Flickr and Blogger
Have just created a website with Flickr Photos, which is an online photo album. Unfortunately I can only upload twenty-one photos a month, but I will be doing so. Feel free to check it out:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/butterflyvenom/
I confess I am always astounded when I am able to complete something like creating an account, or "uploading" a photo. Speaking of technology, I was just going through my favourites list, and discovered that over a year before creating this account I started another blog on the same website, which I had completely forgotten after the first post. Ironically, it too was called Out of Bounds. This is what I wrote:
Saturday, November 19, 2005
Technology and Me
A friend recommended this site to me, and after an hour or so of up and down and back and forth and the usual technological muddle I believe I am really inside- and possibly even more frustrated than usual. I now can't actually find my blog, set to the "template" I selected; all I can reach is my profile and the page saying I had one draft saved. I don't really have anything to say, but thought perhaps if I were to complete that draft it would take me to this supposed blog. I've lost track of the number of times I've signed up for one of these sites and ended up with nothing more than more spam to delete- but hey, that's what it means to be an optimist right? Here's hoping!
True. Technology never was my thing.
N.
posted by Nel @ 10:20 PM
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I am living in a small, empty house, about 7 minutes walk from Downsview station. My room is a disconcerting yellow, but has a large window, and a closet with more shelves than I know what to do with, so I don't complain. Actually it's odd I would even think of complaining, considering some of the places I've lived recently. I have unpacked the various tupperware containers I came with, but as I have no hangers, or flat surfaces to put things on most have them have been put away again, until this can be remedied.
The other occupants of this house are a Chinese-Canadian couple, named Agnes and Ardy. They are both very skinny and full of teeth and awkward smiles. They are sincere and shy with each other, and asked me (when I came to see the house) if I was a christian. Despite my failings in this respect they said they sensed I was "a good girl", and said I could stay. 
Then there is Joanna, a girl from Manitoba who is going into her first year at York, though she is twenty-one. She is studying history, wants to be a journalist (probably) and seems so down to earth she is almost underground. Before coming here she spent two years in Africa, and --though it was nearly a year ago now-- wonders what she is doing in North York. We spent nearly an hour last night, standing in the kitchen, talking about being "away"; this was a bad idea, as the conversation could only end with us agreeing it was high time for another adventure, and having nothing to do but head dejectedly back to our rooms. Still...
To combat this I spend the day walking around the city, just as if I were some place else, someplace far from here and more "Exotic". The only thing missing was my camera. I should keep on taking pictures. I wander through the area that was once China town. Funny how everything changes in this few blocks-- even the smell is sticky and rotting, like most of China. I stop to read a menu and realize I am looking at the characters rather than the english translations. How easy it is to live here, I think, in some respects. What to do with all this knowledge I have acquired, facts and tricks and phrases that once were vital to my every day life and now are just sitting there in my head. 
I want to tell you "hello," "goodbye," and "thank you" in four or five languages; there would have been more, if I had paid attention. I want to quote you the exchange rate of the Canadian dollar to Thai Baht, Vietnamese Dong, Cambodian Ringitt, Bolivianos, Pesos, Yuan... I could go on. I could name you the airport codes for most major cities in North America. The shopping is cheapest in La Paz, if it says "naturally dyed" it won't survive the first wash, this country does not consider chicken meat, if you can't carry it at a normal pace it's too heavy, only take the yellow cabs, look out for ice cubes, count your change and beware drunk guys on all continents. At such a cost these things are learned, it seems a shame now to find life so predictable, so neat-- all that street smarts and no where to go. Anyone who's ever lived out of a suitcase can tell you things seem heavier the less they are used. Apparently this is true of memories, of nostalgia.
At Eaton Centre I line up for the washroom and listen to the woman in front of me complain about hygene. She says "What an impression we must make on tourists! All they'll remember about Toronto is having to line up for the washroom." Another of the seemingly endless paradime shift moments-- we have "western toilets" (no squatting), toilet paper (such a luxury), running water and lights that work, and the trash cans are emptied on a regular basis. Besides women line up for toilets all over the world, it is something that unites us, like perceived injustice and chocolate cravings. 
I walk through the mall and don't really feel like buying anything. I think about growth spurts. I never had a growth spurt where I woke up one day and nothing fit, but intellectually, emotionally? It seems every time I stop and think (as opposed to thinking on the go) I find that half of last week's ideas just aren't good enough any more, they're too small, they're too dated, I need a bigger size. I guess this is the way it should be. "All life is either growing into more, or shrinking into less." I read this in O Magazine once, in a doctor's office, but it's still true. A gray-bearded man on a bench tells me to smile. "I can't," I think "I'm writing in my head. I always look tortured when I'm writing."
