USSR pt2

It seems like moments after I climbed through my window and into my bed, when the sun rose and my mother burst into my room. She yanked the blanket off me, proclaimed me a sleepyhead and blew out again.
I slid out of bed and shuffled over to my wardrobe, where my mother has graciously laid out clothing - brown trousers and a light cotton shirt.
My father's seat at our table was empty, probably having a 'working' breakfast with his Bishops, going over the nights losses and victories. The other empty seat my eyes avoided on instinct, focusing instead on my small bowl of porridge. Mother tried to alleviate the brown gooeyness by throwing in a few berries, but it was dreadful. I ate it anyway, because heaven know if there would be lunch.
"You'll be working with the Connelly's this morning. They're needing a bit of help with the planting what with Arthur out of sorts(This was Mother's way of saying 'recovering from near fatal injuries') then I want you to come back here at midday and we'll start on the dishes for Belle's trousseau."
"Alright, Mother." I took the empty bowl to the sink and cleaned it. "I'll see you later.' I went to the door, my tongue heavy with all the things I wanted to say, but wouldn't. I wanted to tell her about last night, about the serenity of the Night Garden, about the way the Felix girl, River, had approached me, the way that we had spoken all night. But then I would have to explain that I had been sneaking out every night for the past 6 months, how I had allowed the enemy close enough to touch, how I could even bare to look at her after what happened. So I kept my lips sealed as I opened the door, the rusty hinges near giving way to undue duress.
"Oh, and Prudence? The Bishops are coming for breakfast on Friday, so we'll have to make some tea cakes."
With what? The dirt from the path with grass for colour? I resisted the urge to comment and smiled.
"Of course, Mother. May you walk with her in your heart."
"And you, daughter."

Untitled Short Story of Rachel's (USSR for short)* pt1

I went to Sanctuary with blood on my hands. I hadn’t bothered to wash it off when I left the infirmary, but now I wish I had taken the time. The blood has dried into a rust red and was tight under my finger nails. I briefly considered rubbing it off on my skirt, but Mother would have a fit if I returned with bloodstains on my clothes. No, I would wait until I reached the summit.

My bones ached and I longed to lay in the bushes and forget about the pain, the terror and, most of all, the hope. But my battered mind craved the serenity of the Sisterhood and forced one foot after another.

The first moment of calm came when I saw the stone arches of the gateway and the statue of Marita beside. I went to my knees beside the Mother of God and whispered a prayer. There was a well at her feet and I took time to remove all the blood from my skin; there was no place for war here. Satisfied at last, I let the water drip from my fingertips as I passed under the arches.

The robed figures of the Sisters floated past as I walked through the Night Garden to my place. I recognized some faces here and there, widows and orphans who had taken the veil after the death of loved ones. Other I only knew from my nightly visits, women from the other side, whose motives I could only guess. I was usually bursting with questions I could never ask - the idea of approaching a Sister for anything other than spiritual guidance made me cringe with mortification.

I ducked under a cypress branch and smiled as I saw my pond. It was clear and still, dotted with lilypads and reflecting the full moon. I walked to the far side and laid next to a rose bush. It was silent except for the wind through the trees and the nightbirds singing.

(The high walls of the Sanctuary kept out the sounds of fighting.)

I loosed my hair from it’s braid and fanned it around me, working the tension from my scalp. With my ankles and wrists crossed, I allowed my eyes to close, letting my mind wander away from the valley, over the mountains and toward places I could only dream of; to my imaginary village where the hours were marked by life, not death; where you listened for children’s laughter, not distant gunfire; where the end of the day was met with families reuniting, not broken irreparably. If only this place existed outside of my dreams.

“May I join you?”

I opened my eyes to find the silhouette of a woman above me. Even though I couldn’t see her face, I knew I wouldn’t know her. Even in the moonlight, I could see that her hair was fair, long and straight, her body was naturally slender, not the slimness of hunger. As if that wasn’t enough, her eyes threw back the reflection of the moon, inhuman in their brightness.

Felix.

I considered saying no. She would leave quietly, probably already anticipating my answer; she would have known what I was when she came over. My lips opened over the words, but wouldn’t come forth. It was what my father would have had me do. And I had had enough.

“Please.”

