Time (3)

As per usual, soft, classical music from CBC woke me up this morning. I look at the clock-radio, and it says 9:41 am. I look at my watch, and it says 9:35, though keep in mind that I always keep my watch five minutes ahead. Anyway, I was a bit confused, because I usually keep all of my other clocks at normal time and only set my watch ahead.

Regardless of the time situation, I get out of bed.

I walk down to the school about an hour earlier, so I can get some piano practise time in. I look at the clock between the large arches, and it is ten minutes ahead of real time.

Pff, the clocks at school are wrong again, I think without a second thought. Though I may have been overgeneralizing, I have encountered a few clocks at Bishop's that were a few minutes off.

After an hour of tickling the ivory, I get to my Deviance class at 1 pm, on the dot.
But, low and behold! The clock in my Deviance class is also ten minutes ahead! The professor has already started his lecture, and I tiptoe in as quietly as possible and get my notes out. Stupid wrong school clocks.

Once class has ended, I tell Andrea how I was late because the stupid clock in the classroom was ten minutes ahead. Because she doesn't carry a watch, Andrea didn't argue.
After running a few errands after class, Andrea and I found ourselves on the library couches, reading, and talking to Anna. I look up from my book at one point, thinking about returning a book, and I glance at the library clock. A few seconds later, I look at my watch out of habit: 3:23.

What?! This clock is also wrong? Why can't the school have any correct clocks?

It suddenly hits me. It's not all of the clocks that are wrong; it's my watch. Right? Frantically, I run over to Anna and read the time on her laptop over her shoulder. 15:33.

My watch is ten minutes behind.

Now, this is a huge deal for me, as I am extremely dependant on time, and my watch is the one that guides me through this time-filled/timeless life. I panic for a few seconds, but it is only for perhaps a split second that I am completely and utterly lost.

It was very unsettling.

That's when I started worrying about time, and how time is all an abstract concept, and how time is really not there, but things change anyway. My mind was jumbled up with thoughts and fears that Andrea really couldn't answer and make me feel better. Although she did answer questions I had about time's abstractness, she did not understand why I was so unnerved. It is strange how we panic over such things. Andrea feels really lost and confused about her faith which she feels is disappearing more and more each day. I have the same kind of fear for time. Once people start saying that there is no time, and it's always "now", well, then I panic. It's kind of like someone asking you what's outside the universe or how big it is. It's mind-boggling.

This happened on Thursday, and today is Monday. In case you were concerned, do not worry, for my fears have now been soothed. As long as I don't think about it, continue to be late, and look at my watch every thirteen nanoseconds, I'll feel fine.

A Fine Evening

I take a bite out of my banana, which unfortunately turns out to be a rotten bite. I am at Andrea and Paula's apartment. After running into the kitchen and being rather disgusting by spitting it back out into their garbage, Paula and Andrea start talking about Bridget Jones' diary. I come back into the livingroom and tell them I have not seen the second one. We should watch it, we say, yeah.

"Okay, let's go get it," says Andrea grabbing her coat. "We can even catch the 10:35 bus down. What time is it, Miranda?"

"It's 10:33!" I squeal. There is a mad dash for coats, mitts, hats, and wallets. We jump out the door, gleefully shrieking, locking the door when...

... a hagard, young-looking mother opens the apartment door, adjacent to theirs.

"Could you keep it down?" she says, a little annoyed, but mostly tired.

"Ooooh yes, sorry, we're sorry", we whisper through coat shuffling. I think we are loud far too often.

We sprint to the bus stop and make it just in time.

Paula chooses to go to the smaller video store, that is apparently cooler. Andrea pulls the door to open it; it won't budge.

"Oh no, it's locked!" she moans, "they must be closed." She pulls harder. It still won't open. The guy from inside is looking at her, with a smile. The "use other door" sign is flapping in the wind.

Paula lets her know. Andrea opens the other door. The three of us filter in very obtrusively. The guy is half-laughing at us; but what does he know, for he is watching a chick flick.

Within minutes, we find the movie. We go to the counter, and I pay. Since I don't have my bank in the area, I tend to go to stores and ask them for cash back. I attempt to do this here. Too bad I left my brain on the bus.

"Okay", says the jolly looking guy, "that'll be four twenty five."

