Mr. and Mrs. Smith

Every girl, I would recon, at one point in her life has made a list of qualities that she desires in the perfect boyfriend (and as you grow up, it becomes 'the perfect man'). When I was younger (14 or so) I wanted someone who wasn't a sloppy kisser, would hold my hand in front of his friends and would care about the things I liked. When I was in high school, I wanted someone athletic who was nice to his family and would remember that I really liked slurpees. I'm sure by the time I'm 30, my standards will be simple enough to include "relatively attractive, doesn't smell and has a steady job". But as a girl, something that is always somewhere in the back of your mind is the last name. Not quite as important as a sense of humor, but definitely up there along with sports team allegiance and favorite band.

A girl grows up knowing that along with finding and marrying the right man someday (or woman, or whatever, etc) - she also has the option of a new last name. I remember being as young as 5, and carefully printing out the name "Brianna Wheeler" on the inside of my notebook, inspecting it to see how it looked. Since David Wheeler, the blond hair, freckled boy who sat next to me in music had already asked me to marry him, I thought it was only appropriate. I would practice my new signature with my friends in junior high, because when you're in love for the first time, you ALWAYS think that it's going to last forever (because why would you ever want to leave the captain of the soccer team?). And I don't think this is unique to me - it's a widespread girl phenomenon.

My point, however, is that a bad last name doesn't bode well for an otherwise decent guy. For example, my mom fell in love and was engaged to Michael Dix, an englishman with two sons (one named Harry ... yes, I'm serious. Harry Dix). If they had gotten married, it would have been the Young-Dix wedding. And even more applicably, my ex-boyfriend (bless his heart, but still) had the last name Minshall, which I absolutely HATED. Don't ask me why, but the thought of going through life as Brianna Minshall made me buggy. It sounded so harsh! It's not to say that his last name is the reason it didn't work out between us, but there was nothing appealing about it. I guess when you have a last name like Johnson, you're eager to trade it in for something better -not eager in a Mary Anne Heppler kind of way, but still looking forward to it-. That's why my friend Max Summerlee and I had a good deal going: I would use him for his last name, and he would use me for my airline passes. Now there's a good deal if I ever heard of one.

And while we're on the subject of relationships, how many people out there have back ups? The tried and true friend who you've always had a little thing for, who you make a pact with along the lines that the two of you will get married if neither of you has found someone by the time you're, say, 30. I don't remember who mine is (although I think I've made a deal with Adam, at some point), but I DO remember a boy in high school who, we discovered at a sleepover, was the back up for 7 girls. We all 'dumped' him the next day.

Ahhh high school. I'm glad I'm not that inmature anymore ;)
Please forgive this indulgant dip back into puppy-love teenagerhood. Sometimes being an adult in a logical adult relationship isn't as much fun as being 16 and thinking you've found the one.

Celebration of Bugs

The opening night of Vancouver's biggest summer event, the "Celebration of Light" kicked off last evening in amazing style. The international fireworks competition got its start at 10:00 pm with Canada's performance, and will be followed by Sweeden on saturday, China next wednesday and the finale the following saturday. Last night more than 350,000 people lined up shoulder to shoulder at Kits Beach and English Bay (the downtown beach) to watch the 1/2 hour show, which was lit from a barge 500m away from shore. 350,000. I need to emphasize this point to you because I don't think it can be adequately stressed. When people talk about how big SARS-Stock was, and how the entire downtown core was sectioned off in TO a few summers ago, that's the same density that was lining up on a beach last night. It's an absolutely incredible sight to see (and the traffic is AWFUL).

This year, my mom and I decided to drive up to the North shore to watch the show from across the inlet. We picked up my brother and his girlfriend, drove out to the swankiest part of Vancouver and hiked down to the beach.


After parking ourselves (and after several failed attempts at trying to use my knees as a tripod to steady my camera) the show started. And you know what? It was really, REALLY small. I'm not usually one to claim that size matters, but in this case it was SO disappointing. When you go and see fireworks, you want them to explode in your chest. You want to lie down on the beach with the sand between your toes and watch the entire sky above you light up. You want to hold hands with someone you love and be reminded of how special they are. Case in point: here is a picture of the show last night, undoubtably taken from the English Bay beach.

