Sunday, March 11, 2007

going live

Okay. Here we are. The royal kiss off:

The Wild Rumpus - Life, 99% of the time. What most of you come for; now served on its own platter.

Table for One - The remaining 1%. Just for me, and those of you who like to watch me stew in my own juices. Don't come here if you haven't been into the "wordy" Oprah of late; you'll be sadly disappointed.

This ending - like all endings - is anti-climatic. Not what you expect, or want, or think it should be, if it was going to do justice to your own investment in it. Because - what? - you've come back here everyday, or almost everyday, for the last 11 months or so? And how is Oprah rewarding you for that? Answer: she's not. Fickle, that Oprah.

Oprah has been with me for almost a year. She's been very good to me - so, so good - but I'm done with her. And I don't know what to say beyond that. Of course, except for the obligatory, I'm going to miss you, you were good to me, blah blah blah. A bunch of bull, really. Because the truth is, I used her more than she used me. And there's no atoning for that.

Friday, March 09, 2007

stay tuned

It's the beginning of the end for Oprah, friends. She talked too much about things that didn't matter, at least not to everyone all of the time. So I'm splitting her into her two complementary and competing parts.

Don't change the channel.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

mathematical certainty

I can guarantee that you hate this layout. I'm sorry; I just need a change.

Wednesday, March 07, 2007

a girl's best friend

Maybe I shouldn’t be so open in the company of thieves and scoundrels, but I’ll just go ahead and say it: I’ve got a pair of big freakin’ diamonds adorning my lobes. They’re beautiful, and extravagant to the point of ostentatious (at least, for me). They were a present given to me on the second Sunday of this past May. Mother’s Day, otherwise known as: Dear-God-Where-Can-I-Get-A-Brunch-Reservation-This-Late-In-The-Day-And-Do-You-Think-She’ll-Disown-Me-If-I-Just-Bring-Her-Burnt-Toast-In-Bed? You can forget birthdays, anniversaries, and even skip Christmas once every couple of years, but Mother’s Day? MOTHER’S DAY? Forget to buy a Hallmark for this one and you forever more live in peril. Or you at least will have to wash your own underwear from then on.

I’ve learned long ago that when I want things from men, I have to ask for them. Be direct, and as clear as possible. (The worst they can say is no; which is fine, because half the time, I don't even really want what I'm asking for anyway. Complicated or just confused? Meh. No matter.)

Anyway, the point is that when it became apparent that the Babe was waiting to make his entrance into this Cruel and Beautiful World sometime in April, as opposed to the end of March when his train ticket had originally been reserved for, I seized the opportunity to finally rid myself of the latest pair of cheap and rusting Shopper’s Drug Mart studs ($8.99) to slowly give me lead poisoning. “You know,” I purred to Adoring and Wonderful Husband. “April is the diamond. Maybe someday I could get a pair of your first born son’s birthstones for my ears to commemorate the fact that I will soon go through the most excruciating pain in my life ALL FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR FAMILY NAME, hmmmm?” (Stage director’s note: Character bats eyelashes and pouts.)

It only took about four centimeters of dilation before Adoring and Wonderful Husband was on the line with The Official Jeweler of Jason Spezza, because DEAR GOD, DO YOU KNOW HOW LITTLE BABIES COME OUT? I wasn’t surprised when I came back into bed after a morning pee that Sunday in May to find a little blue box tucked beside Boh as he lay sleeping in his bassinet on my side of the bed. I was surprised by the size of my newly found heirlooms, though: I had specified small diamonds, which Adoring and Wonderful Husband took to mean, Rocks As Big As You Can(not) Afford.

But I was sincere when I told him I didn’t want anything too flashy, just something small and dainty to remind me of my Favourite Little Guy in the Whole Wide World; something to keep the holes in my ears that my Baba took me to get when I turned five from closing up. Why? Because I’m scared. Scared of losing the things in this world that mean anything to me. Scared that if I let myself get too attached, I will wake up one day to find that one of the backings has fallen away, and that I’ve lost my treasure forever. Scared that people who don’t like diamonds will judge me for putting value in them myself.

Scared that I’m not worth it.

Slowly (well, not so slowly) I got used to my first ever Mother’s Day gift, and I no longer compulsively check to make sure the earrings are still there. And when I’m scared that I’m not worth it, all I have to do is look in the mirror and be reminded that there are people in this world who think that I am.

Bling, bling baby.

Tuesday, March 06, 2007

beautiful singing

Vienna was the only European city that immediately struck me to be one that I could live in. In retrospect, I could live in any of them; but then retrospect has always been the best looking glass through which to find beauty. But Vienna was the only one near-at-hand to Home: A tad lazy, but just enough to keep me warm and fed and contented when my head hits the pillow at the end of the day.

My favourite place was the State Opera House. I am not cultured, nor wise about these things. And I don't particularly desire to be, either. I am happy not to know how long the wine I'm drinking has aged, or what type of oak it was barrelled in. So long as it doesn't give me heartburn, or too severe a hangover the next morning. A free bird, or apathetic? Each a side of my coin; though still one coin, surely.

The only time I ever willingly listen to classical music is on the airplane. I'm not a good flyer, digging my nails into the hand of the person next to me on take-off. Even when I travel alone, I think of asking the married suit who's next to me if he will agree to be the last person I kiss as we go down together in a fiery inferno. Strangers, together by chance alone; unrequested, but necessary nonetheless. Though I'm getting better at keeping my heart rate at a manageable pace in the process of becoming airborne, because I try to live my life so that if my plane crashes, I can kiss this Sweet World goodbye instead of wanting to slap it in the face, or throw my drink on its lap.

Chopin and Tchaikovsky are the soundtrack of this love story.

But back to Vienna, city of in-bred Hapsburgs; brothers and sisters devouring each other despite that they already each possess what they crave in the opposite. Vienna, secret capital of the Holy Roman Empire, that stateless beast of redemption and resurrection. (Voltaire can see right through it - neither holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire - so why can't I?) And back to the Opera House, where I heard the most beautiful music of my life.

T'was an olio, really. A mish-mash of stories woven together for tourists posing as connoisseurs. ("Foie gras? Why thank-you. The livers of geese that have been force fed until the organs are 10 times their natural size? Too barbaric. I would not - could not! - ask another to spend so much for my pleasure alone. But, please, could you pass the foie gras, because that stuff sure is yummy?") Half-way into the show, I discovered that I understood the stories being told to me through song better when I closed my eyes; when the unnecessary clutter of ocular stimulation had been shut out, evicted. I possessed! I perceived! I was thoroughly penetrated. Notes made love to me; octaves caressed the nape of my neck, my fluttering eyelid; stroked me in a way that only a true lover would know how to.

It was one of the most romantic hours of my life.

I kept my eyes closed even when the music ended; it continued to echo in my head, despite that the stage had been abandoned, with onlookers left to stand before it, expectantly shouting: Encore! Encore! Expectantly, and ultimately to sad conclusion. Because there is only so much one person can sing without straining his or her voice box. There is only so long one performer can go under harsh stage light before his or her make-up starts to wear thin. And we don't pay admission to see real life, do we? We can simply look in the mirror for that.

Even though I forget what songs were played for me that night - don't know, even, if it was really Chopin and Tchaikovsky I was listening to - I can still hear that beautiful music sometimes, when I remember to close my eyes. And it breaks my heart - tears it into pieces - that I never hear it when my eyes are open. Never, ever when they're open.

***

Post-Script: If I could go back in time, I would be sure to tell those singers thank-you too; because I got to know a bit of myself better through their music, and I like the person that I found.

Sunday, March 04, 2007

clef

And this? This is what I've been carrying around in my heart lately. It brings me infinite joy to know that I am connected to people in this Cruel and Beautiful World who feel the same way. People who try to capture through writing the Love that drains our hearts. We fail; we always fail. And necessarily so. But at least we try. We can only ever try.

My heart pounds for a language that communicates with my soul: The treble. I sing like Sarah Harmer in my writing. Gliding, sliding, high notes go low: One trombone is playing so-lo.

I leave embarrassed, having told you too much. Wonder: Is it just me? Am I the only one who has no idea what's going on here? A consequence of my grace deficit: I always go too far, and never as far as I want.

Lay it on us, D-Man. Thick like cream cheese on your morning bagel. My best advice is this: Leave embarrassed.

cool because Vogue told me so

I wanted to believe it was Real. So much. So, so much. So much, in fact, that my heart hurt, quite possibly damaged forever. Everyone would ask me, Is that Real? Yes, I would reply. (Chirp, more like.) Cheap, but Real. Stolen, perhaps; but Real.

Sadly, I found out this weekend it wasn't. Real, that is. I know because it finally fell apart on me. The lining had been fraying, which should have been my first clue. All my pennies were trapped in the parallel purse universe, having slipped through black holes that tore faster than I could stitch them up. And yesterday? The clip that kept the guts of my bag from spilling out all over the floor broke off. I was able to deal with a ripped liner; But what good is a purse if you can't close it?

It's my own fault, really. I asked for this. Said to mom, When you go to New York, can you get me one of those knock off bags that you can buy on the street corner? She obliged, of course, because she is The. Best. Mom. Ever. Brought me back two, in fact.

Please allow me to clarify: The purse - obviously - was real. It existed. I know this because I put my wallet in it. A couple hard candies. A bomb the colour of Blackberry waiting to explode at the most inopportune time. Diapers, sometimes, depending on the task at hand. And pens. Many, many pens. But it wasn't a Prada. I knew it, but others didn't. People will see this purse, I thought, and think I'm fashionable. What a poser.

What a liar.

I threw out my lie yesterday afternoon. It wasn't worth salvaging, taking it in for repair. Because it would cost more to do that than to buy a new purse altogether.

Instead, I went shopping. And my new purse? Perfect. Exactly what I had in mind. It's yellow, and reminds me that Spring is just around the corner every time I look at it. There's room for Blackberries and diapers and pens and hard candies and more. And best of all, it's Real: Because it's not pretending to be something that it isn't.

At peace with myself and on the cutting edge of fashion for only $25.00 at Suzy Shier. Deal.