Tuesday, January 5, 2010
Ode to everything lost.
I unknowingly killed my Ficus tree. Bugs, apparently. This fact bothers me incredibly because I have babied the shit out of that tree for months now. I mist it and compliment it and affirm it when it grows a new leaf. Everything dies sooner or later. I just wasn't ready for it to go. Spoken by a person who has never experienced true grief but rather felt it deeply in sad homes. Death is whole, I am learning very slowly. I guess death still feels like a very far away concept seeing as I haven't lost anyone in my family in a long, long while; nor have I ever lost a close friend. The other day while poaching the internet at the Fyxx I was having conversation with my friend Matt. For some reason the topic came up (which is strange because we are music and bike friends and that is what we talk about) and I asked him if his band the Magnificent Sevens would play at my funeral should I ever go quick. He agreed quick which was nice. Interestingly enough, I left that conversation satisfied that we had covered some good ground.
The body is sore again. How? Too much winter gardening. Bicycle/gardening. Winter riding has been lovely lately. The other day I was riding to Art City and my lock fell out of its usual spot in the waist of my jeans during rush hour on Memorial. The retrieval was a bit chaotic because I had to leave my bike on a busy sidewalk (sans lock, obviously) and run into traffic to pick it up on the dotted line. I got it eventually, all the while keeping an eye on the guy keeping an eye on Jessica Alba. One of my biggest fears in life these days is losing that bicycle to some felon/turd who will turn around and spray paint it (poorly) ghetto gold (not the good kind). My only praying hope is that said felon/turd won't know how to ride it/will bail while attempting to ride it and I will save her on foot. I have done it before and I will do it again. Some turd kid tried to steal my bike in front of Pear a few years ago and I happened to notice while he was riding away and I bolted after him (in heeled boots) and ripped him off my shitty single speed in the middle of River and Osborne. Some hockey team leaving Second Cup noticed what was happening and they beat the shit out of him behind Subway for me. I felt pretty victorious that day, not going to lie. Anyway, the thought of losing my lady in the battle of bike theft makes me want to weep. I would grieve her.
It is the new year. January in Manitoba winters can be a little dark. Thankfully, it feels pretty good so far. I firmly believe that the mentality one is in during the turn sets the tone for the entire year. In my humble experience at least. 2008 was terrifying and ugly. 2009 was relaxed and adventurous. 2010 has been exciting and a little wild (the good kind). Well maybe it is not a direct influence, but indirect. Either way, the Wind that I wrote to a few weeks ago has definitely been keeping me busy.
Time to get my hur cut by Lisa Flirty King. They didn't call me Mr. Mugs in elementary school for nothing. I fully look like a sheep dog. I hate dogs because of fucking Mr. Mugs, by the way.
The body is sore again. How? Too much winter gardening. Bicycle/gardening. Winter riding has been lovely lately. The other day I was riding to Art City and my lock fell out of its usual spot in the waist of my jeans during rush hour on Memorial. The retrieval was a bit chaotic because I had to leave my bike on a busy sidewalk (sans lock, obviously) and run into traffic to pick it up on the dotted line. I got it eventually, all the while keeping an eye on the guy keeping an eye on Jessica Alba. One of my biggest fears in life these days is losing that bicycle to some felon/turd who will turn around and spray paint it (poorly) ghetto gold (not the good kind). My only praying hope is that said felon/turd won't know how to ride it/will bail while attempting to ride it and I will save her on foot. I have done it before and I will do it again. Some turd kid tried to steal my bike in front of Pear a few years ago and I happened to notice while he was riding away and I bolted after him (in heeled boots) and ripped him off my shitty single speed in the middle of River and Osborne. Some hockey team leaving Second Cup noticed what was happening and they beat the shit out of him behind Subway for me. I felt pretty victorious that day, not going to lie. Anyway, the thought of losing my lady in the battle of bike theft makes me want to weep. I would grieve her.
