To every thing there is a season.

It seems that most of my posts of late are posts dedicated to someone or other. This isn't something I intended to do, but the series of events that have unfolded lately have led to this point. I've had a number of funerals, weddings, and life changes in the past year, and my life has been affected by a lot of important people.

This is another one of those posts.

My Nana, known better as Dr. Stella Muriel Cooper (or just "Muriel" to her friends and family), passed on just a little over three weeks ago, and though the funeral has come and gone, I have still found myself saying goodbye every day since--sometimes in ways that surprise me.

In the days leading up to her death, I went in to visit her several times. One night, my mother decided to start reading her some of her own poetry. She wrote a beautiful book of poems called the Music of Memory, and I found a poem in there entitled "Spring". I had remembered hearing it read years ago, but it struck me more than ever on this day. This poem was about me.

"Spring" by Muriel Cooper

At sunrise,
the mourning doves
cooed outside my bedroom window.

I could almost hear the daffodils
pushing their green higher
through the dark bark mulch.

One small patch of snow
outside on the balcony has refused
for days to melt more than a few drops.

* * *

Musing, I hear light footsteps
moving nearer
from down the hall.

A small blonde head
appears
around the half-open door.

"Nana," she says,
"I just had
a bad dream!"

She holds me close
pulls back the covers and
climbs in beside me.

For just a few minutes all is quiet.
I doze, grateful that I have
a granddaughter eight years old.

Questions, questions
time passes too quickly
slow down.      Then

one ear buried in my pillow
I hear her whisper, "Can we go down now and
make the oatmeal porridge?"

How could I forget our morning oatmeal ritual? Nana hadn't been living at home for fourteen years, but before that, when I was young, we would make oatmeal together every morning that I stayed with her. It was plain oatmeal, but she would sprinkle brown sugar on top and pour cold milk over while the porridge was still hot. Years of eating pre-packaged garbage--flavoured instant oats full of unnecessary sugar and sodium--made me forget how perfect plain oatmeal could be. In the days after I read that poem, I would make myself oatmeal for breakfast. I've continued to do this most mornings, now, and I always try to reflect on memories I shared with Nana as I was growing up.

One of my favourite memories happened one time while Nana came to visit me. It was winter, and she and I were alone in the house. Snow was coming down steadily, and it was that coveted packy snow that made perfect snowballs and snowmen. I challenged Nana to a snowball fight, and she accepted. The two of us went outside together and started lobbing snow balls at each other. She successfully hit me more times than I hit her, and not only was her aim true, but she hit me in the face--twice!--with a snowball. I remembered laughing incredulously as she struggled to withhold her own laughter and stammered out an apology. She also went with me many years ago on my first day of kindergarten.

A picture of me and my Nana on the day she obtained her
doctorate from Dalhousie University.

Nana was an incredibly intelligent woman, and on top of that, she had an extensive career and impressive curriculum vitae. I didn't know that side of her well, but have gotten to know it better since her death. I hadn't realized, growing up, how accomplished she was, or how her accomplishments would come to inspire me later on. At the age of 70, for instance, she received her doctorate from Dalhousie University--the oldest student, at the time, to receive it. I was three.

Though I don't have the same level of dedication to my studies as she did, she emphasized the importance that I receive an excellent education nevertheless. She has been an inspiration to me all through my university life--she even put some money aside for me when I was very young to ensure my ability to pursue my education. Though I took a five-year break between my studies, I am finally finishing my degree this fall. I dedicate this degree, in part, to her, for giving me an opportunity that so many people cannot have and wish they could. I'll always be grateful to her for contributing so vitally to my ability.

This particular quote from the Bible was read at both my Nana's and my Uncle Gordon's funerals, and it's fitting, given the last two months. In fact, at Uncle Gordon's funeral, I read from his Bible. When I was looking at the verse, I noticed that he had actually ticked it off with a pen. We had chosen this verse without looking into Uncle Gordon's own personal Bible, and as I opened it up to read from it at his funeral, I had noticed that he had placed little check marks next to the verses. An interesting coincidence, at the very least.

To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven:A time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted;A time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up;A time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance;A time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;A time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away;A time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;A time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace.

- Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

I'd been re-listening to Nightwish's Imaginaerum album of late, particularly around the time of Nana's passing, and this song in particular stuck with me. The lyrics should reveal why.


This fall has certainly been the season of good-byes, between Nana and Uncle Gordon. I'm grateful to have had both of them in my life for so long.

*Footnote: if you're interested in purchasing a copy of my Nana's poetry book, please send me an e-mail and I will happily discuss the details with you.

**"Spring" has been shared with the publisher's permission.

I'm glad I took a break from university.

Throughout high school and university, I was always a bit of a laissez-faire student. Didn't pass that math test? Meh, there's always another--final mark be damned. Slept through my 8:30 AM class because I was up all night gaming? Wouldn't be the first time. I was that one cringe-worthy student that no one wanted to be paired up with for a project--unless, of course, it was one of the rare projects I was actually interested in doing.

I graduated high school and made a beeline for Université de Moncton in 2004, not really knowing what to expect. I stumbled through a few years of skipping classes, dropping out of classes and, occasionally, failing classes. It may not be a time I'm proud of, but it was an immensely important learning experience for me. I'm the type of person who, sometimes, has to learn the hard way.

In 2007, I finally finished my required English courses, minus one. Since I was an English major, this took all the fun out of university. Suddenly, I had to take a number of required courses that weren't at all related to English. This was my own fault. I didn't pace myself over the years, and I got all the fun courses out of the way early because of that. That fall, I failed a linguistics class, resulting in a panic attack--something I'd never really experienced before.

I went back to university in the winter, and I wasn't looking forward to it. I signed up for a full course load of five. Within the first few weeks, I had dropped two courses that gave me so much anxiety I couldn't stand to even attend class. One of them--oddly enough a drama class--had me breaking out in hives. Another class I took, a three-hour long ethics class with a lot of homework, forced us to read our answers out in front of the class. I left half-way through the class one day, tears rolling down my cheeks at the mere thought of it.

I also had enrolled in one English class, and it was one that I had failed in the past--the only English class I've ever failed, and my very last requirement for my major. When I got my midterm back and saw that, despite my best efforts, I had failed it, I lost myself. I handed the exam back and ran from the administration building to the arts building, right up to my mother's office. She saw the look on my face and I'm sure she must have known what was coming next. "I'm leaving university," I blurted between my sobs. "I can't do this anymore". She looked at me for a long moment, then nodded, and said "okay". I went to my doctor in the days that followed and asked him to write me a note so I could get out of university without suffering failures in all of my enrolled courses.

I didn't really know what I was going to do. Brad and I were living together at the time, and I hated our apartment. I would be going back home for the summer in a few short months, so I couldn't get a job. I visited my Nana in the hospital; I drew; I sewed; I wrote. When summer came, I went back home to work at the general store. I told people I was taking a break from university, and they advised me not to take too long a break. Some people told me I'd never go back. But my closest friends, my mom and dad, and Brad, all knew better. They were always supportive.

Brad and I moved to Moncton permanently in late summer, 2008. We got a new apartment--coincidentally on Alma Street--and got a cat. I spent the next five years working a few different jobs: waitressing at a Tex-Mex restaurant (I lasted four months), being a barista at a Second Cup kiosk in the mall (a year and nine months), and going from regular employee to assistant manager to store manager at DAVIDsTEA (three whole years).

While managing DAVIDsTEA, in winter of 2012, I found out that I could take the English course I had failed previously, and I decided to get it done. I went back and shocked myself by achieving an A overall in the course. I wasn't just pleased, I was ecstatic. I had overcome a hurdle that had been in my way for years. I wouldn't take another university course for a year and a half, but it was an event that put the option of going back to university back on my radar.

