Daffnee

To all the Jugo Juice fans out there: skip the wheatgrass.

Of all the verbs that mean to separate into parts or pieces, like 'crack', 'burst', or 'shatter', the most general one must be "break". To "break up" is a bit more complicated, but it's pretty obvious it means to separate, to go different ways.

I'm finding that going my separate way looks a lot like the way things were going before.

Words don't do the human experience justice.

I have an accursed small mouth and non-drinking parents (not accursed), with whose powers combined make me a very awkward element at professional luncheons.

Gordon and Denise at Sierra were kind enough to take me and Kirstie (Christie? Kirsten?), another Foundations keener, to lunch yesterday. I'm grateful for that part, no doubt -- I don't usually order $9 burgers for lunch or get books on environmental law every day of the week -- but I think the entire meal just reinforced how little I like alcohol and red crushed velvet.

The place was Honey, next to Wild Rice and across from Tinseltown, in that area I usually ignore in favour of Hon's and steamed buns further down the street. It's done up in dark wood, crushed velvet, lounge chairs and overstuffed pillows. I felt like I should have been gambling, smoking, and/or serving opium to the disillusioned masses. And to compound the aie-factor, all three of my Caucasian acquaintances ordered martinis. At 12:30 PM.

Ordering iced tea never felt so rude. Realising that I had only finished half my burger when everyone else was near done didn't help much either. (Accursed small mouth! It's the reason I can't smile with teeth, too.)

These people "work to live", as opposed to "live to work". I was surprised, actually -- I always expected that people working with non-profits would have some kind of near-religious zeal for the causes they're supporting, but hardly so; these guys do what they need to do and take off for a week to go ice-climbing.

Maybe that was the truly alien part. I grew up idolizing people who made their work their lives, or had the two so intertwined that they were nearly inseparable. My dad, for one -- he rarely talks about work, but I could never separate what he did from who he was. The reams of people on the street that recognised him kind of reinforced that, too. It's inconceivable to me that someone could choose a line of work for nothing more than income, and spend their lives doing other things.

As for the awkward part, I think this New York thing carries more buzz on its own than anything I have to add to it. Ch/Kirsty's going to law school too, in Victoria, but it seemed like the entire office knew about me -- weird, because the only other person I talk to besides Gordon would be Tina, the legal secretary. Weirder when Denise starts introducing me to new people as "This is Daphne. She's going to law school in New York. Her residence is in Greenwich Village."

Not quite the resume I was hoping for.

There were some good times at Buntzen Lake Sunday morning with the CSP crowd (and one unexpected non-CSPer), though you probably can't tell through the dust and parking lot setting. I've learned my lesson: if you want to get people to drive for 45 minutes out of the city and work up a sweat, words like "home-made hamburgers" work really well as bait.

I'm itching to write another anti-Honger rant, but you can probably fill in the blanks yourself by looking at the above photo. If not, contact me directly and I'll give you the full brunt of my vitriol against that particular demographic.

But talk about crash-socializing! The hike/bbq party didn't wrap up until 4 (I did actually have to kick them out -- rude, but necessary), and then it was the SPYO crew down at Granville Island. I keep forgetting how much I love these wonderful people; I don't see them enough, but on the upside, that makes each eventual encounter that much more fun.

Isn't that the strongest argument in favour of pessimists? That we expect the worst to happen so that every time it doesn't, it comes as a pleasant surprise?

It's like pulling teeth to get me to spend more time than necessary with most people, but these smurfs can get me to overlook my own good judgement and talk my heart out over dishes of sugar. They're scattering to the wind too, just like too many other people -- a testament to their intrinsic value, I think.

On a completely unrelated note, I just got my first law school assignment -- a 22-page reading for the orientation discussion panels before school even starts. Funny what galvanizes you into being excited again!

There's that happy place in the life of a set of car brakes, early enough that there's no chance of squeaking in the forseeable future, and worn just so slowing down doesn't mean a sharp jerk and apologies all around. I think I hit that sweet spot a few days ago, and things are wearing down a bit fast now.

This week's my last at the arts camp -- I'm with the 7 to 12-year-olds, who are smart and quiet but noticeably less cute than the kiddies I had from before. (Translation: it's hard to get motivated to work with them.) The bigger problem comes from the mad moment I had last weekend when I decided that for all the times that people say we should "get together" we never do, and that the true meaning of "if you want something done you should do it yourself" is that Daphne ought to plan a ridiculous number of activities for THIS weekend. So it looks like I'm supposed to tutor, hike, and have meals with 3 different groups of people in the span of 2 days.

Did I mention I don't really consider myself a people person?

Compounding the awkwardness -- yes! it's possible! -- my future roomie RaShelle decided to take some initiative herself and gave me a call. I hope she wasn't wanting to make the call really short, because my low EQ means I can't tell when people are trying to escape, but it was neat to talk to someone in the same spiralling boat after staring at the approaching waves for so long. She seems nice. A little iffy on things like public transit, but she found my desire to go to the Republican National Convention amusing and said she'd come along.

