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A frissioning bile.

I'm feeling rather moody tonight for no identifiable reason, though some mild nausea revealed itself to me as either an indice or red-herring on the bus-ride into town. Inspired by Charles Taylor, I've decided to place the blame on black bile, as that provides as reasonable a rationalization as any, and a more poetic air than most. The city of Ottawa continues to intrigue me in a vague sort of way; the feeling is one of queer-ity -- the sort of sense that one may get in a dream in which the sense arises that something ought to be awry, and yet everything is shiveringly fine; the sort of haunted feel that one simply isn't sighted enough to see why one can't pierce the mystery of the queerly-right-that-ought-be-bad.

Really though, the overabundance of English-speaking folk in the capital gives me a mite of a subconscious frission, and, under my feet, the lack of a familiar, seignieurial grid of roadway causes my internal map to spin and tilt. Ottawa was not built around an extinct volcano, under the blanket logic of a French Catholicism that rejected primogeniture. In Ottawa, all roads seemingly lead to Parliament, while, in Montreal, all (or really, only most) roads lead to "not the volcano."

On the other hand, it is actually possible to see stars at night from the University campus, which is soothingly orientating; before moving into residence, it had been a good eight years since I'd last seen Cassiopeia or Mars. Often, at night in Montreal, it's only possible to identify North by orientating with respect to the slope of the mountain and one's position relative to the rounded jut of rock.

The food is good. Parliament is not in session during the election. Teaching-hours on Mondays and Tuesdays.

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