The alarm clock rang this morning, so I pressed snooze. And again. And again. Next thing I knew, it was 6:00 p.m. and I’d spend the whole day in bed again. My excuse this time is that I had a dream so strange and so upsetting that every time I started to come out of it, I’d try figuring out whether it was for real or not and what it could possibly mean and fall right back into it again.
One thing I was trying to understand was why I’d still keep having dreams about my ex D when it’s been over ten years since we broke up now. He’s married with kids. I’ve got my cats and my mood disorder. The dreams are always more or less the same: I’m staying at his apartment while he’s gone away to a business trip so that I can pack up the last of my things and move away for good. As I make my way around his apartment, I look back on our relationship and try to find clues as to why things went wrong for us (and discover plenty of them). But this time there was a huge twist because in this dream he came back home wanting to work things out and shortly after he dies in my arms after a terrible accident. I kept trying to save him and he kept dying over and over and over again. It was incredibly upsetting. I woke up crying a few times and went back to sleep hoping the dream would change it’s course by the time I woke up again. But it didn’t. It just kept getting stranger and stranger and he just kept dying again and again. Now that I know the outcome of all this—he dies in the dream, I wake up more upset and feeling stranger than ever, having missed out on another day of school—I do realize what I should have done was get out of bed first thing this morning, go to school and leave it all behind me.
Some things I’ll just never understand.
June 30, 2009
Again and Again
June 29, 2009
Me as a Pink Elephant?
Today in art therapy we were asked to draw what we need most right now. Very shortly before that we’d had a session on Affirmation where I discussed my need to re-establish the boundaries with my ex, who still thinks it’s ok to contact me whenever he feels like he misses me to ask me to take him back. I drew a pink elephant walking down a yellow brick road that has no beginning and no end. The pink elephant represents fun and escapism to me— a vision that comes to alcoholics when their liver is failing them —to me it’s the ultimate fantasy: one of my favourite animals in the world which I haven’t yet had the opportunity to interact with on an individual basis, I imagine pink elephants are like giant toys, ready to spirit you off to whatever place makes you happiest. The yellow brick road, of course, is borrowed from The Wizard of Oz. To me it represents the road to Oz. Oz as in Australia. In my mind it still remains as one of the most special places in the world I’ve ever had the opportunity to visit, and it’s all too easy to fantasize about starting over my life on that magical continent. In the drawing, the yellow path surrounds the elephant. The solar plexus chakra, which is represented by the colour yellow represents personal power. So by sorrounding myself with the colour yellow, I am surrounding myself with my personal power and thus being very clear about what my boundaries are. Which led me to think that maybe the pink elephant was meant to represent me! But I got really confused at that point because whatever fun loving part is still left in me is burried so deep down I don’t know how to access it anymore. But then again, maybe it’s closer to the surface than I even realize!
That’s it. I’d show the actual drawing to you but I didn’t think to take a photo of it while it was still light out. Besides, whatever you imagine the drawing to be like is probably much better than the actual drawing —in this instance, the concept truly is much better than it’s representation—but I did put luck on my side and had his trunk pointing resolutely upward.
Pic: +fatman+, Flickr
I Once Had a Girl, Or Should I Say She Once Had Me...
Norwegian Wood by Haruki Murakami
After having read a half dozen or so Murakami books, a fellow avid Murakami reader pointed out I had gone about reading his work in the wrong order and suggested that I should drop whatever else I was reading and start all over again with Norwegian Wood. I’m glad I did go back to the first book which made Murakami such a big literary sensation in Japan. And after reading this novel, I can see how Murakami’s work has evolved considerably over time. In comparison say to The Wind-Up Bird Chronicle, Norwegian Wood is a simple coming of age story simply (and brilliantly) told. Toru is a young college student in Tokyo who’s days are mostly occupied with going to class and observing life in his campus dorm. He is also in love with Naoko who was once the girlfriend of Toru’s best friend, who’s suicide has brought the two of them closer together. But when Naoko, having trouble dealing with daily life, retires to the isolation of a mental health clinic, Toru starts feeling lonely in her absence and comes to meet Midori, an uninhibited and independent-minded young woman who seems to embody the spirit of the freewheeling late 60’s, and he quickly finds himself irresistibly attracted to her.
There are no tricks here, no mysterious magical forces at play, no spies dressed as cats lurking in the corners. What we do find is a vivid account of the years 1969-1970, it's music (the book is named after the Beatles song which is mentioned several times in the story), it's energy and the upheavals the times brought about, Tokyo-style. It’s a sad story with many insights on relationships, connections and loneliness told in Murakami’s magic style, in his unique voice which bring a tinge of excitement to everything he touches upon. If you’ve heard about Murakami and are curious to discover this phenomenal writer, this should be your first stop.
I enjoyed it thoroughly but do have a special fondness for Murakami’s multilayered and intersecting worlds found in some of his later books which is why I gave it ★★★★½
June 28, 2009
Peonies
Friday mornings at the day program we have a goal setting session for the upcoming week. One of my goals was to NOT sleep in all weekend with a plan to go to the market so I’d make sure to get out of the house. I ended up sleeping ‘till late afternoon yesterday so that by the time I got up the shops were already closed, but I did have a small window of time to get myself to the market today. Since most of the vendors are eager to get out of there at the end of the day, they usually start shutting down at least 15 minutes before the hour, which only left me a few minutes to speed-shop. I stuck to the essentials: rosé wine (in season at the moment), marinated meats for the BBQ, hazelnut chocolate, a basil plant, and last but not least, a bouquet of peonies—my favourite flowers—which I got in the nick of time before they’re all gone ‘till next year. When I got home I kicked back on the balcony and had a couple of glasses of wine to compare the Masi (Italian, my favourite so far) with the Ménage à Trois (Californian). Then something truly exceptional happened when the neighbour next door—boyfriend of one of the twins—actually said hello to me as we were both standing a few feet apart on our balconies. For the second time in as many days. I was tipsy by then, but I’m sure I didn’t imagine it. Nine years I’ve been living here and finally I get a hello from my next-door neighbour. Silly how little things like that can make me happy. But then again, there’s nothing silly about being able to feel happy for any reason, be it big or small.
