It’s Sunday and I just finished eating this steak-like dinner. It refer to it as steak-like because its original composition was a juicy, t-bone cut, however, after forgetting about it in the oven it came out like something closer to what a Birkenstock marinated in Lea & Perrins would taste like – Chewy but flavourful. Plus, it’s red meat and a good lady needs red meat at certain times.

This day has gone by quite lackadaisically. Had brunch at T.Mo’s place this mornternoon (thank-you T.Mo) and was sprightly with her on the backyard trampoline while we talked about various meandering thoughts out loud.

When finished, I head home with big plans for nothing to do in my head. It was the most fantastic thing. First thing I did upon arrival was sit in the middle of my sofa, feet on coffee table and just stare at my black television. I sat there for a while waiting to see if perhaps an idea would come to mind. Which it didn’t – not at that time. So I made my way into my bedroom; a place where I catch my deepest breaths. It’s quite a charming place. I stripped down and lay down; my sheets had this kind of cool, creamy feeling that put me to sleep almost instantly. An afternoon nap had commenced on account of not having anything to do.

I awoke at precisely 4:20 and didn’t get high, but I did lay still for a while. I could hear Marshall & Otis stirring outside the door and someone outside was ringing clothes in from a squeaky line. I began to visualize my living room for some reason and eventually narrowed it down to an image of my dining-room table (which in actual fact is a computer table, that I use for neither dining, nor computing) and my collection of unfinished canvas ideas. One in particular came to light as clear as if I were right in front of my easel and it looked complete. I took this to mean I needed to paint this afternoon and wandered into my living room to do just that.

As a tangential side-note – I find a lot of my impediments to completing these paintings stem from a dislike of the actual set-up, then tear-down of my art space. I would love to be good and focused enough to complete a painting in say, four sessions; but it’s never the way with me. I have a HUGE fear of screwing up that I think I’ve actually convinced myself that if I stop the painting the moment I fall in love with it then I leave no opportunity to bungle it up. I leave it where I love it and omit the chance of hating it. Then, this business of complaining about the set-up and tear-down is really just complementary to the hardship I cause myself by fearing artistic failure. It’s so funny that I do this because I don’t fixate on such things in any other aspect of my life. I very much just do.

People see my paintings and say, “Forget about failing, just finish them.” My reply is usually non-verbal and I just stare at whichever one we’re discussing until the silence explains everything and we move on to something else. The truth is just that… I really don’t know how to answer why.

Today I began painting books into a bookshelf. I cleared my head and just painted them. I let go of the pressure of perfection I put on myself and just painted. I’m going to take a photo and post it now – so I have a bit of accountability to the painting. I appoint my readers to hold me accountable to just finishing this. Okay? We work together.

Before today this painting was sitting this very way, sans books, for approx eight months. Eight months! Today I’ve accomplished nine roughed-in books. Maybe tomorrow I’ll finish the first shelf with rough books. Yes, that’s what I’ll do.

Painting brought me pretty well up to the moment I decided I wanted to eat my steak. Yes, if you do the math it took me about three hours to paint nine books. That’s three books an hour, twenty minutes a book. I suppose that’s okay for me as I only have my own progress to compare to. I may finish the rest of the shelf more efficiently now that I got the pages going the right way. The perspective was really off at first – thankfully oil paints are so forgiving. My steak cooked while I scrubbed my brushes, then I noticed a smell and realised I had been scrubbing for far too long and opened the oven only to be cloaked in over-cooked steak smoke. I nearly sprained a jaw eating much of my dinner but the fatty edging tasted so crispy and delectable. I completed the evening doing 60 sit-ups on my living room floor and here I am about to finish the sentence my post title started with.

… is how to shoot somebody who outdrew ya.

Think about it.

It’s a lyric from k.d. lang’s version of Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. The original misses out on some brilliance that k.d.’s touched this song with. I’ve posted the link on my Facebook but will share it, with another song right now.

Some triv pour vous: This version is from the 2005 Junos in Winnipeg. This particular performance garnered her a two-minute standing o. As well, Leonard Cohen and his partner Anjani Thomas once heard k.d. sing Hallelujah and collectively decided that Hallelujah could actually be put to rest as it had reached perfection. That’s quite the accolade but she deserves it. I think this song was written for her to sing. Hallelujah | k.d. lang

Secondly, please enjoy Jeff Buckley singing Lover, You Should’ve Come Over. Lovely, beautiful Jeff Buckley – another in the collection of musical souls lost much, much too soon – accidentally drowned one night swimming in Wolf River Harbour while singing the chorus to Zeppelin’s Whole Lotta Love.

