In English 102 we had to write a how-to guide for something we were good at. I wrote this.
Procrastination carries a negative connotation that often steers people away from it. While in practise, procrastination can save time and stress, in theory it is a sign of laziness and low self-control. What those who avoid procrastination never experience is what any expert procrastinator lives on: the satisfaction and thrill of the last minute dash to complete a task.
There are a few skills that are essential in successful procrastination. First, you must be able to avoid reality. This seems like a fairly basic skill, but it isn’t. It’s just not. You have to be able to completely and absolutely eliminate all thoughts of the future. Don’t let worries of graduation, homelessness, job loss and failure get in the way of your procrastination; the moment you allow yourself to glimpse reality, you will have lost all motivation to put things off. If
you feel guilty about your procrastination, you aren’t doing it right.
To feel guilt means that you have considered the consequences. Once you have considered the consequences, the guilt almost invariably leads you to fail at procrastinating successfully. Don’t think about the future; concentrate instead on everything else you could be doing besides your task. (Let’s assume it’s an essay.)
So don’t think about it. That’s the first step. The second is to be able to live in the moment. You have to be able to see all the possible things that you could be doing right now. Why research for an essay when you could be surfing Wikipedia or watching The Simpsons reruns? Carpe Diem. You have to be creative. If you really don’t feel like doing homework, there are hundreds of things you could do instead. Hone your tetris skills. Clean your toaster. Kill a ninja. Build a fort out of furniture and blankets. The main things is not to tempt yourself into actually writing the essay.
It may sound like procrastination is easy. Who doesn’t like to avoid reality? Who doesn’t have a life-long ambition to memorise every capital city on the planet? It seems like it should be easy, but it’s not. You have to be highly rational. Highly rational, for if you’re even the slightest bit scatterbrained you run the risk of starting your essay too soon. This will invariably result in you spending twice as long as necessary writing it, simply because that time is available. And that is not good at all.
You have to carefully scrutinize all available time in the future. Understanding that night does not exist solely for the purpose of sleeping, and that work can be completely twice as fast under pressure is vital. The later you start an essay, the faster you will complete it. It’s a simple concept, but one that people consistently fail to recognise, because they are so caught up in quality. The truth is that an essay written after weeks of procrastination can be of just as high or even higher quality as one that was started the day it was assigned, simply because the ideas have had so long to percolate in the brain.
After you’ve stretched out your leisure time as long as you possibly can, you have to, when it comes right down to it, really want to get your essay done. You have to be able to commit to writing for fifteen hours straight, and you can’t worry about how much damage all of that caffeine is doing to you body. If you refuse to allow yourself to fail, the adrenaline created by the last minute time-crunch will be enough to push your essay to completion- often in time for an hour or two of sleep before class.
Once you have gotten through the actual working segment of procrastination, the relief will be unmatchable. You will take pride in your skill, and think back fondly on all those hours spent playing geography trivia, when you could have been stressing out about the essay. You have done in a single night what your classmates spent weeks on. Your finely honed tetris skills more than make up for any marks you may have lost.
Sunday, November 29, 2009
Sunday, November 8, 2009
Attempting poetry
I was asked to bring a poem to my creative writing class- one that I'd written myself, and didn't rhyme. I have a bit of a block when it comes to poetry. Everything I write is just ridiculous and cheesy. So then I took a poem I wrote ages ago, about how I don't write poetry, and changed it. Here are both of these 'poems'. It's the best I could come up with.
Original- What I do
I don’t write poetry
Thoughts aren’t meant
To be forced into lines
Of squiggles and circles
Dots and lines
Letters forming words
To sit lifeless on a page
Pretending
That they’re something
Anything
More
Than text on paper
Emotion held hostage
In cold black ink
I don’t write poetry
New one- Homesick
My friendships
Are being stretched thin
Into halted lines
Of squiggles and dots-
Letters forming words
To sit lifeless
On a buzzing screen;
Pretending
That they’re something
Anything
More than electronic text
Glaring at a girl
Sitting alone in her room.
I hate the internet.
Original- What I do
I don’t write poetry
Thoughts aren’t meant
To be forced into lines
Of squiggles and circles
Dots and lines
Letters forming words
To sit lifeless on a page
Pretending
That they’re something
Anything
More
Than text on paper
Emotion held hostage
In cold black ink
I don’t write poetry
New one- Homesick
My friendships
Are being stretched thin
Into halted lines
Of squiggles and dots-
Letters forming words
To sit lifeless
On a buzzing screen;
Pretending
That they’re something
Anything
More than electronic text
Glaring at a girl
Sitting alone in her room.
I hate the internet.
