Oh me, oh my. I'm awake. Sort of. In class, and arrived only 10 minutes late (not too shabby), and not absorbing anything. We just learned about fur. I don't think I learned anything. I can't even figure out where the menu for fur is. Pathetic.

I discovered a site thanks to my disturbed friends at the Sith Academy and it provided me with at least seven minutes of quality time-wasting. I'll pass it along for your amusement, now shall I? Go to title.flywheel.org to get yourself a new title that replaces your old one, or perhaps you've never had one in the first place.

My two favourite titles, both sort of appropriate, were:

"Marquise of The Left Side of Procrastination, Maya Rebecca Hirschman"

"Princess of Breastseses, Maya Rebecca Hirschman"

The first one is definitely better, in that it sums up my ego, my political bent, and my favourite pass-time all in one go. I couldn't have said it better, myself.

My stay-at-home date with Rick last night was quite nice. He prepared a veritable feast ! I arrived (late, of course) to a pair of candles lighting his living room coffee table, fully set, with a shrimp ring in the centre. Following the shrimp, which was sooooo tasty, he brought out a soup course, and then after that the main course was fettucini (spelling anyone?) alfredo. Then we lounged about all snuggly-like for a while, until he got dessert of peaches in vanilla pudding. We would have had wine, as well, but the corkscrew he'd bought was ineffectual, bending all out of shape when I tried to open the wine.

At this point I'll fade to black and move onto another subject.

I'm going to drop by Julie's house after school today to show off some lovely photographs I took at Chris and Amy's wedding, and then Mom (who will be there) and I are going to have a cheap and delicious dinner at St Hubert. Following that, I'm going home to play with Techknight's X-box. That sounds dirty. It's going to be a long, but decidedly good day, I think.

Tonight I'm going to Rick's for a stay-at-home date. He's asked me to pick out some jazz to bring, and he's bought wine and a shrimp ring. It's going to be a lovely, romantic evening. At least I hope so ! He's unfortunately a little under the weather due to a bit of excessive drinking last night, which actually made him leave work early today (naughty), but hopefully he'll be alright.

I, too, did a bit of drinking last night, but not quite so much as him, or perhaps I did, but I guess maybe I paced myself and rehydrated better. Also, I stayed up late on the phone with my friend Adam who lives in New Orleans and therefore sobered right up. Anyway, we weren't out together, obviously. I went to Nadine's birthday party which was held at SpaHa under the hideous Graduate House at Spadina and Harbord. I'd never been there before, and you know? It was DAMN good, even if the alcohol was a little over priced. The food was terrific and the waitress was delightful.

It was a nice mix of people, as well. I felt a little trepidation, I must say, knowing that there would be few people there that I knew, but then I remembered that these were all Nader's friends and she wouldn't count pompous dinks among them. Sure enough, while there was a little natural polarisation, mostly everyone mingled and mixed nicely. I had some enjoyable conversations with singers from the choir she's in, with her cousin, a friend from her work, and a few people that I did loosely know from back in university. It was good fun.

Then I came home and cleaned myself up (as in my make-up), put on my night gown and crawled into bed from where I called Adam. He was the guy that addicted me to Realms of Despair three years ago - more, now, I suppose. He and I haven't spoken in a very long time. We used to talk on the phone about once a month, sharing the expenses between us. This one was on me, so he'd better shell out for the next one. Anyway, it was great to hear his voice.

Anyway, now I must look about for my notes on patch modeling NURBs, as my brain has missed a step, or more likely two.

Maybe things are changing, or perhaps since the events of the past few months, I'm looking at life in new and wonderful ways, but, for the third time in a row, I've come back from a stupendous film. Again, utterly magical. This one leaves the two previous films in the dust, I must say. There's just something about an amazingly well written, directed, and acted movie that just happens to star real people, and that is not aimed at children.

You guessed it, no Hollywood film can do it. "Amelie" is a French flick and it really is as good as the critics claim. So, what's it about? Well, let me give you a very brief synopsis. It's about a girl, Amelie, who just decides one day that she's going to change the world around her. And she does. It's funny, at times hysterically so, romantic, poignant, and at a number of moments a little dark. That's enough. Go see it yourself, you lazy bum.

It was a bizarre evening, though, all over. Nick and I made the decision to go uptown to see it at the most vintagely excellent Eglinton Theatre, to which neither of had been in at least three years. Longer than that, for me. I haven't been inside that marvelous old vaudeville house since we lived in the neighbourhood... um... six years ago. Anyway, I digress. We parked on Julie's street and trotted off to the theatre for the 9:45pm show only to find that it was closed because the film broke. So, we chatted with a nice, middle-yeared waspy couple who were disappointed too, and then we made the decision to see it at the Cucumberland (Cumberland, really) theatre in Yorkville with all the pretentious art fags and wannabes. (Yes, I said the word 'fag' and I didn't mean cigarette. Bad me.) You never see so many black turtlenecks and three-quarter-length coats anywhere as you do in Yorkville.

We parked on the street and then popped into Greg's Ice Cream for a burger. Hah hah, no, actually, we got ice cream. Duh, silly. It's the best ice cream in Toronto, easily. We shared it as we walked down the street to the theatre. As we crossed the street, Nick paused and looked up Avenue Rd to a fellow in a knee-length winter coat (very 1950s) and said, "Is that...?" I said, "Hm? Who?" He said, "Caley." I looked. It was the same fellow who'd stood next to me just a second earlier waiting for the light to change. The walk was familiar. I said, "I dunno, let's go find out."

We had to run to catch up, too, because this fellow in his long film-studentesque coat was marching up the street at a rapid pace (because he knew it was us, most likely). I stopped running and walked directly behind him until he realised it and turned around. He did a double take and sort of yelped. My first thought upon seeing him was, "Wow, that's some nasty pathetic facial hair." He looks not so hot, sort of skinny-like, wan even, kind of like he smokes too much and drinks too much and probably does too much heroine. Scary, really, and by no means is there any basis for that assumption, except that he looked unwell. And then we all hugged like we ... uh... liked each other.

For the record, Caley, who had been one of my favourite people through highschool and then my boyfriend for some months, turned out to be a hurtful, nasty small dog of a man. It wasn't enough to dump me the way he did, and then to behave so badly afterward, but he was the one largely responsible for the period when Nick stopped talking to me. It took about a year before Nick realised that it wasn't the "crazy, fucking bitch" but her exboyfriend that he didn't want to be around. It was bad and there was a lot of sadness as close friendships fell apart.

So, there he was, and there we were, and we all hugged like it was natural. And then we rounded the corner and there was Marie-Claire, one of the people I'd socialised with loosely in highschool, and not one of my favourite people. It wasn't that I didn't like her, and I did try, but I suppose our auras repelled, or something. Anyway, he's dating her, which sort of puts a wrench in the theory that had been circulating concerning his gender preference, but then again, maybe not. Anyway, I couldn't fake liking her. I don't. I never did. And, to her credit, she didn't try either. Good for her.

We were able to escape them after that, buying our tickets and entering the theatre. Joyously, "Amelie" made for a perfect distraction. I had been saying for a few weeks that I was going to run into Caley, and lo, I did. Wacky. But the shock passed quickly and we saw a truly remarkable film, and had a lovely and magical time. (All this magic, I almost forget that it's November !) And it was a wonderful crisp evening full of steamy breath and people out walking briskly.

And when I look at my past, and what I've come from, who I've recovered from, and compare it to where I am now, and who I've become, I am thankful. The world does indeed seem a most amazing place.

For the second day in a row or, more to the point, for the second time I was on my way to school in a row, I was inadvertantly escorted by motorcycle cops. I can only assume (and we know what that makes us) that they were on their way to the big funeral home en route to Seneca. As nice as it would be to believe they were clearing -my- path, I somehow doubt it.

Also, on the way to school, I noticed for the first time a church with an extraordinary name. I kid you not when I say it was St. Chad's Anglican. Chad? CHAD? Is he the patron saint of surfers, or what?

I talked a long time with my Mom last night. While she likes reading my weblog, she admitted that she still wants proper letters in her inbox. I hadn't thought about this possibility as, when I created this, it was in part to cut down on my letter-writing because I have a lot less time these days. Before starting this weblog, I wrote long mass-mails, but a bunch of my friends erase all bulk mail and for some reason, my bcc function usually doesn't often work. Perhaps I'll look into getting a comments option for people to write directly back to me, though I might just be inviting abuse from dumbass flamers. If that becomes the case, I suppose I can just drop the commentary option.

Perhaps I'll discuss the feasibility of this with Nick. He would know.

I just found the most incredible thing in someone's garbage. I'd have ignored the stuff entirely, had not some other woman been rooting through the boxes of magazines as well. I mean, it's raining out, so magazines get sort of gross, but I stopped and dug through some of the stuff and you'll never guess what I found.

I found a pictorial history of Churchill published in 1965. The best part of it is its inscription, which is only slightly blurred by being set out in the rain. (No book should be abandoned to autumnal rains, it's sad.) "Maya Gunter . c/c D.V.A. WUA. Veteran . Toronto Canada . 1965"

MAYA? Okay, admittedly, it could say Moya, and probably does, but if compared to the Os in Toronto, she doesn't put the the little tails on the top which makes it look more like her As. Anyway, imagine my surprise when picking through some random trash, I come across a book inscribed with my name? This is what makes this the coolest garbaging adventure I've ever had.

Oh, and if you're wondering about the previous post, I have had that particular poem running through my head all day, or parts of it, and I finally dug the text up on the internet. It's possibly one of my favourite poems. Overwrought romanticism and all (that and the evocative description are what I like best, I suppose). What surprises me about 'The Highwayman', though is that it was published in 1907, or thereabouts, which makes it a modern poem, not the Georgian piece people seem to think it is.

And now you know.

The Highwayman



The wind was a torrent of darkness among the gusty trees,
The moon was a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
The road was a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
And the highwayman came riding -
Riding - riding -
The highwayman came riding, up to the old inn-door.

He'd a French cocked-hat on his forehead, a bunch of lace
at his chin,
A coat of claret velvet, and breeches of brown doe-skin;
They fitted with never a wrinkle: his boots were up to
the thigh!
And he rode with a jewelled twinkle,
His pistol butts a-twinkle,
His rapier hilt a-twinkle, under the jewelled sky.

Over the cobbles he clattered and clashed in the dark
inn-yard,
And he tapped with his whip on the shutters, but all was
locked and barred;
He whistled a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlord's black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlords daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

And dark in the dark old inn-yard a stable wicket creaked
Where Tim the hostler listened; his face was white and peaked;
His eyes were hollows of madness, his hair like moldy hay,
But he loved the landlords daughter,
The landlord's red-lipped daughter,
Dumb as a dog he listened, and he heard the robber say -
"One kiss, my bonnie sweetheart, I'm after a prize to-night,
But I shall be back with the yellow gold before the morning light;
Yet, if they press me sharply, and harry me through the day,
Then look for me by moonlight,
Watch for me by moonlight,
I'll come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way."

He rose upright in the stirrups; he scarce could reach her hand,
But she loosened her hair i' the casement! His face burnt like a brand
As the black cascade of perfume came tumbling over his breast;
And he kissed its waves in the moonlight,
(Oh, sweet, black waves in the moonlight!)
Then he tugged at his rein in the moonlight, and galloped away to the west.

He did not come in the dawning; he did not come at noon;
And out of the tawny sunset, before the rise o' the moon,
When the road was a gipsy's ribbon, looping the purple moor,
A red coat troop came marching -
Marching - marching -
King George's men came marching, up to the old inn-door.

They said no word to the landlord, they drank his ale instead,
But they gagged his daughter and bound her to the foot of her narrow bed;
Two of then knelt at her casement, with muskets at their side!
There was death at every window;
And hell at one dark window;
For Bess could see, through her casement, the road that he would ride.

They had tied her up to attention, with many a sniggering jest;
They had bound a musket beside her, with the muzzle beneath her breast!
"Now keep good watch!" and they kissed her. She heard the dead man say -
Look for me by moonlight;
Watch for me by moonlight;
I will come to thee by moonlight, though hell should bar the way!

She twisted her hands behind her; but all the knots held good!
She writhed her hands till her fingers were wet with sweat or blood!
They stretched and strained in the darkness, and the hours crawled by like years,
Till, now, on the stroke of midnight,
Cold, on the stroke of midnight,
The tip of one finger touched it! The trigger at least was hers!

The tip of one finger touched it; she strove no more for the rest!
Up, she stood up to attention, with the muzzle beneath her breast,
She would not risk their hearing: she would not strive again;
For the road laid bare in the moonlight;
Blank and bare in the moonlight;
And the blood of her veins in the moonlight throbbed to her lovers refrain.

Tlot-tlot; tlot-tlot! Had they heard it? The horse-hoofs ringing clear;
Tlot-tlot, tlot-tlot, in the distance? Were they deaf that they did not hear?
Down the ribbon of moonlight, over the brow of the hill,
The highwayman came riding,
Riding, riding!
The redcoats looked to their priming! She stood up, straight and still!
Tlot-tlot, in the frosty silence! Tlot-tlot, in the echoing night!
Nearer he came and nearer! Her face was like a light!
Her eyes grew wide for a moment; she drew one last deep breath,
Then her finger moved in the moonlight,
Her musket shattered the moonlight,
Shattered her beast in the moonlight and warned him - with her death.

He turned; he spurred to the Westward; he did not know who stood
Bowed, with her head o'er the musket, drenched with her own red blood!
Not till the dawn he heard it, his face grew grey to hear
How Bess, the landlord's daughter
The landlords black-eyed daughter,
Had watched for her love in the moonlight, and died in the darkness there.

Back, he spurred like a madman, shrieking a curse to the sky,
With white road smoking behind him, and his rapier brandished high!
Blood-red were his spurs in the golden noon, wine red was his velvet coat,
When they shot him down on the highway,
Down like a dog on the highway,
And he lay in his blood on the highway, with a bunch of lace at his throat.

And still of a winters night, they say, when the wind is in the trees,
When the moon is a ghostly galleon tossed upon cloudy seas,
When the road is a ribbon of moonlight over the purple moor,
A highwayman comes riding-
Riding - riding -
A highwayman comes riding, up to the old inn-door.

Over the cobbles he clatters and clangs in the dark inn-yard;
And he taps with his whip on the shutters, but all is locked and barred;
He whistles a tune to the window, and who should be waiting there
But the landlords black-eyed daughter,
Bess, the landlords daughter,
Plaiting a dark red love-knot into her long black hair.

Alfred Noyes (1880-1958)

Unseasonably warm. Two words that don't even begin to describe what it was like today. I wore my trenchcoat with only a scarf wrapped loosely around my neck, and certainly no sweater or gloves. It was nice. And odd, especially for the Santa Claus Parade. I mean, traditionally, the parade ought to be rained on, or snowed on, or a little of both, temperatures should have been around 3C and the little whippersnappers were supposed to be in tears before it even started.

Not so today. Anyway, the parade made business a little slow today, because really, the only people downtown were the suburban families with parents in their mid to late 30s that haven't been down on Queen Street since little Junior and Jilly were born. Then they drag their four year olds into the store, who try to grab everything, and ask questions about the most hard-to-explain items (like floggers and posture collars) and then try on a lot of things, with the husband turning a shade of red he hasn't been since before the kidlets were born and the wife giggling like an idiot. Believe me when I say that this scene played itself out at least five times today and it never got less disturbing.

I took advantage of the beautiful temperature (once the crowds had dissipated) and walked along Queen to University and up to the rehabilitation centre where Julie is staying. She and Tania had just returned from a trip home and dinner and Julie was in wonderfully fine form. She was so excited to see me that she called out for the woman in the neighbouring bed to come meet me. And then the two of them fluttered about my outfit, which was apparently a hit. Not bad for a seven year old lace skirt, I suppose. Anyway, that was very cute. Julie was being proud of me. In return for that, I made her do tricks. She is now able to wiggle her left foot and leg - the one that had been paralysed by the stroke - and I got to flutter about it.

Julie is doing so well, it's just wonderful. It's especially wonderful because shortly after the stroke happened, we all feared that she would die. She can't really remember any of the iffy months in Sunnybrook, thankfully, because they were miserable, the hallucinations and ranting, the tears and the prayers. It was awful. God, did she hate it there. Happily, she loves the rehab centre and they treat her like a person. Moreover, the physiotherapists think she may well be able to walk again, though probably with an aid of some sort, and the way she's looking right now, I wouldn't doubt it. Next week she'll be doing an over-night stay at home, which should be wonderful. I hope it all goes well. Maybe she'll be able to spend Christmas Eve and Day at home, too. That would be a miracle.