Loco Ono and her John.

My best gal Loco Ono (or Laura, as her parents originally christened her) is back in town. We had not seen each other for an entire year until last night where we embraced in a hallway with a coat tree and one hundred pairs of vintage shoes strewn about. Hotrocks Party Emporium hosted yet another knee-slapping and hysterical laughing filled party with byob existing on the honor system in a communal fridge in a ramshakle gallery in Chinatown. With nary a single insecure American Apparel hipster insight, we had plenty of room to dance wildly to Iron Maiden and a whole 'lotta cowbell in a sea of pregnant teen mothers and banger brothers and slutty plaid-clad and booty shorted tarts with the bruises and the bad makeup. The theme was "Rednex: A home town gathering" and I felt, well, at home. I got home at four thirty in the morning wearing only remnants of my shoes (thanks to an incredibly heated street soccer game on Pacific Avenue) but sporting an unapologetic dopey smile. Welcome back Loco, you are the boss. And so is your Francophone lover, Remi. Dream team.

Here are some photographs of said dance night, taken by the faux pregnant and very lovely Lisa A. King.

I know this post makes little to no sense but I am beyond tired. My feet are still cold from the Gimli Film Festival (pictures to come). Best regards, your hometown hero Madge the Queen of the Machine Shop.

Juillet.

Juillet means July in French. I took a couple rolls of film this past week. Have at it.

Oh, in other news, the magicians at Perth's drycleaning got all of the puke out of my 100% silk sailor dress. I considered posting a shot of myself taken at the Giraffe/Salmon wedding event of the summer but opted not to. Sorry.

Okay, I don't feel like writing.




























































































































































































Oh what the hell, here is a picture of a giraffe arm wrestling in a sea of dads. Dear Lord, help me. Help me, help me Rhonda. Have a laugh on me.

The giraffe and the salmon.

Today my body is rejecting me. It is repulsed by my incredible consumption of gin martinis and champagne and wine at last night's wedding. It is so disgruntled and unimpressed that it is dappling my outer shell with beads of unattractive sweat in inconvenient places, banging my insides with invisible fists and threatening to make each precious inhale my last.

I think it is important to say that if one is invited to a wedding, one is a date. On a date. Last night I had a date with a man in a salmon colored shirt with french cuffs. We were the lesser attractive version Gisele and Leo and I felt laughably akin to a giraffe for the first time in my life at a few points throughout the night (this was partially due to my new towering patent leather high heels. Sigh). Wonderful, wonderful giraffe sensations. It went swimmingly until that fateful point in the evening where all caution was lost, the bathroom became my best friend and I had to be rescued from a stall by a gaggle of flapping mothers thrown into high gear at the sound of moaning coming from lucky door number two. Unfortunately, lucky door number two was my door. Not so lucky. Rainbow vomit with a side of wild rice and a mutilated salmon filet the same color as my date's shirt and one sagging girl seeing stars in a French Riviera inspired outfit at the Fort Garry hotel. My attempt to look 'yacht chic' was just that, an attempt.

Even so, my spirits were buoyed this morning at work (in spite of feeling like death microwaved on high) by my favorite customer who rushed over at the sight of my slowed body and whispered that the only time she does not suffer from vertigo is when she is talking to me. I looked down at her ninety year old knobby hands with the blue veins and the gnarled fingers weighted down by her Jewish jewels and painted talons and told her flat out that I loved her.

"I love you Margaret; I do".
"I love you too, Megan; I do".

I wished I could have told her that the only time I do not suffer from a hangover is when I am talking to her. But that would have been a lie, so I chose to say the words "I love you" instead.

Sometimes I just need to say it, let the words build up and rip through my body like a mighty rushing wind. Last night before all the puke and the empty nest sydromed mothers and the ride home that no matter how many tries I will never remember, I sat at a table tracing a wine glass with a finger and watched the salmon shirt race around the ballroom with the same agility of a live salmon. A lazy smile crept up and remained. It was one of those moments where you lose yourself, forget everything, noise stops, time stops, everything stops except the people locked inside the stare, inside the moment, and everyone except the person in focus look almost cartoony; time slows and something clicks. Something clicked. I think those are very selfless moments and I do not experience them nearly enough as I should.

