Lilac Week

Last year to date, Leslie Feist stood on a stage in front of hundreds of slow dancing, spring-fevered, enamored fans and dubbed this time of year as 'Lilac Week' in Winnipeg. I especially love this time of the season best when it wavers on the cusp of summer; the time of year when the scent of Lilac blossoms hangs in the air with an undeniable heaviness, when winter's restricting leotards are tossed to the backs of closets until the next snowfall, when summer shoes are dusted off and pranced in, and when the shocking white of naked knees blind innocent passerby's roosting on patios. I love Lilac Week in Winnipeg.

Here is a sampling of my favorite photos of the year to date (all shot with 35mm film).

Venetian eyelids

Karen Dalton is in full effect at the Jessie apartment. J'check du monde--a sometimes daily, sometimes weekly, sometimes monthly article--has been ripped through my printer at a breakneck pace, fingers wobbling on keys to print these wise words as quick as possible, and promptly taped to the wall above my head. Run, Madge, run. Tambourine, Lo, tambourine. Loco Ono, you always seem to hit the proverbial nail on the proverbial head when it comes to prompt ripostes. I spent the afternoon sobbing and sleeping in my bed. My eyelids will never be the same. But somehow (by the grace of God only), Rabbi managed to woo me from the comforts of the fetal position and persuade me to make guacamole alongside her for a Mexican themed birthday party reluctantly penciled in for this evening. Oh the things we do in the name of friendship. The comforts of my giant flannel jumper were eventually cast aside, Guac was made, and I went. When it was all said and done, I ended up drinking WAY too many mojitos and telling a dog to "Go die" too many times for it to be appropriate as a halfheartedly invited party goer in the presence of a million anarchist/activist kids. I hate animals; always have, always will. A half Asian baby named Dexter dancing to flamenco music the way babies do just about threw me over the invisible cliff of despair, but luckily Mama Rabbi took note and hauled me out of the living room away from the intoxicatingly precious gem, through the kitchen, past the vegan chili and enchilada spread, and out the door to untangle our bikes from a mountain of fixys stacked against and on top of our own. We rode for the better part of the evening, the last of the day's warmth fading against the skin of our own mojito induced flush.

I will spare everyone and refrain from posting pictures of my crying face. You are welcome. Tomorrow is a new day, chances are I will probably feel like throwing the industrial beet juicer at someone's face if they even dare as to steal a glance at the damage done from today's waterworks. Whatever.

Loco, get ready. I am going to maul you come July. Thank you for always being ridiculous and right. Keep shaking your brioche for the French. As far as the potentially condescending faces on the heads of those Montreal hipsters, they are just jealous. Cowbell and back-up vocals are the new black.

Madge.

Oriental Express

My good friend and cousin (two in one) left us all for China this morning. I never got to hug and bid him adieu properly, but James isn't that kind of guy. No balloons, cardboard signs, paper streamers, or urgent arm waving at the airport is ever necessary with him. I admire that trait because I know I need it. James, I admire you with a severity that goes beyond the call of duty as a family member; I admire you for your pure goodness as a friend.

A simple adieu and godspeed to you, homme. Go get 'em 'jeunes. Trap their little hearts with your shabby Mandarin, your willowy limbs, and your surprisingly giant laugh and then bring one home. Everybody knows Asian babies are the best looking babies. I might be a little biased.

I love you, Meg.

ps: This is James, he is unreal.

Wishing on amnesia.

Crowded rooms filled with dancers and family members and snap-happy dads and mothers and bouquet laden boyfriends and red lips and sweaty bangs and pulsating thigh muscles and evil eyes and knowing smiles and velvet curtains and siamese sisters and neon headbands make me want to run. Ever since I was little, crowded spaces make me uneasy. Like a colt on confident legs, I just want to run, run, run, run for the nearest exit, nearest hill, nearest ocean, nearest bed. Anywhere but here.

Today was a weird day. I have felt out of my body, out of control, unhinged, face down, slowed by a swollen ankle, flushed, half embarrassed, half elated, and deflated all in the same breath. Yesterday between shared sips of wine passed back and forth in a parking lot, Afie told me I exhale a lot. I exhale a lot? Yes. Frequently? Yes. More than most people? Yes.

I wonder what amnesia would be like.