**********

So, this is a short story that I wrote over the summer when I was trapped in an '86 Westie with my family in California. It's the only thing I've ever come close to finishing, the only notebook that I have ever filled and I am a little bit proud. I will be posting parts as I transcribe them to my google doc.


*I think I'm funny :)

Home

You're home
I know it's true, I can see it with my own eyes
you're standing in the kitchen
you came it through the front door
your uniform is crisp and shines with medals
Proof of how heroic this whole tragedy was

So I see, that you're home now
But you're looking around like you've never been here
like you didn't lay that floor with your bare hands
like we weren't married in this very room
like you didn't make love to me on that table right before you left me

You left me
you left me
and they tell me that you're home now
but all you see are dreams
and all I see are ghosts

You left me
And it's taken years to figure out how to breath
years to teach my heart to beat around he breaks
years to learn my life without you in it
to convince myself that I could

But you're home now
you came in through the front door
wearing that same look
the one you had every time I said

I love you

the one that's waiting for me to take it back

You're home now and I don't know if I can back track over the years I pretended I was fine more hours than I slept
the years I prayed almost as much as I cried
the years I told myself I didn't need you
the years I almost believed it

But you're home now
and I can try

You're home now

You're home now

I Don't Sleep With Ellen

I mapped her freckles with my fingertips. They were too numerous to count, so I fathomed them into constellations only I knew the names of.

She slept like a fairy tale princess, all flowing hair and wistful lashes. Her one quirk, her brilliant eccentricity, were her smiles. Discovered by accident one night, I jumped at them like a kitten with a ball of yarn, spent the whole night coaxing them forth. A finger running down her nose, a breath in her ear, just to watch her face curve into a smile she herself would never see - a smile I told myself wasn't mine.
I expected her to wake, to roll over and squint as she asked what the poking and prodding was for. But she slumbered on, Snow White in her glass coffin.

The other unique thing about Ellen was the fact that she slept - she ALWAYS slept. We would fuck, we would cuddle and she would fall asleep, half on top of me and clinging like a barnacle.
It was unnerving at first, but I grew to like it. She would sleep and I could count the ceiling tiles, make to do lists, and categorize her dreams. I never had to endure morning after small talk, the whole 'what are you doing today' and 'when should we do this again'. I could get dressed in the dark, make myself a snack, gie her a kiss goodnight (or good day, if I put it off long enough).

And then I could spend the day convincing myself it didn't mean anything.

The Past

He said they couldn't marry until the house was finished. So every day that summer, she brought him coffee, then lemonade, then cold beer. She watched while he dug the cellar, then lay down the floor, then put up walls, then raised the roof. And when the windows had glass and the door had a knob, they were married in the backyard, under the elm that had brought them there. When a rain storm blew up during their vows, they said 'I do' in the kitchen, surrounded by family and electric appliances. Thunder struck as they added their names to the family who had started their marriage in the bed her grandfather had built for her grandmother. A rain-soaked sun rose over the labour of his love and the world was a glittering representation of their incandescent happiness.
They should have known it couldn't last.

The Future pt2

River & Indigo
2 peas in a far out pod
Growing up on the back of a Great Dane
With the mountains as their backyard
And a bagel truck as their playground

The Future pt1

I know it's not very nice
but I revel in the looks
the ones when we talk about our plans
The 'is this a joke? Should I laugh along?'
The shoulder pats and 'whatever you say,
You Crazy Kids.'
Or maybe I just log for the part that comes after
the linked hands and shared look
A Promise Reaffirmed

Double Bed

There is something to be said
about a shared bottom bunk
about two hearts beating
on a lumpy mattress
Four hands will fight for the battle worn duvet
but only three feet will be covered

Waking in the night,
with silence you craved during the day,
can be isolating
Much better,
I think,
to have a breath in your left ear

Even if she's on your side

During the day you'll deny
the simple please
Denounce one another as
'Cover Hogs'
Regale the breakfast table
of night time antics
(most of which involve physical violence)

Because what kind of 19 year old
wants to share a double bed?

But when the door is closed
and the lights are off
and two bodies are once more cocooned

Questions are asked & answers are given
Secrets are shared & kept
Two hearts become one
as eyes are closed and minds left to wander
Limbs touch, questing for comfort
and in the soft sighs and quiet dreams
the Truth becomes clear:

This shared bunk bed is like home
a place I am safe
a place I hate to leave

Just don't tell Maddy I said so

New Year's Resolutions

It might be a little early to be contemplating my resolutions for the new year, but it's a little late for this blog, so I think they balance each other out.

