We are starting a band

Hilary, Miranda and I are starting a band, of sorts. We have our career planned out and I herein share the details with the curious. I believe one of the first coherent plans evolved from our discussion of a potential music video, prompted by Hilary's modern dance and soulful expressions whilst singing along to Lifehouse songs. I use the term "singing" loosely here. Just to avoid the confusion that may arise from the limitations of this medium--specifically the lack of a tone of voice with which to enhance understanding--I ask you, gentle readers, to imagine this being told in a highly ironic tone of voice. At times, if you wish, it may deviate into maniacally enthusiastic expressions. Variety is, after all, the spice of life, as ancient wisdom teaches us. But I do assure you most truly, gentle readers: we do not commit the sin of taking ourselves seriously, as the following details will make manifest.

To resume. Although the Lifehouse incident was A beginning, it was not THE beginning; this ambition was in our girlish hearts from an early age. I call to mind a photograph that hangs on our wall by the stairway, showing us three charming, musical sisters attempting to present the scene of a most exciting act. I regret to say the straining of my brain yet does not permit me to recall the details of what prompted this abortive foray into the music industry. What the picture and patches of memory reveal is this: Miranda had adorned our heads with hairdos of her own design, and I was using my sewing box and miscellaneous cloth as a guitar, Miranda had another guitar, this one made of pan pipes. Hilary was the vocalist. I am unable to determine what precisely she was using as a microphone, but I am fairly certain she was chewing on it.

Cute, no?

In any case, Alexisonfire further inspired us, giving Hilary the role of "the screamer." She shall, in a terribly hard-core manner, supplement delicate lyrical strains with the shrieking and yowling of delicate, introspective lyrics.

A recent development was prompted by our distaste of some Christmas carol covers, particularly a mellow, soulful version of "Jingle Bells." I decided an ideal Christmas song would be a heavy metal screaming cover version of "The Little Drummer Boy." PA RA PA PUM PUM!!! and so forth. Our music video will involve Christmas costumes; Santa (Miranda), Frosty (myself), and, of course, the drummer boy (Hilary). She is drums, I am bass guitar, Miranda is lead guitar. Being hardcore people, of course, these costumes must be suitably modified; black leather Santa and such. Our Frosty shall have a mohawk of carrot sticks, and all the unfortunate piercings such a medium (snow) shall allow for. There may also be an unfortunate yellow tattoo. And let us not forget the black leather. There will also be a Rudolph. As we destroy the set and instruments around us (because, of course, we must be destructive to be cool), Rudolph will lose his nose. Apparently Alanna is to knock it off. At this point in the brainstorm she has joined us to play the triangle, only she shall get distracted/flustered, depending on the tempo of the song, and hit it late at the ends of songs. Apparently she is lacking in the attention span department. (I, if I may say so, deeply sympathise, being a victim of my all-too-entertaining psyche myself. We must not judge.) The end of this song, in the video, will be her missing the triangle, and hitting the nose, half a beat late, and the final shot in the video will be his nose slowly rolling to a stop.Later discussions decided Rudolph as being a consistent element in our videos (a reference to the great success of our first single, perhaps). It is also at this point that we name ourselves "Olive The Other Reindeer." I am uncertain as to the nature of Alanna's Christmas costume; if she so desires, she is to make her preference known next time we discuss this.

Another song we shall do is "Rockabye Baby." It shall not be restful, as, indeed, the tale of a baby plummetting from a tree to its probable death should not be. (Incidentally, does anyone else remember being disturbed by that song? I recall spending much of my childhood being consistently traumatized by nursery rhymes and suchlike. Perhaps I shall expand further to the media later; fame does, after all, require a self-indulgent lack of privacy, especially with regards to traumatic incidents. (A distressing thought occurs to me: I do not think I have had enough such incidents in my past to be a proper celebrity. Perhaps I shall fabricate some. Maybe involving penguins.) I am sure you are all deeply interested in the workings of my psyche, but further revelations must wait, dear readers. Be patient; be strong.) In the video, Rudolph shall be the baby and Hilary shall be shaking the tree as she yells out her background "singing." As in "rockabye baby (ROCKABYE THAT DAMN BABY!) on the tree tops (THE FU*KING TREE TOPS!) and so forth.

(I here insert a minor digression. I am reminded, by the description of the last song, of Myystik Spyyral's version of "I've Been Working On the Railroad," which I here include:
> I've been working on the railroad
> EVERY POINTLESS DAY
> I've been working on the railroad
> WHILE MY LIFE GETS PISSED AWAY
> Can't you hear the something shouting?
> SHATTER MY DREAMS IN THE MORN
> Can't you hear the whistle's blowing?
> WISH I WAS NEVER BORN!
I recall finding that deeply amusing; indeed, I still do feel all warm and fuzzy inside upon recalling that musical interlude.)

