Archive for January, 2010


Start and finish in the same breath.

January 29, 2010

Moonrise vs sunset. I think it’s a tie.


Topic of latitude

January 25, 2010

I have never read Henry Miller. I have always intended to, but it just hasn’t happened yet. I thought of him lots, mostly with regards to Anais Nin and their superfamous rampantly sexual goings ons. Though to be honest, I was never sure how much was written from the point of view of occurrence and how much was poetic license. They were writers, after all. I’ll grant that some of my best erotica is certainly stylized experience, but the fantastic will almost always be exactly that…

When I’ve pictured him in my mind, he’s kind of a cross between thompson and bukowski, with more emphasis on those things sensual. I imagined him with a cruel mouth, a sensualists mouth, a wry smile, a certain amount of impatience, both with himself and the world around him. I don’t know why I have this image. To this day, I cannot recall if I’ve ever seen a picture of him. I imagine, like Thompson, he’s an explorer of the spirit, of that beyond the veil of everyday existence. Slightly less illicit drug use? But an explorer nonetheless.  Like Bukowski, he strips it bare, he tears at truth until she is naked before us, shreds of illusion clasped to herself at some habitual attempt for modesty. We know all too well that modesty suits truth as well as vanity suits compassion.

(when I speak of compassion I am not speaking of interference, the kind of compassion that ‘god-minded’ folk tend to inflict on indigenous cultures. I’m speaking of the ability to empathize and act accordingly. Sometimes the most compassionate thing one can do is to walk away from someone. But this is a rant for another day. And don’t get me started on “altruism!”)

I’ve been compared to Henry Miller (no, not my hairline, though there was that period when I was 19 and my hair fell out in spots all over my head..33 spots by the end of it…it all grew back, so…) which made me feel kinda weird. I’ve never read the guy. He seems to inspire polarized opinion when it comes to his writing, personality and lifestyle. I’ve heard him described as the most overrated, overinflated asshole who ever called himself an “artist.” I’ve heard tell that he is a most underrated luminary and intellectual, one of the greatest of any time, much less his own. Surely there must be a middle ground here somewhere.
I admit, often I forget that not everyone is like me in that they are consistently seeking balance in all things. Perhaps he would be enamoured of this notion that he causes such controversy. Indeed, I believe he was no stranger to it within his lifetime, though I have no way of knowing how he actually felt about it. I have friends who thrive on drama, even while insisting they can’t stand it. It inspires them to tread carefully, this manic emotional juggling act. If that’s what works, why not?

So, for a long time, it’s been my intention to read Henry Miller. I have this very oldfashioned, slightly romantic tendency when it comes to books. Or, rather, when books come to me. If there is an author of some classic or pertinent import, someone I know that I should, will, want to read at some point, I won’t go looking for them. I’ll let them find me when the time is right. It doesn’t always happen that way, but when it does it’s always exactly right.

For instance, I read The Fountainhead at age 13 because it seemed a natural progression from the vapid self indulgence of Holden Caulfield at 11 and the embittered reclusiveness of Sylvia Plath at 12. Wrong. It was long and tedious, how I imagine a russian winter might be like (or northern ontario for that matter..) and hopelessly adult. After my youthful idealism had been righteously tromped on by cold hard reality and the dualism of man, my almost 14 year old self found respite and a kindred spirit in the character of Dean Moriarty. Where Howard Roark was a slave to his own ideals, striving to remain true to a self that couldn’t help but be limited by self imposed blinders as to the nature of man, Dean Moriarty was a freedom fighter. An unapologetic rogue, a rapscallion of the highest order, an empty vessel, seeking to be filled with life and all her richness, whether it take the form of gold, music or tears.

I started hitchhiking the summer I turned 14. Short trips, triangle mountain to thetis lake.  Metchosin to downtown victoria. Victoria to the ferry terminal. Vancouver to the kootenays…and beyond. Across countries,  continents, cultures. Jack Kerouac was where I was at when I was 14. I don’t remember how the book came to me, but it did. I’ve still got the same copy, all the significant passages underlined.

“Sal, we gotta go and never stop going till we get there.”
“Where we going, man?”
“I don’t know but we gotta go.” was one of my favorites, but the classic, the mantra, the one I’ve tended to live by

I shambled after as I’ve been doing all my life after people who interest me, because the only people for me are the mad ones, the ones who are mad to live, mad to talk, mad to be saved, desirous of everything at the same time, the ones that never yawn or say a commonplace thing, but burn, burn, burn like fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars….or something like that..

But I never wanted to be the shambler, I was always convinced that I would be Dean. Someone else would be Sal, would catalogue the mayhem, keep track of the chaos and I would merely dwell within, allowing it to carry me where it would.. “It’s an anywhere road for anybody anyhow.”

I’m older now. I’ve lived long enough that the epiphanies, the realizations, the gospel truths I became aware of when I was 23,  those things that I would carry with me forever! Because they were immutable, unshakeable, universal. Many of those things have fallen by the wayside. As concrete as they seemed at the time, there is always that one daisy who doesn’t give up and keeps pushing at the foundation until the stone cracks and the new ideas are allowed to grow.

So, the 13 year old who insisted she would never read Ayn Rand again grew to be a 30 year old, who came across Atlas Shrugged. Hesitant, yes, but open to the possibility that there could be something there for me. Oh my yes. There’s no way I could have read that book even at age 28 and felt the same way about it. Levels of self that I didn’t even know existed popped up and demanded not only recognition, but allegiance. Freaks. Who could have suspected that there was even one antisocialist bone in my delightfully bohemian body?

So there it is. Sometimes it takes a while, but when the time is right, the ideas convey that much more. Except when the reality doesn’t live up to the hype. I always wonder, in an instance like this, if in fact the literature speaks to me in a resonant way, is it because I look for something. I want to have synchronicity, connection, intellectual sensuality. Robert Anton Wilson makes my brain do back flips. He strokes my synaptic pathways in ways I never thought possible. I learned that when I was 19. I know that in that instance, it was the writing, there was no expectation of how I would react. Therein lies my hesitation. All this hype, years (since I was 17, when someone told me my writing reminded them of Miller. “Wasn’t he that guy who had sex with Maria de Madeiros and Uma Thurman in that movie about Paris in the 30’s?” “Um, yeah. Something like that. ” I’m suddenly very aware of perhaps why the books did not find their way to me after that exchange. For the trivia buffs, by the way, Uma Thurman and Maria de Madeiros went on to have roles in a movie together a few years later, though they never had even one scene together, much less a kissing session…) of anticipation, building up and so I decided, enough! This is the year I read Henry Miller!
For chrixtmix my folks bought me a gift certificate to a site that sells books (yay, books! I love books!) and I bought myself Tropic of Cancer and Tropic of  Capricorn. Then I bought myself Good Omens by Neil Gaiman and Terry Pratchett and Odd and the Frost Giants by Neil Gaiman and I acquired Artemis Fowl and some Richard Feynman (my favorite physicist!) and I even started into book five of the Malazan series!

I’m beginning to think that I’m scared. I can just imagine the places my brain would go if I let it.

“What if he sucks and since some dude who wanted to impress upon our 17 year old self how sexually liberated he was by comparing our teenage ramblings to that of an american who had extramarital affairs with a hot french woman in the 30’s told us we’re reminiscent of him then we must suck! For all time! Not just when we were 17 and were far too intelligent to be taken in by his attempts or far too ignorant of who Henry Miller was to realize there was a sexual angle being played there (yeah, unaware of boys and their ploys at 17…uh-huh..), but even if we were too smart to fall for his clumsy seduction that still means we’re comparable to someone who is overrated and boastful without any clout to back it up!”


“What if he’s awesome and that means that we are so much more talented than we originally thought and should move to Iceland and write our memoirs vaguely disguised as a novel until we get distracted by something shiny and end up following a guru who hugs people through India being completely sure that we are on the path to what it’s really all about without ever having to consider that we could have just as easily found that answer in Iceland if only we had sat still for longer than 12 seconds at a time!”

Unbridled madness. It’s just going to get kooky from here so I’ll quickly come around to the reason I started in the first place. After writing last night about validation I found it kind of cool that when I visited Gala Darlings’ site tonight, I found this quote by Mr. Miller.

“No man is great enough or wise enough for any of us to surrender our destiny to. The only way in which anyone can lead us is to restore to us the belief in our own guidance.” -Henry Miller

How absolutely marvelous, I thought. The man is channelling himself through a gorgeous and insightful sometimes pink haired ladyI happen to find delightful. Ok, perhaps it’s time. I’ll give him a whirl. I’ll read the book with callous disregard for any preconcieved notions I might have of his style, scope or content. Without any expectations of…ok..well, perhaps just one.

I mentioned earlier, how I had always felt I was destined to be Dean Moriarty, the lover of life, the dreamer of dreams. Later I came to realize that I felt quite intensely that I must be more of a Sal Paradise, the scribe, the shambler after the sparkly ones. I hated the idea of merely keeping track, doomed to history as the one outside of it.

But like I also mentioned earlier in this post, I aspire to balance in all things. So this shall be my one expectation of the writings of Henry Miller. That the life lived is worthy of celebration as expressly related by the one living it. If this expectation turns out to have a basis in reality, then perhaps the writings of Henry Miller and I are not so far removed from each other after all..

“The aim of life is to live, and to live means to be aware, joyously, drunkenly, serenely, divinely aware.”  -Henry Miller



January 24, 2010

A consistent need for it. Never truly resolved. A rebellion, the self railing against the very idea, the notion that I require the opinion of any other being to vindicate those things I express.

Suggesting that one needs validation is a form of capitulation within one’s own mind. I need someone I feel has a sense of style to tell me I look good. Someone who has an intelligence I respect to tell me I write well. Someone who has inner strength and a sense of comfort with themselves to tell me I am good enough, I am worthy (of whatever it is exactly I’m needing at this moment.)

Where I fall short, in understanding, is when it comes to considering that all of those people are different. Not only individuals with opinions and notions of what works, but that they are all not me.

How could I possibly trust that someone has a better sense of style than I do when I know which colors I like and which fabrics feel cozy. Who better than I to know the thoughts in my head, how to express them in such a way that my ideals, my experiences are represented accurately. Who can have more of a sense of self than one’s self?