Monday, October 26, 2009
Creative Writing thingy Draft 1
okay, the beginning is very similar to the thing with the shoes that I posted before, but there are some changes. And then it goes on. the ending obviously needs work and it's completley unedited, but here you go.
You come through the door and I can’t help but feel sorry for the shoes on your feet. Their original color is indiscernible, with so many holes that your mismatching socks are plainly displayed. Those are well loved, devoted shoes, and you’re here to replace them. I feel sorry for them, but at the same time, I try to let you know that I would be just as loyal. I wouldn’t fall apart, either. My sole is firmly attached, and I’m made of a durable, dirt resistant material.
Your eyes skim over me, and come to a rest on little miss Purple Jazz beside me. Don’t be stupid now. You don’t want her. She will deceive you. She will lure you into a false sense of security and then attack. She’ll rip holes in your skin, and the blood will never wash out. Purple Jazz is weak and spineless. She offers you no support. She only wants to hurt you. Don’t touch her. Don’t.
You pull Purple Jazz out of her box and take off the old, worn out shoes. Your feet, clad in mismatched and torn socks, slide into her. You tie the laces and stand up. I know what you’re thinking as you test her, walking down the aisle and back. She looks good. She feels nice. You smile, and sit back down.
Now your eyes land on Purple Jazz’ price tag. Your smile vanishes, and you sit still for a moment, thinking. You’re counting something in your head. You frown, and take Purple Jazz off your feet. You scan the shelves in front of you, and frown deeper. Then your eyes land on the neon tag announcing my recent humiliation. I’m seventy percent off. Your eyes brighten, but fall a little when they settle upon me. Hesitantly, you pull my box off of the shelf. I am so excited that I have trouble not jumping right onto your feet.
You set me down, and pick up Purple Jazz again, gazing at her longingly. Come on, I told you not to be stupid. I’m half the price and twice the quality, and I’ve been waiting so long for someone to care for me. What’s the point of being shoes if nobody walks in you? If nobody’s feet keep you warm? Just try me on. I’ll be the most comfortable thing you’ve ever Worn.
You sigh, and pull the paper out from inside of me. Your toes tickle me momentarily before finding their place and settling down. Your heels find a perfect resting place in my soles. I feel your muscles relax, and your weight shifts. You have a gentle, agreeable walk, and I exert no effort in not pinching you. We’re a perfect fit.
“Can I help you with anything?” Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie has appeared. She glances at me, and says, “I have a pair of those in blue. They’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned.”
You shrug. “Do you have any blue ones left?”
“No, I’m sorry, the brown are all we’ve got left. Ugly, right?”
“Yeah, they’re horrible, but they’re cheap, and ridiculously comfortable. I’m trying to decide between these and them.” You gesture back toward Purple Jazz.
Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie grins at Purple Jazz. “Oh, I love those shoes. They’re so cute.”
“I know,” you say, “I’m in love with them. But they’re a bit out of my price range.”
You look back and forth between Purple Jazz in her box and me, still on your feet. Katie waits. Finally, you say defiantly, “Oh screw it. I’m getting the purple ones.”
“Oh, good choice. I can help you at the till if you’re ready.”
You put me back on the shelf, and walk away with Purple Jazz in your arms. Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie smiles brightly at you, and says something I don’t hear. I watch you pay, and hope your feet bleed for weeks. You’re an idiot. We were perfect for each other. Another price slash is coming, and I don’t know if I can cope with the shame. A familiar despair fills me.
*
The sound of the door opening as a customer entered the shop used to entice a thrill of competition and anticipation in me. I can remember sizing up the shoppers; I would analyze them and pick out ones I’d prefer to be Worn by. It was exciting. I would do my best to stand out and be noticed.
Nowadays, I’d rather hide inside my box and not be seen at all than be seen on the discount table. The mortification that comes with my drastically reduced price tag is almost unbearable. I am a loser. All of my friends were sold months ago and yet here I sit idle and useless; it is the ultimate disgrace.
My depression is so deep that I take little notice of customers. Sometimes they pick me up and check my size, or tentatively test their feet in me before carrying on, but I don’t bother trying to win their affection. Numbness is all I feel, and my self-pitying thoughts distract me to the point of complete isolation from reality. The injustice is just intolerable. I harbour no illusions of being beautiful, but I’ve watched uglier shoes walk out the door. Every foot that has ever been inside me feels my magic and begs me not to leave. My talent for comfort is indisputable; why is the world letting that talent go to waste? It’s not fair, and it doesn’t make sense.
*
A squat woman wearing all white carries me farther from the discount table than I’ve been in weeks, and it startles me out of my reverie. Before I can so much as gain focus on the pink sneakers on her feet, she slides me across the check-out counter. My shock prevents me from thinking at all as Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie pulls at my tag and runs the scanner over it. A cheerful beep resonates right to my soles; I hardly dare believe it. The squat woman pays.
