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Jul. 7th, 2007 @ 03:52 pm
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A plethora of whimsical vomit:
Sometimes the AOL man says 'goodbye' at the most inopportune, yet poetically-perfect moments.
Goodbye - a picture half-loaded, means I'm ninety-five per cent sure
I understand what closure means.
A Fort Tid-Bit:
A young boy was wandering purposefully looking for Kenneth MacKenzie, proprietor - he wished to sign on with the company as an apprentice clerk, in whom he had placed his entire, untarnished belief in. Decked out in an explorer's hat, a pirate bandana, and a plastic Pirates of the Caribbean compass, one could not help but play into his fantasy. He made us do our jobs, quite ironically. Since Kenneth was sitting in an air-conditioned lunch-room, eating pizza, I stepped in, portreying the man's cousin on this day. I tested the young one's apptitude at mathematics, to which I was quickly impressed, given his young age of 11. Each of us satisfied with the way the testing had gone - him for passing, myself for quick thinking - I brought him to the Great Hall, where Graham, portreying Simon MacGillvray, acting chief director, helped draw out a most wonderful-looking contract, while the boy's family watched on. As we presented him with the contract and a writing utensil, the boy got an odd look in his eye and asked to speak with his father.
He was afraid that this meant leaving home for seven years - which made him sad. He had to ask his father's persmission twice. "I'll have to ask my father before signing anything, Mr. MacGillvray."
After doing our best to convince him that the Northwest Company was the best career-choice for him - he signed it and smiled a smile that could crack the caustic cynicism of the most sardonic Fort employee. I spent the next half an hour showing him what his future role as an apprentice would entail. He bought every word - and made it his own.
...
I harken back to an earlier entry about floating down a river made up of the last dreams of lost little children; these are the dreams which gave bouyancy to my own caustic reality. I hope I don't find that myself floating away face-down in this boy's dreams too soon.
Speaking of which - what is the specific age when people shed their childlike desire to be honest; the specific age when they trade in their olive branches for metaphorical daggers?
I'm finished my Honour's Thesis. It's been bound and about to be handed in. I feel a sense of accomplishment, joy; a touch of saddness - it was an adventure. I'll miss my travelling companions of Gerry Adams, Martin MacGuiness, taoiseach Reynolds, and our wandering minstral, Thom Yorke.
Anyways, I should be doing something relevant. Such as watching more soccer.
By the way Poland has a new hero.
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* Not related to previous undecipherable pictoral metaphor.
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There’s something about a four hour drive that can bring about the wide-eyed child-like contemplator in myself – while at the same time allowing the mind to slip into a euphoric complacency, more concerned with locating moose than worrying over the worries of home. Random thoughts and observations: I love graffiti on rock-cuts. I don’t really think of it as vandalism – it’s much like a rather odd form of artistic expression … which is interesting, since I generally view the somewhat comparable desecration of bathroom stalls rather negatively, and I am not really for disturbing the beauty of a natural environment. However, there is something about these scrawled messages which provides a sense of entertainment, as well as an unusual sense of history. Each of those messages put into posterity an individual in time, and making him one with that particular stretch of the road. Granted, most of those names will go unnoticed, but it is one way of leaving a little scratch on the faceplate of history. I find the ‘So-and-so + so-and-so = equals love’ particularly amusing and contemplated how many of these little declarations of amore actually ended up with anything substantial; considering this day and age, probably not too many. But wouldn’t it be neat to be able to show your children, the heart on the rock-cut where youand your ‘love’ announced your adoration to whole of Canada (this being the Trans-Canada)? … driving for an extended period of time is probably a prerequisite to such thoughts? Rock-cuts … the trans-Canada facebook? What would I write on the rock-cut? I’m not really sure. But I certainly spent a good portion of the time between Ignace and Upsala considering it. Here are some possibilities I came up with and can actively recall: You are not a slave. Yossarian lives. We’re not scaremongering, this is really happening. Fitter, happier, more productive… a pig in a cage on antibiotics. Keep your eyes on the road. Please. I’m floating in the last dreams of lost little children. HEY! Remember us? Access. “My house on wheels will have two feet once again and my dreams no frontiers… I await you sedentary gypsy, when the