Here's a secret. I just desperately want to share mutual love and intimacy, not necessarily sex, just... intimacy.

A few months ago, I blogged about a dream I had in which I was engaged to be married to a girl named Clare. Clare was the girl's nickname; her actual name was sexually ambiguous.

As it turns out, I met a girl about a month after that dream. Her real name is Claire, and the nickname is sexually ambiguous. She's really cool, and I really like her, but she's in a relationship already. And I'm very happy for her. :)

Funny the way these things happen, though, don't you think?

If you were my keys, where would you hide?

I de-activated my Tumblr blog during exam season and now I've reverted to this blog, which is rather nice because on this blog, I don't re-blog things. I actually write things.

Today, for example, I'm having one of those days where I've dressed up...
and now I don't feel like getting out of my pretty (on sale) dress because it makes me feel pretty!

But I guess I'll change into sweats and a tank and then I can feel casual/comfy/sexy. Maybe.

I am enough. I am enough. I am enough. I am enough. I am enough.

I was stupid stupid stupid and went on the suicide tag on tumblr. I don't know why. I think I thought I could do something good by going through the tags and sending the posters encouraging messages. I don't know if I made a difference. I hope I did.

...but now I feel absoluely shitty, and I haven't felt like this since, what, last year?

I want my love back, my adoration for the world. I had it yesterday. How did it slip away so quickly?

How did I let it slip away?

Good God. I have just realized that one of the girls I met here at University is very similar to the girl in my wedding dream. Really, really similar. I think. I'm not sure. Oh.

I had a dream last night where I was engaged to be married on Sept 15th. My fiancee (yes, the double e)'s name was Clare (it was actually something more difficult than that, and also more ambiguous in that it didn't actually give away a sex... Clare was her nickname). I don't know her in real life. She was so sweet and smart and wonderful. Just thinking about her makes me happy.

The thing is, though... I don't think I'm gay? Maybe I am? I don't know.

Sort of sad that the biggest problem I was having in my dream was thinking about how I would tell my father that I'm in love with a girl. I remember being really scared about this. Really nervous. I get the feeling he'd be really upset with me, that I'd disappoint him for being gay in my dream. Or in real life.

I don't know.

I want a Clare to cuddle with. I feel really lonely and scared for my piano exam. I want my Clare to hug and kiss and feel good with.

Cello Exam

I passed my cello exam with an 80%. I had walked out of the exam room fairly certain that I had failed (and fairly certain that on the odd chance that I didn't fail, I would have passed with, at the very most, a 72%), but with a smile on my face because I really could not have cared less. I had such a blast during my exam playing my repertoire (even though I sucked big time on my technique, my etude, my sight reading, and my orchestral excerpts) selections with J, the awesome, awesome pianist who accompanied me!

I'm so ridiculously happy about my result. Not because I really cared about the percentage (if I had cared, I'd have been upset when I walked out of that exam room, rather than feeling like I had just had the most fun I had had in a while!), but because it meant that I could tell my cello teacher that I did well -- even though he said to me right after my exam, right before he left to go to the airport where he was leaving for his holiday, that he was proud of me, regardless of the number.

I think I am hoping that he might say it again, but even if he doesn't, I think I'm just hoping to make him feel it, because I'm so proud to be his student.

My cello exam is tomorrow

and I don't feel ready. At all. I can't yet play all my technical requirements up to speed. Ahhh!

In other news, I made myself a tumblr. I think I might keep that account separate from this one. I think I'll make that one more about my visually artistic endeavors, and this one can be more about my personal life. Maybe it'll turn into an online diary for me to vent my frustrations or something. If you will.

Cute photos

Just befriended a teacher of mine on Facebook and had the absolute pleasure of glancing through some of his photos. Him and his partner (whom I know and adore) are the cutest, most fantastically adorable couple I have ever, ever seen. I feel a little like I've been smothered in joy just looking at photos of them together. Love!

Father's Day

It's Father's Day and my dad's flight to leave home (as he usually does) has been booked and my folks are downstairs in the kitchen screaming at each other.

Almost there

My school exams are over, and I'm set to graduate in under six days. Has it settled in yet? I'm not sure. I haven't done everything on my high school bucket list, but maybe it is okay. Maybe it is alright because the purpose of a bucket list isn't to make the individual feel obligated to do everything on the list, let a list of words that she created, let that list of words run her life. No. The bucket list just keeps you thinking, keeps you smiling, keeps you remembering how much you have done and how much you can still do, so it's fine. There isn't a worry, there isn't a pressing sort of speaking saying you-haven't-got-it-all-done. There's no such thing as failure.

Almost done!

Four more days left of high school. We're in the final stretch!

Visiting my (?) University

I went to visit (again) the university that I'm 99% positive I'm going to go to next year. I'm really excited, and a little nervous. I met some really cool kids today though; they're super funny, very welcoming, and very kind.

Objectivity

Why is it that sometimes I think I can objectively support a point using a personal example, when in all actuality, I can't separate emotions from rationality enough to argue my point?

How long does it take after someone dies before you can talk about it out loud again? (I think I've moved on alright, I really do. I just can't seem to actually say it out loud, straight forward, without skirting around it and saying something like "the time I sang that S McL piece" instead of "when T died." Which is silly, because really, I'm totally fine, and I've come to terms with T, and T's death, and myself. So, why is it that I can't use anything I've learned from that experience as objective fact? I am so frustrated with myself!)

In any case, I cried at school today at a meeting that supposed to be not about me at all, but I accidentally made it about me when I tried using this thing about T as an example supporting my argument... but I never got to deliver the argument because I wimped out because I started crying and got all embarrassed.

This sucks.

But on a brighter note, the meeting went well, as a whole! Next time I will remember to leave all personal examples out of the conversation. Clearly, they are not so helpful at this point in time!

per·func·to·ry

per·func·to·ry

[per-fuhngk-tuh-ree] 

adjective

1. performed merely as a routine duty; hasty and superficial: perfunctory courtesy.
2. lacking interest, care, or enthusiasm; indifferent or apathetic: In his lectures he reveals himself to be merely a perfunctory speaker.

