"Go after her. Fuck, don’t sit there and wait for her to call, go after
her because that’s what you should do if you love someone, don’t wait
for them to give you a sign cause it might never come, don’t let people
happen to you, don’t let me happen to you, or her, she’s not a fucking television
show or tornado. There are people I might have loved had they gotten on
the airplane or run down the street after me or called me up drunk at
four in the morning because they need to tell me right now and because
they cannot regret this and I always thought I’d be the only one doing
crazy things for people who would never give enough of a fuck to do it
back or to act like idiots or be entirely vulnerable and honest and
making someone fall in love with you is easy and flying 3000 miles on
four days notice because you can’t just sit there and do nothing and
breathe into telephones is not everyone’s idea of love but it is the way
I can recognize it because that is what I do. Go scream it and be with
her in meaningful ways because that is beautiful and that is generous
and that is what loving someone is, that is raw and that is unguarded,
and that is all that is worth anything, really." -- Harvey Milk
Annnnnnd this is why he's one of my favourite people in the history of history.
March 21, 2013
March 06, 2013
Riot Grrl
I saw my first in person student protest up close and personal today. Cops in riot gear, lobbing what looked like bright fireworks into crowds of yelling people who scattered on contact as the explosions of the firecrackers punctuated the air kicking inside of the drums.
I don't even know what to think about any of this. I just thought, "This is just like Les Miserables." And I was fascinated, almost like it was surreal. Still feel a bit like that, actually. That is all.
I don't even know what to think about any of this. I just thought, "This is just like Les Miserables." And I was fascinated, almost like it was surreal. Still feel a bit like that, actually. That is all.
February 15, 2013
Little Things
I celebrated Valentine's Day with a glass of red wine and a microwavable Brownie recipe, practicing for a French oral presentation and watching Arrested Development. All that was missing from the picture was either a cat (Telly was nowhere to be found!) for the single cliché, or a Mr. Life-Of-Wiley... but Rome wasn't built in a day, and so, friends, we keep waiting for Somebody to Love.
BUT, it is the little things we have to appreciate, at the end of a rough week. A week we spent being anxious and sick and eating emotionally. Life goes on, the treadmill and the gym will still be there, health returns, and midterms will plague us, come hell or high water, self pity, or bagel overdoses.
Today I was at work, when a guy came in wearing a pink sweater vest and a pink bowtie. It. Was. Awesome... and in my excitement, I couldn't contain myself. I told him so. I love when people get festive, a little homage to the day, the time, the feeling. I myself put on bright pink lip colour for the occasion.
Just before he left with his friends, the bowtie man stopped by the counter and told me I had really great beauty marks.
He meant the moles I have on my face.
The ones I get self conscious about. The ones I got from my mother's side.
The ones no one has ever complimented me about, EVER, until today. It was honestly... pretty amazing, if I do say so myself. Moles are beauty marks in someone else's eyes. It's all about perspective, folks.
Other great stuff?
My friend Jocelyn got engaged! (Eeeee!)
And it was Jill's birthday. (Happy Birthday Jilligan! Let me know when you finally get to that video I sent you. <3)
BUT, it is the little things we have to appreciate, at the end of a rough week. A week we spent being anxious and sick and eating emotionally. Life goes on, the treadmill and the gym will still be there, health returns, and midterms will plague us, come hell or high water, self pity, or bagel overdoses.
Today I was at work, when a guy came in wearing a pink sweater vest and a pink bowtie. It. Was. Awesome... and in my excitement, I couldn't contain myself. I told him so. I love when people get festive, a little homage to the day, the time, the feeling. I myself put on bright pink lip colour for the occasion.
Just before he left with his friends, the bowtie man stopped by the counter and told me I had really great beauty marks.
He meant the moles I have on my face.
The ones I get self conscious about. The ones I got from my mother's side.
The ones no one has ever complimented me about, EVER, until today. It was honestly... pretty amazing, if I do say so myself. Moles are beauty marks in someone else's eyes. It's all about perspective, folks.
Other great stuff?
My friend Jocelyn got engaged! (Eeeee!)
And it was Jill's birthday. (Happy Birthday Jilligan! Let me know when you finally get to that video I sent you. <3)
February 09, 2013
Le Tired
It's Friday night/Saturday morning, 3AM precisely, the neighbors are blasting music loud as hell, and I'm sitting on my couch blogging. Why am I sitting on my couch blogging, instead of out and about in the city with the people?
Well, for starters, it's cold outside. This morning waiting for the bus, I was cursing the land itself while snowflakes sliced the air, riding on the back of the wind. I knew that tonight was not a "going out on the town to spend money I can't afford to spend, sitting in the same bar" (anything close to the house. Seriously I am a baby when it comes to winter) night. No, I said. Eff you, winter, I said. I'm a badass and I say what I want.
