Have you ever had a really shitty week? The kind that knocks you off your feet and just winds the life out of you? That week happened two weeks ago, and I am still trying to find my bearings.

It was insufferable for a few reasons. We had a heat wave of epic, record setting proportions and the simplest of tasks would leave you feeling like the most viable option would be to melt to the floor right there –next to the old lady with her shopping cart waiting for the four o’clock bus. On top of the heat, life decided to grace me with a few overwhelming incidents that left me sobbing on the phone to R. and vowing to do something that ultimately –I suppose I’m glad I didn’t see through.

Confession: I would be lying if I didn’t admit that I ended up at home one night in an ice-cold bath reading Donna Tarrt’s The Secret History and drinking an entire bottle of the cheapest Canadian red wine I could find (As an aside, Thanks 20 Bees! I figured that for the price I paid, I would be drinking rancid garbage, but it was actually pretty great).

Then fast forward to today. Besides the fact that I haven’t done laundry in two weeks, and the house needs a thorough scrubbing, I have somewhat buried these incidents and the ensuing realizations deep into the recesses of my mind. Anyone with Psych 101 under their belt should know that this should come as no surprise. But, useful as this coping mechanism might be, this is not how I want to live my life.

Today I read an article about facial perception. Facial perception (unlike its borderline frightening, tech-savvy police state cousin facial recognition) is a process that begins in early infancy, when children learn to distinguish facial features. This is the same skill that leads us to find faces in places where there really aren’t any – inanimate objects for example.

This article outlined a study whereby groups of people were shown actual video surveillance from an on-campus camera in the Psychology department. After viewing the low-quality footage, the subjects were then shown pictures of people who were and weren’t shown on camera. They were then asked to match up the photos of the people who they thought were in the video. The researchers picked three groups of subjects. The first group was a set of Psychology students who were often in the building where the camera was set up. As a result they would likely have prior encounters with the on-camera subjects. The second group was a set of students who never visited the Psychology department, and subsequently would not have any familiarity with the on-camera subjects. The third group was a set of experienced police officers.

Not surprisingly, the first group – the psychology students who likely had previous encounters with the people on the security camera –scored the highest in terms of accuracy associating the people in the video with their photos. The second and third group scored equally poorly. So then why is this a big deal? Well as the authors allude to throughout the article, video surveillance is often used in legal settings, sometimes to convict or clear an accused of crime. That’s a big effing deal. That’s life changing.

So essentially, a platitude like conclusion could be something along the lines of “Familiarity leads to accuracy”. We can make accurate decisions when we are most familiar with the subject at hand. I know this isn’t the best analogy, and certainly not the most exact conclusion. But bear with me… Burying experiences deep down inside and washing them down with a bottle of wine might help in the moment, but they won’t lead to any kind of well crafted life.

In the end, I decided that my initial response to this week, if not a bit drastic and overly reactive, had a certain sense of legitimacy to it. This was a painful realization because it potentially means two things I’m not great at – change and letting go. I’m still battling with this decision, mulling it over in my mind… It isn’t absolute. And I feel a little bit lost, (but at the very least) more resolute than I have been in the past.

It wasn’t too long ago that we found ourselves escaping Toronto, driving west to a smaller city about an hour out. We followed this trail skyward and stood high above houses and streets that reminded me of game pieces -manipulateable.

I feel powerless in the city I (unfortunately) currently call home. I despise the landscape and can’t stand the people. My university town -Kingston -still holds my soul in its grasp. But, in the moments when I’m honest to myself, I recognize that it could be any town, so long as it remained uncorrupted by the forces of evil that are resplendent in urbane life.

Sure, Kingston had issues of its own. Among them, girls who dressed like clones -their lifestyle paid for by absent parents. But, like those reality television shows about California teens, they were too naive and innocent to be devastating. We could sort of laugh sardonically at their misplaced value system.

Besides, it had qualities that contributed and detracted from this small shortfall. Kindness, community, beauty, nature, love. It had this same kind of manipulateability that drew us into its heart rather than leaving us feeling like automatons. None of this exists in Toronto (be forewarned!), and I am growing exponentially weary of the people here.

I could write a manual on how to fit in, in this city. It would go something like this: Brand Yourself. Find a diet, an exercise regime, and a lifestyle du jour (extra points are given if any of these happen to appropriate a culture which is not yours by birth).

These people seem so desperate to be different within the confines of familiarity. But unlike the girls of the university town, there is a subtle hint of danger here. These are the people who were told, and who believe that they should inherit the Earth. They can’t see 5 inches past their Blackberries/Iphones because the said items are, quite literally, 5 inches away from their face.

Speaking of, I saw the most bizarre thing the other day, people comparing their mobile devices like the Business Card scene from American Psycho

I often stop myself from approaching someone on the subway and asking them in earnest “Are you for real?” I feel like an alien in this world. I can’t really relate to the lifestyle here, and I don’t want any part of it. Sometimes it makes me want to laugh, other times it really scares me.