It is the new year. January in Manitoba winters can be a little dark. Thankfully, it feels pretty good so far. I firmly believe that the mentality one is in during the turn sets the tone for the entire year. In my humble experience at least. 2008 was terrifying and ugly. 2009 was relaxed and adventurous. 2010 has been exciting and a little wild (the good kind). Well maybe it is not a direct influence, but indirect. Either way, the Wind that I wrote to a few weeks ago has definitely been keeping me busy.
Time to get my hur cut by Lisa Flirty King. They didn't call me Mr. Mugs in elementary school for nothing. I fully look like a sheep dog. I hate dogs because of fucking Mr. Mugs, by the way.
Sunday, January 3, 2010
Saturday, January 2, 2010
Cat Sass.
The body is sore. It is full of contentedness and pretty food. It is grateful for my family of friends, for frozen lakes, for well-deserved sun salutations and blue moon dances on the end of an equally frozen dock. I ran and I ran and I ran and I ran this weekend. Reverse.
Lisa and Ryan picked up me and Ben and Will and Brooke and we caravanned together--boy car girl car--all the way to Rich's cabin on Caddy Lake. We made it with only one unforgettable breakfast stop at Cat Sass Tavern. Karla with a K served us by taking names first (first name service, an incredible concept in my books) and then the plates and plates of eggs and hash came out. We ate joyously and quickly and peeled out of Cat Sass after tipping Karla generously for her beautiful service. She bought one of Lisa's mustaches while her debit was processing. Perfect; a business transaction and eggs basted medium.
After one hundred attempts in Lisa's car to make it up the last hill before Rich's cabin, we finally parked at the bottom in defeat and crazy carpeted our faces (nearly) off. The bullrush incident of '92 was always at the forefront of thought. My hip bones will never be the same. Ben, leader of said caravan eventually saved the Stranded at the bottom of the hill and we piled in, clown car style respectively, flushed with cold, happy as children. I didn't realize until that moment how much I had missed the sun and it's glorious source of Vitamin D. There were innumerable times over the course of the weekend where I found myself outside, alone or with select few, kneeling in the middle of the lake, face up to that beautiful sun. Lisa, Jill and I were out at one point, bundled beyond recognition in our snowsuits and I barely heard Lisa say "if you concentrate real hard, you can feel it's warmth" and we did. I had a nap, face up, soaking it in.
Rich and the boys built this incredible luge run from the top of the guesthouse all the way onto the lake. It was insanity (especially after one million shambles, oh my what fun). There was a roaring fire, Sula's impressive ice bar, a warm cabin, a luge run, a dance party, a hockey rink (the hockey photography was my favorite), snow shoes and more. There was never an idle moment unless it was a chosen idle moment.
At the turn of the new year, we stood twenty five strong in the middle of the lake watching the boys set up the fireworks. Champagne was popped, the countdown that I normally loath was yelled with anticipation. Sula was on my right and Jill on my left. Sula and I looked at each other she mouthed 'thank God' and I nodded 'I know' and that was it. 2010 marks the end of the first decade of the twenty first century and the beginning of a new decade were the young will slowly take the reigns and the old ways will be just that, old. After the fireworks died down to nothing, people drifted off in all directions. I found myself kneeling again, under that Blue Moon. Sula advised us all to concentrate more on shaping our hopes for the new year into a tangible plan rather than focusing on resolutions. Because of the position of the stars this year (a meeting between Cancer and Capricorn I believe), we were also advised to be safe, to be aware, to be hopeful. In retrospect, the turn was all of those things.
In the morning I woke in down duvet heaven, in a loft over looking the lake. Blinding white and the quiet pink of a new morning of the new year. I climbed down, suited up, ran around on the lake, and then came in to Jill rolling at the table. Perfect. I put on my apron (the one that helps me cook faster) and we greeted each other wordlessly and with fire dangling from our mouths and mugs of coffee at the corners of our cutting boards, we began to cook while the sun pulled up and over the lake. We chopped and julienned and minced and de-boned and prepped a rainbow of vegetables and fruit and meat and cheese. Will came and took over the fruit station and then Hammerback sauntered in and took his spot at the stove over the sausage and all together we made some magic. I hadn't cooked in so long. When it was all over and I was just able to sit and eat, I was overcome by the fact that my first morning of 2010 began with all of the things I believe in: food and laughter and coffee and sun and laden tables and friends and Billie Holiday and complete trust.
