i'm possibly tired of being pink. and so i've made a wordpress home, a consolidated blog with everything i've published on other blogs i masquerade under.

http://thetinygirlinred.wordpress.com/

i'll probably hold fort here and there, though. the more personal posts will lurk here, i think.

well, see you somewhere!

organizing life:

writing
- finish journalling
- write article?
- write more katherine

webwork
- catch up on website/uploading bookcovers
- make gicnews blog
- hitotoki Toronto

reading
- read jessica's book
- read atonement
- read the witch of portobello
- read les belles images
- read guernicamag, the walrus

language learning
- ch. 2
- review verbs and nouns

others
- clean house thoroughly
- start sketching!

Unless A Grain of Wheat Bernadette Farrell

Refrain: Unless a grain of wheat shall fall up-on the ground and die, it remains but a single grain with no life.
Verses:
1. If we have died with him, then we shall live with him; if we hold firm, we shall reign with him.
2. If any one serves me, then they must follow me; wherever I am, my servants will be.
3. Make your home in me as I make mine in you; those who remain in me bear much fruit.
4. If you remain in me and my word lives in you; then you will be my disciples.
5. Those who love me are loved by my Father; we shall be with them and dwell in them.
6. Peace I leave with you, my peace I give to you; peace which the world can-not give is my gift.


Be Not Afraid

You shall cross the barren desert,
but you shall not die of thirst.
You shall wander far in safety
though you do not know the way.
You shall speak your words in foreign lands
and all will understand.
You shall see the face of God and live.

Be not afraid.
I go before you always;
Come follow me,
and I will give you rest.

If you pass through raging waters in the sea,
you shall not drown.
If you walk amid the burning flames,
you shall not be harmed.
If you stand before the pow'r of hell
and death is at your side,
know that I am with you through it all.

Blessed are your poor,
for the kingdom shall be theirs.
Blest are you that weep and mourn,
for one day you shall laugh.
And if wicked men insult and hate you all because of me,
blessed, blessed are you!

life on a monthly basis

bite-size goals for this month (THE REST OF APRIL):
- présent de l'indicatif & impératifs & gender: no mistakes
- get to 300 characters
- 1 article - around 15th each month
- Hitotoki Toronto -> send in something!
- read 1 more novel, 1 more children's lit
- website to figure out

that's that for april so far. it feels like it's very little; and there's so much MORE i want to attain.

I have plenty of faults.

The self-esteem thing is definitely an issue. I think, in a way, most of my faults come from low-self-esteem.
I hold grudges. That's the downside of having a good memory, because you just don't forget (and thus forgive) the crap people give you. The sting just doesn't go away.
I'm really sensitive/touchy. I feel hurt all the time even though I know someone might not've meant to hurt me, I still interpret it that way, and THEN I hold a grudge against them for it too.
For a lot of things, it's my way or the highway. It's not that I think I'm always right, but even when I'm wrong I still want to do things my way.
I'm a snob. I can't stand people's bad taste in food/clothes/books etc.
I get jealous easily, too. I get so envious sometimes that I end up avoiding good friends because I'll inevitably compare myself to them when I talk to/see them.

I also procrastinate, am always late, am a slob, etc.; but I know I can change those if I really want to, so they're less crippling than my emotional/self-esteem issues.

---

My jealousy and my things-used-to-be-so-much-better depression is pretty bad. It actually kind of makes sense (to my twisted mind) to be jealous of people who are going through milestones you've already passed: I feel both protective and bitter when I see someone graduating from high school etc., or travelling to a country I've been to and loved, I mean, I'm happy for them, but then I immediately wish I could turn time back and have my own joy and excitement of that moment back so I'm jealous. And THEN, since I know I can't get that perfectly happy moment back, I get depressed.

I think a lot of my peculiarities have seeped through from my mom and grandmother, too. I'm not blaming them, I find my faults crippling but it comforts me to know where it comes from... I guess because then I know that my grandmother's dealt with them, too. It is a daunting legacy.

I've kept diaries since I was 10. I'm really glad I did because I can be very nostalgic and it tells me a lot about myself to read over old entries. I used to write in them every day, but I don't anymore... these days I document myself in an array of blogs, emails, and only occasionally in a pen-and-paper journal. It feels good whenever I can write, and can organize and clear out all the thoughts in my head, so to speak, but I really don't do it often enough.

The good and bad thing about blogging is that blogs aren't diaries. The blog convention is article-inspired, with titles and topics and tags, and so are at best a snapshot of life. Even bloggers who write daily are encouraged to focus on an area of dissertation or two, or otherwise they title their post "random".

