Voices In My Head

This morning, after writing a midterm exam for Political Philosophy, I stumbled upon an astounding realization. I hear voices in my head that help me to write better.

No, don't walk away. I'm not crazy -- at least, not that crazy. That is, I'm not crazy enough to actually hear schizophrenic-type voices and believe they help to perfect my academic abilities.

What I mean by voices is, well, while I write something, while I read something, while I do most things that involve words, I read or write with a certain voice. Usually it's some distortation or other of my own voice. But sometimes, especially if the piece of writing is particularly intellectual or thought-stimulating, the voice in my head obtains an English-accent characteristic to give it a more professional and academic effect. I call this English voice the "little British novelist". Every time I have written an essay or story, with this voice in my mind, I accepted the fact that whatever it is I had just written was, well, damned good if I do say so myself.

This very phenomenon just happened to me this morning as I wrote the long essay for the exam. The question was a comparison between Aristotle's and Rousseau's political philosophies. And I must say, I am more than pleased with my results. That is to say, I have not yet received any feedback whatsoever; but the feeling of extreme satisfaction and joy with my own writing proved quite sufficient in my thinking that I had just written a rather enjoyable essay. Even though my professor might think I missed a fact or two, or that I know nothing whatsoever about political philosophy, I am happy to say that I put a reasonable amount of effort in making it an easy, fun, and overall a "nice" read. Thank you, British Novelist.

(Note: I did not hear his voice during this blog. If you did walk away in the beginning, it was not because I was weird; but because this blog sucks).

The one I love belongs to somebody else...

"You know, I think I was in love with you then, hunk."
"I know you were."
"...YOUUU!"

Dear dead movie stars: I love you, in the plural sense.

I have always loved old movies. Old movie stars adorn my bedroom walls back home. My movie collection doesn't contain anything made later than 1970. My favourite t.v. channel is TCM. I think you get the point...
But my obsession with vintage-ness doesn't end there. Along with the movies and movie stars, comes a love of their glamor, and an obsession to be as glamorous as them. I've studied the various fashions, hair styles, and applications of makeup from the 1930's through to the 1960's. 70% of my music collection consists mainly of swing music or crooners. My favourite magazine is Reminisce, with each issue holding a collection of stories and pictures sent in by people who have experienced that very era.

Why do I love the past so much? Not just any past -- but that past? I honestly don't know. There is something more than just glamor that attracts me. I learned how to walk gracefully, how to talk decently, how to appear as though I have charm, poise, and grace, by watching and listening to these ideals of mine. I have learned how to gain respect from men, and how to respect other people. Above all, I've learned that I was definitely born 90 years too late.

*sigh*

Another year over, a new one soon begun...

"Garfield...it's Christmas Eve morning!"
Well, late afternoon anyway. Christmas is the time of year where our family spends many precious hours together, sipping fattening drinks, eating fattening food, and watching ridiculously cheesy and oh-so-much-older-than-you-were-born Christmas movies. I don't mean the old classics, It's A Wonderful Life or White Christmas - although those are ranked among my favourites - I mean the wonderful era of the 90's, when Garfield, Flinstones, Muppets, and Fraggles still roamed tv land. Among their Christmas specials (which we recorded years ago on those ancient things called tapes), are also those of Family Matters, Home Improvement, and Mr. Bean. Ah, such precious memories!
But hey, our lead-up to Christmas isn't only about watching tv. The first Sunday of advent begins with setting up the manger (on top of the tv...that's the only place it works!). After that - well, after I come home from school last week, in time for Mass for the fourth Sunday of advent - the week is made up of a plethora of gingerbread houses, baking, Christmas music, snowmobiling, sleigh rides, hockey, skiing, food, food, food, FOOD. There's SO much food here I can't handle it! And even more for tonight...ah, let me tell you how we celebrate Christmas!
My parents are both French, to begin with. They grew up in the same tiny French village in southern Saskatchewan (drive fifteen minutes and you hit the U.S. border). Naturally they have the same traditions in celebrating Christmas - a Reveillon. Don't know what that is? Google it. Most of France and Quebec don't do it anymore, but Saskatchewan French people are...well...different. Special. We still do it. Mass is never at midnight anymore, but tonight it's at 10pm. As soon as it and the festivities at the church are over, we'll drive back home, sit through a toast given by my parents, while one of the younger siblings (who are well into their teen years, might I add?) will sneak to the tree and let out a little "rrrriiip". That's when the gift opening begins - so joyous! My hands are shaking just thinking about it! After that's done, we'll go back into the kitchen. Mom pulls out her tourtiere (French meat-pies), and we all sit down to a real feast - tourtiere, butter tarts, nanaimo bars, fudge, truffles, food food food! And wine. So much wine.
When we were younger, we used to stay up till the sun came out, playing with our new toys while the adults would play cards. Now that we don't get toys for Christmas anymore, and many of my siblings are unfortunately not passionate about cards at 3 in the morning, we usually go to bed between 2 or 3. This year I hope to get a good game of ramoli or something started before everyone goes to bed.
The next morning we all sleep in. Christmas and New Years are two days out of the entire year we are allowed to sleep in past 9. However, most of us are up by then, because while we were sleeping, our parents will have stuffed our stockings we had laid out the night before! We each get oranges, chocolates, candy canes, and many other little gifts. After Mass (which is always at 11am - our church never changes), we'll go home again and sit down to the best treat of the season - homemade crepes (pronounced "creps", not "crapes", you easterners!)!! Mom's crepes are always amazing. Paper thin, we slather on some peanut butter, and spoonfulls of brown sugar, then roll of the delicious pastries. There are never leftovers, even though mom makes enough to feed an army.
The rest of the day is filled with visiting and card games or a hockey game outside, until supper time. This is where the turkey, mashed potatoes, vegetables, gravy, stuffing, cranberry sauce, cabbage rolls, ham, etc., etc., comes in. And tens upon tens of pies for desert!
I hope this helps you see why I get so excited for Christmas each year. It isn't the food, the gifts, the music, the traditions. Well, actually, yeah, it is.

