The Weasel.

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.

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.

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

Swarming like cicadas.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

Bed time.

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.

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.

Baby M. Enough said.

"A Joy Forever".

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.