Two weekends ago was the choir show, and man, was it ever successful!
We sold out for Friday, Saturday, and Sunday's show on the prior Tuesday! People who didn't manage to snag a ticket were invited to come to Thursday's dress rehearsal for free. Bandeen Hall was at least three quarters full, I'd say. The show opened officially with a bang on Friday night, and the bang was far from winding down. Saturday was also extremely energetic, and we even got a standing ovation at intermission. Sunday was the last show, and did we ever blow the audience away! I can't say I have ever been part of a show that has had this much praise before. Not only that, but everyone is so blown away by the show (expectations are always surpassed, I must say), and they simply can't get over the fact that a mere choir is capable of being so dynamic and alive. I tell you now, this ain't no normal choir, and if I ever needed to use a double negative, that was the place.
There has been talk about moving the choir into the larger theatre, Centennial, so more people get the chance to see it. The problem with that is that the choir will lose one of the aspects (of many) that make it so great -- the intimacy. Of course, Bandeen Hall has the best acoustics on campus, but what is so great about it is that it is the perfect size. Everyone in the audience, pretty much no matter where you sit, feels involved in the show.
After Sunday's show, we all squished into cars and made it to our pianist's place in downtown Sherbrooke for our choir after-party. Andrea and I got a ride with an ex-choir member. My jaw dropped when I entered the pianist's loft -- it was one large room with hardwood floor: huge windows overlooked the Granada Theatre directly across, and she has not one but two grand pianos. She also has piano books of all kinds imaginable lying around. One of the pianos was golden and had a (fake) violin lying on top, so I think that one was just for show, but the other piano was a grand Steinway (some of you will understand how very magnificent this is). A grand Steinway piano can cost over $60 000. However, this 27-year old piano player doesn't seem to be scraping the bottom of the barrel.
So, needless to say, I couldn't stray too far from this superb piano, so I stayed near it and danced for the majority of the after-party, save a trip outside and many trips to the food table.
Ah yes, the food table. Not only is she the best piano player around, but our pianist had set up a most amazing feast for almost ninety of us. I had never been to a party with a spread this elaborate before. Just to name a few, there was: at least eight different kinds of cheeses, at least six different types of dips (one was spinach!), various pasta salads, two different kinds of homemade pizzas, crackers, chips, fruit galore, whipped cream, two cheesecakes, chocolate, and two large platters of sushi! Now, at least you can imagine how amazing this was. You know I would have invited you, but Abu Dhabi is too far to come from just for a choir show after-party.
I danced like mad, sung so loudly and passionately that, when 3:30 am rolled around, my voice resembled that of a 50-year old hardcore smoker. Sabrina, this extremely funny, laid-back chick, Andrea, and I all took a taxi back home, all the while Andrea loudly commenting on how badly our taxi driver was tailgating. It was a superb night.
On a completely unrelated note, I find it particularly odd that people who tell me they have only $4.31 in their bank account still manage to go out and drink. And not only girls, either.
Thursday, April 20, 2006
Thursday, April 06, 2006
An Unsuitable Dinner Conversation
Tonight, somehow the fact that Andrea has a fear of spit came about. In the film, Die Blechtrommel, Oskar's way of flirtation with his nanny is by spitting into her hand, sprinkling some sugar in it, and then she would lick it up seductively. Admittedly, it is kind of gross, but not something to induce gag reflexes.
Andrea cannot bear even have the visual in mind or else she'll start gagging. When I pointed out that in kissing there is in fact a lot of spit going around, she said that to her it's completely different. The gross part is when the spit is out and then ingested again (by the spitter or by someone else). I do understand how this is kind of disgusting, but it does not make my face twist into a weird oh-my-god-I-am-going-to-upchuck-soon grimace.
Speaking of vomit, of course, when one person's fear comes out, mine usually does too. Although the spitting and ingesting it again thought isn't pleasant, it is vomit that does it for me every time. I wimpered when Andrea brought it up. I can hardly stand the thought of vomit (and vomiting itself), and probably the majority people who read this blog know this quite well already.
Then, Paula told us about her "totally irrational fear": sharks! Ever since she saw Jaws last year, she has been deathly afraid of sharks. She even admitted to having daydreams about little sharks in her bathtub. Andrea and I tried to reassure her that little sharks wouldn't do much harm because they are so little, you see. I asked Andrea what she thought about a little bit of cold, frothy spit. She moaned and put her head between her knees.
Whilst Andrea was breathing heavily and Paula trying to regain her senses after a shark scare, I said:
"Imagine a pool of vomit topped off with frothy spit with sharks swimming inside?"
We all moaned and shook our heads, trying to fend off the horrible nightmare.
Paula wondered why we were trying to think of our worst fear.
"But wait", she said with hope, her mind focussed solely on the sharks, "with all the vomit and spit in the pool, the sharks wouldn't be able to survive!"
We all thought about it for a minute.
But then she exclaimed: "But that wouldn't be good either! They would all sink to the bottom, and I wouldn't be sure that they would be dead, and I would still be scared!"
We all groaned again, Paula thinking about not knowing if the sharks would be dead or not, Andrea thinking of the cold, frothy spit, and me imagining nothing else but the vomit.
I asked Paula how she would feel if I chucked her into the Spit and Vomit Shark-Filled pool covered in blood. She said she would be dead.
We decided it best to change the subject.
Andrea cannot bear even have the visual in mind or else she'll start gagging. When I pointed out that in kissing there is in fact a lot of spit going around, she said that to her it's completely different. The gross part is when the spit is out and then ingested again (by the spitter or by someone else). I do understand how this is kind of disgusting, but it does not make my face twist into a weird oh-my-god-I-am-going-to-upchuck-soon grimace.
Speaking of vomit, of course, when one person's fear comes out, mine usually does too. Although the spitting and ingesting it again thought isn't pleasant, it is vomit that does it for me every time. I wimpered when Andrea brought it up. I can hardly stand the thought of vomit (and vomiting itself), and probably the majority people who read this blog know this quite well already.
Then, Paula told us about her "totally irrational fear": sharks! Ever since she saw Jaws last year, she has been deathly afraid of sharks. She even admitted to having daydreams about little sharks in her bathtub. Andrea and I tried to reassure her that little sharks wouldn't do much harm because they are so little, you see. I asked Andrea what she thought about a little bit of cold, frothy spit. She moaned and put her head between her knees.
Whilst Andrea was breathing heavily and Paula trying to regain her senses after a shark scare, I said:
"Imagine a pool of vomit topped off with frothy spit with sharks swimming inside?"
We all moaned and shook our heads, trying to fend off the horrible nightmare.
Paula wondered why we were trying to think of our worst fear.
"But wait", she said with hope, her mind focussed solely on the sharks, "with all the vomit and spit in the pool, the sharks wouldn't be able to survive!"
We all thought about it for a minute.
But then she exclaimed: "But that wouldn't be good either! They would all sink to the bottom, and I wouldn't be sure that they would be dead, and I would still be scared!"
We all groaned again, Paula thinking about not knowing if the sharks would be dead or not, Andrea thinking of the cold, frothy spit, and me imagining nothing else but the vomit.
I asked Paula how she would feel if I chucked her into the Spit and Vomit Shark-Filled pool covered in blood. She said she would be dead.
We decided it best to change the subject.
Sunday, April 02, 2006
Curses
Perhaps the worst thing about disliking someone is how to react when they are friendly and nice to you. I mean, it's not like they ever did anything personally wrong to you.
Ah, woe is me.
Ah, woe is me.
Friday, March 31, 2006
Spring Music
The last two days have been deliciously warm, and all I have wanted to do was skip, frolic, wear dresses, and when people ask me how-are-you, I would answer with an enthusiastic "swimmingly".
Well, I did get around to doing two out of those four things, but unfortunately, school work, choir practises, and work shifts seem to eat up the rest of the sunny hours. The beginning of spring is a very busy time at University, and the way I get involved, I seem to make it all the busier.
Not only is the weather getting warmer and nicer, but many music shows and music students' honours exams are happening now. The past few weeks, I have managed to see at least one, if no two shows, per weekend. They all have been exceptionally well done. This Sunday night, I am seeing curly red-haired Emily perform, and then I will have seen all the House of Love's music talent. And let us not forget the receptions that follow the shows, which usually contain a plentiful spread of fancy and old cheeses; it is always a nice way to finish the evening. I must say, this is one of my favourite choices of evening entertainment. A night at the theater or a night at a music show? What lovely things to choose from! Of course, there are other things that are on par with such cultured entertainment, such as camping, canoeing, cycling, soccer, hiking, walking, but those activities always depend on the weather.
I don't think I can stress enough how much I enjoy the changing of seasons; I enjoy winter to spring, summer to fall, and fall to winter, in order of season-changing preference. For some reason, I don't count spring to summer as a change in seasons, even though I suppose it is. I just think of it as something that just comes so slowly and unobtrusively, so it never really enters my mind.
Under the clear, bright skies, countless students were seen outside today, throwing around a frisbee, playing guitar, lying on the grass, and chucking a ball around, giving me the sudden urge to play catch. It made me wonder if my brother still has the two old mitts lying around...
I hope Bab will be pleased to hear that I am anxious to get my bike out and running again. I am sure, however, that he is way ahead of me on this one.
Well, I did get around to doing two out of those four things, but unfortunately, school work, choir practises, and work shifts seem to eat up the rest of the sunny hours. The beginning of spring is a very busy time at University, and the way I get involved, I seem to make it all the busier.
