i defining i: holiday

Showing posts with label holiday. Show all posts

November 10, 2015

jest (n.,v.) Reflections on page 223 (+ beyond) of DFW's Infinite Jest

Sometimes when there’s so much going on after a big move, all you want to do is be productive - whether by sending resumes or looking at apartments or by taking advantage of having the time to wander around and learn the new place you’re by getting outside and taking it all in.

And sometimes, you just have to curl up with yourself and do exactly what makes time disappear for you, which for me tonight was this (you can also read it on Medium if you prefer):

Some Thoughts on the Dynamics of Chronology & Storytelling in David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest

According to many reading guides for David Foster Wallace’s Infinite Jest, page 223 is one you have to get to; suck it up through the confusion that is the book’s first 222 pages. The guides also tell readers, once there, to bookmark that page as they’ll constantly need to come back to it. At first, that page gave me hope when the book seemed too much to take in and get through. I trembled as I flipped page by page in the 200’s with anticipation. However, once I got there, I was underwhelmed. I realized that maybe they had played a trick on me.

[spoiler alert]

Those who have read Infinite Jest (or as least past page 223!) may agree. The page is to act as an aid to readers by listing the chronology of otherwise unnumbered years to help them piece together the narrative’s events in a more linear fashion. If we know when the events unfold, we can make better connections and better understand correlations and cause and effect that gives reason to the story. Presumably.

But maybe the years don’t matter; maybe a chronology of that kind, formalized and “historized” actually doesn’t matter as much as we think or as much as it should. Which is the point and perhaps why I was so underwhelmed by page 223 and it’s “intel.” Sure there are politics and “milestones” that touch characters’ lives — the same as those that touch our own here — yet, at the end of the day, the longest chapters, the most colourful — at least to me — were those internal dialogues describing more of our banal moments in life (Erdedy, for one). In some ways it didn’t matter when these moments were occurring; committing them to memory is what gave them their weight, as they informed my understanding of each character and DWF’s overall messages about progress, consequence, anticipation, ambition , passing time, and ultimately, the human drive to find “happiness” — or rather, meaning and belief.

Whatever we see fitting to be spotlighted in the central story we tell ourselves is what makes up our lives because it drives how we live. We can look back to the time we waited for something for what seemed like eternity but forget that it also happened many times before and nothing great came of it (Erdedy); we may remember the wrong phone conversations and recall inconsequential ones (Hal and Orin); we may never forget how sick we got all those times, cold-sweat and shuddering on the bathroom floor — except the time that it nearly kills us (Joelle). Those everyday struggles and banalities, the points in our lives that we orient our understanding of ourselves around are what make up our lives, perhaps even who we think we are. Even if there are larger uncontrollable events and circumstances primarily driving our lives forward, what matters is what I’ll call our holydays.

holy (adj.) Old English halig “holy, sacred; godly,” from Proto-Germanic from *kailo- “whole, uninjured.” Primary (pre-Christian) meaning is not possible to determine, but probably it was “that must be preserved whole or intact, that cannot be transgressed or violated,” and connected with Old English hal (see health) “wholeness, a being whole, sound or well,” and Old High German heil “good luck.”

However big or small — whatever are the before Then’s and the after That’s (the “before J. Incandenza’s suicide” or “that night before Interdependence Day”) — these are symbolic days in our minds. Though most obviously our experience of them is linear, what meaning we draw from them can be somewhat arbitrary. Events tend to “reveal” themselves later to us and change in their relative importance as time moves on, and when they occurred becomes less important than the fact that they did. In an effort to weave together a story of our lives that has some semblance of meaning and holiness, we alter and skew, whether consciously or not, our belief or understanding of what really happened. It helps provide us with more more weight as we float so that we may better anchor ourselves — so that we may find some kind of buoyancy in the havoc that is otherwise likely more of an existentialist void, an infinite/simal phenomenon or some metaphysical accident than objectively “a chronicle” or “history” at all. Our “life story” is no happy accident though. It’s a work of art!

luck (n.) late 15c. from early Middle Dutch luc, shortening of gheluc “happiness, good fortune,” of unknown origin [go figure!]

Without those relatively inane, though wholly personal holydays, we cannot find a way to establish our identity, to bookmark our tiny selves into the massive life continuum with whose limits and edges we know little of.Without them we are nothing, unidentified and unidentifiable, with no story, arc, nor denouements, No Amens or Hell Nos; no Holy Cows to accompany the moments that fill the empty hole that otherwise could be any life in this dumbfounding world.

continuum (n.) 1640s, from Latin continuum “a continuous thing,” meaning a continuous sequence in which adjacent elements are not perceptibly different from each other, but the extremes are quite distinct.

We need reference points in our experience of the world and what better place to start than with the personal. Many moments the story of a single character or two sweeps the reader into forgetting about some of the dystopian details in the book. However, every time, just as I started getting used to a character, the fractal chronology of the novel took me to a new place, a new time, a new story. DFW forays into the personal amidst a highly complex setting to “authorially” remind that it’s the personal stories and our own ability to relate that help us understand the world — any world imagined by the author, be it Wallace or you.

