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.

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:

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.

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:

It’s been a busy week that felt long which is always the worst. The highlight of the week though was having someone’s blood dripping from their mouth onto my counter. Shortly thereafter I sent a love letter to Plexiglass inventor, Otto Röhm.

I experienced gastro euphoria for lunch on Thursday which could have very well redeemed my week because good food tends to fix everything. There are bright sides to working in the Downtown East Side and that’s being so close to Gastown. For my visiting readers from cities aplenty please forget not to experience Gastown if you’re in the neighbourhood. Then find The Black Frog and call me, damn it.

I overhauled my living room last weekend (which is really two weekends ago now, this has taken me that long to write). This will be my fifth arrangement since October 2007. I’m not sure how normal that is but normal doesn’t usually apply to me anyway so I’m not going to worry. 

I did acquire a new piece of furniture as well and that is a big, IKEA Billy shelving unit with glass doors that Gg handed down to yours truly. Ghetto me could never afford such a thing brand new so hookups are nice. Now that I think about it, this may have all started when I sold my IKEA Benno shelves on Craigslist. For approx 5 nights 140 DVDs and probably an equal amount of CDs were actually taking up space on my living room floor. If you know me then you know how devastating this disorganization was to me. At the same time, those who know me will also know that it makes perfect sense that I sell the shelves on a whim without any sort of plan regarding where the DVDs and CDs will go when the shelves are actually sold. I lament the disorganization I bring upon myself. Go figure.

So to recover from this not-very-well-thought-out situation that was my living room, I reorganized, shuffled, and rearranged my furniture just to prove something to myself. As a side note, I never feel wholeheartedly lonely because I seem to be perpetually in a state of autonomous interaction with my conflicting personality idiosyncrasies. In this case it was the impractical visionary vs the disciplinary and the end result, fittingly, was a living room I love and one that so far Cathy and Gg are not so fond of. It only makes perfect sense.

What do you make of it:

Here’s why I like it:

1. Previously my computer was against the wall behind where it is now. I faced … the wall. Again, for those who know me, they know I can’t face walls – especially in restaurants – and while also sitting at my computer desk. It’s not claustrophobia, it’s neurosis. 

2. I like feeling cozy and workstations are sometimes hard to make cozy. But tell me you wouldn’t curl up into a ball right on top of my desk now and fall asleep there.

3) I spend most of my reading, scheming, escaping, daydreaming, and playing crossword puzzles on that there sofa. There’s something very tranquil about lying down on it and having those wide open windows in front of me. Previously they were behind me and what kind of purpose does that serve? None other than to make me wonder what’s going on in the world. Pointless; I need to know everything at all times.

4) Other than three glasses of red wine, Gravol, or Coronation Street, there is not much else that turns my mind off other than flames from a fire with a flavouring of José Feliciano from the vinyl.

Oh come on, you appreciate the effect and secretly wish you were sitting in my living room too.

5) The wall that now stands to support my books, DVDs, and CDs is the only wall long enough to keep them together as a family. 

And with that I will not justify my logic any longer. You will either enjoy it, dislike it, or not really give a shit either way so there really isn’t much more to discuss. 

I’ve now been composing this post for two weeks and four days. My new year’s resolution really should have been to finish my blog posts in a reasonable time frame…

Last weekend Mandy bunny and I made a fairly spontaneous plan to go to Whistler. The last time I was there they had the peak express lift closed because it was miserable and torrential. But this time, although it wasn’t a clear day, the snow conditions were probably the best I’ve skied in my 22 years of skiing. It was abundant and frigging fast and this is perfection to me.

In the words of whistlerblackcomb.com: “Whistler’s Peak Express offers some of the planet’s most rugged high alpine.” Now tell me that doesn’t send a shiver down your spine in all the right ways. We reached the peak and were submerged in heavy clouds. It was blustery and dark making the ground impossible to decipher from the atmosphere. I’d be lying if I said we weren’t scared shitless and that’s simply because when you’re on a sharp decline and you can’t see even ten feet ahead of you, you’re pulling guts from areas other than the pit of your stomach. In fact we were stealing guts from each other. We swore the whole way down to the first ridge and upon survival we masochistically wanted to do it all over again just for the thrill of it.

Isn’t Mandy the cutest thing?