Without more than a polite “thank you” to Katie, the woman takes me in my box and hurries out of the shop. My tongues are tingling. I can’t believe it. She didn’t even try me on. She didn’t even take me out of the box! I want her to open the box so that I can see out; I haven’t been out of that shop for a year and a half. Is she going to put me on? Where are we now?
I feel a sudden drop, and the box stops moving. The woman has set me down. I hear something roar beneath me, and then the inertia of travelling again. Music crawls into my box and as it vibrates against me the truth sinks in; I have been bought. It has finally happened. My entire existence has been leading up to this moment. The rush of joy I feel is like nothing I’ve ever felt before.
After what seems like an eternity of rattling and sliding around in my box, the movement stops, and after a brief pause, the woman picks my box up again. She carries me a short distance and up an incline before once again abandoning me, this time on a flat, immobile surface. I listen intently as sounds of her moving about the room fill my box. Is she going to put me on? When do I get to start working?
“Hi Mom!” a familiar female voice chirps some time later.
“Oh hi dear,” returns a more mature version of the same voice. “How was your day?”
“Fine,” you reply
“Hang on, don’t disappear yet. Take a look on the table; I’ve bought you some shoes.”
A new rush of excitement fills me as you shuffle closer to my box. “Shoes? Wow Mom, why?”
“They were ninety percent off and I’m sick of those ratty ones you complaining about those purple ones pinching your feet.”
The face of a pretty young redhead peers into my box; it’s you! You catch sight of me and grimace slightly, throwing the lid onto the table. “Oh Jesus, Mom, they’re hideous!” You pull me out of the box.
“Don’t be ridiculous Carlee, they’re very nice. Try them on.”
Rolling your eyes, you loosen my laces and pull me one at a time onto your feet. I try harder than I’ve ever tried before to be comfortable, caressing your toes and supporting your arches, giving your heels room to move. “Oh my god, they’re comfortable!” you shriek, jumping to your feet and giving me the long awaited sensation of being jumped about in. I wonder if you remember that we’ve met before.
Her mother smiles. You look down at me again; you make a face and then shrug. “Thanks Mom,” you say, and together we leave the room. I feel a secret thrill of triumph and carry you to a room with walls plastered in shiny paper printed with faces and type, where you sit on a chair and go on with your life as though nothing significant had just happened. I sit quietly beneath you, embracing your feet with all the tenderness I can muster. Months of depression and self-pity fade away.
*
My days are different now. Most of them start when you pull at my tongue and loosen my laces. I’ve become friends with all of your socks, who know just where to rub as you slide them inside of me. Throughout the days I protect your feet from nails and shards of glass, from puddles and mud, and later from snow and ice. More than that, I carry you where you need to go. Down a cracked and uneven sidewalk to a clean and suffocating building that you call School. I provide support all the way up your legs and to your back, bearing your full weight everywhere you choose to take us. Your soles have moulded mine so that they fit into each other with absolute precision. We are inseparable.
This life, it’s everything I hoped for all those long months in the store. It is more than what I hoped for. Back then I had no idea what the true meaning of being Worn was. How was I to understand what it truly meant to be shoes when I’d only been Worn for a few minutes at a time by shoppers with little interest in Wearing me? After three months of experience in the matter, I am enlightened. The satisfaction that the steady beat of your footsteps bring me is beyond words. Just sitting under your feet, feeling the blood pulse through your veins is enough to elicit a profound sense of fulfilment. I couldn’t have asked for a better Wearer. You avoid manure and rarely drag your feet. You take care not to smash down my heels as you pull me on. You defend me when your peers call me ugly. You lead a trying life, tormented constantly, and I do my part to make it easier.
*
Today, you are restless. I bounce up and down, up and down for the better part of an hour as you unconsciously fidget in the corner of the room with all the numbers. The constant motion of your muscles is entrancing at the same time as unsettling; I can feel the nervous energy seep right through your skin. Admittedly, I don’t pay much attention to the human interactions and commitments of your daily life; I’m more concerned with the fluid connection between my soft leather interior, fused with your skin by the socks you rarely bother to wear in a matching pair. It is rare that exactly where we go or what our purpose there is concerns me. My purpose is to provide support, balance and protection; the rest is up to you.
But today, you are restless. The motion of your incessant squirming and jiggling hammers this truth home with every passing second. For a few rare moments, I wish that I could do more than be your shoes. I want to put a stop to whatever is troubling you. This is of course impossible. I am very good at being shoes, and have no illusions of ever being anything that I’m not. I just care about you, that’s all. I am loyal, just as I promised to be.