In the summer of 2013, I enrolled for an evening course for the coming fall. The course was with a prof I had in my second year and really liked. I started to realise that I was getting a little too close to the ten year mark. I was 27--inching ever closer to thirty--and wasn't really sure where my life was going. My job was taking up most of my time, and while I liked it, it wasn't what I wanted to be doing for the rest of my life. It was time to make a decision, and my choices were: 1. to spend the next few years taking one or two evening courses while continuing to work full time, 2. to let my credits expire and never finish my degree, or 3. to take a leave from my full-time job and go back to school. Option 3 ended up being the one I wanted the most, but after looking into it, I discovered that it wasn't an option for me at all: my workplace would only provide one month of study leave, but I really wanted to finish things off. If option 3 was really what I wanted, I would have to step down from my position, and drop to part-time. So, with that big risk in place, I did, and I went back to school full-time in January 2014.

Was it easy? Absolutely not. I worked so hard from January to April that there wasn't much in my life that wasn't school-related, except my part-time job. I re-took the ethics course that I had dropped five years before, and while it was still a stressful course, I found that I got far more out of it the second time around than I had the first time. When the winter semester was done, I felt so much relief. That was the last time I would ever have to take a full-time semester. I had two intersession courses lined up--one spring and one summer--but they would be nothing compared to the insanity the winter brought.

Near the end of the winter semester, I attended the Annual Atlantic Undergraduate English Conference--something I probably wouldn't have even considered doing when I was in university before. I was more of a shut-in during my previous years, and I wouldn't even spend time with people on campus. This semester, I was hanging out in the English Department's Reading Room, making friends and studying with others.

In May, during my spring course, I discovered I was pregnant. At first, I was terrified! What if I didn't get my degree finished on time? Then, after calculating my due date, I discovered that the timing was actually perfect. My exams for my two fall courses would end in December, and the baby is due in January. This fall, I am taking my two final classes while pregnant, and so far it's not a whole lot different.

Do I recommend breaks for everyone? Absolutely not. Some people really don't go back--which is fine, too, as long as that's what you want. I'll always be glad for that five years away from university, though, and I will never regret it. I learned so much during that time, and it prepared me for going back. In a big way, I actually feel that those five years away from university were for me to figure out why I wanted to finish my degree, and to give me the skills I needed to complete it. When February 2015 arrives, I will have a baby in one hand, and a completed bachelor's degree in the other. I always have done things a little differently, so I guess with university I have just taken a bit of a detour on the way. My life story isn't linear, but I like it that way.

Crystal Palace closed yesterday.

Crystal Palace was a magical indoor amusement park that I was lucky enough to be able to enjoy while growing up. It was a place I went to with family and young friends: a place for March Breaks and birthday parties. I had my first actual date with a boy in grade 6 at Crystal Palace, too--we went on a bunch of rides, won a purple plush bulldog and saw a movie together, back in the days that the theatre and park were connected. The connection was only removed in the last few years, and I remember experiencing a wave of nostalgia every time I would leave the movie theatre, met by the sounds of excited children screaming on the roller coaster.  I'll always have fond memories of getting my face painted and riding on the giant swing set to be propelled through the air across the park. I felt like I was flying. And, of course, I'll always remember challenging friends to the Laser Runner laser tag game.

One last shot of the Crystal Palace sign.

Animaritime, a convention I've been staffing at off and on since 2008, took place in the convention centre in Crystal Palace for their 2007 event. That year, I played mini-golf while dressed like a comic book character, made some incredible friends, and got to experience the ridiculous fun of being at a convention in an indoor amusement park. It was a perfect location, but sadly the convention centre wasn't big enough to house the growing convention.

Recently, my husband Brad and I stopped in at Chapters to browse around.  We decided we'd take a walk through Crystal Palace. We have a little one on the way, after all, and we talked about how much we were looking forward to bringing the child there when he or she is old enough. A few weeks later, we heard the sad news that Crystal Palace would be closing at the end of the day on September 1st, so this was never going to happen. We decided we would bring the baby there anyway--so to speak--before the place closed, for one last night of fun and fond memories.

So, the night of Friday, August 29th, we went. We spent the evening playing games and trying to win a prize for the little one, since I couldn't go on any rides. We had discovered the day before that we are to have a little girl, and we were going to try and win her a stuffed dragon. At one point in the night, as we took a break between games, a young girl came up to us and handed us several tickets, saying "you can have these". I looked at her parents, who were with her, and asked if she was sure she wouldn't rather have them for herself. She insisted, and her mother smiled at me and said "we know you're trying to win something for your baby". Brad and I accepted the tickets gratefully, and noticed that they included a slip for over 300 tickets. I tried keep myself together as I put the slip with our other winnings, and the two of us took a break to grab a snack at Pretzelmaker. As we sat with our snack, we watched a a young boy and his father riding the Jumpin' Star together. The look of joy on the little boy's face was unmistakable. A lot of people are going to miss this place, I thought.

We went to cash in our tickets at the end of the night, and the man behind the counter informed us that they would be honouring all tickets in double from Saturday until the park's closure on Monday evening. We decided to come back the following morning, get a few more tickets, and get our baby girl an even better prize--prolonging our goodbye just a little longer. Before we left, a janitor stopped to chat with us, asking us if either of us remembered the bumper boats from the nineties. Since I did, he brought out a little bag and gave me one of the admission tickets, which hadn't been used in years. It had the old logo on it and everything.

Our spoils of the day: a blue squishy kitty, a yellow Furby-like
creature, a plastic purple flute, a Red Wings hat keychain, and
a small glow-in-the-dark ring.

We spent Saturday morning throwing skee balls up ramps, hitting inanimate objects with hammers, and shooting a few basketball hoops until we had enough tickets for the dragon. As I waited in line, though, the last dragon was claimed by another prize-goer. The lines were so long that weekend that this wasn't a surprise, so instead we walked away with a plush cat dressed in blue, as well as a few other smaller prizes that we'll be able to give our little girl through the various stages of her life.

As one does, we took one last look at the park before we left. I watched the beautiful swing set, which had been my favourite ride growing up, and thought to myself that our little girl would grow up in a Moncton with no Crystal Palace. Maybe this seems like unnecessary sentimentality, but we were far from the only ones to come and say goodbye. On Monday afternoon, a group of our friends went to have one last hurrah with the rides and games. They then showed up at our doorstep with their own present for our baby: they had pooled all their tickets together to get her an adorable plush panda. This is another special final memory for the park--one I wasn't even present for.

I'm frustrated that yet more local businesses are being cleared out to make room for big box retailers. Perhaps the numbers of attendees have dwindled over the years for Crystal Palace, but the fact remains that over 150 people are losing their jobs, and a place full of fond memories is going to close down after almost 25 years of business. Crystal Palace was one of the Greater Moncton Area's biggest tourist attractions. Change is usually good, but the change from a family-friendly venue to an enormous hunting and fishing shop is going to take some getting used to. I remain hopeful, as Magic Mountain has stated that they will expand their park to make room for some of the rides, and may open a smaller-scale indoor facility. At the very least, it will be a fun place to go in the summer, but it won't be the same, and it may not be year-round. At least the memories will remain.

A life in flux

Why do I seem to go through periods of my life that are incredibly busy, only to come out the other side to an almost complete stillness? Why am I okay with having the answer to the "how have you been?" question be "BUSY!"? What makes me enjoy this intense process of having no free time, and then suddenly being met with an abundance of it?

I know the answer to all of these, but sometimes I will ask myself these questions anyway. I'll start to feel my sanity slowly slip away as my busy-ness consumes my life and reduces it to a schedule of "go to work, do the thing, sleep, repeat". Why do I love to torture myself?

It's actually a pretty simple response. Those intense, busy periods make for better writing. And when they're finally over, there's nothing like the week after, when free time exists again. The first day off is absolute bliss. The next thing I know, I'm out for hours-long walks and contemplating what project I'm going to work on next.

Sometimes I think I'd like to live a life that's wholly quiet, but I'd probably get bored. Instead, I'd rather enjoy the quiet moments that come while being otherwise occupied, and the ebb and flow of 3 months busy, 1 month not busy. Maybe I'll, eventually, get to take and appreciate more quiet time, but it certainly won't be anytime soon. Having a number of interests, hobbies and extracurricular activities makes for a hectic life, but it's a fulfilling one, at least.