Quote of the Day
La perfection est une chose insupportable.
~Alix Girod de l’Ain, écrivain et journaliste française
Perfection is an unbearable thing.
~Alix Girod de l’Ain, French writer and journalist
June 27, 2009
Now Playing
Clip from the Lord Of the Rings Movies (so-so sound quality)
Sound Only (best quality)
While doing some research for heavy metal songs from my teens yesterday I came across the Scorpions which were one of my favourite bands of all. I haven’t listened to them in ages, but the song Still Loving You was—and still remains—one of my favourite rock ballads of all time, sappy lyrics and all. It’s been playing in my mind all day today so after whistling it, singing it and listening to it on YouTube just now I thought I’d share it with you too.
June 26, 2009
Don't Stop ‘Til You Get Enough
Michael Jackson: I know this story has already blanketed every single media outlet in ever single corner of the world and also been blogged about by everybody and their talking parrots by now, but I cannot not mention him, especially as I have a bunch of news-clips about him running in the background on msnbc.com as we speak. Most of it is just a bunch of very excited reporters in the midst of a feeding frenzy yammering on and on about whether or not his death should be viewed as suspicious and going through every imaginable disaster scenario (you can practically see the drool dripping down their chins). This information overload right now is to make up for the fact that I only emerged from under my rock this evening apparently, which is when I found out that he had died. I was shocked. Almost as shocked as when I found out Lady Di had died, only there were no tears this time. Lady Di was a big sister figure to me. I suppose Michael could also have fit the big sister role, had he been into wearing dresses (as “Queen” of pop maybe), but if he ever did don pretty frocks now and then, it was far from the preying eyes of the media and cell phone cameras.
I can’t say I was ever a fan to begin with. I can’t say I ever liked him or his music either, not even just a little bit, though his videos were impossible to ignore, but whenever I’d see his most rabid fans on t.v. I’d always wonder who was nuttier—the King of Pop himself or his devotees. I do remember, about one year after Thiller came out, being a very angry teenager sitting in front of a juvenile hall television set being disgusted by that ‘commercial trash’ whenever one of his videos came on, which was way too often to my liking. Him and Boy George and Nena shared the airwaves that year as I recall, which fed into my hatred of everything that didn’t involve getting high and listening to Black Sabbath, Iron Maiden, or Mötley Crüe, among others. During this particular phase I happened to be moving into even harder, angrier and faster heavy metal music, so Michael’s high pitched voice and hee-hee’s! and crotch grabbing just made me want to puke, strangle his scrawny neck and bash his brains out at the same time.
As years went by, I mellowed out somewhat and became vaguely interested in him the way most other people were: as a pop star/media curiosity/freak show. But no matter how strange his behaviour or his looks became or how scary the incindents and the accusations got, mostly I felt sorry for him. It seems to me like his time came too early. But then again, who knows? Maybe he’d just been biding his time before his grand Marilyn Monroe-esque exit. Maybe for him it was the end of a lifetime of suffering. Everything about him called for a tragic ending (I say this while waiting—like the rest of the world—for his autopsy results) and it is tragic that he died just before embarking on a huge world tour which was designed to relaunch a stronger, better, trustworthier version of the star. He was some 10 years older than me, but I considered us contemporaries and his death seems to mark the end of an era, the era when I was young and not so innocent. I suppose many familiar faces will go on fading away with increasing frequency in future. I don’t know if you ever get used to that sort of thing, at any age. For better or for worse, Michael Jackson was an icon, and for reasons I can’t begin to fathom, as of today I like his music—and especially Don’t Stop ‘Till You Get Enough—more than I ever did when he was alive. Whether I’ll start building up a Michael Jackson collection on iTunes remains to be seen, but he’ll live on in my memory. Consider that my tribute to Michael Jackson.
June 25, 2009
In a Flash
I love summer flash storms like the one we had just now. Right before it happened, it was so muggy and hot and the cats were dragging themselves bellies to the floor (when they were moving, that is) and you felt all sweaty and like you couldn’t stand it anymore and them BOOM! All hell broke loose and suddenly there were sheets of rain covering everything and if I’m not mistaken there were even ice pellets crashing down and the cats were freaked by the thunder and noise and ducked for cover and trembled—poor things—and the skylight sounded like it would shatter from all the pounding it was taking and BEST of all was the great big breeze that was blowing everywhere which made it seem like a whole bunch of fresh new air was being created which made me want to run out and take it all in and get soaking wet. But I didn’t. Just the thought of it was good enough for me today. They’re predicting lightning showers tomorrow but I don’t know if it’ll be quite the same kind of dramatic show we got today. Aside from the obvious physical aspects of it, what I love about sudden thunderstorms too is that it always serves me as a reminder that the weather and moods can act in similar ways. Both are beyond our control—though you can decide to cover yourself with an umbrella or give the feelings time to simmer down before acting on them—both can be very disruptive too but sometimes that’s actually a good thing. Clears the air for other things.
In other news:
I got my birthday present today: Jo Malone Basil, Lime and Mandarine body lotion and Wild Fig and Cassis Cologne. Splendid. Both. Together: Divine. I’ve also gotten samples to send over to France as someone I know over there will surely go wild over these marvelous fragrances.
Mimi was an absolute doll while I gave her a bath today. She’s no pushover and she made sure to get the message across that she wanted out of there, but there was no undue struggle and I was even able to leave her unattended for short periods of time which made the whole experience almost pleasant. As for Fritz, I don’t even want to try to find out how freaked out he would be.
