"I'm sorry, Dave. I'm afraid I can't do that."

I'm sitting on one third of a three piece mini-sectional while I type this.

That's why there aren't pictures of my apartment yet.

Because it's not finished.

It isn't weird to name inanimate objects, right? I mean, I'm not talking about EVERY inanimate object here. Frankly, it'd be odd to name all my pencils, pens, DVD cases, pillows and the different velcro ties that tidy up my power cables. It would get confusing. I would call them by the wrong name and the relationship we had would be over. My cables would remain tangled and disorganized, my DVD cases would revolt by scratching the DVDs inside them and my pillows... well... it'd be hell.

So I don't just name ANY inanimate object. I name the ones that are useful to me. The ones that matter. Granted, if I'm classifying them as more important than other objects, does that not offend just as much (if not more) than not remembering the name I gave it? CONFUSION!

Alas, here the the facts:
-if you're inanimate, I feel like I have the right to name you
-if you're important to me and serve significant function, chances are I will name you
-chances also are that the name won't be particularly flattering
-I choose names based on a first-come-first-serve basis, which interesting results

This started a long time ago, though I can't remember with what object. Probably the most specific incident I can remember is driving in my parent's Echo with my friend Carol and discussing naming the car. For fun. For personality. Somehow, the name Carol suggested stuck.

Tourettes.

Tourrie for short.

What. The. Hell.

The car had been named after a bizarre psyhiatric disorder. Not only would my car now be ridiculed for having tiny tires, but it also had a potentially politically incorrect name. Not it's fault, but still.

Either way, naming-madness ensued. I have since named my current vehicle with the pattern of mental illness in mind. Sybil is my Cobalt. Sybil is also the fictitious name for a real life case of disociative personality disorder as made popular by a movie of the same name. Popular isn't the right word, but it felt right to write it that way. Especially at 1:15 am.

Sybil. Tourrettes. And so many more:

-Dolores: a purse I long-term borrowed from Heritage Park and used in my day to day life throughout grade... 11 I guess it would be. I once boasted at the amount of random and bizarre things I kept inside Dolores and did, one day, manage to produce a stapler from within her. Sadly, she had to be returned for me not to get charged money off my paycheck. I miss you Dolores.

-Lavar: my bike. I'm sorry that I named you Lavar but it was the first thing that popped into my head when I first got you. It stuck. It was either that or Lamar. I liked the v better. You're a great blue beauty and you've served me well. I like to imagine you'd could read my books under a rainbow and defend me from aliens while being best friends with a robot. You're a bike of many trades, Lavar.

-Philumena: okay, technically, Philumena isn't inanimate. He's a plant. A gender-confused Philodendron. I refer to him as a he in passing, but have clearly named him Philumena (which, in general, is considered feminine). I have no explanation for this. But Philumena is well adjusted and growing beautifully. In fact, I don't think I've ever seen a dead leaf on him.

-Marcus: my very recently acquired Nintendo Wii. Marcus. Again, it was the first thing that came to mind. The interesting part is that in naming Marcus, my old Super Nintendo ended up being names Leon. The two names just seemed to fit and it worked. It's already stuck. I officialized Marcus upon setting him up. It's in his system now and everything. No going back.

Maybe I'm creative. Maybe I'm just lonely and need cats. Lots of cats. Either way, at least I'm surrounding by things with personality.

Maybe I like to play God, a creator.

Or something. I don't know.

PS: I'm sorry I forgot about Pippin, Barry, Lacie and Bernard. You're all wonderful pieces of hardware as well!

A Physical Description

Have spent the past few weeks working and getting my apartment together. Tomorrow I'll get a couch, which will (hopefully) spur me into taking pictures to post here. You can just imagine all the pictures/art on the walls. It's good to stretch your mind every now and then. You will not, however, have to imagine all the books and DVDs I have. Arranged alphabetically, or partial-autobiographically. Maybe you'll want to wonder why I chose to do things the way I did, but I predict you'll mostly just be happy to have something to look at.

There are gerberas in the vase. Enya on the stereo. Crap all over the floor, and pieces of nostalgia everywhere. What an old cliche, but moving is a history lesson in your own life. The Magnolia DVD I sort of stole from an ex-roommate. The Caviar CD my aunt for me as a Christmas present from the Sam The Record Man store that used to be on Yonge in Toronto, my first trip to Toronto. The can of Swift Premium Cooked Ham I won for participating in late night improv at the Plaza Theatre in Kensignton (I think I was there with the ex-roommate whose DVD I stole). Posters from first year rez that hung on my walls and are now in frames. The ugly fake-porcelain angel I can't bring myself to part with because it was a gift from retired priests, my first real nursing experience. A hand-carved Love Spoon brought back from Scotland by someone I used to love.

So now, the more I think of it, I guess my whole place actually is arranged autobiographically. Especially considering the things I've purposefully (and accidentally) thrown away over the years that might have had meaning. Or that had too much meaning.

I like to pride myself on not having clutter. This apartment is thus become me in a concentrated form.

So while it's not an original thought, I speculate at the reaction I have when I walk into other poeples' places. What does their apartment say about them? What will people think who see my apartment for the first time? What will you think when I (eventually) post pictures of it?

And this all reminds me so much of residence at the University of Alberta. In residence, your room is the only space upon which you can vomit yourself onto the walls. I'll concede that it may not be the only place, but it's certainly the easiest. Generally, people got annoyed when you'd leave your things lying around in places outside your room. So I think back, and remember how beyond obvious this observation was. Seeing someone's room told you a lot, especially when you were meeting new people. I remember meeting a friend for the first time while her dad and her fixed up a set of Ikea shelves in her room. Attempting so furiously to guerilla-clean another friend's bathroom that the ordeal ended in an argument. Wanting to wrap myself in a boy's bed because the smell was so comforting to me, and being able to walk that room with my eyes closed I knew it so well. No matter which year he lived in it.

I've misplaced the remote and the FM antenna for my stereo. Some CD cases have nothing in them. I haven't figured out where to put the odd things, like the lab coat and the purple 1988 Olympic flag. There's a picture frame lying face down on the floor, filled with pictures of friends I don't talk to anymore and memories I'm coming to terms with. A hand-carved Scottish Love Spoon beside me that I cannot part with but conflicts me all the same.

I've finally found a space. In the middle of Canada, surrounded by sky.

Sigh. Sentimental blogging = must be a Monday night.