Cameron

(no subject)

Remember the good old days when J-rock was still cool? Well, I guess it still is, but it's cool amongst a less desirable group, tainted by my not being in said group. For God knows what reason, I was curious as to what Hyde was up to these days. Thus, I did what anybody in my situation would do: I Wiki'd it. Apparently, he's doing a lot of solo shit with a back-up band called VAMPS. They have a video on Youtube, and it's piss bad. Well, with the exception of Hyde looking damned sexy in the beginning. So, seeing if he had anything good and new out was a failed experiment, but it led me back to his old L'arc~en~Ciel stuff. At least that was still good. Actually, that's an understatement; they fucking rape. Well, that's a hyperbole. I guess those two statements cancel out, then. Take the average of "pretty good" and "fucking rape," and you'll get the general idea. I can still see why I loved them so much, and for a while, I loved them again. But still, it wasn't the same; my love was only a weak reflection of what it once was. It happens to everything, really. You obsess and move on; tree-climbing, Jolly Ranchers, Runescape - you swear to yourself there are things that you'll never give up, that'll accompany you to the grave, but next thing you know, you're reminiscing about them. Years later, you wonder to yourself, did I really like Pokemon that much? I guess loving something forever is just asking too much of yourself.

Speaking of "fucking rape" and childhood memories-- huh. I should rephrase that. Oh well. Anyway, speaking of those two things, I don't feel as intensely as I did when I was little. I remember Exciting Event Eves, where I'd stay up half the night... being excited. A birthday party would come up, and I'd struggle with myself, force myself not to think about it so I could rest. I never won. Obsession has also changed. Before, it was more like total immersion into a different world. I would dedicate myself to searching for details about Card Captor Sakura's every costume. I was a slave of trivial information about trivial things. My Harry Potter phase could only be classified as dangerous, as I would be in physical pain after I finished a newly released book. Thankfully, it was slightly dulled by the Vicodin of my youth -- fanfiction. I still say that I'm obsessed with something when I like it a lot, but it's really not on the same level of intensity. I haven't religiously Googled something in a long time, at least. Sure, I like David Sedaris, but I haven't attempted to find writings from his childhood yet. And even if I could meet him tomorrow, I'd still sleep well tonight. And that really isn't fun at all. Happiness, sadness, boredom -- they're still there, but the passing years turned down the volume. Days pass in a dull haze, and you wonder why nothing is as great as it used to be. This is probably why people look for excitement in strange places. After you realise you'll never discover another world behind your mirror, realise your wishes to solve mysterious crimes in nineteenth-century England are in vain (but God knows you keep wishing,) you start thinking that jumping out of a small aeroplane is a great idea. For me, though, I'll just continue revisiting my childhood from time to time. I'll stop by a playground, read some Lewis Caroll, listen to Laruku. And for a short while, I'll feel like I'm in love again.
  • Current Music
    L'arc~en~Ciel - LINK
Cameron

(no subject)

We call each other Larry and Steve when we get nervous, and this was definately a Larry and Steve moment. We were sitting on his creaky bed, being watched by his hideous aeroplane wallpaper. Conversation came out in slow, painful drips like a leaky faucet. I looked at him, and he had the strangest smile on his face. It was wide, and his cheek was twitching as he looked at me intently. When you see something like that, you either smile back or run away in hopes of salvaging at least two of your limbs. I smiled back. He said something along the lines of "so I guess we're going to kiss now." I replied with a "very insightful observation, Larry." And then we did.
  • Current Music
    Beethoven - Kreutzer Sonata - I
Cameron

(no subject)

A while back, my mother asked me what I wanted in life. I knew she meant well by adding that she would be proud of me no matter what I decide to do, but her comment only made the question feel like a test - a probe to see if she could rely on me later in life. I replied, rather lamely, that I didn't really care what I did, as long as I wasn't miserable. I'm not the kind of person who strives to do something meaningful before she dies, so I suppose it was truthful enough. Sub-par existence? Well, no. Upgrade to mediocre? A little more, please. Fine, satisfactory? Good enough for me. Other than that, I didn't really know what to say. I've always tried to put the question out of my mind when it comes up. This time, however, its persistence was greater than my will to escape it. For the next couple of days, it haunted me, along with the embarrassment that lingers after giving the worse answer possible to a question. Silence would have given her more reassurance. No matter how hard I thought about it, I couldn't give myself a more satisfactory answer than the one I gave to my mother. Would I really be happy living out the rest of my existence doing nothing of significance? Fuck it, I thought. I'll know when I die. And so that was that. Like the unpleasantly bittersweet aftertaste of diet soda, the question faded away slowly, until it disappeared from my mind completely.