A familiar beeping tone fills the room, and your full weight is above me immediately as you bolt from your chair. After a momentary pause to gather your books in your arms, I am being pulled out of the room; you stop just short of running as you rush to exit the School.
“Where do you think you’re going?” A loud voice halts you in your tracks.
You say nothing.
“Don’t say we didn’t warn you, freak.”
I feel your knees tremble above me. One second you’re on top of me, watching as seven angry figures surround you. The next I’m flying up into the air as your face skids across the sidewalk. You’re five foot two and barely weight a hundred pounds, and you’ve got seven girls on you, kicking, stomping....
“You’re a freak, just like your mother.”
“Don’t talk about my mother!” Your words are muffled and thick with the blood in your mouth. Wildly, I am thrown forward, making contact with the hard surface of one assailant’s shin.
A furious struggle ensues. I am tangled, twisted, in a storm of other shoes, of violent kicks and punches. Blood splatters, beading on my surface as the crunching of a nose sounds under the rubber of my outsole. Screaming.
Left right, left right; I flail helplessly, and then come to a stop. I feel the blood pulsing through your veins stronger than ever before, but your muscles are limp and motionless. Everything I am struggles to fight back as I block out all sound.
I am being pulled off of your feet with none of the care you ever showed. My laces are ripped undone, then tied together, connecting my left with my right. You lay unconscious on the ground beneath me as I am flung through the air. The rope of laces that join my two parts snags on a thick metal cord strung high in the air. Helpless, I dangle over your unconscious form on the sidewalk as your attackers hurry away, laughing.
Time stands still.
*
Sometimes I see you, coming to and from the school. I watch from my prison, strung from the wires in the sky. You wear dark blue shoes now, and I don’t know how much you like them. Your face has healed slowly, but I sense an underlying nervousness in you that was never there when you Wore me. I try to camouflage myself when I see you glance up. You never look at me for long. I am lifeless, dangling reminder of the worst day of your life: nothing more.
Kids throw rocks at me on sunny days. Ten points if you get one inside of me. A hundred if you can knock me down. But they never knock me down. I am left to hang, sun-bleached and blood-splattered, a half-forgotten symbol of my own delusions.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
Research Essay
(this is undoubtably really boring but I felt like I should update. I'll post the first draft of my creative writing project later this weekend.)
The average adult requires 8 glasses of water day to maintain a healthy body. This is a long established fact that seems uncomplicated, but choosing a source for this necessary water can lead to unexpected problems. In Edmonton today, water is available for next to nothing from millions of water faucets, while at the same time offered for sale on virtually every block. As a consumer product, water flies off of shelves at rates faster than beer or milk (Royte 7); however, despite the convenience and variety of bottled water, water straight from the tap remains the most economical, ethical, and environmentally sound drinking option.
The bottled water industry is a booming one. Sales of bottled water have more than doubled in the last ten years, becoming globally a sixty-billion dollar industry. More people are paying for water as a packaged product now than ever before, with the U.S. per capita consumption reaching 27.6 gallons in 2006, according to the Beverage Marketing Corporation; this is up from 5.7 gallons in 1987 (Royte 7). Billions upon billions of litres are sold worldwide annually, and it’s not hard to see why. It is a product of convenience and fashion. It’s easy to run into a gas station and purchase a litre of water for a long car ride, or buy a flat of bottles from Wal-Mart for a camping trip. Celebrities are often seen toting Fiji and Evian water, making it almost equivalent to an accessory like a purse or a scarf. It’s a healthy alternative to soft drinks, and comes in a wide range of flavours and brands.
Bottled water is popular despite its expense, but what is wrong with tap water? In this city, water waits patiently in the pipes of nearly every building, year round, ready to be drunk. Like most municipalities in Canada and the USA, Edmonton water is highly regulated and tested, and must live up to standards set by the provincial government. With the turn of a crank or the pull of a lever, drinkable water is available for a tiny fraction of the cost of bottled water. The average Canadian pays $1.26 for 1000 litres of tap water, according to Environment Canada (“Water Use” par. 3). In comparison, very few companies sell bottled water for less than one dollar a litre.
The use of reusable water bottles has increased in popularity in recent years, as awareness of environmental issues has increased. Filling and refilling an aluminum or polycarbonate bottle with water over and over again is undoubtedly a more environmentally friendly choice than purchasing multiple bottles of Dasani water. As Elizabeth Royte points out in her book, Bottle mania, seventeen million barrels of oil are used each year just to produce the plastic bottles for water in the U.S. market alone(139). This does not include the energy used to transport these bottles, or to fill them with water. Billions of bottles must be transported, sometimes from all the way across the world, before they reach the consumer. They then are often cooled in refrigerators for weeks before actually being drunk. The amount of energy that goes into this whole process is enormous. In fact, Peter Gleick of the Pacific Institute has made estimations that “the total energy required for every bottle’s production, transport, and disposal is equivalent, on average, to filling that bottle a quarter of the way with oil” (Royte 139).
