spiral bound

When it's cold outside, stay in and (window) shop

2012-01-18T13:53:00.000-05:00

Jenna Rose Handmade, Gray Ships Tea Towel and large Ships Zipper Tote Bag
I'm pretty smitten. And she's in Hamilton! One of my old hometowns. It IS my birthday this month...


Flying Bird Botanicals, Vanilla Rose Cacao Lip Bliss Oh my. Yes please!

OhKuol - Natural Soft Druzy Necklace Agate Geode


Bug Under Glass - all so pretty

Karla Wheeler Design, Fireworks ring

Labradorite rings. I can't get enough of these! I love that they are cut
to sparkle too, I haven't seen (ie noticed) that before.
Top: Indigo Silver Studio, Midnight - Dark and Flashy
Middle: MoodiChic, Rustic Sterling Labradorite Ring
Bottom: Little Bug Jewelry, Labradorite Solitaire Stacking Ring

Anna See, Barn Owl Lino Cut Print

Plume Natural Perfumes - especially interested in Medici Cocoa,
Gingerbread & Fir, and Coffee & Cedar. This Vanilla/Anise lip balm looks nice too.

Jennifer Baughan, Articulated Paper Dolls

Woodstorming, Crochet Snowflakes Decoration

Revisions, Antique Silver Spoon Ring - Meadowbrook 1936

Lolide, Fingerless Gloves - extra long

MaryJill, Valentine Foxes

Festive Scenes

2011-12-22T20:32:00.000-05:00


Christmas card from 2009 by Chuck Groenink, of Green Ink

from "The Night Before Christmas" 1961, illustrated by Gyo Fujikawa (source)


"Fox, Crow and Mistletoe" by Ryan Fowler, Native Vermont Studio

A Christmas Carol (cover art) by Howard McWilliam


from: The Bells of Fraggle Rock (source)

Christmas scene by PJ Lynch

"Snowy treehouse" Lee White

Jack, of course, image found here

Sparks Flew As Their Shovels Met for the First Time - the art of Rick Allen

2011-12-19T12:30:00.001-05:00

Raven's Bauble

This charming Christmasy corvid mugshot is the work of Rick Allen, at Kenspeckle Letterpress which he runs with his partner Marian Lansky. So lovely! These are just the seasonally appropriate jems*, check out their whole gorgeously engraved library of work.

Winter Homecoming

* That is a spelling mistake, obviously I meant gems, but the fact that I made such an outrageous error makes me laugh so I'm leaving it in. Truly.


Earth Magic

Beneath the Stars

Night Visitor

Lusten Fox

Sparks Flew

PS
What is this "Trapper's Daughter" and where do I find it? And why isn't it published somewhere with these fine illustrations:


The Trapper's Daughter Takes the Otter Slide - seriously where is this book??

The Trapper's Daughter & the Bear Who Couldn't Sleep

Raven's Christmas


Ravens at the Window

Slowpoke

2011-12-07T12:01:00.001-05:00

Winter is slow to arrive this year. October was basically September weather, all through November it felt like October, and now that it's December it only just feels like November. There was the sparest, lightest little dusting this morning, but it's gone already. We are stuck in the bleak pre-snow season of craggy branches and grey backdrops. It's dark by 4pm and still dark when the alarm shrieks. Delightfully melancholy, but more suited to post-Halloween than the advent of Christmas.

This semester was tough (hence my lack of luster here). Not because of workload - or rather not because of school workload. More due to work-workload. That's changing though, for better or worse, and I am job hunting for the first time in rather a long while. Equal parts thrill and terror, I tell you. Let's all hope that something lovely and fun comes along, part-time so I can stay at my favourite library too.

The Redwall gang heading to a winter celebration by Christopher Denise

I feel all craggy and grey, like the weather. This busy semester has left me with little time for stretching my limbs and they're in danger of atrophy. I tried doing yoga the other day and I felt like one of those aged newcomers who only go to the first class and bend over, forever suspended, fingers never reaching toes. Stiff, sore and old. That's how I felt. Weird. If this is a preview, I don't approve.

* * *

I have kept up with reading, moreso than usual during school. Not a reading-heavy semester so I had a bit of time on the commute or before bed. It's so very nice to slip into another world now and then, even a strange somewhat sinister one, or just to slip into the past. Now I'm starting in on my festive reading. Since the weather isn't doing it, the books should put me in a seasonal frame of mind.