Things are calming down a bit for me right now. I've been taking courses all through the past year and I have a full month away from them until I go back in September. Since May, I've been working on the annual Shakespeare in the Park with a group of wonderful people. We put on our final performance of the tragedy of Julius Caesar on Saturday night. That's now over, too, and while I feel satisfied, I'm also sad to be parting with these people. Every summer there seems to be this sense of camaraderie--we all become friends and go on outings together while the play is going. Then, at the end of the play, there's a dissolution. It's always bittersweet, because we rarely see each other all at once after closing night. But then, in plays to come, we'll have the inside jokes and the other little reminders. It's a brief flame, but it burns brightly.

My first day of vacation from work is today, too, and I've been spending it by finishing my final project for my class and getting ready for a small trip. What this means is that the three things really eating my time are, temporarily, done, and while they have all been utterly worth my while, I'll get to enjoy the fleeting quiet that comes from having no urgent projects or deadlines. Two of my best friends are getting married this weekend, and while I'll be busy--being in the wedding party--I plan on enjoying every minute of it, and finding any available quiet within. I've never been to Bathurst before, and my husband Brad and I plan on enjoying the trip over.

My life is about to get more hectic-- in a few ways, too, even though I'm entering a brief period of quiet. Brad and I found out back in May that we're expecting our first child, to arrive in January. I have a bit of a looming deadline: finish my degree before the baby comes. That means I'm hitting the books as hard as ever once again in September, but I'll only have two courses to complete because I worked so hard during the spring and summer. Between classes and work, I'll still be plenty busy, but there should be enough downtime in there to keep me happy. Though, auditions for the Mousetrap are in September...

What's keeping me calm lately? A few small, specific things. Slow, quiet mornings, car rides, sitting in the grass, this song, Mountain, and... cleaning. A messy house stresses me out, but when my life is filled with so many things, cleaning gets put on the backburner. There's nothing like taking the extra time to tidy and get rid of clutter. Though I'll only really be working in the next month, I have a lot planned for my free time. Writing is definitely one of those many things...

Reflections on "The Grove"

The Walking Dead isn't just an escapist drama about zombies and the apocalypse: it's a human representation of a world gone awry, and an introspective look at the self through situational horror. "The Grove", which is episode 14 of season 4, aired on March 16th, 2014. This particular episode touched on numerous difficult topics it has only briefly looked at in the past, fully developing a character whose illness has been hinted at since the beginning of season 4.

A brief forewarning that this post is full of spoilers. If you're a Walking Dead fan who hasn't seen this episode yet, I recommend waiting to read this post.

Lizzie's condition

Lizzie and Mika, after the fall of Woodbury, moved to the prison with the rest of the series' protagonists. Shortly after, they lost their father, and were taken in by Carol. During this time, a few things occurred. Lizzie's fascination with walkers and naming them started to surface, and, in secret, she started feeding them mice and dissecting dead rabbits. Lizzie was clearly deeply embedded in a world of psychosis that her family was aware of. In one of Carol's early interactions with Lizzie, she calls her weak, to which Mika replies that "she's not weak", she's "messed up". Mika's reaction to Lizzie's panic attack at the beginning of "The Grove" was to tell her to look at the flowers, which was clearly a system that they had figured out a long time ago.

Some have argued that the episode came out of nowhere and dealt with issues that should have been dealt with. I think it's important to keep a few things in mind:

• Everyone's emotions were tampered with after the fall of the prison; everyone was affected differently by this event. Lizzie already was showing some distressing issues before the fall. It wouldn't have made sense for her situation to have come to a head before, as it was only beginning to develop.
• Lizzie had to grow up very quickly in a short period of time. With her father recently dead, she was the new head of the family, forced to care for her gentle and sweet younger sister, Mika.
• Lizzie shot two human beings, one in the head. While she clearly had issues long before that, that could easily have made matters worse.

Lizzie called the walkers by names and was feeding them live mice. At this point, a fascination was beginning to take hold. When she was in Woodbury, she likely had access to anti-psychotics that would have withheld her condition. At the fall of Woodbury, and the death of her father, there was likely no longer a means by which she could access this medication. She dissected rabbits and captured the mice as her medication began to wear off, and that was when she started to "hear" the walkers.

Picture taken from folieviolet on Tumblr.

Could this have been avoided? Perhaps, but most likely not. The one part of the episode that seems to be the tipping point, though, could have been. At the beginning of this episode, we see a fire in the distance. Not long after, walkers, charred and smoking, appear. Lizzie joins the others to shoot the walkers and realises, then states, "I know what I have to do now". A few scenes later, Lizzie murders Mika. This wouldn't have escalated to such a degree if Lizzie wasn't forced to shoot the walkers. Without those walkers, the turning point of the episode wouldn't have occurred.

Think back to a few episodes ago. Beth and Daryl decide to burn down the cabin they're resting in. This cabin is in the middle of the woods. I believe that the fire in "The Grove" was caused by Beth and Daryl burning the cabin a few episodes prior.  If that fire hadn't brought the walkers over to the pecan grove, something would still have escalated with Lizzie, but it would have happened differently.

Lizzie has a disconnect between life, death, and undeath, and seems to think that undeath is an evolution, of sorts, stating that she thinks she should "change", too. She has no trouble killing her own sister because she believes she is only helping her to change. She is still, however, a little girl seeking approval. She breaks down into tears when she thinks that Carol is mad at her, apologising for pulling a gun on her. She seems to realise that pain is bad, but doesn't think death is--as long as it can result in humans returning as walkers, made clear when she said that she didn't mean to shoot Alisha in the head. She meant to kill her, but didn't mean for her to stay dead.

Carol's development

This episode was heavy-hitting in terms of character development for Carol. She has started talking about Sofia again, speaking easily and fondly of her, and even compares Mika to her. She has tried for the whole season to distance herself from these girls--to protect and guide them, without becoming a mother figure to them. In this episode, her failure in this is evident. She compares Mika to her own daughter, saying "she doesn't have a mean bone in her body" and that she would have to learn to make difficult decisions sometimes. When Lizzie is revealed to have killed Mika, Carol maintains her composure and only breaks down when Lizzie leaves with Tyreese. This scene was one of the best examples of the stellar acting the Walking Dead showcases every week.

Carol knows she cannot let Lizzie live. She says twice that Lizzie "can't be around other people", betraying the significance of that statement the second time she says it. Carol has made an incredibly difficult decision. When she walks out into the clearing with Lizzie, the gravity of that knowledge is immense to her. She finally tells Lizzie she loves her, after resisting that love for the whole season,  and quotes Mika's words from earlier in the episode, saying "everything works out the way it's supposed to".

Carol has been keeping a secret from Tyreese since they met up: she killed Karen and David. In this episode, Carol has three chances to tell Tyreese what she did. The first opportunity certainly would have killed her, the second one was likely. The third time, Carol throws caution to the wind and tells the truth. Her development is immense here. She goes from being on her own and happy to keep the truth from everyone, to feeling a genuine need to tell the truth. She goes so far as to hand Tyreese the gun and say "do what you have to do". She accepts, openly, that Tyreese could kill her, and she wouldn't blame him for doing so. Tyreese, mercifully, shows a lot of development here, too. When he first found out about Karen's death, he would have happily taken care of the killer, no matter who it was. Here, he is able to see the situation from Carol's perspective, and accept that she really believed she was doing the right thing. The two leave together and continue to travel together at the end of the episode.

Carol had to kill Lizzie--there was no other way. Melissa McBride--Carol's actress--said, on Talking Dead after the show:

"I don't think there was really any other option. There's a lot of nature vs. nurture going on in this episode to look at. As much as it broke Carol's heart to have to do this and to realize this had to be done, when they were walking toward the flowers in that scene and Lizzie says, 'You're mad at me and I'm sorry.' You'd think she'd be sorry for stabbing her sister to death but instead she's sorry for pointing a gun at her and she just doesn't get it." - Melissa McBride (taken from Zap2It) 

Parallels with Of Mice and Men

After this episode, I read Of Mice and Men in full to get a better understanding on the comparisons being made by people online and on Talking Dead. With the episode fresh in my mind, the comparisons were clear, to the point that I'm certain Of Mice and Men was not only an inspiration, but that this episode, and Lizzie's entire character, was based on the story.

