While reading an article on Japanese picture brides, I came upon this:
Not surprisingly, Japanese men seeking wives exerted considerable effort to present themselves in the best possible light, particularly as attractive, wealthy, well-educated prospects who had taken on the North American emblems of successful manhood. Thus, their letters to future brides often contained rosy stories of their living conditions, and the enclosed photographs often showed prospective husbands wearing black suits, white "high collar" shirts, and at times a homburg. Some interviewees even indicated that they had heard stories of men who had posed in front of a mansion or even the Hotel Vancouver, implying that they either lived in or owned the property.
Hahaha, can you imagine standing in front of the Hotel Vancouver claiming it was your own?
Now, can you imagine the bride's surprise when she met her husband for the first time? And then she and her new 'beau's shack was in the middle of nowhere (literally), with the bride having to do half her husband's job (not to mention her own domestic duties), raising her children, living in complete poverty and then having to obey to suck her husband's dick whenever he wanted it.
Anyway, apparently after spotting their shabby husbands from the boat deck, some of the brides would refuse to leave the ship and sailed back to Japan.
Monday, January 31, 2011
Distraction
MY GOD what I'd do for a beer right now.
A good beer. A pint of it. A nice, delicious pint of bitter.
Oh, and some handsome company would be ever so interesting, too.
I'm just drinking tea and eating Cajun Mix and looking at picture of Zach Galifianakis with his shirt off right now, enjoying a nice time of 8:10 PM on a Monday evening, an open book of paper in front of me that at some point this evening I'll get to.
A good beer. A pint of it. A nice, delicious pint of bitter.
Oh, and some handsome company would be ever so interesting, too.
I'm just drinking tea and eating Cajun Mix and looking at picture of Zach Galifianakis with his shirt off right now, enjoying a nice time of 8:10 PM on a Monday evening, an open book of paper in front of me that at some point this evening I'll get to.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
I've figured something out?
After taking a couple of tylenol and washing them down with a chocolate-y coffee, I figured I would be ready for the whole homework thing.
In case anyone wasn't aware: school blows.
Okay, so I know I'm in first year courses and I'm 25 and I know that it's hard to find interesting courses to take when you're doing a university transfer program, but couldn't my profs give one shit about what they're talking about? One them in particular is getting us to read a chapter of a textbook and go over the definitions of the bold-faced words in the following class (uhhh, and it's a second year English course). Either she is a complete and total dingbat or she thinks we're a bunch of fucking morons.
Thanks for the tuition bill and a waste of time, Langara.
Of course, there is a possibility that I've lost my smarts over the past seven years, have become increasingly cynical and I simply can't find anything that's interesting whatsoever. I may just belong to the zombified masses, in a strange parade of people eating potato chips, guffaw-ing at Family Guy and giving up on what their dreams ever were.
I just really don't want that.
So basically I've come to question my decisions. I assumed that taking a semester enrolled in courses that seemed interesting may revive my interests, my care for the world, my joie de vivre, whatever...and I feel like it may be working - just in an opposite sort of way.
I've realized that I'd rather just take some fucking books out of the library and play out scenarios in my head so the information takes. I'd rather be travelling and wandering around new neighbourhoods, talking to new people, trying new things (without a huge commitment and a $5000/semester bill) and picking up new novels that will remind me of what I love. Who needs a career, and what is a career these days anyway? Academia is the alternative, dark pit of snotty intellectual despair way of living. Obviously I'll do it if I must (I'm going to finish the semester, because it's either this or going back to serving at this point), like say if I really do need a degree in something to get some job title I want or a salary that is necessary (kids...house...etc)....but for some reason I just don't see that happening for quite a while (if ever).
I think that I'm realizing that I am willing to take that long, hard quest for happiness that will bring the dark moments as I go along.
What I'm trying to tell you is, I'm going to bake pies for a living.
In case anyone wasn't aware: school blows.
Okay, so I know I'm in first year courses and I'm 25 and I know that it's hard to find interesting courses to take when you're doing a university transfer program, but couldn't my profs give one shit about what they're talking about? One them in particular is getting us to read a chapter of a textbook and go over the definitions of the bold-faced words in the following class (uhhh, and it's a second year English course). Either she is a complete and total dingbat or she thinks we're a bunch of fucking morons.
Thanks for the tuition bill and a waste of time, Langara.
Of course, there is a possibility that I've lost my smarts over the past seven years, have become increasingly cynical and I simply can't find anything that's interesting whatsoever. I may just belong to the zombified masses, in a strange parade of people eating potato chips, guffaw-ing at Family Guy and giving up on what their dreams ever were.
I just really don't want that.
So basically I've come to question my decisions. I assumed that taking a semester enrolled in courses that seemed interesting may revive my interests, my care for the world, my joie de vivre, whatever...and I feel like it may be working - just in an opposite sort of way.
I've realized that I'd rather just take some fucking books out of the library and play out scenarios in my head so the information takes. I'd rather be travelling and wandering around new neighbourhoods, talking to new people, trying new things (without a huge commitment and a $5000/semester bill) and picking up new novels that will remind me of what I love. Who needs a career, and what is a career these days anyway? Academia is the alternative, dark pit of snotty intellectual despair way of living. Obviously I'll do it if I must (I'm going to finish the semester, because it's either this or going back to serving at this point), like say if I really do need a degree in something to get some job title I want or a salary that is necessary (kids...house...etc)....but for some reason I just don't see that happening for quite a while (if ever).
I think that I'm realizing that I am willing to take that long, hard quest for happiness that will bring the dark moments as I go along.
What I'm trying to tell you is, I'm going to bake pies for a living.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
After skipping school this afternoon, I hopped the bus down Main to meet Wendy for a much needed 'friend date'. And as I wiped tears out of my eyes and pushed play for some sad music to enter my headphones I had the perfect layout for the perfect journal post to describe how I'm feeling about everything right now.
But here I am, nine hours later, and all I really have to say at this point before I go to sleep and get back to the grind is that how out of place I feel in the general scheme of things can feel absolutely awful and ridiculous sometimes.
But tonight, I lounged around on someone's lovely comfy couch and had a bowl of delicious apple crisp and some even better company - life simply can't be all that bad.
But here I am, nine hours later, and all I really have to say at this point before I go to sleep and get back to the grind is that how out of place I feel in the general scheme of things can feel absolutely awful and ridiculous sometimes.
But tonight, I lounged around on someone's lovely comfy couch and had a bowl of delicious apple crisp and some even better company - life simply can't be all that bad.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Already It Has Happened
You know how when you're reading something and your eyes go out of focus, but you're still reading the letters and words - and so you are following along but your mind doesn't register a single sentence that your eyes have skimmed over? Well, I could probably finish reading all the chapters and articles assigned to me tonight however I can't say if I'll remember any of it at 930 tomorrow morning.
I have been 'doing' school since nine this morning. It's eight right now. I have probably taken 2 hours off (riding the bus/walking down the street/heating up dinner). I still have two hours of reading to do.
This is what I don't like about school. How about being self-paced? Can't I read about African-Nova Scotian and their social adjustment within society post-immigration when I feel like it? (Very bad at keeping focused here)
UPDATE: 10:32 pm .... I did it!
I have been 'doing' school since nine this morning. It's eight right now. I have probably taken 2 hours off (riding the bus/walking down the street/heating up dinner). I still have two hours of reading to do.
This is what I don't like about school. How about being self-paced? Can't I read about African-Nova Scotian and their social adjustment within society post-immigration when I feel like it? (Very bad at keeping focused here)
UPDATE: 10:32 pm .... I did it!
Saturday, January 15, 2011
Perfect Saturday Afternoon
1. Earl Grey tea
2. Apple slices with peanut butter
3. Sitting at the kitchen table
4. Stack of books in front of me
5. House to myself
6. WireTap with Jonathan Goldstein on the radio (side note: it just occurred to me that I want more friends like Jon's, more like Howard Chackowicz.)
And I've already been out of the house, morning spent with my sister having coffee, smelling perfume and finding her new glasses. I love downtown.
And I love that it's only two. Have I mentioned yet how much I am enjoying getting up at seven in the morning?
2. Apple slices with peanut butter
3. Sitting at the kitchen table
4. Stack of books in front of me
5. House to myself
6. WireTap with Jonathan Goldstein on the radio (side note: it just occurred to me that I want more friends like Jon's, more like Howard Chackowicz.)
And I've already been out of the house, morning spent with my sister having coffee, smelling perfume and finding her new glasses. I love downtown.
And I love that it's only two. Have I mentioned yet how much I am enjoying getting up at seven in the morning?
Friday, January 14, 2011
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Random Thoughts
While I'm trying to clean my room these things are coming up:
I often think about whether or not I classify as a grownup. Like, does the fact that I had a blueberry bagel (toasted, with butter) and some popcorn for dinner make me mature?
I feel constant guilt about my laziness.
My room is so fucking small I constantly bang my left knee on the edge of the bed frame. Really hard-like.
Old books that I've purchased from Bygone Books (Nanaimo) are being added to the shelf: The Lady With the Camelias by Alexandre Dumas, Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson (already own a copy but this is a nicer one - and I guess it's not really old but who cares), and Christmas Stories from 'Household Words' and 'All the Year Round' by Charles Dickens.
I'm going to bring back the sash next season. I have currently fashioned one out of the bottom of a dress I cut off. It's smashing.
Have I failed to mention lately how much I love and admire Bradford Cox?
Well now that I have accumulated all my laundry into one pile, changed my sheets and folded all my clothes I feel like a new person. However, this room still feels a tad too small - until I get into bed (which is where I am now).
One day I'll have enough space.
Can anyone tell that I'm reading a novel about a bunch of Brits? 'smashing' and 'tad' and
I often think about whether or not I classify as a grownup. Like, does the fact that I had a blueberry bagel (toasted, with butter) and some popcorn for dinner make me mature?
I feel constant guilt about my laziness.
My room is so fucking small I constantly bang my left knee on the edge of the bed frame. Really hard-like.
Old books that I've purchased from Bygone Books (Nanaimo) are being added to the shelf: The Lady With the Camelias by Alexandre Dumas, Jesus' Son by Denis Johnson (already own a copy but this is a nicer one - and I guess it's not really old but who cares), and Christmas Stories from 'Household Words' and 'All the Year Round' by Charles Dickens.
I'm going to bring back the sash next season. I have currently fashioned one out of the bottom of a dress I cut off. It's smashing.
Have I failed to mention lately how much I love and admire Bradford Cox?
Well now that I have accumulated all my laundry into one pile, changed my sheets and folded all my clothes I feel like a new person. However, this room still feels a tad too small - until I get into bed (which is where I am now).
One day I'll have enough space.
Can anyone tell that I'm reading a novel about a bunch of Brits? 'smashing' and 'tad' and
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