Back to the River

This morning I went to the river and I saw a huge white swan. They are so fantastically BIG. Its body budged not when it deigned to bend its neck into the river, and budged not when lifted it again.

I saw a lonely goose, honking for its fellows. A kind of duck I've never seen before, with chocolate feathers, a thin graceful neck and a head with pretty angles instead of one curve. I saw many one-curved Mallards as well.

Three turtles, one solitary and two partnered, the one climbing half atop the other in an attempt to be that much closer to the sun. They were perfectly still, gaining energy, expending none.

I walked along the concrete ledge the seperates the path from the drop to the reeds. I climbed down and poked around the rocks for wildlife but found mostly shit and I think I was making the nesting ducks nervous so I climbed back up. Then I ran through the seagulls and went home.

The Bran Inevitability

It's true that I love muffins, especially the top
I love them when they're firm, yeah I love them when they flop
I love them when they're made of bran
They're healthy for you too
But I loved one earlier today so 'scuse me while I poo!

Running Out of Time

We currently have a tie between velociraptor and crocodile. Somebody break the tie!

May I say I find it notable that Bill O'Reilly's threat level remains unchanged since kitten paws do absolutely nothing to shut him up. At least he won't be able to match his pointed finger to that acrid, mouldy visage.

Danger Diminished!

While you're here you might consider the following situation:


You must diminish the threat level of one scary creature!
You only have one weapon: switching the hands/feet of your foe with kitten paws, GO!

Whose power is reduced the most by no longer having feet/hands/claws/whatever spider feet are called?

A Velociraptor?
A Crocodile?
A Spider?
Bill O'Reilly? (Hands disappear, kitten paws appear- you can't explain that!)


Vote in the poll to the right (see it?>>>) and I will draw a picture of the winner! Sorry its hard to read the options but the order is the same as above, I have to work out that bug, its not available in the template designer.

I'll start the drawing as soon as the poll closes, or I get bored of waiting for it to close; ten days is a long time.
Let's kitten-ify those scary creatures!

Edited for Rednecks

Alright, the truth is I've been caught in the sticky interwebs. But, as I sit here clicking and dreaming about building a time machine so that I might marry Carl Sagan, I come across this and have to share it. NOW I'll go write my essay. Or something.



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I must say, that's a pretty good impression of my future late husband's voice. Ok NOW to the essay.

I Bank with Banksy

Just the other day in performance class we watched a Banksy film called "Exit Through the Gift Shop" which was incredibly interesting, but I'll write more on it later. I just Stumble'dupon this and wanted to pass it on. As an artist and consumer myself it struck me:

Just Because

This video makes me feel like a surprisingly delicious pastry.

Twisted Paper and Globular Glass

I recently made a trip to the far away land of Guelph, Ontario, where I spent two days and two nights in languid conversation and non-conversation with Russell. Sometimes it was boisterous and silly (well, I was boisterous and silly), sometimes quiet and considered, sometimes as revealing as it was silent. 

In one of these moments of silent pleasure I was idly perusing the contents of his large, L-shaped desk. Three houseplants, their chloroplasts aglow with deep green health, greeted me mutely. A large laptop, all corners and matte finish spoke to its electronic cousins through black snakes- skinny and docile. Elegant configurations of tiny spherical earth magnets perched unassumingly amongst office supplies, next to a small stack of notepaper, the sides of which were patterned with pictograms of DNA, gears, a leaf, a power symbol, a water droplet- white on blue. On the one narrow shelf of the desk, above a row of CDs, a glass paperweight the size of my fist seemed to sink into the pale laminate. Its surface had been partially frosted in the shape of Earth's oceans, and much of our dear Antarctica unceremoniously sliced off to prevent the world from rolling heavily towards the centre of Earth Proper, likely obliterating any pencils or keyboards that may stand in its path.

Russell was stretched out on his twin bed, beneath the window in the alcove created between the desk and the far wall.  I sat perched on the edge of the bed, peering at the backsides of the inhabitants of L-desk, if inanimate objects can be said to have backsides. They didn't seem to mind. I was looking at a small unglazed white sculpture of a hand with fingers crossed, the fingers supporting a thin white cotton rope Russell had fashioned into a tiny noose. Leaning against the bone-white hand was a bleached white strip of paper with one turn in it- a three-dimensional representation of a two-dimensional object, known as a Möbius Strip. The brilliant thing is that with a piece of tape and strip of paper, in two movements you have an object with just one side. The simplicity and elegance of it are among my favourite things in this universe or the next. 

Here is a nifty video featuring fabulous kitchen tiles and a dramatic ending. It's a real live Möbius Strip, folks!

And this is a Klein Bottle, which is an even freakier, even MORE 3D version of a Möbius Strip! You can see at the end of the animation as it is peeled back, that it becomes a simple Möbius Strip. Pure poetry.

