word-for-word and recite it to your family during a particularly boring family trip to Hong Kong when you were 10.
13) "Happy Birthday, Little Witch" or the prequel.
14) "Peppermints in the Parlour"--the name of this book should indicate how boring it is meant to be. It is not meant to be a rousing read.
15) "Sideways Stories from Wayside School" and it's sequel, "Wayside Stories from Wayside School" by Lois Sacher.
16) Although "The Cat Ate my Gymsuit" by Paula Danzinger is doable, if you're clutching "There's a Bat in Bunk Five", "The Divorce Express", and "This Place Has No Atmosphere", you're clutching too much.
17) Goosebumps or any of the Christopher Pike books. Not my personal cup of tea, but not acceptable either.
18) "Bunnicula". The goings-on of a vampire-bunny who sucks the life-blood from vegetables should arguably never have been written of.
19) "If This is Love, I'll Take Spaghetti". Need I say more? If it was introduced to you by your librarian, Mrs. Arneson in eighth grade as a book appropriate for young ladies, it should probably not be introduced to the cashier at your local bookstore as your sole heart's desire.
20) And possibly the most mortifying--the Babysitter's Club by Ann M. Martin or Sweet Valley Twins by Francine Pascal. These are not to be borrowed or bought in any circumstance, not even on the internet. Also not to be bought are lesser known works of Ms. Martin, such as "Ten Kids, No Pets," since you obviously read all of the BSC series before venturing onto this shaky terrain.
21) Even worse may be Highlights. I don't know where you would get your hands on these magazines, but if you see them in a doctor's office, restrain yourself from the temptation of Goofus and Gallant and the thrill of finding 13 random objects (including a toaster, a mug and a pencil) in a picture of a forest.
22) Even worse may be the Berenstein Bear collection. For although you may delight in the pictures of Brother and Sister Bear's newly cleaned, and organized room in "Messy Room" and the charming house-shaped night light in "Afraid of the Dark", it just isn't normal.
Friday, March 23, 2007
3 am and I'm still awake writing a blog
Trite pop song reference? Yes please. I can't believe I have started a blog, but I am kind of excited about it. I suppose this is what time off between college and grad school is meant to be used for--that is, wasting time.
Here are some of my blog resolutions. The need to clearly delineate is innate, so bear with me.
1) This will not be a diary. That means I will spare both myself and you from angsty confessions, mediocre (at best) poetry and whinging about friendship/men/the ilk.
2)
Well, I think 1) just about covered the main points. I'm not sure what this blog is for exactly, if not to be used for a diary and I may have wasted 10 minutes picking my font type and color and fiddling with background settings. I think it has something to do with the fact that writing in my diary is becoming confusing--there are the angsty/whingy thoughts and the more rational ones. I'm looking for somewhere to unload the latter.
I guess the most important news from this year is that I decided to go to law school. I think, I thiinnkk it feels right. Or as right as anything can feel to me. Med school did not feel right and vet school did not feel right and I'm still really pissed that I sacrificed my spring break in florida to go on that stupid externship. Lazy as I am, I poured myself into the lsat and the apps, so that says something. The best news is that I got into University of Toronto, which is the best law school in Canada and has the best program for international human rights and which I didn't think I had a shot in hell of getting into. The sad news is that I guess I am leaving the states for good, or for now at least. What with boarding school and college, I've made a lot of good friends there and it will be sad to know that there is that border divide, even though these days it doesn't mean much. I've become Americanized, much to the chagrin of my mother, who pretty much thinks America is the antichrist although she made exceptions for Hotchkiss and Harvard. Despite my whining and despite the war-mongering in Iraq and Afghanistan and the flagging economy and the fact that, two years ago, the American people chose to re-embrance and champion Bush's general toolishness, I think America is a great country. The democrats' winning the house and senate reminded me of that.
I'm scared that I am too American, but I think it is something that can be cured. So I watch CNN and not CBC/CTV and I read The Economist and Time and not Macleans (is that even how you spell it? See, I totally don't read it). And I know nothing about Canadian politics, but I guess I'm here to learn (it IS boring, and without the bells and whistles the American media's got (think: that awesome touchscreen in the CNN newsroom during elections--that touchscreen is enough to make anyone apply for citizenship)). And I think I'll be weaned off the "America as the center of the universe" mindset that I have been brainwashed into (my mother again), but it will take time and a freak of a lot of globe and mails, more reading of lloyd axworthy and less of books like "while canada slept", which slumped me into depression for days.
The important thing is that my family is in Canada, I guess, which may sound weird, but I've been away from home since I was 14, so I am looking forward (to put it lightly) to my parents' moving back to Toronto next year in March. My aunt and uncle and cousins are scattered around toronto and ottawa and my sister's at Queen's, and I can't express in words how good it will feel to be in the same vicinity as everyone...FINALLY. I cannot wait to be able to go home for the weekend or have a home base that I don't have to travel for 24 hours to get to. I'll miss Saudi, but it's about fucking time to leave. I think I tapped that country for all that it's worth (actually that is totally untrue, seeing as how my days in saudi involved lazing around the pool or lazing around my house or lazing around in any number of other locations).
