realia

I could give them that, at least

I came across this picture a couple of weeks ago.  Ever since then I keep picking it up and looking at it.  Of course any mother gets wistful on looking at pictures of those who were once her babies, but this one has grabbed me in a way that’s not just nostalgic.

 

 

Yeah the picture is really sweet.  Carly sharing her favourite blanket (an old, worn crib sheet) with her brand new baby sister.  She is just awake from a nap, still sucking her thumb, sleepy and content.  Kelsey’s tiny, brand new head, still pink, is tucked near.  Her eyes squeeze closed,  still clutching to sleep and that warm place, unaware, uncaring of any world beyond that cocoon. 

I see both my grown up women-daughters in those faces.  And it moves me because  what I also see in their faces are sisters already acquainted in comfort and rightness.  One welcoming and one entering.  I see brand new sisters already glad to know one another, already together.   

Today they’re twenty-nine and twenty-seven, and all these years (decades) later I wish I could protect them from harm; wanting so much to shield them from those things that will hurt them.  Still aching to know I can’t do that. 

You bring a child onto the planet knowing she will have to navigate the waves of of the world; she will have to know hurt and pain, and ultimately these are among the things that grow a life.  Every harm that comes to her strips a little off you, and yet every year she is more beautiful for having sailed those seas. 

I can’t protect them like I could when I wrapped them up together on the sofa – but there was something I was able to do - give them a sister.  I was able to give them a place to go where they’ll get all the love and support and comfort they need.

Lately I've been really grateful for that.

shadowy figures on the sidewalk

I walk out of the office tonight and it’s drizzling a little and after working an extra couple of hours, confined in the office space, I find it hard to warm up as I walk. 

“Just stop thinking about being cold you’ll stop being cold” says my internal coach.   Of course it’s the lights reflecting off the wet streets that distract me from the chill a minute or two later. 

It’s dark by this time and it occurs to me that I'm starting to look differently at the people I encounter at night - I'm enamoured with the shadowy shapes of them.  I’m not sure if that's a good thing - seeing their shapes and not their faces, but it's firing my imagination these days.  It’s as if I'm seeing them as part of the moving, breathing city. I imagine that the shapes of now are walking in tandem with those of the past; as if I’m encountering many generations of life upon these sidewalks, from there behind those walls.

My imagination isn’t working alone.  In the past number of weeks I’ve been looking at a lot of my city’s archived photos, which somebody has been posting on Facebook.  I’ve always liked to look at old pictures, to travel time through them.  But the experience of looking at old images of this city – in particular the streets I walk every day; those which I’ve been looking at closely and photographing for my photo journal project – has given me cause to locate myself amidst the strata of time. 

The figures in those pictures - some 30 years ago, some 50, some more than 100 years ago - have, in my mind, begun to simmer together like the chemicals that once caused an image to emerge on paper.  Ghostly like.  Lurking at every corner of my consciousness.  As they should. 

I get close to home and the winter feels good.

 

 

faithful orb

Tonight I’m sitting here on the sofa reading and half watching the TV with two items of clothing on my lap that need buttons sewn on and I look up and there, centred perfectly in the middle of a gap in the curtains, is the barely waning moon.

I have seen the full moon this cycle.  The other night I’m walking home down Spadina and there it is: hanging in the sky between two glass covered condo buildings and dropping incandescent light down though tree branches of the little Clarence Square Park; seemingly shy and unassuming, but arresting in its luminescence.  As always,  up there in the sky.

I take photographs from the park, and then again from the bridge over the railroad tracks.  But none is worthy of that moon.

Because it’s the appearing of it, not the photographing of it that gives you pleasure.  It arrives every single month like a pendulum.  Giant, slow clock in the deep indigo sky; not demanding, not needing to be photographed.  It’ll always be back again, most likely popping in without warning.

You forgive her for that because she's so beautiful. Really, a feather could knock you over as you stare at her while she lifts slow, higher and higher and farther away.

 

The title of this post was shamelessly stolen from Victoria Williams. 

 

creative and wise

My wonderful niece posted this video on Facebook yesterday.  She says is very inspired by it.  How wise of her.

A 13 year old wise soul: beautiful thing number eighty-five.