Not only is the weather getting warmer and nicer, but many music shows and music students' honours exams are happening now. The past few weeks, I have managed to see at least one, if no two shows, per weekend. They all have been exceptionally well done. This Sunday night, I am seeing curly red-haired Emily perform, and then I will have seen all the House of Love's music talent. And let us not forget the receptions that follow the shows, which usually contain a plentiful spread of fancy and old cheeses; it is always a nice way to finish the evening. I must say, this is one of my favourite choices of evening entertainment. A night at the theater or a night at a music show? What lovely things to choose from! Of course, there are other things that are on par with such cultured entertainment, such as camping, canoeing, cycling, soccer, hiking, walking, but those activities always depend on the weather.
I don't think I can stress enough how much I enjoy the changing of seasons; I enjoy winter to spring, summer to fall, and fall to winter, in order of season-changing preference. For some reason, I don't count spring to summer as a change in seasons, even though I suppose it is. I just think of it as something that just comes so slowly and unobtrusively, so it never really enters my mind.
Under the clear, bright skies, countless students were seen outside today, throwing around a frisbee, playing guitar, lying on the grass, and chucking a ball around, giving me the sudden urge to play catch. It made me wonder if my brother still has the two old mitts lying around...
I hope Bab will be pleased to hear that I am anxious to get my bike out and running again. I am sure, however, that he is way ahead of me on this one.
Thursday, March 30, 2006
A force to be reckoned with
Ever since joining the choir, I have learned that there is a lot more to it than just singing and listening. Our choir, like many other groups and organizations, suffer from "The Politics". I always thought it was a bad use of the word "politics" when it came to describing the little and unsaid stuff, but specifically the underlying feuds or grudges in groups. Even in our theatre group back at home, there are tons of politics. In fact, it looks like the group has somewhat split into two, which has resulted in the "Bad, unorganized, and messy group", and the "talented, hard-working, and money-making group". Of course, I am part of the latter, but, of course, who knows what the other side thinks. Unfortunately, I am biased.
Anyway, I digress.
I am mostly familiar with the politics within the Soprano group, as I am one of them. I am not one to stir up politics, especially because I joined late and am not a music major and thus not comfortable taking the lead and forming catty groups; I am not on my turf. It makes a difference.
Either way, I am not inclined to stir up anything anyway.
There is an unwritten rule within the Soprano group that many of the prima donna fourth years have reserved front seats. This rule carries over to the choir show placement, as they are mostly all in the front. That doesn't bother me, though. I'm not endeavouring to be the star of the show here. In fact, I think most of them who are in front should be in front because of their exceptional voice and stage presence. Naturally, this cannot be said about everyone who has won their front seat, but I think the majority deserve to shine.
Now, enough positiveness. What I hate, what makes me shake with rage, what makes my blood boil as hot as the lava in the Aladdin movie is a petite, 50 something year old who is in the Sopranos. Besides her frame, there is nothing else petite about her; she is irritating, annoying, and has an extremely terrible voice. Her voice is enough to make you think a fire alarm got set off; if you compared her voice to Oskar Mazareth's shriek in Die Blechtrommel, you would swear that Oskar has the voice of an angel.
She tries to be chummy-chummy with the rest of us, whilst at the same time trying to show us how much better she is. She enjoys interrupting the choir, pointing something out to the choir director that we did wrong; we then sing it again, for her sake, and she messes it up. What kind of woman tries immaturely to show up a bunch of 20 somethings? She's one of a kind, I tell you.
So, now you must ask yourself the question: how on earth did this woman get into the choir? Simple, her husband is a professor at the University. It is for this sole reason that she feels that she is da bomb. She doesn't seem to do her own thing or have her own life because she is always here, hanging out with her husband. She's doesn't even work here.
And that brings me back to the politics. Her and her husband have a fued between another couple who work at the University. He is also a music professor, and she helps out with the choir. Of course, both wives started the feud for who knows what reason, and then the poor husbands got schlepped along and now must be on their wives side. Apparently, it causes some animosity in the music department, and a few students have said that it causes problems.
Because wife number two helps out in our choir, she was in charge of the seating placement for the choir show. Even though shrieky wife is shorter than I am, she was put in the very last row. This puts a smile on my face.
It is true, though, that I do not care much for either couple. But if the two couples were ever to fight and draw in the students with them, I would easily jump on the non-shrieky couple bandwagon and enjoy the pleasant and probably a more peaceful ride.
Anyway, I digress.
I am mostly familiar with the politics within the Soprano group, as I am one of them. I am not one to stir up politics, especially because I joined late and am not a music major and thus not comfortable taking the lead and forming catty groups; I am not on my turf. It makes a difference.
Either way, I am not inclined to stir up anything anyway.
There is an unwritten rule within the Soprano group that many of the prima donna fourth years have reserved front seats. This rule carries over to the choir show placement, as they are mostly all in the front. That doesn't bother me, though. I'm not endeavouring to be the star of the show here. In fact, I think most of them who are in front should be in front because of their exceptional voice and stage presence. Naturally, this cannot be said about everyone who has won their front seat, but I think the majority deserve to shine.
Now, enough positiveness. What I hate, what makes me shake with rage, what makes my blood boil as hot as the lava in the Aladdin movie is a petite, 50 something year old who is in the Sopranos. Besides her frame, there is nothing else petite about her; she is irritating, annoying, and has an extremely terrible voice. Her voice is enough to make you think a fire alarm got set off; if you compared her voice to Oskar Mazareth's shriek in Die Blechtrommel, you would swear that Oskar has the voice of an angel.
She tries to be chummy-chummy with the rest of us, whilst at the same time trying to show us how much better she is. She enjoys interrupting the choir, pointing something out to the choir director that we did wrong; we then sing it again, for her sake, and she messes it up. What kind of woman tries immaturely to show up a bunch of 20 somethings? She's one of a kind, I tell you.
So, now you must ask yourself the question: how on earth did this woman get into the choir? Simple, her husband is a professor at the University. It is for this sole reason that she feels that she is da bomb. She doesn't seem to do her own thing or have her own life because she is always here, hanging out with her husband. She's doesn't even work here.
And that brings me back to the politics. Her and her husband have a fued between another couple who work at the University. He is also a music professor, and she helps out with the choir. Of course, both wives started the feud for who knows what reason, and then the poor husbands got schlepped along and now must be on their wives side. Apparently, it causes some animosity in the music department, and a few students have said that it causes problems.
Because wife number two helps out in our choir, she was in charge of the seating placement for the choir show. Even though shrieky wife is shorter than I am, she was put in the very last row. This puts a smile on my face.
It is true, though, that I do not care much for either couple. But if the two couples were ever to fight and draw in the students with them, I would easily jump on the non-shrieky couple bandwagon and enjoy the pleasant and probably a more peaceful ride.
Sunday, March 26, 2006
An Ode to German
Taking advantage of the free music shows that Bandeen Hall at Bishop's offers, Andrea and I have been lately spending our Friday and sometimes Saturday nights at the Hall, soaking in the classical music.
Tonight, we attended the honours voice performance of a voice major, Rachael. I know her from drama (as she used to be a double major) and through other friends. She has an outstanding voice, and her range is incredible. She picked Mozart, Schubert, Puccini and some more modern guy (as in, he's not dead yet). She has exceptionally good stage presence, and you can tell that she's into the music and that she feels it. Even though we may not understand the words, we can sense what she is singing about just in the way she sings and moves. I especially enjoyed her Schubert pieces; they were the most exciting and the most inspiring to me, actually inducing goosebumps a few times!
I've also noticed that I've been enjoying the German language more and more these days. I mean, I've heard it all of of my life, but I realize that German in music and musical theatre is simply breathtaking. German is perceive as a harsh language whereas Italian is traditionally the beautiful one, made for operas and music. But, I find there is something with German that makes it all the more poignant and awe-strucking when sung. It seems like a more "real" language, something more touching and more humanity driven, whilst Italian seems to be more floaty and angelic to me. I feel German has real soul to it.
It could possibly be owning to the fact that I understand some German and that I can identify more with it; however, I think most has to do with the sound. As beautiful as Italian may sound, it seems like it has less personality, if you will, to it. I feel that German, really just the sound of it, can express moods and emotions wonderfully, whether it be utmost happiness or feelings of suicide. It is versatile, it can grasp life's trials and tribulations, and it inspires and strikes me when sung.
Tonight, we attended the honours voice performance of a voice major, Rachael. I know her from drama (as she used to be a double major) and through other friends. She has an outstanding voice, and her range is incredible. She picked Mozart, Schubert, Puccini and some more modern guy (as in, he's not dead yet). She has exceptionally good stage presence, and you can tell that she's into the music and that she feels it. Even though we may not understand the words, we can sense what she is singing about just in the way she sings and moves. I especially enjoyed her Schubert pieces; they were the most exciting and the most inspiring to me, actually inducing goosebumps a few times!
I've also noticed that I've been enjoying the German language more and more these days. I mean, I've heard it all of of my life, but I realize that German in music and musical theatre is simply breathtaking. German is perceive as a harsh language whereas Italian is traditionally the beautiful one, made for operas and music. But, I find there is something with German that makes it all the more poignant and awe-strucking when sung. It seems like a more "real" language, something more touching and more humanity driven, whilst Italian seems to be more floaty and angelic to me. I feel German has real soul to it.
It could possibly be owning to the fact that I understand some German and that I can identify more with it; however, I think most has to do with the sound. As beautiful as Italian may sound, it seems like it has less personality, if you will, to it. I feel that German, really just the sound of it, can express moods and emotions wonderfully, whether it be utmost happiness or feelings of suicide. It is versatile, it can grasp life's trials and tribulations, and it inspires and strikes me when sung.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
A blend of Germany and Poland
I had a dream last night that I went to Germany with a few other people. The people that I remember the most in my dream were Adam and Lina, a couple who are in my German class. Anyway, we were all staying in this house that was actually called a "cabin" that my Polish host father had. I kept getting confused whether we were in Germany or in Poland because our German "cabin" looked a lot like my host father's house. The rooms were tiny (even smaller than the real house), and I remember all crowding around this tiny kitchen table to eat whilst Adam was in bed. He was sick for the entirety of our stay, so he had to stay in bed.
