PhD is taking a back seat

I have a lot going on in my head and a lot of ideas for research and projects.  Some of this can and will be fulfilled in some manner through my work, curating exhibitions, or researching things.  A number of them may be better followed through independent research or projects.  These could be independent curatorship, or committing some of my research into book form.  And others, a few others, might be best realised through the dedicated scholarship of doctoral research.  The problem remains, as always, that there is no museums programme offered by a Canadian university.  There are a couple of interdisciplinary programmes into which I might be able to adapt my ideas to fit, but mostly I have to recognise that in order to pursue doctoral research here, I probably have to adapt myself into a history department.  I love history, but I don't think I want to do a standard history degree.  What I'd really like to do is continue along the academic trajectory I began at Leicester, which, realistically, is outside of my financial abilities, at the moment.  This leaves me feeling a bit lost and unfocused.  Yes, a PhD could help focus me.  But I just can't shake the feeling that the real reason Trent rejected me is that they could sense my passion wasn't entirely where it should be.

I've been mulling this over pretty heavily for the last week or two, and here at my mom's for the weekend, recovering after a very busy exhibition installation and Doors Open, I've been thinking about it some more.  Work feels like it's progressing in a positive way.  I feel like I'm on the way up.  I get good press, I am a pretty good ambassador for the Museum, and mostly, people like the shows I put on.  I'm hardly shooting for a promotion, but I really feel that I've developed a sense of my work, the community I represent, and am an excellent advocate for heritage and history.  There's a lot I can accomplish in my current position and I don't think I've dug very deep.  A little more experience doing what I'm doing and perhaps I won't even need a PhD to start teaching.  I keep my eyes open all the time for speaking and teaching opportunities.  I'd like for them to start paying, but I'll take what I can get.  Anyway, I really would like to be able to put Dr. in front of my name, if only so that the option of moving to a larger institution is open to me, but it's not necessary.  I imagine I am not done with the contemplation and I may yet change my mind, but if I put it off for another year, it's not so bad as all that.

Life changing decisions are much easier to make when I'm miserable.  And I am definitely not miserable, which is a good thing to be sure.

In other news, and completely unrelated, here's a thing I photoshopped tonight.  

 

So, all thanks to this Winning at Everything post, I spent an hour of my life doing this, turning a somewhat horrifying picture of Mark Hamill into a somewhat hilarious picture of Mark Hamill as a hipster.  All while I was watching TV with my mom, who was mostly sleeping.  This is the kind of stuff I get up to when I have time to myself: musings on my life and photoshopping crap. 

This, folks, is a life well led.  I have no regrets !

On the passage of time and love

It's midsummer. The crickets have started chirping in the evenings and the nights are perceptibly shorter. When I drive through the country, the farmers are harvesting wheat, cutting their second hay and there is local corn at road-side stands. Where has the summer gone? Where has the time gone? In 25 days, I'll celebrate my 34th birthday. Many of my friends, if not most, are in long-term committed relationships, as am I, and probably half of them have children. I am measuring time in the growth of babies and the long periods between visits. It feels like yesterday that I was preparing to go off to my internship in Winnipeg, but it was six years ago.

Six years ago, Rick and I broke up. He'll be marrying his longtime girlfriend this Hallowe'en. I won't be attending, I guess. He once told me that he thought it would be weird to have an ex at a wedding, even if they got along. I have no reason to expect an invitation, but it makes me a bit sad I won't be invited. Six years ago, I met Gareth. Not long after, I had fallen completely and utterly in love with him. Five years on and he's not talking to me. His new girlfriend, I guess, feels threatened by me, despite an ocean between us. His family have told me that it's not just me, though, it's everyone. Since meeting her and especially since they moved in together in the spring, he's cut everyone out.

I was looking at Gareth's old deviantArt gallery, which he hasn't updated since 2006 when we were headily in love and full of dreams and wishful thinking. He had a passion and a drive then, which he's all but abandoned. What happened to his determination to make films? He's working for an insurance firm. I don't know. I mustn't judge. But it's certainly easier to cut off the people you love than have to examine your life and what they may represent, I guess. It's sad, I think. There was so much going on in his head when I met him, so much creative energy desperate for an outlet. I won't blame it on his girlfriend, it's not her fault. He was losing himself before he met her, but now all of his closest friends and family have lost him. Looking at his old gallery was like looking at the digital traces of a dead person, archived forever on the Internet.

In October, three years will have passed since I met Glenn. Glenn, who I took a chance on, because we both had relationship baggage. I didn't expect to love again after Gareth. I hoped, at best, to fill a void and to find a measure of comfort and satisfaction. We joked about my fear of commitment, yet I suggested we move in, I pushed for it to happen despite a long held fear of co-habitation. I forgive his foibles and love his cat. I push him and take him out of his comfort zones the same way he helps ground me and keep me from floating off. I am extremely lucky to have learned that, indeed, I could love again, and completely. Glenn is a deep, still water, difficult to fathom while apparently simple of need and desire. Nearly three years on and I am still learning new things about him. He isn't always easy to like, because there's a broodiness to him and he encircles himself in walls built of his own melancholy thoughts, but the love, support, humour, kindness and strength he possesses and shares with me makes a more than even trade. He adores me in a gentle way, never overbearing or smothering, just always there. I love him very, very much. I am lucky and I am grateful.

Now, if he'd only just get off the pot.