(Can you tell I have recently (sort of recently) developed (or recovered, perhaps) a deep and pure love of parentheses?)

I here resume tales of our band, with a description of the last song we have discussed: the camp song beginning "there was a great big moose." Our video shall be a shocking tale of alcohol abuse (those who know the lyrics to this masterpiece should be unsurprised at this development: they would recall that, in the course of the song, it arises that the moose, much to his detriment, likes to drink a lot of juice). Lyrics of him spilling the so-called "juice" on his "teddy bear," as revealed by the video, are, in fact, metaphors for drunken debauchery and falling asleep in his own vomit, et cetera. The moose, of course, is Rudolph. Moreover, this song shall shock our loyal listeners, for in the verses, Hilary shall, in fact be mellow. Just singing. It is only when she gets to the chorus shall the echo part, once again, involve shrieking. "say whoa..SAY WHOA..." and so forth. It is imagined that such a return to normal will come as a relief to our listeners.

I'm not sure "normal" is the ideal word, but "usual" or "standard" don't really work either. I must trust you, gentle readers, to take from that last sentence the correct meaning; so distressing it is, that language is such an unreliable, limited medium! I am in tears at the thought! I feel my freedom is being constrained and torn and oh so misunderstood! Alas! Just think of all we could express were the resources of our vocabulary much expanded! For instance, there needs to be a better word for "strange."

My tale ends here, but more discussions may result in a sequel. I trust you are all agog in anticipation of further developments. I must counsel patience, dear readers. It is a worthy virtue, and I regret to insist that it must here be exercised, as conversations on this topic do not, distressingly, occur regularly. But, never fear! I hereby promise to keep you apprised of any further decisions on the future of Olive The Other Reindeer. Gentle readers, you have my word.

GAR

I had a blood test today. I have been fainting ever since my migraine last week. Almost fainting. Dizzy spells with blackout and I almost drop but I don't. It's been getting worse; maybe ten a day now. It's creepy. And it interrupts my train of thought and makes me stupid. And I feel weak and sick and keep on shaking for no good reason. It's incredibly horrible and I cannot work as hard as I need to. I need grad school money...
It could be a thyroid thing or something, the tests are to determine if it's something real that can maybe be fixed instead of the usual migraine response of 'deal with it, maybe it'll go away when you hit menopause...'
They also said it could be just pure exhaustion. It better freaking not be; I want an actual diagnosis that they shall FIX.
I may have to go in for a brain scan Monday if they do not find anything.
I hate this migraine/pain/disorder/nausea/dizziness/weakness crap. I hate it. I hate it. I need a way to get out of my head. I cannot think. It's horrid. I need to punch something.

meh

So, I am ill, yet again. But for once, it is a cold, and not migraine/pain disorder/some relation. It is variety!
Well, not entirely, as I have one at least every winter. It is usually at Christmas, however. Maybe I'll have another later.
I am rather getting some fun out of the novelty of being contagious, however. It makes me feel powerful. "I have become death, destroyer of worlds..."

So...life has been routine with some extra naps lately. My brain does seem to have difficulty with that pesky consciousness thing, even before the cold. I am applying to graduate studies: Western, UBC, and U of Alberta so far...and I hate forms and I hate bureaucracy and I hate selling myself to people. I'm used to insulting myself or granting myself outrageous hyperbolical compliments that are not meant to be taken seriously. This convenient lying I do not find interesting enough to enjoy.
I'm a fairly dedicated student, I work pretty hard, I get good marks: give me money. That's it. That's all. I wish it was all automatic and they just looked at my transcript and I did not have to invest any effort into the process. Effort is a terribly limited commodity these days.

Middle English is meh. Fine, not yet exciting. I need to pick a topic for a presentation. On anything. I feel like I'm in grade school again for that one. Developmental Psycholinguistics, on the other hand, is a little over my head. I walked out of the last class feeling very dumb. Of course, the cold-induced idiocy didn't help. Then Sven joined me and we studied Old Norse until that class, which was a bit over an hour later. Sven is a German exchange student, in the aforesaid two of my classes. There are only four others than us in the Norse class, both Helga and Shrimp are in my Middle English class also. I like small classes; I actually know everyone's name. This is comforting; it gives a vague sense that I have some idea what is going on, which (however misleading) is a nice sensation, as well as a novel one.