smell of gunpowder dissipates.” Live. Love. Die. Another thought … street signs are awesome. They tell a lot about the city, its history; they’re like tree rings, minus the tree, or the rings, for that matter. Just keep reading. Also, it reveals the awkward truth that there is apparently a limited amount of street names available. Every city probably has a Lakeshore Drive… even the really small ones (a prerequisite obviously being a lake and a shore, perchance an area to drive). Colonization St. is such a weird name for a street – yet honest; particularly since it is crossed by Government Street. I speak of Drydan in this particular example. “**** Inn. Good quality modern color television.” Change signs much? The further north-west you go, generally the more they hate Toronto. Not really news, or anything. A lot of disgruntled voices, silenced by distance and general party apathy. We really need new representation in the northwest; we’re too much of an easy bet. We’re the cat who always comes home the very next day. Somebody should bite the hand that lays pretense to the act of pretending to feed us. Access. Access! Access? Axis? So I’ve discovered in my contemplations (circa Upsala on the return leg) that I’m a ying-yang person and I bring that out in everybody I come into contact with. I either really love something, or hate it. People really love me or hate me. No middle ground for this man, it seems. Also, to bring more credit to this horrible metaphor, I often find myself playing both sides of the same proverbial coin – having overwhelming strong feelings towards something, both light and dark. For example, I have a fear of being in water, yet I am inexplicably drawn to it, and love spending time on top of it. A literal example. Metaphorical examples I’ll keep to myself. I’m pretty sure the most remote gas-station has more occupants in its washrooms than any washroom at Intercity mall. The washroom is probably the only line-up Ignace ever experiences – outside of maybe some of its fishing holes. A bitter observation made by one with full bladder. So yeah, I’m pretty much in love with the North-west. <- Said in a Jess Hanson style. Done and done. I cannot wait for my next road-trip adventure. |
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So my Boss, who shall be known as "B" got me back for getting placenta-projectiles in his hair earlier this month.
At the end of the day I opened my locker and extracted my jogger to find a fresh, bleeding and oozing placenta hiding underneath.
"HA! You've been placenta-ed!!" My boss exclaims and then takes a snapshot with his phone-camera (I hope to post that soon).
I make a comment about getting him back.
"I hope things stop giving birth - placenta pranks are harder when there is less ammunition available." Agreed.
Anyways, not one to let a good placenta go to waste ....
... let's just say Zach will have a surprise tommorrow morning. |
| » The death of kings. The birth of legends. |
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I saw a tree fall down today. There’s something so incredibly majestic and tragic about it. It’s so slow and gradual – mixed with equal parts grace and ferocity; namely the ferocity when it finally hits the ground. As I watched the tree fall today, I saw a ruler, who had ruled that section of the forest for years and years, and finally from forces outside his control, he must give up the crown. The crown being the sky, which his head, shoulders, and limbs have been framing for years. He accepts his deposition with pride and calm; he would not want the younger generations of trees to watch him as he paws at them, begging for a purchase, for leverage, trying to defy the gravity which is tugging on it, whispering to him that his regime is finished. His last words are ones of gentle defiance – mixed with sadness, not for him, but for those he has overseen for several dozen years. He was much like a father figure to them he figures, and he wants them to remain strong and to continue, as they all turn and watch him slowly hit the ground. Mostly he just wants them to remember. However, death is never beautiful and the final seconds of the tree’s life is defined by a mighty clatter as he lands on the ground, sending small wildlife fleeing to the four-corners of the woods, shouting “the king is dead, long live the king.”
The tree is dead; long live the tree.
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In other news:
Wayne Rooney! 7 goals in 6 games! Two last minute goals to save Manchester United against first AC Milan, and then Everton. What a game against Everton - down 2-0 at half-time, and the Premiership crown looks like its slowly escaping its grasp, and gaining a distinctive shade of Stamford Ridge Blue. But then low and behold, what a comeback, with the decisive goal being scored by ol' Everton boy himself, Wayne ROOOOOONEY. Ha ha. And then to put salt in it, fetus, Chris Eagles on his first ever game in the Premiership for Man United, hits home a beauty of a goal!!! There's only one United! There's only one United! The Treble is still on boys, the Treble is still on!