Thank you Sula and Rich for your generosity. To the rest, thank you for your life giving food and your warmth. Despite the cold, it was a weekend of warmth and I am so, so, so pleased that my new year began on the note that it did. Not a bathtub rendezvous to be found, no bare feet clambering out of windows in escape, no lies, just hopefulness and plenty of laughter and pretty food.
As for the year to come, I am hopeful and that is enough.
Ich habe genug. And how.
Photos from the weekend to come, gird your loins.
Lisa and Ryan picked up me and Ben and Will and Brooke and we caravanned together--boy car girl car--all the way to Rich's cabin on Caddy Lake. We made it with only one unforgettable breakfast stop at Cat Sass Tavern. Karla with a K served us by taking names first (first name service, an incredible concept in my books) and then the plates and plates of eggs and hash came out. We ate joyously and quickly and peeled out of Cat Sass after tipping Karla generously for her beautiful service. She bought one of Lisa's mustaches while her debit was processing. Perfect; a business transaction and eggs basted medium.
After one hundred attempts in Lisa's car to make it up the last hill before Rich's cabin, we finally parked at the bottom in defeat and crazy carpeted our faces (nearly) off. The bullrush incident of '92 was always at the forefront of thought. My hip bones will never be the same. Ben, leader of said caravan eventually saved the Stranded at the bottom of the hill and we piled in, clown car style respectively, flushed with cold, happy as children. I didn't realize until that moment how much I had missed the sun and it's glorious source of Vitamin D. There were innumerable times over the course of the weekend where I found myself outside, alone or with select few, kneeling in the middle of the lake, face up to that beautiful sun. Lisa, Jill and I were out at one point, bundled beyond recognition in our snowsuits and I barely heard Lisa say "if you concentrate real hard, you can feel it's warmth" and we did. I had a nap, face up, soaking it in.
Rich and the boys built this incredible luge run from the top of the guesthouse all the way onto the lake. It was insanity (especially after one million shambles, oh my what fun). There was a roaring fire, Sula's impressive ice bar, a warm cabin, a luge run, a dance party, a hockey rink (the hockey photography was my favorite), snow shoes and more. There was never an idle moment unless it was a chosen idle moment.
At the turn of the new year, we stood twenty five strong in the middle of the lake watching the boys set up the fireworks. Champagne was popped, the countdown that I normally loath was yelled with anticipation. Sula was on my right and Jill on my left. Sula and I looked at each other she mouthed 'thank God' and I nodded 'I know' and that was it. 2010 marks the end of the first decade of the twenty first century and the beginning of a new decade were the young will slowly take the reigns and the old ways will be just that, old. After the fireworks died down to nothing, people drifted off in all directions. I found myself kneeling again, under that Blue Moon. Sula advised us all to concentrate more on shaping our hopes for the new year into a tangible plan rather than focusing on resolutions. Because of the position of the stars this year (a meeting between Cancer and Capricorn I believe), we were also advised to be safe, to be aware, to be hopeful. In retrospect, the turn was all of those things.
In the morning I woke in down duvet heaven, in a loft over looking the lake. Blinding white and the quiet pink of a new morning of the new year. I climbed down, suited up, ran around on the lake, and then came in to Jill rolling at the table. Perfect. I put on my apron (the one that helps me cook faster) and we greeted each other wordlessly and with fire dangling from our mouths and mugs of coffee at the corners of our cutting boards, we began to cook while the sun pulled up and over the lake. We chopped and julienned and minced and de-boned and prepped a rainbow of vegetables and fruit and meat and cheese. Will came and took over the fruit station and then Hammerback sauntered in and took his spot at the stove over the sausage and all together we made some magic. I hadn't cooked in so long. When it was all over and I was just able to sit and eat, I was overcome by the fact that my first morning of 2010 began with all of the things I believe in: food and laughter and coffee and sun and laden tables and friends and Billie Holiday and complete trust.
