I was fortunate enough to finally hit the fabled Phantom Farm with my sisters tonight. The Phantom Farm is a haunted barn and hayride located on a back road about 20 minutes outside of Peterborough past Fraserville. For the past five years my sisters have regaled me of their experiences at the farm, and I'd listen with great interest. This year I got an eyeful of everything they'd talk about, including the infamous figure Sarah refers to as Top Hat:


The barn was well put together, and though it wasn't busy I was hoping we'd have the opportunity to wait in line longer to be terrorized by the cast of characters on hand. Hidden passageways opened, things dropped from the ceiling, we had a chainsaw waved in our faces - all before actually entering the door. We stepped into a room and were spun around for a good 15 seconds before navigating our way through the crooked hallways, torture chambers, bedrooms, and jail cells populated by the likes of Michael Myers, Leatherface, Freddy, Chuckie, and about 20 others kooks (including a young female zombie in veils, whose human-flesh hungry mouth lit up like a firecracker; I asked her for her number and got a wave of her webbed fingers).

The hayride through the Phantom Forest showed equal invention. Not only were we bombarded with grotesque scenes such as a beheading, a zombie uprising and people pleading with us to save them from oncoming serial killers, but several lunatics jumped in the wagon, stealing shoes and hats, dragging chains on the roof - at one point men wearing camouflaged fatigues shot at the top of the vehicle, prompting a body to fall off into everyone's line of sight.


Not a bad way to wrap up a weekend. It made me excited for Halloween, that's for sure. I'll be heading back next year.

I don't think I've ever felt so full after eating tonight's Thanksgiving dinner. I had to lie down for about an hour immediately afterwards. That's my idea of a great meal - it just FLOORS you. You have to lie there, waiting for your body to comprehend how much you've eaten so that it can start digesting away, like generals formulating a plan of attack in a war room before dispatching the troops. "I want 50 men and a second brigade on the stuffing. GO DAMMIT."

It rained a lot today, much to the chagrin of the animals that gather to eat at my parents' back door. My folks now have seven cats; they just added a stray, making sure it had its shots and all that. They're breaking him in slowly by keeping him in the back room for about ten days or so before he joins the rest of the kitty crew, including: Big Paul Friendly, Hope, Ashes, Cloud, Tobey, and Oreo. I'm not sure what the new one's name is (or if he has a name), but it will probably have four or five variations in a few months time.

I put aside time for some Touch of Evil readings, and took advantage of my parents' cable subscription to watch SNL (which wasn't very funny). Bedtime for me and my full belly.

I used to think I was immune to the effects of chopping onions. I was dead wrong.

I'm in Peterborough for Thanksgiving weekend. Jay gave me a ride. We almost got into a mashup on the 401 - Jay had to stop really suddenly and avoided hitting the car in front of us by inches. The car behind us squealed its tires in the effort to follow suit. A close call.

Today I swung by campus early to pick up a textbook I still required (they never seem to end, the required texts). In Bibliography I held a first edition of Tennyson's In Memoriam in my hands, as well as an autographed copy of Samuel Taylor Coleridge's translation of the first seven books of the Odyssey. Talk about surreal. We also talked about Foucault's conception of the author. He seemed to prophesize the age we're living in now, where a free-for-all of meaning and information exists. It's interesting taking a look at property, legality and ownership alongside what we truly believe an author to be - it's popularly defined in both financial and ideological terms, but there are so many more layers to the identity of the author. I think, however, that Foucault sees the free distribution and obtaining of information - sort of a collective conscious - as the ideal state of a world embracing art. He posits that in the future, all questions will fall to this: "what does it matter who is speaking?" (Foucault's essay "What Is An Author?" is also a great read if you're interested in the ideas of both copyright and cults of personality.)

I finally got down to the passport office and handed in the appropriate documents with little trouble. Apparently I'll be able to pick it up on the 22nd of this month. They'll call me if there are any issues with my application, but it looks like smooth sailing for now. Funnily enough, after applying with my temporary driver's license and worrying that the office wouldn't accept it, I came home to find my new license in the mailbox. Figures.

I watched Topper with my folks, an old Cary Grant screwball comedy in which he and his wife lead reckless lives, die in a car accident, and can't rest their ghosts until they show a tight-assed bank manager how to enjoy life. Really neat effects for the time and some funny moments, but the plot is paperthin and ridiculous. It also stars Billie Burke in a supporting role (she played Glinda in The Wizard of Oz).

Autumn on Spadina

in the blood warmth of
the shrinking sun,
children at chattering play

the precision
of a heart clicking
into place, again,
again

in front of the mission,
the homeless begin
bundling themselves

(gone)

I like being home. It feels good to curl my feet up on the couch. Secure.

It's felt as though my head has been on backwards for the better part of today. I couldn't take care of passport issues because I forgot to have Jay sign my photo, so it kind of threw things out of whack. Tomorrow I have to give it another shot while also attending class and making a trip to the bookstore. At the very least, Jay offered me a ride to Peterborough for the weekend, so I don't have to think about bus schedules.

I discovered that I'm not going to be able to apply for one of the grants I had my eye on, but then I found another to take its place. It would be easier to ask for money if I were applying as an incorporated non-profit organization. But I know hardly anything about owning a business. I'd need a board of directors, a lawyer, an accountant. How would I put all of that together without a budget? I don't have that kind of money. And besides, even if I did get a non-profit organization off the ground, how would I be able to make a living at running it?

That seems to be the biggest and baddest thought running through my head these days: how I'm going to make a living once I'm through with school. I want a steady income at a higher-profile job. The money isn't even all that important to me - I just want to be in a position where I feel as though I'm doing something more meaningful than selling a product I don't personally care about. I don't want to keep waking up early every weekday morning with eight hours of a ridiculous bottom line over my head. That's more or less what I've been doing job-wise since I started working. I'm going to have a ton of education under my belt when I'm through at U of T. It has to qualify me for SOMETHING worthwhile. I shouldn't worry about it, I suppose. I've never had a lot of trouble finding work, and I haven't done any research into what's available yet. I used to freak out about a career all the time, always under the idea that it was a FUTURE problem. One step at a time.

Sometimes I get the feeling I'd be a tragic character in some author's work on ambition. That's what happens when you read as much Can Lit as I do. It wouldn't sell very well, as I probably haven't had enough success yet.

I fantasize about what life is going to be like when I move back to Ottawa. My own place, new furniture, my movies and books neatly displayed on a shelf, a filing cabinet for my personal papers, the ability to sit down and write and design without even the slightest thought that someone is around invading my headspace. Erecting a home office setup where I can tackle event organization more effectively. Just me and a cat (and Andrea once in awhile). An adult paradise.

I'm reading Thomas Mann's Death in Venice, which is a pretty intense story about uncomfortable subject matter, equating artistic drive with taboo obsessions (it's about a writer who goes on vacation and becomes transfixed by a ten year old boy). It's short, so I'll probably finish it before going to bed. One more step towards what will happen next.

The Hives were exactly what I thought they'd be like - loud, energetic and full of themselves. A really entertaining show at a great price. It was nice to sit down with Matt and have a beer, too. We ate at an Italian place with a pretty extensive beer menu called Caffe Volo. Across the street was a top-floor dance studio and I could periodically see the heads and shoulders of dancers moving back and forth in front of the window.

Matt thinks he's getting old because his hearing is bad and he can't mosh anymore. I guess there does come a time when you have to content yourself with some applause, a few woos and a little head-bobbing. I didn't throw myself around a lot tonight, but I could have. Perhaps I should test my mosh pit endurance every three years or so just to make sure I'm still able.

Quite the contrast to the opera, but still a lot of fun.

Here's something funny:



I'm in this clip from about 5:40-5:25, standing to the right of the guy asking Kevin Smith what type of music he likes. I guess you can take that 15 seconds off my fifteen minutes.

I fell in love tonight. Andrea's going to have to share me with opera.

I caught the first performance of The Marriage of Figaro at the Four Seasons Centre, a beautiful facility with five levels in its main hall:



I was up on the fifth level, and the seats were still pretty damn good. Seeing the opera live drove my appreciation for it up about ten times. Not only was it exciting to watch, but the whole thing was subtitled on a marquis above the stage. It sunk in tonight that opera is a real live big deal. I sat and listened to an orchestra play Mozart for close to three hours, and watched a cast of characters sing in Italian about love and betrayal in fashions both heartrending and incredibly humorous. I feel enlightened and privileged to have experienced it. And I'll be watching another in about two weeks!

It's been a long day, but a sugar-rich coffee after my second class helped get me through (I was pretty dead by that point). Tomorrow: passport shyte and The Hives! Then maybe I'll take a breather.

I was going to go to campus early today, but I slept in late. I don't know why I'm feeling so tired lately. I've never been much of a morning person but it doesn't make sense that I'd go to bed at 1 and sleep (or want to sleep) until 11 or 12. I'll put it down to a continued recovery from Nuit Blanche for now, but I think it has more to do with a lack of exercise and good food. I should change that.

After I got home I started in on my Touch of Evil readings. I still have two to go; they were really piled on this week, with about 10 chapters in total.

Tomorrow is going to be a rather lengthy day. I have two classes starting at 10 AM, and then the opera at 7:30. I'd better finish these readings and get my ass to bed.