I pull out a ten, and whilst sliding the bill to him, I ask him if I could have twenty dollars back in cash.

Umm, what?

His hand, that was reaching out to take my bill, is slightly pulled back. He looks at me, terribly confused.

"Okay, I'm paying for the movie, and I want to get twenty dollars back", I say to him, trying to explain, and motioning to him that he should take the bill.
He is utterly confused.

"Um, Miranda...", starts slowly Andrea,"you can't just ask him for twenty dollars."

"Well, I want money back, you know, some cash", I say, not understanding why everyone was so confused.

"Ohhh", said the guy, smiling again, yet finally understanding, "you want cashback."

"Yeah, exactly," I say.

"Oh, well, we don't do that", he says, raising one eyebrow but never stops on the smiling!

"Miranda", says Andrea slowly, "you can only get that if you pay with debit."

Oh, right. Never mind. I'll just pay for the movie and forget about the cashback. I shrug and pay with my ten. The guy is giggling at us. I don't understand why everyone was so confused.

Until after. Way after.

I gave him a ten dollar bill and asked for twenty dollars back, please? He must have thought that I was some kind of a raving lunatic. Didn't we make a fine impression: Andrea wrestling with the door, and I, the girl who tried to get a cashback of twenty dollars by paying for a movie with a ten. Booze or dope, he must have thought.

It is only when we step back into Andrea and Paula's appartment that I realize what happened. Paula said that it's okay, we all forget our brains sometimes. But they both laughed at me.

I moan about how that guy must think I'm all pumped up on drugs or something.

"Oh, that's okay", says Paula, waving it away, "it doesn't matter. Besides, every time I have gone into that movie store, it's always that guy, and he is always watching chick flicks. You can now make fun of him for that."

I don't know what's worse -- watching and enjoying The Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants or being on the top of my cloud with my green friend, Zohalasopzee, and my kazoo, and singing and dancing with mangos in our hair.

Time (2)

I have a confession to make: I have been having a sizzling affair.

My goodness Zaz, who is it?

It is none other than the slimy, clingy seductress, time.

I suppose you can say that I have a love/hate relationship with her. Sometimes I really hate living with her, but I honestly cannot live without her.

I think I have an unusual obsession with time. I cannot even count how many times I look at my watch during the day. Even if I am doing something fun, I still look at my watch at least a dozen times. It's not that I fear being late - in fact, it is quite the opposite - but I just like to see where the hands are pointing. Clocks with hands, rather, show us the time on the scale of twelve hours. It makes me feel a lot more oriented, and it gives me a point of reference.


As for digital clocks, they are less aesthetically pleasing than traditional clocks. Their only real purpose is to tell us the immediate time. What I do like about these kind of clocks is that you can see one number move to another. I find numbers are intriguing to look at; I like watching them change shape over and over again. They repeat the same pattern, but they never repeat the same pattern in time.

I have this fascination of numbers mixed in with a fear of numbers. As for my fear, when I was in Boston six years ago, I went to this museum where there was this counter that would count all of the people of the world. The number was quickly going up, like when you see the number of dollars rise at the gas pump fill when you fill your car. The number was growing at such a quick pace that I didn't even know that so many people could be born at once!

"But Mom", I sputtered, looking from the counter to her and back to the counter, "what about all the people dying?"

"Well, they've taken that into account," she replied.

What! Our population can't be climing this quickly! By the time I will have left this stupid museum, that stupid counter will have counted over a hundred, maybe even a thousand new borns!

Freaky. I was so scared of it, that I could not bear to look at the constantly changing numbers. That museum freaked me out because of that. Even when my brother brings it up now, I cringe.

As for my fascination with numbers... I suppose I also like the way the numbers move and change and always keep going forward. It's sometimes scary; you can't ever stop them. Time is one thing that cannot be altered, and I believe that it is the fact that it never stops and can never be changed that frightens me. Sure, there are several other things that are unaltered, like the weather for instance. Then again, in terms of the weather, you will always have summer, spring, fall, and winter again.
We will never again revisit June 16th, 1991 for instance. It's gone forever.

Okay, so what? Does that really matter?

Not really, but time is an interesting phenomenon to think of.