The pecan grove Mika and Carol found is an ideal place for them to hide while they get their bearings. Tyreese believes they could find solace and be happy there, and for awhile, they are. This is a direct comparison with the run in which main characters Lennie and George were to "live off the fatta the lan'" in Of Mice and Men. The episode begins with them rejoicing in this place, much in the way that Lennie did when he imagined the run. Rabbits and mice are central in Of Mice and Men, and Lizzie kills these creatures throughout her tenure with the show. Lizzie nearly suffocates Judith in the same way that Lennie suffocates Curley's wife. Despite both characters' dark histories with living creatures, both of them share a kind of innocence; Lizzie plays with walkers like a little girl, and Lennie loves creatures like mice and puppies so much he kills them with giving them too much attention.

Carol and George share a number of similarities: they are both the characters that hold power over the characters of Lennie and Lizzie, and act as guardians, of sorts. Carol is a mother figure to Lizzie, and a figure whom Lizzie wants nothing more than to please and impress. George is a sort of surrogate brother to Lennie--he keeps his behaviour in check and openly disparages him when he becomes out of control. Both Carol and George kill their surrogates in an act of love. They make the difficult decisions because they know their surrogates aren't meant to live in the world. Tyreese acts as a Slim-like character, offering Carol support after she kills Lizzie--and act that, though necessary, upsets her deeply.

Final thoughts

This was a moving, deeply upsetting episode. In my opinion, it was the best of the season so far, and is my favourite of the series to date. The writers did an admirable job in pushing the boundaries as far as possible while handling it tastefully. This episode ties some loose ends, such as the mice being fed to walkers and the dissected rabbits, and Carol finally was able to reveal the truth to Tyreese. With the textual parallels drawn between this episode and Of Mice and Men, as well as the walker-feeding harkening back to early on in the season, viewers are easily drawn to the conclusion that this ending for Lizzie was not only a long time coming, but that the character was designed to burn out brightly.

The Walking Dead has always played with the idea that humans are more dangerous than walkers, and this episode illustrates that Lizzie feels that way to an extreme. Killing people and "changing" them into walkers means that they aren't intentionally cruel anymore.

Finally, the way the actors portray their roles is spellbinding. Lizzie's crying during her final scene was one of the most heartbreaking things to witness in the series so far; most people I've spoken to have agreed that they didn't like Lizzie as a character, but that this scene made them feel genuinely sorry for her. The way Carol holds her composure until Lizzie leaves, then breaks down into sobs as she ensures Mika doesn't turn was a moment I won't forget. And, finally, the way Tyreese whispers "I forgive you" to Carol eased some of the episode's tension.

This was, all-around, a haunting and poetic episode. Season 4 has been going all-out so far. I'm excited to see where the series will go next, with just 2 more episodes to go in this season.

The Gods of Social Anxiety

I linger outside the classroom for a few minutes before making my way inside. I haven't seen my professor yet, so I don't know if she's in there or not. I'm apprehensive that I'm going to walk in on someone else's class, and I'm going to get looked at. Better just to wait.

I see another student go in through the opposite door, and I feel instantly vindicated. In I go. Much to my desperate relief, no one looks at me. No one even so much as glances at me--not even the prof. Just the way I like it. I find a seat on the end, so I don't have to climb over anyone else in case I need to leave, and I sit down. I must be in a class full of keeners, because I'm one of the last to arrive, and there are more than five minutes before the class begins.

I take a moment to look over the professor. She's young--probably no more than five years older than I am--and it strikes me that I am almost certainly the oldest student in class. I likely have more in common with the professor than with my fellow students.

Her hair is black, and she has neat bangs in the front. The back of her head is home to a sleek ponytail. At first, she seems almost unfriendly--she doesn't look at the class and doesn't smile. Until, that is, she starts to talk about the course and its material. She welcomes us to the class, and suddenly she can't stop smiling. She almost certainly loves linguistics--the course she's there to teach.

After a few minutes, she introduces herself. She is French, like most of the professors here, and has a beautiful French name to accompany it. I remember thinking that of my Spanish teacher five years prior. Katie Cooper Butland seems clunky and large in comparison. It doesn't even roll off the tongue when you say it. It gets stuck, like when you try to swallow an almond you haven't chewed enough.

It suddenly hits me that we may have to introduce ourselves, and I'm full of apprehension. I move my hand across the desk, made of shiny plastic resembling plywood, and notice a streak of sweat left from my palm. My heart is racing. Please don't make us introduce ourselves. What will I say? "I'm Katie. I'm technically a fourth-year student but I've actually been in university since fall of 2004. I major in English. I am English first language. This is a French university. What the hell am I even doing? I'm twenty-eight, by the way. I'm married. I'm a home owner. I gave up a full time management position to finish the degree I was supposed to get 5 years ago." If we're going to introduce ourselves, can we just say our name and that's it? Pretty please?

The Gods of Social Anxiety have smiled upon me. The prof goes down our names, and then hands out the syllabus. She isn't going to make us introduce ourselves.  My heart stops racing and I get comfortable in my seat. No one will look at me. I mean, other than for the fact I have blue hair.

A cursory glance at the syllabus tells me that we have three exams total and no projects. Perfect. That means I won't need to work in a group.

About halfway through class, I feel that familiar nagging urge. I have to pee. Why now? Come on. I peed before I left the house. I've only had a cup of coffee and a glass of juice today. I haven't even touched the tea in my travel mug. What if I have to leave class? That would be so embarrassing. Leave on the first class? No way. I would look so rude--I bet you anything the professor would remember me as That Girl who Left Class on the First Day. She wouldn't remember me for my bright blue hair, my orange coat, or my plaid top. Not at all.

Hazarding a glance at my cell phone in my jacket pocket, I see that there are only twenty minutes of class left. I should be able to wait that long. No problem. Relief, again. I relax.

Class is now over, and I have an hour and forty-five minutes to myself. Lunch time. I brought my own, and there's a microwave in the student room as well. I hope there aren't too many people, though.

There aren't. I remember days of the past, when I'd come in here to sleep on the sofa between classes. Now I'm bringing my laptop so I can do reading for the class I just took. The times have certainly changed for me--I never have been so studious. I know I have to do well in this class, though, so studying has become second nature for me, compared to when I used to have to convince myself to study a half an hour for the midterm I did none of the reading for. I've grown tired of being a crummy student. I want to succeed. It took me a five year break to discover for myself how I could do that.

I eat my lunch, headphones in, and relax quietly for a little while. I don't have to worry about anything right now.

Until my next class, at 3 PM, when I'll repeat this whole sorry scene all over again.

A brutally honest account from an introvert

I love people. Don't get me wrong.

It took me a really long time to adjust to living with another person. As an only child, I got used to sharing space and time with no one in particular. I had a fair amount of friends as a child, and a handful of good friends in high school as well. When Brad and I were about 20, we decided to move in together. It took awhile for Brad to get used to how much I liked solitude, and frankly, it took me just as long to get used to living with another person. Brad also was an only child growing up, but would spend more time with neighbouring children and had more friends at close proximity.

I didn't even know what an introvert was until many years later. At around 2008, I started developing some harsh anxiety and left university to focus on my mental health. Because I suddenly had gained some free time and didn't spend much time around other people, I had a pretty constant desire to see friends. I didn't find myself drained or exhausted. I genuinely wanted to spend time around them.

Summer came and went, and Brad and I moved into a new apartment with our new family member--a kitten named Lady Pansy--while I adjusted to my new job as a waitress. I suddenly started to realise that I didn't like spending time around people as much as I thought I did. The very idea of hanging out with friends became an exhausting prospect. I would start to ignore my phone to catch up on some well-needed writing and reading time. Even planned dates or hang outs with people would become things I would dread. I didn't know that this was because I was spending much more time around people and needed to recharge.

