M
Friday, July 9, 2010
High ceilings.
Images stolen from somewhere sans permission, as per. Yes please, to naming this as my own.
M
M
Wednesday, July 7, 2010
Peachy.
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.
Margot Polo
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.
Margot Polo
Sunday, July 4, 2010
Waste not, want not.
Again.
Waste not, want not. Again. A title I have used before for another post from another time in my life. It is an adage I come back to over and over (even though I waste time and time again), maybe because it reminds me of my grandma Kroeker. I have no idea if she even said it, probably, but I attach it strongly to her. Her fabric shears come with me where ever I go, and stay razor sharp even as the years since they first came, pass. Sometimes I forget all about her, this tiny woman named Annie, my dad's mother. She was around growing up, it wasn't like I never saw her. She frightened me a little, if anything. But I also loved her fiercely and respected the way she kept the things that made sense (most of the time, from what I remember) and the way moved, quick as light. That woman worked. Go Annie go. She liked to garden and had a way with plants. Lately, I have been drawn to flowers and gardens in this city like a bee to the hive. I think of her then. Not sure where this is coming from, but a grandmother shout out (dead or alive) is nothing new around these parts. Gr. Annie, respect.
Moving on.
It is unquestionably summer. That fact became quite factual last night near four in the morning while Mitch and I walked a sad lap around the block in the wet heat waiting for the fire trucks to clear from our front door and the Listener from the second floor to go back to bed along with the rest of us. I was half asleep anyway and was surprised how the groggy details stayed with me today, and replayed themselves as I worked my second shift in yet another hot kitchen (a really good one).
Just before said lap, we were asleep under a sheet with yellow stripes. A siren went off and woke us; but not the same kind of siren one would expect to beckon other sirens in the dead of the night. It was two sounds all at once; a startling hi and a disturbing low wrapped around each other in pitch, like a droning coil of rope. The kind of drone that made sense after five, maybe three minutes of confusion. When Mitch said the word, "fire" in the middle of a string of other words I wasn't able to catch, our quiet but urgent search for passports, cameras and pants ensued. After that, Mitch steered a half sleeping Megan down three flights of stairs and outside into the heat. Then the worried/confused/semi-conscious stroll around the neighborhood began when really, we should have been twitching in our separate sleeps all along.
Regardless, there was no fire. But there was a good lesson: know where your (important) shit is. Set one's priorities (god only knows what set in motion said chain of events last night, but it was still a good lesson). The closer we drew to Point B, and the further away we walked from where we first began, the easier I was with the idea of not having to pack a damn thing for Montreal. "It is only stuff", said the handsome man who hauled the kerfluffled little woman down the grey stairs. "I know", le sigh.
Interesting night, at the least.
And then I slept through my alarm because SLEEP IS IMPORTANT (under the S section on our chalkboard). How I am able to maintain a job at times is a mystery. I was an hour late (on my second shift, shit!) and my boss was firm lipped, but gracious (I cleaned the fridge as penance in between buttering toast and mincing garlic). This kitchen job? What a job so far. Definitely one of the most challenging I have had in quite some time (save for bad and or swamp planting days), I like it a lot. This kitchen is tucked away inside the back of the Black Sheep Diner on the corner of Ellice and Langside. We have an interesting clientele. Today we served every one from students to babies to complaining hippies to happy hippies to hipsters to grandmothers to tea parties to strict vegans to pastors to that guy who burst in at close with a sticker on his nose while us four women ate a meal together in our aprons. "I'm looking for fries". We were closed and we don't serve fries. We sent him to the Albert Street Diner. They have fries there.
It is a sparse kitchen but well planned considering the amount of space. There are two skinny work stations (that make sense; the kitchen was clearly planned by a person who understood food service) and two sinks. There is a flat top (a piece of kitchen equipment that is completely foreign to me) under a speaker that plays whatever Naomi is in the mood for (today it was Tool and the 'Wild at Heart' soundtrack, go figure) and a large fridge filled with only things that are necessary. Well planned, no waste. Angela cooks and I prep. Usually in the last hour or two of my shift, she will announce that it is time for me to take over the flat top. Okay, holy shit. I didn't know how to make an omelet until a few days ago. She, whose resemblance to Charlotte Gainsbourg is uncanny, taught me how to poach eggs last week. Today it was pancakes. Thanks Ang. On my first day, she turned to me while I was standing in front of the stove wielding the short metal grease scraper (awkwardly) in my left hand and the long metal spatula/lifter (awkwardly) in my right, and said, "Megan, the eggs can tell when you're nervous". All this while I was busy mutilating my over easies nervously. Still working on it. I like it.
