Finished first week of classes. All I can think of is: pain. I have hardly any time left for the people who matter, my life is readings, Hebrew excercises, and work. I hate working the most, but when you need money to buy textbooks... ehg.
I want to list the trite things which are bothering me. I'm joining so many clubs, it sickens me. Debating team. Still running with the ASA crowd. St. John's Ambulance. Maybe even the Hart House Lit & Library committee. Wanted to join the rowing team, but I think the early mornings may just be too much for me. Might train with the recreational swimming team at the Hart House to try for the varsity swim team next year. I'm volunteering at the ROM, I'm applying for archaeology jobs. Volunteering in a lab, as well. I seriously need to find money to buy new jeans for the winter, good god. I've been wearing only one pair of pants since I got back from Africa, and that was a month ago. I need to find time to practice guitar. Jesus. That didn't make me feel any better. And the pronoun "I" appears far too often in that last paragraph.
I keep looking for that quiet space, that moment of peace in Queen's Park or King's Cross Circle where I can look at everything and feel it falling into place. It hasn't hit me, yet. I think I might have to wait for the snow to fall.
So much. Too much. I need more space than other people to think properly, and I just... can't find any.
To sum up, I give you a moment: walking across the streets and muddy fields of campus, I can't stop listening to Perdido St. Blues, by Louis Armstrong. I can't help feeling that the song inspired Miville's book, the nest of simple notes implying a world of complexity beyond the clarinet. It feels like the theme song for the best heist flick never made. As I walk, with friends or without, I see the title in Guy Ritchie-style tableau in between the introductory bars of sixteenth notes. Then our pictures, in neon monochrome with our names in bold VTCorona text. Me - taking a step and laughing in a close-fitting wool overcoat, ebulliant with underworld blues. Brian with a stone face and raised eyebrows, his hand up to accept a wad of ill-gotten money. I can sit on the steps of Convocation Hall and drink coffee, and think about our lives - at this time in this city and in our seperate places - as a sort of heist. We're all orchestrating our own schemes, masterminding our own paths to power. How it will turn out, I'll never know. I just don't think I'll ever be used to the activity. I keep waiting for a cop's bullet to hit, for that endless moment of oh-shit quiet.
I want to list the trite things which are bothering me. I'm joining so many clubs, it sickens me. Debating team. Still running with the ASA crowd. St. John's Ambulance. Maybe even the Hart House Lit & Library committee. Wanted to join the rowing team, but I think the early mornings may just be too much for me. Might train with the recreational swimming team at the Hart House to try for the varsity swim team next year. I'm volunteering at the ROM, I'm applying for archaeology jobs. Volunteering in a lab, as well. I seriously need to find money to buy new jeans for the winter, good god. I've been wearing only one pair of pants since I got back from Africa, and that was a month ago. I need to find time to practice guitar. Jesus. That didn't make me feel any better. And the pronoun "I" appears far too often in that last paragraph.
I keep looking for that quiet space, that moment of peace in Queen's Park or King's Cross Circle where I can look at everything and feel it falling into place. It hasn't hit me, yet. I think I might have to wait for the snow to fall.
So much. Too much. I need more space than other people to think properly, and I just... can't find any.
To sum up, I give you a moment: walking across the streets and muddy fields of campus, I can't stop listening to Perdido St. Blues, by Louis Armstrong. I can't help feeling that the song inspired Miville's book, the nest of simple notes implying a world of complexity beyond the clarinet. It feels like the theme song for the best heist flick never made. As I walk, with friends or without, I see the title in Guy Ritchie-style tableau in between the introductory bars of sixteenth notes. Then our pictures, in neon monochrome with our names in bold VTCorona text. Me - taking a step and laughing in a close-fitting wool overcoat, ebulliant with underworld blues. Brian with a stone face and raised eyebrows, his hand up to accept a wad of ill-gotten money. I can sit on the steps of Convocation Hall and drink coffee, and think about our lives - at this time in this city and in our seperate places - as a sort of heist. We're all orchestrating our own schemes, masterminding our own paths to power. How it will turn out, I'll never know. I just don't think I'll ever be used to the activity. I keep waiting for a cop's bullet to hit, for that endless moment of oh-shit quiet.