“Moments of Being”

How do we decide what is a significant moment?

When my boyfriend asks me how my day was I usually answer with a long and detailed run-down of everything I did that day. “I did some writing and then a bunch of reading then I went to the grocery store because we needed spinach but they didn’t have the big packages of spinach so I only got a small one sorry about that I guess I’ll have to go back tomorrow and then on the way home I was listening to this CD that my friend gave me and there’s this great song on it that got me thinking about…” I sometimes feel like I never stop talking. It must be incredibly boring for him but I keep going anyway. It’s a compulsion I have to share everything.

But I don’t actually tell him everything. To recount every single moment of a day would take another whole day. I’m selective about what I share, even if I feel like I’m not. I’m interested in how I choose those moments. What makes one moment significant enough to share and another insignificant enough to completely forget once it’s passed by? I wonder about this with things like Twitter and Facebook Status updates. Why do we share updates on what we’re eating for dinner but not on the day’s other minutiae? Do I choose an update because it’s somehow a significant moment, or because it just happens to be the content of a moment in which I’m trying to kill some time or reconnect with the world?

Virginia Woolf has a theory about “moments of being” – moments when we become completely conscious of our being and of the patterns underlying the everyday. These moments can be marked by traumatic or significant events, or they can be inspired by seemingly insignificant events. The content of the moment isn’t important – it’s the transcendence of that content towards a universal truth that makes it a “moment of being.” It’s an interesting theory but I can’t help but take issue with it’s metaphysicality. Why do we have to rise above  the everyday minutiae to experience a more authentic state of being? Doesn’t the actual content of the moment shape our experience of our real, material, social lives, and thus our being?

Sasquatch

I spent all of last weekend at the Sasquatch Music Festival. It was held at the Gorge Amphitheater in Washington state. Whoever had the brilliant idea to set up an Amphitheater down there deserves a great big gold star. It was so beautiful it almost didn’t look real.

There was so much good music I can’t even begin to describe all of it. I can say that seeing The Cure play a live show was one of the coolest experiences of my life. Robert Smith is looking a little chunky and washed up — almost like a human version of his South Park character rather than the other way around — but he still sounded incredible and they played a very tight set. I wasn’t that excited about seeing R.E.M. initially. I was a big fan when I was in high school but I thought their more recent albums kind of sucked (except the newest one is pretty good). I was caught off guard by how much I enjoyed them though. They totally blew my mind, they were incredible. Modest Mouse started off a little shaky but ended up getting their energy going and doing a great job. M.I.A. rocked so hard I can’t even put words to it. Death Cab For Cutie was even better live than they are in the studio. Flight of the Conchords were hilarious. The New Pornographers were amazing. Everyone was amazing. The funnest set for me was definitely The Hives. Those guys know how to get a crowd going. And my favourite new musical discovery — Ghostland Observatory. I also really enjoyed Beirut and the Cold War Kids, neither of which I knew particularly well before I arrived. We also saw Rich Fulcher in the Comedy Tent. He plays Bob Fossil on The Mighty Boosh, one of mine and my roommate’s favourite shows.

Aside from the music though, I think what made the weekend so wonderful was the people I went with. I feel pretty lucky to have such amazing people in my life. We camped together for three nights and, despite the fact that we were all filthy by the end of it, we had more than enough fun to make it worthwhile.

The craziest thing happened on the second day as we were walking from the campsite to the venue. A big gust of wind came through and turned into a little twister. Then it picked up a tent that wasn’t pegged down and hurled it straight up into the air. Everyone watched in awe as the tent flew through the air, around and around, and eventually landed down in the bottom of the valley. Whoever owns that tent was probably pretty choked when they came back to camp that night to nothing. And the worst part is, they would have had no idea of the adventure their tent went on. They probably thought someone stole it.

Happy Un-Birthday To Me!

Someone reminded me that I posted my first blog entry a year ago today, so I felt compelled to share something about that. I started writing a blog a year ago mainly because I was angry and I wanted a public forum in which to vent. I know, that’s incredibly narcissistic of me, but I’m okay with that. I did have other motives though. For years I’d been feeling as though I’d been so well trained in academic writing that I was unable to write outside of that framework anymore. I wanted an opportunity to just write what I wanted without worrying about the format, or the soundness of my argument, or the completeness of my prose. And I’ve definitely found that in the blog. The best part is, I think it’s actually helped my academic writing. When I sat down to write my first comprehensive exam this past fall I was able to just start riffing as soon as the exam began, whereas before I would have stared at the blank screen for ages just waiting for the perfect sentence with which to start.

