excerpt from an undated journal entry

found this in my "real" journal. it amused me:

I arrived at the Trottier building 15 minutes early for phonology and, feeling parched enough, opted to buy an apple juice from the vending machine. Upon approaching the machine, however, my cheap Long Island girl instincts kicked in and I became very reluctant to part with a precious loony. Resolved to work up some mucus in my mouth and swallow that, or else find a water fountain, I began to turn from the machine, when a shiny object caught my eye. No! It couldn't be! I turned, I looked, I beheld: a loony that some careless engineering student had left in the change slot! How sweet!

Minutes later, while still gloating over and happily sipping my free apple juice, I noticed the presence of that enigmatic boy with [details omitted] from [insert place here] in the corner of the room. He was smiling his unassuming smile and talking to two girls who'd evidently spent too much time preening that morning. Instantly I became self-conscious of the brusque and ungainly way I was throwing back my head, attempting to get every last nectarous drop out of that can. I suddenly wished for a straw, and for clearer skin, larger breasts, a flatter stomach, thinner thighs, and more elegant clothing. Way to ruin a free apple juice, bitches (a term that does not exclude me).

poopsie goes down

you know it's not home anymore when you don't want the computer to remember your passwords.

hey, kids. i'm on the island, sitting here in my pajamas, wishing i could shower, but holding out because jane used up most of the hot water. but i'm not writing here to tell you all i've discovered that this is no longer home. i've known that for a while now. i'm writing here to tell you that i'm flying backwards through the connecticut air, dreading my impact but enjoying my weightlessness. when i land there will be a soft thud; the ice will resist my form. i'll probably lay motionless for a few moments, sprawled helplessly for dramatic effect, then i'll dutifully contract, grab my elbow and whimper; i'll roll my sore neck for days.

but hey, i'm a limber young lass. i can take it. right?

the maine woods, or something like them

Through the twiny veil of her tangled hair, she stared into the brook below and beheld cotton clouds gliding through a liquid sky - a sky submerged beneath the leafy branches swaggering over her head. Her arms crossed each other tightly as the cohesion of these images startled forth a quiet gasp. She had been reduced to another stratum in the atmosphere; she was merely a shadow divorcing the branches and their water.

A moment passed, and she took a pleasure in her placement, forgot all unnatural visions of the world she’d been sold.

A breath later she realized how long she would sit cross-legged on those two ancient planks, humbly and efficiently straddling her silent stream.

Now a mendicant of the forest, she dips her hands into the offering below; dips her hands and devours, as she ripples with the world.

the fucking yodelers

well, kids, i have another paper due tomorrow and we all know what that means: obligatory procrastinatory blog update!

so this weekend, while i actually did nothing of great importance, i did manage to solve an old and perplexing mystery. as some of you may or may not be aware, ever since we moved into this apartment i've been complaining quite a bit about the "fucking" neighbors upstairs and their goddamn hippie yodelling. in january, however, the neighbors upstairs moved out, leaving us with a new batch of do-nothing, rap-rock blasting, obnoxious punks instead. oh well, i thought, at least i won't have to deal with the hippie yodelling anymore, not to mention the seriously embellished moans of neighborly copulation echoing through my room while i'm sketching syntactic trees.

you can imagine my great surprise, then, when i woke up one bright sunday morning, to hear the shockingly familiar cries of lust resounding througout my bedroom. holy shit, i thought, it sounds like the same fucking. i refused to believe that two tenants in a row could be such astounding actresses; i knew the pitch and rhythm of those moans all too well - they had to be the same. i tried explaining this to my roommates, however, and began to sound a bit ridiculous. "i swear, guys, it's the same sex!" i asserted, but rachel and jane looked skeptical. for me, that alone was enough to induce self-doubt, and i told myself that all fucking sort of sounds relatively similar. besides, if i were right, it would seem kind of creepy that i had such honed fuck-recognition skills.

anyway, skipping ahead to this weekend. there i was, sitting at my desk, struggling to figure out the concept of semantic trace in the wake of copy-deletion, when, seemingly in my room, a guitar struck up, and a woman's voice began an all-too-familliar yodelling routine. i jumped up, cried out, and ran into the hallway announcing the confirmation: the "fucking" yodelling neighbors never were the neighbors upstairs, they were the neighbors next door, in the other building! frantically i attempted to bang on the shared wall with my fist, but only succeeded in bruising myself. i reached for the nearest heavy object - my vegetarian cookbook - but still, i couldn't make a sound. finally, i snatched up an old wooden clog from under my bed and began beating the wall. the yodelling promptly stopped.

so, now that i know the culprit and have discovered my weapon of choice, you can be sure that i won't go to bed again without my trusty wooden clog at my side. i just hope her moans are quelled as easily as her god-awful yodels.

we'll lay in bags as dead as leaves

friday night. so bored.

you know how i always pretend to have a life?
well, i don't.

ps. i just got digital ash in a digital urn. i don't understand, why has everyone been bitching about it? i'm rather happy with it. more on this later, if i feel like it.

addendum: rachel says i look like the bride of frankenstein in that picture. rock on.

nationalism in a can

"Made from a selection of 100% arabica beans, including Colombian and Kenyan varieties, this delightful coffee has been specially blended and roasted to achieve a taste profile beloved by Canadian coffee drinkers. It delivers a mild, comforting flavour with a hint of lingering sweetness, just the way you like it. Freshly roasted and vaccuum packed.

