certainly not

So I'm really running out of money. I figure maybe I'll get a job. So I print off a bunch of resumes and go to the mall. Right now, I should mention that I HATE job hunting. I'm really not good at it. Today I likened handing out resumes at the mall to speed dating to a bunch of people who don't really like you.* It's like half-hearted rejection after half-hearted rejection. Not to mention the fact that you secretly think that you're above this whole thing because you have an engineering degree that you worked hard for. Shouldn't getting a job just follow through?

But, of course, that's a secret. I'm certainly not snobbish enough to think that I should have it easy, because, surely, better people than me have had worse jobs. When my dad came to Canada, he mopped floors, when he had a veterinary degree. I'm certainly not proud enough to think that when situations like that occur everyday, I shouldn't have to work under some kid in high school.

Certainly not.

Unfortunately, being as young as I am, these things still get to me. Even as I forsake my engineering degree, I expect it to still work for me.** And I really believe that I could do these jobs, but I don't like putting myself out there to be evaluated, especially when so often it's so unfruitful. And sometimes, when it is fruitful, I don't even like the job. It's like dating (from my limited understanding).

As proven by the preceding, I'm a very level-headed, positive individual. If you have any questions, please feel free to contact me. I look forward to meeting you in person.†

*I have never gone speed dating, but if it's anything like handing out resumes at a mall...
**Metaphor alert!
† Imagine if this blog entry was my cover letter!

hell semester 2: this time it's personal

I'm closing off the first semester of my second year at Sheridan's music theatre program, that which is commonly referred to as "hell semester": a dance critique, an acting critique, plus a full class load equals lots of blood, sweat, and tears. This isn't the first time I've heard the phrase "hell semester" however. Similarly, in my second semester of my second year we had a hell semester: classes, labs, tutorials, plus a design project. This time, however, I feel more bare, more exposed. A bad mark in school now may mean less in academic terms, but when it's an evaluation of your performance, it seems way too hard to separate the work from the worker.

This weird deja vu has got me into that "where am I going?" thinking again. Sometimes I catch myself thinking that I could have a Master's degree by now. But then again, that's a lie: I never had any intention of going to grad school, and if I did, I probably wouldn't be done it by now. The idea of alternate lives is really interesting, but I doubt things would be much different than they are. I mean, 1. Now that I'm here, there doesn't really seem to be any other place I could be, right now, except for Sheridan; and 2. Coming here wasn't a split decision. Even if it ever seemed like it, that split decision is the result of all the experiences preceding it. Maybe I could be in teacher's college, but I'd probably be doing the same existential angst thing I'm so good at.

If I went to teacher's college, I'd be a teacher right now. Weird. Maybe things could be way different.

dream of the day: community

I had this week off. It was awesome. I've been talking to a lot of different friends and family, and the theme of conversation this week seems to be (sorry, I wish I was more original) boys. I'm sure that many of you have already examined and discussed the ins and outs of romantic relationships, so I won't go there. What I will say is this: The more I interact with my friends and bemoan my current singleness, the less it bothers me. For me, I think that what I crave about having a boyfriend is having an intimate community - one where it is acceptable and expected to share your life.

I mean, of course, it's more than that. Of course, there's something special and wonderful about romance. But many of us don't speak to our neighbours, so our friends are physically so far from us. Many of us only have a few people, if any, that they can share their lives with. And even then we tend to hole up with those people, mistaking exclusivity for closeness.

Another interesting and unrelated thought I had about community: Do you notice that much of fair trade and organic stuff is marketed to an urban market? People talk about feeling so alone in a big city, but in Toronto, I felt there was some sort of community: a big group of people sharing the same restaurants and parks. And with that kind of superficial understanding of community, maybe urbanites are more capable of understanding global community.

Or maybe I'm wrong. I'm a small person with a small world.

good with stories

Yesterday I had a converstaion that went something like this:

"I'm not really good with names."
"Yeah, me neither. I'm really good with faces. Are you like
that?"
"Well... no."
"So you're not good with names or faces? So how do you remember people?"
"I good at remembering stories."

So generally, I think this makes me a seem like an inconsiderate person, and obviously if someone sits down to tell a story, anyone would probably remember it. But as I slowly learn to act and furthermore, as I slowly learn to be human, it seems like stories are the most important things. That is when a face becomes interesting and a name becomes powerful.

