Catching up, giving in, rolling over.

I should be sleeping. Catching up, giving in, rolling over.

I should be, but today there was no deterring from the magnetic pull of the need to write. I cannot seem to put a finger on how the events of last night's art opening at the Boozecan changed me, but they did. I can tell already, half delirious with sleep deprivation and too many liters of wine consumed on Fresh's bar tab with Rebecca, not to mention being starved for touch and productivity and groceries, this post is going to be treacherous to articulate. But I will try my hand at it anyway because today I have no choice in the matter. Miriam Toews told me to keep writing today, so I will.

There is something in the air lately, it is charged and wild, creating foam at the mouths of myself and my friends and family; it is so obviously tangible and yet mysteriously fleeting in the same instant.

Change. Change. Change.

I have been uprooted in the last month by unhappiness and joy, by happenstance encounters with Canadian powerhouses and by stark white art spaces, by tools, by a sole man and two dear friends once removed, by teacups sent via the post, by such great happiness and singsong laughter, by a duet on a stage in Laura's honor, by a birds-eye-view perspective from atop historical buildings, by the Royal Art Lodge and the ideology behind their art and intention, by a darkroom and by babies, by surprising letters passed between strangers hands, by weddings, and by cycling alone in the dead of night when sleep escapes me. I have been uprooted and thrown headlong into a black wind tunnel of change and it is exhilarating and terrifying and electrifying and impossible.

Last night in a sea of bodies, I teetered on high heels and connected with people within whom I sensed the same desire for transiency and evolution as my own. We stooped it, curb perched, huddled cross legged on pavement, toddled upright until standing was no longer wise, clutched hands, winked profusely, danced recklessly, and spooned platonically.

The stark dichotomies that have presented themselves to me this week are both laughable and heartbreaking. Never in my life have I received such waves of flack and praise, of feedback or commentary in a seven day cycle. Three of my dearest acquaintances took it upon themselves to spout their concern regarding the new direction of my reckless life via the telephone, the internet and face to face in a room full of people, their anger and disappointment stinging me to my core. All points were hurtful, and all true. Reality shrings. I have made a million silly choices and broken too many commitments mainly owing to heaping helpings of laziness and a lack sleep. Their deliveries were all varied, all taken into account, and all appreciated. Meanwhile, in between darting the aforementioned blows of criticism, I was drenched with affirmation from the most surprising candidates. These letters, notes, emails, and passing conversation of positivity re-instilled my faith in change.

Aunty Daryl told me over turkey sandwiches a few days ago that change is personal, and art is personal and people will experience these at one hundred different paces or sometimes not at all. We should not have to apologize for change or growth, only for the chaos caused by it's blinding appeal. Maybe my hope for a challenging, productive and kinesthetically pleasing Fall/Winter o8 season are ridiculously idealistic, but something tells me I am not far off.

Andrea, thank you for your letter. I cried when I got home because a hug and a meager 'thank you' are never enough. Thank you, you saved me.
Beth, I don't have much to offer except affirmation. I think you are going to be in my life for a long, long time; even if we never get closer than a three province divide.
Loco, goddamn I love you and your fearlessness. You will change the world and I will look on with pleasure. Keep on shocking me, it feeds unknown places within.
JJ, I am so proud of you. You are fearless like Laura but in a different way. The nuances in this difference are intoxicating. I think that is why I love you. The Judgers only judge because they cower in your presence.
Rabbi, we have been around the world and you have seen me higher and lower than anyone. If I had a dream date, it would be you.
Janique, without your softness and consistency I would be a sheep without a shepherd. I like the idea of being shepherd's to each other. You have blossomed before us all this year and I feel very privileged to watch. Je t'aime.
Frin, we terrify each other. I am sorry for being a mystery to you. Your coattails are worthy of royalty and to have ridden them for as long as I have is an honor. You ground me like no one else because it was you who taught me the meaning of missing.

I am feeling so much right now, my head is a watermark. For all the chaos I have caused, I am sorry. For the limitlessness I feel because of it, I am not.

Many thanks to all for saying what is necessary, unnecessary and hard.

"Babes in Bloom" is right.

My cup runneth over.

Today I learned that it is just fine to say, "Goddamn, I need a chocolate milk" with a bit of vim and vigor even if the whole room thinks you are hung over. In fact, it is something I need to partake in more often. I have been holed up in bed for the last couple of days. A mishap on the dance floor with a beer gutted gem on Saturday night landed me with a stiff neck, a sleepless night and a penchant for the bed. I slept all day yesterday after work. Just as the barstars and the trend speeders were all waking up for the day, I was dropping off into a deep sleep at two in the afternoon. It was nice to catch up on a few ZZZs to say the least. Either way, to wake up today and feel good if not better, I was pleased.