Merry Christmas everyone.

It's been a long time since I've rambled. I'm sure some of you are wondering if this crazy individual is still alive. Yes, actually, I am alive, and kicking (metaphorically speaking, of course. I can't imagine the trouble I'd cause if I were literally kicking. Although it would look kind of cool, to go around kicking like a ninja. Hm. Now I want to go around and kick like a ninja.).
Allow me to recap the past year and a bit in as few words as I can. Let me see now...it was August, of '09, where I left off, am I correct? Well, since August '09, to September '10, I can sum up my experiences as thus:

Orientation. New Aquaintances. Almost late for class. I'm a heretic. Oops, I missed chores again. OhmanIhateLogic. Ack, exams! Ah, Christmas. Oh boy, new classes. Oh gosh I love this place. Oh no, essays! Oh no, exams! Die, papers, die, die! Oh wow, that went fast. Oh no, only a week left! Aw, I miss everybody. :( :( :( :( :( Gee my summer sucks. Wow my summer is long. Oh wow, my sister's married. Hey! I'm back at school!!!!! :) :) :) :) :) yaaaaaaaaay I LOVE MY CLASSES AND EVERYBODY!!!!

And there you have it.
See you next time.
-The Ramblenator.

Collective Soul's new album

Oh. My. Gosh. I haven't even heard the entire album yet, and already it's my new favourite. I mean, here I thought their last album, "Afterwards" was awesome. But the Rabbit album (release date August 25th!!!!) is even better! Their new drummer, Cheney Brannon, is just outstanding. The songs show originality, talent, and of course they contain that "stimulation" that kids these days are constantly searching for (I really don't understand that, and I could write an entire 5-page essay on it, but I won't get into it....for now).
My brother even said it's their best, next to the blue album. So Kudos to you, Ed, Dean, Joel, Cheney, Will....it's a job well done. :)

I just wish I could see you in concert! Just once!!

(Oh yeah, here's where you can hear the entire album http://www.vh1.com/artists/az/collective_soul/2449754/album.jhtml or http://watch.muchmusic.com/muchmore/first-spin/first-spin-collective-soul---rabbit/#clip204282

dance, dance, wherever you may be...everbody dances when they gotta pee...

Well, how do you like that. Doc said it'd take 4-6 weeks for my ankle to heel. I was walking in 2 weeks, walking without pain in 3, and without a limp in 4. By 5 weeks I could hop up and down the stairs normally, and by 6 I could run a very awkward type of run. So here I am, going into my 7th week. You'd think I could start dancing by now. and I don't mean the little 2-step, waltz, and tango etc, that take one or two minutes to finish. I mean the ridiculous type of dancing I would do, all by myself in my little room, with a huge imaginary audience watching me as the sound of Leahy blared out of my stereo.

