yesterday’s weepy messiness continued through the afternoon, culminating with me accidentally slicing my fingertip on a knife while washing dishes. the ensuing blood and loud swearing made me feel a bit better, as did the event that immediate followed: i got a call from the local college, saying that they’d had a student drop out of the electrical foundation program, and asking if i’d like the spot.
YES.
it starts the first week of august: less than a month from now. holy fuck.
to be clear, i’m elated: while the program doesn’t guarantee me a career as an electrician, it’s a great introduction and also an opportunity to find out if i’d like to pursue the whole apprenticeship-to-journey-ticket adventure. when my spot on the waitlist was confirmed back in may, i was told that it would likely be 8 to 12 months before there’d be room for me. still i was hopeful, because when oats and i attended the college info session back in february, they’d mentioned that there’s often a burst of intakes at the start of august and december, simply because fewer students are ready at those times of year. against the odds, hope wins!
i’m also feeling a mixed sort of sadness. this time last year, on my birthday, i’d made it to the top of the waitlist of canada’s most prestigious urban planning masters program and was awaiting a phone call similar to the one i got yesterday, telling me that i had to get myself packed up and moved to vancouver so that i could begin my new life as a graduate student. that phone call never came. now, i’m very glad that it didn’t because if i’d left i’d never have gotten together with oats, and i wouldn’t have gone to australia, and i wouldn’t have done a lot of other rad stuff that made my 27th year absolutely excellent. aside from that, my professor and mentor at the local university told me that i’d have been eaten alive in that masters program, because they have little room for politics such as mine.
so, really, it all worked out for the best.
and yet it’s a goodbye of sorts, or at least a see-ya-later: to my academic life, to the vision of myself as a future university professor, to the classist notions that have surrounded me as a kid growing up among the intelligentsia. even this morning, when my mom called to say happy birthday and i told her the good news, she made a joke about how this’ll be great because someday i’ll be able to wire my own office at the university where i’ll be a professor. that hurt a bit, because she’s usually the most supportive of any of my parents.
still, i get it: for my parents, going to university was the way out of the working class, and they have worked hard to surround themselves with the accoutrements of a cultured life. they raised me to value books, travel, gardens, art and liberal social justice, and they taught me that it’s more important to work with my brain instead of my body. they have their own baggage around this, as three of them are the first (and only) people in their families to ever have education beyond high school. also, being educational professionals themselves (3 teachers, 1 librarian) and of older generation(s), they have a different idea about what my bachelor’s degree in geography (and indigenous studies!) means: shouldn’t i be able to make a career from that??? i think they honestly don’t understand my reality.
and it probably offends them a little, even though they may never admit it outright.
what i need to work on now is admitting to my own internalized classism. what’s wrong with being an electrician? nothing at all, except that capitalism says it’s not as socially valuable as being a university professor. or a corporate CEO. or a politician. which is stupid. right?
the crazy thing that i’m only just starting to dismantle is that due to my class privilege, i could feasibly be any or all of these things. i have the social cues down pat, can assimilate the vocabulary easily, and can move into these spheres simply based on my physical/cultural resemblance to the status quo. i would be granted permission by the gatekeepers, because i am white and educated and confident.
in a way, me choosing trade school is not a rejection of the privilege my parents provide for me, but a continued acceptance and manipulation of it. i can make this choice easily, because i have so many other options. even as i write this, i’m wary of denying agency and autonomy to working class tradespeople, which isn’t my intention (though… there it is!). i need to understand how my privilege affects my choice to enter the trades, because it can seem almost offensive: i took a graduate level course last fall, and it was incredibly challenging and exhilarating but the critical analysis and deleuzian theory were overwhelming, so i’m going to become an electrician right now, then will likely go to graduate school in another 10 or 20 years. just like that :: snaps fingers ::.
anyway. these are the thoughts that fill my head, and even as they are complicated, i’m happy that they are percolating because it’s giving me a chance to see where i fit in the world.
now, i’ve got to get a million and one things ready for tonight’s birthday party. we had a bad scare last night as oats’ cat plummeted from a 10 foot high ledge and seemed quite injured – an emergency trip to the vet proved otherwise, but i’m glad we made sure even though it shot our evening plans for bbq preparations… that really would have made yesterday more messy than i can handle.