Last week I received a letter I wrote during my last Katima-days. The purpose of this letter was to be sent 6 months after the program, reminding ourselves of the stuff we'd learned and wanted to remember. Since I didn't exactly feel like reliving the good times, I used it to outline the things I wanted to accomplish over the next year or so. Included in this text are a few little things that make me shake my head, such as: an inappropriate crush that makes me embarrassed to think about; a pep talk; the conviction to speak more French; and the desire to rule the world.

It came with impeccable timing - I was having issues at work and my past self assure me that I didn't have a take shit from anyone; I considered chopping my hair - again - and my past self told me not to; and my summer travel plans dwindled and I told myself I needed to go.

Lots of things have changed since then too. I realized I like girls, too; I've grown closer to a new friend while I've drifted away from an old one; I have another novel under my belt, co-authored by a great young woman and wonderful friend; I've grown into my skin and it feels great.

I think it's safe to say that my Mid-Year Resolutions and my New Year Resolutions are a circular Venn Diagram. I think it's also safe to say that I'm happy and even though I'm still fumbling through my life, I'm working up to being the best version of myself.

If that doesn't work out, I can always turn to cat burglary.

Insert Appropriate Title Here

I’m gay. Or bi. Or maybe just confused.

My mom says it makes sense, but not to me. I don’t know when admiring Megan Fox in Jennifer’s Body turned into gayness, but it seemed pretty sudden to me. Then again, no one seemed surprised when I ‘came out of the closet’. You would think that a girl who had confessed her love for Chad Michael Murray numerous times would have at least gotten a nonplussed ‘Really?’, but no. Do I send off some sort of vibe?

Whatever. Since I’m trying to ignore­ what other people think of me, so I guess it doesn’t matter if I have a neon sign flashing above my head. What I do care about (forgive the self-importance) is me. My doubts/confusion stem from the fact that I have never had a girl/boyfriend, and thus no experience to draw from. So it’s feasible that this whole argument could be considered moot. But it feels true and that’s all that matters to me.

My other teeny, tiny barrier is that I feel like I don’t deserve it. This sounds stupid, but hear me out. I’ve never been yelled at in Starbucks for holding a girl’s hand, or called a ‘homo’ or ‘dyke’. I’ve never been scared of rejection or violence because of my sexuality. I’m not even an advocate for gay rights. Yes, I believe that everyone should be treated equally and a lot of people are restricted from marrying the partner they chose, but I don’t believe in marriage and the only cause I can really get behind right now is the protection of the environment. How can I stand beside someone who has been the victim of discrimination, hate and ignorance and say that I am like them? It seems the height of pretention and naiveté to say that I, who have lost nothing, could be part of a group that has been so hurt and yet continues to fight for rights that I have taken for granted without question.

I don’t know. Like I said - I’m confused.

Pants on Fire

When it comes up in conversation I tell people I am a bad liar.

That is a lie.

I know when to lie, how to make you believe, and what to say when you think you're about to be caught.
The things I lie about are ridiculous trivial (seriously, I'm embarrassed thinking about it) and yet I feel so incredibly guilty after the words have parted ways with my mouth. I worry constantly that I'll be caught and have to explain why I did it.

It's embarrassing really.

But I never thought much about it until I read The Secret Life of Bees by Sue Monk Kidd. I don't know what made this last lie seem so horrendous, but I think this book had something to do with it. I did what was easy instead of what was right and I was ashamed - AM ashamed. My dilemma wasn't any sort of 'good vs evil' deal, but it hurt someone and that makes it so wrong I feel dirty. I don't want to feel this way anymore or even ever again. I let my fear of disappointing someone allow me to disappoint myself and I will not condone that sort of behavior.

I want to live with integrity, strength of character, honour and honesty. I've allowed myself to become a hypocrite and I won't anymore. I am going to be someone I can be proud of.

One truth, one choice, at a time.

Silence

I am clumsy. Ask anyone and they'll tell you: I stumble trhough rooms, over my feet and into awkward situations more often than not. Today, I stubbed my toes no less then 9 times.