How exactly did I end up in this Matrix?

Initially I had written an entire post about Penelope Trunk and being introverted and feminism, but it didn’t flow as well as I had hoped, so I scrapped it and am now just writing via stream of consciousness.

Anyway.

So I started a course in Project Management in January and I don’t quite know what to make of it. Before it began, I kept having nightmares about school and it got to a point where I didn’t want to go to sleep. Every night it would be something different and equally terrible.

Those have now subsided, and I sort of chalked it up to falling into old habits of being an academic masochist and wanting to get over 90% all the time. I had to talk myself down from that cliff and commit to the understanding that my life is different and I have a 40+ hour workweek and friends and family and a boyfriend who wouldn’t appreciate it if I spent every other night in the library.

One thing it has definitely highlighted in my mind though, is that I really love art in comparison to business (boy am I ever glad I never took commerce!). I like making things beautiful. I like shot composition and people’s stories.

I remember going to a career services counselor in the first year of my undergrad, and she was a very hippie-esque crunchy granola type. She asked me what I love, and I told her that I was curious/fascinated by people and their life stories. I don’t remember where she took that from there, if it were me I’d probably be like “Well you’re screwed kid. Take commerce.” (… why I’m not and should never be a career counselor).

But now looking back, I can see why I love documenting things in video form. It can be non-invasive in some ways, and you can capture great moments, great snippets of people and get a glimpse into who they really are.

It’s probably also why I love reading good blogs, and keeping one myself.

I can be a pretty guarded person, I guess. And I can be a little too good at respecting people’s boundaries, so it’s nice to have an alternate channel into lives of interesting people.

I love trees. I love the way they provide shelter to creatures/critters. I love the way they beautify nature. And I love the way they provide protection and privacy.

I lived in the same house until I moved away for university. My parents moved in just before I was born, and they chose it in part because of the huge tree that was on the front lawn. An enormous fir tree that would eventually hide most of our house. The neighbours hated it. They constantly harassed my mom to get it chopped down, but she refused. They tried to convince her to at least prune the skirt, but she stood her ground. No saw would touch any surface of that tree.

I understand that concept now. I understand that stubbornness. The fir was beautiful. But, as always, it went beyond the desire to preserve the tree. The need for a cover in a suburban setting makes total sense. The safety of a shield can be a necessity for someone who feels vulnerable.

I haven’t been posting here, in part because what I say is read by people who know me in real life, but who may not acknowledge to me in person that they read this blog. I think I’ve come to terms with that now. On the flip side, I’m sure I’ve said things on this site that I’ve wanted to convey to some of these people. I think I’m OK with that now. I think I owe it to myself to go through life without the need for a cover.

That said, I intend to post here more often (I’m serious this time). I’ve had some sort of a blog for over ten years now, and when I try to put it aside, I miss it in a very big way.

That said, I intend to post entries here with information that you might not want to know. I can’t take responsibility for this. Your choice to come here is a conscious one, and I don’t plan on filtering or censoring these posts.

To those in my life who come here and don’t lurk… thank you. To those I know in “real life” who let me know that they visit my website… thank you! I really do appreciate your honesty.

Anyway, I’m going to try to post at least a few times a week now. Thanks for your patience.

OK, so when I was three I stole my older sister’s only tube of lipstick. I smeared it over myself and many of her belongings. Someone thought it was cute and took a picture. My sister didn’t, and I can guarantee she was fuming behind said picture-taker.

The long(er) story: Looking back, this behavior probably shouldn’t have been reinforced… for a number of reasons, including the least important of all: Not much has changed. I can say this because some twenty years later, I am still this irresponsible and careless with makeup. It’s not that I don’t want to be, but I can’t really bring myself to work hard at something as trivial as form when function cannot (in my world) supersede it.

I do try. I try to put on makeup in the mornings …sometimes… when the desire comes over me and in the rare instances where I’ve had a sufficient amount of sleep. Because my eyelashes are fair, every couple of months, I’ll get them tinted (see definition here). When I found out about eyelash tinting, I thought it was the best thing ever. Mainly because I was (at the time) swimming daily and mostly because I couldn’t be bothered to reapply mascara. I also rub my eyes on an hourly basis -which I know is not the best habit, but one I cannot stop doing. Rubbing eyes + mascara or eyeliner = black raccoon eyes.

If possible, this is worse than it sounds.

It’s a lot worse.

The frustrating thing is that I encounter people who have mastered the “well-put together” skill perfectly. It’s one of the many downsides of living in a big city. I don’t get it. Do these people not have to go to work? Do they not have dishes and laundry? Most of my day is taken up by these things, and I have maybe 1.558 percent of free time left.

Maybe I’ll improve in another 20 years time.

HOPE for ME.