for the past two days, i’ve been in an ongoing argument with cowrie, the central character in the journey home/te haerenga kainga by cathie dunsford (spinifex press, 1997; book 2 in a series). i had to return it to the library tonight before i’d finished reading it, but that may have been a good thing because it was driving me to distraction and i need to focus on getting my shit together for the trip home tomorrow.
honestly, i’m not even sure i like the story at all, but there are so many things bothering me about it in so many complex ways that i just can’t forget about it.
this is probably a sign that it’s a good book, actually.
i want to write more, but need to sleep. for now, all i can say is that i have never spent so much time preoccupied by my whiteness EVER (which, if you know me, you’ll realize is a lot). also, i’m kinda starting to get why the old lesbians get riled up when i refer to them as queer.
i just returned from the library with a massive bag of books! hurrah!
homophobic software “bugs” aside, i really do love this electronic age because of how much it simplifies my access to that great analog joy: a paperback novel.
after the incident a couple days ago, i sat down at my computer and did some research. with the glbtq encyclodia’s excellent page on queer literature in australia and new zealand as a starting point, i then explored the offerings at our books (where they even have a facilitated borrowing system! that’s so great!), and finally, went through the listings from spinifex press. every time i came across an author who’d written a novel about australian queer women, i looked her up in wikipedia, and then public library catalogue itself. after an hour, i’d ordered copies of over a dozen books, most of which were available and so immediately sent to the local library branch.
picking them up this afternoon, i felt very triumphant… but this was quickly tempered by a lingering frustration, because i feel like it should be so much easier than this.
i realize that if this were 20 years ago, i’d be damn lucky to even have found these novels in the first place: yes, that’s true, and i’m grateful to those whose activism has preceding mine. but this isn’t 20 years ago, and i’m an uppity queer brat who has taken her liberal environment for granted, and i’m not prepared to settle for a small pile of books that were difficult to track down.
the local library has informational bookmarks recommending novels for fans of joanna trollope (ugh); how hard would it be to do the same for queer fiction?
rant rant rant.
on to the books! here are the contents of my haul:
- cold fever by lyn denison (1998)
- dreams found by lyn denison (2004)
- always and forever by lyn denison (2006)
- working hot by kathleen mary fallon (1989)
- figments of a murder by gillian hanscombe (1995)
- car maintenance, explosives and love ed. by susan hawthorne, cathie dunsford, and susan sayer (1997)
- all that false instruction by kerryn higgs (1975)
- love upon the chopping board by marou izumo and claire maree (2000)
- darkness more visible by finola moorhead (2000)
i cheated a little, because these are by a new zealander:
- the journey home/te haerenga kainga by cathie dunsford (1997)
- manawa toa/heart warrior by cathie dunsford (2000)
- song of the selkies by cathie dunsford (2001)
- ao toa/earth warriors by cathie dunsford (2004)
i also picked up the conversations of cow (1985) by suniti namjoshi because a) it sounds good, b) she used to teach at the university of toronto, and c) she’s published by spinifex and is partners with australian author gillian hanscombe (from the list above), therefore is associated with australia.
plus, one non-fiction to bump up the nerd factor: cyberfeminism: connectivity, critique and creativity (1999) by susan hawthorne and renate klein. i may be away from the internet for the better part of the next two weeks, but i’ll be reading about it.
in case you’d like to continue getting righteously angry regarding the accessibility of queer books through public institutions (or lack thereof), check out this link that julia posted in the comments of my last entry:
in other news, oats arrives tomorrow morning for a 3 week visit and i’m so excited i can barely talk. eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!
Filed under: Activist, Critic, Feminist, Queer, Reader, Sailor, Scifi Fan, Writer
i like to read. not a shock, i know.
i like to read books from a variety of genres and on variety of topics. in fact, i’ll read just about anything available. when given options, i’m especially fond of science fiction, travelogues by women, non-fiction historical narratives, and how-to manuals.
lately, i’ve been reading about australian history, australian women in antarctica, aboriginal australian experiences, and bike trips in australia, with a harry potter novel thrown in to lighten everything up a bit. with a holiday coming up next week, when i’ll have 12 days away from my computer, i decided that i wanted some good fiction to enjoy at the beach.
so, off to the library.