A Welsh man named Bruce used to come into Bread and Circuses every morning at nine fifteen for a petit pain au chocolate and an espresso (I think he ordered that to bring Europe closer, I do the same thing). He always favored argyle sweater vests and thick glasses, even in summer. Even if I was up to my ears in porridge and multigrain toast orders I would stop everything just to be able to serve him. One day, he leaned across the counter dividing our bodies and grabbed my flying hands.

"Megan", he said with his delicious Welsh accent "you have a knowing smile". I told him I loved him then too but I never quite knew exactly what it meant to have a 'knowing smile'; until yesterday. Yesterday I knew.

In that instant I aged well beyond my years, and became free in this new understanding. I miss Bruce something fierce, but that knowing smile creeps back and remains whenever I get a post card in the mail from Britain or whenever I imagine him walking along a stone fence in the morning fog with an Airedale as old as he is walking beside those beat Wellies. It is people like the Bruces and the Margarets that remind me to continue to extend grace, exclaim love and sit back and watch someone move around a room as fast as a fish.

Top bun.

I wish the woman in the picture was me. If only. I have never seen such a lovely combination of beauty and goodness on Facehunter before. Goodness gracious.























The the well of energy that makes me able to perform with sound mind in my double work schedule has run dry. Thirteen hour days are the new black and I am skeptical of this new pattern. Still, pressing on is a healthy option to keep my mind off other annoying things.

In other news, I bought Bonnie 'Prince' Billy's new album 'Lie Down in the Light' yesterday on both CD and LP and it is quite magical regardless of which speakers it pours out of. Last night's epic thunderstorm not only kept me awake for the duration, but also made me pine for an other, a Backstreet boy, a sister, a dad even; just someone to sit and keep close until the apocalyptic peals subsided. No one came and it felt good to remain calm in my absolute solitariness.

This excerpt is taken without permission off the new album by the brilliant Bonnie 'Prince' Billy (Rab, this is just a tip of the iceberg as to why the man behind this album is added to the forever growing 'Dream Husband To Be' roster).

What's missing is
Some kind of pillow
Some loving willow
Some care once denied
Now dissolved inside

What's plenty is
One God
Six tongues
Five breaths
Four lungs

What's rhythm is
Plenty of things missing
Steps taken, lips kissing
New harmony on an
Awesome scale
Meat against meat
Under sail

Acting anew.

Here are a handful more photographs shot at the Osborne Street festival. My friends are babes. I do not have one ugly friend, honest to goodness. Not that it matters, it is just uncanny.

Ich Habe Genug.

"Invasion, after invasion; this means war, this means war".

Illuminated only by the glow of my computer screen and a single candle, I sit tucked into a nest of pillows in a newly discovered corner of my bedroom with limbs jumbled, hair a mess, sans clothes in the cool darkness. I just read a letter from my gal Rabbi and my contented sighs flow in and out, in and out along with the pace of José's crooning.

My thoughts are with Rabbi; I am a million miles away right now. Actually, I am 1161 miles away. With personal beliefs up for interpretation, I bet my bottom dollar that this lady will either be transformed into a hundred white graceful doves the minute she steps foot through the pearly gates or reincarnated into a golden phoenix once her days here on earth are spent. I have no doubt that whatever may come of my dear Rab, the Lord will have His hands full trying to place her in the perfect niche without ruffling any Christian feathers; for her wisdom, resilience and goodness might make the other heavenly messengers jealous. Thankfully, she is alive and well and currently nestled somewhere in the scenery of British Columbia with her knees tucked under her and a book in her hands. This is good, she still has plenty to do yet before it is time for doves or phoenixes.

