A Question of Villainy

I have been thinking about heroes and villains. To be more precise, I have been wondering if a villain can ever be the hero of a story.

As the standard myth system goes, a main character usually mirrors the postive attributes of the society. The hero carries the hopes and conqers the fears of those who create the myth. Conversely, the villain embodies the terrors and sins that humanity wishes to overcome.

Our cultutre enjoys a "good" villian, someone acting bad with such style that we love to hate him. We shiver when she gives madness an element of sex appeal.

Stories like Buffy The Vampire Slayer came out of making bad guys look good-that is to say, appealing-and ultimately act good in some way. But that is the crux of my pondering; can a villain be the center of the story without doing the good deeds that heroes are required to perform? Could 101 Dalmations be told from the point of view of Cruella DeVil? And if it was, would the audience need to sympathize with her in order to stay interested or could Cruella remain as greedy, vengeful and insane as she is in the original?

At this point, I don't know of any stories (written, filmed, staged or sung) that explore this idea of the unrepentant or unreformed villain as main character. I think the only way to answer this line of questioning is to write a story from this perspective and see how it is received. Any thoughts?

Awesome at Being Modest

Click to enlarge

My Precious Shoes

Monkey has taken to wearing mismatched socks. I have no idea how this habit started but it is here and it seems to be here to stay. I have no problem with mismatched socks and those proud to wear them. Some of my best friends wear mismatched socks. I have intentionally knit socks that don't match for said person(s) and think this fashion choice shows moxie and individuality. The fact that I match my socks is only due to my preference of uniform texture and size. So when Monkey choose to wear one stripey sock and one spotted sock some time back I went with it, with delight. Judging by the people I know who do not match their socks I would say she is in good company.

We went to buy pants for the Monkey-Monkey pants, you might call them. While Monkey hid behind the jeans rack and called out "Mommy find me!" MyDear and I looked for pants that met our little lady's very strict specifications for clothing. Pants must be elastic, according to Monkey. The waist band on them cannot be too wide. They cannot be black or any dark colour, really, and they should, if at all possible, be pink. It being the season of brotherly love there were many fancy poofy dresses with snowflakes on them and great slouchy knit hats with pompoms at the crown.
Monkey was fondling a pair of little winter boots that looked like foot shaped Tribbles. She was bringing them over to show us, perhaps to ask to buy them (already a consumer at four, mercy) when she spied the most glorious vision of her young life. A pair of sparkly ruby slippers in just her size. She breathed a gasp of awe and her jaw dropped open. She fumbled to put the Tribbles back on the shelf without taking her wide eyes off the jewels before her. Abandoning the fuzzy boots to the floor she rushed over to the shining red shoes and hugged them to her chest.
"My precious shoes!" she exclaimed.
MyDear and I stared at each other in great surprise and amusement. Where did she come up with that phrase? Oh well, it was settled. We had to buy the shoes. Thank goodness they were not expensive. Monkey brought them to the counter, gingerly laid them before the clerk and stared fixedly at them while the transaction was made. I asked the clerk to cut the tags so Monkey could wear them right away and the woman did so with a grin. When they were handed back to her, Monkey breathed words of gratitude and plopped onto the floor to rip off her now inferior boots in order to wear her resplendent, her magnificent, her regal and stupendous, new sparkly shoes.
She has been wearing them daily ever since.

Another article

Eventually this will no longer be news and everyone will want me to stop mentioning it every time...until then, here is my latest article.

Another lit contest

It is the 6th annual Geist Literal Literary Postcard Contest! The nice thing about postcards is the same thing that is nice about haikus-they are short. This means it is a medium well suited to short attention spans, in readers and writers. This limited length is also what makes it challenging. How do you say all you wish to convey economically? Maximum length, 500 words. Give it a shot.
The deadline is January 15th, 2010

"A word is dead when it is said, some say. I say it just begins to live that day."

On October 5th, I performed T-Paul Ste Marie's signature poem, live at a Slam event in Montreal, to commemorate his birthday. He would have been 44 years old.
Here is the clip.
If you want to hear/see T-Paul himself do it much, much better than I, check that out here.