But more than even my uncoordinated feet and legs, my tongue is my most clumsy appendage.
My words often trip over themselves in their haste to flee my eagerly parted lips, but my tongue balks at the task, mangling the sounds and syllables until I sound like a lunatic.
To be fair, my tongue is not the only culprit - my racing mind is a gleeful accomplice. Thoughts and feeling pingpong around my cranium, evolving faster than my words can accomodate and second guessing the things I thought I knew.

Nothing makes sense when you can't trust your words; when you can't force your tongue and mind to cooperate long enough to say what has to be said. How can you apologize when your inside voice is telling you you sound idiotic and your mouth refuses to wrap around the necessary sounds? How can you talk about your feelings when you can't raise your voice above a whisper?

I recently spoke with someone about my difficulty with French. They somehow managed to extricate my confession that I don't speak more because I'm afraid of how I sound. This holds true for every aspect of my life.
I want to speak, to yell, to cry, rant and ramble, but I'm afraid of how I sound. I'm shockingly terrified of how I will be percieved for the words I utter.

I am afraid to cry because it will mean I am vulnerable.
I am afraid to scream because it will mean I am noticeable.
My voice is one of my best gifts, but it is also the part of myself I am most afraid of. My voice is an invitation to be seen and I am still to shy to want that.

So don't look at me when I tell you I am broken, because if you can't see the cracks, I can keep pretending they'll be fixed before they're noticed.
But when you look me in the eye, you can't see it, but my heart is pounding in my chest and my survival instincts are telling me to SHUT UP! because if I keep talking, you'll see. You're shining a spotlight on the holes in my armor and I'm naked underneath.
But you barely notice, because you are a normal person and pulling words out of your mouth is not some kind of insane Herculean effort. But for me, it's like sucking snake vemon from an open wound.

I wish I could throw words like harpoons, landing gracefully and effortlessly on a target of my choosing, but for now, I'm stuck on a merry-go-round of doubt and fear and I can't find the E-brake.

Maybe you can shine the spotlight there for once, hey?

When you say the sky is everywhere, you're thinking of the prairies

Days like today make me want to barrel up a mountain, fly to the top of a tree and scream at the top of my lungs.And then, fearless as the sun makes me feel, I will jump out of my tree and run mad through the forest.

The sun soaks into my pores and floods my bloodstream, shooting straight for my heart, until every pulse beats light through my skin.

It feels like my lungs are going to bust open, because my mouth can't gasp down enough oxygen to please them.

I can count these mind blowing moments on one hand. Since coming here, the weather has been painfully gray, but days like today make me want to jump for joy and sing like a loonie-toon.

Maybe spring really has sprung.

Supposed Aimlessness

In an attempt to keep up with my average of 2 blogs per month, I present you with this short(ish)* blog. Bear with me.

My sister was with me this weekend. It seemed like all we did was talk. Sure, we roamed about Calgary in search of my new city, we ate, we drank (tea) and read. But the spaces in between were full of words. We have very few silences, my sister and I.  I am continually astonished by the fact that we never run out of things to talk about. My lips will probably fall off before I can no longer think of things to pass from my mind to her ears.**

One of the things that came up was my alleged lack of direction. Although Katimavik has given me tonnes of ideas of what want to do when I leave, but still have no lead on a legit 'career path'.
But I had an epipheny: I decided that it doesn't matter. Well, not that, exactly. I decided that was wasn't directionless, or lost.

I realized that I am hungry. For life, among other things. I'm hungry for so many things, including but not limited to: experience, excitement, love, magic. I want to do everything, to try anything, go anywhere, be whoever I can be.

Maybe that's selfish. I know that I'm insanely blessed, that my life is something out of an average fairytale, and to ask for anything else might be pushing it. But I don't care. For once, I want to be selfish. I think it's okay to want this.

Most of all, I hope I'll always be hungry. And I hope I can spend my life with someone as ravenous as I am.

*(my first footnote! Exciting!) When is anything I ever write short?
**I find it incredibly interesting when people fear that they will run out of things to say to their 'partner', just because you see each other every day. The world is an ever changing place, sparking new thoughts, new conversations, constantly creating a whole new you. I don't worry about that kind of thing so much. I'm more of a 'What if I can't say what I mean? What if I'm too afraid to do what I have to? What if I can't do what I need to to keep you?'. But that's another blog entirely.