(I couldn't decide which trailer I liked best... so you get both!)

Other Autumnal highlights include catching up with an old friend (how is it possible that we'd not spoken for six years? Six? Jeez.) and then there a was a brief dash to stay in a walled city. It's not far from here, but we don't go often. It was really nice, just for a couple of days, to play tourist and to eat scrumptious things. This spot is totally worth it, if ever you visit and feel like a treat. Also, just a block or so away, is this little chocolaterie which is what I imagine Willy Wonka's factory smells like. Go there just to breathe, seriously.

A Woodland Home for a Woodland Creature (like me)

2011-09-22T17:50:00.000-04:00

I'm tucking these away for future inspiration.
I'm going to turn into a hobbit one day right? That can totally happen.

*All images are from simondale.net, found via Diana

Nicole Gustafsson, kindred spirit

2011-09-14T17:48:00.000-04:00

The Naturalist's Study

Terrarium Tree

I came upon Ms Gustafsson's work at just the right time, I think. Summer has not yet given up the ghost but Autumn is on the verge of charging in with gusts of wind, ripe squash, and the yearly explosion of copper and crimson tree-tops. Not all of Nicole's work is autumnal but a lot seems to fit in with this, the best of all seasons.

All's Well at the Schoolhouse

The Conservatory


Blue Tree Books

Hare House (in the rain!)

Oh, the colours! They're so lovely. Trees growing in unlikely places, terrariums, lanterns, rain. I can't help but be smitten. I want to get all of her card-sets but I won't want to give any away.

Look at all the places you can visit her:
Portfolio
Blog
Shop

Lanterns. A detail of a larger piece, I think.


Mountain of a Molehill

The Geologist's Study

Whomping Willow

Papering your walls

2011-08-15T20:53:00.000-04:00

Three days a week I work at a desk, facing a monitor. I like to think of it as an opportunity to attend a very small showing of artwork/photography. Needless to say, I click on my "shortcut to desktop" icon frequently to gaze at whatever's on display at the moment, to take tiny mental breaks from my work and take off on flights of imaginative fancy. Here are a few that have been on rotation this summer:

Photo is from Dark Nostalgia by Eva Hagberg, source

+++

Seagrass, by Benjamin Lacombe

+++

Venice, Decorology blog

+++

Hobbiton, and A Hobbit Dwelling by John Howe

+++

Diplodocus, NHM in London, by Antonio Torres Ochoa

+++

Lacock Abbey, by Brian Negus, which appeared in a couple of the Harry Potter films

+++

The Storm at Sea and House Roller (from Burning Man) by Trey Ratcliff of Stuck In Customs

+++

Amy Merrick (from her flickr)

Weathering Summer

2011-08-11T23:02:00.000-04:00

Source: Photo by Daniel Cooper

I keep getting caught in summer storms. They inspire terrible ambivalence.

On the one hand: ecstatic relief. On the other: electric anxiety.

I love them. I love the wildness of them, and the way the sky churns like an upside-down sea. I love the trickery, the reversal of day and night. I love the rain. It falls as if weighted with lead, as if thrown down. I love the feeling that the earth is drinking deep, slaking enormous thirst. I love finding myself in the minuscule shelter of a bus stop or a parked car and listening to the percussive music of it.

I both love and fear the sudden zig-zag of lightening, and the wide-eyed counting before the thunderous boom that inevitably follows.

*

I was coming home on the bus the other day when one of the more violent storms hit. The stress is a bit amped up at that job lately (not necessarily a bad thing, but an adjustment to be sure) and the atmospheric pressure did nothing to help. That particular time I escaped getting soaked, but not getting panicked. The flash and boom were simultaneous and I sat there, peering out through the fogged window at the sheets of rain chanting Faraday cage, Faraday cage, Faraday cage, willing myself not to touch any metal surfaces.

*

Traveling in Montreal is precarious enough without fear of electrocution. Those bridges, especially the Champlain and the Mercier, seem set to crumble and I hold my breath as we cross them even in fine weather. When we must cross during a storm - oh my. My pilot is unflapable, but I am all aquiver. I want to pray for safe passage, but to whom? Sometimes being a non-believer is a real bitch.

*

Yesterday, another storm. Fierce, but fast. It was gone halfway through my commute. I was sitting, looking out at the sky as we inched along. The clouds over in the direction we were headed seemed greenish and odd. As if another, stranger storm was up ahead. Traffic was immobile. I pulled out my earphones to see what I could hear. Sirens, actually. Off in the distance. We got closer, eventually, and those weren't clouds.