Life's Complicated

Not that I believe anyone actually reads this blog of mine any more, but in case you swing by in the vain hope of discovering some new content, you can follow me in a couple of different spots. The content is a great deal more shallow, but it's how you can find me. I'm on Twitter now, @mambolica, and I have a Tumblr blog called MiniMeanderings.

As far as my life goes, not a whole lot has changed since my last post, although I'm about 15lbs lighter and a whole lot fitter. I'm still living with G and three cats, still working at the Museum and I'm basically content. I've presented at a couple of conferences and make the press pretty regularly regarding the exhibitions I curate. My ankles are still quite lovely.

Life Decisions and a Very Nice Holiday

If you're a friend on my livejournal, you know the gist of my academic intentions up to this point. If not, well, allow me to summarise.

I had an awesome time in Halifax and fell in love with it. I also had the opportunity to meet with faculty in two departments: Interdisciplinary PhD and History. I hadn't initially planned to visit the History Department, as I had no intention of applying to it. Unfortunately, every part of my visit to the InterDiscPhD co-ordinator made me uncomfortable. Firstly, they have no department headquarters. Dalhousie actually took away their building. They have no office space, which means no space for grad students to work. They don't really assist much in the locating of research or TA jobs. The application process is unfathomably complex and they basically want you to have a fully fleshed out PhD research proposal before you begin. Because of the nature of the programme, it's not unheard of for students with particularly narrow focuses to get stranded upon the retirement/death/transfer of one of their faculty advisors. Plus, the co-ordinator didn't tell me where to meet her, or even remember that I was meeting her. I had to wait half an hour while she was on the phone, after trudging from place to place and asking directions multiple times trying to find where she was located. And then she told me she'd thought she'd cancelled my appointment because she was recovering from being ill. Oh man, every possible negative vibe a person could get, I got. I was happy she was so honest about the programme's shortfalls, but I came away from the meeting wondering if I was cut out for doctoral studies at all. It was really disheartening.

In discussion with Deanna (with whom Glenn and I were staying) and Glenn, I began to rethink just what I was looking for in further education and realised that perhaps it wasn't me who was not cut out for it, but that particular programme that wasn't suitable for me. I decided to contact the Department of History and see whether the PhD co-ordinator could meet with me on such short notice. So, I began my visit with a negative experience at Dalhousie and ended my week with an amazing one. I really liked the history co-ordinator. He was approachable, genial and humourous. He clearly articulated the diversity of the programme and the parameters for getting accepted to it. We talked about my interests and they definitely mesh with the larger interests of the faculty and we both got genuinely excited talking about some of my particular areas of knowledge. While I wouldn't be able to do a project-based thesis, they're very strict on that, there's certainly no reason why I couldn't work with material culture and artefacts during my research. Perhaps the best part of the programme, in my mind, is that there is no coursework. The whole four years is devoted to the research and working toward the thesis. I think that's brilliant. The big catch was that I had to apply to SSHRC for funding before my Dalhousie application could even be considered and the SSHRC deadline was a month later.

I tried very hard to meet the deadline. I even managed to get referees on short notice. What I couldn't get on short notice (and short of cash) were the necessary transcripts from my various schools. Leicester, in particular, required me to send a cheque and then wait for the cheque to clear (up to one month), before transcripts could be mailed. Even had I gotten it together immediately after returning from vacation, I still couldn't have made the deadline. I made the difficult decision to delay my application by a year in order to make sure I could have everything I needed and not be rushed. It gives me an extra year to try to get some conference presentations under my belt and fight for a publication at the museum. I'm short on both and they will look at my academic participation at that level in judging my application, both for SSHRC and for school. In fact, this weekend, I am writing some proposals to upcoming conferences to see if I can get myself out there. Exciting.

Halifax was amazing. We pretty much ate and drank ourselves around the town and surrounding country. We took the train from London to Halifax, which took a day and a half and was totally worth it. Waking up at dawn in Eastern Quebec with the Laurentians crimson with changing colours and eating delicious breakfast in the dining car made the whole trip. It didn't hurt that the guy sitting behind us was a guitar wholesaler, either. Well, that part was good for Glenn, at any rate. I got a bit tired of the steady stream of big-eyed oohing over tobacco-burst Les Paul copies... I don't even know what I just typed there. That was from memory, not true understanding. Anyway, we visited many very old cemeteries and historic sites (Citadel Hill, for instance, Pier 21, etc.) and got to enjoy Annapolis Royal on the 300th anniversary of its founding (even though it was actually about 100 years older than that). We ate traditional foods like Rappie Pie and oatcakes and drank delicious microbrewed beer. Glenn took me for a more-or-less-anniversary dinner at McKelvie's (Delicious Fishes Dishes) where he was utterly revolted by my devouring of a lobster. We visited Peggy's Cove and the Swiss Air 111 memorial. AND, I even got to see the grave of Prime Minister Tupper ! I did a project on him when I was 10. He was one of Canada's shortest serving PMs, but he's a hero in Nova Scotia. I have a bizillion beautiful photos, which perhaps I'll manage to upload somewhere at some point. Mainly, life's been very hectic since August and I never have the time. Anyway, our holiday was amazing and the weather was gorgeous.

So that's a brief update on life.

Okay, here's one photo - Tupper's grave !



Is that a patriotic flag flying or what? Timing is everything.

Those Pesky Life Decisions (part two)

My summer was great, how was yours?

