Tattoin' Ruth.

Tattoin' Ruth

Collars are choking,
Pants are expensive,
Jackets are itchy and hot,
So tattooin’ Ruth tattooed me a suit.
Now folks think I’m dressed– –
When I’m not.

-Shel Silverstein p. 45

Trust Shel Silverstein to lend me words when I am without. To date, this might be the only poem I have memorized in my lexicon. Today I watched my love get a tattoo from our pal Bram and then just like that I was up there, getting it, doing it. Grandma, all for you.

Helen
Helen
Helen

When I am older I hope those tiny scrawling letters sink up and under the folds of time on my body. Out of sight, out of mind. Today was just one of those days that I won't soon forget.

Roti for two, Joanna for one.

Two computers. Four pillows. A cat that I just welcomed up into the bed. A bandana as a shirt, her fur against my open ribs. A man that just left me for Will Belford. Good trade.

Swell Maps, new Joanna on a record player that sounds real nice. What a nice afternoon. Mitch and I had lunch with Scotch and Rags; potato roti, mushroom curry, a date square. Before they came I met Lila Pearl, who is the prettiest thing I have seen since the birth of Olive. No baby will ever replace the lovely Olive. I can't seem to get over the sight of every album on vinyl I could ever imagine inside the shelf that used to be home to roller skates, binoculars, and a wig.

The cat is licking my wrist. I am okay with it, typing unabated. This is so strange.

I am so happy.

Gizzy and I.

One day before the turn of Sister Spring, Mother Winter dropped off the last good news of the season from far, far away. I got in. I am going. I am taking Plan Whatever and crossing my fingers, throwing my caution and my curiosity to the wind and I am just going for it.

I am taking my loves M and JA, my pens, some records in an amoungst his millions. We'll hitch a ride with our meager belongings and try our hands at being young and in love in an unfamiliar town. How exciting. The Year of the Tiger, this is my year. This is his year too. This is both of our years. I am excited.

In other news, hell is now skate/skiable due to the simple fact that I am moving into a 400 square foot apartment with a cat in two days. Jaws swing. Gism the Cat and I will probably end up being fast friends. That furry little turd. All for love. Everything for love.

Art school.

Lo? Will you be ready to meet me at that top-bunned baby-holding statue near Concordia with a newspaper covering your already-wet head in September? Better be.

Adios. I have a birthday party to attend. With feathers in my hat and a cocktail dress hanging just so, I will raise my glass beside the grey suited man to my friend Sula. Through the thick and through the thin. To you, dear woman. This is your year too.

2010, give us everything of what you've got.

Good Spring to you.

Ninety days of rain.

Winter broke.

Yesterday I sent up words while cycling on the first dry pavement of the season. After an evening of night riding in the Spring fog, of late night spaghetti making, of cartoon watching, of quality time spent in an amongst one hundred blankets, I rose from my lone bed with arms outstretched. Saturday morning left to my own devices. I opted to ride to my hearts content, only stopping where J Alba felt the need to slow to stop. We had lunch for one at the bakery, picked up bread, picked up wine, dropped off film. It was a morning of picking up and dropping off in the company of myself. Before winding back around to these parts, I ran into a gaggle of Heinrichs women in front of Kawaii Crepe. What women. Kate's baby Izzy said her first word the other day: microwave. This kid is going to change the world somehow. I just feel it. I have so much faith in humanity when I see her. I don't really know how to explain it. If you have seen her, even a photograph (which hardly does it), then you know.

Dear Rags, I love you. Sometimes, there is nothing left to say. I am sorry you cried into your poached eggs. I have been there.

Dear Megs, quit writing. Go for a walk with your brother or your boyfriend's mother. Spend quality time with your new love, this amazing man. Touch his neck just so in the fog of the morning and send up some words of thanks for the people in your life who love you even when you don't deserve to be loved. Spring is for shedding, for dipping way down, for picking up, for putting away, for planting, for hollowing out, for turning over fallow parts of oneself, for starting again. Spring is the rebirth of feeling.

Dear wind, thank you for the Spring. Today my brother and I were talking about the fog over our lunch and he said that after an extended Spring fog, ninety days of rain are soon to be expected. If you will, please send the rain. I think we are all ready. The idea of wet hands and wet feet for two months in the bush is quite heartbreaking. Two months spent without one thing and two months spent with. God help us, where ever you may be.

