Christmas Break: What I'm Reading

I am really tired of telling other people what they should be reading, so I have a new plan: I call it "What I am Reading" and this is the first installment.

Every time I turn around, someone else is asking me what they should be reading. During my final evaluation at Ford, even Jesse asked me what I thought he should read. He told me, "You ask a business student what companies to invest in, and you ask an English student what books to read...." He went on to tell me what you ask every other major on the face of the planet, and I listened politely, as I am known to do right before I say something truly insulting or sarcastic. I usually stick with sarcasm with Jesse because it flies right over his head. So, here's what I am currently reading:

• Shalimar the Clown by Salman Rushdie. It's his new novel and I had to put it in the freezer so that it didn't distract me while I was supposed to be studying for exams.
• With Every Mistake by Gwynne Dyer. Conrad Black hates Dyer because Black's wife has some kind of personal vendetta against him, so Dyer's articles are scarce in major Canadian newspaper (read: almost all of them). So, Dyer put together a book full of his articles from just before 9/11 until right about now. The best part is that he tears himself down almost as often as he tears down every one else...I love it very much, but I never put it in the freezer.
• Love by Toni Morrison. I got the hardcover for ten bucks while I was waiting for Shane...who leaves me alone in a Chapters for an hour? Shane. Crazy crazy Shane.

That's something to get you thinking, but there's more. Besides what I'm currently reading, you now have a once in a lifetime chance to see what I plan on reading over the next month or so. This is the condensed list because I can't remember every single one of them. Expect it to grow when I remember and find new books that I still plan on reading before I get back to school.

• As I Lay Dying by William Faulkner. I don't know what it's about. I have to read it for American Lit instead of Go Down, Moses, which I plan on reading just the same.
• Satanic Verses by Salman Rushdie. Because I don't know how I can go any longer without reading it.
• War Trash by Ha Jin. Because it was a book of the month about two months ago and I still haven't gotten to it.
• Robinson Crusoe by Daniel Defoe. Because I hate myself sometimes.
• The Crazed by Ha Jin. Because I like fragmenting my sentences.
• While Canada Slept by I don't know who. Because I wanted to hear from the other side for a change, even if I can't remember the other side's name.
• No War by Naomi...umm, something. Jean thinks it will be a good rant. Now Jean has it and I do not.
• Wicked by Maguire...it's about the wicked witch of the west in The Wizard of Oz.

There's more. I'll get the names and repost tomorrow. I know how eager you all are to see something new though, and I really hate to disappoint. Don't forget to convert. I'll let you in on the secret rules of Weinist Christmases if you convert a friend.

Hillary Comes to London

A heart felt tribute to random road trips.

So Shane and Hillary got to talking, and then next thing I knew we were picking her up at the Burlington bus station. I wasn't even allowed to pick up clean clothes while we were there...too much controversy. But we had an exciting night, let me tell you... From left to right: Kalvin, Hillary and Jason in Kalvin's kitchen. Pre-hot tub. Post- getting the sunfire stuck in the snow in the parking lot of my building. Thank goodness I drive stick so well. Thank goodness that meant I didn't have to get out and push. Don't they look so happy to be together? Wouldn't you also be happy if you were invited to be there? I love the look on Kalvin's face...I bet he's saying something hilarious. Meanwhile all Hillary and Jason can think about is how the picture will turn out.
Kalvin's dog, Luke. I didn't know his name before. Now you know and so do I. Isn't learning fun? He was a little bundle of crazy. He didn't like me very much, but I really wanted him to. Somehow we managed to miss taking a picture of the other dog, Molly. Hillary loved Molly more because she was less jumpy and crazy. I liked the crazy. Speaking of crazy, I really wish we got a picture of Kalvin's dad in the Santa hat. He's the most religious drunk man I've ever met in my whole life.
In case you weren't sure before, here's proof that Wein really is #1. Hill put on the foam finger and was thus officially converted. She was a close follower for some time, but donning the finger is like confirmation. She was drunk enough that I think we can safely say she's in it for all the right reasons. Hill's drink of choice for those of you who were wondering (and I think that's probably every body) is Fireball and Dr. Pepper. Apparently Shane failed to make it taste like liquid cinnamon hearts the way it was supposed to. He liquored her up pretty fast though. (Hooray for public hangovers, Hill. I love that I was not alone in that one, even if yours was later in the day.)
Kalvin, AKA Hugh Sternberger...because the robe makes him like Hugh Heffner, and my stupidity makes his last name Sternberger. Also because he found out that there are people in the world who actually call me Wein and wanted to be one of them. I'm sure he's thinking the deepest of thoughts while he drinks the weirdest of concoctions: watermelon vodka with coke and sprite. He made one for me too. I drank it so that I wouldn't hurt his feelings. And then I puked. Watermelon flavored stuff is now officially on the "things that make me puke" and the "these things are as evil as the devil" lists. I would have put it there sooner (ie last May 24 when I didn't drink much at all but still managed to get kicked out of Bikini Bobs and throw up most of the next morning...) but I thought I was just being a baby.
Because my favorite pasttime is drinking and wearing foam. If you ever needed more proof that my photogenes are seriously mutated, it's right there in front of you. You gotta love the glasses though. If nothing else...just love the glasses. The "lenses" are made out of cellophane, which really messes with one's vision. Rum can have that effect too. I'm sorry to say that the rum actually had very little to do with my wardrobe choices in this case.