It’s easier to relate to modern-day addiction or competitive tennis and training than the abundance of rampant feral hamsters, teleprompter assassinations, mathematical equations and Latin cognates hidden in scientific terminology. DFW’s words are not always inclusive, and this only further makes his ideas less accessible. It seems essential that we take an extra step and consult external indexes, online wikis, or at least the book’s own footnotes, to get a fuller understanding. And even then, we never quite get everything. It helps if what we’re learning about is somehow already in our vicinity; if the idea introduced is related to our own milestones or somehow touches something already familiar to us — especially in real life — it becomes more interesting (we’re egotistical like that) and thus, more accessible.

Ultimately though, absolute clarity can never be achieved — and perhaps only slowly refined if we actually live out the story ourselves and build out the pieces that are missing on our own.

The stories we tell ourself makes each of our lives feel more sacred and unique. This “life storytelling” that moves us through this world marks some of our experiences holy, often obscured, and others and more often, forever lost in the corners of our life. And just like that, as we get caught up in our own holy days, we eject ourselves from the larger picture — akin to when when we pick up a book and get lost in its story, we forget our own.

Thus, it would be reasonable to hypothesize that:

1) Any moment spent reading is not really valuable nor holy until we make it applicable in real life. If we can take what we read, however fictitious, and apply it to our own life as metaphor, fodder for cliches or descriptive inspirations, we may better devise ways to sanctify the moments that happen to us. This can help us find more meaning as we run the chapters of our lives from Capital to period. from life to death, and all the calendar years in between.

2) We should be able to extrapolate our “life story” and its sanctity and meaning more universally and/or objectively. Otherwise we’ll be narcissists, self-possessed theatrical drama queens, perhaps even laughing stocks. Which brings me to:

jest (n.) from Latin gesta ‘actions, exploits’, from gerere ‘do’. The original sense was ‘heroic deed’, hence ‘a narrative of such deeds’; later the term denoted an idle tale, hence a joke.

sorry for the #longread

p.s. I’m only halfway through the book.

p.p.s. I also realized that (and only Infinite Jest readers will get this), November 8th was #InterdependenceDay - and also the day I landed in London. Symbolic much?

August 8, 2015

deprivation (n.) My first floating experience

After rolling out my thoughts in my last post about my meditative practice of "wallowing by walking" (i.e. indulging in thoughts about my personal drama with scenic backdrop so as to stay a sane citizen), I realize much of this thinking came not only from one of my walks, but from the effects of my first "float" in a sensory deprivation chamber. Sounds scary. And it was - at least, until I floated.

My First Floating Experience

I climbed into the tank and shut the door with quite a bit of enthusiasm and excitement given a chance to lie in quiet for 90 minutes. I didn't realize though how claustrophobic I would feel - and not necessarily as a result of being shut inside a tank of saline water in complete darkness.

deprive (v.) mid-14c., from Old French depriver, from Medieval Latin deprivare, from Latin de- "entirely" (see de-) + privare "release from".

Deprived of my senses, I became much more aware of not only my thoughts, but also where they resided - inside an equally dark and claustrophobic place: My mind. The real claustrophobia arose from the trapped sense I felt from being inside my head with nowhere to go.

Losing sight and sound meant losing sense of space and time, two things that give us evidence of our existence. "I am here and I am now." Except without outside markers and stimuli to orient me, I became the compass; the "here" and the "now" became much more... conceptually tangible in a sense. In floating physically, my body melted into its surroundings and I became numb to it (a bit of an oxymoron maybe). I instead became, simply, a floating series of thoughts. Completely released of my body and the physical world and its stories, I was left with myself, with memory as my only guide back to my identity.

private (adj.) late 14c., "not shared, individual; not open to the public;" from Latin privatus "set apart, belonging to oneself (not to the state), peculiar, personal;" past participle of privare "to separate, deprive," from privus "one's own, individual," fro *prai-, *prei-, from root *per- "forward, through."

Once the memories gave way to streams of consciousness and dissociative thoughts, I was in a trance. What's odd is that while never having ever felt more inside myself and aware of "me," I also never felt more incognizant of myself. The instant that I lost a sense of my body, in retrospect, I think was the instant I fell into a trance and forgot about myself. Or perhaps I was just paralyzed from fear...

trance (n.) late 14c., "state of extreme dread or suspense," also "a half-conscious or insensible condition, state of insensibility to mundane things," from Old French transe "fear of coming evil," originally "coma, passage from life to death" (12c.), from transir "be numb with fear," originally "die, pass on," from Latin transire "cross over" (see transient).

Perhaps it was the most privacy I've ever felt - because for a time, I couldn't even access myself. Time just moved without me for some time (ha!), until my internal clock woke me in the darkness, just moments before the sounding of the music that marked the end of my 90-minute session.

It's a fleeting condition this utter privacy and separateness from a world that does its best to help us take root. Perhaps we cross over to some place beyond the curtain in these kind of mindfull moments, but we can't stay there. Something inside wakes us up.

transient (adj.)c. 1600, "transitory, not durable," from Latin transientem "passing over or away," from trans- "across" + ire "to go" (see ion (n.) - 1834, coined by chemist Michael Faraday, from Greek neuter present participle of ienai "go, walk." So called because ions move toward the electrode of opposite charge.)