Finally (for now) they’ve announced that we’ll have an hour reserved for us tomorrow at the lovely outdoor swimming pool, which should be nice (showers and all), except for the fact that I’m traumatized at the idea of donning a swim suit. So very little clothing doesn’t sit well with me in my almost middle-age. I have been wearing shorts in public lately so maybe I won’t bother undressing at all and take myself and the shorts right to the springboard.The animator who will be with us is a rather very large woman who has made it clear she was no qualms about getting half naked and jumping right in there, which makes my concerns seem really absurd. But then anyone with body issues will know what I’m talking about. I’m tempted to say I’ll make a challenge out of this outing but no, not this time. I’ll just play it by ear.
Painting: Passing Storm -
Distant Clouds with Flash
Oil on Canvas
Richard Herman
June 24, 2009
June 23, 2009
The Bed-In Before the Bed-In
This girl seemed to channel the whole hippie vibe lying in this bed which was at everybody’s disposal.
This photo-ready couple hopped into bed wearing their pj’s
In this interactive exhibition there were many opportunities for visitors to leave their imprint.
Before my own bed-in experience this weekend, there was a visit to the Imagine exhibit at the Museum of Fine Arts commemorating 40 years since the famous Elton John/Yoko Ono bed-in, circa 1969 at the Queen Elizabeth Hotel, right here in Montreal. I was glad to catch the exhibit when I did because it was ending last weekend, and though I wasn’t all that interested in it initially, when I found out that Yoko Ono had curated it, it became a can’t miss. I more or less ran through the better part of the exhibit because I was freaked out by all the crowds who’d taken over, mostly late-comers like me, but luckily I was with a fellow participant from the Day Hospital who had seen it already and didn’t mind going at my pace, even if that meant missing half of it and grabbing a few quick phone-camera pics of the other half. I had planned on posting them over the weekend but then... I couldn’t stay awake long enough to do anything about it until now.
Today I had a long conversation with one of the nurses and spent my entire therapy session trying to figure out why and how I could have slept for that long. I wish I could say I stay in bed to promote world peace but in my case, I stay in bed to promote my own inner peace, which would be fine if it didn’t involve a whole lot of escapism and avoidance and ended up robbing me of days and weeks of time which could be used to doing other stuff. Stuff you do when you’re awake and fully conscious I mean, because when I’m sleeping I seem to keep awfully busy in my dreams. I guess we’ll figure it all out in due time. Or not. Maybe I should start looking for a Sleep-Addicts Anonymous chapter in my area. Or better yet, I could maybe find a way to earn a living that way or at the very least find ways to make the best of it, the way Alexandre did and hey, if he found happiness by never getting out of bed, why shouldn’t I?
June 22, 2009
This is (Sorta) Funny
After sleeping for three straight days, I woke up around 7:30 and decided to get myself in gear and off to the day hospital just a short while ago. Took my shower, had my morning OJ/grapefruit juice, fixed my hair, got dressed, got my lunch and breakfast ready and made it out the door (almost) in time for the 9:18 bus, but I wasn’t too worried about catching it since there’s also a 9:35 bus that gets me in not too too late when needed.
Just before stepping out I checked the weather report which was predicting a warm (27ºC) and overcast day. Then going down my steps I thought “wow, they mean it when they say overcast” and said out loud “gee you’d think it was 9 in the evening it’s so dark out” one of my neighbours, a religious nutter, was walking by at that moment and I know she heard me, but she just ignored me as she usually does. I walked a block further towards the bus stop as it kept getting darker and darker which is when I started getting serious second doubts. I ducked into the convenience store “I know this is a strange question, but is it morning or evening right now?” “Evening” said my Chinese friend with a chuckle. “Ok... how about this: what day is it?”.
Monday. Monday evening. Boy am I out of it. All those dreams swirling around in my head... sure have me confused. But hey, this way I’ve got a head start on tomorrow morning at least.
June 20, 2009
Saturday
Today was a day of sleep and strange reveries. The alarm went off at 10:30 though it felt more like pre-dawn to me and so I fell back in bursts of fitful sleep well into late afternoon. There was a very long, very convoluted dream playing while I slept which I woke from occasionally only to check whether Mimi was still watching over me at her station by my feet before slipping back into the dream. There was a poorly organized trip to Asia which required last minute rush preparations, there was family, there was somebody having a grandiose and very important marriage, there was flirting between young men and women which to my horror and to their amusement quickly turned into violent sex, there was me being a great disappointment to all and especially to my mother who let me know in no uncertain terms she no longer considered me her daughter (!) then my aunt who still tried helping me as best she could even though nobody wanted her to and I was all but unresponsive, there was a promising young suitor who eventually felt forced to move on to other candidates seeing as I was proving ufit as mariage material and of course there were cats showing up everywhere , all of which is just a very small portion of this particular dream-freak-show. From all this, the message the dream made sure to communicate to me in no uncertain terms is that the only road to my salvation is to start believing in fairy tales again. Easier said than done since in my opinion, a stubborn belief in fairy tales is what’s brought me the greatest grief and trouble in my life. I think I’ll just let that one sit and stew for a good long while.
My meals consisted of hazelnut milk chocolate and fresh cherries even though my fridge was filled with meal options and to finish off the day there was The Curious Case of Benjamin Button, a lovely movie based on a short story by F. Scott Fitzgerald which I must get my hands on. I cried for the full second half of the movie which is nearly three hours long, so now am sufficiently exhausted to tuck myself in early and hopefully get rested enough so that by tomorrow I will be able to tell the difference between dreams and movies and reality and maybe even make some kind of useful contribution to the day.
June 19, 2009
Jo Set the Tone
I must admit I had a pretty good day today. It’s the first Friday in over a month that I was able to get out of bed and DO the stuff I had planned to do. Like yoga first thing in the morning with J. And showing up at the day hospital for a session on Goal Setting, followed by a group on Relationships with the half-day ending with a Relaxation session. I was so proud of myself that I did a brief victory dance when I showed up there this morning. In fact, I caught myself acting like I was in such a good mood today that I got worried. I grabbed the med student who is responsible for my file and told her she MUST make a note that if I seem to be doing very well all of the sudden, they should by no means take it to mean that I’m ready to be discharged since I’m much more confused than I seem to ever let on. Of course nobody believes me when I say that but surprisingly she said the staff had already discussed my case saying I present well but still have a lot of work to do.