I have been told that I "live in the shackles of time". This may be a problem if I stressed over things like being late or making sure to get to bed at a specific time. I don't worry about that. In fact, I am constantly late because I hate being early. You know how some people are afraid to chase someone because they don't want to look desperate? Well, I am afraid that if I show up early to something, I will look desperate or pathetic in some way. Of course, flights are an exception to this.
And as for making sure I do something by a specific time? I am very loose with my time, pretty much doing what I want at any time I want, unless I have made a commitment. The thing I fear is wasting an entire day. Holy crap, I didn't do anything and it's 7 pm now! I hate that, and because I am conscious of time (and not anal about it), this never happens to me. I like to pace myself sometimes. Then again, some days, rare days though, are just lazy days.

I just love time, numbers, past, present, and future. Can that be unhealthy? Does time add stress? Isn't it a necessity?

One of my closest friends, Andrea, does not wear a watch. She says there are enough clocks around her to tell her what time it is. Although, she runs into the problem of "losing track of time" whereas I rarely don't. Does this mean she is living freer? Is she out of the shackles and the chains of my horrible mistress time?

I love her, but sometimes I feel chained.

It's 9:25 pm.

Petrol

Gas prices in the 70s! Hallelujah.

Yet, again, Lennoxville has to be a stick-in-the-mud with its stagnate gas price at 94.4.

Hybrids are a step up, even though I don't want to admit it when it comes to an SUV.

I have to stop obsessing about gas so much.

November Snow

I put on the hat Martina knitted for me, my leather gloves, my blue scarf, and wrapped by shin length coat around myself before heading outside. It was the coldest day since last winter.

I walked down the hill, enjoying the little snow that was beginning to fall from the sky. It was a chilly, but very crisp night. I reached the bottom of the hill and made my way to Conley Street. I could muffled sounds of a few parties going on in the houses by the railroad tracks. The streets were unusually bare, as there were few people outdoors on account of the cold.

I had been invited to a newspaper party, which was for all the people who had contributed to the Entertainment section. Since I had written a few articles, I was also invited.

I walked up Conley Street, and I noticed that the snow was thickening. I found 14-A Conley and was about to walk up the laneway when Woosh!

Something hit me. It felt as if my feet were being tickled and that my contact lenses had fallen out. Everything was blurry. When I regained my wits, I was completely out of it. I was no longer in Lennoxville's student housing area; I was on a narrow and winding country road. My vision slowly returned.

I stood on the barren country road, looking around for familiar landmarks. There were none. I decided not to worry about it, and I chose to enjoy the gorgeous night instead.

I looked up at the night sky, and I felt like I was being swallowed up in a black dome. The contrast of the stars and the falling snow with the utter blackness of the night was striking, and for awhile, I had forgotten that I was in this completely unknown area.

I tore my eyes away from the sky. I looked around: grassy hills, patches of forest, two houses in the distance, and a railroad track surrounded me. I shivered, realizing that it was still quite cold out. I stuck my gloved hands in my pockets and made my way to the railroad tracks. It was the only thing that was remotely familiar.

I started walking on the railroad tracks in an Eastern direction, though not very conscious of my new surroundings. I noticed that my feet were making more and more of an imprint into the snow when I walked. The tracks were getting a little slippery, but I walked slowly and carefully. The snow kept on thickening.

After a few minutes, I looked up. Everything was white; the hills, the trees, the tracks, even the air I breathed, it seemed. Thick flakes of snow were still falling; it was like a blizzard but without the wind.
It was impossibly still.
Not even a rustling of wind.

I smiled. This was a world better than standing or sitting in someone's cluttered and customarily brewery-smelling livingroom trying to spot out someone who is not plastered to oblivion and interested in something more than just small talk.
Even though University is meant to cultivate and educate minds, it sometimes appears as though some people choose to let their minds degenerate. It is not always easy to find people here who want to do more than just go to the bar and drink.

And that's why I am here. Nature soothes and invites. It is a perfect solace. The beauty of it is that even if millions of other people see nature's beauty, you feel alone in your findings because nature is so vast, yet so personal.

I felt light and uplifted, like someone had taken away half my body weight. I appreciate the delicacies of nature, the trees, the water, the snow, the rain, the sky, and the smells...

