Recipes from Vic’s Planet……

To all you who hold screaming, spewing, poonami’d babies; those who have to walk dogs out in rain, and back in rain; I have something to tell you.  AT LEAST YOU’RE NOT WRITING ESSAYS ANYMORE.

My message to you:  it could be worse.  You could be sitting at your kitchen table (in your 7th hour) with one or two shoddy sentences to show for it, a lot of dirty dishes, and maybe a new piece of useless information.  For example, did you know that Loreena McKennit still isn’t very helpful, on the second time around the album?  FOCUS, DAMMIT.

Five months until I’m done… Five more…

Essays were fun, once.

I think.

I’m going to sit and write this until —aAACHCHHOOOOOO— x5 - ugh.  Dear Santa:  puffs plus in my stocking, please?

Sheil has gone to Brazil for a month, and I am taking care of the cats.  Ugh.  (I do love them, I do love them, I do, I think I do…)  My playlists having disappeared when my ipod was erased, I’ve resorted to leaving the music I’ve now put on it on shuffle.  Does get a little strange when Girl Talk interrupts Loreena McKennit. eeeesh.

Classes end next week, and I can nearly see the end through my pile of snivvely tissues.  My house is now cleaner than it has been in a long time, which means methods of procrastination are coming to an abrupt, if satisfying, end.  I drove to Dundas in the middle of the night a few days ago in order to get to my early morning appointment on time, only to be phoned half an hour before I was due to be told it was canceled.  Not exactly my usual procrastinatory way, but definitely effective.  (Turned out somebody broke into Kim’s office and stole a bunch of computers!)  Now, here I sit, with cat behind me snoozing, clothes all hung up, papers piled high on one side of my desk, Radiohead wailing and woozling (somebody, please, make me a playlist).

Today was my last Directing class.  The play I’ve been working on the last couple months went up this week, and ends tomorrow night.  I’m very pleased with the result, but today was interesting.  I felt relieved after opening night, knowing that it was out of my hands (minus the music, which I play live per show).  Today after class the eight of us students took our prof out to lunch.  He is an incredibly talented, experienced, blah blah blah (bordering on divine to pissant twats like us) director/writer/everything theatrical.  He spoke at length over lunch about the state of theatre in Canada, both bitterly and with passion, and presented us with a realistic perception on what to expect in our next steps.  Listening to him speak, and having so loved the process of directing the play, I felt a little like a soldier being prepared to go out and fight the good fight.  Which makes sense - a life in theater is like a continuous walk up a steep hill, with few brief moments of pause, of relief, of total ecstasy.  Is it worth it?  It’s not safe.  It’s not anything like easy.  But then, not much is, and at least for now I can’t picture myself in a 9-5 situation.  Long story short, I had some doubts as I was walking home.  I worry about my fear of rejection, my total lacking of a ‘tough exterior shell’ - which I have been told will be my undoing more than once by people I greatly respect.  I know that I love theatre, and I know that that’s not enough.  I know that there’s nothing I want to do more that I’m able to do.  I took Ben for a long walk down the rail tracks when I got home, to the abandoned train station, and watched the sun go down.  Splahhh.

Studying John Donne recently, and thought I’d share one of my favourite sonnets of his, from 1609:

Death, be not proud, though some have callèd thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleepe as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally,
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

There is an alternate publication in which the last line reads ‘And death shall be no more, death thou shalt die.’  I think I like it better - death not as an insuperable barrier, not personified.

K Christmas now peeeeeeees. And tanks.

“Nowhere else have I seen such lions led by lambs” - supposedly said by a German officer during WWI, commenting on the British infantry, and the pampered politicians who sent them. Also a good movie directed by Robert Redford. I’ve never taken political science for the same reason as one of the characters in the film: it’s all bullshit. Political Ploys, it should be called. Meryl Streep has a wonderful line, when talking about the very right-winged senator (played by Tom Cruise): “It’s all just a lubricant to get him into the White House!”