A fire was clearly raging somewhere in my neighbourhood.

Shortly it became clear that getting out and walking was the quickest route home.

The fire turned out to be at the end of my street, a couple of blocks from my place. An old, abandoned motel was burning. The main road passes in front, and was blocked off and full of red trucks. Hoses snaked along all the roads around it, water pluming out trying to reach the dancing flames. A sizeable crowd had gathered, snapping photos, filming, observing. Our local security officer held court in their midst. I see him at the library sometimes, he's quite a character. I can just imagine him waxing nostalgic about The Great Blaze of '11 in the near future.

*

Today was the first day since spring that felt cool. Yesterday I wore a little jacket in the morning. Two days ago I saw a leaf fall. It was still green, but in tumbling from that branch it signaled the very start of the end.

Summer, with its relentless heat and lashing storms will soon be over.

Shiny things caught in my net

2011-07-12T00:02:00.000-04:00

Starry Night Over the Rhone

A little round-up of some of the neatest stuff I've come across lately:

(via heartbeets/aka Sweet Anthem's tumblr)
Serena Malyon uses the magic of tilt-shift to transform Van Gogh's works into 3D. I think they're stunning.

View of Saintes-Maries, 1888 (detail)

Wheat Field with Rising Sun, 1889 (detail)

Mountains at Saint-Remy, 1889 (detail)

+++

Camping in the Cotswolds: Junkaholique blog
A gorgeous blog to follow in general, but these photos of their recent camping trip are especially lovely.

Photo: Artemis Russell

+++

Jen Campbell of This Is Not the Six Word Novel writes about Weird Things Customers Say at Ripping Yarns, the London bookshop where she works. It is hilarious, especially if you work with the public and most especially if you work with the public and with books. Start with the first entry and work forwards to the most current, which is #7. She's just announced that she will be collecting them for a book! Huzzah!

Customer: Hi, do you have any new books?
Me: We're an antiquarian bookshop - our stock is out of print books.
Customer: So other people have touched them?
Me: Presumably, yes.
Customer: I don't think I'll bother, thanks.
Me: OK.

(from #2)

+++

Susannah Conway recommended this sweet peppermint lip balm by Oakmoss and well... it's lip balm! So I had to try it! It came a couple of days ago and I've been using it ever since. It's lovely. I ordered some samples of soaps and perfume oil too and everything was beautifully gift wrapped. Peace is a wonderfully spicy scent, and my fave of the bunch.


Photo from the etsy shop

+++

Lucy Knisley is a talented comic-maker and I am a tiny bit giddy over her take on a certain beloved series of books. OMGryffindor!!! They're funny, so full of nerdy detail and do a great job of capturing some of the... (ahem) magic of the series. If you love them too, the good news is that you can download all eight posters from her website! The bad news is that due to legal trickiness she really can't charge for all the hard work that went into them and so is simply asking for a donation. I think they're totally worth it.
And look: she and her studio/roommate have re-created the Black Family Tree! Neato!

Book Four. Click to see the glorious detail! Or, better yet, check them all out on Lucy's site.

Rosaceae Fragaria

2011-07-05T19:23:00.001-04:00

Fragaria sp. "Parker Earl" by Deborah Griscom Passmore c.1892-1909

June is a fragrant month. You catch their perfume before you even see them: every corner market sets out baskets of edible rubies. Heavier than they look, and bursting with juice, it is best to eat them immediately lest they spoil before you taste them. Grass sprouts all vibrant and wet, only to be mowed down, releasing that familiar green scent. Flowering trees wave their blossoms above the sidewalk, bathing pedestrians in botanical pheromones. Wild rose bushes grow thick with thorny protection and produce deceptively insubstantial flowers which can, none the less, send out powerful apian invitations.

Walking through the city is a pleasure in June.

+++

Did you know that strawberries are not berries at all, but rather fruiting roses?

+++

Along comes July to wilt us all. The word on the street is "humidex". Bright greens fade in the field, waiting for August to paint them gold. The air is heavy with moisture, and blue skies quickly turn deepest purple - clouding over at a moment's notice, flashing with electricity and pelting the earth with rain. July's perfumery consists of sun-baked sidewalks, chlorine and the savoury saliva-inducing sweet-burnt scent of barbecued meat. Which is tortuous for those of us without access to a porch or yard. I'm always looking for things I can drench in bbq sauce.

