the first snowfall

It's snowing...

Touching our cheeks as we make our way down to the eastside for the Culture crawl. Stopping to cross the road, a young boy looks up at me and smiles.

It is the first time he has seen snow, his father tells me in a thick African accent, hiding under his umbrella.

His son just holds his hands out and laughs, catching snowflakes on his tongue.

Somehow, the day seems a litte brighter afterwards.

back in 5 minutes... or maybe more.

Owing to current events, I will be taking a very short coffee break.

I hope to be back soon.

LMM
xxx

sadness

Life has a funny way of knocking you sideways, just when you feel your feet have touched the ground, when you can just feel your toes curl against the hardness of the earth.

I have been getting there, little by little these past few months. Stepping gingerly down to feel for a ledge, a nook, a stop, anything to keep me from tumbling off the edge. Sometimes I can feel it, can feel a sense of solidity underneath my skin. Oftentimes, I feel as if nothing in the world can stop me from free falling so quickly my breath cannot catch up.

My father sounds weary. "It's your Nan," he says. His mother.
My colleague has had to pull me out of a meeting, "It's your father, he's at the hospital" she whispers.

I can sense her looking at me across the office. Maybe it is the sharp intake of my breath, or the way my right arm curls around, holding myself in, that makes her glance up.

"She is in the hospital, in Emergency. We are just waiting to hear." My grandmother, at 94, has always been a fighter. Yet there is now a frailty in her movements, her lined skin softer.

My father's strong voice, always so assured and calm, breaks just a little.

"We have also had some more bad news from home*."

Last week it is my uncle, my mother's eldest brother. He has been playing host to a tumour strangling his lungs which cannot be removed. If we are to come, the time is now.

Today is another beloved uncle. My father's doppelganger, the two of them with the same curly hair and bright smile. I said goodbye to him in a hospital bed 7 months ago after he suffered an aneurysm, yet held on against all odds. His body now riddled with cancer, my mother whispers that she will be there, in Wales with the Gorgeous, in a week. The reply is grim, sadly he, my uncle, may not.

I feel numb, methodically answer. Try to say focused through my meeting, and hold back tears. All I want, right now, is to release this sadness, even though I know in my heart that time and death are uncomfortable bedfellows, that they do not wait. That sometimes death comes for all the right reasons, and other times there is senselessness in it. That the time we have is so precious, and so fleeting.
And that I am lucky to have these memories of laughter at my uncle's tables, the sounds of their voices like lullabies telling stories, the kindness and love.

*Although both my sister and I were born in Canada, home has always referred to Cardiff where both my parents are from. For me, Wales will always be *home*

han vs luke*

I've been doing alot of mulling over the comments from my last post, especially this one by "b"

"The basic message I've been getting over the last couple of months with all of us is that we don't really know how to get what we want, any of us. I wonder if that's true of the wider community or it's just us few aimless ones wandering around on the outskirts. Sometimes it's very depressed watching all the sorted lovey couples.

I guess you never know how many arguments they're having though, and whether they've just settled. I still don't know whether we shouldn't just all settle, and whether we're being too ambitious. I'm the ambitious type though."

I'm intrigued and captivated again by this subject, as it's taken me a fair number of years to realise what it is I don't want, it's now a question of deciding what it is that I do want.

So then, what is it? That elusive quest for love? For companionship and the I do, but only on our terms?

Is compromise settling?

Is settling a compromise?

Interesting article about single life.


* I have been known to answer this question very simply by asking "Han or Luke"? I was always a Luke girl, aka: the spineless hero who whinged alot. The majority of the men I was attracted to at some point or another had the Luke complex (luckily without the incest issue) Other girlfriends have been Han girls, the rogue womanizer.

i am in love with mark morford. sadly it is not meant to be...

"Of all people, I thought you'd appreciate this"
Miss Devylish emails me, linking to this, likely the single most important piece of technology inspired writing any of you will ever read.

I think I may have fallen a little in love with Mark Morford. Who else can appreciate the unhealthy relationship I have with Mac, my true love, my spiritual guru, with its sleekly sexy lines?
(I will refrain from writing about the pleasing humming sound Mac makes when I turn it on because frankly, that may be a tad too disturbing)

I do indeed love my MacBook Pro. I love the comforting sight of it first thing in the morning, happily podding GU's podcast whilst I run around and try to get ready.

I love that it holds all my music, my contacts and my to'ing and fro'ing.

All of my pictures? Voila. There, at the touch of my fingertips.

My dear Mac, it is a beaut.

a return to dating. mme mojo remains indifferent.

"I can't believe you met through a set up!"

She turns to her glass of wine and takes a sip.

"Well," she says, almost shamefully "I met my boyfriend in a bar!"
I walk past them, their upturned mouths laughing.

I shake my head. I have heard this same conversation over and over, with the words 'on the internet', 'through school' or 'at work' as substitutions.
I wonder, therefore, as I make my way through a crowded Main Street bar, where an acceptable place to meet one's beau is these days?