Anyway, it is a great little restaurant with warm service that makes honest food for nice people. Bringing out the garbage today, again I couldn't believe how little waste there was (in comparison to other kitchens I have worked in) and it was a nice reminder to buy and cook only what is necessary. People eat the food they order there. That that is a novelty is a shame.
There are lots of things going on at the moment as days ease themselves away from the one before. We are really moving, and it is starting to settle in. Erin is getting married to Derek. Andrea is home to a baby. Sula is moving to Berlin. Mitch is kind and patient as the day is long and I am happiest in my home or in this new kitchen or riding my bike or looking at flowers. But most of all, I am so glad we are going together.
Enjoy your summer.
Margot Polo
Waste not, want not. Again. A title I have used before for another post from another time in my life. It is an adage I come back to over and over (even though I waste time and time again), maybe because it reminds me of my grandma Kroeker. I have no idea if she even said it, probably, but I attach it strongly to her. Her fabric shears come with me where ever I go, and stay razor sharp even as the years since they first came, pass. Sometimes I forget all about her, this tiny woman named Annie, my dad's mother. She was around growing up, it wasn't like I never saw her. She frightened me a little, if anything. But I also loved her fiercely and respected the way she kept the things that made sense (most of the time, from what I remember) and the way moved, quick as light. That woman worked. Go Annie go. She liked to garden and had a way with plants. Lately, I have been drawn to flowers and gardens in this city like a bee to the hive. I think of her then. Not sure where this is coming from, but a grandmother shout out (dead or alive) is nothing new around these parts. Gr. Annie, respect.
Moving on.
It is unquestionably summer. That fact became quite factual last night near four in the morning while Mitch and I walked a sad lap around the block in the wet heat waiting for the fire trucks to clear from our front door and the Listener from the second floor to go back to bed along with the rest of us. I was half asleep anyway and was surprised how the groggy details stayed with me today, and replayed themselves as I worked my second shift in yet another hot kitchen (a really good one).
Just before said lap, we were asleep under a sheet with yellow stripes. A siren went off and woke us; but not the same kind of siren one would expect to beckon other sirens in the dead of the night. It was two sounds all at once; a startling hi and a disturbing low wrapped around each other in pitch, like a droning coil of rope. The kind of drone that made sense after five, maybe three minutes of confusion. When Mitch said the word, "fire" in the middle of a string of other words I wasn't able to catch, our quiet but urgent search for passports, cameras and pants ensued. After that, Mitch steered a half sleeping Megan down three flights of stairs and outside into the heat. Then the worried/confused/semi-conscious stroll around the neighborhood began when really, we should have been twitching in our separate sleeps all along.
Regardless, there was no fire. But there was a good lesson: know where your (important) shit is. Set one's priorities (god only knows what set in motion said chain of events last night, but it was still a good lesson). The closer we drew to Point B, and the further away we walked from where we first began, the easier I was with the idea of not having to pack a damn thing for Montreal. "It is only stuff", said the handsome man who hauled the kerfluffled little woman down the grey stairs. "I know", le sigh.
Interesting night, at the least.
And then I slept through my alarm because SLEEP IS IMPORTANT (under the S section on our chalkboard). How I am able to maintain a job at times is a mystery. I was an hour late (on my second shift, shit!) and my boss was firm lipped, but gracious (I cleaned the fridge as penance in between buttering toast and mincing garlic). This kitchen job? What a job so far. Definitely one of the most challenging I have had in quite some time (save for bad and or swamp planting days), I like it a lot. This kitchen is tucked away inside the back of the Black Sheep Diner on the corner of Ellice and Langside. We have an interesting clientele. Today we served every one from students to babies to complaining hippies to happy hippies to hipsters to grandmothers to tea parties to strict vegans to pastors to that guy who burst in at close with a sticker on his nose while us four women ate a meal together in our aprons. "I'm looking for fries". We were closed and we don't serve fries. We sent him to the Albert Street Diner. They have fries there.