Advice is welcome (especially with regards to the style end of things, especially if you’re as someone as luscious as Mary, that girl has got it going on!) always,  and opinions are rarely ignored. My hesitation comes with the idea that the opinion is required. The action is only in response to the reaction is might get.

Ok, I know what you’re thinking (maybe). The action is consistently in response to a reaction that will come. A man buys a ring for a girl he expects will say yes in reaction. But I’m not speaking of actions that are reliant on others input to be fully formed, fully realized. I’m speaking of how we look, think and regard ourselves, not with ourselves in mind, but with the reactions of others. With a certain amount of exemption, most people don’t want to look stupid, they don’t want to stand out. The embarrassment someone suffers when a singer on stage singles them out, sings to them. It could be a moment of wow! Out of all these people, s/he noticed me! Typically the reaction tends more towards Oh my god, everyone here is looking at me, how embarrassing, I could die right now. After it’s over, the first question tends to be How did I look? A need for validation. You looked great! I can’t believe he sang to you. Then perhaps comes the exultation that they were special enough to be singled out. But why not the desire to be singled out all the time? Why not pride yourself on how good it feels to be you,  rather than how good it feels to fit it?

I’m all for belonging, I like the idea of common unity (I also like the idea of common sense!) of having enough of a sense of those around you to want to benefit them, and vice versa. Not I am my brother’s keeper shite, I am my own damn keeper, but having a sense of the world outside the personal space to respect those around you. I’m talking to you…dudes who don’t notice there’s someone in the lane next to you who just needs you to move forward an inch so they can make that right hand turn before the light changes and they’re caught..pedestrians who don’t think to be aware of the fact that if you let that car through before crossing they’ll be able to make it through the light a the next intersection and feel like a rock star…but I’ll save reality bubblers for another time…

We don’t live in a world where people are celebrated for being individuals. We wouldn’t need trend watchers, gossip columnists, disrespectfully psychotic photographers if people were less concerned with external satisfaction.

I write a lot. Most of it ends up stored in a file, or in a book at the bottom of a drawer. Some of it is really good. Incredibly so. Not to the extent that it should be published, I don’t necessarily think it’s wildly insightful for anyone but me. I don’t feel the need to show it to anyone, though if anyone wanted to read it, I have no problem with that. But I don’t need anyone to tell me it’s good, to know that it is. Compliments are nice, don’t get me wrong. I have an ego just as much as anyone who ‘thinks, feels, wills and distinguishes themselves from the selves of others and from objects of their thoughts.’ (loves me some online dictionaries!) But I don’t require external opinion with regards to my rantings.

Is it because I don’t want them that I don’t seek them out? Because deep down I’m terrified that the response will be unfavorable? Is that the same reason why I never bother to tag key words for this blahg and attempt to have it circulate a wider audience? Perhaps. Maybe I’m so far in denial about needing the proverbial thumbs up that I’ve created this belief that I don’t rely on anyone’s opinion to value myself. But maybe not.

Of course there are opinions I care about. If someone whose opinion I truly valued told me that I was a colossal fuck up, I’d likely listen because I know that there’s no bullshit there. This isn’t lip service. And so often, that’s all opinions are. The sales clerk who works on commission who tells you that gold lame empirewaist dress looks amazing on you. Dude, it was bullshit and we both knew it. But there was a part of me that wanted to believe her. (A small part that was dragged out back and shitkicked by the section of my brain responsible for logic and reason.) That part who feels insecure about her lack of fashion “sense” and desperately wants to feel validated in her choices. In the end, I knew myself well enough to say, no. This is definitely not for me. She instantly agreed. I thought, where was that conviction when I was hemming and hawing about it in the first place? I think it likely that she felt just as unsure as I did, and so went with the affirmative. If I liked it and she told me noooooooo (which she should have) I might be offended and leave. Wheras when I came to my senses and decided against it, she instantly concurred.  Though using someone in the service industry is probably not the best example of a time when an honest opinion is required. I have such a hard time going shopping because of my reluctance to put my sense of style to the test. But relying on others to validate how I feel when I try on clothes does not help me to get better at it. It just makes me dependent. The countless times I’ve bought something I wasn’t totally sure of because I was assured it was perfect, now, hip, flattering, stylish and then never wore. Seriously, never wore. Because I didn’t really like it. But I didn’t trust that aspect of myself to know better. I rationed that she works in a clothing store because she knows clothing. She knows style, fashion, whatever.

But she doesn’t know me.

I do. So why would I hand over myself to some for justification that I’m worthy of whatever? It’s so easy to say, well, I wouldn’t. But we do. All the time. Not with everything, certainly. But enough. Less as we get older I think, but every so often.

There are some traits that one can chalk up to being human traits. Certain species wide foibles. I don’t think this is one of them, I think it’s been learned over the centuries and now it’s far more pertinent because of the widespread mania of advertising. How often do we notice commercials, ads on the street, jingles in our heads, signs and flashing lights? How many people throw up upons seeing times square for the first time? (That’s one of my dreams) It’s insidious and we’re apathetic towards it. The idea that a soft drink company can trademark a particular shade of blue? We’re constantly dictated to about how we should dress and feel and it’s so far outside of ourselves that it’s no wonder we seek out external encouragement. I know it’s not just that. There’s more to it, I’m sure. But tonights not the night for me to expound on this any more. It’s time for me to settle in with a good movie, a cup of tea and some furious knitting activity.

Yes, I am a furious knitter. I really want to learn to make legwarmers (they are a passion, I have a drawer dedicated to legwarmers and long socks alone!) but when I started making a pair, I went too far and so decided I must be making a scarf and since I was using a gihusen ball of wool, the scarf is quite long now, with no feasible end in sight. I should be done by the time the snow melts, which means I will have a 12 foot long scarf for winter next year! Though I’m pretty sure that I won’t be living anywhere quite as cold as it is here. And with that statement I’ve likely ensured that next winter I’ll be chilling in Reyjavik. Literally. I hear the fjords are beautiful this time of year. Actually, every time of year. For those new to reading my rambly ranty remarkings, Iceland is most certainly on my list of places to see, so any hesitation I might express at the thought of being there is most definitely in jest. Of course, being a total cold sissy, I’d much rather visit in the summer.

And so darlings, I wish you warmth, the kind afforded by 12 foot long scarves around your luscious little hearts and minds. And remember, I believe that you are worthy, not that you need me or anyone else to validate how completely awesome you are.




January 21, 2010

Ok, so I put about as much stock into horoscopes as the next dreamy romantic frivolous hulaloopy mystical witchy type barefoot freaky girly girl, which is to say, any time it suits me to do so…I find the daily in the newspaper blurby action to be generic, boring and way too vague to even comprehend, much less attribute any form of truth to. Plus there is the notion that there are people who share the same birthday as me that I don’t feel as though I ressemble in any way. Ok, we were born at different times, in different places, under different circumstances but reallly…And yes, there are certain characteristics of being my particular astrological sign that I find reflects well and accurately on myself, but wouldn’t I feel the same way if I was born under a different sign? Would I find that hmm, I do feel a certain affinity towards the color my sign is most prone to liking/wearing/seeking out at a fruit stand…but really, who knows. This is who I am, this is when I was born, this is the personality I’ve carved for myself out of the marble block of my existence. Unless one believes in the school of thought that the form was already there and I am in the act of stripping away all the parts that don’t belong in order to have a perfect finished product…

At any rate, there are a few websites I keep tabs on, people who interest me that I know, or don’t know, this part is immaterial. The meaningful part is the one where I feel a certain affinity for what this person has to express. Sometimes I’ll not visit their site for a time because of some ounce of jealousy that they are more insightful than I am. Why didn’t I come up with that? Why can’t I live my life so freely? Why can’t I look as good in the color pink? It’s a silly place I know. It’s the same reason I get depressed when I read books by Neil Gaiman, Steven Erikson, Neal Stephenson. They are so good that I upset that I don’t write that well. I’ll read it, thinking the whole time, godDAMN! I wish I had ideas that flourish and take shape and become as solid and real as these do. Perhaps one day I will, I haven’t discounted the notion by a long shot.

I’m getting far far away from where I started though. It started with one of these sites. I haven’t visited for a time because, irrationally, I was kind of mad at her for being so cool, and not being my friend. Though I’ve never made an effort to visit or contact or anything like that, so how would she know I exist? Well, yeah, she wouldn’t. And that’s okay! She reminds me a little of Sark. Sark is fun and colorful and always seems to know just what to say in an innovative and entertaining way. I thought for sure, I wanna be just like Sark when I grow up. But then I wouldn’t be Trish. And that’s just as important.

I do spend a lot of time digressing, yes? If only I could blahg as quickly and as coherently as my devilishly mad mind could wander through it’s nonsensically logical paths, what a place this would be…The point? Horoscopes. The horoscope in particular? The yearly outlet for Aries (c’est moi, évidemment). The site I found it, and loove to visit because I find the content delightful, the sentiment inspirational and the scribe to be kindred until I take a break because I become sad that I do not more emulate the way she balances chic stylishness and eccentric flair with ease? Icing by one Gala Darling. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not that I want to be like her, but I sometimes find my own lack of fashion sense to be frustrating at times, regardless of the fact that I have been assured that my utter fashion senselessness has a kind of  charm to it. I have a certain admiration for things that are well put together, be they stories, puzzles or ensembles…

The horoscope in question I found on her site from one Mystic Medusa perhaps I found to be pertinent because of how I had already kind of imagined my year would play out to a certain extent.

But let me show.. I don’t actually know if I’m allowed to do this, but…

Aries 2010

Style: Always the Alpha-Girl, you’re about to reinvent yourself yet again. An innovative new era starts in June. For the first time in 80 years, rad planet Uranus will be in Aries. Let your look lead the way via a make-over. Scheme for a mid-year relaunch: Honed bod from mega-fitness, scarlet, diamonds, tan, clean, eco, sporty & a sci-fi style scent concocted with ground-breaking technology. Nothing naff, chintzy nor old-school and the same with accessories.

Ok, so I’m obviously not great with style makeover talk. It scares me a little. But the fact that she suggests it won’t happen until June makes a certain amount of sense. This is why. I’m working on a farm in northern ontario until mid may. I’ll head to the kootenays where all the stuff I didn’t ditch before travelling was stored. I’ll pack that stuff and head to Vancouver, where I’ll be moving back into my apartment. The things I got rid of before I left most easily? My clothes. Of course, there’s no point in owning and wearing anything too fancy or stylish while working on a farm, so I had imagined that there would be a certain amount of acquiring of new(ish, I love me the vintagey thrift store scene) clothes. Perhaps a style makeover is in order…but that’s not for a while yet, so we’ll see.