Thank you Sula and Rich for your generosity. To the rest, thank you for your life giving food and your warmth. Despite the cold, it was a weekend of warmth and I am so, so, so pleased that my new year began on the note that it did. Not a bathtub rendezvous to be found, no bare feet clambering out of windows in escape, no lies, just hopefulness and plenty of laughter and pretty food.
As for the year to come, I am hopeful and that is enough.
Ich habe genug. And how.
Photos from the weekend to come, gird your loins.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
The Year of the LBD in the darkroom.
Ooh la la. That title shrung the inside of my head when I typed it. Scandalous, non? I am hopeful for scandal this year. I have experienced the bad kind, but not enough of the healthy kind.
Dear wind, send it.
Please.
Part. A.
I'm up in the woods
I'm down on my mind
I'm holding a still
To slow down time.
I'm up in the woods
I'm down on my mind
I'm holding a still
To slow down time.
I'm up in the woods
I'm down on my mind
I'm holding a still
To slow down time.
I sat wrapped in a blanket in my home, wearing a ski suit and a bandana (I am in a very strange clothing phase right now) listening to the vinyl that Tiff lent me this afternoon. Bon Iver's Bloodbank, Junior Boys, Do Make Say Think, Cat Stevens (an album I do not own and had never heard--I forget which one) and a handful of others that I normally wouldn't think to buy when I go to the music store to peruse vinyl. Thanks girl, you have great taste. Anyway, I was sitting and my ears pricked up when I heard those lyrics. The song is those four lines over and over but every verse is built up with another harmonic voice. The voice behind Bon Iver (Good Winter) is achingly pretty, masculine but still pretty and all of his music is especially winter-appropriate. I listen to him year round, but I appreciate him most in the dark of winter. Always. The song Woods (the four lined tune) has a Kaynesque twist that is also done achingly well. When I listen to Bon Iver the world quietens, lights dim and blur and my ears are open only to that man's voice. There are not many other albums that do that for me. Three shows that changed my musical life were Sigur Ros (I stood slack jawed with awe clutching my heart for the entirety. It was epic on every level. Even the opening act was epic), Jose Gonzalez (I sat in the Park Theater clutching Rebecca's hand while open-mouth weeping. Haha. I think she was doing the exact same thing. Insanity), and Bonnie Prince Billy (he sang me to sleep [standing UP]; enough said).
Anyway, those Bon Iver lyrics planted themselves in my head this night and for good reason. Tomorrow I am going up and into the woods, to a Mom+Dad cabin filled to the brim with musical instruments, lovely people, good wine, good cheese, a laden dinner table and a dock outside. Perfect. I jumped at the chance to skip out on this year's New Years party roster. I do have one hell of a dress hanging in my closet though. Shoot. It probably doesn't fit anymore anyway (I bought it during an over-zealous/gladiator-body/fliffing-cash high a week after arriving back from the bush). I saw it and whispered "that's the one" in Club Monaco. Maybe 2009 was not the year of the dress. Maybe 2010 will be the year of the LBD, maybe not.
Maybe this will be The Year of the Darkroom. That would be awesome. Everyday for the past few months, I have willed a darkroom into my life. That must read oddly. Whatever. I am feeling pretty confident and hopeful and antsy with anticipation about the whole thing. It sort of feels like a test for the Universe and I am at the controls (sort of). I love social experiments too these days. Regardless of whatever happens with this dream darkroom, it is nice to feel excited and hopeful about art again. A new kind of art. An complimentary skill of a skill that I am already in love with. I felt the same way just before trying silkscreen for the first time. Maybe it is silly, but a darkroom in my home just makes sense. I will keep you.
To all of you who took time this year to read my rambling words, thank you. I appreciate you and cannot believe you come back to this. Thank you for that. To all you steppers out there lookin' sharp, I wish you a happy turn of the new year. Scandalous things can happen at the turn, be open and careful. As for me, I will be up to my knees in snow in the woods, playing, drinking nice wine and Belgian beer, laughing my head off with my friends.