The End Game

Good conversationalists know exactly how to get a conversation started and how to keep it interesting. Great conversationalists know how to bring and interesting conversation to a screeching halt without a moments notice.

I was watching an old episode of the Gilmore Girls the other night: Rory's roommate started spewing out random facts she had memorized to make starting and carrying on a conversation easier. This may or may not have been the same episode where Rory tells her date about urine mints. Either way, I've started doing some thinking on the topic and I've made a decision. It is much more important to know how to end a conversation than to learn how to start one. Every body else in the world is concentrating on learning to make small talk at parties and how to come across genuinely and affectionately within the right boundaries of societal norms, so the chance that you will actually find yourself in an uncomfortable situation where the talk just won't start is slim to none. You can confidently leave that to the rest of the world.

Ending a boring conversation, especially when you're really busy, is way harder than starting a boring conversation when you have the time to do it. Here are some tried and true methods, passed on throughout the generations:

• "Well, I won't keep you any longer. I know you've got lots to do." My mom's favourite thing to say to relatives who are keeping her tied up on the phone...literally because our cordless phones never work properly. She shouldn't have ever said it to me though. It's become my staple phrase to use on her when I have essays to write or books to read.
• "I'm really sorry, ___. I've got to get this roast out of the oven." Another method that works better on the phone than in person.
• "You'll have to excuse me, I just need to use the ladies room." No one ever comes back after that one. Stop waiting.

But ending a boring conversation is still not much of a challenge. The fact is, if you are that bored talking to the person you probably don't care if you hurt their feelings a little. What's harder is ending a conversation with someone you actually enjoy talking to, and doing it in a way that makes them leave you alone for quite some time. Try these:

• "Get the hell out. I have to study." I call this the tactful method. You might call it blunt.
• "Look, over there! A thirty foot snake is eating a kangaroo!" The crocodile hunter method. A personal favourite.
• "Is that your phone ringing?" The power of suggestion at work.
• "I have got the worst gas from dinner." Eww. I never use this one, but it works really well for guys because other guys just laugh and take a hint (most of the time) and girls don't stick around to find out if it's true.
• "Talking to you is like eating diuretics." A really bizarre twist on the old favourite, courtesy of JH.
• Just stop talking. Turn around. Stare blankly ahead. It's really confusing but as long as you persist it should work.
• "How dare you insult me in my home!" This works especially well if a) you are not in your home or b) you just received a compliment.
• "For the love of Peter and his starving children, why won't you just go home." This works especially well if whoever you're talking to is home...then you get to yell "THEN LEAVE!!"
• Start talking about your schoolwork or job in detail. Make shit up if it helps. I have started describing theses for papers I never intended to write and delved into the specifics of classes that don't even exist. If nothing else at least you will have the satisfaction of knowing that your ongoing conversation serves no purpose for anyone living or dead.
• And last but not least, there are the "you're just jealous" enders. "You're just jealous of my boyfriend"..."You're just jealous of my gorgeous hair"..."You're just jealous because I can balance jello on my belly button and you can't"..."You're just jealous because he really enjoyed having sex with me"..."You're just jealous that my name is longer than yours"...and last but certainly not least (because it is my all time favourite) "You're just jealous that I didn't try to convert you to my fake religion."

