K is for Kalashnikov

There is someone in Ansan you must meet. His name is Vlad* and he works for the KGB.

Stats: 20ish years old,

Ukie/Russian expat,

can’t speak a lick of English and even less Korean

shoots BB pellets into his mouth.

Based on the fact that he can’t speak English it is highly unlikely that even the sketchiest hagwon would hire him as an ESL teacher. If you’re white in Korea and not teaching English there’s little else you could be doing so what exactly had brought our little Vladinski to Korea?

Being the astute investigators that we are we had our suspicions. He was either,

a) a prostitute (generally Russians in Korea are either mail order brides or prostitutes) or;

b) a gun runner.

He was certainly pretty enough to be a gigolo but his affinity towards shooting himself in the mouth had us leaning towards the latter.

Now if you were to ask Vlad what he’s doing in Ansan you might get one of these answers:

He is making a film about life. A documentary? Uh…yes.

He is going to school here. Really? What are you studying? Uh…yes.

He works at a factory making satellites. Spy** satellites? Uh…hahah…

He is a paid killer. You mean an assassin? EXACTLY. (insert maniacal laughter)

On most days Vlad will gladly admit he’s an assassin and he’s always happy to discuss (read mime) the superiority of M16s over kalashnikovs however, if you straight up say that he’s with the KGB he will deny it – thusly:

“I no kageb. Mwha ha ha.”

With such a convincing objection from such a charming, handsome young man most people would be inclined to believe him.

“Sure Vlad whatever you say. You’re here to build satellites.”

“Exactly.”

However, whether you believe him or not, never try to take his picture. If you do you may have the following conversation,

“No! no me picture! You- me picture I go Russia, Russia kill.”

“Come on Vlad what’s one picture?”

“You –me picture, I kill you.”

At this point I suggest putting your camera away.

* his name has been changed for his protection***

** note that for someone who knows all of 10 English words the fact that he knows “spy” is a little suspicious.

***just in case he really is a KGB operative

hello motto

Koreans of all ages will use the presence of a foreigner to practice their English in what is affectionately referred to as Konglish.

cab driver: *gesturing to face* miss korea - apple.

translation: you look like miss korea...something incomprehensible to do with an apple.

meat caller*: hallo wayguk. very delicious. something something. very delicious. something something. sale..something...soft. mmmmm, mashisoyo. two?

translation: hello foreigner, let me show you this horribly overpriced meat. it is very delicious. since you can't read the price I'll tell you it's on sale and charge you what will effectively be half of your paycheque. but don't worry you can dry your tears in the kleenxy softness of what will be the only meat you will eat for the year. but it sure is delicious, mmmm. two pieces then?

couple of random korean kindergarteners: hello!
toac: hello! annyong!
kids: hello motto!

translation: hello motto!

who says you don't learn anything from TV?



* actual job title unknown but they hang out in the meat section of grocery stores cajoling people to buy over priced meat over the loudspeaker

who needs Valium?

Monday, June 2

Korea, aside from a scattering of foreign teachers, is a largely homogenous country. Although people are becoming more accustomed to the presence of foreigners any new foreigner in town will draw their fair share of attention.

My city has a little over 40 foreign teachers 3 ½ of which (not including myself) are not white. I was shipped in special order to add some flavour to my school which is full, for most part, of middle class, middle American, mid- twenty somethings who fall towards the middle of the pink-off- pink spectrum.

Considering the kids only exposure to coloured folk is through the NBA and the occasional Jackie Chan- Chris Tucker movie there were, understandably, a few concerns as to how the kids would react to my presence at the school.

The National Guard was at the ready. Our riot gear was buffed to a shine. A round of Soju to steady the nerves. We were ready for every contingency, it was time to introduce the kids to “Toac teacher”.

Bring it on!

It ended up being a strange combination of counter intuitive reactions. On the one hand I have a stimulating effect on timid kids, while serving as an immobilizing sedative on hyperactive kids.

Let's examine the evidence.

experiments in social psychology

Case study #1: Lucy

upon exposure to the confederate participant* 1 became so stimulated that she began to scream, resulting in the arousal of all canine life within a 50 km radius. Note that this screech, though induced by a pleasant surprise, could rival that of Newfoundland's.

