a bit of frost

Stopping by Woods on a Snowy Evening

Whose woods these are I think I know.
His house is in the village, though;
He will not see me stopping here
To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer
To stop without a farmhouse near
Between the woods and frozen lake
The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake,
To ask if there is some mistake.
The only other sound's the sweep
Of easy wind and downy flake.

These woods are lovely, dark and deep.
But I have promises to keep,
And miles to go before I sleep,
And miles to go before I sleep.

Robert Frost

snow and sun

Of late, the weather has been strange in the winter-scourged city; even all the way out at my little hide-away acreage. Though it is currently murderously cold and bleak under a depressingly white sky, a week or so ago, despite the -16°C and the hoar frost coating the trees, the sun was shining and the sky was clear and blue. Having made a photo record of the phenomena whilst adventuring into the field that day, I thought that now would be the best time to post such a record to my blog, to remind myself and my Canadian brethren that winter can actually be beautiful.

Not a cloud obscured the sky. The air was sharply cold, but the sun was penetrating and warm.

Up at the forest, I couldn't capture with my camera the snowflakes glittering the air, the shimmering frost, the curious cold-warmth on my face, or the sheer excitement my dogs as they revelled in the snow and sun. It was a marvelous morning excursion.

It was after going up to and briefly through the forest -and after having had our fill of icy air and sunny sky- that we set off of for home through a hallway of hoar-frosted trees.

 "Willow, tree of water nymphs, 
Don't block my way! 
Shelter the black daws in your snowy branches,
The black daws."

 Anna Akhmatova

a bag for unfinished novels

The following is a blog post I made at the close of last summer, featuring my sewing process in the making of one of the few projects I completed in 2012. I never posted it. Now, however, feeling happy that my hands yielded at least one nice thing last year, I have decided to post it now, outdated though it is.

Ever since the new schoolyear began, I have accomplished nothing. I have been stuck in the middle of five unfinished novels, two half-written letters, a shoddy english assignment and an unintelligible set of math problems. Oh, and I still don't have a driver's license. 

Not only have I sorely neglected the things I should be doing, but I've neglected the things that are important to me, like the sewing projects I've wanted to work on all year [I barely managed a skirt and a pair of unfinished harem pants over the summer, with nothing to show before].

However, last Saturday--after a stressful week of lack of sleep and neglected schoolwork--I awoke with only one thing on my mind: my sewing machine. It was a stress-free concept, and I left my pile of textbooks where they were and devoted the whole of that day [and a little of the next] exclusively to French press coffee, yellow pears, banana cake, Freelance Whales, Björk, and my talented Elna 5200.

After digging through my scraps of fabric, I decided to make a bag. Thick, purple drape material for the outside, rose-patterned cotton for the lining. I cut it out to suit a pattern I designed myself [first used to make a bag for Lizzie some time ago].

After cutting out the pieces, I started on the straps and a little pocket on the lining --wrestling a little with the direction of the roses.

Next, I sewed together the body and the lining [same shape; the latter slightly smaller than the former]; pinning in the finished straps.

Upon seaming those together with the exception of one side, I turned the bag inside out [or, I suppose in this case you could say, "inside in"].

After sewing the small hole closed and ironing the rim flat, I was finished.

The result: a bag to fit all my unfinished novels! Rather nice, yes?

Mr. Walken and Mr. Poe: an unlikely relationship

I have been undergoing a love affair with Edgar Allan Poe for many years now, but upon receiving a gorgeous, Coptic-bound edition of The Raven from my mother this Christmas, I found myself swooning over poem and poet once more as though for the first time.

This fangirl-y reawakening led me to the memorization of the poem [I'm currently 3 stanzas down] and to elocution practice so that my reading of it will sound as effective and eloquent as possible [much to the chagrin of my poetry-stunted family]. Naturally, I also took to youtube to see how such greats as Vincent Price, Christopher Lee and James Earl Jones went about reciting the old classic. None failed to make me swoon.