i went to the fiction section, and was quickly overwhelmed, because it was all ordered by author and i wasn’t in the mood for the long browse that may have been necessary for me to find something appealing.
well, i thought to myself, what do i want to read? i want a novel, i decided, about australian queer women. i would like to have a better idea about the lives of dykes in this country, and anyway, if there’s romance in a novel, it’s easier for me to enjoy it when i don’t have to change too many pronouns in order to identify with a protagonist.
i went to the public computer terminal and entered “lesbian fiction” into the catalogue search field. a new page appeared, with a large black square in the middle: under the image of an exclamation point, it read “oops! you’re not allowed to look at that!”
wtf?
i went back, and tried just “lesbian”.
same result.
maybe it’s under “gay”, i thought… but all that garnered was a ton of results such as under “gay men – health” and “gay men – relationships”, etc etc etc.
i tried “lesbian” again.
this time, the warning message read “if you keep this up, there will be consequences”
consequences?
if by “this”, they meant being queer, then yes, there seems to be a “consequence”: i have to deal with homophobic bullshit from software at the public library.
for a moment, i was at a loss for what to do. on one hand, i wanted to just say FUCK IT, and leave, because i shouldn’t have to out myself in order to find a good book.
but on the other hand, what about the folks coming in to the library who are questioning their sexual identity, or supporting someone who is? they’ll be even less likely to seek out a librarian’s help… i know, because i spent most of my coming out days in the library.
i took a deep breath, calmed my righteous anger and fear, and found a librarian to join me at the computer. as politely as possible, i told her what i wanted and what searches i’d tried. she told me that it was “a bug in the system” for the public catalogue terminals, and tried the same searches, with the same results.
i gave an awkward little laugh and said, “a bug? hmmm… yeah, all i could think was that that’s kinda offensive!”
she tried on her own computer, where there are no blocks (or “bugs”), and said that all she could find were some short stories. i thanked her, and went to get them: it was a collection of contemporary lesbian love stories, all by american and canadian authors.
le sigh.
i returned to the public terminal and searched the catalogue for something by emma donoghue. her novel hood is just about my favourite book, but i’ve missed the rest of her work. happily, i found one of her books. also, a sarah waters novel: i’ve never read anything of hers, but it’s been recommended. in the catalogue, i saw that they also had laurie j. marks’ elemental logic trilogy, which i’m tempted to re-read.
after examining the catalogue some more, i realized that there were no subject tags on any of the fiction listings. this made me feel a bit better, if only because queer novels aren’t the only ones lost in the multitude of themes. however, it also annoyed me, because it is inefficient. what if i was on a real nautical kick, and wanted some sea-going adventures to compliment my love of c.s. forester’s hornblower? how would i find out about patrick o’brian?
that’s a misleading analogy, of course. there is a very big difference between wanting a book about sailors and a book about queers. last time i checked, sailors aren’t being mocked, abused, legally oppressed, or murdered for being who they are.
i believe that fiction plays a vital role for queers learning to accept ourselves. when i was coming to terms with my sexuality, a self-help book on “how to come out” (or whatever) was the last book i’d have taken from the library: it was too forthright and intimidating. but jane rule’s after the fire? that was easy, because the story wasn’t “real”: joining the protagonist on her journey allowed me to explore the concept of my queerness without forcing it into fact before i was ready. through fiction, i could delve into the lives of queer women and become familiar with them at a distance that still felt intimate.
we need queer fiction to counteract the stress of homophobia, which is linked to the over-representation of queers in treatment for depression. for the health of the community, queer fiction needs to be easy to access, and public libraries need to assist with this task. an easy solution is the application of subject headings to all fiction, which increases its relevance to all library users: the sailors as well as the queers.
back to the “bug”. if the public library software won’t allow access to resources associated with a sector of society which is currently struggling for equality in the face of severe oppression, THAT’S MORE THAN A BUG. even if the blockage of results from a search of the word “lesbian” is a coincidence, the results are offensive at best. at worst, they are damaging, because they discourage people from finding help they may desperately need. hell, i’m out and proud, and even i got shaky knees at the prospect of having to ask a librarian for queer books!
my roommate said that a “bug” such as this warrants a sign next to each public computer terminal, which 1) explains that certain valid search words may incorrectly garner a warning, 2) states that the error will be fixed within a given time frame, and 3) directs clients to seek the assistance of a librarian should the error arise.
damn right!
i’m going to go write a looooooooong letter to the head librarian right now.
then, i’m going to use the internet to find some novels about australian queer women.