On one of our lift rides we started talking about what the hills in Ottawa were like. Myself, I learned to ski at Edelweiss in Gatineau. We thought of all our favourite hills and how sadly they pale in comparison to what we are so lucky to have here. Just to put it into perspective, I did some quick calculations and came up with this very roughly scaled example of how Edelweiss might compare to Whistler. Technically speaking, Whistler has a top elevation of 2,182 metres compared to Edelweiss’s 350 metres. 

I mean, check out this vista:

Whistler © Andrea C.

Oh, am I bragging? Sorryyy.

What else is new…

Oh yes, here’s the car that’s going to replace my Ford Fo’ once my lease is up. Thirteen more days to go, by the way, and my last car payment comes out. Then I will be car-payment free. Free! Fr.EE! F|r|e|E! f:r/EE!

Cute isn’t it? Rando found me this little gem and I couldn’t be happier. I introduce you to my 1991 Civic Si.

Okay I will leave you with some Sunday Jammin’ Music on… yes, Thursday. This one’s solid for jammin’. Thievery Corporation – Un Simple Histoire

Please also enjoy with me this incredibly sexy photo of Johnny Depp.

In which I go on.

And on.

Have you seen The Young Victoria? I saw it last week and fell in love with it. The era and the history of the Royal Monarchy is beautifully depicted but, for me, the love story between Victoria and her prince was equally so. *Deep sigh.*

Okay, I love war epics, I love movies that are so horrifying I think I’m going to throw up, I love foreign films, I love movies that upset me and anger me, I love movies that I can watch once a week for the rest of my life (Dirty Dancing) and be happy, and … I love stories of love. 

I don’t want to give too much away because it’s still in theatres, but, The Young Victoria is a beautiful and touching love story. What’s really nice is if you read about their actual life together, its portrayal is nailed in the film. Apparently Victoria kept a diary through much of her life and her early writings after meeting and spending time with Albert demonstrated a brimming affection for him. For example:

“[Albert] is extremely handsome; his hair is about the same colour as mine; his eyes are large and blue, and he has a beautiful nose and a very sweet mouth with fine teeth; but the charm of his countenance is his expression, which is most delightful.”

It was her maternal uncle, Prince Leopold I of Belgium, who introduced them; and her other maternal uncle, Ernest (also Albert’s father (yes, Albert was Victoria’s first cousin)) who approved the match. 

To her uncle, Prince Leopold, Victoria once wrote in thanks:

“… for the prospect of great happiness you have contributed to give me, in the person of dear Albert … He possesses every quality that could be desired to render me perfectly happy.”

I’m not sure if I’m just screaming lonely, single girl here, which is fine, but this doesn’t have anything to do with loneliness. I will never deny myself the fact that this is what a relationship looks like to me. I don’t know many passionate, soulful women who would think otherwise. Men too for the sake of argument. It has been documented that Victoria and Albert unified for love which was uncommon for royals at that time. Albert had a deep love and respect for his Queen and brought to bear that title in more than just the obvious. He technically was her liege, but her husband as well. 

This is that constitutional desire we all have to be understood, accepted, and respected by the Alberts who come into our lives. I walked out of the theatre looking for Albert but he was nowhere to be found.

Which is okay because I’m not sure I ever will find him.

Also okay.

Therein lies the conundrum for someone like me. I can cry over this movie and wonder if one day I too will have a relationship where I am cherished, devoted to, loved, accepted, stimulated, challenged, protected, etc… find it in a thesaurus. I laugh at myself though when I realise that the reason this is so difficult for me is because I know I can be very perplexing to some men who are used to a certain kind of woman.

A man (we’ll call him Albert) could be staring me right in the face. He could tell me all the wonderful things that brought tears to my eyes in the movie. But, so help me God, I can be such a particular, picky moppet that I just may end up single until I leave this earth. 

Make sense of that? 

I barely can.

See, having an Albert is well and good – but for me to be satiated and contained by this Albert I’d need him to be a challenging, broken, sensitive, kind, distant, open, advisor, learner, loving, comforting, clairvoyant, intellectual, hilarious, video-game loving, bookworm who is patient, smart, soulful, clever, devoted, deep, demanding, spontaneous yet regimented, logical yet illogical… did I mention patient? On top of all this I would require an absurd chemical attraction toward him that offers a fine mix of the following adjectives: cheap, lusty, lascivious, surly, gentle, sweet, considerate, slow and steady. I like to be where I can melt.

On the bright side I am clearly not expecting perfection.

Can you imagine? 

