The last several days have gone from excitement beyond reproach about academia and my future in pedagogy to paralyzing anxiety when forced to sit in front of Microsoft Word projecting how amazing, influential and worthy of lots of government money my future PhD project will be. I came in with a tangential draft to a Uni workshop session on Friday, to a somewhat legible second draft to send off to a peer tonight. In between I’ve watched a lot of bad TV and tried to muster up the energy to see more places in hopes of finding one Anna and I could rent. You would not believe how incredibly over-priced and competitive the renters market it is in Toronto right now unless you know someone looking for a place. It’s fucking brutal. Between trying to find a place to live and starting 2nd year, teaching and throwing my whole self into these SSHRC and OGS Scholarship Applications (of which the rule of thumb is five significant draft changes before it’s ready for submission), what’s happening? Oh yeah, gotta then start on PhD applications. Everything in academia is so consequential – like my marks in 2nd year undergrad still matter for a PhD scholarship application? Yea, really. But whatever, I’m not complaining, it’s ALL I want to do right now, is be part of it, and co-teach and be excited by students and try in subtle ways to do those great things inspiring professors do – reframe knowledge production.
Oh hey, so wish me luck on the applications, they are due October 4. And also pray, dance, eat or whatever you can so that I can find a decent place to live for October 1! THANK YOU!
taken at the shitty Museum of Modern Art in Paris before we got kicked out for “taking photos not of the art”
On the 501 Neville Park Queen Streetcar I’m clutching onto the tiny copy of The Metamorphosis. I’m nearly done, it’s the moment where I know that Gregor is most likely going to die. “Excuse me,” the guy behind me, donned in a leather jacket and a drunk lisp says, holding his deli plastic wrapped meat, “Is this meat Kafka-esque?”
I turn around wondering how he managed to sneak such a glance at the back cover to realize it’s Kafka.
“Are you trying to imitate the Squid and the Whale?”
“No, it’s from this TV show, Mission Hill, some guy points to a piece of meat and says, Is that Kafka-esque?”
We chit chatted and he confessed he didn’t know what that even meant but he’s been waiting for a moment to repeat the phrase. Most of what I knew about Kafka until yesterday was the references of things being just that, Kafka-esque. The strange drunk viking revealed to me he was from Moldavia, which I questioned because it seemed too clever, but he seemed to know a lot of details that only someone either really interested in Moldavia or a citizen would know. Have you ever meet anyone from Moldavia?! This was my first time. Maybe I should engage in more conversations with strangers.
Reading Kafka in between getting back to Murakami. I feel unease with my body, with everything around me. Where is the deep well? I need to find one, a deeper one this time, one that I can scurry across and leave my sticky mess all around. My body, the structure holding it, has been turning to jelly, soft, tender and unable to hold itself in.
I am still homeless with no prospects of finding a home for October 1. Why is it so difficult? And then there is those deadlines for scholarships, you know, to apply for PhD’s because I see nothing but black outside this tunnel vision of academia. I accept it, I need to hold onto this tenaciously to pull me through, to get me there. Because academia is the best thing in my life, the bringer of happiness, yo!!
Really feeling like receiving a mixtape/cd/usb stick/download link or whatever, you know, the ones you make for someone because you need to feel connected through music.
In the park we talk about power and on-going circular damaging dramaturgies.
I sprawled my whole Self all over Marina Abramovic sculptures at the Pompidou. I made a scene. Only three people at a time were allowed. So it was me and my friend for about an hour because no one wanted to come in as I penetrated all her work. Everyone just looked from outside. I was shaking and sweating. It was one of those moments. She’s magic.
My friend has this beautiful single speed bike that’s all red. I want.
Went to Montparnasse Cemetery and made a weird movie about me and Simone de Beauvoir’s grave.
I found many olive oil and balsamic vinaigrette bottles at this tacky nouveau riche people’s house we were staying at for a few days outside of Paris, so I made a game out of it. Don’t you wish you and I were friends? (If you are a girl into electronic music, actually, I’d love to be friends with you. I have no girls to talk shop with and it’s so disheartening).
In Amsterdam I found the best lattes ever at Espressofabriek in Westerpark, which is undoubtedly the best part of the city, and I’m happy my friend and classmate from Digital Methods, Marc Tuters let me stay there for a week while he was away. Can’t you see how pleased I look?
I went to this fancy affordable organic resto, Proef, also in Westerpark, based on my best friend’s fiancee’s recommendation and it was amazing because it was all food I’ve had before done in a totally different way and everything came with a dip or sauce! While eating, things got quite serious with my MUJI notebook.
I bought my bike for 40 euros. It was a broken-down Peugeot that gave my thighs the workout of their life, even if Amsterdam is all flat, but I loved it all the same. Cycling and documenting.
J.O. is always fixing his shawl like a true Parisian.
Contemplating my last morning in Amsterdam after two months of creating a life there and after days of not sleeping.
Last night in the city also meant the spotting of such cuteness while walking through the Jordaan.
Near the Damrak, people don’t obey the rules, they just smoke weed, do shrooms and walk around like slimy zombies.
In Brussels Midi Station the advertising greets you this horribly.
On the sidewalk in downtown Brussels we found piles of letters from different women in France all addressed to the same man. The letters dated from 1987-1990. They were strange, romantic, desperate, familial and mundane. I wonder what happened that these letters ended up sprawled on the side of the road? I tried to make sense of them but the writing was difficult to decipher and was also in French. I want to keep them forever and write to each woman. Why was it only letters from women? From what I deciphered they all knew each other in different capacities, were different ages, and some must have been extended family. Maybe I’ll call Sophie Calle to help me.
Mitsu‘s friend McCloud Zicmuse hosted me in his wonderful house. He basically saved my life with such a giving and peaceful place to sleep for the last night of my Europe trip.
The view from Zicmuse’s place.
Goodbye Europe. À Bientôt. Maybe next time I won’t leave, ok?
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