Dear Mrs. Banhart, I read a noteworthy passage yesterday and thought of you as tears coursed up and over the apples of my cheeks. Before I recount Kalman's work for you, I must say that Sufjan has taken over where José has left off and the song 'Boarderline' is making me think of you curled up on the floor of a train under a pile of pagmenas somewhere between Frankfurt and Vienna. I will never forget the florescent tube lights from the passing Banhof stations streaking your face every half hour or so. My nausea was intense that night, but my adoration for you and Kit surged in waves more jarringly than any illness I have ever experienced. This is love, I think. The feeling of absolute unflappability and certainty in one's admiration for another. I am unflappable in my ideals of love.

This is for you: Taken sans permission from my new favorite book "The Principles of Uncertainty" by the lovely M. Kalman.


















"Sometimes when I imagine my own death, I believe I will be reunited with my loved ones. We are all floating around in a fluffy sky. I get a ridiculous cozy feeling. But then I remember that even my loved ones are sometimes very IRRITATING and even INFURIATING--so what is that about? And what would we DO all day, forever? Besides, the whole thing is INSANELY UNLIKELY. I prefer the notion of Heaven on Earth. Of sweet, funny, loving moments. For me, heaven on earth is my Aunt's kitchen in Tel Aviv. My aunt is 88 and until recently she swam in the ocean at dawn every day of the year. The kitchen is small, spare and shiny. We drink tea and eat honey cake in the hot stillness of the afternoon. There are four of us in the family who make this cake. My aunt bakes hers in a stove called The Valiant. We use a bundt pan. The inventor of the bundt pan, H. David Dalquist had a very good OBITUARY. We sit in the kitchen but we know where we are. We are in a land fractured by endless conflict. Our history is tragedy and heartache--to the marrow. But we will have none of it right now. We will talk about which cousin is a bigger idiot (it turns out I'm on the list). We speak of my aunt's love of Tolstoy and Gorky. Here they are in a photo taken by Tolstoy's wife. About a minute later he ran away. He hated her guts".

Tolstoy's wife probably rejoiced the day he left. I bet Tolstoy never laughed or enjoyed cake. Jerk. If there is anyone who is reading this that resembles Tolstoy or his heartlessness even in the slightest, go to hell.

We will have none of it right now. We will have none of it right now. We will have none of it right now. We will have none of it right now.

Today at a giant family gathering in the park, my Grandma told me what ich habe genug means. We will have none of the tragedy or heartache right now because we have enough. We have plenty. We have each other, and our brothers, and our sister, and our mothers, and our fathers. We have enough, I have had enough.

Ich habe genug.
Ich liebe Dich.

Madgeburg; not a trace of nausea, just love.

Gremlins.

I miss Madi and Tris. A lot.

The colony is the new black.

Today I am sweaty mess after a nine hour day of juicing and serving and running up and down seventeen flights of stairs. I served this one really interesting med student breakfast and lunch and our happy over-the-counter banter helped pass the hours. I have been having a few problems with my eyes lately; blurred vision etc. and he reassured me after a hilarious Q and A session that I was Glaucoma free. Thanks, Doctor Adrian, you are the boss (even if he was lying, I felt better). Sven came home from Swisse bearing gifts of snobby chocolate and so the mood hanging over Fresh was one of delight and happiness and much laughter. Even though I have my moments of rage at work, slide some eggs benny and bacon down the hatch and I am happy as a clam. I have really appreciated my regulars lately and serving the young Doctor reiterated that today.

I am currently stationed in front of my Apple in embarrassing Bridget Jones-esque panties and just caught my torso's reflection in the mirror moving to the rhythm of the fan revolving to my left. Summer is here. I feel lighter and surprisingly content considering the events of this past week. I have been riding my bicycle pretty hard, finding a rhythm in my legs and body that works with the bicycle. I think it is safe to say that we are now one, which is nice.