And there you have it. I hope they serve you as well as they serve me. Now if you'll excuse me, I just have to go to the ladies room...

The Snap

I told you it was coming...

I've done everything I can. I walked. I read. I studied. I wrote. I kept going. I stopped. I slept. I stayed up. I listened to my heart. I ignored my heart. I cried. I quit. I started over. And nothing helps.

I realized this when I was walking to the drug store the other night--freaking out because it was dark and my mom has managed to convince me that bad things happen when the sun goes down. I wasn't concerned about being attacked--I have no money. I didn't think I would be raped--my winter garb is neither that flattering nor that infuriating (because I still haven't decided whether I really believe that rapes are crimes of anger not passion). Nope. I was blissfully convinced that some unseen car was going to splatter my insides on the pavement, and my untimely demise would haunt some careless driver for the rest of his or her days.

How did I lose tomorrow at one am today? How did I get so lost? I drew the map myself.

But I kept going. And there was no disaster. I picked up things I wanted to buy, then put them down because I couldn't afford them. I tried to find some epsom salts. I made faces at the make-up mirrors and the price of mascara. It's really outrageous you know. And then I remembered that Jean should be getting home from work by then. And Jean always knows how to make me feel better. Jean and Kahlua...

At one am today, I crawled inside my own soul; I drew the map myself, but left it on my dresser.

I stopped at Wendy's having remembered that food was one of those annoying necessities and that I hate to cook. I tried to be pleasant. I smiled at the girl who took my order. She scowled back at me and reminded me of my sister. I love Wendy's because all of the workers are so dedicated to their specialties. The guy with the headset on stood there looking at me while he yelled, "Front cash! Hello! Front cash!!" And then he apologized to me. I couldn't figure out whether he was apologizing for yelling in my face or refusing to push the buttons on the cash register.

I crawled inside my own soul and started looking for the key. I'd left it on my dresser now I'm locked in, home alone, and no one's looking for me.

Back at the apartment, Amanda gave me slightly baffled looks the way she often does when I decide to do weird things like go out walking alone in the dark. At least I didn't come back with ice cream. I commend myself for that. She said that Jean had called back, so I got all excited and called Jean to tell her all my woes. It was one of those awkward moments where I realized that all the things I'd been fussing about earlier were no longer very relevant. That happens often when one has a panic attack and bursts into tears on the bus.

Have you started looking for the key? Or will you just leave me here? Locked in, home alone and no one's looking for me. Maybe I should just stop breathing...

Jean was full of stories for me. Stories of great grief and enlightenment. Stories about work. And decisions. I love how Jean always decides something in the middle of a sentence and all I can do is agree...even if her decision is implausible. IE: We need Second Cup. Well, yea...we always need Second Cup...but you're in one city and I'm in another...So now I have a coffee date planned a whole week in advance and I can pretty much be sure that it will continue for at least two weeks after that. Do you know what else we decided? We love elipses...because this way...we never have to finish any of our thoughts...isn't that ponderous? I think it might just be...

Will you just leave me here? Maybe I won't care. Maybe I should just stop breathing. Maybe I should give up forever.

But it didn't end there. Jean's insights carried me through to the next morning (mostly because I called her again when I woke up. She was called away from the phone rather hurriedly by nature). She taught me a whole bunch of exciting things that I can't wait to do the next time I find my way to the liquor cabinet...Such as the magic trick where you get a string to stick to an ice cube with salt...and then you get to eat the ice cube. Wowee I know.

Maybe I won't care if it makes any difference to you. Maybe I should give up; or wait another hour.

Jean's advice has done little to help my current disposition, however. I'm still here. And I'm back where I started. Luckily I shouldn't have any more bus breakdowns for at least a few days because I have no intention of riding it. Well, I'm going to take it to Chapters tomorrow, but that's a happy trip so I will do my best to keep the tears at bay.

If it makes any difference to you, you make all the difference to me. And I'll wait one more hour until time give up on me.