In plays, characters can be played by any actor, but the background, the reasons, the needs (i.e. the story) are what's important and interesting. Today, I'm going to be fleshing out 6 different characters. Not real people, but somehow, it still seems like their stories, however outlandish, deserve to be told. Everything must be linked to truth. That is my philosophy for the moment.

worried and upset about many things

So, I'm a worrier. I worry about school: whether I can do school, whether I deserve to be there, whether I'm actually getting better, whether I'm working hard enough, etc.

I worry about life after school: What am I going to do once it's over? What if I run out of ideas and can't be an artist? What if I run out of money? What if I decide I want to be an engineer and no one wants to hire me?

I worry about myself: Am I where I'm supposed to be? Am I being true to myself? Am I overlooking a major character flaw that will eventually lead to my demise?

"...but only one thing is needed."*

"The only thing that counts is faith expressing itself through love."**

I'm not really sure of the true implications of this. What? Am I supposed to just drop everything?




maybe.



*Luke 10:42
**Galatians 5:6

you mean, i can do a combination, too? okay, this'll take a second

You know, when you're in line to choose an ice cream flavour, and then you suddenly find out that you can choose more than one? This both inspires me and confuses me. With all these possibilities, what am I supposed to do with my life?

in between panic and possibility

Does anyone read this? Maybe I'll say something really offensive and controversial to find out. Or just misspell. That seems to get enough of my friends riled up.

So the adventure of music theatre school continues. This semester we take a clown class.* Clown is a little different than most people know. It's not necessarily creepy, invasive people in lots of make-up at circuses. As far as I can tell, it's a mostly comedic form of theatre that, for me, is very different because, in class, we're supposed to keep eye contact with the audience all the time. That seems to be the source of inspiration. So, in class, we go up in front of everyone, and Mimi Mekler will either just let us stand there until we find something to do, or ask us to do impossible things (like jump down without jumping up) or ask us questions (that we usually have to answer non-verbally) or whatever. In my turn, for some reason, I went up and I started to cry.

So I present these questions to the jury:
(1) Is this okay?
(2) Is this entertaining?

Concerning (1), I'm getting used to crying. I guess with all art, it's important to be honest. And when you yourself is the art, one must be prepared to let real things happen - whether that's laughing, getting angry, crying, or maybe even nothing at all. And since, this is all new to me, I suppose I was unprepared for the emotional onslaught (maybe?). Maybe that reasoning is flawed. Either way, I have been, just recently, becoming more okay with crying. By avoiding being upset about being upset, I am removing a secondary level of being upset. Hurray!

So I guess the question is why did I cry in the first place? Now, without delving too far, psychologically, I was just scared of everyone. When Mimi first started the class, she said that in clown you want to always be between panic and possibility. I kind of like that. I think if I expand this to life, that is true too. I mean, where would I be if I wasn't desperately searching for something else to do when I graduated from U of T? Maybe panic isn't the greatest thing, but if it can inspire you, if it can stop you from thinking and trying, maybe it's okay.

Concerning (2), I suppose I cannot really answer that, but I will publish my suspicions. I doubt that the crying itself was entertaining, just as pure panic is not entertaining. The whatever follows and the whatever leading up seems to be the stuff.

But then again, what do I know?

:)





*So, yes, I am in college and taking clown.

i've lost 10i pounds, where i^2=(-1)

For those of you unfamiliar with complex math*, the title of this blog basically indicates that I have lost 10 imaginary pounds. I feel great! I should be featured in a weight-loss program's commercial! And the "before" shot will be some horrible candid snapshot of me holding a tub of ice cream and wearing fat clothes† and no make-up, and the "after" shot will be me in professional lighting and full make-up and hair, smiling because I have lost weight and am, therefore, happy.

There is, of course, a story behind this. I usually weigh myself when I go to the gym, which I haven't really done for about a month. Also, at home, we have a scale which we keep in the bathroom. Now, for whatever reason, the scale was moved downstairs, so consequently, I never weighed myself. Now, the other day, I was downstairs anyway, so I decided to step on and see how I was doing. The basement right now is in disarray due to my parents' new business endeavor, but I managed to step on and get a reading.

I should preface this with the fact that for the last six years or so, I have weighed x pounds‡, which is fine, but I always thought (while waiting in line at the nearest Taco Bell) that it would be nice to be lighter.

Well, when I stepped on the scale, I was, lo and behold, not x pounds, but (x-10) pounds! I had lost 10 pounds!

"How could you believe this?" you ask. "Didn't you just admit that you haven't been to the gym in a really long time."

"Well," I answer, defensively, "In these last months, I have been less stressed and eating less! Plus, in that day, I hadn't eaten very much because I was sick."

So I was checking myself out in the mirror (You all do it, admit it.) and I could have sworn I looked skinnier! I could have sworn my belly was sticking out less and my butt was smaller.

Anyway, you guys know how this long-winded story ends. I eventually stepped on a better scale (At the gym, incidentally. I had decided to top off the 10 pound loss with another few pounds.) and found that I was once again x pounds. The scale I stepped on in the basement was on a cushion and it didn't occur to me that a machine that uses the pressure applied to it to measure weight would be affected by a cushion underneath it.

Anyway, I guess the point of this all is just how much better I could feel thinking that I've lost weight, how proud I could be of myself, even when I didn't do anything. Funny, eh? I wonder what would happen if I actually lost weight. I'm not going to say anything, but there might be balloons... and cake.








*I remember learning about imaginary numbers in high school and thinking, "Pshaw! Like this will have any practical application!" This is a testament to both my lack of foresight and nerdiness.

†What are fat clothes?! If you don't know what these are, you are probably very skinny and/or a boy. Fat clothes are the clothes that do nothing for your figure and no one is ever supposed to see you in.

‡Where x is some positive real number that will be misleading out of context. Ask me if you want, but I'd rather you guess, which people are usually afraid to do.

existential angst

This weekend, I had the opportunity to hang out with two of my favourite cousins. We were watching Korean soap operas and doing laundry and here was an almost-40-year-old mother-of-two, an almost-30-year-old new mother, and me, the token 20-something. And it was cool, because I've known these wonderful women since I was born, and suddenly, it's like I can finally talk to them and understand their perspective more than I ever could have before. Not to say that I know what it's like to be a mother or almost-40, but as we asymptotically reach that same age*, I find myself thinking of what it would be to be their age, rather than dismissing it as a time far removed from me.

Anyway, almost-30-year-old new mother said something that struck me. "I'm glad my 20s are almost over. In the 20s, there's too much existential angst." Everyone I know who has turned 30 ended up getting a funky new haircut or a new bf/gf or a new apartment, etc. The point is that they seem to be coping with the end of their 20s rather than celebrating.

So now, in this light, how do I perceive my 20s? I'm still early on, but I am certainly existentially angsty. The 20s are supposed to be a time of new independence and identity! A time to be young and reckless! A time to try new things and be fearless! They're all the same thing, right? We just use different words when it's fun or when it's annoying.

Oy vey. I'm already tired. I wish I was old already.



*I think we should age on a logarithmic scale, where as you get older, you age less. This way we can numerically reflect the fact that a 5-year old is much older than a 4-year old, but a 75-year old is not much older than a 74-year old.

talking in circles

I had a lovely lunch with lovely Sue today. Cheap sushi and good conversation. We were talking about some big things, and the good thing about Sue is that she understands the complexities of the questions I relate to her. We are both lapsed engineers*, which seems to imply that we enjoy things that are not logical, but also get frustrated by those same things because they are not logical.

For example:

Question: What is good art?
Answer: Good art is redemptive and honest.

Question: How does one make good art?
Answer: Be honest.
But I can be as honest as I want - that still may not result in a good song, for instance.
And even I work hard and put my heart into it, it may not yield anything.

It seems to me that all the questions worth asking are hard to answer, which makes sense I guess - questions go away with answers. I just find myself talking in circles, missing the point a lot, especially here, in this blog. I mean, I know it's entertaining to watch that hamster in the wheel, but for how long?

But what if you relate to that hamster? Then, it's more than entertainment, it's searching. Maybe I'll write a song about it.

This entry didn't really have a point, but I will leave it that way, because it seems appropriate.



*Sue's term.