I hope that everything I do in life will be so much more than simply perfunctory. 

Johnlock!

I just had the most amazing Johnlock Omegle roleplay in which Sherlock had just gotten stabbed by one of Moriarty's hitmen post-Reinbach (specifically three years) and texted John anonymously for medical advice, but John deduced that it was Sherlock and rushed over to Lauriston Gardens, where Sherlock was sitting barely conscious in a pool of his own blood, and then they went into an ambulance sent by Mycroft to a private hospital for injured spies, and Sherlock got taken into the ER just after almost confessing his love for John, and meanwhile John was tearing himself apart inside (with Mycroft watching) because of conflicting emotions mostly because he was married to this girl named Rachel whom he only married in a futile and unsuccessful attempt to forget Sherlock and he wasn't sure how to tell Sherlock about her once Sherlock woke up, but when Sherlock woke up, he was well enough to notice that there was a ring around John's finger, and Sherlock was very sad because John had gotten married, but also because Sherlock's re-appearance not only meant that John was now in danger (because everyone in Moriarty's web had been taken down except for Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's lover), but it also meant that Sherlock would have shattered John's marriage, so Sherlock tells John to go home, but John refuses, and tells Sherlock that he can either stay by Sherlock's side in the hospital recovery room quietly, or he'll stay by Sherlock's side after calling Rachel and attempting to salvage the remains of their breaking relationship (breaking because John spends more time thinking about a 'dead' man than thinking about anyone else), and Sherlock is sad, but he tells John that it's really John's choice. 

John leaves the room to make a phone call, and Sherlock assumes that John is going to leave him for Rachel, but when John re-enters the recovery room, his gold ring is no longer on his finger. As it turns out, Rachel broke off the marriage, although John tells Sherlock that he would've broken it off, but she got to it first. Sherlock asks about the two of them, and John describes the desperation he experienced when Sherlock 'died,' and how he married Rachel only because it seemed like he could pretend that he was a different John Watson with her, a John Watson who never knew a Sherlock Holmes, but then things started to fall apart when they married and he was obligated to act for more than hours at a time. Things started to fall apart on their honeymoon, when in the throes of passion, John accidentally slipped the name of someone other than his new wife. Rachel eventually became convinced that John was increasingly mentally unstable, and also possibly cheating on her, leading them to have frequent arguments, etc. Sherlock laughed, upon hearing this story, a bark of a laugh that hurt his injured body. He admitted to John that the men he slept with over the three years didn't appreciate being called 'John' in bed either. Eventually they made a semi-confession of love, all without saying the words 'I love you,' making them relatively not OOC in the typical Sherlokian fashion. 

I am too excited. I'm pretty sure there are countless tense errors in this blog post, but I don't care! I only wish that I saved a log of the conversation to read again and again in my own time! (If I ever get more spare time. Serves me right, I suppose, for indulging in the Sherlock fandom.)

Arguments

My folks are arguing again, and it's Mother's Day. They were so mad on Friday right before prom, and I suppose I was too much of a wimp so I just tried to forget about it and enjoy myself during the dinner, dance, and party. I hope it doesn't get that bad again.

What do I do?

Prom photos

Just saw a photo of my friends and I at prom. My date had just snuck his arm really lightly around my waist, and I'm positively beaming.

Also, our heels have punctured holes into the yard and all the girls are sinking.

Prom

We had our prom last night. I heard from some of the other students that they thought it was rather disappointing... but I had lots of fun. How couldn't you enjoy a nice dinner and evening with your closet friends from school, and a boy who you like but you haven't really seen in a while? Plus, there's the dancing, and the saying hello to your teachers, and it's all good fun.

My friends and I had our own little 'after party.' It was a girls-only slumber party, so we had to send our dates off on their merry way. Super fun! Good munchies, good drinks (in moderation, of course), good friends. Loved it.

Parents and Children

Sometimes, I think they are just afraid that I'll become just like them.

Other times, it seems more like they are afraid that I won't be like them, at all.

Normality

Sometimes I don't understand.

How can someone say such horrible things to someone else and not feel any sort of need to apologize? How can he do that? How can he just walk around like it is normal? Can't he see how hurt she is?

And when I hear about it, why is it that it feels practically normal, too?

I feel so guilty. I don't know what to do.

Sherlock meets Tangled

I watched this amazing video today. It is too good not to share. 

Sherlock is stuck in 221b. He's bored. Of course. 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=k9CbS6gaO9g&feature=related

The video uses footage from the BBC Sherlock Series and music from Tangled (specifically "When Will My Life Begin.")

I love him 'painting' the walls. I love him reading the books. I love him taking a climb.

I think I'm becoming obsessed with Benedict Cumberbatch's character.

However, I don't think Sherlock would ever be that interested in anything vaguely related to the solar system.

Antagonizing others

On that day that I almost told my teacher a secret that wasn't mine to tell, I think I antagonized someone whom I should love and probably do love very much. I feel very guilty about it now, but I don't want to bring it up with the teacher and blabber about how great this person is because then I might come close to telling the secret again, which would antagonize him even further. I wonder if I'd have acted differently if I were braver.

Being myself

I am really enjoying trolling on Omegle. All I have to do is be myself and add a pinch more sass. It is surprisingly quite fun.

Conflicts between Colleges

As stated in this wonderful article from The New Yorker, there seems to be two major types of college education.

The first is the small, liberal-arts college in which students learn for the sake of learning. They develop a broad foundation in a variety of mostly humanities-based subjects, and they graduate with changed minds and changed viewpoints about the world around them and themselves.

The second is the more utilitarian college degree. I include the word 'degree' in this second description and not in the first because I want to emphasize that the learning that goes on in this second college is learning towards a product: a degree, a job, and success. Of course, I don't mean to say that the learning in this second college is less valuable or less sincere than the learning of the first college. I only mean to say that the second college is more practical, more rational.