The smells...
This can make a feeling from the pit of my stomach well up inside and burst out in a eclectic mix of light, energy, and enthusiasm. Sometimes, the feeling is sad and hopeless; other times, it triggers thoughts, emotions, or past events.

Just like the time I was walking out of the Main Student building on a muggy, rainy day. The smokers tend to congegrate right outside the building. I remember walking out of the building and the smell of the smoke as well as the dampness of the rain hit me simultaneously.
I was brought back to the winter 2003-2004 that I spent in Poland. Poland's winters are always grey. I was reminded so intensely of the times that Vadym and Simon stood outside of the dilapidated town office in Stoszowice, smoking, and laughing, though never a very enthusiastic laugh.

I kept walking on the snowy tracks, making sure not to slip in between the wood. I looked up, and I saw a large, drooping willow to my left. I smiled and squinted at it, taking in its majestic curves. I breathed in quickly; the tree reminded me. I remembered...

Remembered...

...

What was that memory? Retrace your steps, or else you'll lose it!

I stepped backwards. Or, at least, I tried stepping backwards, but I realized that I couldn't. There was nothing to step back on. I lost balance.

I started to fall. Quietly.

Bam!

I hit my head on something hard and metal. I stood up, and my eyes were temporarily blurry again. I rubbed a growing bump on my head, whilst trying to realize where I was. There was light, and oh oh, low and behold; I was right in front of the grocery store! I was back.

My vision cleared up, and I could see that I had made it back into the town again. I looked around. I realized that I had hit my head on the lamp post that stood beside me. The bus stop was three feet to my right. The Hatley store stood across the street. Nothing had changed. I looked at myself.

My originally blue-coloured coat was white! I took off my gloves to touch my hair. Instead, my fingers felt about an inch of snow. I was entirely covered in snow!

I decided it was time to head home. I made my way to the bus stop and was fiddling with my wallet when,

"What a great night", Man number one says to me.

I look up and smile.

"Yes, it is; it's gorgeous."

Beat.

"Where are you off to?" I ask.

"I'm taking a walk to clear my head", replies Man number one.

Fair enough.

I watch him saunter away, as the bus pulls up.

Miranda!

Is it a male?

This is ... interesting.

Québec's shtick

"As Québécois', we are full of contradictions, but that's all part of our charm." - S. Fortier

Quoted and translated from my translation professor, commenting half-jokingly on Québec.

I don't think many people outside of Canada realize the strong separatist sentiments that exists in Québec, often a feeling of paranoia of being assimilated. And yes, I am using the word "paranoid" here. Although I am an Ontarian and am not a permanent resident of Québec -- school year only -- I am taking the liberty to comment on Québec. I am welcoming comments from you all, as usual.

Québec feels ostracized predominantly because of its language and the lingering effects of being beaten by the English. It is worthy to note as to how many of the other provinces in Canada also have distinct differences. What about Alberta? It is the province of money, of oil; the way of life is slightly different there as well as the way most of the residents think. You can't be a vegetarian, and you have to be slightly pigheaded. Albertans think a hell of a lot differently than us here. I even remember attending a Trade show in Peace River, Alberta; there was a table set up for the Separation Party of Alberta. After telling me a bit about themselves, they said if I were an Albertan resident, I could sign their petition for a referendum. I practically laughed in their faces.

And what about Nova Scotia and Newfoundland? It has its own culture and a very distinct culture at that. You can get really hokey accents coming from that area, as well as drinking traditions, a large fishing industries, and a lot of funny different sayings. Also, aren't people from the east coast said to be more laid-back?

Actually, it seems as though every province as its own identity... except for maybe Ontario. Sure, sure, it has its idiosyncrasies and its attractions. We have Niagara Falls, Toronto, the CN Tower, Algonquin Park, Parliament, etc ... Okay, so Ontario hosts Parliament in our nation's capital, Ottawa. That's pretty much what Ontario has going for it. Though it may be cool to say that you are a laid-back Newfie, who can drink like no other, no one is proclaiming far and wide that, "Yaa, check me out, for I am Ontarian!"

I think that Québec sees Ontario as the embodiement of Canada because of the fact that we have Parliament and that we are their next door neighbours. It also goes without saying that Québec also has a hate on for Alberta, but they seem to really like British Colombia. I do remember having a non-serious debate about BC and Québec separating from Canada and forming their own nation called "Quélombia", but that's another story.