Case study #2: Valerie

This particular participant is known for boisterous and uncontrollable outbursts, however for the entire duration of the experiment subject** 2 sat in her seat (which coincidentally was directly beside the confederate's) in a semi catatonic state. Continued exposure to the confederate was met with complete paralysis of all motor functions and the loss of the ability to speak.

Results
Despite all mesaures being taken to induce the desired reaction none of the subjects wet their pants -although they sure as hell were close to it

Discussion

Further research needs to be done in the field of child psychological trauma and Asian homogeneity. if the pharmaceutical industry could bottle the terrorizing effects of having your monocultural understanding of the world obliterated in a matter of moments they would make a fortune.

shoot!

* note the term "participant" is used very loosely as said participants were not volunteers and had no choice in the matter. Mind not reporting us?

** for the sake of scientific accuracy the more accurate term "subject" will be used, which is apt considering we subjected them to serious psychological trauma

a midget walks into a bar...

and picks a fight with a dark skinned foreigner*.

Setting: Ansan-si
Characters: toac and pocket sized ninja midget

Day 1 1/2

I was walking around the neighbourhood trying to get my bearings - find a grocery store, memorable landmarks, etc.- when i happen upon a korean dwarf.
Normally i don't find dwarfs particularly stare worthy**, but these are not normal circumstances. Normally i am not stare worthy either.

She notices me standing on the corner looking obscenely foreign.
She looks.
I look.
She looks again.
I arch a brow.
She stares unabashedly.
I lunge across the street and stuff her into a garbage bin.
The riot police are called.
I start an international incident that calls for parliamentary intervention.


Snapping out of my daydream i find she's still staring , and to my surprise so am I. This calls for decisive action.
I quickly scan the surrounding area for available garbage bins.
She looks for a means of escape.
I smile a wickedly foreign smile...
and walk away.

International incident averted.

There's never a garbage bin around when you need one.


* I'll admit the synopsis was a bit stretched, but not by much.

today's special

what is a short brown girl doing in korea?
teaching english of course.
what is a strange Kiwi dressed as an obscene Rasta doing in korea?
scaring the heck out of the locals and heading to a flat crawl of course.

As it turns out, the numerous mistakes and misunderstandings involved in planning this odyssey have worked entirely in my favour.

Having landed a day earlier than initially expected what at first seemed like a disaster turned out to be a blessing in disguise. I had made it just in time to partake in the monthly gathering of foreign teachers - Ansan edition.

now back to the rastafied Kiwi.

As it turns out, cross-cultural-cross-dressing is very popular in areas where apartments are referred to as flats. You can tell by the use of term flats that these people in question are not entirely all together. Add alcohol and impunity from the law to this ragtag bunch and you have a recipe for disaster.

Recipe for disaster:
prep time 6 hours, serves 30-40

5 different apartments buildings
5 rooms repping 5 different cultural themes
30-40 esl teachers
use whatever you have on hand. if the pH balance is off add a squirt of lemon and a dash of tequila.
344 angry tenants
6 gallons of soju
2 pounds of fruit floating in a bucket of something corrosive.
4 pellet guns
1 russian bride (1/2 true)
1 ukranian gun runner ( i'm sure this is true)
1 kiwi-rasta with a giant...

mix well
let marinate (the longer the better)
preheat oven to 350 F
continue basting at regular intervals
serve immediately once half baked.

Korea Sparkling

They heard that he was coming and prepared themselves accordingly...



I would never deign to compare myself with THE bridegroom but someone must have known i was coming.

Exhausted from a long and arduous journey my main concern was to make it out of the baggage claim with both my luggage and sanity intact but all of my concerns and preoccupations were quickly swept away. Immediately upon stepping onto Korean soil I was taken aback with the hospitality that IS Korea.

Greeted with the kind of fanfare normally reserved for dignitaries and buxom young pop stars, I was welcomed at the airport by a brigade of ajummas waving a placard bejeweled with the finest gems Asia has to offer.
With a garland of hand strung flowers atop my head i was escorted outside to the caravan waiting to carry me "home". Surrounded by the sent of orchids flown in from afar and elephants shipped in from afarther, the air was heavy with expectations.
Travelling down the highway on our hour long trek from Incheon to what would be my new home for the coming year our procession was a spectacle to behold. Trumpets ablazing, flags awaving these Koreans sure know how to make gal feel welcome.