It seemed like this dream was entirely focussed on confusion. My host father would speak bad German and then fast Polish, and I would get super confused. I was told that this "cabin" was near a big German city, but then I was sure that we were only near the small town, Stoszowice, in Poland. Lina and I, as well as perhaps Olya, all wanted to go and explore this big city, but I got the impression that we were in Poland and that the big city was a bus ride away. After being told again that we were indeed in Germany and not in Poland (despite the landscape looking very familiar to me), I asked how close we were to the German border. My host father either said 45 or 54 kilometres but because German says the second number first when saying a two-digit number and because I never knew if he was speaking German or Polish, I really had no idea how far we were. I figured it must be 45 kilometres because it is a more rounded number, and people are less likely to say 54. Ultimately, it didn't matter because I was confused enough as it was. It was also frustrating, in a way, because I understand most German spoken, and I could barely understand a word he was saying. I wasn't sure if he was saying every second word in Polish or something, but that could have very well been the case.
Adam continued being sick. I have a distinct image of him in this bed right beside the kitchen table, him talking in a raspy voice and having a red nose. I remember seeing and eating the same kind of food that I ate at home in Poland. We kept talking about going to "a German store", but we never did. Maybe it was because we were in Poland? Or in limbo? Or in this weird place that fused Germany and Poland together?
I was debating whether or not telling Adam and Lina about this dream this morning. I don't know them that well -- I would categorize them as acquaintances -- so it was probably a good idea that I didn't.
It seemed like this dream was entirely focussed on confusion. My host father would speak bad German and then fast Polish, and I would get super confused. I was told that this "cabin" was near a big German city, but then I was sure that we were only near the small town, Stoszowice, in Poland. Lina and I, as well as perhaps Olya, all wanted to go and explore this big city, but I got the impression that we were in Poland and that the big city was a bus ride away. After being told again that we were indeed in Germany and not in Poland (despite the landscape looking very familiar to me), I asked how close we were to the German border. My host father either said 45 or 54 kilometres but because German says the second number first when saying a two-digit number and because I never knew if he was speaking German or Polish, I really had no idea how far we were. I figured it must be 45 kilometres because it is a more rounded number, and people are less likely to say 54. Ultimately, it didn't matter because I was confused enough as it was. It was also frustrating, in a way, because I understand most German spoken, and I could barely understand a word he was saying. I wasn't sure if he was saying every second word in Polish or something, but that could have very well been the case.
Adam continued being sick. I have a distinct image of him in this bed right beside the kitchen table, him talking in a raspy voice and having a red nose. I remember seeing and eating the same kind of food that I ate at home in Poland. We kept talking about going to "a German store", but we never did. Maybe it was because we were in Poland? Or in limbo? Or in this weird place that fused Germany and Poland together?
I was debating whether or not telling Adam and Lina about this dream this morning. I don't know them that well -- I would categorize them as acquaintances -- so it was probably a good idea that I didn't.
Saturday, March 18, 2006
The Rolling Stones' Castigation
It's strange that the United States has no trouble participating in wars, seeing countless scenes of violence on television, but yet some of the country can't stomach certain "bad" words in a rock song. The Rolling Stones played at half-time at this year's Superbowl, and they were told by the National Football League officals that they had to censure the songs "Start Me Up" and "Rough Justice" because apparently some of the lyrics were "too sexually explicit" (what is exactly too explicit?) to be broadcasted. The Stones first did agree to censure those songs but then decided later that it was "completely unnecessary" to cut the lyrics to those songs. So, what were the officials forced to do? Well, cut the sound during those "unappriopriate" lyrics. Maybe that's why the sound was so crappy for the duration of their short concert.
The cut lyrics to "Start Me Up" were You'd make a dead man cum while the cut lyrics from "Rough Justice" were: Once upon a time I was your little red rooster/now I'm just one of your cocks. You can read about it here.
So, the words are a little racy; so what? First of all, if the League couldn't handle this kind of language that they knew in advance existed in some of the Rolling Stones' songs, then why hire them in the first place? Why hire them and then ask them to cut out some of their lyrics? Yes, the Stones did initially agree to censure the words and then went back on their word, but come on, why the big kerfuffle? I don't understand why people would think it was unappropriate, especially since they knew in advance that it would be the rock 'n' roll band, the Stones, playing, not Sharon, Lois, and Bram. So, yes, if the children's singing trio had used words like cum and cock, then maybe that would shock people. But these are the Stones we're talking about, and if you simply cannot handle them, don't hire them. Besides, it's not like the Stones have extremely good diction when they sing and we can hear every word so clearly... no, sometimes their lyrics are hard to understand, and I bet most people didn't know those lyrics even existed (even after hearing the song many times before).
The cut lyrics to "Start Me Up" were You'd make a dead man cum while the cut lyrics from "Rough Justice" were: Once upon a time I was your little red rooster/now I'm just one of your cocks. You can read about it here.
So, the words are a little racy; so what? First of all, if the League couldn't handle this kind of language that they knew in advance existed in some of the Rolling Stones' songs, then why hire them in the first place? Why hire them and then ask them to cut out some of their lyrics? Yes, the Stones did initially agree to censure the words and then went back on their word, but come on, why the big kerfuffle? I don't understand why people would think it was unappropriate, especially since they knew in advance that it would be the rock 'n' roll band, the Stones, playing, not Sharon, Lois, and Bram. So, yes, if the children's singing trio had used words like cum and cock, then maybe that would shock people. But these are the Stones we're talking about, and if you simply cannot handle them, don't hire them. Besides, it's not like the Stones have extremely good diction when they sing and we can hear every word so clearly... no, sometimes their lyrics are hard to understand, and I bet most people didn't know those lyrics even existed (even after hearing the song many times before).
Some people!
I think I need a hot chocolate.
Friday, March 17, 2006
Condemnation
Censorship!
This word does not sit well with many young people. It's strange because when you think about it, we censore things all the time.
I, for instance, am not taking the liberty to write everything that I think of on this blog: I am being selective. Sure, there are things that I just wouldn't write because it isn't of interest (which is a kind of censorship in itself), but there are also those things that I don't write because I know that it isn't "appropriate" for some of my readers (read: that I don't want some people to see). Also, I do not write anything that is very personal to either my friends or I. I know that all sorts of people read this, or so I like to believe, so I will just not write some things.
Also, when we speak, perhaps we won't always say what we have on our minds, depending on whom we are talking to. There are some things that I will only say to a specific friend and not to an acquaintance, for instance. It's a kind of self-centorship. Perhaps you'd be more inclined to call it "tact" or "common sense", but I've realized that common sense can't just be thrown out there as a blanket term. Common sense, unfortunately, cannot be used to really designate anything. Sometimes I wish I could say, "Just use your common sense", and then that person would act accordingly, and you would know what to expect. Ah, but as fate and the differences in humanity would have it, the meaning of common sense varies from person to person. Some people's common sense tells them one thing, other people's common sense tells them something else, and some people seem to have left common sense in the womb. It's too bad really.
Of course, there is also the "other" kind of censorship, the "real" kind that bans books, controls media, and prevents certain actions. We may not have the same kind of censorship that other countries are subjected to, but certainly there is much in Canada that is censured. It is quite ridiculous when you hear of books and movies deemed either "unappropriate" or "obscene" because what the heck does that mean? Who is to judge what is either of those terms? I think I know the answer: a small group of people. Custom officers have the liberty to censore things coming into the country and deem them "unappropriate" for Canada, and these small groups of people have equally the same amount of power.
I guess I am to assume that our country is filled with a bunch of brainless idiots because why on earth do we need special people (who knows what kind of people they are) deciding whether or not I can watch The Tin Drum, for instance? Why do other people decide for me what is morally right or too obscene for me?
I suppose it's because of the same reason that some things on the news and in newspapers are "just not said". It's a kind of censorship that allows certain higher people to control us, control us to some extent of what we think and what to do. But anyway, I don't want to get into that.
There are some things that are censured that I just don't understand. I think books can be written about virtually anything, disgusting and all, because first of all, it's a book, not real people doing it to each other (perhaps "based on a true story" would bring about other problems, though), and second of all, you can decide not to read it! Yes! You can tell yourself that you won't read this book because of its horrendous content. There. You've just censured yourself from not reading it, and you can now walk away, buy some raspberries, and pick up a Margaret Atwood read (if you are so inclined, yikes).
It was just in the 1960s that Lady Chatterley's Lover was put back on the shelves, after being highly controversial and banned for years, no longer deemed hazardous for English readers. Because it had some "naughty" language in it and was all about the physical part of sex being so wonderful between a bourgeois woman and a peasant man, no less, the book was definitely gasp worthy, and the general public could not, under any circumstances, subject themselves to such a horrible read! Yup, that's what we were told by who knows who. When Lady Chatterley's Lover was written, the clergy had a stronger hold on society, so they probably had a lot to do with it. These days, it is rarely our elected government who decides these things; it is that small group of appointed people.
I say if people want to write obscene things or if they want to make the most disgusting porn films, then be my guest. I don't need other people to ban a movie that involves sex between a person and an animal and say it is "unappropriate" and "wrong"; I can decide myself not to watch it. We should all be able to decide ourselves what we want to see or not. But what about the children? The children?! Well, keep sex stuff away from them until they hit the wonderful age of 17, and then you can give them the Joy of Sex book for their birthday.
Child pornography, however, is a touchy issue because there are so many laws in our society surrounding it. It's really hard to determine what we can say about that. Of course, we all can agree that consent should be involved, but who is to judge if a child is old enough to make that decision?