Secondly, this week sort of kicked my ass. I started my new job as a Barista at Java U, which means my usual sleep in days or days off became: "get up at 6AM and hustle to the metro" days. And sleep time became paper writing time or workout time (sometimes) or studying-for-French-exams time. J'etais fatigué. I can only hope that as time goes on, my body will adjust to being on the go all the time and managing all of this won't feel so exhaustive. When I got home from class today, I made a bowl of popcorn, crawled into my bed and watched Portlandia. And it. Was. Awesome.
I regret NOTHING.
Other than that....I'm doing alright. I ate WAY too much chocolate today (there are worse problems to have), I lost 2.5 lbs this week (...no thanks to the chocolate), I aced my French exam with panache (le yay!) and I have a whole weekend in which to do nothing. Or to say I want to do nothing, only to snap with cabin fever and venture forth. It's all good.
Also: I'm thinking about starting a recipe/food blog again, for real this time. My attempt in the past was half hearted and it happened at a time when I wasn't cooking for myself all that much. I think it would be fun, I'm passionate about it, I eat food pretty much every day of my life and it would help me sharpen my writing skills. But I need a name....
Well, for starters, it's cold outside. This morning waiting for the bus, I was cursing the land itself while snowflakes sliced the air, riding on the back of the wind. I knew that tonight was not a "going out on the town to spend money I can't afford to spend, sitting in the same bar" (anything close to the house. Seriously I am a baby when it comes to winter) night. No, I said. Eff you, winter, I said. I'm a badass and I say what I want.
Secondly, this week sort of kicked my ass. I started my new job as a Barista at Java U, which means my usual sleep in days or days off became: "get up at 6AM and hustle to the metro" days. And sleep time became paper writing time or workout time (sometimes) or studying-for-French-exams time. J'etais fatigué. I can only hope that as time goes on, my body will adjust to being on the go all the time and managing all of this won't feel so exhaustive. When I got home from class today, I made a bowl of popcorn, crawled into my bed and watched Portlandia. And it. Was. Awesome.
I regret NOTHING.
Other than that....I'm doing alright. I ate WAY too much chocolate today (there are worse problems to have), I lost 2.5 lbs this week (...no thanks to the chocolate), I aced my French exam with panache (le yay!) and I have a whole weekend in which to do nothing. Or to say I want to do nothing, only to snap with cabin fever and venture forth. It's all good.
Also: I'm thinking about starting a recipe/food blog again, for real this time. My attempt in the past was half hearted and it happened at a time when I wasn't cooking for myself all that much. I think it would be fun, I'm passionate about it, I eat food pretty much every day of my life and it would help me sharpen my writing skills. But I need a name....
January 30, 2013
Hallmark'd.
January 22, 2013
Throw! Up
The first time I went to a slam with the Throw! Poetry Collective here in Montreal, was way back in October. I enjoyed it as much as I do all slams, noting with strange, confused curiosity, that for a giant, artsy city, we had a small spoken word following. There were 50 people or less. I was happy about this for a few reasons.
I've got a head full of dreams, and in my own imagination, I saw myself getting involved in the scene, learning everything I could, helping to bring this powerful form of poetry to the masses, changing lives along the way, including my own. The second reason a small poetry community would be nice is because, should I decide to chase the dream and perform a poem of my own, it would be LESS petrifying to do it with a small audience.
Friends, last night was the night. My spoken word debut.
I had decided I was going to do it or die (or puke or faint) trying. Possibly the second two, followed by the first. I cranked the music in my room a few hours before and tried to put the words into memory as much as I could before I had a chance to forget them. Half because I hoped the music would disguise the sound of my words (I'm bashful, so naturally when practicing to recite to a room full of people, I couldn't have ANYONE HEARING ME) and half because I wanted to do it with distractions, hoping I would nail it later on, no matter what.
Hustling through the cold to the Divan Orange, I wasn't sure whether I was speaking too much, or not enough but.... I was already nervous. I was psyched up. I've been on stages at random intervals for my entire life. I sang "Hey Jude" in my highschool variety show, and I'm a karaoke addict. I've acted, I've hosted stuff. I'm no stranger to the dream and the reality of being on a stage.
But when I walked into the hustle and bustle of the bar, a new kind of panic set in. People. Lots of people. People as far as the eye could see. No vacant chairs at the tables, no seats at the bar. Standing room in the back, filling up fast. There was me with my starry eyed dreams of poetic power and grace quickly turning into horrible nightmares. Panic set in. I asked the people at the sign in whether or not one of the four open mic spots was open.
