The Birth of Feeling: Cleo and Hans.

Quarter to seven Monday evening house clean. Cat Power spins, my lipstick plant is blooming in Chanel rouge abundancy (good omen, non?) and things are in their places. This is a good feeling. Quick windows away from the computer (even now, between these sentences I whip away to clean Jess' wheel set with Pledge and a soft rag; clean the toilet with the pink stuff that smells like cologne [not necessarily bad cologne]). Fresh coffee with a little milk and a little honey on the right, one million pens on the left. A golden bird perches on the empty ashtray and I can't help but thinking of the bush. Golden light, loud birds, land aplenty. Here I am, after all of that.

With one gut feeling and the quickest decision I have ever made, I came home from there (again) for the last time. And suddenly life is normal again. At nine this morning I was called a 'city slicker' and later on in the morning after my little sister's convocation, M and I ate breakfast outside like it was nothing. Two cats in a diner picking at their eggs. This is everything these days. We are honeymooning, knowing that someday there will be really hard time lapses. But today is one of those really good days. Dear wind, thanks a cool mil.

Today after Mitch left for work, I cruised around on my bike with my new bike helmet (it feels nearly equestrian) and picked up the last of my photos from tree camp. Black and white. Five rolls (two of which have a few double exposure mash ups). I am incredibly pleased with the turnout, especially now that Creme has opened the doors of the darkroom. To be honest, I haven't printed a damn photo in a darkroom (black and white that is) since Grade nine. But I remember the feeling of exposing and cutting and slipping in the paper in that light tight room, digits moving dials in the dark just so, watching the photo paper develop in their respective plastic baths. The steps? Long lost information, but I am excited to experiment by myself under those familiar red lights. In retrospect, it was probably back then in Grade nine under those red lights in Morris, Manitoba where I first knew photography was something I would always do.

Tomorrow I am going to hit the studio because I want to, not because I have to. I found some canvas bags in our closet while in a cleaning frenzy and they will be available for purchase on Canada Day. Actually, I am kind of in limbo until work opens up again so I figure I might as well practice printing. The idea of even lifting a pen to paper has been too much (watching M draw seems to be enough for me) of late, but I can also feel something building. I am ready to build something. What? I have no idea. Today I saw paper flower chains on the internet and felt that familiar flutter rise up inside like a great wingspan. Feeling inspired is as close to being a cool millionaire I will ever come. I bet having a lot of cash money would actually be exhausting. Keep telling yourself that Megs.

But seriously, I am back on the poor again (especially since bidding the bush adieu). It is not that terrible. I don't mind being poor. We live within our means for the most part and eat out too often and laugh at our own simplicity. Maybe someday we'll be able to afford to grocery shop at Organza, buy film and records every week, eat Vietnamese anytime we are hungry for it, and have soy vanilla bean icecream in the freezer on the regular.

Topic change. Maybe it is the recent transition, or the air, or all the Little Mama's in my life carrying their own babechildren, but having my own babies has been heavy on the brain again. Yikes. A forever creeping shadow, this topic. It lurks in corners and jumps out in the form of that tiny portuguese girl eating mashed bananas off the table at Stellas, or that boy baby I saw on the street yesterday who looked seventy, I can't stop thinking about it. I am not ready. I can't afford my own life. I can barely do paperwork or file my bills. Apartment hunting is daunting as hell. Having a kid is out of the question at this point. But that is not to say that I don't think about it now and then. Now, more specifically.

Cleo, where did you come from? You do crosswords with your pops while he tells you stories about those bats on this right bicep: Lucy, Pierre and Hans. You love Hans the best. So do I.

And then like a dying balloon, back to reality I fall holding strips of negatives clasped tight between my hands. Tomorrow will be more productive than today. Oh. And for those interested, I have started cooking in the kitchen of the Black Sheep diner. Good women in there. To me, there is nothing better than cooking in a summer kitchen with good women. I have a feeling I have a lot to learn in the next two months. These are my last months, this is where I want to be. Winnipeg, you beauty!

Rebecca, I miss you.
Andrea, I think of you and yours every morning.
Loco, I can hardly wait.
JJ, I can hardly wait.
Ronny Rouge, you're the one.
Mitch, you're my other one.
Grandma, I love you.
Maya, soon.

Here are some new photos. Now, more than ever, I would really like to put together an exhibit. I need some funding. Enjoy.

With so much feeling, Margot.