The quote in the title is by Emily Dickinson

A Precious Quiet Morning

Monkey and I woke up slowly today. There was no rushing off to the daycare, no insistence on going up to watch cartoons, nothing but lazing gently in bed, telling stories about the dreams of the night before and playing hide and seek in the blankets. She brushed my hair and asked me the names of things in French.
"Mommy? What is tickle in French?"
"Chatouiller." (pronounced sha-too-ee)
"Mommy? What is mouse in French?"
"Souris." (soo-ree)
I snuggled her as she pretended to be a baby, all curled up and squishy-smile-faced. I woke up slowly and she let me. It was just like in those short-lived old days before school and daycare and this busy, busy life ran the show.
Of course, we were still up by 8:30 but these days that's a luxury.

Another Me-me

Latest article in the Link:

Slamming

I intend to write something here soon. No, really. Perhaps it will even be something thought provoking/funny/interesting etc. Who knows, there may even be pictures.

New Articles

Just to keep you up to speed, if you are interested, here are two new articles I have written for The Link, one of Concordia's papers.

Shall I Compare Thee to a Random Act of Poetry?

D.D.O. Mayor Doesn't Want Competition

How to get over writer's block - according to me.

I am learning that someone who identifies themself as a writer must just write. I have heard it said before and just like other sensible things like "plan ahead" and "wake up early" folks like me don't really get why until we do it.

When writing is what satisfies and fulfills you it is the act that matters more than what it produces. I expect when you are getting a pay check in exchange for the final product the weight of importance shifts some but I think, really, it has to be for the act if it is going to stay satisfying.

It is easy to get caught up in what you want to write, what you think you should write and what others think you should or can write. That, in my opinion, is when writer's block begins - the moment when you are no longer writing to write. At that point you start editing before you even put down the first word. You are choosing what is good and bad before it has even been created.

I did a writer's workshop some time ago with an amazing Canadian writer, Ivan Coyote, and the message was just that - write; just write. Do it often and do it without editing anything until later because the writer's ... what would you call it? Mojo? Muse? It's a muscle that needs to be exercised and the only way to keep it agile is through regular use.

So, how do you fight writer's block? You write. You barf out all the debris that has been clogging the conduit and stretch that scribbler's limb and eventually you get to the place where you are executing wordy triple back flips and if you keep at it maybe someday levitating.

So for anyone out there who wishes they were writing but are not, the answer is very zen; let it all go and just write. The rest will follow.

Fate

Please visit this link.

For John, who dislikes travel and mingling in general.

Mother and Father, Bookends of Me

The branch bends away, always away.

My father is a stilt walker
and his father was a farmer.
My father uses reason as a weapon
and his father used corporal punishment.
My father works in the theater of the heart
and his father's hands were calloused most of his life.

My mother is a healer
and her mother used pills.
My mother meditates
and her mother slept.
My mother knows there is something bigger
and her mother never wondered.

It is stunning where we come from
and what we do with that.

The branch bends away, always away.

Good freinds shine like stars without knowing it

"...The Space Marauder comes in different shapes, sizes and sounds. Sometimes, she's 15 feet tall and walks along the street toward the grocery store to get some trail mix and some toilet paper. She ducks her head to avoid tree branches. You walk next to her and your head comes up to her knees. Residents slowly turn and stop conversations in mid-flow and gape. The Space Marauder smiles, nods to them and greets them with a friendly 'hello'. Her stride isn't too exaggerated but you have to take three steps to her one. After a block, you don't even notice the resident's stares. That's the effect of the Space Marauder. You feel calm and everything is the way it needs to be."

Excerpt from Sept 18th entry of The Age Of Raisin

Making note of ...

According to Monkey milk smells like clouds.

Courtesy Not So Common

I think perhaps we, as a society, are in need of a refresher in Miss Manners common courtesy etiquette. In all domains from traffic to chat rooms people seem to have forgotten that there are other people around them effected by what they do. We seem to have forgotten that anger and entitlement are not decent reactions to every day minor annoyances. Perhaps what we need is to have it spelled out for us in a concise list of appropriate behavior so we become more aware of what it is we do and why we keep getting those sour faces and rude replies. I would not be against it being taught in school for a generation or two.