Nothing less than pomp and circumstance for my welcoming.

However, all of this would pale in comparison to the spectacle I was about to see...


* the author of this piece has taken a few artistic liberties in the retelling of this tale.

hippies, commies and junkies - oh my!

Vancouver British Colombia, known as much for granola munching commies as for drugs and homelessness. These two concepts usually produce images that are, for the most part, mutually exclusive. Usually.

Typically when approached by a homeless person they want one of four things:

1) money

2) food

3) smokes

4) money

Typically when they want money they’ll tell you it’s for food.

Typically when they ask for money I buy them food.

Typically when you buy them food they’ll still ask you for money.

At this point I typically walk away.

Setting: the infamously ghetto East Hastings

Main characters: Toac, Green Mango, Mike the atypical homeless guy

MAHG: excuse me could you guys help me out?

First of all that is such a loaded question, if I’m walking down the street in a leather jacket, slurping an icecap swinging a bag of overpriced souvenirs I can most certainly help you out. If I say no it’s not cause I can’t help you out, it’s because I’m a prick.

MAHG: could you buy me some food to last me a couple of days? Some bread and peanut butter maybe or some raisin bran? They’re my favourite.

What the heck? What’s a couple of bucks? At least I know where it’ll be going.

So off we go to the nearest convenience store with his shopping cart trundling along and a self righteous spring in our step.

But who says self righteousness comes cheap?

What will we be having today sir?

- Dempster’s grade A Canadian whole wheat bread

- Strawberry ensure “for the vitamins”. of course.

- A family pack of Raisin Bran

- 2% milk

“You have a pretty good diet, except for the lack of fruits and vegetables...”

Right!

- however many bananas

- oranges

“what about the peanut butter?”

Right!

- Adam’s all natural overpriced peanut butter. “I prefer the natural kind”. of course.

Snap. In Vancouver even the homeless are granola munching, organic snob commies.

Reasons to keep your psych degree a secret:

1) people will always ask/wonder if you are analysing them.

2) people will ask you to analyse their *whomever*, whom you have never met.
for example:

lady: hey, since I have you here do you mind answering a question for me?

You: uh…no. shoot.

Lady: my ex-boyfriend has some serious mental problems, I think he has NPD or maybe ADD. What do you think?

You: I don’t know your boyfriend so I can’t say. Even if I did know him I’m not a licensed practitioner I’m not qualified to make any kind of diagnoses.

Lady: but you do have a psych degree don’t you?

You: yes…but it’s just a BA that doesn’t really mean much.

Lady: I think I must have an inborn psych degree.

You: even if you did, if it was just a BA it wouldn’t mean much.

Lady: but really, he has so many issues. I don’t think he knows how to love. Like seriously, he is incapable of loving and I was looking online and that is totally how they describe someone with NPD.

You: NPD eh?

Lady: you know, Narcissistic Personality Disorder.

You: Yes, I know what it means.

Lady: Then you know what I’m talking about.

You: Honestly Lady, I have no idea what you’re talking about.

Lady: Well, I’m sure he has NPD and maybe ADD. I’m not really sure what that is…but I’m sure he has it. And you know those defence mechanisms people use? Well he’s totally a projector.

You: is that so?

Lady: Totally. He was always projecting things on me.

You (to self): to bad it wasn’t a very heavy object, ‘cause then I wouldn’t be having this conversation.

Lady: Yeah, and whenever he talks to his sister he always asks her if she’s talked to “her” parents. Why does he do that? I think it’s because of the fact that he can’t love. His kids were always telling me that he was incapable of loving. That’s why I left him…that and because he was violent. He always used to throw things. He was always breaking my stuff. When I left him he tailgated me the entire time I was driving down the highway until I got to my friends house then he stood outside yelling at me to come back for an hour. I think that’s because he has ADD

You: yeah…I wouldn’t blame that on attention deficit disorder. Don’t get excited by the terminology but that behaviour is more characteristic of someone with an anti-social or even psychopathic personality…but since I’ve never met him this is based on your very biased observations.

Lady: Psychopathic..? yeah that sounds right.