I don't know which one is more worthwhile.

For the actual article, please follow the link below!
http://www.newyorker.com/reporting/2012/04/30/120430fa_fact_auletta

Another strange dream

Since I shared one of my strange dreams, I thought I would share another one, here.

Last Wednesday night, I had an odd nightmare. I believe I was in fifth grade, so that would mean I was probably about nine or ten years old. I was at some sort of camp, but it wasn't summer, and it wasn't winter, either. It reminded me of a place where we took a grade five trip, once. It was a sort of leadership camp. I remember it being a strange combination of that leadership camp and this other camp that we go to for our music retreats in high school and the basement of the music department building at Dalhousie University. A bunch of stuff happened that I can't really remember, but I know that the dream ended with me in a wooden cabin of sorts. It wasn't the basement of the Dalhousie music building. I was playing an upright black piano. Probably a Petrof, like the one we have at school where I have my lessons. And then I stopped playing. There was an oil lamp attached to the wall. I don't remember if my friends lit it up, or if I did, but for some reason or another I somehow managed to set the building on fire, and I couldn't do anything to stop it. I tried. I swear, I tried, but the fire spread so quickly. I remember trying to get out, but struggling. My friends were in there too, I think. I'm not sure if they got out alright.

I think I woke up before I managed to get out. I think I remember seeing a gravely road ahead of me, with fire along the curbs, but I don't think I ever managed to make it out of the cabin into the road. I'm not sure.

What a strange dream. I didn't like it. I woke up feeling an awful lot like the opposite of a hero.

Almost telling

Yesterday, I came ridiculously close to telling a teacher a secret that I've never told to anyone (other than  anonymously to KHP, but I don't think that really counts). I was very upset about something that is probably stupid. She was very kind, as she always is. The words were in my head. They were on my lips. The opportunity to speak was right there. I'm pretty sure I opened my mouth to say them, but instead I said something like "I suppose so" or "I guess you're right" or some other noncommittal response like "Hmm."

That was terrifying. I have to be more careful.
It's not really my secret to tell, anyways.

Should a post-secondary decision be

rational or emotional?

I have an important decision to make

and I don't know how to decide because I like all my options but none of them scream 'perfect.'

Strange dreams

I had a very strange nightmare that melded the transportation system used in Gringotts Wizarding Bank from J.K. Rowling's Harry Potter series, the heartless shadow monsters from the Kingdom Hearts action role-playing game, a tree house from a Pokemon game (probably Ruby), various locations in real life, fish skeletons, a race, and general unhappiness. Considering I haven't thought about Harry Potter, Kingdom Hearts, or Pokemon in a very long time, I awoke from the dream very confused. Also, I think I punched something in my dream with my left hand (I'm actually right-handed in real life, but in my dream I was left-handed), and when I woke up my knuckles on my left hand were red. How funny!

Vintage Fashion

Etsy, Pinterest, fashion blogs, and Google Image searches for vintage fashion are becoming my unhealthy obsessions (along with the BBC Series Sherlock and its amazing fandom... I can't wait until I finally get the time to actually watch more than three episodes of the series!). I'm particularly enjoying the late 1940's fashion following the burst of Dior, although snippets from most other decades are quite lovely too...

I need to stop procrastinating from my school work.

one of my new favourite poems

l(a

le
af
fa
ll

s)
one
l

iness 

 - e. e. cummings

Some Debussy and Bach

I had the privilege of playing for the inauguration of the newly-donated piano in a church in downtown Toronto. Despite the weather being ridiculously gloomy (it was not really raining, but it was very much not dry), the day was extraordinarily beautiful; although I've never considered myself especially religious, the service was lovely and the people were very kind. What a wonderful day!

I played some Bach and Debussy. The pieces can be listened to in the YouTube links below. 

Here is Debussy's Arabesque  no. 1 from Deux Arabesques, as played by the master Walter Gieseking.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vmDfLZSWlKI

And here is a beautiful performance of J.S. Bach's Prelude and Fugue in E-major from Book One of the WTC by Dominique Kim at the 10th International Russian Music Piano Competition. 
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oSOdUHiiXiU

Enjoy!

On Tumblr and Blogs

A few days ago, I heard someone refer to a Tumblr as a blog. I hadn't thought of Tumblrs as blogs; they seemed to me to be to rather different entities. The pace of a Tumblr is quite different from that of a blog (as in, blogs like this one, on Blogger, Wordpress, etc.), isn't it? Tumblr is also primarily image based, while blogs are often more word based (although many blogs, particularly visual art blogs like photography blogs, portfolio blogs, or fashion blogs contain a high number of images). Much of the basis for Tumblr is 're-Tumbling' other posts; while re-blogging someone else's blog posts is not uncommon, I don't know many blogs whose sheer purpose is re-blogging. Most blog writers are blog writers because they like to write.

Don't get me wrong--I love Tumblr. I think Tumblr is a fantastic commercial success, and it is very interesting and quite fun. I just think that Tumblr (more of a microblogging service) serve a different purpose than blogs, so I find it interesting that the word blog is becoming synonymous to a Tumblr account.

The development of language is so fascinating!

Social anxiety like no other

We're studying T.S. Eliot in English class and have recently been looking at Eliot's poem titled "The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock." There are a few lines in the poem speak so well to me; 'the evening is spread out against the sky like a patient etherized upon a table' is so still, so heavy. The entire stanza about the yellow fog-cat is fantastic (and reminds me a lot of this poem by Carl Sandburg.) The similarities to "Seasons of Love" from Rent excites me as well. Love it!

Here is the poem. If you don't feel bad for poor socially anxious J. Alfred Prufrock, you might want to consider going on a nice search for your heart.