Then there’s the whole other issue of the person I am and if the type of person I’m attracted to can actually tolerate someone like me.

If I were in a relationship with me I would not know what to do with myself sometimes. Although I suppose that’s the way in all relationships. Some just have the potential to go completely sideways in a very dramatic way – it’s just whether or not you can pick the same battles. Like Vicky and Albert did. 

I resign myself to the fact that this is highly unlikely that I find my perfect match and have considered the advice of some people who tell me I need to trim the list a little bit or become either a lesbian or a nun, but I’m a terrible human being when I’m settling for something or someone. Settling is like giving me 50 years without parole. That would bring me to roughly 83 years old and by that time everything on my body will be at least four inches lower than where they started and then what?

Make no mistake, I re-evaluate my options regularly, look at the pros and cons and have come to understand what missing characteristics I can acquiesce to and which ones are compulsory. It’s like that  job interview – there are always requirements, but most of the time a relevant amount of experience is considered an asset but you never want to settle for an employee who’s not the right fit.

It doesn’t sound that awful – just look at the relationship you’re in right now. Are you happy? Can you see yourself gladly purchasing Depends for this person years from now? When life’s up are you going to look back at its entirety and not feel like the biggest mistake you made was to spend a life in a relationship where you were essentially alone anyway? Mistakes should be about things like selling shares at the wrong time, wearing stirrups in the 80s, buying a Geo Metro, or being fired for photocopying your breasts. All recoverable. A lifetime of unhappiness is not and we’re all grown-ups here; we only get a shot at life once. 

Back to Victoria and Albert…

When Albert died of typhoid at the age of 42, Victoria entered a state of withdrawal, then perpetual mourning, and wore black every day for the rest of her life. I don’t find this necessarily healthy and I’ll leave that up to the psychologists but if you look at this from a more bittersweet perspective, that’s love. The pain comes from when the person’s gone and not from the ass when you’re together.

For now, I’ll purchase the movie and treat myself to its charm as I see fit. It’ll sit right between Dirty Dancing and The Notebook on my shelf. 

I will leave you with one of mine and Gee’s favourite moments from the movie as well as the Sunday Jammin’ song on a Wednesday.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=yW3B-MK19_w

The Shins – New Slang

It’s two-and-a-half days away from a new decade. I’ve been sitting here contemplating if I have any new year’s resolutions that I will actually stick to. To date I don’t believe there is a single resolution that I’ve actually executed. Some, maybe half-ass but never a full-ass attempt. I enter them all with the right intentions. Sometimes half the excitement comes from coming up with the resolution on its own. This would then lead to a trail of thought based on how much more bright and clear my life would be after said resolution is accomplished. Sadly however, the excitement dissipates about as fast as it took to build up and before I know it I’m sitting somewhere blank-faced trying to remember what the hell my resolution was in the first place.

I usually aim low; something achievable. I do that on purpose specifically so that it is a) easier to stick to and b) harder to forget what it was. Unfortunately these low expectations become like that one important object you don’t ever want to lose so you place it in an obvious and easy-to-remember spot only to never see it again.

My resolutions are like that.

So perhaps today I will start easy. It will be like my old year resolution to prepare myself for the new year ones. I’ll build up to the pièce de résistance - what it will be though, I am not entirely certain of. I intend on devising it at 11:59:00PM December 31st. This will give me an entire minute to iron it all out and enter 2010 with a full plan of attack. I just really hope no one tries to French kiss me while this process is underway because I don’t think starting a new decade off with an assault charge is necessarily a good thing.

Okay, my warm up resolution will be:

Only easy Sudoku puzzles before bed.

Once again I have become completely consumed by nothing at all and have been periodically beginning a post only to run out of steam and leave it hanging amongst the continuously growing list of draft posts I’ve accumulated over these last two weeks.

It is not for lack of trying. You should see some of the things I’ve started out with. They had all the makings of some kind of revelation (something that happens to me at least once a week) and there I go, fingertips to keys, I type. Type. TYPE. Clickety, tickety type … Here we go… yes, yes, yes! … It’s working, the thoughts are coming … ooh these are good. But then my mind begins to wander, my fingers slow down and ADD (Andrea’s Design Deficit) takes hold.