It is a sparse kitchen but well planned considering the amount of space. There are two skinny work stations (that make sense; the kitchen was clearly planned by a person who understood food service) and two sinks. There is a flat top (a piece of kitchen equipment that is completely foreign to me) under a speaker that plays whatever Naomi is in the mood for (today it was Tool and the 'Wild at Heart' soundtrack, go figure) and a large fridge filled with only things that are necessary. Well planned, no waste. Angela cooks and I prep. Usually in the last hour or two of my shift, she will announce that it is time for me to take over the flat top. Okay, holy shit. I didn't know how to make an omelet until a few days ago. She, whose resemblance to Charlotte Gainsbourg is uncanny, taught me how to poach eggs last week. Today it was pancakes. Thanks Ang. On my first day, she turned to me while I was standing in front of the stove wielding the short metal grease scraper (awkwardly) in my left hand and the long metal spatula/lifter (awkwardly) in my right, and said, "Megan, the eggs can tell when you're nervous". All this while I was busy mutilating my over easies nervously. Still working on it. I like it.
Anyway, it is a great little restaurant with warm service that makes honest food for nice people. Bringing out the garbage today, again I couldn't believe how little waste there was (in comparison to other kitchens I have worked in) and it was a nice reminder to buy and cook only what is necessary. People eat the food they order there. That that is a novelty is a shame.
There are lots of things going on at the moment as days ease themselves away from the one before. We are really moving, and it is starting to settle in. Erin is getting married to Derek. Andrea is home to a baby. Sula is moving to Berlin. Mitch is kind and patient as the day is long and I am happiest in my home or in this new kitchen or riding my bike or looking at flowers. But most of all, I am so glad we are going together.
Enjoy your summer.
Margot Polo
Monday, June 28, 2010
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.
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.
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| Reading to planters while the laundry spins; Kenora, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Hotel Kenricia; Kenora, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Pware on the Ripper; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Day off at the Sioux camp; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Heacock you beauty; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Dylan and Kim in Kim's closet; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Fire and Theft as Jailbus; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
Friday, June 25, 2010
Thursday, June 17, 2010
We are each other's home.
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| Pat Buchanan; Dryden, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Grassby and Molly; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Emma does the wash; Dryden, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Photo by Kim Masters; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
I am home. I am no longer on the end of a phone attached to nothing or something stationary, far, far, far away from the arms I longed to be tucked into. Fox tucked into a fox. We are just here, at home, as if there was no time spent apart at all. I walked into our home last night with my canvas bag sliding down on that familiar bedroom floor. Our home. My home, his home, ours. It was tidy and smelled like it always does and just that tiny bit was so relieving to me. One hot shower and a quick breath when I saw that there were two (not one) fresh bars of my favorite soap in the holder. Roses and peppermint, mixed together, two paper wrappers on the floor, spent. Besides the soap score, there was pink lemonade and health juice in the fridge, with eggs too! I towelled dry and walked around airing out the damp that has tucked itself into my body in the last few weeks. Springsteen's Nebraska made me realize how stubborn I was and with that, quick as lightening I called out. He came running, I heard him on the stairs and I sat like a cat on the bed waiting expectantly and averted, and with a great crashing he ran right into me.
A new baby, a new tiny creation made by two of my favorite people out of all of the people I know. Tiny overalls in quick stripes, soon to be upon the shoulders of the wee tickly version of yourselves. Congratulations is just a word tossed (with much meaning), but this is so much more than words. These are the days of our lives. My friends are having babies, graduating and moving to BERLIN, my sister is getting married, Mitch and I are blast moving. Everyone is very alive these days. These are great days of a great year. Year of the fire breathing Tiger, you devil. I am learning at the speed of light it seems. I want to shoot everything. It was incredibly frightening when I realized a few weeks ago in the bush that this is what I want to do. This is the thing, the path. I am finding my way I think.
The Attack in Black with Baby Eagle split spins round, Mitch draws in the yellowness of 3 p.m. thundershower bedroom lamp light (Winnipeg is shrouded in a pearly grey weather system right now, wrapped up tight like new wool and looking at it from my position on the bed, I can't help but think of all those beauties planting hard right now), and in this environment I write with my golden hoops the size of the Cincinnati ghetto wagging to the rhythm of the drums. Good album, and how. We are working within the same room and damn, it feels good. He is drawing the tender face of a woman called simply "The Ladybug Lady" ripped out of the obituary section with conviction. He draws with conviction and I watch with awe. The first lines of her face are shaping up beautifully. It is always something to be privilaged to watch a person draw. Such intimate and brave lines, those first strokes. No no no, how can I translate the shapes in my head onto paper? Mitch's flow onto paper in a steady stream. Good man. It is nice to be back in our nest (understatement of eternity).
