famous last words

I’ve had a sudden understanding with Orlando Bloom’s character at the beginning of Elizabethtown, and no, I’m not talking about the suicide bike. I’m talking about the face: terrified, and yet calm. Utterly, utterly calm. He talks about last looks, how someone looks at you when you know they think it’s for the last time. You know what he means. You’re probably looking at my blog this way right now.

I have no personal experience with such looks. I admit every time I’ve looked at someone for the last time, I didn’t know it would be (with one exception). And even then, unless they’re dead, who knows if it was really for the last time? I do know what it’s like to look at someone just in case it’s the last time. I do this often – half the time I see my family, and even more often when I’m signing out of my blog. Recently, because I’ve moved again for the third time in a year, I’ve been looking at people who I know I won’t see again for some time. Which is just a last-look-for-a-while. Those suck, too.

My mother is an artist, and I know she sees more than I do. I’ve suspected that I’m not particularly observant when it comes to noticing things. I can’t count the number of times someone has said, “Oh, man, he was so hot!” or, “No way, was that a goat with that man?” and I’m looking around in bewilderment. I’m not crazy about artwork. I can’t picture my friends’ faces with any sort of accuracy, though I obviously recognize them on sight. I use my eyes to navigate from one place to another and sometimes to read blogs.

I’m better at remembering last words. The one exception to the last looks thing was much more about last words, anyway. I remember what I said, but I don’t remember how he looked. After he died, as they were taking him away, someone asked me if I wanted to go back inside and see him. I told them no – I’d already said my goodbye. That seemed so much more important.

What I remember best are firsts. First impressions, first kisses, first hangovers. I guess because they have so much more immediate impact. Really, you never know it’s a last word until it really is the last word, and then you think back and maybe try to remember it, as though it will Mean Something. But life’s not a book. And isn’t your last impression based on a first something anyway?

So have the last word, the last laugh, or whatever. But don’t forget why the last look even mattered in the first place.

If you want a last word to leave you breathless, read fiction.

The Stand, Stephen King

The Book Thief, Markus Zusak

Mort, Terry Pratchett

through the forest, through the galaxy, through time

I’m living downtown in a big city again, and I am continuously astounded by the things I see around me. Perhaps it’s my suburban upbringing talking, but perhaps not. Perhaps it's delight or contempt or amusement for another reason.

You learn quickly in the city which streets to avoid at night (and sometimes also in the day). How one street can be fine at four in the morning, but the street just a block away should be avoided at all costs. I wonder how this is possible. Surely nothing is keeping whatever makes the one street not okay from crossing over onto your street, and yet somehow this is a rare occurrence. I wonder how the city teaches you so quickly how to walk alone at night.

The streets themselves are disgusting. There’s some Seinfeld episode in which Jerry tosses a pair of shoe laces that have touched the floor of the men’s room, and it’s a joke in the show. But I would hesitate to pick up even my credit card if it fell on the ground here.

My old city was perfect for night-dwellers, but it only seems that way to me because I had a more involved social life there. I suspect my current city even has a better nightlife. I don’t care a lot right now. It’s summer, and I find myself drawn to the patios and the sun, despite the urge to stay awake all night. (Do I find it ironic that my sleeping habits work better with winter? Am I forced to make the impossible choice between sleep and warmth? These questions might all be addressed in another blog post.) I don’t live too far from the water. I feel summer is the time to make the walk to the shore. I have not yet lived in this city during summer months.

Eminem keeps following me around town. Whenever a car is stopped at a light with its music blaring, it’s always Eminem. Why is this? I understand that Eminem is good car-blaring music, but really? Every single time?

Last fall, I was walking home from a job I hated one evening. I was walking reasonably quickly, eying the whole world with distaste like I always did when I finished a day at that job. As I passed a shop on the street, I heard ‘Love the Way You Lie’ by Eminem and Rihanna – at one of the rap parts. I kept walking and found that the next store was also playing this song out onto the street. This continued for a while. It seemed all the stores on that street were on the same radio station. Now, walking with headphones is different – you’re fully aware that it’s your music and you are having the reaction you anticipated. Hearing the music while on the dark, rain-slicked street was totally surreal, like my annoyed stride up the street somehow had a soundtrack. It made me feel like a tool for being angsty (even accidentally) to Eminem, and then like a crazy person because I started laughing at the ridiculousness of the whole thing. Luckily, this street is one where no one pays attention to someone laughing to herself.