Yeah - it's pretty spectacular. Like, it's actually the most beautiful thing I've ever seen and definitely worth the crowds. And just for comparison, here's a picture of a particularly large one that I took from our vantage point across the inlet.



















Pretty impressive, huh? That's what I thought. And in the end, my knees DID end up making a decent tripod (and of course in the set up, my brother casually mentioned that a girl or two had called him "tri-pod" in the past... thanks, Regan. I REALLY wanted to know that). But the punchline of my story is this: while we were sitting on the log, enjoying the show (as pictured below)

It so happened that I was attacked by a vicious storm of mosquitoes, and I wasn't even aware of it. In fact, I spent the entire night bragging about the fact that mosquitoes didn't bite me. I NEVER got bitten. I was motherfucking bite imMUNE.

And then, this afternoon, I happened to look down at my leg and was horrified to see this:
Gross, hey? And well worth it, if you'll refer to my spectacular shot above.

I'll write a more detailed entry later - I'm sailing (well, on a BC ferry) over to Vancouver Island tomorrow right after work and expect the ferries to be NUTS (almost like the high way to cottage country will be in Ontario). I'm gonna get there early, stake out a seat by the window, and blog my little heart out. Another weekend is almost upon us!

Fat Guts Gets Poked

Steve and I just got off the phone, after having had a conversation about the insanity of his friend Jon's mom (and I hope, now, that Jon will never lay eyes on this blog. Sorry, Jon, but your mom is scary). Steve mentioned that Jon's girlfriend must really adore him, because having a family like that would be hard to handle. I agreed - when you date someone seriously, and moreso when you make a commitment to another person, you're inadvertantly making a commitment to their family. As awful, wonderful or creepy as they are (honestly - who stays up until 3am just to make sure that their 25 year old son is tucked in?) - they become yours.

This just in. My family is WEIRD. I came home after a long day of work, and 4 hours later (I'm SO out of it), noticed the following scene taking place on my pillows:












In case you aren't familiar with the usual suspects, this here is a picture of Seth the Sloth (my beloved beanie baby) taking the anal virginity of Fat Guts, the long-distance representation of my boyfriend Steve. Fat Guts doesn't appear to be complaining about getting 'tail from a Sloth - he is quite comfortable stretched out with his face pressed into my pillow. My stuffed animals are big sluts and my mom is a total nut.

So I was thinking that this might be Steve's clue to start taking baby steps away from me and my filthy family. I can't imagine Marilyn Johns ever sneaking into Steves room and setting up lewd and suggestive poses of the Randy Moss and Daunte Culpepper figurines on Steve's bed. But then I remembered that my quote unquote 'normal' boyfriend prefers to pose for pictures in the following manner:












And I decided that he's probably not so normal after all. Look at how his little nose peeks out from his teeshirt! I think I'll keep him.

And yes, I'll write a normal entry, eventually.

To strive, to seek, to find and not to yield

I am rereading some of my favorite poems from when I was young. I used to say them out loud to myself, let the words play on my tongue as though they were composed of something tactile. I was so moved by it. I don't consider myself unique in this respect -- poetry in its creation speaks to a common need to understand/represent/beauitify the human experience. Loving poetry doesn't make me cool; but I do find in it something that I can't get anywhere else. Some sort of satisfaction. Some sense of knowing. One of my favorite poems is by Tennyson, called 'Ulysses'. I've posted the first and last sections below, mostly for myself, but if you love poetry as much as I do, then for you, as well.