So to celebrate my “liberation” into non-academic writing, I’m going to do something I rarely do, and that is to share some of my creative writing. A few years ago, I went on a road trip around the UK with a few girlfriends. We were all studying for our Master’s at the University of Edinburgh and we were going to the Guardian Hay Festival in Hay-on-Wye, Wales. The Hay Festival is one of the premiere literary festivals in Europe and attending it was an incredible experience. But the act of actually getting there, and the combination of all the things we saw along the way, was possibly an even better experience. You can probably imagine — seven days in a van with five girls makes for some interesting stories, to say the least. Anyway, when we got back I wrote a poem for them, mainly composed of images from our trip. I had never shared it with anyone outside of that group, partly because I figured it was so esoteric that no one else would appreciate it. But I recently showed it to a friend and she really liked it, so now I’ll share it with all of you.

HAY-ON-WYE

‘Going on a pilgrimage and I’m going to bring…’
Just this one thing, I promise

‘follow the bridge’ they say
but the bridge is not there

do the tracks even reach this far afield?

instead there rests a stone cottage -
home to aging philosophers and musical children
warming their rain-soaked feet by the fire
warming their mist-laden hearts with tea -
frozen in time

dusty books on dusty shelves, treasures waiting to be found

The Old Sage strokes his beard as he listens to us talk
then ties it in a bow above his head
‘interesting…’

His words almost as wise as yours when you said
‘all roads don’t lead to Rome after all; all roads lead Here’

and a memory is rendered -
not a photograph or a souvenir spoon
but a moment grafted onto our secret selves

Two Times A Lady

Last night over dinner, I asked my un-boyfriend* if it bothers him when I get all dressed up to go out.

What I had in mind was how angry previous boyfriends used to get with me because I would put on makeup and dress up when I went out with other people, whereas when hanging out with them I would likely just wear my sweatpants, a t-shirt, my bedhead, and my natural face. I often heard comments like “who else are you trying to impress?” or “don’t you care what I think of you?” or “you should wear makeup around me most of all — you look better with it on and who knows how long I’ll stick around.” Assholes.

The response I got this time was unexpected. He started with, “well, it is a bit strange for me because, ummm….” During the pause I pre-emptively thought to myself, “oh great, I thought this guy was different but I guess he’s not.” Then he surprised me by saying, “sometimes when you get all done up to go out, you look so… so… womanly.”

Womanly?

I guess when I asked him the question in the first place, I wasn’t thinking about the fact that he’s 20 years old. It’s funny how different our perspectives are on each other sometimes. And that reminded me that you really never know what’s going on with someone till you ask.

It also reminded me of the first time I truly realized that I was an adult. It was only maybe 2 years ago. I don’t remember where I was but I was walking out of a doorway. There was a woman with her young son on their way in and the kid tried to squeeze past me rather than waiting until I was through. His mother stopped him and said “wait, let this lady pass through first.” I thought to myself, “lady, what lady?” I was so used to hearing myself referred to as a “girl” that hearing “lady” suddenly jolted me right out of my teens and into my late twenties, where I had been the whole time but had failed to realize. It’s funny how the littlest things can completely change the way you see yourself.

—

*NB. “un-boyfriend” refers to the guy I’m dating who I don’t actually consider my boyfriend. Crazy, I know. But that’s just how I roll.

And yes, I’m a cougar, I know.

At the risk of writing something really trite…

I’ve been thinking a lot lately about that all-consuming human concern, love. That’s right, I’ve been thinking about love. What does it mean? How does it work? How do you really know when you’re in love?

I’ve been in love several times and sometimes I feel like I fall in love far too easily and far too frequently — which always makes me question whether or not it’s the real deal. At times I’ve thought that love is not so much an emotion but something you do. But it seems to me now that there is a definite feeling that goes along with it too. People describe it sometimes as butterflies in your stomach, or excitement about being with someone, or the will to do anything for someone. I was watching the TV show Flight of the Conchords the other night and one of the characters had written a love song for his girlfriend. He was singing about climbing the highest mountain, walking across the globe, and various other hyperbolized clichés that you hear in love songs. His friend then asked him if those were things he would actually do, and when he replied that he wouldn’t his friend suggested that he might be better off not lying to her. So he re-wrote the song and called it “If You’re Into It.” It went something like this:

If you want me to, I can hang around with you
If I only knew that’s what you’re into

…

And if you want me to, I will take off all my clothes for you
I’ll take off all my clothes for you, if that’s what you’re into

…

If it’s cool with you, I’ll get you naked too
It could be a dream come true, providing that’s what you’re into

From there the song gets a little dirtier, but I won’t reprint the rest, despite how funny it was. Point being, I found it very charming. It was so simple and honest in expressing the desire to just be with someone. It got me thinking about what it’s like too be close to someone you’re into. I sometimes get this feeling when I’m hugging someone I’m with that my heart is literally opening up to them and pulling them in — and not metaphorically, but viscerally. My chest gets all warm and I get this feeling like I just can’t contain all the wonder inside. And I wonder, is that feeling “love”? It certainly feels like it, but I would hate to put it to words and then discover that I was wrong.