Having never taken a class in political science, my standing point is built on years of CBC, one or two good teachers in highschool (history, english), some Christian morals, and the odd meet’n'greet of local MP’s. I’m (still!) a student at a university where I am surrounded by plush cushions in cafes and paint colours chosen based on surveys to evoke a calm and friendly atmosphere, led around by the hand and spoon fed the nutrients I need to survive - at least until this nursery surrenders me to the big bad world.

Still, I like to imagine that my views of the world, while uniquely mine, are shared by others. (That way I can justify just about anything.) So if I’m not alone here, where is everybody?

Where is everyone who, like me, doesn’t tune in to live debates anymore because they’re still only saying, “the facts are…” as a  tactic to win, rather than tell the truth straight? Where is everyone who, like me, vote for what they believe in, but also despair because the man or woman who leads the party is as flawed and likely as crooked as the rest? Who have this picture of what the ideal world might look like, but aside from small dots on the horizon - Gandhi, Mother Theresa, Rosa Parks, Jesus Christ, Mohammed - no clear way of getting there?

Oh right. They’re busy pursuing whatever desire they happen to have at this specific moment in time, putting as much distance between themselves and reality as physically possible. Everybody else has been around the block enough to know that this is how it’s always been; this is how it goes. But how far does it go? We know the human condition is never going to change; we will always be pigheaded and fallible, and we will never learn from the past. So as a voter of the next generation, what am I armed with when I go searching for answers and come up with only this?

Honestly… not a whole lot. Gandhi said, ‘Be the change you wish to see in the world.’ My perception of the prophets and their tidings is met with my huge insignificance, as one of the most privileged human beings on Earth. Have you ever stood on one side of an ocean looking out, searching for some spark on the horizon to prove that life is there, way, way, over there, and then stood on the exact opposite side of that ocean, doing the same thing, and had your whole world turned upside down? (Imagine if we were re-incarnated and could tap into the wisdom of an infinite number of previous lifetimes!) I sometimes feel like time is the only thing standing between me and a deeper understanding of…all of it. How it works, why it works. And all of the thousands of fishies and sea turtles and octopi in between.

In other news, Ben met a skunk. He really, really met a skunk. He and that skunk know each other so well that I can’t stand to be within twenty feet of him OUTSIDE. He also is a bright shade of rosy pink, having been bathed with tomatoes and spent most of that time trying to eat it all. Ugh.

I am sitting in the first lecture of the last year of my undergraduate degree, and I’m sad. I should be furious, I should be spurred into action, but no - I’m so deflated, tired of it - I’m just plain disappointed.

What the hell has happened to education? It’s not a trick question. But if it was, I’d make sure to give you a big hint, tell you to circle it, and type it out word for word on the exam for you.

Here’s my problem: I was under the impression that the educational system in this country was meant to teach things. Actual things. Things that might be somehow useful. I was under the impression that there are young minds needing to be molded, shaped, before being let loose on this shifting, yet unchanging, planet. I was under the impression that teaching was kind of a good idea, if you want your young’un’s to develop with a grounded sense of wrong and right, and maybe even a little bit of common sense, if you’re lucky. Where did we go wrong?

An example of my disappointment. My first lecture (a university lecture, mind) has consisted of the professor explaining to the students why his class is cool, why he is cool, why it’s really easy to pass his class - which makes him even more cool, right? Oh, AND, he knows the Russian mafia. Insert long pause for effect. Granted, this is a freshman class, and getting buddy-buddy with students is probably the easiest way for a young professor to get his bearings. But professor, I came here to learn - not be reassured that I won’t have a problem passing. I already know I won’t have a problem passing. I am 100% certain that I could attend not a single lecture, read nothing of any textbook, and still pass this class. And I don’t think I’m exaggerating. Classes are now designed to usher kids in and out faster than a Timmy Ho’s drive-thru.