You (to self): if I had a bio degree I’d diagnose you as clinically deaf.

Lady: My boss has NPD too. I swear she is totally borderline…and she’s a Jew!...

This was a real (abridged) conversation I had with a neighbour it continued for another 20 minutes wherein she proceeded to diagnose every other person in her life. Too bad she didn’t take the time to diagnose herself in the process.

So if you have a psych degree I suggest keeping it to yourself for the sake of your own sanity.

IN RE: Stefan Soleanu 1984- 2008

Wet Night

a true story in several acts.

as all stories go, this one begins with a boy and a girl.
as most stories go this one begins with a boy trying to impress a girl.
unfortunately as life usually goes things did not happen as they are planned.

Act 1
[enter our protagonists: boy, milo and toac]

perhaps it was a sign of things to come but from the beginning things did not happen as planned. the boy was supposed to bring a friend along to make things a little less triangulated but that fell through so with their very conspicuous third wheel milo, the boy and their chaperon set off on what turns out to be a very eventful night.

with a slightly awkward threesome options for the evening were limited so with no real plan for the evening they head to cafe mirage at Kennedy Commons.
[also note that cafe mirage is in the same plaza where milo and toac were last in a car - things did not go well. was it also a sign? perhaps.]

after what seems (to the waitress) to be hours and several failed attempts to order things not on the menu they finally order and slip into casual conversation.
the food is... fine.
conversation is...fine.
everything is...fine.
but overall things are going well. average dinner talk. nothing of note. then things start to spill-literally.

it starts with the salsa. it didn't even make it to the table but it's really no big deal no one really needs that much salsa anyways.

"i'll have a coffee." he says "i hate coffee".
what? then why did you order it?
"i hate it because i don't actually like it and still have to buy it."
do you see the logic in that? no? well that's how the conversation pretty much went for the night.
luckily for him he didn't actually have to drink it,
SPILL #2!
on the table, the floor...himself...
but he handles it with grace and wiping himself off he prompts toac to continue her story.

Very graceful.

but he's not the only one who has some food issues.

milo, in a selfless act, leaning across the table to rescue him from additional coffee drippage succeeds in her mission but sacrifices her girls to an unruly salad in the process.
but then again her girls pretty much get into (and out of) everything.
being ever the gentleman, the man of the hour offers to assist milo with the cleanup with some leftover nachos.
fortunately for her (and the nachos) no help was needed.

Act 2
perhaps trying to makeup lost ground at the end of the night he offers to foot the majority of the bill and hands the waitress his credit card- only to have it handed right back to him.
silly him! he forgot to activate the credit card (or so he says). that's okay - he has a backup (and i don't mean milo and toac).

now that the official plans for the evening are finished what's one to do? what's three to do when one has been embarrassed on a regular basis? what are three to do when there's a tsunami outside barring their escape from each other's company?
not that we really wanted to escape...really...

so what's one to do? tell stories and impart pearls of wisdom!

DID YOU KNOW THAT?
"gasoline is not flammable, it explodes."
oh really?
PLEASE CONSIDER THE FOLLOWING:
"there has to be a spark for it to ignite. you can't just drop a match and boom".
oh no?

apparently…

Act 3
finally the rain lets up. hallelujah!
but toac and milo don't want to go home just yet, it's too early and too dry to call it a night- but all of that will change.
the rain's lightened up just enough so that their hair can make a safe exit so they make a beeline for the door.

"where's the car?"
over there?
where?
isn't that it?
wait that's it
"here it is...don't touch the car!"
WHAT NOW?
his car alarm is malfunctioning. craaap.

"no don't touch it!"
why it's not going to explode?
not unless there's a spark.
(apparently)
turns out toac has a direct connection with the G-man.
cue the lightening! cue the thunder!
cue the cursing!
he's gotten the alarm situation worked out but dammit he left the lights on. dammit the battery is dead. DAMMIT!
oh wait i forgot, cue the torrential downpour...DAMMIT!

what do we do? where do we go? we're getting drenched? oh no!
thankfully the level headed milo suggests waiting in the car. smart girl.
so what does one do when one has absolutely no means of escape? make small talk of course.

what are we going to do?
alert the media?
smoke signals?
this is not the time to panic
cell phones?! huzzah.
he has plans with his friends- hopefully these friends will come to our rescue. no luck.
milo's friends? still no luck.
toac's friends? huzzah!