But back to the having a good day part. I did in fact have a good day. My day today actually started yesterday afternoon. My lovely friend K and I had’t seen each other in months and we agreed to get together yesterday. We had rainy, yucky weather and I hadn’t the least notion of what we should do together. When I called her when my classes were done she said she had ducked into Holt Renfrew’s to avoid the rain. I was all too happy to meet her there—there’s nothing not to like about that store, except maybe for the price tags and the occasional saleswoman or customer walking around with a stick up her you-know-what. K and I are very similar when it comes to our great love of things that pleasure the senses. We started talking about fragrances—the kind of topic two girls in an upscale department store might spend hours discussing back and forth and which makes guys want to check into the nearest strip bar and have lots and lots of beer. At Holt’s, the husbands wait for their shopping wives down at the chic little café where they read the newspaper. Or pretend to as they’re ogling whatever young thing happens to be passing by. This we discovered at the end of our shopping experience, when we sat there to have a delicious, overpriced, and thouroughly enjoyable meal.
But first there was Jo. I knew she was the creator of a line of exquisite fragrances which had her fans speak about her products as though they provided a deeply spiritual experience. And so it was entirely natural that K and I should drift over to the Jo Malone counter and spend the next two hours trying out each and every fragrance. The saleswoman explained the mode d’emploi for this particular line. The idea is very simple and very clever. You can buy one scent, wear it on it’s own and be utterly transported. But you can also make your own combination by layering one fragrance over the other to create a unique signature scent. Which means of course more pots of creams and lotions and spray bottles. Talk about decadence. I left the counter with several samples which I was of course encouraged to take my time mixing and matching and generally having fun with. I kept sniffing various parts of my arms and hands which had each been anointed with different combinations. And then again, as I was ready to leave this morning, I went through a little ritual with the creams and sprays on forearms, wrists, backs of hands; Grapefruit, Lime Basil and Mandarin, Fig, French Lime Blossom made my head spin all over again, and there are so many others! To think of all the possibilities...
If scent alone can alter one’s mood (which I firmly believe is true), then you can count me in as a Jo Malone convert. Besides, it’s getting around to that time of year when I’ll just have to spoil myself (for a change!). Originally I was going to buy myself a diamond ring for my 40th birthday. That was when I had a thriving career and a whole bunch of expendable income. By comparison even say 2... 3... even 4 (!) Jo Malone bottles and jars filled with captivating elixirs—should be a more affordable kind of luxury—indeed, I would go as far as saying that it would be a very smart investment in my mental and spiritual well-being.
Tomorrow: pics from the last days of the Imagine exhibit Montreal MFA
June 18, 2009
Bad to the Bone
Every week there are movie rentals for a buck on iTunes, so I got T2: Judgment Day which is a pretty great action movie if you’re at all into that genre. This George Thorogood song comes on right at the beginning—a good fit for the scene and the movie in general too—and it reminded me how much I like that song. Kind of funny that I should watch a Terminator movie today of all days. Just this afternoon I was explaining to one of the nurses at the day hospital what my excuse was for sleeping in today (if they hadn’t called me to wake me this morning I would have probably slept through most of the day). There was this really good film with Miranda Richardson on HBO last night called Fatherland which explores what things might have been like had the Germans won WWII. A horrifying premise but well done. Only trouble was it was on past my bedtime (of course). Then I said “but hey, at least I broke my curfew for a good movie right? It’s not like I was watching a Terminator movie or anything. Ha ha.” I say there’s a time and a place for everything. Getting the timing right though, that part’s a little tricky.
Mimi & the Daisies, Fritz Going Crazy
You could say that handling plants is not my forte. I seem to have a talent for killing them in record time. This doesn’t stop me from buying potted flowers around this time of year and doing my best to keep them alive as long as they accept to live with me. The nice old lady at the market told me these just need about four hours of sun and some watering every day. I think I should be able to manage that. Mimi was quite taken with the new arrival. So much so that I was considering making her responsible for the flowers. That was until she started chewing at the new blooms... Oh well, guess I’ll have to do that all by myself too then.
Right after Mimi had her moment with the flowers, Fritz tried to kill me. I was picking him up at the vet where I’d left him this morning for some tests. Based on the message they left me late in the afternoon, they seemed anxious for me to take him back. He was lying inside the tiny litterbox at the back of the cage, growling and totally freaked out when I got there. The technician seemed afraid to handle him—apparently he’d been “difficult” all day—so I offered to do it myself. Good thing I had the presence of mind to put on protective gloves, because when I reached in, Fritz reacted as if I was his arch-enemy closing in for the kill. As he was fighting off what could have been my bloody stump by then, he managed to poop himself too, poor dear. The technician cleaned him up, seeming grateful that I was dealing with the savage beast. Then we put the cat in the bag and that was that. So now it’s really really really official: that cat is seriously mental. Apparently I shouldn’t blame myself and it’s not my fault. That’s good to know.
June 16, 2009
Little Beasts
My #1 girl Mimi consented to strike a pose for me tonight. It’s funny sometimes just how different human and animal thinking can be thought. Yesterday, I finally got fed up with my bed-cover looking like it was made of cat hair so I laid a towel around the area where she usually likes to lie. Now she sits on that towel looking so proud of herself, as if she was on her own private little throne. Meanwhile, I just see an ugly towel on my bed which really doesn’t fit the rest of the decor. But until I figure out something prettier, the towel stays.
