Not finished yet

Sometimes, there is nothing to write. The brain goes blank and the fingers pause and the pen starts to doodle. The deep and thoughtful have become the shallow and superficial and then evaporate until there is nothing left. The page stares back at you and its emptiness becomes intimidating; the idle thoughts scurry to hide behind each other and jostle to stay in the brain and not be exposed to the wandering eye of some passer-by. Sometimes little things can be written in such a way that they have a small purpose in being set down for future readings, or they act as a safety valve for the author. Therein, lies the best description of short thoughts: a safety valve. If there is a of steam then the whistle is clear and strong, if there is hardly any steam, then the whistle is weak and feeble. When there is nothing that grabs the imagination and tickles the fancy then writing becomes a chore.

It's like when you wish to design or draw and you have the maddest desire to design and create and nothing presents itself as the project. So you start sketching nothing and sometimes, something comes and with a little molding and prodding becomes something. And sometimes it falls flat, and should not be continued. Or gets put in the book for further work as the idea is right, but the execution needs some work.

My Cat

I waved good-bye then looked at the small gray animal in my arms. It, my brother and I were stuck in the house together for a week, which meant that I was taking care of it. During that week, he quickly adopted me. If I was out of sight, he would meow and cry until I called him and he could find me. He fell asleep in my arms while I was typing essays. He tried to take a shower with me. He climbed me to see what I was doing. He became my shadow. He slept at the foot of my bed and ate from the opposite side of my cereal bowl. We played hide-n-seek and snuck up around corners on each other. I fought the neighbour's cat on his behalf. We won. He was my cat.

When I came home at thanksgiving, he started purring when he saw me. We played like we had always played. He was still my cat.

Then I came home at Christmas. (Granted I brought another kitten with me) He had grown and was no longer a kitten. Having fully passed his one year, he had turned into a full male cat. He's muscular and has a temper. Now when I go near him, he snarls and waves his paw. When I pick him up, I can feel my back protest. He runs away from me instead of towards me. He barely acknowledges my presence.

And I want to scream, it's because of me, you made it past the kitten stage, but in reality, part of me cries inside.

Lazy, lazy day. The apartment was clean until I was left in it by myself. Now the dishes are piled high again, MY dishes, and I know the difference. My papers are everywhere and my shoes are everywhere and I'm enjoying being by myself. My marking is not done and I don't care. My brain is recovering from the frontal assault that has been launched at it these past few months. So the cat and I lounged around doing nothing slowly. Tomorrow, I will clean my room, sort out my accounts and deal with the recycling or rather the mound of papers that has accumulated in our hall mixed in with boxes and cans. I dread having to carry it down the stairs, knowing that I will leave a trail behind me, walking down the narrow path tramped out in the snow and then fighting the papers into whichever blue bin is not currently overflowing. I predict several trips and then the annoyance of discovering that I left some unseen bits in the apartment which will then have to be taken down at a later date.

I know that before I leave I will accomplish nothing of what I wish to get done.

To Be Done (but won't)

• clean my room
• vacuum the hall
• clean out the fridge
• and the freezer
• take out the recycling
• pack
• do nothing

I predict doing nothing gets done and nothing else. Well maybe packing . . . but not well. but I must, must finish my marking . . . .

Someone Told Them They Could Write

I hold the page out in front of me, squint and try again. After reading it out loud this time, I come to the same conclusion: it sounds good but means nothing. "the validity of these frequently espoused theories is scrutinized . . ." A sentence full of million dollar words that just sounds cheap. The author writes well but there is not the force of ideas pushing the reader from one paragraph to another, the papers lack passion. The joy of being a T.A. when you discover that people can write, and write well about nothing. There is no original spark that propels the paper towards a dazzling conclusion. Instead there are turgid words rehashing the same old argument and the papers start to blend one into another. One deals with the supply-side argument, another the demand-side arguments and yet another brave soul covers both. And they all write well in a way that smacks of someone saying, "You Are A Good Writer. You Have an Excellent Choice of Words." and so forever more, the person writes as though academic words stringed together carry the weight of authority behind them. But no one ever told them that ideas are more important. A clever idea poorly expressed and a poor idea cleverly expressed are as bad as each other. Thus, I keep marking in the hope that I will find a clever idea cleverly expressed, but have a horrible feeling that I shan't.

Dreaming of a White Christmas

Today it snowed,

and snowed

and snowed.

And they haven't cleared the sidewalks, but they cleared the roads.

So we're walking on the streets and stepping to the side,
while the passing cars make me cringe,
because, clever me, I'm in white.

And I thought my knee was better,
that it had fixed itself for sure,
but a day spent shopping,
slipping and sliding,
quickly brought back the pain.

And my boots are wet right through,
and the bottom of my pants,
are recreating the melting of the glaciers,
and the lake will spread from the hall,
throughout.

