But tonight, reading Anne Frank (for what seems like the millionth day), and taking a break to watch Hart of Dixie, I heard this lovely song.

And I just felt lighter. I thought about all the problems I was having right now, and I thought: fuck it. I am a capable, intelligent, exciting person who will not let the stress of a simple Bachelor’s degree overwhelm my sense of self. At least, I won’t let it affect me any more tonight.

And just like that, I calmed down. My worries, my anxiety, my physical fatigue just faded. I read for reading’s sake, I fed my stomach and my soul, and I felt at peace with these little decisions.

I didn’t think today was going to be a good day from the moment I woke up. I knew that I would need coffee before class and toothpicks for my eyelids, despite having gotten enough sleep. I knew that there would be some sort of dull tenderness around some topics, but life is funny in that it makes you confront every moment regardless of your fear of it. If you are feeling hurt, don’t worry about being in pain, just worry about persevering through it.

And then everything will change, and that moment that seemed it would last forever will be a pinprick in a porcupine’s blanket and you will look at it and wonder why you were so focused on that one little needle.

It would grow, eventually. Fall out. You would push out new quills and worry about new holes in your life.

-A

 Natasha and Other Stories by Bezmozgis is the story of Russian(ish) Jews moving to Toronto. Why was this pertinent to my own interests, you ask (if you are as egomaniacal as I am)? Because I am a Russian non-Jew who moved to Toronto and lived very much in the same society and had very similar experiences. I always like to see how others write down the experience that so closely mirrors my own – especially when I can compare it to my writing about that time in my life.

Mostly, it had to do with being forced to go to school, with wanting to go back to wherever the hell you came from, with struggle; with suburbs, drugs, and hope in the form of a detached house. I can relate to that, even though my uncle didn’t fall in marriage with a mail-order bride and I didn’t fuck her daughter, who turned out to enjoy the company of my dealer more than me. ALAS everyone has their stories. Mine involves less sex, so it’s not as interesting to read.

Pride and Prejudice, though, is so far removed from my life that it was almost an escape. It was a lovely, perfect, romantic escape – the sort they try to advertise online with little hearts palpitating on either side of the screen. I fell in love with Mr. Darcy and my real life relationships were to never be the same again.

Monkey Beach is interesting so far, but I’m still not very sucked in, being 200 pages in. That’s usually a problem except for the fact that I love the class that I’m reading it for and the main character, Lisa. She is a spunky, rough girl. I would have LOVED to have been her when I was younger. I was always too scared to be a tough chick, although I did hang out with boys mainly (which made you tough by association in grade school).

In lieu of real life events I’ve decided to give you a round-up of all the things I can’t seem to escape lately, meaning school. I know that once I start writing one essay they’ll just keep coming and piling on until April – which, I’m not gonna lie, provides no small amount of trepidation for the beginning of this ginormous task. I am almost done with full-time school, I am preparing for an amazing summer and big changes in my life, but I seriously need to end this semester, even though it’s just started.

Knitting helps. So does hibernating, even though that makes knitting useless in the end because if I never go outside to wear the scarf that it’s taking me 2+ weeks to knit, then hibernating will be null and I might just have to bunker out in the basement eating my grandfather’s stale cookies and watching Property Virgins on TLC.

Oh, the pretty pictures I paint.

-A

PS. This lovely lady mentioned that she just adores my Twitter bio. This  is big news for me, as I have now dubbed myself Perez-worthy in the Internet world and have pranced around my room for several minutes waving an imaginary wand and saying, “they love me, they really love me!”

I am a person that is hyper-aware. I like to know people well so I don’t say things to offend them. But there’s been a quote circling around and around my head lately and I just can’t shake it off – “What you do affects no one but yourself. If you are honest with yourself, then like (similar) people will understand. If you are dishonest, you will attract dishonest people.” I can’t remember who said it. And I don’t want to be offensive – I just want to be truthful. Honest. Mainly with myself. I am tired of appearing one way and being another. I know a lot of people do this, too, because that is just the way Canadian society is – I can’t speak for other societies, but I know that many “Muslim” countries are pretty big shams in this way. Just because you outlaw drinking doesn’t mean people stop drinking, or having sex outside marriage, or being gay, or smoking opium. You are just making your country’s men and women into rebels. You are creating your own problems when you say one thing and do the opposite.