I'm not saying that we should adopt the notion about kids in Brave New World, but maybe looking at it will make us think a little more and most likely bring us back to square one...
This word does not sit well with many young people. It's strange because when you think about it, we censore things all the time.
I, for instance, am not taking the liberty to write everything that I think of on this blog: I am being selective. Sure, there are things that I just wouldn't write because it isn't of interest (which is a kind of censorship in itself), but there are also those things that I don't write because I know that it isn't "appropriate" for some of my readers (read: that I don't want some people to see). Also, I do not write anything that is very personal to either my friends or I. I know that all sorts of people read this, or so I like to believe, so I will just not write some things.
Also, when we speak, perhaps we won't always say what we have on our minds, depending on whom we are talking to. There are some things that I will only say to a specific friend and not to an acquaintance, for instance. It's a kind of self-centorship. Perhaps you'd be more inclined to call it "tact" or "common sense", but I've realized that common sense can't just be thrown out there as a blanket term. Common sense, unfortunately, cannot be used to really designate anything. Sometimes I wish I could say, "Just use your common sense", and then that person would act accordingly, and you would know what to expect. Ah, but as fate and the differences in humanity would have it, the meaning of common sense varies from person to person. Some people's common sense tells them one thing, other people's common sense tells them something else, and some people seem to have left common sense in the womb. It's too bad really.
Of course, there is also the "other" kind of censorship, the "real" kind that bans books, controls media, and prevents certain actions. We may not have the same kind of censorship that other countries are subjected to, but certainly there is much in Canada that is censured. It is quite ridiculous when you hear of books and movies deemed either "unappropriate" or "obscene" because what the heck does that mean? Who is to judge what is either of those terms? I think I know the answer: a small group of people. Custom officers have the liberty to censore things coming into the country and deem them "unappropriate" for Canada, and these small groups of people have equally the same amount of power.
I guess I am to assume that our country is filled with a bunch of brainless idiots because why on earth do we need special people (who knows what kind of people they are) deciding whether or not I can watch The Tin Drum, for instance? Why do other people decide for me what is morally right or too obscene for me?
I suppose it's because of the same reason that some things on the news and in newspapers are "just not said". It's a kind of censorship that allows certain higher people to control us, control us to some extent of what we think and what to do. But anyway, I don't want to get into that.
There are some things that are censured that I just don't understand. I think books can be written about virtually anything, disgusting and all, because first of all, it's a book, not real people doing it to each other (perhaps "based on a true story" would bring about other problems, though), and second of all, you can decide not to read it! Yes! You can tell yourself that you won't read this book because of its horrendous content. There. You've just censured yourself from not reading it, and you can now walk away, buy some raspberries, and pick up a Margaret Atwood read (if you are so inclined, yikes).
It was just in the 1960s that Lady Chatterley's Lover was put back on the shelves, after being highly controversial and banned for years, no longer deemed hazardous for English readers. Because it had some "naughty" language in it and was all about the physical part of sex being so wonderful between a bourgeois woman and a peasant man, no less, the book was definitely gasp worthy, and the general public could not, under any circumstances, subject themselves to such a horrible read! Yup, that's what we were told by who knows who. When Lady Chatterley's Lover was written, the clergy had a stronger hold on society, so they probably had a lot to do with it. These days, it is rarely our elected government who decides these things; it is that small group of appointed people.
I say if people want to write obscene things or if they want to make the most disgusting porn films, then be my guest. I don't need other people to ban a movie that involves sex between a person and an animal and say it is "unappropriate" and "wrong"; I can decide myself not to watch it. We should all be able to decide ourselves what we want to see or not. But what about the children? The children?! Well, keep sex stuff away from them until they hit the wonderful age of 17, and then you can give them the Joy of Sex book for their birthday.
Child pornography, however, is a touchy issue because there are so many laws in our society surrounding it. It's really hard to determine what we can say about that. Of course, we all can agree that consent should be involved, but who is to judge if a child is old enough to make that decision?
I'm not saying that we should adopt the notion about kids in Brave New World, but maybe looking at it will make us think a little more and most likely bring us back to square one...
Saturday, March 11, 2006
New Photos
Check out my latest Reading Break pictures at Zaz's positives: aisle 4, and do let me know if they tickle your fancy.
No day but today
About a month after coming back from Poland, I headed off to Nova Scotia. Although most of my time was spent in Halifax, I did get a chance to spend a weekend at my aunt and uncle's house. Sunday morning found us at their United Church; my cousin was playing flute at the service, so we all went to watch her.
I remember a lot of specifics from this visit, probably owning to the fact that I kept a very detailed diary during that time; however, what really stuck in my head from that weekend, and not only on paper, was the minister's sermon.
The minister was this large, jolly looking woman who wore colourful clothing, an inviting smile, and, of course, the unmistakable white collar. This was one of the most laid-back and liberal churches I have ever been in, and she personified the general feeling of the church.
Her sermon was about our busy North American lives. North Americans work long hours, manage a house, a family, often do extra activities, and we just never seem to have enough time. You hear people complaining all the time as to how little time they have and how they would love to have more time. Our society is very fast-paced, people want instant gratification, and the saying that "patience is a virtue" is perhaps heard but definitely not seen.
She talked about how important and how rewarding it is when we slow down and take things at a slower and perhaps a more comfortable pace. We're sometimes move so fast that we hardly have the time to smell the flowers, let alone live life. She said that our lives may seem out of our control at times, as we don't seem to have any hold on how fast things are moving. As hard as it may be, she deemed it important that we slow down, smell those flowers, eat slowly, and spend time leisurely with people we want. What is life, she asked, if it just passes you by?
This sermon was of particular interest for me considering I had just come back from Poland. Rural Poland is a world of a difference from fast-paced North American lives. Think of your life as a car going 100 km/h on the highway. When you take an exit, you slow down to fifty or sixty or so, and you really feel the slowness because you've been going so fast for so long. That's how it felt like.
Everything seemed to be moving at such a slower pace. It was very nice in many ways, people would sit around, talk, laugh a little, remember... But, after awhile, one gets tired of that. People had often little motivation or desire to do some things. I found that there was a general feeling of lethargy that just wouldn't go away. Unemployment was high; over 30 percent of the population was jobless, so there was plenty of room for restlessness and frustration.
This did not affect me as much as the rural community in which we were staying, as I was on a program which generally did its own thing. Although, because we worked within the community, we could definitely feel the slow and drawn-out atmosphere. This leisurely pace of life sauntered along and felt relaxed but it also, at the same time, felt painstakingly slow.
It was a very odd thing to adapt to. All of a sudden, very few things seemed rushed, which was such a turn from my normal life.
So, returning home after the program, I was submersed back our busy way of life. I actually had been craving being busy and on-the-move for quite a while now. I was eager to get going.
Personally, I prefer being busy. I prefer having something almost constantly on the go, and I find that I can do a lot more with my time when I actually have a lot to do.
But ultimately, I think there needs to be a balance in one's pace of life. It can't go so fast that it passes you by, but it also can't move at a snail's pace. I suppose things like this often can't be helped in societies. Ideally, people here should work less and have more time to themselves. It would give them a better and more sound grasp on their lives.
On the flip side, there is high unemployment, which is a more difficult thing to fix. However, taking into consideration Poland's joining of the European Union, rural Poland may soon be on an upswing.
Here is an excerpt from La Scouine, a novel that takes place in 1918 Québec. It was censured by the Catholic clergy because of its negative and sombre approach to religious life in the country, which the clergy incessantly preached to be the best kind of life:
"Comme à la campagne, ils s'éveillent le matin au point du jour, mais comme ils n'ont rien à faire, ils attendent encore dans leur lit jusqu'à six heures, alors que la cloche de l'hospice à la voix lente, triste et voilée, tinte mélancoliquement et les fait sortir de leur couche. Ils se lèvent en même temps que les vieux et les orphelins. Après avoir rôdé quelques temps dans l'habitation, ils se mettent à table sans faim. Ils voient les enfants jouer dans la cour sous l'oeil d'une soeur et les vieillards faire quelques pas et s'assoeir sur un banc. Monotone, interminable, s'écoule la journée" (135).
"[Charlot] s'éveillera sans but, sans occupation, en se demandant comment il pourra bien tuer le temps. C'est qu'il en sera ainsi toujours et toujours. Il a renoncé à la terre pour aller goûter le repos, la vie facile, et il n'a trouvé que l'ennui, un ennui motel, dévorant. Il ne vit pas; il attend la mort" (142).
I remember a lot of specifics from this visit, probably owning to the fact that I kept a very detailed diary during that time; however, what really stuck in my head from that weekend, and not only on paper, was the minister's sermon.
The minister was this large, jolly looking woman who wore colourful clothing, an inviting smile, and, of course, the unmistakable white collar. This was one of the most laid-back and liberal churches I have ever been in, and she personified the general feeling of the church.
Her sermon was about our busy North American lives. North Americans work long hours, manage a house, a family, often do extra activities, and we just never seem to have enough time. You hear people complaining all the time as to how little time they have and how they would love to have more time. Our society is very fast-paced, people want instant gratification, and the saying that "patience is a virtue" is perhaps heard but definitely not seen.
She talked about how important and how rewarding it is when we slow down and take things at a slower and perhaps a more comfortable pace. We're sometimes move so fast that we hardly have the time to smell the flowers, let alone live life. She said that our lives may seem out of our control at times, as we don't seem to have any hold on how fast things are moving. As hard as it may be, she deemed it important that we slow down, smell those flowers, eat slowly, and spend time leisurely with people we want. What is life, she asked, if it just passes you by?
This sermon was of particular interest for me considering I had just come back from Poland. Rural Poland is a world of a difference from fast-paced North American lives. Think of your life as a car going 100 km/h on the highway. When you take an exit, you slow down to fifty or sixty or so, and you really feel the slowness because you've been going so fast for so long. That's how it felt like.