I like old Norse. But I have been reading Chekhov instead of studying for I am sick and this makes me lazy and irresponsible. And drops my IQ at least fifty points. It is terribly distressing. I love Chekhov to death, he is clever and subtle and sweet, but he does tend to bring out my cynical side more than usual. Take this passage for example: "All I am dreaming about nowwhich seems to me so impossible and unearthly is really quite an ordinary thing," thought Ryabovitch, looking at the clouds of dust racing after the general's carriage. "It's all very ordinary, and everyone goes through it...That general, for instance, has once been in love; now he is married and has children. Captain Vahter, too, is married and beloved, though the nape of his neck is very red and ugly and he has no waist...Salmonov is coarse and very Tatar, but he has had a love affair that has ended in marriage...I am the same as every one else, and I, too, shall have the same experience as every one else, sooner or later..."
I read this and I look over at my POTENTIAL inspiration poster, with the picture of fries and the caption "Not everybody gets to be an astronaut," and I laugh bitterly.
Being sick is bothering me. I hate not being able to think coherantly. It seems a terribly unfair trick for the universe to play on me. I do not appreciate it.

I cleaned my room.

Yeah...that's about it.

"I sometimes wondered how many other people felt the oppression of this union between quietude and terror. I see blank well-ordered streets and men in black moving around inoffensively, sullenly. It goes on day after day, day after day, and nothing happens; but to me it is like a dream from which I might wake screaming. To me the straightness of our life is the straghtness of a tin cord stretched tight. Its stillness is terrible. It might snap with noise like thunder."-G.K. Chesterton

Homecoming II

The Saturday I got some homework done and read some Spinoza. The Sunday was detox day and I had bizarre conversations with castle people and drew on a few. Then Spazz made me dinner. She and Matilda are having a whiteboard war; Matilda (who may be called Howard Yegendorf from now on, due to our porjected future of her as a sketchy philosopher-lawyer) drew a happy flower, and Spazz drew a monster eating the happy flower, and Howard Yegendorf drew a force field protecting the happy flower...They also have a 'bear-proof your residence' magnet that apparently some people were giving out to the poor frosh, as a welcome to university. It's kind of funny: Spazz and I are so alike in our dorkiness; her housemate comes home on Homecoming, drunk out of her mind, and finds her sitting at the coffee table, drinking tea, and doing a jigsaw puzzle.
They also spent the morning doing crafts. They were making false IDs, only not false IDs to get into bars, but ones that said they were younger than they were, so they could get kid menus.
How do I know so many bizarre people? I am blessed. Truly.

A un gato--Borges

No son más silenciosos los espejos
Ni más furtiva el alba aventurera;
Eres, bajo la luna, esa pantera
Que nos es dado divisar de lejos.
Por obra indescifrable de un decreto
Divino, te buscamos vanamente;
Más remoto que el Ganges y el poniente,
Tuya es la soledad, tuyo el secreto.
Tu lomo condesciende a la morosa
Caricia de mi mano. Has admitido,
Desde esa eternidad que ya es olvido.
El amor de la mano recelosa.
En otro tiempo estás. Eres el dueňo
De un ámbito cerrado como un sueňo.

Homecoming I

Sooo... there was this reunion of castle folks as my fellow-quiet-person Winnipegger was down here visiting. It was nice to see everyone. There was much talk of movies and of Johnny Depp, and then there was a drinking game. Much nudity ensued. All I lost was a sock because some enterprising individual thought it might be a good idea to make out with my toe. He was soon disabused of this notion.
You know, I think I really like mad-libs parties.
As to this drinking game...I had water, for company's sake, as I find alcohol sets off the worst qualities of my migraine. And there was this "never-have-I-ever" thing where someone completes the aforesaid sentence and everyone who has committed said act takes a sip, and then someone said "Never have I ever made out with a guy; ok everybody drink" and he and everybody else took a sip. And then they were looking at me and there was this long pause....

Quotations

There exists this wonderful BBC show called Coupling. I was just watching some of it. Overwhelmed with the greatness of its humour, I decided to post some quotations. These, save where otherwise marked, are all from Jeff, played by Richard Coyle. A wonderful, bizarre, and utterly frightening character. Enjoy.