To celebrate my newfound vitality and zest for life outside of my bedroom, I called up my good friend Josh and we made one hell of a basted egg, cornmeal back bacon, fresh strawberry, warm scone, good coffee, pancake breakfast. After the food ate and the dishes washed, I poured over a million art books while the likes of nineties underground bands Phish and Verve droned on in the background. Feeling over-stimulated--visually--we rolled over and into Art City in a mad dash effort to find the stretching pliers and some staples.

My parents ended up hunting me down while I was elbow deep in Gesso for the raw canvas and we agreed to meet for dinner. Within the hour Mike, Erin, Derek, my parents and myself hunkered down for some collective drinks and appetizers on a patio and we even had a nice Sunday stroll to boot. The night was wonderful and Winnipeg's celestial Magic Hour light worked in the city's favor yet again making every color explode, every surface shine, every face glow.

After dinner I met up with the same friend again and we biked to a private gallery in the outskirts of the Exchange to do a quick drop in on the his old bosses work before it was to be shipped out for her upcoming Netherlands show. After locking our bikes in the eccentric backyard with the quirky vintage lawn furniture and the salvaged wrought iron fences and the predictable wild sculpture garden, we walked dead center into the twenty first birthday party of the niece of Wanda Koop. To meet her, to meet her family, to eat her cupcakes, to gush over her (honorary) grandson, to chat amicably with a bunch of her five or six wild sisters, to maintain calm shoulder to shoulder while she fanned through her latest book that yet to be sent to press but will surely set her legacy in stone, to laugh at her dogs, to cut slices of brie for her partner's cracker, I was enlightened as to why some people would kill to be someone else's bitch if it meant being pulled into the art world at long last.

As I walked around her white washed studio in a fall jacket and a starched tuxedo rental shirt stolen from somewhere, I felt whole and good. And her art. Her art! It filled me up in an indescribable way. I had been forewarned as to its eccentricity, but something clicked in that room reeking of paint thinner and acrylics and lingering dog piss from Christmas past. Her art clicked; and while I know not nearly enough to make assumptions or safe bets or be critical even in the slightest regarding the stylized pattern so repetitive in her work, her art clicked and there was such a warmth to it in that white room laden with the heavy white frames. I loved every minute of that consumption of warmth.

If I have to dedicate the next six years of my life to cutting someone a piece of brie, or pouring a cup of coffee now and again, or being someone's sounding board during a trying spell, I would just to be able to feel that full again. It has been an exhilarating week and I am gearing up for a creative winter. And to be quite honest, I am happy to feel like me again, even if my hairdresser will be appalled by my drunken bang effort. Bang on, Madge. Bang on. C'est la vie, oui? Oui.

'Tis the season to hunker. The cold is settling in like a clean sheet over the city. I am merely rubbing my hands together in a marriage of hot anticipation and in an effort to keep warm (and full).

My cup runneth over, indeed.

All that Jazz.

Here are a few interesting things that have taken place in the last couple of days.

JJ left me for Montreal and I cried at the dentist because the sadness was too great to swallow. The dentist handed me one of those suction sticks intended for overwhelming drool. I sucked up my tears instead when her back was turned.

I cut my bangs two nights ago when I was very drunk and for the first time in eight months I feel like me agian.

Canvas, along with tawny colored spray paint was purchased on a hopeful whim. I smell an art attack.

I want to become a wedding photographer.

Bob Dylan and Billie Holiday have been the King and Queen of my musical court for the past week. I refuse to remove them from rotation until my sadness (from JJ's departure) subsides.

Africa is serving my arachnaphobic aunt and cousin well. Sara was swimming in marriage proposals and my heart swelled when I heard that a part of her heart fell off in Uganda. Uganda be kidding me. I love that jazz.

I love jazz, jazz.

For the first time in about three years, I am readily looking forward to Fall/Winter o8. Shit. Terrifying.

All I can think about is making, making, making, creating, creating, creating. Hands a blur. I have been working on some stencils and drawing like a manic maniac.

Climbing buildings with cute boys and spying on people in Chinatown apartments elbow to elbow with matching binoculars is the new black.

My bicycle still makes me melt.

Janessa took me to U of M for a taste of the Fine Arts program and we spent about four hours printing photos. I stood and felt giant objects with knobs and buttons and dials in the dark. I came out reeking of chemical and my eyes were confused for an hour due to the light tight blackness once I stepped back into the light of day. I loved that feeling, I want to feel that feeling everyday of my life for the rest of my life. I want to be a photographer and that will not change. I don't think.

Loco is out from Montreal and working alongside her and biking alongside her and smoking alongside her and eating alongside her are restoring things inside me that I thought were lost forever. She is leaving in ten days and I am glad there are no dentist appointments in sight. Waterworks.