Happy New year, dear people.
Love, Meg.
Dear wind, send it.
Please.
Part. A.
I'm up in the woods
I'm down on my mind
I'm holding a still
To slow down time.
I'm up in the woods
I'm down on my mind
I'm holding a still
To slow down time.
I'm up in the woods
I'm down on my mind
I'm holding a still
To slow down time.
I sat wrapped in a blanket in my home, wearing a ski suit and a bandana (I am in a very strange clothing phase right now) listening to the vinyl that Tiff lent me this afternoon. Bon Iver's Bloodbank, Junior Boys, Do Make Say Think, Cat Stevens (an album I do not own and had never heard--I forget which one) and a handful of others that I normally wouldn't think to buy when I go to the music store to peruse vinyl. Thanks girl, you have great taste. Anyway, I was sitting and my ears pricked up when I heard those lyrics. The song is those four lines over and over but every verse is built up with another harmonic voice. The voice behind Bon Iver (Good Winter) is achingly pretty, masculine but still pretty and all of his music is especially winter-appropriate. I listen to him year round, but I appreciate him most in the dark of winter. Always. The song Woods (the four lined tune) has a Kaynesque twist that is also done achingly well. When I listen to Bon Iver the world quietens, lights dim and blur and my ears are open only to that man's voice. There are not many other albums that do that for me. Three shows that changed my musical life were Sigur Ros (I stood slack jawed with awe clutching my heart for the entirety. It was epic on every level. Even the opening act was epic), Jose Gonzalez (I sat in the Park Theater clutching Rebecca's hand while open-mouth weeping. Haha. I think she was doing the exact same thing. Insanity), and Bonnie Prince Billy (he sang me to sleep [standing UP]; enough said).
Anyway, those Bon Iver lyrics planted themselves in my head this night and for good reason. Tomorrow I am going up and into the woods, to a Mom+Dad cabin filled to the brim with musical instruments, lovely people, good wine, good cheese, a laden dinner table and a dock outside. Perfect. I jumped at the chance to skip out on this year's New Years party roster. I do have one hell of a dress hanging in my closet though. Shoot. It probably doesn't fit anymore anyway (I bought it during an over-zealous/gladiator-body/fliffing-cash high a week after arriving back from the bush). I saw it and whispered "that's the one" in Club Monaco. Maybe 2009 was not the year of the dress. Maybe 2010 will be the year of the LBD, maybe not.
Maybe this will be The Year of the Darkroom. That would be awesome. Everyday for the past few months, I have willed a darkroom into my life. That must read oddly. Whatever. I am feeling pretty confident and hopeful and antsy with anticipation about the whole thing. It sort of feels like a test for the Universe and I am at the controls (sort of). I love social experiments too these days. Regardless of whatever happens with this dream darkroom, it is nice to feel excited and hopeful about art again. A new kind of art. An complimentary skill of a skill that I am already in love with. I felt the same way just before trying silkscreen for the first time. Maybe it is silly, but a darkroom in my home just makes sense. I will keep you.
To all of you who took time this year to read my rambling words, thank you. I appreciate you and cannot believe you come back to this. Thank you for that. To all you steppers out there lookin' sharp, I wish you a happy turn of the new year. Scandalous things can happen at the turn, be open and careful. As for me, I will be up to my knees in snow in the woods, playing, drinking nice wine and Belgian beer, laughing my head off with my friends.
Happy New year, dear people.
Love, Meg.
Sunday, December 27, 2009
P.S. I love you
Dear Edith, hi it is Francoise.
Lettuce. Let us revive what has been very good to us.
Besides, we never know what 2010 will pour forth. I would like to know that there is a place I can go to in case I am breaking up with someone in a Dairy Queen phone booth again. I would like to know that there is a place I can go to to read and then laugh aloud in public, forgetting to cover my mouth and this resulting in a mouthful of coffee all over my computer screen. I would like to know that there is a place I can go to to spell out deep and dark things and rest assured that you will love me no less. Spell away, read away, write away. Lettuce run away.