I am now predisposed to dislike a new professor in a new course. Yes, I am disagreeable by nature; impatient; generally convinced of my own omnipotence, and so on. But a waste of time is a waste of time. It doesn’t matter whether or not I’m an arrogant son of a bitch to know when I’m not learning anything. I’m told, ‘young people these days don’t know how to think for themselves, they can’t problem solve.’ So why do I go to class to be spoon fed baby food? I am assured by the prof, ‘Don’t worry, all the powerpoint slides are online,’ followed by detailed instructions on how to print them out and bring them to class so you can write down everything he says in the lined margins. Heaven forbid a student might be encouraged to listen and then make his or her own opinions on the subject. Isn’t that one of the best ways to learn anything? Introduce a basic fact; discuss it without bias; take your own stance. I know I remember things better when I’m convinced I’m right and successfully batter somebody in a debate. Who cares if it was about whether there should be highschool uniforms? I won. I think.

I try not to think of universities as money-guzzling boozers who don’t give a damn about actual education. I try to remember this during deepest darkest February when I’m trudging up the mountain my heinous school is perched upon, having lost all feeling in my toes and nose. So where is the motivation to go to school? Oh, I forgot. I need a B.A. to work at Metro. My bad.

The thing about bugs is that they’re fine doing their thing and you’re fine doing your thing, and then they have to go and mess up the delicate balance. WE WEREN’T MADE TO BE TOGETHER. (If I had a loudspeaker that spoke bug.) I’m not sure why more legs = more ew. That’s just the way it is. I’m not sure why the ones with the most legs tend to run the fastest, but it ups the ew. And then if you throw some furniture into the game, say, for example, your bed, with you in it, you might get a nice little equation that goes something like

ew +     sheets =  ‘…but I don’t wanna go to schooooowwwhhhhaaa?!?????$$%*@!?’
legs²       sleepiness

Centipedular living.

Toilet seats, however! Victory is mine. Well, kind of. Who knew toilet seats come in different sizes? Who knew Canadian Tire would have a huge sail on great oblong seats clearly made for long-legged elves who only inhabit the pages of books and the shores of Rivengeh? Not I. No, I prefer to whiz around on my bike, looking for new and interesting ways of getting places, so that when I happen to pass a fully fledged toilet sitting on the side of the road I think to myself, ‘Ah. Now, there is a toilet seat.’ Genius, no? Genius, I say. Also, reaffirmation that one should always travel with wet wipes. And now? I paid $15, and with a little extra cleaning on the side, I again have a functioning toilet seat. I don’t feel quite like I stole it, since it wasn’t in front of a house, and I did wait a week and a bit before going back for it. I think I rescued it.

it’s a beautiful morning, the clouds are still looming from last night’s great storm (which, i freely admit, at one point caused me to scream when lightning hit somewhere on my street as i was watching from my porch). i’m thinking, post coffee, eggs, and dog walk, that i should do some things, aka get some things done. the best way to feel good about a day, no? ‘productive’, they call it. (nonsense - i am free! free as a bird! minus the wings.) so i go up to campus with ben to return a book about the history of the stratford festival in canada to a prof, who hopefully has forgotten whom she lent it to, given that it’s been about a year. manage to get in before the rain breaks, a grumpy looking front is moving in from the north, but low and behold, the office closes at noon and it is now nearly 1300. that’s fine, that’s fine, ben and i are having a lovely time walking across the green, walking faster, i think i felt a raindrop, trotting a little, but not so much that you’d think i was jogging or anything, i mean i’m not afraid of a little rain - the drops are getting fatter - i mean bigger, i’m not allowed to use that word, shit, RUN! we make it back to the car, the book kiiind of intact… and head downtown accompanied by stereolab to drop off my disposable camera, which i bought in berlin after my canon was stolen in paris. i’m kind of excited for it, because i don’t remember what i’ve taken photos of, but i know that they’ll be from a variety of different places even if they come out crap. pond photo source, right. nix on the shoppers drug mart, they have no soul, even if pond’s is a little tres cher. girl at the counter is 17, bleach blond and chopped like a ragdoll, with so many piercings around her mouth i can’t even begin to try to read her lips. whatever. how much? $10 plus tax. oh, ok, not so bad.