The first photos of the bush have come. Many more will come tomorrow and then again in a couple of weeks. I am very pleased. Already these faces have pressed themselves into all the crannies that should house book knowledge and quick mathematics. Practicality you're OUT. Portraits you're IN. Enjoy. I am thinking of putting together a Tree Camp photo show before I move. Feedback is welcome, as there are hundreds to sort through on Flickrtown.
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| Jailbus; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Ric; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Stu burns boxes; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Pat and Emma walk into the Block; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Birdman drives the bus; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Camp living; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
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| Charlieman; Kenora, Ontario, 2010. |
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| John Tyska is mysterious; Sioux Lookout, Ontario, 2010. |
Thursday, June 10, 2010
Meggs and Bakey.
Hello to all.
"My face is cracked like a joke", Joanna says it best. I am cracking. Thank you for coming.
Thank you for coming back to this place again and again all you beauties. Time is flying here in the Trout forest. June 10th already. We have crushed the K Town contract (rude Kenora) and then the terrifying burn Blocks of the Sioux Lookout contract in the sandy Pine lands. Now we are living in a mud hole bush camp in the northern northern northern spruce land of the Trout forest down so many logging roads; we are not even a point on the map. The roads are unfathomable at times. Life is good. Hard. We (36 of us planters, six staff lead the way: Klinck our tireless boss, Birdman (my foreman), Joe, Bram, Molly, Christian the cook who saves the sanity of our palettes daily.
Good leaders here.
We laugh a lot. We are family now. Last night was Bush New Years eve, every one was savage and beyond dirty. Most of our ripper nights have themes of late. Last Ripper was Christmas with a secret santa exchange and the biggest slab of cake I haver never seen the likes. Eddie rolled me three perfect Toronto joints along with a box of Dream Tea and a 40 of booze. Merry Christmas! Okay, where to begin? I write on here because the idea of writing to all of you (you know who you are) undoes me. I will start with today:
June 10th, day off. Thank goodness. Shift seven is upon us, looming like a fire breathing demon and the idea of another day without contact was starting to make me crazy. Said upcoming shift is going to be a six day blast that will probably kill me. It is an intense life these days. We plant hard, we are gardening and pounding at the same time. Dad I think of you every time I plant a perfect tree (often, no big.... 'Quality Builders, Quality Planters', that will be my crew name. Quality Planters over here, which is imperative. Yesterday my spirit shattered while planting the back forty of this incredibly savage death muck swamp (no trenches, every step was potentially my last, there are no words; it was beyond anything I have ever planted in my lifetime)and I dropped my bags and fell into it, it swallowed my body whole and I wept for Mitch for three minutes. The hardest weep sweep of my life. I cry a lot.
Our amazing tree quality checker, Molly (incredible woman) has found me weeping in my land countless times. But through all the weeping I am learning so much. Mum told me on the phone today, "Remember Megs, whatever you earn you don't have to borrow" and upon hearing those words I have never felt more proud to be a hard working Kroeker. Okay mum, I will keep my head up, I will keep going. I am constantly drilling myself for my loose memory that allows information to slip through the cracks like a sieve (siv, strainer?). Who knows. Regardless, it looks very much like I will have my own crew next summer which is INTENSE and exciting beyond words. There are many jobs to be done at all times in a bush camp and thus far I have learned how to light pilot lights, fill propane, drive giant vehicles, use the cardloc, check the oil, drive the quad through the rude loaded with five passengers (that was an intense day I will not soon forget). Thus, I am well taken care of here. Bram, my secondary foreman has started taking me to the Block for lessons in cache building, land management, cutting land, map testing ("where are we on the Block map right now Meg?". I have to answer lightening fast using a twig from the road and point on the map between us with the butt end. Here. Right. Good. Phewph. Maps are tricky here. Lately, it has been my responsibility to drive the King of the Road (Klinck's truck, savage beast) or Bird's pickup home from the Block. I drive like the devil. Bird and Bram have both taught me to drive properly. We work hard, get up at 530, get our gear in order, check the vehicles, hammer to the Block, get in the land as quick as possible, plant hard in this crazy forest (clearcut) and then get the hell out as fast as possible to get home to eat and then sleep (like the dead). No one speaks in sentenses here anymore. We understand each other and there is such an incredible sense of community.