However, I also stumbled across a reading by Christopher Walken. You may know this actor from his unfortunate appearances on Saturday Night Live, where his line, "Needs more cowbell!" has been tragically immortalized by the Internet. Or, perhaps, his name immediately conjures the image of a man in WWII uniform holding a watch, as he was seen in Pulp Fiction. Hopefully, however, you immediately think of his Oscar-nominated role in The Deer Hunter or even his brief but memorable part in Woody Allen's Annie Hall [mostly because such remembrances would speak greatly for your state as well-cultured in the arts].

But however you are familiar Christopher Walken, it is doubtful that your mind immediately jumps to "poetry" at the mention of his name! I myself was rather stunned when I found this video. But have a listen. Note how his famous, New York-accented voice is somehow perfectly befitted to quoting Poe's immortal lines. Notice how the pauses and inflections and tiny emotions in his speech make listening to the poem interesting and different. Take heed to the casual way he reads the poem, as though he is merely retelling the goings-on of the previous evening. And all to those sound-effects in the background! Isn't it marvelous? Doesn't it suddenly drop the presupposition that only British people can sound good reading poetry? Honestly, I have been absolutely enthralled by this reading for the last few days--I can't listen to it enough times!

In short, not only is The Raven the best poem ever, but Christopher Walken will never cease to amaze me. [My surprise at his impressive dancing skills has now been surpassed.]

christmas moose

Photos taken by my camera, with the aid of my sister's fingers and eyes.

A day or so ago, my sister Lana spotted two moose making their way across the field behind our house. Naturally, she called me to the window, where together we observed them serenely wading through the snow to graze on some branches. Hilariously, shortly before these photos were taken, the pair had been ferociously humping, a moment which had sucked a little of the majesty from the scene, and to which we had awkwardly looked down behind immature grins. However, it didn't last long, and, having satisfied themselves, they simply continued on their dignified way as though nothing had happened. Inwardly, Lana and I decided to say nothing about it; merely praising the majesty and solemn splendour of the creatures. Oh nature.

a handful of tiny book reviews

Despite being halfway to three-quarters through all of these at once [with, it would seem, little motivation to finish any of them] I am in love with all of these books. Below, I have illustrated my micro-opinions for each, perhaps to convince you lot to read them, perhaps to convince myself to finish them [instead of picking up The Hobbit for the fifth time].

Tess of the d'Urbervilles by Thomas Hardy
A tragic, poetic, and insightful look into how differently women were valued little more than a hundred years ago; the influence of Darwinism over love and church values; and the danger of passivity and self-martyrdom. One of the best and saddest novels I have ever read.

The Bourne Identity by Robert Ludlum
I don't read many thrillers, but I'm really enjoying this one, so I'm sure it's one of the genre's best. It's exciting, well-written, page-turning. Way better than the film.

Anna Karenina by Leo Tolstoy
Strange, interesting, sexy. Another alarmingly long Tolstoy novel, but worth all 800 pages. Anna is one of my favourite novel heroines ever.

The Mother Tongue by Bill Bryson
If etymology is at all interesting to you, you'll love this book. And hey, even if it isn't, and you speak English, you will still love this book! Bryson makes what sounds like a boring subject [even though it totally isn't] into a highly enjoyable and even humorous read. Every English speaker should read this book; if not to learn more about their mother tongue, than simply to gain appreciation for their ability to use the best language on earth.

Fight Club by Chuck Palahniuk
Despite all the interwoven nihilism, Palahniuk is stylish, classy and almost poetic in his writing. In fact, nothing about this highly readable novel warrants negative critique. The only question I have is whether it's better than the film or not; and to me, that can hardly be determined due to director David Fincher's brilliant skill at adaptating for the screen. So, basically, if you loved the film, you'll absolutely adore the novel. And vice versa.

Interview with the Vampire by Anne Rice
I once thought that I would never have anything to do with Anne Rice. And frankly, I still don't want to. However, I somehow found this novel to be irrisitable, so, it became my one exception [like Stephen King's The Stand]. Surprisingly, I actually kind of like it—vampires, erotica, Anne-Riceiness and all.

Nexus: Small Worlds and the Groundbreaking Science of Networks
by Mark Buchanan
From Amazon.com: "This 'cogent and engaging' (Nature) work presents the fundamental principles of the emerging field of 'small-worlds' theory—the idea that a hidden pattern is the key to how networks interact and exchange information, whether that network is the information highway or the firing of neurons in the brain." This book is highly readable, due both to its fascinating topic and Buchanan's skill at translating scientific jargon for the layman. It inspires appreciation for mathematics and the world around you; displaying yet another signature in Creation.

Julius Caesar by Shakespeare
Like essentially everything Shakespeare wrote, more can hardly be said about this than "it's the best." All the same, I will boringly parrot that it's beautifully written, historically relevant, classic, and simply won't do to be passed up! One of my new favs [right under Macbeth].

Pygmalion by Bernard Shaw
Charming, cute, insightful, feminist, very great. My first [but certainly not last] Bernard Shaw play. The 1964 film version My Fair Lady hit the nail on the head, but you should read the play anyway —it's better.

yin and yang

Lately, it has felt as though time is standing still. As though, somehow, time has just stopped to allow me to sit--blamelessly, day after day--in an ugly afghan watching BBC mini-series and drinking coffee with absolutely nothing better to do. Obviously, this has been a total fantasy in my mind with no baring in reality; dreamt up in order to justify the devastating depression that has taken hold of me ever since the days began to shorten and the frost killed all the greenery. Indeed, time has very much been marching forward, leaving all my goals and responsibilities somewhere at the start of September. Now, at the end of October, I have two months behind me and nothing meaningful to show for it.

Apart from the tragedy of the colder weather, I can think of no other reason for my disheartened state apart from, possibly, my amazingly surreal summer. I don't think I have recuperated from the almost-deadly bout of pneumonia [four days of oxygen treatment in the hospital]; the cancelled biology course; the sudden, wonderful new friendships; enduring three family reunions; the anticlimax of The Dark Knight Rises; and the many nights of sub-drunken shenanigans. But, whether it was the oddities of the summer or start of chilly weather, I have neither been myself nor the self I want to be of late, and it has taken its toll by paralyzing any routine that makes meeting goals and successfully moving forward possible.

Recently, however, it occurred to me amid a particularily bleak afternoon with very little sunlight--while I sat in my ugly afghan reading the blogs of people far more charming than myself--that with every "seamy" aspect of living, there are those little successes and tiny perfections that can help to lift one from the slough of despond, but which are easily lost in the overpowering ideal of how life ought to be lived. Specifically, one of Lizzie's posts snapped me into the reality that no life is perfect--despite what might appear to be perfection by the observing outsider--and even amid the darkness there can be little bits of light.

So I made some lists. Just like the Tao philosophy of the yin and yang [that the shadow and the light are connected; indiscernable by themselves, but shown for what they are when contrasted against each other] I realized that I would not have seen the good in my life if I hadn't had a little bad to compare it to. I am not a Taoist, but I agree that it is harder to appreciate the light without the presence of darkness.

I have written out a list for both the shadow and the light: the collective perfections and imperfections that make up the yin and yang of my less-than-charming life.


innumerable shoddy english assignments
pages of baffling math problems
two unwritten letters
six unfinished novels
a broken camera
living in a stressfully scattered household
the long, difficult shifts at work
still no driver's license
sullenness; lethargy; the desire to hibernate
having expensive coffee tastes
the coming of a lose-lose American election
the long-neglected sewing machine
the slowly mounting number on the scale

.

the scads of promising films releasing soon

owning three tremendous wool sweaters 

Icelandic music [this and this]

leaves to crunch on the sidewalks

a paycheck every second Friday

five friendly cats on the porch

the autumn-smelling forest behind the house
an abundance of tea

the $60 sent to CBM
learning "Of Angels and Angles" on the guitar

still no snow on the ground
a finished sewing project [a book bag for myself]
gin in the cupboard

Christmas in two months