It little profits that an idle king,
By this still hearth, among these barren crags,
Matched with an aged wife, I mete and dole
Unequal laws unto a savage race,T
hat hoard, and sleep, and feed, and know not me.
I cannot rest from travel: I will drink
Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed
Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those
That loved me, and alone; on shore, and when
Through scudding drifts the rainy Hyades
Vest the dim sea: I am become a name;
For always roaming with a hungry heart
Much have I seen and known; cities of men
And manners, climates, councils, governments,
Myself not least, but honoured of them all;
And drunk delight of battle with my peers;
Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am part of all that I have met;
Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough
Gleams that untravelled world, whose margin fades
For ever and for ever when I move.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end,
To rust unburnished, not to shine in use!
As though to breath were life. Life piled on life
Were all to little, and of one to me
Little remains: but every hour is saved
From that eternal silence, something more,
A bringer of new things; and vile it were
For some three suns to store and hoard myself,
And this gray spirit yearning in desire
To follow knowledge like a sinking star,
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

....

Come, my friends,
'Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Though much is taken, much abides; and though
We are not now that strength which in the old days
Moved earth and heaven; that which we are, we are,
One equal-temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

- A.L.T.

Random Adventures in Photoblogging

Random Adventures in Photoblogging

Instead of posting a long winded update and considering that, at 2:53 in the morning the night is no longer young, I'm posting some random pictures taken over the last few days. Keep in mind that I've done NOTHING interesting and have a limited number of subjects to work with in my apartment. Nonetheless, I think the following pics explain my life in Vancouver better than I would ever be able to.

Other than that, I have NOTHING to say tonight that doesn't involve closing my eyes and mumbling in a way that might be understood as "blahblahblah", or "duuuuuuh", so I'll save the intellectual garble for tomorrow, and try to net myself some sleep

One Final Note: I don't ever use the word garble ... but you wanna know who does? A boy in grade 8 who had a crush on me, and wrote a letter to me that included the line, "this emotional garble is ruining hour after hour of our happiness together". Priceless. I can't believe I used to be a catch :D

One FINAL FINAL Note: I really need to write about the football game and football in general. Hold me to it - I've got a lot on my mind.

Regan and Fel

Regan and Fel
Originally uploaded by heybreezy.

My brother, in the shirt I bought him for his birthday (which turned out to be a big SCORE - he loves it) and his girlfriend of almost 3 years, Felicia

Orange football

Orange football
Originally uploaded by heybreezy.

This is my prize - a football that I climbed over seats, elbowed a guy in the head and begged the subway guy for. I actually went so far as to gravel to him in exchange for this sucker; I was DETERMINED. So much so, that when the Lions scored a touch down and the football guys came to our section, I screamed at my mom, "show them your tits!". And you thought I had class. Ha!

Waldo asleep

Waldo asleep
Originally uploaded by heybreezy.

My dog Waldo, who I freaking LOVE, sleeping on my bed this afternoon

Steve (???)

Steve (???)
Originally uploaded by heybreezy.

My cute boyfriend, who wasn't in the mood to have his picture taken. So I took one anyway

Cindee on the balcony

Cindee on the balcony
Originally uploaded by heybreezy.

This is my mom on the balcony last night, before her hot date with Bill (future lover? Soulmate? Who knows - she's seeing him again tomorrow night!)

Fat Guts

Fat Guts
Originally uploaded by heybreezy.

This is a picture of Fat Guts, the monkey that I bought to sleep with at night when I miss Steve (I created him in Steve's honour, complete with (shudder) a T.M.L. hoodie. Gag me :D)

back yard shot

Back Yard
Originally uploaded by heybreezy.

This is a panoramic picture that Regan took from our balcony

Four Years in Review

FOUR YEARS IN REVIEW

Class that I attended the most: Drama 237/238 (acting). If you skipped, you got thrown out of the course. Talk about incentive!

