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.

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.

the Hill

The Hallowed Halls of our Ivory Tower
Pulse well into the Night;
lapdogs, lackeys, fools in suits:
Buzz, text message nothing.

We erected these Marble Slabs together, Friend
Built Chambers and Antechambers;
Constitutions, and Freedoms spent:
Codified by what they are not.

You told me once you knew what It didn't mean
Defined It through It's absence;
Maybe, but is that Something to sacrifice our Sons and Daughters for?
No. No, no, no: Never.

We separate Ourselves by False Distinction
Caress through Man-Made Border Lines;
And though this Map points to where Home is, should be -
It fails to capture This.

la petite monnaie

Keep me in your left breast pocket, Boss; bills neatly folded, ready to be spent. It's not like you're George Costanza, and you've sent your hard candies and three-year-old expired warranties to me to die. You know what your currency is, and how much of it you're willing to spend. I know you're concerned about recent news events, and so you're questioning your strategy of my strategic location - wondering if you should switch to a money belt, placed dangerously close to your liver, so that would-be thieves would have to shoot you in the gut for it.

Don't. Don't let yourself go there. Night-time robbers following you home from the opera will get what they want from you no matter where I am on your person. A money belt at your abdomen, silver coins in your pants pocket, a roll of bills stuffed into a sock: if hoodlums want these things, they will take them. Yes, keeping me in your left breast pocket makes the level of your wealth more visible and prone to beggars, and isn't the safest location for me if you're worried about truant children swarming you in a dark city street one night as you make your way home for supper. But the damage done from a potential mugging is less violent than if they go for your abdomen, or your pants pocket, or your sock: in those instances they would make away with more pieces of paper, words and numbers ambiguously - and ultimately meaninglessly - scrawled atop.

Keeping me clearly visible and easily accessible means you are less likely to be stabbed for my contents, leaving a trail of blood to follow you around like breadcrumbs, showing others where you've been, suggesting where you're going. You are less likely to be scarred during burglary; wounded forever, permanently, the mark of the beast burned forever into your forehead for all to see. And you are less likely to lose it all. Vultures are happy to get a dollar here, a toonie there, when they know they can come back to the well for more when they like. Keep your bills in a smelly state of wetness in your Asics and, well, the leeches just might want all of it, right then and there: What would you be left with?

No, Boss. Continue to keep me in your left breast pocket, close to your heart. Let others know how much capital is at your disposal. People are more likely to pass you over that way, and look to the person behind you to rob. Humans always search for the greater payoff; they're willing to risk everything to see what's behind door number three, even if the Vegas odds all point to a goat. That's the beauty and the tragedy of currency, Boss. Besides, in this day and age of wireless transaction, faceless and touch-less - and love-less - communication, the Big Banks insure everything; the most you'll ever be out is the first 50 bucks. And it takes more than that to purchase your favourite pair of Gap jeans, doesn't it?

requiem for a blog

What is it about you that makes me want to vomit words? Open the shades at my darkest hour, expose myself to you? I am Mona Lisa, a Shakespeare play; studied, dissected, and – worst of all – rehearsed. Circus clowns escort you past me: “Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing to see here.” I know this, and yet I still scream. Dangling in a cave in a Utah canyon; unknowable, unknowing. I cut off my nose to spite my face.

I sit before you, coffee in hand, and try to think of something to say. Nada. Ziltch. Zip. Void. You stare at me blankly, vacuum tubes pulsing light; we play a game of chicken. Who can make a fool of themselves first? One, two, three…GO! I lose. I always lose. One of God’s gifts to me was never a poker face. A pair of fours may be all I have, and I want to share it with you. I show you my hand before I even know what I have myself. If I had an eating disorder, it would be bulemia: binge, purge; binge, purge. Not to eat at all? That takes real restraint.

How sad, that I should feel this way, when I can hear the whispers of the most important people in my life in the background: Talk to me! they plead. Tell me a story! Catatonic, I keep the life preserver they request to myself. I don’t have the energy to throw it ten feet. But if it came down to it, I would swim for them. Jump in shark-infested waters. Drown, never to speak – or write – again.

In the end, it’s just garbage I give you. Thoughts that cannot translate into deeds. Caveat: Not all thoughts, of course. Some letters strung together (signs) form words that would be too much (signifier) for your pious selves to bear. WITNESS! your soul granted a pergatory pass would scream. A SINNER IS BEFORE YOU! (Indeed it would, because even THIS is too much for you, isn’t it?)