Hear this song and think of a winter night. It has to be a cold, winter night – you’re not in the tropics – you light the fireplace but keep the room dark otherwise then get into the most comfortable position you can think of – it’s probably best if there is another body beside you – then close your eyes and be silent for a while.

sorry…

I go through these periods where I become hopelessly addicted to things. Sometimes it’s lip balm, or nail polish, or buying jeans, other times it’s to Christian Bale, or Jude Law, or John Mayer. These are normally phases however some will be constant – like lip balm and Christian Bale, for example. I may just have found someone who will trump both …

Let me stop myself here.

Yes, I realise I’ve been bad with the consistency of my blogging. Yes, I realise I’m actually titling my second blog in a long dry spell “marry me, james franco” but you’re just going to have to accept that sometimes these things will happen. So, I’m sorry if you just can’t relate to how luscious he really is.

Kind of sorry.

If you haven’t seen Eat Pray Love, or even if you have, pay attention to the scene where he and Julia make eyes for the first time and tell me you don’t need to compose yourself after it.

Going back…

Oh yes, trumping…

Mmm, trumping.

James Franco: Let’s just put it this way, if I was 12-years old I would be French-kissing his poster face every night.

Anyway …

I have been a really poor blogger as of late. So poor, in fact, that I wouldn’t even call myself a blogger. I am a sometimes, a fair-weather, a lazy, a sidetracked. I’ve accumulated too many drafts again. Some of them actually contain just one word; the start of what might have been a very profound and provocative thought but sadly was never seen through to the end; or, really much of the beginning for that matter.

I blame summer which sounds hardly excusable because who blames summer? I’ve been out! I’ve been at the beach! I’ve been on a boat. I’ve been on the road! I’ve been practicing the lost art of s.f.a. I’ve been eating at the Richmond Night Market. I watched Back to the Future outside on a big screen at David Lam Park with Keira and Jordypants!

Cool!

… I’ve been gallivanting in Seattle! I’ve been napping like a European.

(the rock biter has nothing to do with anything, I just have affection for him)

I find during the hot season my mind takes this kind of psychological vacation. I become very immersed in my physical life and what’s going on around me which in turn causes my brain to go into this kind of out of office mode. It’s like a continuous sensory stimulation that I get distracted by, or maybe too enveloped by. I get distracted by things like the way a pure blue sky looks first thing in the morning. Or the way the hot sun feels on my face. The smell of beach on my skin. The way the air feels around me and the way the sand crunches under my bare feet. How hot my apartment is and the way my curtains blow in the evening. The colours of summer clothes. It’s the food, oh the food: The juiciest peaches, the reddest strawberries, the sumptuous raspberries, the deepest blue blueberries that pop, the blissful watermelon. The BBQs. The grilled zucchini. The summer salads. The mojitos.

I don’t like the idea of this though. It’s criminal and very mean to trap the berries and insult them with gelatin of all things.

By the way, do you ever listen to the way you pronounce the word “continue?” Do you pronounce it like “kin-tin-u?” You shouldn’t.

So I saw Eat Pray Love on Monday. It resonated with me at a very deep level that I won’t get into because at this point it will probably need its own spiral-bound, four-section notebook once I’m through with explaining all the profound ways it affected me and how similarly this part of her (her meaning Liz, not Julia) life made sense with mine in many ways (run on).

I can say, though, that I’ve known I’m not finished with where I am right now which has always been exciting for me to know and this movie kicked my ass a little further toward that.  Kind of like the One Week effect. There is a world of inner and outer places I need to visit and explore.

As a side note, I’ve noticed that it’s in your 30s when the real divide occurs between the single life vs the committed/family life. I think it’s in your 30s when you can really be defined as a grown-up (in terms of chronology) so you get a taste of what the world looks like from a grown-up perspective. In hindsight, my 20s was still quite young, by definition. I didn’t have any real sense of time, I was just going about my life and I realise that now that I’m 33. I was all over the place about what I wanted, the expectations I had of my life, the sacrifices I almost made to make these expectations a reality. At the same time, my awareness of myself and the way I look at the world, especially in my mid- to late-20s, was the same as it is now… I just listen to, and honour myself, more.