This reminds me of my exchange program in which I lived in Alberta and Poland. Half-way through the Canadian phase during Canada World Youth, it was time to teach the Poles and Ukrainians about Québec. Our two Québécois', Vicky and Simon, taught the Europeans that Québec was somewhat different from the rest of Canada. They have different music, different comedians, different television shows, and different school system. They considered themselves Québecois over Canadian. They didn't know the national anthem, not even in French.

Songs were always a problem, though. I remember sitting around countless bonfires with my group, and we would always come to the discussion of what song to sing. The Europeans were always asking us to teach them a "traditional" or a well-known Canadian song. Us, the Canadians, could never find a song that all eight of us knew. All Anglophones would know a song, but then the Québeckers wouldn't. And then sometimes the Québécois' and Ontarians would know a song, and then the others wouldn't. And then there were the sad times when the Newfie and the Canadian-Colombian were alone in knowing their songs.

So, what was there to do? Learn a Polish song, of course. We learned "Jal Jal" at the beginning of the program and about halfway through, we learned a fun and upbeat Ukrainian song.

So, what did the Europeans think of this strange Québec phenomenon? My Ukrainian counterpart called it "disgusting". She said that it was really sad that Québec hardly related to Canada. We didn't have unity, we didn't have understanding; she saw this as fundamental rules for a country. How could people from the same country be so different and not even relate to the rest of the country, she asked me.
Later on, we had a talk about First Nations and about our wide variety of immigrants we welcome every year. It is very different when you come from a country of mainly only Poles and Ukrainians, in our case, and all you know about Canada's First Nations are their infamous Indians!

This reminds me of my acquaintance Hilary, whom I sit beside in translation class. She is from New Hampshire and does not know about the FLQ (Front Libération Québec), doesn't know who René Lévesque is, and certainly doesn't know about the strong separatist feeling. Even though our University is in Québec, Lennoxville is English, and if you contain yourself to the town and University's bubble, you can avoid a lot of the Québécois culture, the séparatistes, and even French itself.
Anyway, last class, we started talking about René Lévesque for some reason or another. As Hilary had learned her French in France, she really knew nothing about this. She was surprised, though. She didn't know that the separatist and sovereignist sentiments were so strong. She was surprised to hear of things, such as French being required by law to be written larger than English, that Québecois' often have biaseness towards English-Canadians, especially Ontarians, (I'm not saying the opposite doesn't exist), and that they seem to be concerned about small things, like street names, that may be inadvertently attacking their culture, history, and language.

For example...

Lennoxville has become part of the City of Sherbrooke. One of our main streets in Lennoxville, Queen Street, was deemed too English by the City of Sherbrooke, as it referred to the Queen of England that they feel they have no connection to (I am sure many of us do not connect with the monarchy either, but anyway). So, the City of Sherbrooke decided to plague us with some more Québec pride by naming the street, Rue René Lévesque. I don't think you can get any more Québec than that. For those who don't know, René Lévesque is the one who founded the Parti Québécois. Click here for more information about him.
Anyway, this idea was also eventually rejected. Since the Lennoxville area was settled mainly by Anglo-saxons, they decided that it would be silly to name it René Lévesque. So, now, they have decided to respect the "anglo-saxon" tradition, whatever it may be, and decided to re-name the street, "Queen Victoria" (said with a French accent, no less).

Funny? Interesting? Strange? I don't know. Québec has always done things a little different; sometimes just for the sake of being different, sometimes because of culture and tradition, other times just because they prefer to do things like that. As an outsider, what is my opinion? I think Québec has a right to have its language and culture respected, though I also think that Québec is sometimes too paranoid. A little paranoid about being "assimilated" and "taken over" by the English. I can see where they are coming from; hell, even my mother, when she was in her twenties, considered herself a sovereignist when she lived in Québec. The thing is -- let's get real here, people -- how on earth would Québec survive on its own? Would separating themselves from the rest of Canada create a medal-like barrier that would trace the borders of Québec to ensure that nothing English ever infiltrated the "nation" of Québec? That's impossible, seeing as how English is now a very dominant language. And what about Québec's economy? Any moron can see how this would be a most unwise decision; it would be pandemonium, and their population would drop.
Besides, the rest of Canada isn't trying to attack Québec, so tone down the whining and start working with us here. Don't get me wrong; I enjoy living in Québec; I love the French language, and I like their bike paths. It is just ridiculous that Canada, as a country, can't even decide whether or not we should build our nation or take it apart.