 

I like to touch things, especially those with seductive textures, and there was no way that I wasn't going to handle that paperweight once I laid eyes on it. So I was hefting it in my hand, and peering closely at it, touching the finest sandpaper texture of the frosted oceans, and the cold liquid perfection of the continents. I looked closer, into the globe at the undersides of the continents- and the pure transparent inside seemed impossibly larger than the outside. Ah, refraction! I adjusted my grip and there, in finest magnified clarity was my fingernail, appearing giant and in horrifying detail. You see, I have Wilde skin, which is not known for being either alabaster or naturally moist- rather, it is more akin to fine sand in colour and humidity. So I have perpetual hangnails which range from ordinary to utterly extraordinary (to remain polite about it). At least I was only exposed to my right forefinger, and my fascination was thus able to override my horror and I played with it a little longer before being forced to put down the globe and pick up my hand cream. Russell smiled from his position on the pillow, propped up with his chin in his right hand, and said, "I wondered when you'd figure that  part out."

And so, while drifting rather "aimlessly" (for our choices are always informed by our interests, even half-unconscious hyperlink-clicking) through the interwebs, I found this video had a particular resonance with my discoveries while exploring L-desk. You'll see what I mean, I think.

A worthwhile travel through a miniature landscape- a fortunate stumbling upon more technologically skilled individuals' explorations of the phenomena of our world...

    ...it's funny how things line up sometimes. It makes me smile inside and out.

Counting to Ten

How does doing Russian homework always so rapidly decline into searching Youtube for tutorials on how to count to ten in other languages?

Confession: I'm falling in love with Hungarian. (This is why)
Observation: 1-10 in Polish sounds a lot like 1-10 in Russian- if it were spoken by an old man with a lisp, which I must admit is oddly attractive. Is Polish to Russian as Sean Connery is to English?

Russian Coons

Sounds vaguely racist, now doesn't it? Consider the following:

It is late, cool and damp in Sandy Hill. The hour nears midnight. I turn the corner, the river at my back now, stepping carefully over the ice. The tree to my left is gnarly and shiny black with moisture. There's movement! Branches shake at the top left corner of my vision, where the leafless tree meets the roof of one of many house-to-embassy conversions in our neighbourhood.  This is the Russian Consular Office, and the Russian Consular Tree is shaking as a fat black cat ambles onto the roof, its stripey tail swinging for balanc- ...wait, a minute. It's a veritable rat-a-tat-a-COON! (anyone have a Kleenex?). So this is exciting. And then I look up a little further... and Trollface McCoonCat peers at me from the peak of the rooftop. Just his eyes and ears are showing, black against the black sky. Another black figure emerges, perched on the rooftop and another and another- all utterly motionless. They stare at me... seven sets of frozen eyes. In addition to Peekaboo Coon, two others are partially hidden- peering out from behind a perfectly coon-sized door into the attic of the main part of the house. They are so frighteningly motionless and fixed upon me, and I can't help but feel that, having interrupted them at the witching hour, there is a telepathic discussion going on that will decide my fate. Do the Russians know Wednesdays are "Seance on the Garage Roof Day"?

Didn't think it would happen again so soon...

Fell asleep on the #5 on the way to the grocery store. Not sure if I muttered this aloud or not but I heard it clearly in my head and it woke me up.

"Godditude granters are quenchers."

Yes. Yes, they are.

Things I Have Said Recently While Falling Asleep That Make No Sense

Head on his chest: "I wish I had an army of you..." So, ok, that one might lend itself to poetic interpretation in retrospect, but the fact that the sound of my own voice woke me up and yet I wasn't sure to whom it belonged should point to the fact that I very well may be haunted.

Sentence begins like this after a large blank space: "that I never really thought it out. The logistics of it are frightening- unless of course, we become indisputable to us." This after typing out the Flaw in the System! post from a few days ago. Am I haunted by beer?

More as they are uttered.

How Learning Russian Teaches Me English- Part 2

And I'm wrong! Haha, wonderful- there's more to it!

When I went to look up the etymology of 'glasnost' itself, I realized my fundamental error: one of spelling. Because of a tricksy little thing called consonant palatization I was picturing glasnost as глазность, which would in all likelihood be pronounced very similarly if not the same as the real spelling, which is гласность.

So there goes my whole eyeball theory, since now the root is глас (glas)- meaning 'voice'.

Google Translate defines гласность as 1. publicity, 2. publication and 3. daylight. And the Lord's son, Wiki Christ, says unto us:

Etymology:

From гласный (“public, open”) +‎ -ость (“-ness”).

Fail/Win
(was wrong)/(but look how much I learned!)

How Learning Russian Teaches Me English

Walking back from my midterm (which will have gone well if my withered Dumbledore hand returns to normal by evening) and thinking about the Russian term "glasnost"- meaning openness. It is not a cognate by any means, but- is it possible that there might be a similar construction within the English language?

For example, according to the divine source, i.e. Google Translate, глаз (glas) means
"1. eye
  2. optic
  3. orb"
in Russian.

It isn't much of a stretch to relate the idea of openness to an ability to see that which is now open. Open- "op-" Sounds like the Latin root that gives us "optic"- of the eye. It could be related maybe- maybe not at all.

There's time to look it up before I decide, but either way, its the pleasure of wondering, and the practice of looking for those kinds of connections that decorates and expands my brainspace.

A Flaw in the System!