Another heap for these words I should find, lest they continue to bounce around inside me trapped - rotting, stinking, festering – until one day their toxic gases seep out of me, poisoning both of us in the process. Mona Lisa had a secret journal; that’s why her lips are curled.

the dresser

This is the third time I've been made-over. Fourth, really; but one cannot really count the transfer of wealth from one generation to the next as "reinvention." At least, I cannot. True change requires a stripping of my soul; a new purpose. Ironic, how in each instance less of me remains, but my value increases. Funny, how a society of such gluttons - mass producers of Che images, collective individuality; insatiable consumers of artificially-flavoured breakfast shakes in the pursuit of health - should value me more now that I've been used, sanded down into something brittle: my purpose, questionable. Open to interpretation.

Do you chase the history of humanity through your desire of me, or do you crave the chemical lacquer that covers my wounds, now called "character?" Is it love, or do you like choking me? Starving out my oxygen with each coat of clear, just to see your own reflection in me better?

Does this really matter to me? Not quite. They're just questions I have. The truth is, you can never define yourself through me, and I think that deep down you already knew that, despite how you sit on the edge of your seat, waiting for my number to be called, so that you may frantically, casually, raise your paddle, assert your authority over me. I am just a cover for you; a facade. You will stuff me full of socks maybe; summer soles in winter. Guest linens. Yellowed letters of love, buried like treasure, but just paper, just words: everything and nothing simultaneously.

You will give me much more than the deed to your house, folded neatly in a lock box, the bottom shelf (because thieves are too lazy to bend over). You will surrender more than the stains that tattoo your outer shell, the pieces of cloth that you strip away each night: equalized.

The currency with which you purchase me is more valuable than the manifestations of Mammon you humans are so quick to shed blood for; and yet you do not value them at all. Your secrets. Your essence. Your measure of self-worth. The representations of your own image in your mind's eye. What you do not share with others in this earthly life, but leave for them to discover in your death, once it's too late.

I am much more than slabs of wood precisely nailed together; a whole of parts, constructed, reconstructed, until, inevitably, deconstructed, used for kindling for the Christmas fire, memories of dressers past forgotten against the prospect of the new Dustbuster under the tree (so much cleaner, don't you think?)

Me? I am Your Protector.

sending in my $1.99 plus shipping and handling

By now you will agree I've never been a normal girl. I've tried; oh, how I've tried. I've made the requisite list of Teen Beat, Teen Street and Seventeen and told my Dad I neeeeeded them, could he just pleeeasse pick them up on his way home for me? And, perfect papa he is, he did. They never really did anything for me, though. Kirk Cameron was kind of a weirdo. (Although Joey was always sooo much better than Jordan; maybe I was just drawn to him though because he was a December baby like myself. Though he was technically a Capricorn, that was close enough for this narcissistic Sagittarius.)

I flipped through the flimsy pages, passing easily the advertisements promising a one-on-one conversation with whatever heart throb my little heart desired. Nah. Not interested. I pored over the advice columns, solely for the smirk factor. What kind of self-respecting person cares about what her best friend thinks of her new shoes? Just go tell her to $@#& herself! Leo DiCaprio full face centre-fold? Pshht. (Though maybe I'd put that up on my wall now.)

The one page I could never get past? Usually, it was in the last two, maybe three, pages of the magazine. The ones where they advertised packages of sea monkeys and t-shirts with your boyfriend's name on them and pen pals? Yeah. I wanted a pen pal.

AND OH MY GOD GUESS WHAT?

I totally wrote that last post before I had a chance to read this post. No foolin'.

I guess great minds really do think alike.

labels

When I was 13, I used to take the tags off the inside of my collar and sew them onto a plain t-shirt, probably of the Zeller's variety, to stretch my dollar. Two Mexx shirts for the price of one. 13-year-old girls are a stressed out lot. Stressed that the boy that sits beside them in Algebra thinks they're fat and ugly. Stressed that they only got 84% on their English mid-term (why not just one mark higher?) Stressed that they'll stand up one day and there will be a tell-tale mark on their bum, proof that their hips are widening, a signal of their impending right of passage from Pretending to Make Ken and Barbie Kiss to Thinking About Him, All The Time, Would He Just Get Off My Mind Already? I Have a Computer Science Assignment Due. Guhh! And, of course, stressed that the clothes they're wearing don't at all say about them what it is they want to be said: I am beautiful. My dad can afford to buy me Mexx, all the time. Not just one shirt out of two. Yup. Nothing but the best for me!