In all seriousness, my summer was pretty fantastic. Although we didn’t go to England and I didn’t get to attend my graduation at Leicester, we did go to my cottage. My mother bought the place 42 years ago and we have steadily used it ever since. Glenn likes it there and, of course, I adore it. We packed up the cats and hit the road for Quebec, spending almost two weeks in the forest by a lake. It was the first time in a long while that I was not actively working on a project while there. Last year, both visits were spent heavily focused on my dissertation (which if I didn’t mention before, received distinction) and the previous year I was definitely doing other school work. This year, while I did do some research for work, it was leisurely and enjoyable and not the sole purpose for my seeking solitude.

There were visits with family and friends, old and new, dandling of babies on my knee, trips home to see Mom, long hacks on the horse and a couple of divine days spent at the beach. Sure, I was busy at work, what with an exhibition looming in September, and my stress level was rising, but I was able to mostly burn it off in positive activities such as rec-league softball and multiple birthday celebrations.

And then it was over.

Quite suddenly, it seemed, summer was over, the days were growing shorter and my deadlines were rushing at me and piling up at my feet. These responsibilities, mainly of a professional nature, left me with little time to work on the PhD applications I was planning on getting underway. As of today, I have managed only to secure one referral confirmation and have emailed one of the universities I will be applying to in order to set up a visit or interview with the department. That would be Dalhousie University, located in Halifax, Nova Scotia, for those following at home. Dal is a very good school and it offers a unique interdisciplinary PhD programme that would, I think, suit my purposes very well. As it happens, Glenn and I are going to Halifax in eight-days’ time to visit a friend and I am hoping to check out the campus and meet with the programme co-ordinator. Glenn adores Halifax. It’s his favourite city. Excluding an unscheduled stop-over on a flight to Holland some twenty-six years ago, I have no experience with it, but I’ve heard really wonderful things.

The other school to which I am assuredly applying is Queen’s University in Kingston, ON. They have a PhD in Cultural Studies that is interdisciplinary in its very nature and apparently similarly structured (or could be) to the programme at Dalhousie. The added feature of going to Queen’s is that I could possibly mesh my studies with the conservation/museum studies programme there, and potentially develop projects in conjunction with their incredible costume collection or the Agnes Etherington Art Centre. This is a stronger point in its favour than working with the costume history programme at Dalhousie. Anything that actively connects social history and material culture with museums is favourable.

To this date, I have not yet done anything about my application to Queen’s, but I will probably sort that out before we leave on vacation. Queen’s requires a letter of intent before you apply, which kind of frightens me. Queen’s has very high standards, and even though I am a professional museum curator and received my MA with Merit from one of the UK’s top-five rated universities (several years in a row), I still think of myself as a lazy underachiever. It’s safe to say that although I have periods of weak work-ethic, I am far from an underachiever and, indeed, take great pride in my work. Still, a PhD is a big deal and I can’t help thinking that because my MA was done by distance (which in my belief is actually harder than doing it on campus) it will seem somehow lesser of a degree. That’s right, I haven’t even sent them my letter of intent and I’m fretting already.

Even though the admissions office stresses that you do not need to submit a research proposal and that you merely need to state the area in which you plan on researching, I feel I’m at a great disadvantage because I do not know what I want to study, except the vagaries of wearable material culture from within a Canadian context, and the challenge of creating a balanced, representative collection. Or, sometimes I still think about returning to the work I was doing with Native beadwork in the Yukon (which could form part of this, I suppose), or perhaps the interplay of cultural strata and questions of form versus function in early Canada.

And then, when it all becomes so frightening that I find myself balking, I think about staying where I am and writing books about the museum collection here. Except there isn’t any money in the budget for it, so the chances of getting a publication of note under my belt while working for this institution are pretty unlikely. At that point in the thought process, I mostly just want to go home and curl up with my cats and a video game and switch off my brain all together.

Coming up in what will surely be part three of my Pesky Life Decision posts, I’ll talk about the application process as I’m slogging through it.

Those Pesky Life Decisions (part one?)

Okay, I admit it, I’ve been thinking a bit about marriage, weddings and babies. I’m rapidly closing in on 33 and I am, for the first time ever, living with my boyfriend. We’re also raising three lovely cats together.

In the last ten years, I’ve learned what it is to experience loving relationships, fall madly and incontrovertibly in love, have my heart broken, and to recover from the agony of heartbreak. I’ve watched the majority of my friends go through engagements, weddings, have children (not necessarily in that order) and, in a couple of instances, go through devastating break-ups and divorces. I’ve been a bridesmaid thrice, maid-of-honour once and once an usher. I’ve worn awful dresses and fantastic dresses. I have done the bridal make-up for friends, their wedding invitations, and taken countless photographs. I have spent money I did not have, and have had others make up the difference when I absolutely could not spend any more money. I have attended stag-and-does, jack-and-jills, a wedding social in Winnipeg, showers, bachelorettes, and engagement parties. I have made ribbon-hats at showers, made nice with judgemental old women and volunteered to help tear-down reception set-ups when the people who were meant to do it simply effed off after the dancing was done. I have attended big weddings, small weddings, lake-side weddings, masquerade weddings, weddings hosted in the parents’ home, church and synagogue weddings and weddings in parks. I have done the Chicken Dance until I could not breathe and steadfastly refused to ever “do the Macarena.”

