Apparently, English Literature is lucrative too.

Well, this is weird. My professor -- the one I've been working for as a research assistant -- just offered me a salary and a chance to do 'library visits' (ie. go on research trips to places like California and the British library) if I decide to take a Master's in English at Queen's.

Basically, she won a grant from the Canadian government which gives her a salary for hiring a student for three years (most likely, three students for one year each). She said she'd "hire me in a second" if I was interested, and that Master's students generally don't have as much money as PhD students with their own funding.

The catch? I'd have to actually be interested in restoration/eighteenth century literature. Certainly, the eighteenth century is the period of some fun things -- like that "motley history of bastardy and fornication" Tom Jones, bawdy poetry written by the Earl of Rochester, and the hilarious Mrs. Malaprop in the play The Rivals. But it also contains the only novel I've read so far that I actually, seriously loathe. Pamela. (shudder) And it's also a very very pompous period -- rife with highbrow satire and lots of in-jokes and authors who seemed incapable of writing a normal-sized sentance. And I like a little fluff in among my pompousness now and then.

The practical, worried-about-money, part of me is screaming that what I'd be getting here is financial security, is an assured life for another year, is a real shot at getting a leg up in the academic world (most Master's students, my professor tells me, don't get to do 'library visits'. Nor, I'm assuming, do they usually get SHRC grant money).

But the part of me that wants to be happy still can't see any future in the eighteenth century. Problem is, I don't have an alternative period of English literature that I like better. I can't say "Sorry, but I'm a romanticist," or "Sorry, but I'm really fascinated by modernism." I just like it all. So I'm back at the place where I kind of want to do a Master's in English, but not because I want to become a professional academic. Can't I just be an amateur?

As usual, just writing all this down has made me sort things out in my head. I won't say I'm going to turn my professor's very kind offer down right away, but I'm fairly sure I will eventually. This blog really has been helpful to me -- it allows me to get my own thoughts straight, as well as seperate (or perhaps integrate) the practical thoughts with the impractical, the desires with the needs, and the silly with the serious.

Even if I don't take her offer and plunge myself into the labyrinthine world of eighteenth century literature, I'm glad my professor offered me the ... what is it? A job? A scholarship? I don't know. Anyways, I'm glad she offered it to me, if for no other reason than to realize that I might just be a desired candidate in post-graduate programs.

Don't you just hate it when parents are right?

I mean that question in a purely metaphorical sense, because my parents never actually said "Now, having a dog is a lot of work, honey." (mostly because having a dog was out of the question since my father is apparently dog enemy #1. They'll leave their yards and cross roads just to attempt to bite him).

But I do know a lot of parents who have said those words and yep, they're right. This is day 9 of housesitting, taking care of a friend's cat and dog, and I have to say that the cat is much, much easier to care for. The dog is lovely (big, happy german shephard named Isaiah who happily responds to "Boo"), but he's like a baby. He wakes you up early in the morning, he always wants to play, he won't leave you alone very long, he needs you to pick up after him, and you can't leave him alone very long. Whereas the cat only needs occasional petting and a once-a-day check on his water and food and catbox situation.

I realize now that while I like dogs, I've only ever seen them in short doses -- perhaps a weekend at most. But now that I've had a full week and counting, I'm tired of throwing chew toys, I'm tired of having to wake up early, and I'm tired of having to watch out for dog doo in the backyard.

It's good experience though - it's making me rethink my long-held belief that I'll get a dog when I have my own house. Because, as the parent would say: "dogs are a lot of work."

Overhead phone snippets between Catherine and her adorable-sounding Grandmother:

"Yes Nana, I go to church....No Nana, I don't play the Lotto."

***
"You put your teeth in the garbage? I hope you brushed them afterwards."

"You sneezed your teeth out?...In church?!?"

***
"So when people call you, you fall asleep on them, and when you call them, you thank them for calling you?"

***
"I beleive in the power of the human mind more than I believe in the power of a can of tomatoes."

***
"Vegetables don't cause cancer, Nana."

***
"No, Nana, the voice box isn't scary. Yes Nana, I know you hate the voice box, but if you leave me a message on it I'll know to call you back."

and finally...

"No, Nana, I'm not laughing at you....my housemate just made a funny face, that's all."

I am happy to have returned to my showers and toilets. Also, bug bite medications.

After a weekend replete in paddling, swimming, bugs, rain (for the first 20 hours or so) and much female bonding over various unpublishable stories/jokes, I have returned to my very hot apartment and to my normal life.

I will soon be taking care of four lovely animals (two cats and two dogs) as well as two residences normally occupied by some older female friends of the awesome variety.

On a non-Bento's life note, is anybody else ever creeped out by the fact that tv screens collect so much dust? I mean, I usually associate dust with stagnation and disuse -- descriptions which might well apply to my brain, were I to spend too much time watching my dust-coverered idiot box.

I long to be free from the oppressive shower-and-toilet regime of modern civilisation!

That's right folks, bento's goin' on a canoe trip!

Most of you know this already, but my summer housemate Catherine and I have been planning to take Brier on a canoe trip for her birthday (this Monday) for about a month and a half. And last night it all came to fruition -- bags were packed, food was boughten, tents were borrowed, and Brier was let in on the plan.

Of course, it turns out she'd guessed it already -- smart cookie that she is, she'd put together various bits of information and figured out we must be going camping. I guess I'm not the epitome of stealthy secrecy that I thought it was. But I take solace in the fact that Brier said she enjoyed the anticipation of sort-of knowing just as much.

I'm not sure why I like canoe trips so much. After all, it's a lot of hard physical exertion, plus non-gourmet food cooked over a tiny camp stove, plus (probably, looking at the forecast) rain, plus no normal amenities like running water or flushing toilets. I think my love has something to do with those magical moments when you feel really connected to other people. You are with them all the time, sharing in the adventure, commiserating when things get miserable. You're all working towards a common goal, all acting (for brief moments) as one well-oiled team.

Also, food never tastes better then when you're on a canoe trip. I hated both oatmeal and that odd combination of nuts and dried fruits and chocolate known as Gorp -- until they became the best thing I'd ever tasted after a long day of paddling and portaging.

Plus, I like the outdoors. It's got a serenity that I don't find very much elsewhere in my life (through no one's fault but my own, I should add) and my busy life gets stripped down to the simplest of tasks: food, shelter, water, rest. Water and rocks and green things make me feel alive, both terribly important and extremely insignificant at the same time.

And oddly, I like it.

War.

Just came back from watching War of the Worlds as a Canada Day cool-down event with my summer housemates. Because it was bloody hot and we were in the mood for a summer movie.

Steven Spielburg angers me.

From the casting of Tom Criuse (who, despite being introduced in a shot showing him working on a dock, still doesn't look like normal people) to the obligatory cute/precocious/unsufferably annoying child to the ridiculous preponderance of American flags to the saccharine ending, this movie was not enjoyable. I'm glad I saw it, if only to remind myself what a bad movie is.

Not to mention, the obligatory Morgan Freeman voice-over at the beginning and end was gender-specific. Now, I'm not militant about this -- you can call God 'He' if it floats your boat -- but hearing someone repeatedly refer to "mankind" and "man" really angers me. C'mon, how hard is it to say "human"?

Final line, which really had nothing to do with the movie or the ending, was this: "Man does not live or die in vain."

Well isn't that just lovely. Apparently women live in vain.

argh.

In other, less frustrating news, I've read a very good book recently; War Is a Force That Gives Us Meaning by Chris Hedges. As a former war correspondant, Hedges writes very easily, honestly, and powerfully about the addictive force that is war and what it does to people, to families, and to society. Fascinating.

Hedges is also extremely well read, and uses quotes from philosophers, Shakespeare, Homer and others to back up his points. Some good quotes:

"The poison that is war does not free us from the ethics of responsibility"

"...every recruit headed into war would be well advised to read The Iliad, just as every soldier returning home would be served by reading The Odyssey."

"The destruction of culture plays a crucial role in the solidification of a wartime narrative. When the visible and tangible symbols of one's past are destroyed or denied, the past can be recreated to fit the myth."

"We believe in the nobility and self-sacrifice demanded by war, especially when we are blinded by the narcotic of war. We discover in the communal struggle, the shared sense of meaning and purpose, a cause. War fills our spiritual void. I do not miss war, but I miss what it brought. I can never say I was happy in the midst of the fighting in El Salvador, or Bosnia, or Kosova, but I had a sense of purpose, of calling. And this is a quality war shares with love, for we are, in love, also able to choose fealty and self-sacrifice over security."

The book certainly has it's share of politically-charged rhetoric (which I find sneaky and repulsive, even if I agree with the political statements being made), but generally it's a fascinating read. Certainly it made me, while in my chilly movie theatre, look at the guns being brandished and the army men fighting back in War of the Worlds in a new light. Why do we like movies which show humanity being invaded by scary aliens? Because an invading force from without has the seductive, adrenilin-charged power (which no amount of peace-making and talking and kumbaya-ing can achieve) to bring humanity together and make us feel -- however briefly -- connected.

It's creepy though -- why are we made in such a way that hurting others bonds us together?
Why is war so addictive? Why does it feel good?