Art Attack (On My Budget)

My favourite kind of person is that one who walks into the art supplies section of your school’s bookstore and tries out pens on a sheet of very public paper by penning down ironically sad, depressing poetry and leaving it there for all posterity. 

This really did happen today, and I was oddly amused and impressed. I should probably do the same. It’d be just like that Los Angeles street artist who scribbled down poetry on Post-It’s and stuck them all over town and on his Instagram. Except this would probably be cooler. 

Or it could be worse, because I’d be a bumbling perpetrator who couldn’t get off the crime scene: I have a massive affinity for art supplies, and every time I have to be in the bookstore, I end up staying in the stationery aisles for a solid half hour.

Heck, I’d probably be standing around admiring the pen I just scribbled with while everyone else reads through my incomprehensible scrawl and stares at me. 

(Incomprehensible is the very definition of university life. Am I relatable now, or what?)

We’re allowed to use our left over meal dollars at the bookstore, and I know that if I have any spare left when I’m graduating, I will come and blow it all on those specially handcrafted pigment liners: manga version, that come in seven different point sizes, because the lay comic book reader is So-o-o finely attuned to telling the difference between 0.6 mm tip and 0.7 one. And because as an Artist (TM), I should be horrified at having to compromise on that 0.1 millimeter. 

Vive le capitalisme!

(I’m just a broke, cynical pseudo-artist. Don’t mind me. The pens look good all the same.)

So if you see someone walking out with a ridiculously stuffed bookstore bag of pens with a gigantic, almost idiotically pleased smile on their face, you’ll know who it is. Come and say hi. Tell me something flattering about my baby blog and fan my ego. Or something. 

On a completely random note: has anyone ever successfully studied for a test the next day from inside their warm, cozy blanket, in bed, when it’s freezing so much that the Celsius and Fahrenheit naysayers both agree on the temperature, when it’s 1 AM, without falling asleep? What’s that you say? No? Oh well, just checking. 

Chilly Haiku

I may be writing 

Too much snow themed poetry 

Ain’t getting warmer. 

Someone get me a medal already, am I a haiku pro now??

I’ve counted syllables on my fingers. As a math student, this is the most arithmetic I have done in a year. Phew. I’m not even kidding.

Just Don’t Make Me Take The Gloves Off

It’s a fine and sunny morning
As you peer outside your window
Just a scraper of a white blanket
Possibly here from a day ago

The clouds are smiling
And the sheer blank white outside is inviting
And as you dream of the summery days ahead
You hear your phone crying

As you walk across to class
It’s as soft a walk as can be
And then you hear the rumbling and howling
And check your phone; it’s minus eighteen degrees

How can it be
That when you really want to get there
On time the wind seems keen on making sure you
End up on the other side of campus?

And how could it seem
So perfectly calm in the morning
When Environment Canada has issued
A week’s worth of warnings?

I think there’s snow inside my hat
And snow in my eyes
And snow in my ear
And in a little bit of a ice

And no, don’t you dare,
Don’t you even try
To cancel classes today
Would make you a very un-Canadian guy.

Have you ever wanted
To go parasailing?
To find out what it really meant
To float like a butterfly?

Because the wind speed today is 50 kph
And the speed limit is 45
Can someone call the damn cops
To ticket this Zephyr guy?

Till today I’d always thought
I’d see the Clippers in the NBA,
But I’ve seen this Albertan roll in
From the Wild West today.

And as I stand and write this,
We’re fifteen centimetres under the snow
And if you prefer imperial units
Today you and I might agree on how low this’ll go (-40!)

And RIP all those with evening classes,
And the off campus dwellers too
Give the wind a fight;
And my frozen fingers
Are my new excuse not to write.

This used to be a staircase. I’m not that creative, it really was one.