I'll keep walking. I'll read. I'll write. I'll pace. I'll sit. I'll stare. I'll study. I'll eat. I'll breathe. I'll listen to my heart. I'll ignore my heart. I'll keep believing it'll get better some day. Because anything has got to be better than this. I don't know anything yet. I won't give up until I know everything. Even if knowing everything means there is nothing to know at all...until then I will know I've done everything I can. I have walked. I have read. I have studied. I have written. I have kept going. I have stopped. I have slept. I have stayed up. I have listened to my heart. I have ignored my heart. I have cried. I have quit. I have started over. And nothing helps. But maybe help isn't what we need once we've snapped.

And after I snapped, I made a new blog at 3 in the a.m. called "Iris in Exile": http://irisinexile.blogspot.com There's a story behind that name...you'll have to ask if you want to hear it.

Overindulgent Tripe

Or the clearest evidence to date that the world just isn't listening to a single word I'm saying... This one really is for you, Jean. Afterall, you are the one who told me to read the book. You'll see what I mean when it's all over.

I was so excited. My mind was racing. And, I even had an audience. So, using the escarpment as a sounding board, here's what I came up with:

Thesis: Rushdie's novel Fury exposes the imposing aspects of Emersonian self-reliance and progress models, which have been incorporated into the American Dream.

1. The failure of the Dream: In Fury, commercial success never equates with social success or happiness. Moreover, commercial corruption becomes the infamous "price" of material success. Don't you see? Success isn't even enough...particulary if you're alone in the end as a result. The American Dream ignores the sacrifices one must make to achieve it; and the sacrifices can ultimately defy the dream itself. It's a circular problem. It's a problem of circularity...
2. Nonconformity and the Progress Narrative: Emerson says that everyday we should be striving for something better than what we obtained the day before. Progress is key. Progress is pivotal. But, progress is also probably a lie. So, what should someone do when progress feels impossible? How can one type of progress be distinguished from and judged against another type of progress? Who decides who is right? Well, let's be democratic about this...but Emerson loved individuality, and that conflicts with majority (read: mob) rule...So is nonconformity Emersonian because it is unique? or is it un-Emersonian because it might be defiant of progress? Something tells me Emerson really wanted progress to win out in the end.
3. The selfish side of Self-Reliance: Emersonian self-reliance puts the individual, and his (and I mean his, because Emerson said very little about women) opinions ahead of everyone else. Often, believing in oneself means clashing with every one else. When the main character of Fury finds himself wielding a knife over the body of his sleeping five year old, he realizes he wants to kill his son and his wife for no real reason. Maybe his fury is a result of the progress narrative getting him down. Maybe his insatiable desire to have freedom, and his subsequent cross-atlantic migration is the result of self reliance taken to the extreme. Maybe he's overindulging in a progress narrative that has gotten out of hand.

So, the problem is that for the whole rest of the world, the American Dream is one big mess. Other people see it and if they can't believe it, they hate it. The enormity of American influence thus becomes an oppressive force, in Fury for a British immigrant who continually gets screwed by trying to exploit the capitalist system for his own selfish purposes.

It's like an overreaction to everything American...But then, what is the attraction of the States? Rushdie was living in the US when he wrote the novel...And clearly his popularity is gaining him a lot in terms of capital. But the rage in the novel is what interests me the most. The five page rants about how stiffling America is. The assertion that the draw towards America is almost masochistic. And that's understandable...the main character has those tendencies. But it's hard to ignore how the influence of American culture bleeds through and becomes central to the fury, the rage, the frustration of the speaker/writer.

It starts to seem undeniable that Emerson's influence is not about to stop. The American Dream soundly situates itself on Emerson's bootstrap narrative: progress, slowly or quickly, but do it of your own accord and do it consistently. The idea that any body (umm, probably any white man) can achieve greatness and become a genius just by being unique is undeniably flawed. When Emerson wrote it, it was sort of true. Look at what came of it and you can see that much. But what about that "are they my poor" stuff? That seems to be right in the crux of the anti-American sentiment that is infused into Rushdie's novel.

My answer? Of course they're your poor. Do everything you can for every person you meet that needs your help. If you believe in progress so much then, for the love of all that it is holy, help the world progress! Trust in self is one thing, abandonment of all humanity is another thing altogether!!

And an anti-American stance is incredibly important for a Canadian student studying American Literature because so much of Canadian identity is wrapped up in the desire to be "not American." (Defining self by the other, in fewer words). The knee jerk anti-American sentiment that I love about this book almost definitely has tons to do with the fact that I am Canadian, and I recognize just how infuriating American idealism can become.