I've written about my tension between the observed life and the performed life. I now wonder if this tension is a function of our movement along a continuum: between sensory deprivation and sensory overload. Always moving between the outside and our inside, thoughts never stopping blood always pumping, we perpetually move between two opposites in a helpless effort to reconcile what I am tempted to just call magic.

magic (n.) late 14c., "art of influencing events and producing marvels using hidden natural forces;" from Old Persian magush, "to be able, to have power" (see machine (n.)- Middle French c. 1540s, "structure of any kind")

We're part of some kind of machine, that's for sure, and one that isn't necessarily physical; it's floating out there somewhere, too, just like us. Maybe if we release ourselves from always wanting to control everything, we'd better tap into the flow and let it take care of us, guide us in our walks and better navigate this general conundrum as we continue floating around...

float (v.) from *flot-, extended form of root *pleu- "to flow" from pluvial, from Greek plein "to navigate."

April 10, 2015

harvest (n., v.)

This coming Saturday marks an annual tradition of mine. April 14 is Vaisakhi, a harvest festival celebrated by Hindus, Sikhs and Buddhists to (most simply put) celebrate the start of the new (Solar) year (Vaisakh is the month of the Hindu calendar that corresponds to April/May in the Gregorian Calendar, when Sun is in Aries.)

harvest (n.) from Proto-Germanic *harbitas (cognate: Old Saxon hervist), from PIE *kerp- "to gather, pluck, harvest" (cognates: Sanskrit krpana- "sword;" Greek karpos "fruit;" Latin carpere "to cut, divide, pluck").

Though I am not Sikh, Hindu, nor Buddhist, this will be my fourth year attending the Sikh Vaisakhi festivities in Vancouver. I can't wait to again join the lineups to share a meal with strangers in the car-free lanes of Fraser Street. Nodding to sari-clad women as I pop gulab jamun in my mouth with sticky hands, I'll ask them about the holiday because undoubtedly I forget some details each year. When the parade makes its way by, I, too, will open my hands to the offerings being handed out by the procession, taking care not to let the rice, raisins, and coriander spill between my fingers - what I gather (no pun intended) is a sign of being wasteful, as I remember seeing even the oldest of men get down on their knees to pick up every dropped kernel.

With mama Iris in 2014.

Vaisakhi may not be printed in your typical freebie London Drugs calendar, but I always make sure to have it marked down. (As a Canadian immigrant who's long appropriated holidays that are not of my own heritage (ahem, Boxing Day?), this shouldn't come as much of a surprise).

Vaisakhi festival, 2014.

That's the wonderful thing about living in a multicultural place: We get exposed to a multitude of very diverse community celebrations. Rather than divide us, these festivals often resonate with us on a human level and show us that we are more alike than we are different: All people like a reason to gather, eat, and relish in being alive, regardless of religion or background. We all are at the whim of time, of the coming and going of things, of death and rebirth, and of Mother Earth's karmic 'give and take.' This time of the year reminds me, and more poignantly than other seasons, of the natural cycle of things.

It also reminds me to do my taxes - another one of life's certainties that keeps things in balance.

So, in the spirit of plucking and harvesting, and of being reminded to be grateful for the nourishment we have from mama earth, let's also nod our heads to all those other powers-that-be that keep the world moving.

Which reminds me: Vote "yes" in the transit referendum, Vancouver!

July 8, 2013

ferry (n.)

While long overdue, this story must be told. Why? To remind everyone to have a little faith in each other, in magical happenings, in the spontaneous, the whimsical, the serendipitous.

The summer is upon us, dear Raincouver. Looking outside, it's hard to believe we were donning raincoats and rubber boots a few weeks ago, thinking about whether to bother putting away our winter clothes this year. It really looked like we were having yet another Junuary, and one quite possibly to be followed by a Julember, too.

But, lo and behold, the weather fairy is on our side. The sun came out for us this month, and for the last few weeks it hasn't been shy, to say the least. It's prying us out of our office chairs at lunch and bronzening our shoulders as we commute to and fro. But when the weekend nears, there's a city-wide frenzy: How to pack in as much outside as possible into our days off? Where can we enjoy this sunshine the most?

Many head straight to the beach, others head to a nearby patio to soak in the rays over a cool brewskie. Others yet, seek adventure outside the city, in a search for greenery, farmers markets, and activities not yet familiar.... For me, this year's solstice meant grabbing my best friend, eeney-meeny-miney-moe-ing our finger at the map of the Gulf Islands, and letting the travel fairy tell us where we were going for the day.

Saltspring won. Neither of us had ever been there (I can't believe this could be the case for any long-term Vancouverite, now that I've been). By noon, we were ready to disembark from Tsawassen, casually sipping on our Americanos, buzzed for the day ahead. We parked our car near the ferry terminal at $11/day (Note to travellers: This is a really great alternative to ferry lineups and expensive fees to take the car over, especially when traveling to places where you really don't need wheels, like Victoria). After a quick (free) shuttle form the parking lot, we were boarding the ship.