The Charles Town Library Society kept its books and maps in a room on Union Street. The keeper of the books sat at a desk at the entrance. He glanced at me quickly and turned away, as if from something distasteful.
“Ah yes, Mr. Lindo,” he said. “I’m afraid we don’t allow Negroes here.”
“Mr. Jackson, don’t you have a brother in the indigo trade?”
The library man carefully closed a book on his desk. “I’m sure nobody will object this one time, Mr. Lindo.”
“Good. We need some books by Voltaire, and your most recent maps of the world.”
The keeper led us to a table at the far end of the room, brought us two of Voltaire’s books and some rolled maps, and left us alone.
“Keep that fan going,” Lindo said.
“He’s not watching.”
“Use it anyway,” he said, “it’s hot in here.”
While I fanned him, Solomon Lindo untied a string around a large scroll.
“I have never seen so many books,” I said, looking around and wishing that women and Negroes were allowed in the library.
“They have a thousand books,” Mr. Lindo muttered, “and I paid for half of them.”
“Where are we?” I asked, pointing at the map.
“This is British North America,” he said, indicating a mass of land.
On the edge of the land, right up against a huge swath of blue named the Atlantic Ocean, Lindo put his finger by a dot, beside which was the name Charles Town.
“And here,” he said, “is Africa.” Across the blue sea, I saw a strangely shaped mass, wider at the top, curving in the middle and narrowing at the bottom.
“How do you know?”
“You can make out the letters if you look carefully. See here? A-F-R-I-C-A.“
“That is my land? Who says it has that strange shape?”
“The cartographers who make the maps. The traders who sail the worlds. The British and the French and the Dutch and the others who go to Africa, sailing up and down the coast, mapping the shape of the continent.”
On the map I paused over some squiggles in the form of baseless triangles. Lindo said they were meant to indicate mountains. I saw a lion and an elephant sketched in the middle of the land called Africa. I saw that it was mostly surrounded by seas. But the map told me nothing of where I came from. Nothing of Bayo, Segu, or the Joliba. Not a single thing that I recognized from my homeland.
“Here on this side of the water, in British North America,” I said, pointing, “it says Charles Town. I can see where we are. But there are no towns written on Africa. Only these places along the water. Cape Verde. Cape Mesurado. Cape Palmas. How are we to know where the villages are?”
“The villages are unknown,” Lindo said.
“I have walked through them. There are people everywhere.”
“They are unknown to the people who made this map. Look here in the corner. It says 1690. This is a copy of a map first made seventy-three years ago. They knew even less back then.”
I felt cheated. Now that I could read so well, I had been excited by the prospect of finding my own village on a map. But there were no villages – not mine or anybody else’s.
“Is there nothing more?” I asked.
Solomon Lindo looked at his watch, and said we had time for one more map.
Mapp of Africa, the second one said, Corrected with the latest and the best observations. I checked the date. 1729. Perhaps it would be better than the first. The map showed land in the shape of a mushroom with the stem shoved to the right. Near the top, I saw the words Desert of Barbary or Zaara, and below that, Negroland, and below that, along the winding, curving coasts, sections named Slave Coast, Gold Coast, Ivory Coast, and Grain Coast. There were tiny words scribbled where the land met the water, but inland was mostly sketchings of elephants, lions, and bare-breasted women. In one corner of the map, I saw a sketch of an African child lying beside a lion under a tree. I had never seen such a ridiculous thing. No child would be foolish enough to sleep with a lion. In another corner of the map, I studied a sketch of a man with a long-tailed animal sitting on his shoulder.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“It’s a monkey,” Lindo said.
This “Mapp of Africa” was not my homeland. It was a white man’s fantasy.
“There is some lack of detail,” Lindo said, “but now you see the shape of Africa.”