but what to do in the mean time? small talk again...DAMMIT!
what's left to discuss? we already know of his dislike for the words perhaps and suppose- they're a little too pretentious for his taste.
so talk turns to practical things, how is our knight in shinning armor going to give us a boost? we need to move the car.
but the car can't be moved with milo in it and being the cripple that she is she can't help push. what to do with her?
she offers to stand under the awning.
"the what?"
the awning...that thing sticking out over there...
protected by her pashmina.
"her what?"
you know...scarf.
"you and your big words!"
turns out he doesn't like the words pashmina and awning either.
milo then says "perhaps I'll go stand under the awning with my pashmina?"
"i suppose" toac concurs.
(funny? at least milo thought so)

but neither toac nor the boy are dressed for the occasion. what to do?
clothes swap!
unfortunately this is the one time milo is too small. try fitting a size nine foot into a size six boot. not impossible, but certainly not fun. try fitting a large Transylvanian man into a small ladies jacket - a lot more fun.
getting into one another's shoes is not the hard part, manouvering to get out of knee high boots in a two door sports car is the challenge. unfortunately (again) an Eagle Talon was not made to serve as a dressing room so accomplishing the clothes swap requires a considerable amount of flexibility and a certain level of dexterity normally only seen in young children and russian gymnasts.

Act 4
hark! what is this we hear? our noble hero has announced his arrival!
[enter noble hero]
but in order to save us he needs to find us first...
quick! someone get out of the car!
i can't get out!
you get out!
"wait! don't get out yet!!!"
stupid alarm! it is a fortune of sorts that causes the alarm to stop as the battery cuts out for once and for all.

what a night this has turned out to be.
with a quick hook up and an even quicker boost, followed by a hearty thanks from one and all, a few slaps on the back and a promise of beer our noble trio and shinning knight are on their way.

Act 5
now heading home much later than anticipated our incredible trio races down the street in an attempt to end the evening as soon as possible and hopefully avoid any other disasters only to be greeted by water works - to milo and toac's delight and his chagrin. all he needs now is a flooded transmission. But their new found luck is holding out.
they're almost home! but no sooner said, they're almost not as his confidence in his inner gps fails him.
aren't you supposed to turn down this street? ...dammit.
at least someone knows where milo lives (i'll give you a hint, it's not milo).

finally safe and sound a little wetter, a little wiser, a little worse for wear-
well, not really worse for wear, and not really wiser but yes, definitely wet- our protagonists have made it back to dailing gate.

Epilouge
sufficiently soggy they call it a night.
but all in all i have to admit
the misfortunes are what made it just right.

Hot Air

Don't come looking here to borrow
I've none here left to spare.
I can't get my mind around them-
My thoughts are all up in the air.

My mundane thoughts are asinine,
I prattle like a fool
The incoherent musings of a philosophic mule.

I search in vain to find them,
must i forfeit the joys of prose-
To drown 'neath gross ineptitude
as the pounding silence grows?

As russet patted choughs take flight and madly sweepe the sky
So too my frenzied thoughts and words away from me do fly.

Could I tie a piece of string to them so that they could not stray?
Could I hold them tightly in my palm so they could not get away?

I can't tell you how this makes me feel,
my pen just lies in wait
as I build a trap I can't describe
so my words cannot escape.

slut?

walking down the street late one night near dalhousie university with a girl friend a car full of boys drove by, obviously drunk and unaccustomed to anyone darker than a paper bag one of the boys leaned out of the car window and yelled,
"SLUT!!!"

now a more sensitive person could have interpreted the situation in several different ways:

- this was a sexist comment from a drunken chauvinistic pig
- this was racially motivated verbal attack from a drunken chauvinistic pig of a bigot
- this was a case of mistaken identity and there is some short brownish slut in halifax that has in someway bruised his boyish pride

i, on the other hand, was flattered a drunken idiot could actually tell that i was a girl.

considering how many times i have been mistaken for a boy
-in broad daylight
-by sober people
-in close range

it made my entire day.

Where have all the black people gone?

I look down streets and alleys,
and behind every closed door.
They aren't in any restaurants
can't find them in the stores.

