Where in the world am I

I grew up, I sobered up, I moved from flat to flat. Left jobs, found new ones. Found a little sense of myself and shed some skins. Dyed my trademark blonde hair a rich brunette and found something else. Wrote some interviews, spent some time in other cities and learned to tell stories in different ways.

But if you are at all interested, I am here www.twitter.com/julesjulesjules.

I'll be retiring Lady Miss M and finding my own voice again. Stay tuned. It's just another adventure to begin.

I'm getting political

Some days are just like this

It's been one of those weeks, of raging hormones and sleepless nights (thanks in part to my noisy student neighbors, their parties and the ubiquitous stench of the skunk permeating the West End) and work stress and budgeting needing to be balanced and forecasting analyzed, of rain and sun and no clear weather pattern, of boxes half unpacked and landlady's constant phonecalls to show my overpriced flat to unsuspecting students.

Sometimes, it's just best not to answer the phone but make blackberry pancakes for dinner, buy that new t-shirt, make lunch dates with crushes and take the dog for a walk to clear your aching head, and let him rest his heavy head on your feet.

And sometimes a kind word, or an unexpected email, an invite to a party can remind you that you are loved. And sometimes everything is shit, except for you. Love.

Davie Street

He walks down the street, an aging briefcase resting over his shoulder. His gait is awkward, unsteady, angry. Filthy trousers and unkempt hair, he mutters at those crowding his sidewalk. Yelling lyrics to a song only he knows at the couple with the smiling faces.

A grey Saab pulls to the curb, honks, oblivious. He turns on one foot, unsteady but ready, his coat swinging, upturned arm holding his brown bag against an ear. Shouts, a string of curses around his lined face, alongside musical melodies.

Behind me, a young tourist turns to his friend. "I wonder if he realizes his ghetto blaster is a suitcase."

I smile. Cross the road and walk home.

Love stories

A Scottish tourist named "Matt" takes a picture of a woman taking a picture in Japan. Girl finds the photograph, they write, they fall in love and 'lo and behold they end up in Vancouver.

As a tried and true romantic, I loved this story. It reminded me that we should always be open to love.

More meme

Because my head is full of words spilling over each other and my heart is entangled in mazes... here is another meme, stolen from Devil Mood.


1. Your cell phone? Laying on my dresser, cracked screen.
2. Your significant other? My girlfriends
3. Your hair? Freshly cut, blonde, curly
4. Your mother? Shirley Bassey
5. Your father? Tom Jones
6. Your favorite thing? Days like today
7. Your dream last night? Unmemorable
8. The room you're in? My entire studio flat, so bedroom and living room
9. Your fear? Spiders, clowns, losing, rejection
10. What you're not? Consistently confident
11. The last thing you did before logging on? Spent a perfect day with Amelia
12. Where did you grow up? London, but I am still growing
13. Favourite drink? Champagne
14. What are you wearing? Black slip
15. Your TV? Abandoned and dusty in the corner
16. Your pet? Dreams of puppies
17. Your computer ? MacBook Pro
18. Favourite place? In the company of friends
19. Your mood right now? Content
20. Missing someone? Always
21. Something you're not wearing? Shoes
22. Love someone? Yes
23. Your favorite color? Rainbows
24. Kids? Undecided
25. Your life? Transitioning

Meme

I blatantly stole this idea. Thank you, Degan.

I wonder how different this will be in 2 days or 2 weeks? My favourites change so very frequently, nothing is ever permanent.



1. Study in Red - for Jules, 2. spa bento, 3. Stafford - Locks, 4. Just a Orchid, 5. Jensen Ackles as Aragorn, 6. Saintpaulia 'Champagne Pink', 7. The World at my sons feet, 8. mango cheesecake, 9. Grace Paley, 10. bad luck, 11. Love XOXO, 12. Lady Miss Kier


Here’s how you play:

Type your answer to each of the questions below into Flickr search, then using only the first page, choose an image. Copy and paste each of the URL’s into the mosaic maker over at FD’s image maker.

What is your first name?
What is your favorite food?
What high school did you attend?
What is your favorite color?
Who is your celebrity crush?
Favorite drink?
Dream vacation?
Favorite dessert?
What do you want to be when you grow up?
What do you love most in life?
One word to describe you.
Your Flickr name.

Transience

tran·si·ence (trnz-ns, zhns, -shns): The state or quality of being transient.

I realized the other day that I am approaching a milestone that I have not achieved in over 10 years. I will have resided in my little studio flat, with its white walls and hardwood floors, terrible burgundy blinds and its noises, its smells, its adventures, for 2 years this September. It is the longest I have lived anywhere for a very long time.

I never did paint the walls, or unpack all the boxes. But there are prints on the walls, bookcases stuffed full, clothes hanging in the closet. I have made love in this flat, cooked meals and laughed with friends in its cramped kitchen, consoled and counselled, changed jobs. Woken up with the sun streaming through the crooked blinds and been happy in this space, and stretched myself out on the sofa with heartbreak and whisky.

I have sometimes longed for the comfort of those white walls while I have been far away, but it has never been anything more than functional. A place to lay my head, to store my clothes, to escape. I realize how deep transience has taken hold, and I often wonder if I will ever feel just so, just right in one place or if I will always be searching for that next safe space? Or is it just as simple as finding comfort in your own heart?

Wondering

As we get older, manage different relationships, forge new friendships, break up and make up, do we hurt more or do we hurt less? Or with each new heartache do we simply hurt differently?

Sometimes when we fly, we fall

Some time today, in a crowded restaurant among strangers, I fell.

Sometimes we need to free fall in order to find ourselves back on the track we are supposed to. Sometimes our hearts need to be cracked so that we can put them back together. Sometimes when we find ourselves falling, all we need to do in order to break our fall is hold out our arms.

The trick is to know how to fall, so that we can never stop trying to fly.

Thursday

Sometimes some days are better than others. Today has almost been perfect but I am grateful for all its little quirks and charms.


Sean's 2 albums of the week to keep me happy on the way to work

Chocolate cake from Absolute Sugar

A voicemail telling me I am loved

Animating my first ever scene and learning something new, hopefully these are the first few steps to new adventures

An unexpected coupon from Aveda when paying

A colleague winning a photography exhibition

All new Supernatural

My department's brand being accepted and recognized worldwide through a little networking

A glass of wine at the end of the day

Finding North: Volume 1

There are times when you just know that it’s over, that the time for flogging that poor flayed horse, for making up excuses and holding on to something that just fell away is well and truly done.

You don’t even need to ask or sit in an uncomfortable silence, you don’t need to even hold on one last time. You just know that it’s complete, that whatever came before has simply faded out, that the feel, and breath and voice and weight of all that was moments before will just dissolve and leave behind its sticky fingerprints, its cloudy imprint, its irrevocable past.

Thoughts

I tend to forget, sometimes, how much I love food. How I can simply while away hours daydreaming of the perfect recipe for pulled beef, or braised ribs. Reading Sean's blog from Bra reminds me of those Piedmontese lunches that go on and on, of wine ladened afternoons with Amelia over the last 2 decades. Revisiting notes from my travels brings back pungent memories of Hang Be market, dusty streets and bia hoi, inspires me to open cookbooks collected from around the world. Always there are stories, quesadilla and ices outside Tec de Monterrey, tortilla soup and lime beef in a shanty town in the rain forests, windswept hair and suntanned arms. Tom's Sunday evening kedgeree, bottled beer and chess in the conservatory. Warm, sweet baclava from the bakery melting in our mouths, legs dangling over the blue water of the Pelion peninsula.



Perhaps this is another way we tell stories, through our carefully measured ingredients. The food we serve, the restaurants we choose, picking our way across menus, leaning over to share bites. I am slowly finding my way back into Vancouver, through its food. Rediscovering favourite restaurants of my own and those hidden gems of my friends.

Perhaps I can find a place of my own after all, in this myriad of streets.

He is not big on public displays of affection, he says. Outside in the real world we have never held hands, we do not kiss, we walk side by side laughing, our bodies close together. I do not greet him with a kiss as I slide into the car. He smiles his boyish grin and steals glances, I sometimes reach over and touch his cheek, run my fingers along his bearded jaw.

Sat beside him at dinner, he rests the palm of his hand on my rib briefly, makes the odd gesture to touch me in some way.
When we are alone, our legs entwined, he wraps his arms around me, his fingers closing around mine. I can feel his heartbeat, his breath on my neck.

Last night, he teases me and I steal a kiss in a crowded bar. When we leave, the February night on our cheeks, my hand finds his and he does not let go. I am tired, and just a little drunk. He is not coming in, he tells me as he drops me at my door and kisses me good night. I understand his fatigue, it mirrors mine. We have always respected each others' boundaries, yet tonight I am feeling small. My heart is big in my chest, the strain of the last 2 weeks laying emotions heavy. Sometimes my timing and my questioning are not well thought through.

His hands rest on the steering wheel. 10 and 2 o'clock. He is honest, brutally and direct. I concentrate on a pink scar on his thumb. I know the words before they come out of his mouth, and realize that the man I have wanted is more the man I know he can become, and less the man in front of me. And I realize just how far I have come, as I shut the door behind me and walk away.

Amelia says if you don't risk, you can't win. Life is about going out on a limb, climbing higher and sometimes falling down. Maybe I'm ready to start falling out of trees again.

Realizing

...that after 5 years it is finally time to let it go and move on. And that my life now is better than it ever has been.