Then again, if Québec does manage to separate, I am packing my bags and moving into Tex's cheap (on account of the drop in property value), albeit beautiful, old, Victorian house by the river in Magog, Québec.

The Concert

Last Thursday night, I attended, as previously mentioned, the Coheed and Cambria concert in Montreal. Not counting Polish Idol or the Arrogant Worms, this was my first real concert. I am sure the other two concerts could be considered as real, but they were a lot more subdued. Then again, I did also see the Trews in an outdoor concert, but again, I felt disconnected from the band probably because it was outside, and there weren't seventy million people there.
Anyway, I digress.

Upon entering the Metropolis, my entire body and thought process seemed to have slowed down. Mouth agape, eyes wide, I tried to take in as much as I could. Alex had to push me along, to make sure that I got my ticket ripped by the dude and steered me into the concert hall.

After getting our coats checked, we made our way through the stools and tables, until we got to the floor. There was a screeching band on stage -- all they did was scream -- which I believe were the Blood Brothers. Though it wasn't too fun to hear them, the good thing about the band was that they were interesting to watch. They both had funny ways that they would twist their bodies when they sang. Also, they both wore girls' pants with a black studded belt. One of the singer's jeans were dangerously low, though I was told by Alex that he was expecting the jeans to be even lower.

Intense.

We stood on the stairs that went up to the balcony, so we could be close to the stage and see over people's heads. It was a perfect spot. Coheed and Cambria came on at around ten. Let's just say that it was an excellent show from start to finish. Not many bands are that tight and seemingly very well-rehearsed. I didn't really know how the band members looked like, so it was a neat surprise to see the main singer, Claudio, step on stage with a shiny, twelve-string guitar and a mass amount of hair. In my opinion, his hair was definitely an interesting part of the concert, as it seemed to be an entity in itself. His voice was near perfect, as it matched the voice in his CDs. This is a band definitely worth seeing, as they put on a great show.

It was also fun seeing the band with such a fan(boy), who, may I add, had to practically run to the bathroom before every new song because of the excitement.

Before and after the show, we commented on the "emo" style. For guys, it is tight girls' jeans, a black belt, a form-fitting t-shirt, a shaggy, swept hair style, and oftentimes black rimmed glasses. There is also something about the shoes, but as I rarely look at people's feet, I couldn't really tell you much about it. There were quite a few guys at the concert with the "emo" style. The look is a little dorky but can be cute if it works.
As for girls, I am not entirely clear on the whole look, but I know that it usually involves glasses and short, spiky hair.

The night ended delightfully with another visit to Martina's; we ate some brownies and then I had some 99 cents pizza. The drive home was uneventful, except that I cleaned out Alex's car.

Deathtrap

On Saturday night, I, along with an audience of others, had the occasion to attend the play Deathtrap: "A thriller in two acts", which my Dad directed.
It is a very sharp script, interesting characters, and the twists and turns are plentiful. The actors were great (two of them are professional), and the set was superb. Pictures are below.

A synopsis:

Sidney Bruhl is a successful writer of Broadway mystery plays who was at one time considered one of the best Broadway mystery writers. Unfortunately, Bruhl is now struggling to live up to his own reputation, suffering through a series of four consecutive flops. But then Bruhl comes upon the manuscript of a brilliant suspense drama written by unknown writer Clifford Anderson. Bruhl, desperate for a hit play, invites Clifford to come to see him, telling him that he is interested in collaborating with him on the play. Actually, Bruhl plans to murder Clifford and pass off Clifford's play as his own. What Bruhl doesn't know, however, is that Clifford has some surprise plot points of his own up his sleeve.

It was also made into a 1982 movie, starring Michael Caine and Christopher Reeve.