'My advice is to get them off right after your shoes and before your trousers...that's the sock gap. Miss it and suddenly you're a naked man in socks. No self-respecting woman will let a naked man in socks do the squelchy with her'
'Many men have fallen through the sock gap Patrick'
'When we finally get our hands on the gear, let me tell you, it's not a drill. We're supposed to fly those babies the first time we get in them'
'What if I panic? What if I say an accidental word?'
'She's leaving the country...she doesn't speak English...I insulted her friend's breasts...and she thinks I collect women's ears in a bucket'
'Or your mother starts making enormous sculptures of erections and filling the house with them. That's what I hate'
-
'Maybe you're licking her neck too much, are you over wetting her neck?'
'Should you be switching between them really quickly or should you squish them both together and do them both at once?'
'Should you be making noises yet? Is it too soon to grunt?'
-
'Steve, sex with two whole women, think of the advantages...they can't both fall asleep. If one of them suddenly leaves or punches you, you've still got one left. If one of them plays that old sneaking out of the window trick, there's someone there to untie you. It's total genius.'
'...and all those breasts! Your bed would be like a breast car park. It'd be like being attacked by the giant breast octopus but only this time your mother wouldn't wake you up before the good bit.'
'Especially the tongues part. I love getting all that extra tongue. You know sometimes I eat really cold ice cream so my tongue goes numb and it feels like someone elses...but we all get lonely sometimes'
'Wait but there's just two of us, which is great obviously that's like a whole other person than normal...'
'I'm nearly thirty you know. I'm not 15. By now I should be able to talk to a woman without accidentally saying "nipples" or "gusset". Or, or, "Did you know you can make candles out of human fat?"'
'Exactly! I am a prison for sperms. Those poor little tadpoles have been sentenced to life in Jeff Murdock's groin and let me tell you that can be a pretty lonely place'
-
"There's a lot in Hi."
Steve: There are two letters in hi.
"Yeah, and I hit both of them like a crazy fool. It was like a disaster movie, halfway through the H, I'm thinking "no, no pull out now!". Have you ever tried to pull out during an H?
Steve: Jeff the world in all it's fabulous diversity is entirely populated by people who have never tried to 'pull out during an H'
"Do you know why? Cos it isn't a proper letter. It's just a, just a 'huh' noise. Once you've started on the 'huh' you've basically 'huh-ed' so what could I say? Hello? How are you...hippo?"
Patrick: Hippo?
"You can't say hippo. You don't want to come off sounding like some surreal cupboard loitering lunatic."
Steve: It's just so ironic that you should have that as a specific ambition.
"So I said 'hi'. Suddenly it was out there, suddenly that little word was hanging in the air, pouting."
Steve: Pouting?
"Like a scantily dressed prostitute reclining on a street lamp."
-
"Do you know what arses are Patrick? Arses are the human races' favourite thing. We like them on each other. We like them on magazine covers. We even like them on babies. When we're alone we like to scratch them. When there's a fire, we like to warm them and who among us hasn't, in a lonely moment, reached back for a discreet fondle? We love our arses. When God gave us our arses he had to stick them around the back just so that we wouldn't sit and stare at them all day. 'Cos when God made the arse he didn't say, 'hey it's not your basic hinge, lets knock off early.' He said, 'behold ye angels I have created the arse. Throughout the ages to come, man and woman shall grab hold of these and shout my name.'
"I am grappling with the most ancient dilemma of man. She likes me, but which end?"
-
"Ok, maybe I can help you. You know jelly wrestling?"
Steve: Jelly wrestling?
"Which is basically jelly with women wrestling in it."
Steve: We're familiar with the concept yes.
"Ok, well, think about this afterwards, after the wrestling. What happens to the jelly?"
Steve: The jelly.
"Because you could sell that. That... is a missed opportunity. You could bottle and sell it.."
Steve: Ok.
"You'd take the women out first, obviously."
Steve: Good.
"There'd just be a hint."
Steve: Are you in any way moving in the direction of relevance?
"Relevance? Steve, do you realize what I just invented? Porn Jelly. The human races' two most favourite things meet at last. In dessert form."
Steve: Jeff!
"There's a lot of lonely people out there Steve. What do lonely people enjoy? Puddings and porn. Now, for all your needs, pudding porn. It's a girlfriend in a jar except it's jelly."
Steve: Jeff, can I ask again how this is relevant to Patrick's dream?
"I was kinda hoping something would come up."
-
"Lesbians are porn efficient. It's sex with a greater density of women. Porn wise, lesbians are like a jam sandwich without the sandwich and just the jam. In fact, lesbians are just a big blob of jam. Well, not actually. Unless they've exploded in all the lesbonic excitement. Also, in bloke driven porn you run the risk of potential dangerous eye slippage."
Susan: Eye slippage?
"If, in the climactic seconds your eye slips from the girl to the bloke the sudden shock can cause a whiplash event. And trust me, lower whiplash is not an injury you want to have to explain while you're being stretchered out through your mother's coffee morning."
-
"Can I get you anything?"
Jane: I think I'm fine actually.
"Anything at all?"
Jane: What have you got?
"Four biscuits and an apple."
Jane: Oh.
"I've owned the apple for awhile it's probably still broadly feasible but I wouldn't want to talk it up."
Jane: I'm fine really.
"It's very easy to miss the apple window, isn't it? I get very tense around apples."
Jane: You do?
"Well I get very tense in general. I think I've fallen into the trap of blaming fruit.
-