Shot at Elkhorne Resort; Manitoba, 2010.

Shot by M. Dixon the day that Winter broke; Winnipeg, 2010.

European storks.

I am drawing storks at the coffeeshop, watching the gorgeous man in the heavy boots between stork mock ups. Townes Van Zandt is on, pens are scattered about; it feels good to think about printing again. I had to take a little rest after the portfolio mayhem. But now that Lila Pearl was born last week, I am about to be back in the print saddle again because I am in charge of nailing the girl child's announcement cards. I like projects like this: 5x7 cardstock, three colors, get creative.

Also, I like this lady's look. If I lived in Europe and could afford a garden salad, an espresso and a Perrier everyday, this would be my look too. Maybe, maybe not. Damn! I am jonesing for Europe with my lover. Slumped against the other in one hundred trains, poverty meals, European magazines, cheese, dollar rouge, bread, picnics in Hyde Park, petit pain, meandering and what have you. Not yet, not yet. Soon, soon. Oh, oh.

Anchored in Winnipeg and feeling fine, Megs.

Squirrelly in Seattle.

Spring is making it's way to town. Puddles as deep as lakes are finding their way to the lowest lying parts of the Exchange and boots are a must. Funny, I haven't seemed to notice the grey skies at all these days. This morning I woke in a dark home, rose with conviction, packed my lunch for work and came over to the coffeeshop where I am now, watching the mist between punctuation.

A few things.

I have been feeling a bit strange these days for no specific reason that I can tap a finger on. Spring is coming. I have a new job (shocking) working in a custom cabinetry wood shop in the Exchange a few days of the week. So far the work has been basic enough for me to grasp. To be frank, I love every minute. I love the heady smell of the wood, I love the dust, I love the masks in the spray room, I love mixing lacquer, I love measurements and the powertools. I love it all. I really enjoy repetitious physical labor, especially if it involves wood. So far I have sanded, sanded, sanded, bevelled, planed, sprayed and sanded. Today I am attaching one million hinges to cabinets nearly ready for installation. The entire experience has been pretty incredible and while there are windows where I feel like a complete and utter imbecile, most of the time I think of my dad (which is really nice) or I just watch Ross and Alfie build the most beautiful cabinets while I work at my station (I get a station!). The process is beautiful. This is something I have always wanted to do and it feels nice to be learning it before I go and do something else I love. For the most part, it feels really nice to work in a place that feels familiar in my memory. My dad's shop is brighter, but smells identical to Ross'. I am happy with my rough hands.

Another thing. The reality of leaving for the bush and beyond is coming to a head. Yesterday I walked in circles around my apartment, placing imaginary price tags on all the things I am ready to part ways with. What a process. Leaving another home, school placement (or not) pending, packing, culling, trimming the fat, organizing, what to do, what to do? I suppose this is the epicenter of my squirreliness. In the interim I have and will continue to cycle hard despite the rain and the grey skies. It is good for me. Last night, while riding home from a birthday party in the other end of the city, I booked it down Assinaboine on a whim (I usually take Memorial to Ellice, but was feeling the sleepy scenic route last night) and ran dead into Jill, Lo and Sula coming home from a late dinner in Little Vietnam. We are drawn into each other when we are supposed to. So there was an impromptu Girl Club in Sula's living room, clothes were auctioned off (she is also trimming the fat, we all are) and it felt good just to sit in the presence of these women, squirrely or not. We are all in transition. Something beyond anyone's control must be shifting, happening, bumping us along. So long as I am moving, I suppose. None of these things penned are complaints. For the most part I am deliriously happy with things, it is the inevitable change looming around the corner that freaks me out. It always does. And in the long run, I am always grateful for it. Wait and see.

In the meantime, enjoy Spring. I am. And how.

I can't write these days. I want to, but I cannot.

M

Give thanks.

Sunday morning lazy to rise, curled into Marcel Dzama tattoos on arms not my own. Two kinds of stripes noticed by a man in line at the coffeeshop who smelled of smoked meats and blackened logs. Bright morning light with another.

Dear Wind, thank you.