Innocence and Panic

My friend Erica reminded me that it has been a while since I wrote on here. It wasn't that I had forgotten, of course, but merely that I've been seriously self-censoring. March was full of panic, which extended all the way into April.

I briefly and unwisely got myself into a "relationship situation" -- which if you know me at all, will know that it is a little like a diver caught in a bed of kelp... stuck underwater and as the air supply depletes, increasingly paranoid about exactly what it is one is cutting away... kelp or one's own hoses. Anyway. I survived. Barely. It was very unwise. Really... the correct answer to the Gatorade commercial is "No, I don't have it in me." Spare everyone the grief already.

If a fool were to persist in his folly, he would become wise. I think I'm wise enough now. You never know what is enough unless you know what is too much. I think I now know what is too much. I even agree that the road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom. (But why is it that the proverbs of hell make so much more sense?)

Despite the drama... I managed to get one thing done. I submitted my application to UVic on time... and got my offer of acceptance letter... and confirmed my acceptance of the offer. I am now a grad student.

I had always wanted to go to grad school... though what I had in mind was always something more along the lines of philology... rather than this Masters in Public Administration, which, if there was an opposite to an MFA in Creative Writing, would be it.

I've been sick for a week now. I'm still recovering from strep throat and the flu. My car is still in the parking lot of the West Coast General Hospital (I hope) from which I was discharged on Thursday. Shawn has rescued me twice now... and I am grateful for his friendship.

I've been doing some reading while I've been sick... Neil Bissoondath's The Soul of All Great Designs, which frightened me into acknowledging the gravity of my predicament... Marie Phillips's Gods Behaving Badly, which was fluffy and light... A.M. Holme's This Book Will Save Your Life, which it doesn't... but as low on the literary totem as it was (it'd be the underground bit that you couldn't see), it was still readable in the sense that it was fluffy and light... and... one more book-- the suicide-inducingly disappointing collection of short essays Nobody's Mother.

I bought and read Nobody's Father on the ferry some months ago. It is a collection of essays on what it meant to be childless in our society written by 23 men who are "Nobody's Father." It was an interesting read... interesting enough for me to go in search of Nobody's Mother, the book that precedes this by two years, which the Globe & Mail reviewed as "...essential reading for holy warriors, right-wing demographical hysterics such as Pat Buchanan, and any young girl considering what she might do with the 70 years or so that stretch in front of her." I can't blame the review... after all, it didn't suggest that I read it, I who am trying to stay ahead of the game by examining my anti-natalist views before the horloge biologique hits me like a tonne of bricks.

The collection is seriously disappointing... the essays are written by 21 women... but they all appear to be the same woman. They even teach the same subject at the same university. There is no fresh thought, no original argument, no inspiration. Unlike Nobody's Father, there was no celebration of childlessness. It's sickeningly depressing... and pretty much makes me want to go get knocked up before I become one of them. This is not what I had in mind when I picked up the book.

I'm better off sticking to Schopenhauer. And in the meanwhile, I've just hit the big snooze button on life-- grad school.

All weather, 24/7 fun...

Horne Lake, almost midnight.

Spelunking at night

It's pretty much the same as during the day... but when you add a 2.5 hour drive each way on a Tuesday night after work, it starts to qualify as maybe not the sanest thing to do... however, it was a lot of fun... and I'm not sure who is enabling whom in all this madness. I am, however, not 21 anymore, and so am resigned to being a basket case at work tomorrow... to quote the spelunker pictured here, hanging out with young insomniacs beats hanging out with sleepy old people... of which, tonight at least, I am not among the ranks.
Sent from my BlackBerry device on the Rogers Wireless Network

Katherine Clifton must have had an OK time in Gilf el-Kebir ...

Spelunking is more fun than skydiving and bungee jumping! It also felt like one of the most dangerous things I've ever done. It's definitely an extreme sport (apparently, the qualification for extreme sport is a sport in which a mistake can be fatal... I'd always thought soccer is sort of extreme (and dangerous)... but by this definition, soccer is not an extreme sport).