Class that I attended the least: Psychology 100. I didn't go in second term. Ever.
Runners up: Art History 110, French 100, Drama 306 (Canadian theatre)

Addresses that I lived at:
1. G20 Chown Hall
2. 295B William Street
3. 41 Toronto Street
4. 132-1 Earl Street
5. 294 Barrie Street

Best A&P Snack to buy at 2:00 am for all-night study marathons: bulk peach rings

Best songs to listen to while working at a Texas Grill:
- "Prop Me Up Beside the Jukebox When I Die"
- "No Shoes, No Shirt, No Problem"
- "All My Ex's Live in Texas"

Surprise band that I am now a fan of thanks to said Texas Grill: Blue Rodeo

Best Summer Job: Head Gael (running a four day party and being paid 7000 to do it)

Worst Summer Job: Working at said Texas Grill

Amount of furniture that we fit into Alana's jeep during the summer after first year: one magiker bookshelf, three aneboda dressers and potentially a robin night table

Number of people I know, other than myself, who have pet names for their furniture: 1

Number of Flooded Basements due to Torrential Rain: 2 (oh MAN was that a mess)

Best Class: Drama 216, Musical Theatre. Most of our mark was based on a 30 minute presentation in which we were required to 'sell' a new musical. We outlined the plot, sang three songs and acted one scene. My group's choice? "Back to the Future: The Musical" (wouldn't that be cool?)

Worst Class: Canadian Studies 200. I'm not kidding - it was a beast. I didn't understand the professors, I hated the material and I hated the 3 hour night class each week. I have never had to motivate myself so much to get through anything as I did that year-long course.

Most Interesting House Memories:
- the theft of a random canoe, of the William/Aberdeen sign, of tulips from other people's gardens, of the virginities of high school students (not me, I swear!)
- Eating Nona sauce
- All nighters, puzzle parties, intentional cock-blocking, American Idol, the great Degu chase, the great garbage haul, our pet raccoon who ate popcorn

Housemates who I have heard having sex:
1. Natalie, who would moan loud enough that we would hear it over top of watching 'Friends' in the living room
2. Emily, who got such good tail that it was shaking the support beams in the basement, three floors below
3. Alana, who couldn't keep quiet (even though music was playing in her room, and in my room across the hall where I was working)
4. Josh ... did Josh ever have sex?
5. Dom, whose bed banged up against the wall that my desk was on. Apparently I wasn't the only one up at 3:00 am

Best Lines Exchanged Between Alana and I:
Alana: I'm from Oakville, I'm ignorant (first year, said to Marcus's jewish lab partner who walked into Alana's room to find us drawing a big jewish face in MS Paint on her computer, who we had named "Sol" and found a yamaka for)

Brianna: Don't worry about it ... like, no big deal, but if you have a second could you pull over? I'm about to throw up (while driving on the 401 in her dad's BMW)

House Rule that No One Followed but me: No sex in the shower

Best Restaurant meal: Woodenheads' Sorrento Pizza
Runner Up: The Copper Penny's Wild Mushroom Skillet

Best Place to feel really, really popular on a Friday night: The QP

A Bar that I've never been to: MyBar
A Restuarant I've never been to: Chien Noir
A Restaurant I've been to far too many times: Woodenheads

A Place Where Everybody Knows my Name: Send In the Clowns (the little old couple that owned the store were so nice that I couldn't help but to stop in and say hi every time I was in town)

Best Roadtrip: With Alana and Regan into Washington to try and find a crepe maker (success!)
Runner Up: With Marcus to see the Flames play the Leafs from the third row of the ACC
Runner Up: With Steve to Detroit, where I experienced both "Phantom of the Opera" and a crazy crack addict on the same day
Runner Up: The 7-hour drive into Northern BC with Marcus in order to go camping for one night (and the discovery of the Billy Goat trail)
Runner Up: To Montreal, with 400 Gaels that I was supposed to be in charge of

Best Musical Event: Seeing Hairspray with Steve and playing the "will I or won't I hold your hand" game that makes your stomach flutter and your palms sweat

Best Walkhome Partner: Steve Johns, on the 223 Nelson to Wallace Hall walk in which the conversation was entirely dominated between myself and said partner
Runner Up: Adam Say, who makes me laugh like no one else is able to that I wish the shift was twice as long

Best Orientation Memory: Too many to name! LFO night playing "Who-ah", playing touch football on the camping trip, the moment after the semi formal when I realized it was over (and couldn't stop crying), monday martinis with Lindsay Hardy

Worst Orientation Memory: Picking up our personalized, custom made and hand tailored yellow tuxedo jackets (which cost almost 1000 dollars) and realizing that the wrong names had been screened onto the back of ALL of them. I almost threw my desk chair at the print shop employee.