And so to..

Happiness: June to September sees you blissing out with Jupiter, the luckiest planet of all. Anticipate peak experiences as you assert yourself more stylishly. You’re soul-mining until March 11, as Mars Retrograde hypes spiritual life. Yoga, retreats & spa hols do brilliant work. Your professional life needs to be approached as a non-stop transformational junket. You’re incapable of stagnation there and things screw up fast if you try to go it in slo-mo.

Okay, so again, I’ll be back in the city, looking for something new as of June. Soundwave starts up right around then and there’s all the bliss and joy that goes with that. Soul mining until march 11. As far as it goes, the main occupations of my brain other than day to day work are self reflection, introspection, future projection, etc…So the soul mining comment makes sense. Plus, for some of that time I’ll be with my sis in Costa Rica, where I’ll have the leisure to relax on the beach and think about, well, self reflection, introspection, future projection, etc…And since a major part of choosing Costa Rica is due to exploration of yoga retreats, spas etc, it seems as though her suggestion that yoga, retreats and spa holidays could be a good one…Plus, since I will have no job once I leave here, no real desire to back and fix boats full time for the bourgeoisie, no ambition to be a lighting director, or electrician, I’ll be rethinking my professional options. Who knows what careening career path I’ll take next. I’ll let things unfold as they will, excitably, unpredictibly, inevitably.

Love: After April, you’re compelled to set better relationship boundaries. An uncertain phase lingering since October 2009 ends in July and serious deepening of commitments is on your agenda: Marriage, children, a business together or a casual flirtation ramping up into more passionate scenarios. However, you’re not in the mood for immature game-playing. If necessary, you’ll ditch scrappy love affairs and set off to seek something more sophisticated.

I spent some time hanging out with someone last year that kind of convinced me I might be in a bit of a headspace that seemed to focus on old habits. At least when it comes to being attracted to good people who are not great for me. Does that make sense? As a person, as someone to spend time with, as someone to be enamoured of, it’s fun, it’s charming, it’s invigorating. But it’s not necessarily healthy. I have a habit of being attracted to broken things. Sometimes just slightly, sometimes irreparably. I think it’s common, it keeps one from having to examine one’s own flaws to closely if there is someone else’s to concentrate on. Especially if it is someone you care about. Why wouldn’t you want to help someone you love grow and evolve, regardless of how it might hinder one’s own forward movement. Not that I ever notice at the time, so wrapped up in the moment, in being around someone whose company I enjoy. But there are signs, there are red flags, eventually the bliss fades and gives way to a cool reality where it becomes apparent that the gold covering everything is just paint. The only time I can think of where the paint peeled, I saw how it really was and still was completely enamoured? Paris. Which is why I’ll go back and live there someday, because I can live with her flaws and she doesn’t mind mine. But people are a little tougher.

Since it is suggested that this pattern (of me blaming myself for having the same relationship over and over again!) that I became aware of in October will end in July, i can only imagine that means that I will be lusciously distracted when soundwave comes to town. This will be my 10th soundwave. I have yet to have even one blissful soundwave distraction. Perhaps this is the year. I’ll do my best to have no expectations of this, as it’s sure to lead to disappointment. Her suggestion that I will feel compelled to ditch casual, immature game playing and seek something more sophisticated in my mind can only mean that I’ll finally be heading to Buenos Aires next winter. Perhaps back to Paris soon after.

Buenos Aires comes up frequently in my mind. I want to travel many places, I dream of it, but there are some places that are certainties, in my mind. Buenos Aires is one of these. In fact, one of the deciding factors for the move back to Vancouver has everything to do with tango. As fun as it was to take tango lessons in almost every country I visited in Europe last year, it will be nice to be in one place for a time so I can take advantage of a tango community, as well as lessons from one teacher. Having different teachers is good in some ways, but sometimes the different styles clash a little too much.

So this seems to be one of those times when I’ll take my horoscope as having some bearing on how my year might play out. Yes, I’m sure I could have found corresponding factors if she had written something different. But she wrote this. It remains to be seen whether how I interpreted my year will look anything like how Chaka Kahn, Colin Powell, Chuck Norris, Gloria Steinem, Kofi Annan and Nikita Khrushchev interpret theirs. Being that they’re born under the same sign as me.  Ravi Shankar, Billie Holiday, Jackie Chan, Francis Ford Coppola and Russell Crowe on the same day.

Expecting that people who were born on the same day as me would act anything like me is folly. Even if we were raised in the same country, town, age by the same parents, teachers, friends, we would still be different. That is human nature. It could be argued that synchronicity is sought out coincidence. I think that Jung argued that synchronicity can only be meaningful subjectively. So really, in my little sphere of things, it doesn’t matter how that horoscope affects those other people born on my birthday. I don’t need the stars to line up for them in order to justify whether or not I’m going to let them align for me, if in fact that’s what they do. Plus, whether they do or not, I’ll still be here, doing my thing.

I’m okay with that.


Reiterations and predilections

January 18, 2010

It seems as though thought goes in cycles. About a year or so, the same ideas and notions seem to enter into my brain. It would likely help if I were to write things, if not here, then somewhere, as often as possible. Eventually the pattern would start to show itself.

I only mention this because I was perusing this space from last year, just before I was getting ready to leave for Europe. And I had a rant about people having this need to hook up and have babies without considering the consequences of their actions. Which is essentially exactly what I wrote about 3 days ago, while planning a trip I will take in about a month to central America. Does central America count as a different continent from the one I am on? Same time zone, same electrical outlets. I’m not sure if it counts. At any rate, I find it more than a little distressing that I might be predictable when it comes to what I tend to do year after year. Where’s the growth in that?

I also find it kind of depressing that in over a year I haven’t found anything new to rant about.  Though perhaps I feel comfortable in this rant because it’s something I can be assured is not going to go out of style, or cause a revolution. People will continue to procreate, no matter how I feel about it, as a result, I’ll have something to complain about. It’s far more interesting than complaining about the weather after all. Far less common as well.

Perhaps the reason I come back to this rant is because of some deep seated desire I have (being a woman in her early 30s) to become impregnated myself. I rail against the idea perhaps because of some insecurity with regards to nature finding me worthy of implanting. Perhaps I am barren, infertile, realize this at some core level and so plant the seed (as it were) that I never wanted children anyway! It’s an old defence mechanism, but it’s still gold. I don’t actually believe that, but it’s certainly a possibility that has entered my mind.

The more curious thing I find, more so than raving about the same things over and over (like humans do) is that it seems to pop up just before I’ve decided it’s time to go travelling yet again. Not that it didn’t pop up at some other time, I just wasn’t as aware of it. It’s a very common rant for me. I’m pretty sure it’s typically the thing that inspires most guys who might be interested in me to run far, far away.  Guys are funny that way, they always proclaim that they want to meet a girl who won’t put any pressure on them to get married and have babies but when they do, they suddenly change their story. ‘I meant someone who wouldn’t pressure me to get married and have babies right now. I mean, later, I might, I don’t know…” Bitches.
And I digress yet again!

Perhaps the reason I seem to end up here before I travel is either

a) because on some level I feel as though I’m being silly galavanting off to other countries when I should be settling down and finding myself  a nice mate to move in with before we start buying furniture together and learning each others quirks and working out a schedule for who makes breakfast on the weekends and how we’ll divide up the use of the car because it doesn’t make sense to have more than one car if we’re going to live in the city, and (…ew…wait wasn’t I the one who had the gall to suggest that I’m nowhere near cynical towards relationships? Perhaps I should rethink that.) perhaps we should live in the country and have dogs and goats and chickens and perhaps a little baby or two with good practical names like Tesla and Wilhemina, but we’ll call her Billie for short. Um. Yeah.

or b) perhaps I feel the need to reiterate how I feel with more than just thoughts because once something is written it’s much more real in my opinion, and my brain doesn’t want me going off to some foreign country and falling in love with the culture, the language, the food, the color, the dancing, the customs, the locals (or at least one in particular) and ending up doing my part to make the world smaller by contributing to making multiculturalism a reality!

or c) the fact that I am wildly intelligent and unbelievably interesting is a illusion I have maintained for a good long time now, but the facade is crumbling, disintegrating into a feckless expression of recycled vanity with no hope for cohesive reconditioning.

Or perhaps I’m making too much out of something that’s really not a big deal. I tend to do that exact thing. All right then, that likely means it’s time to find something new to rant about (until next year, when the kid thing will probably come up again) or just write about something that’s actually interesting. It won’t happen every day. I wonder how many every days it took John Steinbeck to come up with interesting. Apparently he treated writing like an actual job. Got up in the morning, sat down at his desk, wrote from 9-5. I know he wrote many things, many characters that had a sense of realism to them, but after I’ve read one of his books I always feel a little bit like I’ve just watched the news. Slightly depressed and not sure if I learned anything I wanted to take with me. That doesn’t take away from the fact that he’s a great writer. I especially like the wayward bus. Mostly cuz there’s a bus in it. I loves buses muchly.

Ok, enough for now. A la prochain…


Introverted extrovertist.

January 15, 2010

Ok, so I’ve been having a dispute with a friend lately, where I insist that I am a shy introvert who is not a performer. She insists that I am not shy, definitely not an introvert and most certainly a performer.

She’s totally wrong.

I know that it might seem to some I am not shy, or even predisposed to inwardness. Also, anyone who owns more than 30 wigs and a dozen tutus cannot possibly suggest that they are not a performer in some way.

Well, in some way I am. But it’s not in the way that one would expect. I don’t perform for the satisfaction of putting on a show, of having an audience acknowledge that I am indeed there to entertain, amuse, invigorate them in some way. I have plenty of friends who would fall into this category and enamoured of them am I and not just for having the courage to step into the spotlight, though that is a part of it certainly.