Apr. 29th, 2007 @ 03:10 pm
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| » The Burdan of Being North American |
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I’ve always thought of myself as being a rather generous neighbour, and a fair landlord. Doing unto others, without others always doing unto me. In fact, I’ve always felt rather underappreciated. I’ve shown ample patience, I even let them be late with the rent. In fact, I like to imagine myself being somewhat of a gentleman, or how do you say it – a humanitarian? Yes, once a year, I’ll don some of my older threads and walkabout their abodes, perhaps stop for a picture or two. I have several hanging on my wall; they are really quite the hoot for the ol’ Christmas newsletter, let me say! In fact, my generosity to these souls does not stop there – nay, I’ve even provided them with work, when they were lacking! Just to think of those wretched souls scratching in the clay with their measly tools, what when they can work in my wide, expansive gardens. Chasing mangy starving animals, when my own stock is fairly bursting with good health. I’ve done them all a favor. Haven’t I? Then why do they stare at me like a thief, like the very disease which seems to spread among them? I have clothed them, I have fed them. Without me they would be hungry, naked, and playing in the dirt. Honestly, whatever happened to a person’s sense of right and wrong? When one is presented with a gift, it is rather quite customary to repay in kindness – is it not? Then why am I viewed as such a monster when I ask them to part with the produce of the gardens that I have provided for them! Oh, how they gripe, and wring their hands, and wail and gnash their misaligned teeth at me. Without those gardens, how else would they survive? I do not see them walking around with their satchels bursting with dollars!! They have homes do they not? They have money for food? Do not bite the hands which feeds you, ungrateful curs! What you once let waste, I have let thrive – making a name for you, my friends and neighbours! I have turned a blind eye to your past apathy and rewarded you with the golden gift of progress. I am your neighbour. I am your friend. I brought you out of the wilderness, and now will you not repay my kindness with but one favor? Your labour. Is that really too much to ask?
Apr. 29th, 2007 @ 03:09 pm
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| » Abduction by Facebook. |
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... or something like that. I haven't posted a peep out of me in almost 6 weeks.
I could make a fairly lengthy entry re-capping those six weeks, but I figure those who care, probably already heard it from me first hand.
Regardless, here are some highlights:
- I bought a car - Catherine II. Pontiac Sunfire, candy-apple red. Oh yeah!
- I burnt down a friend's shed - with their help and consent. It was an OH-YEAH fire; I'm pretty sure we added to Al Gore's gripe, what with all the siding and shingles we burnt. Molotov cocktails is now the Connie Depp approved manner of starting infernos.
- Soccer. Man United is running for the Treble; Chelsea is running for the same Treble. Could be an intense last 5 weeks of soccer. There's at least one Premiership team guaranteed to be in Champs' League Final - nice. Ronanldo has been a joy to watch; Rooney has started to earn his money again. The second-place hero star should go to Vidic this year - what an awesome defensive effort.
- I applied to Camp Quality to volunteer this summer for a week - I really rather hope I get in. I've met two of the head-honchos while volunteering at Pieds; I even played 'Dr. Robutnick's Mean Bean Machine' with one. Could be an awesme experience!
- Finished exams - and am happy with what I achieved academically this year. Now I just have to finish that thesis of mine. Oh yes, that. Total pages writ: 0.
That's pretty much it.
I volunteered in Pieds today - it was it's usual awesome. Bowling with firetrucks, using Mr. Potato Head cards as action figures, eating imaginary Soup-Sandwiches (??), having a 'Pupperoni Pit-sa' by the same kid.
"Hey mom - I like this guy!" - Some kid, aged 4, in reference to me.
Tee hee. That's me being a dork.
Apr. 19th, 2007 @ 02:32 pm
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| » Snowed In. |
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I wish I had recorded my drive home today. I should have been able to submit it for not only the G-license, but a G+ license, should one become available. Wow. I've driven in slush, on a skating rink, and in a small-scale tsunami... this was my first true white-out.
Most of you probably did not experience the full joys of it, living so close to the lake and all. The further you got from town, the more intense the snow was. It was a white-out almost by Kakabeka (halfway to my house) and progressively got worse, there was a couple inches or more of blowing snow on the road at all times, and any deviations from a straight-line were not going to happen.
Here's the kicker. I get to my side-road and the MTO snow-plow is broken down on it. Yeah, there was that much snow. So I had to park my car and walk home, in snow up to my knees! 1 km, uphill the whole time!
Here's some added dialogue for your amusement:
MTO guy: "Just so you know, I saw a wolf earlier. He walked right up to my plow. He looked hungry. Are you still interested in walking on your own?"
Me: "If you see my body in the ditch - tell my parents I love them."
By the way, a tree cracking under the added weight of a ton of snow sounds suspiciously like the snarling of a rabid, mutant werewolf. Just in case you were curious.