My ex-boyfriend, whom I split up with well over 18 months ago, is still sending me countless text messages, mostly saying how much he loves me still and will I be his girlfriend (I haven’t figured it out if he means that seriously or if he’s trying to be funny). The other day when he texted me for the umpteenth time asking whether I loved him, I made it clear to him, gently—and for the umpteenth time—that he could forget about us getting together as a couple ever again. Words more or less to that effect. But kinder. Sort of. Today I got an email from him—not his usual M.O.—no title, so when I opened it I saw a large picture of a girl that... for the first moment I thought might be me (but no, some other equally blue-eyed beauty) and his question: “Is she pretty? She wants to date me...” Really?? Is this for real?!? I nicely replied that he should be my guest and go fuck himself too while he’s at it (or something equally charming). I know that text message is coming any time now “What did I do?!?!?! Why are you being so nasty to me?!? What did I say?!?... etc etc” It should come any minute now. Anyone want to place bets?
Today for the first time in years, I came very close to adopting a puppy. Unfortunately, I didn’t have the presence of mind to take a picture of him that I could show you, but trust me, he was a-dorable. Black and white with black patches on his eyes and a lovely pink little nose, much like my Mimi has. I was at a boutique and his owner and I were both in the changing rooms while this little dog kept sneaking into her cabin, then mine. I didn’t mind at all of course, especially considering how dog-crazy I’ve been in the last year. We started chatting (with the girl—not the dog) and as is turns out she came into possession of him just a couple of weeks ago when she was out on the Plateau at 3 a.m. and some random guy walked up to her claiming he had found the dog wandering the street and was looking for someone to take him in. Then she said “I really love him, but I’ll have to find him another family” why?? “I’m young [she is], I want to travel and I’m not ready for the responsability”. Fair enough. A few decades ago, when I was around ten years old or so, that would have been enough for me to say I’ll bring him home right away! I’m sure my mom will understand!”. But thirty years later, it’s the landlord’s permission I need, so I have to play it a little bit differently. So we’ll see. There’s no obligation for me, I have her coordinates and she has mine, if I decide I’m ready and this is the puppy I want and I get my nerve up to ask, and the landlord says yes (that’s a lot of if’s...) then it may happen. Either with this dog, or another one. So it’s a big MAYBE, but nice to consider all the same.
While I was at the boutique I got a couple of lovely notebooks. I’m crazy about pretty journals and I always keep a nice selection on hand. These two are hardcovers and the blue one with the butterfly says “Begin” while the green one with the bird says “Go Slow: Life in Progress”. I liked that. I asked to get 2 for 1 and got it! Heh, you don’t ask you don’t get, right? Click on the pic to view a larger version. The colours are much brighter than what I was able to get in no-light conditions.
Finally, not beast-related at all, unless you count the goats that the cheese comes from. As I’m writing this I’m having my delicious beet, apple, fennel and Greek feta salad. I got a picture of it tonight in my kitchen which is a far cry from anything you’re likely to see in Bon Appetit or Gourmet (and I won’t even mentions Martha Stewart Living). Doesn’t look like much but it sure does pack a punch flavour and texture-wise. Yum! That along with a nice cold Grolsch goes down mightly nicely.
Cheers!
June 15, 2009
Why Oh Why?
Can anybody tell me why it is I waste my time watching The Bachelorette? Especially when you consider that I’m at a point in my life when romantic relationships leave me completely indifferent? Or that I’ve always found the premise that complete strangers are going to date in front of t.v. cameras and then choose their life mate after 6 weeks completely retarded? Or that evidence shows that most of the couples created on the show haven’t stayed together (big surprise, right?)? Or that I hate hate hate watching people kissing on screen or in real life, always have and probably always will? Or the fact that there’s no way of telling whether all these candidates are there for love or for the t.v. exposure—though it’s probably both in most cases—which is completely tacky? Or that the thought of being a bachelorette myself is my idea of a personal hell (who actually owns that many evening gowns anyway)?
I want to be watching a good movie instead, like Benjamin Button which I’ve rented from iTunes. Or reading a really good book or making myself a nice dinner instead of wasting my time watching this crap. Why am I watching this crap again? Maybe because it’s the equivalent of watching a car crash (more like watching a car wash actually)? Is it because I like feeling superior to these morons who are obviously on the wrong track and will all end up disappointed in the end (those who get kicked off the show, and then the *happy couple* after the cameras have stopped rolling who are bound to find “real life” a real let-down) whereas I on the other hand may be on the wrong track but at least it’s not on that particular wrong track? Yeah, possibly.
Ultimately, who knows? Who cares? Maybe I should just sell my TV set and be done with it. That damn thing is so addictive, and just like any other addiction, the negatives always end up outweighing the benefits, right? Damn that boob tube. Damn it to hell.
Soviet TV set from English Russia
June 14, 2009
Why Kafka Should be Read in German
The Metamorphosis by Franz Kafka
I generally dislike reading translations, but I decided after some deliberation that learning German just to read Kafka was more work than I was willing to put in. This short story seemed like a good entry into this famous writer’s world. From the first sentence, I was surprised, not by the fact that Gregor Samsa, a traveling salesman, wakes up to find himself transformed into a bug—something I already knew about—but rather by Michael Hofmann’s (the translator of this Penguin edition) choice of words: “When Gregor Samsa awoke one morning from troubled dreams, he found himself changed into a monstrous cockroach in his bed.” As I understand it from the research I’ve done, Kafka used a German word that was much more vague and certainly did not specify what kind of bug Gregor had become. As it happens, cockroaches happen to be the most despicable type of bug while beetles are much more benign to me, this description therefore coloured my entire reading of the story.
Before reading the story I thought that the storyline was that Samsa discovers himself transformed into a bug and is completely horrified but then his family, coworkers and strangers aren't the least bit perturbed by his monstrous appearance and he carries on his life “as usual” except he’s a giant bug. I suppose this too would have made a good story—if it hasn’t already—but one quite different from Kafka’s original tale. My erroneous expectations took nothing away from the experience for me and in fact, I found this story could be read on many different levels. For instance, one could easily conclude that this book was a commentary on antisemitism, which was rife in 1915, the year this book was first published, and/or that Kafka was perhaps working out issues of self-hatred or that it was an omen of things to come with the rise of Nazism in the 1930’s when the depiction of Jews as monstrous vermin became ubiquitous in Nazi propaganda. Then again, maybe Kafka didn’t mean to convey anything else than the story itself at face value, which still leaves us with plenty to ponder.
