Her Royal one-eyed Madgesty

The Weasel.

2011-05-28T23:15:00.000-07:00

Dressed for disco on a whim. Feet tucked into Tsubo's, a cycling jersey swapped for CM stripes. Ripped around, heels in clips, wind in my hair while bombing St. Urbain. Mike and I went on a driving trip to the outskirts of Montreal's east for dinner in a maple grove this evening. Pate Chinois for dinner, Shepherd's Pie delish. French and english family around a table, quietness and swallows. You could hear frogs through the screen. A wall of green outside the dining room window. Tree line, distinct as the day is long. Enter here, it was so tantalizing. The entire meal I kept staring at the foliage, my insides turning out with longing to run straight into it. Branches folding in like arms, the wall swallowing in on itself. Poof! We went for a digestive walk after the second helping and looked at sugar shacks as we wandered through a tree stand. It was something. The smell of it, well. It was nice. We very nearly witnessed a dog death en route home. It was such a near miss and the scene of it cut to my quick. In the instant before, I thought to myself: I am not ready to witness death yet. Who is ready?

Here are some recent photos. Moms-at-play, wood wanderings, Shira Time, stencil studies around town, Saltwater feet, bare trees, the Spring Shed. Summer is coming! Hallelujah. Looking forward to eating breakfast with Milky again tomorrow. Coffee, hollandaise, watermelon.

Au Revoir.

2009-01-15T19:18:00.000-08:00

Queens is no more. If you know me, you will know where to look.

Why am I leaving you ask? I am tired of being tracked by unwelcome and unwanted people. Besides, this post was starting to become too heavy on baby references. From here on in expect short stories, more photographs and mood swings. It is what I do best.

Good riddance Married Men, strangers, sixth cousins and all those people I used to know in elementary.

I have enough. Oh, I have taken a lover. On that note, adieu.
Madge.

These people were passionate people.

2009-01-14T21:42:00.001-08:00

You were inappropriate on Sunday.
Can you find the correlation?

Swarming like cicadas.

2009-01-11T19:32:00.000-08:00

Five generations crowded into Auntie Marj's lovely bedroom today, cooing a tiny lady in a yellow striped onesie on a bed. Maiya, the most beautiful girl in the world worked and worked and worked her mouth and her hands, her eyes fluttering open once and a while encouraging us to break into song and gales of laughter with our identical sets of family hands clutching the hearts in our chests; five wombs ranging from early 20's to late 70's fluttering right along with her. I was filled with hope and want, and the mamas and grandmamas and great-grandmamas were filled with pride and nostalgia. Five generations of cicadas with unseen wings. A room of whirring women around the Queen bee.

At one point my Grandma, my mama and myself bent over the new queen of the family court, undressing and inspecting. She lay, mellow, as we looked at her tummy and I kissed the palms of her hands a hundred times and smelling the back of her neck. Her hands, those hands. This kid is undoing me and I love her for it. I want. I can barely wait to be the calm one in the living room while the vultures in my family grab and hoard my own children in quiet rooms to undress and inspect my good work. Good work Phams, good work Reimers. You make regal babies.

My sincere apologies for writing another entry about babies.
This is Maiya.

Teacher's pet and the pony.

2009-01-10T13:28:00.001-08:00

So many things.

As you may or may not have noticed, I have not written in a week. Thus my head is full, too full; full to the point where everything else is slowed because I haven't had time this week to sort my thoughts. JJ left for her home in MTL on Thursday and to say goodbye we sat, eight strong around a wobbly table. Beer in hand, I ended up downstairs holding a microphone with my free hand. Eyes closed, singing at the top of my lungs and horribly off key (bad, bad, bad) beside my new singing partner. "You take the bottom, and I'll take the top". Hearing the words escape my mouth, my mind went to Erin in Cuba, holding a rainbow colored drink with an umbrella probably named something ridiculous like 'Tahiti Treat' or 'Bahama Mama' and right after it went to the Erin I grew up with in the country, driving our dad's truck like a wild indian and singing 'His Eye is On the Sparrow' from Sister Act II grinning and saying "You take the top and I'll take the bottom" right before it started just like they do in the movie. We would sing so loud, and so poorly, but we didn't care. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I hope you think of me when you puke rainbows on pavement, because I always think of you when I do. Every time. Anyway, busy bee is me.

Go, go, go, stir, stir, stir, print, print, print, color, color, color, cook, cook, cook, sing, sing, sing, eat, eat, eat, walk, walk, walk, babyhold, babyhold, babyhold, draw, draw, draw, bike, bike, bike, blush, blush, blush.

I cut the pad of my left index finger off using a mandolin while slicing carrots paper thin for a soup and alas I have not been able to type fast. And to recap, my head has been full, full, full due to a (semi) missing finger. I am home now, in my favorite striped sweater, jeans, drinking coffee at my kitchen table enjoying my home on my first Saturday off as the soup lady. I am not a cook, yet. I don't know when the time will come that I can say with full confidence that I am a cook, all I know is that I am not. But I do a lot of cooking. Soup. My life is soup. It is methodical and I sing all the time and I work with beyond good people and sometimes we all sing. We do dance, we always dance.

My favorite time of day is around four, when everyone has gone home for the day and it is just me, elbow deep inside a burning hot turkey. Jurassic 5 is put on, loud, so loud that even the customers in the front of house cannot help but slip into a trance and are confused when they catch themselves head bobbing to some beat they can barely hear. Cleaning the cooked turkeys is a skill I am very indebted to Kent (the music snob) for teaching me. Another lesson. It is also methodical work, but tricky at the same time. It is important to cut to the quick, not to waste a drop because it will all be used at one point or another in that kitchen. At first it terrified me, these giant cooked birds. But then it became a game. Every day I force myself to become better, cut closer, waste not want not; and I do. So I clean them, and somehow still manage to dance fairly passionately to Jurassic 5. J5, hip hop. It is a very new genre of music for me and I am slowly exposing myself. I love it. Yesterday we went on a musical journey (I work with the aforementioned world's biggest music snob [he would be very pleased to read that, I think] and his record collection [copies in the thousands and thousands of vinyl stacked against the walls of his home, reaching the ceiling] puts mine to red faced shame) and we listened to everything from Bruce Springsteen, to Rancid, to Motor City Five, to the Stooges, to Michael Jackson, to Sloan, to Chad VanGaalen, to Neil Young, to Kanye West, to Johann Sebastian Bach. Wild. This is the pace of the kitchen, wild. But I find solace in the lists and recipes I follow, winging it half of the time and shitting bricks the other. But it is always fun. Yesterday I learned it was wrong to roast butternut squash skin side down. Who knew? I didn't. I had never done it before in my life. The day before that I burnt 40 gallons of turkey stock and threw out another soup and it was humbling. Humble pie. Tastes devastatingly delicious.

No one had ever seen kitchen appliances wiped with such attention to detail, with such delicacy, one hand wiping stainless steel in figure eights and the other smoothing out imaginary ripples along the mental. Always touching, always feeling, smoothing uneven surfaces only a trained or neurotic eye would notice. She sat on a blue upturned milk crate and inspected the room with her head craned to the right, childlike. She liked how the light reflected off the bread table making a subtle shadow on the corner wall. Something one would only notice from a child's perspective. "That's good", she said with eyes taking in the room, affirming her own handiwork aloud to an empty kitchen. "That's good for now".

When soup is not being made, time is spent at Martha Street in the low red building. With the start of January came the start of my mentorship with Art School Jeanette. I don't think she would mind if I used her name. She is humble and sinfully talented and she is my teacher. She is also very gentle and I never feel like crying when I leave after a lesson. These are all good things. She is another person that I have met in the last few months who has taught me to be a better teacher. I am not a good teacher because I am a selfish student. Always hungry for more, more, more; teach me, teach me, teach me. Not that this is necessarily a fault, it is just something to work at: be a better teacher to others. On Thursday I had my first Letterpress class and took to it immediately. It is fun, the arranging of tiny typeface is tedious but rewarding work. The letters are made out of lead and so we were encouraged not to lick our fingers or eat a sandwich after class. Using the letterpress felt even better, even more satisfying than printing with the regular press with the wheel. I don't really know how to describe it, but the feeling of dragging the rollers over my carefully arranged type felt good. Really, really good. Mondays I silkscreen, Tuesdays I draw, Wednesdays I sleep, and Thursdays I letterpress. It is a good life. I had no idea winter would be like this, this full, but I wouldn't change a damn thing.

This morning I sat in a darkened pub eating a baby sized breakfast called the Little Tadpole special beside Andrew and across from Rabbi and Alfie. These are my best friends. A collection of brothers and lovers and sisters and friends and coworkers, we ate and did the crossword and talked over each other and passed the salt and drank coffee in unison. This is being young to me. Eating breakfast at one in the afternoon with your best mates in a pub in your neighborhood, drinking coffee, taking turns being the Dad and footing the bill with such joy (because you love these people collectively and individually) and then leaving arm in arm (it doesn't matter whose arm, they are all good!) and then buying records and then leaving each other and walking away laughing. This is just another Saturday and I love my life and the people in it. I bought Of Montreal's new album, Skeletal Lamping and it is lovely. Two records, four sides, interesting inserts and album artwork and it came with a giant fold up poster the size and shape of a pony. I nailed it to the wall in my bedroom, it is that dreamy.

This is the album art, the first thing that sold me.

Today is really lovely, and it is bound to get better. When I was walking home from breakfast at the Toad, a middle aged married couple (I am assuming) wearing matching parkas in a half tonne honked at me and gave four thumbs up. I don't know what warranted four thumbs up, but it made my day. Anyway, I best be off. I have to get ready for the ball, time is ticking. I have a date.

Best regards says Cinderella, dressed in yella'.

Madge.

Post Script: Beth also posted such lovely photos of my home and sent me these ones as well.

I cried when I saw them. Yes to the switch. She is so dreamy that if it would be socially acceptable, I would pin her to my bedroom wall. Because it is not, we send each other art work and instead I appreciate her work on my walls and not her. Swap, switch. Thank you for the photos, Liza.

Colors.

2009-01-03T14:16:00.000-08:00

Saturday day.

Vegetables were chopped until eleven and then I went to a funeral in a five dollar dress and the things I felt surprised me. Nothing like a funeral to welcome reflection even if it is an unwelcome reflection. Nothing like a funeral to face the inevitable and to swallow the reality of losing loved ones. The funeral was for a man good with his hands, good with wood, was for a dad I wished I had met but never had the chance to. It made me think of losing my own Dad, my dad of the year, a man also good with wood and good with his hands. These thoughts along with the pull of gravity brought upon tears that rolled up and over the apples of my cheeks for the brother and sister who lost theirs. I feel fortunate.

I hope that someday when I pass, a roomful of people will raise their arms collectively in a toast to a full life lived like we did today for their dad. I hope my passing will be a reminder to others to do everything on one's life list, no matter what one's state of health, wealth or happiness. Just go for it. Cheers to that, Papa Don. Eight of us were all sitting around a table near the end with fingers slipped inside the handles of tiny coffee mugs and we laughed together. We didn't talk about loss or regret or grief; we talked about the joys of eight year old nieces, the brutal honesty of kids and how much it is appreciated, the importance of good teachers, babies, buying cashmere even when you can't afford it and it felt nice.

After I was dropped at home, I changed and redressed for winter and walked to the art store in my 'hood. I wandered the aisles for about half an hour, salivating, and felt like a kid in a candy shoppe. It was fantastic. When it was all said and done I managed to drop a hefty chunk of scrilla on a bunch of supplies. You can never have too many black Fineliner pens, I say. You can quote me on that jazz. Delighted face. This was without a doubt the most delightful Christmas gift I have ever received.

On my kitchen table right now, sigh:

1 chartreuse all weather Field Book
3 sharpies
2 Copic aluminum Multiliners
2 Uniball Deluxe finetips
2 spare 0.3 nibs
1 can spray adhesive
6 HB Staedtler pencils
1 wooden sharpener
1 exacto knife
2 Staedtler erasers
1 Faber-Castell 0.1 pigment pen
1 H.J series 10/0 paintbrush
1 can India ink
1 baby Moleskine
12 Staedtler rainbow fineliners
1 glue stick
1 roll of tape
1 tracing pad
1 11x14 bleedproof pad of paper
2 pads of giant newsprint

Good day, I have two solid hours of drawing ahead of me.
Oh, and for those who care Bon Iver is still on repeat, day four.

Shit yeah.
Artist unknown; I love that piece and wish I had done it.

Infant Year.

2009-01-01T01:56:00.001-08:00

The other day Rabbi referenced the upcoming new year as an "infant year" in a letter, and I couldn't agree more. After a run at last year, this infant year deserves the best dress and the best wine and the best self. Best in show. I leaned on Hilary this night, slow and heavy with tiredness from watching all of the different types of joy in the room, and I mentioned to her that I know my true self best in two separate places: one is at an art show (preferably one of my own), standing in a roomful of people and being quiet, taking it all in; and second is in the basement at Martha Street at the bottom of the stairs when I tie my "We should do this more often" apron around my waist before working my way through the night. It is only this year that I have begun to recognize whole and true and complete sides of myself. Recognizing triggers and locations and groups in which I feel particularly at ease and it is a wonderful knowing feeling.

The evening was wild, slow motion, and breakneck at the same time. Alfie and I started the night with Tara and Crawley over champagne (them) and good Italian limonata (me). We dropped them in the Exchange and beetled to the West End for a dinner party long over. We arrived, horribly late, ate cold food, drank the nice wine on the table, and left, all within thirty minutes. Then we went back to the Exchange, but making sure to drop in at the Lo Pub for a quick hello to old friends. I ended up running into Cremo and was super psyched to chill with him for a quick minute over a plate of fruit. I have known Cremo for at least seven years and it is always a pleasure to meet, talk shop, eat, catch up and then not see each other for a really long time again. We watched each other grow up and it is a nice feeling to still know him. He is one of my only close friends left who have seen that side of me (save for Amy). It was nice. I stole some orange slices (sliced in a very peculiar way considering that they for a fruit platter [peeled and cut into Stop sign shaped disks... odd, non?]) and eventually we moseyed on to the Exchange. Once there, we waltzed into the Albert like we owned the place and were kindly let in despite of the twenty dollar entrance fee. It must have been Alfie's bow tie or my five inch tuxedo heels or our charming antics arm in arm. Who knows, but he let us in without a question (which NEVER happens at that place). We did look pretty dapper for the Albert on second thought.

A few courier boys commented on my footwear knowing full well that I was the same girl who raced them at lights on their courier routes this summer. A cyclist in heels? Come on! (On a girlish side note, there is something about bike messengers that makes me weak at the knees. When they take the time to A). give you the time of day in acknowledging your presence and then B). compliment your outlandish ridiculous footwear, I just want to do a little dance, arm pump, yell "HIYAAAA" or make out with them on the spot). Sadly, none of these things happened and I just stood there smiling stupidly. Anyway, after a quick circulation around the room and a few sloppy hugs later, we looked at each other from across the room and both knew it was time to go. Ten minutes in, max. We arrived at Rabbi's in time for the unavoidable countdown. I hate the countdown, it makes me ill inside. We stood in the living room, awkwardly and counted down, half heartedly and were all relieved when it was over because we could just be normal people at a normal party again and not worry about THE COUNTDOWN anymore. Stupid.

More people kept pouring in with nice wine, cigars, dip, you name it. Kit made a mind blowing dip and at one point she, Rabbi, Hil, Meach, myself and Melissa were all circled around it, dipping like vultures. It must have looked beautiful from above: a sea of stilettos and black tights and legs for miles like a giant female tarantula. A giant, hungry tarantula. I don't know, maybe. For the rest of the night I was curled up in a couch drinking tap water out of a San Pelegrino bottle. It is hilarious how much more socially acceptable it is to hold up a bottle of Pelegrino and say "Oh, I'm not drinking tonight" when someone asks than it is to just make a face and say the same thing, sans San Pelegrino. I found it hilarious, and kept drinking tap water unruffled by my New Year's eve faux pas. NyQuil and alcohol are probably a horrible mix, so I played it cool this year.

Pretty enjoyable night considering the San Pelegrino, but sans the scandals.

I dropped off Mike's snow covered car as sober as a judge around four in the morning and was overjoyed at the sight of people running wild in the streets of my neighborhood, drunk, stupid and happy, just when I thought the entire city was asleep. I walked the dreaded four and a half block journey back to my home in a thin jacket but was wise enough to swap my towering heels for slippers when leaving the party. It must have been the water talking. I am going to be sober again next year, it was awesome.

I caught myself saying "2009, here I come" under my breath while trudging home and had to laugh. God only knows where I will be next New Year's eve--trudging through god knows what, wearing god knows what, mumbling god knows what under my breath. God knows what. Maybe; time will tell.

Until next year, Madge.

Here we go.

2008-12-31T17:43:00.000-08:00

Another New Year's eve and not a bathtub lover in sight. Damn straight. This year there will be no shenanigans, no reason to keep my collar flipped up and my eyes downcast for weeks on end. No reason to high tail it to Switzerland and run ten miles a day. No reason to hide away and shelf my social life. I am dressed well for tonight's dinner party and am towering with the highest of Parisian heels and the highest top bun that my hair will produce. Bon Iver on vinyl has been on repeat for the entire day and I feel ready to bring this year to a close even though my hands are not. No midnight kiss, just Rabbi's familiar lap to fall into when the hour hand strikes. It is funny, I am a different person than I was on this day one year ago, but also the same. The year ahead looks bright, productive and trying. There will be many lists to tick off in the next three months with all the work that has to be done for my portfolio for school and maybe that explains my hands inability to settle.