Basically, I’m single. Life is short, the night is young. I pack tomorrow.

What else…

I’ve connected with some people from home who have made their way over to Vancouver as well. It’s curious because with the exception of a few of us (many of us go back to childhood) we were never friends as a group back then. We were aware of each other in passing and from living in a small town but some of us were in different grades, went to different high schools, or had different circles of friends. But here we all are and familiarity and our pasts have become the building blocks for a friendship that’s ready to be made. It’s great! We all went on a 3-hour boat cruise around the Burrard Inlet a few weeks ago that I invited Gee to as well. Initial conversation was spent catching up over things we remember from growing up. Who we knew… what we did… where we hung out… who we dated… how we ended up in Vancouver, etc. It’s like a reunion of strangers. We all ended up at my friend Matt’s place for the final night of the Celebration of Lights fireworks show which we watched from his rooftop patio while doing that party thing that people do.

For the animal lovers and those who understand my love for my cats: Marshall’s doing really well. He had one more follow-up appt where his creatinine level had dropped even more. His BUN level was slightly raised and because of that he’s got to stay on his subQ therapy for now. We did determine that he had acute renal failure where acute means toxicity vs chronic, which develops over time on its own. It was due to him biting the lily leaves in the garden. I didn’t realise Sylvia had any until the stalks started to bud and then bloom. Lily plants are so toxic to cats they only need to ingest a small amount from the leaves to poison their kidneys and such was the case with my Marscapone. It was very hard for me to realise this at first, because I felt guilty, but at the same time the outcome for acute renal failure is usually a bit more encouraging than chronic because if you nip the acute in the bud right away they can resume life as it were for years before the kidneys eventually start to degenerate. I’m hoping by the time that happens he’ll be a sweet, old man.

I went to Ladner a couple week-ends ago with my friend Nicholas who has a friend named Brent who lives in a silo on a farm. Brent is an artist and it’s how he makes his living. He is one of the most creatively interesting people I’ve ever met and what he’s done with his silo-turned-home is like nothing I have ever seen before. I swear I took photos of every inch of the inside, as you will see. The land itself is just as incredible. It’s sprawling and forested, AND it has its very own Cowboy Town which was built by the property owners and is often used in movies and TV shows. It’s like a fantasy. Of course, as with many farms, there are horses and on this farm the horses are affectionate, inquisitive, and like to nibble clothes. They were so beautiful.

Gee and I made it to Seattle this past weekend for a girls’ night out. We hit this bar called Trinity and although it’s a really cool bar on the inside, with several rooms each with different DJs, and lovely decor, the clientele is … well it’s … it’s just that they’re … they … they’re very … they really like the physical contact. I attribute it to some sort of rainforest mating dance. You don’t really get that here in Vancouver. There’s more of an appreciation for one’s space. Don’t get me wrong though, had many of these men been ones that I’d want to get jiggy with I would have been in pure hormonal heaven, but sadly, this was not the case.

By the end of the night I had lost all patience which is unique for me because I’m usually guilty of talking to just about anyone about anything but instead got to the point where I would have none of anyone. I still had fun though. Believe it? I’d go back, probably. I should mention that while standing behind the velvet rope at the very start of the night, I managed to get Gee and I past both the VIP and the regular line as well as bypassing the $15 cover charge, just by asking the nice man in a suit how much cover was. And, it’s not like I was dressed like a little school girl either – actually maybe that was exactly why. Such chivalry at the door.

Note to the men of the rainforest. Personal space is the best compliment you can give a girl in a dark bar.

Also, I offer the following five tips:

- Do not surf the web for popular pick up lines any more
- Do not resort to pulling if your request to dance was rejected
- Do not touch
- Do take the hint
- Do not follow

To everyone I offer a warning of Copacabana Cafe in Pike Place Market, even if you’ve got that morning after, breakfast craving, don’t do it. Eggs only come scrambled. Bacon only comes microwaved over and over again. Remember the scene from Three Amigos when they’re sitting around the bonfire? “Batwings, Dusty?” That’s their bacon.