I gave this book ★★★★ an entertaining story with profound impact.
June 13, 2009
Sons and Lovers
Sons and Lovers by D.H. Lawrence
This is my first D.H. Lawrence book, if you don’t count Lady Chatterley’s Lover which I read in my early teens. I plunged in without doing any research, and was therefore unaware that the story was autobiographical, though I doubt this would have ultimately altered my impression of it. Among the things I found appealing in this book are the descriptions of working class conditions and of Mrs. Morel’s struggles to make the best out of difficult circumstances (such as a husband she no longer loves because among other things he gets drunk at the local pub every night). I also enjoyed the way Lawrence delves into the minds of each of the characters, which seems to give the story multiple layers. However I had a hard time understanding the Nottinghamshire Dialect spoken mostly by Morel Sr., or why Clara—who is at first presented to us as a man-hating suffragette—would so easily accept to become Paul’s mistress. Some passages describing the scenery and the flora were a little bit tedious to my liking but ultimately this novel has so much substance that I was willing to pause and read about the local vegetation once in a while.
June 12, 2009
June 11, 2009
Night Critters
Most of the neighborhood was already asleep when I stepped onto the balcony tonight to close up the barbecue. There were all these noises coming from nearby and then I saw them: two baby raccoons right there on my neighbour’s rooftop. At first I thought: ‘oh how cute, baby raccoons—and so close!’ Then I became alarmed when I realized the two pups seemed panicked and were possibly stuck there. There were a couple of neighbours around also trying to figure out what to do to help them. I found out that the mother had been picking up her pups one at a time to bring them down, but it took us a while to realize that she was probably scared away because of us nosy bastards. I’ve written “CHECK ON RACCOONS!” on a Post-It which I stuck on the bathroom mirror, just in case. Whatever else I’ve got going on, tomorrow that’ll be the most important task of the day. I could never forgive myself if they were just left up there exposed to the elements. I wish I could adopt one. Or two. The only trouble is they grow up into little bears with hands and then I can just imagine what fun it must be trying to keep them out of the garbage or the fridge, and I’d be really peeved if they broke into the freezer and ate all my ice cream.
June 10, 2009
Quote of the Day
With the most primitive means the artist creates something which the most ingenious
and efficient technology will never be able to create. ~Kasimir Malevich
1908 Gouache on carton
Tretiakov Gallery, Moscow
June 9, 2009
Yes, I Can.
I made it out the door this morning. Even though I was dead-tired and it was raining buckets when they’d predicted light showers and it was really cold outside. I stayed awake through a meeting and a couple of classes at the Day Program. I walked back home from the hospital even though it was still pouring rain at that point which would have been a good excuse to take the bus. When I got home the only thing on my mind was to take a long nap but I convinced myself to get out again to run an errand I’d been putting off for a couple of weeks. Then I stopped over at the market and bought stuff for dinner although I didn’t feel like eating ‘real food’ and certainly wasn’t up for cooking. Wanted to nap or read when got back home but instead I started cleaning out the BBQ (which took forever) so I could put a couple of the brochettes I’d just purchased on the grill for dinner. Sat down to eat and even allowed myself a beer with dinner, a small pleasure I don’t often indulge in.
All that’s not to say I feel great. In fact, not to say I feel good, even. But I just did it. And as we re-established today during our Self-Esteem Session, “just doing it” usually is a good way to give one’s self-confidence a little boost. Still waiting for that boost to kick in but I’m guessing it probably take a while for the effects to sink in. At least I can watch t.v. right now completely guilt-free. But I just thought I’d keep a record of this day for those times when I might forget that... Yes, I can.
Louise Brooks graffiti pic by Smiler using the iPhone camera
Really Big Problems
It’s now 12:07 and I should technically be brushing my teeth and getting ready for bed right now. But since I get HBO there’s always these great shows late at night and right now there’s Da Ali G Show on. It’s sooooo ridiculous. In fact I absolutely hated it the first few times I saw it and refused to watch Borat, the movie for the longest time, but now I find I can’t stop laughing at how stupidly funny Sacha Baron Cohen is. The character Borat Sagdiyev from Kazakstan is a real cringe-fest (well they all are equally offensive really). Just now they’re at a wine tasting with a wine specialist and a black waiter just came up and... tell you what, you can see it for yourself here and you’ll get the full effect. Here’s one brilliant little nugget: “My mom doesn’t like me. She wishes she was raped by somebody else so I was never born”. It’s just incredibly rude and totally politically incorrect and stupid and offensive, but somehow these are all qualities that make the show so funny. But yeah. As soon as I’m done with this post I’m heading for the sack. Which... I’ll be done in a few minutes. Wouldn’t you know it, the show is over in just 15 minutes. Gee. May as well watch till the end right? And that folks is how I end up getting too few hours of sleep at night.
June 8, 2009
How I Feel
We had another Art Therapy session today and I finally got around to taking pics or my works of art. I’m joking with the ‘works of art’ label. We all get a piece of newsprint paper and a box of pastels and essentially have 10-15 minutes to sketch out something based on the agreed upon theme. Then we spend the rest of the session talking about our pieces. The theme for last week and today was “how I feel”. I’m all talked out though so I’ll let you interpret these as you like.
‘Withdrawn’ (The colours are off here. The blue is much darker. Almost black)
‘Exhausted’
... The Continuation
8:11 a.m.