I’ve thought a lot about weddings, although usually not my own. I have been that girl who stepped sideways in order to avoid catching the bouquet. Even when I was in long-term relationships, marriage was a level of commitment that I never wanted to think about. When Rick gave me a diamond solitaire for our one-year anniversary, I had to stop wearing it on my finger because people kept asking if I were engaged. I put it on my necklace with my unicorn and Star of David charms, which was about as meaningful a place as I could think to put it, and where it could never be confused for an engagement ring. I loved Rick, but never wanted to marry him. Heck, I didn’t even want to live with him. I knew I wasn’t ready to share my life and space in that way, as much as I knew six months into my relationship with Glenn that I did. And I thought all that time that maybe I just had a problem with commitment. No, not true. Had it been possible, I’d have shared everything with Gareth, but with Glenn, something was different. There was a calculated, thinking process behind my increasing level of trust and commitment. He’s good for me and I’m good for him. We get on well. We love each other. We are doing a good job parenting our cats. There is a future there not complicated by distance or fear or whatever else gets in the way of two people being together. Really together.

Friends are irritated when I shrug off their questions about marriage. “Do you think you’ll get married?” “Are you gonna marry him?” I roll my eyes when they make not-so-innocent comments about how cute our kids would be. Ya, they’d probably be adorable, but nerdy and have terrible vision. And I know we’d probably make pretty great parents. Glenn wants kids. He wants to be a stay-at-home dad. I want to be the career-oriented mom, so that’s just about perfect. Glenn’s going to have to learn how to make more than pasta and scrambled eggs, though. The truth is I’m not being coy. I’m not that girl who’s had every detail of her imaginary wedding planned since she was twelve. At twelve, I thought anyone who married before the age of 28 was doing it much too young, never mind babies. I assumed I’d get married and have at least one kid, but I expected to end up a single parent. My mother was (and still is) an incredible roll-model for me and she did an amazing job raising me on her own. I think 75% of kids in two-parent families would be lucky to have half the love and support that I did. Truly, her parenting has been a gift. If I could be half the parent she is, I believe my child(ren) would turn out great. But that doesn’t mean I’m planning on being a parent this instant. Please, I hold my breath before my period starts every month. I read The Saddle Club as a girl, not The Babysitters Club. I’m still that girl, despite my womanly curves and increasingly loud biological clock.

My ambivalence toward marriage has many roots. Sadly, one lesson I learned quite early in life is that even when two people love each other utterly, things can still not work out. Addiction destroyed my parents’ marriage and all the love in the world couldn’t save it, not when one person (my papa) didn’t want to give up his other great love: heroin. I understand that even when everything is perfect, things can still go horribly wrong. Maybe being the child of a single mother in a neighbourhood made of nuclear families made me more sensitive to the fact that these textbook terrific marriages were anything but. Too many of my friends grew up and realised in their teens and twenties that their parents had nothing holding them together but their parenting responsibilities and worse yet, had long ago stopped respecting each other. Marriage is supposed to be “until death do us part”, right? Is that what keeps people together when the can barely face each other at the breakfast table? I don’t want that. I have a very pragmatic approach to marriage: it’s a legal bond that should be the firm foundation on which to build a family. I’m a hair away from not believing it’s necessary at all. I have plenty of friends who have never married their obvious life-partner, and are often doing a great job raising kids. Marriage isn’t necessary. And then, at the same time, I’m still a bit of a traditionalist and a romantic at heart (although I often keep the latter well hidden) who thinks that if you are committed enough to have children together, you should get married and make it “official”, even if it’s at City Hall or an elopement in Turkestan.

And yet, here I am, thinking about all this big stuff. I have managed to come up with a list of things I would certainly not want if I get married. I wouldn’t want a big wedding. I wouldn’t want it to be expensive. I don’t want gifts, just the money thanks. I don’t think a sit-down meal is necessary. Honestly, I don’t even think a wedding is necessary. I do love a good party, though. And I’d want my favourite people to be present. If I were to walk down the aisle, I’d only have one maid-of-honour and she could pick her own damn dress. I want some very basic elements of a Jewish wedding. I don’t need a Chuppah, but I want the circling. I need a glass to be broken. I want my mom to yell “Mazel Tov !” and clutch her hands together in joy. I want to go away somewhere, but I’d want to go somewhere that counts, and the expense that can be saved by not having a big (or any) wedding could be spent on honeymooning. Tuscany. Japan. Dinosaur Provincial Park. Scotland or Iceland, or some place remote and windswept. My needs are pretty simple, even if I’m not particularly sure of what I want. See? I’ve been thinking about this. I’ve been thinking about it in the same non-specific way I’ve been contemplating my PhD. I want it, I just haven’t quite figured out what my research direction will be.

Next entry? Maybe I’ll talk about that PhD.

An extract from my thinking

The following was written during the lunch hour while I was at a time-management course at Fanshawe College. I know there is much I should be writing about, but I just don't seem to have the energy any more. Anyway, read on:

