I am nothing of a builder

Fenella's journal is Friends Mostly, meaning that while the fic is here for everyone to see, pretty much everything else is locked for friends' eyes only. That said, Hi! I like new friends. Leave a comment and I'll add you - if you want to read about arts admin, Canada, and other sketch adventures of a twenty-something year old.

Can you imagine being the child of Paul Gross and Martha Burns?!

http://www.thestar.com/entertainment/movies/article/847745--no-you-haven-t-seen-her-before

Two entries in two days?! Whoa, no way! Don't get used to it.

I was reading back through entries - it's kind of the online equivalent of going through your stuff when packing, for an actual move - and was really glad to have a written record of people and places. So I am going to try to be more vigilant about writing, for my own sake. And for the sake of remembering people like Earnest Gardener! Because, as I've been realizing, I have a crap memory.

Really, people keep on coming up to me and telling me stories of which I have absolutely no recollection. I'm only 24! Think how bad it's going to be forty years, and 34 more provincial moves from now. Um, I will repeat provinces (& territories) when I run out. And I am never moving to Saskatchewan.

Adventures that I will follow up on telling in the coming weeks: harps in wilderness & ferries in the name of weddings, indie musics of Canada, roommates: the continuing story, coworker hilarity and tragedy (related: slam poet debacle!), crazy relations, and many others.

My recently departed boss bequeathed me her speakers, with which I am very much in love (we moved offices in November, from the basement of the vaudeville theatre next door, to the fifth floor of an gigantic condo tower - and our computer towers moved from desktop to ground, with precarious wiring sitches) and so now I can plug in my headphones again. This is always dangerous, because I am known for (accidentally!) ripping out my headphones at inopportune moments. In this way, I have embarassed myself to various coworkers for listening to both death metal (hey! it's music too!) and country (dudes, it was Jim Cuddy... that's like the softest of soft country).

Also? Tomorrow I am totally reinstating bad judgement Fridays. Ohhhhh yeah.

Uh, first off: 484 words about Joren HERE!. And now that's done with:

Postcards From New Hope
(Or How to Grow a Woman from the Ground)

( Part Seven )

Part One Part Two Part Three
Part Four Part Five Part Six

Walker hound for sale
Very loven dog only 1 and a hafe
Good wih kids and knows commands,
Needs a home we cant look after him any more
Vrey loven and loyle, Food and toys come with him
If you are intersted please call if you are searious.
Thank you

War, like beauty, is in the collective consciousness. It's a memory etched into my mind, gnawing at the base of my stomach, that leaves an empty void; one that can not be filled with honour, respectful distance, or a silent promise that I will not, ever, forget. The lost are too many. I want to know their stories, be able to call their faces to mind. Do they prefer to be forgotten?

I remember them with a bright, plastic poppy; stories of a fallen cenotaph in New Brunswick, the cross shattered; a wreath at the base of a rural statue, a solitary reminder of the hundreds and a cold November morning in Toronto. Strangers, grandparents, men and women who continue to fight, and die.

All I can say, knowing it's not enough, is thank you. And, I'm sorry.

+ My mother is determined to emotionally manipulate me into getting my teachers' certification. I explained to her, calmly, the reasons I do not want to be a classroom teacher (she already knew this when I signed up for the arts administration version of teacher's college over a year ago, so not so much with the shocking!), that certification is an annual thing and requires money I don't have, as someone who is unemployed. And then I gave her a copy of my action research paper, about arts-integrated learning in the classroom and storytelling making the world a better place and she STARTED TO CRY. I don't even know.

+ For the first in five years, I am not moving for September, so I have cleaned and rearranged my room. There is a wall (WALL) of books and also my bed is no longer under a skylight. I hope this means that come winter, I will not get dripped on by said skylight in early morning thaw.

+ Minikilts are unlikely in my future. Good/Bad? Your call.

+ For something completely different: a few icons (Yukon Music Post still coming), made ages ago, of the summer Olympics (Canadian Men's Triathlon Team and Men's 8+ in Rowing). I find it hilarious that the men's triathlon team did a number of photoshoots... and I love that on their racing suits Canada gets abbreviated to "CAN". Jenkins Can! Whitfield Can! It's very optimistic.

( Warning: Lots of Red and White. )