The strawberries are looking puckered and soft at the fruit stands, and it seems as if their season is coming to an end. Don't pass those suckers by though, even when they look a bit sad they're still good for freezing, blending and baking.

This is what I plan to do with the ones sitting in my fridge - Strawberry cupcakes. Mine won't be to celebrate a birthday (well, I could celebrate a little, since I do know a couple of sweet July babies) and I may add coconut. I don't relish turning on the oven, but one of those sudden summer storms just hit so maybe it won't be so bad. Besides, who can resist... just look at them:

Photo from The Muffin Myth

* Edit to add: I made those cupcakes Tuesday and they were DELICIOUS! Sadly I didn't have a ripe banana so I used Earth Balance instead of butter because that's what I did have on hand, and I tossed in a bit of unsweetened coconut. Totally lovely. Needless to say, they're already gone.

"And that true North, whereof we lately heard"*

2011-06-28T22:11:00.001-04:00

We stand on guard for thee

Oh Canada. How do I celebrate? Let me count the ways.

1. Reading
Did you follow Canada Reads, way back in February? Was anyone else thinking Who invited Debbie Travis? None the less, there were plenty of intriguing book recommendations to be had. I am a little ashamed to say that I've read none of this years nominees, but the program was enough to spark my interest in all of them. Essex County and The Birth House were both on my to-read list for ages, but The Best Laid Plans was no where near my radar and now I'm pretty sure I'll enjoy it. There are clearly a lot of CBC listeners at my library because all five books have spiked in popularity since this winter and are now appearing on lots of bookclub lists.It's The Book of Negroes all over again! Actually, not quite. That one's still going strong.

2. Online Reading
Some of my favourite Canuck haunts, online (in no particular order):

poppytalk
Hark! A Vagrant
sweet | salty
Schmutzie
Hey, Lady Grey
Jillian Tamaki
The Muffin Myth (every recipe is good, every single one)
Susan Juby

3. Travel
Coast to coast! Sort of. Well, I went home to see my family in April, which is on the west coast and I live in Montreal so you know. From sea to shining... er... river.


In my parent's back yard


Forest near where I grew up, lower mainland BC - why did ALL my forest photos end up fuzzy? Why?


Deep Cove


Stanley Park, 3rd Beach (I think?) in the rain


More rain at the beach/seawall


At the heron reserve in Chilliwack. Make sure to enlarge this to see the neat heron-shape.

Also, I went canoeing in Parc Mont-Tremblant a couple of weeks ago. Which was lovely. Except for the bugs.


What are they doing? Our best guess was "eating bird poop", which is what's under them. Not so pretty anymore, are they?

Erosion is neat.


Loon!

Taken from under a large towel where I was hiding from black flies.

Just last weekend I was in Ottawa to visit mon frère. It rained a lot, so we went to the Natural History Musem (er, I mean the Canadian Museum of Nature), which was gorgeous inside and out.

Outside

And in.

I think the dioramas will get their own post because I'm kind of in love with them.

Aaaaaand, well, I complain a lot but actually Montreal's not such a bad city afterall.

La Main/Blvd Saint-Laurent street fair

4. Eating/buying local

The lip balm you always wanted. Nothing is better. NOTHING. (Man, their online boutique isn't up yet. When it is, vanilla cream. Trust me.)
This is where I'm doing yoga over the summer, lovely studio and lovely teacher.
This is where my produce is coming from over the summer. We just got our first basket last week and it was mostly lettuce + greens and it was very tasty indeed.
This really is the best coffee to be found in the Concordia/Faubourg part of downtown (which is where I am 3 days per week). I had stopped treating myself to fancy coffees at the office, but since I discovered Myriade I am less able to resist temptation. They take their barista-ing seriously. As they should.
Café Oxford (in NDG) is where Adrien and I like to go for breakfast/brunch most weekends. The food's great, and I love how much fresh fruit comes with the meals. Fruit like mango and local berries, not just the standard slice of cantaloupe. Well, they have that too, but they leave it off if you ask (I do).
I just got this new tote bag because it's too darn cute.

New tote! Art by Jillian Tamaki.


Arlington Farm

source

Happy Canada Day neighbours! How do you celebrate?