 

 

 

ethel merman, bay street suits and other layers

The other night I’m walking down Adelaide Street toward home and can hear bits of song in a woman’s voice hurling through the air in pieces.  On advancing a half a block it’s clear to me it’s the wild-eyed but otherwise attractive, middle-aged woman standing in the middle of the sidewalk ahead.  She’s looking back in the direction I’m coming from, waving her hand toward the bank towers and the new Trump hotel in that kind of drunken-like joy you’d see in schmaltzy old musicals.

“I love this towwwwnnnn!”  she bellows in her best Ethel Merman.  Her voice sounds pretty good actually, and I love where she has placed herself in her mind.  I love schmaltzy old musicals.  More – I envy her ability to convey this Ethel Merman aspect of her self-defined truth out there for the world to enjoy with her.  Granted, many people are crossing the street to avoid her not seeming to want to share in her truth, but there it is.  Despite my own wariness, I like it.  Anyway, it reminds me of my sister who has been known to do a very funny Ethel Merman; but I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t share it with the Bay Street suits on a Tuesday afternoon. 

“I love this town too” I think as I skirt by her, and listening to her bellowing behind me I wonder if maybe her gestures at the bank towers and the hotel with the famous rich guy’s name aren’t of irony rather than joy.  But joy sings more often than irony does and I’ve never heard Ethel Merman being ironic have you?

It gets me thinking about a discussion I’d been having with my current batch of writing students on ideas around authenticity and expressing one’s truth.  I put it out the idea of the human capacity for people to re-invent themselves, and how this is usually a person’s way of redefining a personal truth, or bringing forward one or more layers of a personal definition and pushing other layers to the back, for whatever reason.  Personal writers do that with words. 

So many times I have seen mentally ill people in the city streets that seemed desperate to share elements of themselves, some truth that strangers are not interested (or comfortable) in knowing.  I wonder about the other layers of that lady – the layers underneath Ethel Merman.

It’s kind of like earlier in the week when I’m having an afternoon tea break in a large food court area near my office.  I'm watching a guy, who is sitting by himself, practicing for a job interview.  He reviews something on sheets of paper on the table in front of him and then verbally practices a response to the imaginary person sitting in front of him.  I know that layer he is pushing to the front; knowledgeable, competent, confident, intelligent.  A Bay Street Suit.  Beneath the table his hands practice their corresponding gestures: purposeful, passionate, trustworthy. 

I silently wish him luck as I walk by, imagining a celebration with a significant someone on his great new gig later that night.  I get more engaged with my imaginary version of his reality than with the one he is assuming.  But then I don’t find Bay Street Suits and the truths they convey all that interesting.  I'd rather know what's going on at his kitchen table.

All week I've been thinking about they layers of me I push forward, and those I push to the back - both in my physical aspect and my writing, wondering how I can use them to enhance or grow the latter.  I hope my students are thinking about that too.

mismatched or something

Early in the week I stop on my way home for something to eat after working late.  About halfway through my meal a couple sits at a table nearby.  They seem mismatched, both in size and style.  I check myself for making this judgement; after all I’d like to think I’m deep enough to remember that human connections have nothing to do with size or style; that they’re made up of much more interesting and mysterious things than that. 

Still, humour me.  He looks younger than her, at least by way of style.  He looks to be the kind of guy who shops at the mall for clothing and assorted electronica and other boy bling with his buddies.  That kind of guy didn’t exist when I was his age, in my little world anyway.  Boy bling was only popular among the white polyester pants and open shirt set of my parents’ generation; and electronic toys came in really large boxes with really large woofers and tweeters that took up whole corners of living rooms or was installed in the doors and rear windows of the shaggy-haired owners’ beat up Monte Carlos. 

This guy has perfectly trimmed hair and a nice shirt and expensive looking jacket and has just set his expensive phone on the table after checking for messages.  The gal is not the kind you’d imagine our guy and his buddies cruising at the mall. She doesn’t look like she goes to malls much.  Her hair isn’t modern; neither are her clothes. She doesn’t set a phone on the table upon sitting down. 