The caves we went into weren't very large (136m long and 30m deep, and 40m long and 15m deep)... but it felt as if there were plenty of opportunities to get lost or stuck or somehow trapped inside forever. At one point, we crawled into a small cavern in which there was only sufficient room to remain prone... there was a colony of spiders on the ceiling... and water dripped from many broken stalactites. We hung out there for quite a while... turned off our headlamps and were in total darkness... and silence. It seemed the perfect place for rest... or death.

We'll probably go back soon and do a guided tour of a bigger cave... 384m long and 68m deep. I should have been a geologist.

Movies, movies, and more movies...

I received Kaurismäki's Proletariat Trilogy yesterday... and I watched Shadows in Paradise... which was beautiful as expected.

I haven't written a single thing since I made my decision to write... for real. I have, however, come up with a good fortune cookie message, which is "Even those with no redeeming qualities can find true love."

There has been some debate as to whether this is an uplifting thought. I'm somewhat inclined to believe that it is uplifting. But I'm sort of in a position in which everything is uplifting...

It's uplifting to know that I now have absolutely nothing to do with the rampant gang violence in the lower mainland. Woohoo!

This weekend, I was half way between Lovekin Rock and Incinerator Rock... and I caught a left and rode it all the way to directly in front of Incinerator Rock. This is a super long ride... as in really amazingly long... so amazingly long that I could not properly now, while sitting on the couch, even understand just how long and amazing it was. And to make it even better, ULTE2 saw the whole thing.

That ought to be uplifting... in a super awesome way... the super awesomeness of which should overwhelm and undo me. Not quite... though there is hope. I'm going spelunking this weekend. I say spelunking because I have no idea what I'm doing. Apparently "Cavers rescue Spelunkers"... so I'd be a Spelunker... incompetent and ill-informed and going cave exploring. Ha!

New Project: Surfassing

The next great Canadian novel... Surfassing... a woman's journey to come to terms with her past and present in the Canadian wilderness... what do you think of the title? It has inspired me to do some real writing... it could be something great.

I think Surfassing-- or surfbumming, if you will-- could be the subject of a sort of Kerouac-Atwood meditation on Canadian life in the 21st century... surf bums instead of dharma bums... and Tofino instead of wherever it was in Quebec's blackfly country. The constant references to trees and the cold should make this a candidate for a grant from Canada Council... but just to make sure it's got enough Canadian content, I'll also make it depressing. Richler was never depressing though... maybe we should all be more like him.

Wow. It's been a long time since I've given any thought to Canadian literature. It probably has a lot to do with my not reading anything Canadian... and then eventually not reading anything at all. I think I'm slowly coming back though... right now I'm reading Beautiful Losers... and it reminds me so much of Barney's Version...

Maybe I've read enough... and now it's time to write?

Okay. Time to write. For real. And not this tap-tap-tap rambling stuff.

But first, a quick movie review... yesterday, I saw 29 Palms by Bruno Dumont. It was beautifully shot. It has a lot in common with Vincent Gallo's Brown Bunny. The plot development was similar... and people walked out of both films at Cannes. I would say that 29 Palms is much prettier to look at... and this, despite that Gallo and Sevigny are prettier to look at than whoever those two were in 29 Palms. It wasn't bad. I watched it with ULTE2, and he, being a photographer, found it sufficiently watchable. I don't imagine I know many others who would find this film sufficiently watchable. (Oh yeah, ULTE2 is back in town. Again.)

And... for Valentine's Day, check out these candy hearts. I'd buy them and send them to people... but that would require forethought... and those are hard to come by.

Not Me. We.

I feel ill.

"Not Me. We." is the title of the 2007/2008 UBC Anuual Report. The leading higher educational institution in British Columbia can't tell the difference between subject and object, or, more frighteningly and likely, doesn't care. UBC confers doctorates in English and linguistics. UBC titled its annual report "Not Me. We." So what is your phD in English worth if you got it at UBC?

If Ikea or Ducks Unlimited had titled their annual reports "Not Me. We." I don't think I would be at all concerned... but the University of British Columbia? What were they thinking? It's okay, it rhymes?

I thought "Thinking of the World" was bad... but UBC managed to top SFU by couching lameness in bad grammar. Bravo.