I'm going to stop for a moment and point out that if you think this makes me a bad friend, you likely don't know what an introvert is. Here are a few articles to help you along your way: How to Intract with the Introverted, 7 Positives that only Introverts would Understand, 23 Signs that you Might be an Introvert, 5 Things you need to Know about Introverts. Think you've got it now? Excellent. I'll proceed.

I didn't really know I was an introvert. In fact, a lot of people would likely think of me as an extrovert upon meeting me. I'm very friendly and approachable. I work in customer service, so I see and talk to a number of people on a daily basis. I have a metric ton of acquaintances; it's hard for me to go anywhere without seeing someone I know. I have extroverted hobbies, like singing, acting and going to concerts. Sounds like an extrovert? Not quite.

I have cancelled many plans for the mere reason that I have seen far too many people that week and I just want to sit quietly with my cats and recharge. I have, out of frustration, ignored doorbells when not expecting anyone over. The only time I answer my phone without hesitation is when work is calling me, and that's only because being available is part of my job description. Otherwise, I very regularly screen my phone calls.

Continuing with my story, I had some friends who were starting to wonder if something was wrong. I had a lot less time than before, plus I was seeing an awful lot of people a day and, as a waitress, dealing with conflict as well. I would pass on hangouts and tell Brad to see our friends alone while I caught up with my own mind. I changed jobs and was finding myself working 40 hours a week as a barista, which made my introversion even more prominent.

Eventually, I embraced it. I stopped letting myself worry about whether or not people would be upset if I wanted to spend time with them. I explained to my closest friends that I've never really spent a lot of time with others and that the period of time that I did was the real anomaly. I started to worry less about feeling pressured and decided that I simply am who I am.

Interestingly, the comment section of one of the articles I posted above had an extrovert asking "so, what? Extroverts are just supposed to cater to introverts all the time?" to which another poster responded "the world caters to extroverts". Good point.

I am only spontaneous a good 1 out of 10 times. Very rare is the time that you will ask me "want to go do this right now?" and I'll say "yeah!". Often, I come to the conclusion by myself. If something sounds good enough and I'm not being pressured, I may ask to tag along, because the worst thing you will say is "no" and then I can get back to whatever it was I was doing.

If you identify as an introvert, I recommend you embrace it and teach your friends and family to embrace it, too. After all, it makes you unique. I read online--so, you know, take this with a grain of salt--that only an estimated 25% of the population identify as introverts. Personally, I love being an introvert. It's helped me learn to stand up for myself a little better, and it keeps me self-sufficient. It's not to say that I'm always alone; I'm often seen with my husband and we spend a lot of time together. I can just be content when he's busy or working that I can do things by myself, too.

Here's a little handful of things I hate as an introvert:

10. "You should get out more!"
How about I decide that for myself?

9. Too much stimuli in one place
I love going out to eat, but if we're in a place with 5 TVs, loud music and I also have to order and socialize with the person I'm sitting with, it's overwhelming.

8. In equal amounts, the sound of the telephone or the doorbell
No.

7. "What are you doing on Tuesday?"
I'll tell you what. Invite me to something on Tuesday, and then I'll tell you.

6. Sudden plans
If you pop by my workplace to ask if I want to catch a movie after work, my answer will most likely be "no". It's not that I have any special plans myself. Maybe I just wanted to go home after. It's nothing against you--I just need a bare minimum of a day to get used to the idea of changing plans.

5. Guilt trips
Never ever ever guilt an introvert for not wanting to hang out. This is for the sanity of both parties. This will only push the introvert further away, because he or she will come to associate spending time with the non-introvert friend as an impending guilt trip or just filling a "quota". The more understanding you are of your friend's nature, the more likely they are to seek time with you on their own.

4. Awkward conversation
If I see you in public, I'll likely smile and wave, and carry on my way. I'm not a huge fan of small chat outside of work--I'd much rather keep doing what I was doing. This is nothing against anyone. This is more of a situation that I don't know how to control or respond to. Small talk simply isn't necessary if I know you. I'd rather hear updates and changes with you rather than go back and forth with "what's new?" "not much, you?" "how's Brad?" "good" etc.

3. When I'm done, I'm done
Don't try to keep me around at a party. It will not work, you will be disappointed, and I'll be annoyed.

2. "Are you okay?"
I'M FINE. If I'm not crying or screaming, I am fine. I'm just not saying anything. That happens sometimes.

1. Dropping by
If you just drop by with no announcement, I may never speak to you again. I don't care who you are--unless you're the mail carrier with that package I was waiting for, CALL FIRST.

Some of my favourite things include cancelled plans, power outages in busy places, getting to places before everyone else (i.e., coming into work early before any other customers or co-workers arrive), and early mornings when very few other people are up and about.

To be clear, I don't necessarily advocate using labels to define people. I don't think that being an introvert defines me as a human being, but it does provide a little context as to why I act a certain way socially. I don't think it gives me carte blanche to be a jerk, either, but I do think that it can help people understand why certain friends seem more distant than others. I don't hide behind my introversion or use it as an excuse. Rather, I feel that I define my own sect of introversion.

November is pretty great.

I spent most of my life resenting the very existence of November, until recently. In high school, November is The Month Before Christmas (also known as Not Christmas Yet or What do you Mean we Still Have Two Months Left Before the Holidays? month). In university, November is Final Papers Month (which becomes even worse if you're an English major). In the wonderful world of retail, November is Ah Crap it's Already Christmas and we Have Lineups a Mile Long month, also known as There's Still Two Months of This Before we See a Holiday month.

Somewhere between Final Papers Month and Ah Crap Month, something in me changed. I discovered NaNoWriMo while still in university and, despite all the final papers I had to write and the reading I skipped did, found it to be an exciting and worthwhile exercise. I'm sadly not participating this year because I barely have the time to squeeze this blog post in, but the excellence of NaNoWriMo will be mine once more next year.

There's something inherently quiet about November. If you spend any amount of time in the woods or in nature in general, you may notice a certain kind of peace. Though I love the warmth that summer and spring will offer every year, I've grown accustomed to the chill air of autumn, the early snows and the gentle frost that sits on the grass. The mornings that are quiet and dark seem to be the only source of peace. When you wake up, it's still dark. I like that. When it's that dark in the morning, it seems like no one can approach me. November mornings give me an impenetrable barrier of solitude. No one needs me for anything and I don't have to do anything. I can relax.

A hot cup of coffee tastes best on a November morning, when I'm not chilled to the bone but just cold enough to experience the pleasant contrast in temperatures. The slow cooker comes out and hot soup is just a sleep away as it cooks overnight. Waking up to a golden sun, beaming over the ice-kissed lawn looks like something out of a fairytale.

There's also Movember. Though I can't condone moustaches on anyone under 45 (I'm sorry, I just can't), it's a fantastic cause. And, you know, some participate in full-out No-Shave November, which simply means a greater abundance of beards. That, I can totally get behind.

Now, if only I could feel this way about January, February and March, I'd be all set. For now, at least I can enjoy the tranquility that November brings.

Moncton life

I grew up in a small rural community surrounded by trees and gorgeous vistas. Our house was a 2-minute drive from the the Bay of Fundy, which boasts the highest tides in the world. If I wanted to be alone, I could easily go find a place where no one would be able to find me. Fog drifted in and out like a familiar friend, and the salt scent of bay air met your nose the moment you opened a window.

Naturally, moving to a city proved to be a bit of a challenge for me at first. Though not a particularly big city by any means, Moncton still had an unsettling tree-to-person ratio. I had grown accustomed to the quiet solitude that came from walking in the woods or watching the tide roll in. That was something that was now missing for me.

Rest area at the Tankville School trail.

My first year of university, I would sit in my dorm alone. That part wasn't so bad--but what I didn't like was the sound of ambulance sirens blaring at all hours of the day. Université de Moncton's Lafrance dormitory was where I stayed, and it loomed above the Georges Dumont hospital. During the week I didn't take many opportunities to go anywhere other than my room or class, but on the weekends I would go home and that would give me the chance to go on those long beautiful walks I craved. In the summer, I would also go home to work from May until the end of August, when school would start again.