Yes, I own tutus and wigs and dressup clothing and firetoys and hulahoops and funny shoes and hmm..not as many hats as I’d like. More hats please. Good hats though, not baseball hats with every different kind of alcohol or farm implement sold in the northwest region. I’m talking bowlers and porkpies and fedoras and trilbys and panamas and fezs and pilot hats and greek fisherman hats and yellow hats..but enough of that..for now…

As I figured it the difference between me and a performer is this. A performer will put on a show. I will put on a tutu. A performer will use a wig to become a new character. I will use a wig to keep my head warm, while enabling myself to see what I look like with an afro. A performer will hula where a crowd can easily see her, be amazed by her prowess, applaud her efforts, marvel at her well put together costume and gladly accept kudos and congrats when she has finished. I will hula in a corner, where few are even aware that I am hulahooping, where they can’t tell that I have to pull my pants up every 5th rotation or so because I forgot to put on a belt, and I will become incessantly distracted if someone calls attention to my “performance”  during or after I am finished. Maybe it’s selfish, but I don’t like it when people insist on stopping me from hulahooping to tell me how good I am at it. I know how good I am. If they do manage to get my attention and distract me from the activity, the odds that I’ll be able to resume where I left off are slim and none..and slim has usually just left town. As I see it, the difference between me and a performer is, if the crowd wasn’t there, I’d still be hulahooping. In a wig. I wear wigs because it’s monday.

Ok, so if wearing a tutu while grocery shopping or doing the dishes could be considered a performance then certainly, I am a performer. I’m not doing it for you though. I’m doing it because I loooove the way it feels to have a super swishy multilayered bright red or blue skirt on. I love walking past a window and catching a glimpse of myself looking almost a foot taller because of the stripey goth cheerleader hair I have on. Does this define a performer? I’m totally not sure. It could be that I’m getting way too hung up on one definition of a word which likely has many. So I’ll leave that one for now.

As to introvert vs. extrovert. Well that one seems a little easier. An introvert, as I reconnoiter it, is someone more concerned with what’s going on in their own heads than the outside world. I like how wikipedia puts it  ‘Introverts are less likely to seek stimulation from others because their own thoughts and imagination are stimulating enough. A common misconception is that all introverts suffer from social anxiety or shyness. Introversion does not describe social discomfort but rather social preference.’ I can think of many times in my life where I have been referred to as cold, snobbish, stuck up,  a loner, etc. When I tried to explain to people that I’m just an introvert (standing there in a tutu, wig and ernie from sesame street shag rug halter top <-this latter has to be seen to be understood, trust me) they shake their heads and say, yeah, right.

It’s not even that I feel like I’m better than other people. (well, some people obviously) It’s also not that I don’t feel like people have nothing to say to me that I might learn or benefit from. Most of the time I just like being alone. Not all the time. I have plenty of friends and family and I love to see them now and again. I understand that humans are social animals, look at how quickly and willingly humans in general jump in line, whether it be for trendy clothes or a favorite tv show or a public stoning. If I was a wildebeest, I’m sure I would have been eaten by lions years ago. But being  a human, it’s okay if the company I prefer most is my own. Isn’t it? I know there are people who don’t understand it, that’s okay. And there are people who will see my outward silliness and insist that I am an extroverted attention seeker rather than an introverted girl who just likes to play dressup to distract from the fact that inside she’s crying. All the time.

I’m kidding. I cry on the outside, when it’s required. That’s the thing. What I’m doing on the outside is generally how I feel on the inside. There is rarely a discrepancy. Contrary to those Sylvia Plath types who are smiling Betty Crocker goodness on the outside and screaming for release on the inside until it culminates in a nice dish of almond chicken, heavy on the arsenic…Or the worker who suddenly ‘goes postal’ because the outside and the inside don’t jive anymore. The fact that this level of madness happens often enough that there’s a phrase for it should signify what messed up headspaces we live in a lot of the time. Perhaps that’s the trouble. The headspace is too far removed from the head. People spend all this time living outwardly so that when, every so often, they do spend time by themselves, they aren’t necessarily spending time with themselves. And when they are sad, they don’t allow themselves to explore it.

Balance in all things darlings. When I’m blue, I wallow. I cry. I watch movies that I know will make me sad. I revel in my deep down in the blues so far that it’s going to take a whole lot of pie and tea and blues singing ladies identifying with where I’m at before I can even imagine that I’m in a tunnel much less that there’s a light at the end of it. And people telling me, ‘don’t be sad, turn that frown upside-‘ your fuckin head if you continue in this vein..

Granted, I’m fortunate in that when I “suffer” from melancholy or sadness, I know that it will pass. That’s not the way for everyone. For some people I guess it’s an addiction of the nth calibre, the way opiates or alcoholism or sugar are for others. I can be sad and I can enjoy it because I know that even if it lasts for a few days, a week, at some point, I’ll get sick of the takeout boxes piling up, the dustbunnies amassing to the extent that they can start doing the laundry that’s getting a little out of control. The cookie crumbs in my bed because…well, not everything needs explaining.

At some point, I’ll get up, I’ll find something downtempo but upbeat to listen to. I’ll make myself a cup of dark hot chocolate with chili peppers and drag out the vacuum, organize the dishes, take out the garbage, bust out the hulahoop. And I’ll probably do all this, while wearing a tutu.

Ok, compromise. I’m a damn ambivert. There. Oh! Yesterday I really intended to go off about Tesla, because that guy needs all the airtime he can get. Especially since there are people who still think that Edison was a pretty righteous guy. (He was not.) Instead of doing so, I fell asleep around 6 pm and woke up early this morning. Leave it to one’s body to let you know that yes, you, right now, 15 hours sleep, let’s go! Since I try my best to always do the things I say I will do, here is someone else’s point of view about Nikola Tesla, plus a list of everything he’s inspired though they left out that Alan Moore named Tom Strong’s daughter after him in the comic. Also, I would like it known that I intended to name my first daughter (who may or may not ever exist) Tesla well before I read the Great and Secret Show by Clive Barker or the Tom Strong comics. I am sure there is at least one person in existence who remembers me stating back in 1992 that Tesla is my favorite scientist and I would love to name my first daughter after him as tribute. I don’t care that the Great and Secret Show was published in 1990, I didn’t read it until 1993.

Now darlings,  I vant to be left alone.


Relationship angst.

January 14, 2010

I am completely bewildered by the human need to constantly be involved with a significant other. What makes another significant? Their ability to find perfection in your flaws? Their ability to find flaws in your perfection? And love you anyway? I have plenty of significant others in my life, past, present and future. Some more so than others. Some came to me for purely physical reasons, fulfilling a significant need in that moment. Some I have never had a physical relationship with and that’s who we are to each other. We are close, we are able to be free with one another because we have meaning for one another. We are significant. We don’t exist for each other, but we certainly find existence a little more fun because the other is around. Ok, that was way too many times using the word other, I’ll switch it up a bit.

I think often people consider that there is only one significant lover type person who will come into their lives. Everyone else is practice for that one. If they are fortunate, it happens early and they can spend the rest of their lives actually living them. Instead of attempting to live while searching for a soul mate who suits the lifestyle they’ve worked so hard to create while waiting for that one special. Perhaps they date, perhaps not. But there always seems to be an expectation that ‘the one’ will be waiting just around the corner and one day, when they are ready, the orchestral music will swell, the bus will come careening towards, is this the end? And suddenly, rescued! By blue eyes and biceps. Or whatever. I think this is absolutely crazy.

Don’t get me wrong, I am nowhere near a cynic. I am a hopeful romantic of the highest order. I’m a practical romantic, at least when it comes to myself. That’s the thing, I can’t actually ever hope to speak for the views or experiences of anyone else. If your belief is in a one true prince charming, then yay. Mine is not. I don’t believe that humans are naturally monogamous. I used to think that people cheat because of the times we live in. We are the distractable generation. We like shiny, we like new, we like feeling as though we’re ‘in the moment.’ (I’ve got rants about that one too) Sometimes the moment carries us away into extracurricular activities we weren’t necessarily planning to get involved in. We cheat, we’re jerks, it’s true. Adultery is nothing new. Ok, so we’ve been cheating jerks throughout history. Am I speaking of walking down the street and being taken by a stunning human walking the other way? Hell, no. Even to the extent of sharing a flirtatious smile or wink..human is human. Pheromones, biological imperative, etc are tough things to subvert. There is nothing wrong with stopping to smell the roses. It’s the desire and of the act of picking them that tends to get one into trouble.

I am not morally opposed to dalliances. It could be that there is a connection of strong physical/emotional/spiritual whatever with one person that maintains one’s existence, but every so often, you meet someone who’s just supercool, sexy, fun. Not someone you’d want to spend eternity with, but perhaps the weekend. Where’s the harm? Because of the guilt suffered as a result of a percieved commitment to someone else. Because of the heartbreak suffered by the one who feels betrayed by the contract breaker. I often wonder how many couples actually sit down and have a discussion about those things they consider deal breakers. Don’t have sex with my friends, or relatives. Don’t leave the cap off the toothpaste. Don’t put the juice jug back in the fridge empty. Likely very few, because somethings are just expected to be followed through on. Expectations lead to…disappointment.

I try not to have expectations of anyone I get involved with. (Yeah, good luck with that.) I like to think that I’m not prone to jealousy, my only request is that you not bring home anything you wouldn’t want to share. Like herpes. While I am not opposed to indulgences, I will never knowingly get involved with someone who is already involved. One time I’m pretty sure I was the other woman. It wasn’t fun. Mostly because of the guilt involved and the fact that he found it so easy to lie to someone he professed to love. What?  It’s just so crazy to me. I prefer, most of the time, to opt out. I think I’m kind of unique in this. I like living alone. I like being alone. I also like being with other people, both on a social and intimate level. Balance. I don’t want to get married, except for the obvious reason of a european/argentinian/australian/wherever I feel like living at this moment passport.. ok if I ever get married, I hope the agents investigating my love filled marriage of convenience don’t read this. I don’t want children. (A woman in her early 30’s who doesn’t want children? WTF??? How does that even happen? She must have a shortage of them girly hormones..or an excess of sense, how about that?) I don’t feel compelled to be with someone in order to justify my ability to love and be loved. I can get a dog for that. If I have physical need, there are humans aplenty who are single and more or less willing. If I need emotional support, I have Billie Holiday, Nina Simone, 72 different varieties of tea, one biological sister and dozens of others. Not to mention hulahoops.

I’m not opposed to dating. Well, actually kind of. It’s very strange to me to go out with someone all dressed up, spend the evening evaluating one another and trying to hide your own flaws, while striving to seem like someone you may or may not be in reality, all in the hope that they’ll be adequate and you won’t have to do this again. I like food. I like music. I like watching movies. So, if that’s the requirement then I have no opposition to dating. Except for the awkwardness of it all.