“threhh ruh htlll fothos lift ong hrr,” she says. actually that’s a lie, ’says’ involves the speaking of real people words.

“what (the fuck)?” i respond, wondering if her next piercing will somehow sew it completely shut. or maybe a tattoo of an arrow toward her mouth and an ‘OUT OF ORDER’ sign in red.

“threhh ruh htill fothss lfft ong hr.”

“(GIVE ME MORE TO WORK WITH, WOMAN.)” generally i feel my facial expression in these situations says it all; apparently not.

“dafbneneeenngngiguu.”

at this point she has my camera in her hands, and she clicks the grey shutter and winds it forward. i stifle the urge to pee a little.

“um, are there still photos left?” (that’s me again, notice the real words. aren’t they pretty?)

“yhh,” she replies, and clicks the grey shutter again, then winds and winds - it really is done now.

it’s a good thing there were two feet of solid counter between us. and it’s a good thing that the customer pays upon receiving the developed photos.

still, i don’t think i set off the smoke alarm on my way out.

A new post? QUOI??  I know — I know. It’s time.

I am sitting in my spacious red kitchen in Guelph with Ben at my feet (who has helpfully tidied up some cat vom for me - awesome if you don’t watch). The cats are now exploring the beautiful sunny day outside, having had new plastic tags attached (by string, meh) to their hemp collars. Hippie? you may say, Lame much? Cheap, I say. Cheap, cheap, cheap. (Notice I’m already in full parentheses swing!)

All of the wonderful parts of summer are in play right now, and I blame not having had time to blog because of it. The weather is gorgeous, there are too many beautiful places outside where I want to be, lots of people to share them with, and I am blissfully/cringefully unemployed and therefore able to take full advantage of both. Even my bird feeder has actual bird feed in it (rather than the lightweight, invisible kind - they don’t go for that stuff, for some reason). The windsurfing board is finally up and running at Barrow Bay; the patio at the Cornerstone is sunbathed and delicious; my German and guitar are slowly improving; visits to Toronto to see friends and theatre are lovely. Reading (English) again is pure joy! I think I’ll be saying that for as long as I live. Anyway, point being - I am enjoying my last summer as a student as much as I am able. I was away backpacking from the end of April to the end of July, and now am mostly settled down here. “Settled” doesn’t really make sense, although it did feel at first as though I was being lulled back into old habits, and wanted to fight it just because it was something pulling at me. I just wanted not to let go of that way of looking at every thing, every place, every person even, as if for the first time. Getting comfortable makes me less perceptive and less likely to notice small changes, or the simple beauty I take for granted. Traveling is wonderful because even dark stingy stations have a certain weight to them, a certain wonder. And people are just the same.