Image found here.

Few things

There are few things I can think of more inviting than this.

Sigh.

The ability to deal

i warn you against falling prey to the “but it’s not like i imagined it” syndrome.

this actually applies to any and all art. it will be one way in your head. then it will look different on the canvas. you deal, you adjust, you change your head-picture, you adjust.

the ability to deal is the talent, not the perfection in your head. nobody will ever see the perfection in your head. sorry.

this is why some artists kill themselves.
—Amanda Palmer

To learn more about Amanda Palmer go to:
http://blog.amandapalmer.net/post/179940893/introducing-the-who-killed-amanda-palmer-dvd

This quote was found on this site: http://theanticraft.com/blog/

Home Made Bathroom Cleaner

This is a recipe I came across on a now canceled Canadian daytime talk show. The host was really into promoting green living; how to compost, eating local, reuse, recycle, be kind to the environment kind of stuff. At the time I was looking for some cleaning products that would address the concern I had about having a dog and a baby who would be constantly coming into contact with surfaces that I needed to clean ie; floors, table tops, windows, mirrors etc. This show had a on guy who demonstrated how to make your own bath and tile cleaner. Everything in this recipe is edible, maybe not tasty but not poison by any means. I realised that from that moment on every surface in my house had to be "lick test" worthy which is to say that if my baby licked it there was no possibility that what I had cleaned it with would make her sick. This cleaner works really well and I would never go back to store bought products. The other bonus of this recipe is that it is dirt cheap to make and you likely already have everything you need to make it in your house right now.

Equipment:
Large Bowl
Fork or Whisk
Measuring Cups
Tablespoon
Funnel
Empty Bottle (approx 500ml with a nozzle if possible)

Ingredients:
Baking Soda
Liquid Soap (I use Dr Bronner's Magic Soap which can be bought at most health food stores but any environmentally friendly, natural all purpose liquid soap will do. I don't suggest dish soap, shampoo or laundry soap as they all have additives that may leave a film)
Water
White Vinegar

Instructions:
Mix in a bowl
1 2/3 Cup Baking Soda
1/2 Cup Liquid Soap
Dilute with
1/2 Cup Water
Mix well.
Add
2 Tablespoons Vinegar
At this point there will be a lot of frothing and foaming due to the vinegar and baking soda combining. This is totally normal grade 3 science experiment stuff. Enjoy the show.
Make sure there are no lumps. If it is too thick add small amounts of water until you get the consistency you want. It should be thick but not a paste.
Use the funnel to pour the mixture into your empty bottle.

To Use:
Always shake well before using. Use just as you would any liquid bathroom cleaner. You can even use it to clean the toilet. It also works well on chrome fixtures. Rinse well after use. That's it, that easy.

In the bottle this cleaner will dry out slowly over time. Whether because the vinegar or the water or both evaporate I am not sure. If it does thicken or dry out it can still be used if you just add a bit of water and shake well. If the nozzle gets clogged simply unscrew it, wash the nozzle out and put it back on.

I hope you like this stuff as much as I do.

Haiku poetry contest!

Can't beat a poetry contest that caters to those of us with a short attention span.
This contest is linked to technology and the iPhone so if you have qualms with mixing art and microchips stay away but if you think that poetry should participate in the progress of technology go here. The contest will award one haiku the honor of being featured in an Ann Marie Fleming short animated movie. So another reason to participate is to support a Canadian woman film maker. If you haven't heard of her and want to know more about Ann Marie Fleming look at her bio and noodle around her site. Be sure to check out some of her movie clips.
The contest closes September 1rst so shake a leg people, start bangin' out pearls of wisdom and beauty!

You can't make this stuff up.

While My Dear was settling Monkey down for bed the other night they had the following conversation:

Daddy: You have to go to sleep, my little bear.
Monkey: I'm not your little bear.
Daddy: Oh no?
Monkey: No. I'm Mommy's ... and Mommy is mine.
Daddy: Well who do I belong to then?
Monkey: Uuuhm. Avis ...... and Bhyrn.