I said I had seen enough. After all the books I had read, and all that I had learned about the ways of white people in South Carolina, I now felt, more than ever before, that these people didn’t know me at all. They knew how to bring ships to my land. They knew how to take me from it. But they had no idea at all what my land looked like or who lived there or how we lived.
the book of negroes
lawrence hill
the subtitle to this post is “why the book of negroes should win canada reads“. in the annual competition for top honours in canadian literature, avi lewis (forever loved by those of us in the co-op movement for his film the take, made with naomi klein) is proposing that every canadian needs to read lawrence hill’s the book of negroes because it effectively tells a gripping story that runs contrary to the smugness of how canada countered slavery in the united states as the destination of the underground railroad.
i’m proposing that everyone needs to read this book simply because it demonstrates the way that geography functions as a tool of colonization, power, and oppression.
up the geographers!
>>> vote for your favourite and join the discussion over at the cbc website…
the amazing oldandmoldy called me this evening, to invite me to his “gratitude potluck” this sunday. yeah, it sounds hippy, but this is the west coast… what do you expect? of course we have dinner parties centered around appreciating all the excellent things in our lives!
i’m stoked, because it reminds me of the old anarchist seders that used to happen every passover in our local activist community… we all were instructed to bring food, a bottle of wine, and something that represents freedom to us. good times, especially for goyish kids like me who don’t generally celebrate passover, anarchist or otherwise, but have often had lots of friends who do. it was a chance to share the magic, and i always left feeling like i was home.
aside from the dinner invite, oldandmoldy and i talked about other stuff, including my thoughts about calling people out on words and actions that are sexist, racist, ableist, and/or homophobic.
as a way of contextualizing this conversation, i have to tell you: oldandmoldy and i disagree almost constantly. at the same time, we love each other: not despite our disagreements, but because of them. he is one of very few people i’ve ever known who understand and appreciate the incredible value of discussing everything. he exhausts me, but in a good way, because i know that he respects and cares for me even when i’m telling him that he’s wrong. i’m pretty sure he knows that i feel the same for him. we enjoy the challenge that we bring to one another.
oldandmoldy has done a lot of work with non-violent communication and men’s groups, so has a few thoughts about conflict. we seem to agree that a successful confrontation of sexist, racist, ableist, and/or homophobic words and actions is one in which the discussion moves forward into sharing of feelings, ideas, and connections… or something like that. at the very least, it’s a discussion in which participants feel like they’ve learned something new and maybe gained a different perspective, or at least acknowledged that different perspectives exist.
actually, “confrontation” is the wrong word: i think what we want to see is more like a… negotiation.
oldandmoldy’s advice on how to have a successful negotiation of sexist, racist, ableist, and/or homophobic words and actions is as follows:
- own your judgments (even if you know your opinions are the truth, recognize that other people won’t see them that way, because they have their own truths; yours are based in your reality, and you need to take responsibility for this)
- ask questions (find out why people are saying/doing things, find out what their reasoning is, create a situation in which questioning accepted norms becomes a viable basis for conversation)
- speak from the heart (don’t rely on theory or logic to explain your point of view; focus on your feelings instead, and make it personal… for example, try approaching a homophobic remark with “as a queer, this makes me feel unsafe, because…”)
i think these are excellent ideas, and i’m looking forward to trying them out next time i’m engaging in this sort of discussion. obviously, they won’t all work all of the time, but hey: nothing does! it was good to talk with oldandmoldy about this, especially because i know how particularly guilty i am of going against that third item… dammit, i love logic.
for another great strategy for approaching these issues, check out Carmen Van Kerckhove’s “How to Respond to a Racist Joke”. (i’d link to the original article at new demographic, but it doesn’t seem to be working at the moment…).
anyone else got suggestions, throw them in the comments.
zomg the third season of veronica mars is so crazily dependent on stereotypes of racialized peoples and feminists and animal rights activists and so-called “politicos”!
having said that, i’m pretty into the subplots that centre on the campus radio station, for obvious reasons. yeah, i’m hip.