But it’s not the appearance of the two that gets my attention, it’s the expression on his face: a bland smile, which is not a smile; the kind of face you wear on a first date when you’re trying to hide your disappointment, trying to pretend you’re up for a good time when really you’re counting the minutes to the moment when you can call an end to the evening and chalk it up to experience.  His eyes match the insipidness of that not-a-smile, trying to look at her as if she were somehow interesting but seeing through her instead.

I can’t see her face but I expect it is either (1) wearing the same bland mask of resignation, or (2) wearing a face of an eager, insecure not-a-smile, not quite covering a furious search for something clever to say.

She takes a long time to order a drink and the guy and his bland not-a-smile are patient as the gal discusses options with the server.  I'm taken back to a time when I was about 15, sitting in the corner of a car with a bunch of kids having skipped school on a gorgeous June afternoon.  We stopped at a drive-through window and I ordered a large pop because I was thirsty but was mortified to discover just how large the large pop was, and I spent the rest of the glorious June afternoon feeling miserable and embarrassed about having ordered a bucket of pop (no doubt puny by today’s standards) and thinking I must look so ridiculous.  Of course the only thing that made me look ridiculous was the embarrassment over a stupid cup of pop which nobody noticed.  That moment of insecurity ruined the experience of the afternoon which should have been fun, with boys and skipping school and early summer and all. 

My mortification over that pop is probably the only thing that keeps that memory alive in me.  And what gives me compassion for that girl who seems to be trying hard to order the right drink.  After she finally makes her decision, he orders a craft beer in a fancy bottle without hesitation.

I can’t bear to watch as she considers the food menu and turn back to my book, ironically, 51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life, a memoir by Kristen McGuiness who embarked on 51 dates in 50 weeks.  Looking up now and then I see the couple’s conversation slipping in and out of the air between them.  When it’s not sliding off to the floor in a heap, the talking is quiet, serious, polite.  He nods kindly at something she says and then it slithers away again.  Between bites she watches the filler content running on the hockey channel right above their table.  He looks around for something to be interested in. 

No doubt I’m in tune with the couple because of this book I’m reading which is all about a whole bunch of first dates.  I’d heard the author interviewed on the radio a year or two ago, and quite possibly it was she who inspired me to embark on my own Year of Dating Fearlessly.  Certainly I’ve had my share of bad first dates, more of them than good ones and like McGuinness I was searching for some kind of flaw in me that was hindering the success rate. 

In the end, my year of dating was more successful than hers – on one level.  What we both got was a little more self-understanding.  For me, it was a reaffirming of my awareness in knowing what I want and what I don’t want and being secure with that.  I’d venture to say that wouldn’t be far off from what I knew back when I was 15.  At least when I wasn’t agonizing about what boys were thinking about my drink choices. 

As I ask for my bill, things seem to be warming up, the conversation more animated and relaxed.  Maybe it’s the drinks loosening them up a little. I’m hopeful for them. 

But then as I walk past them to leave, she’s watching the hockey channel with a bland not-a-smile and he’s talking on his cell phone; and my hope for them slides to the floor along with their failed conversation.

night walk in the city, finding beauty

It's Monday.  A really Monday-ish kind of Monday.  

I slog through the day, and am glad my phone doesn't ring and work on some things that need working on and find ways to take my mind off the clock. Some of the time anyway.

I feel better immediately upon being freed from the office.  This evening brings mild temperatures again.  I walk around and shop, and find the mittens that eluded me yesterday.  The walk home in the shining streets heightens my mood significantly.  Every inch of the walk gives me pleasure and there are moments I feel like I could cry the city looks so beautiful sparkling and moving and winding itself down under that black sky. I feel the momentum of it, like the clocks and machines in the movie Hugo which we saw yesterday; still resonating with me today, it seems.

Nearly home, I look inside the CBC Broadcast Centre at the beautiful flying man sculputure I look at most days and finally get around to photographing it.  It's ethereal; full of lines and mystery and history and shadows and promise and time.  As I look through the window while the security guard walks around me checking that all the doors are locked for the day, I'm thinking it looks more so behind the windows reflecting the city street against the black night.  Don't you think? 