My Civic is dying. The mechanic today tells me he’s not sure how much time it has left. The clutch is nearing the end. I simply can’t quickly come up with the approx $800 it will cost to replace it so I will have to retire it when the time comes. This makes me a little sad. Did I mention I have a motorcycle? No, I don’t think I ever did. Well I do, so I’m mobile at least until the Fall. Winter, well, let’s hope white lightening makes it and if not, then I will go car-less like I’m obviously meant to.

Which reminds me, I hear you need a mechanic as one of your “must have” friends … does anyone know of a mechanic in Vancouver who’s looking for a new friend?

I think I will stop here because Nicole’s been patiently waiting for something … anything and I don’t have the heart to make her wait any longer.

First, it’s Master Blaster (Jammin’) – Stevie Wonder.
So jammin’…

Second, your supplemental photos:

Boat Cruise around Burrard Inlet:

Pretty city

The rooftop after party:

Brent’s Place:

From the back:

Front door:

Detail:

The inside:

Lights out, slow shutter.
Sexy.

Disco ball spins.

A three-hour border wait results in moments like…

Gum wrapper air plane.

Trinity:

Sundays | Summertime

This Sunday Jam’s right on schedule for once and perfect because it’s the Sundays singing Summertime.

O. o. Oooh. Mmmm. It is summertime. Like, full-swing summer times. I remember lamenting rain not too long go. What was that all about? I have so much to write about I’m not sure where to begin. In addition I am up past my bedtime but made the mistake of drinking a Coke about two hours ago and now it might as well be 10:AM. My mind’s telling me no, but my body.. my body’s telling me yes …

(that’s from Bump n’ Grind; I can’t make stuff like that up)

Shall I recap?

Gee and I boat trip to Sechelt for some RnR in June as seen here:

We were lying on the grass under the sun under blankets because the wind was brisk.

Gee disturbs my peace.

Then visits me under my blanket.

It’s like crabs in the bucket, but not really.

I found this to be one of the proudest wolf bust lamps I’ve ever seen.

Gee demonstrates “engrossed.”

If there was ever a Cutest Cemetery I’ve Ever Seen contest, this one would be my entry.

William’s in the photo holding their catch of the day, standing beside who he would have likely referred to as “a great catch.”

I’m kind of like, “Let me try engrossed now.”

My sweater won the Sweater of the Weekend award.

Once upon at time this was a floating Grocery Store, Pizza, Coffee Shop-type thing.

Grade 5 Chris came for Canada Day times. He lives in Arizona now but spent both Canada and Independence Day in Canada. I mean, obviously.

It was sometimes like we were in grade 5 again. But, that could have been my fault.

It’s hard to make a photo of this nature look genuine.

These guys were so easy-going.

Some pretty art along the sidewalk.

To Cathy, Chris is grade 3 Chris.

A really small W. Erskine Johnston Elementary School reunion.

I then went Jericho-ing with T.Mo and Keira.

© Keira

© Keira

© Keira

© Keira

So a week later, Hannes is in town from Mexico where he is studying Spanish while on an extended vacation from his home country of Switzerland.

Which now brings me to this past weekend. I had Kate’s puppy, Penny with me all weekend. The most precious Penny.

This morning I hauled Penny and all my purge-ables over to Cathy & Kyle’s in the hopes of making some cash at their multi-family yard sale. I sold nary a dollar, not even a quarter. But, I had fun and so did the dogs and the kids… and I was in the sun eating cookies, Cheezies, watermelon, and pink lemonade. Who needs money?

In Coquitlam dogs can actually float. It’s the neatest thing.

“The doggy licked my hand.”

Muffin loves how a half-off nightie makes her look like a flower.

Penny and Buddy demonstrate how to properly share a tennis ball.

My niece and my nephew whom I babysit.

Perfect Penny.

Claws on the inner arm feel so good.

So I’m kind of in the middle of these two dogs…

And after a hard morning of yard-sale’ing, Gee and I make for the beach. Kits this time.

While Gee read Barbara Wawa’s autobiography, I entertained myself with the latest GQ using a little treasure I found.

Baby crab-leg Imperial.

Baby crab-leg Pancho Villa.

Baby crab-leg Mono Brau.

Baby crab-leg Barrette.