Ok, so why am I ranting about this? This is nothing new for me, most who know me are well aware of how I feel about this kind of thing, especially the marriage and babies. I guess it’s because the other night, while innocently playing video games, there was a particularly long cut scene. So, being interested in distractably shiny things in the moment, I flipped the input over to the television while the cutscene played out. I should have left it. There was a movie on. It’s newish, I think, I’ve never seen it or heard of it really, which doesn’t make me sad after watching about 10 minutes of it. Within that span of time, I was introduced to one character who was going to break up with her commited and loving long term boyfriend because he wouldn’t marry her. And another character who met a boy she was pretty sure might kind of like her, so immediately started imagining what their wedding would be like. And a third (who might have been the only one actually married) who spent the 30 seconds she was onscreen finding out that her husband was not actually commited or faithful. I turned it off in disgust by this point, fairly sure that the lesson there was not that marriage equals people instantly becoming disloyal and untrustworthy.

I’m actually amazed that I discovered as much as I did within that short space of time. It could be that there was something insightful about human relationships within the film, but I can’t get past this insane obssession to be paired up! Do I sound bitter, could it be that I am just jealous of people in relationships because I am alone? Dreadfully, pitifully, pathetically alone?  Yes, of course that’s it. I must be ovulating as well. Since my body knows that because I am alone it won’t become infected with parasitic seed which will blossom into progeny that will make me immortal in a sense, even as it steals my youth and vitality for it’s own desperately helpless lifeforce…yes, I can see how that could make me sad.

I acknowledge the allure of  this silver screen ideal of romantic love, a love that will swoop in and carry us away from our humdrum day to day. That moment at a party when some hoopy frood walks up to you and says, you wanna get out of here? You better damn well say yes! And don’t even think of asking him to wait while you get your purse. In my movie, it’s  Callum Keith Rennie and he’s driving a shiny black 69 chevelle. Mmm…bad boys and muscle cars…but I digress..

I don’t deny that being genetically encoded to want to propagate the species is a natural thing. I don’t deny that the idea that something that starts off as a single cell grows to become a complex multifaceted organism capable of rational thought is utterly astounding.

What upsets me is that rational thought and responsibility towards a healthy humanity seems to be the rarity, wheras demented ideas of selfworth and irresponsible proliferation of  bad spellers with no immunity to dirt and falling down without deciding someone needs to be sued are commonplace. This is nothing new, but I was feeling a little ranty and it seemed appropriate. Lesson learned though, from now on I’ll stick to the cutscenes on my super violent video games which rock because they are completely devoid of women who want to get married and have babies and never once stop to wonder if that is a good idea. It doesn’t have to be a good idea, it’s just what we do.

Now, that said, I love the idea of women who stop to wonder about it, and decide that yes, it is a good idea. This is something that could work for them. And they go about it eyes open. I’m not asking anyone to stop getting married and having babies and obssessing over why they aren’t in fulfilling relationships and whether their fat ass makes their ass look fat and wearing uncomfortable shoes because they’re pretty sure he’s looking at their feet (uh-huh). I’m not asking anyone to do anything. Most of the time, I’m really not very concerned with what’s going on for other people. Like most people.

(I must admit, at this moment, I’m spending a lot of time thinking about peeps in Haiti and how much it must suck for them right now.)

But it would be nice if people would think about what their biological imperative is always pushing them to do.

At any rate, I think it was Olin Miller who suggested that “people would worry less what others thought of them, if they realized how seldom they did.” That seems as good a place as any to end this rambly rant. Like most times, I think I started out with a point, somewhere along the way… It’s always nice when there’s a point to be made and somehow I inadvertently come to it. Fortunately that happens rarely enough that when I do have a moment like that, it almost feels cosmic. Otherwise it would just be a standard day to day occurrence And who wants that? Variety is the spice of..hmm..moussaka? Quiche? Oh, no, that’s right, variety is the spice of life! All of it! Not just the shiny parts.

If you want something silly for distraction from the day to day? This Dude. I’m glad that people like him have time for daily cleverness such as he does, because I know I don’t. Plus he thinks Tesla is pretty cool, which denotes an fair amount of intelligence. Tesla needs more airtime. Perhaps I shall rant about him tomorrow.

Bon nuit.



January 12, 2010

Just when I’ve decided I’m tired of the color white, I get reminded of how well it contrasts the others

Ok, so there are some nice parts of northern ontario. Not just the sunsets, mind. Every so often there is  a surprise to be found within the confines of your sock drawer!

Hooray for pictures of sunsets and kittehs when one is completely uninspired to write anything interesting. I have much fear of that within here. I know that not everyone, including me, can be witty, clever and insightful every single day. But I’ll do my best. And that does not include what tea I’m drinking. As interesting as tea might be to me, especially since I’m the one drinking it, beverage updates do not make for entertaining blahgging.

Though, right this second it’s a ginger honey oatstraw combo, if anyone’s curious.



January 10, 2010

Funny how the moment I decide to go somewhere, start to get my brain into actual travel mode, rather than think of travel mode, the frst things I start to do are upload all of the pictures I never did from the last trip. I guess it’s a house cleaning of sorts, if I post all the old pictures, I’ll have space for the new ones? Hard to say. I do know that I’ve spent way too much time on this thing today, looking at sites about Costa Rica (surf schools, surf shops, house rentals, car rentals, maps, travel tips, spanish lessons, currency conversion, electric outlet similarities, eco tours, cloud forests, monkeys, spiders, volcanoes, et al..) and so I’m not going to spend a lot of time writing tonight. I believe there to be a french gangster movie I haven’t seen in my future. Perhaps this will be the one with a happy ending I’ve been so hopeful of finding.

The morning started off with Green Ginger tea (subtle aftertaste of pear inclusive) but no manuka honey necessary. And it was a Deerhunter kind of morning.  I have no idea why I feel compelled to consistently catalogue my varying tea and musical choices each day, but it seems appropriate somehow.

Ginger lemon tea and quai des orfevres await! I don’t want to disappoint them. A la prochaine, mes amis.


Plans and schemes.

January 10, 2010

Ok, so I didn’t wake up to vanilla chai and lemon jelly. I slept in, so by the time I woke up it was way more of an earl grey and wolf parade time of day. I was so tired that I dreamed I took a nap. What? I don’t think I’ve ever done that before.

I’m always looking around at things whenever I find myself stumbling about the interweb, which is probably far too often..but I especially like looking at photos of band tours. Even if I’ve never heard their music, don’t know where they come from, don’t know where they are in the pictures. There’s just something about bands on tour that makes for great pictures. It’s the best of both worlds for someone like me, travel AND music! How perfect a set up is that? Frequently though, I’ve noticed a common factor seems to be photos of them eating junk food, or digging into craft services type deli meat and cheese platters, or sitting down to a smorgasboard of stuff that’s been thrown together with a bunch of other musicians because they happen to be playing a festival..

It doesn’t seem right to me somehow. I mean, you don’t wanna feed ’em so well that they have to take a nap and miss their cue. And with all the food allergies now, it’s difficult to be able to cook the same things for everybody. But I’ve had experience cooking food within a production setting and I really enjoyed it for the most part. I guess what I’m thinking of is kind of in the theme of Alice’s restaurant. Not the song.  But kind of a church sort of building with housing I can live in and a nice kitchen with a venue of sorts. I think it’s just that mostly I want to live and work somewhere like this. They have a tree inside their tea house! Ok, the tree is made of paper mache, but they’ve traveled the world to find different awesome teas! They have live music and movie nights! I think that’s a beautiful thing. And now imagine if there was a lovely kitchen for baking in, fresh wheat/dairy free pastries and breads..banana bread for the weekend banana bread french toast brunch! With homemade yum berry/cherry jam! From the tree outside! That we also make wine from! Cherry grape wine! And herbs grown in pots in the terrace garden. And people can sit amidst the plants that will grow to make the tea they will drink! And the performers will have nourishment worthy of their talented musical skills! Or plays! We could have plays! Little plays! And there will be books! And a cat! An orange cat with a black spot on her nose who has much in the way of sass and cuddle capability! And a banjo! THERE WILL BE A BANJO! AND A PIANO! And I will have a sassy apron to wear and different wig and tutu for each day of the month! And I will be a teahouse motherhen! Who needs those children that you grow inside you like a parasite and then demand things when there are skinny musicians to be fed who will give you kisses and a song in exchange for a sandwich and some tea!!! I can concoct the perfect tea combinations for the moment!!! And it won’t have a flaky hippy vibe to it at all! Except that I’ll be barefoot all the time!


Ok, so I’ve started listening to Quinte & sens now and drinking passion flower tea. This should have somewhat of a soporific effect on my sudden tizzy. For those who do not know of Quinte & Sens, it is a jazzy kind of band from Paris. Of course, the person I know best in the band, the ubersuper Aidje! Who is not only one of my favorite people in the world, he is an awesomefantastic drummer! He even sometimes plays percussion for films! How fucking cool is that! He also plays with a yiddish gypsy jazz band called Les Yeux Noirs who happen to be playing a show in Vancouver the day after my birthday! April 8! So, stay tuned for more info about that because obviously no matter where I am a week previous to that, I’ll be in Vancouver for that show!

As far as it goes, I’ll likely be in Vancouver at least a couple of days before that date, as I will be making preparations to move back into my apartment on the drive. It turns out that the lovely Talia will be vacating the premises for greener pastures (literally) and so without intending it, my way is paved to ensure that I will be living in the city of my birth once more. I have decided that my bedroom should be blue and green and purple. The kitchen should be red and orange and the bathroom should be beachy colors…I would like to make the kitchen look like an african veldt, the bathroom, obviously like the seaside. My bedroom…well, there’s a couple of months yet. At this point, it’s merely planning and scheming phase. I was always hesitant to paint when I lived there before because I was afraid that would mean I couldn’t leave. I’m starting to realize that home is everywhere and anywhere and nowhere all at the same time.

For years, I’ve drifted about the edges of social circles. Hulahoopers, muscians, arty types, mechanics, dancers, acrobats, farmers, travellers, techs, electricians, stagecrafters, drivers, passengers, lovers, punks, ravers..never really feeling like I totally belonged any one place. Some people will find something they are good at and latch on. And it ends up defining their existence, as much as it sustains it. I was so envious of this. I used to feel like there was something lacking in me because I would consistently drift in and out of the different scenes. It was like I wasn’t good enough or focused enough to ever fit in perfectly anywhere.