Tap water from the municipal water supply gets to consumers using only a tiny fraction of the energy that it takes to get bottled water to consumers. This municipal water also leaves no packaging behind to be sent to recycling plants or landfills. Only 25% of plastic water bottles are recycled, with the rest left to litter streets or fill up landfills where only after 420 years will they break down (Gyekye 1). Although recycling is undoubtedly a better alternative than sending the plastic to landfills, energy is required to transport bottles to facilities as well as for the process of recycling itself. Recycled plastic is rarely used by water bottlers anyway, because as Don Dyer of Nestle Waters says, “There are taste issues with it” (Royte 155). Water straight from the tap comes with no packaging at all, to be recycled or otherwise.
Many Canadians today rarely drink water that has not been packaged, transported and sold at prices higher than gasoline. These Canadians make several arguments against tap water; however, many of these arguments are uninformed or easily countered. One prominent argument is that tap water isn’t as healthy as bottled. While contamination has occurred, as was the case in Walkerton, Ontario in 2000, such instances are few and far between. Tap water is tested thousands of times a year for contaminants and viruses, with the results reported to the public and the government; by contrast, bottling plants self-test their water, sometimes only three or four times a year (Royte 145). Since bottling companies aren’t required to state their source on the bottle, many brands of bottled water is actually drawn from municipal water supplies in the first place (Royte 145). As if that weren’t enough, there is strong evidence suggesting that dangerous chemicals in plastic bottles may leach into the water inside of them over time (Ahmad, Bajahlan 1). Other arguments against tap water include the perception that the fluoride added to municipal water supplies may not be healthy. While there is no convincing evidence on either side of this argument, tap water filters to screen out fluoride are available to be purchased for those who are concerned.
After considering issues such as cost, environment and health, the choice between tap and bottled water doesn’t seem difficult; however, there are ethical issues to take into account as well. According to the Water and Canada page of Environment Canada’s Freshwater Website (par. 2), Canada has close to twenty percent of the world’s freshwater supply. Clean drinking water is abundant for Canadian citizens, and yet we import water from remote parts of the world, such as Fiji, where about half the nation doesn’t have access to clean water at all (Royte 153). Millions of Canadians thoughtlessly spend money on a product they could have virtually free at home, when 1.1 billion people worldwide lack access to drinkable water. (Water Supply, Par. 1) Surely the billions of dollars spent needlessly on bottled water every year could be put to a better use?
Water is a basic necessity for human life. It is available in many forms, and in this country is plentiful. Bottled water is product of convenience, which is consumed at an alarming rate in areas such as Edmonton, where safe drinking water is available to the public through pipes in most homes and workplaces. A little planning ahead is all it takes to drink tap water from a reusable water bottle rather than purchasing commercially bottled water. In our water rich country, drinking bottled water is an environmentally, economically, and ethically irresponsible choice.
Works Cited
Royte, Elizabeth. Bottlemania: How Water Went on Sale and Why We Bought It. New York City, NY: Bloomsbury USA, 2008.
Gyekye, Liz. “Call to drink from tap, not bottles.” Materials Recycling Week 20 July 2007: 6-6
“Water and Canada” Freshwater Website (August 2008) Environment Canada. 16 Sept. 2009 http://74.125.155.132/search?q=cache:JoUxyOkdNRkJ:www.ec.gc.ca/water/en/info/pubs/wwf/e_intro.htm+freshwater+world+distribution+canada&cd=3&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=ca
“Water Supply and Sanitation” World Water Council (27 May 2009) 16 Sept. 2009 < http://www.worldwatercouncil.org/index.php?id=23>
Ahmad, Maqbool and Ahmad S., Bajahlan. “Leaching of styrene and other aromatic compounds in drinking water from PS bottles.” Journal of Environmental Sciences Apr. 2007: 421-426.
“Water Use” Freshwater Website (November 2008) Environment Canada. 16 Sept. 2009 http://www.ec.gc.ca/water/en/manage/use/e_price.htm
The average adult requires 8 glasses of water day to maintain a healthy body. This is a long established fact that seems uncomplicated, but choosing a source for this necessary water can lead to unexpected problems. In Edmonton today, water is available for next to nothing from millions of water faucets, while at the same time offered for sale on virtually every block. As a consumer product, water flies off of shelves at rates faster than beer or milk (Royte 7); however, despite the convenience and variety of bottled water, water straight from the tap remains the most economical, ethical, and environmentally sound drinking option.