***


Today was Canada day, and my father's former classmates invited us to their house for a barbeque. They were a couple in their forties who had come over to our house on an earlier occasion. They seemed nice enough, but because I have grown to harbour an inherent dislike for Chinese adults to whom I am not directly related, I couldn't fully appreciate their kindness. It was raining this afternoon, so we were hesitant to go. We didn't have anything better to do, though, so we piled into our foul-smelling Honda Civic and started driving. We first picked up some soda like thoughtful guests should. My mother also bought some liquorice in hopes of diminishing a cough that won't go away. We always end up buying shit we never even thought about when we go shopping; we're pretty cheap, so we avoid it whenever possible.

We had never driven to this particular house before, so my mother was busy giving directions while my father was busy ignoring them. I sat in the back, enjoying some David Sedaris and Canada Day radio programming. As far as I could tell, they were playing songs that reminded people of Canada. Of course, "The Good Old Hockey Game" came on, and I thought about how silly it must have sounded playing anywhere outside of Canadian borders, regardless of how much the audience loved hockey. But we were in Canada, and I grinned as the singer affirmed that "the good old hockey game is the best game you can name."

Just as I had started to drift back into reading, our car hit a massive pothole and jumped into the air. For a moment, the force of the jolt sent us in the opposite direction of gravity. It wasn't that strong, but it had caught us by surprise. As I landed back into my seat, I laughed and thought about how perfect a moment it was. The three of us, who rarely spent any time together, brought together by our mutual surprise. It was like a surprise roller-coaster ride that had been waiting for us to come along. You're welcome, the pothole said. You folks enjoy the rest of your day. And what could be more Canadian than listening to "The Good Old Hockey Game" while being disrupted by poor road conditions while driving to a barbeque? The moment didn't last, though. Unlike in movies, time does not slow while savour every second; memories are not forever frozen in cages of ice, waiting for you whenever you cared to look back upon them. We had missed a left turn and my father had accidentally cut someone off. The understandably vexed driver blared his horn as we sped pass him. My mother was telling my father off in what I perceived to be an unnecessarily loud voice. I tried to salvage the feeling of perfection that had slipped away so quickly, but it ended in futility. I finally gave up as my mother started to cough while the nauseating smell of liquorice filled the car as quickly and as thoroughly as cigarette smoke.

***


About an hour ago, I tried to go to bed. It was 4:00, and as usual, the birds started chirping outside my window. It had never bothered me the way it seemed to bother people in sitcoms, and I found their chirping rather relaxing. I thought back to that perfect moment in the car, and how few and far between they occur (I know I shouldn't have used "few and far between" as an adverb, but it's one hour past my bedtime, so I deserve at least one slip-up). However, when I tried to recall the last time something made me feel so great, I realised that it was only yesterday. I put my arms around Justin and kissed him as we were standing in my room; it was great. The moment was allowed to run its course and scatter imperceptibly instead of being suddenly snatched away so I didn't realise just how great it was. Had we heard my parents approaching, or had their been and explosion in the kitchen, I would have felt the disappointment of an interrupted moment one day earlier. As I lay in bed contemplating this, I realised that I would be content living a fairly mundane life. As long as there are times where I can be made to believe that life is extraordinary, I will be content.

And after that thought, I fell asleep. Contently.

P.S. Actually, the last sentence was not completely truthful. After all, I'm still awake. So I suppose that it is, in actuality, completely untruthful. The urge to write this all down was too strong to resist, so I am recklessly ignoring the fact that I have to get up relatively early tomorrow to pick strawberries. However, I felt that it was a nice note on which to end this, so there it is.

