because I am a joyful girl

everything is snowy now, and it's -7, so I think we're allowed to say it's winter.

My medical anthropology exam was outrageously easy; I finished in an hour and a half. which makes me slightly nervous, but it's over.

500 more words and I'll be 75% done my finals.

I've almost survived my first semester.

It's snowing, seriously snowing. First snow on the first of December.

I'm in the library to work on a Biomedical Ethics paper, which is going slowly. My brain feels thick and sluggish, and my sinuses are hot and dry, as though I've been crying, which I haven't.

Just feeling so arrested and still, maybe underwater. On one hand I wish I didn't know so much about A.L.S., wish that I couldn't understand the articles I read; on the other, I'm glad that this isn't just a looming Unknown.

Except it really is, because nobody knows anything about it, its cause, how big a role genetics play... 10% of the cases are genetic, and if it is a genetic case, the patient's children have a 50% chance of having the gene. But then there are all the wacky cases where that doesn't, in fact, happen. David asked me if I would want to get tested, then immediately apologized, because how can I think about that right now?

Floaty and unreal and I need to focus on this paper and on finals. So that is what I do next. I focus on finals.

( A sleep-deprived University day in the life. If swing dancing or naps offend you, do not click here. )

lately, i cry when I read poetry. this can be awkward when I am sitting in Starbucks working on my Can Lit paper, and the third line of Charles G.D. Roberts' "The Cow Pasture" strikes me as the most poignant, beautiful bit of writing I've ever heard, and suddenly there are tears in my mocha and the barista looks worried.

homesick.

In my philosophy class (Biomedical Ethics) I basically write all my notes as comics. A couple of weeks ago in my conference (T.A. led smaller group discussion) we discussed "signposting", which is basically reminding people throughout your essay of what you are arguing. i.e.:

"In this essay, I will propose that it is morally impermissible to wear shiny leggings except in an ironic context"

"Having argued that shiny leggings can not be considered legitimate items of clothing, I will now assert that only legitimate items of clothing can be legitimately worn."

"I will now present and refute a common argument condoning the attiring of oneself in shiny leggings upon a daily basis."

"Although shiny leggings ought not to be worn seriously, there are circumstances in which such attire is acceptable. I will now outline several situations in which shiny leggings could be worn ironically, therefore,in a morally permissible manner."

You get the idea.

So, I dutifully drew a comic outlining this principle.

Anyway, my T.A. is super-fly and I like him a lot. And I have suspected pretty much all year that he is a Christian, but I haven't had an opportunity to ask him. So I gave him my signposting comic, and he thought it was fantastic and kept talking about it and said he was going to post it on his blog.

SO, naturally, I blog-stalked him. And found his blog. And he IS a Christian- Reformed Baptist- and just seems so delightfully super-fly and awesome. And so I am so happy and happy. And yay.

(Anna: I'd totally set you up with him, but he's already married. Sorry.)

I'm beginning to fall into the strange peace of being outrageously busy. The moments I have to myself are more poignant and so much more restful, compared to the ridiculous pace of everything else. I'm sleeping better than I ever have in my life- it used to always take me at least an hour to fall asleep, but now I crawl between my flannel sheets and pass out immediately, sleeping deeply until my alarm rings, whether it's for the night or for a nap. My body taking over its care, since my mind is so occupied.

David came to visit last weekend, Saturday afternoon through Tuesday morning. We stayed at Maro and Eric's, since Mum and Dad were extraordinarily busy, so it ended up really feeling like a vacation. Walked on the mountain to see the fall colours, went and bought coffee at my Second Cup (I got to be a customer!) and went and drank it on McGill campus, sitting on the steps of a big, old rotunda. Mari had a costume party Saturday night- mythical creatures- and we went over to Michelle's to get ready, stayed at the party for a few hours, and then skipped out around eleven thirty to go to a local pub that brews its own beer. Semi-basement, dim and crowded, with an old-school bluegrass band wailing up front, guitar and washboard and washtub, slamming boot heels into the floor in rhythm. We drank our beer and walked home through the darkening streets, the peacock feathers in my bag waving like a tail.

It was just good. After church on Sunday we ran over to Maro and Eric's to pick up something, and they invited us to go apple picking with them and J.M. and Amanda. So we packed up in J.M.'s parents' van and headed out to an orchard about forty minutes' drive from the city, with an enourmous, wide view of the hills, the St. Laurent. I remembered why I love Canada so very much, why I love this wilderness. We picked bags and bags of apples, tasted different kinds, fell backwards and lay in the grass under the trees. Stopped at a local vineyard for wine tasting- made with local grapes- picked up a bottle of a dry, sweet white that tasted of basil. We ate dinner at Maro and Eric's, then I headed home to sleep.