The bottled water industry is a booming one. Sales of bottled water have more than doubled in the last ten years, becoming globally a sixty-billion dollar industry. More people are paying for water as a packaged product now than ever before, with the U.S. per capita consumption reaching 27.6 gallons in 2006, according to the Beverage Marketing Corporation; this is up from 5.7 gallons in 1987 (Royte 7). Billions upon billions of litres are sold worldwide annually, and it’s not hard to see why. It is a product of convenience and fashion. It’s easy to run into a gas station and purchase a litre of water for a long car ride, or buy a flat of bottles from Wal-Mart for a camping trip. Celebrities are often seen toting Fiji and Evian water, making it almost equivalent to an accessory like a purse or a scarf. It’s a healthy alternative to soft drinks, and comes in a wide range of flavours and brands.
Bottled water is popular despite its expense, but what is wrong with tap water? In this city, water waits patiently in the pipes of nearly every building, year round, ready to be drunk. Like most municipalities in Canada and the USA, Edmonton water is highly regulated and tested, and must live up to standards set by the provincial government. With the turn of a crank or the pull of a lever, drinkable water is available for a tiny fraction of the cost of bottled water. The average Canadian pays $1.26 for 1000 litres of tap water, according to Environment Canada (“Water Use” par. 3). In comparison, very few companies sell bottled water for less than one dollar a litre.
The use of reusable water bottles has increased in popularity in recent years, as awareness of environmental issues has increased. Filling and refilling an aluminum or polycarbonate bottle with water over and over again is undoubtedly a more environmentally friendly choice than purchasing multiple bottles of Dasani water. As Elizabeth Royte points out in her book, Bottle mania, seventeen million barrels of oil are used each year just to produce the plastic bottles for water in the U.S. market alone(139). This does not include the energy used to transport these bottles, or to fill them with water. Billions of bottles must be transported, sometimes from all the way across the world, before they reach the consumer. They then are often cooled in refrigerators for weeks before actually being drunk. The amount of energy that goes into this whole process is enormous. In fact, Peter Gleick of the Pacific Institute has made estimations that “the total energy required for every bottle’s production, transport, and disposal is equivalent, on average, to filling that bottle a quarter of the way with oil” (Royte 139).
Tap water from the municipal water supply gets to consumers using only a tiny fraction of the energy that it takes to get bottled water to consumers. This municipal water also leaves no packaging behind to be sent to recycling plants or landfills. Only 25% of plastic water bottles are recycled, with the rest left to litter streets or fill up landfills where only after 420 years will they break down (Gyekye 1). Although recycling is undoubtedly a better alternative than sending the plastic to landfills, energy is required to transport bottles to facilities as well as for the process of recycling itself. Recycled plastic is rarely used by water bottlers anyway, because as Don Dyer of Nestle Waters says, “There are taste issues with it” (Royte 155). Water straight from the tap comes with no packaging at all, to be recycled or otherwise.
Many Canadians today rarely drink water that has not been packaged, transported and sold at prices higher than gasoline. These Canadians make several arguments against tap water; however, many of these arguments are uninformed or easily countered. One prominent argument is that tap water isn’t as healthy as bottled. While contamination has occurred, as was the case in Walkerton, Ontario in 2000, such instances are few and far between. Tap water is tested thousands of times a year for contaminants and viruses, with the results reported to the public and the government; by contrast, bottling plants self-test their water, sometimes only three or four times a year (Royte 145). Since bottling companies aren’t required to state their source on the bottle, many brands of bottled water is actually drawn from municipal water supplies in the first place (Royte 145). As if that weren’t enough, there is strong evidence suggesting that dangerous chemicals in plastic bottles may leach into the water inside of them over time (Ahmad, Bajahlan 1). Other arguments against tap water include the perception that the fluoride added to municipal water supplies may not be healthy. While there is no convincing evidence on either side of this argument, tap water filters to screen out fluoride are available to be purchased for those who are concerned.
After considering issues such as cost, environment and health, the choice between tap and bottled water doesn’t seem difficult; however, there are ethical issues to take into account as well. According to the Water and Canada page of Environment Canada’s Freshwater Website (par. 2), Canada has close to twenty percent of the world’s freshwater supply. Clean drinking water is abundant for Canadian citizens, and yet we import water from remote parts of the world, such as Fiji, where about half the nation doesn’t have access to clean water at all (Royte 153). Millions of Canadians thoughtlessly spend money on a product they could have virtually free at home, when 1.1 billion people worldwide lack access to drinkable water. (Water Supply, Par. 1) Surely the billions of dollars spent needlessly on bottled water every year could be put to a better use?