Baby crab-leg Slip on Thumb Party Trick.

Please stop.

reading Craigslist Missed Connection ads.

yellow tulips.

animals. all of them.

crossword puzzles.

music. loud.

Prussian blue…


© Wikipedia

^ takes my breath away.

a crackling campfire. on a cool night.
and the smell of a hot tent.

still lakes.

ravens and crows.

the sound of crickets.

absolute silence.

hot pavement
seconds after the rain starts.

bob seger on a sunny day.

moments
exactly
like
this.

long drives without
destination.

the way suntan lotion skin smells
while lying on a beach
under a really hot sun.

words.

crooked teeth.

birch trees and oak trees.

planet earth.

piggybacks and arm wrestling.

the idea of Bora Bora.

© Tanehonu

the design of a chain-link fence.

I think about my blog sometimes and my thoughts are usually something like: I wish I could think of something to write in my blog.

This weekend has already come and gone. It’s already 10:18 PM on Sunday night and I look back and feel like only an hour ago I was leaving work on Friday.

We did have a beautiful day on Saturday though, that day felt like it was around for 24 hours. Every other day though was pretty well blurry.

I brought Marscapone home Thursday right after work after his 48 hour stay at the clinic. I had visited with him Wednesday night where he basically held me tight for 45 minutes straight while he fell asleep on my shoulder.

The vet techs told me Marshall was such a nice boy. They taught me how to administer Subcutaneous Fluid Therapy (aka, sub-Q) to Marshall as well. We even did a trial injection. This is something that is going to become a part of our lives until the end.

At the clinic, during our trial injection, it was the three of us. At home, it’s just me. Me and a 1000 mL bag of Lactated Ringer’s Solution, an IV line, and a needle, plus Marshall, of course. Otis doesn’t really care to help but I don’t really blame him.

Our first attempt was in my bed. I figure the more comfortable he is, the better. At the clinic the needle slid right in so in my over confidence I was expecting the same ease. Poor Marshall turned into my feline pin cushion. So much for this comfortable position he was in. I felt like the biggest asshole finally getting my third poke into his scruff properly. He was semi-okay shortly after it was in although clearly not entirely at peace.

The techs had told me to hold the needle in place with my left hand while holding the bag with my right and at the same time squeezing it so the fluid gets into his skin faster vs the drip method like an IV. I remember the very moment Marshall noticed something strange was occurring in the subcutaneous layers of his neck and he jolted upward and attempted to walk away while he was still connected to the IV line. So I’m stretching across my bed trying to prevent him from jumping off thus risking sending the streaming needle in who knows what direction while at the same time trying to keep a steady flow through the bag.

The prescribed amount was 150 mL, I got in about half that before giving up because it just got so clumsy and precarious that if I had continued that process any longer one of us would have ended up tumbling off my bed.

Note to self: Don’t perform sub-Q on bed.

Today was our scheduled 2nd therapy treatment. This time he was passed out against the arm of my sofa. I tested his scruff accessibility in the position he was in and it was decent. So I practiced forming the tent of scruff that the techs had showed me. Marshall started purring – poor thing had no idea what I was about to do to him. This time, the needle went in all the way but he shifted his shoulder and it went on this weird angle and in realising this happened I attempted to squeeze the bag double hard to get as much in as possible before he knew its positioning was weird which then surprised him and up he shot again and froze for about 5 seconds while he tried to make sense of what the hell was going on then proceeded to jump off the sofa. I had to let him go that time.

We took about a 4 hour break when I realised that it was imperative that we make today’s therapy flawless because he only had half of what he was supposed to have two days ago.

Back on the sofa my Marshall was again and this time I decided I was going to do this procedure my own way. I looped the bag around the hook of a hanger and hung the bag from my floor lamp – just like my very own IV stand. Marshall let me massage and knead his scruff again only this time he was doing this kind of corner-of-the-eye staring game with me and began to purr with hesitation. I told him I was sorry and with one swift poke in the needle went. This time I kind of lay lightly on top of him and immediately started scratching his chin and forehead with both my hands while the bag dripped on its own time.

This was a MUCH more relaxing way to administer the sub-Qs for both of us. I don’t care if it took 5 minutes, I was able to get all 150 mL in and Marshall only tried to wriggle away once and I think it’s because his back paw was a little twisted under my weight.