I get hungry, or decide I want to exfoliate my face, do a mask, soak my hair in avocado oil, paint, paint my nails, brush the cats, clip their nails, tickle their tummies, dust, listen to records, do my dishes, clean my cupboards, play Nintendo, take a nap, scrub the walls of the litter box (that’s when I’m feeling particularly energetic), tidy up my MSN contact lists, purge some Facebook friends, think, daydream, fantasize, read, learn, think again, over-think, map out my life, pick my next travel destinations, self-actualise, -reflect, -analyse, -deprecate, love myself, hate myself, resign myself to my self, take a shower, make a list. (Reprise) Then, before I know it, it’s 10:PM and my half-finished blog post is still lingering on my monitor leaving me feeling unfulfilled, disappointed, and mad at myself that I did it again. I may attempt one or two sentences for good measure, hate where they’re going, and as a last ditch effort I’ll try to channel the exuberance I experienced earlier. However, it usually concludes with me opening up Bouncing Balls in Facebook, and then I go to bed.

Anyway, in a life’s nutshell, since my last successful post, I received my transfer request to start working in one of the downtown east side offices. For those of my readers who are unfamiliar with the DTES, I encourage you to visit the above link. This area of Vancouver is aka “Canada’s poorest postal code.” It’s the truth, bang on. And, it fascinates me in the most sincere, genuine, empathetic, compassionate, and heartfelt way I could ever express.

This area struggles in so many ways and does seem like there is no relief. In many ways there really isn’t. The struggle is consuming. So I’m here now experiencing at least a duplication of destitution from what I experienced at my old office. Some people, when I tell them I actually requested this transfer, will say I don’t know how you do it. My parents will say, Oh, just be careful, Andrea. I mean, in many ways they’re valid concerns. This place isn’t for everyone. But, for me, it’s full of damage, and for those who know me well, they know I love people’s damage.

I wonder about why it appeals to me so much and I believe a lot of it has to do with the fact that in the DTES, as an example, you will come across real people. Their afflictions are there for the world to see. Denying them to save face it is no longer a concern. They can be inappropriate, yes. Addicted, mentally ill, lost souls, and are in perpetual survival mode – survival is all they live for. It can be vulgar down there, yes. But it’s still real, there is no facade. Real as a state of being is very comfortable for me to be around. It’s the philosophy I live my life by, only with equanimity. There’s also something about helping someone find a roof over their head, give them some food, give them some hope, some warmth, just an ounce of understanding, respect, and comfort. The DTES is so rich with community resources too, I mean there is support for every possible social circumstance you can find yourself in. Starvation, addiction, fear, violence. You name it.

The DTES community resources are almost as saturated with support as the area is saturated with devastation so there is a good balance. Remember the industrious Doozers who lived under Fraggle Rock? They were constantly working but never really seemed to focus on what the heck they were constructing and why they were even doing it. They just did it because it seemed to need to be done. That’s almost what the DTES is like.

Pull up a chair, Andrea goes into the deep end…

I think a lot of it has to do with the fact that I identify my own damage on a regular basis. I don’t hide from it. I might wish some of it away, or may resent experiencing some things, but, at the same time, I’ve found that there’s nothing more cleansing than understanding what your damage is and meeting it at face value rather than convincing yourself it’s not a part of who you truly are. In doing this, I find it gives me better perspective into someone else’s life. When you know what hurts you, and you acknowledge it, you have a good idea of what’s going to hurt someone else. Then you make many friends that last a lifetime. You become the person who just “gets it” and I don’t care who you are, we all want that in the people we meet along the way.

Yea..

So things are going well at the new office overall. I was caught last week picking up the sticky insect traps around the office to see what goodies were inside. This may or may not have included going under some unoccupied desks. See, bed bugs are an issue in the DTES and I’ve never actually seen one so the sole purpose of my investigation was to find one stuck in there that I could see for real. Don’t you pick up sticky bug traps in your office to see what’s inside? What? That’s not normal behaviour for a thirty-two year old?

What else did I get up to…?

Oh yes, I finally finished painting my living room. It took me three weeks to complete and even still I’m not entirely finished painting the frame around my front door but on the whole the walls, trim, all six window casements and baseboards are finished. 1/3 of the door frame is complete. Perhaps I’ll finish the rest tonight.

Doubt it though.

On Friday night I vowed to my body and soul that we would do nothing together. The hour struck 9:00 and I turned off all the lights, put on my Beatles’ Love Songs album set, put on the fireplace and mentally escaped while staring at the ceiling from my sofa. If you’ve never done such a thing, I highly recommend it.