I wish I knew the story behind these two. But all I know is that he appeared one Sunday, as did we, after a long absence on her part. I think it’s safe to say he’s hers, and judging by the way the calf kept brushing himself under her head, I doubt anyone would argue differently. When we saw her two weeks ago, she was in the barn and none too pleased about it. Mooing up a storm and the like. But when we saw her this time, she was outside grazing and prancing with the calf. The animals can tell that spring has arrived, and refuse to be denied the beautiful weather.

Something from deep within us transforms with winter’s end. A mixture of shedding layers, increased vitamin D, the need to clean our homes, renewed life -plant, animal, human. I don’t fully understand this cycle, but I’m grateful for its reappearance year after year. It almost makes the devastatingly long winter worthwhile.

I recently got this book on Artisan Bread Baking, and when I brought it home I was all gung-ho.  “OK!” I thought to myself, “Artisan bread here I come!”  Turns out it’s not that simple.  There are a lot of extras that a potential bread-baker needs to buy; namely a baking stone and an oven thermometer.  So I ventured out into the abyss that is Chinatown with two possible destinations: Sasmart in Kensington or Tap Phong on Spadina.  Sasmart was closed on the Sunday so I headed to Tap Phong. 

Let me tell you something.  Chinatown in Toronto is INSANE.  To be fair, this is something I already knew.  I am not one for large crowds so this neighbourhood is my own personal hell.  People linger on the streets, the sidewalks are so crowded that pedestrians spill over into the street.  The store itself was not any better.  The aisles are tiny and jammed with very breakable material.  There are employees there who are nice and willing to help you, but the cashiers are really short with customers.  I finally found a baking stone, and booted myself out of there.

All of this and I have yet to bake a bread.  Although it has only really been 31 hours, and I worked for 8 hours today.

Tomorrow is my last day off in what might potentially (hopefully) be a long time.  As of next Monday, I will be starting a new job in my field -A great position and a fantastic opportunity.  It is truly a dream come true and I am really looking forward to contributing to something huge -even if baking has to be put on the backburner. :)))

This really should be a picture of cold, wintry skies and blowing snow. But I like to remain hopeful that spring will soon return, and when R brought me home these roses on Sunday, I couldn’t help but photograph them. They make for a much prettier picture than the grey Toronto sky, I promise!

I am missing things I’ve never had, and I wonder where that feeling comes from. Is it the social imaginary? Popular culture? A past life? Kidding on the last one… but really…

R. and I often talk about the farm that we will one day have. We watch videos of ducks. I say we need two dogs and no cats. A handful of cows and no horses. Definitely no horses. Sheep are OK, but goats are better. A donkey would be great if we could fit her in. Lots of chickens. Sustainable living. Homemade everything. One day.

I heard a great quote today: “Inch by inch, life’s a cinch. Yard by yard, life is hard”. I guess I should put that into practice, Non? I become impatient so easily…

Our world today looks very much like this (only the temperature would be lowered by 10 degrees C!). It has been unforgivably cold as of late. The kind of cold that freezes your teeth and blisters your knuckles. Despite the weather, we went for a walk last night, stopping to get material for a certain project and a made a quick stopover at Kitchen Stuff Plus (Why does it always smell fantastic in that store?).

I don’t particularly want to venture outside, particularly after seeing pictures of Posy’s adorable house. If only I had that talent/colour palette in my life! Her studio is beautiful, and I can’t even imagine how long it would take me to crochet that blanket if I even tried.

I am inspired… At least enough to clean up and bake a miniature prototype of Victorian Sponge Cake (pictures to follow).

“Tout est pour le mieux dans le meilleur des mondes”
“Everything is for the best in the best of worlds”

Voltaire wrote this in Candide, a satirical piece, mocking the optimist dogma popularized by Leibniz which prevailed during the 18th century. Throughout the novel, Candide (the main character), goes through experiences that disprove this philosophy, and in the end, he rejects the optimism that was cultivated in him by his tutor Pangloss.

I’ve glossed over details, but that’s the essence of the work.

There are days where I wonder if I am similar to Candide -whose name in French, incidentally -means naive. For the most part, I try to be a good member in society. I adhere to the main tenets of legal and moral law. I try to give back when I can. I work hard.

I do these things because they’ve been fostered in me from a young age. I also do these things because I’ve been told that these actions would be rewarded.

And yet none of these things are really recognized or valued. They claim to be, but they aren’t really in practice. Unfortunately, the people who have power in the world seem to be those who lie and cheat and steal to get there. It’s a dystopian view, but it’s a dystopian world. Read the news, haven’t you got the memo?

I’ve been thinking of this more and more lately. Some people in my personal circle have, to put it bluntly, been screwed over by another person who is a total jerk. It’s extremely frustrating. I wish there could be repercussions for said jerks, but there won’t be. They’ll keep living their sordid lives and probably have more power as a result.

Oh, and on top of all this, I screwed up my sourdough starter. I knew it was ready on the 5th day, but I didn’t put it in the fridge and I couldn’t salvage it. I’ll start a new one next week and post my (hopefully less negative) results.

TGIF?