With gratitude, it's beautiful thing #84.

the colours of a rainy day in january

Last night Ceri and I were talking about how difficult it is to wake up in the mornings these days, and I agreed with him that’s it’s all January’s fault.  Then, this morning I find wakefulness particularly elusive and when I finally drag myself out of bed I find it’s because it’s even darker than usual, thanks to heavily overcast skies and rain outside.  My discombobulated state lingers when I find my apartment still dark as night even at 8:30 when I’m leaving for the office.  As I round into Spadina Ave. the wind whips down and tries to wrestle my umbrella from me, but I win and when I get up into the street it’s not so bad. 

I adore the colour of the atmosphere when it rains; I think that’s why I have this perpetual love for rainy days.  The colours are mystical, and they paint the world under those clouds sinking low to enclose us protectively, and the glint of wet pavement, and lights taking on an incandescent glow sparkle against that purple-blue-grey hue in a way I find both comforting and inspiring. 

Okay, generally, rainy days in January are not so charming.  But it’s +4C and feeling absolutely balmy.  Thinking about the forecasted big freeze coming our way this weekend, me and my rose – I mean purple-blue-grey – coloured glasses try to capture photos of the colours over the course of my journey while considering buying a new warm coat because it is, after all, January.

The colours of rain - beautiful thing number eighty-three.

finding a reason, substantiating

Gone is the life of leisure. I’m back to work after three restful weeks of living at my whims – meandering walks, cooking big pots of things, watching old movies, visiting with my people and enjoying my own company. Looking back now, I realise more than ever how much I needed that time.  

For the past few days I’d been pouting about having to rejoin the world of the working stiffs again, and pouted some more when I woke up two hours in advance of my alarm clock this morning.  But while I was getting ready I started to really look forward to my walk up to the office. 

I think that’s something to do with the new photo journaling project and the walks I’ve been taking in support of it.  There is a pleasurable and fresh purpose in walking outside, even if that is to simply open my eyes and pay attention to my little world within a big city.  I’m falling in love with my city again – looking into its cracks and crevices and finding a canvass that’s painted with new pictures every time I look at it. It’s still early in the project but I’m finding it’s less about finding a photo to get up there than it is finding rewards (again) in learning how to paying attention.

All these years after developing the idea for this blog, I’m substantiating what I knew in the first place.  Not just for writing and art – but for living.  Living in the moment is what it's called.  And it's beautiful thing number 81.

terra firma, rich fabric

Last night I had conversations with four of my oldest and most valued friends.  I wish we didn’t have the reason that we all talked, but that we did made me feel better than I had in the twenty-four hours previous.  I hope that was the case for all of us.  Mostly for Denis, because on New Year’s Day he lost his dad. 

I’d been feeling blue about it on a number of levels.  Mostly because someone I love is torn up; he’s been hit, unexpectedly, with life’s cruellest circumstance.  His dad was a really lovely man; a husband in a seemingly inseparable partnership, a good father and pépé and neighbour and respected teacher and now he’s gone.  

If I’m not censoring (it’s a start, Lisa), I’ll tell you that this is one of the two situations in the past year that threw my own mortality in my face.  Hard.  It sounds so selfish.  My heart is truly with my friend, but a feeling of scared came swift and forceful.  A parent is only one generation away. 

I have all my parents – and none seems like s/he is going anywhere soon.  But I got scared about losing them.  They’re still too young.  Like Denis’s dad.  He shouldn’t have gone yet; his family’s hearts shouldn’t be heavy now.  And yesterday evening I was wondering how to move out of the sudden funk – how could I call my friend and be supportive and somehow make it a little better when I felt like I was teetering on some thin emotional wire; psychically a piece of shit?

And then after supper I talked to Debbie.  And then Denis.  And then Robbie.  And then Lynn.  And at the end of the evening I was back on terra firma.  I’m sure it’s because each of them were part of the journey to now.  Last night I'd got away from the moment and they brought me back to it.   

We all exist here in this unstoppable march of time and we all have to face it, and most of us deal with loss when it happens and maybe we don’t get over it but we learn to move on and to be happy again even if there is a new hole in the family’s fabric.  But then again, isn't the fabric richer and more beautiful for that person having been a part of it?

The fabric is precious and beautiful and it’s all any of us has.  And I’m not that articulate, but I’m sure it’s pretty much the point of it all.