There was one left. Against the apprehension tugging at my heart strings, my nerves stumbling around like a drunk in the dark, I signed up, figuring fate had wanted it to be mine. Then I stood around fretting for the next 20 minutes, with my mouth running dry, clutching my red writing notebook, feeling as though it was a bible and I was in desperate need of saving. I locked myself in the bathroom for 5 minutes to take a nervous pee and say my poem out loud one last time. I felt the full effect of 8-Mile pounding on my shoulders. My moment was coming, faster than I was sure I was ready for.
When the MC starting his opening spiel, I started up to the front of the stage to get ready to go. The place was so full by then, the path to the stage was filled with people sitting cross legged on the floor. I had to step around them, a human tire football drill. When I finally was called, second in the open mic line up... I walked up on stage, and out of my body.
Does anyone remember at the summer Olympics when Usain Bolt won the 200m dash and then borrowed one of the photographer's cameras and started taking pictures of his worldview? Those photos are pretty much what the crowded bar looked like to me. Faces and faces and faces and faces and faces and faces and my pulse like a rabbit having a heart attack and faces.
I told them it was my first time performing ever, and the crowd was really warm and supportive. Guess what? I still thought I was going to throw up.
"Wow," I said, or something equally eloquent, how I do, "there are so many of you, I wish I'd just prepared a haiku."
The lights were bright and I proceed to spit whatever words I thought I had memorized. I honestly couldn't tell you if I messed up my poem or if I got all the words right. If I sped up in the right parts, slowed in the wrong ones, paused when I needed to, stopped dead, or anything. All I remember is the shaking. Trembling, through my torso, into my legs like a bone shattering earthquake. My body trembled. My hands clutching my notebook trembled. My breath between sentences trembled, audibly into the microphone. I bet my soul was trembling too, holding on with its last, failing muscles to keep me upright, breathing, gasping these words I had written for the ears of others.
When I finished, I thanked them and hurried off the stage, fast as I could. I heard the MC say, "Give it up for Riley!" And the cheers made me weak in the knees. I watched the other two open mic-ers go without issue. I don't when the trembling STOPPED, but eventually it did. I slipped back into the crowd, to watch the slammers with my friends, who hugged me and congratulated me.
A girl who was leaving stopped and said she had loved my poem and that I had made her cry. And that.... made me blush. And realize that I really need to work on making eye contact with strangers. I have the social skills of Forrest Gump, except I'm less charming.
I guess one thing is for certain, I have plenty to work on. Poetry. Delivery. Social skillery.
I've got a head full of dreams, and in my own imagination, I saw myself getting involved in the scene, learning everything I could, helping to bring this powerful form of poetry to the masses, changing lives along the way, including my own. The second reason a small poetry community would be nice is because, should I decide to chase the dream and perform a poem of my own, it would be LESS petrifying to do it with a small audience.
Friends, last night was the night. My spoken word debut.
I had decided I was going to do it or die (or puke or faint) trying. Possibly the second two, followed by the first. I cranked the music in my room a few hours before and tried to put the words into memory as much as I could before I had a chance to forget them. Half because I hoped the music would disguise the sound of my words (I'm bashful, so naturally when practicing to recite to a room full of people, I couldn't have ANYONE HEARING ME) and half because I wanted to do it with distractions, hoping I would nail it later on, no matter what.
Hustling through the cold to the Divan Orange, I wasn't sure whether I was speaking too much, or not enough but.... I was already nervous. I was psyched up. I've been on stages at random intervals for my entire life. I sang "Hey Jude" in my highschool variety show, and I'm a karaoke addict. I've acted, I've hosted stuff. I'm no stranger to the dream and the reality of being on a stage.
But when I walked into the hustle and bustle of the bar, a new kind of panic set in. People. Lots of people. People as far as the eye could see. No vacant chairs at the tables, no seats at the bar. Standing room in the back, filling up fast. There was me with my starry eyed dreams of poetic power and grace quickly turning into horrible nightmares. Panic set in. I asked the people at the sign in whether or not one of the four open mic spots was open.
There was one left. Against the apprehension tugging at my heart strings, my nerves stumbling around like a drunk in the dark, I signed up, figuring fate had wanted it to be mine. Then I stood around fretting for the next 20 minutes, with my mouth running dry, clutching my red writing notebook, feeling as though it was a bible and I was in desperate need of saving. I locked myself in the bathroom for 5 minutes to take a nervous pee and say my poem out loud one last time. I felt the full effect of 8-Mile pounding on my shoulders. My moment was coming, faster than I was sure I was ready for.
When the MC starting his opening spiel, I started up to the front of the stage to get ready to go. The place was so full by then, the path to the stage was filled with people sitting cross legged on the floor. I had to step around them, a human tire football drill. When I finally was called, second in the open mic line up... I walked up on stage, and out of my body.