I found myself sitting at my desk in my one-day time-management class, enjoying my lunch and playing Spider solitaire on my computer with, as usual (perhaps the reason I'm in the class?), a wandering mind. Suddenly, I found myself thinking about a Christmas long ago, in my childhood in the house I grew up in on Avenue Road. In this recollection, I am sitting at the dining room table, feet curled from the inside out around the front legs of the dining room chair that marked -my- place at the table. I am colouring. It is the afternoon, probably around lunch time and it is either a weekend or a holiday, because I'm not at school, but I'm not sick. It's quiet in the house. We were the first house on the block to install sliding doors out into the back and ours were the kind that have panes, so they looked like French doors, rather than a standard plate glass patio door. I used to like how the light came in and used to try to take artful photographs of the outside through the panes, maybe with a plant in front, but it never really worked. There were light, filmy transluscent drapes that hung on either side of the doors, in front of the pair of covered radiators on which the cats used to sleep. It was a really beautiful room and I spent a lot of time at the table, not just eating - we used to try to have most of our meals at the table back then - but doing homework, doing art, working on projects, practicing the various instruments I was learning to play. There was a certain way that the chairs scuffed the hardwood floors, snagging in the cracks and making the chairs creak dangerously. The chairs had a habit of collapsing for no apparent reason and you never knew when it would happen. Sometimes only the slats would fall out like a folding fan opening, the way they did that time when Tracy was over, on rare occasions the wrong twist on a chair leg could cause the whole thing to hit the ground, legs akimbo, but chair back still rigidly upright. The table creaked, too; it still does, as do the chairs for that matter, but they don't collapse any more. The table would click and creak with a staccato rhythm when I coloured, my hand working back and forth over the sheet, marker or crayon leaving behind streaks and stripes of colour. The marker, in this case, made soft shushing sounds as I worked. I am, in this recollection, colouring transluscent paper Christmas ornaments of the sort meant to look like stained glass. It's a lovely colouring book sent to me, I think, by my Tantes - my Dutch great-aunts.

Abandoned Ontario Farmstead

Back in July, Glenn and I were out sightseeing around the central Ontario countryside. We found this abandoned farmstead and I had to stop the car. It was a bizarre timecapsule. The last piece of habitation evidence dated from 1991. Clearly it's been used to store stuff and there was evidence that feral cats were fed on the property at some point, otherwise it's pretty much been left as it was.

The area in which this farmstead is situated is pretty marginal farmland. The soil is thin, the ground is extremely rocky and the region is prone to flooding and deep puddles. Imagine being the settler granted this 100 acre parcel, opening it up, clearing out the trees and rocks (as much as possible) and then still not being able to make a truly viable go of it. In later years, many of these farms have become pasture for cattle and sheep, but the majority of them have been abandoned or allowed to fallow indefinitely. It's much better cottage country than it is farmland.

I didn't venture into the cellar because I didn't have a flashlight, and halfway up the stairs to the second level my eyes started to water because of the smell of guano. I decided I could live without a bird/bat poop party or asthma attack.

The Sprunging of Spring

It's spring. The world in London, ON is coming to life. Were I in Whitehorse, I'd still have another month to wait before the furry crocuses opened. I admit it, I prefer my spring to come in April. The days are lengthening, there's more sunshine (although a fair bit of wind and rain, yet) and generally, I'm in a better humour.

My flowerpots, sitting neglected on the veranda, still harbouring the skeletal remains of last year's plants, are whispering my name every time I pass them. I will shortly make a pilgrimage to Canadian Tire for potting soil. It's time to rake up the detritus of winter and turn the soil for planting. As I currently have no intention of leaving this apartment, I presume I will return to my role of 'gardener'. Such a grand old house deserves a pretty garden.

Last year taught me a few things about what grows best, so I shall opt for more geraniums, nicotiana, and perhaps regionally appropriate flowers. I won't waste money on impatiens; the western exposure dries them out and I can't be out every afternoon watering them with individual attention. I will look for hardy plants that can handle competition from shrubs and day lilies, but still offer up bright blossoms. Maybe I'll do a drawing and make a bit of a garden plan.

I love the anticipation of what might come.

A new look. Again. And other stuff

You know what? Let's just talk about the "other stuff". Which other stuff? Let's talk about Glenn.

Glenn is my boyfriend. He's a kind, giving man, funny, articulate, and damn smart and he lives with a quacky cat. He plays guitar and sings, impersonates voices and works as a retail manager. Sometimes he worries too much.

I met him in the fall, October, to be exact, on plentyoffish.com right about the time when I'd decided to give it up. I'd met and dated a few nice (and not so nice) guys and the novelty had worn off. I was taking what was essentially one last survey of what was out there when I came across a profile with a goofy, but not unattractive guy staring out, accompanied by what was probably the most open and honest bio I'd seen. So I sent him a message.

We had our first date at the Alex P. Keaton, my favourite (lately closed) pub in London. By the time I'd finished my first pint, I'd informed him that the photos on his profile didn't do him justice, because he was "kind of hot." I still maintain this. By two pints and a bit, my inner monologue had leaked out and I stated quite bluntly, "You know, I'd totally shag you silly." He seemed taken aback, but not displeased.

Many doubts about my feelings for Gareth made me freak out a bit in the beginning, and I'd be lying if I said they didn't sometimes catch me off-guard now, because they do. But I like Glenn. A lot. And since New Years or so we've been exclusive. I don't know where this relationship will go, or how long it will last, but it's good and healthy and I care for him a great deal. So that's the story about Glenn.

Or at least part of it. I could talk more, but I don't know if I feel comfortable doing so in this forum. Funny, eh?

Insight

Thanks to a discussion I had with an artist on dA, I offer you my insight for the day. Or week. Or however long it takes for me to come up with another vaguely insightful journal entry.

I had an illustration teacher in high school who was often quite sage, despite continuing to wear the same polyester pantsuits he'd been wearing since 1973. He particularly liked me, maybe because I could see beyond lavender and plaid, and he let me sit in with him when he graded students' work (mine included). "I give ---- a good grade because he's clearly done good work; the composition is good, the flow is dynamic. But he's in a rut. It's the same exact thing, with different characters, every time. He shows no growth. Artists have to grow. Their work has to develop. Even Disney wants a well-rounded portfolio from their artists, more than big eyes and Barbie waists, even if that's all they'll end up drawing..."