My blog really says very little about what goes on in my daily life or what I am doing... but it contains what I think. So in that sense it shows who I am, but only partially.

Blogging is nowhere near as comprehensive or expurgatory as "traditional" diary entries, where I would evaluate the entire day's events and sum up my thoughts and feelings. Blogging and twittering are the products of the spur of the moment, probably the best we can make do with in our modern life, but still, it's only make-do.

I posted this a few days ago in response to someone's dilemma, when a girl asked for help on message board because her best friend might be suicidal.

Honestly, it's been a really long time since those teenage days when my friends and I emailed each other and answered pleas for help. It was hard just to get into that tone where you're positive and judicious, and not just blunt and snarky, as one is so apt to be as an intolerant and short-fused adult. But I couldn't bring myself (as some of the others who replied) to tell her to just TELL an adult, and I felt so politically incorrect about it. I had no idea how old she was, and maybe I wasn't deciphering her message clearly enough, maybe she just wanted someone to give her courage to tell an adult. But I've been brought up on a sleuth of fantasy literature about making choices, and in my - utterly rational world - I can't conceive of jumping into something without surveying the consequences. I can't condescend to someone on the grounds of age, and not give them their chance to take full responsibility for their decisions. No-one is too young to try to think for themselves. Besides, when I was thirteen - or ten - telling an adult never solved my problems. It has always been something I had to figure out for myself, even when I was young. Maybe that's just me. I wanted to die when I was nine, and no one knew, and I'm still here. And maybe I'm really unqualified because there are still days when I want to kill myself, so I'm really actually a mess, but seriously? I can't see how the concern of parents and teachers would've made things any better for me, and I *can* imagine how it might have driven me over the brink.

My best friend's parents "hit her", in her own words, and I'm glad I was never bound by strict morality to tell an adult. I knew her parents and looking back, I don't think they were violently abusive, but even if it was more severe than I can guess, I wouldn't feel right if I had tattled and caused her to go into foster care. She made me promise not to tell, because she feared that very thing. And who's to belittle the fears of a ten year old, or the integrity of a promise and of friendship, and how can someone really be qualified to tell her that she would be happier in some other life with foster parents than with the parents she really loved? It's hard to say what's ultimately better for someone, and few people aren't scarred in some way by their childhood and familial ties. Even as a child, I'm sure I had some undefined sense of my convictions. And then, I don't know how my friend's life turned out, but so far as my imagination stretches, I think people can't get out of their own skin, and if someone is by nature tragical, no amount of kindly love or good parenting can change the fate they are determined to create for themselves.

I can sense how this can be very controversial, and my feelings and raw convictions are ill-expressed, but I harbour no anger towards laws for foster care or a guardian's right to know whatever concerns their child's well-being. But I remember being a child too vividly to relinquish the thought that it's okay not to tell your parents everything. What I desired most as a child was trust, and the space to do things when I'm good and ready to, and I will always be an ardent defender of that.

Well, here was what I wrote.

---

I think it's a good sign that she knows she can talk to her three best friends about this. Work with your friends to get her (and each other) through this. Be there for her; hear her out whenever she needs to talk, make sure she knows you value her advice and opinion too (sometimes it helps if the reaching out isn't all one-sided), and do fun things together to get her mind off her problems. Let her know you love her and really care about her, and that she's needed (by friends and family).

If there's an adult you trust, it never hurts to talk to them and get their opinion and advice. It also helps to have someone who's mature and reliable to fall back on, because it's not easy handling confidences like this on your own.

I thought I'd say that telling an adult doesn't always solve everything, though. I've had thoughts about suicide in my early teens, and so have some of my close friends growing up for various reasons, and I guess we got through okay. I don't want to belittle the problem, though: when someone says she wants to kill herself she should always be taken seriously. I guess whatever you do, you'll have to trust your friend: trust her to be strong enough to handle all her issues, and trust her to understand that you really care about her and have her best interests at heart if you decide to tell an adult.

Go with your instincts here: if you feel like she really needs outside help, or even if you're feeling overwhelmed by what she's saying, get help. See if there's an adult you know whom you feel comfortable talking to, and if not, approach a counsellor or a hotline. Ask her if she wants you to go with her when she's talking to an adult, or be around when she decides to call a hotline, like muppets says.

Does your school have guidance counsellors? Mine had, and you could talk to them on your own or go as a group, and everything you said was completely confidential-- as in, they won't tell your parents or any other authority figure, unless they think it's necessary and then only with your consent. Sometimes my best friend and I would go together and talk to them about various things, for example in the same session my friend would talk about her parents getting divorced and I would talk about my self-esteem issues (it's less intimidating when you're with a friend), and the counsellor would give us tangible advice on what to do about it.