I am ready to go. In every sense of the words. I am ready, it is time.

Loco just called me, which is suitable considering that I called her at exactly midnight last year, in a heap on Alfie's bedroom floor, drunk and messy, guilt ridden words tumbling out of my mouth at an alarming rate. She took it all in with grace from her comfy spot in Montreal. This year we took pictures of ourselves on our Macbooks and sent them to each other at the same time. Her in batwinged tartan and me in sparkling checkers. Two different plaids on two different girls and it was good and well.

I am not sure what I am trying to say. I am late for Barfredo's house for martinis and cheese and late for dinner but I am fine with that. All I see for this year is Martha Street, mountain biking, mountains, babes, a new school, a new town, an ocean, Loco, being elbow deep in ink, silk screening, a familiar rainbow stained apron, boxes, empty hangers, a new baby (Jill and Chris'), a new start. This too is good and well.

I am ready to go.

Happy New Year dear friends, Madge.

Yukon dreaming.

2008-12-28T18:08:00.000-08:00

Hand me a toque, hand me a pair of skis, hand me a plane ticket, hand me the Yukon.

I wish I was in Whitehorse right nowwwwwwwwwwwwwww, skiing with these turds in their pristine back yard: Sam, Zig, Meesh, Dano and Leslie. Jerks. I was content in my warm and modest home until I laid eyes on these photos taken on Christmas day. These turds I speak of are my cousins, pictured in the bottom photo (Sam and Ziggy) and I haven't hung out with them in a few years save for a few too-short visits the odd summer. NOT ENOUGH. I miss them. And now, looking at these my need to go to them has just been set in stone. Based on the pictures alone, I am just about ready to pack my bags, box up my belongings and get the hell out of town. Homegirl needs a buddy pass. Homegirl needs a money tree. Homegirl needs a sugar daddy.

Dying slowly of jealousy. I hate you guys for posting this jazz.
Discontent today, Madge.

Danger Bay.

2008-12-26T20:41:00.000-08:00

These are my favorite pictures of the year. They are both of the same lady. Can you say stark dichotomy? Stark dichotomy.

Bed time.

2008-12-26T11:31:00.000-08:00

I got a teeny tiny box for christmas. Inside the box with the pretty blue ribbon was a teeny tiny picture. I was confused for a minute but when looked up at everyone's cheerful and expectant faces my confusion passed and elation set in. The picture was of a bed. I got a bed.

Psyched.

Together in togetherness.

2008-12-25T13:45:00.001-08:00

Laughter drifts down the hall and tinkles in from the living room to where I sit making it hard not to imagine five necks craned upwards towards the sinfully large flat screen watching a holiday movie in unison. Moved to take a moment of quiet on this joyful day, I am sitting here perusing pictures from the past couple of days and smiling. This is Christmas. Sushi with an aunt, movies, warm clothes, holiday parties, charger plates, driving to the country, crisp air, laughter. It is Christmas in the country and I woke up to the smell of bacon and dark coffee. Eggs benny for breakfast, coffee black as night, warm coffee cake, and fruit for miles. Laughter, full-swear/full-contact card games and then more laughter. We are a family of students; there is not a teacher among us (except maybe Cal, but he is lightening quick at explainations) and learning a new game is next to impossible.

Somehow the words are lost on me again, the need to express relaced with the need to be calm. I have been told to "slow down" on multiple occasions since arriving and am having a hard time following suit. My mind is somewhere else, treading quietly on new territory of potential. Christmas somehow makes me turn inwards, makes me watch my family with warmth and introspect from an arms length and somehow I always leave these gatherings, these weekends, feeling like I sort of missed the boat despite the fact that my person is heaving with love for them and a generous show of presents.

Yesterday a circle of women that I admire gathered like flapping hens in a warm kitchen. Dust settled, proverbial feathers came to a standstill, the rise of a story spread like wild fire and more flapping women moved in; getting tighter and closer and quieter. We love this, we feed off of the togetherness that Christmas brings, creates. Bodies everywhere, poker faces around a flimsy patio table no longer white, food coming and going from an impressive oven, greasy fingers, gyoza factory on the counter, wolverines around the gouda, hands flying, wine sipped, and stories swapped. We move in closer, as to not miss a beat. Our waists doing the Christmas dance and avoiding collisions and spills, the story hour brings out the dancer in everyone. And we always end up in the kitchen. One person begins to spin a tale and we clap in glee, color crimson or gasp wildly at all the appropriate times.

I have no idea what it is that moves me to tell all, to elaborate, to weave a tale so impressive it will make aunties run to their book editors, yelping in delight. As a younger generation in this line of impressive women, I feel it is my duty to up the ante. Give them something to pray about.

It always impresses me when people choose to live vicariously through others. I do it. These women do it. Our children's children will do it. I don't know what it is, but nothing fills me more than a circle of women who flap in a kitchen, rubbing their hands together in togetherness. Together in togetherness. It is real simple. This is what Christmas is for me. It is not necessarily about the food (even though the creamy onion, wanton, roasted squash, heinezoup, sour kraut soup bar in lieu of a turkey dinner slayed this year), the wine, the agressive three generational Scrabble, the music, the program, or the gifts. It is about the togetherness.

Go, and be together.

"Babies are beautiful," she said.

2008-12-23T19:10:00.000-08:00

Baby M. Enough said.

"A Joy Forever".

2008-12-23T11:11:00.000-08:00

Christmas is all around us. I am full bellied thanks to a loud and wild breakfast with Beth A, visiting town from the Mountains. Go tell it on the Mountains. We ate and spoke with mouths open, stuffed with falafel and onions and eggs and there were plenty of hand gestures and throaty bursts of laughter. This is Christmas, I think. Happy families eating together, babies everywhere, children excited about french toast dates with their Papas, mothers shrieking in joy welcoming heart attacks and hot flashes, experimental dinners done well and not so well, nice wine in glassware, chewed nail polish, middle parts and turtle necks, pearls, scarves, tinkling music, cheese platters, orange peels dappling the arms of couches, heads dipping sleepily while listening to Fleet Foxes and Sufjan Stevens. She left me for the west again and now I am back tucked into my home, socked and slippered and blanketed and ready to read the afternoon away. But first, a note.

Actually, I have nothing worth writing save for a hearty 'Merry Christmas to all'. I love being on holidays. Oh, but I am reading a lovely book right now titled appropriately so, (to match my current outlook): "The History of Love" by Nicole Krauss (genius Jonathan Safran Foer's frau). What a lady. What a book. Just now, my eyes scanned the floor of my living room to stop dead on a pair of elbow length cashmere finger gloves as orange as oranges can be, lying in wait, ready to be slipped into and worn around the house, shown off like a prize winning chow chow. I love them. Thinking of them, I thought of the last paragraph I read (and underlined without THINKING in the blackest of ink, sorry Anne M as it is your book and not mine) and the weight of giving. This is for you.

I'm ready to go back now, I said.

To my surprise, he got out, opened the door, and helped me in.

When I got back to my apartment, I thought I'd been robbed. The furniture was overturned, and the floor was dusted with white powder. I grabbed the baseball bat I keep in the umbrella stand and followed the trail of footsteps to the kitchen. Every surface was covered with pots and pans and dirty bowls. It seemed that whoever had broken in to rob me had taken time to make a meal. I stood with the photograph down my pants. There was a crash behind me, and I turned and swung blindly. But it was just a pot that had slipped from the counter and rolled across the floor. On the kitchen table, next to my typewriter, was a large cake, sunk in the middle. Standing, nonetheless. It was frosted with yellow icing, and across the top in sloppy pink letters, it read, LOOK WHO BAKED A CAKE. On the other side of my typewriter was a note: WAITED ALL DAY.

I couldn't help it, I smiled. I put the baseball bat away, upturned the furniture that I remembered I had knocked over the night before, took out the picture frame, breathed on the glass, rubbed it with my shirt, and set it up on my night table. I climbed the stairs to Bruno's floor. I was about to knock when I saw there was a note on the door. It said: DO NOT DISTURB. GIFT UNDER YOUR PILLOW.

It had been a long time since anyone had given me a gift. A feeling of happiness nudged my heart. That I can wake up each morning and warm my hands on a hot cup of tea. That I can watch the pigeons fly. That at the end of my life, Bruno has not forgotten me.

Back down the stairs I went. To delay the pleasure I knew was coming my way, I stopped to pick up my mail. I let myself back into my apartment. Bruno had managed to leave a dusting of flour over the entire floor of the place. Maybe a wind had blown in, who knows. In the bedroom I saw that he had gotten down on the floor and made an angel in the flour. I stepped around it, not wanting to ruin what he had made so lovingly. I lifted my pillow.

It was a large brown envelope. On the outside was my name, written in handwriting I didn't recognize. I opened it. Inside was stack of printed pages. I began to read. The words were familiar. For a moment I couldn't place them. Then I recognized they were my own.

Baby lady.

2008-12-18T14:32:00.000-08:00

As we speak, I am curled up in a soft chair, baby M swaddled and curled up in the lap of my crossed legs. Hot tea to my right, sliced apples to the left, drawing pad and pens to the far right. Every now and then she coos or shudders or squirms to remind me that she is there. I drag a few fingers over her perfect forehead and keep typing, in love with this little tiny thing. Wishing she was mine. After finishing this I am going to curl up on my bed with homegirl and read my lady Rabbi's latest published edition of the magazine she writes for: G.Love. This day is shaping up to be above and beyond.

Someday I am going to have a baby. Word on the street is that they are a lot of work, but I still want a whole rat pack. This is no secret. Anyone and their dog who have known me for five minutes know this. My friend Kelly just had a baby bird about three weeks ago, Madeline, or baby M as I call her, and she is a beauty. She is sleeping in my lap with her eyelids flickering, cheeks rose red, wearing a sleeper made of the softest organic cotton money can buy. I love her and she isn't even remotely blood related. I just love her. Kelly called this afternoon wondering if she could leave baby M for a few hours while she finished the last of her Christmas shopping. "Uhhhhhhhh yes, please?!?!?". She doesn't have to ask. Ever.

Madi and I had a little teeny baby photo shoot just after she drained an entire bottle in my arms. Homegirl was a pretty good sport considering all the outfit changes, nakedness, props, fur stoles, fabric, movement and lighting adjustments. Poor kid. I already feel bad for my own children and the countless shoots they will have to endure as I blow through roll after roll documenting their precious antics. Until my film is developed, here is a shabby sampling of how much I adore babies, and this baby in particular.

I don't even have words. I think I got the retardo, inhumane baby gene from Aunty Marj. It is as good a reason as any to go to church, that is for certain. Baby mecca over there in the country.

Now a word of wisdom from a wise lady. This is Grandma's best form of birth control for her granddaughters:

Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.
Babies turn into people.

Thanks Helen, Helen, Helen. Thanks to this little gem, I can't help but letting a teeny tiny "I want one" escape. No, I want lots of them. On another note of thanksgiving, there are people like Kelly in my world who are more than willing to dump their baby birds off chez moi and this tends to tide me over for a while. I hope I can last until I meet a sugar daddy or am on a salary at the very least. Sorry this post is so pointed, I just can't get enough apparently.

Best, Mama Madge.

Harlot says, Simon says.

2008-12-15T14:45:00.000-08:00

Hands flying, heart beating, hair swept up in a frenzy, a half hearted top bun, a shorn poodle of a woman in thermal cycling tights and a striped bandeau, hair off my face, away away away, up up and away as a distraction shelved for the time being. "EV-ER-EE-BUDDY" as Kaleb would say in a situation like this: Everybody, I just came from a day spent bicycle riding on my beloved fixy, Jessica Alba. I had errands to do, things to get done, people to see on my one day off and I refused to take the bus for a single thing. For a single minute. I hate winter in Winnipeg because I am a pedestrian and a cyclist and not a motorist. If I had a car in winter in Winnipeg, I would love it. I would love the bland white, love the life-threatening cold, love the snow, love the snowsuits and the Sorels. But as a cyclist forced to shelve one's pride and joy for the winter, it is depressing as all get out. It is easy to hate.

Today I wasn't having any of it. I pulled my sparkling summer bicycle down from it's place in my living room and pumped the tires. I never bothered to switch my slicks over to winter tires because I never thought I would ride it in the winter. So I took it down and rode around the block a few times, testing the waters, skidding and track-standing with all the confidence in the world, attempting backwards circles in my winter cycling gear. I just felt it today. I was going to ride come hell or high water. It was as if it were a choice between riding my beautiful bicycle and dying. I was not about to pick death, so I strapped on my messenger bag housing a sketch pad, some nice pens, my camera and an unfinished letter to Lo on good card stock. Riding to Osborne was fine, a bit scary but doable. I stayed in the lines of pavement created by the right side tires hitting salt hitting pavement. Moving out of those tracks for even a split second meant biting it, hard, and potential death. So I stayed, unabated by impatient drivers who were nice enough for the most part, or my freezing fingers. I rode to the Exchange and almost died crossing Portage from a patch of hard to see ruts. I screamed my head off at one point and braced myself, causing a passerby on the sidewalk to rip off their balaclava and stare in horror. But I made it. I was psyched. Had coffee with Barfredo and Ross at the Fyxx and back-alleyed it to Mountain Equipment to get better gloves for the ride home. Made it back to Corydon, (it was smooth sailing down Donald) and picked up a new record at Music Trader and talked to Olivia all the while getting a sudden nosebleed under control in the shop.

There are few things more disgusting than a winter geared lady, balaclavaed, helmeted and bleeding profusely from the nose. Cute.

Rode back to Corydon to go sit at Rabbi's counter for a few hours with Shira. I had one hundred shots of espresso today, wild. Anyway, I came back home, warmed up my hands around a cup of tea and put on my newly acquired and newly released copy of Sigur Ros' 'með suð í eyrum við spilum endalaust' album on vinyl and just about had a heart attack over how amazing it was. I had heard it before when it came out in summer, but not all the way through and definitely not on vinyl. GOOD LORD. I actually had to sit down in a chair it was so good. It has been a while since an album has bowled me over psychically at the first listen. Go get it on vinyl and let your knees go weak. It is very joyful in comparison to their other releases. I was very pleased.

My music taste in winter always slows to more mellow, harmonious, folk singing, sighing, low light demanding crooners than it would swing to in the warmer seasons. Winter is all about going on musical journeys. Whether those journies are accompanied by a living room full of people drinking wine, a candle lit dinner for two, or by one's self in the bath with a book, they are important. To me at least. I still yell out to pretend lovers when I am in the bath when the record stops. "Dan" or "Wilfred" or "Harry" or "Tomas" (the Tomas I imagine straight out of Milan Kundera's novel, 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being') are thrown living room-wards on a daily bathing basis. The neighbors must think me a harlot based on all the imaginary names I yell demanding them to "flip the record!!!!". I am pathetic. But honest. It is just something I do, I like it. I think it is the deal breaker for me: calling out men's names to flip the record while I am bathing. When I find someone who will do it without having to be asked, then I will know he is good and right.

Flip the record. No, instead go buy the aforementioned one and go flip a lid over how insane it is. Go on a musical journey.
With upmost sincerity, Madge.

Dream house.

2008-12-13T22:21:00.001-08:00

I am in the market for bedroom furniture. I am specifically looking for a chair these days, although a bed and new living room furniture are never far from the forefront. A chair. I am looking for a comfortable reading chair. A chair that is both smart and cozy, welcoming and chic at the same time. It has to withstand swinging legs and stains from red wine and coffee alike. It must be mobile, because I rearrange when all else is lost. It has to have a vintage feel with a modern overlay. I am open to pattern and stripes, dusters and a high rise. Wing backed or egg shaped; whatever it ends up being, it has to speak to me.

Don't even get me started on bedding...

In bed, in song.

2008-12-07T10:36:00.000-08:00

Dear diary.

I don't have much to say. Energy is being reserved for the day that is to come and so I will not overwork my brain here. Last night I went through the wringer, the empty glasses from Rabbi's dangerously delicious caesars with the pickled beans piling higher and higher around me at my station in the kitchen. Homegirl slings I mighty fine caesar. I could barely get out of bed to get to work this morning. Someone said I looked wan. It is never pleasant to hear one looks wan. Anyway, my slowed body finally made it home, and I slid into bed with a few boys from a band called Fleet Foxes. In spirit. Listen to this, the whole way through.

To William if you are reading this: I would like to be in your quartet. I sing Alto I and will need a lot of help with my notes. But, when I get it, I get it.

Listen, and slide into a nearby bed with Fleet Foxes. I want the man with the mouth. Watch his mouth in the room with the high ceilings when he hits the high notes. Incredible. Rabbi, add that to my list: he has to sing like a songbird.

I am dying a slow death today. Hail Caesar Augustus, hail Mary.
Hailstorm, Madge.

Listen, click, and really listen. These men can sing.

Have my children Kevin.