Best group of femininists to hang out with when I want to learn about alternatives to tampons: the cast of the Vagina Monologues (we had a mandatory menstruation WORKSHOP)

Saddest Moment: Finding out that my dog and best friend Polo had been put to sleep in Vancouver, just 1 week after I was home visiting for Frosh Week recovery

Happiest Moment: Finding out that I got Head Gael. I can't compare it to anything I've ever experienced before - I thought that my legs were going to fall out from underneath me.

Scariest Moment: Being hit by a dive-bombing bat in Theological Hall
Runner Up: When we found the ghetto bug in my closet on Toronto Street and were so scared that we called our housemate Josh in Ottawa to come and kill it for us

Roomate stolen by a Gang of Korean-Christians that I miss the most: Nahri Chi
Stolen (or "kept") article of Nahris clothing: black gap tank top
Best Nahri Memory: When she came home trashed, high and covered in vomit at 8am on the day we were supposed to move out of residence and she hadn't started packing yet
Runner Up: The moment she realized that she had purchased SO MUCH clothing since coming to Kingston that some had to be stored outside of our room in the hallway, locked in her HUGE red suitcases

Places that will always hold specific meaning to me:- The window table at Ban Righ cafeteria
- Wallace Hall (the choice study locale on campus)
- The Walkhome kiosk
- 244 Earl Street (where, in 3 years of dating one of its inhabitants, I probably slept 10 times, even though we spent every night together. Marcus's house was a HOLE)
- Jeffrey Hall (home of the Gael Interviews, and therefore 300 hours of my life)
- Tindall Field (where I watched a meteor shower with friends in first year)
- Grant Hall (home of the my Frosh Week speech)
- Traymoor Street (my place of work for almost two years with the crazy, crazy children I took care of)
- Bearance's Foods (the grocery store with the best fresh cut meats in Kingston)

Most Ironic Discovery: That current love-of-my-life Steve Johns didn't hire me for SOAR when I was in second year. In fact, he didn't even give me an interview :O

Number of boys I kissed: 3 (well - 3 that MEANT something)
Best Male Kisser: Steve Johns
Best Female Kisser: Alan the Italian Stallion (ummmm...)
Best Gay Kisser: Jon Metrick
Person I Wish I kissed: Grant Bishop


Places/People I will want to visit in 25 years: Chown Hall, the new Head Gael, Theological Hall ... I'm a simple girl, with simple pleasures!

Biggest Regret: No regrets, right? I regret that I spent first year in hiding (it sounds so cliche - 'I wish that I got involved right away'! I regret that I didn't have a real floor in first year; being on a pseudo floor made the three of us feel really lonely. I regret not trying out for the soccer team ... and god damn, if I could do it all over again, I would drag my ass out of bed and get to class. Other than that, the four years were wonderful. My whole life was wrapped up in that school and I am finding it difficult to unwravel myself and rediscover what's important to me outside the boundaries of Union and Princess, Wellington and Victoria. Four years wrapped up into one, neat little blog entry - who would have thought?

reflections on life in Vancouver

today (well, tomorrow if you count by sleeps) marks the one-week anniversary of my arrival back in Vancouver. Back home, although the concept takes on a new meaning when you're in your 20s and constantly uprooting and resettling your life. For now, I've got a bed, a place to store my laptop (the window-sill), some closet space in my mom's closet (she did a big spring cleaning) and a shelf to put my shoes on. I've got a dog to cuddle with, hundreds of cable channels and healthy home cooking. In all of these senses, everything is fantastic. I really, REALLY love being here.