Having had my camera and the 16g card in it stolen a week before returning to Canada, I don’t have many photos. But every now and then something random will cue a memory and I’ll glaze over while it plays out in my mind - the lorry driver picking us up in northern Scotland and making jokes the entire ride, for example - people probably think I’m becoming even crazier. A quick recap: I visited family in Switzerland and the UK before catching the ferry over to Ireland and roaming there for a couple of weeks, then took a ferry farther north up the coast over to Scotland where I met my friend Meg. We hitch-hiked around Scotland having incredible luck with the weather, and then flew south to Marrakesh. We had a set date to arrive at a flat in the south of Portugal, and had originally planned to fly to Barcelona and then make our way southwest. The flight to Marrakesh was only something like ten quid more, and not really farther away from our destination, Tavira. Morocco was absolutely stunning. I know it’s more European than African in many ways, but it was still unbelievably different from any other place I’ve been to. Everything was parched, and slightly reddened. The soil was orangey-red in most places, and many of the houses were painted a similar, slightly pinkish colour in the city. We were told this was to keep them cool, but I’m not sure why they didn’t then just use a whiter colour. From Marrakesh we traveled by van with five or so others east to the Sahara, and then into the desert by camel. It was a two-day journey to get to the desert - Marrakesh is fairly central in the West, and the desert runs down the long eastern side of the country, bordering Algeria - and then overnight between the dunes. One of the moments I remember most vividly from the entire trip was sitting on top of an enormous sand dune (which took about an hour to climb) at midnight, facing into the wind, and knowing a cloud system was moving toward me because the brilliant stars were being blotted out and the sky was absolutely black. I’ve never experienced such an absence of all man-made light. After leaving the desert (where they really do find water with a two-pronged stick) we traveled to the western coastal city of Essaoira, where I got sick. It was one of Meg’s favourite cities, but I spent it lying in bed at a hostel and in a toilet from hell. Given my coeliac disease and Morocco’s main foods being couscous and tagine, both wheat-based, I was eating only eggs and fruit, and not always having the option of washing said fruit. So, I contracted a parasite, and spent two weeks losing water and weight before finally finding a hospital in Portugal where I was prescribed antibiotics. Luckily, though I was ill the entire stay at the gorgeous flat in Tavira, I was able to get healthy again there, having my own bed and bathroom, and didn’t have to fly back to Canada.

Portugal was beautiful, Spain was beautiful, France was beautiful, Germany was beautiful - not all of it was new, but all of it was like new, and wonderfully NOT Canada. I love Canada, really, I do - but it lacks the history which I love about Europe. I could never remember things like dates and wars and whose name was big when, and I wouldn’t want to - but I love seeing how cities have evolved piece by piece, building by building. Some, like Dublin, have new steel and glass buildings built right into or on top of stone buildings more than three or four hundred years old. I met a guy from Montreal in Copenhagen who was studying architecture for the year in Venice and drooled a little bit. Architecture must be incredible to learn about. I wish it was easier to audit courses.

And now? August! An armful of mini nieces and nephews to write to and try to remember the birthdays of; a school term approaching all too quickly which needs sorting out; theatre to see; and a hopefully simple, peaceful job that needs finding - ideally a bookshop or something like. I’m going to enjoy my last year of student life even if I don’t particularly enjoy the ’student’ part. But first - a sunny porch and a comfy chair are calling me…

It is now a quarter to six, and only slightly less hot than it was two
hours ago. Meg is reading up in the girls’ flat and I am sitting on a
bench in parque real, which is nearby. There is an enormous tree, and
my bench is one of many forming a wide circle round it. Two people
might just get their arms around its trunk; there are iron posts set
up in an even wider perimeter than t he benches, forming a frame for
its gnarly limbs, all cross-crossing and dangling what looks more like
moss than leaves. Apparently you can climb up and sit with a drink.
It’s very peaceful. An old man has been feeding the birds for the
entire hour or so I’ve been sitting here. He breaks little bits off of
a slice of bread and wanders slowly about the trunk of the tree,
signaling to the sparrows as if to a catcher and flicking his wrist
quickly, while threatening all the pigeons with his cane. It’s quite
sweet: he holds it out between his finger and thumb, hoping one might
be so brave, and then tosses it to the sparrows. If it ends up near
pigeons he scatters them and retrieves it.

Finally, a bit of a cool breeze! Our spots on the floor are on the
sunny side of the building now; stifling even with a bit of air flow.
I filled up my little black notebook and now have a red one, with
checkered white and red on the inside covers like a 1950s recipe book.
Lisbon is beautiful in a more ways than some. The big earthquake in
1755 must have made necessary rebuilding in many parts; it’s buildings
vary in age at random, as if a child put them together; an ornate
Victorian turquoise building has a modern highrise coming out the top,
all sheer tinted glass. Weirdly, it works.