It’s really interesting looking at a cat with sub-Q under its skin. He looked like Quasimodo a bit. He had this huge pouch of fluid sitting above his shoulder blades that felt as soft and squishy as what I imagine a saline breast implant would feel like, only covered with cat fur. Pretty, eh?

Apparently as the cat moves around so will the water under their skin and because gravity pulls things down then I am to expect that at least once the water will travel down his legs and he’ll look like he has elephant legs, only covered with … cat fur.

Cute.

I swear, this cat will survive based on my neuroses alone.

I don’t care though, I’d do anything for my boys.

This has been a difficult journey that began only 6 days ago. Part of me hopes it never ends.

Marshall’s life will be forever changed. Chronic Renal Failure will be terminal. The when is the missing piece now that I’m not going to focus on. Just my Marshy and the pure happiness he brings me.

We’ve got the Queen of Soul here. Aretha Franklin. Now, tell me this song doesn’t send shivers down your spine. That’s Whitney’s ma in the background, too. Ain’t No Way. I just find her so fantastic.

Some photos for reflection:

Marshall was admitted with his kidneys functioning at 5-7%. They had lost over 90% of their functioning. As a result of this, toxins were building up in his body which resulted in the ulceration of the inside of his poor, kitty mouth.

Looking at these again makes me feel like crying. He was so sick. My heart was in such agony for the first three days, it actually shocked me.

Home again. Phew.

You’re testing me again. This time it’s for something I could never have prepared myself for. As you watch over Marshall tonight, alone in a cage at the vet hospital, please keep him safe and sound. Please alleviate any discomfort he may have and please, somehow, let him know that I love him with the very core of my being and cannot wait to see him again.

You see, Universe, I’m not ready for this. I am just not ready to let him go yet. I wanted him to grow into an old man, with old man problems. To meet up with you when his body is just too old to carry on in this life anymore. He’s not supposed to be facing this now, he’s only 11, Universe. Kidney failure? No. It’s just not fair.

You know of the connection we have. That’s what makes him most special. It’s how he stares at me before he falls asleep beside me against my pillow. Remember how he does that? How he doesn’t curl into a cat ball on the mattress beside me… but instead, how he rests his head and shoulders against my pillow, just like me, and watches me in the dark. You know what he’ll often do. He’ll reach out with his paw and touch my face gently, just so I know he’s there. Or, if I’m reading in bed or doing my crossword puzzle how he’ll lie his big body on top of my chest and peek his head under the book if he can’t see my face. How he’ll reach out for my fingers and curl his paw around them to bring my hand to his face because he wants his chin tickled. He loves to hold my hand. Oh how I would give anything to have those moments with him tonight. This isn’t right.

You know how he likes it when I dance with him in the living room. Holding him in my arms. How he wriggles his way into the perfect position that makes him as high as he can go and falls asleep with his head on my shoulder while I move us around the room.

Remember how he talks to me? How he looks me right in the eyes and tries so hard to understand what I’m saying back? How he tilts his head from side to side while I’m talking? How he tries to get it.

He’s my Marshall cat. He’s my fantastic Marshall cat and I’m not ready to let him go. Please, I’m begging you, not yet. Okay? Give me a little bit more time. I need to hold him again. How I ache tonight.

For me, I ask that I get some help to make it through these next 48 crucial hours with clarity so if I have to make the decision I’m fearing right now, I can do it with a clear head and the fear gone.

Please keep him in comfort tonight, put that around his body and take away his confusion. Please, do that for me? Do it for Otis too. Nothing feels right, right now. It’s just us two tonight; Marshall should be here too.

Please.

You cannot do a kindness too soon, for you never know how soon it will be too late.
- Ralph Waldo Emerson

I spend most of my waking life in constant thought and am most stimulated by those who are the same. I think it’s because in some sense it’s like being telepathic only there’s not necessarily communication in the verbal sense and it’s not el-creepo. It’s more like when you’re around someone similar your psyches do this kind of high five with each other. I know when it happens because I’m attuned to it.

You have to really be there to get it. I get a sense that some of you are going to know what I’m talking about. Still, some of you are going to wish you knew what I was talking about and some of you are reaching for the popcorn right about now to sit back just for the entertainment and stay completely out of it. It’s okay.