P.P.S I won't change it.
  • Current Mood
    tired
Cameron

(no subject)

After getting a bit (perhaps slightly more than a bit) drunk last night, I proceeded to climb outside my basement window. I live in one of those houses with the basement halfway underground, so it wasn't very difficult, but I scraped my elbow and bruised by hand and left buttock. And plus, what the fuck was I doing climbing outside of windows anyway? And why did I do it twice? There's a dirt patch that I fell into outside the window. It's not the best place to be, but apparently, I found it absolutely hilarious. At least I didn't climb through my neighbors window and punch him in the throat. The silver lining.

I went to work a bit hung over today. It was pretty gross, since I had to shelf read (aka find books that misguidedly helpful patrons have re-shelved in the wrong place). I basically sat there zoned out for half an hour, though nobody really cares if you do anything anyway (it's a government job).

Anyway, I should probably get some sleep. I have to practise ribbon dancing with middle aged women tomorrow. I was conned into some dancing gig for Canada day by my mother. She said that I should participate in the Chinese society more. I was going to wittily comment that my mugging skills were subpar, but instead I said that I'd wave ribbons around while wearing traditional Chinese clothing. Typical mistake.

Saining out, homies.
  • Current Music
    Metric - Combat Baby
Cameron

(no subject)

Ugh. I finished paper one and two of my chemistry exam today. Paper one wasn't too bad, but paper two was pretty brutal. I guess it was like that for all my higher level IB exams. IB exams are kind of like date rape, with paper one being the date, and paper two being the rape:

Paper one: "Hey, this is kind of nice. Sure, he's not perfect, but it's not like he's raping me."
Paper two: "Holy shit, I'm getting raped. No, I mean, raeped."

Tomorrow's paper three. To continue this colourful analogy, paper three can be the aftermath. I suppose it comes down to two scenarios:

Paper three (possibility a): "Damn, he's not only a raepist, but a sadistic raepist. Now that he's done, he's dipping me in lemon juice after giving me a thousand paper cuts. Then he's going to kill me."
Paper three (possibility b): "Fuck, I'm dead."

Possibility b is the more pleasant of the two, as it does not involve extensive torture. However, since I have yet to start looking over the options for paper three, I'm pretty sure that possibility a will play out.

Well, I'll like, start studying now.
  • Current Music
    Mozart - Jupiter Symphony - Molto Allegro
Cameron

Your mom plus chemistry.

Your mom's so slow that she's the rate determining step.


I can remove your mom's clothes more easily than a strong oxidising agent can remove the first electron of a transition metal.


Yeah, I'm that good.
  • Current Music
    Franz Ferdinand - Ulysses
Cameron

(no subject)

Okay, so it's been February for a couple of days now. And I am, indeed, alive, as you can see. Either that, or I can currently updating from the afterlife. But that's just impossible now, isn't it? Actually, there are other possibilities, like an imposter updating as myself, but that would require an elaborate story filled with other outrageous claims. Uh, yes.

This point of this update is to tell you that I have finished by extended essay which is on the connection between Richard Wagner and Hitler. Yay! IB was quite right when they said that it would take around fouty hours to complete. I've gone past fourty already, and I still have a few paragraphs to do. I'm at 3500 words, which means I still have 500 to work with, which is less than ideal, as I still have to comment of the nature of Wagner's nationalism and evaluate the reliability of my sources. Huh. But at least it won't take fouty hours. At this point, I have no will to read anything else about either Wagner nor Hitler. The bastards. Well, Wagner was pretty cool, I guess. If you ignore the fact that he was an egomaniacal, vain, and anti-Semitic guy who loved silk underwear and lavender bedsheets, that is. Plus, he was besties with Nietzsche for a while. But then Nietzsche realised it wasn't meant to be, and fled from the first Bayreuth festival. Even so, Nietszche was like, "I really did love him" before he died. Lol, that sounded totally slashy.

There is one good thing that has come out of this whole ordeal. I was never that fond of Wagner's music before, but I have now realised his genius. Granted, I still have not bothered with the actual singing in his operas, and have only listened to the overtures, but they are wonderful! "Die Meistersinger" is absolutely lovely. I looked for it on Youtube and found a video conducted by Furtwangler, whom I love. It turned out to be from a Nuremberg rally, though, which was kind of a shock. Still, Furtwangler was good. He was so awkwardly tall and skinny, though. When he got excited, it looked like he was going to topple over or something. That does not detract from his awesome awesomeness.