2008-12-06T14:45:00.000-08:00

Another day of calm, another day of sureness.

I worked in the kitchen today and arrived at six in the morning, with the city still sleeping through the bakery windows dripping with tacky Dollarama decorations. Clean shirt, ex boyfriend jeans (the ones with the chartreuse ink stains), stolen hat, last night's makeup.

Oh my Lord. That reminds me: last night. Last night, the Salmon and the Giraffe went for round two. Thankfully there was not an open bar in sight, instead the Salmon's sights were dead set on a garish gymnasium at the University of Manitoba. Let me rephrase that. Last night, I went to a high school provincial volleyball game (two of them actually) in a gymnasium and ate pretzels and made fun of Sven while he perused the room as fast as a fish. In perfect Salmon form. ON A FRIDAY NIGHT, at that. I rarely go out these days, never mind to a flippen' volleyball game (two of them) to teach my spiky haired jock friend to take some photographs for his portfolio. Sven wants to be a sportscaster when he grows up. He will make all the women at the station fall in love with him thanks to his charm and those damn dimples. Gross, a volleyball game. On a Friday. I still can't believe it. BUT, I did learn a great lesson though while sitting on those bleachers in put-on agony.

Don't be critical until you try.

So I went and ended up having more fun than Sven (who burned through five rolls of film at that!). I took three photos throughout the night and I have a feeling that the second one I took will end up being the best portrait of my entire photography career. Three teen boys wearing nothing but black skivvies, black and yellow body paint and a whooooole 'lotta team spirit holding up a "Kevin have my children" sign on one side and "Goooooooooo LANCERS" on the other. I went right up to them, confident that I wouldn't have to ask them to pose or tell them what to do, and asked if I could shoot their photo. Their reaction was seismic. Epic. Worthy of a standing ovation. They posed, screamed into the lens of my camera, grabbed their bulging crotches, shook their waif-thin hips and blew outlandishly long plastic horns an inch from my face. Without a moment's notice, I clicked and didn't even bother to take another. I just knew. If you can operate a manual film camera, then you know the feeling. Same goes for riding fixed; if you do it, then you know. I knew that that single moment was the best thing I have managed to freeze in time in all of 2008. And I took a 'lotta photos this year with all those friends, weddings and babies to blame.

All of this understanding because I swallowed my pride and let myself be taken to a sporting event by the Salmon. It was excellent and I would do it again.

With last night spinning in my head, I worked happily for nine hours, only stopping once to make myself a double espresso very slowly in all of the surrounding madness of Saturdays at the bakery. I enjoyed it and then I got back to work another happy six hours with three amazing women. We each had our own lists to check and tick and our bodies were whirring in constant motion as we helped each other along. We sang too. Sufjan Stevens entire 'Seven Swans' album, we sang along to that and we sang along with every word from the 'Across the Universe' soundtrack. It was lovely. I made fifteen loaves of bread. It was the first time I had ever been allowed to manipulate dough (never mind make it) in that kitchen and I took full control of the moment and enjoyed every minute thoroughly. Kneading, a timid pat on the rising dome, more kneading, up to my elbows in the finest white flour in Manitoba (maybe not), shaping, rounding, more flour, more kneading, hurling those fifteen handcrafted half spheres on the bread table with such a velocity it shook every time. 15 X 8 times. 120 times. It was heavenly. The young people who work the counter up front came in and out of the kitchen periodically and would make fun of my technique. I was in my glory and didn't give it two thoughts.

I also learned how to clean turkeys. I have always wanted to learn that. The opportunity arose today and naturally, I jumped at the chance. Working with meat is therapeutic. It sounds ridiculous, but I love it. It is flesh and savory and we are supposed to eat it. In that obligation, we should also respect meat and prepare it with upmost care. I took it apart with upmost care. Burning hot bones stripped bare by human hands, just like in the Renaissance.

Good Saturday, about to get better.
Hiiiiiiyah.

Come thou fount of every blessing.

2008-12-05T14:52:00.000-08:00

To listen to a room filled to the brim with sopranos, altos, tenors, bass and baritones singing a hymn in harmony is one reason of many why I believe in a higher being. Why I am spiritual. Why I say "yes" when others say "no". It explains my occasional sense of calm. It explains the occasional day of complete silence and even rarer days of a mind that is quiet but not asleep. I believe and I have not always been so brave to say so. I have questions, yes; not to mention a semi trailer worth its weight in doubt, but I believe.

It is in those moments- the singing room moments--standing there, so aware, so centered in a sense of self and a sense of family, so appreciative of culture, so thankful for the familial ties that bind, so humbled by song and collective voice--that it is impossible for me not to believe in something.

Lately, the amount of conversations based around the personal beliefs of the different people that make up my circle of friends have outnumbered our usual veins of banter: music, politics, food, wine, art, socialites, scenes, distaste for all the aforementioned points. In the last couple of weeks I have been pelted with questions of Why? and Where do we go? and When? and Who is the one appointed as Official yay or nay-sayer on our last days on earth? I have also been swept away by my own tears while in the throws of less malicious religious-based conversations. Humble tears, shared with humble people, humble pie. I am a world away from confidence in this, and I am a stones throw away from my old cynical self. But a pony on unsure legs is still a pony regardless of the wobble. I am still a pony. I am still myself.

Have no fear, all you steppers. I will not choke you with all of this in the future, I will not beat it over your heads while you sleep. I will not even wave it in front of you, as tempting as a waft of food; I will just exist knowing. I did not know before today. I had heard the wonders of, been encouraged, watched my friends who understood it and lived it in awe, even been drenched years ago with the waters that baptize and symbolically separate the lambs from the sheep; but I never knew this. I have no idea what exactly it is that I believe in; I do, but not really. All I know is that the knowing that comes from an accumulation of moments and memories and events and sorrow have become the building blocks of my personal faith over all of these years. Today it is personal; it is a friend, a confidante, a light of hope. It was not so yesterday or the years before that.

Today I had to make a decision. A quiet decision that had been stewing in the depths of my soul in the centre of my chest for months now. I have been conflicted for quite some time now, the joy in my youthful heart prematurely aging and sagging from the weight of such a choice. But this afternoon, in a moment of slicing, blinding clarity, I chose. I have known all along, but today that last block was slid into place and something clicked.

To Tante: the words you wrote for me on a piece of rough brown paper last February now stowed away in a secret place came to mind again today while mid conversation with Erin. I interrupted her to repeat them to myself, aloud, just to be sure I remembered them and she stopped short, her sentence jagged with words like "spirit" "vexation" "away" from my own mouth. Thank you for these simple papers blotted with wisdom that I find dappling the tables and drawer bottoms within my home.

The source of every desirable quality or commodity is a fount. I feel a fount of blessing and baby-legged knowledge.
Sincerely, Madge.

Year in review.

2008-12-01T10:42:00.000-08:00

What better way than to recap a year than through a slew of Poladroids? This has been quite a year. To say the very least and to be as cryptic and withdrawn as possible, as per usual: this has been one hell of a year. Pardon my French, Grandma. But it has. Good things are happening, again! Drex is coming on board at the bakery and we will be working side by side into the new year. Chopping and art talking and music dropping and so on. Drex is a very good guy and we have been friends for a few years now.

This time of year always causes a bit of upheaval in my day to day thought process. The coming holiday jazz is a source of anxiety--to be quite honest--even though I am usually happiest breaking bread and laughing around the table with my family at gatherings. Still, I get caught up in the rat race of gift buying and being strapped for scrilla never helps. It is like the ripping off of an old band-aid. Just do it, get in there, giver shit, get it done, faster, faster, faster. This year I will buy the obligatory fifty dollar ticket gifts but other than those, it is prints for all! I have been working on a final project for my class and am pretty happy with it so far. Check yer mailboxes homegirls and homeboys.

Other than the usual Christmas push and work jazz and printing and soup makery, all is well. There is not a Christmas decoration to be found in my humble abode but word has it that my mother has decked the halls and the papenate is already in icecream pails ready to be devoured. (Papenate [my low German lexicon leaves a bit to be desired] in attempted pinyin is a spiced miniature Christmas cookie that looks questioningly identical to that of bulk dog food). Every year I am skeptical about eating it, and every year I end up eating an entire pail. While I wouldn't say I am feeling quite up to par in the "Festive" category, I am getting there. Tonight my little lady Rabbi (Rebecca) is coming over for the annual "It is December first, and thus we must eat by candlelight" dinner. God knows what I will make. Maybe bow tie pasta with italian sausage with fennel and fresh spinach. I am sure she won't mind breaking veg for an annual hoo-ha of this sort, chez moi. She better; there will be candles after all!

Here is a year in review. Sort of, time allowing. In no particular order, sans captions. These are people, in places, with things that have influenced me in some way or other.

The Duke of NY.

2008-11-25T10:36:00.001-08:00

Islands of good in a sea of bad.

Good:

- My Matte Stephens 'The Duke of NY' fox print with the bizarre smoke came in the mail today! Thanks Grandma, it is awesome. I opened the door timidly wearing nothing but my Hoopers kimono and prayed to God that the man behind the voice, behind the door wouldn't be a psycho killer. The kind of killer who lures half dressed women out of their apartments by calling out, "Mail, Miss Kroeker!" or by playing a tape recording of a baby crying. I would SO fall for that. Anyway, it was only the mailman and we chilled for a bit and I talked about how awesome this Matte Stephen dude's art is. I think the mailman was pretty excited to carry on. Whatever.

- I got a new job at my old job. Come January I will be the soup lady. A soup cook, I am really psyched about it. After yesterday's melt down marathon, this is really good news at a really opportune time. Monday to Friday I will be in the kitchen, making my own hours, cleaning and chopping and stirring making soup for the nations. Well, for the Jews and the elderly Mennonite at least. Again, I am pretty excited to have weekends to spend in the Exchange making stuff beside the big windows that look down on Albert Street.

- Four days ago, I received keys to my first studio space in a building on Albert Street. Sula and I are sharing and I am really looking forward to the things that are going to go on in that room because of we will be working in such small quarters together. Magic, that's what's going to happen. If my art sucks I will just baby a tonne of plants along the sill. My art sucks. But my new print is lovely!

- Today, a draft for the final project at Martha street is due. 'City' is the theme and as broad as that is I am having a hard time coming up with something original to print keeping in mind we are only to use a four color registration and the stock sheet is 5X7. Yikes.

Bad:

- I didn't get to hang out with my friend Kelly's newborn, Madeline. Two more days, two more days. Nothing trumps holding a newborn. EVER. EVER. EVER. On that note, Laura, the Babies are Beautiful pin you sent to me is worn on my ex love's messenger bag with serious pride. Welcome back to this frivolous side of the blogosphere. Your presence and opinion were deeply missed.

- I am still poor as piss, but optimistic!

Okay, that is enough. I am off to the library to do some research on these potential topics for inspiration: Storks, bowties, fruit stands and mailmen for my final print. One more thing, my class is having a kind of silly art opening party at Martha Street Studio just behind the Concert Hall to showcase our collective work as participants in this year's Youth Outreach Program kindly funded by your tax dollars. We want to say thanks by hanging up our work, untying our aprons and serving champagne and cubes of sharp cheddar and brie to whomever decides to show up. That show will be on December 16th. I am a little embarrassed about my work but some of the other people in my class made some prints worth coming out for. I will post more on this later.

Best, M.

Waste not, want not.

2008-11-24T16:56:00.000-08:00

The only thing that pulled me through the day today was the thought of two very good women ascending upon this town like birds upon the shoulders of Saint Francis of Assisi come late December. I woke up today and cried for a little bit at the state of my finances. It was one of those mornings where you wake with great plans for all the meals, so many people to see, things to tick off a mental list, subjects to take risky photos of swirling around one's head, things to do, books to buy. Andrea made me promise to go out and buy a book today; one by her beloved, Cormac McCarthy, that she swore would change my taste in books forever and yet I couldn't get past the threshold. Not to mention the feeling of being locked in my apartment; guilty of treason. I betrayed my meagre budget this month by simply living and enjoying winter. Too many bottles of wine bought, extra food thrown out in garbage bags that will never degrade back into the earth. So much waste, so much want.

Anyway, I sat there crying until I had had enough blubbering and eventually padded to the kitchen in my socks, and grilled a cinnamon bun in butter just because I felt like it. To hell with my body. It is winter, I am switching gears. At one point I called my trusty mother and sobbed into the phone and swore her to secrecy of my pathetic state. She was ever gracious and patient and reflecting on her reassuring levelheadedness made me sob even harder because I am lucky to have her. I am writing this because for the most part, I think it is normal for uneducated twenty two year olds happily working at a dead-end job to cry in the interim until payday decides to make face again. It is not to say that I am unhappy where I am employed, I love my job and the daily interactions that I share with regulars is worth more than a paycheck six times it's usual size. With all this said, I have a few plans that sadly involve a hefty chunk of scrilla. Dolla dolla bills. Cashflow. Money.

I want to go to an art school somewhere great, or some school for design, printmaking, graphic design, furniture design, blah blah blah. I want to do a lot that could potentially come fairly naturally with proper schooling and practice, but none of this feels attainable today. So, I will have to reside to work a little harder than I had intended for winter and so be it. Chin up.

Mum, thanks for listening and talking to me like I was in Kindergarten. I probably sounded about five on the phone. It's cool now, I am okay. Still dancing with destitution, but okay. To all you steppers out there feeling poor, rearrange your bedroom; it helps. I did.

m

Golden Ticket.

2008-11-23T22:39:00.000-08:00

I wish I painted this. This is how I would like all my work to feel, to look. It is a reworked Ike and Tina album cover by someone and it is awesome. It is all I think about these days. Today in the kitchen, I thought about it for about an hour. I was so joyful standing there pausing for a moment to let the image flutter to a standstill in between stirring and sighing. How wonderful. I hope someone stops what they are doing to momentarily think about my art someday.

This post is inspired entirely by Miss Rabbi Budyk, who filled out this self-interview on her own post and I liked her style of Q&A so much so that I decided to try one on for size. I have been in a creative slump lately (since my bad printing experience) and this was just the ticket. Thanks for the Golden Ticket Babs; you are the Wonka to my Charlie. If you want to read her version click on this jazz. She is brilliant.

Self-Interview--
space: my bedroom, a sanctuary of sleep.
time: dipping into the blackest part of night.
sounds: radiators, three of them.
eats: chips, salt and vinegar crumbs.
liquids: the last of the red wine, from a glass.

DESCRIBE YOUR CHILDHOOD IN A SINGLE WORD:
unapologetic

WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A LITTLE GIRL?
I was a showman, the concept of 'to be seen and not heard' was just that, seen and not heard. I was known for being hyper sensitive, intuitive as a child to other peoples hurt even though I had no idea what to do with it, annoying, sheltered, and a story teller. I liked being in charge and still do. Being alone was imperative after school and on weekends, especially in winter when it got dark early enough that I could roam the bush before dinner. I wanted to be an artist, I wanted to be good at everything and wept when I wasn't. Things haven't change a bit.

DID YOU HAVE A FAVOURITE BOOK OR FAIRYTALE?
I read Laura Ingalls Wilder's 'Little House on the Prairie' series until each of the eight or so books turned to leather. I read before bed religiously (and still do). The first book that I read well was called 'Wheel Away', I was so psyched when I realized I could read. It was like stepping into this parallel universe that was way cooler than earth and school and swimming lessons. Reading man, yeah! The book 'Animalia' is totally insane. As far as a favorite book now, hard to say. Maybe Kundera's 'The Unbearable Lightness of Being', as I have read it the very most.

AND HOW HAS THIS CHILDHOOD AFFECTED YOU AS A GROWN-UP?
I believe everyone is entitled to a happy childhood and sadly not everybody gets that. I was one of the lucky ones. Anyone who knows me knows that. I was also one of the only 15 year olds still playing, when a lot kids in that age group were testing the sexual waters and doing drugs. I hope to always be open to explore things with a childlike curiosity, especially in art. Kids are perceptive and simple. I like that approach in order to maintain a full and balanced lifestyle, personally. It would not work for everyone I suppose, but that is what makes my upbringing unique. I feel like one of the lucky ones.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE ITEM OF CLOTHING?
My fifteen dollar Kimono. Whether I wear it dressed up or paired with nudity, I always feel like a million bucks. I also have one outfit that I like to pull out on VERY special occasions: The first dress JJ designed in my honor (I still haven't paid you, oh my God) with the Crow jacket. The Crow jacket is very special. I bought it off Michelle Isaac who found it at some emptying-my-closet-because-my-wife-of-one-hundred-years-just-died sale, for real cheap. It was one of those pieces that sings out your name in high pitched angelic notes from across a room. It doesn't matter if it's four thousand dollars or four dollars, you have to have it because it is an extension of yourself. When I wear that, I am one hundred percent myself.

DOES CREATIVITY COME EASILY TO YOU?
Naturally yes, easily no. Yes. I am hesitant to say yes. Seasonally, yes. If I think about it too much it dissipates like a mirage. It can be a tease, it can be the most rewarding thing I do. It is a vehicle of bliss and destruction. When I get too excited and caught up I come off pompous and arrogant, when I am frustrated I come upon windows of near genius or fluidity. Whatever creativity is to me on whatever day it is in whatever mood I am in, it moves me. The direction is irrelevant.