Mar. 2nd, 2007 @ 07:17 am
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| » There’s no use giving morphine to those already dead |
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Overcome by an inexpiable thirst for literary consumerism, I found myself at the local Chapters store. After an excessively fruitful search, I was standing around in the lineup, debating how I will justify my purchases to myself, when two young girls (of the Valley-hyphen variety) came up and stood behind me in line. What caught my eye was the tome that one of these mascara-clad teenies was carrying – Catch-22. My eyebrows immediately furrowed, and I blatantly eavesdropped on their conversation (a generation not unaccustomed to eavesdropping, seeing as how the majority of their lives is spent on cellular phones, informing the world around them of ‘who’ was doing ‘what’ with ‘whom’). “So, I totally can’t wait to read this book.” “Why?” “So I can say that I read Catch-22.” Only the thought of a rap-sheet kept me from beating her with the tome she was already disgracing. What kind of attitude is this for immersing one’s self in any form of literature – or culture – much less one of the greatest works of literature yet attributed to mortal man (and I’ve had at least one individual grudgingly admit that Catch-22 could be listed alongside the Bible)? Perhaps, I should give her a chance – let the truth of the book sneak up on her, when she’s home alone. But no … how did this book of Truth suddenly become but a mere status-point in some teeny-boppers little Read-a-thon. I wanted to shake her. Tell her that she doesn’t know what she’s getting herself into. Doesn’t deserve to know. At the same time I almost felt it was my duty to prepare her. To tell her what it means to lie prone on a linoleum floor, staring up, and up, at house flies dying from the cold, and feeling like you’re watching a stream of metaphors on your ceiling, in technicolour. The odd feeling of smiling and crying at the same time. Feeling like you’ve drank from the Alter of Knowledge, and something borne of it wants to crawl, scratch its way out of you – but you push it back into your belly, with all that’s left of your wits. I should tell her what if feels like to walk through a crowded room, and feel like all eyes are on your churning gut, with the truth just waiting to burst forth – but at the same time knowing that if you were to rip this beast from your innards and drape it around your shoulder, people would scarcely notice, if at all. It is the burden of understanding all to well – and wishing you could return to a time of blissful ignorance. It is not all pain. It’s the greatest pleasure there could be. Warm truth wraps itself around you like a lover, murmuring little messages into your ear coyly. You want to hoard it, stare at it, re-read it, and run around in the new knowledge you have absorbed, kicking your heels out wildly like a boy gamboling in some imaginary meadow. The first time Yossarian enters your mind, you feel like you’re the only person in the world. And you have the secret. Tee hee, you have a secret! And it’s warm and fuzzy. Not like a sweater – like having your own coat, made out of everything that has ever kept you safe and secure. But I didn’t. I just paid for my books and left. I shot one last glance. There’s no use giving morphine to those already dead. In my car, I sat in silence for a few minutes. I look around at people running to and from with the neutral glance that Western society has so come to cherish. Yup, Yossarian still lives. But I’m afraid for him.
Feb. 13th, 2007 @ 08:48 pm
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| » ... I think i'm floating in the last dreams of lost, little children. |
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I. Float on. I use my hope like an anchor; To peep below the salivary surface Of dreams. Love, ladybugs. Dragons and democracy. Swirl around me, Long since drained from previous owners; Like the blood of pigs, Hanging from taut hamstrings. I thought I saw a reflection; Beneath the surface. I reached/grasped towards it, But it pushed me away. I float on. But it stood still. And then turned away. I have never felt so … Much like a hope/lie.  II. What if I am but A dream, In and of itself. I am drowning in a sea Of me. Is this what it feels like to be a snowflake? III. What horrible Diabolical child Dreamed of me?
Feb. 1st, 2007 @ 10:32 pm
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| » (No Subject) |
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... i think it waswhen we were born,
that we fell asleep for the very first time...
... reality is simply an amalgamation of what we have come to fear the most in our dreams;
... because unlike in dreams, we really have no control.
... we can't tightly close our eyes, pinch ourselves, and project ourselves into an alternative mode of being.
... and so I really question whether we really can truly say to be 'in control' of our lives, when we
are but mere threads being blown along in some powerful wave.
... I really wish I could just stick out my arms, and tread water for a little bit.
... perhaps if I gained a little perspective,
gained a little time, maybe saw a few messages in a bottle float by...
... reading "This is a lie, there is no life, love, or belonging. Turn around. Close/open your eyes. Watch more television."
... I would have been able to struggle enough to just let myself slide underneath.
... no, I am not speaking of death.
... but the gift of ignorance.
... those who cannot feel the water, are the ones who float by me, smiles upon their faces.
