The Sun laughs a lot.

Resurrecting letters from a file aptly titled, Yosh & Cindy brings me back to life, back to a time when all I needed was a spot on the hardwood with a long mirror. Yosh at the camera. Cindy at the camera. Both of us on the floor free, laughing, seeing the good in each other, willing it out of the other, being real, being young and not knowing better, swapping tales, listening to records, an endless list of firsts. Always laughing. I think of those days often, I do not think of those days enough. Those were the days then, I was one year older than a teen; he has always been a man. But most importantly, he is a writer who taught me what it means to write!

We were very young once. He wrote this to me in a letter, I fell in love again. An excerpt from a man I have spent my whole life loving.

Untitled, 2007.

is there a break in the progress? have all forms of growth suddenly been put on hold and the remaining life tossed into a room of waiting? has it always been exactly as it is now? turning, rising, falling, stopping, going, weeping, laughing, cursing, starting? is this the progress? the compromise of progress? the rise and inevitable fall of progress? is there even now, or has there ever been, a progress to measure?

enter progress;
she sighs, wipes forehead, sits on a park bench and waits until further instructed.

she thinks;
this park bench is old and falling apart. the paint has been chipped away. perhaps i could go to the hardware store and purchase the necessary supplies to fix this bench. that would be progress wouldn't it? and i am here to progress am i not?

the sun laughs alot.

excuse me sir, would it be at all possible for me to purchase some of that paint? it's for an old park bench that could use a face-lift!

i'm sorry miss, this paint is not for sale, you'll have to try walmart.

the sun laughs alot.

i haven't been entirely honest. i didn't sit on the park bench. i did go to the park though, but i sat on the grass in the shade and leaned up against a tree. the first place i sat didn't have enough shade so i switched spots before i melted. cold hearts melt in the sun.

side-splitting laughs.

i read a couple of lifetimes i had spent on paper. stored away right in front of my face, so that i can never read or write in them again. i started to write but the pen immediately dried up. shit.

some of the lives were sad. some of the lives were hopeless. some of the lives were excited. some of the lives were dreaming. some of the lives were puzzled. some of the lives were fictional. many exaggerated. nearly all dramatic.

some of the lives said they were soilders of christ.

some of the lives said they had nothing to say.

some confident, sure, and proud.

others frail, terrified, and ashamed.

all of the lives were my own. or what i call my own. or what i wished i could call my own. either way all of them had been exhausted.

my appologies for the ongoing exhausting.

when i got up to leave the park and started walking to the car i thought "maybe that's all i needed. 25 minutes in the park reading a history of whispers. a friendly reminder that my body was once a dwelling place of God, and perhaps still is. i spent the rest of the day in a car, driving.

the son loves alot.

Snowplow Man.

I thought of Billy and then Erin when I woke, flew out of bed, eight minutes to spare before having to fly out the door with Kurt Vile to get to Dracula's house (Leo was wearing his Dracula jammies and a huge smirk when I walked in this morning). Billy laughing; I heard it when I woke. Miss you man. I thought of you smashing a badminton racket against the gym wall just to get a rise out of Bev Isabey. It worked, she was furious, the racket spent. I watched you in half horror, half delight (probably from a side bench, distraught with pretend period woes just to get out of badminton) wishing I had the same gumption as my cousin. I would love to smash a racket against a wall while looking at someone's face for a reaction.

Erin, I heard your laugh too. Wish I was sitting at my little red table in the sunny kitchen on Jessie, tea steeping, waiting for my sister to knock. There would be a record on, probably Cat Power's Jukebox as it is a great morning listen. We would sit and dunk cookies for breakfast into tea, taking turns tell each other our dreams for the future. Someday, we will meet in the morning again and plan our work for the day. I have no doubt in my mind that at some point in the future, we will run one hell of a business together. All encompassing, sharp, soft and pretty. Who knows, I like to dream about it before sleeping, always hoping it will tether itself to my sleep-thought and the story will continue to unfold while I sleep, my cat Hey Puss at my feet.