What I found always helped me as a teen and even now is: journalling (or blogging, or writing poetry, or writing myself out, because sometimes you have to figure things out for yourself), books I could turn to, music. It might be cheesy but there are some really helpful (true) stories in Chicken Soup for the Teenage Soul for suicide, self-esteem, family and relationship problems etc. It also helps to know that other people have gone through similar situations before, so talking to real-life people who can relate or reading about how others have dealt with it (online, in articles, even in fiction etc.). You might also want to check out organizations like these ones:

To Write Love on her Arms
The Yellow Ribbon Project

I hope that wasn't too confusing. Take care, and my best thoughts are with you and your friend.

my mom doesn't really "spring clean", she cleans regardless of the seasons.

but one of my favourite childhood memories was spring cleaning day at my best friend's house. i remember rummaging through her garage attic, listening to stories about bats and raccoons that sneaked in, setting up the pond in the garden because the geese (which stopped by annually) would be arriving soon. we swept the yard and cleaned the pool. her house is on the edge of the suburban development, almost in a large ravine, and this nearly "countryish" life was all so exciting and novel to me. we found the rope to hang up the tire swing, and felt very proud of ourselves because we threw the loop of the rope onto the tree "all by ourselves" without her dad's help. we finished off the night by sneaking sips of her parents' liquer.

11:35:01 PM Me: hello you!
11:35:11 PM E.: hello to you too!
11:35:17 PM Me: how are you?
11:35:32 PM E.: mmm...let's just say that 22 is my least favorite age so far. how about yourself?
11:36:02 PM Me: oh yes, i have not enjoyed most of this past year.
11:36:33 PM E.: well, you are not alone.
11:37:20 PM E.: on a scale from 1-10 with one being the best and 10 being the worst, this year gets a 6.5.
11:37:51 PM Me: hahaha! now you're making me want to rate all the years of my life.
11:38:34 PM E.: well, you might as well. we love to rate! put numbers to everything. objective > subjective. well, i disagree, but who am i
11:39:25 PM Me: oh, dear. so you're saying that this year is objectively bad?
11:41:18 PM E.: yes, i guess. but anyway, i just hate it because i'm confused. i have not lost any limbs or anything. it just seems a little out of reach. everything's foggy. what's your dilemma?
11:42:05 PM E.: that's why i've been absent a lot
11:42:32 PM Me: i keep wanting to turn time back. but that's not very practical. but see, i'd give last year a 10 out of 10, and this year is... maybe a 5, so ... um, it sucks.
11:43:39 PM E.: i would give my 21st year a 10. and if everything would have gradually become less than stellar, i probably wouldn't have noticed, but since it just seemed to happen overnight, i noticed, and i didn't take it well.
11:43:51 PM Me: yes, exactly.
11:43:57 PM E.: ah, so you understand! aw, miri. not a 5. what are we gonna do?
11:44:18 PM Me: climb back up, i guess.
11:44:25 PM E.: i lost my climbing gear
11:44:29 PM E.: now what do i do
11:44:41 PM Me: grow wings
11:44:56 PM E.: oh boy. looks like i'm going to be down here for awhile.
11:45:08 PM Me: i know, it seems difficult.
11:45:43 PM E.: i lost my confidence. i don't know how. it was just stolen. maybe i should report it missing.
11:46:00 PM Me: me too. maybe we could put out lost and found ads.
11:46:05 PM E.: or turn to self-help books. gah! call be bridget jones.
11:46:09 PM E.: *me
11:46:29 PM E.: that can be your job. you're the artistic one.
11:46:39 PM E.: i'll handle the phone calls and rewards.
11:46:48 PM Me: hey! :p
11:47:18 PM Me: well, i'll draw the ads if you finance the purchase of the self-help books
11:47:28 PM E.: it's under control.
11:47:33 PM Me: sounds like a plan
..