Water is a basic necessity for human life. It is available in many forms, and in this country is plentiful. Bottled water is product of convenience, which is consumed at an alarming rate in areas such as Edmonton, where safe drinking water is available to the public through pipes in most homes and workplaces. A little planning ahead is all it takes to drink tap water from a reusable water bottle rather than purchasing commercially bottled water. In our water rich country, drinking bottled water is an environmentally, economically, and ethically irresponsible choice.
Works Cited
Royte, Elizabeth. Bottlemania: How Water Went on Sale and Why We Bought It. New York City, NY: Bloomsbury USA, 2008.
Gyekye, Liz. “Call to drink from tap, not bottles.” Materials Recycling Week 20 July 2007: 6-6
“Water and Canada” Freshwater Website (August 2008) Environment Canada. 16 Sept. 2009 http://74.125.155.132/search?q=cache:JoUxyOkdNRkJ:www.ec.gc.ca/water/en/info/pubs/wwf/e_intro.htm+freshwater+world+distribution+canada&cd=3&hl=en&ct=clnk&gl=ca
“Water Supply and Sanitation” World Water Council (27 May 2009) 16 Sept. 2009 < http://www.worldwatercouncil.org/index.php?id=23>
Ahmad, Maqbool and Ahmad S., Bajahlan. “Leaching of styrene and other aromatic compounds in drinking water from PS bottles.” Journal of Environmental Sciences Apr. 2007: 421-426.
“Water Use” Freshwater Website (November 2008) Environment Canada. 16 Sept. 2009 http://www.ec.gc.ca/water/en/manage/use/e_price.htm
Saturday, October 3, 2009
A Shoe Store
You come through the door and I can’t help but feel sorry for the shoes on your feet. Their original color is indiscernible, with so many holes that your mismatching socks are plainly displayed. Those are well loved, devoted shoes, and you’re here to replace them. I try to let you know that I would be just as loyal. I wouldn’t fall apart, either. My sole is firmly attached, and I’m made of a durable, dirt resistant material.
Your eyes skim over me, and come to a rest on little miss Purple Jazz beside me. Don’t be stupid now. You don’t want her. She will deceive you. She will lure you into a false sense of security and then attack. She’ll rip holes in your skin, and the blood will never wash out. Purple Jazz is weak and spineless. She offers you no support. She only wants to hurt you. Don’t touch her.
You pull Purple Jazz out of her box and take off your old, worn out shoes. Your feet, clad in mismatched and torn socks, slide into her. You tie the laces and stand up. I know what you’re thinking as you test her, walking down the aisle and back. She looks good. She feels nice. You smile, and sit back down.
Now your eyes land on Purple Jazz’ price tag. Your smile vanishes, and you sit still for a moment, thinking. You’re counting something in your head. You frown, and take Purple Jazz off your feet. You scan the shelves in front of you, and frown deeper. Then your eyes land on me, and you go straight for my price tag. Your eyes brighten, and you pull my box off of the shelf. I am so excited I have trouble not jumping right onto your feet.
You set me down, and pick up Purple Jazz again. Come on, I told you not to be stupid. I’m half the price, and twice the quality. And I’ve been waiting so long for someone to care for me. What’s the point of being shoes if nobody walks in you? If nobody’s feet keep you warm? Just try me on. I’ll be the most comfortable thing you’ve ever worn.
You sigh, and pull the paper out from inside of me. Your toes tickle me momentarily, then find their place and settle down. Your heels find a perfect resting place in my soles. I feel your muscles relax, and your weight shifts. You have a gentle, agreeable walk, and I exert no effort in not pinching you. We’re a perfect fit.
“Can I help you with anything?” Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie has appeared. She glances at me, and says, “I have a pair of those in blue. They’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned.”
You shrug. “They’re nice.”
“How do they fit?”
“Really good. Now I’m just trying to decide between them and these.” You gesture back toward Purple Jazz.
Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie grins at Purple Jazz. “Oh, I love those shoes. They’re so cute.”
“I know,” you say, “I’m in love with them. But they’re a bit out of my price range.”
You look back and forth between Purple Jazz and me, still on your feet, as Katie waits. Finally, you say, “Oh screw it. I’m getting the purple ones.”
“Oh, good choice. I can help you at the till if you’re ready.”
You put me back on the shelf, and walk away with Purple Jazz in your arms. I watch you pay, and hope your feet bleed for weeks. You’re an idiot. We were perfect for each other.
Your eyes skim over me, and come to a rest on little miss Purple Jazz beside me. Don’t be stupid now. You don’t want her. She will deceive you. She will lure you into a false sense of security and then attack. She’ll rip holes in your skin, and the blood will never wash out. Purple Jazz is weak and spineless. She offers you no support. She only wants to hurt you. Don’t touch her.