I re-read the last few months of my blog this afternoon, after cleaning the floors so that Boh won't have to crawl around on hardwood covered in dried-up, week old beans, or Gordie fur, when he gets home tonight, and before a beautiful run that made me both happy to be where I was at the same time as slightly regretful that I didn't go skiing in the Hills this weekend, because if not this weekend, then I don't know when I could next get around to it. I re-read it with an eye to thinking about what it says about me, how it labels me, to people who might pick it up in the middle and look back and follow forward, people who I don't really know but who know me, now, because of the words I bring to your screen. I'm not sure it's a completely accurate depiction of who I am or what I think, this blog. But it's pretty good. There are certain places I will never be able to go, demons I will never be able to unleash on you so that you sit there with your mouth slightly agape, morning coffee in your hand, horrified, wondering who this crazy person is that you had drinks with last weekend or gave birth to 28 years ago. But I like that you know things about me that you might not were it not through my writing in this medium. And I hope that you still like who I am.

if the shoe fits

My Zen constantly ebbs and flows. One minute, everything clicks; the next, woe is the world. I can tell which way the wind blows by my footwear. If life is good, I care; if I’m simply living, it’s black flats with every outfit, worn until even the smallest puddles provoke water rot on my soles. Itchy.

I think, if I was to answer K. honestly, it’s the same reason I write. It’s more a reactive thing for me than a proactive one. A consequence.

You see, I have big feet. Gi-normous ones. Ladies’ size 11 wide. Men’s? Size nine. Skis. Thus, shoes were always an afterthought when I was growing up, contemplated just once a year during the annual family pilgrammage to Minot, a once-great beacon for the almighty south-Saskatchewan dollar prior to the Walmart invasion in 1994. Payless Shoes had yet to make its debut in a mall near you, and since it was the only store that reliably had my size in semi-decent styles, I stocked up. And then I went to Appleby’s.

Even with a Payless on every corner though, it took me a long time to get excited about footwear. Just until recently in fact. I’ve finally come to realize that I’m worth a great pair of shoes, and that it’s okay to call attention to my feet. I now see my soles for what they can be: glorious exclamation points at the end of an equally fabulous outfit. Even the sentence itself. I can think about shoes, because I am happy; and when I’m happy, I’m creative; and when I’m creative, I write.

If I had patience, I might scrapbook instead. If I had talent, I might paint. If I had mettle, I might sing, or let an instrument consume me. But, because I have none of those things, I expose myself through the written word at the same time as I let it veil me. I will know I’m in trouble if the flats return, or if there is silence on this page, because then other more weighty things must be on my mind. In the meantime, I’m happy to shoe shop.

two birds with one slobbery stone

Would love to chalk up the scarcity of syntax on this blog of late to two things: fodder that's been mulling over in my mind that I don't really want to publish publicly, but can't think of anything else in its place; and a Babe who shimmies up to the laptop everytime it's opened and lunges for the screen, because screens? I WANT TO EAT IT. Thought I would let him get some curiousity satisfied at the same time as some sort of configuration of language could be strung together to cut and paste in this space. Herewith, I give you, Blogging By Boh:

J HJ Bbbbbbbbbbbk .i=;>.no
d007Adxxxz

I had to stifle his creativity midway through the drooly session so that: a) the excessive amount of liquid seeping into the keyboard wouldn't act as a conduit from his face to the electrical impulses just dying to make their way out of the hard drive and onto the TV show, "Stupid Mommy Tricks"; and, b) I could save the "alt" and the "x" keys from an impending final resting place otherwise known as Gordie's stomach, since the Babe, in his valiant effort TO GRAB IT, AND EAT IT, ripped them off during his stroke of genius. (Don't worry sweets; they're back on, good as new. See? x x x x x x)

I'm not sure what exactly Boh was trying to communicate to us in the above, but I figure it is probably one of the most profound things you or I will ever find on this blog. In fact, I am 100% certain of it.

