Month: April 2016

WHy do I always NEed A Title for THese things?

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Me in a café on a rainy morning. Do I scream WRITER yet?

My phone is always on silent. I hate the way the entire continent shakes when it vibrates. Scares the hell out of me. My ringtone is a quacking duck, I don’t know why. It went off in the middle of lecture once, during a screening, when the entire auditorium was silent. I ran out before anyone could call animal control.

I’ve probably missed out on a hundred job interviews for not picking up my phone. I’ve definitely missed out on a thousand potential friendships. I’m not very good at keeping close friends. I need alone time, all the time.

When I do check my phone and see I’ve got a text, my heart drops—what now. I love my friends, I do, I’m just stupid. All I do is tag people in cat videos on Instagram. Share dumb memes through Twitter. Sometimes I say yes to lunch dates and it’s always a good time—why don’t I do that more? (Stupid)

A social life is never in the equation when school’s in session. Not because I have a lot to do—I write all my essays the night before they’re due. I watch House M.D. on Netflix and find that I relate to Dr. House more than I should. I guess I’m just not very good at the whole human relationships thing.

My friends text me, “So excited to see you!” and I can’t share that excitement. They say, “I miss you!” and I feel nothing. That makes me sound like a terrible person. I’m trying to be better. I’m under constant construction. Kind of like summers in Canada.

Speaking of stupid, there’s another exam I should be studying for. I love English and I enjoy writing a good essay, but I’m really not in the mood to compare five texts and how they critique gender as a social construct. I really, really don’t care.

(I sound like a balding alcoholic who’s lost all his friends and family and spends all his nights at a dingy little downtown bar. I’ll be back to my usual self after this exam, I’ll talk to you then, my dear constant reader from India. BTW, how’s your wifi signal there?)

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BLOGGING > STUDYING

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Photo courtesy of Google

My cinema studies exam is tomorrow and I thought I could just wing it. WRONG. I go to university now, exams are SERIOUS SHIT. I emailed my TA (who looks just like Seth Rogen) which topics I should focus on while studying, and he replies with, “What you’re less confident with, as well as attending to the major themes and topics of the course.” In other words, “everything and everything.” Thanks for the help, doppelganger Rogen.

Cumulative exams are the worst. Hopefully in the future final exams are replaced with brain-scanners that calculate the exact percentage of a student’s overall understanding of the course material—although that would entail an invasion of privacy. If they scanned my brain to see what I gained from a year of analyzing films, they’d just see the back of some kid’s head—I always sat in the last row (so it’s easier to escape).

I mean cinema studies is so boooring. What will knowing, “1950s modernism wore ‘art’ rather than ‘reality’ on its sleeve” do for anyone in the long run? I’ll gladly write a final essay on the importance of feminism in film instead of memorizing the definitions for ‘diegesis’ and ‘evidentiary editing’. If I wanted to know the difference between the various focal lengths, I’d take a hands on film course. Being a walking dictionary isn’t going to turn any of us into the next Steven Spielberg. At least give us some explosives, that way we can aspire to be Michael Bay.

With that being said, I’m going to go memorize some terms now.

“Hitchcock, master of suspense.”

“Lily, aspiring dictionary.” Nice.

I Skipped Class Again

04.01.2016 – 12:11 PM

Scrawled on the back of a to-do list

Someone slit open the belly of a bloated cloud. Light poured from its wound, a pool of white on the blue-grey lake. There was a couple sitting by the rocks, shoulder to shoulder. I imagined what it must have been like, surrounded by miles of silence. The last two people on Earth. My focal point you, your focal point me. The rest of the world a blur. The clouds, the light, the lake, the calm.

I didn’t think I’d be able to share my calm. Shoulder to shoulder, hearts in the wind. I’d rush to fill the silence with a blunder of syllables, trip over my tongue.

I wanted to swim to that pool of light. To dive beneath its icy folds, where my body leaves no shadow.

Leave my solitude. This is my pool of light, pool of hope.

A girl once taught me about “grounding”

(I can’t remember who I’m supposed to be)

You list the first colours you see, the first sounds you hear.

(I write to discover who I am)

Yellow. Yellow. Black. Red. Yellow.

Red licorice stripes on the floor.

Ben Hanscom. Red licorice.

Where did my friends go?

They don’t exist here, where our bodies have shadows.

(I don’t remember who I’m supposed to be)

Green. Brown. White. Purple.

Pages flipping. Someone coughing. Footsteps.

Breathing —

Does that belong to me?

List the things around you when your focus starts to blur.

Blue, white, that pool of light.

I pour my thoughts onto this page; light from a wound.

The clouds are so heavy this morning.

(This is who I am)