12:00:21 AM Me: and yes, i'm pretty picky. i've turned my nose up at jobs, so i guess i need to buy an elastic band and tie my nose down?
12:00:29 AM E.: i think i became full of myself. just a little. and perhaps for the only time in my life i was ever really confident. so, it was only natural that i was struck back down to my former state.
12:00:44 AM Me: i've been having that theory, too.
12:00:47 AM E.: ah, now that's the spirit! made me laugh, anyway. :)
12:01:44 AM Me: i've been trying to convince myself that it's good for me to feel like crap. well, maybe not good for me, but good for keeping that ego in check.
12:02:03 AM E.: just when you think you've hit bottom, it turns out that there was further to go. that's my personal favorite part of the whole mess. but honestly, i'm ready to turn this beast around. today i feel up to it. tomorrow, i will probably curl up with a blanket and hide from the world. we'll see.
12:02:47 AM E.: yeah, but the ego was kind of fun. and i wasn't really bad....just happy confident. people noticed, you know? now they notice, but they notice its abscence.
12:02:57 AM Me: yeah, i know.
12:03:05 AM Me: i thought people liked me better when i was confident, too.
12:03:11 AM E.: i feel the gossip. except it is quite possible that the majority of it exists in my head
12:03:55 AM Me: which really doesn't help when it's the other way around, cause you have even less confidence when other people go "you've gotten really shy. what happened?"
12:04:19 AM Me: i can't feel gossip, but i get paranoid that there is gossip.
12:04:57 AM E.: well, i think that's what i meant. there isnt anything to even say really. just that i seem...distant. other than that, i'm not very exciting.
12:05:46 AM Me: yes, i feel uninteresting, ignored because i'm uninteresting, and completely unmotivated to change that.
12:06:17 AM E.: i'm probably flattering myself to think it's even worthy of conversation. haha. ah well, might as well go completely mad. ~x(

...

12:38:43 AM Me: i think i'm ready to end our slightly bitter conversation about life. i think i need chocolate (ironically, dark chocolate) and maybe sleep.
12:39:18 AM E.: nice irony. i agree. sleep it is.
12:39:28 AM Me: goodnight!
12:39:38 AM Me: thanks for commiserating. :)
12:39:59 AM E.: oh, anytime
12:39:41 AM E.: sorry i couldn't be of more help, but as you know by now, you feel it, i feel it!
12:40:33 AM Me: yes, it does seem to work that way. something amazing needs to happen to one of us, that's all. ;)
12:40:53 AM E.: ooohhh. good thinking. now that doesn't sound so hard, does it?
12:41:10 AM E.: i think we can manage one miracle.
12:41:16 AM E.: between the two of us.
12:41:19 AM E.: i'll keep you posted
12:41:35 AM Me: yes, that seems much better when you put it that way.
12:41:51 AM Me: well, i'll get started on tracking down that miracle. :)
12:41:53 AM E.: for now, dear friend, it's good night and to hoping that there's a better tomorrow.
12:41:55 AM Me: goodnight!
12:41:58 AM E.: me too!
12:42:00 AM E.: goodnight!

there you go! i'm hunting for a miracle, because they happen to be buy-one-get-one-free. anyone seen any around?

I used to write myself ten-year letters, written on one birthday to be opened a decade later. I got one yesterday, written from myself-at-fourteen-to-myself-at-twenty four. Here is how it begins, no doubt largely derived from the Emily books I borrowed the idea from:

Dear twenty-four,

When you open this letter, will you find a procession of ghosts: puppets of long forgotten or ignored memories? Will I seem like some half-happy phantom of your past, whose yet rosy hopes and ephemeral dreams you would give much to have? Will each and every one of my predictions and queries hurt you? Or are you a humourous, happy, lighthearted lady who will laugh at my childish bitterness? No, you will not. We made a pact of it years ago, didn't we? We promised we would never - well, you would never laugh at me, your little old self. So more likely you will read my letter like one reads a known-by-heart story - the way I re-read my favourite books, for example. You will rest your eyes on every line gravely, slightly curious. Sometimes a chill will pass over your heart at mention of something you have failed to become., or ceased to care about. On the other hand, if perhaps any of our dreams have come to pass, you will be very happy I've noted something about it here, won't you? ...

So there you are! I was quite eloquent at fourteen - sometimes I wonder if I've improved at all in vocabulary or writing style in all these years. I still wax poetic and I still punctuate my sentences with dashes and exclamations. On the other hand, even if I haven't changed in character, I feel miles away from my teenage self: too old and jaded to see the world through rose-tinted lenses, but too loyal to my old ideals to give them up.

lost, not found. aching for a life in another world.

M steps out of the shower.

J (growls): Aghhhhhh

M (gasps and shrieks): ahh!

J, laughing as ever: that was good

M smiles. How'd your shopping go?

J fairly glows as he leans against the counter, buttering a bagel for a midnight snack. I had such a good time. At half past eight the stores were closing, half stayed open until nine, but I couldn't get any shopping done in that half hour.