Well, that's that. I cannot believe I finished that essay in four sittings, but I did. Whoo! I can have free time now. Like real free time instead of periods during which I have nothing to do but feel guilty about not doing Extended Essay.

  • Current Mood
    good
Cameron

(no subject)

This is kind of a re-post from Facebook (yes, can you imagine), and I thought it would be appropriate to put it here instead. I mean, I hardly use LJ anymore, but it's still <33x1000^infinity. Plus, FB is for creepers, something I am trying not to be, albeit unsuccessfully. Anyway, here is a semi-rant-post about my ex-favourite radio station, CBC Radio 2. Actually, it was the only radio station that I listened to regularly, and it was only for this one program - Music and Company with Tom Allen.

I'm not sure who else here enjoys their classical music coupled with humour and trivia from an exceptional host, but I sure do. Music and Company was absolutely perfect; there was something interesting every morning. The selection of music was superb, ranging from early baroque to 20th century classical (none of that extreme atonal stuff, though), and the recordings were all done by wonderfully talented groups. Not to mention the terrific segments, like Cage Match, where pieces of music are metaphorically pit against each other so they could battle violently and spill each other's metaphorical blood. I can say with confidence that Tom Allen hosted the best radio program on the air. And he did it so well, too. Where else would I find out that Le Chavalier de Saint-Georges (the Black Mozart) skated a warning to Marie Antoinette onto the ice in front of the palace of Versailles during the Revolution? Wikipedia? Well, maybe, but I sure would rather hear it coming from Tom's babely voice.

And now it's all gone. CBC Radio 2 underwent some changes. And by "changes", I mean a revolution that purged its best and implemented puppet programs to try to deceive its small but loyal audience. Radio 2 has been raped, and now it is left crying, mourning its degradation and broken pelvis. But instead of howls of pain, it screams music that makes me want to slit my wrists. Or abandon Radio 2 in its weak and forlorn state, even as its feeble hand clutches onto my trouser leg, begging me to stay.

But I don't think I can. Not even for Tom Allen.
Cameron

(no subject)

Ahh, it's this time of the year again. This may be a statement rather obscure in meaning for those of you who don't live in Saint John, which is to say, all of you. But to those who do, though you certainly don't, you'll certainly know what I'm talking about. Though certainly nobody knows what I'm talking about, because nobody lives here. But let's not dwell on that any further. I hope that one day I can quell my terrible habit of digressing when I haven't even finished making one point yet. Anyway, I'm not entirely sure that my wandering off topic has drawn out your curiosity regarding my first statement, but I'll continue anyway, because this is my journal, and I sure as hell can write whatever the fuck I want. Ahem. All this is to say, the tourists have arrived.

Now, I've never had a problem with tourists before today, but now I can see why they're regarded as such... bad people. That is, horrible, loud, screeching/laughing, picture-taking, despicable bastards from hell. I went uptown today only to discover that the place was overcrowded by people, well, sad enough to come here. It was rather alarming to see so many people where there usually is none, and, to be truthful, it irritated the piss out of me for a slight moment. I don't know what there is that disturbs me about tourists. Maybe it's fear that eventually, I'll become one of them: large, unruly, T-shirted, tourist-like in general. But I found myself slowly forgiving them - I certainly have the authority to do so - as I walked through the City Market, from which wafted the scent of fresh bread, ripe fruit, and obscene quantities of meat not covered by any cling wrap. By the time I found myself nearing the library, to which I was ultimately headed, I forgot about them altogether. That is, until I saw a pregnant woman.