The Love-Song of J. Alfred Prufrock

 

Let us go then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a patient etherized upon a table;
Let us go, through certain half-deserted streets,
The muttering retreats
Of restless nights in one-night cheap hotels
And sawdust restaurants with oyster-shells:
Streets that follow like a tedious argument
Of insidious intent
To lead you to an overwhelming question. . .                               10
Oh, do not ask, "What is it?"
Let us go and make our visit.

  In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

  The yellow fog that rubs its back upon the window-panes
The yellow smoke that rubs its muzzle on the window-panes
Licked its tongue into the corners of the evening
Lingered upon the pools that stand in drains,
Let fall upon its back the soot that falls from chimneys,
Slipped by the terrace, made a sudden leap,                               20
And seeing that it was a soft October night
Curled once about the house, and fell asleep.

  And indeed there will be time
For the yellow smoke that slides along the street,
Rubbing its back upon the window-panes;
There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;                                30
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions
And for a hundred visions and revisions
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

  In the room the women come and go
Talking of Michelangelo.

  And indeed there will be time
To wonder, "Do I dare?" and, "Do I dare?"
Time to turn back and descend the stair,
With a bald spot in the middle of my hair—                               40
[They will say: "How his hair is growing thin!"]
My morning coat, my collar mounting firmly to the chin,
My necktie rich and modest, but asserted by a simple pin—
[They will say: "But how his arms and legs are thin!"]
Do I dare
Disturb the universe?
In a minute there is time
For decisions and revisions which a minute will reverse.

  For I have known them all already, known them all;
Have known the evenings, mornings, afternoons,                       50
I have measured out my life with coffee spoons;
I know the voices dying with a dying fall
Beneath the music from a farther room.
  So how should I presume?

  And I have known the eyes already, known them all—
The eyes that fix you in a formulated phrase,
And when I am formulated, sprawling on a pin,
When I am pinned and wriggling on the wall,
Then how should I begin
To spit out all the butt-ends of my days and ways?                    60
  And how should I presume?

  And I have known the arms already, known them all—
Arms that are braceleted and white and bare
[But in the lamplight, downed with light brown hair!]
Is it perfume from a dress
That makes me so digress?
Arms that lie along a table, or wrap about a shawl.
  And should I then presume?
  And how should I begin?
        .     .     .     .     .

Shall I say, I have gone at dusk through narrow streets              70
And watched the smoke that rises from the pipes
Of lonely men in shirt-sleeves, leaning out of windows? . . .

I should have been a pair of ragged claws
Scuttling across the floors of silent seas.
        .     .     .     .     .

And the afternoon, the evening, sleeps so peacefully!
Smoothed by long fingers,
Asleep . . . tired . . . or it malingers,
Stretched on the floor, here beside you and me.
Should I, after tea and cakes and ices,
Have the strength to force the moment to its crisis?                  80
But though I have wept and fasted, wept and prayed,
Though I have seen my head (grown slightly bald) brought in upon a platter,
I am no prophet–and here's no great matter;
I have seen the moment of my greatness flicker,
And I have seen the eternal Footman hold my coat, and snicker,
And in short, I was afraid.

  And would it have been worth it, after all,
After the cups, the marmalade, the tea,
Among the porcelain, among some talk of you and me,
Would it have been worth while,                                             90
To have bitten off the matter with a smile,
To have squeezed the universe into a ball
To roll it toward some overwhelming question,
To say: "I am Lazarus, come from the dead,
Come back to tell you all, I shall tell you all"
If one, settling a pillow by her head,
  Should say, "That is not what I meant at all.
  That is not it, at all."

  And would it have been worth it, after all,
Would it have been worth while,                                           100
After the sunsets and the dooryards and the sprinkled streets,
After the novels, after the teacups, after the skirts that trail along the floor—
And this, and so much more?—
It is impossible to say just what I mean!
But as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen:
Would it have been worth while
If one, settling a pillow or throwing off a shawl,
And turning toward the window, should say:
  "That is not it at all,
  That is not what I meant, at all."                                          110
        .     .     .     .     .

No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;
Am an attendant lord, one that will do
To swell a progress, start a scene or two
Advise the prince; no doubt, an easy tool,
Deferential, glad to be of use,
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;
At times, indeed, almost ridiculous—
Almost, at times, the Fool.

  I grow old . . . I grow old . . .                                              120
I shall wear the bottoms of my trousers rolled.

  Shall I part my hair behind? Do I dare to eat a peach?
I shall wear white flannel trousers, and walk upon the beach.
I have heard the mermaids singing, each to each.

  I do not think they will sing to me.

  I have seen them riding seaward on the waves
Combing the white hair of the waves blown back
When the wind blows the water white and black.

  We have lingered in the chambers of the sea
By sea-girls wreathed with seaweed red and brown               130
Till human voices wake us, and we drown.


                                                              [1915]

The Ballad of King Leir and His Three Daughters

Starting to study for exams has reminded me how much I love the course material and specifically, Shakespeare's King Lear. While I bask in Will's beautiful eloquence (Who am I kidding? Considering I am not an actress, it is somewhat absurd how many lines I am capable of reciting verbatim.), I just thought I'd share a ballad based on King Lear, or Leir, if you go by one of the pre-Shakespeare spellings of his name.

Here are the lyrics below.

A Lamentable Song of the Death of King Leir and his Three Daughters

TO THE TUNE OF 'WHEN FLYING FAME'

King Leir once ruled in this land
With princely power and peace;
And had all things with hearts content,
That might his joys increase.
Amongst those things that nature gave,
Three daughters fair had he,
So princely seeming beautiful,
As fairer could not be.

So on a time it pleas'd the king
A question thus to move,
Which of his daughters to his grace
Could shew the dearest love:
For to my age you bring content,
Quoth he, then let me hear,
Which of you three in plighted troth
The kindest will appear.

To whom the eldest thus began;
Dear father, mind, quoth she,
Before your face, to do you good,
My blood shall render'd be:
And for your sake my bleeding heart
Shall here be cut in twain,
Ere that I see your reverend age
The smallest grief sustain.