I'm living right now in an area of Toronto called North York and I loovvee it. There's a huge amount of restaurants (mostly Korean and Japanese) around the area, and (my favorite) Baton Rouge right across the street. EVERYTHING is connected to my building--shops, drugstore, the loblaws (grocery store), second cup, and a ginormous library which I frequent, well, daily. my gym is across the street as well, and I love my gym because it is glorious and has classes in which I am singled out and yelled at everytime and at the end of which I feel nauseous from unnatural amounts of physical exertion. It was pretty horrible living alone, but now Tanaz has moved in since she's doing her MBA coop in Toronto and it is fun.
Sadly, around Christmas-time, my grandma (who lives in ottawa with my granddad) began mass deterioration, which sounds mean, but it's really the only way to put it. She was incredibly deconditioned, weak as anything, on all kinds of painkillers, and had a knee surgery. It was a horrible time--all my family was here for the holidays, but we were literally in the hospital everyday, all day, and sometimes, all night. She is at home now, but she is still very deconditioned and it has become blindingly clear that she has dementia. she doesn't remember how to sit up or sit down and someone has to help her all the time, including the nights, when she can't get up and go to the bathroom by herself (and may I add that she has to go to the bathroom about 7 times a night). i stayed in ottawa for two months with my mom, helping out, and left for toronto when she left to go back to saudi. I was in toronto for a couple weeks when, again, it became blindingly clear that they needed help. We are a Chinese family, which means we are impossibly filial and we are westernized in that we are loving and express affection. That means everyone is freaking out/was freaking out/will be freaking out about what to do. It means all we talk about is this situation and all we think about is this situation. It also means a nursing home is out of the question until every single person in this family, including the overseas people, have done everything he can and/or is on the brink of exhaustion. My aunt lives about 20 minutes away, but she is a full-time nurse and can only do so much and was driving herself to exhaustion and is now taking antibiotics for a nasty cold.
Which is why I am here at my grandparents', up at 4 am. I'm here for a couple weeks, until my other aunt can come up from toronto and stay with them for awhile. We're switching off because it is a hard job. I stay up nights helping her deal with the bathroom stuff and help her do her exercises during the day. Since she gets pretty, um, creative at night, it's interesting hearing the things she has to say to me in the middle of the night, such as, "did you change your diaper?" or "feel free to use the commode--it's here for everybody." I've decided to look at the crazytalk with amusement, instead of as something that is mind-numbingly sad and another indicator of the tragedy of age. The plus side to all this is that my Chinese is fast improving, since my grandparents don't understand a word of english. It also means that I have an excuse to stay up at night, which I am prone to anyway, because at night is when my mind is clear and my thoughts fluid.
Anyways, I won't bore anyone with anymore of those details. There is more good news--I am going to India with Dickyi(who has taken a break from Harvard)! We are going to Dharamsala and I am going to volunteer with a Tibetan organization for human rights. I am/have been/am trying to change my fellowship from africa to this, because it's more within the budget and more up my alley. I will go to africa some day, but hopefully on a safari. Probably heading out end of May. But first I'm going to visit Boston and New York to see everyone I so dearly miss. Hopefully we will be drunk the whole time I am there, since I have not been drunk since graduation. I now drink in tiny amounts and like a lady and I'm ready to bust out and get nekkid as balls. (not really nekkid as balls, but I just wanted to write that). In the meantime I have to apartment hunt for next year and mentally prepare myself for mental expenditure (law school), since I have not engaged in mental activity for quite some time (have been sitting around for many months hanging out and watching tv on dvd).
Here are some of my blog resolutions. The need to clearly delineate is innate, so bear with me.
1) This will not be a diary. That means I will spare both myself and you from angsty confessions, mediocre (at best) poetry and whinging about friendship/men/the ilk.
2)
Well, I think 1) just about covered the main points. I'm not sure what this blog is for exactly, if not to be used for a diary and I may have wasted 10 minutes picking my font type and color and fiddling with background settings. I think it has something to do with the fact that writing in my diary is becoming confusing--there are the angsty/whingy thoughts and the more rational ones. I'm looking for somewhere to unload the latter.
I guess the most important news from this year is that I decided to go to law school. I think, I thiinnkk it feels right. Or as right as anything can feel to me. Med school did not feel right and vet school did not feel right and I'm still really pissed that I sacrificed my spring break in florida to go on that stupid externship. Lazy as I am, I poured myself into the lsat and the apps, so that says something. The best news is that I got into University of Toronto, which is the best law school in Canada and has the best program for international human rights and which I didn't think I had a shot in hell of getting into. The sad news is that I guess I am leaving the states for good, or for now at least. What with boarding school and college, I've made a lot of good friends there and it will be sad to know that there is that border divide, even though these days it doesn't mean much. I've become Americanized, much to the chagrin of my mother, who pretty much thinks America is the antichrist although she made exceptions for Hotchkiss and Harvard. Despite my whining and despite the war-mongering in Iraq and Afghanistan and the flagging economy and the fact that, two years ago, the American people chose to re-embrance and champion Bush's general toolishness, I think America is a great country. The democrats' winning the house and senate reminded me of that.