One of the highlights of the apartment we rented just off Elmwood was the little duck pond and walking trail down the road. The wildlife made me feel at home, and seeing people walking their dogs made me even happier.

There was a small patch of woods right by the Université de Moncton campus that I used to take a shortcut through, despite the sign that barred pedestrians from passing through. I wasn't the only rule-breaker and often found other students doing the same thing. That one little strip of forest was enough to reconnect me to the place that I wanted to be: the forest. As much as I hate the term, calling me a tree-hugger wouldn't be far from the truth.

Five years ago, in October 2008, Brad and I moved to Moncton permanently. I got a job downtown, we got a new apartment and adopted our cat, Lady Pansy. All of a sudden, life was much different for me. Having no specific days off, I found visiting home much more difficult. In addition, Brad and I would often have separate days off. I would get to visit home very rarely and found myself exhausted from being on my feet all day anyway. 

We weren't anywhere near any kind of walking trail or park. The best we had was the little area in front of the cultural centre across the road. 

Gradually I found out about various places to go in town. First it was the Irishtown Nature Park just off Elmwood Drive. Next was Mapleton Park off the Gorge Road. Both places provided scenic, woodsy walks that put me at ease. We often saw many other people there, but for some reason I didn't mind. Those places are like communities in themselves; many people smile and say hello as they pass, even if you've never met. 

After walking on those paths for some time, we started to locate smaller, less travelled paths. A recurring favourite became the Tankville School trail, just down the road from the Irishtown Nature Park. It seems the Tankville trail hooks onto the back end of another trail, because we found that one, too. The first time, we found it by walking over the frozen lake at Tankville School. The second time, we took the real entrance--just a short drive down the road.

Now we've taken to other sorts of adventures, whether it's through Centennial Park or through visiting outlying villages, cities or towns. One thing that can be said for Moncton is that it lives up to its nickname--the Hub City. Moncton is a short drive away from all kinds of interesting places. It's still close enough, too, that I can get down home when I need to reconnect. On Labour Day, for kicks, we took a little drive down to Cape Tormentine for a change of scenery.

Definitely a change of scenery.

At first, I didn't like the noise and I didn't like the street lights getting in the way of the stars. I still don't like the way the air smells compared to the fresh drifting sea breeze of Alma. Moncton has become home for me in many ways now, though, from the coffee I pick up at Read's on my way to work, to the people I've met simply from working in the mall. While I still sometimes think I'd prefer living out of the city, right now I'm happy with our life in Moncton.

The best job I ever had

Alma New Brunswick is a small village, boasting a meager population of around 300 people. It's home to the highest tides in the world, Fundy National Park, and a slew of unique local business, including the Octopus' Garden Cafe and Kelly's Bake Shop (sticky buns, anyone?).

It's also home to some great memories for me, since it's the village I was raised in, and where my husband Brad was raised as well. One fateful summer I took a job there, a literal five minutes before being offered another one, and that job became the best I've ever had.

I've had a lot of great jobs in my time--one of them I'm working right now. I've also worked as a Barista and a kids' program coordinator.  The best job I've ever had wasn't glamorous, or, at its core, that unique. The best job I ever had was working as a cashier at the only gas station in Alma, NB: The Fundy General Store.

I love people. I always have. Growing up, though, I was a little more reserved than most. I got picked on and bullied. I was kind of weird. I was a vegetarian in a fishing village. To say I wasn't a part of the crowd was a bit of an understatement, but I tried to own that, and tried my best to pleasantly surprise people. When the owner of the General Store took a chance on hiring me, he later told me he was glad he had.

After my first couple of days of work, I learned the ins and outs of the POS system and got familiar with some of the regulars who would come in for coffee. Some of them were surprised to see me there, as they'd always seen me as the strange quiet girl who would take walks in the village, and not make many public appearances beyond that.

At work, my duties didn't go too far beyond dealing with customers and brewing coffee, and I liked it that way. When the store got really busy, particularly on Saturdays and sunny summer days, we would sometimes have customers lined up literally all the way around the store. In addition to being the only gas station in town, we were also the only liquor store in town. We also had a number of campers' amenities, such as firewood. We had a lot of things people wanted.

Being a huge tourist area brought in all kinds of unique people from all around the world. I got to meet people who were on their own life journeys: off on a six-month hiatus from their responsibilities, or simply on vacation with their families. It was a very introspective period for me. It taught me what I wanted out of life, and I still managed that while juggling it as a full-time job.

That's not to say it didn't get a little stressful sometimes. It is to say, however, that I managed to get a lot done without worrying about work too much. I got a lot of writing and hiking done because of my schedule, and because the work that we did there was never draining or exhausting. My boss liked to work us on a rotating schedule--one week I would work opening shifts, and the next week I would work closing shifts. He would give us the same days off all summer. On top of it, he was an amazing boss in general. He never yelled and never gave us a hard time. If we were doing something wrong, he would quietly pull us aside, tell us what it was and to stop, and that was that. He would never do this in front of other workers or customers.

Some people might be surprised that working in a gas station could be so enjoyable, but it really was. There was a great vibe and the boss had a knack for hiring the right people. Of course, we didn't always get along, but we came pretty close.

Alma's a beautiful village, too, and very scenic. Every day that I was on the front cash I could simply turn around and look out the window to be met with a view of the Upper Salmon River.

I worked that job for three summers, and I still look back on those times fondly, especially when summer begins.

If you have any interesting jobs you've had that you'd like to share, feel free to contribute in the comment section. I'd be interested to hear!

Creating These Random Memories (Anticipation Part 2)

This evening, after I was done work, two of my friends picked me up and we got into their car to listen to the much anticipated Random Access Memories, as referenced in the previous post. I looked at them and I said "Guys, this is the last time we will listen to this album for the first time".

The sunroof down and wind whipping past accompanied the warm, late May air. The sky boasted clouds of all different shapes and textures, hanging in the sky against a perfectly sunny backdrop. The bass thumped at a reasonable level behind us as the the album revealed its beautiful secrets to us.

I remember the entire journey as we drove and listened. When the final track played, the sun was low in the sky, but not yet to setting. A dull gold-orange glow cascaded through the modest urban forest we passed by, light peeking through the trees and creating long shadows behind. At one point, during the album, the sun had gone behind a cloud, and just as the song reached a pivotal point, it came back out, right through the sunroof.

As is common with a group of people who are familiar with each other, we cracked our fair share of jokes (such as when my friend Sally thought the song Fragments of Time was called Fragments of Tim--I laughed for an uncomfortably long time at that).

As we listened, the three of us crafted a memory together. We'll always remember cruising through town, visiting random locations while Random Access Memories played as our soundtrack. From what I've heard from the interviews that Daft Punk gave, I can't help but wonder if that crafting of memories is one of the things that they were hoping to achieve with this album.

Anticipation

As I sit here writing, I have the new Daft Punk album, Random Access Memories, staring back at me from my phone. It is complete and waiting for me to listen to it, but because of a promise made to a good friend, that will wait for now. Instead, I'm thinking about how incredible an album it's going to be. Even the one song I've heard from the album is a whole two minutes longer than its radio edit, so really, it will be almost entirely material I've never heard.

Have you ever taken a moment, while just about to read the last page of a book or about to watch the last half hour of a film, to think about how amazing that moment you're about to experience is? Something you didn't know five minutes ago will be something you know, and always will know, in the moments to come. You will never be able to re-live that moment. You will forever be trying to re-imagine that sense of wonder you feel in the moments leading up to your experience.

This is exactly how I feel about Random Access Memories right now.

Daft Punk's Discovery album came at a pivotal time to me: my late teenage years. 12 years ago, Discovery became a very important part of my life, as far as musical influence goes. And now, I get the feeling that Random Access Memories is about to become the same.