The winter looks promising.

(I am happy) unapologetically content.

Mama Lolita.

Yesterday I moonlighted at a wedding as a nanny for a murder of princesses. Linen and bows and tiaras and children's high heels and crinoline and shrieks and drinks with tiny golf club stir sticks were in abundance. The entire ordeal was pretty fantastic I must say. The arrival at the country club (not my usual hang out) and the expensive crowd milling about felt a bit like wedding crashing and I secretly enjoyed the dead stares from the decrepit old gems as eight bedazzled Lolita's trailed behind me in wonder.

I had not got my babysit on in a few years and at one point in the night while we were playing one of many versions of tag (ie: ghost tag, toilet tag, vampire tag, freeze tag, TV tag etc) on the manicured putting green in front of the Club (whoops), I actually caught myself saying the words "I'm OLLLLLLLLLLD" and had to laugh. I'm old? I'm old, apparently. Thankfully Emma, the princess/going to be a knock-out when she's sixteen/flower girl of the night asked me if I was "fifteen yet" at one point and again I had to laugh. I may be old, but at least I look twelve. Awesome. At least the bartender knew well enough to ask me what kind of booze I wanted in my fountain drink. "Something potent, please". To say least, he delivered; about four times before dinner.

The kids, being Wellington Crescent kids, were served ions before the rest of the wedding and so I was eventually left to my own devices at the Nanny table not long after their chicken fingers and french fries were wolfed. I must say that never in my life have I eaten three courses at a wedding ALONE before surrounded by a sea of potions in wine glasses, discarded crafts, crumpled linen napkins, and smeared ketchup. Thanks guys, that was humbling. So were the million "Oh look, the nanny is eating alone" whispers I heard swirling behind me. More laughter crept up as steak and portobello mushroom caps slid down the hatch. All in all, the chaos and the solo dining experience were lovely and I had a wonderful time (save for the one appearance I made on the dance floor to do the dreaded I-am-a-bird-I-flap-my-wings-I-shake-my-butt Chicken Dance with the kids). Thank the good Lord that video cameras at weddings are no longer under the Keeping Up with the Jones' category. What a day.

Pictoral evidence of said evening will be up soon.

Nanny McPhee out, Madge.

Top Bun pt. 2

My favorite top bun girls were back on Face Hunter this morning. Seeing that put a cherry on top of my already footloose and fancy free day. Enjoy. Tonight is the "Dress like JJ" Fare thee well party. I cried in the dentist chair yesterday because of a broken heart. Please don't go JJ, I will do your dishes if you stay.

Muiccia.

Flatty and the Red Ferrari.

A hearty 'Bon Voyage' goes out to my Auntie Marj and cousin Sara as they venture out in the direction of the continent called Africa. Dear God, Africa; home to a host of internet celebrity animals and insects that can eat your face in one millisecond. Right Sara? "Flatty" and the "Red Ferrari" tarantulas better watch their hairy backs because these ladies will be arriving in about twelve hours bleary eyed and bedazzled with khakis and Konk and combat boots and those cute mini tennis racket things that electrocute the hell out of things named "Flatty" and the "Red Ferrari".

Hellooooo, Kenya. Hellooooo, Uganda (I think). I can barely stand to wait another three weeks to see the pictures and hear the stories of these two. Oh my lord. Picture a Jane Goodall/Lucille Ball mother daughter mash-up and you might have a somewhat vague and hilarious representation of Auntie Marj and cousin Sara. Maybe not. I am laughing already. "I'll say a little prayer for youuuuuuuuuuuuuuu". At the rate of their collective and SEVERE arachnophobia, they might need a little more than a prayer. Maybe not.

I miss you guys already; have a brilliant trip.

Love Megs.

Waters divided.

During the aforementioned bout of insomnia the other night, I moved my armchair (stolen from the community laundry room of my apartment) from the living room into my bedroom in a state of restlessness. In all the commotion I cursed that seven hour nap and that cup of coffee at nine that evening. I was a bit reluctant about the unconventional change in layout at first. The hole in the living room where the chair used to sit made me jumpy for the first ten minutes but eventually I got over it and nestled into the familiarity of the chair and proceeded to draw until the sun rose.

It is funny what rearranging the furniture can do, can trigger. For that whole night and the entire next day, all I could think about was drawing. Black ink dividing paper-thin vellum like Moses and the Israelites at the parting of the Red Sea. I approached my drawing pad exercising caution, timidity and a lot of faith. It's nice to be back in the game, finally safe on the opposite banks of that river of doubt.