I'm scared that I am too American, but I think it is something that can be cured. So I watch CNN and not CBC/CTV and I read The Economist and Time and not Macleans (is that even how you spell it? See, I totally don't read it). And I know nothing about Canadian politics, but I guess I'm here to learn (it IS boring, and without the bells and whistles the American media's got (think: that awesome touchscreen in the CNN newsroom during elections--that touchscreen is enough to make anyone apply for citizenship)). And I think I'll be weaned off the "America as the center of the universe" mindset that I have been brainwashed into (my mother again), but it will take time and a freak of a lot of globe and mails, more reading of lloyd axworthy and less of books like "while canada slept", which slumped me into depression for days.
The important thing is that my family is in Canada, I guess, which may sound weird, but I've been away from home since I was 14, so I am looking forward (to put it lightly) to my parents' moving back to Toronto next year in March. My aunt and uncle and cousins are scattered around toronto and ottawa and my sister's at Queen's, and I can't express in words how good it will feel to be in the same vicinity as everyone...FINALLY. I cannot wait to be able to go home for the weekend or have a home base that I don't have to travel for 24 hours to get to. I'll miss Saudi, but it's about fucking time to leave. I think I tapped that country for all that it's worth (actually that is totally untrue, seeing as how my days in saudi involved lazing around the pool or lazing around my house or lazing around in any number of other locations).
I'm living right now in an area of Toronto called North York and I loovvee it. There's a huge amount of restaurants (mostly Korean and Japanese) around the area, and (my favorite) Baton Rouge right across the street. EVERYTHING is connected to my building--shops, drugstore, the loblaws (grocery store), second cup, and a ginormous library which I frequent, well, daily. my gym is across the street as well, and I love my gym because it is glorious and has classes in which I am singled out and yelled at everytime and at the end of which I feel nauseous from unnatural amounts of physical exertion. It was pretty horrible living alone, but now Tanaz has moved in since she's doing her MBA coop in Toronto and it is fun.
Sadly, around Christmas-time, my grandma (who lives in ottawa with my granddad) began mass deterioration, which sounds mean, but it's really the only way to put it. She was incredibly deconditioned, weak as anything, on all kinds of painkillers, and had a knee surgery. It was a horrible time--all my family was here for the holidays, but we were literally in the hospital everyday, all day, and sometimes, all night. She is at home now, but she is still very deconditioned and it has become blindingly clear that she has dementia. she doesn't remember how to sit up or sit down and someone has to help her all the time, including the nights, when she can't get up and go to the bathroom by herself (and may I add that she has to go to the bathroom about 7 times a night). i stayed in ottawa for two months with my mom, helping out, and left for toronto when she left to go back to saudi. I was in toronto for a couple weeks when, again, it became blindingly clear that they needed help. We are a Chinese family, which means we are impossibly filial and we are westernized in that we are loving and express affection. That means everyone is freaking out/was freaking out/will be freaking out about what to do. It means all we talk about is this situation and all we think about is this situation. It also means a nursing home is out of the question until every single person in this family, including the overseas people, have done everything he can and/or is on the brink of exhaustion. My aunt lives about 20 minutes away, but she is a full-time nurse and can only do so much and was driving herself to exhaustion and is now taking antibiotics for a nasty cold.
Which is why I am here at my grandparents', up at 4 am. I'm here for a couple weeks, until my other aunt can come up from toronto and stay with them for awhile. We're switching off because it is a hard job. I stay up nights helping her deal with the bathroom stuff and help her do her exercises during the day. Since she gets pretty, um, creative at night, it's interesting hearing the things she has to say to me in the middle of the night, such as, "did you change your diaper?" or "feel free to use the commode--it's here for everybody." I've decided to look at the crazytalk with amusement, instead of as something that is mind-numbingly sad and another indicator of the tragedy of age. The plus side to all this is that my Chinese is fast improving, since my grandparents don't understand a word of english. It also means that I have an excuse to stay up at night, which I am prone to anyway, because at night is when my mind is clear and my thoughts fluid.
Anyways, I won't bore anyone with anymore of those details. There is more good news--I am going to India with Dickyi(who has taken a break from Harvard)! We are going to Dharamsala and I am going to volunteer with a Tibetan organization for human rights. I am/have been/am trying to change my fellowship from africa to this, because it's more within the budget and more up my alley. I will go to africa some day, but hopefully on a safari. Probably heading out end of May. But first I'm going to visit Boston and New York to see everyone I so dearly miss. Hopefully we will be drunk the whole time I am there, since I have not been drunk since graduation. I now drink in tiny amounts and like a lady and I'm ready to bust out and get nekkid as balls. (not really nekkid as balls, but I just wanted to write that). In the meantime I have to apartment hunt for next year and mentally prepare myself for mental expenditure (law school), since I have not engaged in mental activity for quite some time (have been sitting around for many months hanging out and watching tv on dvd).
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