After about 90 minutes, we arrived on the shores of lovely Saltspring Island, a little perplexed about how we'd get around from that point forward. Thankfully, the commuter fairy was looking after us, and a little shuttle appeared at Long Harbour ready to take us over to Ganges, the little big town on the island.

After arriving in Ganges, we did the rounds and a cute restaurant caught our eye: The Tree House Cafe. We were instantly struck by the all-encompassing tree at the restaurant's centre. It seemed the cafe was growing right out of it, each little table a bud, the kitchen its anchoring roots holding the whole thing together. We instantly made our way to the front and were seated within minutes. Yam enchiladas and green curries arrived - and disappeared soon after.

Everything seemed magical about this place - like we were taken around by waves of chance, going from one point to the next. After lunch, we were told by our server that we must make our way to the renowned Saturday Market, where local artisans and bakers offered up their best. Amongst these, soap gifts were bought, as were incredibly beautiful silver pearl dangling earrings, which are hanging off my earlobes as I write this.

We were in the flow, talking to locals, asking for directions and advice. We eventually were drawn to the Mistaken Identity Winery. On the way, we turned a corner in the wrong direction - correction: a new direction (on this magical day, there was no such thing as “wrong”). Just ahead of us, a lovely bookstore appeared, perfectly placed in our line of vision.

Some hilarious titles in the “free bin” fortunately caught my attention. Had I not looked down, I wouldn't have noticed the words "Griffin and Sabine" plastered on the window - which ultimately led us to step inside. The bookstore's walls were covered by the original artwork by one of my favourite artists, Nick Bantock, who we later found out had lived on the island some years. Up the stairs, we found a quaint little blue room, dedicated to the author, with bookshelves filled with signed copies of many of his most famous works. I was in awe. The work of another fairy?

After some walking up the road to the winery in our new rubber sparkly shoes (we happened upon them in a nearby gift shop - a fairytale indeed!), we took in some relaxation between sips of wine. When we “tired” of lounging around amidst the vines, we decided to head back to the town for dinner. We indulged in some seafood accompanied by more wine in the sunshine before getting ready to catch our ferry back home at 8:45pm - the perfect denouement to our tale. Little did we know we were just hitting the peak of the arc.

After another stop at the Tree House Cafe - for Chai lattes and a phone to call up the cab (our cells had little-to-no reception) - we were on our way back to Long Harbour.

We arrived early to an empty marina. We walked down to a beach a little ways away to wait for the ferry, and once the clock struck 8:40pm, we emerged up the hill to find - an empty marina. After some strained iPhone research (due to fading bars) - we learned that the summer schedule was upon us. The next ferry wasn't leaving until 7:15 the next morning. Uh oh.

The sun setting fast behind us and the long road to Ganges ahead of us, left us in a bit of a lurch. We were in high spirits still, trying to think positive, though the 7 km road to 'civilization' taunted us. We knew deep inside that once the night set in, if we were still walking down that road, freezing our bums off cut off from the world, it'd be hard holding those smiles. An #SOS tweet and a few fuzzy phone calls later - for lodgings, advice, phone numbers, anything - yielded little. The last text that made it through to my boyfriend was something along the lines of "We're just walking on an empty road..." And Google Maps? Facebook? Ha - As if.

But just like a fairy tale, the danger would subside and we, the damsels in distress, would find our chariot. Only one car had passed us since we had started walking. So, when we saw another, we flailed our arms, clutching maps and dying iPhones in one last attempt to reach for human contact.

The car stopped. From the Mazda emerged a girl, about our age: Our saviour - with a working phone in hand (Rogers customers, don't take your cell phones to Saltspring... try Telus instead!) Yet, instead of offering to let us use her phone, she offered to spot us for the night. We were exhilarated. Jumping into her car, we just couldn't believe it. An adventure turned epic. We later learned that she had apparently seen us at the Tree House Cafe (she manages the restaurant!) and so we looked familiar.

To make this long story short, we all lived happily ever after. Our lovely new friend, Emily, and her boyfriend, Pat, served up some drinks and we talked through the night, laughing, reminiscing, sharing stories of travels and life. The night finally drew to a close outside on their lawn, with us looking up at a rare yellow moon through a telescope. Our heads hit the pillow around 2:30 am and four short hours later, the alarm rang, and half in daydream, off we were in the car again, accepting a ride from our new friends back to the ferry terminal, the catalytic setting of this great tale.

Watching the world through a mystical lens really allowed great things to happen and to keep on happening, I think. And we truly did have the fairies on our side - even when the ferry schedule wasn't. In retrospect, given our luck, we really got lucky. So thank you, world, and people and fairies of all places for restoring our faith in the magical, the unknown.

February 24, 2013

rest (v.)

We all know what rest feels like - from times of catching the flu, or being sleepy, fatigued, or just plain lazy.

However, an interesting aspect of rest - as it is defined in physics - is rest as it refers to an object that is in a stationary state in relation to another object: "When the position of something with respect to its surroundings does not change with time it is said to be at rest," says Wikipedia.