My friends and I plan on listening to the album in their car tomorrow after I'm done work, cruising with the album playing at full blast. Interestingly enough, interviews with contributors to the album reveal that Thomas Bangalter and Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo did much the same during the process of putting the album together.

I'll prolong the anticipation for now. At 4 PM tomorrow, I'll be ready.

I have a challenge for you. At the last few pages, or even the last chapter, of whatever book you're reading now, stop. Think about the journey you've taken so far, and what loose ends are left to be tied up. Reflect on the fact that you're about to learn something new that you'll never re-experience, and take a moment to recognize how remarkable that feeling is. Then, turn the page.

Role models

I hope everyone has at least one role model growing up. I was privileged to have had several. My parents, obviously, were (and still are!) the biggest ones, but I was fortunate to have numerous teachers who impacted my life, too. Belinda Myers was one of those teachers.

I found out a week ago that Mrs. Myers had passed away suddenly in a motorcycle accident, and the news hit me hard. I had seen another teacher a few weeks prior and, oddly enough, had asked what Mrs. Myers was up to. It was jarring, to say the least, to hear that she passed away not long after.

There's a lot that needs to be said about Mrs. Myers, but I can only speak from the perspective of a former student. I will say that as a "black sheep" sort of attendee, I found Mrs. Myers to be welcoming and understanding. I could always go to her if I had an issue of any kind, and if she couldn't fix it, she could at least change my perspective on it so it didn't seem so bad. She always had something constructive to say, so if you were doing something she didn't agree with, she would tell you why and how to change it. She was calm and didn't yell or raise her voice, but she was still fair and wouldn't let students get away with breaking rules. She also didn't make it a secret how much she cared for her students.

Since high school, which has been nearly ten years now, I've had the opportunity to catch up with a lot of teachers, and even tell some of them how much their instruction meant to me. One thing that I'll always regret now is that I never got to do that with Mrs. Myers. She was the vice principal when I graduated and I had always thought, while attending, how I would have liked to see how she ran it as principal. She was principal for several years after, and I can only imagine she did a great job with that, too.

That is my fond, little memorial of Mrs. Myers and the great teacher she was. I had three classes with her: Media Studies, Law, and Journalism, and I still think of all of them. My thoughts are, especially, with her family at this time.

Thank you, Mrs. Myers.

Stargazing

Here we are again.

It's not the ideal stargazing spot, to be honest. Streetlights dot the side of the parking lot and lead into a nearby highway. Even if there were no lights, it's a busy enough highway that even at this time of night, there are enough cars to brighten the road and distract us from the stars. But where can you go in a city when it's below freezing in April? So, we sit in the car, staring up at the sky with the faintest hope we might see just one falling meteor.

I'm not really sure I care. I look over at you, fiddling with your phone, and you catch me and smile.

I could spend my life like this. I don't care what we're doing. Even visiting a parking lot at 2 AM feels like an adventure. We move to another location with hope that we will be able to see some falling meteors there, but have no success. It's just as well-lit there, meaning that even if there were falling meteors, we likely would miss them. We decide to head back home, our adventure short-lived by the lack of unlit places.

To some, this might be a failure. We didn't see any meteors. I didn't think of it that way, though.

On our way back, I start to drift to sleep, lulled by the motion of the car. I nod awake long enough to see you're giving me that look--the one that you always give me when I randomly fall asleep (this happens more often than I'd like to let on).

I'd like nothing more than to freeze time and keep this moment forever.

A reading

A few weeks back, I had the distinct pleasure of seeing a group of people that I knew from all walks of life read before an audience. There were five people in total: one is the head of the Writer's Federation I'm a member of, one was my professor, one a customer, one a co-worker, and one is my father.

Seeing these five people, all of whom have affected my life in different ways, work together so flawlessly was inspiring. The five of them had been meeting together to discuss poetry and draw inspiration from one another. What came from these meetings was beautiful poetry--some of which was read that evening.

Cafe Aberdeen was filled with people, some of whom knew these poets, as well. It was very well-attended, and the cafe workers actually had to bring in more chairs to accommodate people. While the poets read, the audience, rapt and attentive, said nothing. The magic of poetry hung heavy in the air like snow on a branch. No one dared speak out of turn to break the spell.

It was an inspiring night, and I'm sure I wasn't the only one who left with an unfinished poem in my head. In fact, I saw a woman scrawling notes down during the reading, probably for later use.

In honor of that evening, I wrote this one unfinished and unedited poem. It's aptly named, I think; I call it "At a Poetry Reading".

Perched
like a cat watching a bird
on the edge of the stool
you listen and watch
attentively
held in balance
suspended
absorbing every word
and never losing focus
or wavering
from the person who reads before you.

When the poems are done
you do not clap
but continue staring ahead
in the pose you assume
that looks so uncomfortable to me
but you hold so effortlessly
it must be a second nature
to you.

Do you refrain from clapping
because you didn't enjoy it?
Or rather
were the words so powerful
they shocked you into stillness
and led you to believe
that no sound
of appreciation
could really do them justice?

Do you
like so many others in this room
have your own way
of keeping the silent magic?

This winter has been a bit strange for me, and finding inspiration for writing has been scarce. This reading was like a shining beacon in the (literal) storm that has been the past two months.  When I say literal storm, I mean that my house is currently sitting under a good six feet of snow!

I'm not kidding!

 I have a week of vacation next week, so there may be more blog posts forthcoming. In the meantime, I'm still regularly updating thisindiegameblog, as winter is a perfect time of year to sit inside and play games!

How many sunrises?

The last sunrise of 2012.

As soon as 2013 hit, I'd taken to a new hobby: photographing sunrises with my phone.

It started with New Year's Eve, first thing in the morning. I was up just long enough to feed the cats, but I took my phone downstairs with me. The last sunrise of the year was waiting for me. I snapped a photo, fed the cats, then went about my day. The following day, the exact same thing happened: I woke up, fed the cats, and saw the sun rising, so I snapped a photo. The first sunrise of the new year.

A sunrise is a reminder that we're living to see another day--a privilege, not a right. We might not necessarily get to see tomorrow's sunrise. I look at them, myself, to remind myself that above all else, I'm alive, and that's all that matters.

I catch myself complaining a lot. In fact, I'm really bad for it. I know I have no reason to complain about anything, but I do it anyway. Instead of beating myself up for it, since that will only cause more negativity, I've been trying to divert my energy to something positive.

The first sunrise of 2013.

The other day, I was walking to the bus stop on my work, feeling grumpy and rushed and thinking of trivial things that didn't really matter. As I was walking, I turned to see the sun just hovering over the horizon, casting a pale golden light on the ground below. The ice-coated snow reflected the light back, like a frozen mirror. The sight was breathtaking. I glanced at it distractedly, thinking to myself that I didn't have time to stop and look, and that I'd miss my bus. I hesitated on that thought. Was that really the worst thing that could happen if I stopped to look at this sunrise? I set aside my petty problem for the time being. If I died that day, I didn't want my only regret to be that I didn't look at the sunrise long enough.

These thoughts may seem a touch morbid to anyone else, but to me, it's a reminder that I have so much to be thankful for. If my biggest concern is missing a bus because I stopped to look at a sunrise a little too long, I really don't have many problems. So, I stopped to look at the sunrise for those who aren't able to--for those who don't have the same kind of freedom I have, and for those who have bigger things to worry about, like whether they'll be able to eat tomorrow. And also, to remind myself that I am in control of my life, because too often do I say I "can't" do something, when in reality, I simply won't.

The sunrise photos are, I suppose, a bit of a personal project. When I sleep through a sunrise, I take a picture of a sunset in the evening. I know I won't do it every day and it's not something I want to pressure myself into doing. It's really just something for me to remind myself that life is great and it's getting better all the time.

Of shopping carts and cups of coffee

It seems I have a lot of adventures while walking to work.

Tuesday morning, I had taken my usual stop in to a local cafe to fill up my travel mug with hot coffee. This happens nearly every morning on my way in because the coffee is good and it has the double feature of waking me up and keeping me warm on a chilly morning. Not that you need to know why, of course. Lots of people like a coffee in the morning.

