Oh her royal Madgesty, how telling of your current state of mind; standing there in the brightest part of the afternoon light in your neon leopard shorts. Billabong. Slats of hardwood shadows climbing up the legs. Hello, it is summer in the city. Refrigerated water is the beverage of choice. Grapefruit, or a cold peach? Peach, obviously. Peach with cherries on top of strawberry yogurt as well as five miniature chocolate chip cookies. Today after a short window spent at home with my guy during the middle his work day, I walked all the way to Mitchell's Fabric in the north end to get serious about making some canvas bags.
Some chick with a beard and a serious seamstress repertoire helped me out as Ronny Rouge trailed me like a hound off on her own hunt. Picture a lean dachshund in a Lacoste polo dress (in the best shade of pink you have ever seen) and running shoes on the loose in the silks. (Yesterday it was swimming in Puerto Vallarta waters tucked in the middle of nowhere, Manitoba). Today, fabric shopping. Tomorrow, god only knows. Oh Ronny, what a friend I have found in you.
FYI, the cherries are delicious when dragged through the plate of yogurt.
There is nothing to report or even muse upon as my days have been easy. Summer holidaze, as cliche as that is, is my current position. I am cooking and eating and shooting (sometimes) and swimming and cycling and walking. That is it, that is all.
Liza, your package sailed into my arms yesterday morning as I was in the throes of scrubbing an entire bottle of CORAL ME FUCKING WILD out of the bathtub, elbow deep in strong chemical. You came and hauled me out of that haze and I sat on my summer bed (I have recently made the switch from winter duvet to summer quilt. How divine, I recommend it if you are not already underneath one) with legs tucked away and read. And read. And read. And read some more until I had swallowed every last word like a stack of fruit. Delicious read, my friend. Your paper literally choked me. I have not been choked by reading in years and I knew the moment I sucked back and choked on my own air that you were getting even better as a writer and as a student. Fuck this Fall-time academia fear you speak of, you have been a student this entire time. I have been coming to terms with this side of myself since being in and now home from the bush. Constant reminders of student status. I know the exact place in Sioux Lookout, Ontario where I stood in the middle of an aerially seeded burn block the day I realized there was no need to beat myself for the things I had yet to learn. Just because we are university late bloomers (well, you have been building skills since day one) does not mean we haven't been busy in other avenues.
Oh welcomed business. I seem to forever be on the prowl for quick cash. Hours are spent scheming until Mitch kindly reminds me of how people do things in reality. Upon hearing this I somehow climb back down that rope ladder of my imagination and get real. Thanks beauty, I love you for that too. Anyway, then came the canvas bags marching in. Mitch prints, I sew. Or something, who knows. Regardless, Mitch has been making some incredible things these days. He comes home with fresh prints in his bag after only a few hours spent at the studio and shows me these amazing pieces based off of drawings he was casually working on the night before at the table. This guy! Watching someone learn something is unbelievable. Before I left for the bush, he was just beginning to draw, doodle on things, make small faces on cardstock lying around the apartment. When I came home a month and a half later, there were hundreds of prints lying in stacks all over. It was a crazy thing to walk into. Such pride, like a mother but younger and different.
Things are sailing along in true July fashion. A few days ago I noticed that M had written 7 weeks until MTL on the chalkboard in the kitchen (invest, people). Seven weeks, erring on the six side of things. These are all of the things up in the air (I loathe the air at times) at the moment: home situation, school things, how to get there, how to send our shit, how much shit we can bring, how much shit we should bring. There are some decisions to be made and (thank goodness for patient men) all I want to be doing at the moment is walking around outside. Could be worse. It could always be worse, says Papa Cal. Right-o. Things are moving along. Seven weeks.
Liza, bless you for the mail. I'll whip something up that will pale in comparison. You are a writer. You have always been a writer. Good job. Good job everybody for being real.