Here I was pottering about whilst trying my damnedest to get myself fed, medicated, showered, clothed and generally organized so I could get myself out the door, up that hill to the bus stop and in time for what I quaintly refer to as ‘high school’. Of course now that I had decided a shower was not optional and that my ablutions this morning must include a thorough dousing and scrubbing—the universe by way of nature has contrived to throw a wrench in my plans—quite literally. One minute I was squeezing pink grapefruits and oranges for my daily concoction—which includes a generous serving of Hemp Hearts—and the next I was doubled over and all but paralyzed by Cramps (be sure to check out Bikini Girls With Machine Guns) which were most definitely not part of my plans this morning. Of course, climbing into the shower at that moment, in fact doing anything in an upright position was out of the question. I could have panicked, I could have lost my cool, but was somehow clear-headed enough (considering what little sleep I had managed to get) to do what a big girl must. First, take the strongest recommended dose of Advil liquid gel-caps, plus one more for good measure. Next, iPhone in hand, plop down on the couch and leave a message at the hospital telling them I will be late, while praying that the as yet unconfirmed appointment with the much overbooked head shrink hadn’t been set for first thing this morning. And finally, as any self-respecting blogger would do, grabbed my laptop to tell the whole world all about the intimate details which have contrived to throw off my schedule today. All of this hopefully allowing plenty of time for the painkillers to take effect. There, I should be able to resume all standing activities now. I don’t know how we ever managed without gel-caps. Or iPhones for that matter.
June 7, 2009
Grungy
11:04 p.m.
I still have a bunch of things to do before bed. Which doesn’t leave me much shuteye. I’ve never really been one to follow much of a routine, so this business of getting organized for the next day will take getting used to. If I skip the shower tonight that should save me a good 45 mins including the blow drying I won’t have to do. I can just douse myself with my eau de toilette of choice and get creative with scarves to hide my grungy hair. Not like it’s never been done before. This is when I wish I’d invested in hats though. Then again, here’s a radical concept: I can get up extra early tomorrow morning and wash then. But getting up that early is a form of torture I’m not yet prepared to put myself through. We North Americans are way too obsessed with cleanliness anyway, right? I should hope I’ll be able to make such a simple decision between now and tomorrow morning. Lord knows I’ve stayed home for even more trivial matters than that.
To be continued...
June 6, 2009
On Creativity and Things That Hinder It
Went and visited a few blogs tonight and am amazed at how creative some people can be. I hate to admit it, but it makes me feel envious. I’m supposedly creative myself, but it seems like I spend more time coming up with excuses as to why I’m not producing anything than actually thinking up fun creative projects I could work on. Excuses like FEAR. Excuses like THE INNER CRITIC—after having done The Artist’s Way almost three times (up to Week 9 each time but never got to the end) you would think I’d have managed to finally send that blasted critic packing—but he just refuses to budge. He sits there during my every waking hour, ever so vigilant, always on the lookout to catch any sign of a creative thought before it has fully formed, quickly, quickly, before it’s made it’s way to my consciousness, then promptly sends me a self-defeating thought instead, like “Oh, I’m sure someone else has thought of that before” or better yet “If I haven’t produced anything so far, it’s probably because I just don’t have it in me”. Excuses like: “The reason I became and Art Director instead of an Artist is because that seemed like the best way to appear to have talent since we all know I have none.” These excuses are mostly hurtful. Savagely hurtful even. Here’s an excuse that I’m not sure about. It might be a legitimate concern, or it might just be a pathetic excuse disguised to seem legit and therefore even more powerful than the others: I’m exhausted all the time. Most of the time. A whole lot of the time. Except when I’m manic of course, but they’ve got me on all those meds precisely so that won’t happen. Because God forbid I should feel too creative. Things might get out of control and then what? Oh right. And then depression for all eternity.
The truth is that creativity, the real, untainted kind terrifies me. All too often, I end up feeling very very small when faced with the brilliant strokes of creativity that I encounter everywhere. And because my self-esteem is practically nil, the inner critic manages to convince me that these are all expressions of genius and that I’m not meant to reach such great heights. Just the way I found out one day I wasn’t meant to be a ballerina. I was ten years old, and thought my life would end if I wasn’t admitted to the national ballet school. I wasn’t. I had a hard time keeping up with the other. My mom spent the better part of the audition cringing. My tummy stuck out too much and my bum was too round and my pliés weren’t deep enough and my arms and legs refused to stretch to their full extension. Maybe a small part of me did die that day—when I turned around and saw that girl—she had no doubt been admitted. She went to my school. She was perfect at everything. Liked by everyone. This little birdlike thing. So graceful. So completely different from me. If she succeeded where I failed then surely it meant I wasn’t worthy. A major excuse disguised as a childhood sob story. The things we hold on to... these thoughts we think truly define who we are. Sometimes I tell myself that if I had a creative coach, who could make a schedule, put the right tools at my disposition and give plenty of positive feedback... but no. Just another excuse.
And then at night my dreams... so mysterious, with their own secret language, where the laws of physics don’t apply and where the impossible happens as a matter of course. Even when I cannot remember, there’s that part of me yearning to sleep again, to dream again to witness things I’ve never seen before. That’s where true creativity lies. My creativity. Like a drug I can only take in small doses, it makes me see infinite possibilities but then leaves me too depleted to use the dreams as the creative fuel that they are. Another excuse, I know. But my favourite excuse? “I must be a late bloomer”. That one gives me hope. It encourages me to believe that eventually that wall will tumble down. That I will find my voice. And when I do, I’ll finally be able to express things I never knew were there before. Some excuses are worth hanging on to after all.
Fractal art images by sources unknown
Beets Please!
The best part of the day today was my beet salad. I don’t care how Obama feels about them, I’m crazy about fresh beets and could eat several pounds of them in one sitting. I started by steaming fresh beets—if you get the leafy kind, cut off leaves which can be steamed separately—whatever you do do not substitute with canned beets, keep the peel on for now and cut beets in half to cook them faster. When they’re done and cooled, peeling the skins off is a cinch. Slice them, dice them, cut them up as you like and put in a bowl. Add the best virgin olive oil you can get your hands on, lots of wine vinegar and pepper (I have a 5 pepper mix which is really good), add fleur de sel or sea salt to taste. Make sure you put in enough dressing ingredients to coat the beets well and also so you have extra dressing in the bottom of the bowl. Mix well. Mix some more (you want every piece of beet to be well coated with dressing). I did that part yesterday then stuck it in the fridge to marinate overnight. Today stirred and served the beets with sliced fennel bulb & apple, added some feta cheese, et voilà! Had a heaping serving of it tonight while watching Slumdog Millionaire (rented from iTunes). The movie was good—I’d say very good if it hadn’t gotten quite so much hype—a nice fairy tale, but the beets were the true stars tonight. I had to restrain myself from going in for seconds which left me room for a sorbet dessert.