The camp is incredible (not the living conditions, I mean the spirit of the people). Last year was something else, but this year I understand what it means to plant, to be a person who plants trees. It is a package deal and everyday someone yells "PUSSIES GO HOME" at the tailgate meeting just to remind everyone we are in this together. And let me tell you, we are in the shit. Bodies are starting to fall apart. My boots have gone to die and my right foot is being held together by one thousand swipes of duct tape. And yet, I love it here. It is a special place where you can be whoever, whenever. Everyone I have met this season have these incredible qualities that I never knew existed. I think it is safe to say that we have a camp of superstars. Superstars for no other reason than we are all what we are. Fin.
And I am in love.
So in love with my guy it hollows me out and at times I walk or run around my land like a hollow stump of a girl, all willowy and lean and lonely. Molly has found me laughing and writing Mitch an audible letter, and also curled up in the softest spots of my land into my sorry limbs like a lost fox. Colt calls me Meggs and Bakey or Mama Bear. Bird calls me Swiper the Fox, Queen of the Road, Quad Girl, and sister (my favorite). That man. The constant Gardner, teacher, friend. This photo is for him and his family. Bird, I do not have words to express my appreciation for all you have taught me this season. Teaching with your right hand guiding and pointing and punctuating all the parts of the story you are telling through the windsheild of the bus and your left drawing an Export A to your mouth and down into your lungs. That man, always on the butts. What an incredible teacher. Just the other day, Bird and I rolled to town in the pick up to pick up the food order for the week and the amount of information I lapped up in that three hour window was nuts. How do tires work? How does an engine run? What is an air filter for? Why is grease the most important thing in the world? How do airplanes work? How did it feel to see Motorhead with your boys in matching leather jackets? Yikes, the stories are innumerable and I am writing down EVERYTHING this time.
How are all of you? I best be off to the laundry again. Fuck the wash. Sorry Helen, but seriously. I will leave you all with this savage admission: my clothes are soiled beyond belief and when I realized that all the washers were snapped up (devils) I didn't even think twice and threw my sweaty, damp gross closet into the dryer. Fuck the wash. I am on the soil, hard. The stink keeps the deer flies and the black flies a baby bit at bay.
Okay, one last thing, today at the Lakeview diner for breakfast (grilled cheese and a chocolate milk shake), Eddy, Pat and I ate the entire meal without realizing that Trudy, our server forgot cutlery. Off the cutlery. One of the planters, Tony, has long lost his plate and every day I see him eat from a new vessel. Yesterday he ate his spaghetti, meatballs, garlic bread, and cake out of a water jug cut in half. We are in it now, and there is no choice but to keep pounding in those trees. I love you all and rest assured that I think of each one of you reading this on the regular.
With so much feeling,
Queen of the Road.
Below, behold. Birdman and Charlotte, his little girl.
"My face is cracked like a joke", Joanna says it best. I am cracking. Thank you for coming.
Thank you for coming back to this place again and again all you beauties. Time is flying here in the Trout forest. June 10th already. We have crushed the K Town contract (rude Kenora) and then the terrifying burn Blocks of the Sioux Lookout contract in the sandy Pine lands. Now we are living in a mud hole bush camp in the northern northern northern spruce land of the Trout forest down so many logging roads; we are not even a point on the map. The roads are unfathomable at times. Life is good. Hard. We (36 of us planters, six staff lead the way: Klinck our tireless boss, Birdman (my foreman), Joe, Bram, Molly, Christian the cook who saves the sanity of our palettes daily.
Good leaders here.
We laugh a lot. We are family now. Last night was Bush New Years eve, every one was savage and beyond dirty. Most of our ripper nights have themes of late. Last Ripper was Christmas with a secret santa exchange and the biggest slab of cake I haver never seen the likes. Eddie rolled me three perfect Toronto joints along with a box of Dream Tea and a 40 of booze. Merry Christmas! Okay, where to begin? I write on here because the idea of writing to all of you (you know who you are) undoes me. I will start with today:
June 10th, day off. Thank goodness. Shift seven is upon us, looming like a fire breathing demon and the idea of another day without contact was starting to make me crazy. Said upcoming shift is going to be a six day blast that will probably kill me. It is an intense life these days. We plant hard, we are gardening and pounding at the same time. Dad I think of you every time I plant a perfect tree (often, no big.... 'Quality Builders, Quality Planters', that will be my crew name. Quality Planters over here, which is imperative. Yesterday my spirit shattered while planting the back forty of this incredibly savage death muck swamp (no trenches, every step was potentially my last, there are no words; it was beyond anything I have ever planted in my lifetime)and I dropped my bags and fell into it, it swallowed my body whole and I wept for Mitch for three minutes. The hardest weep sweep of my life. I cry a lot.