Come to think of it, I don't know if she actually IS a Republican. But then again, perhaps 'tis better not to know.

The makeshift shelter was as an oven,
Sparked firstly by a godly eye above
And again from more mortal ones below,
As our attention, fixed as an arrow
Veering wildly off its mark, did concede
That these overwrought actors' words do be
Those penned by that not unknown English Bard.

Here be promises, that simple coin can
Buy some hours' worth of quick enlightenment,
Or that words keep their straight and narrow path
Better than those who survive, who translate
These echoes from a time gone and somewhat
Embarassing. Here lie promises' fruit,
Withered under the weight of ugly wool.

They scream, they stamp, these impersonators
Of the living. Breathing through masks, speaking
Dead sounds, they ring with an empty wisdom.
Come, songs of the Bard, pluck from me some faith.
Not from these dolls, insults to the child
Finding herself in their plastic eyes; but
From decent words and their defenders, deeds.

Guess who's getting nerd glasses? If there are any huge objections out there, I'd like to hear it -- I actually have until Tuesday to decide.

For the record, the model name of the above is "Tube Top".

Pretty pictures a la Dan.

One would think that having gotten over that phase in childhood when my sister and I had very distinct and opposite roles -- I built towers out of wooden blocks, and she pushes them over -- that there'd be almost no sense of competition left. Ha.
 
My dentist uncle is firmly set against volunteering, which he likes to remind me of during annual cleanings, but there are always perks: the t-shirts, the kids, the little gifts. Yesterday was Body Shop soap from Hazel, the Drawing & Painting teacher; today it was Alyssa (or Alyssa's mum, who can tell?) with her handwritten card and Ferrero Rochers today, which I was thrilled with. I'd post some pictures of the kids' music classes,  but the last thing I need is for Dan to boot me off his server for racking up too many hits from unclean surfers.
 
Back to the gripe. My sister's been volunteering at the SFU summer camps for a few years now, mostly with older kids, and she, of course, comes back with a sack of Purdy's and -- the cruelest cut of all -- a $20 Starbucks card.
 
Even the drug companies only give $10. And she doesn't even like coffee.
 
Is this irrational? Juvenile? Petty? Hell yes. I seethe inwardly because of it, while she works up an inferiority complex. Isn't it strange, that in this tightest of nuclear families that the assault should come from within. 
 

Kids are great. They're small enough that you can pick them up and put them out of your way, impressionable enough that they take you seriously when you warn that bonking one's head results in a permanent loss of brain cells, and don't even mind holding hands with me. What's more, I am now indispensable as a Thermos-bottle opener at lunch time.

To someone who doesn't know, Alyssa seems like your generic, pint-sized Chinese six-year-old. She asks -- incessantly -- everyone she meets when their birthdays are, has a ridiculous amount of energy and tries to read everything in sight, including the book you're holding or a teacher's attendance list. If she wasn't so cute, she'd be a nuisance. It's funny how a label like "high-functioning autism" can excuse all that, and endear her to me as much it has.

Alyssa is my charge for her two weeks at summer camp. At her best, she is as quick as a whip (with pretty amazing math and language skills -- how many six-year-olds would call at teenage volunteer a "young employee"?); other times, it's hard to get her to stop asking the same question for an hour. She's fascinating, really. All I'm supposed to do is keep her out of trouble, but half the time I consider letting her just run amok because she seems to be having so much fun.

I wonder what it's like, inside her head. Her inability to focus makes it hard for her to function inside structured lessons and things that take patience, but the things that distract her somehow seem logical; she'll stop printmaking to tell me that we should get some water to clean off some dried paint, or leave her dance class to check out the CD player after the music changes. My mother always remarked that I was the kind of kid that wouldn't look up from her reading even if there was a fire raging, and here's a girl that's probably the polar opposite of that. And I love her! Perhaps that's the funniest part. These little kids have no malice, and no avarice. It doesn't surprise me that, in Chaucer's time, the only people to get direct entrance into heaven were thought to be children under the age of 7.

In any case, I get to start my day off tomorrow dancing with kindergarteners. Things could be a lot worse.

I met the most extraordinary kid at my sister's grad on Tuesday.

His name's Alex. I had heard about Alex, on and off, mostly because his last name is unusual enough to stick in one's mind (it's German), and he surfaces at a lot of the events my sister manages to corral people into at school. When I met him at the dinner, he seemed like the kind of guy that would manage to hold onto a girlfriend after one of them has gone on to university -- nice, funny, sweet, easygoing.

The thing with Alex is that he has no parents. He was apparently raised by his single mom, who passed away from cancer when he was twelve; after a short stint living with a teacher, he's managed to hold down his own fort while becoming a genuinely well-liked, well-adjusted and all-round great guy. He has no income, no family, and yet he's made as good -- if not better -- than the rest of his already above-average classmates.

What a selfish little brat I've been, letting myself wallow in bitterness. And how inadequately celebrated Alex is, for everything that he has done and will do.