Despite the fact that I feel safe and nested for the first time in quite a while, I've been in a constant state of unrest about a bunch of stuff, most of which is too mundane to really get into. Jobs for the remainder of the summer, what I'm going to do next year, paying off my debts, thinking about what I want from my future, how I'm going to afford to get there -- these are the types of things that become monsters to me. They weave and spin around in my head until I can't make sense of them anymore and I feel like crawling into bed until the world decides on an appropriate solution for me. The consensus so far? The world doesn't always work like that. So it's my goal this summer to redefine my goals. Figure out what I really want from the next couple of years, and develop a good plan. I want to work on my body and my mind (lots of reading and writing!) and my relationships with my family (*coughdadcough*). I want to figure out what I believe in. I hate being 22 and idealistic (Steve would probably point out that I'm not 22 for another 9 days, but I digress).

Ah - the upcoming birthday. Requisite phone calls from distant family members. Having my little Ukrainian grandparents sing "happy birthday" to me in their sweet, out of tune voices over the phone. Dinner with mom and Regan. Requisite dinner with my dad. It stops getting excited about about 13, doesn't it? Birthdays are a real sore spot for me. I had my last birthday party when I was 12, and since then (10 years!) I've tried not to tell people about it, not to make a big deal about it, not to expect any sort of celebration for it ... then I won't be disappointed if no one remembers, or if no one makes a big deal, or if we don't celebrate. And I like it that way. Maybe being at home for my birthday will be different; my mom and I can have a nice day together. But if it's not, I won't worry about it. There are always more birthdays to look forward to :D

This wasn't supposed to be a bummer post - but considering my recent lack of updates, the fact that I've got anything posted at all is a minor accomplisment in itself. Stay tuned for more episodes of my West Coast installment - I promise you, I'm figuring it all out. After all, I can't be an angsty teenager forever, can I?

Deal Breakers

In a new book called "Deal Breakers - When Does Mr. Right Become Mr. Not-On-Your-Life?", two female authors explore the types of situations, or the 'breaking points' that cause women to break up with the so-called loves of their lives. An interesting read, although I only managed to do a cursory flip-through while browsing in Chapters last night. Here's what I found fascinating:

72% of engaged women agreed that the discovery that your fiancee is still close friends with one of his ex-girlfriends and emails her on a regular basis on a regular basis would be grounds for dismissal.

HOWEVER

only 30% of engaged women would break up with their fiancee if they discovered that he had been involved in a one night stand in the first three months of their relationship.

Now, I'm not one to say what is and is not a so-called 'deal breaker', but I'd be willing to wager money that if Steve was still friends with Bridget, it would probably make me happy that he was able to continue a platonic relationship with someone he used to care about. This says good thing about his character, no? But if he f***ed a girl while he was supposed to be in love with me? Call me the minority but that would be a deal-breaker for me.

beginnings

I've always been interested in event planning. My passion was first tapped when I was 10 and saw the movie "Father of the Bride". I decided that I loved weddings. When I was younger, I used to sit in the corner of chapters with bridal magazines, not imagining my own wedding, but dreaming about being in charge of someone elses. This is really stupid, I know. But I don't know how else to put it - it always sounded kind of cool.

Frosh Week was, by all accounts, a practice in event management. I had 4 days, a quarter million dollars, a fundraising goal and a mission statement set by the university that I was expected to exemplify. We used 21 venues and 400 volunteers to successfully pull of the party of the year for 2008.

I was HOOKED. Being in a planning position was like a high for me; now I'm going to do something about it. Humbar College in Toronto offers a Public Relations post-graduate program that includes training in Media, Advertizing, Event Planning and Fundraising. Students get an 8-week internship at the end with companies like Maple Leaf Sports Entertainment and Alliance Atlantis Films, and more than 90% are employed in the field 6 months later. I'm in. My HUGE ambivilence about doing my drama degree has told me that something about it isn't right. I want to make my family proud, but I also want a career that I can be excited about waking up and doing. Like Steve told me - if I'm not ABSOLUTLY SURE, then academia is probably not going to be for me.

So I'm going to be applying for the January intake. I'll work between now and then, probably take the 5000 loan from my grandparents to get started in Toronto and complete the program by November 2006. Am I being impulsive? Perhaps. But I've been SO SO SO SO unhappy lately (even considering what it would be like if I crawled into a hole and hid from the world), and I think that I'm finally doing something about it.