I’ve come to understand that the reason for this is because I have this ability to fit in anywhere. I am a dabbler. I am creative enough and skilled enough that wherever I go, I can be useful and helpful. I’m not a specialist. I am the glue that holds the specialists together. (I think I’m coming back around to my idea of playing teahouse motherhen to musicians and artists) I can support and encourage and prod and feed and inspire and dance for and do cartwheels. I am not the star. But I’m damn shiny.  So all this time that I’ve been in constant motion, in the hope that I would find a place where I fit, I was mistaken. There can’t be just one place that I fit, because I can get by anywhere.

So, the upshot of all this. As of the spring, I’ll be organizing a painting party in my apartment, on commercial drive, in Vancouver. The landlord (who is totally ubersuper and gives every tenant chocolates for chrixtmix, I don’t have the heart to tell him I’m allergic) is completely fine with any decorative alterations one makes to their apartment as long as they paint it back when they go. I’ve concluded, that of all the places I’ve been, Vancouver, at this point, is the best place for me to have a homebase. So why not? My family is there, I have some of the best friends in the world in the city and surrounding areas (island, coast, kootenays), it’s international enough that when I take off to travel someplace, I can leave from there.

When I came back from Europe this summer I felt completely discombobulated. At the time, I thought it was because Canada no longer felt like home. I felt unsure of being here, as if I’ve lived here and so should move on, find someplace new. I think the reality is that I didn’t have anywhere here to come back to that was mine. All of my things were in storage, I had given up my apartment to Talia and while I had innumerable places to stay, none of them were mine.

There’s nothing better than travelling, in my opinion. Except perhaps that moment, when you unlock the door, flip on the light, let the backpack fall off your shoulders and you’re home. I never really had anything like that before this apartment in Vancouver. I lived in a van, then a bus, with stationary residences peppered inbetween. But I had never lived alone, known the feeling of being completely responsible for the roof over my head (more or less, I’m still a renter, after all). And so it’s kind of nice for me to know that come a few months from now, I know exactly where I’ll be living. My place. You should come for tea. And a painting party.  And I can leave, head to Buenos Aires, Bali, Maui, Paris, Italy, Iceland, Ireland, Istanbul, wherever I desire, knowing that at any point I can come home to..well, home.

Soporific tea kicks ass. I am so mellow right now. In all seriousness though, if you do come for tea, I can make something a little livelier. Perhaps some vanilla rooibos chai..or something with meadowsweet, red clover and gingko..or lavendar, lemon verbena and blue malva flowers…ooh! rosehips, calendula, borage and nettles! There’s a spring tonic for ya! You get my meaning about the teahouse action? I’m so down with the tea….

My prediction for the morning will be a playlist of feist/cat power/emiliana torrini/esthero accompanied by a green ginger tea with the tiniest dash of manuka honey to ensure a lovely sunday in the winterland hinterland…

gros bisous darlings..



January 9, 2010

I know I spelled that incorrectly if I had intended merely to infer motion. But there is more to this movement than just motion. Not that motion is not enough of an end in itself.

As far as it goes, at this moment I’m listening to a playlist involving David Gray and Damien Rice and a bunch of other dudes who are just super sensitive about everything. The kind of guys that you totally cry on the shoulder of when everything goes awry with the super masculine asshole you’ve been involved with and maybe have sex with one night when you’re kinda drunk on merlot and vulnerable and totally regret it after because they keep writing these songs about the night they took the friend they secretly love to bed and you wish they’d stop because a man crying during sex when he’s overwhelmed with emotion is never a turn on. Though Damien Rice is Irish and that is a turn on. All music fits some mood, somewhere, sometime. That’s the best thing about it. Even this casual, facetious disdain I have for the music does not change the fact that there is nothing else that would fit the headspace I’m in right this second. 20 minutes from now I might be jumping around, accidentally kicking the cat while listening to a playlist of late 70’s New York Punk music..or hulahooping in the living room to swedish glam rock…No, that’s not likely tonight…but it’s possible. I like music for that. Ok, actually, it’s now 15 minutes later. I’ve come back from the kitchen with some oatstraw tea. As a result, I’ve now switched to Les Blerots de R.A.V.E.L. because I was in danger of sliding off the chair into a pile of melancholy under the desk…It’s difficult to type from that position.  If you don’t know Les Blerots, they are a french band I came to be aware of a few years ago. The venue they play in the linked video is the same one I saw them in when I went to Paris the first time. It’s called Cabaret Sauvage and it’s set up like a huge circus tent, if a huge circus tent was made of red velvet and had tables around the outer circle and the center was one huge dancefloor of beautiful wood planks with little gold lights all over and it was filled with a crowd who was completely enthusiastic and knew all the words to all the songs and the show was just….yeah..anyway…the last time I went to Paris I actually tried to plan when I would be there to coincide with when Les Blerots were touring because I love them that much!

Ok, what? yes…ahem…movement! meant to move one outside a realm they had previously experienced. This is what I was referring to when I mentioned movemeant. Motion with a great deal of intention behind it. And so it happens that soon I will embark on a journey to a place I’ve never been, to try something I’ve never really tried, but wanted since I was about 6 years old. In the middle of February I will leave the frozen north for the moderate middle. I am meeting my sister in Costa Rica for 3 weeks of absolutely nothing but surfing and…no that’s it. Just surfing. I’m sure there will be naps in there somewhere..But since I was a wee thing, I’ve wanted to surf. And soon I shall, which is lovely, but this movement, while it has intention and a long awaited anticipation to it, is not what I originally referred to.

My sister has recently finished her anusara yoga teacher training. Which is awesome and amazing because it’s something she not only enjoys, but is good at. Plus she’s awesome with people(complete opposites, I know) and so it could only be supercool and fitting for her to be a yoga teacher. She has this lovely gift of listening and empathy and could only be beneficial to anyone’s practice..and why not check and see what it’s like being a yoga teacher in Costa Rica? Especially seeing that there are oodles of resorts there that specialize in that sort of thing. It’s kind of a big step for my sis. As long as I can remember, I’ve always been the flaky, let’s never make plans and see what kind of adventures we can fall into. Hence spending 5 broke ass months in Paris not able to get a job because of lack of language skills, work visa skills, skill skills…whereas when my sis wanted to see the world, she chose 5 places she most wanted to live and sent resumes about. Ended up living and working in Scotland for a couple of years, got to see Ireland, Italy, Paris on her birthday, all over the place, in style. This is just kinda how we roll. Differently. We’ve found those things that work and we work ’em.

But, as of late, my sis has been feelin a certain amount of job dissatisfaction with her regular steady scene. Part of that was the impetus for the teacher training. Another part is the potential for being able to have something that one can do everywhere. And darlings, yoga is everywhere. Not that hotels aren’t, but working a job that keeps you active and fit and moving and flowing and in direct contact with the people you’re helping? Rather than being on the other side of a telephone from an outrageously demanding and insufferable tourist who expects that they are worthy of deference and the drudge on the other side of the phone will acquire them whatever they desire because they’ve paid to stay somewhere since their own inlaws can’t handle hosting them while they’re in town? Whateva. Just because someone works in the service industry, doesn’t mean they should be treated like a servant, who should be beaten on a regular basis to ensure they remember their place. Oh yes, I am down with etiquette in a grandiose sort of way. And so we move on…

Now, I helped a little bit with the pushing for the training, because I know how much she gives of herself to people who have no appreciation (how sad that this is the case for many methinks) in her job. I wanted to see her do something that truly makes her happy. Part of the bargain, if you will, was that once the teacher training was finished, she would leave her fancy upscale hotel manager job and leap out into the void, encouraged and trusting that the universe would put her exactly where she needed to be. If that is a resort in Costa Rica, a spa type place in Bali, as part of a retreat in Istanbul, or moving further with study in India…it would certainly be a dramatic leaping off point of sorts. This is the first time since she’s been working, that I know of, that my sister will leave a job without having made provisions for the next engagement.

Whew. That is a very scary prospect for some. Not me, but I think we’ve already established that I’m a bit of an odd duck. So wow, the fact that my sister has the courage to do this? And is stepping up, eyes open to the edge, and diving headfirst? Oh yeah. Booked the tickets tonight. We’re off, as of mid february. I asked her if she wanted me to book a one way for her, just in case…but the return can always be changed. Indefinitely.

And for the curious, I’ve since switched over from drinking oatstraw tea and listening to Mando Diao to drinking ginger tea and Mogwai. I lurve Mogwai. And you. I think I shall wake up to Lemon jelly and some vanilla chai. Being a tea drinking music lover certainly has it’s perks…


OOh! And since I’m going on a trip..this blahg should get waaay more interesting. If I can manage to drag my (soon to be) tanned luscious ass away from the beach, that is…



Too much information?

January 7, 2010

In some ways, I love that I can have up to the minute information about my friends, even to the color of the bra they are wearing in certain circumstances. But while I was in Vancouver over chrixtmix, a friend made a good point about all of this consistent information back and forthing. It used to be that when a friend left town, they were out of the loop for a time. Which was okay. When they returned, there would be stories of adventure and pictures and cake and tea and giggles and catching up. I totally get what he meant by that.

Now, if a friend leaves town, she blahgs from the airport that she’s on the plane, in some instances she blahgs on the plane, at the other side, all the way through the adventure, even so far as posting the pictures online whether through crackface or any other number of photo posting websites (link on the right side of the screen….) so that everyone back home can see exactly what’s going on while it’s happening! Eventually, she returns home to friends and family (which aren’t always mutually exclusive, especially with the ones I’ve got) and sure there is tea and cake, but what’s left to say? “Hey let me show you these pictures you’ve already seen….Right! Well then I’ll tell you the story of what happened the time I fell in that canal trying to rescue a pizza from drowning! That you already read on my blog which was much funnier then because it was fresh, I was still drunk and much wittier with access to an online thesaurus to make sure that my observations were astute, clever, discerning, sagacious and even cracker-jack..

(I heart online thesauruses. Thesaurusi.Thesaurusesses. Synonym generators.)

