we're all onions.

According to some, the chopping of onions results in tears, but not the emotional type.

They are supposedly called reflex tears. The glands above our eyelids regulate the realease of tears and the 'external irritant' triggers nerve ending which, as a result, stimulate the production of tears to flush away the irritant (onion).

I chopped an onion tonight. It was white. It was fresh, it smelled delicious. And, to no surprise, I cried.

The tears I cried were - just as experts say - not the emotional type.

But it felt nice to cry anyway. It's so strange how that can be. How can it feel good to cry? How can showing your vulnerability feel nice? I'd think it would be anything BUT nice. To the contrary however, sometimes what we need is a good cry.

A 'your eyes are so puffy you can hardly see, you stagger to catch your breath and all you taste is salt on your cheeks' kind of cry.

Crying scares some people. It shouldn't. It should mean that you aren't afraid to let everything go.

Sunshine days

Keep your face always towards the sunshine - and shadows will fall behind you.

I had the day off and went for a long bike ride in the sun. It was breezeless, stormless, waveless and windless. It was perfect.

Here's to the ignoring the elephant in the room

I posted this photo a few days ago with the intent on writing a story beside it, explaining what exactly is going on. I just haven't found the time yet to do it.

I took this picture last Sunday downtown. The whole city is crazy with Olympic fever right now, and everywhere you look people are wearing Canada T-shirts and having their faces painted, or dancing in the streets. It's a giant, two-week long party and I just happen to be a part of it.

So is Sylvain Mameu, the man holding up the sign that reads, "food". He is a small part of the Olympics... though, perhaps he should be representing a very large part.

Poverty in Vancouver is at its worst, and while protesters have done everything they can to get media, the IOC (International Olympic Committee) and government to recognize the larger issue, it is repeatedly put on the back burner as corporations swim in a pool filled with money.

I'm not cynical about the Olympics. On the contrary, I think Vancouver is doing an amazing job and I think the city vibe has never been more exciting. I just find it really sad that the majority of people don't take the time to smile, talk or even drop a quarter into this man's hat to help him out, especially seeing as the system is designed for him to fail.

Sylvain told me that he wasn't always homeless. He moved to Vancouver and raised his children here, he lived in Horseshoe Bay, he worked. And then it just... happened. His hands are cramped and aching with arthritis, his teeth are rotting out, and his body seems so frail that it could break in two at any second. He said to me that if a man doesn't feed his dog or cat, he is charged with animal cruelty and can even face jail time. And yet, here the government is, neglecting its own people right down to the core.

Is that cruelty to humans? If we have the resources (which we most certainly do, having spent $6 billion on the 2010 Olympics), and we have the knowledge, why does it seem like such a challenging task to create homes and programs for these people to help get them off the street?

I don't really understand it, but it makes me sad. Really, because I as one person can't do anything about it. I can't bring him home, and help get him on his feet. All I can do is smile, and take a photo of him on this street, and embarrass him as he gets down on his knees and begs for change.

wow.

I have been working 10-hour days. My sister made me dinner tonight. It was nice to have someone to come home to. I'm tired.

I think I've had a good day.

Today, this is what happened:

I woke up, drank a cup of tea, and studied for my midterm.

I received an email from Fernando Carneiro, managing editor at Metro News Vancouver. He asked if I had an interest in reporting for the Olympics. If so, to give him a call.

I wrote my midterm at 12. I aced it.

I called Fernando at 1:30. Spoke with him about my work, my experience (of which I have a great deal, but none in daily news publishing). I referred him to my website.

I went for lunch with my prof and another student. I had my first glass of beer in a long time. It was delicious.

I just caught my bus in the nick of time on my way back to Richmond.

I went to my night class, which, despite recent negativity, went fairly well.

I received a phone call, from Fernando. "We'd like you to come work for us for the Olympics."

Extreme excitement, anxiety, nervousness, more excitement, overtakes my life. At this point in my day, things are great.

I arrive home. There are two packages waiting for me, plus two cupcakes covered in chocolate icing from my landlords.

One package has specific instructions: do not open until Feb. 14. It is from Ben. I have not opened it.

The other package: from mom and dad, with the words "Keep up the good work" written on the outside. Inside: 12 delicious homemade zuchini muffins, a chocolate heart, peanut butter cups, and two packages of Brown's Famous beef jerky.

I think I've had a good day.

onboard the procrastination station

Sometimes I believe I have seasonal affective disorder. That is, I avoid doing all means of work because of the weather.

Then again, I think that is just a poor excuse to disguise the fact that I procrastinate. Badly.

I have a midterm tomorrow. I haven't studied. I mean, I look at the notes I've made, 14 pages to be exact, all typed in appealing font so as not to deter me, but the words sort of blend together in a nonsensical way, and I have no desire to blatantly stare at them, again and again.

I blog. I watch movies. I go for a run. I turn on the tv. I eat dinner. I blog again. I take pictures of my bike. I call my boyfriend. I call my mom and dad. i call my sister. I watch another movie.

It's exhausting.

Our Deepest Fear

Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate.

Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure.

It is our light, not our darkness, that most frightens us.

We ask ourselves, Who am I to be brilliant,

gorgeous, handsome, talented and fabulous?

Actually, who are you not to be?

Your playing small does not serve the world.

There is nothing enlightened about shrinking

so that other people won't feel insecure around you.

We are all meant to shine, as children do.

It is not just in some; it is in everyone.

And, as we let our own light shine, we consciously give

other people permission to do the same.

As we are liberated from our fear,

our presence automatically liberates others.

Poor little Raleigh

My poor little Raleigh... she has been sitting quietly in the corner of the car port, day after day, night after night, in the rain, or the sun, waiting patiently for the day when I come outside and take her for a ride.

Unfortunately, life has not been flexible in meeting Raleigh's needs. Life has instead consumed all the time I would much rather be spending cruising on her seat, heading down to Steveston village, with my camera in her basket.

Even her back wheel, from lack of use, has become weak and could use a few pumps of air to fill the big void she must be feeling from not being enjoyed. Don't worry little Raleigh, I will ride you soon, I promise. Especially if the next week's forecast is correct - 6 days of sunshine, with 10 degree weather.

Keep your chain crossed, Raleigh, and I will cross my fingers, and soon we will bicycle off together.

Missing the most.

The fresh air, I miss the most.

Cold, harsh wind against my face, at high places

like this.

Places where the view, like the waves on the ocean, goes on forever in mountain ranges.

I miss home. On nights like this, would give

anything

to sit on that rock, in the summer sun.

Feel the heat warm my skin.

Sitting in the clouds of home.

spell check, please!

I'm becuming one of those peeple that Konstantly is ofended when others can not spel properley.

Chocolate is spelled with an E.

you are is you're, not your.

Awesome, is not awsome.

Maybe it's the journalist in me, or maybe it's just something that isn't too hard to do. Or maybe I'm a prude. huh.