World, here I come!

Goodbye, Walkhome

I have never known how to handle goodbyes, so I generally disregard them. I'm much more a fan of "I'll see you soon". I don't dwell on an end, but try to put myself facing all of the beginnings so that I don't get stuck in the past.

The preamble is to introduce the fact that I am working my last walkhome shift right now, sitting on the familiar couches with the familiar people with the familiar feeling of home. Walkhome was something that I feel into and it literally changed the course of my life. One summer ago I was sitting here with Steve, wondering how I could get him to notice me. Now, I'm calling him to say "I love you" before I sleep. Something about that has to be very, very right. But I'm not sad. Walkhome ended when my undergrad ended, and I am ready to leave Queens and everything that it gave me. I don't want to stick around and see it change, see my memories and my foundations disintegrate as new people coming and old people leaving weaken the things here that made me feel so strong. I don't want to stick around, y'know? By April 21, I was very ready to be done. Working my last walkhome shift is just another step towards being able to close the book on a very incredible and successful period of my life, and another step towards opening a new one.

Walkhome, it's been a slice. You gave me a new family at Queens, -40 degree weather, a feeling that I belonged, amazing conversations, life long friends and a boyfriend that I could have never imagined would have changed my life in so many ways. For that, I offer my thanks. It's been a hell of a ride, and I'm glad I took it, if only to be able to look back so fondly.

-b

turn and face the strange

I need to admit to myself that I have a flair for the impulsive. For example, I quit my job today. I walked into my low paying, demeaning and child-labourish place of work and announced that I was no longer interested in being their bitch. But it didn't necessarily come out in that way. The point is, I did it. And instead of the emotional/tearful pleading, the offer of a substantial raise or the nostalgic sentiments about all 'the good times' they have had with me as an employee, my boss actually used the words "you're easily replaceable". And he used them to try to make me feel BETTER. Which I almost thought was funny - but then I remembered the lack of good-bye fanfare and returned to being angry.

And now I just feel weird. I'm in a freaking STRANGE mood. My heart is pounding, so I know I'm really anxious, but I can't seem to formulate any sort of emotion - I've just shut off. I'm quitting my job and moving to Vancouver and I can't even put two thoughts together about it. You know when people describe an experience as being surreal? That's what I'm going through. I look at the mess that this summer has become and say "this is not my life". 'Cause honestly? My life is now in Toronto. That's where I feel at home. That's where my entire heart rests (fragile, in the hands of one Stephen Johns). So I'm going home and am really ready to be there; as much as people are insisting that I'm going to miss Kingston, this is no longer where any part of my heart resides.

Back to the weird mood. I was playing a set of Pearl Jam songs (Wishlist/Thin Air/Hail Hail/Oceans/Parting Ways/All Those Yesterdays.... if you're interested) and I actually started bawling. I was crying so hard for a few minutes that I started to heave, which was REALLY embarassing because I'm not really sure what I was so sad about. Maybe I'm not sad. Maybe there are lots of emotions that can come out through crying. Maybe I'm relieved and scared and lonely and in love and excited and anxious and tired and triumphant.... and it all became tears. I often cry after sex - releasing the million emotions that it makes me feel (love, vulnerability, tenderness, lust, etc). I'm just so SENSITIVE right now, as if touching me on the shoulder will set me off again.

Everything is so profound. Music beats away in my earphones and I can feel the sound in my entire body... beautiful and strong and meaningless at the same time. Song lyrics are making me cry. Sometimes I get so overwhelmed by the world - by the depth and the abstraction and the beauty and things like spiderwebs that seem both totally insignificant and divinely inspired at the same time. And I don't know what to do. I don't know how to react to things that seem so much bigger than me. To share myself with the world that I take so much from. I have a really hard time explaing to people that I am so deeply affected by everything: words and people and animals and all the different shades of colour and meaning, by moments and ideas and looks and stories. I am changed everyday. I feel like I have the emotional weight of the world on my shoulders sometimes, because everything I encounter becomes a part of me, I absorb it and try to understand and feel the depth of it.