* Tennyson: To the Queen

"The blue unbroken circle of the sea"*

2011-06-10T13:23:00.000-04:00


"Longing" by Judith Signoriello

Sea Fever by John Masefield

source

I must go down to the seas again,

to the lonely sea and the sky

and all I ask is a tall ship,

and a star to steer her by;

And the wheel’s kick and the wind’s song

and the white sails shaking,

And the grey mist in the sea’s face,

and a grey dawn breaking.

I must go down to the seas again,

for the call of the running tide

Is a wild call and a clear call

that may not be denied;

And all I ask is a windy day

with the white clouds flying,

And the flung spray and the blown spume,

and the seagulls crying.

I must go down to the seas again,

to the vagrant gypsy life,

To the gull’s way and the whale's way

where the wind’s like a whetted knife

And all I ask is a merry yarn

From a laughing fellow rover,

and quiet sleep and a sweet dream

when ere the long trip’s over


Dover, photo credit, found here

"Pacific Ocean" by Lupen Grainne

"Day at the Beach" by Lupen Grainne

Bahamas, March 2011

Cape Meares (Oregon), photo: Laini Taylor

"One with the Sea" by Robert Cadloff

Beach near Bamfield, BC

* Title: Sara Teasdale, From the Sea

Works of genius at a library near you

2011-06-02T22:07:00.001-04:00

Late this winter we were plagued by a sinister smell in the library. Something was broken in the metallic bowels of the furnace. Something was cracked and bleeding oil. When dizzy spells and upset stomachs resulted, things got serious. This problem is unfortunately still dogging us and sadly the library has been closed for a while because of it. Much as I appreciate the sudden influx of free time, I do miss my work there.

One of the things I miss most is dishing about books. Fawning over the sparkling new covers, getting recommendations, prodding for impromptu reviews when members return their latest batch at the circ. counter and giving out my own "you have to read this" advice - that is a large part of what makes library work fun.

I especially miss all the booktalk now that café terraces are so inviting with their drowsy summer breezes and icy drinks. Obviously delicious reading material is required. Not that there's a dearth of possibilities. In fact I often find myself cowering in the shadow of my to-read pile. Therein lies the problem, really. When so many tantalizing titles are calling to you it can be difficult and overwhelming to try to pluck just one at a time. In that instance it can be something of a relief to have someone simply put a book in your hands with a wink and promise that it is worth your time.

By necessity (weeding) I've had to trawl the depths of my library shelves and so I've found a great many glittering gems. This is a list of library books I would happily, heartily put in your hands if you had come to me desperate for something tasty to read.

The Girls by Lori Lansens
Canadian (small town Ontario), lovely, haunting. A fictional life story of conjoined twins, Rose and Ruby Darlen - though it is so realistic that people often assume it's based on real people*. The premise seems to scare people off a bit, the idea that these young women are inherently tragic. While there is some heartache in this book, there is also humour and mystery and very little time is spent making you feel sorry for the girls. In fact you begin to wish you had a twin of your own at your side.

The story is told by the girls (women, actually, as they are 29) themselves, alternating between the two very different voices. The prose completely took my breath away and this has become one of my favourite books.

This is the opening paragraph:

"I have never looked into my sister's eyes. I have never bathed alone. I have never stood in the grass at night and raised my arms to the beguiling moon. I’ve never used an airplane bathroom. Or worn a hat. Or been kissed like that. I’ve never driven a car. Or slept through the night. Never a private talk. Or a solo walk. I’ve never climbed a tree. Or faded into a crowd. So many things I’ve never done, but oh, how I’ve been loved. And, if such things were to be, I’d live a thousand lives as me, to be loved so exponentially."

* Check out this interview with Lori Lansens for some background on her inspiration.

The Sweetness at the Bottom of the Pie (Flavia de Luce #1) by Alan Bradley

Mystery series, set in England in the 1950s. Our plucky heroine is Flavia, an eleven year old chemist who lives in a fossilized manor house with her grief-stricken father, her treacherous older sisters Ophelia and Daphne as well as their shell shocked groundskeeper, Dogger. Oh, and Flavia's trusty bicycle Gladys, of course. This series is: clever, funny, marvelous. There are currently three, and I just finished the most recent one (A Red Herring Without Mustard). The second one (The Weed That Strings the Hangman's Bag) was maybe a bit slow, but the first is wonderful and the third one is the best so far.