There is nothing that compares to being in the room with someone and telling them a story that makes them fall off the sofa/chesterfield/davenport/loveseat/settee with delight/hilarity/enjoyment/rapture/jollity…ok, enough. Seriously though, a righteous tete-a-tete cannot be beat, especially if there’s cake involved. But if there wasn’t the opportunity to share these moments with those we love, as they happen, would we really be missing out on so much? Do we really need a way to convey our immediate mood to everyone we know from thousands of kilometres away?

Of course there is so much potentially insignificant silliness we might miss; for example, “are you wearing a hat?” “why, yes I am.” “oh, I see that you are.”

However, I truly appreciate that I can easily share those experiences that seem momentous, important; for example, “are you wearing a hat?” “why, yes I am.” “oh, I see that you are.” And that we get to choose which category those times fall into.

When I first heard about the various social networking sites, the blogging, the listen to my music here and look at my pictures there and finally! an opportunity to belittle people and act superior without revealing anything about myself except the fact that I am an utterly horrendous speller with too much time on my hands! (Seriously, people who comment on youboob and facebooger and any website with a forum in existence, how hard is it to spellcheck? If you can goozle 50,000 different sources for a cat doing something cute, I’m sure there’s at least one damn dictionary kickin about the interweb. I am obsessive about accurate spelling to the point where I’ve actually broken it off with people because I just couldn’t handle how bad their spelling ability was. Eyebrows also factor in. Anyone who’s looking to score points with me and possibly invite me for dinner, take notes.  Ok, gettin’ a little ranty here. Now I have to be super on guard, any spelling mistakes and I’ll have a karmic bitchslap extraordinaire comin’. Bad grammar and run on sentences don’t count because they are part of my affluent effluent charm. Yes, both of those apply. My charm is vast and oozy.) I was almost completely opposed because I thought it was obvious that humanity would take this opportunity for global communication and sharing and make an insane mess of it.  I was determined that I would not succumb! I would not throw in with the masses and contribute to mediocrity! Luckily, I have a high enough opinion of myself to believe that I’m not capable of mediocre. I dig the happy medium, but that doesn’t suggest that I would compromise my sanity and happiness for what feels safe and normal. If anything, the opposite. I would risk my sanity to escape what feels normal. I take heart in the fact that I have no interest in what most other people are doing, as well as no interest in how they feel about what I’m doing. Those that I love, those that I seek out knowledge of on a daily basis, sometimes more, are for me, the reason why this accessibility is worthwhile.

Really, most people want to be noticed, accepted within whatever circles they feel comfortable, acknowledged. For some that means putting themselves out there in the hopes that if the closest to them don’t support what they’re doing, someone will discover, enjoy, identify with their efforts and perhaps even laud them for it. Most people seem to be caught in this dichotomy of wanting to be special and wanting to fit in. I don’t discount the fact that there are human traits that are universal, regardless of whether or not we are the only humans within this universe. But the idea that any one else on the planet understands me enough to justify them speaking for me, or judge me to be lacking in some way, or even discounting my input because there’s plenty of other brown eyed, (naturally, damnit!)red haired girls in their early 30’s who grew up in the western hemisphere who blog about their ramblances, that’s too crazy.  No one will ever be exactly like me. My atoms are my own for the time that they are mine. When I am done with them, I will decorporate and they will move on to become something else. But never anything exactly like me. I am special and I am not at exactly the same time. Like everyone else. How the hell did I get here? I went from a abuse of technology rant to a very simple principle about humanity which was the reason why Dr Manhattan decided to save us in the watchmen. Which is a great comic, but I like Alan Moore’s Swamp Thing best, probably because it was my first. You never forget your first. First place I ever saw John Constantine too, he’s a favorite. I’d love to have a one night stand with him, but no more because I’d likely end up killed by some mystical demon summoned in an esoteric ritual of some sort or another. Unintentionally of course, but you know, that’s how it goes when you lose your heart to a magician. Sometimes it’s literal. To be honest though, I think that of all of Alan Moore’s comics, the one I come closest to feeling a kinship to would be Promethea. That was the first time I can recall a trip down the rabbit hole being a coherent voyage, rather than complete nonsense with bits of order scattered about.

I don’t think I would like to have an affair with Alan Moore, however. Now Grant Morrison…. but c’mon. Who wouldn’t want to have an affair with a scottish vegan chaos magician who was abducted by aliens and writes bitchin awesome comics

Ok, I’ve gone waaaaay off topic. This could very well be where the question Too much information? comes in. I shall save the (endless) ravings about awesome comics for another time.

I’ll stop here because I’m not totally sure where I’m going with this. But the main title is in fact ‘rambly meanderings of a firegypsy in search..’ Not the ‘coherent and conclusive observations of a settled miscreant expounding on the virtues of knowing the truth about everything in existence.’

And so I shall end with a smile and a link


Irony lives here.

January 6, 2010

I had every intention of writing something yesterday, but I got so down on my whole i don’t know what i want to be when i grow up, much less where i want to live that I decided enough of that! And ended up playing super violent video games and watching what could potentially be the best worst movie I have ever seen. Yes, the 1979 classic ‘Roller Boogie’ with as many shiny colored spandex pants as I’ve ever seen in one place. She was a rich girl with terrible hair and fashion sense who just wanted to be held. He was a poor boy in tiny red shorts who just wanted to compete as an olympic rollerskater.  I was not aware there was a rollerskating category in the olympics…At any rate between that and filling my workday with severly cute music by severly cute bands I would love to have tea parties with, I am in a much less wah is me sort of place. (Oh Wah, I have so many options and opportunities that can only benefit and enhance my existence and I don’t know what to have an insane amount of fun with first..meh..).

At any rate, there I was pondering on why I put so much empahsis on this absurd level of head talk I have going on, all the time and something very suddenly occured to me. What did I intend would be the major factors in my theme of settling this year? I think it was a south facing window seat, a garden and a piano if I remember correctly from 2 days ago. Well, ahem. It seems the universe delivers even when we’re not looking. Because here I am, in the winterland hinterland of northern ontario in a house. Which has a south facing window seat. It doesn’t always look like this, I actually arranged the comfy pillows and removed the bins for growing lettuce in. Large enough for 2 cats and a human certainly.  There is also, believe it or not, a huge garden under all this snow. Which will go away sometime in april. Or may.  The snow, not the garden.

And finally there is a piano. A hopelessly out of tune piano, but a piano nevertheless. It’s true, I did specifically ask for an actual not electric piano. It’s also true I never specified whether I wanted aforementioned piano to be in tune. So once again, you got me, you dastardly universe, what with your insanely comical way of giving people exactly what they ask for.

Did I mention that I didn’t necessarily want to settle in northern Ontario? Even if I could deal with the -25 average temperature in the winter, the 30 degree heat in the summer,  the bugs who take chunks of your skin when they bite and the non-existent cultural aspect (the shania twain center does NOT count as culture). Even if I could deal with all that (which I obviously can’t because I am a sissy) I would miss the mountains and the sea far too much. I will never be able to live anywhere for too long without that. I grew up on an island in the pacific, surrounded by ocean with mountains never far away. In the midst of the kootenays, surrounded by mountains, I’ve found as close to home as I’ve ever felt, without there being an ocean nearby. It’s still only an 8 hour drive though.

But ok, I’ll try to be more careful in the future about what I wish for, because apparently I’ll already have it. But maybe just in those moments when I need a good baby shaking. Which is obviously a bad thing to do to a baby (wanton disclaimer!!!) but sometimes adults need that kind of thing. Or just a solid bitchslap from a place of love.

In that regard, thanks universe! Irony and me, kickin it in northern ontario…And now I’m off to see Sherlock Holmes because he rocks, Robert Downey Jr. rocks, Guy Ritchie rocks, Jude Law is alright, I it can only be good. And when good movies come here, you see them as soon as possible, because next week, they will be gone. It seems to be a guarantee that if a movie is terrible, it will stay forever. Case in point. Batman? 2 weeks. Beverly hills chihuahua? 2 freaking months! What the f-?????

Yay for culture. Gonna get me some.


Mind changing abilities…

January 4, 2010

Ok, so pondering today over the idea of stability, of settling in one place for longer than 6 months. Yes, it could be argued that I stayed in Vancouver at the same apartment, in the same job(!) for about 3 years! That is true. And a lovely apartment and crazy awesome job it was. Regardless of this, I acquired aforementioned apartment and job after coming back from spending 5 broke ass months in Europe, determined to find work and lodging that would allow me to return to Europe at some point and conquer it like a gentle if slightly pushy lover eager to test out her worldly skills on one well more worldly than she…as Europe is. Certainment. And ha! Went back, cash in bank account, spent the time, did it right..8 countries in 3 months, very nearly a flawless trip considering any plans I made to be in any one place in particular flew out the window of the Paris apartment my first night there.

There were so many moments over the course of those 3 years that I spent feeling slightly disdainful of my resentment towards the present. I lived in my apartment for almost 6 months before I gained any furniture beyond a bed. Mainly because Janice bought me  a coffee table. An awesome coffee table from Ikea with wheels for two legs so it’s easy to move. Or, at least, would be easy to move if we had put the wheels on the short side, where they are supposed to be. The whole time I lived there, I never had a kitchen table. I never wanted one. That would be capitulation! If I had the means to invite friends and lovers over for breakfast, I might do so! And that would mean that I was a resident, rather than just an opportunist. All the time I was broke and trying to find work in Paris, with almost no knowledge of french, or skills that set me apart from the other thousands of people from Europe trying to get by in the city of light, people kept suggesting I should go someplace where I not only speak the language, but I have opportunities to find work! It was so hard for me to leave. It felt like I had been beaten somehow. And slunk back to Canada with my tail tucked, hoping that I would find something that would allow me to stride across the ocean and bitchslap Europe into begrudging admiration.  And so I did. But my consistent refusal to allow myself to live in Canada, even as I was living in Canada, in the very city I was born in, kept me from ever truly feeling satisfied with where I was at.Even when I had moments of extreme satisfaction with what I was doing. I just didn’t feel ready to be in this place, at this time. It could be compared to a terminal with a certain amount of layover. The station is wonderfully decorated, with all the amenities one might need. The time is passed pleasantly enough, but the whole time one waits, there is a heightened awareness of passing through. Involve, interact, but keep everything that might entice one to stay longer at a distance. Because at some point soon, it will be time to go.

