One off, screw off.

This morning I wept openly in the back hallway at work in front of anyone who dared meet my barbaric stare, while I begrudgingly stripped my celery green nails of the last of their weekend polish. To backtrack a little, as I walked in this morning and handed a list of six months worth of wrong-doings, my jaw fell. Thanks. What a piss off. I wept and was angry and when it was all over, I went back to my familiar spot at the butcher block and contemplated ramming one of my sharp knives into the back of someone, anyone, but after a cup of black coffee and twenty five white onions chopped ultra hastily, my murderous intentions evaporated. Sadly, my white rage remained for the rest of the hour. I chopped, hard, and miraculously kept all of my fingers. I hate those mornings, arriving chipper and being blind-sided by something or other gone awry due to my own carelessness. Shit. There is no other choice other than owning it, swallowing pride, and working harder. Today I cried because I was tired of being the only one who takes it. I was having none of the conspiracy theory bologna this morning and thus the tears. My fight or flight instincts are pathetic, as both choices always end in tear stained broken heartedness. Anyway, it felt good to unleash some of the inner turmoil that has been simmering for a while, even if said Bologna delivery man (not literally) and I were running off our mouths in between a mountain of bananas and a mountain of flour and in the same room as fifteen odd staff. Awesome. In retrospect, the morning catastrophe was almost a trial run for my brain to work through the white rage that will surely come to a head while away. Good lesson.

After work, I arrived at the familiar million pound doors at the studio and let myself in. Padding into the kitchen/staff area and helping myself to some soup and coffee, I went down and coated some screens in the darkroom (I love coating screens in that room reeking of various poisons, I love it almost as much as printing itself) and puttered around the vault, looking for a cache of posi paper for my current project. Yesterday I started and finished a drawing based on the innards' of my friend Andrew's bag. The only thing on this evening's roster was a few simple, one color prints on nice cardstock and then a one-off on a gorgeous canvas Tony Chestnut tote. Simple, right? Not today. Today I had an audience (of one that I was not expecting) and I got spooked. Not only was my print retched on the canvas bag, my paper prints were a mess as well. The audience of one was the same lovely British woman, Grecci, that I met last week. She was just as warm and lovely this week. I, on the other hand was still a little wild from the morning's altercation and I wasn't into printing today. Lesson learned: don't print on canvas or expensive paper on off days. Shit. Grecci came back to Martha again to give me a card! I would have liked to sit and have a cup of tea with her at the light table, but it was too hectic and my inks were drying and thus there was no time for tea. Having someone watch while I print on fabric is always intense. You get one shot to register, one shot to nail it, one shot to make it sharp. I felt like I let Grecci down. Oh well, can't win 'em all. I cleaned up my pens and exacto knives from my usual corner spot and high tailed it out of there in shame, clutching her gorgeous gifted card to my chest like a bar of gold with my head hung low.

The bus driver let me on even though my transfer was quite obviously expired. I can only imagine my facial expression as I held two of the nicest prints of the evening in one hand, and her card in the other. Pathetic. Thanks, man. I got off the bus at the same time as the handsome older Nigerian gentleman who belongs on the Sartorialist. We ride transit on Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursday together. He never sits, he is a giant of a man. This man who is quite easily 6'6" or taller, has this gorgeous crocodile attaché case that he carries everywhere. He wears it well, trust me. I would kill to draw the contents of his bag. We got off the bus and his long legs got the best of me and I gave up trying to match his pace just so that I could imagine what was inside his carry all. Walking alone, the light fading, moisture in the air and in my hair, I took it all in. Even the smell of lingering sewer coming from the west, I took it all in. My neighborhood at nine at night. I see my neighborhood at nine in the morning and nine at night. The rest of the hours are spent in: time poured through strainers, through screens, through a lens, through keyboards, through drafting pens. I will miss it at night, but I will miss it in the morning most.

On a lingering note, it looks like Jessica Alba just might have landed a lover before I did. Lucky girl. More on this later.



PhMD

Feet like roots.