And so will I, the second said;
Dear father, for your sake,
The worst of all extremities
I'll gently undertake:
And serve your highness night and day
With diligence and love;
That sweet content and quietness
Discomforts may remove.

In doing so, you glad my soul,
The aged king reply'd;
But what sayst thou, my youngest girl,
How is thy love ally'd?
My love (quoth young Cordelia then)
Which to your grace I owe,
Shall be the duty of a child,
And that is all I'll show.

And wilt thou shew no more, quoth he,
Than doth thy duty bind?
I well perceive thy love is small,
When as no more I find.
Henceforth I banish thee my court,
Thou art no child of mine;
Nor any part of this my realm
By favour shall be thine.

Thy elder sisters loves are more
Then well I can demand,
To whom I equally bestow
My kingdome and my land,
My pompal state and all my goods,
That lovingly I may
With those thy sisters be maintain'd
Until my dying day.

Thus flattering speeches won renown,
By these two sisters here;
The third had causeless banishment,
Yet was her love more dear:
For poor Cordelia patiently
Went wandring up and down,
Unhelp'd, unpity'd, gentle maid,
Through many an English town:

Untill at last in famous France
She gentler fortunes found;
Though poor and bare, yet she was deem'd
The fairest on the ground:
Where when the king her virtues heard,
And this fair lady seen,
With full consent of all his court
He made his wife and queen.

Her father king Leir this while
With his two daughters staid:
Forgetful of their promis'd loves,
Full soon the same decay'd;
And living in queen Ragan's court,
The eldest of the twain,
She took from him his chiefest means,
And most of all his train.

For whereas twenty men were wont
To wait with bended knee:
She gave allowance but to ten,
And after scarce to three;
Nay, one she thought too much for him;
So took she all away,
In hope that in her court, good king,
He would no longer stay.

Am I rewarded thus, quoth he,
In giving all I have
Unto my children, and to beg
For what I lately gave?
I'll go unto my Gonorell:
My second child, I know,
Will be more kind and pitiful,
And will relieve my woe.

Full fast he hies then to her court;
Where when she heard his moan
Return'd him answer, That she griev'd
That all his means were gone:
But no way could relieve his wants;
Yet if that he would stay
Within her kitchen, he should have
What scullions gave away.

When he had heard, with bitter tears,
He made his answer then;
In what I did let me be made
Example to all men.
I will return again, quoth he,
Unto my Ragan's court;
She will not use me thus, I hope,
But in a kinder sort.

Where when he came, she gave command
To drive him thence away:
When he was well within her court
(She said) he would not stay.
Then back again to Gonorell
The woeful king did hie,
That in her kitchen he might have
What scullion boy set by.

But there of that he was deny'd,
Which she had promis'd late:
For once refusing, he should not
Come after to her gate.
Thus twixt his daughters, for relief
He wandred up and down;
Being glad to feed on beggars food,
That lately wore a crown.

And calling to remembrance then
His youngest daughters words,
That said the duty of a child
Was all that love affords:
But doubting to repair to her,
Whom he had banish'd so,
Grew frantick mad; for in his mind
He bore the wounds of woe:

Which made him rend his milk-white locks,
And tresses from his head,
And all with blood bestain his cheeks,
With age and honour spread.
To hills and woods and watry founts
He made his hourly moan,
Till hills and woods and sensless things,
Did seem to sigh and groan.

Even thus possest with discontents,
He passed o're to France,
In hopes from fair Cordelia there,
To find some gentler chance;
Most virtuous dame! which when she heard,
Of this her father's grief,
As duty bound, she quickly sent
Him comfort and relief:
And by a train of noble peers,
In brave and gallant sort,
She gave in charge he should be brought
To Aganippus' court;
Whose royal king, with noble mind
So freely gave consent,
To muster up his knights at arms,
To fame and courage bent.

And so to England came with speed,
To repossesse king Leir
And drive his daughters from their thrones
By his Cordelia dear.
Where she, true-hearted noble queen,
Was in the battel slain;
Yet he, good king, in his old days,
Possest his crown again.

But when he heard Cordelia's death,
Who died indeed for love
Of her dear father, in whose cause
She did this battle move;
He swooning fell upon her breast,
From whence he never parted:
But on her bosom left his life,
That was so truly hearted.

The lords and nobles when they saw
The end of these events,
The other sisters unto death
They doomed by consents;
And being dead, their crowns they left
Unto the next of kin:
Thus have you seen the fall of pride,
And disobedient sin.

Sleepovers

My best friend M invited me over to her house for seder (the second night of passover) with her extended family. It's always lovely getting together with M, and it was, of course, a pleasure meeting her family. I especially enjoyed our sleepover afterwards... It is FUN to have slumber parties! I wonder whether people have slumber parties after graduating from high school. Although maybe living in residence at university is just a giant mesh between an actual lifestyle and a giant slumber party. Or perhaps it depends on the residence and the person. I hope we'll have just as good (or better!) times when high school is over!

Narcissus and Echo

Shall the water not remember     Ember
my hand’s slow gesture, tracing above   of
its mirror my half-imaginary      airy
portrait? My only belonging      longing;
is my beauty, which I take       ache
away and then return, as love       of
teasing playfully the one being     unbeing.
whose gratitude I treasure        Is your
moves me. I live apart         heart
from myself, yet cannot         not
live apart. In the water’s tone,      stone?
that brilliant silence, a flower      Hour,
whispers my name with such slight      light:
moment, it seems filament of air,       fare 
the world becomes cloudswell.     well.

- Fred Chappell (b. 1936)

Fred Chappell's beautiful poem, Narcissus and Echo, is a combination of two poems into a third. Based on the Greek mythology surrounding Narcissus, a vain young man who falls in love with his reflection, and the beautiful nymph Echo, who lives under the curse of only being able to repeat the words of others.