The irony here comes from a place that began when I was 13 or so. Every summer until I became an insufferable teenage girl who could not abide anything to do with family, sense, propriety or things not badass and cool, I would stay at my grandmother’s in Vancouver. Having grown up on the island, it was always such an adventure to head to the mainland, especially once I got to the age where I could make the trip myself.

Every so often I would get to visit with my aunt, my mother’s youngest sister, who I felt a certain kinship with. We are both the youngest (her of four, me of two), we both have the gift of prose to a certain extent, we are the comediennes, the joke crackers, the savage wits. And that is saying something, considering that every member of my family is capable of dark, dry, sarcastic, caustic and just plain hilarious humor. I know, big surprise there. But I felt as though my aunt and I were in our own little group. And so when I was 13 and she invited me to spend a weekend or so at her apartment during my summer visit, I was obviously ecstatic.

Her apartment was everything I dreamed adulthood could encompass. A tiny balcony over looking a very atmospheric alley. A tiny kitchen where one could cook any, ANY, dish the heart desired. It didn’t even have to be healthy! Bookshelves crammed with books I could only dream of having enough time to read. And records. This was the first time and place I can recall someone playing Talking Heads for me, ensuring that this was a type of music that would usher me into adulthood. There were plants and art and a futon with a luxurious duvet and colorful pillows. And a blue eyed cat named Misha, after Mikhail Barishnikov. It encapsulated everything I could imagine would be the best parts of being a grown up. Having a space of one’s own, decorated how and with what the individual decided should be. In that moment I was determined that one day I too would have my own little apartment in the romantic metropolis of Vancouver, with plants and books and a futon with a duvet and art both timeless and pertinent, a kitchen stocked with food I liked, regardless of it’s nutritional value and most assuredly records, especially Talking Heads.  I could do without the cat though. It appears as though me breathing easily and cats curled  up on my pillow are not copacetic.

And so there I found myself, almost 20 years later, in my own apartment, all the accoutrements necessary to feel like a full fledged and accomplished adult, right down to the Talking Heads albums (fear of music,  speaking in tongues, stop making sense) on vinyl. And I realized it. I had arrived. I suddenly thought, I should buy a kitchen table and invite all my friends over for breakfast! That moment lasted for about a day and a half. Just long enough to let me know that someday, I would be ready for that kitchen table. Just not right then. Which begs the question, if not now, then when?

Granted, at the time my focus was on movement, even while it appeared I was standing relatively still. And so now, today, I find myself in a place where I achieved what I set out to do all those years ago I came back from France.  I even rediscovered dreams I had completely forgotten about along the way. And for one intoxicating moment, those dreams were realized. Perhaps it’s time to revisit the idea of a kitchen table. Because the dream of living and thriving in paris, even if only for a short time, just to prove that I could, has been achieved. I adore Paris, to the extent that I know I will revisit. It’s somehow amazing to me that the idea of allowing myself to settle somewhere with the intention that this is where I shall make my home, enmesh myself in my community, buy a kitchen table and invite friends to brunch (honestly, I don’t get up early enough for breakfast) is much more daunting and scary than imagining myself adrift in a country where I understand a smattering of the language, I could buy six kitchen tables for the same price as one months rent and I have much less of a friendly community support net to draw from. Perhaps this is the very reason I should settle? If something is terrifying, it typically means that it’s outside the comfort zone. A place I try to visit at least once or twice a year. I think a part of my fear is that I’ll miss out on something. If I live in Vancouver and there is amazing things happening in the kootenays. If I live in the koots and there is an unreal music scene bourgeoning in Victoria…this is always the case. There is always something happening somewhere. My passion to join in constantly could use a little temperance.

Of course, earlier today, while thinking on this idea of settling for a while, some place a little more permanent than any I’ve had before (not that this will be the last place I live, ever…that’s a very likely for sureism) some tango music came up in the playlist I was listening to. And I started thinking about kitchen tables, window seats and pianos in terraced garden  apartments in Buenos Aires. Shortly thereafter, a song came on with the lyrics en francais. Thoughts suddenly, inexorably turning to Paris. Imaginings of instruments  in Italy, Istanbul, Ireland, Iceland, India, Indonesia. Wondering on windowseats in Wales, the West Indies, Wallachia(does wallachia exist anymore?). Giving thought to gardens in Guatemala, Greece, Germany, Guyana.

And so this is how I’ve realized that all my thoughts of settling, are simply that for now. Just thoughts. Ruminations on a potential scenario. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. Whether I realize a dream of 20 years ago, a dream of 20 minutes ago, I’m still living my dreams. I think it’s most important to stay true to this. For now, this is where I am. Where I will live 5 months from now, I haven’t decided yet. Pianos and windowseats aside, putting any kind of limits on myself as to where I will allow myself to live is silly. And so I’ll go back to dreaming of the far off and unattained, even as I live the here and now. There is balance there somewhere, I’m pretty sure.  Passion tempered by intelligence. Intelligence enlivened by passion. Balance…slow like a bunny. I use the bunny reference because the hare, after losing the race to the tortoise, regardless of his passion and exuberance, would hopefully learn to temper that passion with intelligence and experience.

Did I just nullify any significance the bunny reference had by over explaining how my crazy head works? That happens sometimes…whatever, it’s my head and my personal forum for folderol..anything goes I would think.


2010. Here we go…

January 4, 2010

There’s always some trepidation for the first post of a new year. It’s the same as when I get a new notebook and then wait for something epic to happen so I can dutifully catalogue it. It has to be amazing, or poetic or at very least symbolic  before I can justify adding it to the annals of history.

Does anyone really want to read about the first time the dog learned how to roll over in exchange for a treat? (Tho, that did happen. And the dog finds it enthralling, I’m sure)

But seriously, the first missive of 2010. The year we make contact, if one is to believe Arthur C. Clarke.  Or, if one tends to put more emphasis on a film’s tagline.. something wonderful is about to happen. I really don’t want that to sum up this year. Honestly, that seems to sum up every year for me.

Instead, I want this year’s tagline to read ‘something wonderful is consistently happening.’ Enough of this expectation of  life we’ve got going on. Crikey! Is my first blog of the year truly going to be another rehash of that live in the moment tussle I’m always having with myself? Is it okay to constantly harp on the same things as long as they remain pertinent to the day to day of existential enumeration? Could this be the year I find something new to enumerate about? Is it possible to use the word enumeration more than 3 times within the same paragraph?It would probably be easier if I could be sure that I’m using it correctly in the first place, however, considering I am too lazy to look the word up, I’ll let it stand.

Ok, so the first, the premiere, the precedent setter. January is a tabula rasa of sorts. It doesn’t matter what went down in december, because that was last year. That was 2009, the year of endings. And here we are in 2010, a year of speculative beginnings.  In some ways 2010 feels  alittle more auspicious to me, much more so than 2000 did. It seemed there was a vast difference of opinion as to when the bloody milennium started, so is it any wonder that 2000 felt a little lacking in futuristic promise? But here we are now. I must admit, I typically have some ideas of what I want to see happen in the course of  a year to come. But this year I don’t feel so much of that. I know that often it is wise to set both long and short term goals, to give something to move towards. I don’t necessarily feel up to doing that at this point. I’ve spent so much time looking forward to the places I’ll go and the people I’ll meet. But for right now, all I desire to have in my future are a windowseat on a south facing wall, a garden and a piano I can play any time I want. I want them to be all in the same domicile. Where are they exactly? Which time zone? Which latitude? Which longtitude? That part I don’t know yet. I’m in no hurry to find them. They’ll still be there in August as much as they are there now.

It could be argued that these three aspects of settled living could be found in many different places at the same time. Of course this is true, but I can only be found in one place at a time, regardless of how it feels in my head now and again.  But settled I shall be. It feels as though in past years all of my movement has been frenetic, disjointed, without concern for the next place. Only ever sure that there would be a next place. AAll of my plans have been so that I would end up somewhere, never sure where, never sure why one place was any better than another. Merely convinced that I had to find it. And now I know what to look for. I’ll know it when I see it.

It will have a garden. It doesn’t have to be the kind that grows in the ground. It could easily be a sun filled patio, with containers of all sizes, flowers adding color and scent. A night blooming jasmine, a hoya plant, passion flowers. Flowers for the sake of flowers. My garden doesn’t feel the need to be practical. Sometimes frivolity is necessary. But enough going on that I’ll be able to have my hands in dirt, wonderfully vital mucky dirt on a regular basis.

It will have a piano. An actual piano, with hammers and strings. I have nothing against electric pianos/keyboards, but there’s something about the sound of a piano that seems pure to me. 88 keys, all in accord. 88 keys that respond, even when there is no power. I can as easily play by candlelight, as not. The room is bright, the colors vivid, but not overwhelming. The windows are abundant and open to fresh, clean air. Here is where I should be careful with my manifestation. I’ve pretty much just ruled out most cities with the fresh clean air thing…How about, the windows are abundant and open to beautifully scented breezes. That seems a little more forgiving.

There will be a window seat on a south facing wall. Large enough for two people cozy. Or one person, one book, one cup of tea and a cat comfortably. The window will open out. I don’t need all of the windows in the residence to open out, but it just seems as though window seat windows should.

At this point, I’d love to put in a bid for a kitchen worthy of baking in and a bathtub…a dreamy sort of place type bathtub. It’s always important with manifestation to ask for exactly (emphasis on the exact) what you want. But I feel like this place, this magic cottage/apartment/house/tree/happy place can’t help but have an amazing kitchen and bathtub if it’s the type of place to be already outfitted with a piano, a garden and window seat in a south facing wall.

Well, as far as starts to the year goes, this one doesn’t feel too bad. It’s a quiet beginning, no determined gestures towards achievements I’ll feel like a big loser if I don’t accomplish them. No major declarations that this will be the year I find a baby, or win the lottery or become a mail order bride.
I can say that I would like music in my life. I would like good food, good friends, sunsets and risings, both of sun and fresh baked bread, shaped into loaves by my hands. I would like to sit on a surf board and feel the shape of a wave underneath me, hear the sea whisper her secrets. I would like to be aware of seasons changing. I would like to hear cats purr. And so I will do all these things. And not just this year.

It doesn’t have to be monumental to affect us, after all. In fact, I think often it’s the little things that do the most, but the changes are so slight that we might not notice so readily. Perhaps this is the year we do. Make contact, that is.

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