Noises and strange things start to occur in an upscale California home where two young people live. The shakey camera pans to a pale, exhausted, and terrified young woman. “Turn it off,” she says feebly, knowing very well that her immature boyfriend will continue taping their ordeal until they’re both dead. Such was the atmosphere of Paranormal Activity. Unintentionally hilarious, this movie frustrated and delighted me at the same time which ultimately led to huge disappointment. 

I was shown the previews for this movie by a friend on youtube, and like him, I immediately began to get excited about being absolutely terrified. I loved the handheld, self-shot camera style of The Blair Witch Project so I couldn’t wait to see another movie play with it. The beginning of the movie began as all scary movies typically do: young, light-hearted adults laugh and joke at the camera, talking carelessly about the mundane happenings in their normal lives, completely unaware of the chaos that’s about to ensue. But  this slow buildup to the action took a little while which tipped me off early on that this was not going to be the terrifying experience I’d anticipated and hoped for.

Sadly, the frightening events (which were actually very terrifying in theory) were undercut by the male’s sense of humour which made light of something like a door slowly opening and shutting on its own or a demonic voice that had been recorded on video. It made for some hilarious moments in the movie, but I wasn’t there to chuckle. I would’ve been completely disappointed had it not been for the last couple of minutes of the movie that actually were pretty scary and still managed to catch the people in the theatre by surprise.

I especially loved the lengths the director went to provide his audience a sense of authenticity, even using the actors’ real names in the film and the exclusion of credits at the end of the movie. The movie just abruptly ended after a brief epilogue and a thank you to the families of the characters of the movie. Even the actors themselves looked refreshingly normal.

The most terrifying thing about that movie was the fact that this unseen demonic entity had attached itself to a young woman for no known reason other than just cause and that she could do absolutely nothing about it. In spite of the funny moments, Oren Peli still managed to get this sense of hopelessness across thanks in large part to the wonderful acting of “Katie”.

In other news, Halloween was amazing! For the very first time, I decided to go to a club for Halloween and I don’t regret the decision whatsoever. The club of choice was the Phoenix and it was a hella good time. Danced like crazy to some great rock songs and pushed some robots and slutty-somethings across the impossibly crowded dance floor. GOOD TIMES!!!

Happy Halloween!

The space constituted as “gallery space” can be very powerful. Once framed within the context of an exhibit, one can elevate the most mundane into the most profound of objects. I saw this phenomenon take place during Toronto’s annual “Nuit Blanche” arts festival which turned the city into a huge gallery space celebrating modern art from sunrise to sunset.

I’d never been to this event before, so as a huge lover of art, I was pretty excited to see what Toronto artists had come up with. Of the exhibits I did manage to see, I could pretty much say that modern art is no more understandable than it has ever been. For instance, Nuit Blanche 2009 asked its viewers to stare into a pool of vodka placed artistically on the floor of a downtown bank for no obvious reason other than just cause. Similar exhibits like a bunch of pennies littered across the pavement of a streetcorner and large, black letters spelling out the word “NO” seemed to hold the same mysterious significance.

The exhibits varied from the small and contained (as mentioned above) to the large and spectacular. The towers of city hall were ablaze with light of bright headlights that were mounted in between them. The lights periodically spelled a variety of three to four-letter words that seemed to have little to no relation to one another. People would watch the words change, muttering to themselves what the words could possibly mean. Perhaps its meaning was similar to that of the enormous, inflated bunny that was suspended in the Eatons center. Metallic and featureless, the bunny hovered like a silent god that stoically tolerated the unending camera flashes from amazed art lovers.

The exhibitions I enjoyed the most required no lineup. Unfortunately, for some of the more spectacular exhibits, lineups were a fixed feature that my friends and I were not too keen on. It was nice to walk on the street, see a crowd and then walk on over to discover what the to-do was. I discovered and enjoyed the Monopoly exhibit in this way, the exhibit being that of extremely wealthy Torontonians fanning themselves lazily with the real hundred-dollar bills they were playing the game of Monopoly with. The significance of this exhibit is still lost on me.

Another fun “passerby exhibit”, as I like to call them, were the taped off sections of Scotia Plaza that the artist claimed made noise if one passed one’s hand over them. It was extremely amusing watching people frantically wave their hands over these magical spaces, willing a noise to come forth from the speakers nearby. My friends and I were convinced the exhibit was an elaborate hoax that the artist set up for his own amusement.

