You be Jerry...

And I'll be Elaine. And we'll laugh about who will be George. I'm so stressed out right now and yet I do know a few things for sure: This is all going to work out. You'll find a job and I'll get my visa and Towers will meet us somewhere. Megan will get a big promotion and it will finally stop snowing here. And the road trip and maybe even Berlin will happen. These are things I know for sure.

We were meant to build Fort Europa together. That I also know for sure.

All the Promises I Never Made…

I never promised many things. I feel the need to reiterate that, mostly for myself, but for the masses as they stand now. Why am I constantly plagued by self doubt? I never called myself an academic or an intellectual. I would never be so bold or crass to assume those titles. I would never express my dreams and aspirations of being prime minister or winning the Nobel Prize, except when slurring my confessions to Whitney, at Paul's 21st birthday party, in Fred and Linda's kitchen on a night that would forever in my mind remind me of what, if I was more of a loafer, could have been. But even then I did not make any bones about not being a grade A loafer. I don't consider myself a music snob or an arts connoisseur or a book junkie. I know a few things about mixing colours, a few things about poetic language, a few words of spanish and french and occasionally I do a mean parallel park and a mean banana pancake. Sometimes I think I know a bit about politics and would even go so far as to say I was mildly religious, but that's about it.

I want to feel like this four year sojourn has been a meaningful one. Just because I've chosen to express it in different ways and rather than accumulate a massive book list, I've instead kept the majority of my leisure reads out from the library for almost three years now (and since I have such horrible taste, only one of the 40 I have out had a hold put on it that I had to return). I dressed up as an indian and played drunken cowboys and indians with Megan in my first year at Chez Cascade 444 and got wrecked in a rental car with someone's mom on the way to being hypnotized at the Sexpo. I have repeatedly been known to build forts and not take them down for days. I have helped three underage kids evade arrest for spraying eachother with bear mase and have attempted to steal a huge stuffed Bartman from the Stampede and then beat the Stampede Cop with it. I have sacrificed many types of fruit produce to outlandish causes and ran with scissors on numerous occasions.

I've never pretended to have class or wit or intellect. I've never promised to be someone I'm not. And yet, I still feel like I have to justify the fact that sometimes I act like an asshole, or a 9 year old, or just a plain fool. My intentions were good, not that I ever promised they would be.

I can promise however that it won't be pretty when you see me dancing in the LJs to my dad's old records, waxing poetic (something I am in fact VERY good at) about an inevitably bullshit cause (that I think could change the world) but you will know, without a doubt, that this is me and I've never pretended otherwise, and that I was glad you were here to share the moment with me.

When the Woody Allen Strikes...

Where will you be when the Woody Allen strikes? Will you be alone in your kitchen, rocking out to the Beatles on vinyl, making homemade pizza, dancing in your longjohns? What will happen when the oh-so-familiar Woody Allen self doubt, that you've for so long been fighting off, worms its way back into your brain? When you wonder about how your life is going to play out? If you're going to make a good mother/sister/wife/professional/human being? If your life is going to change someone else's. If you're ever going to be successful or sought-after. What song reminds people of you? Where do you see yourself in a year/5/10 years? Am I going to finish the semestre? Could I ever create something as beautiful as someone else? Am I happy? Am I fulfilled? Is there anything right now that I would change if I could?

When the Woody Allen blues strike, just hope you're not alone and that there are people around who care about you and love you enough to assure you of the things that no one can really know for sure. Eventually I found that I was content where I was and that it would all play out in the end.

Someone attempt to explain this...

Hallelujah: Leonard Cohen (Religious Version, 1984)

Now I've heard there was a secret chord
That David played, and it pleased the Lord
But you don't really care for music, do you?
It goes like this
The fourth, the fifth
The minor fall, the major lift
The baffled king composing Hallelujah

Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah
Hallelujah

Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you
To a kitchen chair
She broke your throne, and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

You say I took the name in vain
I don't even know the name
But if I did, well really, what's it to you?
There's a blaze of light
In every word
It doesn't matter which you heard
The holy or the broken Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah

I did my best, it wasn't much
I couldn't feel, so I tried to touch
I've told the truth, I didn't come to fool you
And even though
It all went wrong
I'll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but Hallelujah

Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah, Hallelujah
Hallelujah

This song will play at my wedding, my children's' births and weddings, and my death. Only Leonard Cohen could compose something that could be classified as the world's best funeral/wedding/birth/death song. Not even in my wildest dreams would I attempt to take credit for this one. PS> Check out the Sexy Version, circa 1988.

Things I Wish I Could Take Credit For...

Who am I kidding? In my dreams, I do take credit for the following:

-The Big Lebowski (my credits include writing, directing, casting, soundtrack composition)
-The Royal Tenenbaums (same credits as above)
-Eleanor Rigby (mostly Paul McCartney, but really it was me)
-A Case of You (mostly Joni, but really it was me)
-Candle in the Wind (mostly Bernie and Elton, but really my contribution was the greatest)
-Catcher in the Rye (enough said)
-The Graduate (see above)

I'm sure there are more, but those are the few on my mind right now.

