I love being a university student. I love to learn. I crave knowledge. I feel that by getting at least a bachelor's degree, I'm following the path that was set in stone for me 22 years ago when people started realizing that- hey- this toddler can talk. And read. And, er... spell ridiculously long words.

I love my job. Hey, it's not like I'm slinging burgers on the McGraveyard shift, getting more grease on my face than the fries. I handle prescriptions. I mix medication. I work in the medical field. The outer fringes of the medical field, yes, but it's a foot in the door, which is one more foot than you've got in that door, I'll bet.

I get along with my family. Well, at least I do now. This wasn't always the case, but methinks that most others have found themselves in that boat as well at some point. And of course, I'm not hideous, either.

In conclusion: kiss my ass, bipolar disorder. I'm too good for you.

            What is the difference between art and artifact? Many firmly believe and even defend the idea that what is utilitarian cannot be art, and that art is purely aesthetic, playing no functional role aside from serving as a conduit for the artist's expression and a source of interest for the viewer.
 
            However, as we delve deeper into the worlds of both visual art and archaeology, we begin to notice a blurring of the line between "art" and "artifact"; that is to say, there are many examples to be found in both fields that defy the commonly accepted definitions of art and artifact. In this essay, I will be comparing two pieces that are especially troublesome in regards to being effectively categorized as one or the other: Piet Mondrian's "Composition with Red, Yellow and Blue", and Stela C, an Olmec artifact upon which is engraved the oldest Mesoamerican long-count calendar discovered to date.
 
            Piet Mondrian's stark, geometric shapes and primary colours are both memorable and easily recognizable. His paintings adorn the walls of museums, galleries, and homes of wealthy art connoisseurs. "De Stijl," Dutch for "The Style," is Mondrian's brainchild, a reduction of all visual elements to the simplest of shapes and colours in order to produce something that is simultaneously abstract and rigidly ordered. At the time, De Stijl was an innovative concept, revolutionizing the world of art by challenging the idea that a piece of visual art must be representative of a specific subject. Later, this idea would evolve further, with artists such as Jackson Pollock, Mark Rothko, and Ad Reinhardt reducing the elements of "art" further and further (from "drip" painting, to colour-field painting, and eventually, to painting solid canvases of colour, respectively.)

   While there is indeed a concept behind these minimalistic pieces, there are many who disagree that they should be classified as art. After all, one unique idea does not an artist make. Mondrian's pieces, such as the one specifically mentioned in this essay, do not require any great degree of artistic talent to mimic or reproduce. Are Mondrian's paintings nothing more than advertisements for an opinion? Are they "art," any more than a hand-painted sign advertising a yard sale is art? They serve a purpose, indeed, but so do movie posters and newspaper advertisements. If anything, the fact that Mondrian is no longer alive could mean that his paintings are now artifacts, as there are only a limited number of them, made long ago, by the 
artist who originally pioneered the style.
 
            The second piece I have chosen to examine, "Stela C," is an ancient relic from the archaeological site Tres Zapotes. Ordinarily, archaeological finds are automatically classified as artifacts, regardless of their function. However, it is important to note that many of these pieces were ordinary, utilitarian objects that were never intended to be used for anything other than their primary function.
 
            Stelas were used by ancient cultures in much the same way headstones and other grave markers are used today. In some cases, stelas were erected for other commemorative purposes. This specific stela is engraved with a calendar- something that clearly served a specific purpose.Yet, despite being nothing more than a commonplace object, Stela C is viewed today as one of the most important archaeological finds from the area. Stela C is called an artifact by most, and thought of as art by many as well, though the piece was nothing more than a functional object at the time of creation.

   In a thousand years, will the headstones be taken from the graves of our loved ones and placed in museums? Will 2009 calendars with pictures of babies dressed in ridiculous outfits be hung in museums and studied by future archaeologists? Is it not form or function, but rather age that determines what is "art" and what is "artifact?" 
 

   ... Well?

Anyone who has come here looking for the story, scroll down; it's the entry below this.

Anyway, where was I? I didn't really have anything to say. I just need to vent. Between working five shifts a week plus school... which I'm behind in, unfortunately, I haven't really taken the time to write anything.

Don't get me wrong, I love my job, but I really have to drop down to maybe four or even three shifts a week. If I repeat last year's horrendous academic performance, it's all over. That's it for me. No B.A., no graduate school, no Dr. Jill. Nada. So there's a lot at stake.

I'm trying to keep myself at least somewhat intellectually stimulated. I've taken up making chainmail jewelry, which is tedious but incredibly rewarding. I'm also reading "Glory," by Nabokov, and it's driving me nuts that I don't have the time to actually sit down and read for a reasonable stretch of time. I hate putting a book down and picking it back up. When I start reading something... I want to finish, damnit.

Random thought: it seems that the most miserable, rude, obnoxious customers you'll ever encounter while working in a pharmacy are the ones who are on (relatively) mild painkillers. You know, Percocet, T3, etc. Strangely, the nicest people are the ones on psych meds. Go figure.

It's been suggested that I should submit some writing to the Globe and Mail. I didn't really think too hard about that earlier because I was in a bad mood, but I'm thinking about it now. Sounds like a good idea, although I have no idea how to go about doing it. I shall do some research. And my opinion piece shall be about why I refuse to get the H1N1 shot- also, as suggested. (Dr. Jacobs, if you're reading this, I STILL refuse to get the H1N1 shot, and if you want a better argument, I'll be happy to write it out for you a second time, in more detail.)

The people upstairs keep dropping things on the floor. Round, hard things that roll. I'm getting curious. What do they have up there?

So yes, this was a pointless entry. But that's the beauty of a blog- if you're bored by something, just scroll down. Marvelous.

Have a pleasant evening, reader.

This is some strange thing I started writing one day for reasons I don't remember too clearly. Some parts of it are alright, others are just sort of... strange. I have no idea where I was going with it, and it's currently unfinished. If I ever continue with it, I will include the new chapters here as well.

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i.

His life didn't really begin on April 27th, 1972, as his driver's license would have you believe. No, his life didn't really begin until sometime around November 2008, after he returned from Saudi Arabia with nothing but a tattered rucksack and a leather-bound notebook.

Before this, he simply was. Was, and not much else. He was... not "successful," "unique," or anything else. He simply was, and, for a long time, this was good enough for him. He woke up in the morning and was. He took the bus downtown to save on gas, and was. He sat in a cubicle for eight hours and was not, before coming home to eat alone, where he sat on the couch and was.

He had little to show for thirty-six years of life, save for a bachelor's degree, a modest fifth-floor apartment in the city, a rat-in-the-laboratory-maze job, and a black Jetta. He was slim, with sandy brown hair and eyes the colour of milk jade; nondescript. Nobody would have pinned him with the term bipolar disorder if they didn't know that most nights, when he was sitting on the couch at home just being, that he was thinking of a way to kill himself.

And nobody would have guessed that he was in the throes of a manic episode when he bought a pup tent, packed a month's worth of non-perishable food into his bag, and flew on a whim to the Middle East to vanish into the desert for forty days and forty nights.

And nobody would have guessed that his psychosis would eventually melt away, and he would stabilize, and return to his former life as something else entirely.

ii.

It was the first day. He had made his way from the city limits into the desert, where he pitched his tent. The ground beneath his feet was parched, crunching loudly with each step.

In the distance loomed the white sphere of a mosque's turret, fading into the dusky blue of the falling evening.

The moon drifted, copper-tinged, over the horizon.

His hands shook, driven with wild, manic energy, as he laid out his supplies by order of size. His head spun. He had been in Vancouver, and now he was here, in Saudi Arabia. It was all too much. Too- yes, too perfect. It was perfect. Now he could be alone, now he could focus, focus his energy into a single, brilliant, diamond-edged beam.

He lay on his back, the rough canvas of his empty sack scraping one unshaven cheek.

The silence pressed in on him, filling his eye sockets and pooling in the hollows of his collarbones like ink.

The call to evening prayer sounded across the desert like a spell.

The moon, like a luminous amber eye in the sky above.

He slept.

iii.

The winter months in the desert are far less harsh than the blast-furnace summers. He was able to move about, and survive quite comfortably during the day, though the temperatures dropped below freezing during the nights, prompting him to go into the city and purchase several heavy woven blankets (which he would abandon upon his return) to keep himself warm after nightfall.

He squatted next to a ring of stones just outside the mouth of the tent, warming his hands over a pile of glowing embers. Beside him lay his notebook, the first page of which contained a series of dashes marking off the days spent in this place.

He picked up the notebook and a short, splintery pencil and began to scrawl a series of disjointed words and phrases onto a random page:

speak now and......repent!

your soul held captive in a cage of ribs struggles to find freedom only we...

don't all know, nor presume to assume we...

(angels? demons?)

(have i been wrong all this time?)

The pencil fell from his trembling fingers as he stared vacantly into the azure bowl of sky above.

In the desert, there are certain things. There are the gnarled, sand-bleached knobby branches of some long-dead tree twisting like supplicating hands from beneath the sand. There are the sun spiders, the mountains in the distance, the bedouins, like mirages, inching their way across the sea of tawny gold. There is also a feeling of vast, unending nothingness.

He felt a vague sort of fear.

He crept back into the tent to lay in his nest of blankets, rich reds and violets.

The sun was a hazy white globe shining through the thin, beige fabric of the tent's roof. He shut his eyes and drifted, shedding consciousness like a skin. He lay, dead to the world, a single tear arcing brightly down one hollowed cheek.

In one corner of the tent was a discarded, half-eaten apple, the exposed flesh now a creamy brown, the skin still a deeply polished red.

In his notebook he had marked off seventeen days.

This is an article I was hired to write about my University's new campus. All I remember about it was "Make sure you write about the Inquiry course, Sandbox 101, and a lot about Professor Rodenburg!" So, I did. This was the result.

Want pictures? Read the original here!

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When attending any university, you expect to hit the books hard during your first year, and not stop until it's time to graduate.

Being at Lakehead University Orillia Campus is no different. The institution expects discipline and determination from its students. However, in addition to writing essays and reports, students get the opportunity for some hands-on, interdisciplinary, and Inquiry-based learning.

A good example of hands-on learning is Professor Tim Kaiser's second-year anthropology class, where his students excavated a mock archaeological site located in a vacant lot behind the downtown campus at Heritage Place, 1 Colborne St., West. It was an exercise he nicknamed "Sandbox 101."

"The course was originally designed to be a book- and-lecture-taught survey of archaeological method and theory, but the small class size inspired me to take my students out into the dirt," says Kaiser.

He began by hiring a back-hoe to excavate a trench which he filled with layers of soil. In each layer, he created a variety of archaeological features such as broken pottery and stone tools. The class was divided into eight groups and each was assigned to a one-metre square. Working in groups of two, they took turns trowelling, sieving, recording, and making detailed maps of their finds. The unanimous conclusion was that, as a project, Sandbox 101 beats a term paper, any day.

Lakehead University Orillia Campus offers academic programs in Arts and Science, Education, Business Administration, and Social Work. In the first and the fourth year of both the Education and Arts and Science programs, it is mandatory that students take a year-long Inquiry class designed to encourage students to think "outside the box." This gives students a feeling for the exciting process of discovery and gets them responsible for their own learning, says Professor Alice den Otter, Chair of Interdisciplinary Studies.

Last year there were six professors in Orillia who team-taught the Inquiry classes: Derek Irwin, Daphne Bonar, Timothy Kaiser, Alice den Otter, Sreekumari Kuriserry, and Reg Horne. In 2005-06, the students chose to investigate the subject of sexuality in the winter term. Last year, the subject was war. Through intensive research, problem solving, and readings of works from different viewpoints, Inquiry students are taught to ask the "right questions" to get answers that others may miss.

"Inquiry-based learning enables the professor to function as a facilitator of lifelong learning," says Linda Rodenburg, a Lakehead graduate and a Professor of English. "I love the challenge of helping students ask questions and make connections between their courses... by learning how to tackle an issue from a few new angles, university graduates will be better equipped to solve problems and come up with new ideas once they are working in the field of their choice. As well, they will be able to better understand and work with others from different fields in order to provide an optimum result," she says.

Rodenburg completed an HBA and a BA/BEd (Concurrent) at Lakehead University in Thunder Bay in 1999 and went on to conduct postgraduate research at the University of Guelph (MA) and the University of Otago in New Zealand. Like most of the Orillia Campus professors, she is heavily involved in academic and community events. She facilitated a novel writing marathon, serves as chairperson for the Mariposa Folk Arts Forum, is a founding board member of the Friends of the OPP Museum, and is a Leacock Associate, involved with other volunteers working to promote the annual Stephen Leacock Award for Humour. Orillia students recognized her contributions to the campus and community with the "Spirit of Lakehead" award last year.

Her colleague, Alice den Otter, spent 10 years teaching in the Department of English at Lakehead University Thunder Bay Campus before moving to Orillia in 2006 to take on the role of Coordinator of the Arts and Science program.

Now Chair of Interdisciplinary Studies, Professor den Otter is a true believer in the merits of combining study of the arts and the sciences, saying that if such a program had been offered when she was an undergraduate, she would have taken it!

Don Napierala (BA'72, BEd'74, BSc'74) is an Education graduate who returned to work for Lakehead after retiring from the Thunder Bay District School Board. Since September 2007 he has been the Acting Director of Concurrent Education in Orillia, making sure that Lakehead's Concurrent Education students will have job placements with school boards during their professional year. Napierala is thrilled to be part of a new and growing university environment where he gets the opportunity "to shape things the way you think they ought to be." He shares an office with three professors in the Department of English and is busy developing partnerships between the Faculty of Education and the community. He believes Lakehead has one of the best Education programs in Canada, and he thinks Lakehead University Orillia Campus — where 70% of students are enrolled in the Concurrent Education program — will only serve to enhance its reputation.

Now in its third year of operation, Lakehead University Orillia Campus has 444 students and 22 full-time faculty members. Ask anyone what the biggest challenge is, and they will likely tell you it is the lack of space, a problem that will be rectified by moving to the permanent campus facility in 2010. Despite this, the mood on campus is warm and friendly, and staff, faculty, and students are working together in a congenial way.

Imran Mukhtar graduated from the one-year Business Administration college transfer program in June 2008. He says students starting their education at Lakehead University Orillia Campus are fortunate. Mukhtar began his degree at another university in southern Ontario where, he says, professors had no time for anyone. "You either had to look for help elsewhere or you were out of luck. The professors at Lakehead University Orillia Campus have always been happy to help me out when I needed it. I've never had professors like that before."

It's 1:19 a.m. and I'm sitting in bed. My nice, warm bed, piled high with pillows. I should be asleep- after all, I have classes tomorrow- and yet instead, I'm watching Iron Chef America and writing a blog entry.

1:19 a.m. really isn't all that late. Not for me. In the last three days, I've probably gotten, oh, about four hours of sleep. When insomnia hooks its nasty little claws into my brain, there is little I can do to escape.

There is something peaceful about being awake while the world around you sleeps. A person can get a lot of thinking done. Of course, this state of affairs changes after you've gone about twenty-four hours or so without recharging your batteries. Then things just start to get weird.

The other night, near dawn, I found myself staring at a spider in my window. Well, the spider was outside the window, but still. See, I'm intensely arachnophobic, and usually I can't get that close to a spider without screaming like a five-year-old and fighting back tears of fright while I beg the nearest person to rescue me. This pathetic display gets me made fun of by pretty much everyone who has ever witnessed it. My father, in particular, is exasperated by the fact that I do not have a problem holding an eight-foot carpet python around my neck, but will go into hysterics at the sight of a harmless arachnid.

Oh, yes. I have photo documentation of my love for snakes, by the way:

Yes, I look horrible in this picture, but whatever.

Anyway, I named the spider. The second night, still unable to sleep, I found myself having a conversation with the spider. Earlier this evening, I went to check and see if the spider was there, and was mildly disappointed when I saw that it was not. It ended up crawling into its web sometime around 11:30, and I smiled and said "well THERE you are!"

Yeah. Now I KNOW I'm having some kind of meltdown.

I'm hoping that tomorrow will wear me out a little. I have to walk to school and home again- a round trip of nearly six kilometres. I also have an appointment, books to buy, and things to mail. If I can go all day without coffee, maybe I'll crash as soon as I get home and- knock wood- sleep all night. I have a job interview for a pharmacy tech position the day after, and I'm afraid that if I go another night without sleeping, I'll start arguing with a bottle of Seroquel or something.

Alright, enough ranting for this evening. 

Everyone has been told, at some point in their life, that beauty is only skin deep. Everyone has heard the old saying "everyone is beautiful in their own way." We insist to ourselves and our peers that it's not what's on the outside, but what's inside that counts.

For a lucky few, the old sayings ring true. Some are fortunate enough to be unaffected by the glam and glitter of media and its visions of unattainable perfection. But for most- and not only women, but men as well- the constant bombardment of the media's idea of "how good should look" can be overwhelming.

We tell our children that looks don't matter, but how can we expect them to believe it when they are exposed daily to a world that says different?

The first thing we learn about becoming beautiful is that you need a head start on your path to perfection. It's rare that anyone starts out perfect, you need to buy your way up the ladder.

Because according to television and the advertising industry, real beauty must be rooted in wealth. After all, not just anyone can afford cryo-stick dermal treatments and daily cow placenta facials. And who else but the rich can maintain that beautiful waifish figure when a Big Mac and fries are so much more affordable than a bagel with light cream cheese and a skinless chicken breast?

Next, we learn that there is a big plus side to being beautiful. If you're good-looking, you can easily become even richer.

We are shown that looks, and not talent, are what get people ahead in the world today. The socialites, the Pop Tarts, the reality television stars- most don't have any more talent than you or I, but they're certainly camera-friendly. Although one may argue the level of "talent" they may indeed have, it's more than obvious that most of their recognition stems from a small waist and a pretty face.

These beautiful faces on television, in magazines, and on billboards may do wonders for the records or products they're trying to sell, but it's taking its toll on an impressionable audience.

25 years ago, most supermodels were approximately 10 pounds under the optimum weight for their height. Today, supermodels average around 35 pounds under the optimum weight for their height. These women are viewed as the epitome of feminine beauty. And we wonder why so many healthy women can't pass a mirror without tugging anxiously at her jeans.

Not even the men escape this trap. Most male models are also unrealistically thin, and just as much pressure is put on the boys to look good and hook up with a "hot chick" as girls are to attract legions of adoring male fans.

We are told by the world, since we are old enough to open our eyes, that we must be perfect. To be perfect, we must be rich, tall, clear-skinned, perfectly formed, and not have a single personality flaw. One must never laugh too hard, or have smudged makeup, or lounge in sweats. Unless, of course, the sweats came from Abercrombie & Fitch and cost $120.00.

I don't know many females, including myself, who are happy with her looks or body. I also know a number of males with similar problems. Perhaps from now on, we should look at what we are making ourselves into every time we fork over $40.00 for that new perfume, or lift weights until we ache. Perhaps- maybe, over time, we will all stop idolizing the Paris Hiltons and the Orlando Blooms of the world, and value ourselves for what we are.

Finally, the last thing we will learn about perfection is that it doesn't exist. At least, not in the sense that you have to be blonde and a size 0 to attain it. We will, instead, achieve perfection by being able to look past the hairless, silicone-implanted, androgynous models and dark-eyed, spike-haired rock stars, into the mirror with confidence.

After all, beauty is in the eye of the beholder.

I am a lover of the English language. Since childhood, I have been an avid reader, burying my face in any book I can get my hands on. As a result, I've always had a slightly better-than-average grasp on words and how to use them. I pride myself on being able to write rather well- at least with minimal spelling, grammar, and syntax errors. I believe that how you write- not necessarily your choice of words but your ability to spell and punctuate properly- plays a very important role in how others percieve you.

There does, however, seem to be a growing number of people my age or slightly younger who disagree completely with my theory. These people, it seems, delight not only in making a mockery of words, but destroying them entirely.

Being a teenager, I spend a generous amount of time on the internet. Though I avoid public chatrooms, I do sometimes browse online journals, or, "weblogs," and it was after reading several of these that I was inspired to write this editorial.

If you'd like to see a prime example of blatant disregard for the English language, LiveJournal and Xanga are good places to start. I suggest searching usernames containing any variations of the words "baby girl" followed by between 1 and 7 repititions of the number 69.

Now, poor spelling and grammar are bad enough, but it becomes an assault on the senses when words are deliberately spelled wrong. Yes, in the realm of hot_chick_123, "baby" becomes "babii", "what's up" becomes "wuzzzzzzzzzzup", and everything else is abbreviated beyond recognition.

I went so far as to ask the author of one of these weblogs why she writes the way she does, and her answer was "to save space and time." I fail to see how inserting extra letters (and sometimes numbers) into every word and typing in alternate caps saves space and time, but maybe I'm just being closed-minded.

I'm not trying to be hypocritical. I will not deny that I, myself, frequently employ "lol's" and "brb's" (Laugh Out Loud and Be Right Back, for those in the know) in casual Instant Messager conversation, and I am also notorious for neglecting to use capital letters. Punctuation itself is thrown to the wind at times, especially if I'm typing quickly. But a line has to be drawn somewhere.

Internet slang, to the horror of English teachers everywhere, seems to be working its way off the monitor screen and into everyday writing. There is something wrong with the world when a teacher needs to go into a ten minute diatribe about how it isn't appropriate to use "lol" in a formal essay.

Apparently, it's happened.

I would like to see someone submit a resume or University paper written in this manner. I'd like to see someone run for mayor using a campaign slogan along the lines of "VOTE 4 MEEH GUYZ LUV U 4 EVR!!" How far do you think you would get in life by doing this? Pity votes and marks aside, probably not far.

I fear, however, that one day, this may no longer be the case. Teachers are beginning to give up, it seems, on students who insist on using improper grammar and misspelling words. Could the rest of the world follow? Will it one day be acceptable to spell every word in a sentence wrong, so long as it can still be understood?

Perhaps this will become the newest incarnation of our language- as Old English evolved into Middle English, which became what we use today, perhaps this is the next step in our march toward the future. In fifty years, every word I've written may be obsolete. The irony is not lost on me.

In the mean time, I will stick to what I believe in. I believe in job applications which will not provoke laughter from would-be employers. I believe in proving that, yes, a nineteen year old girl can string together a coherent paragraph. And above all, I believe that spelling words wrong on purpose takes too much effort, and when it comes to teenagers; laziness will always prevail.