Eat

This past week in Katima-life we were billeting. Which roughly translates into 'Go and live with a bunch of strangers (AGAIN) for 10 days and hopefull you don't die - I mean, have a nice time'. I'm not going to linger on this, because it's not what I started this blog for, but I will say I had an amazing week. I went to Canmore, Banff, and Kanaskis, cross-country skiied, sat in a hot spring and got to hang out with a 3 year old for 10 days. All and all, fantastical.

But the reason I brought this up is that the room where I slept when I away was their office/library. So, of course, first thing I did after unpacking my toothbrush was creep the books. And on the bookshelf (other than four Harry Potter books, first sign we were going to get on swimmingly) was Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert.

I have been meaning to read this book, but ever since the movie came out, you have to know someone who know's someone to get your hands on a library copy. So I was content to wait until the hype blew over, but fate stepped in and presented me with a lovingly worn copy.

So I started reading this book with few reservations: I saw the movie, I wasn't expecting anyting mind blowing or stunning. So I was incredibly suprised to find myself devouring this book with a ferocity that hasn't beatened me over the head in a while.

But, you know, I'm not even writing this to review the book for you. For the purpose of this blog, I'm going to push aside the wonders of Liz Gilbert and simply focus on one aspect of it: Italy.

Italy is Liz's first stop on her journey of sel-discovery and it would not be an exaggeration to say that is was basically just a food orgy. She went there to find pleasure and found it in the form of gelato.

This book was (other than a delicious overload of food) a explosion of intention that beat me over the back of the head. I realized what I'm going to do when I leave Katimavik.

This might come as a shock to some people, or it might just seem like the natural progression of my aimless youth, but this is actually really a wonderful step towards a plan for me. A couple weeks ago, if you asked me what I'm doing in the fall, I would have said something noncommittal like 'I'm still looking at a few options' (there were no options) or 'I'll probably travel a bit' (which is true, but incredibly vague). Now I know, with the conviction of a teenager who thinks they're invincible, that I'm going to Europe in the fall.

Looking back on this post, it seems like a lot of preamble to what I actually want to talk about. Must work on summarizing!

Long ago, in a farway place, my sister and I hatched this grandiose plan of travelling the globe, working on organic farms, eating pasta under the Leaning Tower, speaking French horrendously in Paris. We picked all the places we were going to go and I made a map to better orient myself with that goal. But then I was accepted on this crazy adventure called Katimavik and it slipped to the back of my mind. But now it is back in the fore front and I'm so incredibly excited that I can barely contain myself.

October is going to see Alex and I in Europe, with back packs and languages books, arguing at the train station about whether the go to Madrid or Barcelona - which one we will go to first, of course, because we are young and crazy and we are going to put our own individual stamp on the map.

Does any one know where we can find a good stamp?

Valentine's Day was on Monday

I just finished reading 'The Secret Countess' by Eva Ibbotson. My heart is still thumping ecstatically and there are stars in my eyes. I think she is my favourite author.

Reading Eva Ibbotson is like going back in time. She writes about a time when men are gentlemen and living in a house with five guys (rowdy, messy, crass, strangely endearing guys) requires this sort of beacon of hope. I thought I had been disillusioned, but I read these books and I can pretend men like that exist.

Anyway, Eva Ibbotson is my hero. Her attention to detail, the way she weaves her story around the characters and vice versa, the language make me sign and laugh and cry. It makes me want to be a better writer. Heck, it makes me want to be a better person.

True, this is the same woman who wrote 'Which Witch?' and yes, her books are categorized in the teen romance section. But she is so much more than that.

It would take me pages and pages to describe the love affair that I am having with these books & I know that you have things to do, so I'll keep it short. I want to gush about Anna, the penniless Russian countess/maid or Rom, the banished Englishman in Brazil. I want to detail the things I learned about opera and ballet and house keeping in 1919. I want to share the quirky, loveable, human characters that populate her books and especially the grandiose romantic endings.

But I won't because, most of all, I want you to discover these things for yourself. I want you to fall in love with Guy Farnes from 'The Magic Flutes' & Quinton from 'The Morning Gift'. I want you to cheer for Harriet in "A Company of Swans' and your heart to break for Ellen in 'A Song For Summer'.

So do me a favour: The next time you are in the library, let your feet take you to the paperbacks in the teen section. Let your fingers drift over the spines in the 'I's and let one of her books fall into your hands.