M looks apprehensive as is her habit. She curls her bare toes under the long edges of her pajamas, in t-shirt and bedclothes she looks dimunitive, she is a child.

So I sat down in a coffee shop, and these random people started talking to me. They were so nice! (here is voice raises in his usual elation.) They took me for a tour of London.

Just random people? M.'s face lights naturally in a smile-in-response.

Yeah, they're students at the university of london, over there. They walked me home.

Their street and the campus they had discovered the other night flashes into her mind vividly, for M. has a photographic memory. But she is imaginaing the scene now - J. in a warm coffee shop, hands over blue Nero cup. Probably poised shyly on a brown faux-leather seat, looking somewhat cold, pitiful, childlike, and interesting in his mixed British features. That attracts the group of British students' attention. She cannot imagine herself ever in the same situation, with the same results. There would be awkwardness, curious glances, indecent attraction. But she asks practically:

"Do you have contacts for these people? Can we hang out with them?" she is good at gleeful excitement, after all she is full of it.

"Yeah! Now I have four British friends" and he numbers them off on his large, capable fingers.

She later learns that they are not at all British, "but Australian, something else, and Irish"...hailing from Glasgow "which is in Scotland." she corrects J. with a smile, as if her geographical superiority gives her a better claim to their friendship! She also learns that they are "really intelligent", historians/economists, artists, and a writer. Already she feels sealed of the tribe, and wishes they would be her friend, and wonders why they weren't her friend first.

They talk too of trivia - these two good friends, of querying Notting Hill where M. states her expectations the romantic gate scene with a touch of girlish contrition in her voice, J. recounts the historians' account of fascist revival in Germany, M. quickly recalls debates on racism and bits of news she has heard but in J.'s manner you hear a note of inadequacy. "I didn't know much of the the topics" he implied, but it didn't bother him.

"People are so friendly here." J. is still fairly basking in happiness, you can tell they are both children by how easily they are made happy and how their happiness lingers. "This is a good city, maybe it's because it rains so much. I love the rain, it brings me luck."

M.'s face darkens again - the rain has not brought her much luck, she has been wet and uncomfortable she says. How the men love rain! But she wonders jealously why her omens are absent - the wonder-world of snow that has always made her believe - strongly, silently, in - she did not know what. She only knew she always felt a certain faith and content under a purple sky - "Above thy deep and dreamless sleep, the silent stars go by."

"But it doesn't top Toronto?" she queries.

They launch into their favourite architectural debate. J.'s large, noisy hands gesture animatedly as he describes the pedestrian landscape and the wonders of each district. M.'s eyes furrow, and she argues "But the scale isn't right for a pedestrian experiences. The streets are too large and wide, the skyscrapers too tall, there are large empty spaces and stretches of uninviting streets between one landmark to another. I never like to walk in Toronto." And she knows it is a sentiment she has felt since her girlhood, since her parents complained of the deceptiveness of seeing something and the time it takes to reach it. Across bitterly cold, wide open plains!

And she avers, "I still think you love Toronto because it's your first city. This doesn't beat New York for me, but I'm sure I'm biased because it was the first place I was by myself. New York was just so much fun..." she trails off in that sweet tone of remembrance.

Then she realizes it is not enough for J., so she tries to find architectural merit as justification. "In cities like New York and London you can just walk on forever, and not notice how far you've gone... there is always something to hold your attention. Whereas Toronto so quickly peters into nothingness... the bit at Union under the tunnel... west queen west at the railway bridge..."

"But they're changing that. Liebskind's building something at Union... they're surrounding the big parking lot at Air Canada center..."

It is not enough for M., but J. is excited by the change - "We'll see it happen. That interests me more than here, where everything is in place..."

M. is not convinced - it took them ten years to build a stunted subway line, she argues, the waterfront will take years before it is realized and create havoc and distress in the meantime. The architect in his eagerness neglects the immediate users in his vision, the children growing up between the scaffolding. The sawdust still thickens the air for them. She had grown up close enough to Toronto to call herself "of" it.

"But that's what's so fascinating about here - reading the palimpsest of history written over one another, how each epoch made breathing room for him(her)self in a rigid structure. Whereas in the 'New World' each man has been alloted his square on the grid."

Finally J. goes to sleep, peaceful and perfectly happy with his day's labours. She has had a day of labours too of the more wearisome sort, making appointments with the social security office, the phone and internet companies and the landlord, because nobody else would take initiative, and she feels indignantly unjustified and unappreciated. She lies awake for a long time with a cold stomach, running over the conversation and the conversation imagined from the conversation in her head. She prays for her own deliverance.