I think Alex was the one who pointed out to me that my brother's production, "The Hand" had made it on stage as a pretend past production of the once-famous Sydney Bruhl. I thought that was quite funny. My brother's amateur summer production made it on stage! For those of who don't know "The Hand", I suggest that you all get familiar with it. You can own your own copy on DVD today for five dollars, actually.

I had a bit of a chat with the young guy who played Clifford Anderson. As he graduated high school in 1998, and I started grade nine in 1999, we just missed each other. I remember thinking that he was so cool when I was about eleven years old. I saw him in 1996 in the play, Move Over Mrs. Markham by comedic playwright, Ray Cooney - the first play that my Dad directed. I remembered envying him because he was old enough to act with the adults, and I wasn't! Besides, it looked like so much fun.
Anyway, we were talking, and only after a good way into the conversation did he realize that Tony was indeed my Dad. He was telling me how much of a good time he had had working with him, as well as all of the actors.

Andrea, Alanna, and I, as well as probably Alex, were the giddiest when Sydney Bruhl and Clifford Anderson almost kissed. Alanna was waiting for some more action. Actually, for the last performance, the entire backstage crew were betting quarters as to whether or not Clifford would actually kiss Sydney. Clifford was going in for some lip touching, but the telephone rang just in time. I don't think Sydney was expecting that Clifford was actually going to kiss him, but, come on, it's the last show and unexpected tricks are expected!

Also, I would like to make a special mention to my Mamerz, who played Helga ten Dorp, the Dutch psychic. She was entertaining, upbeat, and very funny. Her crazy enthusiasm fueled the audience. Also, her accent was very convincing. Wait... there really is something with type casting, isn't there?

Pictures of Deathtrap

The set

Sydney Bruhl's weapons

Helga ten Dorp lashing out at the Porter.

Clifford Anderson tricking Sydney.

Clifford Anderson is scary! Helga warns Sydney about the pain in his house.

Sydney choking Clifford, whilst Myra shrieks in the background.

Now, let's just pretend that I didn't ruin the play for you.

Écraser

Zaz, where on earth have you been?

Yes, I am sure everyone has been wondering.

Well, I suppose it has something to do with the fact that I am currently swamped in work. That is mostly due to the fact that I do all of my school work during the week (Monday - Thursday), so I can have my weekend off to do all sorts of things that are usually labelled as "fun". Past events include Halloween parties, birthday parties, and a frantic pastry shop run. This Thursday night, I will be attending a Coheed and Cambria concert in Montreal at the Metropolis. Later on this weekend, I will be seeing the the play, Deathtrap, a exceptionally clever murder mystery. I will post pictures of the play after I see it.

But enough of my day-to-day life. "[T]hat's seriously boring."

A few weeks ago, Andrea and I meet in Deviance class as usual. She had a particularly bad time the previous night (due to some opposite sex conflicts), so I naturally show up with a Kit Kat bar to cheer her up. She was delighted, of course, even though she was one step ahead of me; she had bought herself a 75% dark chocolate bar, which is our favourite. She shared some of it with me, and about a minute afterwards, the prof began his lecture.
I remember it being a rather enjoyable lecture, which is a very usual occurrence in Dr. Lustigman's class (literally translated to German, his name means "funny man"). Anyway, halfway through the lecture, I was hit by a sudden cough, which naturally brought my hand to my mouth. As I pulled my hand away after the coughing had stopped, I noticed little light brown specks in my hand.

Ohmygod, I have tuberculosis!

As ridiculous as that may seem, it was the first thing that came to mind. My heart immediately started palpitating faster, and my throat felt dry. I looked frantically around the classroom.
Only seconds past until I realized,

Oh. It was chocolate.

Chocolate, ha! And I had thought for a second that it was tuberculosis, TB, the consumption, whatever you call it. I audibly laughed at loud at myself. It was a bit disappointing that no one else in the class knew about this; even though I felt extremely silly, it was still very funny, and I had wanted to share it. Yes, even if they would have laughed at me.

...

Yesterday, I was sitting in Translation class at my usual desk beside my acquaintance, Hilary. She is a cute little American girl with a lisp, and we sit beside each other because we are the only non-fluffs in the class. It is a very estrogen ridden class, as there are only about four guys in it.
One of the guys looks like a turtle, but he is from England and has a to die for British accent, so I suppose that makes up for it.