tales from the cubicle farm

It’s started. Sifting through my mental list of possible blog topics inevitably takes me to one flavour: bold, dark roast coffee, from either Africa or Mexico (it doesn’t really matter which, because they’re both under-developed regions I can put my $1.79 behind.) In another word, work. Because high octane java is what I’m going to need to get my juices flowing everyday in just two short months, instead of the 9:00 am cuddle session with a warm and slightly snotty baby I currently count as part of my morning breakfast. (Zero calories, BTW.) Work. Is this the only topic that’s going to inspire fodder for this blog now? Because blogging about your 9 to 5 agenda is a slippery slope, my friends - one garbage mountain covered in dirt and snow I refuse to slide down this winter.

I have no doubt this will be hard. Because garbage mountains covered in dirt and snow can be so, so fun to slide down - if you have the right toboggan. And the right snow pants. And a helmet in case you happen to smash head first into a tree on your way down. Because garbage mountains can be dangerous. Especially if you write about sliding down them. And especially if your boss comes across your blog and decides that he or she isn’t comfortable with you writing about how your co-worker stole your low-fat yogurt out of the mini fridge, or about how your boss’ boss hinted in your private meeting with her that your boss might not be around for too much longer. It can be the stuff of Desperate Housewives in those ivory towers sometimes, except for all the warm and slightly snotty babies.

Yes, garbage mountains may be fun, but they pay for neither the mortgage, nor the morning coffee you pound back on the bus at 8:45 am like you do Jagermeister on a Saturday night. So on this issue, I am willing to self-censor. Which may mean there will be a lot more pictures of a warm and snotty baby on this site to greet you as you sip your morning java and do some blog checkin' come January, but I can honestly think of no better way to start the day.

Ingleside, Ontario (you knew it was coming someday)

Since I've started blogging, I keep a running list of subjects I could possibly write about on a Word file on my desktop so I can expand upon the one line titles I've already given to about 17 or so potential posts should the mood strike as I sit in front of the computer and waste away my maternity leave trying to think of something witty to write. Or at least comprehensible. Which I'm pretty sure that first sentence you just read there isn't.

After reading K.'s blog tonight, I was inspired to revisit this list and pluck from it some sort of gem that would make you think I spent the afternoon cleverly composing it, as opposed to napping for two and half hours with the Babe, which is how my script really read. First on the list: Brad organizing ski trip and price is right trip. Though I could probably pull three weeks worth of posts out of those nine words alone, that I've lazed the day away has made me impatient to produce something, even if it means I'm poaching from next month's blogging menu.

I came up with this topic after catching a couple minutes of The Price Is Right one day. This is how I've grown: Whereas I spent my year of grad school planning courses around a game show (the prospect of watching it was the only thing that got me out of bed before 11:00 a.m. some days), I now flip to Newsworld as I scarf down my instant oatmeal and make sure I have enough Pampers packed for my morning adventures with the Babe. I used to be able to guess the price of a toaster or Mr. Clean Magic Eraser within pennies (American pennies, no less), and now I don't even know which is the latest of Barker's beauties to sue him for sexual harassment. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Anyway, the couple minutes of the show I caught as I switched the Babe from one boob to the other (which must have been what I was doing at the time, because, really, what else do I do?) drove me down memory lane to the sunny place in my heart that once held dear the prospect of taking an MPA class trip down to LA over the Easter break to stand in line outside The Price Is Right studios where I would meet my date with destiny. I had it all planned out. All that was needed to proclaim success was a t-shirt bearing a poorly ironed on decal provocatively professing "I'm spayed!" (or "I'm neutered!", as the case may be), 10 or so of my closest friends, and an answered prayer that it was me who should come on down! Because me? I WAS THE NEXT CONTESTANT ON THE PRICE IS RIGHT!!