I walked my usual route until I got to the grocery store parking lot, where I typically cut through to get to the sidewalk. In front of me was a man pushing a pair of shopping carts back toward the parking lot. He stopped a few feet ahead of me, and I went to walk around him, when he started to shout something. Since I had my headphones on, I couldn't immediately hear him. I slid them off and asked him to repeat himself.

Perhaps that was my first mistake. I always assume that if people are talking to me, I should listen, because it's the polite thing to do and because I typically think they're talking to me for a good reason. Every time this has happened I have been proven otherwise, but I don't dare stop for fear I end up missing an emergency and someone dies or something because I couldn't be bothered to make eye contact with a stranger.

"All young people are good for is walking down the streets with their cups of coffee, talking on their cell phones and stealing shopping carts!" he shouted. I was a bit taken aback, and I didn't respond immediately. I wasn't sure if he was trying to make a point toward me specifically, as I had just taken a sip from my cup. Before I could formulate anything better to say, I came up with "Okay". "People like YOU!" he shouted again, throwing his hands up in disgust and walking off. Against my better judgment, I replied again, this time saying "Actually, I'm on my way to work. Have a nice day".

How dare he judge me like that? I thought as I stalked off. I know I should have let it slide. Clearly it wasn't intended to be a slight against me personally--he was just in a bad mood and I happened to be walking by at the time. I did take it personally, though. Not because he meant it against me, but because he would have said that to any person who looked "young".

I'm in my late twenties now, but I have a bit of a baby face, so I'm often mistaken for someone much younger. I feel that both my own generation and the next, the one people refer to as "today's kids", get far too much flack and not nearly enough credit. Generalism is rampant and it's a big problem. Society seems to want to paint us with labels enough as it is, and generalisation only brings us that much farther away from the truth. The truth is that regardless of what people may say about "kids" having "no respect", I have seen (and worked with) so many of these kids who not only have respect, but an incredible work ethic. I have been in many positions in the last four years of my life, among them supervisor and manager, and I have watched these  "kids" work harder than I have in some ways.

These labels are an excuse. Why do those kids steal shopping carts? Because that's just what young people do. Forget the fact that most young people do not steal shopping carts--this is a fact because if most young people did steal shopping carts, there would be virtually none left--and think that perhaps those that do are doing so for a reason. That reason may not be directly related to shopping carts in general. Think of that what you will.

This unfounded negative talk about "young people"--these broad, sweeping generalisations--fall under one very ugly word: ageism. It's not only annoying, it's wrong. Think about the "young person" you just accused of being lazy. Do you know them? Have you seen them work, or have you seen them hanging out with their friends on what is probably their free time? I know a number of high school students who juggle their every day school lives with a part time job and still manage to find time to spend with their friends, hanging out and doing whatever they please. Just because you happen to see them in that brief off moment, that doesn't mean it's what they're always doing. And what makes you so important that you feel you can judge someone based on what less than five minutes of their time is telling you?

Ageism goes both ways and there is certainly no debating that! I have merely been on the receiving end multiple times, so I'm speaking from my own perspective.

Perhaps all of this seems like common sense to you, but I see  it too often to know that it isn't common sense for everyone. I would urge you to please think before you start rapidly throwing about accusations based on something as silly as age. The person you're talking to is a human, too.

Things come full circle

About one year ago, my family and I said farewell to an old friend of ours. Our cat, Jake, who had been with us for fifteen years, died of old age as her heart failed. I posted the blog post on Oct. 24, 2011, and the one-year anniversary of that post is in just two days.

This post is meant to be an homage to Jake's fond memory through new, happy news. It seems that, for me and my family, things have truly come full circle.

The two momma cats.

Just under a month ago, my Dad came home to find a pair of sister mother cats and their respective litters of kittens--6 in total--hiding under the cabin in the lower lot. For a man who loves cats as much as my father, this was a pleasant surprise. For about a week, he took good care of those cats and kittens. He fed them and cleaned up after them, gave them a roof over their heads and gave them all the love and attention they could ask for. I went down to visit and was getting ready to decide which kitten would come home with me. The decision was impossible--six sweet kittens, and all of them with their own lovable traits. Absolutely impossible.

Just under a week later, the cats vanished without a trace. We were all devastated and concerned. Maybe something got to the kittens, or the mothers moved them somewhere else. I hadn't decided which kitten to give a home to, but I was excited about the prospect of another cat in the house. Regardless of this, the safety of the cats and kittens was our foremost concern.

My parents searched for a few weeks, but to no avail. As time stretched on, we began to lose hope that we would see them again. Nonetheless, my parents kept up the search.

One day, without warning, the mother cats came back, alone. Dad caught wind of people adopting the kittens, which made me happy but a bit sad. I was happy they got homes, but obviously, sad that I couldn't be the person to give them one. Dad started feeding the cats and they hung around outside the house, giving the place a new life it hadn't seen since Jake died.

The night the mother cats returned, I had a dream. I dreamt that the cats appeared at my parents' house, with one of the kittens in tow, and that I took that kitten home with me. That kitten was orange and white, like four of the six kittens in the litter were. It wasn't a strange dream to have, to be honest; I was already thinking about the cats so of course I dreamed of them. I woke up and told Dad about my dream, then, to my surprise, discovered that he had the exact same dream.

That night, my phone rang. I answered, and my Dad, on the other end, frantically relayed a message that the cats appeared as Mom was on her way up to town... with two kittens in tow. I couldn't believe it! But then, he told me that they had flea collars on, so they obviously belonged to someone. He asked me for advice so I, without being able to hide my disappointment, suggested that he call around. He said that he would and he would get back to me.

Not long after, my husband and I were sitting down to have supper when my dad called back. The kittens, it seemed, belonged to the neighbors, and as did the mother cats. It certainly explained why they were over so often! The good news, then, was that they would be visiting, considering they were indoor-outdoor cats and, well, they were just next door. Still, I couldn't help but feel a bit of disappointment as I hung up the phone. The cats had homes, and they were nearby. I should have been happy. I never thought I'd see those cats or kittens again, and they were just next door, and, it seemed, more than happy to migrate back and forth. This should have been excellent news.

But, I'm only human, and I'm a bit selfish. I was disappointed to hear that one of those kittens wouldn't be coming to live with me. It seemed like the end of it.

Just as we were finishing up supper, my phone rang again. I answered to my mother, quite suddenly, asking if I wanted a kitten. Shocked and stuttering (and, admittedly, after shouting "YES" into the phone), I asked for an explanation.

It seemed the neighbors had the two mother cats and three kittens, but really, were giving most of the kittens a home simply because they had the mothers living there. While one of them wanted to keep the little tabby kitten, they told my parents "Kate can have one of the orange ones, if she wants". Rewind back to the dream I had. An orange and white kitten.

I don't want to necessarily say that there is such a thing as fate, or things happening for a reason, but this seems a bit too much to be a coincidence. All I know is that if you had told me, yesterday morning, that one of those kittens would be living in my house by the end of the day, I would have called you a liar.

About an hour and a half after I got off the phone with Mom, I had a very happy reunion with a little guy I named Rusty. Even his name has a story behind it: he was the kitten with the most vibrant, bright orange red in his fur, and the time I helped Dad out with the cats about a month ago, I also spent naming the kittens individually. It certainly beat "orange kitten", "other orange kitten", "runt tabby" and "the white kitten with an orange tail and a couple orange spots on his back".

Dad and I were talking about something I can't really remember while we were standing on the deck, and he pointed to something, saying "that's all rusty". Rusty, I thought to myself. Indeed. And thus, the first kitten was named.

Lady Pansy, our four-year old tabby, is (very) slowly starting to warm up to him. I think that, in time, they will grow to be great friends.

Rusty, then and now. He was only about eight weeks old when we found them, and here he is now at twelve. Notice his pretty amber eyes!




The best part? I didn't even have to decide. The kitten was chosen for me, and I was more than happy to take him. I would have given any of them a home, but the decision-making process was excruciating.

And now, I have shared my story about the latest addition to our family! Thank you for reading.