Today Joshua Judges Ruth and I popped into the antique shop underneath the Johnston Terminal after greasy Sunday breakfast eats. It was a little too uppity for my taste, but I still scoured the place with him in tow. I found a few gems and articles worth cooing over and Josh made a comment in regards to my shopping tactics near the end of the hunt. He said my hands were a dead give away to my entertaining kinesthetic approach. Always touching, lifting, rubbing fabrics, picking, wiping, brushing, holding, speeding, shaking different treasures in curiosity. I was a bit embarrassed at how hilarious he found it, but in retrospect I gave the five senses a lot more thought than I would have had he not said anything in the first place.

If for some reason I was forced to change the form of my gait, theoretically speaking, and was coerced into picking a single body part to lead with in lieu of the chest or feet, I would choose my hands, outstretched. I have no doubt that the curiosity of my hands will always result in forward motion. This is good. Forward motion is always good.

Frances.

Gulls and buoys.

Sleep is of the essence this night, yet it has slipped out the door like a stranger in the darkest hours of the night just when I need it most. Need it best. Sleep is drug to me, it is always an upper no matter what hour of the day or night; it feeds me and fills me in a way that no amount of water or french kisses or mama's cooking can. I am a sleeper, but not this night.

My mind is aflutter with flashes of faces, arms, limbs, dark, light, hair, and skin skin skin. Lots of skin, flashing across the backs my sleepless eyelids like a gaggle of white gulls. Like a projection onto deep red velvet curtains. I don't know what this means but I have made a conscious effort not to block it out. Play on, and so it does. It is just recent that I have begun to experience said flashbacks. Usually they are ones stemmed from events or memories of remorse and/or regret, but not these latest ones. They are borderline sexy, but not too sexy. All in all, I think I make too many decisions when sleep deprivation has robbed me of the usual good judgement that exists in my normal daytime routine. Maybe not, I am tired as I write and therefore the above paragraph is meaningless and null.

There has been very little that has pulled me in the direction of computer or canvas or drawing pad of late, albeit summer is always a positive time in my life-- I just feel quite the opposite of inspired. Positivity is high, yes; but I can't help but feel the wet blanket of doom nearing closer and closer thanks to summer's unavoidable end. I had a wild few weeks of photography with rolls and rolls of film forming tiny mountain ranges on my bedside table in July but there has been nothing catching my eye since the arrival of August. Leigh introduced me to a new website created by a man named Todd Selby that showcases the inside bones of homes of various artists, directors, shop owners et al in and about New York and LA. For the first time in a month, my inner artist jump started back to life. To be frank, I just spent the last two hours drinking tepid coffee and scouring about thirty pages worth of strangers homes on the internet. My social life is wild! In other words, I think it is time to make some art.

The other day over breakfast at the Nook (one of my all time favorite Sunday morning greasy spoons) I had a conversation with my friend Josh about art and being an artist. What qualifies one as an artist? For the first time in my life I said "I am an artist" aloud and it was terrifying knowing that the last time I cranked out a canvas worth hanging was in 2005, knowing my easel has sat neglected for the past year and a half, knowing my camera is getting dusty, knowing I have about fifteen Moleskins half heartedly filled. Yet saying the words, I believed them and it felt good. So what makes one an artist? It is neither quality or quantity in my opinion, it is passion and approach. I like to write, I rarely draw even though I like it, I would like to sculpt someday but have never tried, and I really like to take photographs but have neither the time or patience to hone any of these interests. Even so, so long as there is passion and an unapologetic modus operandi as the Latin might mumble (or 'way of operating') I think one is an artist.

When it comes to photography, I think my shots are shit. But it is the gift of establishing some sort of level of comfort or trust with subject that comes naturally to me. To me, it is the small accomplishments like making a baby laugh in the arms of her wedding clothed parents, or the softness in the eyes of the poolside kid with the dirty mouth; the technical side is a foreign language. I am hoping the rest will fall into place. I see so much of a variation of this gift in my friends. Without knowing, half of them, majority of them are carving out their perfect niches in careers unbeknownst to them just by living, by making, by writing, by playing chess, by cooking, by baking, by sewing, by watching, by faking (it), by serving, by singing, by giving and by being. It is exciting to watch and it is exciting to photograph.

I feel better about August now. Oh, in other news, I have washed my hands of any and all potential blind dates from here on in. I refuse to be the kind of lady that needs a bareback picture or an anonymous rose or a forced dinner date to make an acquaintance. I have also washed my hands of gin martinis on first dates (for the time being) and dissatisfying jobs. I am also washing my hands of negativity and moderation.

The other day, Janique and I were walking arm in arm and she asked with round eyes "Meg, do you think that if one thinks only positive thoughts, good things will come of it?". Yes my dear, I do. The photographs below warm my heart and are the direction I would like to go save for a little more nakedness.