Weekends are book-ending the weekdays faster than I can keep track of. Today, in between work and studio I popped into my neighborhood haunt for a quick coffee and a hello to Andrew, newly 22 and new to the regular staff. He wears it well, but more importantly, his Americanos are insane. While breezing through the door to collect my binge-drinking studio partner in crime, I happened upon the Duke of York himself--Mr. Zach Foster--my soon-to-be foreman. We gave each other a look, a single look matched both with terror and a sense of wildness and we collectively burst out laughing with the exchange. No words necessary with that man. I collapsed into his booth, grateful for his presence and laughed some more just looking at him sitting there, cool as a cucumber, ready for the planting season, while Andrew poured my coffee at the counter. As always, the Duke himself reassured me better than anyone, soothing me with his Veteran lexicon and file folder of success stories, better than a mother even, in his sure and calming way and once again I was in motion. There is something about this wild ticking of the proverbial clock, I can't place the feeling. I am hurtling in time. Hurtling, a very strong word. I am floundering here alone in my home, Final Fantasy blaring in through my headphones, into my ears and my body is tied to my computer. Either I am tied to the butcher block, the light table or my computer these days and I am not making any moves to unlace the ties that bind. I am where I am, until then.

Saturday I was channeling something wild. Saturday was Junior Boys at the Pyramid and I went with a gaggle of strong women. Sula, Rabbi, Shira and I tore through that place, stuffing our jackets in our carry-alls, heels clickety-clacking, long bangs, long legs, longer attitudes. It was very empowering, being with those women then. It was the type of night that happens once a year (twice, if I am lucky). The kind of evening where nothing matters, senses are heightened, confidence is tangible, clothing is optional, dancing is necessary, separation is vital, vices are unnecessary and independence abounds. For once, I was not on the prowl. I vowed to hang up my prowling boots for good a few weeks ago, and they have remained on a hook of indignation ever since. Sula and I wove in and out of that crowd like a needle and thread; I was barely touching the ground. I was barely there. The music was all consuming, like an undone drug or the best food I have ever eaten at a corner restaurant in Italy, like the best wine, like the newest baby, like slow slow painfully slow kissing; from what I recall, the music was welcomed and really good and I remember Rebecca asking me over and over to come, but I couldn't. I was rooted.

With feet like roots, and acorn boots.

Something was in the air. I am not sure, I might have scared people but my only concern on Saturday was riding out whatever wave I was experiencing. And I did, until my kind, kind sister put me in the care of a kind, kind cab driver and made him swear on his life that I would arrive home safely. And I did. Thanks Erin, that was a wise sisterly move. Interesting things are happening, I am just trying to tick off the days as slowly as possible.

Bathing beauty.

I just gave Jessica Alba a bath. In my tub. It was awesome, and a little bit genius.

The body breaks.

"The body calls, yeah the body, it calls out. It whispers it first, but it ends with a shout. The body burns, yeah the body burns strong until mine is with yours, then mine will burn strong. My flesh sings out, it sings: come put me out. The body sways like the wind on a swing, a bridge through a hoop, or a lake through a ring. The body stays, and then the body moves on. And I'd really not dwell on when yours will be gone. But within the dark, there is a shine. One tiny spark, that's yours and mine".



Girl power. Girl club. Girl scout. Girl parts. Girl time.

The theme of strength has rolled over from end-of-the-week angst to something tasteful that I am going to build the foundation of my weekend upon.

Don't build your house upon the sandy land.

Best advice from my upbringing, my upheaval of self. Thanks, church. Build your house upon the rock. I am drinking the last inch of wine that the Rabbi and I drank with ease this evening. An interesting turn of events at my neighborhood haunt forced me to make a few long distance calls and a few local calls to my single women in order to record the same outrageous voicemail on all of their answering machines. We are rejoicing in the hands together, there is a God apparently. While ordering a coffee dressed head to toe in off white, my most prominent color whenever I find myself feeling hopeful, I found myself in fresh waters. Out of the pond and into the ocean. Our conversation pulled me out of the depths of myself and into plain sight of a lifestyle easily attainable with a little more growth, a little more experience, a little more wine, a little more education, a little more travel. It was refreshing.