Avis and Bhyrn are friends of ours who come over for dinner sometimes. I must inform them of their new charge.

Notions of Grandeur

Click on image to enlarge.

Bath Day

When I was small, small enough that I needed a step to brush my teeth, had to stand on a chair to help with the dishes and was as tall as the kitchen counter, we made a chocolate birthday cake by melting chocolate bars in a pot for the icing. It was my grandfather's birthday. He was coming all the way from Vancouver to visit us.

I had a green chalkboard with the alphabet and numbers one through ten painted all along the top. As a welcome message I wrote a birthday greeting for his arrival. I wrote it all by myself and was proud of it.

"What's a ... bathday?" my brother asked.

"It's not bath day" I sneered. "It says happy birthday, Grandaddy."

My big brother, five and a half years older than me, now in sixth grade, his strawberry blonde hair darkening as it always did with the onset of winter, hugged his sides and honked with laughter. Growing red with rage I could now see the obviousness of my mistake. Bath day, how stupid.

Lactating has made me soft

I was talking with a friend today. This friend and I met in mechanics school. This is almost a decade ago now. At that time I was newly my own person and on a dream filled road to restoring vintage cars in my own garage in some back water town. That was the dream. Not for everyone to be sure but it fit me like a jumpsuit. At that time I shaved my head a lot and the biggest Italian guy in the school confessed to me during a smoke break that he was kinda afraid of me. I smoked back then too. I was still kind, still smart, still witty and sharp but I was perhaps sharper. I was willing to bathe my hands in toxic chemicals and endure crass sexist jokes. I reveled in dark bruises acquired through hard work and wanted to prove that I could hack it just as much as any guy.
My friend is still in the mechanics biz, in fact he has graduated to larger machines and diesel engines. Me, I left it all and eventually had a kid. After that I couldn't imagine putting myself in a toxic environment (literally, not the emotional kind) as that would mean bringing some of that home to my kid. I was not okay with that. So my tool box of impact sockets, torque wrenches, drum brake tools and the like stayed in the basement waiting for the unlikely day that I would for some reason need them.
So after two floods in our basement I was yet again drying off my unused, unloved tools and wondering why they were still in my life. As I was saying I was talking to my friend today and I asked him to come over and take what he wanted from my tool box. He said "you don't want them any more?" And I said that they were just taking up space and that I was never going to use them again. I jokingly told him that lactating had made me soft. We both laughed and agreed that that was just fine. In fact it's great. I wouldn't trade my life for anything

That time again

It's time again to think about winning whacks of cash and accolades for the letters you string together. CBC holds this contest every year and the prize includes getting published in En Route magazine, appearing on CBC radio and being handed a cheque of no less than $6000 for first prize. What have you got to loose? I mean really! They want short stories, poetry and creative non-fiction (I'm thinking of you, Voo). So go to the website and look it over then root through your bag of words and send your latest masterpiece! Here is the link.
CBC Literary Awards

Something you don't see every day

It's not every day you come across a call for poetry, prose and non-fiction submissions on the theme of "dinosaur porn." You read that right, my friend. I have been looking around for something interesting to post, something to do with submitting writing somewhere and boy... doesn't get more singular than this. Ferno House is based out of Toronto. Now, the call ends August 6th but don't dilly dally with your tales of prehistoric dalliances, people.

Salmon in the stream, all.