He is sat at the bar, a half empty pint in front of him. He is polite and serious, apologises that he is a bit tired.

"Hungover." He admits albeit sheepishly, a shy grin. Hungover or not, he is even better looking in the flesh.

I have to admit I had almost talked myself out of this date, citing a focus on school or that at 25, he is almost 7 years my junior as reasons to decline his invitation. Yet there I was, sat at the bar, engaged in conversation with an attractive, kind man. Questioning why in the hell Mme Mojo has decided to start her hibernation early this year and remain unawares of this gorgeous creature in front of us?

As the night passes, I realise it is because I am playing to a tough crowd. Although there are no uncomfortably long silences, he seems immune to my bantering humour.

These days, it appears that it takes much more than a cute smile to keep Mme interested, yet sometimes it's as simple as exchanging that witty banter.

I am, after all, a romantic. I want those butterflies, a little Frank Sinatra, and a whole lot of spark.

But am I setting the bar too high? Is this a realistic desire, after all?

shamelessly plugging

My old flatmate from Kentish Town's band, Mr. Hudson and the Library, seem to be doing quite well for themselves, thank you very much. Perusing Amazon on a reference book scout, I came across this and was far too excited for words.

And they're playing Vancouver's Roundhouse on the 1st December as part of the Transmission Festival where, after dashing away from my Christmas party, I will be shaking a little of that groove thing.

Care to join me?

Additional plugging and some further news
Apparently the Transmission Show on the Friday is only open to delegates of the festival, although I am still trying to schmooze some tickets in only the way LMM seems to think she can.
Luckily they are playing the first ever Bloc Party on Saturday 2nd December, at the Art Gallery. All the information is here. Rain, snow or shine, it's a great line up. As I said the other day "Nowhere you go and no one you see at that moment will be as superbly fabulous as them...
Just saying."

kindness

Last night over wine and the clacking of many knitting needles and close camaraderie, one of the Stitchin' Bitchers shared this story with us.

Which got me thinking, how often do we put ourselves out? How often do we do something out of the kindness of our hearts that will make a difference to someone, whether it is big or small? Shared a laugh, smiled at a stranger, said a kind word or helped without thinking? Given something of ourselves spontaneously, randomly with no expectations for something in return?

The most precious commodities we have are few, but we all have time. Time to help someone we see struggling, time to give up our seat to someone who may need it more than us, time to acknowledge that person begging on the side of the road with a simple word. Time to give something back, with no expectations of what we will get in return.

erase

"In Chinese Astrology, women born under the tiger sign are hard to marry off - they are said to be wicked 'man-eaters.", I tell him with a sparkle in my eye, proudly displaying the newly tattoed symbol on my shoulder.

"But I am an Ox, and I will always be stronger. I can handle a wicked tiger" he says, holding my small hand against his.

It is before the fights, when we are still hopeful, when we are still in love.

Later, when is healed he traces the lines with his thumb. Tiger.

Over the years, the ink fades from black to an inky grey. We move on for new adventures, fall in and out of love, suffer heartache and loneliness, joy and expectations.

But somehow I cannot detach memories from the faded lines on my skin, come to loathe the sight of it. And although I wouldn't trade those memories, I can at least erase this mark from my skin.

first day of school (again)

You don't want to be the first to arrive, nor the second. Nervously peering round corridors to ensure this is the right room, anxious enough to not try to initiate conversation. I arrive breathless and excited, become the third.

I look down at the desk, at my hands, rustle in my bag, lay notebook and pen together. Glance outside over False Creek and Granville Island. We sit there in silence, resisting the urge of school the shuffling feet, the rustling of the new arrival taking off her coat, gangs of laughing students passing by. A polite "Is this seat taken?"

I wonder if they are as nervous as me. I want to laugh out loud at the absurdity, but instead smile at the man who has just walked in.
I have often been accused of aloofness, but it is a shyness that keeps my eyes downward. I wonder what their stories are, why they are here.

Walking through the corridors with my prospectus grasped firmly in my hand, I pass students in their jeans and creativity. I feel a fraud, coming straight from work in my black suit and high heels, trying to banish that voice which says "You don't belong here" to the back of my mind where it no longer has value.

But I do. I do belong here, my camera bag rubbing against unopened film and developing reels, my hands on the desk in front of me, wishing the class would start.

And when it does, the silence shifts. Shoulders relax, somehow there is another energy already. We break the ice, introduce ourselves.
And in the break over canteen coffee, the beginnings of friendship start to emerge as nervous small talk gives way to creativity and curiousity.

I start to see in black and white images, devour the inspiration of Diane Arbus and Henri Cartier-Bresson, wish that when she walked past me, I had taken the opportunity to speak to Jane Bown in the Observer offices.

I am here because I want to tell stories, without words. Capture that perfect moment, that image. I am here because I want to be better than what I am right now.

And so here I am again.

I'm sorry...

Say it here.

(via)

The Anonymous Ranter

Vancouver, it appears, is a city of ranters.

From surly bus drivers, to overly friendly passengers, bridge and tunnel traffickers and bad driving, to heated debates about the rain. And who could possibly forget those obligatory rants about the lack of single men and single women; or the overabundance of dog shit on the sidewalks, bums and beggars?
Vancouverites are not afraid to say it, loud and proud. *

Completely anomymously, however.

I wonder if I have become too complacent, or simply accepted those things I can't change?
No matter how hard I try, it's still going to rain when I've forgotten my brolley. There will still be a queue around the corner of my local coffee shop when I'm running late and caffeine less for work, dogs will continue to defecate sidewalks and walkways while their owners turn blind eyes, the West End will continue to be noisy and when I get on a bus, I will still be that girl the crazies want to speak to.

And still, there will always be that random angry Anonymous Ranter.

"I've been lucky," I say to Amelia as we get into the dreaded elevator and make our way out for a little Bob Dylan last week, "I've never had a nasty anonymous comment on my blog..."

Well, until recently.

Perusing comments the other day, I came across an angry little rant. Well, not a rant as such, just a little, well... a little je ne sais quoi

"Why do you lie in all your posts" my Anonymous Ranter starts, "and tell boring stories which make me pity you?"

The rant carries on "Don't think we don't know you stretch the truth to sound more exciting, but somehow your stories still suck."

Which gets me thinking. If I know said Anonymous Ranter, why would they be hiding behind the Anonymous cloak?

I wonder if it is an ex-lover, tall and bitter hunched over a keyboard, an angry mind twisting knives into words?

Or an old friend, an old acquaintance, who has somehow fallen out of favour? Sat in a pristine office, slumped shoulders and folded arms, blue eyes rimmed red with anger?

Or are you no one I know? Lurking from site to site, devouring the thoughts and words of strangers in the hope it will calm your beating heart and still your white hot rage?

Whomever you are, I do not write for your pity nor your pleasure.
You have a choice, and if you don't want to come in, have a cup of tea and a chat, meet some interesting people... well, there's a button on the top that says "Next Blog".

I suggest you click it, and move on.


* If in doubt, pick up Westender magazine any week, flip to Rants and Raves. Make a cup of coffee. Sit back. Read. Nod head on occassion.

not quite a man cold

But the Marquise cold...

I feel dreadful, my body has succumbed to too little sleep and too much excitement.

I ache.

My throat is sandpaper, my eyes are dusty, my head pounds.

I am crotchety. And miserable.
I want to cry. Or be held.
Or both.

And although it doesn't appear that I am following the Invalliding rules very well, I still can't find the dignity in me not to announce my Marquise Coldiness and appeal for the soothing comfort of international sympathy.

And hugs.

Time

It turns out we didn't have all that time after all. September moves into October, leaving behind stagnant beginnings. And somehow, instead of a sadness I would have felt before, I breathe deeper, feel more relieved, put one foot in front of the other, make the decision based on what I need and what I want, no longer allowing chance to play my hand.

Esoteric is blunt. My problem, he says if he can be so bold, is that I write about it and in doing so, glorify the moment.
Whatever it may be, it becomes something more, something more tangible than sometimes all that it is.

Sat on white couches in Bird's office, I am no longer afraid of others' thoughts or opinions, no longer feel prisoner to expectations unwillingly placed. For the first time, I can feel myself, raw and alive, under my skin.
Bird is an unexpected treasure, he is teaching me the basics of breathing, how to connect body and mind, how to be in the moment. It sounds elementary but for me, these lessons remained unlearned far too long.


"...and i don't want to be your regret, id rather be your cocoon
so please
let's take these broken hearts, and use
lets use only what we really need
you know we only have so little, so please
take these broken hearts and leave..."

Cocoon, Jack Johnson

Prologue

"What you must make sure", she says with her back to him, "is that she doesn't take the good pillows."

And even though I wasn't there, it is only later that evening after I have made the calls that I have had to make that he recounts this story to me, I can still see her, without smiling squeezing the teabag against the side of the chipped mug before placing it wordlessly down in front of him.

No one tells us how to acknowledge a broken heart, how to form words that may heal, or at the very least put forth sounds of compassion. How to get up in the morning and put on clothes to cover the rawness of an open heart still bleeding. Sometimes the right words are the ones that remain unspoken, sometimes they are simply all in a look, a smile, an embrace.

Years later, I tell this story to friends, laughing. How the end of a relationship, a friendship, a family 5 years in development can be broken down so simply.

Maybe this was her way of reaching out to him, her son. Maybe these were the words she had for all the words she didn't.

I don't know, she never spoke to me again.

How do we mourn all that comes as part of that broken heart? How much do we hide deep inside our bodies, buried in the folds of our flesh to use as a guide in future?

Sometimes we have to see where we came from in order to see best where we are now.

And that is where the story begins again.