WHAT DID YOU LAST DREAM ABOUT?
It was terrible. Two married people and their baby, a great Gatsby house party, Josh in a three piece suit again, a dead woman who was not actually dead in the Gatsby house, just comatose. Natalia V's three children in striped onesies. It was bizarre and heartbreaking and beautiful and poetic.

WHERE DO YOU CONSIDER HOME?
My living room in winter, with another person lounging, a number of pairs of pants open a wee bit from overeating, wine on the coffee table an arms reach away, brie and bagette, vinyl on the turntable. There, or stationed around one of the matriarchal dining room tables belonging to the wise women of my family: Grandma, mum, Tante Daryl, Tante Marj. These women's tables have the ability to transform. We gather, stitch, bitch, eat, play scrabble, scrapbook, talk art, talk politics without a single Fox News reference or regurgitation, do the crossword in pen, talk orchids, talk shop, craft, cry, and cream our jeans over each other's foooooooooood. They are unreal. I feel very at home around those tables for very different reasons. One table represents nostalgia, one is safe, one represents laughter, and the other honesty.

WHAT DO YOU HOPE FOR?
Love and the unapologetic sacrifices I will make to keep it (real).

WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GREW UP?
First and foremost, an ambulence driver. Then I went through a big Chiropractor phase and then I wanted to be a fashion designer, graphic designer, botanist, baker, cook (I still do) and writer. Now I am not sure. Maybe a printer? There are not enough of them.

WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE?
Here, there. Oregon for a bit, Germany for sure.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO GO TO SLEEP TO?
Sawdust and Diamonds by Joanna Newsom.

WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO WAKE UP TO?
Every morning I wake to Yosh singing 'Woman at the Well' accompanied by Shannon Laliberte. It starts my day off on a joyful hop. If I am willing to wake up on time I will sing along. If not, I don't.

TELL US A SECRET:
I never said goodbye to James and I feel horrible. I want to cross country ski and quit all my other hobbies and commitments. I just want to ski by myself on the river.

WHAT WAS YOUR BEST, SCARIEST HALLOWEEN COSTUME EVER?
Mad Scientist, Grade Three; hands down. There was even a set of ears that you could put on like an uncomfortable hand band that had a string you could pull back and forth through the ears. I had a bald cap and drowned in one of my Dad's rejected Sunday suits and a jar of red Kool-Aid to complete the look. I felt so ahead, so cool.

BAM, YOU HAVE FIVE CHILDREN. NAME THEM.

I only want four:
- First born, daughter: Frances
- Second born, son: Magnus
- Third born, twin, son: Elliott
- Third born, twin, daughter: Mave

Bon nuit, M. Thanks Rabbi, you're the boss.

Babe kid.

2008-11-21T16:29:00.000-08:00

This is Kaleb. He is my cousin and I think he is pretty much the shit. No, he is the shit. He is three. He is James and Christine's wee one and soon to be a big brother. More babies, yes; these people should keep having babies.

Knowing you, knowing me.

2008-11-21T16:19:00.000-08:00

My dear Lo,

I saw this. I thought of you. Because of this and the great feeling of sadness I felt upon seeing it, I am going to go put on another pot of tea and finish your letter once and for all. I wish I would have that gentle knowing inside me that I would be at your Christmas table this December. Until we see each other again, here is a short letter, a promise of a longer one in the mail, and one great mustache. I miss you.

With love, Madge.

Stolen from The Selby. Without permission, as always.

Classwork only cupboard.

2008-11-21T15:07:00.001-08:00

My hands are splattered with mint green here and raspberry red there. I started putting my freshly burnt silk screens to work yesterday at Martha Street in the upstairs studio and fought back tears the entire three hour class. It was just Michelle, the sixteen year old anarchist boy (who I found out loves Kernels popcorn), and some dude named Jan. Jan pronounced 'Yawn'. Yawn. We worked at different paces and I couldn't get the flooding technique down. As it turns out my left hand is weaker than my right. Funny, the boys had no problem. It ticked me off as I always thought I had strong hands. Something was affecting my art making and I was angry and frustrated because of it. Acting strangely identical to the hyper-sensitive twelve year old girl in the Gap overalls I thought I left in my past was a gentle reminder to me that no matter how much we convince ourselves that we have changed, we are who we are. We will be who we will be. So there, I still fought back the tears for the simple reason that I wasn't good at something I thought should come naturally off the hop. Eventually I got it, after my new teacher brusquely intervened (and was a giant jerk about it). SORRRRRRY. My color choices were inspired by thoughts of Christie, Erin and Janique. Anyone reading this who knows those beauties can guess what I chose according to their personalities: Mint, chartreuse and dusty rose. Obviously. The colors were not used all at once of course, but for separate prints. It was quite fun opening up that 'Classwork Only' cupboard and seeing sixty plus inks to choose from. It was like a little window of the Lord being opened up in a dramatic gush of cool seaside air with sparkles and gold dust highlighted by some unseen background orchestra. Do you ever experience those 'aggggggggh ha' moments? I do not have them enough.

It was a breath of fresh air in all my angst. That will be my heaven; a cupboard full of inks and a kind art teacher putting an index finger under my chin hanging open in awe and saying, "go ahead, gem; knock 'em dead with your chaotic colors". And I did. And I did. And I did.

And I will (in my heaven). My heaven will also have long tables laden with food and candles and Sufjan Stevens singing "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" over and over and over again with a banjo in some low lit corner.

Anyway, It was great fun. Silk screening at long last; save for the jerk teacher and the almost tears.

Blah, no news is good news.

Judy the beauty.

2008-11-16T14:42:00.000-08:00

Marry me, beautiful yellow haired suspender clad man.

Too bad I am not dating right now. The train of opportunity carrying it's weight in good looking men rolled through the Graffiti Gallery last night and for the better part of the evening I stood and stared at people. Standing in the middle of the art show chaos, dipping gingersnaps in coffee, staring. My prowling boots were uncontrolable. To Andrea Wong, Michelle and Sea Bass, please pardon my state of distraction. It couldn't be helped.

More to come.

Foul ball, Jeff Landry.

2008-11-13T10:26:00.000-08:00

"I will have two eggs basted medium please, no toast, back bacon and coffee with room. And water, brilliant. Thank you".

Alfie walked into the bakery wearing my aunt's old winter coat with the fur-trimmed hood up just as I was leaving and he whisked me and my winter ride up and away in the giant right hand drive truck that makes everyone smile. I couldn't help but smile, sitting high up in the cab watching one of my best friends at the wheel shifting with ease out of the corner of my eye. We drove and I counted smiles of people taking a moment from side stepping puddles and slop like ponies on the sidewalk to stare.

We ate our greasy breakfast at an ungainly pace, too fast for eleven in the morning but it couldn't be helped. The back bacon was delicious. Last night I barely got two and a half hours of sleep. My conscience kept me up for most of the night until some creases were smoothed over in a torrent of text messages being hurled across the city like a rainstorm of bullets. Hurtful, efficient bullets. Eventually, I swallowed my pride and admitted defeat, stepped down from the high horse in my head and hung my head in shame. Self-righteous, self-absorbed, self-pitying, self-centered. Self, self, self, no room in the Inn. I am sorry. I slept at last as the words escaped both out of my lungs aloud to myself in the sleepy apartment and as they went soaring through the air to some one else's sleepy apartment.

I don't feel better, but I don't feel worse. My throat is itchy today. No amount of clearing or fake coughing or tea seem to help.

There was a fake mustache stuck to my desk leftover from the bachelorette party I hosted in September and without thinking I peeled it off and promptly stuck it to my face. I am still wearing it, even though it feels ridiculous. I don't know why I wrote that. The scratchiness matches the scratchiness of my throat. It is stuck back to the desk. Looking at it makes me think of Laura and the piles of letters I have, not quite complete, but soon to be sent eastwards.

Today I am going to learn silk screen and I am really excited. The last time I silk screened was back in Grade Nine when all I could think about was Jeff Landry and his trademark laugh that belonged to that of a dog. A big, dopey, friendly dog. I was too preoccupied with this pubescent vision to focus on something that could someday be my bread and butter. Oh Jeff Landry, you distracted me so well and singlehandedly stole my hand-holding virginity under a stained Mickey Mouse blanket in your basement when I was 15. You tried so hard to seduce me that night, to lure me into your bedroom in Morris, Manitoba for a hardcore makeout session during a quick movie intermission. You were so confident that your charm, straight teeth and hand holding abilities would be all the convincing I would need to up the ante. I was pious and stubborn as all get out--even at that age--and took to the safety of the burber carpet of your bedroom floor in lieu of the gross, unmade bed. Jeff, you gave up pretty quickly and we eventually went back to the family room. Billy and Robin were making out so hard it was laughable. I think I erupted at the sight of them and at that moment knew I was not cut out to be a teenage tart or a practicing Lolita by any means. At 15 I still wanted to climb trees and be Harriet the Spy.

I still do.

My throat isn't itchy anymore. Thanks for distracting me Jeff Landry, but tonight I will only have eyes for the lesson.

School work.

2008-11-10T11:06:00.000-08:00

My second cousin and friend Chris invited me to his school for a project he is working on for his Graphic Design program at the Red River Princess campus. His project, still in the newborn stages of production is based on ladies who ride bicycles. I rode down, bejeweled and lipsticked and fur hatted and shined up old Jessica Alba for her first legitimate photo shoot. Pictures to come. This is me killing time in the empty classroom while he was accounted for in attendance one door down.

Post script: Dear Grandma, I took the liberty of expecting yet another cheque at Christmas Eve inside an MCC sale mitten and went ahead and ordered the Fox print that I posted yesterday. Thank you for the wonderful piece of art for Christmas Grandma and Grandpa, you (and your fifty dollar bill) have great taste in art, if I may be so bold.

I love you two gems, Megsie.

Post post script: Grandma, let's play Scrabble soon and eat shnudda zoup please. I have been practicing like mental, and I am going to kick your sweet sweet ass.

Post post post script: Here are some pictures of my home taken just a quick minute ago. For interests sake. I was happily bored this afternoon. Days off at my house are a rarity and usually end up spent reading, dressing up in fakey mustaches and top hats, cooking, baking, or cleaning. This morning I woke up early early to clean, make breakfast, make a pot of tea and sip from a china teacup while catching up on the only TV show I watch, Gossip Girl, at my kitchen table. Wonderful day.

Fox thought.

2008-11-09T14:07:00.000-08:00

Today I worked for eight hours in complete silence. I have never done that before. It is not to say that I was upset or angry or even the slightest bit bothered, I just needed a quiet day. So I sliced cucumbers and tomatoes and made three kinds of salad dressing and kneaded dough and sprinkled coconut on things and stirred five gallon pails of stuff in utter silence. It was nice hearing my hands at work. Everyone else was thrown for a loop by my tranquility and were quiet as well. Four pairs of hands working at once.

For the better part of the morning I was quite blank, content simply stirring and ticking things off my list one contented tick at a time; smiling a modest smile, getting shit done in the kitchen of the bakery with my apron getting filthier as the hour hand pressed on into the day. In the afternoon I spent a great deal of time thinking about graphic design and printing and printmaking and one illustration by Matte Stephens in particular.

This untitled image bobbed around the forefront of my head for a number of hours today and it's not the first time I have spent time thinking about it either. For the past few days I have come back to it, turned it over and over in my head as if this is the end-all be-all of art. It is just a simple suit clad fox with graphic, colorful smoke pouring out of his smoking pipe but it has wedged itself on some prized showcase shelf in my head. I don't know what it is about it; I cannot for the life of me put my finger on it. But I like it and I wanted to share it.

I wish I wasn't so careful and obsessive when it comes to freehand drawing. The Fox illustration is such a simple piece if you think of it and really look at it. The colors would be very time consuming to mix just so, to find the perfect blend of pure color and dirty color but still nothing comes when I sit down to draw. This is just something I have been frustrated with lately. Painting is easier, but this drawing business is something else altogether. Sometimes on days like today when my hands are setting the pace of my thought process with menial tasks like mincing garlic or chopping parsley or scrubbing cast iron, I let myself dream about making a living (paycheck to paycheck of course) doing something I love like printmaking, or cooking or illustrating. I often forget that people actually get paid for those things. Wild.

All of this is meaningless, I just felt like writing it down.

Last things last.

2008-11-06T20:55:00.000-08:00

Exhibit A.)

Exhibit B.)

First things first.

Exhibit A.) These people are babes. Grey scale dream couple. God bless Europe and Rio.

Exhibit B.) Those pants. Those legs. Goodness gracious, what a pair of pins for a man. Home boy knows what's up.

Last things last.

First, I need to stop stuffing my face with Saltines and eat something straight up proper. No balogna, right JJ? Right.
Second, I need to sleep one night without coughing up a lung. That would be nice.

At home with staying home.

2008-11-06T19:00:00.000-08:00

On Monday I was riding around town jacketless, toqueless, gloveless, sockless, trying to soak up the last of the year's warmth. Today I rode around town with slits for eyes, gloved, scarfed, toqued, helmeted, layered, rain geared, spandexed, trying to dodge tidal waves and car doors and gale force winds. I have never been as psyched on biking as I am today. Just to spite the weather, I suited up and hopped on my freshly tuned bicycle and ripped around town all afternoon before heading down to Martha Street studio for a few hours of printing.

It felt damn good to waltz into the basement soaked to the bone, everything messy and splattered--my cycling shoes near ruined--and receive two curt nods of approval from the anarchist enthusiasts in my class who also rode down, considering the treacherous conditions. Approval is not the reason I cycle. It is charming, but I ride because the rush of whipping in between traffic during rush hour and skidding effortlessly in the fresh slush blanketing our city behind buses and being pulled forward by the wind while riding fixed is an addiction. It is always an upper, no matter how close to death I come. I usually have a pretty solid course mapped out in my head when I leave Martha Street and head for home, but today I chose to let the wind take the wheel. Besides, doing corners and cutting through alleyways on my summer slicks in the snow is never a good idea. A fierce south tailwind took me all the way down Main and I felt every bit a salmon swimming against stream. People laughed at me from the inside warmth of their cars but it felt really nice to know I was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Learning bike mechanics and being able to talk shop with fellow enthusiasts has been the best thing to happen to me this year. There is such a sense of placement and self worth that comes with owning and riding a fixed gear bicycle. If you ride one, you know that feeling. It springs and swells from a foreign place deep down. Sorry to get all uppity over this, but really, the fluidity and oneness that comes from riding direct drive is different from anything I have ever experienced.

There was just something that came over me today about. I am not sure if it was the arrival of snow that triggered something inside of my brain or if it acted as a reminder of the fiscal year to date. Shit went down last winter and cycling was my form of therapy. No bones about it. When I lost majority of (who I thought were) my friends and my reputation along with them, my appreciation for moments of happiness and lightness that came out of that season of absolute solitude sky rocketed. Even though those stormy swells have long calmed, that appreciation for time spent alone has remained.

Two or so months ago I dumpstered this giant black framed white cork board as wide as my arm span and as tall as my sister. I carried it home from the Village on my back and propped it against the wall above my couch. It didn't take long for me to run out of pins. Slowly but surely it has been filled with bits and pieces that make me laugh aloud, photos that I have printed under the watchful eye of Jane, letters sent to me from my gal Loco in Montreal, a feather, clippings, letters from Beth, negatives, one-offs of prints that I have made at Martha, a prized love letter that a mysterious bike courier tucked into my back spokes of my bicycle, a childhood Swiss necklace from Janique, things that remind me of Rabbi, pictures of Erin and I, a tape measure, things that remind me of JJ, pictures of Janique, Will, James and I at Falcon Beach in summer; things like that. Looking at it when I wash dishes or just pass from room to room in my apartment makes me smile. It has been a year of growth, rejection, heartbreak, laughter, missing, sadness, inspiration, rebirth, learning, love, understanding, creativity, production, drama, healing.

I am twenty two and I know myself. This has been the first year that I truly know myself. My personality is no longer a grab bag and the roots of my values, work ethic and beliefs are winding deeper than ever before. New, but strong. I don't know if it took being broken open in a cafe and humiliated last Winter, or high tailing it to Switzerland with the only goal being to become a nameless, reputationless, faceless, languageless ghost, or if it was being heart broken by a man who I was ready to move mountains for. Whatever it was, all of these things were humbling and good for me. Five months ago I never would have thought I would be wearing an apron and inking up phonebooks making art in a studio, being bossy at Art City, eating pad thai in a warm dining room with a woman who singlehandedly changed my life in a single night, having breakfast with another woman who has also changed my life by being gracious, curling up beside a lady who has been my best friend all along and comparing battle wounds, writing gospel songs in a giant sun porch with the best man friend a girl could ever find, or looking forward to a reclusive winter holed up on Albert street elbow to elbow with fellow collaborating artists.

All of these things went through my head at a lightening pace today while riding home. Winter hath arriveth and I am alive. Alive and happy. It feels good. All of this feels good.

I am without words today and have no idea how to translate my sweeping thankfulness for all of these things and then some. Last year at this time I was learning to play chess with an Australian babe in Berlin. We hauled a cushioned receiving bench away from the wall in the hall of our hostel and parked it and set up the ancient chess set. Our legs straddling it and our feet wound around the skinny legs like two silly kids on a floral piano bench at the reject table at Christmas. A bottle of wine passed back and forth from my hand to his hand to my hand to his hand with every move and I retained nothing of the lesson except for the sweet memory of it. Funny, as much as a brilliant trip as it was with Rabbi and Kitty, I am psyched to be home. Europe will always be there, this feeling will not.