I strain my ears to hear them
I strain my eyes to search,
but i don't see my brotha
their skin's all white as birch.

I know they must exist somewhere,
I can hear their pounding beats.
The rhythms of the motherland,
I hear hip-hop in the streets.

If only i could find someone to ask them where to go.
where can i find a negro - someone darker than the snow?

what happened to the nigga-men that paved these city streets?
were they erased from history by bigots dressed in sheets?

Did they sail off to Africa? Did the tall ships take them back?
cause of all the folks I've seen today not a single one was black.

when to my left i hear it,
a soft and lonesome cry.
it's not to me she's talking,
but i hear her question "why?"

"why after centuries have passed,
why after all these years,
why when i walk through my hometown
do people stop and leer?"

I see her in the corner
but somethings no quite right.
it seems as if she might be black,
but her skin is awfully white.

what happened to you sista?
was it the plague or pox
that washed out your chestnut skin and straightened out your locks?

"what happened to me sista?
are you as dumb as they?
nothing happened to me sista,
i was born this way.

what makes your skin so chocolate
is the same that makes mine light.
God put this colour on me
and He thinks i look alright.

If you're lookin' for some coloured folk
get your head out of the ground,
your so blinded by a colour scheme
you can't see what's all around.

what exactly are you looking for?
a place where you fit in?
a person's worth is in the heart
not painted on their skin.

people come in different shades,
red, white, yellow, black and brown
when we stop lookin' at colour
only then can love abound."

I search through all the faces
my quest now seems absurd.
Was this the voice of reason
or the voice of God I heard?

I still wonder where the black folk are
'cause I know they must be here.
How can a race of people just up and disappear?

But it doesn't really matter if I can't find my kin,
why pledge allegiance to a group based on the colour of one's skin

where're you from?

since my people came here many years have gone and come
but when i walk through my home town people ask me where i'm from.
"Canada" i answer is where i'm born and raised
But ignorance is what these fools will carry to their graves.

'But really man, where are you from?
what strange foods do you eat?'
'Your face, it doesn't look like mine.
What language do you speak?'

i enunciate and say it slow, "i am Canadian".
But they can never understand so they just smile and grin.
They ask me in another way, "Where were your parents born?"
But the only answer i can give brings ridicule and scorn.
'my family is Canadian' i firmly answer back.
"That can't be true you foolish girl, your skin is clearly black."

So i turn the tables on them, I ask them where they're from.
"Newfoundland," they tell me "tried and true Canadians".
I ask them of their parents,
"Newfie bloodlines through and through".
Their voices proud as if to say, "i'm more Canadian than you".

They think their family's history surpasses that of mine,
but Newfoundland joined Canada in 1949.
"My family came on tall TALL ships, sales blowing in the wind
stolen, bruised and bloodied for the colour of their skin."
Their blue eyes lock they share a smile I"ve seen many times before
They think i should be humble downcast eyes upon the floor.

Cause no matter what i tell them, there's nothing i can say,
To them i'm just a visitor who'll go "home" someday.
There is no use in fighting. Why bother to implore?
so i take my pride and chocolate skin and calmly leave the store.

"how sweet," they say behind my back,
"she wants to be like us."
"we're open minded people,
let her sit where she wants on the bus."
___________________

this is in no way meant to insult or otherwise "pick on" newfies. it just so happen that they were the last province to join confederation.

waxing poetic

I have no questions left to ask
no answers have i heard.
i flip the pages blindly
but i'm looking for a Word

No direction and no calling,
i sit still and wait.
in search of signs from heaven
for You must know my fate.

The world around is silent
so i close my eyes and pray
i hear no quiet voice,
will i ever find my way?

Though patience must be practiced
doubt is lurking in my mind,
what am i chasing after?
will i reach the finish line?

Still no answers to my questions.
i'm still sitting in the cold.
the world around still silent,
the future still untold.

As i stand to leave and join the rest lost within the crowd...
i see our blurred reflection in a puddle on the ground.

foresight is blind

this week in herstory:

i lost all the dignity i had struggled so hard to preserve in quebec.

no matter how good one's intentions are,
when one is so small
and with such little will power
there is not much one can do but to join a nunnery...

and to stay as far as hell away from the states as possible.

for all their roads are bad roads,

none of which lead to redemption

on limits

i am no longer stressing out of my mind.
feel free to bother me as you will.

but don't expect a christmas present.