On resting the body:

Over the last couple of weeks, my 40-hr work week, 8-hr/week commute on the bus, and sometimes restless sleep has caught up with me. My poor immune system that's successfully warded off every bug on this planet for the last year and a half finally gave up. I got sick. I then needed to become "stationary" in respect to my status quo self - the me that goes to work and functions effectively in the outside world; in other words, I needed to rest - my body.

However, how do we integrate rest into our everyday lives when we're not sick - when our mind needs rest, rather than our body?

On resting the mind - even when you're moving:

For me, often the best rest comes from the kinds of activities that resemble the complete opposite of lounging in sick-mode on the couch with a How I Met Your Mother marathon in the background. I can't seem to let go and "forget about the rest of it" and just relax. It's precisely the rest of everything - the obligations, the fun, the events, the adventures - that my mind needs most in order to really relax.

It's the work week that slowly builds up and tires my mind. Work challenges, long hours, lots of thinking, stress; these slowly wear on the mind and once the weekend comes along, my mind needs, well, a rest. However, my mind can't sit on the couch.

So, if my mind is to rest - i.e. find a "stationary" mode in relation to its state when it's in overdrive, working and thinking hard and being productive - it needs to find an opposite state.

What I've found is that it's possible to train your brain to derive rest from all sorts of activities - even ones that many of us may not think of as being necessarily restful. I've found rest in climbing a mountain; it's also enveloped me in the middle of chaturanga in yoga class. I find it frequently as I wander through grocery aisles picking up groceries for the week. And sometimes, my mind gets a great rest from the same activities as my body - when I cut myself off from the rest of the world and let go and embrace the rest of my body.

The key, I think, is in not obligating yourself to limit what rest can be. Instead, see it as something relative that depends on the world around you and where you are within it.

Perhaps you're a walking virus receptacle overhauled by a sinus headache that just needs to sleep; or perhaps you're a ball of fun that just needs to bounce somewhere new because the rhythm of the routine is deflating you; or maybe you just want to curl up somewhere and eat a bowl of chili and let the world pass you by. It doesn't matter - you'll find your rest.

Just observe: Has the world just started moving a bit faster and you need to catch up? Or is it you that's slowing down? Figure out your state and then rest up until you can get moving again.

Rest up, y'all!

May 6, 2012

count (vb.)

It's a busy busy time over here! And it's a bit ironic. I finally submitted my thesis, yet somehow, with that big priority out of the way, I feel as busy as ever.

It's a very good busy too. I'm filling my days with lots of fun activities I didn't always have as much time doing (at least without feeling like I was in a hurry to finish it) including yoga, biking, writing as a guest blogger, shopping (it's been so long!), walking on the beach.... But with all these "small" activities dotting the timeline, there are also really big ones ahead.

It's making me count incessantly.

Ben comes back from his 6-week long work trip in 6 days!
Then he leaves a week later..
Then I get 9 days before my dad comes for a visit!
Then Ben comes back 2 weeks later..
Then I officially walk across the stage to receive my Masters degree.
Then Ben leaves.
Then I finish up TAing at SFU
Then I continue hanging with my dad for a bit more
Then Breanne comes back for a weekend and then leaves
and then my dad leaves too...
But then Ben comes back for a while
and we plan some kind of summer vacay.

And bam, before I know it, it's the middle of July.

Today, I found myself counting and thinking like this a lot in yoga class.. throwing deadlines in the mix and just kind of whirling around in a schedule frenzy. Not fun. All this compartmentalizing my life and counting is taking all the fun out how amazing the next two months are going to be.

I gotta take a breath, stop counting things, and just let them count.

And with that, I'll end this post and keep it as a reminder of how important it is to live in the moment (cheesy!) even when anticipation is sometimes half the fun.

October 21, 2011

stuffed (adj.)

Thanks, October. I'm officially stuffed.

Yup, it's Thanksgiving season, which means pies and turkeys and well, stuffing, galore. This was the first time I didn't spend the holiday with my family and friends, and I gotta say it made me thankful for them even more because they weren't around. They were all out of town - though, admittedly, so was I.

I spent my Thanksgiving (wait for it) in Maple Ridge, at a ranch, with 150 Japanese students and 10 fellow chaperones.

my stomach: stuffed.

We ate our fill, of turkey (which we kept referring to as "a big chicken") and gravy ("the sauce"); of bread and mashed potatoes (that did a lousy job of replacing the staple of rice). It was our "final feast" after having spent the whole week together.

The group of 13 girls I was responsible for were ridiculously cute and my heart was just so full (stuffed?!) with love for them. They ooh-ed and aww-ed at all these "Canadianisms" that, I, too once had to get used to (cranberry sauce with meat? are you kidding?!) and it reminded me of my first days as a kid in Canada. It was incredibly awesome to see that I had left a mark on them too, just as they did on me:

My girls wrote me the most adorable little letters of thanks, which they handed me as we ate our dessert together than night - along with a ridiculous amount of silly gifts (I have enough chopsticks, origami paper, and pickled plum candy to last me a lifetime).

I
t's very rewarding to learn about a new culture, meet new students, and know that I've really influenced how these kids will remember their first trip overseas, how they will approach new experiences that may scare them -like speaking English or trying stuffing for the first time (which, when they asked what it was, I unfortunately said "it's mixture cooked inside turkey." What troopers!)