At any rate Let it be came on with a little crackle and as one of my favourite Beatles songs played I started to really concentrate on what that song meant to me and actually came up with a new tattoo idea. Of the three, but technically four, that I have, this would really be the only one that would actually be something I truly believe in. I have one, but technically two, on my left foot that translate into “Happiness” and “Truth” from Chinese (to the best of my knowledge) and I got those when I turned seventeen because my first real boyfriend made out with some other girl on a beach one night. That was how I dealt with the heartache. – Might as well tattoo my passive-aggressiveness on my own foot.

Now, when people ask, I just tell them it means Merry Christmas.

My mom will find out I’m getting a new tattoo from reading my blog. Hi muzzy. Reminds me of the really bizarre time I was actually coming back from my technically first tattoo on my foot and my mom was surprisingly driving right behind the OC Transpo bus. She spotted me, my face pressed against the back window of the bus and mouthed the words Did you get it? With the kind of look on her face that screamed I fucking hope not! I gave her a thumbs up with a really innocent look on my face that said Please don’t hurt me. All was well.

Okay so… blogging … new office … painting … tattoos. There’s got to be something else…

I might just very well be lapsing into that state again so I best get this published before it gets thrown into the pile of drafts that I will never get back to and eventually delete in a moment of housekeeping my blog.

Nicole, that one was for you okay? It’s my wedding gift to you.

 

Haven’t jammed in a while? Me either… let’s jam.

Neil Young – Unknown Legend.

I think this is such a beautiful song. I want someone to play it for me some day.

Someone… anyone?

 

It’s cooled down a lot in Vancouver over the last week. The rain’s held off for the last 48 hours and the air is noticeably drier and chilly. It makes me think snow is on its way, which is fine by me. I don’t want any more rain. I’m probably so Vitamin D depleted I may just rent out a tanning bed for the night to replenish.

Colder weather makes me think that I’ll be skiing soon. Something I’m holding out for more than I am for stuffing my face at various holiday-themed commitments. I love food. But I love skiing more. 

Skiing makes me think of snow which makes me think of how blanketed Ottawa will be. It makes me wonder if the snow will be 15ft high again this year, and it makes me think of how exciting it was to brave an Ottawa winter and emerge alive once the black ice begins to thaw on the highways in…

early-April.

Well, you know what I mean.

Ottawa makes me think of being home and how of all 365 days of the year I spend living as a resident of Vancouver, British Columbia that for two of those days I wish I was at home. For two out of 365 days I feel homesick. I usually spend Christmas night alone at my apartment with Marshall and Otis watching Christmas movies eating leftover Christmas dinner from Cathy and Kyle’s the night before that I can’t be bothered to warm conventionally and throw it in the microwave even though I am against cooking/warming anything in a microwave it’s Christmas night and I’m by myself with two cats.

It is allowed.

Just this once.

I’ll throw on the fireplace too. Maybe light some candles. Bring my pillows from my bed and surround myself with them on my two-seater sofa built for one. This is in the event that I fall asleep on the sofa I shall remain comfortable for the duration of the time that I will most likely be folded up into a little ball with Marshall strategically placed along the curve of my body and Otis most likely in the fold of my knees. 

I’ll leave my little 3′ Christmas tree on that night because the twinkling lights will feel comforting as they dazzle my blanketed body in light drops of indigo and white. My tree will seem like it’s four feet tall though because I’ll prop it up with a milk crate that I will hang Otis’, Marshall’s, and my Christmas stockings from that will be empty that night and empty come morning. I may put a catnip pouch in them but they won’t last the night. They don’t wait for Santa.

I’ll probably fall asleep with the television on mute imagining how my family is doing back home.

My mom will be with her sisters and my nana, perhaps my cousin and her boyfriend as well. If they’re in Montreal, cousin Johnny will have come down from his upstairs apartment and they’ll be gathered in the “parlour” watching the old holiday classics. My nana will have fallen asleep in the plush rocker that’s been re-upholstered more times than I can count. It’s purple now and not plush anymore. The rocker will be pulled up to a rickety TV dinner table that’s been around for at least thirty-two and a half years. And come to think of it I don’t even know if I can tell you what the surface photograph is actually of. haha. Isn’t that funny? Thirty-two years and I can’t even tell you. I’m seeing an old wooden fence, a pasture … maybe? Perhaps a horse galloping? Sitting on that table will be her New York Times crossword puzzle, a pencil with a well-used eraser nib, and the newest edition of the New Comprehensive A-Z Crossword Dictionary that I bought her for Christmas during the last Christmas I had with my family before moving to Vancouver. This specific paperback, and all the editions that come before it are non-negotiable. It’s A-Z Crossword Dictionary or you’re putting your name on the wait list for the next shipment. It’s the best one.