I am twenty two and at home with the idea of staying home.

MARGARET.

Turning Amish.

2008-10-29T18:41:00.000-07:00

Tonight Art City hosted a fashion show and dance jam for kids in the West End community. I left the shop early to zip down just in time for the fashion show. Kids paraded down a catwalk lined by haunted rainbow trees with obvious pride, the art stars hogged the mic, it smelled sweaty, the floor was sticky from spilled apple juice and popcorn crumbs, and it was brilliant.

I went dressed as an Amish matriarch thanks to Josh's mom, who kindly sent costumes all the way from Amish country in Ohio. A couple of days ago while volunteering for Art City for the first time, in between all the chaos of sewing costumes and a 20x20 bizarre quilt for the body of a giant paper mâche witch head, we test drove our His and Hers costumes at the neighborhood grocery store. I have to hand it to the Amish, it is really hard to be stoic while trying to decide between the tuna or the salmon for a pretend husband's lunch in a grocery aisle. Any how, the outfits were well received by the general public and they were tonight as well. A 45 year old mermaid approached me at one point during the fashion show and said, "You know, there is an Amish man in the crowd tonight; it could be a good match". Sadly it could have been but our unique attire was a premeditated deal and not fate. Someday my Amish prince will come.

I hiked up my demure navy dress with the subtle rose overlay and danced my face off with a million neighborhood kids to the likes of Usher, Avril, Gwen, Beyonce, Hot Chip, Peter Bjorn and John, Snoop and Rhianna to say the least. 'Twas a nice evening and my first enjoyable Halloween in a long while.

From the sounds of things, tomorrow I might attend a Blood Bath party at the Boozecan (same place where the art show was). Apparently, everyone has to wear white and at some point in the evening someone will throw 5 gallon pails of fake blood over the entire crowd when we are too busy dancing to notice. Sounds like one for the books.

Happy Halloween. Good things are happening. November looks clear.

Margaret.

Below are some haggard photos of myself as an Amish matriarch in my room shortly after arriving home, post dance jam. Can you say Hildebrand or what? My simple face rocked that bonnet so hard, a few people had no idea I was even in costume. I went to Cafe 22 in costume to show Rabbi my handiwork and her, Shira and Meech took one glance and passed it off as avant-garde. What does that say about my usual gear then? Oh dear.Also, this morning I found a bunch of photos on the internet taken by Aaron from last night. Grandma, I sewed that giant witch's quilt/dress, no biggie. Enjoy. Apparently I sure did. I need to learn to dance properly.

Fast times.

2008-10-28T12:29:00.001-07:00

I wish I had this. Two people inside a giant sweater, top bun peaking out, good worn-in boyfriend jeans/belt, washing machine in the kitchen, lover in stripes. The whole nine yards. All that jazz. I want it.

Today has been busy and is going to get busier. Woke up at 5:30 to make tea and get out the door to open the bakery in time. Made two deliveries before nine, came back, drank a cup of coffee, shot the shit with my favorite customers: Bunny (who is a 70 year old man) and Margaret (84 year old knobbly knuckled Jew who is spry as a spring chicken) at the round table on my fifteen. Then came home, drove all over the city with Yannick to look for the perfect reading chair. Found the perfect reading chair on the opposite end of the city but couldn't fit it and the matching bird-of-paradise covered hassock into the car. Drove home frowning, warmed up the leftover taco's from last night's dinner and watched parts 3-8 of the Secret Garden on youtube. Exciting. My lady Michelle Hooey is coming at three for a lesson in simple bicycle maintenance and then it is off to our printmaking class at Martha street studio. After class, I am zipping to The Tallest Poppy for Meg's goodbye party and then am meeting Janessa at the University to print photos. Holy. The entire week is shaping up to be the same pace. Breakneck. My favorite pace of all.

Gotta run, wash the dishes and then the floor. If you find any handsome devils in striped shirts, send them my direction.

Left wanting, Margaret.

post script: photo jacked from The Selby. I don't know how to link websites. Can someone please enlighten me? Thanks.

Frin and Fran.

2008-10-25T21:36:00.000-07:00

Had a bachelorette this evening. It was all around mellow. Ran into Billy and Megs, we had a round of drinks in fellowship. It was nice. Skipped out early on the bachelorette thanks to a crisis at the shop in the Exchange involving three ballin' bartenders from Brandon. They were nice about the fact that I sent one of their bags filled with three hundred dollars worth of purchases home with a family from the country. Oops. Long story short, we figured it out and Erin presented me with a new pair of glasses intended for Christmas. She knew I could never wait that long. (I can NEVER wait that long). She can never wait that long.

Thanks sug, I am pysched on these glasses.

Last night I sat cross-legged against Katie and Rabbi while watching a babe bluegrass band called The Magnificent Sevens play. It was magical. Alfie biked beside me all the way home. It was nice. Richard was there, slipping Joni M albums onto my turntable. Andrew and Alfie were there too. Rebecca and I kneeled in the kitchen laughing hysterically over nothing and everything. It was really nice. A sociopath and I shot the shit in front of one hundred disastrous people dancing at Whiskey Dicks. They stared, we stared. Us in our slim fit jeans and cotton t shirts and leather jackets, them in their short jersey dresses and popped double collars and the frosted tips. Two worlds divided by a single fence. It was (kind of) nice.

Going to watch 'American Beauty' alone. It's just that kind of Saturday night.
These are my new glasses. Thanks Frin. Love you.

Frances.

A half liter a day keeps the witches at bay.

2008-10-20T21:54:00.000-07:00

Goodness me Beth, my apartment smells like fresh cut lilies. Maybe that is because there are fresh cut lilies sitting on my round coffee table.

Rabbi and I just arrived home to our separate abodes after a night spent drinking half liters in a dark cafe. We sat inappropriately and I complained about the music three times. The man with the shaved head working in the cardigan from the Bay tried to please us by changing the music three times from hip hop to elevator to euro groove and back to elevator and eventually I threw up my hands in despair and stopped complaining. Beth I check your post everyday and everyday I write you another letter. There are many letters, clippings, books, news items, feathers, leaves, photos, craft projects and magazine rippings gathering dust in the corners of my home. It is safe to say that you should be able to expect something in the next few days. I hate deadlines, but for you I am willing to set some boundaries for myself. Mail Beth's jazz, Madge. Just mail it. Just mail it, already. Thank you for your drawing. I am going to post it because I love it and because you nailed it. Lilies in the air, floating in front of my nose, hints of my favorite smell on my wine lips. Thank you is not enough, again.

Beth drew the picture at the very bottom of all this babble. I hope it makes her blush. Someone I do not like anymore took the photograph it is based upon, but her rendition made me fall in love with the image again. Thank you is not enough Beth. How do you know how to give of yourself so well? So beautifully? Giving and timing are your gifts. Your forte.

I need to learn giving and timing this year.

One year ago today I was at Anne Frank's house dragging my fingers along her wallpaper just trying to remember everything. Trying to soak in every floorboard and every magazine clipping she taped to the wall in loving desperation and in boredom. I was in Amsterdam wearing a stupid fur hat and a red jacket with a side braid, walking and touching the walls of Anne Frank's broom closet of a bedroom. I walked a lot. Rebecca to my right, Kit to my left, we were always walking. I ate a lot of cheese, drank one hundred espresso, read foreign magazines, smoked cigarettes beside canals, sat on benches for three hours and watched the boats go lazily past, drank two euro bottles of wine straight from brown paper bags and never felt better. I was snapping children in bus shelters with the whitest of white hair, singing without a parental guide in sight. I was at the Stay Okay hostel with the orange furniture that Erin would have loved if she would have seen it and was leaning my arms on the table with the candles and the mismatched cafe chairs and making eye contact with these two stand-in sisters at night.

So many times a day I go back to that cafe in my head, and daydream about the feel, the smell, the music playing, the handsome men pouring espresso with flicks of the wrist flashing, euros dropping into the tin change basins (our hands never touching European hands like they did and do in Canada). I almost forgot about that exchange (or lack thereof) until today when I caught myself daydreaming about Amsterdam while doling some lady's change directly into her palm. What a luxury that is as a shopper in Canada: coin exchange from palm to palm. Don't take it for granted. Doorknobs were a foot higher than we were accustomed to, not to mention the sparing eye contact and the men! The men were different too. It was easy to stand in a room and choose someone to fall in love with. They were all lovable and strange and new.

Slouching low, low, low in the red booth with Rebecca made me want to go back, but also made me want to move forward. Last year at this time I had no idea I would be where I am today. Art shows and new friends, crumpled letters being exchanged between stranger's hands in a dark hall, teacups arriving in the mail, and one very broken heart were all the things forcing me to fall in love with all the unknown parts that had been inside of me all along: making art, bantering with influential people, learning to build a wheel, tuning my own bicycle because I had no other options, meeting artists, doing laps in white-washed studios with my mouth agape in bewilderment, befriending authors, attending bourgeois book signings with my best friend, making a proper espresso, quitting a job I hate, singing in front of people, karaoking, printing photos with a new friend, wanting to go to art school for real, jamming in a great living room, playing soccer (even if it was a one time deal), learning to love my body, relaxing, speeding up, slowing down, appreciating nakedness, appreciating clothing, falling in love, falling out of love, traveling twice, hitting rock bottom on a 10 mile run in the Alps, taking a risk and applying for something I knew I would love, jumping into printmaking (blindly), cooking for bigger groups of people, making music, prioritizing, saying goodbye to best friends, maturing, blossoming.

All of these are examples of lessons learned, or lessons in the making. What a year it has been. I finally feel I am coming into my own and God only knows where I will be one year from today. All I know is thanksgiving. Today I am pleased, tomorrow I think I will be as well. Next year, who knows.

Test strips.

2008-10-19T21:05:00.001-07:00

Devendra is playing. Clean hair is hanging past the shoulders at long last, Janique is eating chips daintily over Aggy Dean's glossy mug plastered across the front page of POP magazine in the corner and Jane B. is locked away in the darkroom. I was just in my own small darkroom, dragging fingers of a feather's weight over glossy white photo paper checking and rechecking before exposing it. Jane(ssa) is teaching me to print photos today. We snuck into the basement of the Photography faculty and she handed a box of paper over to me like the little boy with the five loaves and two fish. I won't make 5000 prints today, but I made three and am pretty excited about it.

Rabbi, I know my homework was to place Suf's Seven Swans album on my turntable, dim the lights, light some candles, draw a bath and soak, but this opportunity seemed just a bit more enticing. So many opportunities at opportune times this week. Don't fret pet, tomorrow we will lock eyes and interdigitate our fingers over a bottle of Cousin's finest vin rouge.

With love and unaccustomed eyesight, Madgeburg.

Red dots of joyfulness.

2008-10-18T21:23:00.000-07:00

All you steppers out there lookin' sharp: thank you one hundred dollar bills flying through the air like one hundred seagulls; I have no other way of putting it. I am feeling a great lot of thankfulness. Thank you for coming, standing awkwardly, being fish out of water, being too cool, not being cool enough, being supportive, making fun of the other artists (DAD), spilling wine, laughing, craning necks, looking at my photography with your noses an inch away just trying to understand why I chose what I chose. Thank you BETHHHHHHHHHH for the stunning flowers sent all the way from two provinces to the west. HO-ly. I cried upon collection. I was floored. You are incredible. Thank you.

Thank you mum for buying the one print for your bathroom that I thought no one would notice. Thank you Marj, Jim, Rick, Karen, Grandpa, Grandma, Daryl, Pete and lady (I was too faded to remember a name), Jenny, Erin, Derek, Rabbi, Andrew, Meach, Shira, Janique, Josh, Janessa, Alfie, Mum and Dad and er'body else who booked off and made an appearance even though there were one hundred other things going on in the city yesterday. So many times last night I stood back to stop dancing or walking or drinking to just look at everybody being so joyful in that gross, white washed room. Just stop to watch everybody who came out to support somebody, not necessarily me. But for those of you who made time for me, I am so grateful. Thank you. The show was a great success. All of the people on my mental checklist came and were duly ticked off in thanksgiving. Four of six pieces were claimed and I am psyched to think of my prints in these peoples' bedrooms and bathrooms and living rooms and whatnot.

Loco and JJ, you were duly missed as well and your respective phone calls made me choke up when it came time to press the number seven on my mobile's keypad to delete your hopeful and well-wishing singsong voices. It wasn't the same without the two of you. The dance floors are never the same without you two. We did cut a rug until 4:30, but it is never the same.

Here are some photos courtesy of my mother. I was very joyful in all of them.

Ich Habe Genug pt. 2

2008-10-14T19:44:00.000-07:00

Ich Habe Genug. I have enough. Stop.

This was running through my brain today in the studio while going back and forth from my work table to the paper bath to the ink station to the press. Apparently, I have fine inking skills. It must be said, my mother taught me everything I know. I like to roll out the ink at a ferocious pace with my head tilted an angle in order to see the ink turned into velvet. If you listen really close, you can hear when it is ready. Who needs eyesight anyways. I printed seven pieces from a giant linocut and was delighted with every single one. Outlines in the whitest of white of seven men leaning against a wall in 1978 in the blackest of ink came to be today. Like an apparition out of thin air. Stop.

I had such a terrible day today. It started out far too early for my own good. 5:30 early, and I drove the giant bread truck with such a vengeance even I hadn't a clue what came over me. My knuckles were white and clutching the steering wheel but my driving gloves didn't give me away for even a minute. Two loads and twenty million racks of multigrain and harvest home bread later, I finished my shift still under a dark cloud and raced home to pick up film to drop at Lab Works in order for it to be printed in time. I made a Kim Kroeker worthy lunch (grilled cheese on harvest home, home made tomato soup from my mum) and ate hurriedly as well. I hate rushing when I am eating. Eating should be done slowly in order to savor and remember such goodness. No goodness at my table today. I swallowed (barely) and raced to the Exchange to pick up prints and ran into Ruthless on the street and collapsed in his embrace. Then I raced home on Jessica Alba and cut, matted, cropped, dusted, Windexed, framed, screwed, and fussed over my submission for the art show. In all of my hurrying, I managed to sob for three minutes to Erin on the phone thanks to a print crisis, pack up my stuff, race BACK to the Exchange and think of ideas for my class. Stop.

Suffice is to say, walking into the studio fifteen minutes late carrying four frames in a giant Christmas gift bag was a breath of fresh air. I dropped my shit, peeled of layers, plunked down beside my new friend Michelle (who is unreal), threw on my apron, doused paint thinner on my rag and got busy. I love that place. I love the pace, I love my immediate ease upon entering, I love the smell, I love the people. Today the aforementioned anarchist kid brought in a container of doughnuts that he had dumpstered behind Safeway in the Village. I ate one because he was watching and I wanted him to think I was cool. It was stale, but not terrible. I guess I passed the test because later on he weaseled up beside me as I was rolling and re-rolling with the power of a thousand starved demons and invited me to his show at the Mondragon. Cute. Anarchist date. Or not. Stop.

My head aches again from the turpentine. Rabbi force fed me carrots, toast and red wine to help my pain but as lovely as her attention was, it still hurts. There are not a lot of places I love more than Rebecca's apartment in Fall. Candles burning, Charlotte Gainsbourg playing, tea steeping, wine breathing, couches sagging, light dancing, faux fires raging. I love it and I love her. Thank you for taking care of me Sister Budyk. You would make a great nun. One great badass nun. Stop.

Time to rest. Stop.
Madge.

Photographic suicide.

2008-10-08T22:19:00.000-07:00

Blown up photographs laid out just so across three apartment floors. Familiar heads are bent over in examination, trying hard to conjure up something, anything. Constructive criticism cuts like the sharpest knife and yet I still am able to walk away from it all feeling grateful for these people brave enough to clear their throats and pinpoint what doesn't work, and what does. The show my work will be showcased in is a mere nine days away and I feel like I am free falling. My body feels like it was pushed out of a plane, a million feet above sea level; kicked in the behind by a fifty-something man's Reebok and I am heading straight for solid earth with nothing to break my fall except the sheer excitement of the unknown. I cried openly, blatantly in Para Mix today while showing my sister my enlargements. Customers stared, I didn't care.

Nervousness translates.

I am excited. If anything, I hope this translates.

Huffing on Tuesdays.

2008-10-07T18:53:00.000-07:00

My head aches from all the paint thinner. What a wonderful welcomed ache. I don't care that this is yet another post about my class, I really don't, I am just plum excited. Today Billie Holiday set the pace of the studio for this girl. First Billie to start off the evening and then Sujan Stevens and Ratatat to close the night with a dance jam. Tying my "We should do this more often" printing apron around my waist into a loopy bow felt good and right, and pulling my first print through the press felt really good. Really, really good. I can't describe how it feels really. If you print, then you know. First there is resistance as the pressure builds, then there is the real build up as the press nears closer and begins to emboss, the blankets seize under the weight, and then there is a pop that surprised me every time it came. And I printed about six things and still my shoulder jerked back in glee every single time. My first few monoprints were simple in composition: black and white, clean lined, busy, unruly, streamlined. Sort of an extension of myself, I guess. My character traits embossed on japanese rice paper. Every thing was inspected at an arms length, at an angle, tilted towards the light with timidity. "Too little ink", "too much ink", "uneven distribution, Madge", "try again", "better now, go again, slower", a little laughter with everyone feeding off everyone else, "brilliant", "go ahead, go again. It's fun, no?". Yes, it is the most fun I have ever had.

I am hemming and hawing about what to say. Articulation is impossible at this time because my veins are coursing with coffee with a whisper of cream and sugar, my stomach digesting Tante Daryl's mental tamales, and my head is hazy from all the turpentine. I was put on scraper and roller cleaning duty and was happily holed up in a room with a giant turpentine bath for about ten minutes. Being elbow deep in a sea of poison for that long will go to anyone's head. Again, what a welcomed ache. I cannot stop grinning. I couldn't then and I cannot now. All this is just too long overdue.

Turning the wheel on the press was exactly how I imagined turning the helm of a sailing ship to be. Today I was Rose of the printing press and it was invariably satisfying, I must say. The striking white haired, white toothed Inga from Iceland started off the class with a monoprint demonstration on our existing linocuts from last class using a simple soft roller technique. I liked her style. If you are ever wondering what to do with your outdated phonebooks, call Inga. That lady knows how to ink up a phonebook. In between slashing pages upon pages with excess ink, she showed us how to set the pressure of the press down to a finger's width in broken English and how to set up and tear down our areas. She showed us how to soak paper and roll it out with someone's abandoned rolling pin on a table heaping with muslin, and how to shade and layer to create an illusion of depth on our prints. The last colored monoprint I did came out a wild, garbled mess of mustard yellow and fushia ink. I liked it but preferred the plain black to the color. Practice, practice, practice, I guess. The perfectionist within just wants to be good right off the hop. Patience, patience, patience, I guess.

Candles and vinyl and an email to JJ and a letter to Loco call. My drawing pad beckons, tea steeps in the yellow kitchen. How on earth does one go about putting a damper on the effects of caffeine? Dear me. Looking down at my lap, my ex boyfriend's jeans have taken their first hit of ink. One tiny streak of mustard yellow is one titanic reminder that I am better off alone. Jack eventually fell off the floating door and died. Rose stayed on the floating door and ended up alone. Alive, but alone. I am alive and alone. She got over it, forgot about him, side saddled a horse on a beach somewhere and moved on. So will I. One ink stain at a time, I am moving along; grinning.

The people in my class call me Madge. Even the sixteen year old anarchist kid who claims he "hates art", he calls me Madge too. I really like the way it sounds coming out of his mouth, "Madge".

Queen of the Singles Table.

2008-10-05T19:07:00.000-07:00

Holy holy holy. Nothing gets me going these days more than Chad VanGaalen does. The first song 'Willow Tree' off his latest album, "Soft Airplane" just about does me in. I listened to it eight hundred times today in the country. Chad is a musician from Calgary who is inspired by drawing in his basement, his number one love, and their number one love child, Ezzy. Goodness.

The other day at my first printmaking class at Martha Street studio while my head was bent in concentration, while my eyes were following the unruly course taking place on the linocut in front of me, while my hands attempted to steer the chisel into some sort of tangible relief, while my cheeks flushed half in pleasure and half in frustration, someone slipped José Gonzalez into the stereo when no one was looking and I coincidentally slipped into this incredible universe where nothing in the world mattered except what was taking place before my very eyes. Everyone else in the studio--along with any hesitation or trepidation I had had initially--crept out the back door of my head and there I sat, in a trance, singlehandedly delivered into this unknown utopia by José. Smiling. Smiling contentedly as strips and coils of linoleum flew off my work table and piled around my stool like premature snow banks. "Slow down Meg. Good composition, but slow down. Enjoy" was tossed over my shoulder by my teacher. Little did he know I WAS working slowly; as slowly as my hunger for that room, for those tools, for those people, for those paints, for those archaic presses, for those babes toting giant silk screens to and fro in the corner of my eye, for those smells, for those thousand dollar prints drying to my right, for those words of encouragement I have been dying for ever since I could hold a crayon. I was making art painstakingly slow and enjoying every minute of it.

I don't remember the last time I have felt this/that happy. Today as six of us sat around the dinner table in the country poking at our leftover soup and buns, my mum was wracking her brain trying to think of her biggest regret as a parent. Laughingly, I suggested, "a lack of art programs for your (black sheep) child?" and while she nodded duly in agreement to my point, her biggest regret turned out to be choosing to house the family computer in the basement out of eyesight and out of earshot in lieu of a position upstairs. Whoops. No biggie Mum, we turned out alright despite all the sleepless nights spent as Chatty Kathy's on MSN and ICQ. My point is, where I am lacking in childhood classroom attendance in said unaffordable art programs, my enthusiasm and appreciation as an adult-attendee makes up for lost time. So Mum and Dad, thanks.

Enthusiasm is hard to come by these days. I guess my current stance is best said with Danielson Famile lyrics: "Bring it on Old Man Winter" for I am one enthusiastic lady. Now if only I could rope in a handsome Prince to bring to Kroeker gatherings. I am getting deathly tired of my reigning position as Queen of the Singles Table. Shit. Thanksgiving is a double edged sword that way: I am both grateful of my freedom from baby-sitting anxious Meeting-the-family-for-the-first-time Lovers and vexed by my perma state of singledom. Thanksgiving gets my marital status goat. Oh my, I smell inspiration for my next linocut. In actuality, it is not all that bad. All the blissful new married couples have to keep their mouths shut when I hog all the babies because I AM Queen of the singles table. So, in that light, I am cool with the arrangement for now.

Okay, I want to bathe and drink Malbec, listen to Chad and call Rabbi to compare Thanksgiving horror stories. Again, to close: Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter. Bring it on Old Man Winter.

Nobody's Margaret.

Post Script: That last salutation was for you Ruthless, cue my melodious laughter.
Post post script: I think the photos below were taken during a very happy time in my life. I miss you JJ, very much.

I'm Sorry. I can't see you.

2008-10-04T00:39:00.000-07:00

I cannot help but feel the need to write this evening. Though the hour hand swells well into morning, I am drawn to this thing like a bee to a hive. From the start of the day with Janessa: swapping stories and unfinished sentences back and forth rapidly on the space that separated us by a hair. I worked eight hours with this magic human being and walked away from our locked store doors in the sinking light of day only to feel even more inspired by her in her absence. Then came a half hour at home listening to Chad Vangaalen on vinyl (not counting the bike ride from work to home where I opted to listen to the wind). I ran to Derek's to pick up a custom maple frame for my show and ran into Alexei on the street coming out. While we were mid conversation about Ryan Mcguinley--like magic--four casual bike messengers/secretive Friday Night polo players came streaming past us like four golden salmon swimming against stream. I stood in a trance for a long while, longer than necessary with my white collars flipped up in defense, and watched them pass in all their unapologetic athletic glory. What magnificent men. I thought men like that only existed in fairy tales: these magnificent men on track bikes riding past in a stream of color and polo sticks tucked into messenger bags, and cycling with hats, heads bent with their brims upturned in the wind. After all that came a dinner party at Sula's, in her warm living room in her warm home with six intense women. All the elements of the universe were represented in the individual plates heaping with steaming comfort food around a teak coffee table: Air, Fire, Earth, Water. Three Fires danced recklessly to old time beats, two stepping in exhibitionist harmony. One Air huffed and puffed in a corner, pouring her angry demise into the spine of an outdated fashion magazine. One Water was telling an emotional story in the back corner. Everyone's lipstick had come off by that point thanks to all the collective smacking-of-lips-togetherness-in-nervousness motion. Earth scowled upon us and crossed her arms in distaste but still steered us like only the strongest women can do. We were steered to the graffiti gallery and I couldn't do anything but go along and whip out a coiled-ring notepad when I had nothing left to say and draw like hell. People approached me now and then, curious to what was being transcribed with such a ferocity, but I kept drawing, unabated. Then the steering hand pulled us toward the Exchange, toward the Albert. We got out and walked the street a few times in between two parties going on 40 feet apart from each other. Then I met Shannon in the bathroom and it was like a breath of fresh air, she was all feisty and terrifying and I was dragged outside with wool tights-covered knees knocking in silent protest. Out we went and happened to run into a slew of people we knew. Thankfully Mister Ruth came along and there was immediate comfort with the passing of a single quote, "Beef tongue" to help ease us deeper into the night. Each other hanging onto the other for steadiness. We sauntered around, laundering cigarettes off unsuspecting teens and filling up the air above our head with laughter and smoke. Thankfully, we were free to go and I was kindly side-saddled home by a real gentleman. I felt like a real lady with my pointy shoes and crossed-legs even when the men in the tiny SUV beside us honked at us on Portage Avenue. To bike home with tiny white leather gloves covered in red wine spills, with a throat stripped owing only to the screaming match held with the men of Raper Park across the river. We left eventually and I simply forgot that I was ever wearing white.

Wonderful night, right?
Right.

A real lady.

Jessica Alba's fifteen minutes.

2008-10-01T17:37:00.000-07:00

Today I got the average fixed gear rider's equivalent to an anonymous love letter. Scraggled in your typical Dad font in capital lettering across a 'Suggestions ou Commentaires' sheet from Mountain Equipment Co-op, was a simple note folded up and woven into the spokes of my back wheel. It made my day. Made my year. Maybe even made my life. I am a cyclist and this love letter set that fact in stone for yours truly. I wish a million shooting stars that I had a scanner.

Either way, as you can see below (brought to you by Apple) it read: LOOKED GOOD ON FGG. I beamed. If you don't know what FGG is, sorry, do your homework. I had to when I started this relationship with my bicycle months ago. Too bad that I ruined any and all street credit by mounting my bicycle after working at the store in the Exchange wearing towering four inch heels. There goes my reputation. A lady on a fixy wearing heels? SACRILEGE. Oh well. I was psyched.

I love you Jessica Alba, you are my best friend.
Madge.

I am dating Art.

2008-09-30T21:31:00.001-07:00

Okay, I have submitted some prints for this particular show that span my experiences abroad and at home this year. I have chosen five or six to be [semi] exact. For sale, or not for sale; it is up to you. I would love to see some familiar faces gawking at my photography, heads bent just so, and I will probably be a little nervous because of it all. If my work is uninteresting to you, at least you can come and stare at other people's work--not to mention all the interesting people with the stovepipe legs and the leather jackets--as some form of conciliation. Isn't that the whole point behind art shows? The interesting people? I think so, anyway. Come, if you please. Gawking is encouraged and applauded.

Madge.

Devendra on the loose.

2008-09-27T00:33:00.000-07:00

This just in.
Breaking news.
Earth shattering, really.

Natalie Portman and Devendra Banhart have decidedly called it quits. All the dream couples have went away. Rabbi you can have Jose, I will take our man Banhart. If only he would come to this town so I could seduce him with my wit and frizzy hair. If only.

Helen Helen Helen.

2008-09-26T23:10:00.000-07:00

Dear Grandma,

Thank you for being a loyal reader (even when I swear). I am hubbering in front of this screen, thinking of you, wearing a ratty shirt that should have been washed and folded and forgotten days ago. Scrambled eggs with dill in a bowl is cradled in my lap and coincidentally warming me up. Just because I forget to email, doesn't mean that I forget [you]. Thank you for the wise words this week, I have been repeating "just relax and be kind" in my brain for days now. Thank you.

Sometimes during the off hours in the day when my mind wanders, I begin to dream of raising six kids on an acreage somewhere green and warm, tending roses and a ridiculously giant garden with a noteworthy meticulousness. Hair flying, some hymn or childhood lullaby being sung while bread rises on the kitchen counter under a tea towel.

I think of you; outside measuring baby feet in guilty footprints in the mud, heaping and instilling lesson upon lesson in the brains of your unsuspecting children even though you are mad as hell at the fire-headed liar who traipsed through the house with muddy feet in the first place. I want to be like you. I want to be like your daughters. I want to be like my mother. With your single email (yes, she emails) you have pulled me through a trying week and reminded me to be nice. Be kind, be patient, relax. "Love will find you", she writes and I sigh while reading. Your advice has prompted me to ignore the fact that this is the time of year where loneliness normally takes the wheel. In comes the thought of you driving your dad's truck for the first time as a twelve year old without a hot clue as to the difference between reverse and fourth, but you still did it. Braids swinging.

I am channeling everything I have, every feeling and intention into projects. Fruition is the word of the season. Between the upcoming art shows and Printmaking classes and gospel jamborees, between the late night dinners and bottles of wine, between the feet dancing on dust caked hardwood and trips into the bush with appreciative people, there will be no spare time to weep into pillow cases, twiddle one's thumbs, or grieve the thief who stole my heart. Who needs a heart anyway? My prince will come, yours did. Look at you now: grandchild number a million on the way, your recipes passing between eager hands like some welcomed plague, bodies sleeping under your handmade quilts, imagined scenes of your childhood playing out like a picture show in my head when I am sad.

Thank you. Teach me everything you know, quick.

With much love that only appreciates with time, Megsie.

For Loco, only.

2008-09-20T23:46:00.000-07:00

Please don't cry on your bicycle Loco; you should have been here too. You were/are missed. Letter is in the mail (soon).
Tu me manques, Madge.

You will be a star.

2008-09-19T19:35:00.000-07:00

So many things in my head right now. New ideas sloshing against Old memories splashing up against Giant dreams bobbing beside Uncontrollable fear. A merry flood of thought.

The outcome of yesterday concluded in me being shnuddery today. I was shnuddery and schlem and maybe a bit cranghkleegh to boot. Adjectives stolen from a dialect of German spoken by my parents' great-grandparents' great-great grandparents' was the only logical diction I could use. Regular English adjectives couldn't hold a candle to the weight my feelings today.

Break.

I just came from an art opening this night, and at one point in the night, I caught myself becoming enraptured with the reflection coming off the only framed piece in the show. Acting as a mirror to the scene unfolding behind my back, I stood and became engrossed not with the painting itself, but with the scene reflecting off of it's protective glass. I wonder how many people--art show attendees more specifically--experience what I just did: standing in a room, mouth agape, battling internally as to which standing position is more appropriate by gallery standards, and not seeing art for art in spite of it's position dead ahead of you. As lackluster as all that jazz is (and I don't doubt that majority of people feel insecure at art shows), watching a roomful of people doing the same exact thing behind you is so worth the art show angst.

I had to get out of the house. So I left, had the hilarious epiphany in the painting's reflection, left, rode home and some sweaty Elton fan cat called me on Portage. What a night. At one point in the evening this girl (I think her name was Sam, maybe), told me that Elton wore a floor-length floral tuxedo with golden platform shoes for the ENTIRE night without a single outfit change. "The crowd was better dressed than Elton!" she exclaimed with exasperation. Only in Winnipeg. I was huffing too loud from the crisp bike ride to add in a delightful Elton quip. So be it. I rode home and fell into the chair at the foot of my computer and dove into a McCain cake from the freezer. Sorry Janique, I couldn't resist for the life of me.

My friend Luke took these pictures of Ruth and I. I like them quite a bit. And I like Luke quite a bit. Thanks Luke, that was thoughtful.

Belly of the beast.

2008-09-18T22:03:00.000-07:00

You are wide awake
You are everything
We've done wrong.

I need Phil Collins today. I need to write a song and be vulnerable upon shaky writer's legs and I need to call up Phil and ask for his honest opinion. I need to hear his sonorous accent and his mysterious intonation and I need to know. I just need to know. Phil obviously wouldn't be my first choice to ring up to sing a song to, but I have a few others who I would like to share some sort of exchange with at some point in my life. Joanna would be my number one. Joanna, as in Newsom. I think we could sit down in my living room, throw on a record, eat some pistachios and drink some wine. She might tell me some stories of her life on the road or how she keeps the calluses on her plucking fingers down to a dull roar from the harp. I bet she wears plastic gloves with Vaseline to bed. I would.

Yosh wrote a song called 'Meat for us' two winters ago on all the days of the week that didn't fall on Wednesdays. His organs partitioned his living room into four neat quarters and he wrote this and I love it. Sometimes he let me come over when he was writing and I would wash the dishes and mouth the words behind all of the organs. When I picture past happiness, that is what I see.

And we'll die here if we must
Why are you nervous?
It's only love.
And we'll do just like they said
There won't be any living.

Not a single head
Not a single head
Not a single head
Not a single head
Not a single head
Not a single head.

I had one of the hardest evenings of my life today. Not because I was upset (even though I was), it was more gutting than anything; humiliating, and final. Finality and defeat have been very difficult for me to swallow lately. Actually they have been hard to swallow my entire life. I know this is cryptic and dark, but I will be fine I think.

A proverbial book slammed shut with a mere two word sentence, sending plumes of dust and dashed hopes up my nostrils and straight to my heart. Someone told me recently that I am too gung-ho and my enthusiasm for things will also be my greatest downfall.

Fuck that
This one's for me.
Step outside
Open wide.

Last week I sat at a high wooden table eating kettle corn popped on the stove and reading poetry aloud. Our laughter filling the corners of the impeccable kitchen, a cat swirling a tail about methodically, like a ladle in a pot. Figure eights. Figure eights. Paul Simon's jungle beats were in the background and all I could do was look up from the book in my hands, read a line, "Beef tongue, beef tongue!" and laugh aloud, all the while feeling so grateful to have fallen into the person across from me. When I think of present happiness, that is what I see.

I wonder what I will be doing five years from today. I hope I am happy, confident in love and in another's; I hope I am full well. I picture a sturdy hand clasping my own, attached to my outstretched arm behind my back. My other hand lazily holding a glass of wine or maybe some good cheese. My back turned casually away from the clasping, sure, supportive hand, talking to a host of people in a gallery somewhere. My own photographs in heavy white frames lining the walls blurred in my peripheral vision behind the heads of the people I am engaged with. I have no idea who is attached to this hand of integrity, or when I will meet him. When I picture future happiness, that is what I see.

But for now, I am content merely crossing my arms among a host of people. I am alone. I am alone. I am alone. I am alone and I am okay with this.

Everything was illuminated.

2008-09-15T20:21:00.000-07:00

Mama and Papa Pear decided to get hitched. I thankfully had my camera fixed against my face, the cool metal against my wine induced flush for the night's entirety.

Candy (my boss at Para Mix) got married this weekend to the lovely and dapper Phil. Phil looks incredible in suits; so much so they decided to finally tie the knot after a seven year casual engagement. As her employees and adopted team of daughters, we were psyched for yet another occasion to buy outlandishly expensive 100% silk dresses, wear towering heels and shocking hues of lipstick. They delivered and so did we. It MUST be said that my dear sister Erin took on the inhumane role of wedding planner and blew J Lo a la blockbuster "The Wedding Planner" out of the water. She nailed it. I got to be one of the lucky ones to watch Erin's plans come to fruition the day before the wedding while we set up shop on my parents manicured acreage in the country. A tent was erected, chairs slip covered and sashed, tables set with all the unnecessary cutlery and jazz, goblets buffed, chinese lanterns hung in a giant cluster at the peak of the tent, lights uncoiled and strung about. My family also nailed it. I am always so proud to be a Kroeker especially on days before big events when we just work HARD together, not because we have to, but because we love to.

It was a small wedding. Small enough that the bride and groom could personally thank people individually (giggling into the mic "who will be the lucky one?")-- a concept that I had never even considered as a Mennonite where circus production weddings are the norm. We dined and drank like kings and queens (some of us more than others) and we swayed to old time blues and ran between the illuminated tent and the illuminated gazebo and the illuminated house in the rain. Cigarettes dangled from lips the darker it got and wine glasses were carried by loose fingers stained with orange and red and pink and coral lipstick from messy applications. We were a yard full of laughing people, running around with half-eaten cakes and ladles full of sangria and little burning red dots lighting up the dark night, celebrating two laughing people. We must have looked ridiculous from the road.

The road. Cars filled with families of Doerksen's and maybe some Dueck's and a few Froeses' here or there idled passed our driveway, straining their eyes against the dark of night to make out who the people smoking and dancing like sinners were. Candles weighed down tables and the cheese cakes and cupcakes and truffles weighed down the dessert table and Star Grill weighed down our illuminated bodies. Everything was illuminated, and it was wonderful.

But before the wedding came the Bachelorette party. Seeing as the wedding was the following day, we opted to keep the festivities down to a dull roar and partake in all of our favorite things instead: costumes, a photo shoot chez moi, photobooth pictures at the airport, JJ, McDonalds, and wine. Seven laughing girls met Candy in the village donning various stick on mustaches, ruby red lips and bowler hats. After dragging Candy around town in the same ridiculous get up as our own, we flew to the airport just in time to pick up one of my best ladies JJ arriving just in time for the wedding from Montreal. We stuck a mustache and bowler on her too and took the stairs three by three up to the Photobooth. After pouring sixty some dollars into the photobooth and taking one million strips with Candy, we went to get some McDonalds and returned to my abode to eat and drink wine like gluttons. Sounds stupid, but it was one for the history books.

Enjoy dear ones. I know I enjoyed every moment.

Vice connoisseur.

2008-09-11T17:05:00.001-07:00

New York, New York; Winnipeg, Winnipeg.

2008-09-05T00:44:00.001-07:00

"Hi Richard, do you miss New York right now?"
"Yes, I do"
"Do you want to come over? We have found a little piece of New York within city limits. Come, now. We are listening to records. Bring some jazz, okay?"
"Cool, but I can't. I would love to, but I can't. I am stranded in the suburbs"
"Oh no"
"Oh yes"

Sorry to have missed you Richard. I am glad you came home from the city that never sleeps a wink, even if it is home that brings you down. We missed you. One of my bff's is housesitting a studio space turned scrappy apartment in the Bates building right now. We sat in low slung chairs draped in things with the windows open and smoked Camels as the cold air poured in along with the neighbor lady who just got back from Burningman in Nevada and was still starry eyed from all the wild things she saw. So starry eyed in fact, she didn't even notice us slipping her American cigarettes in our mouths and our necks ducking down to light them with a match. We sat and talked about our childhoods and memories of swimming in grain trucks and being casual about tae kwon do classes on Wednesday evenings. Time was so different then than it is now. Funny how the pace of life works.

Anyway, Leonard Cohen sang 'oooooh Mary Anne' and I rocked back and forth to the melody thinking the fast encroaching Autumn season is nice. We are officially on the slippery seasonal slope and I am going with gravity. Headlong.

Winnipeg may be no New York, but it has it's moments.

Humble Pie pt. 2.

2008-09-03T01:27:00.000-07:00

Rabbi and I went to Miriam Toews' book launch of 'The Flying Troutmans' this evening. We stood shoulder to shoulder behind the Retirement cards and I ran into half my bloodline milling in the crowd. Mennonites love to support, and love to hate. Ridiculous. It was a treat to run into my uncle Pete and stand in line together as we waited to have our copies signed. Rebecca (Rabbi) couldn't stop laughing at how many people I greeted in passing. I eat that kind of stuff up; the kind of evening where conversations barely exist because I am too busy with my mouth agape, eyes darting above heads seeing what is going on. Small townie ticks like these keep me grounded. I like that, I hope they never leave. Any how, I was hugely impressed with the first ten pages of her novel that I devoured in bed while turning pages with one hand and maneuvering the borscht sent by my mother out of a Cheez Whiz jar with the other. Thanks mum, thanks Miriam. I am wowed daily by both of your talents.

Read it, laugh aloud in a line up. Read it over a cup of coffee at Chicken Chef in Steinbach. I know I sure as shit am going to.

Black and white.

2008-09-03T00:50:00.000-07:00

Catching up, giving in, rolling over.

2008-08-29T12:01:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-25T15:23:00.000-07:00

My cup runneth over.

2008-08-24T22:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-20T18:35:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-08-16T09:08:00.000-07:00

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

2008-08-13T12:41:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-08-11T16:26:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-08-10T19:35:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-08-08T22:33:00.000-07:00

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.

Loco Ono and her John.

2008-07-28T00:16:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-25T13:13:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-19T11:26:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-11T19:36:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-10T19:37:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-07-06T22:52:00.000-07:00

"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.

2008-07-05T16:13:00.000-07:00

I miss Madi and Tris. A lot.

The colony is the new black.

2008-07-05T14:41:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-03T15:27:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-07-02T16:07:00.000-07:00

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).

Season's greetings.

2008-06-26T12:44:00.000-07:00

New boyfriend.

2008-06-25T20:42:00.000-07:00

I have a new boyfriend and his name is Jessica Alba, my bicycle.

Also, at running the risk of sounding severely Mennonite, I am pretty psyched on my first cousin James' return from Chinoise. He is back in full effect; going off in Chinese pant suits and Mandarin. Welcome home James. BBQ's and bicycles and clean cameras and interesting photography and no handed skid stops and rooftops and mesh. I will be okay.

Fine, FM.

Pinstripe and paisley.

2008-06-23T21:18:00.000-07:00

Two mismatched mattresses lay stacked in defeat at the foot of the dumpster outside of my kitchen window. One is yellow with green and mauve pinstripes and the other is beige with a brown paisley overlay. It is a funny picture, really. On one hand, the imagery is terribly depressing just knowing someone used to sleep upon them with satisfaction. But yet there they lay in the rain that falls in curtains, decidedly cast to the wayside thanks to a few unruly springs in the ribs, a lump here, a dip there, a stain that will not wipe out for anything, a corner of frayed piping, and the concave burrow that is expanding at a mysterious rate. On the other hand, they look surprisingly inviting and beguiling almost, even though I should know better.

Just looking out the window, my hands are on the verge of unfolding from their position of calm, rising to tap out another sentence, slowing, lifting two inches above the keys with fingers still bent in familiar form and readiness, stopping, hemming and hawing with hesitation, wiping the hair from my face with determination, closing the computer, pushing bodily weight against the chrome ridge of the kitchen table, sliding back down to a resting place near my thighs, bending and cupping the air naturally as my body rises upright, moving back up to straighten my shirt, patting the creases from my jeans, wiping the table out of habit, pushing in the chair, brusquely taking the keys from the hook on the wall, grazing the floor to pick up the fallen articles from the key hook, opening the door, clicking the lock, sliding the keys into my breast pocket, swinging in time with the stride of my legs, jerking with each drop of a step, pushing open the exterior door, pausing midair to rest my rain streaked face in their familiar darkness, swiping away rain for nothing, buttoning a button, nervously picking at unseen lint while the rest of my body tries to catch up with my brain. They are so close to picking up those mattresses, dragging them out of the rain, and giving them to someone who won't notice the spring in the rib, or those stains, or the frayed piping. Someone who won't need convincing that they are lovely, that they need to be loved.

My hands always seem to know what to do first in times of crisis or triumph. Right now they are typing. I wish they were wrapped around someone's sleeping form instead. I promise will leave the mattresses be for now, dejected and alone; but I can't help looking at them with softness in my heart. The rain rains on and so do my eyes.

post script: this photo is dedicated to all the Myspace tripping teens out there who just LOOOOOOOVE their unoriginal mirror self portraits. I am an ugly weeper, it is no secret. I have laughed heartily at this photo since it was taken last night. (And yes, I am wearing a backwards hat). Enjoy.

Gone with the wind.

2008-06-12T17:53:00.001-07:00

I just got home from my first Spin class. Sambeth was there, that was a treat. I have never grunted that much in front of a class of perfect strangers before. It was satisfying. It is funny, before this class (at Moksha) I thought I knew intense exercise as a long distance runner and semi new cyclist, but NO way José. That was mental.

Lauren Swan took the first photo a few weeks ago after a group breakfast/bike rally at Don Deli. I am psyched on it and thought it was 'Queens' worthy. The second photo is of Lauren herself, who is a pretty amazing lady. Third comes Katie Kidder. The solid name suits her solid personality and ability to apply red lipstick. Fourth is a photograph taken of Yosh, a connoisseur of the Right On. Fifth is a shot of my friend Taylor's waist. Lastly is a photograph of my mother taken in the country at the dining room table of my childhood. She is so beautiful, I am glad she is my mother.

I am currently listening to Bonnie 'Prince Billy and am in awe. "I am the king of infinite space". There is a bowl of poverty noodles/hamburger/last of anything edible in my home, in my lap and a smile on my face. Spin class, you got me beat!

"Papa taught me 'oft and long", Madge.

Jessica 'Don't Call me Latino' Alba.

2008-06-10T21:49:00.000-07:00

She's heeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeere! Jessica Alba weighing in at 19 pounds, 11 ounces is my new whip, ride, pride and joy, love, piece of furniture, work of art, conversation piece, confidante, extension of body, friend, crush, dream, speed demon, bicycle. Swoon, sigh (in this case, a good exhalation). You know that back wheel I referenced a few posts back? Yeah, it is pictured at long last. I have a good feeling about you and I, Jessica Alba.

Wait, I must give credit where credit is due. My friend Korakan spent many moons searching for parts, explaining the mechanics behind the fixed gear, defining bicycle definitions, answering scoff-worthy questions, teaching me to build and true a wheel, rethreading the bottom bracket at the shop, taking it all apart, putting it all together, tuning, tuning, tuning, test riding, more tuning, more truing (after I buggered it up), among a million other things I am regrettably unaware of. Above all that, he never once treated me like a dummy when I had no idea how insane it was to be in possession of an NJS approved track cog or original paint, Mavic rims, a wheelset that turns heads from miles away, a mixte lady frame, Bianchi hubs and God knows what else. Thank you is never enough. But for what it is worth, thank you Old K.

Now how on God's green earth did I come to choose the name Jessica Alba you wonder? Miele is the make of the frame. It just so happens that in Italian 'miele' translates to Honey in english. According to Richard Bars, 'alba' means White on the Botany front. Here is the messiest correlation I have made to date: Temperamental/terrible actress Jessica Alba happens to star in the film "Honey" (miele) and coincidentally has a funny aversion to her Latino roots even though she is in fact as Latino as it gets (thus the white frame and the surname usage, yada yada). Whoa, that was an unnecessary paragraph.

I don't care. Sighhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

Introducing Jessica Alba, my brilliant new bicycle.

I think I am in love, finally.
Meg.

Hot water, tight shirts.

2008-06-09T18:00:00.000-07:00

Alas I am home now, plaid clad and surprisingly inspired to paint after a very long hiatus. The aforementioned Southwest sauce has been cleaned from my ten digits and mint tea has been steeped to a potency that will hopefully cure my ailing stomach (damn you Subway and your delicious Cold cut Trio sandwich). Sitting at my computer in my bedroom of my modest home, the only thing I can hear is Z-lister hip hop artist (if I can call him that) Chingy and his terrible single "Right Thurrr" reverberating upwards through the hardwood beneath me. On top of that noise, there are about one hundred girls chirping amicably over the deafening music. Unfortunately in this case, gravity is no deterrent thanks to the ear-splitting volume Chingy is being played at. Oh my word, just when I thought life couldn't get any worse, Chingy stopped and Ludacris took over. I suppose I should not complain, my neighbors above and below continually put up with Joanna Newsom (who sounds something akin to Shirley Temple on violet drugs haphazardly playing a harp) and Neutral Milk Hotel (who sound like a musical group Sylvia Plath might have thrown on whilst she roasted her own head in the oven) on vinyl. Lucky for them, my record player's needle has been worn down to a useless nub. I am without and left wanting on so many levels.

My friend Kristin 'Mess' Burton came into the store today to help pass a couple of hours alongside me. We ate Subway in unison, laughed on the floor, talked about the Babysitter's Club and agreed after looking at a few hundred pictures on the internet that we will never be 'one of those' pretty girls you see walking in clumps around eleven in the morning in teetering and unnecessary heels with the hot-rollered hair, manicured nails, and Earl's boobs. Not to say that we are heinous ladies, nor are manicured and big chested ladies consistently uneducated. To make sweeping comparisons is not the motive of today's post, but thanks to the annoying tenants below, I am reminded of my discouragement due to the way my acquaintances regard their own bodies. This is tricky subject matter; I don't want to ruffle any feathers but I do feel the need to voice this seeing as the 'Body Image' topic has been rearing it's head in conversation more often than not of late. I have nothing against looking pretty, but I have a few qualms with pretty dumb girls. (Spring Break a la Cancun 1997 is still going strong downstairs and an Abba sing-along just took OVER the airwaves). Jill and I were corresponding back and forth the other day about beauty and self confidence. She made a good point when she wrote that she feels the most confident when she "is strong and healthy" both in body and mind. I think there is plenty of truth in those words. It is important to feel strong, to be able to carry weight that the world hands you whether that be literally or metaphorically. Maybe I just have blinders on or am too critical of those cookie cutter girls who fit perfectly into the "pretty and dumb" category. Too judgmental, yes. Blinders, maybe. (I am sorry, but it is too easy to be critical after eight hours straight of listening to mindless conversation and cleaning up one million discarded barstar shirts and lamé tights off the floors of change rooms).

I am losing my grip on articulacy here, I best be off on this topic. More later, perhaps. If this is upsetting to anyone, feel free to comment. While this might sound pretentious, I think I am simply on the hunt for people as hungry for individuality and creativity as myself. Unfortunately both of those seem to be unattainable in this city thanks to the daily 'fashion blogs', A Apparel costumed teens and boozy/bourgeois dance spots that are mushrooming at an ephemeral rate lately. Just be comfortable; I just want to be comfortable in my own skin, in my own clothes and home, on the dance floor or in the kitchen, in my underwear in front of girls with alien body types from my own. That is it, that is all. I want to be comfortable and strong.

Let us see, let us see. I am off to paint and try desperately hard not to be dumb. Thank god I have little boobs; maybe people won't jump to conclusions upon tight shirt inspection as quick as I do.

Oh boy, hello Pussycat Dolls performing live from the basement.
Hot water, Madge.

*Disclaimer: I know plenty of intelligent big-busted women, just sayin'.

Part 1. Precarious

2008-06-09T14:37:00.000-07:00

Thankfully, the relentless rain is keeping any unwanted gaggles of customers at bay and I am writing with a single hand while the other continues to force feed the last six inches of Subway's finest trio of Cold Cuts down the hatch. Southwest sauce is everywhere and I am not complaining. Janique of Redbull came into my workplace, F/Q, this morning bearing gifts of energy drinks. Two down, fifteen to go; oh boy.

In between steaming silks and Windexing anything and everything at the shop, I have been scoping the internet for art project inspiration. Mission accomplished. Below is a myriad representation of my findings. I am currently obsessed with illustrator/writer Maira Kalman (whose work dominates in the space below). Enjoy.

New photos will be up shortly.
Blessings.

MF.

Lilac Week

2008-05-29T16:07:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-23T21:19:00.000-07:00

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

2008-05-22T09:04:00.000-07:00

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.

2008-05-18T21:08:00.001-07:00

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.

2008-05-04T22:55:00.000-07:00

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.

Easter Sandals.

2008-04-30T15:13:00.000-07:00

Dear Loco Ono, consider this a public letter of thanks and acknowledgment; homegirl LOVES her easter sandals! Even though I was almost struck by a Cavalier driving idiot while en route to the Post via bicycle on Osborne and Stradbrook this afternoon, my enthusiasm was hardly curbed thanks to a laughter-filled shift at Fresh. Steve (brilliant coworker) had me in stitches from beginning to end and Cara (Sea Bass, friend) entertained me over copious amounts of coffee at our neighborhood haunt once I was released of the clutches of said job.

After a few days of making random conversation with grumpy/dissatisfied people from behind the bar at my job and on the street, I have drawn a few conclusions regarding the change in season and why people (including this face) are acting so berzerker of late. A.) There is something in the water (dead bodies and asbestos, so says The Sun, shocking!) B.) The position of the moon does in fact influence one's mood C.) Winnipeg's coupledom epidemic has multiplied at an alarming rate and become just that, an epidemic; it is bringing those without down (not to shit on any happy couples--I am psyched for you--it is just that if I have to witness one more couple spoon-feeding each other gelati on Corydon, I will die [until I become one of them and succumb to spoon-feeding my own phantom lover] for now I am okay with being bitter and silently chastising them through the windows of my workplace). Maybe it was last week's snowstorm that sent any previously established positivity spiraling into a downward tailspin, but the entire city seems to have their panties in a knot. I am over it.

On a more random note, this is the last paragraph I have read recently (referenced without permission from a work by J. Winterson):

"On more than one occasion I have been ready to abandon my whole life for love. To alter everything that makes sense to me and to move into a different world where the only known will be the beloved. Such a sacrifice must be the result of love... or is it that the life itself was already worn out? I had finished with that life, perhaps, and could not admit it, being stubborn or afraid, or perhaps did not know it, habit being a great binder. I think it is often so that those most in need of change choose to fall in love and then throw up their hands and blame it all on fate. But it is not fate, at least, not if fate is something outside of us; it is a choice made in secret after nights of longing". I am a charioteer in this game called Love and although I am only twenty two, my am growing tired of longing after a phantom.

ANYHOW, Spring has arrived in the neighborhood at long last and along with the abundance of aforementioned twosomes, all the usual suspects are coming out of the woodwork. Even Milly, the Corydon gypsy has been out and about; collecting tabs from cans and cursing to Hell any who drinks more than she sees fit at Bar Italia. I have yet to spot Smoochie (the Spring/Summer season fille de joie) lurking outside of restaurants in her thigh-high white Smoochie boots.

There is no real point to this post, especially considering the weak threat to stop writing in my last heavily reference rear wheel post. At this rate I should throw in the towel. I suppose I merely wanted to give my gal Lo a shout out of deep gratitude for mailing me a new pair of sandals along with a letter that made me cry. Thank you gem, you are aces. Congratulations are to be extended to the same said lady, Laura Beeston, on her recent acceptance to Concordia for Journalism. Shit, I don't know what is better: the prospect of completing one's Masters in Journalism at Concordia in the Francophone land of opportunity, or squishing grapes barefoot in France hand-in-hand with a Parisian lover. I trust that whatever path this girl takes, it will be one to write home about. Home is where the heart is, and gem, you have my heart.

Despite this melodramatic post of love and longing and life and overdue typewritten applause for a friend out of my reach, I am riding the crest of happiness once again. Just like that. Thank you Laura for being a constant and an inspiration when it felt like all else was lost and there was nothing left to write about. Thank you to my state of perma singledom for providing me with material to bank on, even if it is depressing as fuck.

Spring is here, and I am waltzing with the open sea in my new Easter sandals.
I miss you Loco, mucho mucho.

Madge 'Debbie' K. Shit.

Post script: here are some recent photos.

Queen of the Stone Age.

2008-04-24T20:46:00.000-07:00

Today's title is dead appropriate seeing as I began and neared completion of The Wheel. Today was the day Korakan taught me how to build a back wheel for my bicycle. It was a daunting experience and for the most part, he sat on the couch and laughed aloud at my disastrous handiwork and gauche screwdriver antics. For a good two hours my nose and eyes hovered a quarter of an inch from the spinning rim while I tightened spokes in half-turns and inspected the dish with an air of piousness worthy of a nun. Learning new things is good. This is pretty much when down today, save for some minor details that are beyond my comprehension.

Ugggggggghhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.

I am throwing in the towel in the writing department for a while. My mind is bone dry of any and all material worth recording and all I can think about lately is Denmark and eating. Shit.

Madge.

Age appropriate.

2008-04-16T21:05:00.000-07:00

Today was my birthday. I was taken out for all three meals of the day and it was fantastic. I ate a waffle, a pizza and bison filet mignon. I got enough practical items to make a forty-seven year old head-bob in approval. At one point in the day, Andrew (ex lover/reformed best friend who is finally home from Peru) turned to me and asked with sincerity if there were "any age appropriate gifts" that I had received. Yes Andrew, there were plenty. My brothers gave me records, Alex gave me a coffee table book and my parents gave me a back wheel (yet to be built).

Life has taken a turn down the slippery slope once again and I am not fighting gravity. Twenty two never looked so good.

She, orange. Me, red.

2008-04-13T19:56:00.001-07:00

I see a few steppers out there looking sharp. Devendra Banhart and Natalie Portman have recently become a couple. If I can't bone him, I am glad she is.

In other news, today Rudy, Erin and I played soccer in Chinatown. Chinatown recently being referenced to as my town of birth, Rosenort, thanks to it's single Chinese Restaurant. High waisted jeans, athlete shoes, muddy ball, sweaty forehead, dropkicking the ball into my brother's car, practice, practice, practice, Rudy's laughter at my pathetic aim, river nature, dusty ball, Erin's skinny legs (bitch), more running, giant calves, more laughter. Spring was heavy in the air.

At one point on a family walk (we are unapologetically predictable on Sunday afternoons in the country) my mum made us stop mid-stride beside a ditch enroute to Grandma's house and listen to the rushing water. The sounds of spring. I drank copious amounts of merlot and coffee in and on various porches/stoops/gazebos and ate too many hamburgers. Classy joint.

Aunty Marj made the grave mistake of allowing me to fawn over and eventually perv on her trillion dollar camera at the birthday party yesterday. I camera-whored it up at my grandpa's three-quarters-of-a-century non-themed birthday party. Erin and I had a photo shoot in the entrace of the said old folks home and everyone thought we were crazy because of our chosen shades of lipstick. She, orange. Me, red. High fashions. Pluralized.

Here are a few snapshots of the grand affair. Since the party was sans theme (every party needs a theme) I opted to herd certain family members into the aforementioned entrance for balloon/head shots (to those of you not pictured, I couldn't enlarge certain photos, sorry; so shoot me). Again, everyone thought me insane, but in the long run it was a roaring success.

They will thank me later, I know it.

Fin, Queens.

Esprit de corps.

2008-04-10T16:54:00.000-07:00

Somebody has a case of Spring fever.

Here is yet another batch of Eurotrash/Suisse pictures with which I am mildly satisfied. Plans with the baby Pinhole camera are coming along swimmingly. I went to Photo Central over the weekend and picked up some 120-100 T-max film and am ready to get outside to start shooting. I am experiencing genuine joy today. I was nice to sit on the patio at my neighborhood haunt; drink coffee, watch my skinny boy friends drink giant Hoegaarten's with single handed ease, laugh in good company, bike in good company, bike alone. Goodness abounds.

Still resisting the urge to flap, Madge.

Post Script: I thought these were neat.

a) Esprit de corps |eˌsprē də ˈkôr|
noun: a feeling of pride, fellowship, and common loyalty shared by the members of a particular group.
ORIGIN late 18th cent.: French, literally ‘spirit of the body.’

b) Esprit de l'escalier |eˌsprē dəˌleskalˈyā|
noun: used to refer to the fact that a witty remark or retort often comes to mind after the opportunity to make it has passed.
ORIGIN early 20th cent.: French, literally ‘wit of the staircase.’

Sister spring, Mother summer.

2008-04-09T00:23:00.001-07:00

In my neck of the woods, when the phone rings after 11:30 in the evening, someone is dead/has died. My phone rang at 1:33 this morning and thanks to a bout of insomnia, my response time was lightening quick. "Who died?" "No one" "Thank God" "Are you okay?" "I am okay". The call, one transpired out of boredom and general inquiry on their part turned out to be rather enlightening on my own. In a breathy jumble, I found the words I had unknowingly been searching for for the past three months. I want the comfort in knowing that love--that loving and being loved--abounds. I want to wake up and rest assured as a self-aware and confident person; I want to know that I am a trusted friend and confidante.

This evening while standing on a deck barefoot watching Will BBQ the hamburgers we whipped up just minutes before throwing them on the grill, watching James inspect the growing pools of Atlantica in the garden with a stick, watching Bram cut MDF with a miter saw for his new dark room table, watching Marky eat scattered candy off the new table, watching heads bob in excited and muted conversation over the fence in Sam's living room, I felt good.

Rocking back on my heels to get a better view of everything, I just felt good. Good to be standing barefoot in a t-shirt on a Winnipeg deck, good to be laughing with friends new and old, good to borrow a free-range egg from the neighbors eating pizza on their own sinking porch, good to smell home cooked food, good to get childishly excited at the prospect of draining the fire pit, good to be alive in Sister spring, good to think of Mother summer as something TANGIBLE.

James and I took a quick walk to Foodfare to buy some cheese for our burgers and we both agreed it was a miracle we made it out alive once again. Winnipeg winters are not for the faint of heart. I dip my head sheepishly even as I type. While I managed to escape the first flakes and coincidentally the tail end, oddly enough this one proved to be one of the most difficult winters of my young years. Depression and reclusion nearly got the best of me after the turn of the new year, but those who know me best know that I operate on a fiscal year basis. The year truly begins in Fall and turns in Spring. Thus, 'tis the season for rebirth.

They (whoever they may be) say never to let the Man get you down. The Man took on many forms this year: Discontent, friendships that had run their course and the agony that went hand-in-hand with the severance; Melancholy, coming home from Barcelona with Kit and Rabbi and feeling like a vagabond over the holiday season; Deception, the act of deceiving a dear friend and accepting the fallout as my own; Separation, being left behind by gems moving onwards and upwards; so on and so forth.

With that said, all of these travails book-ended something good and whole, delivering me through a time of perpetual trial and error to the very moment of clarity that I had today, standing barefoot on the Mansion's deck. I am back. It is not as if I learnt nothing, for I learned aplenty. My love for photography became something severe and under the guidance of Scramwell and Creme, I hope to be up and developing by week's end. My love for food and cooking has also been nurtured and inevitably fed in the past three months. It is all I think about, really. My love for writing became much more than a hobby, it became a crutch and a friend when it felt like I had lost all others. These three hobbies alone were instilled within to be shared with others. All are potential career paths and if not, who cares. Lord knows the world needs more photographers, cooks/bakers and writers.

Despite everything, I woke up this morning to something from Drex even better than a fax. A letter penned free hand into a spiral notebook, complete with sketches of a chicken and his signature penmanship, scanned into JPG format and delivered to my email. The attached post script was a drawing of a man's face in the same said spiral notebook. Sheer brilliance that man. I have felt so inspired by my peers of late.

Over dinner a few evenings ago, the topic of Interesting Acquaintances came up and it was quite something to hear who was influenced and roused by who. I know one man who can build a wheel bare bones, three people who screen print effortlessly, at least six geniuses behind the lens, three party planners extraordinaire, two people who can fix shit ally bikes like magic, two brilliant DJ's, two people in French class, three dancers that make me weep when they move, two seamstresses that put Rosaline Rempel to shame, one man who can cook a feast fit for a king with one brick of tofu and a little bit of faith, one man who can sing me to sleep and doesn't even know it, at least ten insanely talented musicians, and so on and on and on. The list is endless. I have talented friends; the neighborhood has been a Mecca for creativity lately and I am into it.

I am back and feeling good.

Respects, Frances.

The Real McCoy.

2008-03-30T14:34:00.001-07:00

I am thinking about Drex today, after scoping his Daily Failure art blog. After going through my recently developed trip photographs, I settled on the one below as my favorite of the batch. Or at least high ranking in the skimmings from the cream of the crop. Drex, if I owned a fax machine accompanied with a landline and knew you owned the same, you would wake up to this photo tomorrow. You already knew that.

It is Sunday and the day before my wisdom teeth are set to be removed. "I wanna wreck my stockings in some jukebox dive" was the last line that registered and stuck in my brain like a bee to the hive, a broken record, a loop of eternity as I wrote this sentence. Maybe it was ten minutes ago, who knows. Bread dough is being made to my right and my eyes are dancing between the screen and the collection of art supplies gathering dust on the window sill to my left. Both are presenting some sort of pressure just by looking back-and-forth between the two; not nagging, just a persistent consciousness.

I will record more later, right now just looking around and listening is enough. Here is that picture. A teaser and preview to the rest that will be posted when I am not under any other pressure to perform. One can only juggle a few things in the multitask dance at once. Sit tight for there is more to come; this is just the tip of the iceberg.

Best regards, Franny.

Three abreast.

2008-03-27T22:44:00.000-07:00

Today I pulled a fabric grocery bag out from under my sink and began to methodically fill it with the guests of honor to mine and Bram's Central American themed dinner party: avocado, lime, organic salsa, Gem mason jars, taco seasoning, a brick of tofu, two bananas and a mango. After arriving, we stood in his modest kitchen and swayed unapologetically to Karen Dalton crooning from a speaker on top of the fridge. 1971 must have been a good year. He whipped up a maize/flour tortilla dough and I showed him all of the tricks of the tortilla-making trade that I happened to have picked up on a trip to Guatemala a few years back. The first two were evidence of our ignorant upbringing by being too thick, but once we got a hang of the rhythm of the aggressive and simultaneous patting, stretching, and twisting, they came out of the cast iron as authentic as can be. Our dinner turned out to be a roaring success and the indigestion that followed suit from the whole foods and raw hot pepper spread merely echoed this notion of triumph unnecessarily so. Still, it was a solid meal.

We finished dinner, licked the lingering lime from our fingers, washed the dishes, drank two mango, banana, strawberry, soy, ginger smoothies in quick succession and opted for a few hours of drawing at the kitchen table. Talk of the country, botany, cooperative gardens, biking, swimming in grain trucks as kids, camping at the Quarry, cooking, familial living, solo living, veganism, meat eatery, music, literature, friendship and love came and went between our downcast eyes, mouths, faces. Drawing and talking, drawing and silence, drawing and talking, drawing and silence, drawing and talking, drawing and silence, drawing and talking, drawing and silence; all the while, drawing. It felt nice to get back into it, in a sans pretentious environment.

I was busy working on a format drawing of two separate pieces for a personal stationary collection. A typewriter and four bicycles in a row. Tracing, eyeballing, drawing. Bram was working on a two-leafed emblem and a scroll for my one typewriter drawing. I have yet to master a scroll.

This is the second night I have stayed awake past ten in the evening. It is now one in the morning. Anyway, James came over from the Mansion and entertained us while we sat at the table making art. An evening bicycle ride quickly ensued and together we ambled down the streets of the neighborhood with our back lights blinking out a silent signal of red, white, red; three abreast on the wet streets. It is nice to be home.

Madge.

These photos were taken at the break of Winter last year. Pictured: Scramwell, Drewber, Meg.

Baby machine (someday).

2008-03-19T08:59:00.000-07:00

Alas, I am home.

I woke up with the birds this morning and cleaned my entire house from top to bottom, barefoot. It felt nice to walk around naked again. Erin called me in the early hours and we arranged to meet for a greasy spoon breakfast. I wanted something cooked home-style and so we settled on Stella's without much debate. We met our brilliant English teacher from high-school sitting with her husband and three month old baby. She and they were babing out to say the least. There is something to be said for holding a three month old baby. I couldn't help but let a quiet "I want one" slip out while in the presence of this magical child, Milan. She is going to break hearts with her jet black hair someday. You think spending a month nannying two kids under eight would be birth control enough. I guess not.

My cousin Kristy had a new baby bird named Norah Marie this week. She too will break hearts someday. I have yet to see her, but you can just tell--even from day old pictures. It is nice to be home even though I seem to be suffering from a severe case of baby fever. I guess this is just my weird withdrawal without Tristan and Madi. I miss them.

Pictures will be up soon. The photos posted are of random babies, just because I felt they deserved some spotlight. Share the wealth, you know.

I am not pregnant, Grandma. I just really, really like babies.

Best, Mother.