Does anyone remember at the summer Olympics when Usain Bolt won the 200m dash and then borrowed one of the photographer's cameras and started taking pictures of his worldview? Those photos are pretty much what the crowded bar looked like to me. Faces and faces and faces and faces and faces and faces and my pulse like a rabbit having a heart attack and faces.
I told them it was my first time performing ever, and the crowd was really warm and supportive. Guess what? I still thought I was going to throw up.
"Wow," I said, or something equally eloquent, how I do, "there are so many of you, I wish I'd just prepared a haiku."
The lights were bright and I proceed to spit whatever words I thought I had memorized. I honestly couldn't tell you if I messed up my poem or if I got all the words right. If I sped up in the right parts, slowed in the wrong ones, paused when I needed to, stopped dead, or anything. All I remember is the shaking. Trembling, through my torso, into my legs like a bone shattering earthquake. My body trembled. My hands clutching my notebook trembled. My breath between sentences trembled, audibly into the microphone. I bet my soul was trembling too, holding on with its last, failing muscles to keep me upright, breathing, gasping these words I had written for the ears of others.
When I finished, I thanked them and hurried off the stage, fast as I could. I heard the MC say, "Give it up for Riley!" And the cheers made me weak in the knees. I watched the other two open mic-ers go without issue. I don't when the trembling STOPPED, but eventually it did. I slipped back into the crowd, to watch the slammers with my friends, who hugged me and congratulated me.
A girl who was leaving stopped and said she had loved my poem and that I had made her cry. And that.... made me blush. And realize that I really need to work on making eye contact with strangers. I have the social skills of Forrest Gump, except I'm less charming.
I guess one thing is for certain, I have plenty to work on. Poetry. Delivery. Social skillery.
January 17, 2013
Mish Mash
Today was a great food day.
Breakfast: 1 serving of Budget Bytes "Gingerbread Baked Oatmeal" which is pretty much as good as it sounds. With cold milk on top. Coffee.
Lunch: I slice of Bek and I's special leftover homemade pizza (spinach, peppers, feta, mozz, DIY crust....obviously. Food snob standards!) from Tuesday night and carrot sticks.
Dinner: Honey Whiskey Pulled BBQ Chicken on a homemade whole wheat bun with onions and my parent's homemade pickles. Thinly sliced yukon gold potato, baked and salted to crispy perfection. Fresh snow peas. Goooood, I love food.
I love cooking so much I think I would be a great but awful housewife, on my merit of singing when I'm home by myself and my baking skills alone.
------
People are lovely in summer sunshine, but I think winter lends people a different kind of beauty. All bundled up in their jackets, with their breath escaping to rejoin the rest of the air in a swirling expulsion, their cheeks a warmed through red, a burst of life and colour. Hats make your hair a mess. Eyes brighten as they water in the icy wind. It's awesome.
That being said, it's supposed to feel like -31 in the morning tomorrow. SCREW. YOU. WINTER.
------
Last Saturday, we climbed up to the top of Mont-Royal and looked over this big giant city, scored on its crown with the St. Lawrence river. All I thought was, "We don't have anything like this in Waterloo." I'm going back to that park and sledding before winter is over. So I probably have a good 100 months or so.
Breakfast: 1 serving of Budget Bytes "Gingerbread Baked Oatmeal" which is pretty much as good as it sounds. With cold milk on top. Coffee.
Lunch: I slice of Bek and I's special leftover homemade pizza (spinach, peppers, feta, mozz, DIY crust....obviously. Food snob standards!) from Tuesday night and carrot sticks.
Dinner: Honey Whiskey Pulled BBQ Chicken on a homemade whole wheat bun with onions and my parent's homemade pickles. Thinly sliced yukon gold potato, baked and salted to crispy perfection. Fresh snow peas. Goooood, I love food.
I love cooking so much I think I would be a great but awful housewife, on my merit of singing when I'm home by myself and my baking skills alone.
------
People are lovely in summer sunshine, but I think winter lends people a different kind of beauty. All bundled up in their jackets, with their breath escaping to rejoin the rest of the air in a swirling expulsion, their cheeks a warmed through red, a burst of life and colour. Hats make your hair a mess. Eyes brighten as they water in the icy wind. It's awesome.
That being said, it's supposed to feel like -31 in the morning tomorrow. SCREW. YOU. WINTER.
------
Last Saturday, we climbed up to the top of Mont-Royal and looked over this big giant city, scored on its crown with the St. Lawrence river. All I thought was, "We don't have anything like this in Waterloo." I'm going back to that park and sledding before winter is over. So I probably have a good 100 months or so.
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