... they are like children, who are set to float in water for the first time, and do not sink,
until they realize that they can.
... I wish to be a child again.
... for truly, a child is the only being which can dream in both worlds.
... to be able to take any stitch of reality and apply a bit of color and a smile to it.
... when did we lose it?
... I think this ability to channel our own reality, is like a spring inside of us,
... its plug pulled slowly, as our umbilicus is tied...
... slowly leaking away, as we grow in stature... leaking away...
... I think i'm floating in the last dreams of lost, little children.
... oh god, let me forget that image.
... but i can't even close my eyes anymore.
... somebody throw me a 'message in a bottle'.
... if you have any imagination left.
Jan. 31st, 2007 @ 07:07 pm
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| » Just 14 Games to Go.... |
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(this picture is screwing up... oh well; we'll call it post-modern art if it doesn't work)
Man United had the chance to put it away this weekend... but 6 points at the top is still quite good with 14 games left to go. And they have enough Goal Difference to count as having a 7th point... now they just have to win 12 of the next 14 games. Or hope Chelsea loses another one. Or ties three (which seems to be their thing lately).
Henrik Larsson - Celtic hero!! - playing for Man United... that's just awesome. 34 and he's still got it.
Go Liverpool! That was an awesome demolishment of the *former* Champions! They're really going to be kicking themselves for some of those foolish losses in October ... because they could easily have been contendors for the crown if not... Pennant ... finally, proving some worth. Not entirely convinced yet - but I'll take that goal! Luis Garcia should still be playing in that position more frequently...
I'm craving Champions' League action. One more month... I have a feeling its going to be either Lyon or Chelsea this year. As long as its not an Italian team (who shouldn't even be in the Champions' League because of the ruling placed on them......) or Barcelona, I'll be fairly happy.
Jan. 22nd, 2007 @ 10:45 pm
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| » The Cave. |
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Ever have one of those experiences, where you swear you've been living in Plato's Cave your whole life?
Where you've spent your whole existence convinced of some concept, or perhaps entirely clueless to the possibility of one, and then one day these walls of cluelessness are torn down by the wrecking ball of reality...
... and you can't even say 'I wasn't expecting that!' because that would have to require having some clue of expectation.
... not that all these discoveries are altogether unpleasant. Sometimes it just feels like you were taken out of t he Cave, before you had a chance to take one last glance, or perhaps even pack a proper towel.
And that just makes my head spin.
Jan. 22nd, 2007 @ 08:36 am
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| » The Colour of [Everything]. |
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[insert insightful lyrics here, perhaps pertaining to current state of mind, preferably with some allusions to billiards]
"It's not about the shot. It's about taking it." - Wise Old Pool Player.
Flashbacks to first year anyone? Nope?
Jan. 15th, 2007 @ 09:52 pm
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| » Here I am. |
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The big Catch 2-2 today.
Did a lot of changing since the big 2-1; most of this has been covered in my 2006 in Review post.
In one year I hope to:
- Be nervously awaiting an interview at NOMS.
- Be relatively healthy.
- Think back to another sexy year of concerts and perhaps even a road-trip.
- Check the Premiership tables to see that Man United is going for a second CONSECUTIVE title.
- Be just as happy as I am now.
Anyways, just because its my birthday doesn't mean I can take a day off! I'm off to volunteer in Pediatrics!
- CONNIE DEPP.
Jan. 8th, 2007 @ 08:19 am
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| » Let This Be Resolutioned.... |
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Five Resolutions for the New Year
5. Remember to take a break every now and again. AND breaks don't mean volunteering, or helping around the house, or reading ahead. They mean, sitting down and doing nothing. Or watching television. But mostly it means taking the time to watch lots of soccer. Or to rock out in the barn.*
4. Be less arrogant - it's not who I am, it was something I was made.**
3. On the opposite note - don't be a push-over, Connie Depp! You can get 2000 lb. horses to do anything you want - don't be afraid to take the reins time and again.
2. Read more - this year was an all-time-low for reading... I think I read less than 12 novels all year long. I'm usually in the 30+ range, even in university.
1. Keep the dream alive --- I have my goals; I know my goals. I will succeed with those goals... or, well... we'll think of that later.
Sincerely,
CONNIE DEPP.
*But not actually work.
** And I'd explain it to half of you, if you gave me one-quarter of the time I deserve.
Jan. 3rd, 2007 @ 01:28 am
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| » The Storm is Coming. |
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Jan. 3rd, 2007 @ 01:08 am
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