Everything seemed to be moving at such a slower pace. It was very nice in many ways, people would sit around, talk, laugh a little, remember... But, after awhile, one gets tired of that. People had often little motivation or desire to do some things. I found that there was a general feeling of lethargy that just wouldn't go away. Unemployment was high; over 30 percent of the population was jobless, so there was plenty of room for restlessness and frustration.
This did not affect me as much as the rural community in which we were staying, as I was on a program which generally did its own thing. Although, because we worked within the community, we could definitely feel the slow and drawn-out atmosphere. This leisurely pace of life sauntered along and felt relaxed but it also, at the same time, felt painstakingly slow.
It was a very odd thing to adapt to. All of a sudden, very few things seemed rushed, which was such a turn from my normal life.
So, returning home after the program, I was submersed back our busy way of life. I actually had been craving being busy and on-the-move for quite a while now. I was eager to get going.
Personally, I prefer being busy. I prefer having something almost constantly on the go, and I find that I can do a lot more with my time when I actually have a lot to do.
But ultimately, I think there needs to be a balance in one's pace of life. It can't go so fast that it passes you by, but it also can't move at a snail's pace. I suppose things like this often can't be helped in societies. Ideally, people here should work less and have more time to themselves. It would give them a better and more sound grasp on their lives.
On the flip side, there is high unemployment, which is a more difficult thing to fix. However, taking into consideration Poland's joining of the European Union, rural Poland may soon be on an upswing.
Here is an excerpt from La Scouine, a novel that takes place in 1918 Québec. It was censured by the Catholic clergy because of its negative and sombre approach to religious life in the country, which the clergy incessantly preached to be the best kind of life:
"Comme à la campagne, ils s'éveillent le matin au point du jour, mais comme ils n'ont rien à faire, ils attendent encore dans leur lit jusqu'à six heures, alors que la cloche de l'hospice à la voix lente, triste et voilée, tinte mélancoliquement et les fait sortir de leur couche. Ils se lèvent en même temps que les vieux et les orphelins. Après avoir rôdé quelques temps dans l'habitation, ils se mettent à table sans faim. Ils voient les enfants jouer dans la cour sous l'oeil d'une soeur et les vieillards faire quelques pas et s'assoeir sur un banc. Monotone, interminable, s'écoule la journée" (135).
"[Charlot] s'éveillera sans but, sans occupation, en se demandant comment il pourra bien tuer le temps. C'est qu'il en sera ainsi toujours et toujours. Il a renoncé à la terre pour aller goûter le repos, la vie facile, et il n'a trouvé que l'ennui, un ennui motel, dévorant. Il ne vit pas; il attend la mort" (142).
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
"And" shouldn't start a sentence
And it was my grandmother who gave us the book "Sex Talk". Well, I hope it's not as weird as it sounds, considering she does not let my mother leave her apartment empty-handed. She always has to stock her up with who knows what. Besides, my grandmother volunteers at a library.
So, it is back into the grind after my blissful reading break. Granted, I did not go out of my usual Québec and Ontario radius, but I still had quite good time. I think it has been ages since I have been that relaxed. I greatly enjoyed the moments I spent sitting by the fire, reading my book, writing ideas and thoughts on loose pieces of paper, and slurping hot chocolate. Although, it was awfully shameful that one day I slept in until 1:47 pm, I did savour my numerous late mornings.
That being said, I also did some skating (on a pond, as well as on the canal), as well as a night of downhill skiing. Albeit the dire cold, the wind, and the bump on my eyeball as a result for not wearing goggles, the skiing was rather fun. Baba and I tackled the intermediate hill, and after three tries, I could ski down the hill without losing control and barrelling down the hill at ridiculous speeds.
I took a few good ski pictures, which will be up on Aisle Four soon.
So, it is back into the grind after my blissful reading break. Granted, I did not go out of my usual Québec and Ontario radius, but I still had quite good time. I think it has been ages since I have been that relaxed. I greatly enjoyed the moments I spent sitting by the fire, reading my book, writing ideas and thoughts on loose pieces of paper, and slurping hot chocolate. Although, it was awfully shameful that one day I slept in until 1:47 pm, I did savour my numerous late mornings.
That being said, I also did some skating (on a pond, as well as on the canal), as well as a night of downhill skiing. Albeit the dire cold, the wind, and the bump on my eyeball as a result for not wearing goggles, the skiing was rather fun. Baba and I tackled the intermediate hill, and after three tries, I could ski down the hill without losing control and barrelling down the hill at ridiculous speeds.
I took a few good ski pictures, which will be up on Aisle Four soon.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
A Timely Decision
Perhaps it isn't a cause for a large celebration, but it certainly deserves a good pat on the back.
It has been nearly three months that I have been without a watch. Ever since my crisis in the library, I have realized as to how dependent I really was on my watch. It was very difficult at first, what with looking at my naked wrist every minute or so and being unsettled realizing every time that I indeed did not have a watch and that I did not know the exact time.
Once I got accustomed to being without a watch, I realized what a world better it is. I get the regular thumbs up from Tex and Andrea, telling me how good it is for me to be without a watch. Ah, I speak as though it were a drug! Whenever someone asks me for the time and when realizing that I do not know, they usually say, "I thought you always had a watch." Andrea usually answers for me with, "Not anymore, Miranda's free now." Yup, that's me; free!
But I must admit, not having a watch is somewhat a weight off of my shoulders. I'll confess now, for years, I have been trapped in the shackles of time. Not having a watch has released me from time's grasp because I cannot always know the time. Of course, there have been the few times that having a watch would have been useful, but even in those instances, it wasn't really a necessity. I have learned to look for pay phones, clocks in restaurants, and large town clocks. I prefer to rely on other clocks rather than my own watch because outside sources of time are harder to become obsessed about. It is actually more relaxing being without a watch.
And now, in light of a new book that our family has acquired, Sex Talk, I have decided to post a few quotes said by a few famous people:
"Why should we take advice on sex from the Pope? If he knows anything about it, he shouldn't." -- George Bernard Shaw
"What can you say about a society that say God is dead and Elvis is alive?" -- Irv Kupcinet
"Sex is a wonderful thing shared between two people, but between five people, it's fantastic." -- Woody Allen
"It's just as Christian to get down on your knees for sex as it is for religion." -- Larry Flynt
And on virtue...
"Rare are those who prefer virtue to the pleasure of sex." -- Confucius
It has been nearly three months that I have been without a watch. Ever since my crisis in the library, I have realized as to how dependent I really was on my watch. It was very difficult at first, what with looking at my naked wrist every minute or so and being unsettled realizing every time that I indeed did not have a watch and that I did not know the exact time.
Once I got accustomed to being without a watch, I realized what a world better it is. I get the regular thumbs up from Tex and Andrea, telling me how good it is for me to be without a watch. Ah, I speak as though it were a drug! Whenever someone asks me for the time and when realizing that I do not know, they usually say, "I thought you always had a watch." Andrea usually answers for me with, "Not anymore, Miranda's free now." Yup, that's me; free!
But I must admit, not having a watch is somewhat a weight off of my shoulders. I'll confess now, for years, I have been trapped in the shackles of time. Not having a watch has released me from time's grasp because I cannot always know the time. Of course, there have been the few times that having a watch would have been useful, but even in those instances, it wasn't really a necessity. I have learned to look for pay phones, clocks in restaurants, and large town clocks. I prefer to rely on other clocks rather than my own watch because outside sources of time are harder to become obsessed about. It is actually more relaxing being without a watch.
And now, in light of a new book that our family has acquired, Sex Talk, I have decided to post a few quotes said by a few famous people:
"Why should we take advice on sex from the Pope? If he knows anything about it, he shouldn't." -- George Bernard Shaw
"What can you say about a society that say God is dead and Elvis is alive?" -- Irv Kupcinet
"Sex is a wonderful thing shared between two people, but between five people, it's fantastic." -- Woody Allen
"It's just as Christian to get down on your knees for sex as it is for religion." -- Larry Flynt
And on virtue...
"Rare are those who prefer virtue to the pleasure of sex." -- Confucius
Thursday, February 23, 2006
Claws - Evaluation
"Miranda, that was nothing short of outstanding."
I did say that I would write about Claws, and I did say that I would write about how it went, and, well, to start it off, I thought I would tell the world about the best comment that I got.
As much as I enjoyed receiving it, I thought the comment perhaps a little too exaggerated. The plays is very well written, we did work hard on the play, and opening night was very successful, but, in terms of outstanding theatre, well, even I haven't seen that many plays that I would label as outstanding. Perhaps less than ten.
That being said, Claws went off without a hitch. The excitement and energy coming from my actors was electrifying. They were completely in the groove and were simply itchin' to get on stage! I could sense that this was going to be a strong performance; they weren't overly confident or overly nervous; they were simply buzzing with excitement.
I, on the other hand, could barely sit still in my seat as I watched the performance. I've never been so nervous for other people before, probably because I have never been a director before. It was really weird -- I was doing Paula's facial expressions and practically trying to figuratively hold both of their hands throughout the entire performance, even though they were on their own!
Laura as Paula and Dave as Jeff did an extremely good job. Everyone loved the cat, and everyone was scared shitless of Paula. After they came off-stage, I could tell that they had had a blast performing. His girlfriend and her parents came to watch the performance, and they all enjoyed it. Dad, Franziska, and I think even Baba enjoyed it.
Many people came up to me after the performance to congratulate me. It was a little surprising because I was under the impression that the director is often overlooked in these festivals.
I must say, I tremendously enjoyed my first directing gig. It was amazing creating this play along with three others. I thought that on opening night, I would want to jump on stage and act, but I didn't feel that at all. I couldn't have asked for a better cast, and all I wanted was for them to give it their all and have the time of their lives.