Though I've done this a few times before, the whole experience still makes me beam with every new group I take under my little wing. I really think that this cultural exchange gig I do every year is something to be thankful for - I come away from it utterly exhausted, but also very satisfied.

Ah :) I guess, I'm stuffed with turkey as much as I'm stuffed with joy!

my nose: stuffed, too.

I came away so exhausted from working this round that I also found myself bed-ridden the following day + give or take 5 days on top of that... cough, fever, Kleenex, the whole gambit. I've thankfully gotten a lot better (and mustered up the energy to host a dinner for 18 people tonight!) but my nose is still stuffed.

On the bright side (really looking to be thankful here!), being a sleepy hermit for 5 days straight did give me an excuse to take a break from thinking about my thesis for over a week. I just kinda watched 30 Rock a lot and said "stuff it, 13,000 word count!" I've told myself that once my nose de-stuffs, all will be right with the world and I'll be back to thesis-ing.

and finally..My brain is stuffed!

I didn't realize how stuffed my brain was before I took this last week off because I was sick. I had literally gone into overdrive trying to work on my thesis every day (ambitious yes; efficient, no). Thinking about the same ideas all the time and working with an intimidatingly large number of words and reports and files to go through was just kind of making me crazy. The last two weeks have cleared my head and I am so so ready to take on the last two sections of my stupid thesis, (which at this point itself looks pretty stuffed with gibberish and nonsense). Oh well!

Now, off to cook so I can stuff my friends' faces tonight :)

September 11, 2011

vacation (n.)

As many of you know, I recently returned from a summer of living in Montreal (MML) while doing an internship at Reader's Digest. It almost felt like it was only a few days ago that I loaded my stuff into a taxi van, slammed the door (or rather, pushed it hard against the oppressive winds of Irene) and flew home to Vancouver.

I say "almost" because five days after landing in Vancouver, sleeping in my old bed and snapping my lips hungrily at fresh BC water (oh, how I missed you!), I was on another plane headed south via Bellingham allll the way to the place where people leave a lot of things behind - namely money, integrity, normal GI levels, and memories.

Vegas.

$ A town whose article we frequently drop because it truly is one of a kind.
$ An artificial city that looks like the Lord Almighty played a simultaneous game of Lego and Lite-Brite.
$ A place where one can't find a grocer, a clock, nor a dirty bathroom (thank god!) but always has plenty of O2, cheap alcohol, and fake sky.
$ A city that offers everything - but if you're smart, not all at once.
$ A place where it takes a long time to get anywhere or do anything (especially make decisions that don't involve pressing a single button that says "Bet" or "Lobby").

$ A place that I thought I'd never want to visit, let alone actually return to.

Rose-coloured glasses.

no biggie.

Sitting on the plane, I was one part excited for the extravagance, and two parts ready to gag at it. Once I got there though I was 100% impressed.

Before I knew it, I refueled poolside by working on my tan lines. It also made me realize that I forgot what desert heat felt like (my last trip to Israel was 3 summers ago). I'd actually close my eyes and have a very hard time figuring out from which direction the sun was hitting me.

dinner.

breakfast (chicken & waffles)

I soon found the energy to stay up for the next 23hrs, shop at Miracle Mile, walk from PH to Encore, dance my butt off in a pool at XS, eat gelato at 4am, and feel fully rested after 5 hours of sleep (give or take a coffee or three). The rest of my trip pretty much followed the same pattern (but every day was different). Plus wacky meals and cocktails all around.

But, the true reason that my word today is "vacation" is that in all my amazement at the "Desert Rose", I actually don't think I had a vacation - or at least the kind I'm used to.

I stopped and smelled the roses, blew a bit of cash in return for exuberant sights and sounds, food, shopping, and clubbing. But I did not vacate. Sure, I vacated Vancouver to enter into an illusory life comprised of lights, slot machines, and firm asses; however, my body and mind worked in overdrive, and however much or little I drank, I still feel hungover from head to toe. I sustained a right pinky injury, a redder credit card bill than I planned for, and I've slept 30 hours over the last three nights. I wish I could blame it on jet lag, but I can't.

Because to see Vegas clearly
is to not to have seen it all.
(It's a coping strategy)

Some of you are probably reminded of similar vacations to places other than Las Vegas that you've been to, after which you came home in shambles, broken, and tired with swollen feet and a sunburn.
But this one's different, folks. It's nothing I've ever experienced before (and trust me, I've lived out of a backpack for months, slept on snails on a camping trip, have been down to a single Euro in Amsterdam, and was hostel-less at 3am).

What Vegas does is exhaust all senses.

So, let's give a cheers to vacations - in all their forms and guises. Because until you've been to Vegas, you could've sworn you knew them all.

I'm happy to have known you, Vegas. I hope to see you soon, sexy lady. I'll miss you, friend. But I need a break from you because one can have too much of a good thing (especially if that thing seems to be on steroids and speed all the time.)

xox.

April 17, 2011

winding down (v.)

Thought it was time I plugged a new entry into my dictionnaire de la vie. Coincidentally, it's pretty well-timed - it's a chance to tie up some lose ends, some dangling threads of time, and reflect on right now.

