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.
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.
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