You pull Purple Jazz out of her box and take off your old, worn out shoes. Your feet, clad in mismatched and torn socks, slide into her. You tie the laces and stand up. I know what you’re thinking as you test her, walking down the aisle and back. She looks good. She feels nice. You smile, and sit back down.
Now your eyes land on Purple Jazz’ price tag. Your smile vanishes, and you sit still for a moment, thinking. You’re counting something in your head. You frown, and take Purple Jazz off your feet. You scan the shelves in front of you, and frown deeper. Then your eyes land on me, and you go straight for my price tag. Your eyes brighten, and you pull my box off of the shelf. I am so excited I have trouble not jumping right onto your feet.
You set me down, and pick up Purple Jazz again. Come on, I told you not to be stupid. I’m half the price, and twice the quality. And I’ve been waiting so long for someone to care for me. What’s the point of being shoes if nobody walks in you? If nobody’s feet keep you warm? Just try me on. I’ll be the most comfortable thing you’ve ever worn.
You sigh, and pull the paper out from inside of me. Your toes tickle me momentarily, then find their place and settle down. Your heels find a perfect resting place in my soles. I feel your muscles relax, and your weight shifts. You have a gentle, agreeable walk, and I exert no effort in not pinching you. We’re a perfect fit.
“Can I help you with anything?” Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie has appeared. She glances at me, and says, “I have a pair of those in blue. They’re the most comfortable shoes I’ve ever owned.”
You shrug. “They’re nice.”
“How do they fit?”
“Really good. Now I’m just trying to decide between them and these.” You gesture back toward Purple Jazz.
Hi-My-Name-Is-Katie grins at Purple Jazz. “Oh, I love those shoes. They’re so cute.”
“I know,” you say, “I’m in love with them. But they’re a bit out of my price range.”
You look back and forth between Purple Jazz and me, still on your feet, as Katie waits. Finally, you say, “Oh screw it. I’m getting the purple ones.”
“Oh, good choice. I can help you at the till if you’re ready.”
You put me back on the shelf, and walk away with Purple Jazz in your arms. I watch you pay, and hope your feet bleed for weeks. You’re an idiot. We were perfect for each other.
Friday, October 2, 2009
A room, twice.
1
The neon paint on the walls seems to be pulsing; as though the vivid yellow would rather swallow someone whole than play the cheerful part that it has been scripted. Strewn across the floor and pushed hurriedly onto shelves, there are dozens of toys; dolls and stuffed animals, plastic dinosaurs and little green soldiers. Their beady, haunting eyes pierce the air in every direction, lifeless and yet full of life, unable to avoid the relentless, raging yellow. A severe and fierce shaft of light intrudes on the room through a small square window. The sunbeams reach the paint on the walls and feed upon the yellow’s frustration, sparking it to expand and move out into the room itself. It layers everything it touches with a suffocating, sarcastically cheerful glow. In the corner, shadowed, a rocking chair sits empty, taunting.
2
It’s a small room, but the optimistic glow of the yellow walls seems to expand it. Trickles of sunshine stream through the glass of a window, and join forces with the color in the paint to light up the room and relax its boundaries. Dolls and teddy bears rest on the floor and from their places on shelves, barely containing the hidden life inside of them. The warm yellow reflection paints their faces and fuels their waiting energy. A rocking chair in the corner sits silently, shaded from the sun and patiently egging on the toys as they invite life toward the closed and expectant door.
The neon paint on the walls seems to be pulsing; as though the vivid yellow would rather swallow someone whole than play the cheerful part that it has been scripted. Strewn across the floor and pushed hurriedly onto shelves, there are dozens of toys; dolls and stuffed animals, plastic dinosaurs and little green soldiers. Their beady, haunting eyes pierce the air in every direction, lifeless and yet full of life, unable to avoid the relentless, raging yellow. A severe and fierce shaft of light intrudes on the room through a small square window. The sunbeams reach the paint on the walls and feed upon the yellow’s frustration, sparking it to expand and move out into the room itself. It layers everything it touches with a suffocating, sarcastically cheerful glow. In the corner, shadowed, a rocking chair sits empty, taunting.
2
It’s a small room, but the optimistic glow of the yellow walls seems to expand it. Trickles of sunshine stream through the glass of a window, and join forces with the color in the paint to light up the room and relax its boundaries. Dolls and teddy bears rest on the floor and from their places on shelves, barely containing the hidden life inside of them. The warm yellow reflection paints their faces and fuels their waiting energy. A rocking chair in the corner sits silently, shaded from the sun and patiently egging on the toys as they invite life toward the closed and expectant door.
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