I only lined up for one exhibit and that came at the end of the night. Our navigator read of an exhibit in his trusty Nuit Blanche guidebook, provided to us by Scotiabank, that contained a young woman in a red dress that one can crawl under. Since my group consisted of four young men and I, it was a popular choice as the last exhibition to see and the only one we’d bother to wait in line for. We took a tram to see this lady and by this time at night my friends and I had already shared among us multiple meters of beer. We decided to share our enthusiasm for Nuit Blanche with fellow Torontonians by being loud and obnoxious, which is always a great way to have a good time in front of hundreds of people you’ll never see again.

So after making multiple friends in the crowded tram, we got off at Liberty Village in search for this elusive lady in red. When we found her, the lineup to see were was dwarfish in comparison to the monster of a line that snaked around Massey Hall for the exhibit that featured the world’s largest instrument, so spirits were high that the signs that read, “60 minute wait at this point” were an exaggeration.

They weren’t. And unfortunately, the wonderful buzz brought on by the beers had faded into an overwhelming sense of fatigue as the late hours finally caught up with us. Chilled and tired, I was tempted to abandon the line several times as I also had to work at 8:30 the next morning, but I stuck it out and by 4:00–after waiting an hour and a half–we finally got to step foot into the studio space where a young woman sat atop an elevated chair, her thick velvet dress spread across the stage surrounding her like a scarlet sea.

Amazed, we watched as people disappeared beneath the hem of her gown and crawled towards the center. Since we’d waited so long, we all collectively decided it would be an enormous waste if we didn’t get the full experience. So, like many others before us, we slipped beneath the dress to crawl right into the center where we found books and flashlights and pillows as well as the girl’s panty-covered crotch hovering above us in a tall chair that significantly had a hole on the seat that allowed us to get such a view. It was quite fantastic… and also confusing.

Art never ceases to amaze me. It’s such a gift of humans to be able to appreciate and acknowledge the beauty of our world once framed in a way that makes us rethink the way we’ve looked at it before. Will I go to Nuit Blanche next year? The answer to that is a definite yes, as the chance to see Toronto united in such a peaceful way for such a wonderful purpose as the appreciation of art is a rare and precious one.

We’ve all sighed to it: the epic scene in the movie/television show/novel where the young man grabs the young woman’s face and kisses her fiercely in the rain. Is this heart-racing scenario all its cracked up to be? The answer, sadly, is no. One is wet, usually cold, and—in some cases—slick with snot. There’s actually nothing romantic about it. But still, one still takes the time in the midst of this uncomfortable situation to think, Damn, I’m kissing someone in the rain… I’ve always wanted to do this!!!

It was during my own personal experience with awkward rain-kissing that I realized how attached we are to stereotypical notions of what’s “romantic” in society these days. Scenes that are used and reused by media are still well-received and positively reacted to by society no matter how familiar they are. For instance, this summer was the summer of drive-in movies for me. Not only did I get to watch movies at a discounted rate, I also was able to catch a second movie right afterwards. And since this movie was a freebie, my fellow drive-in companions and I usually chose the fun romantic comedy that we would typically not choose to watch and pay for in, say, Famous Players. We would all settle into these movies knowing very well how they’d end and watch every recognizable circumstance with a sense of pure enjoyment.

The enjoyment comes from the hope and aspiration that these situations would somehow occur in our own lives. Who hasn’t wanted to get proposed to in the middle of a crowded room? or forgive a scorned lover on a hot-air balloon with a blazing sunset in the background? or make out with someone in rain? The problem for me is not particularly these entertaining movies, but the fact that these instances define our notion of what romance is. It seems as though in today’s society to be swept off ones feet, one must rely on the extraordinary and the spectacle.

I say, to hell with the spectacle. Some of the most sweeping moments of my life have involved the more intimate, the more private, and the more personal. After my companion kissed me, he casually remarked, “Now I can cross this off my list!” I instantly thought to myself, A list of what? Cliched things to do that I’ve seen done eleventy-billion times before? And then sighed softly to myself knowing what I had to look forward to.

What happened to creativity? Why can’t a young man learn origami and fashion me a paper monkey after hearing me say conversationally that I’ve always wanted to see an origami monkey?

That, my friends, is romance.

I love Love LOVE downtown. It’s decided. I’m moving there, building a career there, and schooling for a bit there too. There’s no question. Out of all the things I wanted to do with my life, I’ve never been more passionate about anything else. Now that I’ve decided what to do with my life, the sadness of the past summer seems to have lifted and for the first time in four years, I don’t dread the cold of winter.