So, would I direct a play again? Definitely.
Would I choose another freaky Lezley Havard play involving an animal? You betcha.
I did say that I would write about Claws, and I did say that I would write about how it went, and, well, to start it off, I thought I would tell the world about the best comment that I got.
As much as I enjoyed receiving it, I thought the comment perhaps a little too exaggerated. The plays is very well written, we did work hard on the play, and opening night was very successful, but, in terms of outstanding theatre, well, even I haven't seen that many plays that I would label as outstanding. Perhaps less than ten.
That being said, Claws went off without a hitch. The excitement and energy coming from my actors was electrifying. They were completely in the groove and were simply itchin' to get on stage! I could sense that this was going to be a strong performance; they weren't overly confident or overly nervous; they were simply buzzing with excitement.
I, on the other hand, could barely sit still in my seat as I watched the performance. I've never been so nervous for other people before, probably because I have never been a director before. It was really weird -- I was doing Paula's facial expressions and practically trying to figuratively hold both of their hands throughout the entire performance, even though they were on their own!
Laura as Paula and Dave as Jeff did an extremely good job. Everyone loved the cat, and everyone was scared shitless of Paula. After they came off-stage, I could tell that they had had a blast performing. His girlfriend and her parents came to watch the performance, and they all enjoyed it. Dad, Franziska, and I think even Baba enjoyed it.
Many people came up to me after the performance to congratulate me. It was a little surprising because I was under the impression that the director is often overlooked in these festivals.
I must say, I tremendously enjoyed my first directing gig. It was amazing creating this play along with three others. I thought that on opening night, I would want to jump on stage and act, but I didn't feel that at all. I couldn't have asked for a better cast, and all I wanted was for them to give it their all and have the time of their lives.
So, would I direct a play again? Definitely.
Would I choose another freaky Lezley Havard play involving an animal? You betcha.
Wednesday, February 22, 2006
Sneaky Thrills
How often does one get locked inside a building?
Sure, we've all been, at one time or another, locked outside of a building for some reason. Sometimes we can't get into somewhere because it is locked, and we are stuck outside.
Seldom does it happen that we are seriously locked indoors. Of course, it does happen every now and again. Besides jail, there are those who accidentally lock themselves in their upstairs bathroom and need their father to rescue them from the window (courtesy of 3-year old M. Glen), there are those who nail the windows and doors shut to lock their sister in their house (courtesy of I. Bols), and there are those who have an uncanny ability to get into government buildings, especially the high security parts.
A few days ago, I was dropped off at Les Terrasses de la Chaudière building in Hull. It appears to be a government building that has various offices for different services, such as transportation, public works, the International Union of Operating Engineers, and the like. Anyway, it didn't matter to me what kind of building it was at the time because all I wanted to do was go inside and use the telephone. I pulled on the door, but to no avail; all of the doors were locked. Darn. I looked around for other pay phones, but I couldn't see any. I was just about to trek a block further when a man was coming out of the building. I caught the swing of the door and made it inside. He didn't seemed fazed by that at all; in fact, he made sure I had the door as I walked in.
At first, I couldn't find a telephone anywhere. This building was huge, and there were gates and special doors everywhere, that you could only open with a card or keypad number. There were even small see-through gates there that looked somewhat like customs. Many of the doors were automatic.
Following signs eventually led me to the telephone. After making my call, I leisurely made my way back to the doors, not extremely keen to step back into the freezing wind. So, I got to the door and pushed. Nothing happened. It was locked. I went to the other door; it was locked too. What! I went to the handicapped door, tried pushing it, and it let out a piercing screech that scared the bejeezus out of me.
I jumped back, breathing quickly. I am locked inside. All of the doors are locked! Oh, come on, there must be a way out!
I turned around and ran back the way I came. I remembered seeing doors on the other side of the building; they must be not locked from the inside.
How very wrong I was! All of the doors were exactly the same as the others and would not let this panic-ridden girl out of this securitized government building. Oh yes, the panic was quickly settling in.
I started moaning on how on earth I would get out of this building, and why on earth was this building made to keep people in! I ran frantically around the building, looking for doors. Nothing was unlocked. I realized my search was fruitless; I would have to set-up camp here and pretend I knew what I was doing there in the morning when everyone would discover me there, huddled under a meeting table, snorting some of the powdered hot chocolate found in the lunch room.
I was resigning myself to my fate when I heard some commotion at the bottom of the stairs, where the front doors were. I made a mad dash to the entrance and saw a security guard there. My intial thought was that he had been summoned because of the piercing sound I had repeatedly made with the doors. I told him that I needed to get out and I couldn't. He asked me if I had a card, and I said no. Yeesh, who does he think I am... I mean, come on, a card to get out of a building?
Fortunately, he didn't seem mad or annoyed; using his card, he opened the door for me and let me out. Finally, outside and not caged in! I breathed a sigh of relief. Never again would I go into that stupid building at night. Actually, I doubt I would actually be able to.
Two years ago, I was dropping off a Canada World Youth portfolio for a woman who worked at the Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade in Ottawa. Alanna and Andrea drove up to the door and let me out, and I assured the I would only be a minute. I went up to the front desk and asked if I could get in contact with the woman (who I have now forgotten the name of). They called her office, but to no avail; she wasn't in. I didn't want to wait around forever, so after standing around for a bit, I decided to find the mail room. She had told me that should she not be in her office, I should get my portfolio to the mail room. Realizing later, she probably meant to give the portfolio to someone to bring it there rather than bring it there myself.
So, I went on a search for the mail room. I saw various signs with arrows that read "mail room", so I followed them. The first door that I opened did say something like "Employees only", but I figured I'd be quick. Besides, no one noticed. The door led me into a long corridor. I sped walked the hallway, keeping my eyes peeled for any other signs. Ahead of me, I could see a heavy security door that you needed a number code and a card to open. As I got closer to it, I was thinking of what to do, when the heavy door swung open. Two guys came out into the hallway. I grabbed the door before it closed, and again, they seemed completely unfazed. I let myself in. I kept walking and eventually got to the mail room. The woman there looked at me funny.
"This portfolio is for Mrs. So-and-So," I told the lady behind the counter.
She looked at me strangely, "how did you get in here?"
"Well, uh", I stammered, "I just walked in."
She squinted her eyes at me. She looked worried.
"You can't go back the way you came," she told me.
"Oh..." She seemed seriously worried.
"You'll have to go through the back door," she said, pointing at the large delivery doors section.
"Oh okay," I agreed, not wanting to cause more of a disturbance. "But I can get this portfolio to Mrs. So-and-So?"
"Yes, yes," replied the lady, "I'll put it in her mailbox.
"Alright, thank you," I said. I quickly scurried out of there and found the doors that led outside. These doors brought me to the very back of this huge building, so I had to make my way around the building to get back to the car. As I was jogging back, I was thinking as to how easy it was for me to get into the parts of the building that was strictly off-limits. No wonder everyone can figure out secrets and get into buildings and steal stuff all the time; it's dead easy.
Being short, female, and having cute red hair probably helps too.
Sure, we've all been, at one time or another, locked outside of a building for some reason. Sometimes we can't get into somewhere because it is locked, and we are stuck outside.
Seldom does it happen that we are seriously locked indoors. Of course, it does happen every now and again. Besides jail, there are those who accidentally lock themselves in their upstairs bathroom and need their father to rescue them from the window (courtesy of 3-year old M. Glen), there are those who nail the windows and doors shut to lock their sister in their house (courtesy of I. Bols), and there are those who have an uncanny ability to get into government buildings, especially the high security parts.
A few days ago, I was dropped off at Les Terrasses de la Chaudière building in Hull. It appears to be a government building that has various offices for different services, such as transportation, public works, the International Union of Operating Engineers, and the like. Anyway, it didn't matter to me what kind of building it was at the time because all I wanted to do was go inside and use the telephone. I pulled on the door, but to no avail; all of the doors were locked. Darn. I looked around for other pay phones, but I couldn't see any. I was just about to trek a block further when a man was coming out of the building. I caught the swing of the door and made it inside. He didn't seemed fazed by that at all; in fact, he made sure I had the door as I walked in.
At first, I couldn't find a telephone anywhere. This building was huge, and there were gates and special doors everywhere, that you could only open with a card or keypad number. There were even small see-through gates there that looked somewhat like customs. Many of the doors were automatic.
Following signs eventually led me to the telephone. After making my call, I leisurely made my way back to the doors, not extremely keen to step back into the freezing wind. So, I got to the door and pushed. Nothing happened. It was locked. I went to the other door; it was locked too. What! I went to the handicapped door, tried pushing it, and it let out a piercing screech that scared the bejeezus out of me.
I jumped back, breathing quickly. I am locked inside. All of the doors are locked! Oh, come on, there must be a way out!
I turned around and ran back the way I came. I remembered seeing doors on the other side of the building; they must be not locked from the inside.
How very wrong I was! All of the doors were exactly the same as the others and would not let this panic-ridden girl out of this securitized government building. Oh yes, the panic was quickly settling in.
I started moaning on how on earth I would get out of this building, and why on earth was this building made to keep people in! I ran frantically around the building, looking for doors. Nothing was unlocked. I realized my search was fruitless; I would have to set-up camp here and pretend I knew what I was doing there in the morning when everyone would discover me there, huddled under a meeting table, snorting some of the powdered hot chocolate found in the lunch room.
I was resigning myself to my fate when I heard some commotion at the bottom of the stairs, where the front doors were. I made a mad dash to the entrance and saw a security guard there. My intial thought was that he had been summoned because of the piercing sound I had repeatedly made with the doors. I told him that I needed to get out and I couldn't. He asked me if I had a card, and I said no. Yeesh, who does he think I am... I mean, come on, a card to get out of a building?
