Dreams and Things

Dear Diary,

I don't like it when people tell me things are going to be OK. Things aren't OK. Just because they think so doesn't mean it'll actually happen. It's only wishful thinking. 

People shouldn't give you dreams so that you can see them disintegrate as time goes by. It's not giving hope to push forward. It's torture. It's inhuman. It's sadist. 

And people can tell you that you're allowed to wish for anything you want, or go anywhere you want, and then when you get super excited for something, tell you your dreams are all wrong and that you need to go back to the drawing board of your life. 
It's not fair.

'Cause life is always fair right?

Thought so.

The Bus Chronicles: Ron Weasley

I met Ron Weasley on the bus Friday. He had graying hair. What am I saying...his hair was as white as printing paper. I was astounded: where had his signature ginger mane gone? Anyhow, he seemed entranced by his computer tablet protected by a deteriorating red velvet cover. He wore average brown men shoes, beige corduroy pants and a pale, slime green winter coat. He had a comical expression on his face, a face Steve Carell or Steve Martin would wear. (Maybe he should change his name to Steve?) He was however, not in a laughing mood; actually, his demeanor was quite serious. Whatever was going on the tablet's screen was of capital importance, since his eyes were glued and he ignored the coming and going of strangers on the bus, and the slow humming of a dying engine. His virtual world was so magical, I'm surprised he didn't miss his stop. Maybe he did. As I left one of my favorite fictive friends from childhood on the 36A, I wondered if, as I had grown too mature and haughty for such ridiculous stories as Harry Potter, if Ron Weasley, the best friend and awkward side-kick, had ever grown up to reach his full potential and rid himself of the shadow of his much more important (Harry did slay Voldemort -- "He-WHO-SHALL- NOT-BE-NAMED!! *gasp*)   best friend. Or maybe, the electric pulses his brain was analyzing faster than he could realize was his only escape from a world where he'd always be the Beta, the Second in command, the first of the losers. Mister #2.

Hands

I've always wondered what it would be like to be loved by rugged hands. Hands that had worked under sunshine and rain showers, with love for the job during the good times and doubling energy and care during the bad. They would belong to someone as confident as they were on the field. They would know of hard times yet still understand the mechanics of tenderness. 
Hands with short nails, thicker skin and who often get dirty.
Hands with hardened palms, but whose fingertips still know the ecstasy of touch.  

The Bus Chronicles: Daniel

My weekend was pretty good, starting with a nice surprise party that left my friend H pissing his pants (he was really surprised), and a Church concert thing (urgh) because my Mom is kind of devout, and some Bishop was going to be there too. And then I had to rush, late as I was, to my friend's directing debut in a play. (I was only able to catch the last 15 minutes. The theatre, a school auditorium, is tiny and everyone heard the fucking door open as I tip-toed my way to a backseat.)

As you can probably imagine, I was annoyed, tired and mostly annoyed as I tried to find my way back to the nearest subway station. I hopped on a streetcar and read a book I had brought along and next thing I know this announcement comes on:

PLEASE EXIT THE STREETCAR AT THE NEXT STOP.

THIS STREETCAR WILL BE SHORT TURNING SOON.

And in my mind, I've murdered the driver a few times. Why couldn't he just finish the job and GET ME TO THE STATION?!!? So, I'm left stranded on a street corner, in cold weather a Saturday night with the only other passenger left. So I did, what people normally do in such situations. I started talking to the guy.

Turns out he had just dropped off his Girlfriend at home (awwwww --- tooo bad -___- ) and was on his way home too. Then I learned he was a fouth year student, majoring in Biochemistry and Neurosciences at the University of Toronto. WHAT?!?!

So we had a nice conversation about math, and physics, and how you need to persevere if you want to make it. Also, not to feel bad if you decide this load of math, physics, chemistry and other unpleasant scientific studies just isn't for you. 

Finally, he warned me against the thing that hurts the most during your first year in post-secondary education: if you thought you were smart before, get ready to have your ass served to you on a silver platter by an Asian that can do EVERYTHING better than you.

Great, just great... hahah

P.S. : Though I am portraying a stereotype, I would like to remind you that it is a positive one. Being smart is a good thing. Now, read that again, and try to convince yourself there is such a thing as a "positive stereotype". That's a dangerous way of thinking. That's like saying "positive racism" or "positive rape" (==> Mitt Romney, anyone?) 

The Fifth Member

While helping my Mom with her homework (I know, that sounds weird, right? My English is better than hers -- but you didn't hear it from me :P) I rediscovered an old favorite band, composed of 3 kids who don't even average 20 years in age.

They mostly spread the word of their music through their Facebook page, or word to mouth. Word to ear? Never mind.

Anyhow, it's been a while since I listened, and now I've realized they have new songs and I'm OVER THE MOOON!! Of course Britain does it better than everyone else... I mean, they're probably younger than Justin Bieber, but their sound is ten times older and better developed. As a young adult very much interested in the Arst, especially music, it warms my heart to see youngsters play and not go for the Teletubbies look.

Enjoy!

Here's their myspace: http://www.myspace.com/fifthmembermusic

Their second EP coming out soon!!

The Bus Chronicles: Wise Photographer

He sits in the corner
Closest to the opening
Towards the stars

It's cold: his layers prove it
Jean dress shirt, plaid sweater, tweed jacket

What a hipster
This wise photographer

Red colored pants
Nice blue shoes
Personality of many hues

A camera around his neck
A Dollarama bag filled with wires
That interwove with his deeper desires
Of future glory
And wise story

On a downtown bus
On a cold Sunday night

Art

No, I'm not going to do a dissertation on art. I'm going to see the Yasmina Reza play called "Art".

Last scheduled presentation tonight at Gabrielle Roy.

It's in French with English subtitles and the director is a good friend.

Hopefully I'm there on time!!

http://www.torontoartsonline.org/Events/Theatre/2012/ART-by-Yasmina-Reza-directed-by-Jean-Nicolas-Masson