I visited there and took some pictures. Here’s the best of the bunch:

You are sickeningly sweet
You are Easter Sunday, all pastels and bunnies
And chocolate. Lots of chocolate.
Too much chocolate.
You are a honey-drenched tissue, a honeydew melon
Dripping with sweet,
The kind of sweet I despise.

I stare at you with your sugar-soaked smiles
And Shirley Temple wiles
Wanting to be like you.
I can be like you, sickeningly sweet.
And I am. But different.

I am an overripe strawberry. A bruised banana.
This tainted type of sweet is the best I can do.
Used up and beyond naivety.
Without your innocense and your good intentions.
My smiles drip with dishonesty and disillusionment.

You are sickeningly sweet
And I envy you.
Beyond jealousy or words.
And yet I cannot hate you.
For I know one day
You’ll be just like me.

I’ve always maintained that the two best things my religion has ever given me was the art it inspired and Jesus Christ Superstar, the movie. As per Easter tradition, I sat down and watched this movie when it aired on television for the 7 millionth time and, again, thoroughly enjoyed it.

This movie contains some of the most beautiful voices and acting I’ve ever seen and heard. Ted Neely as Jesus has undoubtedly the saddest eyes in the world. As he gazes across the sea of frantically dancing worshippers in a haze of hysteria, you can feel the weight of the world on his shoulders. And you sympathize with Judas, for once… and come to understand his motives. Carl Anderson as Judas lurks in the periphery of the mayhem most of the movie with this look of anxious confusion and you feel just as confused and frightened as he does. Mary Magdelane is the soft spot of pink in Jesus’s hectic, demanding world, tending to his needs while his apostles badger him for his plan of action in overthrowing the Romans.

Amazing movie. The characters become real, for once. Not just some mythical fable that warns and preaches on the consequences of a sinful life. I really wish church was this entertaining. Maybe then I’d attend more of my accord as opposed to being dragged there once every couple of months by my parents when I don’t happen to be working that sunday.

Driving home today, I saw the most beautiful sunset. In such a dazzling world, how can one not be hopeful? And optimistic? And happy? Horrible, sad things happen… but to dwell on them wastes precious moments in appreciating the other wonders of life. I will always, always look upon the past six months of my life with a smile. Rainbows by no means arced across my path, but it was lined with beautifully-scented flowers. I can’t cry over the bitterness… because there is none. At least not for me.

So I’m currently in the midst of reading a horrible book: Good Omens. I’ve never been more disinterested in reading literature in my life. Only one thing rivals this: Josh’s old Book of John that he passed on to me in hopes of quieting my wicked ways. He didn’t exactly say that, but I could tell what his agenda was. He probably assumed (correctly) that I haven’t touched the thing hence his negligence to contact me over some time now, which–let me clarify–is a very good thing.

I’m ditching this. If I’m going to use some of my precious leisurely time devoted to reading something, it better be damned interesting and this book, sadly, is not. It lacks most of the key elements that I believe make for a true page turner. The plot is tired and ill-paced, the characters are far from riveting, the book is simply not written well, and the humour so adamantly spoken of in the back of the cover is unfounded.

Books I’d like to read:
-Atwood’s The Handmaid’s Tale
-Martel’s Life of Pi
-Hosseini’s The Kite Runner
-Maguire’s Wicked

The prospect of me actually reading all listed falls under the category of “not any time soon”.

School has begun again. I’m blissfully ecstatic about this. I need to finish. I should be finishing in two months. Two months have now stretched to four. This is horrible. But I will plow through and hopefully be facing college come September.

I bought a copy of A Little Princess on DVD and reminded myself why I love that movie so much. This movie not only reiterates the very valuable knowledge that all women are princesses and should be treated as such, but additionally, the director, Alfonso Cuaron, wisely decided to splash his sets with the most amazing shades of green. From the molding-laced walls of the seminary to the doll-like shifts the priviliged little girls were expected to wear, the beautiful colour was everywhere. I love the colour green and realized that this wasn’t the first movie I was drawn to because of the director’s concious decision to use the colour.

1998’s Great Expectations–coincidentally also directed by Alfonso Cuaron–also used this colour everywhere. Exploring the ALP DVD’s special features, I stumbled upon a blurb by the director explaining how the colour is one of few that can be both cool and warm. How appropriate, then, that that colour was used a Estella’s signature hue throughout the movie.

I want to buy some food tomorrow that will satiate my cravings because I decided I can no longer rely on my mother to buy anything decent. Now that I’ve been spending more time at home, I’ve come to realize how paltry a selection we have here. Furthermore, I’d like to go shopping soon to buy new clothes. I feel like my style has again shifted slightly and my wardrobe no longer reflects my interests. I’m leaning towards a cleaner, more sophisticated style a la Audrina Patridge and Lauren Conrad.

Also on my to-do list:

1. Buy more underwear.
2. Work on soon-to-be-due essay.
3. GRADUATE already.
4. Start learning songs by heart on the guitar.
5. Buy an Asian cookbook covering the basic, most popular dishes from China, Vietnam, and Japan.

I’m suddenly a very busy girl.

For the first time in awhilez, I finally got some TV time in and what do you know? My absolute favourite-st show on TLC, John and Kate Plus 8, was on. House on Haunted Hill was on too, and despite my love for badly-filmed, poor CGI-ridden, horribly acted horror films, I couldn’t pass up catching up on the Gosselins. And it was an episode I’d never seen before! Which wasn’t much of a surprise seeing as how my cable passed away about two months ago.

In this particular episode, the Gosselins trekked all the way to Hawaii where some gorgeous, Eden-like resort paid this family for some valuable sublimal advertising. It’s episodes like this that make me wish I loved children–loved them so much as to make my vagina an ever-turning revolving door for many of them. See, maybe then I’d get my own reality show and great places like Disney World, Hawaii, Dutch Wonderland, the Pittsburg Zoo, Utah’s ski slopes, the Crayola Factory, the studio that films the Oprah Winfrey Show, North Carolina’s summer villas, and Legoland would sponsor some family-oriented adventures. But I don’t, sadly. Thus, Frank and Jerika Plus a Plethora (Of Children) shall never see the light of day.

So I was thoroughly enjoying watching this family have a wonderful vacation (thus deciding to eventually go to Hawaii myself), and endearing to all the crazy hijinks those damn kids got into. But all good things must come to an end and it was subsequently followed by another TLC insanely-large-family-themed show entitled, 17 Kids and Counting.

So instead of turning the television off with the air of one who’s satisfied with what time she’s wasted, I settled back into my couch and continued to watch. I was kind of intrigued: I mean, the more kids, the better, right? But I had my doubts about this show. For one, their title wasn’t nearly as clever as the adorably titled, John and Kate Plus 8. It left nothing to the imagination. My suspicious were further raised upon discovering these people were Baptists. Here’s what wikipedia had to say about this family:

“The Duggar family is an Arkansas family, headed by Jim Bob Duggar and Michelle Duggar. On May 9, 2008 Michelle Duggar announced on the Today Show that she is pregnant with their 18th child. Jim Bob Duggar and his wife Michelle, who was named Young Mother of the Year in Arkansas in 2004, are conservative Baptists who endorse the Quiverfull movement and the teachings of Bill Gothard. Jim Bob Duggar and his wife report that their children are blessings from God, since his wife miscarried while on birth control and was able to conceive many more times once she stopped taking birth control.”

Who the heck is Bill Gothard? Wikipedia says:

“Gothard’s teaching focuses on seven “life principles”, 49 character qualities, and 49 commands that Jesus gave [*Eyebrow raise* There's more than 10? Jesus...] Gothard discourages listening to any ‘un-Christian’ music, including all popular and contemporary Christian music and encourages homeschooling; … and, according to one follower, claims borrowing money for any reason, even a home mortgage, is wrong. According to one critic, Gothard protested against the Cabbage Patch Kids because Cabbage Patch Kids or Treasure Trolls could lead to difficulties in conceiving or giving birth to a child, and has discouraged the use of contraceptives or other family planning.”

So, Jim Bob and Michelle considered their offspring blessings from God due to the fact that she was able to conceive after she stopped birth control. Unless that form of birth control were repeated blows to her ovaries delivered by a drunken Jim Bob, I don’t see the miracle here. In any case, whatever form of birth control they used, it apparently was meant to keep Michelle’s uterus unoccupied until 17 babies decided to use it as a hostel. And she’s pregnant again. Wow…

In comparison to the lovable Gosselins, the Duggars come off (and probably are) completely and utterly scripted and staged. There’s an eerie sense of joy that saturates everything they say. All 17 Duggar childrens’ names begin with “J”. Some examples include Jinger, Josiah, Jedidiah, and Jeremiah. In this particular episode, Jinger was learning to drive standard. I couldn’t watch her pedophilic-looking father reaching over to straighten the wheel without feeling creeped out.

Watching this show was like watching one of those specials about the lives of primordial dwarves, the grossly obese, or the strangely deformed. I stopped watching feeling disturbed, confused, and a little saddened.