Of course, if you hate beets, you’re out of luck today, because this post won’t do you much good. Then again, maybe if you try them my way, you’ll end up craving them too.
June 4, 2009
A New Dance Move?
All I keep thinking about today is “one step forward, two steps back”
We talked about “radical acceptance” today. That’s a tough one.
If I could accept my own body, that would be a huge step right there.
That guy who keeps rocking himself really does creep me out.
Who knows, maybe he’s practicing some dance move? If only.
June 3, 2009
Books, Books, Books and More Books
I’m not sure how I’m going to do this exactly but it looks like I’ll have to seriously pick up the pace if I want to make a dent in all the piles of books I’ve been amassing in the past few months, if only to clear off a little bit of floor space. It’s that or just accept the extra load of stuff and go to Ikea or pay someone to put up bookshelves for me (Me? put up my own shelves? You must be kidding). Here in random order are a few of the titles I’ve purchased either used or new or gotten from around the world via BookMooch in the past couple of weeks (links provided for book descriptions):
Paris Made By Hand, Pia Jane Bijkerk
Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
A Wild Sheep Chase, Haruki Murakami
The Music of Chance, Paul Auster
Madame Bovary, Gustave Flaubert
Out Stealing Horses, Per Peterson
Light in August, William Faulkner
The Human Stain, Philip Roth
How Proust Can Change Your Life, Alain De Botton
Secret River, Kate Grenville
Slammerkin, Emma Donoghue
Hiroshima mon amour, Marguerite Duras
The following more or less constitutes my reading list for the next couple of months. I’ll be making many of them available on BookMooch (mom: both lists are essentially for your benefit so if you’re interested in anything, please let me know asap):
Norwegian Wood, Haruki Murakami
Annie’s Ghosts, Steve Luxenberg (for early reviewers)
Tender is the Night, F. Scott Fitzgerald
Slammerkin, Emma Donoghue
The Shadow of the Wind, Carlos Ruiz Zafón
Blindness, José Saramago
La vie devant soi, Romain Gary
The Red Queen, Margaret Drabble
The Old Man and the Sea, Ernest Hemingway
The Manticore, Robertson Davies
Curtain: Poirot’s Last Case, Agatha Christie
The Metamorphosis, Franz Kafka
June 2, 2009
Participation Not Mandatory
When my alarm clock started barking around 7:15 this morning I thought it was a bad joke and just silenced it. Then when the barking started up again I had a vague memory of having agreed to a 7:30 morning yoga class with J. It used to be at 9 a.m. but we had to adjust it with my new schedule. I was proud of myself for making a serious commitment to yoga and being willing to get up even earlier still than I thought I could handle, but there’s a big difference between committing to something and actually doing it. Once our session was done I had to make a special promise to myself that I wouldn’t go straight back to bed, but I knew my day would be somewhat thrown off when I realized I felt like killing people. Or biting someone. Something along those lines anyway.
Arriving at the bus stop I thought I recognized a familiar face and quickly concentrated on reading the first few pages of Sons and Lovers (D.H. Lawrence) because that’s what I would have done had she not been there for one, and I really didn’t want to be stuck having to make small talk with her (I’ve decided I dislike because her cone-shaped head bothers me). I somehow dragged myself up hill #2 making stops here and there to catch my breath while the other girl got off 2 stops further to go up a gentler incline. The conference room was hot and unbearably stuffy. I promptly started dozing in my chair. Nobody seemed to notice or mind. Besides, from what I’ve gleaned so far, there are always at least 1 or 2 people napping in class, sometimes directly on the conference table. One woman sleeps with her eyes half closed and just the whites of her eyes showing, which is really disturbing. Then of course there’s that freak who’s invariably wearing his sunglasses and dressed in black from head to toe. I could swear I saw lipstick on him a few times. He always sits in the corner rocking himself. With his long hair and his overall vibe he really creeps me out. He refuses to participate in any discussion but they just let him have his way. May as well, you don’t want to trigger him, for all we know he could be a mass murderer.
No matter how hard I tried to stay awake I just kept dozing off. The second class was “chair yoga”: they had a video running and we were all meant to follow along. I tried it for about 5 minutes but I eventually fell into a deep sleep. Those times when I was awake, such as during lunch and our third session, I just felt intense hatred for everybody, if only for making noise and occupying space. I didn’t bite anyone though because I can’t stand the idea of getting a whole mouthful of someone else’s germs directly in my mouth. Tomorrow’s a day off for us since they’re having a big staff meeting. I’m taking Fritz to the vet in the morning but other than that I’ll be all too glad to have my own schedule and space and a minimum of social interaction. I had forgotten just how much being around people can drain me. Present company excluded of course.
June 1, 2009
Telling Not Showing
We had an art therapy session today. They handed us each a sheet of newsprint paper and a box of dry pastels, we selected a theme for our drawing—which is actually referred to as a sketch—the idea being we’re trying to communicate our feelings and not necessarily showcase our artistic talents. I took the trouble of bringing my silly drawing home through a 45 minute walk in gale force winds no less, all so I could post it here and show what I’ve been up to, but by the time I got here I it was around 3:30 and there hardly was any light outside as we were headed toward some rainstorms. I’m not even sure where the drawing is anymore and can’t be bothered looking for it right now because I’m too bloody tired. But hey, I made it through the day without falling even once. There we go. I guess that means it was a good day then.