If I can try to explain it very simply: Imagine you’re traveling alone in a foreign country where you don’t speak the native language. You can move around and go relatively unnoticed when it comes to sticking to the universal standards of human behaviour (walking on two feet, feeding yourself with your hands, etc.) but at some point you will need to communicate with a local which you are already anticipating to be a challenge.

Your entire exchange will be quite basic and might include carefully flipping through the pages of your translation book as well as the odd, shameless charade in an effort to enhance what you’re trying to say. You would still be interacting, but it won’t be the most relaxed or natural way for either party. Each person is forced to augment the way they would normally communicate. Things might become so misinterpreted that you end up purchasing a live hen when your original request was directions to the latrine. You might try to explain yourself a few more times to no avail; the hen doesn’t fix the fact that you still need a toilet. With the other person’s hands waving in the air they motion you and your new hen away with reckless abandon. Frustrated and misunderstood, you have no choice but to give up and walk away.

Then, by some fortuitous happenstance you spot someone familiar through the wanderers. It’s someone you recognize from home – maybe the teller at your bank… anyone. It doesn’t matter that you’ve never officially met; what matters is you have found instant fellowship; someone who will understand you.

You rush over to the bank teller and bypassing all formal introductions, you both begin to laugh. You don’t need to offer a word of excuse for why you’ve got a dusty, old, clucking hen tucked under your arm because they will already know why.

There are some people who you meet along the way who will get you, even if you arrive at the friendship with a hen tucked under your arm. They won’t ask why because it will make sense because it’s just what you do. Find those people, keep them close, love them with all your heart, and be good to them.

Cluck, cluck.

Wednesday Jam Sesh?

Note: Lyrics.

Incubus | Dig

We all have someone that digs at us, at least we dig each other.

…especially when Katie’s back in Vancouver! Oh how I miss my Katie B. She’s only a province away but she used to be only ten minutes away. She’s from home and home out here feels good. Comfortable.

Man this weekend was busy for this hermit. I moved TMo with Keira, got my atrocious split ends dealt with and my hair enriched thanks to Marlee, a birthday party that ended at 2:30 in the morning, coffee early this morning, and Katie’s baby shower Vancouver-styles.

And the weather was beautiful.

Oh wait, well… SaturDAY was not beautiful. It was rainy. But, Saturday evening was balmy because the finished rain made it so. The city smelled pretty. Clean almost. Moist too. Good for my soul.

So I spent the weekend with my circles of dear friends experiencing a sense of renewal. New apartment, new year ahead, new life on the way. And, I just kind of cycled through it all floating around and watching everyone experience their moments of magic.

Tomorrow’s back to work, back to the people who need me and back to the business life of Andrea.

I’ve got a week’s vacation coming up next Sunday. Oh my it’s my birthday too. I will feel this newness but at the same time I reflect and wonder how the hell it got here this quickly. How is it that I’m going to be thirty-three years old already? I test myself at times and my memory still goes vividly back to three years old. Okay good; I hope that never changes.

I wish I could present more photos, but I only brought my camera along for Katie’s shower. So here they are…

But first here’s your Sunday Jammin’ Music song actually on a Sunday for the first time in a long time!

Click it for the beautiful song, the lyrics, and the beautiful video.

The Warped 45s – Radio Sky

Tried to get us with the tummy.

I thought this was a lovely and intricate tree.

This is Smokey, I found him to be very handsome.

I first heard and saw Chris Botti in Mike G’s living room on his 42″ HD. The room was dark and the music started. I remember physically feeling it. I remember needing to take a deep breath. I remember the goosebumps on my forearms and shivers up my spine. That was probably a year ago now.

This past fall I learned that he was coming to Vancouver to play at the Orpheum with the Vancouver Symphony Orchestra and immediately put two tickets on my credit card without even knowing who the hell I was going to go with. 

As the months, then days neared I was still dateless in Vancouver. Mike G suggested I put an ad up on Craigslist looking for someone to go with. I had success with a similar type of venture Christmas 2007 – my first Christmas in Vancouver. I knew no one so I posted an ad looking for a date for my work’s Christmas party and found a very nice man to accompany me. So I figured perhaps I could actually have the same type of success this time around and posted an ad this past Friday after work for Monday’s concert.

