Satan backhands our nose in the wind Snow! The dandruff of the heavens is now flaking upon us, a spirit is suffering scalp itch, and we in Alberta get to bear the brunt of it. A whopping eight inches of it, a small skim of dust on the mantle of a greater being. Oh I love making bad snow analogies. It comes with the whole "pretentious" gig. It is seriously beautiful out though. I've heard nothing but pissing and moaning since it started, but I'm thoroughly enjoying it. At Telus Plaza this afternoon, before boarding the bus home (to get to the muni polls) I stood outside for forty-five minutes in white-out conditions. When I eventually moved to catch the bus, there was a long shadow of un-snowed on ground behind me, starting where my feet had rested, like a radiation shadow.

Black Rider is a play I attended last week that I keep meaning to touch on without just using strings and strings of explicatives like amazing! Awesome! Super-duper! Nifty! Cool! It was based on an old German opera, about a white stag that drags a felon through the forest- legend was that if you could shoot the stag without hitting the man, you would gain perfect marksmanship. The little Chaplin-esque guy (Wilhelm) has absolutely no ability though, and makes a deal with the Devil. The sexy, irresistably smooth and rad Devil. And the guy that played the Devil was so riveting you could hardly take your eyes off him, no matter where he was. The play is actually deemed a musical though- Tom Waits and whatnot, being responsible for the musical score that was amazing. They had a three piece band that synchronized live with sound effects for the whole show, adding song music when necessary and etc. The best parts were the surprisingly unimportant ones though, in the whole production.

One scene is of the ringmaster manipulating a "puppet" consisting of the female protagonist thrown into another role as this old gnarly gypsy/crazy person. She puts on the most deliciously creepy falsetto, and together they spin this little creepy narrative in the corner of an unlit stage (save them) complete with "puppet mastery." It send shivers down my spine, and I can't say I've ever felt that creeped out (in a good way) by a play before. The other part was when the narrator/other suitor for the female protagonist did his little bit towards the end that sort of related the ancient tale to modern day: He went through all these different personalities in a monologue on-stage, changing voices, intent and story (three monologues all in one), and it was freakin' hilarious. He did it so incredibly well-sort of a carnivalesque Jim Carrey thing.

So, the other thing that I was going to talk about (and I'd appreciate wisdom or a slap upside the head if I'm being stupid about it) is the issue of the lifestyle differences with Mr. Pink. I mean, I love the guy to bits, but when he came to my house for Thanksgiving dinner, I was really nervous about it. Not nervous for being with him, but nervous about my family, ready to jump up and defend him if they were assholes to him at the drop of a hat. And I would have, but at the same time, he kept bringing up things like, "wow, you guys are so much different from my family/ you do things so differently." And I didn't know what to say. What I did say is that "everyone's different", which in retrospect, was probably really lame. Another thing that happened though was that after dinner, he and I, plus my mother and father, went for a walk, and on the way out of the driveway, he said something to the effect of, "man, none of my family would have hung around to do the dishes together like that. We finish thanksgiving dinner, and everyone bolts as fast as possible so they don't have to do dishes. I don't understand how all of you chip in like that without being asked." I said something about silent guilttrips and was going on about it (this is true- I don't "help" with something, and it becomes an object of politics in my family-people get shamed), when my mom interrupted (in the kind of way where you know she swiveled her ears and picked up the last three words of the sentence, but still feels like jumping in so she can say something she deems earthshattering, and what I consider hugely impolite) and said, "it's just good manners. If you don't stick around, it means you have bad manners."

My mother has just called my boyfriend, and his entire family bad-mannered. He is quiet, and I valiantly try and stick up for him, by telling her she's wrong. Since she hasn't heard the context of the whole conversation, she continues to rant about good manners and how they're inborne or some shit like that- She doesn't give up. I yell at her and tell her she's wrong, hoping that she'll pick up the tiniest note of desperation in my voice and quit it, but she doesn't. I change the subject abruptly, and fume for half a block, feeling horrible.

It's situations like this, where I am constantly reminded of all the things that Mr. Pink hasn't known, that I have, that I don't know what to say. I have always been glad for my experiences, but how do I reflect on them, what I learned from them, without making him feel bad? Right now, the consensus with myself is that I just don't bring them up. I apply learned knowlege appropriately, but I don't talk about the things I have or do that he doesn't. But when des familles talks about all the road trips and travelling we've done in front of him, then what? What do I say when he says, "man, you've sure done a lot of travelling." Part of me is always bursting to tell him about it- to tell stories about things he'd love to see if he got the chance, but the other part is the part that says, "it's nothing, really." And then (AND THEN!) when I say that, I come across as a completely spoiled brat that doesn't realize how good she's got it, when I really do. It's all so complex.


  ¶ 5:55 PM