I have avoided using some of the public transit because I’m weird enough to think that if I can’t walk there, it’s probably not worth going to. For big events and visits with relatives I’ll use the public transit system, sure, but a friend (lives nearby) recently asked if I’d be interested in going to a furniture store with her and a friend using the subway. I happily declined. I didn’t move into the heart of downtown to leave for bedframes I’m not going to buy.

My friend has this idea about getting lost in a city. I say ‘idea’ because I think it’s a lifestyle dream of hers – to wander and discover and be pulled wherever destiny decides. To get lost in the sounds and smells and sights, and either blend in or raise some hell. I can understand that. I am not without a sense of adventure. And yet. I feel that in the eight months I’ve lived here, I’ve lost interest in the city. What, when it comes right down to it, does it really have going for it? I think I’m bored, and I don’t think a change of scenery is going to cut it this time. I can’t move every eight months because I’m bored.

I’ve been making an effort to read more this year, and it’s holding up. I’m at sixteen books for the year, which doesn’t sound like a lot, but it’s a book a week. A decent effort. Reading never manages to be boring when it’s good, and at the risk of sounding trite, it’s an adventure in a sense. In fact, here are some books that promise adventure – books that will take you somewhere new – for anyone else reading this who wants to get lost somewhere.

The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, Douglas Adams

The Forest of Hands and Teeth, Carrie Ryan

The Time Traveler’s Wife, Audrey Niffenegger

That Kind of Girl

I'm just a girl, take a good look at me

Just your typical prototype

~No Doubt

Let me preface this by saying that I really like each song/book/movie that I refer to in this post. In fact, I only chose songs/books/movies that I liked so as to avoid a huge bias against artists I didn’t like. I think every artist mentioned in this post has some wonderful things to say, often about feminism as well.

Let me also mention here that this post contains the word “awesome” more often than is necessary.

I’ve been noticing an unsettling trend in songs and books and movies, and that is:

Awesome heroines are awesome because they are not like other girls.

Y’all, what’s up with that? You know what I’m talking about.

all that is gold

all that is gold does not glitter

not all those who wander are lost

~J.R.R.Tolkein

Yes, I’m back to blogging in the middle of the night. Although, it’s 6:30am – can that really count? Let’s say it does because it's still dark. You know how drunk dials are bad because you usually end up saying something true and embarrassing? Middle-of-the-night blogging is like that, even without alcohol.

I’m vaguely unemployed again, so I’ve reverted back to my natural schedule of sleeping all day and hanging out on the internets all night. Perez Hilton is a good place to go. As is Twitter. There are all sorts of interesting things to do on the internet at four in the morning. I reorganized my bookshelf the other night. Nothing says “I don’t know what I’m doing with my life” like putting dvds in their proper cases.

Except, I do know what I’m doing with my life. I like being up at this time while everyone’s asleep. I am looking for a job, and I’m in school, so technically I can say “I’m a student” instead of “unemployed” (which just sounds awful – like I have a five o’clock shadow and mismatched slippers). Oh! And I’m doing really well on my book-a-week resolution for 2011. I’m at nine books so far, and we’ve only been through six and a half weeks.

I admit – I’ve consumed zero Mai Tais this year. But the year is young! Surely if time gets short, I can make it up on New Year’s Eve…

The downside of this particular stint of unemployment/fooling around with life – is the sun.

My parents owned this magical house for a number of years. They sold it in 2008, and I admit I haven’t quite gotten over it. It was the perfect house for hanging out, dreaming, and running around naked in the backyard (not that we ever did that). It had some beautiful suns. The kitchen had a breakfast nook with glass on three sides. There was always sun in there. Countless sunsets were enjoyed around that table. The other sun was the dawn, which is the best part of consciousness at 6am.