I've been engulfed in a Murakami novel once again (I treat myself to his dream-like narrative whenever MPub and life stresses get a bit overwhelming), so I've been thinking a lot about capital T, Time.

At the core of the novel is the wind-up bird, this mysterious creature that winds the world and sets it into motion. It's this bird that no one in the story can see - they just hear it at certain moments - when the timing's right. Sometimes, it's during an important and intense moment like when a character is experiencing a death; sometimes it's while the protagonist is enjoying eggs for breakfast. The creaking of a winding clock, embodied in some natural non-mechanical, free-flying creature - a bird - throws him into a deeper reality and makes him experience more than just the sounds of a suffering man's cries, or the taste of his breakfast toast.

I feel I kind of noticed a winding of a clock recently too - like there's an energy being drawn in, so that it can let loose later (soon) and let things unfurl and change.

It often happens around this time of the year - during "spring cleaning" season, the end of school, the start of summer, the lengthening of days, just around my birthday, early in April - this pause for reflection so that time can start again anew.

This year, it's happened because a lot of things are coming together and taking me in a new kind of direction. There's a wind up going on, and I'm in the middle of that pause before the the tick tock motion begins..waiting in anticipation... and it's giving me a funny feeling...

MPub just ended - an eight-month long Masters program during which I spent close to 35 hours a week with the same 25 people. We had our final presentations a week ago, (#Rowlyshomebrew) and I've realized, finally, as we print off our final papers (God-sent), hand them in and get ready to write our one History final on Tuesday, MPub is coming to a close.
We're all heading off to our internships, taking the next step - no more giggling at *those incoherent emails, laughing at stupid puns in our little offices, mooching coffee from Harbour Centre events we aren't invited to, browsing for witty cats and tweeting word counts; no more highlighter pens, broken staplers, and sharing chilly rooms with some of the warmest people on the planet.
Some of us are staying in Vancouver, while a lot of us are also leaving.

In my case, I'm heading off to Montreal for an internship at Reader's Digest. There is crazy amounts of excitement inside me, though I am kind of procrastinating from actually showing any of it - maybe even feeling it.
Just the sheer thought of arriving in a new city, unpacking all of my stuff in my new apartment on my new street, Rue Aylmer... the thought of brewing myself my first cup of coffee (or will it be a brew-diddly?) in my new living room where I'll be until September... the thought of smelling the sheets in my new bed.. it all sends a surge of excitement into my veins and get's me all nervous and anxious and jumpy about the tick-tocking that's about to happen. Yet, even as I think of all this, I'm kind of getting nostalgic for right now.

For this reason, now, until the Time comes, I'm going to spend some time being a little girl, riding a prolonged wave and counting my blessings as though nothing is different..... Soon I'll be opening gifts and enjoying Vancouver "summertime"...before saying goodbye and embarking on a new journey in a new timezone.

The timing isn't right yet to start something new. I need to rest and relax and absorb now...wind down...

and lick all the cooking utensils as my mama makes me my favourite birthday cake.

I'm just gonna wait to turn 24 first, then I'll grow up another year and go coo-coo for "the summer of Vish".

Until then, I'll chirp in naive delight
before I take flight.

April 6, 2011

home brew (n.)

Today, my dear friend Kristine asked me if "hangry" was really a word, or whether I made it up in my last blog entry. I was thrilled to have come up with a word that seems it should be in the dictionary.

In light of this, I've decided to enter a real word this week - just to throw you all for a loop later, when I come up with "dekonky" or "screem".

It all started this afternoon when a couple of my dear MPubbers and I were sitting in class multitasking (i.e. listening to a presentation about the shortfalls of Google Scholar - thanks, Linnet!- while on Twitter - sorry, Linnet!)

We've all been generally tweaking out a bit as we approach the end of our final week of MPub classes (yup, it's eight months later, somehow); as one our professors, John, would describe, we're getting ready to open the little vent at the top of our heads and become stupid again :)

But, before we can vent it all out and start our mini-holidays before internship season begins in mid-May, we've got our final Tech presentations to do on Friday. Fortunately, our nerves will be settled by the lovely faculty-sponsored soiree that follows the presentations up on the 3rd floor of Harbour Centre.
The particular place of interest will be our professor Rowly's office, which transforms into a bar. He even brings out #RowlysHomeBrew - it's red, full-bodied, and oh so delicious. But like all things magical, it only lasts temporarily; free-flowing only to a point but oh so memorable.

So, today's entry goes out to all the homebrewers out there. Whatever it is that you concoct at home, whether it's mulled wine or hoppy ale, handmade jewelry or knit scarves, here's to making lovely things and sharing them with me.

xox

Vish

"It's smoothie season!"

This isn't the one I actually made

today, but it sure damn looks like it!

Vish's lazy but healthy home brew:
1 cup frozen blueberries
1 cup Vanilla soy milk (So Nice!)
1 cup Odwalla juice (the green one)

March 13, 2011

prejudice (n.)

I drink, I fall down, no problem.” ~James Joyce

In light of some recent conversations, (either mildly inebriated or dead sober in History of Publishing class), I got to talking about Jane Austen.