Sometimes I just want to pack up my computer and a pencil case, a yellow legal pad or two, my camera and some film, and go. How satisfying would it be to leave my home; empty, closet doors swinging on hinges, floorboards yawning with the shifting of the building, hangers clanging in the breeze, the fridge finally free of the clutches of my uneaten leftovers, the dumpster filled to the brim with useless stuff compiled from Christmas past? And what about my begrudged cell phone? Who needs it; Lord knows I never answer. The futon? It's crap. The clothes? Replaceable. My plants? That is a bit tricky; they would be passed on to loving hands. All of these things are merely fillers in a room, in a home, so that it does not echo. They are not a part of me, not attached to the hip or heart. I am not going anywhere fast, but sometimes on nights like these logic is shelved for an hour or two and fantasy takes the wheel.

I don't even know where I would go. Anywhere, so long as I could learn people's names, nail down what makes them tick, photograph their children, hold their babies, record their secrets and most importantly, eat their food.

Twenty Oh Eight has been such a tricky year. I have felt empty brained, wild eyed and heavy booted with a shocking consistency, but deep down I can feel a spider web of growth pushing up against the insides of my ribs. Two steps forward, ten steps back. So long as I keep moving, I am growing. Maybe this is what I tell myself when I exhale so regularly. Many decisions have been made on a whim which is new for me, but I am finding footing in this new territory and learning to lap up the goodness of every moment, even if the good parts are fleeting.

In retrospect, I have never missed people as much as I have in the past twelve months. Some of the people I miss live within a twenty block radius but are out of reach, out of step, out of mind. Instead of clawing at forgiveness and repair, sometimes it is easier to stand back in a room full of people and smile a knowing red-lipped smile and wait out the storm. Stiff upper lip; this coming from a girl who cried in fourth grade because I had too much loose leaf. Still, gaining tends to run hand in hand with losing. I have found laughter through an internet signal connected to a girl in a shit-stained bed in Central America, through a telephone wire from here to Montreal, through a grandma who throws her hands up when I type the F word, through a full time brother and part time chauffeur, through a sister finally home, through an aunt in the light of the moon, through an uncle pouring good tequila, through babies babies babies, through a nineties-obsessed girl who understands me entirely, through a cousin who shares an identical appreciation for Yellow Fever as I, through a man patient enough to teach and not touch, and through a library of books not deserving of the dumpster should I ever up and leave.

On nights like these, in rooms like those, surrounded by people like that, I only want to run because I need to write.

Amnesia would blow.

Frances Madge.



Photos of giant plaid and insomnia; a lethal combination.

Brusque/Surly.

This morning Old K and I went for breakfast at Osborne Village Cafe. The backdrop of exposed white brick, avocado green vinyl booths, wicker chairs and paper menus only added to the quaint atmosphere. Under new management, the restaurant was surprisingly empty, save for a table of Chinese regulars being entertained by our toothy server with the buttery voice. After brunch I moved around my home for the better part of the day, reading bits and pieces from random books splayed open and dappling the surfaces of my apartment like dust, yet I found it hard to retain a thing. A certain bicycle leaning against my living room wall that matched the somber sky outside kept catching the corner of my eye making it hard to concentrate on anything. I wanted to ride so badly, but the snow was a strong deterrent. Resigned to the idea of staying in, water was boiled, garlic minced, onions chopped, tomatoes diced, pasta plated and dinner served. Alone. After an evening of watching countless episodes of Sex and the City and eventually dropping off into a dreamless sleep, I awoke with a start around eleven. Much to my chagrin, plans I had made with my cousin James only hours before were long slept-through and his obvious disinterest in rescheduling via a scrambled telephone conversation was quite the motivator in my solo night ride on the Phantom bike. Riding through the spotty streets on a fixed gear with slicks and a fazillion dollar frame is quite a different story than my usual faded standby. Literally unstoppable, my body was a self-propelled disaster waiting to happen. While toe clips proved to be a bit of a foreign matter at stoplights, rhythm was eventually found and it felt nice to clip at a breakneck place around the neighborhood. Days off are nice.

Tomorrow will be my first soccer match with the boys (if I stop being such a baby) and Mr. Intimidation lurks at the back of my brain. I am sleeping with cleats on to get in the zone tonight, no fooling around. JJ is leaving for Montreal on Tuesday to see Loco and while I am psyched for her/them, my I am bitter that I will not make it "three's a crowd"; getting BFF tattoos and rolling in Montreal grass like shrieking teens. Bon voyage dear gem, I will miss your face. Below are a sprinkling of Eurotrash photos from my trip with Rabbi and Kit just because I miss it.

To bed, empty brained, full, biked out, surly.

Madge.