And I just don't know what to do with myself, and don't believe that anyone could every ureally get what it's like to listen to Pearl Jam and cry. Sometimes, I think, I'm crying for myself and for the spider webs and people I meet eyes with on the train that I feel so deeply about. It's all that I can do.

My thoughts on Pulp Fiction (or, "would you give a foot massage to a guy?")

And after all the hype, it could never live up to the expectations that Steve created in my hopeful little heart. Since I was a devout fan of Kill Bill (and less so of it's successor, but still engaged), I decided to round off my Tarantino experience last night with the requisite first viewing of Pulp Fiction. One day later and I don't really have much to say. Is anyone surprised? I laughed, I thought that the writing was strange and wry and creepy and hysterical in that way that it shouldn't be okay to be laughing. I liked the music; I dug the way that the scenes were strung together in an odd time web. I was vaguely entertained. But I'm gonna leave it there - Pulp Fiction has entered and exited my life, and though it may have had some lasting impact, said impression has yet to surface.

I did, however, like the woman who talked about her pot belly. More women should talk about pot bellies. It inspired me to stick my stomach in the air as high as I could and explain "look at the size of this gut!" to which Steve shook his head and said "oh, Bri". I can't help but to feel that he expects more of me.

Anyway, my sincerest apologies to Tarantino and company - I'm gonna stick to the art house love stories, for now.

a weekend of rock and roll fun

this blog could alternately be titled "I don't believe that anybody felt the way I did", which I thought of in a restless sleep the night after the Oasis concert that Steve and I attended with his bestfriend Paul and Paul's lovely girlfriend Laurie. So if I'm going to be reviewing the events of the past 5 days, that seems as good a place as any to start.

First off, it's really important to know that I'm not making any attempt to provide an objective summary of the Oasis concert - so many of my memories and important moments in life are inextricably tied to albums like What's the Story (Morning Glory)? and Definitely Maybe that to simply review the live experience in a musical sense denies how deeply it affected me. I felt like my entire adolescence, from the early morning rides to soccer tournements with star forward Chelsea singing at the top of our lungs, "need a little time to wake up, wake up", to idly doodling the lyrics "how many special people change" on my grade 9 binder in red pen, to gleefully learning all the words to "Rock and Roll Star", promising myself that when I was famous I would thank Oasis in my first Oscar acceptance speech for teaching me how to be a bad-ass celebrity. Their catelogue practically defines my life experience, and although Steve refers to my fickleness with the use of 'favorite' in his blog, Oasis has rarely been out of the top three spots over the last 10 years.

Granted (and as much as it pains me to admit it), the post WTSMG releases have left something to be desired, the Gallagher brothers still know how to energize a stadium and whether they're playing a fully-backed version of "Wonderwall" or pulling out a better-live-than-I-expected version of their new single Lyla, it's hard not to really, REALLY enjoy yourself. In my case, the word enjoy seems a bit bland -- I was light on my feet, head spinning, lights flashing, dizzy with the kind of high that you can only get from falling in love or attending a freaking good rock concert. I sang out loud unabashedly, took as many pictures as I could without getting caught, and was litereally so engrossed in the experience that I felt like the rest of the world didn't exist.

I know what you're thinking - "Oasis?" .. or something like that. And I *know* that they're not the best band to walk on the face of the earth and I *know* that they haven't made any significant or measureable influence on the rock and roll scene in a long time and I *know* that half of their public appeal comes from the so-indifferent-it-hurts act of Noel and Liam, at once confident, engaged yet always letting us know their ultimate surperiority on the basis of being "the best fooking band in the word". I know all this. I'm not disillusioned about their relative limitations; at the same time, however, I feel like I'm in love. And if you heard the deafening roar of 16,000 fans at the Molson Ampitheatre when the first piano notes of "Don't Look Back In Anger" began during the encore, you would probably agree.




more on the rest of the weekend, including a review of the riot grrls of Sleater-Kinney, later on tonight