99 b-line...

Here we are four reading breaks later and one thing has stayed the same: Avra Laarakker. Here's a person who's been through it all, the thick and the thin of it, the strikes and the gutters, the ferries, the buses, the mustaches, the pulling-of-purses, the b-lines, the a-lines, I would say that together we've pretty much seen it all.

And so here we are sharing our new spaces again. I've moved again. She's moved, again. We've done Vernon, Vancouver, Nelson, Calgary, Kelowna. We've pretty much covered the Interior and the West and along the way we've partaken in beer out of nalgenes, CNIBs out of nalgenes, medicinal pharmaceuticals, a guy who in the middle of the UBC campus could find the joint that he "left for himself" a few hours later and that still lit after a torrential downpour.

How do we know where life is going to take us? How do we continue on when we know nothing for certain? How can certain mundane, completely casual, everyday moments take my breath away? As I creep around the world of blogs and facebook and virtual unreality, I can't help but wonder, isn't the view from the 99 b-line one of the most beautiful sites ever created? Why be inside when you could be out smelling the moss, feeling the inevitable rain, putting dirt in your hands and laughing at absolutely nothing with your favourite person in the world? Maybe we do know where life is going to take us, afterall we've driven this route a thousand times before.

Yet every year feels just a little bit different.

What's in a name?

I really do like to indulge in self psychoanalysis at times, I must admit. This is something that I've come across many times in my life and I wonder if it's a female thing, or a me thing, or an all encompassing theme for humanity: the necessity of naming. Obviously I'm studying languages. It seems to make sense, psycho-analytically speaking, and is slightly ironic that I would end up here.

I've always thought that one's academic pursuits truly reflect more than just their interest in a given subject but perhaps bare witness to their entire life philosophy. After all, with all of the different possible majors, what makes one want to choose just one? With subjects that are very closely related, why do we make the choices we do? I always ask the engineer types, "why this field, or this field, or this field? You mean they aren't all the same?" Of course they're not and only the ignorant (guilty as charged) would fail to make the differentiation among them.

And so, as this applies to my life in general, why me? why here? what is this? what do we call this? what does this mean? what does this (the non-presence of the previous question's "this") mean? Interestingly, I, the Annie Hall obsessive compulsive type, has ended up in a field where what we say is as important as what we don't. Imagine this: I once wrote a term paper arguing why what the characters in Othello choose not to say was equally important as what they do. A whole paper on what isn't said. Oh the dreary, grey world of the implied and implicit.

This is the world of the everyday. Not just of Shakespeare or Donne. It's the world of you and me and it's where we dabble the most of our days awaiting the rare occurrence where we allow ourselves to be vulnerable, if only for a moment, to call a rose a rose and to bask in its' sweet fragrance.

And the show must go on.

So I could be wrong, but I don't think so...

This post isn't going to be a very long one but here's the query: Just because you can do something, does it mean that you should? Just because I could make 25 hours, does it mean that I want to? What if the act of not doing something just makes you realize that you want to do it more? What if I don't want to wait 25 hours, or 25 days or 25 months? I don't want to wait 25 minutes sometimes. And so, if the time passes and we make it, then swell. But if it doesn't, then why should it matter? Or, what if I should not want for time to pass at all? What if these hours have just made me crave more the moments where there's no waiting time at all because we're sharing toast and tea, face-to-face, with the Queen?

This waiting thing is a predicament. But all good things are worth waiting for, so I'm told, so I'm going to hunker down and build a fort and wait, wait, wait it out with visions of tea time dancing in my head.

The Midnight Disease: Things I Love

Here's a list of things I love: (In no specific order)
-puppets (of any kind)
-talking jive (the best jive is always found with Avra, but jive in general will suffice)
*like about Manny the Mannequin, or that crazy Mexican party, or that funeral at Christmas, or that fucking cat book man, our families, bowling, swearing, wearing mustaches, etc.
-the #9 bus, when it's warm and on time
-Catcher in the Rye (my copy with all the pink high-lighting)
-self-righteous indignation (it's an ugly one, and infrequent but everyone gets to be right sometimes)
-megan bailey's burns
-other peoples' travel photographs
-rain
-momentum
-my warm bed
-that weird cat book my mom got me last Christmas
-jokes that never get old ("your mom" burns, Lebowski lines, bad tv like Dog the Bounty Hunter, that weird cat book)
-belly laughs
-being able to share silence with someone
-receiving Amazon packages
-rock outs

I'm sure there's more, but that's a good start. There should be more of these things. But say no to more meats on sticks.

Welcome home...