Fortunately, he didn't seem mad or annoyed; using his card, he opened the door for me and let me out. Finally, outside and not caged in! I breathed a sigh of relief. Never again would I go into that stupid building at night. Actually, I doubt I would actually be able to.
Two years ago, I was dropping off a Canada World Youth portfolio for a woman who worked at the Department of Foreign Affairs and International Trade in Ottawa. Alanna and Andrea drove up to the door and let me out, and I assured the I would only be a minute. I went up to the front desk and asked if I could get in contact with the woman (who I have now forgotten the name of). They called her office, but to no avail; she wasn't in. I didn't want to wait around forever, so after standing around for a bit, I decided to find the mail room. She had told me that should she not be in her office, I should get my portfolio to the mail room. Realizing later, she probably meant to give the portfolio to someone to bring it there rather than bring it there myself.
So, I went on a search for the mail room. I saw various signs with arrows that read "mail room", so I followed them. The first door that I opened did say something like "Employees only", but I figured I'd be quick. Besides, no one noticed. The door led me into a long corridor. I sped walked the hallway, keeping my eyes peeled for any other signs. Ahead of me, I could see a heavy security door that you needed a number code and a card to open. As I got closer to it, I was thinking of what to do, when the heavy door swung open. Two guys came out into the hallway. I grabbed the door before it closed, and again, they seemed completely unfazed. I let myself in. I kept walking and eventually got to the mail room. The woman there looked at me funny.
"This portfolio is for Mrs. So-and-So," I told the lady behind the counter.
She looked at me strangely, "how did you get in here?"
"Well, uh", I stammered, "I just walked in."
She squinted her eyes at me. She looked worried.
"You can't go back the way you came," she told me.
"Oh..." She seemed seriously worried.
"You'll have to go through the back door," she said, pointing at the large delivery doors section.
"Oh okay," I agreed, not wanting to cause more of a disturbance. "But I can get this portfolio to Mrs. So-and-So?"
"Yes, yes," replied the lady, "I'll put it in her mailbox.
"Alright, thank you," I said. I quickly scurried out of there and found the doors that led outside. These doors brought me to the very back of this huge building, so I had to make my way around the building to get back to the car. As I was jogging back, I was thinking as to how easy it was for me to get into the parts of the building that was strictly off-limits. No wonder everyone can figure out secrets and get into buildings and steal stuff all the time; it's dead easy.
Being short, female, and having cute red hair probably helps too.
Tuesday, February 21, 2006
Something with soul
My large, puffy, red thing that is traditionally called a coat is exceedingly warm.
I was standing inside the building, after finishing my mid-term, talking to another girl from my class. I was all bundled up, ready to go outside, when I ran into her. We talked for awhile, mainly about the exam and then about German theatre. She offered me a ride home in her fancy yellow car, so we were talking in the stairwell, waiting for her boyfriend to finish the exam, so we could all drive home.
Anyway, as I was talking to her, I could feel my legs start to tingle. Now, I don't know if you've ever experienced this, but it sure felt very strange. I wonder if this meant that my legs were overheating. That's what it felt like. My body was getting hot at an extremely quick pace, and I wondered how on earth my red puffy coat could actually be that warm.
I suddenly started to feel quite uncomfortable. I had to go outside. The mostlogical move would have been to take off my coat and hat, but my large back pack was weighing me down, layers seemed to be just piled on top of me, and I figured the damage was already done, anyway. I had to step outside.
So, I had to cut the conversation with the girl short, just because of my red Mr. Puffy. I held my breath, ran to the door, and breathed out in relief as I encountered the chilly night air.
There were very few people in my line of sight. I could see a girl through a window in the building next to the bus stop. I saw two guys in the distance on the sidewalk. But other than those few, there was no one around. I smiled; I could let it rip.
You see, I enjoy singing and singing outside is always the best because you can go as loud and as quiet as you want and learn to tune your voice and to try different pitches. You can let your voice crack, you can try singing with a growly voice or very operatic, and you can let your voice swim and glide.
That is, of course, if there is no one in your immediate area. If you do not care as to what people will think of a singing lunatic, then feel free to do it at your next dinner party or the next time you pump your gas.
So, I started singing, apprehensively at first. I kept whipping my head around, making sure no new people were emerging from the buildings. No one was. I sang louder. I tried singing in a raspier voice. I tried singing high, low; I tried mimicking a good singer from the choir. I was in the middle of a song when I saw a girl about to come out of the doors I had come from. I immediately stopped singing and suppressed my voice to a melodic hum. She came out of the building, I watching her surreptitiously, waiting for her to disappear into another building or quickly scamper off, so I could comfortably resume my singing.
She stepped into a car. Ah, there.
There was no holding me back now!
Listen baby
Ain't no mountain high
Ain't no valley low
Ain't no river wide enough, baby
If you need me call me
no matter where you are,
no matter how far (don't worry baby)
just call out my name.
I'll be there in a hurry
You don't need to worry
'Cause baby there
Ain't no mountain high enough
Ain't no valley low enough
Ain't no river wide enough
To keep me from getting to you, babe.
I was standing inside the building, after finishing my mid-term, talking to another girl from my class. I was all bundled up, ready to go outside, when I ran into her. We talked for awhile, mainly about the exam and then about German theatre. She offered me a ride home in her fancy yellow car, so we were talking in the stairwell, waiting for her boyfriend to finish the exam, so we could all drive home.
Anyway, as I was talking to her, I could feel my legs start to tingle. Now, I don't know if you've ever experienced this, but it sure felt very strange. I wonder if this meant that my legs were overheating. That's what it felt like. My body was getting hot at an extremely quick pace, and I wondered how on earth my red puffy coat could actually be that warm.
I suddenly started to feel quite uncomfortable. I had to go outside. The mostlogical move would have been to take off my coat and hat, but my large back pack was weighing me down, layers seemed to be just piled on top of me, and I figured the damage was already done, anyway. I had to step outside.
So, I had to cut the conversation with the girl short, just because of my red Mr. Puffy. I held my breath, ran to the door, and breathed out in relief as I encountered the chilly night air.
There were very few people in my line of sight. I could see a girl through a window in the building next to the bus stop. I saw two guys in the distance on the sidewalk. But other than those few, there was no one around. I smiled; I could let it rip.
You see, I enjoy singing and singing outside is always the best because you can go as loud and as quiet as you want and learn to tune your voice and to try different pitches. You can let your voice crack, you can try singing with a growly voice or very operatic, and you can let your voice swim and glide.
That is, of course, if there is no one in your immediate area. If you do not care as to what people will think of a singing lunatic, then feel free to do it at your next dinner party or the next time you pump your gas.
So, I started singing, apprehensively at first. I kept whipping my head around, making sure no new people were emerging from the buildings. No one was. I sang louder. I tried singing in a raspier voice. I tried singing high, low; I tried mimicking a good singer from the choir. I was in the middle of a song when I saw a girl about to come out of the doors I had come from. I immediately stopped singing and suppressed my voice to a melodic hum. She came out of the building, I watching her surreptitiously, waiting for her to disappear into another building or quickly scamper off, so I could comfortably resume my singing.
She stepped into a car. Ah, there.
There was no holding me back now!
Listen baby
Ain't no mountain high
Ain't no valley low
Ain't no river wide enough, baby
If you need me call me
no matter where you are,
no matter how far (don't worry baby)
just call out my name.
I'll be there in a hurry
You don't need to worry
'Cause baby there
Ain't no mountain high enough
Ain't no valley low enough
Ain't no river wide enough
To keep me from getting to you, babe.
Tuesday, February 14, 2006
Church experimentation
I, the almost self-proclaimed atheist, and Paula, the one who calls herself "spiritual", made our way to Lennoxville's Anglican church on Sunday morning, whilst our baptized Catholic stayed home and slept in. It is something that we started doing in our first-year, and now we try to fit it in whenever we can.
Every Sunday that we've gone to church here, we've managed to go to a different one every time. This is not too difficult for two reasons: a) there are quite a few churches in this small town and b) we do not, by any means, go every Sunday.
Our goal is to go to every church in Lennoxville; I think we're almost there.
Out of all of the churches we've hit, the Catholic one is our least favourite, followed closely by the University's Anglican chapel. The minister was energetic, and the chapel is very beautiful and ornamented, but we found the chapel a little too beautiful and ornamented and golden for our tastes. The real cincher was when we encountered a man there who latched onto us right away and practically told us to come every week. Needless to say, that scared us away, and we had to literally sneak out through the side door of the room where we had "fellowship" after the service just so he wouldn't see us.
It's neat to explore the town in this church hunt way. It seems as though Paula and I both have the same tastes when it comes to church and its community. We didn't enjoy the fact that we were barely noticed at the Catholic service. We also get a little freaked out when churches are lavishly decorated with practically everything in gold; we like simple, usually wooden, churches. We do not like being hounded and mobbed, like people looking for fresh blood. We like those who welcome, and we like the churches that seem to have a friendly community. Basically, what church is for us is a place where we feel the most comfortable and the most welcomed. Also, having a really good organist never hurts either.
It had been such a long time since we had done on of our church experiments/escapades. I forgot how nice it is. It just felt good being away from the student body and being among families and older people in a small, friendly community. This Anglican church was particularly friendly without being at all overwhelming. The service was very easy going, and there was even a skit done by young teens. All in all, this church experiment was quite a success, and we very much enjoyed it, and, of course, not excluding the particularly scrumptious "fellowship" after the service.
Every Sunday that we've gone to church here, we've managed to go to a different one every time. This is not too difficult for two reasons: a) there are quite a few churches in this small town and b) we do not, by any means, go every Sunday.
Our goal is to go to every church in Lennoxville; I think we're almost there.
Out of all of the churches we've hit, the Catholic one is our least favourite, followed closely by the University's Anglican chapel. The minister was energetic, and the chapel is very beautiful and ornamented, but we found the chapel a little too beautiful and ornamented and golden for our tastes. The real cincher was when we encountered a man there who latched onto us right away and practically told us to come every week. Needless to say, that scared us away, and we had to literally sneak out through the side door of the room where we had "fellowship" after the service just so he wouldn't see us.
It's neat to explore the town in this church hunt way. It seems as though Paula and I both have the same tastes when it comes to church and its community. We didn't enjoy the fact that we were barely noticed at the Catholic service. We also get a little freaked out when churches are lavishly decorated with practically everything in gold; we like simple, usually wooden, churches. We do not like being hounded and mobbed, like people looking for fresh blood. We like those who welcome, and we like the churches that seem to have a friendly community. Basically, what church is for us is a place where we feel the most comfortable and the most welcomed. Also, having a really good organist never hurts either.
It had been such a long time since we had done on of our church experiments/escapades. I forgot how nice it is. It just felt good being away from the student body and being among families and older people in a small, friendly community. This Anglican church was particularly friendly without being at all overwhelming. The service was very easy going, and there was even a skit done by young teens. All in all, this church experiment was quite a success, and we very much enjoyed it, and, of course, not excluding the particularly scrumptious "fellowship" after the service.
Sunday, February 12, 2006
Pain partout
I had a dream that I was directing a play again. Only this time, I was with the French director, Lucie. We were working together for some reason, even though I knew we shouldn't have been. I think I remember Corey-Anne being there. We were rehearsing in this big empty space, kind of like a high school gym, but carpeted in some areas. I think I was taking over Lucie's play and doing the directing for her.
I was suddenly transported to a dimly lit grocery store. I remember wanting to buy some bread. Perhaps it was for my play, but I can't really remember. Actually, this part of the dream may be related to the fact that I had to eat bread on stage for my last play. Anyway, in the dream, bread-buying became such a big ordeal. I found a huge loaf of bread that must have been at least my height, but I didn't buy it, even though I knew I was looking for something big. I kept scanning the aisles for loafs of bread to buy. I knew that I was going down the same aisle again and again, but I was sure that I'd come across something that I hadn't seen before, something that I liked. I kept walking down the aisle faster and more urgently, thinking that I was in a rush. Perhaps I was. I remember the bread quite distinctly: there was white powdered bread, there was dense, thin-sliced brown bread, and there was normal whole-wheat bread. I examined all of these breads variations very carefully. The lighting in the store was getting dimmer, so it was getting harder and harder to see the bread.
Dreams that are so concentrated on one insignificant thing sometimes give me the heeby jeebies.
N.B. The word "pain" in my title does not refer to the English meaning of the word, but rather the French meaning (translated to "bread"). Please do not confuse or I may have to suffer some consequences of concerned people.
I was suddenly transported to a dimly lit grocery store. I remember wanting to buy some bread. Perhaps it was for my play, but I can't really remember. Actually, this part of the dream may be related to the fact that I had to eat bread on stage for my last play. Anyway, in the dream, bread-buying became such a big ordeal. I found a huge loaf of bread that must have been at least my height, but I didn't buy it, even though I knew I was looking for something big. I kept scanning the aisles for loafs of bread to buy. I knew that I was going down the same aisle again and again, but I was sure that I'd come across something that I hadn't seen before, something that I liked. I kept walking down the aisle faster and more urgently, thinking that I was in a rush. Perhaps I was. I remember the bread quite distinctly: there was white powdered bread, there was dense, thin-sliced brown bread, and there was normal whole-wheat bread. I examined all of these breads variations very carefully. The lighting in the store was getting dimmer, so it was getting harder and harder to see the bread.
Dreams that are so concentrated on one insignificant thing sometimes give me the heeby jeebies.
N.B. The word "pain" in my title does not refer to the English meaning of the word, but rather the French meaning (translated to "bread"). Please do not confuse or I may have to suffer some consequences of concerned people.
Wednesday, February 08, 2006
My Future Housemates
Ever since I met Paula and Anna in residence my first year of University, we, including Andrea, have all wanted to live together. They are three superb and wonderful ladies, all whom enjoy the outdoors, unusual conversation, laughing, and, of course, chocolate fondue at midnight.
With a mixture of good luck and some persuasion on Paula's part, we have managed to land a funky four-bedroom house. We were elated when we heard that we would be renting the house next year. The house is full of character; it has a funky, green livingroom, an old-fashioned kitchen, a closet bathroom, four colourful, large, and erratically shaped bedrooms, as well as a huge bathroom upstairs complete with an old-fashioned bathtub. The river is very close behind our house, we have hippy-like neighbours, and we are only a six minute walk from the school.
And the best part of it all? Living with Andrea, Paula, and Anna.
Every day, I will love coming back to the house because it won't just be a house, it'll be our home; these girls make me nothing but happy and always get me thinking and laughing.
We will make our own house of love!
Here are some pictures of the lovely girls (aka Festering Green Pepper, Cheese, Garlic):
On another note...
Besides the usual google searches for "double negatives" and "Bishop's University" that make people land on my site, the next set of keywords are, "will there be a snow day tomorrow?"
Yup, and the poor soul must have been so disappointed to find out that I do not have the answer. I should redirect them to my mother.
With a mixture of good luck and some persuasion on Paula's part, we have managed to land a funky four-bedroom house. We were elated when we heard that we would be renting the house next year. The house is full of character; it has a funky, green livingroom, an old-fashioned kitchen, a closet bathroom, four colourful, large, and erratically shaped bedrooms, as well as a huge bathroom upstairs complete with an old-fashioned bathtub. The river is very close behind our house, we have hippy-like neighbours, and we are only a six minute walk from the school.
And the best part of it all? Living with Andrea, Paula, and Anna.
Every day, I will love coming back to the house because it won't just be a house, it'll be our home; these girls make me nothing but happy and always get me thinking and laughing.
We will make our own house of love!
Here are some pictures of the lovely girls (aka Festering Green Pepper, Cheese, Garlic):
On another note...
Besides the usual google searches for "double negatives" and "Bishop's University" that make people land on my site, the next set of keywords are, "will there be a snow day tomorrow?"
Yup, and the poor soul must have been so disappointed to find out that I do not have the answer. I should redirect them to my mother.
Tuesday, February 07, 2006
Lingering Annoyance
I am extremely irritated when something that I am trying to listen to or watch is being interrupted by people making sounds.
Although people making stupid comments and being loud throughout movies at the theatre is almost rage worthy, I am referring particularly to lectures or any kind of seminar.
Let us take for example my Malaise of Modernity class. Last week, at around half past, when there was still at least fifteen minutes left, half of the class began to pack up. So, you hear the pens being put into pencil cases, you hear books and binders being closed, you hear the shuffling of backpacks, you hear zippers being opened and closed, and you hear the rustling of coats. Then, they just sit there, watching the clock and constantly shuffling. It is unimaginable how much this annoys me. Why do people pack up when there is still time left? If you want to leave the class, then leave and leave the rest of us in peace! I feel bad for the professor who is up there teaching because I know he or she can hear all the sounds, and then they either feel the need to wrap up early or they will pathetically try to draw people back into the lecture, and it all begins to feel awkward. The worst thing about it is that this happens frequently; if not in this class, then in another one.
I think it is simply respectful to stay for the entirety of the lecture rather than somewhat subtly letting the professor know that you want to leave. If you want to leave or you have to leave, then do so quietly. Nobody is asking you to sit through the lecture; hell, if you people left, I am sure the other half of us would be a whole lot happier.
I mean, I would be very irritated if I were on stage in a play and people would be making noise, zipping and unzipping their bags, and shuffling constantly through papers. I know that it isn't quite the same thing, but I think the idea is similar. You have chosen to go to the play or lecture, so you should be courteous and respectful. Is that really so hard?
The next time I do any public speaking and am being continuously interrupted, I will step off of the stage, go into the crowd, smack the disturber and make a huge scene that will surely bring embarrassment to a whole new and toe-tingling level.
Although people making stupid comments and being loud throughout movies at the theatre is almost rage worthy, I am referring particularly to lectures or any kind of seminar.
Let us take for example my Malaise of Modernity class. Last week, at around half past, when there was still at least fifteen minutes left, half of the class began to pack up. So, you hear the pens being put into pencil cases, you hear books and binders being closed, you hear the shuffling of backpacks, you hear zippers being opened and closed, and you hear the rustling of coats. Then, they just sit there, watching the clock and constantly shuffling. It is unimaginable how much this annoys me. Why do people pack up when there is still time left? If you want to leave the class, then leave and leave the rest of us in peace! I feel bad for the professor who is up there teaching because I know he or she can hear all the sounds, and then they either feel the need to wrap up early or they will pathetically try to draw people back into the lecture, and it all begins to feel awkward. The worst thing about it is that this happens frequently; if not in this class, then in another one.
I think it is simply respectful to stay for the entirety of the lecture rather than somewhat subtly letting the professor know that you want to leave. If you want to leave or you have to leave, then do so quietly. Nobody is asking you to sit through the lecture; hell, if you people left, I am sure the other half of us would be a whole lot happier.
I mean, I would be very irritated if I were on stage in a play and people would be making noise, zipping and unzipping their bags, and shuffling constantly through papers. I know that it isn't quite the same thing, but I think the idea is similar. You have chosen to go to the play or lecture, so you should be courteous and respectful. Is that really so hard?
The next time I do any public speaking and am being continuously interrupted, I will step off of the stage, go into the crowd, smack the disturber and make a huge scene that will surely bring embarrassment to a whole new and toe-tingling level.
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