This week was totally insane. One of the craziest I have lived through in quite some time. Jillian saved my sanity on Saturday night after a loooooooooooong kitchen shift and a walk around town in search of a mysterious battery for my flash. Oh Rouge, how I long to hop in your Volvo to do some midnight grocery shopping. I would look for you in the cheesebun aisle and you would know to find me elbow deep in the tiny cookie aisle. You would pay because I forgot my wallet and we would go pick up Lisa and sweet Maude. My triplettes of Beconia Beach. I would give away a limb to cozy up in that little home away from home with you women, Lisa flying around laden with blankets, Madhavi rolling rolling rolling, Rouge stoking the fire and me taking photos of all the soft faces.

After hanging up the phone with Jillian as she finished off her stick and poke, I colored in a few of the horses I was idly drawing while chatting and decided to NOT GO TO BED, even though it really would have been the wise thing to do at such an ungodly hour. With my Running Room jacket and boots, Vile and I left for the East in the pouring rain. How glorious, March RAIN!!!!! What a sight to behold, the Great Melt! Party. I cut through the rain, feeling completely elated but the sudden change in weather and laughing at anyone holding an umbrella, head bobbing with such passion to the music wrapped around my uncovered head. JJ met me in a sassy as always outfit and led me back to the party she had left. I noticed a gorgeous pair of boots on a long man with sparkly eyes and greeted on-comers with my politest french. Bienvenue, entrez! JJ and I went downstairs and we were greeted warmly by a bunch of french bees in the basement hive. I saw a pingpong table and all I could think about was playing against myself as a kid in our own basement in the country. The French party was good; I mingled mutely, laughing at all the wrong times. It will come, eventually.

Living as an anglo in Frenchland is strange. I feel inadequate at times, an English burden. But for some reason, after hanging up with Rouge, I felt proud of who I was and what I have accomplished in my young years. I speak English yes, but I do so much more than that. Body language, Madge. Use your body, your smile, your eyes to tell the story. I tried my best and was received warmly by a new circle of people (hot french babes included, woooh!) that I cannot understand. Moving from Winnipeg, where everyone is a STAR (if you want to be) to Montreal is C-WAZY MALADE. I am learning so much by listening. It is not that I have nothing to say, oh I have stories to share, anecdotes coming out of my English ears; I have no way to say it yet. For now I am listening, thanks to the wonderful advice of my moon life giver, listening to the rhythm and cadence of French. I want to be FRENCHED. But not yet, I have too much to learn a la moment.

Life is good, not easy as I once knew it, but good. For the first time in my life I am enjoying and executing BOTH of my jobs with everything that I have, there is a lot of love for what I do here. My boychild is busy as EVER, but the thought of life without his curiosity and laughter is mystifying. Life as I know it sans Le Poulet? NO WAY am I ready to leave this nest yet. As for the kitchen, well. Every weekend I leave that place with new knowledge, practical KNOWLEDGE (the ONLY kind I seem to be able to retain) tucked away. I long for a Japanese knife. The new head chef, Eli, a quiet man with savage knife skills is teaching me how to sharpen knives with a stone. Operation Stone, I don't own one yet. Actually, I don't own any knives worth sharpening. I love watching men sharpen knives, it gets me fired up. I love being the only little woman in the kitchen, flying around with hot pans, calling out French words "derrier" as I sail between oven and butcher block. I know myself in a KITCHEN. Shit do I know myself. Most of the rest of the time I flounder around, questioning how in the world I will ever make something of myself.

It is the journey, it is the journey. Who am I? Who have I become in this new world? For anyone curious, I work seven days per week 9-5 (first time in my life that I LOVE that time slot instead of loathe it), come home, headphones, draw by lamplight, tidy. Then I make soup. I have made about five types of soup in the last 8 days. It is all I want to do. And they are good! JJ has sampled most of them, I think I am onto something.