Alas, it never happened. B-Rad, the evil mastermind who organized the MPA ski trip at Mont Blanc that led to the debauchery otherwise known as Ingleside, tried valiantly to pull off a Price Is Right tour on a student's budget, but never could quite swing it. Which is just as well, I suppose. The best memories are the ones you don't orchestrate; one snowstorm and four bald tires just help you to drift into them.

tasting our way through life

I'm having a hard time sitting down and coming up with things to write on this blog. I chalk it up to the change in season which caused my routine to be tweaked here and there. A baby that is growing up far too quickly is also following Autumn around on a leash, and our habit of going to the gym in the morning, followed by lunch and a half hour nap (which used to be an hour, at least) and then a couple hours of playtime and cleaning before daddy gets home, hasn't left me with as much time as I used to have to sit in front of the computer, check my email, and think of something witty and profound to say to y'all as a way to start my day. To top everything off the Babe is slowly learning to crawl, and so I've spent the last half hour following him around his three foot by three foot crawling space with a damp rag wiping up dog hair and cat dander so that his little mouth isn't offended with the evidence of what a truly horrible housekeeper I am as he taste tests which section of the floor he's deciding to shimmy to next. ("Mmmm! Dead bug! I think I'll go that way!") I'm scared that we'll both start to get the hang of these changes in our lives very soon.

das web log

I’ve always maintained that this little public journal has been just for me (and Adoring and Wonderful Husband. And the Grandmas.) But secretly - in my heart of hearts – everything I do, I do it for you. My audience. Whoever you are, wherever you are. Ye who shall henceforth be known as: My Dedicated and Fabulous Fan Base. At least that’s what I like to think on my good days, the days I exclaim to Boh, as he sits in his ExerSaucer, staring at me, wishing I would quit god-damned typing already and maybe read him a story, or at least change the pee-pee diaper he’s been sitting in, for like, AN HOUR: That dooce broad ain’t got nuthin’ on me, baby boy! HOO-rah!

I’ve fancied myself a sometimes writer for years, ever since I was in grade five and tried to write my first novel, a la Gordon Korman and his Macdonald Hall series. If that dude can write his first novel at the age of 12, I thought, surely I can too. And so I did. And in its entirety the manuscript was nine pages long and consisted merely of caricatures of all the other little snot-nosed brats in my class, pre-puberty, post-pleasant, otherwise known as the age when parents say, What the bleep! did I do THAT for? My peers found out about my scripture (mostly because I told them all that – Behold! I am going to WRITE A BOOK!), and – of course – they wanted to read it, if only to know how history would judge them.

My debut (typed, double spaced) made its rounds around the room, when we were supposed to be learning to count to 100 en français, and ended at Christina, a girl I described in my “book” as “a chubby thing, with long brown hair.” (Riveting stuff, I know.) She took offence, mostly because she CLEARLY WOULDN’T UNDERSTAND ART if its meaning reared up and bit her in her slightly dimpled buttocks. Nonetheless, my attempts at writing the great Canadian novel were curtailed, at least until grade seven, when my dreams for penning the definitive biography of Michael Damien, singer of the ever rockin’ song, umm, Rock On, were dashed when whoever was in charge of his fan club refused to send me a stock reply to my letter, which asked him what it was like to work on the set of The Young and The Restless before embarking on his distinguished career as a recording artist. My only explanation for the snub was that either: a) Mr. Damien had a number of shocking skeletons in his closet that he obviously didn’t want me to uncover, or b) like Christina, he was threatened by my talent. In any case, I just googled good ol’ Damien, and his career thus far probably would have been HELPED by being the muse of what could have been the youngest Canadian biographer ever. His loss.

Umm…so where is all this going? I’m sure you’re wondering, since you all have jobs and your time is precious and stuff. It’s going here: I was dropped as a link from a fellow blogger’s website, and I am crushed. Apparently My Dedicated and Fabulous Fan Base doesn’t extend much further than myself, Adoring and Wonderful Husband, the Grandmas, and that Mike Todd guy (when I am lucky). Whatever. You’re all chubby anyways.

the quick brown fox jumps over the lazy dog

Calling all language nerds! You will love The Mavens' Word of the Day. (Surely good for killing at least two hours at work. Surely.)

(PS: You were right, Ma. Fartlek IS a Swedish word.)

we're going to have security escort you out of the building right now

"And - AND! - two is's in one sentence? THAT'S ENGLISH HERESY."

pink slip

"Aren't you concerned that future employers might come across your blog someday and take offence to all the swearing? What if they get a bad impression of you? They might even fire you for it!"

"I am not concerned about that. What I am concerned about is them seeing is my CLEARLY INAPPROPRIATE use of 'to' that should have been 'too'. I wouldn't be surprised if I never work in this f$#%ing town again."