I spoke to my mother on my 36th birthday and she told me that she had experienced a sea-change in her 36th year. A great shift occurred in her life. She left journalism and teaching and began a long and fruitful career in alternative health medicine which she still enjoys doing. She reflected on how I was now going through my own big shift by going back to university and how ironic or fitting it was that I had chosen journalism without realizing the path I was following, the footsteps of my mother that I was walking in - in my own way.
There was a time when I would have screamed and pulled my own hair out rather than be compared to, mistaken for or in any way resemble my mother. Sounds strong to say, perhaps but we really did not get along for a long time and in many ways we are very different. As I get older however the less I mind being like her. Doing things that she has done and gravitating to places she has been. It is fitting in a "completing a circle" kind of way. The more mature I get the more I see my mother as a woman and a human being before seeing her as my mother. I have come to the conclusion that I am not my mother but I am my mother's daughter. And that is just fine with me.
It makes me curious about the road that Monkey will go on and how it will reflect the roads that the women in her family have walked before her. Will she be unlike any of us ever could have ever dreamed to be or will she follow the river we were all born in to the same ocean we all were drawn to? I expect it will be surprising measures of both. I look forward to finding out.

I'm in!

I'm in. I'm in. I'm in-I'm in-I'm in! I have just received my official acceptance into the Journalism program. (insert dance of joy here)
Yay!

A Gift From My Father

Almost ten years ago my father gave me a piece of paper with his "recipe for happiness" written on it. It was nothing fancy and there was no pomp in the giving. I found it years later in a box and only then realized just how sweet and loving a gift it was. I framed it and look at it from time to time. It always make me warm to read it. Here is what he wrote (in the original french and then translated).

Salut ma fille chérie,
"petite recette" de BONHEUR
1. Être disponible aux changements
2. Savoir équilibrer instinct et raison
3. Vivre l'instant présent
4. Cultiver un connaissance de soi,
des autres et de l'univers par une vision ouverte et perméable
5. Agir précisément et au bon moment
6. Savoir s'abandonner aux gens et aux evenements: faire confiance

Voila c'est tout ce que tu as besoin de t'inquiéter. Je t'aime
-----------------
Hello my dear daughter,
"a small recipe " for HAPPINESS
1. Be open to changes
2. Be able to balance instinct and reason
3. Live in the present moment
4. Cultivate knowledge of self,
of others and of the world through
an open and unrestricted perspective
5. Act precisely and at the right moment
6. Be able to give oneself to people and to events: trust

There is all you need concern yourself with. I love you

The daycare shift

Bright and ugly in the morning. I didn't get a lot of sleep so am still feeling a little bent. Monkey is in week two of full time daycare. She has stopped hanging on to me like a drowning person but she does still cry as I leave. She waves goodbye with big plump tears ricocheting off her rosy cheeks and says in a tiny quavering voice "Bye Mommy." Makes me want to scoop her up and run away to safety every single time. We are both learning to be big girls and stick it out because after a short while the suffering goes away and there suddenly exists a vast expanse of time for fun and activities which would not happen if we were together.

Week two and she has made friends and looks forward to going but she still refuses to eat the food they give her (which is delicious by the way, wish they were cooking for me, I would eat out of tiny bowls for some of that stuff, yessir) so today we tried an experiment. Don't give her breakfast at home and see if hunger will win out over fussiness. Sounds as cruel as putting a puppy in a cage but sometimes one has to do these kinds of things, I have found. If she doesn't eat at lunch they will call me and I will bring her home and feed her here where she knows the territory and we can pander to her desires. The goal is not to starve her, just to get her to try the food over there. A mouthful would be a small victory.

Motherhood has taught me a few things which I am unapologetic about; tricking your kid into doing something good for them is okay and bribery is a viable parenting technique when used with restraint. Oh and mother's kisses have healing properties - makes me feel like a superhero.

Now that she is in daycare I have the time to get back to some writing before my summer classes begin. As is apparent, I am presently procrastinating about getting started. Plus my mind is still foggy. The tea is not helping. Maybe I should make another cup...

The Waiting Game

I am being driven mad by the waiting.
The sluggish gears of the scholastic machine.
Waiting for the grey hand holding the "admitted" stamp to fall.
I busy myself with daily things but there is a mail box in the back of my mind, out across the lawn of my imagination and I look out my inner window several times a day to see if the little red marker has been put up by the postman of life.
A person could grow ill from the tension and frustation that waiting weedles out of them.
Finding it futile and stupid doesnt make it stop or any less maddening.
Waiting is and when it is done for something you really want but have no power over it is deadly and sapping to suffer under.
It is a dripping tap across the hall.