The park on the next block was set between my house and my friend’s house. In high school in the summers, we would hang out until dawn – sometimes reading – and then I’d walk home. I usually stopped at the park and walked around in the mist. No one is ever around in suburbia at that time. There was a set of swings that overlooked some houses and gardens, but it also had a great view of the eastern sky. I could sit there and watch the colours of the sunrise and read once the sun came up. My relationship with the dawn began in that park. I say the house was magical because it really was.

Side note: That house was also the location of the jello party – need I say more?

After they sold the house I moved downtown where I also saw a lot of dawns. I worked at a bar, so often I was up at that time just because I came home from work and took the time to check my email before going to sleep. Those were beautiful dawns as well because I could see trees and two castles from my apartment balcony. There was an aqua glass apartment building across the street, and the glass caught every colour of the rainbow.

Now I live in a different city where there are no castles in sight. My apartment is a great location; it’s close to the subway, grocery stores, nightclubs, and friends. It's also the home of my muscular travel companion, which is a bonus. The view from the balcony leaves everything to be desired; it's nothing but rooftops and concrete buildings. Literally. And even if I left the apartment at this hour, there would be no where to go. One does not wander through parks at dawn in big cities, not that there are any parks close by. One can wander in suburbia. I wish it wasn’t like this. I love city-living.

I miss dawn and I miss colours. I miss walking on the grass. I miss seeing grass. This isn’t just city. This is winter. God, I hate winter. Even as I write this at 6:32, I can’t see any light through the blinds.

So clearly I like my time alone at night for other reasons. Staying up this late in the winter is truly not for the weak. There’s no dawn or birds, or castles or water. There are no Mai Tais or the security of simply being a high school student on summer vacation in her parents’ house. Life is hard. There is unemployment and concrete and darkness. There is no sign of thaw.

Even so, life is good – maybe I’ll go get a Mai Tai one of these days – and it’ll be better in the spring.

ableism*

Discrimination, I imagine, looks different to everyone depending on where they’re coming from. It’s relative: the discrimination happening to me always looks worse than the discrimination happening to you.

The government of Canada recognizes me as a visible minority, which is kind of funny. I look “white”**. I am white (half). I hesitate to say I act white, because I don’t think there’s such a way to act (and please see the footnote). But I was born and grew up in Canada. My attitudes and way of looking at the world were pretty much standard in comparison with my classmates. That’s how white I act. But the government says that because my father is ethnically Indian (like, from India … even though he’s never been there) his children will be acknowledged to be “visible minorities” as well. Sure. Fine. But I can still pass as white.***

So I’ve never encountered any racism directed at me before. I’ve encountered some racism directed at Indians or “mixed” people before, but upon revealing my ethnicity, the offender in question has always backed off, looking shocked at they weren’t talking to, you know, one of them. Most recently I was on the receiving end of a lovely comment what went something like, “&%$#ing brown people – they’re always so ____” until I coughed and pointed out that I’m half Indian to get him to shut up, at which point the he corrected himself and said he was mostly talking about “&%$#ing Pakis” anyway. Incidentally, that was not less offensive. I don’t think. Like I said, I encounter almost no racism directed at me.

I’m not going to count the racism directed at white people I’ve encountered because white is the majority here, and I don’t think that racism does as much damage as the other kind, though I could be wrong. It still separates us.

The most bit of discrimination I get directed at me either directly or indirectly is sexism. And yes, to me it feels like it must be the worse kind of discrimination out there. Maybe it is. But I’m probably in no position to make that call if that’s the only one I experience.

Last summer, however, I was suddenly privy to another form of discrimination: Ableism, which Wikipedia describes as a form of discrimination or social prejudice against people with disabilities.

You see, I broke my foot. It was stupid – I misjudged where the stair banister was and kicked it quite hard in my attempt to step past it. The lighting was okay, I was completely sober. It was a stupid, stupid accident. I tell you this because no one bought my story about saving orphans from a fire…