The spring came back

It had been missing for several days now and I had looked half heartedly for it on several occasions. There are only so many pieces of furniture under which a cat can hide a toy. Apparently disappearing small objects is something that cats excel at, and explains why they are strongly associated with witchcraft. If there was a school around here for teaching cats to assist in the magical arts, I would enroll my kitten without delay. She clearly has a gift that needs to be fostered and nurtured. The previously mentioned missing toy turned up yesterday. It was strung between the legs of a stool with green thread. How the thread became wound around the spring which was then wound around the stool remains a mystery. The fact that I needed to take scissors to the knots to get both the stool and the spring free is a another conundrum. But what bothers me most is that I can not find the spool upon which the thread was once wound. I have substituted a missing spring for a missing spool.

Celebrate the Small Successes

Derive the variance of B, I read. No problem, I can derive a variance in my sleep. Hum, prove B is unbiased first. Done and done, now the variance. I started to put the variance through its paces. I put the expectation operator through the expression and then realised to my horror that nothing cancelled out. I had an expression that barely fit across the page and it would not simplify. I was on the verge of panicking. I had another fourteen marks riding on this answer as I needed it for the next part. Dumbfounded at my inability to identify the simplifying factor, I moved on, knowing that I would be back.

On the second time attacking the question, I stared at my cheat sheet trying to gain some insight. There was only one thing that I could try and I couldn't see how that would help. But then it hit me, if I did that, it would form a projection matrix - at least I would be able to fit the expression on one line. Attempting now to prove that one variance minus another was positive semi definite, I wrote out the equation and did the first step as always. There was no way this was getting the better of me. As my frustration level grew, I started to tap my pencil on the table, faster and louder - until I got the look. So I stopped and pounded the table mentally. Fourteen bloody marks and I was not going to give them up. I could fail the rest of the exam but this question I was going to master. I looked at my example and then something struck me. What if I treated this nasty part here, like this omega here on the sheet, it might just work. And work, it did, like a charm.

I was relieved, knowing that everyone else would have been able to answer that question and that for once I had not been the dunce. That is until lunch when it started to seem that not everyone had been able to do it. Then I was back in a game I could play. Instead of keeping quiet pretending that I had gotten something, I was just quiet - almost. Except that in my surprise that no one else had gotten it, I blurted out "I got it." but I stopped just short of explaining how. The expression wouldn't fit across my napkin.

I am my Mother's Daughter

The dishes were piling higher and I couldn't take it anymore. They weren't my dishes, I fumed, and I'd be demmed if I was going to do them. The mess was grating on me but when you take a stand, you grit your teeth and let it ride. Then I started to crack, I took a step towards the middle. I dumped all the dishes into a sink full of soapy hot water and let them soak. My opponent left a dinner plate balanced neatly on top. You cur!! I yelled inside my head. They're not my dishes. The next day they were still sitting inside the now greasy cold water. And so I approached the opponent, "Say when you get a chance, can you do your dishes?" The response was predictable and scripted. "They're not all mine . . . blah blah blah . . . I don't have time."

And then it happened, I became my Mother's Daughter
and I knew that dishes took no time at all,
and the act of scrapping plates,
and the crashing of the pans,
would echo through the hall,
and that no one could mistake,
as I slammed the lid upon the can
that I was doing dishes,
oh yes , I washing dishes,
that were not mine at all.

And so the opponent sat and cowered,
and glared upon the books,
and teared into the phone,
If you had told me, I intoned,
then I would have understood,
in a voice that was not mine,
but clearly was my mother's
and then I slammed the cupboard door,
and felt much better.

Lost in Gatineau

I was dressed for battle, had been defeated and was now in retreat. If I had been at the Battle of Hastings, I would have been the one with the shiny nondented armour, well oiled, walking around looking for my horse which I had fallen off when the order to charge had been given. The battle was ranging down in the valley below and I was finished, out, and needed to be taken off the field.

More specifically, I needed a taxis and I had no idea where to begin my quest. I knew there was little chance of hailing a cab and ladies do not hail their own cabs. They dash from door to cab and back wearing inappropriate shoes and garments for the weather. I had the shoes and I was not getting salt on them. In fact, I did not even want to walk on the floor, it was made for men who wear galoshes - for shoes that gripped and mine, most certainly, did not. So I wandered around, numb, feeling inept and like a fool. Anyone can phone a taxis - but me. I stared at the Pay Phone but realised that I had neither a quarter nor a number. So I drifted back towards the front doors again. The elderly man who was watching me in my haze finally spoke. So I responded in French, several times. How do I phone a taxis? I pleaded. He smiled, pleased to be talking to someone, but responded not.

And then I spotted him, a commissionaire, he would know and he did - I had a cab inside of five minutes. And so I rode back to civilian life, realising my biggest battle scar was to my confidence. It was tattered and torn and I knew there was no quick fix. So I smiled looking as though someone had killed my best friend. Little did they know they had pierced the armour I had built over the past four years. It had been buffeted and battered and grown thin but the walls had never been breached. However, they had finally burst through and my armour now had a squeak and a gaping hole

and the air whispered,
Who Killed Cock Robin?
Who saw him die?
Who caught his blood?
Who'll make his shroud?
Who'll dig his grave?

and I whispered back,
let me be in peace.
I'm not done yet.

Blah blah blah

stupid blogger...