Filed under: Animal Lover, Athlete, Bike Geek, Co-operator, Critic, Homebody, Queer, Reader, Sailor, Scifi Fan, Student
wrist
the nerve conduction testing was good, in terms of results as well as experience. the tests felt the same as when i’ve accidentally touched an electric fence; i doubt it will surprise you to learn that this is a mistake that i’ve made many, many times. the other folks in the waiting room seemed pretty old and feeble, which might explain why the doctor was so enthusiastic about my health: in direct contrast to the other two doctors that i’ve seen about my wrist, this specialist said it was great that i’d been able to assemble a bike with a coaster brake so that i could rest my hands while riding. the others told me i couldn’t cycle anymore. they also told me i should find a new career, one that didn’t involve my hands. ha! instead, the specialist asked me a lot about my life, and then said that i seem like i’m someone who simply is very hard on my hands, and that i need to learn my limits. huh? limits? que es?
anyway, to summarize: tests are normal, i’m to get an ultrasound and blood tests to see if anything else could be causing the pain/stiffness, the doc doesn’t recommend surgery, and i’m to check-in after i get home from oz in august. i still have days when i’m shocked by how weak my hand is, but it’s manageable.
dog
my ex has gone away for ten days, and so i have her dog. it’s nice, though i’ve been driving everywhere instead of biking: dawson does not do the bike trailer. still, we’ve been walking a lot, and i have plans to do an overnight next weekend… maybe to mystic beach, or sombrio.
house
i’m waiting to hear back from my landlady about subletting my place while i’m away; she might prefer to take this opportunity to end my tenancy, then renovate and turn the apartment into a vacation rental for wheelchair-users. as sad as i’d be to lose my home, i love that idea! though, i think the driveway is too steep for anyone without a powerchair or companion… but i could be wrong about that.
work
i’m having a meeting this weekend with a couple of conspirators, to talk about drawing up a business plan for a co-op. like, for realz: i want a job that has meaning, and i want to use my skills, and i want to work with people who share my values, ethics, and goals. as much as the deconstruction of my workplace has really sucked, it’s creating a situation in which i now know a couple of people who are in this exact same position. up from the ashes, my friends, our phoenix shall rise.
school
fuck, i hate it when academics tell me that i’m wasting my life by not going to grad school.
i mean, it bugs me when people in general say this, but i forgive them because i figure they don’t know that of which they speak. but academics? and specifically the one who’s responsible for creating such a craptastic work environment these past 6 months? yeah, NO. go away.
wardrobe
i went to a clothing exchange this past saturday, and gave away ~1/3 my shirts plus a whole bunch of stuff that i’d barely worn since picking it up at the last clothing exchange that was populated by this same group of people. we just keep switching outfits: it’s pretty fun to watch. i came away with a cute pair of shoes and two dresses: a more utilitarian one that i wore to work at the bike shop yesterday, and a fancier one that i’ll be saving for an upcoming hot date (i believe the term “pin-up girl” was included in the comments made when i tried it on).
run
i’m on week 5 of the c0uch to 5k running program. it’s the second time i’ve gotten to this point, and i’m looking forward to pushing past it instead of getting distracted as i have in the past. two things are making it easier this time: one is that i’m running with my lover, whose chosen pseudonym is oats (i’ll have to get her to explain that one), and she’s just as wheezy as i am. three cheers for asthmatics! the other thing making it easier is that we’re running on our lunch breaks. aside from the bonus of post-run showers, a midday run puts me in a better position to maintain my daily cycling commute. before, i would get up and run, then eat breakfast, and then ride 10k: it was too much for me, and i’d feel drained all day. now i feel like the hours spent at my desk between activities are well-earned rest and snacking periods.
book
some friends of oats’ were getting rid of several boxes of books, and i got to go through them. score! a copy of herland, charlotte perkins gilman’s 1915 utopian feminist novel! there’s an excellent review over at the feminist sci-fi blog.
sail
my boss gave me a woolen sailing sweater that she bought in france, eons ago. it’s all rad and stripey and warm as-all-get-out, and has buttons on the shoulder. i can’t wait to wear it out on the water… or incorporate it into another sort of situation… “oui oui, vien ici, ma petite chaton, heh heh heh…”
bike
yesterday i was reminded of a valuable lesson: before putting all the effort into dismantling, cleaning, greasing, and reassembling the hub of the rear wheel for that crusty raleigh cruiser you’re rebuilding, check the rim. just… look at it. if you do this, you may notice the massive fucking rusty bulge on the side of the rim, a bulge that is impossible to hammer out. then you will have the opportunity to stop and find yourself a new wheel or rim, before you’ve wasted most of your day on something that is not worthwhile.
this, my friends, is why i remain a devoted bike geek instead of a paid bike mechanic.
[photo: dawson at mystic beach, august 2007]
Filed under: Animal Lover, Artist, Bike Geek, Critic, Cynic, Friend, Gardener, Homebody, Queer, Student, Traveler, Worker
…written slowly and intermittently throughout my workday…
bicycle
despite all the photos that i’ve posted of her, what you’ve never known about nigella (my lovely 1972 raleigh single speed with coaster brake) is that she was noisy as hell. in the past couple years that i’ve had her, i hadn’t once opened up her bottom bracket, nor adjusted the cranks, and it was showing: every push on the pedals was generating the most embarrassing squeal. finally i couldn’t take it anymore, and i spent yesterday’s shift at the bike shop taking apart and rebuilding the whole thing. no surprise: the grease had hardened into chunks, and the central cylinder was full of sparkly crystals that disintegrated into black powder when i rubbed them between my fingers. i would bet that this was the first time that anyone had cleaned her out… in 37 years!!!
fortunately, the cups and spindle were okay. i replaced the bearings with new ones, and packed it all in smooth new grease. one of the cotter pins, which are the special bolts that attached the cranks to the bottom bracket spindle on old bikes like these, had to be replaced because the threads were crushed, but luckily we had some that were used and in good condition. all the new cotter pins in stock were too small (in diameter) for the holes in my cranks.
after all the scrubbing, replacing, regreasing, adjusting, and rebuilding of the bottom bracket, i spent a good 40 minutes on my chain. the recycl!st@s standard procedure for cleaning a chain is to coat it with oil and then wipe it down with a rag, repeatedly, leaving it on the bike the whole time. it’s not nearly as satisfying as dipping the chain in gasoline, like i used to do as a kid, but much healthier for all concerned. i used an old tooth brush (with oil on the bristles) as well as the rag, because the dirt was caked-on between the links. it never got shiny, but it now runs like a charm. in fact, the entire bike feels new… she’s smooth and easy and soooooooooo quiet.
sometimes it’s worth having a crappy ride if only so that you can truly appreciate the way it feels when every thing’s been fixed.
also, this is an excellent example of why you’re better off spending $200 on an old bike plus a mechanic’s time, rather than dropping it all on a c@n@dian tire special. not only will you get a bike that actually has some character, but you’ll also get something that will last for 30+ years and still function perfectly! it’s all about quality, my friends: they just don’t make (most) bicycles like they used to.
i’m thinking of going to the seattle international bike expo, march 14-15, along with my friend and mechanic-mentor, tri. it’d be our one last bout of serious bike-geeking together, before i head off to oz and she moves to the mainland. it’s so sad, and yet still so necessary.
school
last week i went to the info night for the trades programs at the local community college. the talk itself wasn’t very thrilling, but i got pretty excited in the campus bookstore, when i saw that the electrical program text is the provincial electrical code. that’s the kinda book i’d buy anyway, just because it’s fascinating. it was a good reminder for me: no matter how much i may be challenged by having 18-year-old boys as classmates, the fact remains that i love the topic.
the electrical foundation program is self-paced and new people start/end every month. at the start of the month, the teachers guess how many students will graduate at the end of the month, and that many people off the waitlist as then offered positions. so, i’d only have 1 month’s notice of starting school. also, once you’ve been offered a spot, you can only defer once before being put back at the bottom of the wait list. basically, i need to apply now. the neat thing about the program being self-paced is that it can be done in less time than the advertised duration of 6 months, which costs less since tuition is by the week.
if i decide to do this, these are my two coping mechanisms for dealing with the cost/time investment and the fact that queer femmy girls in trades get flack: 1) i will be a hardcore student, study a lot, and get through the program as quickly as possible, and 2) i will attend classes in character, based loosely on diane rigg’s emma peel in the avengers (1965).
house
i sent out an email to all my friends last week, about subletting my apartment. in response, i’ve received one phone call and one email, and both are from complete strangers. the person on the phone had received an email about it, but didn’t know from whom. the person on the email referenced seeing my “ad”, which is odd, because i didn’t place an ad. this makes me feel a little uncomfortable, but i *do* need to rent the place out… so tomorrow i’m showing it to the guy who called. the person who emailed is currently in ontario, which is unfortunate because he is a serious cyclist and so currently my preferred subletter of the two. i am easily biased.
in other house-related news, my landlady had her house broken into on friday and her computer stolen. she lives next door, so this is rather unnerving. still, i don’t own anything worth stealing, or at least from the perspective these local grab-and-go types: i doubt they’d notice the artwork on my walls.
art
this past saturday night i went to dinner at a friend’s house. knowing that there’d be a couple kids there, i grabbed some bags of beads and brought them with me. by “some bags of beads”, i mean tiny glass seed beads in at least 20 colours, tons of random fancy glass ones of all sizes, plus more made of wood, and all sorts of string: nylon, elastic, wire, leather, cotton, hemp. honestly, i didn’t even know *what* was in there, because it was given to me by someone ages ago and i’d never gotten around to going through it. i’m glad i brought it to dinner: all of us dinner guests, kids included, made each other necklaces and bracelets and rings. there was lots left over, and i told them to keep it. people are always giving me random art supplies that i’ll never use, and i’m pleased when i find good homes for them instead of letting them languish on my shelves.
pop culture
veronica mars s01e20 is crazily homophobic: veronica blackmails this horrible guy by making him seem queer, which ruins his plans to join the navy, and not once in the entire episode did anyone mention the injustice of the military’s don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy! instead, there was a general attitude of acceptance with regards to homophobia: it was left unquestioned, even as it was the basis of the plot.
yes, once again, i am disappointed by mainstream teevee. go figure.
farm
my upstairs neighbours and i are going to ask our landlady if we can get chickens, when i come home from australia. a coop and small run could fit next to my patio, if we cleared away some low-lying branches from the trees. the limit in our municipality is four hens, which would be more than enough eggs (at an estimated rate of 2 eggs/3 days per bird). we’re also planning on going big and experimental with our worm composting exploits. currently, i have a “castaway” bin, and they have a homemade multi-tiered worm condo that doesn’t always work too well: we want to put together something larger and most efficient, probably outdoors on one of our decks. hopefully it’ll combine well with the chickens, to provide them with extra protein and get rid of the bird manure. i’m stoked at the possibilities.
job
a coworker and i stopped to chat as we crossed on a path near our office, and were interrupted by a racket: a hummingbird, possibly an anna’s hummingbird, was sitting on the branch above our heads and chirping very lustily. it’s somewhat easier to cope with the dismantling of our projects and the disregard for the past several years of our labour when the sun is shining as it is today. somewhat.
i have developed a recurring spasm in the muscle below my left eye and am told that this sort of twitch is due to stress. ’nuff said.
[photo: not my bike! a schwinn cruiser, seen on the street in nyc, march 2008]
Filed under: Animal Lover, Artist, Critic, Friend, Music Lover, Punk, Radio Star, Scavenger
since em commented on my last post that all i show you are “teaser” photos, i thought i’d let you in on what you’re missing, with a nice zoomed-out shot: look! gamin is helping me with my sewing project!
mmmm, cat @ss…
i didn’t make the quilt: i just repaired it for a friend because the panels were coming apart. of course, once i had it in pieces, i decided to replace the cotton lining with some batting that i had laying around… i’ve *got* to use up all these art supplies, cuz i can’t bear to think of packing them up yet *again*.
with that in mind, i’m going through the clothes as well as the fabric and doing what i can. a dorky long skirt (100% wool, lined, only $12 @ value pillage in toronto! even my stepmom was impressed, and she’s totally creeped-out by secondhand clothes!) became a totally kickass short skirt, plus… this belated solstice gift for my bff –>
teh skillz, i haz dem.
while sewing, i usually watch/listen to bad teevee: i’ve just started into buffy. should i bother telling you how offended i am? the sexism, the uniform whiteness, the f*cked up cultural representations? no, you’ve heard it before. to think, all these years i thought i was missing out, and now i’m glad i skipped it the first time ’round.
critical analysis aside, what really bugs me is the music. was cool music in the 90s really that bad? last week my buddy c interviewed me on his radio show about what music has influenced me, and i said that it was my cheapness that had me first listening to old punk bands like the clash, because i could get their albums from the library or thrift stores. now i’m reconsidering this concept, because the music on buffy is so tedious and yet so familiar: it’s no wonder i got into punk.