CHEF'S TIP:FOR A 'TRUE NORTH' TASTE EXPERIENCE, TRY YOUR COFFEE 'DOUBLE DOUBLE,' WITH YOUR FAVOURITE DONUT."

look, canadianness now encompasses a giant can of coffee. the "'true north' taste experience," however, sounds more like the alabama truck driver or jersey cop taste experience, if you ask me.

by george, we were a car-full of happy dorks

today marks the two year anniversary of the deliciously embittering "rochy or bust" journey. looking back on it, i still can't believe we survived the trip from philly to rochester; we drove all that way through a huge fucking blizzard, singing along to various (and seemingly premonitionary) mix cds and counting how many times the car swerved off onto the rumble strip (under the circumstances, it must be said that rob was an excellent driver, despite the "pretty" remark and near-death experience).

everything about that trip was so liberating: i was sixteen, skipping school, striking out on my own with a car full of 20 year olds - our destination a college rock concert in the new york hinterland - and all of this with people i'd met on the fucking internet. it's baffling that my mom even let me go. heck, we even had to tell jq's roomies that we'd met in a church group.

excitement like that just doesn't come so easily these days. and that's saying a lot coming from me - i still feel fairly envigorated when itunes shuffle picks the song i had in mind - but i just mean, the simple happiness that goes with that blind feeling of escapism. now, whatever i do, i never quite feel like i'm escaping anything; i feel too much a part of things, and that has its ups and downs.

the rochy trip, of course, wound up being more about the journey itself than the action of our destination. let's face it, that was one terrible concert (well, the openers were entertaining), but it may have given me one of my greatest "childhood" thrills.

Svetlana's Monologue

Very nice, Clarissa, very nice – don’t forget to put chest forward, keep back straight. Joanne don’t be grabbing the bar so tight, you have to loosen up, let your hand sit on top… good girl. Emily, what are you doing? You’re not even on the right foot; can’t you girls even remember one little routine I give you? Is ridiculous – switch sides, girls – I don’t understand how you think you going to be ballet dancers if you can’t even remember silly bar routine. Do you think I got into Barishlovka looking like a big slob? Emily, you are a mess! Tighten butt! No, in Russia we had to take things for serious, you know, we did not have it easy like you. I mean, just look, you girls get everything you need at nice big supermarket and everything is lined up and so bright. I love the American supermarkets, especially that new one they just opened down the street. Beautiful, Clarissa – look, girls! Look at how Clarissa gets her leg so nice and high, is perfect. Emily, you slumping over when you kick, back must be straight like there is metal rod in your spine. Good, now grab floor with feet like you are cat with big claws. Better, better… yes, in Russia we never had these big supermarkets, my grandmother had to wait 4 days in line just to get a stinking loaf of bread. But I come here and there are beautiful supermarkets and walls of bread… and my God, the cheese! Girls, I love the cheese – we never used to have cheese. Joanne, let go of the bar, you are holding it too tight! OK, right, now just rest hand on top, just place it. Good girl. Yes, no cheese and it was very cold. It was terrible – everything would freeze, everything. And then – point toe girls, point – there was the ummm – what you call them? Oh, the hit men, and they go and they kill people in winter and all the bodies, they dump them in the woods and the fields and they freeze in the snow – Emily, you must tighten butt! Is like a jellyfish! Squeeze, we don’t want to see the jiggling! Anyway, the bodies they freeze in the snow, and then it snow over them and no one knows they’re there until the spring. OK, girls now hold that… leg higher, higher, keep holding… very nice, Clarissa. And so when spring come, all the snow melts and there is bodies all over the place, is disgusting. OK, legs down girls, you can relax. So anyway, that is why I never do the cross-country ski – I don’t want to be skiing over all frozen bodies, you know? Joanne, you’re looking good, by the way. Is like you lost hundred pounds, you starting to look like real ballerina now.

another form of procrastination

i heard some bad news today that i don't care to discuss in detail because a) it doesn't really concern me and b) there's probably nothing good that i can say about it. but it did make me start to think about the little things we want but find reasons to put off until a later date. how deeply set in denial must we be to have successfully convinced ourselves that this makes any sense at all? there may not be a later date. you hear this everyday in some form or other, but it's so difficult to really feel it. well, today i tasted it, and i intend to savour it for as long as my fractured attention allows me.