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.
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
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.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
One thousand words.
These photographs of Will, Bram, baby Brave and James speak one thousand words. Boys, thank you.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Radiant in gladness.
The welcomed taste of Two Rivers on tap still lies on my tongue lightly woven with raw onion and a tiny hint of anise. My friends faces full of throaty laughter are pressed in my thoughts like pretty flowers lost in a book. This evening held a date with Jessica Alba through the city's powdered streets, the first bike spill of the season in the middle of the street in the Village, a single flat tire, a winter walk with my lady on my shoulder, an hour spent tuning methodically on the floor of my home while listening to the most prized vinyl score of the season, a long letter to L, a quick cup of coffee, a happy car ride to arena land with Rags, Scotch and Detroit. The boys morphed into twelve year old boys in front of our eyes in the cold parking lot of the arena. Watching them, I was eleven again playing in a snowsuit at the Rosenort arena with Chantelle. Perfect, I haven't been eleven in a long, long time. Rags was not at all phased by the quick transition but I watched them, transfixed. They ran for the dressing room to join their team the No Regretzkys and suited up for the game. Rags and I sat behind the glass eating my mum's fresh paypenate and catching up. I love that woman. Rabbi, Boots, Kit and Strangler rolled in in a flurry of parkas and laughter and Kitty and I ran for each other. Her legs are one hundred miles long. I almost forgot since she moved to the mountains to become a journalist. It was almost relieving to see her; I do not know the word to describe it. It is nice to be reminded with no words at all that I have generous friends. Generosity of self. Friends who give a shit about family (their own as well as ours), who continually waive my habit of slept-through brunches and high teas with absolute grace. In the way they care for me, I care for them and thus we care for each other. These people are hilarious and animated and ridiculous and all very different in personality, but on nights like these when we sit nine strong around a table loaded with post-game pitchers and greek salads and veggie burgers and samosas, I feel very lucky. Kit, I am so glad you are home for now. I missed your willowy frame around the table, so much so. In the words of my current muses, I am radiant in gladness for them and the season that lies in wait before us. Floor hockey tournament try outs start next week. The Zamboners are going to reign over the league that has yet to be given life. Earl Grey community center (or wherever) will never be the same. Neither will Martha Street studio after I finish printing our jerseys. Dad, looks like you will have a hockey player daughter after all. Awesome.
And now, a song from musical wizards Daniel, Fred & Julie.
I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair. Born like a vapor in the summer's air. I see her tripping where the bright streams play. Happy as the daisies that dance on her way. Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour. Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er. I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair, floating, like a vapor on the soft summer air. I long for Jeanie with the day-dawn smile. Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile. I hear her melodies like joys gone by. Sighing round my heart over fond hopes that die. Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain. Wailing for the lost one that comes never again. I long for Jeanie and my heart bows low, never more to find her where the bright waters flow.
Goodnight moon, she sleeps.
m
And now, a song from musical wizards Daniel, Fred & Julie.
I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair. Born like a vapor in the summer's air. I see her tripping where the bright streams play. Happy as the daisies that dance on her way. Many were the wild notes her merry voice would pour. Many were the blithe birds that warbled them o'er. I dream of Jeanie with the light brown hair, floating, like a vapor on the soft summer air. I long for Jeanie with the day-dawn smile. Radiant in gladness, warm with winning guile. I hear her melodies like joys gone by. Sighing round my heart over fond hopes that die. Sighing like the night wind and sobbing like the rain. Wailing for the lost one that comes never again. I long for Jeanie and my heart bows low, never more to find her where the bright waters flow.
Goodnight moon, she sleeps.
m
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