Our amazing tree quality checker, Molly (incredible woman) has found me weeping in my land countless times. But through all the weeping I am learning so much. Mum told me on the phone today, "Remember Megs, whatever you earn you don't have to borrow" and upon hearing those words I have never felt more proud to be a hard working Kroeker. Okay mum, I will keep my head up, I will keep going. I am constantly drilling myself for my loose memory that allows information to slip through the cracks like a sieve (siv, strainer?). Who knows. Regardless, it looks very much like I will have my own crew next summer which is INTENSE and exciting beyond words. There are many jobs to be done at all times in a bush camp and thus far I have learned how to light pilot lights, fill propane, drive giant vehicles, use the cardloc, check the oil, drive the quad through the rude loaded with five passengers (that was an intense day I will not soon forget). Thus, I am well taken care of here. Bram, my secondary foreman has started taking me to the Block for lessons in cache building, land management, cutting land, map testing ("where are we on the Block map right now Meg?". I have to answer lightening fast using a twig from the road and point on the map between us with the butt end. Here. Right. Good. Phewph. Maps are tricky here. Lately, it has been my responsibility to drive the King of the Road (Klinck's truck, savage beast) or Bird's pickup home from the Block. I drive like the devil. Bird and Bram have both taught me to drive properly. We work hard, get up at 530, get our gear in order, check the vehicles, hammer to the Block, get in the land as quick as possible, plant hard in this crazy forest (clearcut) and then get the hell out as fast as possible to get home to eat and then sleep (like the dead). No one speaks in sentenses here anymore. We understand each other and there is such an incredible sense of community.
The camp is incredible (not the living conditions, I mean the spirit of the people). Last year was something else, but this year I understand what it means to plant, to be a person who plants trees. It is a package deal and everyday someone yells "PUSSIES GO HOME" at the tailgate meeting just to remind everyone we are in this together. And let me tell you, we are in the shit. Bodies are starting to fall apart. My boots have gone to die and my right foot is being held together by one thousand swipes of duct tape. And yet, I love it here. It is a special place where you can be whoever, whenever. Everyone I have met this season have these incredible qualities that I never knew existed. I think it is safe to say that we have a camp of superstars. Superstars for no other reason than we are all what we are. Fin.
And I am in love.
So in love with my guy it hollows me out and at times I walk or run around my land like a hollow stump of a girl, all willowy and lean and lonely. Molly has found me laughing and writing Mitch an audible letter, and also curled up in the softest spots of my land into my sorry limbs like a lost fox. Colt calls me Meggs and Bakey or Mama Bear. Bird calls me Swiper the Fox, Queen of the Road, Quad Girl, and sister (my favorite). That man. The constant Gardner, teacher, friend. This photo is for him and his family. Bird, I do not have words to express my appreciation for all you have taught me this season. Teaching with your right hand guiding and pointing and punctuating all the parts of the story you are telling through the windsheild of the bus and your left drawing an Export A to your mouth and down into your lungs. That man, always on the butts. What an incredible teacher. Just the other day, Bird and I rolled to town in the pick up to pick up the food order for the week and the amount of information I lapped up in that three hour window was nuts. How do tires work? How does an engine run? What is an air filter for? Why is grease the most important thing in the world? How do airplanes work? How did it feel to see Motorhead with your boys in matching leather jackets? Yikes, the stories are innumerable and I am writing down EVERYTHING this time.
How are all of you? I best be off to the laundry again. Fuck the wash. Sorry Helen, but seriously. I will leave you all with this savage admission: my clothes are soiled beyond belief and when I realized that all the washers were snapped up (devils) I didn't even think twice and threw my sweaty, damp gross closet into the dryer. Fuck the wash. I am on the soil, hard. The stink keeps the deer flies and the black flies a baby bit at bay.
Okay, one last thing, today at the Lakeview diner for breakfast (grilled cheese and a chocolate milk shake), Eddy, Pat and I ate the entire meal without realizing that Trudy, our server forgot cutlery. Off the cutlery. One of the planters, Tony, has long lost his plate and every day I see him eat from a new vessel. Yesterday he ate his spaghetti, meatballs, garlic bread, and cake out of a water jug cut in half. We are in it now, and there is no choice but to keep pounding in those trees. I love you all and rest assured that I think of each one of you reading this on the regular.
With so much feeling,
Queen of the Road.
Below, behold. Birdman and Charlotte, his little girl.
 |
| Like father like daughter; Kenora, Ontario, 2010. |
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