Crest.

The day my hair decided to be curly, my life hung a Larry. Big time. Bizarre things happened. Directions changed. Mentalities adjusted. I even spent a solid hour alone in a white and wood room sitting in an Eames rocker. The perfect chair, designed beautifully. What a day. Those damn curls, they threw me right into it. Into what, you wonder? I have no idea! All I know is that last night, I was IN it. Today, after one clipped conversation on my unmade bed (I never have an unmade bed), things were said and affirmed and just like that--decisions slid down and out of my grasp, morphing into ideas much bigger than anything I could suppress any longer. Boom. I am going. Boom. It is time.

My application is in. It was just a matter of time. I was shocked when initial joy wore off and the realization of time, along with the crushing weight of portfolio construction (on all fronts), turned from exhausting and terrifying into something bigger than I thought. Now there is a rush from the rush of it all. I have always worked better under pressure, so this is not that shocking. I was flailing for a few days in despair as what to submit and how to submit it. Even the idea of presenting an entire body of humble work (scattered work) based upon one million rolls of film and hundred of prints to a panel that I will never meet, is bizarre to me. How does one wrap up all of one's hopes and desires for academia inside a portfolio? The selection process has been much more difficult that I thought. It's good though, I like it.

Other than my close pals, I am unsure as to who reads these posts. Whomever you may be, thank you. It must be said, I am very much on the train for art school now that things are in motion. Suffice is to say, in order to be held accountable in areas of time management etc, I am going to write about my quest for art school, whether I get in or not. It will be a mellow recount.

If all goes to plan, I should receive a letter (of rejection or acceptance) with Concordia's university crest in the right corner while I am in the throes of bush league living. I can just see it happening: open Chainsaw boots and flying hair, black tights and the most savagely stained white Lobsterfest t-shirt known to mankind, my mom in one ear tearing open the letter that may or may not decide the course of the next 3-4 years of my life, and the wind and the townspeople in the other. That goddamn Dairy Queen phone booth in Dryden, Ontario will pitch my life in motion yet again. Perfect. And so, once in a while (specifically in the next few weeks, I am going to write about building a portfolio). I have no clue as to how to do it, but I am willing to share the experience with anyone who is interested even if it makes me look like a fool.

Either way, it came to me this evening after being in the country for Sara's perogy birthday. It being the way I am going to build it. Awesome, I am feeling very calm now that I have feet like roots/acorn boots in a solid idea. One thing I will say is that I have a SHIT TONNE of printing to do in the next four weeks. If anyone is interested in coming down to the shop while I work on my portfolio, I would be more than happy to host. Details to come.

Loco, I wrote you a letter to your Hotmail account. Check it, get back to me when you can. Rags and Scotch, thank you for letting me cry at your gorgeous table.

There are going to be some interesting projects in 2010. My Grandpa just picked up a box of cameras for me and the first plan involves 8mm film and the wild woods and fifty people running around a fifty foot bonfire in PPE. Whatever 2010 may bring, I am psyching myself up for anything interesting.

Ready or not, Busy.

_:__

I have nothing to say these days.

It is the strangest thing because my mind is so full of lists of things that need to be completed, filed, mailed, drawn up, cooked, organized, watered, tuned, tucked away, burned, printed, signed, sealed, delivered.

The race to complete my portfolio is on and I can't seem to get past the fact that I do not know how to draw.

Yesterday I received a message on my voicemail that reported, "Megan, you are the worst person in the entire world. I don't even know what to do. Bye" and I sat on the edge of my favorite chair with wet dripping hair staring into the phone cradled in my hands that delivered the words. The unfortunate thing is that that is not the first message of its sort this week, there have been others. Warranted others. Basically, I have been a pretty large turd this week and I don't even know what to do.

So there is that.

Last night I drank beer with two girls in a curling club. We ate the free popcorn without bothering to guide our hands to our mouths. Their male counterparts looked ridiculous from above; their limbs one hundred miles long against the white ice.

_:__

The time is nigh.

Times Change(d).

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

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

Dear Wind, you devil.

Tween central.

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

Instacalm.

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

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

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

Creatures of the Wind.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

2010, you devil.

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

Ode to everything lost.

I unknowingly killed my Ficus tree. Bugs, apparently. This fact bothers me incredibly because I have babied the shit out of that tree for months now. I mist it and compliment it and affirm it when it grows a new leaf. Everything dies sooner or later. I just wasn't ready for it to go. Spoken by a person who has never experienced true grief but rather felt it deeply in sad homes. Death is whole, I am learning very slowly. I guess death still feels like a very far away concept seeing as I haven't lost anyone in my family in a long, long while; nor have I ever lost a close friend. The other day while poaching the internet at the Fyxx I was having conversation with my friend Matt. For some reason the topic came up (which is strange because we are music and bike friends and that is what we talk about) and I asked him if his band the Magnificent Sevens would play at my funeral should I ever go quick. He agreed quick which was nice. Interestingly enough, I left that conversation satisfied that we had covered some good ground.

The body is sore again. How? Too much winter gardening. Bicycle/gardening. Winter riding has been lovely lately. The other day I was riding to Art City and my lock fell out of its usual spot in the waist of my jeans during rush hour on Memorial. The retrieval was a bit chaotic because I had to leave my bike on a busy sidewalk (sans lock, obviously) and run into traffic to pick it up on the dotted line. I got it eventually, all the while keeping an eye on the guy keeping an eye on Jessica Alba. One of my biggest fears in life these days is losing that bicycle to some felon/turd who will turn around and spray paint it (poorly) ghetto gold (not the good kind). My only praying hope is that said felon/turd won't know how to ride it/will bail while attempting to ride it and I will save her on foot. I have done it before and I will do it again. Some turd kid tried to steal my bike in front of Pear a few years ago and I happened to notice while he was riding away and I bolted after him (in heeled boots) and ripped him off my shitty single speed in the middle of River and Osborne. Some hockey team leaving Second Cup noticed what was happening and they beat the shit out of him behind Subway for me. I felt pretty victorious that day, not going to lie. Anyway, the thought of losing my lady in the battle of bike theft makes me want to weep. I would grieve her.

It is the new year. January in Manitoba winters can be a little dark. Thankfully, it feels pretty good so far. I firmly believe that the mentality one is in during the turn sets the tone for the entire year. In my humble experience at least. 2008 was terrifying and ugly. 2009 was relaxed and adventurous. 2010 has been exciting and a little wild (the good kind). Well maybe it is not a direct influence, but indirect. Either way, the Wind that I wrote to a few weeks ago has definitely been keeping me busy.

Time to get my hur cut by Lisa Flirty King. They didn't call me Mr. Mugs in elementary school for nothing. I fully look like a sheep dog. I hate dogs because of fucking Mr. Mugs, by the way.