Here are my dreams of Monday:

- go to New York, try it
- moped around India with Creme, try it
- learn how to shoot the Russian without the shake and rumble
- learn how to dye
- learn how to except death
- cook more meat (yikes)
- make Ma's white buns
- shoot more fashion spots (I love fashion)
- speak more French, even though it sounds terrible
- go to New York, soon (in JUNE with June)
- make giant flowers
- plant Geraniums
- draw more
- go to New York

New week, new dreams. I have a lot of work cut out of me this week. Lola also offered me a little interview spot for her blog project, aptly titled "Le Blog Edgy" for Montreal's upcoming Edgy Women's Festival. We are edgy women, hear us roar. I am realllllly looking forward to dipping my toes in this project. More on this later! Le Poulet is awake.

Mute Margot from Frenchland reports.

Front to back.

Voigtlander.

Thick Psychedelics.

First off, I am pleased to announce that my portfolio is OUT OF MY HANDS. Who knows if it ever made its way into the right hands (as the drop off department was closed when I arrived frantic apres work), but gone it is. I really screwed up the front of the giant stationary two night before drop off, while spray painting a stencil in the deadened dark of another blustery night. Wind and no painter's tape paired with black spraypaint resulted in a look of horror and then tears on my part. Where is my mother? She was no where near reachable and I sat on my hands at my desk, staring at the hours upon hours of work I spent on that giant envelope, struck with a single strike of paint.

Well, it is the inside that counts. The woman who I found in the Beaux Arts department in the Visual Arts building (hopefully soon to be home for my printer self), gasped when I handed it to her. I thought it was from the big streak of mispaint. Apparently it was not. Fingers are crossed, I feel pretty confident.

Yesterday after walking in the door at 5:30 and feeling one million times lighter (knowing there were no art lists to strike), I put on some work clothes and got to work! I wish I was the kind of woman (like my mother) who can have buns rising, dinner in the oven, soup on the go, dishes washed and a load of laundry drying all at the same time, but alas I am not that kind of woman (yet). I did scour my bathroom, tidy my room and get the house in order before Chanel arrived for a Sad Dinner at the Ladypad (the home of Lo et moi). She came with arms full. Beans and weins, licorice, yogurt, millionaire juice, KD l'original and chocolate were laid out and we ate well considering our mental states.

The weekend was to blame. The weekend was to celebrate. And celebrate we did. Our Pieces queen Lola turned a quarter of a century and what a party it was. I followed (and sometimes led) in a Helen Kellar manner, blind and deafened with extreme joy. My eyes remained on a man of the woods for the entirety of the night, and yet I remember little. We ran nine strong through THRONGS of people out and about for Montreal's famous Nuit Blanche (white night) where art institutions stayed open throughout the night. At Cinemateque, I had my forced photo taken with an elderly gentleman (everyone was confused, me especially) and laughed as we ran to the Belgo to attend a Party of the Stairs (I titled the party as such as we shuffled up one GRAND sets of stairs and down the other with hundreds of people in a circular manner. The party was on the staircase, it was very surreal), through the Old Port apparently and then onto UQAM where I came to once more in a giant ballroom fit for royalty. There was a video projection (Montreal loooooves video projection) and noise enough to groove to. Long body in stripes, a man in a wool blanket as a jacket. Lo and JJ running in circles, a beautiful trio of friends I am happy to remember: Antim a classical composer and opera singer, Tanya a woman of true sass and the lovely Fernando who had the identical laugh to Eddy's. What a night.

I left UQAM alone and walked home to my soft bed. I woke to a party in my kitchen and an early morning shift at EM. DRAGGGGGGGGGGG. It was a bit of a shitshow, but I went in with a one named mantra and finished well. On Monday I hustled downtown clutching my giant baby (in portfolio form, not Leo form) from one mode of transportation to the next until I ended up in front of the Visual Arts building. With a change of hands and the portfolio dead and gone, I walked to the nearest quiet spot I could find in the dark of Montreal's downtown and WEPT to my sister while she chose wallpaper for her giant baby Olive. Oh Erin, you are the woman to call. It felt great to announce what was finished to someone I love and trust with my whole self. She shrieked in all the right ways and then we talked SHOP.

