Here's to the much-maligned layover

I don't know who taught us to be in such a hurry these days. I don't know why, or when, it became so important, when we are going from here to there, to do it as fast as humanly possible. It is a sorry state of affairs. You can't blame the airlines. The airlines do their bit. They always offer a long way around. You can always go via Saskatoon, and usually, if you do, they charge you less for the privilege.

It should be no surprise that I am in favour of the side roads. And the forgotten art of dawdling. So...here's to the much-maligned layover. From now on I am going to do my best to incorporate a few into each and every day. So if you call to ask me over, you'll know what I mean when I say it might take a while, that I am coming, but I am coming via Saskatoon.

("Maxine Montgomery", Stuart McLean)

I often feel as if Stuart McLean and I are kindred spirits. Reading this today brought a smile to my face and a longing to take the long route next time I have the chance. I love airports. I enjoy layovers. I have stories about sleeping in airports, and I even look on those with fondness (although the lost luggage stories are much less fun). I firmly believe that half the fun of travelling is travelling. It's people-watching in airports. It's excitement and anticipation. It's the 5 a.m. coffee so you can catch your 7 a.m. flight. It's the red-eye that smashes two days together into one. It's looking out the plane window to see the tops of clouds or the neatly divided prairies or the lights of a new city. It's the layovers spent trying to sleep on uncomfortable airport benches. It's the trashy magazines read to occupy the time. It's the joy of riding a moving sidewalk. It's the smell and feel of airports and airplanes. It's the sense of camaraderie amongst passengers, the smile offered from one weary traveller to another.

I really want a reason to go hang out in an airport now.

I took this picture on my jaunt to Calgary in April. I was waiting for my flight back to Edmonton and liked the layering that was going on with the planes outside and the reflection of the people at the gate inside.

Summertime Adventures

I think that the best thing about summer is just hanging out with friends, spending time going on little adventures. Often I get excited about this idea and then end up doing maybe one or two cool things, but this summer has gotten off to a promising start. Bean and I have been taking swing dance lessons. A couple of weeks ago the whole gang went for breakfast and checked out a chocolate shop downtown. My dad took me to a play. Last weekend I wandered around Fort Edmonton with Sally and helped throw a surprise birthday party for Gabby. This weekend I'm thinking about perusing the art gallery. On Monday I have a lunch date with Lex and we are going to try to go somewhere we haven't been before. I can't wait to see what the rest of the summer has in store!

This photo comes from last summer's excursion to Capital Ex. Lame name, but a good way to spend a day with friends. Outdoors, rides (yay!) and a fireworks display to end it off. This is one adventure we manage to do every year and I always look forward to it.

This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us

Rain Makes Its Own Night
Anne Michaels

Rain makes its own night, long mornings with the lamps left on.
Lean beach grass sticks to the floor near your shoes,
last summer's pollen rises from damp metal screens.

This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us,
clothes clinging to chairs, your shoes in a muddy grip.

The hard rain smells like it comes from the earth.
The human light in our windows, the orange stillness
of rooms seen from outside. The place we fall to alone,
falling to sleep. Surrounded by a forest's green assurance,
the iron gauze of sky and sea,
while night, the rain, pulls itself down through the trees.


The other night I stopped at Chapters with a couple of friends and discovered that their poetry section has expanded! I mean, it's still not huge, but it is certainly improved from the measly two shelves it usually is. Of course, I had to treat myself to some new books. Glorious. Simply glorious. It's been raining lately. There is something nice about weather like this. It's relaxing and contemplative. Life seems a bit slower when it's rainy; there's space to breathe and room to think. Rain and poetry are an excellent combination.

The Smallest Things

It is rarely the big decisions that affect us. It is, more often than not, the little ones.

We sit there sweating over the list of pros and cons, about whether we should live in the country or the city, buy the Apple or the PC, take this job or that one. We fret, and agonize, and come to terms with what we think, and then fret some more, and change our minds, and then, finally, we take a big deep breath and come downstairs one morning and announce what we are going to do. And we think it is so big, and important, and monumental, and earth-shattering. And it isn’t. Not one little bit. Everything changes and then - nothing changes.

It is never the move to the country or the decision to have kids that change everything. It is the dinner parties. The little things that you didn’t think twice about. It is the girl you sit beside on the bus without even noticing - the bus ride you took on a whim.

The big things, it turns out, are in the small things - the ones you can neither prepare for nor plan.

And what should we do about that? Nothing, it seems. Mostly, I think, it means we should relax and go with the flow or, better, with our hears. Our hearts know the way, and the trick, it seems, is to follow our hearts. Because if we do, everything will work out all right in the end. And if it doesn’t? Well, you know the answer to that. That just means it’s not the end.

("Small Decisions," Stuart McLean)

Finding comfort in these words as my life tiptoes towards massive change. This is one of the things I love most about literature: it's unparalleled ability to speak directly to the circumstances of your life whatever they may be. The importance of small things should not be lost on me, a lover of all things tiny, like these bitty blue flowers that were growing in Cape Breton last time I was there.

Daily Magic

Sunsets are the exclamation marks that end the day. And they are especially memorable when we are on vacation and actually have time to sit and enjoy the spectacle of the sun sinking into something other than a sea of rush-hour traffic.

We love sunsets because we love their bold drama, almost kitschy with all those oranges and reds. The angle of light throws everything - from palm trees to elephants - into silhouette. Photographers know the best sunsets have some clouds onstage to give those rays a wispy canvas on which to paint.

Then there's the grand finale, the visual equivalent of a musical crescendo, when the yolk melts into the ocean or cracks against a mountain ridge. And finally comes silence. Soft purples and a big sigh flood the landscape, and I often find myself wanting to applaud.

Those three paragraphs, a clipping from an article in the travel section, have been tacked to my bulletin board since some time in high school. I am a sucker for sunsets and this writer captured the sensation of watching one of these daily magical events.

Justification

I had a conversation today with someone I count as a friend that really bothered me. In this case it's not what was said, but how it was said. It's that incredulous tone people adopt whenever I talk about school and my academic world. The tone that says, "why would you do that?" and "that sounds like a total waste of time and energy." The attitude that causes people to say things like "I want to do so much more than research. I don't want to sit up in an ivory tower researching pointless things. I want to do something that has actual meaning and significance in the world." The attitude that constantly prompts the question, "And what are you going to do with an English degree?" or "What can you do with a Master's of English?", and not in a genuinely curious way either. I am tired of justifying myself to others. In part this is because I have yet to successfully translate my passion for literature into something that can truly be conveyed to others. So, a lot of my frustration is with myself. But it's more than that. It's the fact that people write off what I'm passionate about so flippantly. I know that I am guilty of this myself on occasion, but I am trying lately to be very conscious of it. I grew up with a group of people who, by and large, knew exactly where they were headed in life. Many of the people I grew up with are in school to become, or are already, doctors, teachers, engineers, nurses, veterinarians, computer experts and government workers. And when I am in those circles of people I often feel judged for not pursuing a "traditional" and "meaningful" profession. Even the people I've met in university who have no idea what they want to do now that they've graduated sometimes seem to think that their degrees hold more value than mine, or that because they've chosen to go into the workforce rather than go back to school they are somehow contributing more to society. And there is absolutely nothing wrong with not wanting to go to graduate school. It is not for everybody. Sometimes I'm not even sure it's right for me. Nor do I wish to disparage those, or any other, professions. They are wonderful pursuits and I am thrilled when, for example, my friends who are going to be teachers light up with passion for what they are learning and doing. I'm irked, however, by the idea that going to school and finding a job are somehow not on equal footing when it comes to their intrinsic value. And I am even more bothered by the idea that seems to be so prevalent in society that choosing to pursue research (unless perhaps you are searching for a cure for cancer or alternative fuel sources or something) is not as important as other professions. No, I'm not curing cancer. I understand that. But literature holds such power and importance in human lives. We are inherently linguistic creatures. We are people of stories. We construct ourselves by telling our own stories. We understand ourselves by our own accounts of our stories. We come to understand ourselves better through an interaction with other people's stories. As Michael Ondaatje says in his novel Divisadero, "We live permanently in the recurrence of our own stories, whatever story we tell." Literature, and art in a broader sense, has the power to be transformative, to be healing, to be enlightening. Again, Michael Ondaatje writes, "sometimes we enter art to hide within it. It is where we can go to save ourselves, where a third person voice protects us." Is it not worthwhile to spend time deeply examining something that holds so much sway in humanity? Is it not worth time to try to understand what our literature is saying about us? I think it is. This is what excites me most about literature and language: the human expression, the fact that it simultaneously reveals and shapes us. Even if you are not the direct reader. Literature seeps into popular culture. It influences everything you see; advertisements, television shows, movies, are all permeated by references to literature. It's role in defining us is so immense that I don't think the full extent of it can even be understood. There are so many other things that I could say this of, art and music come to mind immediately, but the one that I have chosen to pursue formally right now is literature. So, that is why I am doing what I'm doing. That is my rambling and possibly unclear explanation of why I am passionate about literary research and studying. And I'm sorry if that is not good enough for you.

Back in the Saddle

There is nothing to motivate me to pick up my camera again like the silhouette of my neighbours' trees against a lovely sunset. This brief excursion, however, only cemented my desire to go somewhere for the sole purpose of enjoying myself and taking photos. Now if I could just think of somewhere to go in the city...

Perfectionism and Dance

I have this demon who wants me to run away screaming if I am going to be flawed, fallible. It wants me to think I'm so good I must be perfect. Or nothing. I am, on the contrary, something: a being who gets tired, has shyness to fight, has more trouble than most facing people easily. If I get through this year, kicking my demon down when ti comes up, realising I'll be tired after a days work, and tired after correcting papers, and it's natural tiredness, not something to be ranted about in horror, I'll be able, piece by piece, to face the field of life, instead of running from it the minute it hurts.

I have a choice: to flee from life and ruin myself forever because I can't be perfect right away, without pain & failure, and to face life on my own terms & "make the best of the job."

My demon of negation will tempt me day by day, and I'll fight it, as something other than my essential self, which I am fighting to save: each day will have something to recommend it: whether the honest delight at watching the quick furred body of a squirrel, or sensing, deeply, the weather and color, or reading and thinking of something in a different light: a good explanation or 5 minutes in class to redeem a bad 45. Minute by minute to fight upward. Out from under that black cloud which would annihilate my whole being with its demand for perfection and measure, not of what I am, but of what I am not.

(from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath)

This is one of the places that Sylvia Plath discusses her perfectionism, or, as she likes to call it, her demon. When I first read these passages they rang so true for me. I am a perfectionist. This can be a good thing. It's what gets me top marks in school. It's what drives me to achieve more and to learn and grow constantly. It's what makes me perfect for editing jobs. However, Sometimes it seriously feels like a curse. It makes me incredibly competitive. Because of my perfectionism I drive myself hard when it comes to school and this sometimes has disastrous consequences on my health, sanity, and social life. I'm obsessive about my outfits: even my socks have to match what I'm wearing. I struggle with perfectionism when it comes to photography and this blog. I feel like if I don't have the "perfect" picture to post then there is no point in me putting something up. I have to force myself to realize that sometimes me loving something is enough of a reason to post it, even if it isn't the most perfectly executed photo or exactly what I am looking for to pair with my musings. I've taken a couple weeks of swing dancing lessons now and my battle with perfectionism has been raging. The first week I was way out of my comfort zone. I didn't know what I was doing and I had a hard time with that. I just hate that feeling of being off kilter and unsure. It's hard to explain, but it really bothers me. I told Bean though, who is taking the lessons with me, that I think it is good for me to push myself outside of my comfort zone sometimes. This week I was actually kind of dreading the lesson. It ended up being so much fun though. I just kind of let it go. I decided, "So what if I'm not perfect at this? Just laugh it off and enjoy yourself." And it worked. So I was right; sometimes I need to push myself out of my comfort zone. And sometimes, I don't need to be perfect.

Scribblings

I've been in a creative funk lately. One of my lovely readers, Hannah - whose blog, The Storialist, is absolutely delightful - commented on my last post and voiced a niggling feeling I had been having: "There will always be more creativity. Scribble and out it will come." So, I took her quite literally today. I pulled out a sketchbook and a trusty black felt tip pen and scribbled. I didn't produce anything earth-shattering, but it was a good feeling to be creative, to fill pages with doodles and sketches and, well, scribbles. It's been seriously weird the last couple weeks. I've felt as if my skeleton has been pulled from my body. Just limp and lifeless. The only time I've felt really whole has been when I've been immersed in a good book (still working my way through Sylvia Plath's journals and loving it). It's nice to get a bit of creative spark back and begin to feel more solid once again.

Stymied, stuck, at a stasis

I am stymied, stuck, at a stasis. Some paralysis of the head has got me frozen.

But I must get back into the world of my creative mind: otherwise, in the world of pies & shin beef, I die. The great vampire cook extracts the nourishment & I grow fat on the corruption of matter, mere mindless matter. I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.

(from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath)

Apologies for the sporadic nature of posts on here lately. Life has been busy. But more than that, I have been feeling profoundly uncreative. This is not unusual at this time of year. Exams and final papers take a toll on me creatively. Moving knocks the wind right out of me. And the typical end-of-term sickness makes it hard to do anything. I've been thinking the last few days about how dry and sterile I feel when it comes to creative things. It has been so long since I did anything deeply creative. I keep thinking back to last summer; a lot of things about that period of time sucked. It was not a good year. But my days fell into a lovely rhythm, an ebb and flow of creativity, an immersion in artistic pursuits. I miss that feeling. I need to reacquaint myself with pastels. I need to buy some film for my new Diana camera and begin to play with it. I need to spend days taking photos. I need to learn a new song on the piano. I need to write. I just need to do something.

This photo has very little to do with this post other than the fact that it was produced in one of my few creative moments in the past few weeks. I kind of like it for that fact. It promises me that I won't be stuck in this barren land forever. It's a little glimmer of hope.

The Graduate

I've officially been a graduate for a day now. Weird.