I've always found the story a striking one. There is something very sad about not being able to express what you as an individual think. Chappell's Echo, however, is capable of self-expression; even though she does only repeat the sounds that leave Narcissus' mouth, she forms her own ideas, her own expressions. She speaks.

If you want to read more about the Greek myth behind Chappell's poem, there is a brief summary at this website: http://thanasis.com/echo.htm

Agony in the Woods

In one of our music courses at school, we are entering a musical theatre unit. Among a number of musicals, we're studying Stephen Sondheim's Into the Woods. Just for a bit of a smile for the day (I certainly feel like I need one - what a long Tuesday!), I thought I would post Sondheim's "Agony." "Agony" is a hilarious duet between two Prince Charmings. Cinderella's Prince is on the search for his beautiful princess-to-be who has, since midnight, run away from his ball. Rapunzel's Prince is lamenting the futility of his love for the girl trapped in the tower with no doors.

It is absurd and hilarious. I love it!

Listen to it on YouTube at http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LFgMowOwek0

The lyrics are below:
[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Did I abuse her
Or show her disdain?
Why does she run from me?
If I should lose her,
How shall I regain
The heart she has won from me?

Agony!
Beyond power of speech,
When the one thing you want
Is the only thing out of your reach.

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
High in her tower,
She sits by the hour,
Maintaining her hair.
Blithe and becoming and frequently humming
A lighthearted air:
Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-

Agony!
Far more painful than yours,
When you know she would go with you
If there only were doors.

[BOTH]
Agony!
Oh, the torture they teach!

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
What's as intriguing-

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Or half so fatiguing-

[BOTH]
As what's out of reach?

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Am I not sensitive,
Clever,
Well-mannered,
Considerate,
Passionate,
Charming,
As kind as I'm handsome
And heir to a throne?

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
You are everything maidens could wish for!

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Then why no-?

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
Do I know?

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
The girl must be mad!

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
You know nothing of madness
Till you're climbing her hair
And you see her up there
AS you're nearing her,
All the while hearing her:
Ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-ah-

[BOTH]
Agony!

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Misery!

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
Woe!

[BOTH]
Though it's different for each.

[CINDERELLA'S PRINCE]
Always ten steps behind-

[RAPUNZEL'S PRINCE]
Always ten feet below-

[BOTH]
And she's just out of reach.
Agony
That can cut like a knife!

I must have her to wife.

Wordsworth's Daffodils

My close friend H came back from her vacation from the March Break with two lovely souvenirs for me and our friend M. They are adorable miniature turtle carvings. Being English geeks to a ridiculous degree and having just come from an English class on poetry through the ages, M and I decided that we would name our turtles after two great poets: Edgar Allen Poe (1809-1849) and William Wordsworth (1770-1850). Thus, Edgar and Wordsworth are now quite happily sitting in our rooms.

In honour of our new friends, I thought I'd post a poem by Wordsworth. Often considered Wordsworth's most famous poem, "I wandered lonely as a cloud" (also known as "Daffodils" or "The Daffodils") was first written in 1804.

I wandered lonely as a cloud
That floats on high o'er vales and hills,
When all at once I saw a crowd,
A host, of golden daffodils,
Beside the lake, beneath the trees
Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.

Continuous as the stars that shine
And twinkle on the Milky Way,
They stretched in never-ending line
Along the margin of a bay:
Ten thousand saw I at a glance
Tossing their heads in sprightly dance.

The waves beside them danced, but they
Out-did the sparkling waves in glee: -
A poet could not but be gay
In such a jocund company:
I gazed -and gazed -but little thought
What wealth the show to me had brought.

For oft, when on my couch I lie
In vacant or in pensive mood,
They flash upon that inward eye
Which is the bliss of solitude;
And then my heart with pleasure fills
And dances with the daffodils.

Interestingly enough, Wordsworth's sister, wrote about walking with her brother among the daffodils just a few years prior to Wordsworth's poem. Here are her words below.

When we were in the woods beyond Gowbarrow Park, we saw a few daffodils close to the water side. We fancied that the lake had floated the seed ashore and that the little colony had so sprung up. But as we went along there were more and more and at last under the boughs of the trees, we saw that there was a long belt of them along the shore, about the breadth of a country turnpike road.

I never saw daffodils so beautiful they grew among the mossy stones about and about them, some rested their heads upon these stones as on a pillow for weariness and the rest tossed and reeled and danced and seemed as if they verily laughed with the wind that blew upon them over the lake, they looked so gay ever dancing ever changing.

This wind blew directly over the lake to them. There was here and there a little knot and a few stragglers a few yards higher up but they were so few as not to disturb the simplicity and unity and life of that one busy highway. We rested again and again. The Bays were stormy, and we heard the waves at different distances and in the middle of the water like the sea.

— Dorothy Wordsworth, The Grasmere Journal , Thursday, 15 April 1802

a person who thinks all the time

a person who thinks all the time has nothing to think about
except thoughts
so,
he loses touch with reality
and lives in a world of illusions.

-Alan Watts (1915-1973)

If you don't have something to live for, how will you have someone to play for?

Trying too hard?

When you're so tired and so sleepy, but it is 3:15am in the morning and you've been lying in bed for the past five hours, you start to wonder if sleep is one of those things where the harder you try, the harder it is to succeed.

And then your alarm clock rings at 5:30am and you heave yourself out of bed and you feel alright for most of the day until just after dinner when you get that drowsy feeling you sometimes get after you eat a good meal but this time the drowsiness just doesn't go away.

And then you decide you really do have to sleep, no matter what else you needed to do tonight, now that it's almost 10:30pm and you look at your bed and you're nervous all of a sudden because you're worried that tonight might be another night like last night where you lie in bed and lie in bed and try and try to sleep but never succeed and then by the time you get up tomorrow morning you'll basically be a walking zombie of yourself and that's not the face you want to show to your friends and teachers at school or to the professors and admissions officers at the university reception scheduled for tomorrow evening.