A movie review of Slumdog Millionaire

Slumdog Millionaire is not City of God, so if you didn't like the latter, you might still like the former. I loved the latter, by the way. As far as I know, Slumdog Millionaire is not based on a true story, although there is arguably a lot of truth in it, but instead based on the prize winning novel Q & A.

The film uses a creative and non-linear approach to telling the protagonist's story, which I won't go into, through flash-back and recollections juxtaposed with the present. I often dislike the flashback approach, but this works, telling many stories that build the whole. The cinematography is outstanding. Often quick and jarring, it's never nauseating, pretentious or overdone (by which I mean there's none of that spinning, shaking or ridiculous crane shots). The editing does what it's supposed to do, enhance the telling of the story, and at no time is the story subsumed by look-at-me-aren't-I-clever shots or unnecesary artistry. It feels very honest, all the way through, which is important because one of the film's themes is honesty.

The acting is good. I won't say that it's great, because it's not, but it is better than adequate and, in the case of the children, who were/are slum-dwellers in real life, utterly delightful and humourous as only kids can be. The lead, Dev Patel, is very good. At first I wasn't sure of him, but he totally folded me into the story. He's not ridiculously handsome - he's believably cute in a real-person kind of way. He's a little bit goofy looking. The female lead, Freida Pinto, had apparently never acted before, although she's an Indian fashion model. She's not bad. She fulfills the need of being beautiful while not taking away from the film. Once again, I want to stress that the kids are fantastic. The Brits are amazing at finding the perfect, real, natural children to play in film and they did a great job with this one, too.

Slumdog Millionaire is really good. You should go see it. It makes a perfect date movie, being equal parts action, drama, comedy and love story. I have no idea if it deserved the Oscars it won - I didn't see any of the other nominated films - but it was an excellent film and undeniably deserves praise.

Not so festive spirit

This time last year, I was struggling with spending my first 'stmas away from home, up in the Yukon. It was a nice enough time with friends up there, but I desperately missed being surrounded by old friends and family. As you can imagine, I was quite excited for this year's holidays because I'd be home again. Unfortunately, my delight has been tempered by a schedule too busy for card-making and most recently, sad news.

Two close friends of the family are in hospital. One is in varying health, up one day, down the next. She might be dying. It's unclear. The other is my mother's best friend, Julie, who has always been like a close aunt to me. She was just admitted to hospital with kidney stones for which they may have to operate. This is the same Julie who had the massive stroke a few years back. Julie's latest health concern was almost too much for my mother to process as only two days before, we'd heard from another close friend's husband...

Saturday morning, we lost a close friend to what was apparently cardiac arrest. While none of us were surprised by her death - alcoholism had been taking its toll for some time - the timing and how quickly it happened were pretty shocking. We have been estranged from this friend and her husband for a couple of years now as the drinking was almost intollerable. In recent months, there had even been discussion among other mutual friends about an intervention. For almost a decade, my family, another family and this couple had done Christmas dinner together. She was welcoming to my mother when my mom first moved to Peterborough and helped my mother when she had her stroke. It's been a tragic decline watching as the booze changed her. An autopsy is being conducted on her and I won't be at all shocked if it comes back that she had more than just alcohol in her system. You don't drink the way she did if you're happy with your life. What a terrible waste of an intelligent, funny woman.

I pray that our hospitalised friends regain their health and return to their normal lives for the new year. It might be selfish, but I admit I don't know if I can handle more than one funeral over the holidays.

Other than that, I'll be spending my time with my mother and with close friends. My cats are already in Peterborough visiting their 'cousin' Willy. Apparently, they're getting along all right. I plan on writing my final paper of the taught portion of my degree, which is due the 7th of January, as well as putting together a workplan for the upcoming exhibits at ML. I should probably write my draft for the exhibition, too. So, I'll be busy, but at least I'll be able to sleep in.

I sincerely hope your holiday is full of love and good health. Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, etc.

Lest We Forget

My mother was born in Holland just weeks before the outbreak of war in 1940. As a child she spoke both English and Dutch. Her father, Jan, her aunt, Ina, her uncle, Gert, and the family doctor, Dr. De Groot, were all involved in the Resistance. Prior to that, her father was rode out to meet the German Army as a member of the mounted infantry and witnessed first hand (and with much disgust) as the Dutch cannons were quickly overpowered by German tanks.

I am, of course, half Jewish, thanks to my father. His family was in the USA already when war broke out and none of his immediate family was on active duty. But they had immigrated only a generation before from all the places under siege, and though I never had the chance to speak about the war with any of them, I am sure friends and family left behind suffered and died in battle and as victims of the Holocaust.

The summer of 1995, 50 years after liberation, my mother and I travelled to Holland to visit family. That summer was a drought and it was hot and dry and everywhere the normally verdant gardens and meadows were scorched and brown. On one day, we went with my mother's uncle to a small war cemetery not far from our family's home and abutting the German border. It's in one of the few hilly places in Holland. I had never visited a war grave before and although it was small, perhaps no more than 1000 graves, it was no less affecting. White headstones stretching out in carefully tended plots, cared for by school children, bearing crosses and stars of David and other symbols of faith. Most of the buried were Canadian soldiers. And there, just over the next hill, was Germany. It was deeply affecting and I carry still the memory of my outrage at the loss, the disrespect of human life, the utter insanity of the Nazi cause. Tears of rage coursed my cheeks as I screamed at the rolling hills beyond.