I left feeling alive and on point (which has become a rarity these days with the stagnancy that is winter), holding tight a letter from Loco (two in ONE week, JC Loco, you blew my brains in half) only to pop into Rabbi's new sushi digs to eat a yam tempura roll with one hand while reading the published article written by one of my best friends with the other. Loco sent it in the mail, and girl, I am so glad you did. To read the work of my friends (published or non) always encourages my most natural sense of mother hen pride, and Loco, none of that innate gushing was spared over your F-bomb heavy article. I am so PROUD of you. Hours later, a phone call to JJ to encourage her in the same way that she has so encouraged me in the past couple of weeks. We fell into each other in spite of all of those provinces trying to divide us, and I hung up feeling so proud of her too. These amazing women, the "cream of the crop" as I described to my coffee and Bailey's drinking evening joiner, these women who do so much. You do so much, I continue to watch and look on with a charming sort of open-mouthed reverence: just watching, watching, watching, trying to get my fill of you two. Loco and JJ, the lesson learned? I will never have my fill. This summer will be off the chain.

And now, with so much feeling, I am going to kill my wine and crawl into my bed, psyched on what lies ahead, planned or non. No prayers tonight, just thankfulness. Come what may, I have very dear friends. Friends that weep for their mother's mortality in messy walk-in closets, friends that weep over the breaking of baby brother legs, friends that weep over being alone or being together, friends that are warm, friends that ask questions and friends that listen.

Rabbi and I sat, taking in my home as much as we can before it slip/slops through the fingers of time. I am moving on to the next quarter of life and have only optimism in my sails. Good riddance. In the interim, we have Devendra and we have Bon Iver and we have Chad and we have each other. I have said it before and I will say it one million more times: we have enough because we have each other.

One sip left for good measure.

And how, Madge.

Sans arms.

I am so single it is laughable.


Just in case anyone was wondering, this is a typical Thursday night spent in after an afternoon spent galavanting up and down aisles due to a happenstance intersection run in with no other than Josh Ruth. After eating apples and conversing at the speed of light in the liquor store, in the grocery store, in the drugstore. After trying on ugly shades of lipstick while he fussed over the perfect shampoo for his head of Amish hair. After parting ways and taking one very annoying bus ride downtown. After an hour at the studio working on letters to Loco, Jage and dear Liza at the light table. Just thought I would throw this up for the world to see. My life is not very exciting these days, but I am happy as a clam.

Saturday is Junior Boys for Andrew's birthday and I am going to try very hard not to fall asleep in the crowd like I did at Bonnie 'Prince' Billy. I can't even write anymore. I can't even stay awake at concerts. Liza, if I could pick anyone to transcribe the pace of my days, the pace of my brain, I would choose you. I have been tossing Liza's words around in my head like lingerie inside of a front loading washing machine for days and days now. The slow undressing of life, she is a beautiful writer. How is it possible that she is single? Jesus, I could name ten amazing women off the top of my head who are single. Where have all the good men gone to? Really? How is it that the Courtney's and the Chastidy's and the Skylar's of the tripping teen world are all attached to the hip of some spiky-haired-frosted-tipped-puka-shelled-double-collared douche and all of the strong women are left floundering in their homes on Thursday nights apologizing to no one for their strength and high standards? WHAT THE HELL?!?!! Actually, now that I think of it, majority of the women who just flashed past in thought choose to be single, myself included. With that said, pardon me.

I am going to go open a bottle of red and abuse a substance or two. Isn't the mannequin lovely? The woman who sold it to me last spring at some shitty flea market where they sell hotdogs for a dollar, tried desperately hard to include the arms (sans fingers) in the sale and was utterly perplexed when I refused her offer. "I am not in the market for a pair of random arms, thankyouverymuch". I am such a bitch sometimes. That does have a nice ring to it, on second thought.

I am not in the market for a pair of random arms.
I am not in the market for a pair of random arms.
I am not in the market for a pair of random arms.

I will know the right pair when I see them. These posts are getting ridiculous. Now if you will excuse me, I have a date with my bathtub and a pack of Balinese cigarettes.

Baby Daddy.