So I got tired of all this double-talk. Mainly, though, I got tired of god. You see so many people on Facebook proclaiming their love for god, or Allah, or whoever else. I understand that Facebook is “whatever you want it to be” and you can do whatever the hell you want on it. But that doesn’t mean you should. Maybe you want to share your great love for something giant and all-encompassing and life-changing – write it down, sing it, tell your friends – that’s fine. But Facebook? Classrooms? What is religion if not a giant ego-stroking society? “Yes, we are all saved.” Sure, there very well may be good reason for the stroking – after all, we are all tiny, inconsequential things who know nothing about today and even less about tomorrow. Some sureness is a salve for many, no doubt.

But we are all inconsequential. What we do affects no one in the great scheme of things. If I choose to not believe in god, that will affect only myself, probably my writing, and those close to me. It is not of your concern. But what I like to take pride in is that I don’t rub this in other people’s faces. I hope this doesn’t come off as me rubbing anything in anyone’s face, but to be honest – this is my blog. This is me. These are my opinions. You can argue with me, you can disagree, you can yell and scream and unless you have a logical argument for me, I won’t care. I will only change my opinion if you give me some proof to change it.

It’s not that I don’t believe in god. I just don’t believe in A god. I believe in power. I believe in things being larger than we are, and probably having tons more control over our lives than we do. I believe in the earth, and karma. But not God, capital G.

And you know what, he didn’t help you find “The One”, or fix your fucking iPod, or help you find your keys. If there is a God, he would not be interested – believe you me. That is the thing that, like Peter Griffin, “really grinds my gears.” God is not there to help you find your keys. God is not Matchmaker Sally or Save-Me-From-Death Dan. It is god. It is probably nothing even close to human beings. To be honest with you all, the closest thing I can imagine god being is karma.

The way I try to live my life has obviously been influenced by Christianity. I was raised in a more-or-less lapsed (thanks, Communism) Russian Orthodox household. Our Christmas is January 7th, but in Canada we celebrate it twice. No more communism, tyvm. I was taught to be kind to others, to have empathy, to do what I can with my talents (notice they weren’t “God-given”), to push myself but then to see what unfolds. When my dad started getting into Christianity hardcore, I backed off. Church has nothing to do with my belief in human goodness. Old women muttering about not wearing a scarf on my head, or a preacher swinging around ugly-smelling spices, or crouching to the floor and asking forgiveness from some invisible, haughty, vindictive god has nothing to do with my belief. My belief is personal – private, even. This is one of the only times I will ever clarify it to anyone other than my closest friends.

I believe that people are inherently good. I believe that my life will be full of change, positive and otherwise. But I control it, to a degree. If I don’t want to be broke, I find a job. If there are no jobs to be found, I will find a way to survive. God has no part in the every night I will lie in my bed worrying about the current economic crisis and upgrading my skills. God will not help me plump up my resume. God will not adjust my personality to make me more applicable to jobs currently on the market.

God gives believers a community. I have my own community. It is not focused on idolatry. It focuses on being good to one another, helping each other out, on love and poetry and sacrifice. Maybe that sounds like your community, but it isn’t. My community doesn’t feed itself bullshit just to do these simple things. My community does this because they are good people who want to do good things, plain and simple. There is no higher power controlling our desire for these things, and giving us this belief. We want good for the sake of good. We don’t need reward, we don’t need explanation for why, we just need to do it for its own fucking sake.

So back off of God, kids. He’s not on Facebook, if he exists. Your faith will not be found when your cellphone is, or when you find your soulmate. Your faith will be found when you can believe in humanity being crippled and being perfect at the same time, when you can do good for good’s sake, when you feel like a human being not indebted to invisible things, but to yourself and those around you.

-A

Plus, these days, who doesn’t write a yearly wrap-up post? I get tired of reading them, so it would be silly of me to try to write one. Let’s put it this way,

2011 was ace.