Let us. Shall we?
You photograph retardedly well.
F.
Lettuce. Let us revive what has been very good to us.
Besides, we never know what 2010 will pour forth. I would like to know that there is a place I can go to in case I am breaking up with someone in a Dairy Queen phone booth again. I would like to know that there is a place I can go to to read and then laugh aloud in public, forgetting to cover my mouth and this resulting in a mouthful of coffee all over my computer screen. I would like to know that there is a place I can go to to spell out deep and dark things and rest assured that you will love me no less. Spell away, read away, write away. Lettuce run away.
Let us. Shall we?
You photograph retardedly well.
F.
Friday, December 25, 2009
Hand to mouth.
Dear Wind, pick up.
This week I was called 'young' twice. Once by an acquaintance of mine in their mid thirties, and once by myself while standing in the middle of a bookstore. This week I feel it too, and not the good kind either. Blind young. Floundering young. Wild young. Bad young.
After dinner three nights ago with Scotch and Rags in little Vietnam, we drove to the mall (of all places) to exorcise our inner yuppies. We even got eggnog lattes. While shuffling around the beehivesque bookstore under the main floor (similarly to you, Liza) I fell into a zen-like state. Instant bliss at McNally Robinson, always. I looked for some stuff and waved stupidly at the Phantom carpenter decending the escalator. After said wave, I found myself cursing my youth while hiding in the photography section. Well, mainly my young years. I don't really know what to say, sometimes I wear my age well, and all the rest of the time I am blowing it at being young. Majority of the time I am guilty of racing forward through time by means of wishful thinking, willing future husbands and babies and dream jobs into my open, idealistic arms. With that said, I have never been one to rewind with regret. If I do find myself going back in time, it is usually to the recent past that has glued itself to my insides with joyful connotations.
Now it is Christmastime. Here it is, hi hello.
I am well fed, drinking wine at the table surrounded by my blood. We played cards and are about to set the table yet again for another feed. This was a good season and the goodness and generosity of my family made me weep on the floor of my Grandma's closet--twice. It is never a family gathering without some epic crying session and a roomful of raised voices. Yes, we sang. We always sing. I am always my proudest when we sing in collective voice. I could sing those hymns forever. To be frank, even with all the singing and the eating and the neck craning laughter, this year I felt like I was missing an important link, a chunk, a portion, a sliver, a limb, a pivotal organ. I arrived incomplete, burdened, heavy booted and wild eyed. Christmastime is supposed to be joyful but all I could think of was the last family gathering when I was none of those things. I am not sure. I am unsure.
All I know for sure, for sure is that fingers are crossed in high hopes that the year ahead will be filled to the tits with art making and photo printing (in my home, in the room that should host the kitchen but doesn't and never will. This is an acknowledged downside. On the bright side, I recently traded a round of wedding photography for a darkroom) and cooking (oh please God send me a kitchen) and baby holding and tree planting and food serving and land coverage and lots of drawing and a shit tonne of printmaking. All of those things would be welcomed. The year of the art. The art of what? I am unsure.
I do know that I will be back on a short bus in five mere months, lacing up my boots (new steel toe Vikings for Christmas, I guess that means I am almost a vet?!) with cold fingers, weaving music through my ears and psyching myself up for another day against the elements. The elements are welcomed; my body needs a good weathering. In five months I will be homeless once again. Something which I am also okay with. As far as the patch in time from now until May, I am unsure. I spy transition in the interim. Those damn, unpredictable interims--they get me everytime. God only knows.
Take me Wind. Blow me across the sea into the arms of someone with a noteworthy mouth. Or toss me to the treetops and let me sing my loudest in the land. Strip me and shake the coins from my pockets, send me sailing down Main in the fiercest of tailwinds on my bicycle. Land me in the lap of luxury, heave me to the depths of despair. Dear Wind, please keep me moving, I could care less of the direction. Give me something to write about.
