Times Change(d).

A few things happened today. First I was introduced to Buffy Sainte Marie's Illuminations album by a very handsome man.
Whoa.

Then I applied for university. Fine Arts, finally. Photography, Print media, Fibers, Studio art. The list was endless, my wonder bottomless. Holy shit.
Double whoa.

Dear Wind, you devil.

Tween central.

Grandma, remember this one? Just when I thought we couldn't get any uglier, I unearthed this gem in my house the other night. Thank you Scotch McLaren for scanning this jewel of adolesence. Erin is ten and I look nine. Our teeth, so gross. This was taken at our Grandma's house one million years ago and pretty much sums up my childhood. I am not one hundred percent sure of the inspiration behind the ensembles, but knowing myself and knowing my sister, it looks to be along the lines of Tante Mary goes on a trip (me) with her retarded nephew Igor (Erin). Then again, I might be way off. Enjoy.

Instacalm.

Saturday morning half-eaten bagel and juice in a mug that says LATTE on the side in tiny black letters with a takeout Fyxx coffee inching towards cold and bare feet attached to a body in a t-shirt and gitch. Saturday hair and face. Nothingness and true sun flooding the hardwood. I vacuumed, finally. It is funny what cleaning does for my psyche. Instacalm. I like to listen to the radio at top volume in the morning on Saturday (often to spite my neighbor who managed to party in the hallway until four. Thanks) and listen to all the stations that I think my Grandma would be listening to in her own home. Classical. CJOB, oldies--I mix it up. If I were capable of singing operatically, I would; but the radio is second best.

Scotch and Rags came over last night to drink and eat all the best tastes of Germany (beer and chocolate). This was after we went to Karen Asher's photography opening at Platform gallery just down the way from my home. When I do move, these are the nights I will miss. Scott told one million stories in the non-din of the red living room and I laughed one million times while Rags slumped against her man in contentedness. Someday I hope my marriage has a similar feel of social ease that theirs does. May that sentence read with respect and appreciation. I haven't been laughing as much I normally do, thus their company was welcomed. With week one of clean body and mind coming to a close, the dark veil is inching up and back, curtain-like. I wonder what will debut with the close of week two of no vices. God only knows.

I am off to Art City's Snowball, their annual winter carnival for the West Broadway community. Apparently, I am signed up to be a donkey complete with an elaborate velcro tail. Pictures will follow I am sure. Ensue more laughter. Good.

Creatures of the Wind.

The.
Winds.
Of.
Change.
Are.
Howling.

I took a spill in traffic today while rounding a corner at a red. It was a spill to the point where my sprawled body and bicycle held up traffic on Donald and Stradbrook for thirty embarrassing seconds. Satisfied with her alignment post bail, I hopped back on and got to Ben's studio only to realize that no one was there for the Rainbow Trout meeting. One hour early and time to kill. Just as I was about to leave, I met this gorgeous Hungarian interior designer/metalworker named John (who despite our sweeping age gap knew many of the same people that I do). We bantered back and forth in Keith Wood's shop while he painted this giant wall sized piece with hot blue beeswax. John told me stories of his young life spent in Italy and his knowledge of European history quieted me completely. I liked the way he talked about Veneza and the way his eyes shone when he spoke of his youth. Oh, sweet youth.

I like days like this. Frazzled mornings, humble moments lying horizontal on the street, dressing warm for cold (cycling with good quality googles has changed my life completely), a team meeting breakfast with my sister and parents, another type of meeting around a food laden table discussing a potentially amazing festival with my pals. I love how some of them sit quiet and others pipe up, filled with piss and vinegar and yet every point (heated or not) is always punctuated with laughter. You are wrong, laughter. That is ridiculous, laughter. Absolutely not, laughter. That is a brilliant point, laughter. We laugh at each other.

Things are up in the air again. This is okay, every thing is going to be okay. I am happy this is the way the new year is shaping itself. While I feel very little control over anything, I am filled to the brim with ambition. Laughter. I wrote to the wind and the wind delivered. Now it is time to hold up my end of the bargain, even if it means walking away from a bunch of things that I love. When John and I were standing the corner of the shop this morning, both of our heads tilted while we consumed Keith's work in progress, without breaking the fixation of his gaze, John said "Meg, let your work decide your life. Quit weighing it, just keep working and the rest will follow". Okay. Laughter. I couldn't agree more. Life will happen regardless, I might as well enjoy it.

Creme and I stood shoulder to shoulder in his basement a few nights ago weighing the possibility of the next few months while our eyes went from the mopeds leaning in wait in the corner, over to the new darkroom being constructed in both of our heads in the other corner. Ho ho ho and a bottle of rum, winter is looking up.

Here are some goals for the next while, just because I feel like penning some:
- darkroom
- cooking
- printing
- cycling
- swimming
- eating
- tuning
- building
- planting
- photographing
- production
- baby holding

"We can do this", I said with conviction.
"I know, I know", he responded.

2010, you devil.

Signing off, Madge-- vice head of Donations/Printmaking/Photography.

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.

Magic hour.

These are some of my favorite photographs from the weekend. What beautiful people.

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.