War and armed conflict are abhorant to me. If as much money were poured into diplomacy and peace-activities as is currently spent on war, I have no doubt this world would be a very different, better place. I am non-violent, which is not, by the way, the same as being a pacifist, but believe in standing up for one's beliefs and rights and in defense of that which is held dear. I could not imagine serving in Canada's armed forces, or any armed forces for that matter, although if it were a requirement of active citizenship, I probably would not oppose it. All that aside, regardless of whether or not I agree with the missions, I support the men and women who join and who are willing to fight. And I am grateful to the sacrifices of the past, the tremendous, bloody sacrifices men and women have made in defense of Canada, the world, and humanity.

Lest we forget.

When in Rome, eat your KD with ketchup

I just made (and ate) a pot of Kraft Dinner. As I poured ketchup on it I suddenly remembered a moment from my youth.

It was the summer of 1992, the summer I turned 15, memorable for a number of reasons, not the least an incredibly scary riding accident that could have killed me and for being indirectly struck by lightning. This has nothing to do with either event.

That summer I was lucky enough to attend a session at an incredibly posh riding camp in the Ottawa valley. It was the kind of camp that brought rich kids from around North America (and the Caribbean, if I recall), including diplomats' children, a number of whom brought their own horses for the entire summer. In one way, however, it was just like most camps: food was questionable at best.

Except for their macaroni and cheese. It's damned hard to screw it up, even in bulk. Mac & cheese was a saving grace. We all looked forward to it. I was sitting with other girls my age and two of them were from the USA. One was a strawberry-blonde princess from one of the Carolinas, I think South. The other I want to say came from California, but I don't remember for sure. The rest of the table was made up of Canadians.

As we came back to our table with our heaping helpings, every Canadian kids at the table reached for the ketchup bottle and whether they put it on top and mixed it in, or on the side, each one of us used it. I remember looking up at the two American girls and they both wore expressions of sheer revulsion and horror. The princess might even have moaned in disgust.

"That is absolutely disgusting," said the dark haired Californian girl, who was an incredibly talented rider.

"Oh my gawd," echoed the princess, "I think I'm going to be sick. How can you eat that?!"

The rest of us exchanged glances and most of us said, "What?" in unison.

"Ketchup... on your macaroni and cheese," answered both girls.

Again we exchanged looks. Someone was going to have to defend it. But who? I stepped up. "No, no, try it, it's good."

"No way."

"Here, try a bite of mine," I urged, having fully mixed my ketchup in as I am wont to do. "It really won't kill you, and maybe you'll like it." I gestured to the rest of the table and was encouraged by enthusiastic nodding.

"But it looks so... gross." The princess looked like her resolve was crumbling. She glanced at the Californian who sat with her arms crossed firmly shaking her head.

I pushed my plate toward the princess and smiled, "Look around the room. We're not the freaks here." The princess picked up her fork and held it tentatively over my plate. "Come on, I'm not telling you to jump off a bridge, it's food and it's good."

We watched in silence as she slowly dug in her fork and raised the orange pasta to her lips. The Californian looked appalled. "Go on," I encouraged, "I bet you'll like it."

"Oh my gawd !" she cried, loudly enough to turn heads at other tables. We all watched with wide eyes. "That is SO GOOD !" We all cheered and applauded and the princess reached for the bottle of ketchup.

The Californian was grimacing. "I can't believe you like it. No one does that to their mac and cheese in our country."

I was going to say something, but before I could, the princess turned and spread her hands, "Well duh, we're in Canada now. Gawd."

Prime Minister Harper, you are an Ass

In which Harper demonstrates his lack of understanding of the arts, culture and heritage in Canada, or even what an 'ordinary canadian' is.

Harper talks about ordinary Canadians and how they don't care about the arts. Ordinary Canadians who watch films? Television? Take their kids to dance class and music lessons? Ordinary Canadians who go to the museum, even if it's just once a year? Ordinary Canadians who listen to music?

His comments demonstrate that he does not actually grasp what these cuts are and who they affect. These cuts hit museums, galleries, theatre groups, independent music producers and publishers, as well as the individuals thoughout the arts

The people who attend 'rich galas' are his peers, not mine, not yours. Artists are invited to them so that Harper's peers can feel cultured and special. Any artist who's ever received a grant will tell you that grants do not make artists/writers/musicians/performers/museums/galleries rich, or even, for the most part, financially secure. And the majority never receive grants at all.

Mr. Harper, please stop speaking about things you do not understand.

Names I like/dislike redux

Back in 2002, I made up a list of names I really liked and disliked. One of my co-workers here at the museum is preggers and we were discussing baby names. I dug up my list and sent it to her just for kicks. And it got me thinking. Many of the names I dislike are due to associations with people from my past, but in the last six years, some names have become less heinous thanks to new, positive associations. Still wouldn't give the names to my kids (if I ever have any), though.

Anyway, because I'm enjoying a slightly slow day, here's my new list of names. I'll put a strike-through the names which are no longer on my lists, then I'll add new ones.