Anyway, we're dutifully sitting in class when I hear stomach churning cracks. It sounds like someone's spine is being slowly cracked in two, or as if someone's neck is slowly coming off someone's neck. I jump out of my seat with my mouth agape, frantically looking around the class for a decapitated poor soul.

The girl beside Hilary is screwing off the cap of her water bottle.

Good God.

Hilary looks at me with an eyebrow raised with a what-the-hell-is-up-with-you face.
I smile reassuringly at her and try to relax myself. I take my pen and try to regulate my breathing again.

I wonder if it is an overactive imagination or the unconscious plea for some serious drama.

And yes, it's drama, not drahma.

A Time entry is on its way!

More than a midnight walk

On a mild October night, Andrea and I decided to do an all-night walk. Since we like taking walks so much and being outside, we decided to make this an ultra-long walk. We decided to take the last bus going to Sherbrooke, and then we would take the entire night walking back home.

At around six o'clock that evening, we went to the Esso and stocked up on Red Bull drinks, chocolate, and a City of Sherbrooke map. When we got home, we packed some food and some hot chocolate. When we got to the bus depo at around eleven o'clock that night, we bought candy and coke. We were all set to go.

We sat on the side of the curb, outside the dépanneur, contemplating our plan of action. Which way should we go? Though I tend to like going East, I was more comfortable going West in this situation because the East seemed still very unknown to me. Besides, I figure that our walk would be better if we started at the Sherbrooke mall (Carrefour), which was in the west end.

I mapped out our route; we would start at the mall, take the Jacques Cartier bridge, walk to the University, then come back home going through country roads.

At the mall, we were in high spirits. It was a cool and beautiful night. The walk from the mall to the bridge was on a busy enough street, but there were sidewalks, and the streets which ran perpendicular to the busy one (Portland) were pretty enough and were mostly residential streets.

Right before we hit the bridge, we drank our energy drinks. PAFF! A surge of energy welled up from inside my stomach and shot through all of my limbs. The foul-tasting drink actually worked!

Since we were in very high and, of course, energetic spirits, we talked vividly and practically skipped along for the next hour or so of our walk. Right before getting onto the brige, we spotted a quaint little bistro that we said we would go to one day.
The walk across the bridge was beautiful; the trees and the lights of the town reflected softly in the water, and we both confessed that we had a secret urge to jump off the bridge into the water. Then we got to thinking as to how high the bridge was and how much it would hurt once we would hit the water. I remembered jumping off platforms at the University of Ottawa's pool, and the highest one I jumped off was around 7-8 metres high. That was definitely high enough.

A little later on (we weren't quite sure as to how much later, as I refused to look at my watch for the entirety of the trip), we arrived at the Université de Sherbrooke. This is where the walk got a little confusing, as the sidewalks completely disappeared, though we were still on the busy road. Not wanting to be with the traffic, we walked on the grass, still following the road. Sherbrooke University, no matter how prestigious it may be, is pretty ugly. Concrete slabs that they pull of as "buildings" really don't do it for me.

We got to Rue Dunant after getting past the University. It was suddenly very dark, as we were now on country roads. We panicked a little, as disturbing thoughts entered our minds, but we pushed the thoughts away, keeping in mind that there would actually be less traffic on Rue Dunant. After a brief bathroom break on the side of the road, we started walking again.

We finally could enjoy the stars. After walking under city lights for the majority of our trip, this was a refreshing change. We were also waiting for the sky to light up; we were hoping it would be close to sunrise by now.

"Andrea, I think the sky is lighting up, look!"

"No, Miranda, those are just the glow of the city lights."

False hopes.

At the intersection of Belvédère and Belvidere (us living on Belvidere), we celebrated our near-end of walk with our thermos of hot chocolate. After feeling warm and sweetened, we continued our walk. I could feel the pull on my legs at this point.

We arrived home and before crawling into our beds, I checked my watch. It was 3:15 am. We were disappointed, as we had hopped that our trip would take us at least six hours, instead of merely four. I wagered that we walked just over 20 kilometres. We cursed our own curses and vowed that next time we would make it a longer trip.

"We have to come back when it is light outside," stated Andrea. I agreed.

Next time, we would be starting in the East end. We were ready for it.