There was drunkenness, dancing, videos, friends, and food. There was the siphoning of skills, and the expansion of dreams. There was a career path coming into view. There were opportunities falling out of my hands. I loved 2011, despite the boy being away in the summer. I loved Costa Rica, and Russia and camp. I loved working and working less. I loved the whim that I approached with caution and then ran away with. I loved control and acceptance. I loved seeing the finish line.

But 2012 is going to be better, and not just because I like the balance of the number more on the page than 2011.  2011 was lopsided. 2012 is going to be more work, more play, more travel and more responsibility. 2012 is going to be everything I hope and everything I can’t possibly know to hope for.

2012 is going to be just another fucking year.

But it is also the year I turn 22 and wake up to a new home. It is also the year I will walk outside by myself, and write more of myself, and publish 2 things, anywhere. It is the year that articulation will be key, and all my hard work will start being reaped. It will be the year I conquer my nightmares.

Mostly because I’m an optimist, if sometimes too much of a worrier.

Enjoy this moment folks, you won’t live it again.

-A

- – -

Falling in love feels like tripping into a box of hammers that have come alive. You don’t expect it – the broken bones, the bruises, the sacrifice – but when it comes, when it swallows you into a sea of headaches spent like months cruising on a carousel of defeat, you open your arms wide and brew it a cup of tea. Love is not an end game; there is no end game in the world strong enough to withhold love from its territory. Love gives itself like magnets, like irresistible, like broken things that stay broken. Love isn’t a seed, it is a soul in your soul. It is a break in God’s great plan and a stitch in the quilt of the universe, still – it is metaphysical, metaperceptual, metaconsiderably mindbending.

And I’ve been in love with love since I can remember my first crush fresh of the boat. The in-between type, the type of mocha that went with my latte, I couldn’t get my hands full enough of him, my eyes filled enough with him to the brim of my eyelashes that my teachers would make comments at parent night. The reaching of it is what entrances me, still. We have a rhythm like the little engine that could, but it is dependent on coal, on wheels, on tracks lain in front of us like crossroads built by schizophrenics. We make our own destiny and create our own dependency, but this, this dependency is dependent on freedom, on loving that looks like someone’s turned back, quickly running away. This love is everything we have going for us, and nothing.

When I sit down to type out all the lyrics coiled up in my mind, I can’t not write about us. All that comes out is melted chevre, all goo, no substance. And sometimes it feels hopeless, I feel restless because I almost want to get it out of me already, want to write something about someone else, but I can’t. Not when I’m this happy, this hopeful, this oblivious to the opposition that life has purchased for her store, for me. You turn rainy days into hurricanes, resurrect morals that I put down on a side-table on my way to the kitchen, listen as though I’m saying something.

So no, none of this makes any sense. But I am senseless. I am so joyous with it all that I’ve pinched myself till my nerves have no endings, my words are no longer sending their message to every ear I’ve meant for them to grace. And this saddens me, amidst this quiet eruption of love, all I can speak of is love, everyone confirms that love, love is all you need – it is like a compendium of all the trite moulin rouge pieces you can manage, and there is nothing left under the foil when you lift it off. Just plastic, smouldering.

-A

Also, I’m kind of a believer in the idea of cyclical time, aka. not linear time, so this makes perfect sense, in case past me ever penetrates the membrane of my time. Here is my version of a letter to my 16-year-old self (only 5 years ago, but feels like forever):

Me at 16 in Cayo Coco, Cuba

Dear Arina,

School will always be the centre of your life because you will continue to be in love with learning new things. Even if those things are not Spanish men, there will be new things to keep you occupied, like knitting and web design.  Make sure to take the Writer’s Craft course in grade 11, and Politics in grade 12 – they will change your life, your career path, and your ideas about the world. They will keep you passionate and angry. This will drive you.

University will not turn out like you expect, but it won’t matter because you will learn so much more for it. You will not move away and find yourself, but come back home and rediscover your family. You will learn to stand up for your unorthodox views, your questionable beliefs, and your strong opinions here, you will learn to shut out the world and listen to what your body knows; you will learn to be yourself amidst chaos. You will continue supporting your friends, even when they turn their backs on you. That being said, some friends you will leave behind for your own good. Let them go quietly – do not fight. 