So your fingers are crossed while you brush your teeth and you hum yourself a lullaby and try to sleep.

An artist at work

I had the amazing opportunity today to watch abstract expressionist painter Cesan D'Ornellas Levine as she created a vibrant painting in front of her eyes at the Petroff Gallery in Toronto. My friend H and I sat and watched her for a bit as she transformed a wooden canvas into a part of her Sun Series Paintings. It was super cool!

While I know very little about visual art and art history (and I hope to learn more soon), I really enjoyed watching Cesan D'Ornellas Levine paint. I would never have thought of some of her techniques. She used white a lot; she would paint with colour, and then 'take off' portions of the dried coloured paint with white paint. She used water; spraying the paint with water seemed to create a really interesting effect. She used a wood-carving knife to etch patterns into her painting since she was painting on wood, rather than canvas. She used paper towel to make a soft, unique texture.

It really is amazing how many opportunities are available to people living in and around the Toronto area. Cesan D'Ornellas Levine's exhibition today was free of charge, and I am sure there are many such events around Toronto that go by without Torontonians taking full advantage. Concerts, art exhibitions, historical sites -- there is so much to see and do, and so little time to do it all!

Skating with Colour

I adore figure skating. While I don't have the chance to do much figure skating myself, I still enjoy watching the artists at work.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xOyrvFE-OZo&feature=player_embedded is a beautiful and inspiring combination of visual art, dance, figure skating, and music. Regina Spektor's "Après Moi" is a lovely song, and Oksana Domnina and Maksim Marinin are amazing figure skaters and amazing artists!

The Cello Song

Some good vibes by The Books ft Jose Gonzalez from Dark Was The Night.

Lyrics are below.

Strange face, with your eyes
So pale and sincere.
Underneath you know well
You have nothing to fear.
For the dreams that came to you when so young
Told of a life
Where spring is sprung.

You would seem so frail
In the cold of the night
When the armies of emotion
Go out to fight.
But while the earth sinks to its grave
You sail to the sky
On the crest of a wave.

So forget this cruel world
Where I belong
I'll just sit and wait
And sing my song.
And if one day you should see me in the crowd
Lend a hand and lift me
To your place in the cloud.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1FwU230utKY

Traveling by transit

Living in the suburbs of Toronto, it's usually much less efficient to transit than it is to hitch a ride from a friend or family member, so I rarely find myself in a bus, streetcar, or subway. Still, whenever I end up transiting, I find that the extra few hours it takes me to travel is well worth it; somehow, I always feel much better after riding the rocket.

I wonder whether this positive feeling is the result of knowing that by choosing to transit (instead of asking a parent or sibling to give me a ride), I've lessened the car count on the streets by one. Reductions in our carbon footprint, however small and insignificant they seem, feel good. (The dangers of these 'feel good moments' and how they sometimes make us 'feel like we've done enough' are important to discuss as well, but perhaps I'll leave them for another blog post.)

I wonder whether the positive feeling comes instead from some other satisfaction -- a satisfaction rooted in traveling with people and sharing a space with these people whom you don't know but who are heading, at least in part, in the same direction before you all split into your separate, occasionally-overlapping lives.

Improvisations

It may be March Break for the kids at my school, but my friend M and I decided that we'd go to school anyways for a little jam session on the piano and cello. As someone who is primarily Classically-trained and who hasn't had much experience with improvisation, it was very exciting to do some improvisation with M. Considering that I've studied piano for so much longer than I've studied cello, I was surprised to find it much easier to improvise on cello (or as a 4-hands piano improv with me on the upper ranges of piano with M on the lower ranges). Perhaps the fact that I've had less training on cello makes me less rigid or less stiff.

Time really does fly when you're having fun. M and I were only able to stay for about 1.5 hours, but those 1.5 hours sped by quickly; it was 1:30pm before we knew it! I left our school (and headed over to Chinatown and Kensington Market for a nice long walk and a bit of getting lost with my mum) feeling so much more refreshed than I've felt in a long time.

My favourite part of today's improvisations was the absence of metre (and tonality) in most of our music. Everything just flowed from one part to the next; there was no ticking metronome inside our heads. I suppose it can be considered the equivalent of a free-writing stream of consciousness with commas and dashes but no periods.

What a beautiful day.

Fashion

In recent months and especially in the last two weeks, I've started to become very interested in clothes and fashion. I'm not positively sure why, but I think it has partly to do with the fact that I'm graduating next year and can no longer rely on throwing on my uniform every day, and partly to do with the fact that I am feeling very academically inspired by my English teacher, and she happens to be extraordinarily fashionable. My best friend also has a stunning sense of style, and I occasionally think to myself that it would be nice if I could be a stylish as her (you could analyze it and say something about wanting to be as an amazing person as her -- she has spectacular character traits -- and transferring those traits to her clothes).

The reason why I find my sudden interest (borderline obsession, considering the amount of time I've been spending on online clothing shops without actually buying anything, Pinterest, Etsy, fashion blogs, etc.) in fashion so startling is because of my strong adversity to it in previous years. I had formerly told myself that fashion should be functional (which I still think is true), and devoting so much time and energy into fashion seems to be rooted in some sort of unfortunate values of artificiality and consumerism.

It occurred more recently to me that fashion may in fact be yet another form of art.

Life of Pi

I fell in love with Yann Martel's Beatrice and Virgil about a year ago. There was something beautiful in his luscious sensory language that kept me riveted and enchanted. Where some Victorian novels are (in terms of their descriptive language) like a very, very, very dense cake, and where some modern novels are so sparse in their use of language that they are so geometric and almost bleak, Beatrice and Virgil seemed to be just the right blend of descriptive language and plot.

Yesterday, I finished reading Yann Martel's Life of Pi. What an amazing story! It is considerably different from Beatrice and Virgil, although they both actively employ animals in their stories (albeit in very different ways). I highly recommend both Beatrice and Virgil and Life of Pi!

1984

About a week ago, I read George Orwell's 1984. I did the majority of my reading on in the airport, in the plane, in the car, and in the hotel in Halifax. Living in in the GTA, I would have thought I would have spent more time enjoying the outdoors of Halifax (especially considering the spells of nice weather that we had for two of the four days spent in Halifax), but I spent most of the time indoors at Dalhousie University and the University of King's College. The time I spent outside was mostly the 20 minute walks to and from the university and the hotel. I would have gone out more often, but it always seemed to be quite late when I finally came to the hotel, and by that point, my parents were quite tired to go with me, and they did not want me wandering around an unfamiliar city on my own at night.

So, I spent my evenings reading. Orwell's 1984 is a captivating and fast-paced dystopian novel. It is a social critique. Published in 1949 and set in the then-future 1984, the novel follows protagonist Winston Smith as he quietly attempts to challenge the oligarchical dictatorship of Big Brother's Party.

The premise of the dictatorship is the Party's ability to limit all thinking. There is no critical thinking in the society of Oceania. The language, Newspeak, is so limited in its vocabulary that it lacks all the beautiful subtleties and colours of today's English, known derogatorily as Oldspeak. Newspeak users speak in a quick staccato, and the language's quickness makes it so much easier to rush over the meanings of the words. You don't dwell on the words meanings because you don't have time. The word "Minipax," for example, which refers to the Ministry of Peace (which, oddly enough, concerns itself with war), is so easy to roll off your tongue that you don't think about the word "Ministry" and its meanings of institutions and hierarchical judgement. You don't think about the word "Peace" and its corresponding ideas of contentment, values, safety, security, and its opposing associated ideas of war, violence, discontentment, etc.

The book makes me wonder about Tumblr. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy a good (few hours?!) spent on Tumblr -- there are some posts that are absolutely hilarious! I wonder whether the pace at which we scroll through Tumblr though means that we don't have time to actively think about the images and text that we see and read. Instead we just digest it, without any sort of critical thoughts. We talked about this in English class a bit. It stuck with me, and came up again while reading 1984.

There's no such thing as a setting sun.

Canadian hip hop musician Shad is the man behind Keep Shining, a beautiful video with beautiful music. As someone who listens mostly to Classical and contemporary music, smooth jazz, indie pop, alternative rock, and pieces that can only be categorized as easy-listening, I was surprised to find myself so enraptured by Shad's hip hop piece. The music and video is centred around eliminating prejudice and empowering women to speak out and speak up; having only men in the rap industry means that only half the truth is being spoken.

My favourite part of his lyrics are posted below.

Well, you can’t be everything to everyone,
so let me be anything to anyone.
The world turns, and there’s clouds sometimes,
but there’s no such thing as a setting sun.
It always keeps shining.

Listen to his work on YouTube at this link:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=V3nbTB2KHuM

A draft of the introduction to the play that I am writing

Dim lights. A clarinet plays a light melody with a pure tone.

A large wooden chest is on the stage, just off the centre and to the right. It is deep brown and is perhaps made of mahogany. It gives the appearance of being altogether mundane, antique, and oppressively heavy. A lock keeps it tightly closed.

With slow and deliberate movements, a girl enters the scene. She appears about twenty-seven, although she could be older. Still, there is something in her movements that make her seem sixteen or seventeen years old. Perhaps it is her light step.

Eventually, she notices the wooden chest. She steps towards it, but hesitates. She takes one long, visible breath, and then approaches the chest, bends down, and touches the lock.

GIRL: It's funny how we forget some things and how we remember others.

Silence. There is no one around to answer her. She jiggles the lock lightly.

GIRL: I don't remember them giving me a key.

University Applications

Ask me to write a paper on Tess of the d'Urbervilles, and I'll write one, right away. It wouldn't necessarily be a good essay, but it would have some structure, and I would know how to take a theme from Tess and develop it into a thesis, which I'd then flesh out in my body paragraph before wrapping the whole work up with some sort of thought-provoking summation.

Ask me to write a paper on myself, and I'm lost.

Unfortunately, this situation is faced by countless number of youth across Canada and the world as post-secondary application deadlines approach. We haven't practised writing 400 word 'essays' on our deepest desires, so how can we possibly be expected to write effectively, eloquently, and efficiently?

On voluntary writing and blogs

It's a curious thing to find the blog of one of your teachers. I suppose I'm just not used to reading my teachers' writing outside of the context of handouts, assignment feedback, report cards, and the occasional e-mail.

Perhaps it is even odder when you find yourself thoroughly enjoying your teacher's blog, and reading pages and pages into the blog's archive.

Regardless, blogs themselves are a curious sort of medium. They aren't quite journal entries in the sense of a diary, but they are more or less a published journal. Anyone can read them, but few do. I doubt that there are many people who read this blog, and of the people who do read this blog, I doubt that any are 'regular followers.'

Still, people blog all the time, without a huge concern for who might or might not be reading their words. It is somewhat of a consolation to be able to write and then to go back and see that what you have written exists somewhere, even if the Internet is a somewhat abstract and elusive canvas.

I wonder if there is an art to blogging. If there is such an art, I am sure I have yet to master it. There are surely lots of blogs that are poorly done; blogs with ridiculously informal language, laden with grammatical errors, rude content, etc. Many blogs are pointless -- this one is perhaps one such pointless blog. However, the pointlessness of such a blog is maybe what attracts the writer to create it. We write so often because we must write; we write assignments, we write business e-mails, we write messages to people because we find it is socially acceptable to keep in touch by talking about the weather (and often also because we do actually want to keep in touch with them, but we just don't know how to go about it, especially when they live halfway across the country or halfway across the world). With a blog, though, you write because you want to write; there is nothing 'forcing' you to write.

I wonder when this blog will fall under and fade away. When will I forget about it? When will I stop going back to it and posting the occasional song lyric, ramble, or poem?

I think I will always write for pleasure, be it in this blog or elsewhere.