Had to work on Monday, but I spent the morning with D, just bumming around the apartment; he made me breakfast and rubbed the tension out of my shoulder blades and made me laugh at my own clumsiness. I was a wreck at work- forgot to give people their change, threw things on the floor, made messes- but I got to go back and laugh about it with Maro and Eric and David, got to make an apple crisp, eat noodles with clams and snowpeas and that white wine, finished with apple crisp in front of Big Fish. He headed out in the morning, as I went off to classes.

It was refreshing and good. Now I'm immensely busy, one paper due Monday, one due Tuesday, a midterm next Monday, another essay due after that... but it's bearable. In the worst moments, it's a matter of buckling down and remembering, this, too, shall pass.

So that is how things are now. I'm in Starbucks waiting for Waka and Michelle and working on my philosophy paper. And this is how I live now.

( more )

David's car is all fixed, so he is in all likelihood going to be here in three days.

and I've been researching apartments in Verdun, and there are some extremely reasonable, really nice ones available even now in October; so there will probably be lots for next year (although I'm scared that the rent will go up) 

and also things are good.

I've been suddenly absorbed by Joanna Newsom, with her lyrics running through my head all day. But just read this!



 Inflammatory Writ

Oh, where is your inflammatory writ?
Your text that would incite a light,
"Be lit"?
Our music deserving devotion unswerving -
cry "Do I deserve her?" with unflagging fervor.
(Well, no you do not, if you cannot get over it)

And what's it mean when suddenly we're spent?
Ambition came and reared its head, and went.
Even mollusks have weddings, though solemn and leaden
but you dirge for the dead, take no jam on your bread
- just a supper of salt and a waltz through your empty bed.

And all at once it came to me,
and i wrote and hunched 'till four-thirty
But that vestal light, it burns out with the night
in spite of all the time that we spent on it:
one bedraggled ghost of a sonnet!
While outside, the wild boars root
without bending a bough underfoot-
O it breaks my heart; I don't know how they do't.

And as for my inflammatory writ?
Well, I wrote it and I was not inflamed one bit.
Advice from the master derailed that disaster;
he said "Hand that pen over to ME, poetaster!"
While across the great plains, keening lovely & awful,
ululate the last Great American Novels -
An unlawful lot, left to stutter and freeze, floodlit.
(But at least they didn't run, to their undying credit.)

Anna- I missed the DITL submission. But I will post one here just for you.

this week was crazy, CRAZY stressful. Midterm on Wednesday (which I bombed anyway. dammit.) and then yesterday, one of the girls who came in to close got really sick, so I stepped in and worked the closing shift on top of my regular shift. So I worked 1-12:30. With a half hour break. And I am exhausted.

I also have not spent nearly enough time with other people. I miss having friends that i see on a daily basis. That's one of the issues with being at an enourmous school and not living on-campus: it's really hit-or-miss.

On the bright side, Michelle and Waka and I are talking getting an apartment in Verdun next year. That is, if Anna doesn't move up here so we live together and make food and listen to good music and be in sisterly cohabitation. Ahem, ahem.

It's fo'real autumn now. Also I am going to sleep.

I have not got my first paycheck yet,

but I did make more than $21 in tips this week. Three shifts. This is when working rush hour is a nice thing.

I GOT A JOB!

from now on, i will be serving people overpriced, overdone lattes. I also get to wear a special hat. And I get paid. 

penelope

sometimes, when the early morning light pours blankly through the partially-drawn curtains,
and I am alone in the stillness, I think you are a false memory,
a figment of my solitary mind.

Or I am certain I am widowed, that I have lost you
to Circe, or to those bare-breasted sirens in their terrible beauty,
crowing triumph over the cresting waves.

I remember when you left, strong armed and laughing,
certain you could outwit the gods, but our naked son
in an unplowed field changed everything.

I was so sure this was a battle unto yourself, one of those
incomprehensible male missions, to prevent you
from drying like a split gourd, hollowness and bitter seeds.

Given the chance now, after these many years of weaving and unweaving,
and too many mornings woken alone,
I would take you in my arms and pull you back, beg you

to leave heroism for those who must prove themselves. Forget
glory, forget undying fame, forget the gods in their fickle selfishness.
This morning is still new; come back;

Stay here, my love, with me.

Asher went to be with the Lord this morning at 7:30.  He isn't hurting anymore.