realia

mismatched or something

2012-01-27T14:29:56-05:00

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

2012-01-17T00:35:33-05:00

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

2012-01-12T11:34:35-05:00

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

2012-01-10T00:43:27-05:00

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

2012-01-03T23:57:06-05:00

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.

in which we are not clever or good for 365 days

2011-12-31T12:24:38-05:00

I’ve been needing a creative kick in the pants. More, a swift kick in the creative pants.

And I’ve been giving lots of thought to this blog and what I want to do with it. I suppose part of that is the time of year, this time of birth and renewal, and most of us start to think about change naturally. But I’ve been feeling a little stuck here; losing motivation for participation in the blog world.

Not long ago I protested to my lovely friend Susan that I don’t participate in blogging as a social networking forum; that I wish this to be a creative endeavour – to improve my writing, to become braver about what I put out there, and to foster my creative perspective. But all that can’t be entirely true because blogging is a social endeavour by its nature. And oh I love the friends I’ve made here; you’ve all enriched my world, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.

But it is like minds I seek in the comments section, not numbers. I’ve had lots of fun participating in blog challenges; and it has found me some of YOU, but it also turned me off to one element of blogging - in that many people dart in and out of other’s writings to make a quick, superficial comments, just for the sake of making an appearance. And for the higher count in your comments section you’re obliged pay the person back by visiting them and adding to their numbers. After a period of that, the numbers just didn’t mean anything to me anymore.

Having said all that, I do want to come back and visit you more, and find more of you. Things distracted me this year. A new job in a new industry, which required lots of learning and new commitments. And later in the year a new man. Things with him have settled into something warm and comfortable; a kind of matured happy that accommodates me sitting in the same room with him and being able to sit at my computer and write. Like now.

If I were to listen to myself when I offer advice to others about how to kick-start creativity, I would say “journal more. Just journal. Get the moments down, write with no mind to 'good' or 'clever.' Just let go of the need to be good."

I’ve never lost inspiration – I still find that everywhere; and so it seems natural that I have been thinking about expressing that in a new way. It’s my resistance from making a commitment that has stopped me from full out beginning a 365 Project. But here I am, committing: a photo a day for 365 days.

I’ve always loved taking pictures, and occasionally I can produce a pretty good shot. I take lots of photos these days, mostly thanks to a half decent phone camera. Sometimes I take pictures to help me find the appropriate words later. Sometimes I just like an image and can't articulate why. Or I take a picture because I don't want to forget a moment. Sometimes there are just no words.

So I have given birth to a new, sub-blog of sorts – a photo journal – my 365 project. In keeping it separate from this blog, I hope to better sustain the focus for both. This space will still be dedicated to the story, and my endeavouring to become better at telling one. The photo journal is more for me; going public keeps one accountable. It’s a forum in which I can write bad sentences and post shitty photos (and hopefully some good ones!) and just record my daily comings and goings for a year.

So it’s not so much a change for this blog, but just adding a new project on the side. Getting back to journaling without mind to how the writing sounds, to it being clever or interesting, will improve the original project. Of that I have no doubt.

My Photo Journal is found here: 365 Project: Photo Journal

same dinner two nights running

2011-12-28T21:36:14-05:00

Roasted tomatoes with parmesan and oregano and drizzled with olive oil, and toasted triscuit crackers with cheese, onion and pepper. Glass of red wine.

After the excess of the holiday season, I've been craving simple, and turned to the same dinner the past two nights running.

I know you're jealous.

This is a Visual Realia post.

first snow, sort of

2011-12-27T21:06:20-05:00

It's been raining all day today. I was itching to get out for a walk early, but seeing the hunched people down there on the sidewalk bracing themselves against the weather got me finding things to do around here instead. Eventually it got to the "go now or don't go" point so I layered on my rain jacket over my coat and went out.

Me and my umbrella wandered a bit in the Harbourfront, took a few pictures and watched the people skate at the outdoor rink down by the lake and felt I like a wuss for putting the outing off. I walked some more and then went up to the grocery store and on the way home got a bottle of wine then the rain changed to snow. Apparently we had some snow when I was in Vancouver all those weeks ago, but I never saw it. So technically, this is my first snow of the season.

There are two really great "first snow of the season" experiences. One is waking up to a layer of the stuff blanketing the world. The other is looking up into a light at night and seeing it falling all around you.

After standing under the light, trying to capture a picture and feeling the snow on my face and hair and seeing it dotting my glasses and my phone (camera), I walked home significantly lighter than I felt when I left. Happy winter.

Snow falling in a streetlight: Beautiful thing number eighty.

boxing day

2011-12-27T00:11:12-05:00

Today we loafed about visiting with my family, first over breakfast at Dad and Julie's and then over lunch of leftovers of what was a magificent meal at Jeff and Carol's. Every Boxing Day it's the same: we're all a little tired and a little bleary and coming down off the big meal and glasses of wine and weeks-long build-up, and always I think this day is as good as Christmas itself. It's the day in which we have time to process that everlasting lesson - how blessed we are.

merry christmas

2011-12-25T11:40:07-05:00

However you're spending this day, I hope it's filled with peace and warmth and people you love.