That's right. Step-dancing.

I never did properly learn how, aside from a few steps shown to me by my future sister-in-law. That and watching the Leahy sisters and Natalie MacMaster are all I've had to teach me. And I must tell you, it definitely shows - which is why I never dance when there's anybody around. My imagination finds the pretence thrilling, and my body finds the exercise invigorating. I don't need to be an expert Cape Breton step-dancer. I'm perfectly happy dancing in my little room, trying to match my steps with the "tap tap" sound coming from various Leahy/Natalie recordings. I'm certainly no pro when it comes to the moonwalk, with Natalie does so nicely, but my imaginary agent seems to think so.

Alright. So maybe I dwell too much in my imaginary world, where nothing goes wrong (unless it's in the script....yes, I'm an actress, too). Maybe I should stick to REAL exercise that people do: jogging, biking, swimming, weights....but where's the fun in that? I suppose while jogging I could pretend I'm a secret agent chasing a dangerous criminal, or while I'm biking I could be a world-champion horse racer at the Kentucky Derby. Swimming...well, I'm afraid I spend too much time pretending I'm drowning after the ship explodes to focus on doing laps.

My point is, as much as I find these different imaginings.....different, maybe even exciting, I have always preferred dancing as my form of exercise. No, really, I have! When our family was expecting its first wedding, and I had to order a new outfit, what did I do to keep in shape? Why, I danced, of course! Back then I was obsessed with the '50's. Twists, hops, jives, etc...I didn't know how, but I had a ton of fun doing it.

So, again, on Monday it will be 7 weeks now since I sprained my ankle. And I still can't dance for more than a couple minutes. I can't even twist my foot properly, which is necessary for some of the steps I've learned.

Oh woe is me.

My loverly bedroom.

"Rheanne, why don't you do something with your life. All you ever do is sit in your room allllll day."

Uh huh. Sure, that's true some days. But as my older siblings and parents would, or at least should, recall, is that I have always spent a good portion of my time in my bedroom. Most of my childhood memories consist of me in my room, playing barbies. In my room, listening to music. In my room, imagining far-off worlds and different times. I have always loved having a room for myself to sneak away to, a room in which I can sit without being disturbed and imagine all sorts of adventures. A room to provide silence and solitude for my reading pleasure. This is the way it has always been.

Perhaps I should spend more time with my family. I don't know. I do know is that whenever I go upstairs to find some kind of activity, I either: (a) Find nothing interesting to do, (b) Find that nobody wants to play anything, (c) Get in trouble, or (d) Eat things that I really don't need to be eating. Might I also add, that in the summertime it can be dreadfully hot up there when the air conditioner isn't on. Can you really blame me if I prefer the cool air that sits in my humble bedroom to the stifling heat that sticks to you as soon as your foot reaches the top step?

Another accusation made against me is that all I ever do is go on my computer. Well, unfortunately, for the first few months that I was home, and for that unspeakable period of slight depression in mid-April, this was quite true. I have since however learned to do other things to occupy my time. Lately I have come by some very good books, some of which would take me hours to put down. Last week I was able to buy some more paint-by-numbers, thus enabling me to practice my painting again. My violin continues to show off its glory, sitting on top of its case, and of course my writing, musings, and drawing has considerably doubled.

This is why my room constantly looks as if a tornado passed by. When I get into an artistic state of mind, all other cares and worries of life - food, cleanliness, society - pass from my mind, and all I can focus on is the deep satisfaction and joy I achieve from these simple hobbies.

I recall my teenage years. I often spent my hours - and they were many, believe me! - sitting on my bed or floor, eyes closed in a deep reverie, listening to some very enjoyable music. It was usually violin or fiddle music, and I was really imagining myself as the lead violinist. I still do that. Only now, while I listen to music, I can put my thoughts into words, and the words into blogs. Ok, so not all of my musings and thoughts are beneficial for all of mankind. But it is a hobby, and a rather enjoyable one at that.

Nobody laughs at or accuses a stamp-collector, a scrap-booker, a photographer, or a rock-painter, of being "lazy" or "unproductive". And if they do, they shouldn't. All people need some kind of escape from the real world, a place or a thing in which they can unleash their imaginations and show the world what they are capable of doing. Some work better alone in well-decorated studios, some prefer rooms full of noisy people, some prefer the outdoors.

I prefer my bedroom, thank you very much.