Oh, the palm of her hand will carry her sleepy head as she drifts in and out of slumber in the re-upholstered-more-times-than-I-can-count, rocker.

My mom and her sisters will be engaged in intermittent conversation about things like what a beauty Donna Reed used to be and some interesting fact about Miracle on 34th Street. Most of the time it will almost be like they’re talking to themselves because they don’t look at each other. Just at the television and will seemingly talk to it as well, even though the talk is really directed at each other. It will come out in mumbles, or short burst statements. A commercial will come on and someone will get up and head to the kitchen to snag a clementine or sneak a thin slice of the Panetone from the pantry. 

I’d usually be on the floor with a couple of pillows under my body keeping me comfortable. I wouldn’t really have much to contribute with regard to the classic-movie commentary outside of acknowledging the beauty or handsomeness of a time-honoured actor. My agreement would probably come out in a mumble from a mouth that’s squished between my two palms and again, it would most likely be directed at the tv as well and no one would respond much less hear me. 

We would all be tuned out. In our on little worlds – lazing in the flush of digestion. A cohesive or coherent conversation wouldn’t have to be in place for us to all be aware of each other. When you’re family you don’t have to address each other’s presence, you can appreciate your kin in silence. 

My dad and his wife might have my brother and his wife over. There’d be a nice dinner with Christmas music playing in the background. It would most likely be Diana Krall’s Holiday Classics. Dinner would be ham. Dessert would most definitely be Ukrainian cookies with some rum balls that were made with an “eyed” amount of rum. Tea would come with treats and conversation would commence about politics, people, health, humanity, history, hockey, science and fair trade. Then we’d probably play a made-up game that had become a family tradition so many years ago that you almost forget that it was actually invented by you. Cards and gifts next accompanied by laughter and moments of checking out new cooking books, music CDs, novels, motorcycle-related things, gardening supplies, kitchen gadgets. Then kisses and hugs at the end of the night, followed by “Merry Christmas” and “Thanks for dinner and the presents!” My dad would say “O-key, drive safely you guys,” and would watch us from the snowy porch in his old slippers until our tail lights disappeared around the corner.

It sounds awfully lonely, the way I spend Christmas now since moving here. But really, it’s not. I’m still adopted by Cathy & Kyle for Christmas Eve … sleep over, open presents Christmas morning … then it’s Christmas afternoon … into evening that I spend snug as a bug alone in my apartment. It’s a time of reflection in many ways and I kind of allow myself to feel homesick but it’s in doing that that I have a chance to think about how special my Christmas memories are with my family and it truly does put a smile on my face.

I got home last night with a fanatical pee attack that had been plaguing me for the duration of my drive home from Coquitlam. The rain didn’t help. It was one of those attacks that comes on almost to the point of thinking you’re causing serious damage the moment your body realises how close you are to home. It’s like our own little 9-1-1 to remedy the situation immediately.

I had my DSLR hanging off one forearm, my purse off the other, and arrived at my door anticipating any moment for my bladder to explode inside me. I had even contemplated ignoring turning off the alarm and letting it go off just because I didn’t think I had the time to deactivate it.

But I did and that’s all I did before running to my bathroom carrying everything I arrived at my door with. Weird story even weirder I am happy to say that I made it. Marshall and Otis had arrived quickly after me to say hello, like they always do if I go to the bathroom before acknowledging them in one of those rare frenzied moments, and sat at my feet. 

In my bathroom with me were also my purse and my DSLR. I sat looking around my bathroom while feeling the pain slowly release from my bladder and noticed that I had never really noticed how interesting isolated segments of my bathroom actually are. 

I stand in there and am aware of what’s around me, however, I never really look at things as individual elements that make up that space. The pieces that actually make up the puzzle.

Everything looked kind of different to me when I reprogrammed my brain to take it in in so many separate segments and decided to see if I could capture it on my camera.

Andrea’s mind comes down from being in a state of panic and looks at her bathroom in a whole new light.

I pulled up my pants, washed my hands, put the lid down and sat there swiveling around on the spot and shot the following: