meghan says

I've got a good excuse.

2012-01-02T12:24:00.001-05:00

This blog is getting little love these days, but lots of other things in my life are getting all the attention they deserve.

Things like:

Raising the Roof, and the Rent for Andy Frank - an all-star cast gathering for the benefit of a truly wonderful man.

I'm the voice behind the curtain at Borealis Records! Follow us on Twitter and Like us on Facebook.

Things just keep on rolling at Roots Music Canada

And of course, newly wedded bliss.

Forgive me, won't you?

the kind of light

2011-10-22T16:38:00.005-04:00

This month has been full of festivity, wonder and transition. And I'm so grateful.

Now that the celebrations have ended and my mind can turn to other things again, it turns to the season, with some mournfulness. Though there was a bed of leaves for a wedding aisle, wild and gorgeous colour on the Georgian Bay shoreline, the richness of a community campfire and the quiet light from a woodstove (in which I roasted a sole marshmallow), I feel that something is missing from my experience of autumn - that is, the harvest. Getting my hands dirty with pumpkin guts and "laying in" and preparing for the winter ahead.
There's still time, I'm sure of it.

Things I'm thinking of:
-bringing in the red raspberry leaves
-preserving some kale vinegar
-embracing gray days
-drinking hot tea
-wearing long johns
-tidying up the corners of this big little house
-parsing through the remnants of the beautiful party
-working on a new project with my sisters

Edit: I wrote that a few days ago, and perhaps I'm just posting it now because I'm feeling something of a sense of accomplishment. A few of us who are nearest and dearest have spent most of the weekend together, seeing fine music made at our local pub, walking, looking, tasting at the farmer's market and enjoying warmth and tea on the couch. In the meantime, my hands have been busy: kale, venison, baking, preserving. Welcome, autumn. Goodbye, autumn.

night touches morning

2011-09-28T05:36:00.004-04:00

I'm up in the place where night touches morning, and I can't decide whether to make granola or go back to bed.

I'm enjoying the change of seasons in this season of change. And for the moment, I'm just listening to the rain.

This is the time that comes before. I'll be here until I'm there.

marking the season

2011-07-01T08:30:00.003-04:00

This amazing watercolour work by Poppy and Pinecone reminds me of squished strawberries. Watch for me in the Cobourg parade, along with the rest of SVFF.

good measure

2011-05-12T13:30:00.000-04:00

vernal equinox

2011-05-05T10:49:00.003-04:00

I love this time of year.

found object

2011-04-27T10:43:00.000-04:00

Found these two photos in a draft of this blog this afternoon, with little other information besides the tags: "family, Paris, photography." It was dated January 11, 2010.

The photos are indeed from Paris, a trip I took about a year and a half ago (time flies). The roses were grown in Rodin's garden. I didn't pay the few Euros extra to enter the house and, in fact, was little interested in the statues anyway. It was all about the flowers.

A little more than a week after my return from Europe, my grandfather had a stroke, and I spent the better part of a day alone in a curtained-off cubicle of an intensive care ward with him. At one point I pulled out some prints I'd been carrying around in my purse. We looked through them together and I attempted to narrate the scenes of Morroccan sunshine, Spanish food and yes, Parisian roses.

There's something about these roses, and their browned edges and autumn light.

the way in

2011-04-12T10:38:00.008-04:00

One year ago today, I was boarding a little plane, to get to Toronto, to board a slightly larger plane, on which I flew to Ottawa, to travel to Iqaluit on a still larger plane, at which point, I was snowed in for 3 days in a lonely hotel room before boarding a little plane headed for Resolute Bay.

It's good to notice these dates, these signposts along the way marking how far I've come. It's good to turn around every once in a while to see where I've been, how I got here. Often the way back looks so different than it did on the way in.

I spent the better part of six months looking out from the same vantage point on the front steps of the hotel: south, to the Northwest Passage, to Griffith Island, and on a clear day, all the way to Somerset Island. When I joined a sewing class during my first few weeks in the North, it was this view that I pieced together out of felt. I'd never (yet) seen a polar bear, or a whale, so I created what I had seen— snow, ice, stratus clouds, landforms, watercolour horizons.

When I was in Halifax last fall, one of my closest friends—a brother in spirit— and I went for a long walk around the city, and wound up on a wooded point looking out to the open end of the harbour. We had tiny bottles of red wine, and we sat on a picnic table and talked and looked out over the water while the night crept in around us. I can still hear him singing as we watched a long white ocean liner coming in: "Look out mama, there's a white boat coming up the river."

A few weeks ago, I was on a rambling, backroads, Sunday afternoon road trip. We were up around Georgian Bay, in the Blue Mountains of the Niagara escarpment, near a tiny crossroads village called Raven. We tried to take a picture, but it's a fool's errand to try to capture something magical on a two-inch LCD screen. The view was of the drop of an old shore line, miles and miles from where the water starts today, the trees and houses and towns inclining towards the bay, covered in ice and snow, until a sudden line of blue signaled open water spreading out and out and out, further than we could see. With the blue of distance so deep below and the early spring clouds above, we could have touched the sky on a Sunday afternoon.

There is so much to be grateful for. Looking around reminds me of that. The past year has been one of impossible growth, and stretching, and learning, and parting, and joy. A lot of joy. Looking back at what may have been my best year yet, I feel ready for what's to come— though I can't see it yet.

In which we are left to our own devices

2011-03-04T12:09:00.004-05:00

Today one of my favourite writers on one of my favourite sites wrote her farewell post, as she moves on to bigger and (hopefully) better things .

Molly Lambert may be the greatest writer on the internet, and maybe the greatest writer in America. She has an ability to identify not just what it is, but why it is, about life/emotions/art/culture/cities/eras/Fleetwood Mac. She is the master of high readings and writings of low culture, and of low readings and writings of high culture. She takes it all apart to put it back together.

Molly Lambert writes about Jack Nicholson's sexiness and lack thereof and she gives voice to the anxieties of being the sole female in a boys club, and she does so with precise wit and a true heart. She writes in the voice of a smart woman writing as a smart woman (as opposed to the latest trend of smart girls writing like dumb girls), and she writes it fun. She doesn't need to write sentences in all-caps because everything she says is meant to be heard.

Molly Lambert understands the internet because she's growing with it, and because she is making it. Molly Lambert understands America because she's growing with it, and because she is making it.

A couple of years ago, Molly Lambert commented on a post here, and told me I should think about writing for This Recording. I haven't taken her up on it, but that comment means as much to me as any other success I've had in my short time stringing words together.

Best of luck, Molly. Open up, everything's waiting for you.

taking a break from writing to write

2011-02-28T14:01:00.001-05:00

I've been watching the calendar, and now I'm watching the clock, with a deadline fast approaching and my typing-fingers slowing. I thought about coming here to write something, to try to open up the dammed process, but I decided to work on something else with a slightly later deadline, and came across this great poem from Tanya Davis' blog.

It speaks the things that I'm trying to speak just perfectly. Maybe perfectly enough that I can get back to work.

taking a break from a poem to write a poem

I am working on a poem with a deadline and so all I want is chocolate
Or a hug or a shoulder rub or something to take my thoughts from it
Deadlines are nice, they are like momentary bosses,
But I am rebelling, this chair feels rigid, my bum wants off of it

Poems don't write themselves though
So... I gotta keep working.

Several times this week I thought:
what if I quit?
what if I give this up and move to the hills
become really good at making soup and seeking thrills
and I mean slow thrills, like slow food, like snow falls and all I do
is watch it
Sounds kind of awesome

Oh, but I would tire of that, too
or moan and complain about my hard lot, all of my to-do's

The thing is, life won't be easy
thankfully, else I would whine about being bored
but life could be simple, no matter poetry or other chores
Take a breath and go forward

But, really, if I finish this assignment on time will you come over and reward me?
A massage for my hands that are cold and from this computer all narly
Stories of what you do so I can leave my bubble, feel more a part of things
Feel more hardy from a moment spent close to your heartstrings?

Blogs are kinda like poems
Futile, and yet important
for reasons I don't know
and I'm not much of an explorer
and so I probably won't
Not a lawyer, not a light heart with a good joke

If my purpose is to connect words and let them out
then I won't concern myself with what's the point, what's it about
I took a break from a poem to write a poem, I think that has its own story to tell

—Tanya Davis

Disposable

2011-02-18T13:31:00.003-05:00

I just got some prints back from some disposable cameras I was playing around with in the fall. I'm in love with the quirks and the graininess and the colours. Or maybe I'm just in love with that sunshine.

Here's some treats from my late-fall trip to Halifax. Mostly various types of treetops.

drawing words

2011-02-13T16:50:00.001-05:00

I'm taking a class at OCAD called "Comics and Graphic Novels" this winter, for the purpose of my own entertainment (I was a little hung up about having a "purpose" for signing up for the class, but then a friend mentioned that she was thinking of taking piano lessons, and it occurred to me that I'd never ask her "WHY are you taking piano lessons?" And indeed, no one has asked me WHY I'm taking a comics class yet, so maybe it's all in my head).

The instructor is Fiona Smyth, who is perhaps best known in Toronto for painting the signs at Sneaky Dees in the early 90s. She's also just published her first graphic novel, a futuristic story for young adults, called The Never Weres (she showed us some of her linears and roughs for this project - super exciting stuff).

One of the very best outcomes of this class so far is my new-found obsession with Ernie Bushmiller's Nancy comics. Luckily, there's a Tumblr for that.

PS. The only part of Canada Reads I happened to hear this week was the 5 or 10 minutes during which Jeff Lemire's Essex County was eliminated, mainly because the judges seemed to think that comics/graphic novels don't improve literacy. I really just don't even have it in me to rant about this.

That said, Essex County won the People's Choice poll with over 50% of the votes -- the people have spoken, in favour of comics!

PPS. Up top's the result of my first assignment for the class. This one here's a most recent rough/linear of a little thing I'm working on based on the farmer's market at the Evergreen Brickworks.

Some of the best blessings of existence

2011-02-11T12:50:00.000-05:00

I am the delighted (gleeful, even) recipient of the world's most beautiful early Valentine: the complete works of Jane Austen, bound in cherry red, printed in 1975. Gorgeous, right?

"I must endeavour to subdue my mind to my fortune. I must learn to brook being happier than I deserve." Or so said Captain Wentworth in Persuasion, anyway.

*Also, the title of this post is the opening line in Emma. Come to think of it, that'll be the first one I read.

For reals, though.

2011-02-09T13:21:00.004-05:00

Due to my preferred costume, I seem to get a lot of remarks referring to my habit as some kind of religious statement. Questions like "How are your sister-wives?" and suggested affiliations with the Amish and the like.

In the interest of defending my own style choices, while also redeeming the reputations of the faithful, I'd like to present an alternative inspiration: the Waltons.

The long-running 1970s television series about a big ol' poor-in-money, rich-in-love family living at the bottom of a mountain in 1930s Virigina is pretty much right up my alley. We have rustic living, rural sensibilities, beautiful scenery -- all through the lens of the '70s prairie-revival.

Items of note:

barefeet with overalls
pinafore aprons
Mary Ellen's straw hat
suspenders
so. much. gingham.
braids and pigtails
screen doors
liberty print like it's going out of style (I assure you, it is not)

What's not to love?

9 eyes.

2011-01-29T11:53:00.004-05:00

On his website 9-eyes.com, Montreal artist Jon Rafman posts strange and interesting Google Street View images, a collection of the humourous and heartbreaking and everything else that make the human experience what it is. I think what makes the images different from traditional street photography is that the images are taken by a roaming vehicle on behalf of a behemoth corporation. There's a kind of robotic element of the method—cataloguing everything, framing nothing. By assembling these photos, Rafman gives some meaning to the scenes captured by reinvigorating the images with the power (via curation) of a human eye. I can see it.

new year, old friends

2011-01-13T10:50:00.009-05:00

Photo by the gifted and wonderful Margaret Mulligan on the evening of December 31, 2010.

guildwood

2010-12-19T09:15:00.002-05:00

My sister Kate drew this picture of me drawing on the GO train yesterday. That girl was born with a pencil in her hands and has left a little trail of paper clippings and paint brushes in her wake ever since. Love her.

have you reckon'd the earth much?

2010-11-27T11:02:00.005-05:00

Today was the first snow fall that stuck around for a bit.

Now that it's stopped and the sun is shining, the whole backyard is shimmer and glow.

Welcome, day.

How To Be Alone

2010-11-16T15:20:00.001-05:00

still standing by the tracks

2010-11-14T17:30:00.004-05:00

Wild and wonderful things found in sunlit corners of a salvage and restoration yard in downtown Cobourg on Saturday afternoon.

2010-10-27T09:27:00.003-04:00

the rambling quest

2010-10-25T19:06:00.006-04:00

As someone who has been know to fly north for the summer, may I highly recommend that we all take a minute to listen to Michael Hurley's Wildegeeses from Ida Con Snock.

It's only in the wildness can you name her

It's only in the wildness can you tame her

how bright the stars, how dark the night

2010-10-14T23:24:00.000-04:00

Some time ago, I was sitting on a picnic blanket on the grass surrounded by many of the people I love most in the world, and Garnet Rogers was playing this song, and it was about as perfect a moment as I've ever had and I wept and smiled and there are pictures to prove it.

Some time later, I was in a hospital bed in a very small old town, and my parents called and said they were going out to see Garnet Rogers. I'd lost my voice, but I whispered "You should you ask him to play 'Night Drive'."

I spent that lonely night looking out the window at a big hill where the sky played out its many colours and slipped into darkness and dim stars shone feebly in the northern summer light, and I hadn't seen the sun go down for months and I was on morphine and I heard guitar loops all night long.

They did ask him to play the song, and he "seemed quite touched," and he played it for me.

to warm our hands and find our way

2010-10-12T20:42:00.000-04:00

This all seems like it was a long time ago, when it really was nothing of the sort.
It was the end of last year and the beginning of this one. But we've come a long way this year.

A late night, a leafy salad, a cup of something homegrown and special, and a furry cat hiding in the corners of a very sweet friend's home.
Every time I hear her sing the words "a place to start out from," I think of this night.

It's getting dark very early and the wind is blowing strong and the snow is sneaking in the cracks. In the cold days of an arctic autumn (which seem quite a bit like winter to a southern soul), warm memories of dear ones and delicious meals do the trick like nothing else.

Can't wait to see you.

*I also think of my dear friend Jodi who took all of these gorgeous photos.

my neck of the woods

2010-10-11T23:24:00.005-04:00

If one looks closely, it's possible to see (in no particular order): a fifth birthday, a herd of caribou, the hand of Franklin, generations living in harmony, the edges of the outside world and more than one moment of wonder and gratitude.

surely enough water under the bridge

2010-09-21T22:27:00.004-04:00

but can we all just take a minute to die laughing at how freaked out I look, and the immense depth of gravel in which the company vehicle is embedded?

seriously.

it all ended up fine, i swear.

polar bear dip

2010-08-31T20:33:00.005-04:00

like, literally.
74 degrees N
-2C
amazing.

this is how i work

2010-08-29T15:50:00.001-04:00

“What sort of diary should I like mine to be? Something loose-knit and yet not slovenly, so elastic that it will embrace anything, solemn, slight or beautiful, that comes into my mind. I should like it to resemble some deep old desk or capacious hold-all, in which one flings a mass of odds and ends without looking them through.

I should like to come back, after a year or two, and find that the collection had sorted itself and refined itself and coalesced, as such deposits so mysteriously do, into a mould, transparent enough to reflect the light of our life, and yet steady, tranquil compounds with the aloofness of a work of art.

The main requisite, I think, on reading my old volumes, is not to play the part of a censor, but to write as the mood comes or of anything whatever; since I was curious to find how I went for things put in haphazard, and found the significance to lie where I never saw it at the time.”

Virginia Woolf

(And Alfred Einstein's desk.)

dairy dreams

2010-08-29T11:17:00.004-04:00

Dairy Queen

2000

Justine Kurland

This photograph means a thousand things and a thousand questions that stay with me long after I walk away.

I'll leave it at this.
At what point do people just start eating their ice cream inside the place where they bought it, where there are tables and chairs and other people we do not know?

Further reading on Justine Kurland is highly recommended for her ways of thinking about: girlhood, nomads, open roads, the Wild West, running away, mamahood, landscape and trains.

i don't wanna work

2010-08-27T10:45:00.003-04:00

2010-08-26T22:56:00.011-04:00

The Reese House designed by Andrew Gellar in 1955 in Sagaponack, NY. Credited with creating the A-frame house trend that lasted from the mid-fifties through the seventies. And living for eternity with me. I am possibly super not cool.

Allow me to introduce my love for the A-frame house. Its inspirations are as follows:

Al Purdy's triangular dream house in Ameliasburgh, ON. It was beautifully crafted by his own hands and was kind of a scene of a literary generation (ow a trust has been created to try to preserve the home as a heritage site and a Writer-In-Residence program). Run out and buy The Al Purdy A-Frame Anthology. Lots of Al, lots of A-frame.

Atom Egoyan's The Sweet Hereafter. Entirely beautiful movie with amazing set design including a 70s-tastic open concept A-frame with a jungle of plants everywhere and a mattress on the floor.

general philosophies I have on the merits of roasting one's own coffee in a cast-iron skillet on a woodstove.

There is a wonderful, crumbling A-frame house here in Resolute. It's been long abandoned and there are rumours that it was never finished. These days it's mostly a place for kids to get in trouble (and/or seriously maimed), but I love it simply because of its shape.

I know, right. Shut up and get a tumblr.

If you also have way too much time on your hands, I totally recommend reading this interview with The Sweet Hereafter's costume designer.

icebreaker

2010-08-22T14:07:00.004-04:00

The truth has been slowly whispering its way into my heart: I'm not one of them.

I might not be a northerner. Not a thirty-years in lifer, and probably not going to be one. Although I always wished I might be. You know those people with their romantic and rugged austerity in the face of those two mighty arctic elements: nature and time. For me, the words "polar night" are a bit scary.

At the root of the matter is the fact that I'm a farmer at heart (in whatever context the word could apply: I am a naturally-inclined homesteader, I am interested in planting seeds and gathering harvest and the husbandry of many good things), and this is a place with no farms.

That said, I'm not ready to retreat south of 60 yet. I've enjoyed many experiences and gifts in my arctic sojourn so far, and here are a few things I've learned:

I'm living in a town with a population of 200. This has taught me the safety of being known and knowing. The joy of acknowledging casual acquaintanceship. The excitement of being welcomed back.

the pleasures of living without a lot of stuff are many. I'm currently living out of two suitcases' worth of books, craft supplies and clothing, and doing just fine.

the pleasures of living without a lot of stuff to buy are also many. The only store in Resolute is about the size of my apartment's living room. This is not a downside.

learning to read and enjoy the sky just as much as the land.

Just a few telephone lines and the sunset and the horizon for miles. I don't even believe there's such a thing as a silhouette below the treeline anymore.

if you dress properly (as opposed to fashionably), winter is really fun.

wild and local food sources need to be protected as vital sources not just of nutrition, but of culture and community-building.

Now that I've had some time to think about it, I might just stay.

Photo of the Louis Saint Laurent, a Canadian Coast Guard icebreaker that is currently breaking ice on its way here. By Yann Arthus-Bertran

you're my blue sky

2010-05-22T16:38:00.001-04:00

And they said everything would be white...

six degrees of resolution

2010-05-06T16:21:00.003-04:00

I can't see them, but I can hear the sled dogs tied up out on the shore howling along the wind. Fat flakes are limiting the view out the window to a hundred feet or so, and both flights out of town have been cancelled. It's a good day for staying in.

After four flights, and four days of travelling (I spent two Iqaluit, the capital of Nunavut), I finally made it to Resolute--and was promptly thrown into busy job of running a hotel.
Though we're tied down at the place most days, our job comes with the benefit of meeting all kinds of people who are travelling through for a huge variety of reasons: scientific research, personal expeditions, government business, sport hunting, etc. This kind of traffic is nothing new in Resolute--it's been a key location in high arctic activities for as long as such a thing has existed.

Par example: Resolute is named after a the HMS Resolute, a British naval ship dispatched to search for the lost Franklin expedition. The HMS Resolute was trapped in pack ice and abandoned in May 1854. Eventually thawing out, the crewless ship floated out towards Baffin Island, where it was found by an American whaling ship. The US government fixed her up and sailed her home as a little gift for England, where the ship was put back into naval service until 1879. When it became unseaworthy, Queen Victoria did another good deed and had the broken up ship built into two desks, one as a present for President Hayes, the other for Buckingham Palace.

Which brings us to the Resolute desk, used by all but 2 presidents (and they were LBJ and Nixon...).

have love, will travel

2010-04-11T10:22:00.004-04:00

This is my amazing sister Emmy and I yesterday, in the sunshine.

I'm moving to the high Arctic. Her road's going a different way.

I don't know where or when we'll see each other again, but I can't wait.

We'll always be close.

PS. For the next six months, this blog is going change in ways I can't predict. The next report will be from Resolute.

with me far away

2010-04-08T10:52:00.000-04:00

Who was to know what should come home to me?

Who knows but I am enjoying this?

Who knows but I am as good as looking at you now, for all you cannot see me?

I'm in my favourite place, which is actually no place, it's a place between places and it's always on the move.

I'm with a comrade who is certainly the most earnest, he in antique military garb heading out of the wind to re-load his camera.

So now I'm here alone in the greatness, in the wind, in the sound of ice and water turning into each other, and all I can think of is this, and I can't get the order, and I can't get the words, but what I have is this boat in this no-place and Walt Whitman in the sunset.

The similitudes of the past, and those of the future;

The glories strung like beads on my smallest sights and hearings--on the walk in the street, and the passage over the river;

The current rushing so swiftly, and swimming with me far away;

The others that are to follow me, the ties between me and them;

The certainty of others--the life, love, sight, hearing of others.

Walt Whitman

86. Crossing Brooklyn Ferry

Leaves of Grass

today in songs that sound exactly the same

2010-02-24T14:38:00.003-05:00

1993

2007

This is way closer than that whole Men at Work/Kookaburra drama.

city of lights, city of love

2010-02-14T12:38:00.005-05:00

rue Cler sunset

evening lovers at Place de la Concorde

love birds at Jardin Des Plantes

Rodin's rose

keeping my skates sharp

2010-02-02T19:32:00.008-05:00

Last spring, I bought some framed pictures at the Salvation Army for $1 each. I discarded or crafted most of the pictures, keeping only the frames--except this one.

A crowd of colourfully dressed mid-nineteenth century skaters was too good to throw away. There's so much going on there. Left foreground, a man chases a young woman who looks alarmed as she skates away. On the right, a man pushes his wife on a sled while a little dog barks. I can count at least four people who have fallen. And all around, scarves, muffs and all manner of Victorian winter dress abound.

It was printed in 1862 by Currier & Ives, a large New York City printing company that advertised their products as "coloured engravings for the people." An artist would draw the image on the printing stone, the page would be hand-pressed, and according to the Met website, "handed to the industry of women at home who filled in the scenes with watercolors." Pretty romantic.

I stored it away, and after returning home to a Canadian winter after a long trip, amidst all the unpacking and setting up life again, I set it on the mantle. It's been there ever since, a reminder that a winter day is not a wasted day.

www.centralpark.com

a little something

2010-01-31T12:46:00.007-05:00

I have no idea what this is or where it came from. I found it in my backyard, and I'm prepared to accept it as a gift.

winter triptych

2010-01-28T10:50:00.001-05:00

where the earth shows its bones

2009-12-18T06:00:00.001-05:00

There's God in the trees, I'm weak in the knees
And the sky is a painful blue
I'd like to look around, but honey, all I see is you.

This is where I come from.
This is how I know what love is.
Happy anniversary Mom & Dad.
(lyrics from Stan Rogers, "45 Years")

sugar and spice and everything nice

2009-12-11T13:31:00.002-05:00

A few years ago for Christmas, my dad handed me a wrapped-up present with a tiny version of this poster attached as a gift-tag. It was the first time I'd seen it.
It's pretty much the perfect picture. Joan, my life-long hero. Her gorgeous sisters. String instruments. A regal sofa. Draft dodging.

Those hats.
Floppy brim felt hats are the physical manifestation of "young and in love."

This summer I finally found that hat. So obviously I took my little sister by the arm, sat on a grassy hill and listened to folk music.

(Joanie, you're welcome to join us next year)

For more Joanie, she did a really wonderful performance at Newport's 50th this year. Listen to the NPR recording here. Especially that one part where she mocks Dylan. Revenge eaten cold.

And finally this, because we must.

les poux sont retour

2009-12-09T09:28:00.011-05:00

Just back from Europe, a whirlwind trip that will be processed through countless conversations, while trying new recipes and maybe a few blog posts. After taking so much in, I'm ready to put out.

A Saturday afternoon at Marche aux Puce, the Paris flea market. There were some really great Eames rockers sitting in the rain, suspicious cartons of cigarettes for sale under the bridge, and countless thousands of vintage postcards.

Most of all, though, there was this:

Baby heads and googly eyes and tiny beakers, too!

Edit: Since arriving home, I've been reading Handmade in Paris, a lovely book by Pia Jane Bijkerk about all things fait main. I foolishly forgot to bring to Paris with me. It's worked out well though, because I discovered and fell in love with many of the featured galleries and store-fronts all by myself, and I'm finding out all sorts of background and histories of the places through the book.

Including this flea market stall, which is connected with a store in Montmartre: Tombees du Camion. Which means "fell off a truck" in English.

places i can be found

2009-09-14T12:00:00.006-04:00

There are some secrets that can only be heard in unlikely voices, that only show themselves on the darkest nights, that can be found only in places you had no business being in the first place.

I found the following pasted on the sides of a Kleenex box.

The Dance
by Oriah

I have sent you my invitation,
the note inscribed on the palm of my hand by the fire of living.
Don't jump up and shout, "Yes, this is what I want! Let's do it!"
Just stand up quietly and dance with me.

Show me how you follow your deepest desires,
spiralling down into the ache within the ache.
And I will show you how I reach inward and open outward
to feel the kiss of the Mystery, sweet lips on my own, everyday.

Don't tell me you want to hold the whole world in your heart.
Show me how you turn away from making another wrong without abandoning yourself when you are hurt and afraid of being unloved.

Tell me a story of who you are,
And see who I am in the stories I am living.
And together we will remember that each of us always has a choice.

Don't tell me how wonderful things will be . . . some day.
Show me you can risk being completely at peace,
truly OK with the way things are right now in this moment,
and again in the next and the next and the next. . .

I have heard enough warrior stories of heroic daring.
Tell me how you crumble when you hit the wall,
the place you cannot go beyond by the strength of your own will.
What carries you to the other side of that wall,
to the fragile beauty of your own humanness?

And after we have shown each other how we have set and kept the clear, healthy boundaries that help us live side by side with each other, let us risk remembering that we never stop silently loving those we once loved out loud.

Take me to the places on the earth that teach you how to dance, the places where you can risk letting the world break your heart.
And I will take you to the places where the earth beneath my feet and the stars overhead make my heart whole again and again.

Show me how you take care of business
without letting business determine who you are.
When the children are fed but still the voices within and around us shout that soul's desires have too high a price,
let us remind each other that it is never about the money.

Show me how you offer to your people and the world
the stories and the songs you want our children's children to remember, and I will show you how I struggle
not to change the world, but to love it.

Sit beside me in long moments of shared solitude,
knowing both our absolute aloneness and our undeniable belonging. Dance with me in the silence and in the sound of small daily words, holding neither against me at the end of the day.

And when the sound of all the declarations of our sincerest
intentions has died away on the wind, dance with me in the infinite pause before the next great inhale of the breath that is breathing us all into being, not filling the emptiness from the outside or from within.

Don't say, "Yes!"
Just take my hand and dance with me.

and i thought only boring people got bored

2009-09-09T13:52:00.004-04:00

Living every week like it's Shark Week over here.

late summer

2009-09-08T11:49:00.005-04:00

I'll always get more than I could put into it.

The vines are creeping into the mown grass; the purple eggplant clings to the edge of the tomatoes; the lavender stretches its frail limbs, waving; the patchouli catches the breeze.

Time to eat up, put up, fill up, before the coolness in the air changes everything all over again.

ode on a boat

2009-08-27T12:31:00.002-04:00

Sometimes living in this little city can be just right.

(Taken last Wednesday, on a glorious night at the Island Grill)

whoever you are, I have always depended upon the kindness of strangers

2009-08-23T11:59:00.000-04:00

There's something to be learned from the generosity of basil. Just one day after a brutal pillaging, it's springing new leaves in all the right places, greener than ever and whispering "I hope you enjoyed your pesto."

Like a herbaceous Blanche DuBois, over here.

summer '63 beats the heat

2009-08-19T12:41:00.006-04:00

Heading to Kellerman's for the rest of the summer.

this kind of summer time.

2009-08-08T10:19:00.002-04:00

hope you're weekend is spent running around an island with some nice bands and all your friends. see you on the boat!

On me dit que nos vies ne valent pas grand chose

2009-08-03T14:38:00.004-04:00

"A hand cupped the heel of a woman who wished to climb a tree to see the stars more clearly. The men laughed into their tumblers. They all went swimming again with just the modesty of the night. An arm touched a face. A foot touched a stomach. They could have almost drowned or fallen in love and their lives would have been totally changed during any one of those evenings."

--Michael Ondaatje, Running in the Family

She doesn't play tricks.

2009-04-01T11:00:00.003-04:00

This is the way the espresso maker works. You fill the bottom with water to where the screw is. You put espresso coffee grinds into the strainer and fit it in the bottom. Screw the top on and put it on the element turned to high (a small element because my mom recently told me not to put small things on large elements).
My dad took me into the basement before I left after Christmas. Pieces of paper and photographs and projects on tables all around, laundry escaping baskets in the corner. "I have some books, do any of these interest you?" I take Alice Munro, George Elliot Clarke.
I read Who Do You Think You Are.
I take notes, notes about Alice Munro and Canadian women. Notes for a class discussion that will not happen, notes for an exam that is not coming, notes for what? I write notes by hand.
At the Salvation Army, I buy an impossibly full bag of buttons, colorful old buttons, all shanks (what are the chances of this?) with their proud fronts and practical backs. I have no plans for these buttons, there is no dress in the works that requires hundreds of shank buttons down the back, each its own size and colour. Buttons for what?
I'm won over by their packaging, a rinsed out and yellowing milk bag with two staples in the top. $2 spent on a rinsed out milk bag and no plans. When she lived with us, my nana would keep milk bags rinsed and folded in the bottom drawer in the kitchen.
My beardy, thoughtful, 48-year old uncle does the 25 things meme on Facebook and mentions Alice Munro. My notes are probably wrong, then. I've been overfeminizing her, feeling at once too much claim on her and too much distance. I didn't know men liked Alice Munro.
Alice Munro has a pattern, writing shadows of the same characters and the same stories over and over. Practicing for perfect and welcoming suspicions of autobiography. This is what we have: rural poverty; graphic and vivid experiences of life/death/sex/shame; tweedy, gifted women students who are ahead of their time (here we may meet Atwood, cross paths with each other on a slushy street corner, both cold and shabby and waiting for the street car; ridiculously small adult luxuries that may grow into a strangely unfulfilling freedom or ill-fitting middle class comfort.
Gravity reverses and parts become a whole. Coffee pours up through the strainer into its holding chamber, and is poured into a pot. Two tablespoons of sugar, the rest of the milk.
Do I rinse out the bag? Rinse it out, let it dry, fold it over and keep it in a drawer for future purpose? What would I save a milk bag for?
After dinner, in the living room with our coffees and candles, my best friend practically whispers: "Alice Munro is boring." She says she feels like she has to go out outside and spit 3 times for saying it. Attracting the evil eye of Canadian literature. It's never occured to me, but it might be true. She might be boring. But then, that might just be the trick.
The sound the buttons make when poured into a pile.
The sound the coffee makes when poured into a mug.

after all, aren't they the same thing?

2009-03-04T23:24:00.003-05:00

I just read this sentence on a design blog, sfgirlbybay, and I think it might be the saddest and loveliest sentence of all:

"It was summer and we all looked so young."

and it's like, and it's like um. and it's um like, like um.

2009-02-17T11:24:00.005-05:00

Charles Spearin, a dude from Do Make Say Think and Broken Social Scene, invited some friends and neighbours over and did some interviews with them vaguely centred around happiness. Then he pulled out his Rolodex of the Super Talented and had his peeps put the interviews to music, following the beautiful cadences and intonations of his friends and neighbours. The CBC and I are now transfixed with the result.
Please buy the album here.
And check out the myspace.
I personally have a penchant for Vittoria (from who I stole title of this post).
The content is obviously uplifting, but this project is really interesting because of the way that it distinguishes the beautiful differences in each individual's voice, and the way that all of the tracks come together in a way that is reminiscent of a big family gathering or a church potluck. We have little babes and school-age children and young and old ladies and they're all present in the room taking turns talking about what happiness means while the musicians in the corner play along with the notes in their voices. So like the best potluck ever, where you get to fill up on white bean cassoulet* and genuine contentedness.

Pictured above is my own happiness project.

*To my knowledge, the Happiness Project does not actually ship along with a white bean cassoulet.

skating the humble path to zen canadian

2009-02-17T11:12:00.002-05:00

(lovely pictures taken by lovely jodi)

you've got outsider art by an artist

2009-02-12T15:24:00.006-05:00

Mike Mills is my current visual love.
I like his stuff because it is:
-simple
-heartfelt
-over- and under-wrought at the same time
-Miranda July likes it too
-he is from "Cali"
-www.mikemillsweb.com

He designed the cover of Miranda July's book "No one belongs here more than you." I didn't know anyone designed it. I didn't realize it had been designed.

I thought it was just Helvetica Light.

why we love barack obama

2009-01-18T19:14:00.004-05:00

for reals, y'all.

happy inauguration

teen creeps

2009-01-04T23:32:00.001-05:00

I've tried to hold it back. Cobrasnake, 10/31/08

top of 2008

2009-01-04T13:14:00.007-05:00

Some things that made 2008 for me. Maybe you too?

the new Frank Gehry-designed Art Gallery of Ontario. Hometown architect makes good: that wood spiral Baroque Stair alone is enough, but the entire building reminds me of the way the behemoth redwoods appear to physically inhale and exhale on the West Coast. Not to mention Rubens' Massacre of the Innocents or anything else that actually lives inside.

MGMT's Oracular Spectacular. "Time to Pretend" was practically inescapable this year, but I recommend listening to "Kids" at high volume at sunset in a sweaty apartment in mid-August. Make pad thai afterwards, and always, always share your beer.

The National's "Fake Empire" playing at Obama's victory rally in Chicago. As the world waited for the man himself to appear, news cameras circled the crowd finding tear-jerker shots of Jesse Jackson, Oprah and random white people, this Brooklyn band's 2007 anthem played with a promo video called "Signs of Hope". Perhaps Obama's shout-out to the PBR-drinkers across America who gave him the election? Or maybe America just elected a president who likes good music (he is basically the first presidential candidate to use a Springsteen song when it was actually cool to do so) and some insight into the magic lyrics can carry. "Tiptoe through our shiny city/ with our diamond slippers on/ Do our gay ballet on ice/ bluebirds on our shoulders/ We're half awake in a fake empire." Either way, hearing it on CNN was das unheimliche or whatever. Will.i.am's death rattle was heard by no one.

Martha Wainwright's I Know You're Married, But I've Got Feelings Too. This album is a heart-stopper and a head-turner. You know this album is bad for you, but you have to be near it because it makes you feel so alive.

Maybe it's just me--in fact, I'm quite sure it's just me, but nothing says "Great in '08" like that sexy sumo wrestler ad for the Subaru Forester, with Electric Six's "Danger High Voltage" in the background.

current pressing concerns

2009-01-02T22:24:00.003-05:00

social ettiquette for end-of-year lists--and those who insist on referring to them as "listicles"
whatever got Europe's "Final Countdown" stuck in my head
discomfort with the appearance of something called "Shanghai Noodles"
Humphrey Bogart never once says "Play it again, Sam," in the film Casablanca
a missing pair of yellow polar-fleece mittens. If you've seen them, please post below as they were my warmest pair
the fact that Chris Lyon always ruins all our fun with his crap-ass music
a fortune cookie that read "Your tongue is your ambassador"
the fact that lists of any kind don't count as writing

i don't want to push it

2008-07-09T16:23:00.002-04:00

It's like standing at the end of the dock, I guess.
Standing at the end of the dock for the first time of the season, when you're not sure how warm the water is yet, and you're afraid you'll lose your nerve if you dip a toe in. It's all or nothing, and you don't want to seem like a girl but you're pretty sure there's something moving down there under the water. You don't want to look too closely, so you just do it.
You say you'll count to three, and when your voices get to "two" together, you jump, pulling him in with you. His elbow hits your ear on the way down, and when you surface together, he spits the water out of his mouth, panting, and says "I thought we were going on three!"
And the sound and motion and breath and night time just carries off across the water, and you're in.

just what i needed, that's what i was thinking of

2008-04-07T23:10:00.000-04:00

our lady of seven sorrows

2008-04-07T13:21:00.007-04:00

I read a book recently in which a character said that love is the greatest of the seven sorrows. So great, in fact, that he had forgotten the other six.

That reminded me of this.

When I was in grade nine I had two wishes.
One was to marry Daniel Johns, who was the lead singer of Silverchair, and with whom I planned to have two children, one named Neon and one named Ballroom.

The other was to be Catholic.
My friend Melissa and I often had sleepovers at her grandmother's house in Peterborough, where we would camp out in the basement and watch the videos for "Anthem for the Year 2000" and Will Smith's "Miami." One weekend while we were there, I got blue streaks dyed into my hair.

Another time, Melissa's grandmother gave me a medal of St. Christopher, the patron saint of travellers, to wear around my neck. My paternal grandfather has been travelling all his life, but he didn't like it -- papism makes him nervous. In 1969, St. Christopher started making the pope nervous. I lost the pendant sometime in 1999.

this might be a shout out

2008-04-01T21:18:00.009-04:00

Another list/post inspired by the genius of Que Sera Sera. I have some friends with stories that basically define their personalities, or at least, the window through which I see them. The story that I'll shamelessly say "Okay, so tell me about that time that you...." over and over again. Particularly if I haven't seen them in a while, or if I'm introducing them to someone new. This includes stories for which I was present, and stories that I've heard so often that I could recite them verbatim, leading to frequent interruptions to correct minute details.

Such is the life. You're all saints, kids.

Rachel - "That time your dad got lint on his pants and made the Zimbabwean tour guide pick it off."
Streets - "That thing you overheard at Coffee & Co."
Beav - "That time Ben got in a fist-fight with a turkey."
Bale - "That time you fell in love with the heir to a tea dynasty"
Jordon - "That time you refused to get an ashtray" OR "That one time you studied Howl and NPR at Dal."
Barbeau - "That time it was your birthday and you had to go to the bank really quickly." OR "That time we saw MO. [in the Biblical way]"
Tee Eff - "That time you saw Bran Van 3000 and told them they were the future of hip hop."
Scheidt: "That time you had fleas at the apartment."
Dorian - "That time you guys stole those boxes from Steve and he went to jail"
Emmy - "That time the ferrets were running all over you" OR "That time we snuck in the backdoor at the Horseshoe and met the Gords."
Carleigh - "That time you saw Chingy."
Zeb - "The border crossing when you ran for the woods" OR "That time the car broke down in South Syracuse"
Colin - "That time you stole the school bus"
Meghan - "That time you bro'd down with John Tory at Little Shop of Horrors" OR "That time you wished you knew he was on ecstasy."
Kate - "That time that guy's mom thought you were his ex-girlfriend when you were peering in his windows and started yelling 'It's okay, Sarah!' when you and your friends ran away."

Tell me more, tell me more.

a case of who?/i bet you think this post is about you/will you still read me tomorrow

2008-03-27T21:59:00.006-04:00

This month's Vanity Fair has a story about three Rebel Angels--Carly Simon, Joni Mitchell and Carole King. While there's a lot of gratingly intense celebration of the fact that the three are women (!) writing songs (!) (including the use of the word 'Everywoman') that sort of invalidates a lot of the really great art they made, it does a good bio of Joni Mitchell (more so, at least, than the other two women), complete with descriptions of high cheek bones and a "Canadian Dorothy from the Wizard of Oz."

And of course this description of famous alum of the Seven Sisters schools made my mouth water: "...in stovepipe pants and ponchos, raising fists at political rallies, debating literary lions now viewed as troglodytes, producing theoretical tracts and carnal novels."

Check it (if only for the pretty pictures of hippy kids with guitars). Pretty sure the whole thing's online.

PS. In the article, Weller describes King as "getting younger as she got older (as one could do only back then)."

I've got a handwritten letter from my baby sister pinned to my bulletin board (one of those "if the house was on fire, and you could only save one thing," kind of possessions [sorry 'bout the drumkit, CS]) and a perpetual love for chasing the wind that pray that era's not over.

Johnny & Joni do "Girl from the North Country"
Joni - A Case of You

and what follows is this:

2008-03-26T14:00:00.002-04:00

All my favourite stories are on the road.

Emmylou, doing Townes Van Zandt's Pancho and Lefty, a song that always reminds me of Don Edward's song, Coyotes.

baby do you know what i mean

2008-03-26T13:11:00.005-04:00

Listening to a ton of Gram Parsons & Emmylou Harris music right now, and finding it's the soundtrack to a rich life.

One of my favourite blogs, This Recording, has this post about the glory of Gram (including soft, earnest interviews with the martyr himself) which is definitely worth checking out.

Gram on Emmylou:
"She sang like a bird, man, and that was it... She can sing anything that you're doing in perfect harmony as long as you look at her. If you raise your eyebrows when you're going up on a note, she goes right up with you. She's beautiful."

Emmylou's farewell song to Gram, Boulder to Birmingham always stops my heart a little bit.
So far, this blog is the only place I can find it online, so go there, and click play.

writing to reach me

2008-03-20T14:19:00.005-04:00

Originally published here, along with a ridiculous photograph.

In those awkward, self-aware years between childhood and adulthood, when I was buying Seventeen magazines in order to imagine the life of a 17-year-old and keeping copious records of descriptions of boys I liked, friends who had betrayed me and arguments with parents, it seemed as though I was always being instructed to write a letter to myself in the future. A time capsule to open in the year 2000 or when I graduated from high school or something, a memento of times past, a purpose-fuelled inspiration to motivate myself at 12 to dream big, and at 18 to pursue those dreams. The capitalist’s dream summed up in a Dr. Phil moment of self exploration, facilitated by a small-town schoolteacher whose favourite phrase was, “The sky’s the limit.”

I found one of them the other day, a record from my last year before high school, tucked between the pages of a pink diary guarded by the words “keep out” written in menacingly sparkling purple nail polish.
In the letter, I'd written myself about who my best friends were, (using the classic initial-only last name unique to public school days: “Ashley H.”), my favourite bands—The Beatles, Oasis, Tom Petty—and what I wanted for the future: “To become a famous author, and also a doctor (maybe).”
While I’m pretty impressed by my pre-teen enthusiasm for music that’s still dear to my heart, I’ve given up on the dream I no longer remember having to be a doctor.
The whole exercise, though more than 10 years in the making, was fairly anti-climactic. Far from mourning the loss of failed dreams, of being inspired by the purer hope I had once had, I was mostly creeped out by the letter’s eery and narcissitic address—”Dear Meghan,”—and signature: “Love, Meghan.”

The letter did, however, make me think about the tragedy of the one-way passage of time—how much better it would be if I could write a letter and pop it into some time-travelling post system that would take it back to the days of dollar-store eyeliner and “group dates.” I would write to myself about the things that really matter—that diary I kept, the books I was reading, the music I was clinging to, family, friends who were good at being friends—and the things that don’t: Grade 9 math class, boys who make fun of curly hair, bra size. Again there would be a distinctly Dr. Phil-like vibe to the whole thing: “hindsight’s 20/20.”

Now I’m in my fourth year of university, on the edge of something even bigger than high school appeared back then, and I don’t feel half as secure as I did then. There’s no road map from here on out, and I’m not really keen on drawing one just yet.

Dear Future Self,

The sky’s the limit.
Love, Meghan

the only people for me are the mad ones

2008-03-13T18:37:00.006-04:00

Amidst the snow and sadness of the winter, I've been bunking down in the ivory tower (a.k.a. Stauffer Library) with my homeys (see photo) catching up with my first love, the Beats. Though they've become the cliched territory of stoner-buddhas and supposedly high-minded frat boys, I've always felt pretty sincere in my affections for Jack and the boys. I read Dharma Bums for the first time when I was 16, and it felt like waking up--like I'd been asleep for my whole life. In honour of these two crazy kids, long hours at the library for no reason, over-the-counter uppers and late nights (or early mornings) singing along with Dylan, a list.

Top Ten Things To Do in a Kerouac Novel/Poem/Letter

10. Get all confused and hung up.

9. Abstractly refer to Buddhism, God and America. Interchangeably, if possible.

8. Take bennys.

7. Worry about your mother. Refer to your mother, her cat, and your belongings as “the ménage.”

6. Get a ride with/pick up some hitchhiking Okies.

5. “Ball” with girls. Descriptions of said girls should be based on their occupations and hair colour. Note: if in spiritual phase, refer to sex as “yabyum.”

4. Reminisce about your golden youth in a small and snowy New England town.

3. Go and never stop going till you get there. You don’t know where you’re going, but you gotta go.

2. Drink a lot, worry about how much you’re drinking, swear to stop drinking, repeat.

1. Dig/be dug by someone.

Haven't changed, haven't much to say

2008-03-13T00:43:00.003-04:00

Since I started slingin' dirty pints at the local I can't get Paddy's Day off the brain, and with half my heart in Dublin (the pretty lady pictured at right), it's Irish time. Video-stylez.

Jape - Floating

PS. I want to marry this song.

The Frames - Lay Me Down

Note: I love that the scroll on this video mentions the Olympia, former work place of the loveliest Dubliner.

Redneck Manifesto - We Still Got It

NB: They still got it. This video makes me think of: a) high school, and b) the opening credits for Almost Famous.

And because this list would be incomplete without them (or rather, him?)...

Thin Lizzy - The Boys Are Back in Town

So...I sort of want to borrow Brian Robertson's high-waisted denims. Also, that in-screen video showing the whole stage means that The Future is here.

But seriously, the best place that I know of to find St Patty's music is Hi-Fi Popcorn, which is straight outta Dublin. Check it.

2008-02-14T12:05:00.003-05:00

Hey friends and lovers,
Whether you're a love-lover or love-hater today, Minnesota Public Radio has you covered. They've created two hours-long sets of Valentine's Day songs. The "Greatest Love Songs" show is five hours of The Flaming Lips, Iron and Wine, Billy Bragg and
Nina Simone to get you in the mood, while the three-hour long "Greatest Break Up Songs" has Patsy Cline, Jeff Buckley, Sebadoh and The Seeds singing about how they've lost that loving feeling. Click here to listen.

things that everyone should watch.

2008-02-11T22:25:00.000-05:00

Ike and Tina performing "Proud Mary" live (1974-ish?)

Beyonce at the Kennedy Centre Honors -- honoring Miss Tina. (2005)

Tina and Beyonce last night on the Grammy's. Tina's 68 years-old.

LOVE it.

Hating even our shoes and our hats

2008-02-11T21:32:00.000-05:00

Once upon a time, I had an Anne Sexton poem posted in these pages. It still makes me catch my breath, so here it is again:

A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.

A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.

Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.

-- Anne Sexton, The Black Art

We know the answers, we fill us in.

2008-02-05T21:30:00.000-05:00

Here's a link to a rock and roll song that I like a lot.

Guided By Voices - Everywhere with Helicopter

That's all.

glorious

2008-02-04T21:11:00.000-05:00

I have a feeling that the past year marks a turning point after years of complaining about Kingston's music scene (generally summed up as a cyclical issue: lack of venues, and therefore an absence of local bands). Though finding venues is still difficult, a few musicians have broken through the local ennui and are forming bands. Really good bands. (See The Gertrudes, listen to Nich Worby's album when it comes out later this spring, go to Apple Crisp).

Magic Jordan played their first show last May, opening for Woodhands. The night was indeed magic: the gallery was hot, crowded and sweaty, and between sets, the crowd piled out into the street, lured back inside after show promoter Greg Tilson handed out sparklers. The band was electric--members were trading places, cheering their own band name and barely controlling their own energy. In the four or five times I've seen them since, the act has become tighter but the energy is still there. The band has a songwriting chemistry that brings focus through fantastic tunes that lyrically cycle and rhythmically wander. Bass player and singer Paul Saulnier's cover of Gary Numan's iconic electropop tune "M.E." (sampled on that Basement Jaxx "Where's Your Head At?" track) is not to be missed, and their first song, "Magic Jordan Part 1," just keeps getting better.

Who:
Jenni O'Neill-keys, vox
Paul Saulnier-bass, vox
Benjamin Nelson-drums, vox
Jeff Barbeau-synth

www.myspace.com/magicjordan3223

Add them up, already!

PS. All of their gig posters are wonderful. Paul and Ben do them, and Paul and Ben are wonderful.

are you the favourite person of anybody?

2008-01-22T20:27:00.000-05:00

Things John. C Reilly should spend more time on (and you should too): Miranda July's short stories.

"It comes to me that fear of death is, from another angle, love of the world."

2008-01-22T19:59:00.002-05:00

Originally printed in the Journal (Vol 135's Literary Supplement) in a collection of books for each season, this is the book I've been talking about to anyone to will listen lately.

When I Was Young and In My Prime - Alayna Munce

During the season of short days and long nights, it's easy to find refugre in that which is static--though life, as this book's narrator discovers, rarely stands still. When I Was Young and In My Prime skips between and around generations of one family, telling their stories with raw and beautiful concision, from Mennonite children in revolutionary Ukraine to broken bones on backyard ice rinks in rural Ontario to the painful awkwardness of old age.
Through diary entries, lists, poems and prose, over and over again, Munce nails the everyday, the mundane, with knowledge that comes from the heightened awareness of pain.
Our narrator is a young woman in her mid-twenties living in the Parkdale area of Toronto, who splits her time between waitressing in a bar* and writing. She's a version of Munce, and the book walks a blurred edge between fiction and autobiography--its truth is that palatable.
When I Was Young paradoxically provides comfort in its realism and its simple acceptance of the things that are beginnings, ends and everything in between.

(Need more? The title of this entry comes from the author's description of biking home through Toronto's rush hour, towards the sunset. Truth.)

*Rumour has it the bar she works at in the novel is Mitzi's Sister (pictured above). Live music every night. Queen West at Dowling, or so.

that said,

2008-01-21T22:41:00.000-05:00

My latest addiction is Fecal Face's Photo of the Day. Lurk it regularly: http://www.fecalface.com/POTD/

More POTDs:

• Toronto's Daily Dose of Imagery (doesn't that title sound a little bit Orwellian, with the caps and all? I love it.)

• Paris Daily Photo, taken by a cute old dude who introduces himself as a "Friendly Parisian (yes, it does exist!)

• Torontoist's (nearly always) interesting collection of photos, which they scoop from the Toronto Flickr group

• And finally, the super-cool Panaromist. 360-degree views! Science and technology!

rainbow's end

2008-01-21T21:29:00.000-05:00

I'm reclaiming Breakfast at Tiffany's.

The beautifully sad 1961 film has been pigeonholed, painted over and made into something it's not. I can promise you this: it's not the stuff of cheap photo purses in Chinatown, it's not wallpaper for co-eds' dorm rooms, it's not an early chick flick.

The original novella, written by Truman Capote (arguably one of the weirdest damn fellas of the 20th century), is a sort of autobiography (Holly Golightly's real name? Lulumae. Capote's mother's name? Lillie Mae.), maybe also the document of a gender crisis, and certainly an intricate story of those things most complicated: of sadness, of letting-be, of growing up, of not-knowing.

I saw the film for the first time when I was very young--probably too young. I certainly didn't understand Holly's professional life, and I was terrified by the scene where a drunken partier cries into a mirror. I was old enough, though, to be charmed by Holly. It wasn't classic opening scene, it wasn't the diamonds or the beehive or the long dress.

It was the Holly who wasn't sure who drew me in. The Holly who sings on her fire escape and who answers her door wearing an eye-mask and ear-plugs and who refuses to give her cat a name.

This is a movie that's grown with me, and that I've grown with. I didn't understand how sad Holly was, because I was too busy looking for a why. Now I'm starting to understand that it's the lack of Why that can make us saddest, and that maybe this whole movie is about a girl trying to make her own Why (there's no shortage of men trying to do it for her).

Now, peep this:

"The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?"

Two drifters, off to see the world...

sometimes a person's hands are the only words she knows

2008-01-17T16:31:00.000-05:00

Something new I've stumbled upon this year (one of those so-close-you-trip-over-it discoveries) is the writing of Bronwen Wallace. Born in Kingston, Wallace taught at Queen's and St. Lawrence, worked at Interval House (a women's shelter) and wrote. Wrote, wrote, wrote. Wrote her heart out, wrote till it was spilled out and wrote till it was stitched back up. She had a weekly column in the Whig during the '8os (ahh, the institutional legacy: some comfort in a past that nothing can buy out), she argued about the usefulness of language in feminism with fellow poet Erin Mouré, she wrote intelligent, angry poems about violence against women and she wrote poems about the land north of Kingston in which, through disconnected family lines and dusty county lines, I've come to find something of a home.

Wallace died of cancer in 1989, and I'm feeling the loss of her 20 years late.

If I had a god,
I'd say we were holy and didn't know it,
but I see only what we make of ourselves on earth,
how long it takes for us to love what we are,
what we offer to each other only in our best moments,
but carelessly, without shyness,
like food grown in plenty,
our mouths blessed with it every day.

--Bronwen Wallace, from What It Comes to Mean, in Common Magic, 1985

*This spring, Queen's is hosting a conference called Common Magic: The Legacy of Bronwen Wallace in March. Kingstonians, and others, look here for more. Rumours that Emmylou Harris might be playing were unfounded--the big concert is Kate & Anna McGarrigle.

**Grace O'Connell, former writer for the Queen's Journal, a former "who" of the University's literary "who's," etc. was one of three finalists for the Bronwen Wallace Award for Emerging Writers (the award was recently picked up by RBC and now comes with cashola to the tune of $15 000 for the winner). Marjorie Celona won the award for her story "Othello."

And one more:

It's never easy.
Even the effort of a few steps
from the bedroom to the kitchen, say,
or a few muscles, opening my eyes
to find you still there in bed beside me
is an act of magic or faith,
I'm never sure which.

All I know is that it's learned
by doing, over and over again,
like any other trick,
until you don't need to think about it.
Like now. Like the way I'm walking home
to you through this city I've learned to accept
as the only kind there is: five o'clock,
night coming down and rain
just hard enough
to make the crowds on the corners shove a little
when a bus finally splashes to the stop.
Outside a restaurant, two men shake hands
and a little boy holds his father's
as they watch a toy airplane turning in a shop window.
It could be anywhere. But what I want you to notice
are the women. They are wearing white nurses' shoes,
or dirty sneakers or high-heeled boots.
They carry briefcases and flowers, bags of groceries
as they hurry home to their husbands and kids,
lovers, ailing parents, friends.
We all have the same look somehow.

See: over there by the bank
how that stout woman lowers her eyes
when she passes that group of boys,
how her movement's mimed
by the blonde, turning her head
when a car slows down beside her.
Even the high-pitched giggle of the girls
in that bunch of teenagers is a signal
I've learned to recognize. Tuned in
on my own tightened muscles, jawline or shoulders.
In fact, you might study the shoulders.
The line of the backbone too; arms and hips,
the body carried
like something the woman's not sure what to do with.

I've already told you that this is an ordinary city.
There are maps of it and lights to show us
when to walk, where to turn.
What I want you to know is that it isn't enough.

On a trip to Vancouver once
I discovered clearer landmarks. Red ones,
sprayed on sidewalks all over the city.
They marked the places
where a woman had been raped,
so that when I stepped out of a coffee shop
to find one on the pavement by the laundromat
geography shifted.
Brought me to the city I'd always imagined
happening in dark alleys, deserted parking-lots,
to somebody else. Brought me home in a way,
no longer the victim of rumours or old news,
that red mark planted in the pavement
like the flag of an ancient, immediate war.

I used to hope it was enough
that you are gentle,
that I love you,
but what can enough mean any more,
what can it measure?

How many rapes were enough
for those women in Vancouver
before they got stencils and spray paint
made a word for their rage?
How many more until even that word
lost its meaning
and the enemy was anything that moved out there.
Anything male, that is.

How can any woman say
she loves a man enough
when every city on the planet
is a minefield
she must pick her way through
just to reach him?

It's not that we manage it though.
It's that we make it look so easy.
These women wearing their fear
like a habit of speech or movement
as if this were the way
the female's body's meant to be.
The way I turn the last corner now,
open the door to find you
drinking wine and reading the newspaper,
another glass already filled
and waiting on the coffee-table.

When I turn on the hall light
the city will retreat into the rain,
the tiny squares of yellow
marking the other rooms
where men and women greet each other.
It's a matter of a few steps,
magic or faith, though it's not that simple.
The way the rain keeps watering the cities of the world.
How it throws itself against our window,
harder, more insistent,
so that we both hear.

--Bronwen Wallace, To Get To You, from Common Magic

without prejudice

2008-01-15T00:57:00.001-05:00

It's been a long winter already--the wind-blowing and up-hill both-ways kind that makes some kind of summer of the mind seem impossible, and that reassurance that you are indeed the grasshopper this time around (however unwilling). My comfort comes in that Farmer's Almanac kind of knowledge that life rolls through in seasons, and change is the only constant.

This is the diagnosis:

I am a broken lip,
and a fat arm,
and a cauterized hip.
I am cataract teeth
and measles mouth,
I am a stained eye and
a rash smile.

*I titled this blog with the cautious hope that ideas are circles and everything is joined. Were I risky enough to grant credit where it was due, it would be to one who dares to write even when the rest of him is being changed and saved and forgotten.

late night Can-Con and other Southern Ontario Gothic dreams

2007-10-02T17:01:00.000-04:00

Last night I fell asleep with the TV on (the TV being an adorable, 4-inch little black and white number that requires a less-adorable amount of effort to receive a signal).
On a good day, I get two channels. Last night it was just me and the CBC.
Sometime between three and four a.m., I woke up with a start. A fuzzy orchestral version of "Oh Canada" was blaring, sounding rough and embarrassingly grandiose through the tiny speakers and a bit of static. It took me a minute to figure out its origin; the bathroom was my first thought.
The camera was wildly swooping over boldy "Canadian" scenes. I think I saw a moose, but definitely water. Maybe a Group of Seven/Georgian Bay tree? I leaned over and turned it off.
This morning, I complained to a friend. "What's with the CBC?"
I was reassured in the only way Canadians know how. You're not the only one, and someone's already written about it. Better yet, you've probably heard it on the CBC (that glorious factory: source of our greatest disdain, our greatest consolation).

See the chorus of Joel Plaskett's "True Patriot Love."

We all go out
Then we all come home
But I fall asleep with the TV on
At 3 AM they play "O Canada"
True patriot love and lalalalala

When I woke this morning, I swore there was a scene from Expo (you know the one) or maybe the Montreal Olympics. ~~There's not.~~ (See Mama Sheff's comment below). I'm just crazy.

close to paradise

2007-09-27T11:32:00.001-04:00

Uber late on this whole Polaris thing. Read excellent re-caps here, here and most lovingly, my witty and affable date, the Helenic beauty / willing futon provider Meghan Harrison's take here.

Highlights:

Patrick Watson's win seemed to be a bit of a coup, and certainly the reaction of the audience (largely made up of jury members) was uncomfortable shock for about 3.2 seconds, but in the minutes, hours and days since, there seems to be a general consensus that it was a safe bet, which could be agreed upon by Grand Jury in the allotted 2 hours. Which leads to a discussion of whether the best album of the year based on "artistic merit alone" should be a "safe bet." My thoughts: Watson's album is a bit of a sleeper, but he was one of the more interesting live performers.

Last year's prize winner and generous boyfriend Owen Pallett's sleeveless, orange shirt was the second biggest shock of the evening. He accepted the nomination on behalf of the Arcade Fire, and also announced the winner.

Julie Doiron with Eric's Trip. For a music-loving cub like myself, this was a pretty big deal. While there's been some conversation about this performance, including how it will translate to television, I was fairly awed. It was raw, and rough, and fun. Doiron was visibly excited to be there, backed by her former band. It made me almost wish I could trade in my Weeping Tile lifestyle for a little bit of Moncton. (There was some breakfast discussion comparing the Doiron/Trip esthetic with Sarah Harmer backed by the Hip. Attention Rick White and Rob Baker: your hair is gross.)

Each shortlist nominee was introduced by a presenter from the Jury, providing an argument for their album. There were serious mic issues all night long, which sort of hampered things, but this quote from Carl Wilson's Junior Boys speech made it to the peon gallery (aka the balcony): "This is the land of the silver birch, but also Marshall McLuhan." Double-you teee eff, C-Dubs?

A sweating, shining Jian Ghomeshi did a longwinded presentation for my favourites, the Besnard Lakes. A "casual back and forth" between the Q-list celeb and Jace Lasek took place. Something about Jace swearing on The Hour at SXSW a few years ago, and being reprimanded by his grandmother. Ghomeshi's argument for the album: "They play some eclectic fucked-up shit."

Mid after-party, I went to the convenience store down the block from the Drake. Looked at Basia Bulat on the cover of Now magazine, returned to the rooftop of the Drake and there was Basia. There are some things that would rarely happen in the States, or really anywhere else in the world to a wide-eyed wannabe like myself. Ohhh Canada. You're tiny and you give jobs to pompous, talentless jerks, but we love you.

making waves

2007-09-19T15:03:00.001-04:00

Photo property of the Queen's Journal. By Heather Mosher

This weekend was Tidal Mass, a 24-hour arts event, featuring sculpture, silent film and live music. Don Maynard's sculpture, from which the event took its name, was a visual stunner-2300 fluorescent light bulbs arranged into waves, and lit from below, making "pools and puddles" of light.
Almost 15 musicians (Greg Tilson, Nich Worby, Jason Erb, Jeff Barbeau, Jenni O'Neil, Benjamin Nelson, etc) had been practicing in the space for 6 weeks and had arranged five hours of music which cycled through seasonal themes, from winter to fall.

Photo property of the Queen's Journal. By Harrison Smith

The show drew a bigger crowd than I've seen at any kind of arts event in a long time (this town gets a bit lonely in the summer). I'm so happy something like this is happening in little ol' Kingston.

The lights and the sounds, they made me believe.

spinning and also spiraling

2007-09-04T13:35:00.000-04:00

I'm still coming down from a weekend in the hills. The Shelter Valley Folk Festival was this end-of-summer weekend, and it was great. I probably saw less music this year than ever before, between volunteering and a mid-festival break for a friend's wedding, but anything that includes good food, tie-dyed everything, tent mornings, moonsongs, campfires and small children has got to be good. And on top of all that, sunshine!

Also, something that commands this kind of commitment is obviously made of love:

I'm a believer.

P.S. Find of the weekend? James Hill. He plays the ukulele! (And was the most gracious vegetarian in the face of a near-meat experience.)

taking turns

2007-08-28T13:33:00.002-04:00

after a year spent developing a love of illustration and poster-art, i got to take a turn.
my friend benjamin nelson is a poster artist of the highest calibre, and for this project he asked for a little help from his friends. we met at the sleepless goat, he passed out the pens and paper, and we all got our creative on. i'm clearly not the next seripop (my contribution is the car & delivery truck on the bottom left. how embarassing), but for a moment, i was there.

edit (jan/08): this poster is now hanging in all it's full-size glory in the hall in my apartment. come over and use my washroom (though there's no door, only a curtain--you've been warned) and look at it. it's great.

run to catch up.

2007-08-16T12:05:00.000-04:00

The past few weeks have been a blur of rapid typing and making up questions on the spot, but they've also been full of sweet summer times and some really good tunes to sip ice water to.

Immaculate Machine, Gus' Pub, Halifax, NS (pronounced enn-ess).

This show was heaps of fun. Heaps.

It was opened by two of Halifax's finest: Laura Peek of Laura Peek and the Winning Hearts and Journalists, Wolf (formerly known as Stephen Cooke and the Respected Halifax Journalists, Wolf - please someone correct me if I'm wrong). Laura did her cute-girl-singer-with-a-keyboard thing, and it was about as adorable as expected. Journalists, Wolf did their crazy-9-piece-drunken-shirtless-screamy-rock-out- with-2-harmonica-players -and-a-guitar-played-with-broom-handle thing and that was about as hilarious as expected. Any show that includes the words "That last song was about Oprah Winfrey and this song is for Keanu Reeves," is where it's at.

Laura Peek being adorable.

Immaculate Machine have been getting press since keyboard/vocalist Kathryn Calder joined her Uncle Carl's little project, but they have been working hard & making good music for five years. Their music is like the funnest road trip you've ever been on, like Rainbow Brite, like standing on big rocks in a yellow dress. They were alive and connected on stage, and they really love playing their music.

Immaculate Machine - Dear Confessor
In the middle of two 20 hour drives, this song was perfect: "maps won't show us where we're going, all they are is just the boring facts..."

Immaculate Machine - Northeastern Wind
This one's sort of the song that's not like the others on the Fables album, which makes it extra-special beautiful.

get folked up, stay folked up.

2007-07-25T20:04:00.001-04:00

kyle, me, katesheff, miss bess, SVFF 2006 - "it rained at woodstock!"

Here's the thing about the Shelter Valley Folk Festival: it's the perfect end to every summer.

On the ideal Labour Day weekend, the sun is shining, but there is a nice breeze. At night, the sky turns purple and the view from the hill is of the lake and the sun and some of Canada's best. Last year, every single rained-out, wet socks, water-pooling-in-the-tent, "where are our all our towels?", hurricaned moment of last year's was great.

Three reasons to go to the Festival:

1. Artistic director Aengus Finnan has this gift for picking artists who are always on the edge of something. If you see a performer at SVFF, chances are they'll win an award from the Canadian Folk Music Association in December or show up on the cover of Penguin Eggs.

2. Even if you don't think folk music is your thing, there will be something at the festival that is your thing, whether it's a singer-songwriter or the wellness tents or the children's parade or the really good Carribbean food.

3. Performers really really love SVFF. If they love it, you'll love it.

Three reasons to volunteer at the Festival:

1. The food. Among musicians I've talked to, Shelter Valley is known for having the best hospitality area among summer festivals in Canada. Who woulda thought that putting out some corn chowder on a cold Sunday morning would get such rave reviews?

2. Camping on the top of the hill. See above for why this is good.

3. The late-night bonfires. This is sort of a see-for-yourself kinda thing.

Also, I'm pretty sure Shelter Valley has the cutest kids in the world.

Get on it.
2007's line-up
Volunteer application

dave eggers is uncalled for

2007-07-24T13:38:00.000-04:00

First of all:

I am tired.
I am true of heart!

And also:

You are tired.
You are true of heart!

*Stolen with very little shame from Dave Eggers. This is my grace before meals and my prayer before bed.

"you can pick me up if you want"

2007-07-21T17:52:00.001-04:00

weekend

triptych

tick not tich

open letters to people or entities who are unlikely to respond

2007-07-20T15:39:00.000-04:00

Clearly ripped off from the McSweeney's gods.

An open letter to the Kingston Buskers Rendezvous 2007.

Dear Sir or Madam,
Some of us have to live here. Also, you are a fire hazard.
Wellington St. resident,
Meghan Sheffield

An open letter to the parents of the 10-year-old wearing a t-shirt that reads "Surrender the Booty."

Dear Sir(s) and/or Madam(s),
I'm assuming that you are unaware of the double entrendre implied on your son's "Surrender the Booty" t-shirt, and therefore thought it was a fine thing for your son to wear in public. After all, pirates are very big this year, your son is no where near sexual maturity and no one suspects children's clothing of supporting violence against women. It's an easy enough mistake to make, and no one blames.
Allow me to explain. Besides being 18th century slang for the goods stolen by waterborne criminals of the past, the word "booty" can also refer to "sexual intercourse; a person (especially a woman) regarded as an object of sexual ambition or desire. Also (occasionally): the female genitals," according to the Oxford English Dictionary, which also recommends cross-referencing the term with "ass."
Again, no one blames you or your parenting skills. After all, the OED itself states that the term is used "originally and chiefly among African-Americans," and you live in Kingston. That said, let it be understood that even though you may not be able to tell what all those fast-talking rappers on the television are saying, your 10 year old son certainly does.
Get that shirt off of your child, you sick, sick people.
Sincerely,
Meghan Sheffield

An open letter to the Quizno's Subs manager who fired me saying "You're just one of those people who can write a fine essay but you can't make a sandwich fast enough," circa 2003.

Dear Sir,
Here's hoping.
Sincerely,
Meghan Sheffield

the blood of a younger man

2007-07-20T14:09:00.000-04:00

Polaris contenders (cont'd)

Tim Hecker - Harmony in Ultraviolet

I was warned that it's not possible to multi-task while listening to this album, but I'm a learn-it-the-hard-way kinda gal. It's true. It's physically impossible to do anything but be still and really listen to this album. The wash of noise never seems random, with sounds at times reminiscent of the natural world (waves on the beach, crackling fire and open spaces) and at others, reminiscent of a lived emotion. The album is a cyclical journey through sadness and hope, testing the boundaries of each, managing somehow to blur the two together. Hecker doesn't try to find solution, but solution finds itself in a less moralistic sort of "the journey is the destination." Though an instrumental mix of metal, ambient, noise and electronica influences might sound off-putting, Hecker's greatest talent lies in his ability to communicate experience and emotion, making this album warm, human and strangely familiar.

Tim Hecker - Radio Spirocon

Tim Hecker - Blood Rainbow

i really shouldn't be doing this but...

2007-07-18T13:26:00.000-04:00

My love of illustration has been growing over the past year or so, thanks in large part to an interest in the work of Lukas Geronimas and all of the projects that he is connected to (see Fecal Face, see lifetime collective, see Fighting).

Now, my travels have lead me to a new love. Zach Johnsen's work is a sort of fantastic world of monsters that are half-scary, half-cute, of sad girls with big eyes, of blue Buddhas, of casual Fridays, of bent old women, of skulls and goggles and rainbows. He works mostly with pen and watercolour, drawing hyper-real cartoons. I love it. You should too.

who doesn't love that llama?

2007-07-15T17:48:00.000-04:00

Miracle Fortress - Five Roses

Miracle Fortress is the love whisper of Montreal's Graham Van Pelt (of Think About Life semi-fame). It's already been designated (by a number of sources) 2007's summer album. While I have beef with seasonally-designated albums, there's no denying that in the same way that no one throws on Pet Sounds in January, this album is built to fit the big skies and long days of summertime. The muted guitar rumbles like dark clouds on a hot afternoon and synth sounds sweeten the mix with layered cicada-like tones. Adorable (and, okay, super twee) lyrics like "lately lately, I've been thinking it could be forever just us two" are half-hidden in the instrumental wash, giving intelligible moments a gem-like appeal. An album so built of dreamscapes risks dizziness and my favourite thing about this album is its restriction; while Van Pelt paints the sky, he keeps the horizon in view.

Miracle Fortress - This Thing About You
If Danny Zuko and Sandy Olsson were transported fifty years into the future, and they arrived on Queen West in a skinny tie (for Danny), American Apparel tights and some plastic sunglass frames, "This Thing About You" would be their "song."

Miracle Fortress - Maybe Lately

Miracle Fortress - Next Train

*Miracle Fortress made the Polaris shortlist
*On the Miracle Fortress myspace site, there is a picture of Van Pelt's touring band feeding the llama at the Big Apple in Colborne, ON.

what colour is this horse?

2007-07-13T13:24:00.000-04:00

Rock Plaza Central - Are We Not Horses?

The everything theme this year is horses. Somehow, these insightful Toronto country-rockers figured that out ahead of time (I missed the memo) and made an entire concept album about horses (I can hear the buzz from here). So, point for being ahead of the crowd. Besides mad horse cred, this album also has: sweet brass riffs, unpolished vocals (I'm sorry Chris Eaton, was that a caterwaul?), and intricate, intelligent lyrics. For some reason, this album also makes me very emotional. So, a second point for cutting through the steely indifference that is Meghan Sheffield. After putting in some serious time with the Mountain Goats this fall, Are We Not Horses? is fitting perfectly into the Sunset Tree-shaped hole in my heart.

Rock Plaza Central - My Children, Be Joyful
This song is what I was wishing church was like when I was 7 years old and flipping through upside-down hymn books and reading Song of Solomon while ignoring dirty looks from my mother.

Rock Plaza Central - When We Go, How We Go, Pt 2.

who is the dark horse?

2007-07-13T12:49:00.000-04:00

The Besnard Lakes - The Besnard Lakes are the Dark Horse

I have this thing for paradox. I'm strangely attracted to things that are "both at the same time." Sometime I'll blog about Patty Hearst. What I love about this album is that it is both intimate and ambitious. The songs are big, dark, even orchestral at times, but they never fall into the trap of messy sound or lost lyric. Everything is intentional. The Beach Boys style harmonies on "Disaster" somehow fit beside the reverb and walky-talky sound effects on "And You Lied to Me." This album is telescopic--there is this distance that can't be travelled, but they're trying to look closely anyway.

The Besnard Lakes - Because Tonight
The Besnard Lakes - Disaster

*This album did make the Polaris Prize's Shortlist.
*Besnard Lake in real-life is in northern Saskatchewan, FYI.

selling out large

2007-07-12T14:41:00.000-04:00

The short list for the Polaris Music Prize (a $20 000 prize for the best album of 2006, based on artistic merit alone) was announced this week. As one of the 150ish members of the Jury, I participated in two rounds of voting, eventually submitting a rated list of five albums from which the top 10 were selected. Here are my picks, in order.

1. The Besnard Lakes - TBL Are The Dark Horse
2. Rock Plaza Central - Are We Not Horses?
3. Miracle Fortress - Five Roses
4. Tim Hecker - Harmony in Ultraviolet
5. Jim Bryson - Where the Bungalows Roam

I'll write some interesting and witty arguments for these albums later. Maybe. Or just listen to them yourself.

Also, The Besnard Lakes and Miracle Fortress made the top 10.

life according to my inbox

2007-07-06T14:18:00.000-04:00

The other day Que Sera Sera had a pretty sweet post - a list of text messages that Sarah, the blog writer*, had found her cellphone inbox. After feeling some mad (and not uncommon) NYC-blogger jealousy, I scrolled through my own inbox. My friends are funny too.

He will make you that bread and you will try to break my mother’s heart.

Don’t fear your feelings.

I know you know everything already, but in case you forgot, today is Steph’s birthday.

Dominated in 06 and now I’m back.

I can’t seem to access Facebook. Tell Rachel to cut it out.

No one can. That’s how it’s ruining lives. I’ll call in your request to the radio station. Also, I am a wild party.

Well, la dee dah!

I have a lesbian crush on you.

Haven't written a damn word all day.

Our song is playing!

He did that voice trailing off thing again.

How embarassing for both of us.

Either he's a boyfriend or a diner waitress.

The abortion girl is loud-talking to R, J, et al about how I think she's a bitch and I puked at SK's while Mike and I sit 12 feet away.

I'm basically in grade 7. Come here and kill me now.

*With whom I feel a strange kinship. See her about me:

"I am happiest in life picking part cold rotisserie chicken with my bare hands, preferably after 3-4 drinks, while standing in my underwear in front of a television playing the "Devil Went Down to Georgia" part of Urban Cowboy."

in/out summer 2007

2007-07-06T14:12:00.000-04:00

2007 is being officially the summer of the hot/not or in/out or likes/dislikes list.
Here's my contribution:

in:
making hot/not, likes/dislikes lists about the summer
weekends off
music festivals
zine-making
Shitt Hottt
Volume 135
plastic aviators
hand-claps
afternoons in the park
the Journal House
dirty jeans
siblings
Kim Mitchell
contemporary fiction
Facebook updates
free wine
Sinnott's Cove
the Blow
anticipating Waterfront
pavement-pounding
long breaks
4 a.m.
the courthouse fountain
confederation basin
petting big dogs in public
Pavement
being banned
the Copper Penny
sarcasm and follow-up apologies
bikes
bench-sitting
Soiree Au Revoir
Chamillionaire

out:
being rich
deadlines
interesting interviews
trips to Toronto
seeing people
doing laundry
headphones that work
the East - far and near
Kingston's lack of beach
selling the family home
the Goat
flat tires
dating
Meghan Harrison's onward and upward
Wolfe Island Bakery's coffee
buying groceries
pining
Traditional Breakfasts
The Brothers Karamatzov