And then I realized that all this time, my attentive listener was attentively taking pictures of my backside. In case you thought I was getting carried away...I was.

Picture Perfect

Or, in my case...not so much. Because pictures and words can go hand in hand...

Here it is, Ladies and Gentlemen--proof that I'm not all about words all the time; and more than that, I'm not all about the deep and depressing (let alone the deeply depressing). I still refuse to drop the 'tude, but this post is all about the lighter side of life. Maddy's face says it all. I entertained her for an hour and a half with a handful of pencil crayons and a camera. Oh, to be three years old again.







The cottage, complete with a view of the little red boat. The front door is a recent addition. Someday, maybe I'll tell you the whole story about how capable of deceit my father actually is. If you look carefully you can see the ski rope tied to the tree in the far right: it's keeping up my hammock where I spend the majority of my days up north. Usually the front of the cottage is littered with more water toys, but Shane took this picture when we went up for Thanksgiving. Brrr....

This might be the last surviving picture of me someday. Now you can see how exciting my life is--I went to Shane's house for his birthday dinner and got to look over paint samples with his mom before they fed me. Does that glass sitting in front of me send a shiver of hope through you? No such rum. Just plain coke. Shane has begged and pleaded with me to just leave this picture alone. It's not that good...but let me show you what my pictures usually look like.






Because I only trust the camera after a few rum and cokes...and umm...ya, I'm not gonna lie--there's no other excuse really for the horribleness of my face on film. I blame my lack of photogenes...The first person to say, "Wow, now I know why she is so bitter!" will be excommunicated. I don't even know what excommunication means in Weinism, but if I have to dream it up you can count on it not being any prettier than this picture.





Living, breathing proof that genetic speculation is majorly flawed. My older brother is at least twice my weight and stands about 15 inches taller than me. Takes a better picture too. Talk about getting the short end of the stick....

The most Brendany picture of Brendan I could find. Because I just had to prove that I don't have anything against pictures on blogs, I also just had to put up a picture of the sole inspirator. (And make up a new word in the process) See how happy this whole post has been? Birthday pictures...exotic locales...cheesy anecdotes...smiling faces...and I kept the self-deprecating humour you all love so much. The key to life is balance...that and knowing when the Benedryl is beating out your tired little brain. Time to call it a night. Stay tuned for more witless banter. Don't get too attached to the pictures though--they take half of forever to load and I rarely have that much time to spare. I'm much too busy contemplating the apocalypse. Don't forget to convert.

The Brink

I have a guilt complex a mile long; and it twists around itself until it's smaller than a grain of sand, sitting in the shade of my soul, sipping on a margarita. My guilt is an alcoholic...

I know that I'm really on the verge of a serious breakdown when a couple of things start happening. First, I can't sleep. It's twenty to five and I stopped blinking two hours ago. No caffeine either. Caffeine is the first thing to go when I'm feeling like this--high strung.

Second, I cannot sit still to save my tired soul. And my soul is really tired. It wants to celebrate the end of November with a nice long rest. Sorry, soul, better luck next year...

Third, I'm hungry but I don't want to eat anything. This isn't a self-conscious about holiday weight gain bit, this is an I'm not in the mood for food bit. It's really annoying. I raided my cupboards and despite the moaning and groaning in my stomach couldn't convince myself to even heat up a bowl of soup.

Fourth, all my old addictions come back with a mean vengeance. In first year I used to have bruises on my palm from playing online games where my hand just rested on the desk for hours at a time. It's a good thing I was never a problem gambler. I'm too poor to lose all my money.

Finally, I just don't care. The redeeming feature of being this close to the edge pertains to the rest of the world: you can say anything to me and I will laugh as though you woke up this morning intent on bringing me joy. How sweet of you. Seriously, try it. I dare you.

And the cause? What could be at the source of my confounded behaviour and disposition? I blame American Literature. Read a little Robinson and you'll see. I'm going to be the on the drowning side. Unless I "seize the swift logic of a woman and Curse God and die." All too perfect a plan in my eyes right now.

I'm going to reread the cynics guide for the second time this week because I like to believe it might put me to sleep...there are some things in this world you just can't change. But some things you can't see until they leave--they're the things that you miss. And that's all it is.