Fun Home: A Family Tragicomic by Alison Bechdel

Childhood memoir, graphic novel, heart-breakingly good. This has bite and literary merit and so much heart. I've seen people go from "I don't read comics" to "where do I find more of this kind of thing???" after reading this book. Take your time reading it because the panels contain an astonishing amount of detail.

Me Talk Pretty One Day by David Sedaris

Have you ever read David Sedaris? Why ever not? He's brilliant. This was the first of his books that I read and it was instant love. Since then I've switched to audiobooks for his work because he does them himself and the only things better than his writings are his readings. If you get the chance to see him live, do it.

"On my fifth trip to France I limited myself to the words and phrases that people actually use. From the dog owners I learned "Lie down," "Shut up," and "Who shit on this carpet?" The couple across the road taught me to ask questions correctly, and the grocer taught me to count. Things began to come together, and I went from speaking like an evil baby to speaking like a hillbilly. "Is thems the thoughts of cows?" I'd ask the butcher, pointing to the calves' brains displayed in the front window. "I want me some lamb chop with handles on 'em." "

Great Tales from English History: A treasury of true stories about the extraordinary people, knights and knaves, rebels and heroes, queens and commoners, who made Britain great by Robert Lacey

English history, non-fiction, but not dry at all. Originally this was published in three parts, but it has since been made available as an omnibus and I was thrilled when I got it for Christmas (my library only has the first two parts). I really enjoy historical fiction but I've never studied history properly and so I feel that my understanding of the unfolding of things is more than a little patchy. This is obviously a general overview, not a lot of depth can be gone into about each figure, but it is so readable and so fun that I think it's a great resource to have on hand. When you come across a name that you know you should know but can't quite recall, this is the place to go.

Also, the woodcuts at the beginning of each chapter are a nice touch.

As Levar Burton used to say on Reading Rainbow, "you don't have to take my word for it!" There are sample chapters for you to peruse on Lacey's website here.

A selection of lovely work I've come across lately:

2011-05-20T13:19:00.000-04:00

Becca Stadtlander

Dark Florals

Tree Snake


House on Loon Lake

+ + +

Jen Corace

blog banner: think think, stare stare... our finest hour


Down, Down, Down

+ + +

Jon Klassen

artwork for Coraline


for the RBC Blue Water Project

+ + +

Lee White


Midnight Ride

Waiting

Dreamy and Dark

2011-04-06T13:43:00.002-04:00

Library - 2007 (The City) Lori Nix

Ages ago I came across the above image and I loved it. Unfortunately, as is the way sometimes, I was not able to track it back to its original source, so I had no idea who made it or what the context was. I couldn't tell how it was made either; it didn't quite look real but it didn't appear to be painted or digital either. Magic! Obviously.

Finally, the other day, I came across this article and now I know: Lori Nix. She creates these intricate shoebox worlds and then photographs them.

Ah! No wonder I like it. Dioramas: I am a fan.

Clockwise from top left: Olympic Forest, 2010 (Unnatural History); Birdhouses, 2001 (Lost);
Birds in Flight, 2001 (Some Other Place); Clock Tower, 2005 (The City)

Her earliest stuff evokes a rather lovely stop-motion horror movie feeling. I especially like her later work, in particular the series' Unnatural History and The City. There's something delightfully eerie about seeing wild things take back an urban landscape. Sad too, and I think that's part of the point. On her website Lori Nix talks about having a sense of humour in/about her work though, so I don't think she's all gloom and doom.

Clockwise from largest: Aquarium, 2007 (The City); Angler Fish, 2009 (Unnatural History);
Mastodon, 2009 (Unnatural History); T-Rex, 2010 (Unnatural History)

Clockwise from largest: Fountain, 2008 (The City); Botanic Garden, 2008 (The City);
Museum of Art, 2005 (The City); Majestic, 2006 (The City)

I made mosaics because that's the easiest way to share heaps of images, and there are indeed so very many lovely, haunting images to share. The best way to see them, though, is full size so you can poke around and take note of the staggering detail in each little window.

Map Room, 2010 (The City)

Quotes from Lori Nix's "About" page:

"Inspiration comes from reading the daily newspaper The New York Times, science fiction paperbacks and magazine articles. I get most of my ideas during my morning subway commute from Brooklyn to Manhattan to go to my day job. Something about the morning light, the rocking of the subway, seeing the cityscape pass by opens my mind up to inspiration."