Maybe pregnant women like cruising. Maybe that's why so many of them are here. I spotted three today. It had a strangely disturbing effect on me, as I discovered something I have not before: I am afraid of pregnant women. When I approached the first one, I caught myself staring intently at her belly. It was a bulbous protuberance that looked slightly unnatural, as if she had swallowed a large yoga ball. She wore a T-shirt obviously not made for pregnancy, as it was prostitutishly tight, revealing her midriff as the bottom of her shirt slowly and inconspicuously climbed up her round belly towards her navel while she walked. There was something about her belly that reminded me of a over-sized water balloon, one that you purposely overfill so that it would most definitely burst when you throw it at your target. It wobbled, covered in pink stretch-marks and downed with light brow hair. She scratched it, and pulled down her shirt for what I guessed to be the thousandth time today, while laughing and talking to her companions as if she wasn't pregnant.

I gulped, and, in short, I was afraid.

I shivered, feeling my heart beat slightly quickening, distributing epinephrine throughout my body, telling me to get the fuck out of there. I resisted, and calmly walked past her, another shiver running down my spine as I did so. I walked into the library, grabbed Yes Minister and sat down on one of the little blue couches that smell faintly of sweat, my bottom collapsing farther into the old broken chair than it was supposed to. I was alright.

The two other pregnant women that I saw later today were much more decent, wearing baggier shirts, and not being that far in their respective terms. But I still couldn't help picturing what I had seen earlier, and I felt highly uncomfortable, as if I was witnessing the progress of some devastating disease, and fearing that it was contagious. Very unpleasant.

I have an irrational fear/hatred of pregnancy in humans. Pregnancy-phobic. Oh God.
  • Current Music
    Aaron Copland - Clarianet Concerto
Cameron

(no subject)

Have I ever recounted that dream I had? The dream in which I had no feet? Oh, quite possibly, as I vaguely remember it. Or maybe I'm just making that up, as I seem to do quite often. Or not, and this post will be completely useless and redundant and lacking in Good Stuff. Did I ruin the surprise? I was just about to tell you about the dream in which I had no feet there was a lacking of attachments to my lower extremities. Aha. Well, enough of this, I say! On to the story.

I woke up in dimly lit room, and was immediately aware that something was amiss. I pushed aside the covers to discover that my ankles were not sprouting feet, but instead a red, fleshy mess. I don't remember any bone. But then again, I may be mistaken. Feeling more bewildered and slightly angry than horrified and aware of imminent death, I slowly wriggled into an uncomfortably comfortable sitting position. As in all situations akin to this, I was sure that I had somewhere to be, and that I was most definetly late. How inconvenient, and utterly inconsiderate of my feet to separate themselves from the rest of themselves. If I ever got married, and breed and raise wonderful potted plants, but later discover that my husband/wife -maybe "spouse" would have done the trick here. But certainly not if I was writing in french, though- never loved me at all, resulting in a divorce 30 years too late, I would feel a preliminary sense of abandonment upon which the pain of losing my feet could be built. But not really. I'm just exaggerating. I really wasn't that worried. I looked to the set of drawers by my bed, in which I knew contained my feet, a large sewing needle, and some unusually thick thread. I pulled out the first drawer and reached inside. I felt around and as I expected, my feet and sewing equipment lay at my disposal. I started sewing, feeling more than annoyed, as the feeling of needing-to-be-somewhere had grown substantially. The needle impatiently working its way through my jagged flesh (they were surely hacked off by an incompetent Feet Remover) didn't really bother me, and I worked diligently until my task had been completed. But a complication arose. It seemed as if the flesh on my sternum had fallen off while I was working. It vexed me slightly, but I quickly sewed myself back together. Ahhh, triumph! I could finally go to the Place Where I Thought I Needed to Be. But as I stood up, I realised-Oh motherfucker! How could I have been so foolish, so blundering in my ways to make such a juvenile mistake? It appeared as if I had sewn each foot to the wrong ankle. Surely I'd be able to reattach my feet properly after putting my shoes on the right feet for year years, decades, centuries, millennia. But I soon recovered from my disapointment. Or maybe I didn't. Either way, I woke up.

It might not be completely faithful to my actual dream. It might have been sensationalised to satisfy your appetites for Unusual Anecdotes. It might even be a fiction/complete fucking bullshit. But it isn't. I think. If you have the patience, perseverence, posh accent, you may consider finding the original entry for this dream, as I have just now assured/convinced myself of its existence.

Much love from me (who else?)

<3
  • Current Music
    Beethoven/Karajan - Ninth Symphony, second movement "molto vivace"