It’s what I call cutting it close; really only giving me the weekend to find a suitor for the evening, and interviews were to commence immediately. Mike’s guess was that I’d have at least 80 replies. To my astonishment I received a total of frigging 193! In one weekend I read 193 emails from men who wanted to go with little old me to see Chris Botti. Actually wait I can’t say all 193 wanted to be my date because many actually couldn’t for various reasons but wanted to say hi. Some thanked me for actually introducing them to Chris Botti for the first time, some wished me luck, some loved the idea and just wanted to tell me. Some emails were short… you know of the “pick me!” variety, some emails were long and autobiographical, some were like cover letters. It was amazing. 

I had narrowed my applicants down to four and penciled them in. Come the 2nd interview I knew I found the person I was going to take with me. He’s worth mentioning because I’m fairly certain this night was also something quite fantastic and memorable for him as well.

Um, be quiet you at the back.

You can find him here: http://www.myspace.com/moraleslamas

Here we’ve got a Cuban musician who uses words like  Avant Garde, Latin, and Fusion Jazz to describe his style of music. His biography’s on his MySpace along with some of his compositions and are worth checking out. He’s a very humble guy, who does all of his mixing in his bedroom on outdated PC software. But, the passion’s there. You know?

So, I introduced a musician to Chris Botti. Gosh I’m so proud. 

He loved special guest, Lisa Fischer‘s appearances as well and in the corner of my eye I could see him all bopping and tapping and just clapping extra hard. She has such an incredible voice, by the way. He was so impressed by Chris’s jazz pianist, Billy Childs, that he wanted a photo and autograph with him after the show. Pianists appreciate pianists.

Are you saying that properly?

And of course drummer Billy Kilson. At first I must admit I was distracted by him because he’s quite intense and animated and extremely powerful so in the begining I couldn’t  take my eyes off him and had to keep bringing them back to Chris. He worked though because the band is cohesive and by the second song I couldn’t really imagine him not being there.

Onto the show…

As of tonight there are only three performances I’ve seen live that have actually made me cry. The first being for my first love, Corey Hart, in 1986 at the Montreal Forum. I was 10, okay? The second time was during the Un bel di vedremo aria of Madame Butterfly at the Opéra de Montréal, June 2008 and finally, tonight. Four times I had tears streaming down my cheeks.

My poor date, this being only the second time he’s met me, must have been wondering what the hell was wrong with me. I reassured myself by saying “He’s a musician, he’ll understand” over and over in my head. I told him that I couldn’t help it. He said in a nice, thick, barely understandable Spanish accent: It’s okay. Oh. I know. It’s okay.  

It was Emmanuel that really started the whole thing which was his duet with violinist Caroline Campbell. Luckily, it came right before intermission so I was able to compose myself. Not for long though, at least not until Hallelujah was played. I mean, I love Leonard. That master, or that genius of words. The lyrical poet. So then to hear Hallelujah come out of a trumpet in the stillness of the Orpheum. Even the woman who attended the concert alone sitting beside me was wiping her tears. So her tears made my tears come faster, then someone in front of me wiped their cheeks and then I didn’t feel alone in how everything was affecting me.

He actually played Flamenco Sketches by Miles Davis. (bawl)

Then Cinema Paradiso by Ennio Morricone. (maj. bawl)

You’re all… Man, thank God I wasn’t her date; she cried the whole time.

Okay, I wasn’t really bawling in terms of definition.

Truth be told though, there were moments when my surroundings just kind of faded away, you know? I didn’t really even care where I was. Who I was. Nothing really mattered except what was going on in front of me, seven rows ahead. 

After the show was an autograph signing and photo taking. Autographs first, check. Photos after autographs. Um obviously. I talked to Chris for a bit but I wish I had more time to just … say thank you until it started to feel like I expressed it the way I felt it.

I will conclude this with Emmanuel only this duet is from the PBS special with Lucia Micarelli on the violin. I can’t find a good quality one online with Caroline Campbell. This version is clearly just as powerful and there’s one thing I just want to point out: Watch Lucia’s facial expressions. I mean, that’s what feeling music looks like. It’s something quite special to behold a musician in such a pure state.

Emmanuel – Chris Botti with violinist Lucia Micarelli

My date/new friend:

The pianist with the pianist:

The hot mess with the artist: