Book 13

All Quiet on the Western Front by Erich Maria Remarque

With all this time on my hands I at least get the chance to knock off some books on my "25 Before I'm 25" list. All Quiet on the Western Front is a classic in itself, a little peak inside the soldier's trials at war, and it is a book I can't recommend enough to those who haven't had the chance to study World War One. I took a European history course last fall and it was incredibly insightful, and this book just open's up the most important thing to be understood about any war: that it was old men talking and young men dying.

The protagonist, an 18-year-old German soldier barely an adult, is thrust into the war with the Germans, fighting against Britain and France, but continually questions what exactly he and his commerades are fighting for. He writes with such vivid detail the blasts felt from a hand grenade, the hunger in the soldier's belly, the brown, torn earth.

In particular, some favourite excerpts from All Quiet on the Western Front are the ones that give the reader an idea of war. On page 114 he describes the ferociousness the soldiers embrace, transforming "into murderers, into God only knows what devils; this wave that multiplies our strength with fear and madness and greed of life, seeking and fighting for nothing but our deliverance. If your own father came over with them you would not hesitate to fling a bomb at him."

We are so fortunate a generation to not be forced to fight for our country. Later still he writes this, my favourite: "I am young, I am twenty years old; yet I know nothing of life but despair, death, fear, and fatuous superficiality cast over an abyss of sorrow. I see how peoples are set against one another and, in silence, unknowingly, foolishly, obediently, innocently slay one another" (p. 263).

Please read this!

sleeping on the balcony after class.

There are certain milestones in life that one cannot simply ignore, milestones that bring about a certain amount of feeling of accomplishment. I believe graduating with a degree is one such milestone, and it often goes unacknowledged, but in truth, it is a huge task concluded.                                                         I don't often post photos of myself on my blog, and if I do they usually involve being with friends, or are taken for an artistic purpose. Generally, unless one wants to become entirely self-absorbed, I discourage self-indulgent posts. But I will post my graduation picture. Why? Because I feel like I've done something that I need to commend myself for. I don't say this selfishly, and I don't by any means mean to gloat. But there are certain things one cannot avoid feeling pride for. Graduating with a degree is my "certain thing."

So, for the last five years (technically four, but a year off in between makes it five), I have learned how to write, how to develop stories that the public will care about. I've interviewed a woman who was 101-years-old, I've met Olympic athletes, I've seen the cursor on my word document flash on and off as I try to decipher how it is I am going to write what others will hopefully read. It's a huge challenge. At times I've felt vulnerable, incompetent. I have questioned, "Is this what I want to do for the rest of my life?" I've made mistakes, crammed for papers due in eight hours, received criticisms I'd rather avoid, cried at my desk, pulled at my hair. But I've learned that I am capable. 

To be capable is to be independent, to be able to jump in head first even if you aren't quite sure what you're jumping into is a pool of water or a pile of boulders. It's taking risks, throwing yourself out there to editors and instructors and publications and hoping that what you get in return is a warm greeting, a "we'd like to publish your story," but understanding that the response may not be what you'd hoped. It's having the confidence to pick yourself up off the ground and jump right back in.

If I've learned anything, it's that you can do whatever it is you want, if you just apply yourself to do it. So, I finished school late April - it's May 9 - I'm unemployed. I have a few dollars to get me through, I am sitting on my couch going stir crazy that I don't have a job. But I refuse to settle for the minimum wage job, for the routine that is stocking shelves or making frappuccinos, for a job you hate going to every day. I've applied myself. I submitted a paper to The Tyee, I applied for a reporter/photographer position at Metro. I'm sitting here, crossing my fingers, saying secret prayers, that it will work out.

I went to school so that I could enjoy my work. I don't plan on giving that up anytime soon. 

smiling in bright lights.

All it takes is an adventure through the snow-packed woods with a few old friends, and suddenly you feel beautiful. Man, I wish I was beautiful (love Counting Crows). Photos of mountains are great, but sometimes we need photos of ourselves.

We all want something beautiful.

My friend Andrea, pictured above, came through to Fernie today from Manitoba. She's a truly dedicated friend who would literally go out of her way to see you, even if only for a few hours. And she's a photographer, so the three of us went out and snapped some shots at the Hosmer mine ruins.

"She's looking at you. Ah, no, no, she's looking at me."

It's been a great few days in Fernie, and spending the afternoon with friends on my last day here was truly so wonderful. We fell, Renee crash-landed in the snow, and we sunk up to our knees with freezing toes. The dye in my shoes ran into my white socks when we were done. But we are goof balls, and being goof balls is the only way to be.

When everybody loves you, you can never be lonely.

Having a timer on your camera also helps. I really try to avoid sentimentality when I blog, because readers don't usually indulge in it, but it's days like this that I simply cannot avoid it. I love my friends, and I love seeing them through the lens of my camera.

Dreadlocks can be so beautiful.

So, tomorrow it's back to Van-City and in search of a real job. But now, with degree done, I feel an entirely different feeling that I had prior to finishing school. A sense of relief, a sense of fun, and huge change.

I've been through the Rockies

Fernie is, and has always been, my favourite place. Having visited less and less each year, I sometimes forget the absolute amazingness of it, and now when I come home I try to absorb it all through the lens of my camera. I'd like to think I've done a good job of that.                                                                   The geology around Fernie is incredible. Just east of the town onwards to Alberta is the Crowsnest Pass, home to a slew of uplifted mountainous terrain. These were taken from near the Crowsnest Lake, the second mountain being Crowsnest Mountain and the third being Tecumseh Mountain (black and white photograph).                                             I've never hiked any of these particular mountains, and that is an odd fact, but I suppose when you are surrounded by something you don't truly appreciate its beauty. Hopefully, when I can really spend some time exploring, I'll be able to make my way up their ridges and provide photos from their peaks. 

The purpose of me posting these is to just give those of you who do follow my blog, but who have not yet been to Fernie (or anywhere else in B.C. for that matter), a taste of what you are missing. It is so refreshing to be outside and away from the city lights, the traffic, the hospital noise and the shopping, and instead hearing the birds chirping outside my window. 

I can see the stars at night here. And I don't mean the most prominent stars like the big dipper, but even the smallest ones that sparkle when the sky is black.

Poplar trees and deer and elk and coyotes and quiet. I always talk about how quiet it is when I come back, and I think it's because there's a calmness that encompasses that quiet. It's something that is missing from life.

March 6.

Truly wonderful the mind of a child is. The little man, Caleb Guy Frayn. 

We share a birthday, so it's special.

Book 12

The Picture of Dorian Gray by Oscar Wilde

I was excited to read this book, thinking it a classic by the notorious Oscar Wilde. But, I was instead introduced to what I consider a poor attempt at transforming a play into a novel. I made it to page 92 - halfway through - and had to put it down. There was very little showing of the individual characters, and an entirety of telling.

This novel was the only one Wilde ever did, as he was more known for his position as a playwright. And while the idea of a man who wishes to remain young forever, and in greed commits numerous sins, which are then reflected in his self image, is an incredible idea, there was not enough pizazz within this novel to enlighten me.

I found myself skipping through sentences instead of truly being absorbed within them. And the story offered the truly sexist and misogynistic views of men in the late 19th century, which (while I can embrace differences of that time) had me rolling my eyes. Thus, I made a wholehearted attempt to read it, and then put it back on the shelf.

Linkages.

Sometimes the best things in life don't involve messages,
They don't involve plans and collaborations and serious contemplations.
But involve spontaneous gatherings and smiles,
And unexpected laughter and discussion.
They involve meeting with old friends, whom you haven't seen in years,
Upon seeing them one feels a certain connection,
That one lacks with others.

Her eyes are wild.

I want to express my love for freckles. 

The thing about running..

The thing about running is... unless you're actually doing it, you are convinced it's the most tiresome activity, the most tedious and dreary way to get into shape.

The thing about running is... it's only ever really worth it if you have some great music to coax you through what feels like the never-ending trip down the street, through the park, and home again.

The thing about running is... you always think you are running fast, until someone who is also running passes you. Then, you just want to walk.

The thing about running is... if you forget to do it, for days, weeks, or even months, the first time you try to do it again, it feels like you've lost all your pizzaz, all that jump in your step. Your legs feel weak, as though they can't go any further.

The thing about running is... you have a goal, and no matter how hard you run, how fast you run, how long you run, you never quite seem to reach it.

BUT! The most important thing about running is, when you actually do it, with motivating music (or none at all), and when you can feel the sweat beading down your back, and off your forehead, and when you can feel your legs burning with how hard you are pushing them, it is actually pretty amazing.

Not for how far you run, how fast you leap or how long you last, but just knowing you are doing it. And afterwards, you have a legitimate reason to shower.

Moral of the story? Must. Run. More.

Book 11

The Poisonwood Bible by Barbara Kingsolver

I have a general rule when it comes to reading. If I'm not entirely encapsulated by the book or novel within 100 pages, I put it back on the shelf and move on. But, but page 100 of The Poisonwood Bible, I had already learned so much about life in the Congo, I had forgotten about my rule.

This novel (and I say novel hesitantly, because novels are works of fiction, and I wish that The Poisonwood Bible were based on some true tale), follows five women: daughters Rachel, Leah, Adah, Ruth May, and mother Orleanna, as they grudgingly venture on a mission into the Congo jungle with there less-than-acceptable religious preacher father, Nathan Price. The author is able to tell the story where each individual chapter is from the point of view of one of the five girls, and she manages to make each of their 'voices' differently - different attitudes, different believes. I caught myself favouring with one particular sister over the other, and couldn't wait until the next chapter began.

In the most generalized summary, the novel shows the Congo in the heat of religious imperialism, where the Price family attempts to 'save' Congo people from their evil ways, and results in the fall of Father Price instead, who turns on his family, his daughters, and his wife. The author integrates historical evidence from that time into the story, relates it to the Price's demise, and manages to carry it through to the last chapter.

My favourite protagonist? Adah. The twin sister who kept quiet under the assumption that she could not talk, limped behind the rest of her sisters under the assumption that she could not walk, and, in the end, surpassed all the four sisters in success and establishment in her experience in the Congo. She wholeheartedly has no belief in God or christianity, and considering the circumstances, this is not at all surprising.

She continually questioned her father's authority, and tells about when she questioned a God that condemned people based on the colour of the skin or where they were born. She was put on her knees to pray for her soul and, when she gets up, says: "When I finally got up with sharps grains imbedded in my knees, I found, to my surprise, that I no longer believed in God."

All in all, it was an incredibly knowledgeable book, one that I would recommend to anyone who has an open mind about religion, Africa, and understanding of cultures unlike our own.