Last Sunday I escaped to the country for an impromptu swim and BBQ with my family. After floating around the pool for a few hours I stumbled back to my parent's and was happily bombarded by my aunty Marj, uncle Jim, tante Daryl, Grandma and Grandpa who had shown up for dinner while I was channeling a poolside Cleopatra. We have a hundred unspoken traditions in our family, but one that is woven into our genetic selves is our love for table talk. Long after the plates have been cleared, the coffee brewed and sipped, the hostess sat, and the dessert wolfed, we sit. And sit. And sit. And sit. And talk. And talk. And talk. And laugh. There is always laughter. (My friends make fun of my habit of sitting around the table long after the food is gone. My table is the size of a cardboard box and comfort is lacking. But still, I don't care, it is a welcomed habit. It is anchored within). The table where we gather together (usually at my mum's house) is shaped somewhat like a ship and the seating plan is usually segregated before we say 'Amen'. Naturally, the women take the bow, and the men the stern. Like cream that separates over time, so does the course of our banter. Grandpa's recycled dirty jokes meld into my brothers rants regarding townies with outlandish names like R dot A dot E dot com, Feastly, Scotch Tape Panna, Squeaks and Deadwin; my mother's dramatic deliveries of town scandals are listened to and laughed over. As her cockamamie recount dwindles and tapers, our heads swivel in anticipation to the direction of aunty Marj who always ups the ante of any story. Her exaggerations and fabrications make us claw at our eyes, clutch our throats and gird our middles because our reactions are too much to just sit there motionless. The existing story becomes history and the new outlandish one miraculously segues into something my dad is saying at the opposite end of the table. Cue our melodious howls. Our singing voices rise and fall into a range of seprano, alto, tenor and bass and so do our shrieks. We are a choir of harmonious shrieking teens. Conversation weaves together with regularity but there is never only one person speaking at a time. Each grandchild has learned to multitask in our various workplaces thanks to these family dinners. I can singlehandedly serve a table, tell them three specials while listening to the kitchen tell stories to each other, remember a joke to pass on after leaving the table, laugh at both the joke in my head and the comments made by my table, and remember four or five ridiculous breakfast orders of eggs over easy, bison sausage and sourdough rye toast dry. I am sure any one of my family members can attest to this skill. We had to learn to jump in and out of conversation with cunning remarks and dry punch lines at a very young age. That was half the fun and still is to this day; making a table of my family members erupt is my greatest victory. I don't know what spurred this sudden bout of familial pride--we too have our downfalls--but I just love them. I love that we admire each other and look forward to seeing one other. The colony is the new black.

On this joyous note, I am off to call my mother.

Madge.

Para Mix loves Canada.

These polaroid photographs (courtesy of Erin) were taken at the annual Osborne Village street festival on Canada Day. It was hotter than Hades outside. Para Mix girls (the store where my sister Erin, Janessa, Janique, JJ, Christie and Candy hold down the fort [I moonlight once or twice a week]) represented the store well by means of color color color, wild patterns, hideous hats, obnoxious sunglasses, pizza eating, bubble blowing, and wild dancing for random men in possession of video cameras. Suffice is to say, we held it down. I love these girls. Shit.























































































Below are a selection of photographs plucked from two rolls of film between JJ and I. Sharing a camera is nice. Perspective was constantly shifting as the camera was passed back and forth between hands like a sleeping child who knows no better.

Introductions.

Two thighs stand strong as Elm trees beneath a skirt blowing in the wind. With the return of summer's heat, mercury soars and the two thighs--alabaster white from being covered, shrouded and draped in fabric throughout the winter months--meet for the very first time. "Nice to meet you", says thigh A with a hint of disdain. "Pleasure is all mine", thigh B replies with false enthusiasm.

Not to worry dear ones, eventually everyone's thighs will rub together sooner or later. Sometimes introductions like these are necessary; they keep us humble and our conceit at bay. (Coincidentally, my thighs were introduced about five years ago. I just 'la dat shmone faht).