Recently in I.M.H.O. Category

Hmph. Long time no type (and suddenly wondering why it's called typing, but that'd be a digression). Many other things have asserted claims on my time and especially my energy, and my computer use has been quite minimal. I now have more time at my disposal, if no more energy with which to use it (was pondering an analogy between university term and triathlon, but would've only worked if triathlons went cycling then swimming then sprinting)- classes are adjourned until January and I've handed in all my papers, but still have three exams to go, a play to write, and all the mundane chores of living to attend to. Still, I've been stalling. Problem's not that I don't know what to write, in fact I've had images and entry fragments zipping through my consciousness quite steadily (snowflakes battering themselves senseless on windowpane like moths on Coleman lantern), I'm just resistent to the notion of communication. Not that I strictly need to use this thing with any regularity, no obligation, but it's here, and it was staring at me with those damned puppy-dog eyes . . .

Seriously, why? What the hell is going on with this whole bloody system? Could it get more aggravating? Don't answer- if it can, I don't want to find out. Start at the beginning, Claire. As if anything could be said to have only one beginning, but whatever. Okay. . . Here's the whole sordid story, plus the extra confusing bullshit from the last two days. Ye gods, it's a freaking novel, and every word the stupid truth (if any of the people mentioned would like to correct factual inaccuracies or offer other interpretations, there is a "comments" field).

(Safety warning: I'm not going to get graphic here, but if at any point you feel you're getting into more-than-I-needed-to-know territory, it is recommended that you close your eyes, cover your ears and yell "LALALALALALALALALA!" until cabin pressure returns. This is especially directed at my dad's friends and squeamish Laura-type people. Fathers strongly cautioned.)

I was lucky. After high school, most of my close friends went to the same university I did so I saw them fairly regularly. Those that didn't I still kept in touch with with the help of the internet. We got together now and then at the Limelite or to see a movie. It was one of the things that kept post-graduation from seeming like a big transition. That phase is dissolving this summer. This week Keenan's moving to Antartica (or possibly Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan. I forget.), and by the start of September Micaela will be in Vancouver and Becca will be in Israel. Hopefully we'll stay in contact for years yet, though this crumbling is kind of sad.

The house is full of pockets of empty. The living room echoes. We actually have space.

Mom came at eight this morning to take the furniture she's claiming from the separation. Dad already disconnected and pulled out most things over the weekend and before, correctly predicting the movers would have a hard time with some of it. The fact they were largely incompetent (and rather stinky) helped a lot, I'm sure. Don't know how long it took because Dad and I went to his office to get out of their way (I caught up on filing law library update/supplements).

Now that it's all wrapped up, I'd like to express my opinions on the artists and other aspects of the 31st annual Winnipeg Folk Festival (which is actually the 30th anniversary but they celebrated that last year because they can't count).

Volunteering: Volunteering adds another dimension to the festival. I suppose it depends what crew you're on, what benefits and drawbacks you recieve: I, for instance, on the music store cash crew, missed most workshops and chunks of mainstage, or recieved them only muffled, but had shelter from sun and rain, got almost all my meals provided, and could run across the tent to stake first claim on newly arrived artist merchandise. It's a decidedly better gig than volunteering at Fringe: festival admission, park access, backstage pass on a lanyard, good food and beverage, free bus to hotel, after party, many oppurtunities to hobnob with artists, t-shirt and program book for 16 hours time commitment is better value than t-shirt, button, a can of pop per shift and comp tickets depending on number of shifts worked for 5 hours times however-many-shifts. Plus I feel more appreciated at Folkfest than at Fringe and run into more people I know. The biggest way I think the experience could be improved would be to share it with friends (next year, hint, hint).