Names I liked back in 2002:
Adelaide, Stephen, David, Jude, Claire (hi mom !), Anne, Phalar, Thomas, Jack, Ben, Kieran, Megan (and with an H, but not spelled Meagan), Ian, Catherine, Emma, Aaron, Isaac, Ellen, Justin, Chavah, Olivia, Robert, Jeffrey (and with a G), Julie, Evan, Gregory, Nigel, Johanna, Nathaniel (Nathan), Jasmine, Laurel, Lucifer (shush, it means 'bringer of light'), Michael, Vivian (for either male or female), Claudia, Uriel, Maya (Mom got offended that I hadn't put it on, and yes, I LOVE my name), Ira, Ruth, Judas, Rachel, Matthew, James (not Jim), Solomon, Avrum and Eshe

Names I disliked back in 2002:
Crystal (or with a K), Todd, Ilia, Janet, Jane, Janice (or any other variants), Paula, Dalton, Roy, Gordon, Jake, Lyn (or any variant), Elaine, Courtney, Courtleigh, Caitlin, Jordan (spelling it with a G is fine), Ron, Wendy, Saul, Olive, Larry, Brad, Chad, Chaz (who thought that one up anyway?), Melinda, Alana, Frank, Ursula, Ainsley, Georgina, Harold, Nelly, Roger, Telly, Vince, Bernice, Abner, Mabel, Tammy


Names I can add to my like-list:
Caroline, Maude, Ranier, Evelyn (for a man), Joshua, Ffion, Beverly (male or female), Gareth

And names which go on my dislike-list:
Emily (how did I forget this one before?), Joy, Hilary, Earl

Excellent. Now it is time for lunch. Thank you for allowing me to waste your time.

Oh Internet

The last time I did any serious thinking about my childhood neighbours in Brooklyn and tried to find information on the Internet about them, the resources were a good deal slimmer than they are now.

Anyway, the neighbours in question are the Scopos and the information I refer to is about the death of Joe Sr. I used to play with Joe Jr when I was a little girl. We didn't stay in touch with them when we moved away in the early 80s, but Joe Sr. was killed just days before my nana died and so we were in New York while it was all still being discussed in papers and in passing. Seems my account of how it went was a little off, now that I've found some online resources, including the NYT article, but I was pretty close. There's also a page about the guy who did the hit.

Based on this list, it looks like Joe Jr. is in the Family. Also, apparently he's been indicted in some business. I had kind of hoped that by some miracle he'd have avoided it, but oh well. He had very good table manners as a kid.

Summer School

Leicester Day One

It’s pretty weird sitting in a hotel in Leicester, having just eaten possibly the most delicious lamb korma of my entire life, watching Field of Dreams on TV.

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?”
“I’m going to beat you with this crowbar until you go away.”

For some reason, Field of Dreams has come up several times in the last month when, beforehand, I probably hadn’t thought of it in a few years. It used to be one of my all time favourite films and as I watch it again now, I’m thinking maybe it still is. I’ve already cried twice. Man, that scene when Shoeless Joe first is on the field blows my mind.

Anyway, the weather sucks as does Gatwick Airport. The train was on time and comfy. It seems my ticket was for 1^st class, which was neat. Leg room and tables is nice.

After a short nap, but longer than intended, I called one of the staff in the Museum Studies department to find the pub where some of the students were having an informal meet. I met some of my fellow students and chatted about things.

Now back to Field of Dreams, a beautiful and poignant story about people, dreams, hopes and magic.

Leicester Day 2/3

I am having a marvelous time. It’s a bit weird, being here alone, in an inn, but also quite liberating. I usually stay with people I know when I travel, as I’m graced with friends and acquaintances around the world. I can do what I want and there is no one to judge me but Snuffles, my stuffed bear. And he’s dotty in his old age.

Last night, after a good day of school and excellent lectures, I went with several other students and staff to the pub, the Landsdowne (the same place I went on Sunday night). There was some fine ale imbibed, which on top of a couple of glasses of wine at the quiz/dinner night, left me buzzing merrily. There was chatting and a great deal of flirting, and general merry-making. This after my team won the quiz game, soundly beating the others. What did we win? Bottles of wine ! It’s still sealed, don’t worry.

Today we went into London on our field trip to the V&A. It was stimulating and fun and we got to meet new people as we were split off into groups. We were looking at ideas of Britishness and otherness, etc. Afterward, I went over to the Museum of Natural History, which was fun, and completely different and mindless compared to the working visit to the V&A.

After an Indian* dinner, where we were only marginally under-dressed (and received stern stares from a pearl-and-twin-set-wearing woman) I came ‘home’. I watched a terribly schmaltzy TV movie called The Abduction Club, a frivolous costume drama about love. It had attractive women, more attractive men, horses – what more could I want? It did have one particularly glaring error, however. Based on music and dress styles, it was apparently set in the mid-18^th Century, yet one character stated, and I’m paraphrasing, “Perhaps if there had been more soldiers like Powers, the Americans wouldn’t have won the war.” Oops.

Anyway, it made me lament my situation with Gareth all the more, because I know it’s over for us, no matter how much love we have. Schmaltzy fairy tales are just that.

* I use the term "Indian" loosely. It was Indianish, tasty, but not really great.

Leicester Day 4/5/6

The week has absolutely passed in a blur. It has been an amazing blur of classes, tutorials, workshops, drink, food, laughter and conversation. I have been surrounded by a wide array of intelligent people and from morning until night we have engaged in funny, though-provoking conversations on many subjects. I’ve made friends. I’ve been dancing at the student union pub and club. I’ve been drunk on museums as much as on drink. It has been wonderful. This is what university is supposed to be, I think, the sharing of opinions, debate and banter, research and camaraderie. I don’t know if these friendships will last, but the feelings will and when I feel overwhelmed by the course, stupid, out-of-my-depths, I will remember my time here and recall that I am doing this on my own. I am very sorry it’s over.

Here’s to next year.

PS. You can read more in depth coverage of the week at the Summer School Blog, with many photographs posted by me.

Where have I been?!

Everywhere. For real.

Feel free to catch up on my life at my LJ: http://mambolica.livejournal.com

I would like to come back to this one, though. I miss it.