**all aforementioned offers of friendliness and chummy comradorary are dependent on a continued baseline level of stress inducing events.
all potential and suggested get-togethers are subject to the laws and statutes of the land and are subject to change without further/future/any notice.
all offers are conditional and are only valid until january
cause after that it all starts again and i have a feeling i'm gonna be even more crotchety than i was before.

the mints are on the house.

dear people who are bothering me,

i have exams and papers out the wazoo and i would appreciate it if you left me alone.

if you haven't noticed, i am "off limits 'til decemeber" and "too busy for you".
i am not being coy.
i am serious.
i'd advise you to get off my back.
i am very small, alors there is not enough room on it for all of you.

if you "geesh" me one more time i WILL put milk in your tea.
that is not a threat.


i will post when i am good and ready.
i will send you pictures when i have the time.
i cannot go to the movies.
i will only have coffee with you if bring it to me in the library.
DON'T EVEN ASK ME ABOUT CLUBBING.

friendly salutations are always welcome but if you keep nagging me i will hurt you.

thank you to everyone who has not bothered me in this time of stress.

however, if you are:
either in france or korea;
somewhere other than right here, or;
in need of some serious help
i will make time to talk to you if you need me
-just as long as you do not mention blogging, because then i will be forced to kill you too.

thank you for your time. have a nice day. please take a mint on your way out.

the. end.

finger painting [midnight thoughts.]

i'm feeling like an etch- a -sketch
the way your fingers move me.
twirling, spinning
twisted inside.

look at me. what do you see?
is it me you love
or something that you've made?
we've created something new.

pushing, pulling all the right buttons
you know how to turn me
on.

forever marked by the touch of your hands
until i am shaken
by your callous disregard
then everything is erased
forgotten
until you touch me again
gentle hands
drawing on me
drawing me in.

it's a new day - meet me at the boat house

august 2006

tired and unable to move after my oceanic adventure i while away the morning lying in bed dreaming of soft hands and blue tinted lips, but like every other day in vancity this day brings excitement and thrills.

meet me at the boat house.

plunging into the frigid waters of the pacific i flail frantically trying to grap hold of the tether, but the frozen waters have short circuited my inner wiring-
no longer communicating with my brain i do not have the muscle control to pull myself onto the raft. Finally with my last ounce of energy and three sisterly hands i am half dragged onto my unsteady perch.

whipping behind the speed boat i fake compliance. there is no way i am going to willingly put my body into these galacial waters again.

"put your legs in the water!"
"i have short legs ya' know" i holler back holding on for dear life as the raft is jerked to and fro-
skidding behind the boat i feel like a man possessed, clinging to the frail edge of my crumbling sanity.

deliberately pulled into the wake of the boat i am airborne.
exhilarated i am in flight.
a short lived metamorphosis i soar not on eagles wings but like frisson l'écureuil before it crashes dans un buisson.

i swim to the dock forgetting that i cannot feel my legs, nor my arms for that matter. i am so cold my skin has turned bright red;
but it doesn't matter, for a brief moment i feel alive.

Post post - our secret rendez-vous

August 26 2006

Here i am on the sunshine coast in BC.
it is more than just sublime.
my family and i are staying in the 14 room "guest house" on the Rolston estate - a stone's throw away from their mansion it is a beautiful retreat in the middle of an already wonderful vaction.
i have spent the past few days strolling, canoeing, playing with purple starfish and basking in the quiet sanctuary of both nature and man made luxuries.

having spent the afternoon on a tour of Pender harbour i had emptied my mind of all things urbane.
tonight as i floated down the pacific in my pink kayak drifting ever deeper into the gloaming i stared into the depths enchanted by the school of jellyfish gracefully dancing through the darkening waters.
counting the stars i was roused from quiet reflection by something extraordinary which had surfaced in the water beside me.
watching me intently it came ever closer, bobbing in and out of the frigid waters until it was within arms reach.

dumbstruck and amazed, hours later i am still marvelling at my fortune. How lucky am i to have shared the waters with such a beautiful and graceful creation.


i marvel at Your awesomeness.