(I will probably regret writing that in two months).
Two steps forward one step back. I know that dance. I will take it so long as I am in motion.
This has been an interesting year. Never in my wildest would I have imagined all of the bananas things that went down this year. Goodnight! Apparently, steaks are on in my childhood home and I can hear my name is being called through the hall, down the stairs and into the old blue room where I am tappa-tapping contentedly. I am home, for now.
Happy interim, your Madgesty.
This week I was called 'young' twice. Once by an acquaintance of mine in their mid thirties, and once by myself while standing in the middle of a bookstore. This week I feel it too, and not the good kind either. Blind young. Floundering young. Wild young. Bad young.
After dinner three nights ago with Scotch and Rags in little Vietnam, we drove to the mall (of all places) to exorcise our inner yuppies. We even got eggnog lattes. While shuffling around the beehivesque bookstore under the main floor (similarly to you, Liza) I fell into a zen-like state. Instant bliss at McNally Robinson, always. I looked for some stuff and waved stupidly at the Phantom carpenter decending the escalator. After said wave, I found myself cursing my youth while hiding in the photography section. Well, mainly my young years. I don't really know what to say, sometimes I wear my age well, and all the rest of the time I am blowing it at being young. Majority of the time I am guilty of racing forward through time by means of wishful thinking, willing future husbands and babies and dream jobs into my open, idealistic arms. With that said, I have never been one to rewind with regret. If I do find myself going back in time, it is usually to the recent past that has glued itself to my insides with joyful connotations.
Now it is Christmastime. Here it is, hi hello.
I am well fed, drinking wine at the table surrounded by my blood. We played cards and are about to set the table yet again for another feed. This was a good season and the goodness and generosity of my family made me weep on the floor of my Grandma's closet--twice. It is never a family gathering without some epic crying session and a roomful of raised voices. Yes, we sang. We always sing. I am always my proudest when we sing in collective voice. I could sing those hymns forever. To be frank, even with all the singing and the eating and the neck craning laughter, this year I felt like I was missing an important link, a chunk, a portion, a sliver, a limb, a pivotal organ. I arrived incomplete, burdened, heavy booted and wild eyed. Christmastime is supposed to be joyful but all I could think of was the last family gathering when I was none of those things. I am not sure. I am unsure.
All I know for sure, for sure is that fingers are crossed in high hopes that the year ahead will be filled to the tits with art making and photo printing (in my home, in the room that should host the kitchen but doesn't and never will. This is an acknowledged downside. On the bright side, I recently traded a round of wedding photography for a darkroom) and cooking (oh please God send me a kitchen) and baby holding and tree planting and food serving and land coverage and lots of drawing and a shit tonne of printmaking. All of those things would be welcomed. The year of the art. The art of what? I am unsure.
I do know that I will be back on a short bus in five mere months, lacing up my boots (new steel toe Vikings for Christmas, I guess that means I am almost a vet?!) with cold fingers, weaving music through my ears and psyching myself up for another day against the elements. The elements are welcomed; my body needs a good weathering. In five months I will be homeless once again. Something which I am also okay with. As far as the patch in time from now until May, I am unsure. I spy transition in the interim. Those damn, unpredictable interims--they get me everytime. God only knows.
Take me Wind. Blow me across the sea into the arms of someone with a noteworthy mouth. Or toss me to the treetops and let me sing my loudest in the land. Strip me and shake the coins from my pockets, send me sailing down Main in the fiercest of tailwinds on my bicycle. Land me in the lap of luxury, heave me to the depths of despair. Dear Wind, please keep me moving, I could care less of the direction. Give me something to write about.
(I will probably regret writing that in two months).
Two steps forward one step back. I know that dance. I will take it so long as I am in motion.
This has been an interesting year. Never in my wildest would I have imagined all of the bananas things that went down this year. Goodnight! Apparently, steaks are on in my childhood home and I can hear my name is being called through the hall, down the stairs and into the old blue room where I am tappa-tapping contentedly. I am home, for now.
Happy interim, your Madgesty.
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