You won't regret it.

Hey, you.

Yes, you, you dumbass. Don't try to pretend you don't know who I'm talking to. I know you're reading this, so you may as well give up. Do I have your attention now? Good.

I miss you.

This probably won't come as a shock to you, but I miss you. I think about you all the time. I shoveled the sidewalk yesterday and it reminded me of that time when we brushed the slush off your lawn. I remember the time we rode the bus down town and you counted out your pennies to make up $1.75. I would have sworn that the bus driver was going to boot us off, but you smiled your dimpled smile and we made it with out hitch hiking down 99.

You bastard.

The worst part is that I'm becoming one of those girls. I check my email obsessively, I sit next to the phone and jump when it rings. I've even started going on facbook every day and you know how much I hate that.

And so, after 25 days with nothing more than a 'Hey, what's up, I heard it's cold', I am taking a stand. I am mad at you for making it so easy for me to be a clingy person. Actually, I'm mad for a lot of reasons. But I won't get into that because even though there is no 140 character limit, I'm a novelist, I don't do short stories and you do not want to get me started.

I thought we had something special. I know that I'm not the first girl to say that to a boy, but there it is. I though we had something special, but I guess I was wrong. I may be just a notch in your bed post, but you're just  post on my blog.

And, you know, it's not like I'm expecting sonnets. I know better than to wait for Captain Wentworth-esque declarations of devotion from a teenager. All I want is some kind of sign that you think of me when I'm 936 km away.

But wait -

Some people will say that I'm freaking out over nothing. And I do recognize that novels have ruined me, but I still have my common sense to pull me through. Or maybe I just can't recognize a lost cause when I see it. Whatever.

Regardless, I'm going to give this another go. But you are on crack if you think I'm bridging this gap between us. No, you're that one who is gonna take seven steps here.

And even though you shouldn't need incentive - I'm yours.

Don't screw this up, George.

It's cold in Calgary

I know, I know - this is common knowledge. But even if you know it in your head, it is a completely different thing to experience it. Let me delve a little deeper into this subject...

Picture a stereotypical Canadian winter. In my mind, I see a female newscaster, leaning on an expensive looking desk, a bank of TV's as her background. Her face is a mixture of severity and sympathy as she reports the news of the day.

'Another cold snap in Canada this week. Temperatures plummet to -35 send residents into hiding, unwilling to brave the snow blowing winds except for the most dire of circumstances.' The screen then jump cuts to a cityscape, where pedestrians are unrecognizable, even to their loved ones, as they are wrapped head to toe in varying degrees of protection against the freezing winds. These people are hunched forward, trying to wrap into themselves in hopes of avoiding the cold, holding their collars tight around their scarf covered faces as they hustle from one overheated safe haven to the next.

This is Calgary.

It is so bitterly cold that waiting for the bus is like standing outside, dripping wet, buck naked - in Antarctica. Getting on the bus is blissful, but ultimately awful, because the times comes (too soon even for your fingers to regain feeling in the tips) when you have to leave and rejoin the other penguins.

It would be awesome if we could be more like penguins, you know what I mean? How they huddle together, lending each other their body heat as they take turns shuffling around the outsides so that some of them can warm for a little while?

Calgarians don't do that.

On the upside, all the buildings overcompensate by upping their heat to an above average temperature, so it all evens out in the end.

Only, not really.

This is my first impression of my new home. It sounds unfavourable, but I actually quite like it. I haven't seen a lot of the city, but what I have seen, I like. Except the roads, don't get me started on the roads.

This is my first blog from my shared Katima-Computer. My roomies are playing some kind of zombie apocalypse game in the back ground. It's interesting background noise. Anyway, I will blog as often as I find the time... once a week or so. Maybe, if I'm lucky. But I will try to keep you informed of my goings on.

Please don't forget about me as I shiver to death in the Prairies.

With all my frozen love, I bid you farewell.

Adventure Time (not to be confused with Sexy Time)

This is me, chilling in front of the computer. I want to tell you about the crazy business that happened to me last week, so I'm thinking of words to fill it in. I guess it is time for back story (that's one of my favorite parts of starting something new - there is a tonne of back story):

In March, I was in my last 30 days of 17 and I realized I needed some kind of plan to drag me through the weird transition from high school students to certified adult. So I looked into a couple different volunteer jobs out of province, because I like to volunteer and I like to travel. I found Katimavik, something I had heard about in passing once or twice but never thought too much about because I am a child and I don't need to make any real life decisions. But during the last weeks of teenage hood, I rediscovered this program and got super excited about it. The website made it sound like all you had to do was fill out an application and in a couple months you would be living in Quebec, garbling your supposed second language and living with strangers and a million other things with varying degrees of wonder and monotony.

I was indescribably shocked when they rejected my application (yes, I am incredibly vain and conceited, deal). So I cried a few tears and moved on, trying for a few things farther afield. Unfortunately (or fotunately, if you would like to see it that way), I was still on the mailing list, so I received a proposal to apply to another program with them, and at the urging of my mother, I did so. I had since moved past surprise when it came to them, so when I received a second rejection from them, I quickly moved on. I unconsciously buried my memories of that Katimavik nonsense with things like my birthday, summer and life in general.
When the third email arrived, this one asking me to join the wait list, my finger was poised over the delete key when my mom said that I should apply anyway. That insidious 'What's the worst that could happen?' convinced me and I nodded my head in disgruntled acquittance.

I guess that cliche that says the third time's the charm might have some basis in reality.

In approximately 30 days, I will be on a plane to Calgary and commencing my life out in the 'real world'. It's thrilling and terrifying to accept that I will be out of the bed I have slept in for the last five years, away from the bowls from which I have eaten cereal out of, and off the streets that I could walk down blindfolded and find the library I owe my soul to, the biscotti shop that is never open, or the yarn shop that remembered 12 months after the fact that I had ordered something from them. In the last five days, I have applied for a Visa (strangely simple, FYI), gotten a Police Record Check (squeaky clean, thank you very much), clean my closet of the summer things I will not need in the winters of Alberta and picked the five books that will hopefully keep me occupied for the next six months. I had a last ditch slumber party, wrote my Christmas wish list (which included tooth brush heads and wool socks) and tried to wrap my head around the fact that my plans were coming to fruition - even if it was 9 months after their invention.

I guess that I should end this with some witty parting comment, but I've never been very good at that. So I will instead say goodnight and good luck (mostly the luck is for me, but you can have some too).

Angst

My computer keeps freezing. It's really bugging me. A lot.

Any way... HI! My sister just told me she's sick of going on my blog and seeing my last post, so I thought I would update while I'm taking a break from my 5K day.Yeah, that's right, I said 5K. And no, that does not mean I am running 5 kilometres today (ha). But I am instead attempting to write 5 thousand words in one day, because I am participating in (drumroll) NaNoWriMo!!!!

That's right, I am doing the time honoured practice of committing to write 50,000 words with the confines of November. I did this last year, so I went into it with both eyes open. Well, one eye was fully open, the other was dazzled by the star-studded excitement and exhilaration of committing to fewer hours of sleep, less of a social life and prospective carpel tunnel.

I started off the month strong, hammering out 3,000 words the first day (twice the required amount) so I was pretty confident. I managed to stay ahead, attacking the keyboard everyday for hours until they offered up 1,667 words and I could go to sleep. Everything was going really well until about a week ago. I got kind of busy and thought 'I have and extra 2 thousand words, I can skip today'. And it did it again and again until I was 5 thousand behind. So today, I decided that I would show the Nano beast that I wasn't a total slacker and that I could beat it and I sat down for the herculean task of completing 5,000 words in 24 hours (preferably 12, because I do like to sleep). I've made it half way and decided that as a break, I would write a blog... about Nano. There really is no escape.

Some might say that I, and the countless others who have undertaken this task, am totally, 100% crazy. And to that, I would completely agree. There is nothing crazier than agreeing to self-imposed slavery to the craft of writing for a whole month. You're willing agree to forsake quality for quantity, intelligent prose for exhaustion garbled sentences that don't make any sense on review. But during this month, you have the ability to crack the whip over your muse and create something that might not make sense, but has the potential to be magnificent and splendid and worthy of your time. There is also the opportunity for soundly trouncing your friends in one of the only way athletically challenged, passably talented nerds like myself can: word count.

I am thoroughly enjoying my vacation from sanity and my fellow (Nanoers? Wrimos?) are enjoying themselves as well.

Best of Luck.