Two New Haikus

Be. Be. Be. Be. Be.
For it is all One Big Now
Be. Be. Be. Be. Buzz.




Going on a trip
Gonna give and get good love
A well trodden path

Another Lit Contest

This one is for poetry or prose and is organized by Matrix magazine and Pop Montreal. Submit your best work and if you win you get a free trip to Montreal, sweet digs at a B&B and a VIP pass to Pop Montreal. Plus bragging rights to being "Canada's newest literary darling." Can't beat that, right? Contest closes June 19th but don't procrastinate, enter now!

It's a machine!

There are days when the Dollar store is the best thing ever, days when even the garbage you throw away from the purchase lightens your mood. Today is that day for us. Around here a toy for under two dollars that makes the Monkey squeal with maniacal laughter for a solid ten minutes does two things; makes you feel less guilty for buying yet another toy that she doesn't need and makes you wonder if she will ever stop laughing like an evil genius (yikes!).

I just have to share this with you folks. Who doesn't love a toy with kids on the packaging with bugged out eyes saying "It's a MACHINE!" as they gaze in horror/disbelief/desire at the monster spewing bubbles from it's toothy maw? Check it out (I had to tape it back together after it had been opened in order to scan it).
But the warning on the back is by far the best part. When My Dear read this to me in the car I thought he was making it up, because he does that. In case the writing is illegible it reads "Bubbelor is a gentle monster machine. He likes making bubbles outside on sunny days. Don't drink his bubble liquid! Bubbelor will get very angry."


Check out the bolts of lightening! Are you having flashbacks of Ren and Stimpy too? It's Log and Powdered Toast Man all rolled into one plus a little je ne sa quoi.

What's even better is that the toy itself (which looks nothing like the picture, really) works and is a huge hit.

Ah Dollar store, how we appreciate thee for your tiny miracles.

One of Those Moments

Monkey to Mommy: You are twelve years old.
Mommy to Monkey: I'm twelve?
Monkey: Ya.
Mommy: Well, how old are you?
Monkey: I'm forty-seven.
Mommy: Wow. I had no idea.
Monkey: Ya. I'm older than you.

2 Day Poetry Contest

This looks like a lot of fun. These folks are out of Winnipeg. You receive a list of words and you have two days to compose a poem using all of them. If you win you get a cash prize! If you are game to give it a shot act fast, all entrance fees must be postmarked no later than March 27th. Happy writing!

A little Me-me

My first ever journalistic article was published in the Concordian today. If you would like to read it click here.

You Never Blog Anymore

I have been experiencing blogger guilt.

I have a few blogs I like to read and so I check them each day to see if a new post has been put up. Maybe daily is a bit excessive (obsessive) or maybe I have more time on my hands than I feel like I do but the truth is I check them daily. I am always disappointed when there is not a new post. If the author goes several days without a new entry I get bummed out and after a week I get annoyed. I think to myself, "Don't they consider the readers? Don't they understand that some of us are quietly waiting for a new instalment of their witty quips and sparkling clarity? Why have a blog if you are not going to post for ages at a time?"

These are selfish thoughts that do not take into consideration that people have lives away from the keyboard. These thoughts disregard the notion that sometimes people are stumped for something to say to the great silent void of the internet. These nattering voices ignore the fact that someone might feel that even if they have thought of something to say there may be self-doubt about whether anyone would really want to hear it anyway. I know, as a reader and appreciator of these blogs, that whatever they say I have, do and will enjoy. Why else would I come back, almost manically?

That said, I know the reasons why one might not write because I experience them myself. Every time I count back to the last time I blogged (hate that term by the way, such an inelegant word-blog, all derivatives of it only become more awkward and unappealing) I think "I should write something...but what?" and then I move on to more pressing matters like homework, snack making, answering the phone and surfing other people's blogs. The longer it goes the harder it is to write anything. It is as if a widening chasm stands between me and my journal every time I step away from it. The guilt is all the more pronounced because I declared, in writing right here, that I would write at least once a week and I don't.

In truth I have a lot to say and very little time, day to day, to say it in. I don't know if anyone wants to hear what I say but I don't mind that so much. I like placing a concept or feeling in front of me to see and examine. I don't mind so much if others look too or not at all. That was something I struggled with at first with having a blog. This act is a public expression of aspects of myself which I have no overt desire to make public and yet wish to express, simply to have them outside of myself. Convoluted, I know. The act of writing things here is not an ego trip for me but I see blogging as an innately narcissistic action (I am talking about personal journal blogs and not informational blogs). So am I being a narcissist for doing this or is this self-exploration? I used to have the same problem with distinguishing between selfishness and caring for one's self. In that area I came to the conclusion that people accuse others of being selfish only when they are not getting what they want from the one they are accusing. But I am getting off topic. When it comes to online journaling I am still ambiguous about whether my intention is narcissistic or not. It is all about intention after all. And yet, I guilt myself for not writing as if I have neglected a chore. If this was just linguistic wanking I think there would be no guilt.

I wonder if all online journal writers go through this? Even the ones with big readerships and oodles of comments every entry. I wonder if I am just chasing my own tail? One word of advice I can suggests to other bloggers out there experiencing "Entry Guilt", don't apologize. None of this is really real anyway. If you have real things to do out in the real world and you are not going to loose a job, your health or a friendship over a late entry or two..or ten then don't worry about it. If you feel the need to apologize to anyone make it yourself because what are you writing it for anyway? The pleasure of it, I hope. And for sure don't take to heart my little voice's selfish nattering about wanting a fresh entry every day. Even I don't listen to that voice, neither should anyone else.

Art, work and conscious thought

The relevance of art is on my mind a lot right now as I am putting together an article on the relationship between art and economic recession. I have interviewed people on the subject and most say that arts must be protected at this time of global crisis. However one perspective I have found is that art is the creative expression of life and the beauty of life and it always is, whether one has money or not. It just is. Art is.
I came across this just now which nicely ties knitting in with this whole notion and what he says about art I could not express more eloquently or evocatively. Please have a read.

do things for others

but remember, a broken
back carries nothing

The Ever List and Self Control

It is one of those frigid January days when it looks more grey than white outside. I am making a list of the things I should do today and wondering whether I will really get any of them done. This list has been piling up for about a week and I can't really figure out how I went a whole week without getting any of it done. How does that happen? Every day I would make my mental list and every day it would not get done. Not that I was just a lump on the couch all day, every day, for a week, au contraire. I just keep shuffling today's list and items keep falling off it. You know, the list that is always today's list - the ever list. Things get written down on it every day, over and over, without getting done. Like mailing things. And putting away the clean folded laundry.

But yesterday, instead of putting away the laundry, I did something new. I went rock climbing. It was fun and scary and a real test of my trust levels. It was great to feel my muscles stretch and work like they haven't in...a while....a long while. I felt a bit like a cat in a tree at times though, realising I was up higher than I thought (thank good I'm not actually afraid of heights) and having no more easy hand holds to go to and having to either take a scary difficult challenge or - let - go - of - the - wall! Which brings me to the trust thing. My belayer (not sure if I spelled that right) was a lady I have known socially for about ten years, a girlfriend of a friend or a room mate of a friend, that kind of thing. We are not very close but she is a fine person whom I get along with. She has been climbing for a couple years and knows her stuff and she was belaying me which means she was the one to keep the rope tight if I slip and let me down slowly when I had gotten to the top. I can tell you, having another person in control of your safety is a big deal. It took me a few climbs before a really believed(in my muscles) that she could and would catch me if I fell and letting go of the wall did not mean death or agonizing floor kissing. It was quite an eye opener to see just how precious control of myself is to me. But liberating to know that I could let it go, at least a little. Conclusion - I will climb again.

I thought I would be sore today but I don't seem to be. I just have to work that "get stuff done" muscle. I'm sure I'll need to soak in the tub after that, boy.

Memorable moments are sometimes lost when not recorded.

"What time zip, Ahmmy?"
"What, Monkey?"
"What time zip?"
"I dunno, what time is it?"
"Forty-fee!"