The man who dresses his child in chartreuse is the man for me. This man is probably a good man. Regardless of his calibre of kindness, he wears his Baby Daddy role well. Today is my third day in a row of being the worst employee. The clock is ticking, four weeks, four weeks, four weeks. Shit.

Good hand.

Interesting things are happening.

After arriving home from a short mother/daughter stint in Minneapolis, I felt the need to exorcise an artistic demon. For days I have been tucked into my usual spot at the light table, drawing, drawing, drawing. Hungrily drawing, hungrily scanning, blah blah blah. With an interesting turn of events, my social life has gone tits up and I am one hundred percent okay with this. My hands continue to smell of fresh herbs after I come home from work and over the course of a few hours spent printing, they take on an irrevocable odor from the solvent room. A one eighty in terms of smells, from basil to turpentine. If my life continues to smell of fresh basil or fresh turpentine, I am okay with that. My dad smells like sawdust and an old sweater plucked from the furnace room, my mum smells like fresh white buns and paint, my sister smells like Marc Jacobs and that newness of retail, my brother like fresh laundry and paperwork. I want to smell like herbs and the ink cupboard. Yesterday with all of this in mind, I settled into my usual table top position in the basement at the studio and blew through a new six color piece I am working on while watching a letterpress class unfold dead in front of me. I carried someone in thought while I worked and maybe this sparked something to life inside of me that has been in hibernation or in hiding for a long time. Regardless of how or who or what or why, it affected me deeply in a positive way. The complexity of the registration was a non issue, and that was a first. Maybe seeing life in lines and being drawn towards structured living is a good path. It is definitely a new path.

Register, generous ink, flood, place paper, wipe, register, pull, remove, drying rack, repeat. Two hundred odd pulls in three hours, one apple juice, one coffee, two screens, six colors, fourteen eyeballs stealing glances in my noisy direction, and one rewarding conversation while inspecting my finished product at the drying rack with the most charming British woman I have ever met. While my head was cocked distractedly caught in my own universe, self-involved but not in a disgusting way, body bent a touch at the hips unnaturally towards the glaring florescent lights in order to scrutinize my work better, new apron wild with smeared color, this beautiful older woman sidled up beside me sporting a haggard cast and some noteworthy jewels.

"I have been watching you", she says gently, testing the waters and charming me completely with her dainty accent. "Oh really? What do you think?" I respond, holding this new print at an arm's length. "I smell a story behind this one. Are you wooing someone?", she prods eyeing the print in my hands, as I watch mesmerized as her shoulders dip in embarrassment at her own boldness. "You are a wise woman. Would you like a tour of the studio?" "Oh. Oh yes please". As she says this I grab her arm without thinking and put a bunch of supplies in her good hand, both of us instantly warm considering our happenstance meeting only moments before. I give her a tour of the studio and she listens with girl scout attentiveness in spite of our vast age difference. When we go back downstairs to my work station I offer her a piece, the last layer still tacky from printing. Her eyes light up.

"Take it back home with you, please". She accepts, and we together we wrap it in brown paper and as she hands me pieces of scotch tape with her good hand, we exchange stories of our lives as I finish wrapping it as gingerly as if it were baby Maiya: first my reasoning behind this new print, the story behind the tiny white dots, my eyes light up at all the good parts; and then her explaining her life in Essex with her new grandson named Bernard (the name sounded beautiful in her British accent: Bernard Rolph) and her love for Winnipeg in winter, her eyes light up at all the good parts. It was the breath of fresh air that I was desperately in need of.

I will never forget her good hand. In retrospect, it was a lesson on warmth and also the approach of strangers that I was not aware I needed. It was a lesson on openness, and our interaction together--all of twenty odd minutes long--was a gentle reminder of all of the lovely people I have met through my time spent at Martha street. "You want to do this" she said, stating the obvious more as a fact in lieu of a question. This sureness in her voice was a deafening reminder of what I want. "I want this, yes. Very much so". "I can tell. It is not about the money, is it?" "God no". God no. I want this very much.

But before that, I have things to do, trees to plant, boxes to pack, rugs to roll, leases to sign (off), Czechvar to drink.