"An alcoholic is someone you don't like
who drinks as much as you do."
~Dylan Thomas

It first began with a discussion of what a true literary "canon" is, who gets to decide, and whether we should care. To spare you the bore (that only MPub students could enjoy), it was concluded that there were a number of us with English Lit degrees or the like who never read Pride and Prejudice.

Over the weekend, I had a chat with some friends of mine and we somehow started talking about literature (we were probably drinking scotch). Our conversation also culminated with Jane Austen by way of Joyce and Conrad.

"What's so unpleasant about being drunk?
You ask a glass of water" ~Douglas Adams

I've personally concluded that, while it is important to not be complete ignorant of classic lit, there's nothing wrong with choosing to avoid it. Some would call you "low brow" for never picking up Bronte; others would say you're "uneducated" for SparkNote-ing Middlemarch.

I say, there's so many books out there to sift though that it is a skill in itself to discover unconventional, "non-English curriculum" authors like Graham Swift, Haruki Murakami, Richardson Davies, Ivo Andric, and Will Self - at the expense of Jane Austen - and all of whom I would have never discovered had I stuck to "Top 100 Novels of All Time" lists.

"Beer, of course, is actually a depressant. But
poor people will never stop hoping otherwise."
~Kurt Vonnegut

I call it being proud in my prejudice.
There's too much to experience to not pass judgment.

Drink and dance and laugh and lie,
Love, the reeling midnight through,
For tomorrow we shall die!
(But, alas, we never do.)"
~Dorothy Parker

"Good books, like good friends, are few and chosen; the more select, the more enjoyable."
~ Louisa May Alcott

January 5, 2011

get (v.) as in: get it?

No, I'm not talking about the local paper or about how I don't get HD channels.

This is about some odd stuff I've run across in my day-to-day adventuring (okay, so in the last week or so while hanging out in Richmond), which I decided to capture with my phone.
(No, I didn't use the "blurry" setting.)

It got me thinking about design and marketing and how intuitive marketers and inventors are (or aren't).
I find it hard to believe that there are high-paid executives out there, sitting around a big mahogany conference desk decked out in their ties and suits making important decisions about the next big thing to hit the market, the next ploy to get consumers to spend their hard-earned dollars, the next genius idea to wow everybody - it's hard to believe because this is some of the stuff they come up with:

(Some stuff, however, is pretty cool and I kind of do get it.)

Dr. Ken Nedd - buy his book and you'll learn how to

find peace in the everyday.

Except, he's anything but calming.

In fact, he gives me the jitters and jeepers.

Modestmau5. I just don't get it. After hearing so

much hype surrounding this DJ "band", I decided

to plug into a Much Music broadcast of one of their

shows. All I saw was a very immodest, illuminated Mickey

figure and a crowd taking photos with their cell phones.

Granted, the beat was pretty good (I try to appreciate);

yet, no one was really moving - not even krumping,

moshing, or whatever other dancing people do at these

types of shows. Do people dance at concerts anymore?

I was heading off to one of many Ugly Sweater Parties
people host around Christmas Time, and this was hanging
by the elevator. Yup, hanging (by the neck). Made me kind
of sad - and I'm a Jewish gal who gets a lot of pleasure and
enjoyment out of the lights and the green-reddery of the
Christmas season.
(Alanis would call it ironic - I call it just plain sad design).

Now this is an idea! A clock radio, a timer, and it

steams your rice in under twenty minutes!

Yup, rice cookers, baby! Long grain, short grain,
CDs (looks like it, eh?)

Butt pads. Need I say more?

(Yes. "I wish I were a D cup!")

"Yes, bag it please - I'll take my food to go!"

Anyone allergic to peanuts who eats peanut butter
deserves anything they have coming for them.

December 27, 2010

beach combing (v.)

Ah, the art of beach combing - or perhaps the art that comes of it. It's a pretty neat activity that many people take part in while they're on the Westcoast, especially on Vancouver Island. Many people try to accumulate enough cool stuff to make art pieces (including picture frames and jewellery), but most take part in the hopes of clearing the beaches of unnaturally beach-occurring stuff.

Cool finds:
- shoes (hopefully, foot-free)

- boxes of high quality merchandise from China lost at sea that fell off of freighters (like boxes of shoes).

- beer bottles, beer cans, beer bongs, beer caps, lots and lots of beer stuff.

- plastic bottle caps (it's always disappointing).

Japanese glass float

- These awesome Japanese glass floats or buoys, from as early as the 30s (read about them here), which some persistent beachcombers spend their entire lives hoping to find. They're worth a pretty penny but no true beachcomber would sell it if they stumbled across one.

- poles, tubes, and other phallic objects.

- shipping pallets, or at least pieces of them (not that exciting seeing there's plenty of timber around anyway).

- nets, hooks, and other fishing/aquatic equipment) & boat parts (even motors).

- lots and lots of dead sea stuff (that still looks alive).

With all this adventuresome opportunity, my boyfriend Ben and I ventured out to Schooner Cove to partake in this island hobby.

However, much to our chagrin, we wound up bushwhacking.
Stay tuned.