Next year, when you are 17, you will meet your soul mate. It will kick ass and your world will never be the same. I am speaking from the future, so I can safely say that you will stay with this man for a long, long time and be better for it. You will cry together, experience new things together, rant to each other, but mostly laugh together. You will be proud of the laugh lines and amazed at all of the love pouring out from the skin of this human, and all of the love you so easily give to him. Your love will make you cheesy, irrational and open-hearted – even more than you were before.

You will want things so much that you will break for them, occasionally. Sometimes, you will overpower your nerves and get up on a stage. It will be terrifying and thrilling. You will challenge yourself but remember that it’s not important to be the best; it is more than okay just to be heard. You will stop worrying about your physique and learn to love the curves and hairs, the dimples and dots your body endowed you with. You will also start working out after your grandmother passes away from a myriad of diseases. You do not want to pass away with a myriad of diseases, and working out might still not cure it – but you should rightfully try. You will start becoming a feminist. You will start becoming a writer. You will start wanting to give your money away for experiences instead of clothes and treating your friends instead of yourself. This is a good thing. This will continue for the rest of your life, if you’re lucky.

You will start realizing how lucky you already are, and stop thinking that nothing is working out. It works out. Life follows a carefully structured path that you worked so hard to mortar into place, even in the midst of confusion. You research real life and then go live it, with plans, with estimations, with goals. You will continue juggling a million things at one time, and you will learn to love it. 

Arina, at 16 you are on the cusp of a mental breakdown. Ride it. Live in the sadness and build a kingdom from the pain of that unknowing; invite everyone in and throw a party. Forget being afraid, being guarded or careful around people, and really love people with every toe, thumb, boob and ear that you have. Love them until they wriggle away from you like a little sister (who will turn into the brattiest teenager you will ever have met), and don’t regret it. It will make you a better person.

(One day, you’ll go blond. Don’t rush it.)

Me at 21 at Musselman's Lake, Ontario

Love, 21-year-old Arina

(Though quantum physics is cooo-ooool.)

That being said, November was a busy month for me. I can tell because I barely have any posts here and hordes on facebook (the result of the procrastination effect). I slipped my final paper in a drop box this Tuesday. Afterwards, I went to a review session of my Canadian Lit course because it was the last day teaching of one of my favourite profs at York thus far (she’s preggoes, so she’s not continuing to teach this course). I also picked up a cool Content Manager position at the Toronto chapter of the STC (yet to begin it, but itching to), and I have become a knitting kitten.

I have knit (to date): 2 neck warmers (1-dad, 1-mentioned prof), a hat (bf), and I’m working on a beautiful scarf for my sister right now. Lookie!

This hat was supposed to look hipster. Instead, it looks like a hat Lisa Kudrow (Friends) would wear.

Neck warmer for the padre. Before it was a neck warmer, it was a really short scarf. Oh, the changes.

This is me literally 30 seconds ago with the scarf. I cannot explain this pose.

Tutoring has been going really great for the past month though – completely manageable alongside everything else (even though sometimes it doesn’t seem like it, I’d rather be earning $110/week through 4 1/2 hours of tutoring than 11 hours of hostessing/serving/selling stupid shit). My kids are getting really great results so far, which makes me excited. I probably shouldn’t say kids though, because one lady is older and going through teacher’s college. Reading her material with her and slogging through some teacher’s college assignments is pretty interesting – definitely stuff that’s up my alley, in case I ever decide to go through with it (ie. if the job market changes, if I have mid-life crisis). One of my students got her first A+ in English 2 weeks ago, my college lady just got an A- on a paper I edited for her and helped her brainstorm/formulate, and I see improvement in all of them. The best part is that to me it’s not boring. I actually really enjoy teaching them all why commas go here and not there, and it challenges me to really know my shit. And if I don’t know it, I figure it out so I know how to explain it to them. Exciting stuff.

I’ve also been trying to get into the habit of writing every day in my journal. There’s a writing prompt that’s sent to me from Sarah Selecky (her website is full of great tips for writers!), and I try to fit in that 10 minutes somewhere, which is easier now that I’m on break. But it feels freeing to be writing again, even about random things; even just making lists. I keep wanting to start submitting stuff until I realize I don’t really have anything to submit. That feeling has been pressing me to get some good pens and get writing, because otherwise that incompleteness would eat me up until I’m just a big cheeseball of anxiety and reality tv shows.

Next year I have a few great things coming up (I hope). STC being first among a few, I’m also going to be applying for the York International Internship Program. It’s the only one of its kind in Canada and I’m known about it since my first year at York, but never went to an information session – just stalked their website and their internship listings like a boyfriend in an 80s movie hiding in the bushes. Now that I went to an information session I feel a lot more confident, and comfortable, about my chances and my qualities. I really think I stand a chance at being picked – and if I am, El Salvador, Nicaragua, or Turkey, here I come (for 3 months!) I feel surprised at the calm inside me about this decision. It really feels right, finally.

This being said, I’m also going to need to start looking for summer jobs in the new year because what am I if not an overly-thought-out backup plan. Some would say normal, but MEH.

Also, near-abouts September 2012, I’m hoping to start looking for apartments closer to downtown. I will be looking for a real job writing, editing, and/or “content managing” come that time because I only have 2 full courses to finish my degree (and a GPA to die for) so I’m hoping some companies might be smart enough to overlook the lack of baccalaureate and focus on the future piece of paper with my name boldly emblazoned upon it, claiming me to be an upstanding member of society. I will bring them pride and “first dibs”. This being said, my expectations are set low simply because I’m an avid purveyor of online job sites and there don’t seem to be too many jobs that I would be vying for (although sometimes special ones come up that, if I didn’t need to drop out of school, I would take in a millisecond). Either that or a receptionist at some sort of media agency are things I will be looking for.

If I am left with absolutely no hell on earth choice, I will pick up some bar/serving work.

Until then, I knit, I laugh, I drink wine, and I keep busy. As it will always be.

-A

I just watched this video from TedxWomen. It’s about embarrassing your daughters in order to teach them how to have agency and resilience in life, at work, and in relationships. Claire was a little hard to watch, because you remember what being in grade 6 was like, but Rachel put Claire’s very real struggle into context. We are taught to be modest, wear pink, say nothing.

I want to be president. I am the best. I win.

Those are not options for women these days. And if they are, they’re certainly not promoted by mainstream media. The people that do promote these ideas in the turning minds of young women are educators like Rachel, and educators that I’ve had. For example, a simple high school politics teacher.

I swear on my future grave that I will never stop writing about how inspiring this man has been for me.

What was, and remains more frustrating to me is that my father wasn’t supportive or inspiring. Not that he wasn’t at all. He encouraged me to do what was logical, but not to exceed my means. Assuming that this isn’t just my over-dramatized sensitivity to familial discord, I was really disappointed when he didn’t think I could be an artist in high school. My mom didn’t either, and that stung, no doubt, but I remember my dad’s discontent more emotionally.

Now, after watching MissRepresentation, reading countless sociological blogs, and just getting mired in the world of women’s choice, power, and success, I’m disappointed with my dad. Every time I mention the word “feminism” to him, he smirks, laughs, and shrugs it off.

Why do you do that? If you are a man, out there in cyberspace reading this, and you do this, why?

Feminism is made to be a dirty word, but it isn’t. And it doesn’t mean that women are evil bitches who want to make men feel pain. It has to do with equality, not overpowering someone else. It has to do with providing equal opportunities, and not only that – but planting SEEDS OF THOUGHT in the minds of young girls that they can be whoever they want to be – presidents, engineers, astronauts, mothers, graphic designers, volunteers, organizers, leaders, screenwriters. When the representations of women in positions of power – instead of in positions of doggy-style degradation (and I don’t exactly mean porn here, more like reality TV etc)  - is made available for women and girls to soak in, maybe more of them would think they could be president.

That is what I realized as I was listening to Rachel Simmons’ speech; that is what my politics teacher taught me, and several of my most empowered, wonderful, fascinating and curious best friends, in high school.

The man is nothing spectacular – rugged, coy, smart as a whip, funny, deep blue eyes, and sensitive in the heart – okay, he kinda is. From the very first day I walked into his classroom, I knew that his goading, his pushing and pulling and taunting (all done in good humour) was meant to push us farther, to allow us to reach further, and achieve more. Here was an ordinary North American man – a man with regrets, with education, with soccer skills (so he claimed) – and he taught all the women in his classroom that not only did they HAVE a voice, but they needed to USE IT, too. In fact, he made it necessary for us to use our voice, to learn to out-argue the boys, the teachers, and everyone else that wanted to cross our paths.

He is, and was, a true feminist. Sure, he had his moments with the boys – but that doesn’t negate his feminism. I always felt like for all the attention he gave the boys, all the rough-housing and snarky comments, he really believed that our voices were there, they were important, and it was important for others to hear what we had to say. He took us seriously and respected our concerns. He made us feel every bit of the intelligent human beings, and more, we were taught to be shy about.

In Rachel’s talk she mentioned that by grade 9, girls rarely raise their hands in class because it doesn’t look good in front of other classmates to show off what you know. But why shouldn’t you show it off? If you are the smart one, be the smart one – do not be afraid, do not be timid, do not be afraid of offending someone’s skewed perceptions of social order.

In my high school politics classroom I learned that I can argue a mean debate, and win. I learned that it is okay for me to be wrong about something (this being said, perfectionism is still something I struggle with). I learned that I want my voice to be loud, that I have strong opinions, and that there are people who will listen to me, process my ideas, and reply accordingly. I learned that people shouldn’t just brush me off as being emotional when I was being passionate. I learned that being passionate is a strength. I learned that I have skills, that I can use them to my advantage, and that I love fighting for (writing for) what I believe to be true.

And this, this is what my politics teacher taught me all those years ago. And I never realized it until this day.

So, thank you Mr. M. From me, your daughters, your current, past, and future students – thank you.

-A

Love, Arina

If I’m being honest, fiction – short, long, well-written or otherwise – used to transform me into the proverbial cat-up-in-a-tree. When I get an idea though (they often come at inconvenient times), it seems to be easier. The narrative happens as though it was hibernating somewhere deep behind feminist theories and literary criticism. It’s when I start thinking, pulling apart the story and thinking about what kind of biases or stereotypes or social conditions I want to show in my writing, that it gets staggered and arduous to write, and later, read.

But the past few days I haven’t been able to get this character out of my head. She’s taking shape, the people around her are slowly growing attributes and imperfections like skins and bones. I realize that even though I have an image of where she lives all drawn out in my head (heavily based on the apartment I used to live in, mixed with a few assumptions based on context, mixed with all the apartments all immigrant have ever lived in the GTA), it is not drawn out for the readers. I want to draw them pictures with adjectives, but I am trying to restrain myself as well. Then again, this is a first draft, and all the writing advice I’ve ever read states to just write what comes and edit later. Then again, fuck advice – I will do what works for my story.

The fact that I have a story taking shape is thrilling. I have adrenaline pumping through the joints of my fingers so much so that in my mind my hands are swollen with inspiration. When I listen to lectures now about subjectivity in autobiographies, or write about realism in graphic novels (yep, despite everything I rant about, I love my program), I feel like little bits of those essays, those lectures, make their way into my story. Whether it’s a concept that’s so perfectly worded as to describe inner dialogue or a term that my character would be familiar with, it all bleeds into these words that I’m writing.

I’ve been struggling with the idea of autobiography because of discussions about subjectivity in my autobiography class. At the end of the year, in April, I have to give a presentation about a novel (James Frey’s,[whose last name I always thought would be pronounced like The Fray, like "a frayed edge", and instead sounds like fry] A Million Little Pieces) and compare it to my understanding of autobiography. I feel like every work of fiction is autobiographical to a degree because it comes from the mind of an author, which holds his or her memories and experiences. Then again, non-fiction autobiographies are, I think, impossible to write objectively. Subjectivity is at the heart of how a writer writes about his or her own life: it is the story of your life, through your eyes, not someone else’s.

I haven’t come to a conclusion about autobiography, but I know that my life influences my writing – often more so than my imagination does. And yet, I call most of it fiction.

-A

PS. I’m a little hyped up on coffee now, so I hope this makes sense. I feel bad for not writing for 2 weeks and wanted to do a little inside look into my brain, as well as updating my future self on what I’ve been doing for the past 2 weeks, apart from lying comatose on my bed and aching about being in 4th year.