After a pitcher of beer and some interactions with strangers, I feel human again. Midterms are really getting to me. In my typical swing from overwhelmed and self-destructive to existentialand... I was going to say 'existential and carefree' (warning: tangent ahead), but now that I see it written as one geographical location I concede its meaning: when I am there I no longer care. It's late, it's cold. I look at the moon, partially lit from the angle of the gargantuan fireball sun that, at this hour, is inaccessible to Earthlings but for the reflection of our elegantly pockmarked neighbour, and I see it all for the tiny part that midterms truly are in the grand scheme of my life. PEANUTS, I say!

Buuuuut, on the other hand, there is only ever now. You can experience the past or the future through the now, but every millisecond is only this millisecond. And if midterms happen to be the concern at this millisecond, well, then they are equally as valid a cause of stress as they are completely inconsequential. Welcome, with resigned arms, the paradoxical nature of simultaneous, opposing(?) truths.

Regardless, what I mean to say is that a Russian minor is no laughing matter. Truly. Это правильно, правда (наверное, неправильно). Between the demands of absorbing a language that is at once systematic, and yet a complicated system, the learning curve is, to say the least, INteresting. Every time I think I have the case system down, my stomach drops when faced with the prospect of putting 'my parents' into genitive case- for more (and likely different) reasons than you might assume.

Beyond that, I have never had a talent for history. I struggle with dates, with names, with events. Unless the name is a character who experiences an event, during a certain year which is important to him/her- which is directly related to that life the same way that every new year of my own life is specific and relevant to me- I have a hard time relating and retaining the information. It is what it is, for better or worse.

Tonight, I have to read endless- really, seemingly endless- chapter's of a book called "Lenin's Tomb" by David Remnick. It is well-written, VERY well, for it engages even the likes of me. But I have these ears, you see. They are trained towards sound, both naturally, and formally- by means of a rudimentary education in music through my teen years, and otherwise- I'm assuming- as a product of an only child's bored and curious mind. What this means is that, this evening, when I return from Russian language class to resume studying for Russian history and my roommate and fast friend is jamming away in her room (and showing distinct improvement today particularly, I might add), I can't but listen to her. Also, I am depressed and irritable with the state of my schoolwork. Russian history midterm tomorrow, and another the day after. Then darkroom, job searching, work- where are groceries and laundry supposed to fit in? The Art of Trolling, and Very Demotivational are particularly enticing at this moment. I have to get out of here. I hate myself, and the enormous, sweaty bulk of work that has piled up to be mown through in such short time, under the weight of paintings, paintings, performance ideas?- paintings. Solution: down and out towards the Rideau river, and the Sandy Hill Lounge and Grill is my salvation.

I settle in at the wider, southwestern end of the bar, and there are only a few problems to be met and dealt with. One is the trio of dorm-dwellers at a table directly behind me. They give a half-drunk verbal dissertation on their personal trials with Catholic school uniforms, full of interruptions and squeals from one of the two girls involved. But she smiles at me when we run into each other outside the washrooms later, and I decide I like her anyway.

Another problem is that my salt-dried eyes appear to be larger than my sad, hungry stomach and disenchanted brain chemistry. I'm in serious doubt that a pitcher of Pabst was a sound idea. Only practically, because I know that its the only thing going to get me through this night. Midterm in less than 12 hours now. Better hurry up. My friend and neighbour whom I had messaged to come help me kill my pitcher is unable to, under the technological pressures of ebooks. I'm assuming he has been annexed according to the machines' whims by now; may the flying spaghetti monster have mercy on his soul. I cross the (booze) hump on my own, however, and pace my few mediocre beers over an hour or two, and it's just enough to get me through a couple of horribly revealing chapters about the collapse of the Soviet Union, and to carry me into the hilarious conversation occurring to my right between Sir Upinarms MaybeLawyer, Sir Toofardownthebar Tohearproperly and Sir Futurefriend Bartender, about the absurd (it was suggested) level of security on airplanes, post 9/11, as opposed to that upon ferries, or European international trains. After pointing out a couple of flaws in his arguments, and agreeing that there is a flaw in the system, it ends with Sir U. M. saying he agrees with me on 'that', then being consequently unable to decide where to go from there since 'that' had been agreed upon. I am announcing that it is clearly then, hat time, and U.M. laughs as I shove my white toque upon my cranium, salute to a wry Sir F. B. and exit the glass doors with a much-needed grin now slathered across my face.

I look up, thank the pewter sky-rock for being an unwitting confidante, inform it that I am really OK, after not being OK, so much. I had sent one of those unregrettable, only slightly drunk-texts to my faraway friend and lover, received a warming reply, and now to climb the last of that icy, rather than so sandy... hill, homeward.
I've got to go- truly, I must go, my crab eyes are sooo tired. More later. Pitcher ftw, see you tomorrow, maybe.

Hairy and Horny

Psych.

Void

Silence isn't void. It isn't lack. It is, like dark matter IS. Its gravity is nonreactive and yet undeniable. And it doesn't come with an obligation to become a 'something'. It's already something. Don't leap to fill it. It's its own thing. Observe: