Saturday Diarizing

Today I might as well do a diary-esque blog. I woke up before 3:30 p.m., which I count as an achievement considering that the presidential debate ended after 4 a.m. and that writing my blog about it took a long time, too, so that it was after 6 a.m. when I finally went to bed.

After waking up and checking up on the news websites, I wandered into the corner room and recapitulated the highlights (and lowlights) of the debate for the benefit of the assembled company, breakfasted, and then watched the Daily Show with Jon Stewart: Global Edition. This week's show was delightful; the first segment was on the financial crisis, and the correspondent John Oliver was asked to give an opinion on the legacy of Bush, and said (more or less), "Well, if he tries really, really hard, he could still manage to be . . . " Stewart suggests, "The worst president?" – "The last president," Oliver finishes with foreboding emphasis. Then there was an interview with Bill Clinton. It is such a relief to hear him deliver thoughtful and painstaking opinions, though he rather spoils it, I think, by constantly reaching out through his words to undecided and even Republican voters. If he were permitted to run for president again, I'm sure he'd win; but he's had his time and it's Barack Obama's turn, and I suspect that Clinton still has a ways to go before he comes to terms with that fact. There is small doubt that he wants the Democratic Party to win, but accepting Obama personally appears to be difficult. In yesterday's debate I thought that McCain evinced a certain jealousy, too.

Anyway, then I played the piano, ran through the first three or so articles in the latest New York Review of Books , and watched more television (a German crime show and news and later a rerun of last night's presidential debate). Then I looked at slideshows of the latest fashion shows in Milan; I liked the Dolce&Gabbana, Dsquared, and Maurizio Pecoraro shows, thought that the Fendi and Luisa Beccaria shows were oddities, and disliked the Versace and MaxMara shows. The Luise Beccaria show was precisely what might have happened if the Sound of Music had transpired in an upscale country bed & breakfast, and Julie Andrews had refashioned the drapes and bedlinen into dresses whose floral patterns and pastel shades and tulle-ishness suggested a procession of potpourri sachets. Dsquared was a refreshing admixture of sharp Bond girl outfits and midwestern American fare, which had little novelty to offer but was solidly classic. Dolce&Gabbana's runway, to me, embodied the costly city nightlife, and its dresses were flashy and busy with colour but full of flair, and if the silhouettes were wholly absurd and the silk pyjamas trend a trifle impractical, they were also striking and stylish and, I thought, fun. They are fit clothing for women who possess not only wealth, but also confidence and humour. As far as black models went, there was only Jourdan Dunn and one other, except on the colourful Dsquared catwalk; models of Slavic origin were prevalent. I don't think that it's silly to keep track of this, because it has been clearly proven that black models are kept out of shows on the basis of their skin colour, and even if there are many other injustices in the fashion world, one may as well begin by rectifying this one.

We have a visitor in our house in the shape of J.'s school penpal from Barcelona, an unfailingly and endearingly well-mannered little fellow whose principal pastimes appear to be computer games and MSN. While he is with us, he is also absorbing such cornerstones of German cinematic culture as Licence to Kill and Star Wars. It does seem funny how boys can be such civilized persons and still like watching violent films. But I'm still worried about being a bad influence, so when I imbibe my daily tiny liqueur glass of port wine or crème de cassis or cointreau, I've been carefully doing it out of sight. Our heathenish sleeping hours do not, however, appear to faze him at all. Besides the fun and excitement of having a visitor, the advantage of this Spanish-German exchange is the amusing stories that J. has told us; for instance, at the end of the chaotic flight back from Barcelona, the stewardess, simultaneously opening the door and keeping at bay his impatient classmates, indicated that she felt like taking a leap out of the plane.

In the meantime, I've also been cogitating on the ways and means of moving to New York. Yesterday I applied for my passport, which will arrive in one month, and explored the classifieds in the New York Times for a first time; the next step is to find out about immigration or procuring work permits. Normally I hate doing bureaucratic stuff, so it is a useful test of the seriousness of my purpose. In this case I know that my energy will not run out, so the only circumstance that could prevent me from going is an incontrovertible argument against it, or an unforeseen development in between now and January. Anyway, I have to go. I can't picture a future for myself here, though it's pleasant enough, or in Victoria or Vancouver. I am so tired of being in the wrong surroundings (school), or in surroundings that are neither wrong nor right but a species of limbo (university and the present), and now I need to find the right surroundings. I am also tired of quietly enduring these wrong or limbo-ish surroundings without any hope of ever getting out of them. It's not home that I am trying to get away from, but the absence of influences and surroundings that help me to become the person whom I am best fitted to be, and help me to do the things that I am best fitted to do. One might argue that only in the rarest cases does a person's life neatly fulfill its promise, but I will certainly not give up without making a pretty darn good effort first. In the meantime, there are so many things (not material things, but, to use a pretentious quotation, those essential things that are invisible to the eyes) for which I am pathetically desperate, and have been for years; from what I've read and heard, I know I can find some of them in New York.