A quick travel update:

Spent a month visiting family in the UK/Suisse, and roaming Ireland. Met up with my friend Meg in Glasgow and we hitchhiked northern Scotland (managing to make it to the Isle of Skye in one afternoon). We shed our cold things in London and flew to Marrakech, and then toured to the south and the Algerian border, and the Sahara. We took camels into the desert and spent a night with Berbers who had never been to Marrakech, and who actually do find water by walking around with a stick. We went to the city of Essaoira on the west coast, where I first got sick, and then flew to Portugal. Kate´s parents let us stay at their incredible flat on the south coast in Tavira for TWO WEEKS. I was ill the entire time with some parasite, and managed to get antibiotics just in time. Now we are in Lisbon staying with German girls we met in Morocco who spent the year studying here and have an a fourth floor apartment with eclectic antique furniture, high ceilings, and a gorgeous view of the city and the river. Tuesday we leave for Barcelona, and then make our way to Paris and Berlin, stopping along the way.

Frittata time… love having an oven!

Today = miracle day. Let me count the ways… I’m in Scotland, and not only was there sunshine, but it didn’t rain on me once, all day. Met up with my friend Meg in Glasgow and decided we’d hitch as far north as we could for a few days. I’d just finished touring Ireland and she’d been visiting her mum in Zanzibar. We got up leisurely and waited for whsmith to open (it being a bank holiday Monday) since it was apparently the only shop selling maps bigger than just the city of Glasgow. Ate our leftovers from the night before (more potato, but this time with egg! It’s a rich man’s world…) - strolled past the big library on our way back, bought a postcard… by this time it’s getting on for noon and I’m thinking, ’sure, it doesn’t get dark til 10pm…but this might be pushing it…’ We check out of the random hostel owned by a Canadian ghostly version of Gedde Lee, and walk up the entire height of the bloody city. Meg has the map at this point, but she’s a good twenty feet ahead and carrying a lighter load, therefore too far away to throw things at. Still. We manage to hitch a ride to the edge of the city (le big roundibout). And no sooner have we got to the right place, I put down my pack to zip up my jacket and there’s a car pulling over! A young engaged couple who had been debating where to go for the last some-odd miles, saw our sign (”ISLE OF SKYE!”) and thought, yeah! So we got a ride to the very doorstep of our lodging, complete with photo opp and pee stops, narrative history, and comfy seats (under our and their baggage). The weather stayed moody all day, so the sunshine on the mountains was spectacular.

We plan on marching the island tomorrow and staying here again - by here I mean the hostel where we are sleeping in a caravan in a backyard, painted and entitled, ”ENTERPRISE - STAR VOYAGER”. And then we zip down to London as fast as  we can, giving ourselvs two days for fuck-ups, and fly to Marrakech. Turns out flying to Morocco is only £20 more expensive than flying to Barcelona, which we can still see on the way out east. Why not? Not sure how to transport the guitar, though. Don’t really want to pay £40 to have it on the plane - which would be the equivalent of buying it a seat, just about - but I bought it so I could play while I traveled, and so far it’s been really good fun. 

Time for sleep. Just finished a Nick Hornby book, my first - Juliet, Naked. Now starting James Joyce (having left Dublin long ago….duhh). Last significant moment of the day - made a bet with Matt once upon a time that he couldn’t burp and fart at th same time. He was all, ”yeah, for sure, all time,” but I was not so sure. Today, I achieved that goal. 

And then rolled down the window.

Bought an old guitar made in Alicante! I love feeling like I’ve won a bargain, even if I only lower the price 20€ because it’s expected I’ll argue. Teehee! Stopped to ask a woman fixing her bicycle on my way back to the hostel where she’d found her bungee cord, and she said ‘oxfam ages ago, but I’ve never used it,’ and gave it to me. What a lovely day!