Tonight I was reminded just why I ever came to this crazy city in the first place. Today I took the #9 bus downtown, not quite through to Bridgeland, but close enough. It hit me that I haven't taken the #9 into downtown in months. I used to take this bus several times a week to visit Paul, and I would curse it for coming early, curse it for coming late, curse it because one isn't allowed to drink liquor on public transit or just curse. And yet, on that 45 minute sojourn I was left alone, with my reflection and my thoughts and if I was lucky, a few good tunes. Tonight, having caught the #9 on a whim, having met it downtown completely by chance, we met, made eye content and smiled. We exchanged our silent "I've missed you(s)" and "gee, where have you been(s)?" and I took my seat. In the middle of downtown, having to crank my neck to see where the lights end and the sky begins, it took my breath away and gave me the shivers. The empty devonian gardens looked it's usual pristine, steamy, glorious paradise and it was still snowing.

I remember coming to visit Paul as a wee adolescent when he lived by Fish Creek Park and coming to downtown in his mom's Volvo was a real treat. Seeing the skyline chilled me. The excitement of knowing that Calgary was "the biggest thing" I'd ever seen. It's funny how in youth everything comes in superlative form. I would dream of my "big" life, living in a pink apartment down by the river in Eau Claire. I dreamed of playing in the kiddie fountain and of my mom singing "que sera sera" to me while telling me of how my wedding would one day look. I remember dreaming of my Christmas Concert at Rideau Park Elementary, worried that I would be late or have bad hair. I dreamed of walking Sandy Beach with my dad counting punch-buggies.

I came home from downtown tonight and after having said goodbye to the #9, I swung by CPU. I munched my grossly large, surprisingly delicious Hawaiian pizza, and made my way home. It's nights like these where I miss this city and I'm still living in it. It's nights like these where I realize I'm not alone in this great big city and that despite the jive I talk about SUV-driving money-crazy Albertans, I feel at home. At home, more so here than anywhere else right now. Home, it's where you are when you're wishing to be somewhere else.

Welcome home, Lauren.

Sometimes you only have one shoe...

I just want to say that Avra has had some of the most exceptional blunders this year and they should not go unaccounted for. The first that comes to mind was when she got rerouted from Vancouver to Edmonton before Christmas and ran into someone from Vernon whom she later accompanied to a funeral (of someone she didn't know, but always the good Samaritan went anyways as there probably wasn't much else to do in Vernon). Upon her arrival to the funeral, a family member who has long shared much disdain for Avra and who didn't seem to care that she had infact saved the day and helped said Vernonite arrive, though late, at all, says, "Well, well. Avra Laarakker. God works in mysterious ways." Well played, Avra. Next faux pas worthy of broadcast: a day or so ago Avra, once again the good Samaritan, decided to help Greg cut his hair. At first try with the clippers, they seemed a wee bit dull so she lubed 'em up and tried again. Wielding the newly lubed clippers she proceeded to buzz a reverse-mohawk up Greg's head that from what I hear looks tres bad. It's about an inch and a half wide and goes right to the scalp, which makes me laugh to beat the band, sadly at Poor Gregor's expense. The best part is that they have to go to the synagogue tomorrow and Greg looks like a skinhead. Poor Greg. He always puts up with our bullshit. All I can say is that I hope they make yamakas in XXXL. Greg, takes it like pro, and moves on and is always a good sport. If he gets stoned, as in pummeled with rocks (not as in consumes marijuana) by the synagogues' attendees, it will be a sad day indeed.

And so it is without further adieu that I salute my dear friend, my most lovely heterosexual life partner (in the vein of Jay and Silent Bob) with this: one shoe. This is the girl that is perpetually losing one shoe. It doesn't seem to matter that it is snowing outside and -20, she's only got one shoe on and we remain none the wiser. Infact, I bet she only has one on right now. Well played, buddy. Well played.

No thanks, I've already had my incompetence for the day...

Yesterday, for whatever reason, my patience ran out. This is highly unusual. I wouldn't say that I am normally an extremely patient person, in fact, what by most is perceived as patience on the outside is really a lack of genuine interest in disguise. But yesterday there was no disguise. No, I can't help you study for this exam. Not because I can't but because I have no interest. So what if I can bullshit my way through it, alas you cannot. Then, at aquasize, the old women and young women milled like cattle in the road aimlessly with no where to go and all the time to do so. There were no lanes in pool, only one giant corral of bitter ladies knocking heads. Not to mention that every time I go to the pool, one of my first ever profs at the Uni attempts conversation with me while she is noticeably naked and I am noticeably uncomfortable. Everywhere I looked, incompetence was leaving it's wake.

Am I worried about this slip up of impatience? No. Not at all. The only thing remotely worrisome is that my disguise of disinterest may be blown. Oh well, so what if it is. This was one of those days where in my dream, I'm Paul and Ringo isn't walking out of the recording session, I'm kicking him out. I'm telling him to "shut the fuck up" and then I take my seat at the drum kit and tear it up on Back in the USSR, without that moldy fucking pimp. And my version, is way way sweeter.

So, no thanks, I'm already full up on incompetence for today.