The Random Unfolding of Events

One of my favourite things about life is the randomness of it all. I’m not much of a planner when it comes to day-to-day events so I find I end up in unexpected places and situations frequently. I’m also meeting new people all the time. It really is fantastic to be constantly surprised and entertained. I couldn’t plan my life any better.

So here is a collection of the best random moments and people that found their way into my life over the past few weeks.

I danced at the bar with someone dressed as a giant fuzzy antelope and I have no idea who it was.

I found myself drinking wine with two friends in the middle of a Sunday afternoon, making plans to leave everything behind and run away to Sweden. Why Sweden? I have no idea. But we did end up with the quote of the year: “Shit just got desperate. We have to roll out tonight.”

In Victoria’s only country bar, someone we didn’t know sat down at our table and started doing mind-boggling card tricks for us.

I made a friend who sings backup vocals for an Elvis impersonator.

A Vancouver cab driver, in reference to strip clubs, said to us “If I have to shake my ass like a monkey to raise my kids then that’s what I’ll do.”

Two of the best fortune cookies I’ve ever had: “When time permits your personal life will be exciting” and “Back away from impulsive people.” Almost ironic.

One Down

I found out today that I passed my first candidacy exam. Relief and elation!

“To Russia, Asses and Others”

This Marc Chagall painting is called “To Russia, Asses and Others.” Chagall was a Russian-Jewish painter in the early 20th century who spent much of his artistic life moving back and forth between Russia and France. He spent time with the Cubists and is often categorized a Surrealist.

When I first travelled around Europe in 2001, I saw this painting at the Centre Pompidou modern art gallery in Paris. The gallery was full of interesting work, including a significant number of Jackson Pollocks, some Andy Warhol, and plenty of Surrealist work. But of all the paintings I saw, this is the one that caught my eye. I couldn’t pinpoint what it was exactly but I just found it so compelling. I sat down on a bench in front of it in the hallway and stared at it for over half an hour. It has been seared into my brain ever since.

Since I returned from that trip, this painting has been the desktop background on my computer. For 6 years, I haven’t changed it. I look at it every single day and I feel like it is so much a part of my everyday life that I would feel empty without it. People always see it and ask what it is. Usually they cock their heads to the side and say “hm,” and that’s it. Or occasionally they say something like “wow, that’s fucked right up, why do you have it up there?” To which I never have an answer. I’ve thought long and hard but I still can’t tell you exactly what is so compelling to me about it. I know the contrast in the colours, especially in the sky, give it an air of deep foreboding mixed with a sort of fantastic or carnivalistic mystery. The floating head is the part that I look at the most and I’m not sure what that’s about. Perhaps I identify with her. She looks so lost and so free all at once. And the blue dome of the church places it for me in a historical moment that I will never have access to but seems so fascinating. But none of these things really explain what it is that makes this painting my favourite piece.

When I was back in Paris this summer I returned to the gallery to visit it. Again, I sat on the bench in the hallway and stared at it for a long time. Then I walked right up to it and scrutinized every brush stroke as if imagining Chagall crafting it before my eyes. It is so familiar to me now, yet still so new. I suppose that’s what makes modern art modern — it is always avant-garde, even long after its time.

Ziggy Played Guitar

Once upon a time I took a course in the History of Rock ‘n Roll. It was fantastic. I learned so much and I enjoyed myself immensely, and I even got credit for it! The only downside was the very annoying girl in the class who spent all semester trying to bond with me over rock music even though I couldn’t stand her. That doesn’t sound very nice, I know, but she really drove me bananas. She was a friend of my sister’s though so I had to play nice with her.

One day near the end of term she called me up and asked if I would comment on her final paper. She had written on David Bowie — who she didn’t actually listen to but my sister and I were big Bowie fans so she had been trying to get in on that. So we put her on speakerphone and my sister and I sat and listened to her opening paragraph. Turns out she had written an entire paper about the excesses of glam rock and how David Bowie and Ziggy Stardust had been competing with each other to produce bigger and better stage shows. I only wish I could have seen her face when my sister said, “honey, David Bowie is Ziggy Stardust.”

I was out for breakfast with a friend yesterday who had heard that story before. When we walked up to the counter to pay our bill we saw hanging there a giant black and white photograph of Bowie from the Ziggy Stardust days. I got into a conversation about my Bowie love with the server for a few minutes until my friend chimed in with “I hear Bowie was a huge influence on Ziggy Stardust.” I love reliving those moments.

A Perfect Victoria Day

Today is one of my favourite kinds of day. The morning was a misty grey one, where it’s almost raining and everything feels peacefully quiet. And the afternoon is seeing the sunshine come out. Not enough to make me want to put down my book and get out from underneath this wool blanket, but just enough to stave off the depression that sometimes comes from too many rainy days in a row. I hope I always live in a climate like this. I could do without the spiders, but it’s otherwise the best of all worlds. There’s nothing like sitting through a West Coast morning with a cup of coffee and CBC radio to keep you warm.