This doesn't make any sense. I don't care. Ding dong the portfolio is dead. Next project? Some giant flowers for Chanel and Nabi's upcoming Flower Power ball. Jill Z, if you are reading this, I need to learn how to DYE! Wish we lived closer, as a dye party is in order. Flowers are on my mind these days. Flowers and the ever present crest. I think I found my crest! I found it on someone's sweater, who would have thought? I have begun drawing again in the quiet of my room, the nameless cat on my bed as I work by lamplight. Life in March in Montreal, exciting times ahead.

Reading has also taken precedence once more now that I am To Do free. Lo lent me her copy of Patti Smith's memoir titled Just Kids. It is inspiring me to head to New York, try a life there. I want to live on the second floor of the Chelsea Hotel in 1969. Maybe I already have. Read it. Here is an excerpt:

Where does it all lead? What will become of us? These were our young questions, and young answers were revealed.

It leads to each other. We become ourselves.

For a time Robert protected me, then was dependent on me, and then possessive of me. His transformation was the rose of Genet, and he was pierced deeply by his blooming. I too desired to feel more of the world. Yet sometimes that desire was nothing more than a wish to go backwards where our mute light spread from hanging lanterns with mirrored panels. We had ventured out like Maeterlinck's children seeking the bluebird and were caught in the twisted briars of our new experiences.

Robert responded as my beloved twin. His dark curls merged with the tangle of my hair as I shuddered tears. He promised we could go back to the way things were, how we used to be, promising me anything if I would only stop crying.

A part of me wanted to do just that, yet I feared that we could never reach that place again, but would shuttle back and forth like the ferryman's children, across our river of tears. I longed to travel, to Paris, to Egypt, to Samarkand, far from him, far from us.

Oh Patti. She writes beautifully. Excerpt taken from pages 79 and 80 of Just Kids. I too long to travel (to India, to France, to Eastern Europe were I am hungry for more more more). But fantasy will have to suffice as roots are taking hold now that the Great Melt is upon us. Montreal flip flops between Winter and Spring like a confused 'tween. All I see are flowers and woods, sure signs of Spring growth.

I am free, just like Cat Power.

For my mom.

You inspire me. Have fun in Bali ma and pa!

Ma Chambre.

Giles, here are some preliminary photos of the room I spend the most time in these days (when I am not ass wiping or chiseling onion). My chambre. Sham Bra, a work in forever progress. I hung my two favorite coats above my bed to remind myself upon waking that winter won't last forever. JJ found me that incredible Croc Slaying hat (I have been watching too many minutes of Swamp People for inspiration) on our last thrifting hustle in Pie IX. Pee Neuf. Wow, I had not cruised for clothes in so long. It was crazy to fly through aisles and look up to see Loco and JJ doing the same thing! The three of us, thrifting. What a delight.

The weeks are WHIPPING by; sand through finger time. My portfolio is ALLLLLLMOST done-- hallelujah. One more stencil to whip up tonight after my last Pain Tolerance study at McGill. Last night I stencilled late into the night (two o'clock rock) and I cannot even begin to explain the feeling of standing outside on my back balcony (yes, we have two!) spray painting away onto the last of the maple veneer I had saved from Erin and Rude's wedding invitations. Title page, you are fucking out. Swamphand is really coming together. I hope to publish it someday. Lofty, but hopeful.

This weekend is bound to be ready, set, WILD with all the Pieces in my life celebrating, with my first Nuit Blanche (woohooo! Montreal throws wide the doors of all art institutions, hosting art parties all over the city. Galleries and transportation are free for the taking). I am going to take, take, take it alllll in as Lola's left wing. I have a hunch the Cat mask that Erin sent in her last epic package will be making a sly appearance. Anyway, I am going to finish this thang tonight, once and for all. While walking out the door for work, Virginie reminded me kindly that it probably won't be a stencil that makes or breaks my acceptance to Concordia. It was nice to hear. She is right. Everything else is finito.