"Currently it takes about seven months to build a scene and two to three weeks to shoot the final image. "

"I am fascinated, maybe even a little obsessed, with the idea of the apocalypse."

"I am interested in depicting danger and disaster, but I temper this with a touch of humor."

"In my newest body of work "The City" I have imagined a city of our future, where something either natural or as the result of mankind, has emptied the city of it's human inhabitants. Art museums, Broadway theaters, laundromats and bars no longer function. The walls are deteriorating, the ceilings are falling in, the structures barely stand, yet Mother Nature is slowly taking them over. These spaces are filled with flora, fauna and insects, reclaiming what was theirs before man's encroachment. I am afraid of what the future holds if we do not change our ways regarding the climate, but at the same time I am fascinated by what a changing world can bring."

Natural History, 2005 (The City)

I spy with my little eye

2011-03-23T13:10:00.000-04:00

A springtime image by David Peterson of Mouse Guard

+ Some purple hyacinths in an old honey jar, next to the window. Stems reaching, flowers beginning to fold in on themselves, heady scent starting to fade.

+ A boy on the bus, with foot-long eyelashes which are completely incongruous with his thick stubble.

+ Unspeakably scary news from the other side of the world, of trembling earth and colossal waves. Just like that, out of nowhere, for so many people everything is gone.

+ A couple, on the corner, trying to take an arm's length photo. Laughing because instead they took video of themselves posing.

+ Pigeons bathing in the street-side lakes that had formed overnight, as the city temporarily thawed. Whole parties of pigeons gathering at the pool, dipping under the surface before popping up, feathers askew, spray fanning out around them.

+ An office, on a mezzanine, reached by spiral staircase, overlooking the library, inside of a museum, with a window looking out on busy streets and falling snow. A place where one catalogues 16th century dresses and 18th century books. In a word, heaven.

+ A café, done entirely in white. Blinding: stark, bright, white. White wicker, white tables, white walls. Glass cases full of tiny delectables dusted with the green crumble of crushed pistachio. Customers wearing tweed and cashmere, sipping espresso from tiny white cups. A small white dish with two maracons.

+ A chunk of ice, hanging precariously over a doorway. Water dripping continuously. Will it shrink, or will it fall?

+ A suitcase, open on my living room floor. A passport, a pair of strappy shoes with height (I have to practice wearing those...), a sun hat, a book. A trip I would never have planned, but am grateful to be invited on.

+ An accidental glimpse in the mirror beside the coffee maker in the office kitchen. Dressed this morning by going: what is on the top of the pile? Grey cardigan it is. Hair coiffed at desk, after removal of hat + coat, and pulled back into a static-defying ponytail. Make up? Not really. But in that glimpse: rosy cheeks, happy eyes, as-if-on-purpose hair with just the right flyaways. How many times do we look in the mirror and not want to change a thing? Not often enough.

+ A paperback in my purse, for reading on the bus. A great cover. Purple, naturally.

Smoke and Mirrors: Short Fictions and Illusions by Neil Gaiman

It's still winter. I just checked.

2011-03-09T23:02:00.000-05:00

Smelling of Purple

2011-03-07T13:31:00.000-05:00

Photo by Emerson Merrick of An Apple a Day

I am one of those sensitive folks (in a long line of sensitive folks) who hates perfume. I glare openly at abusers who have lost all sense of proportion and wield scent like a weapon. What right do they have to asault my nasal passages like that?

And yet, I confess that I wear it too.

I suppose I should amend my previous statement: I hate most perfume. I hate the majority, but I covet that tiny intoxicating minority. I love a handful of perfumes; the kind with fancy labels, made in small batches, possibly in someone's kitchen, with ingredients described as "locally sourced", "organic" and "all natural". You know the kind of thing. The kind of thing you could practically eat.

* * *

In the language of the perfumer, I am considered gourmand. Ok, ok. In any language I am considered gourmand. I am picky though - far pickier about what scent I wear than what food I eat. Not that I am indiscriminate about my diet, but when it comes to perfume I seem to have a very narrow range of likes. Whereas with food I am open to experimentation.

One of the unfortunate things I've discovered in my aromatic searching is that gourmand often means spun sugar. I am drawn to scents inspired by foodstuffs but I do not want to smell like confection. It's the richness I'm after, the complexities of spice - both sweet and savoury. It's the difference between eating fresh fruit and hard candy. The fullness is lost, simplified to one sticky, false note; the living story of the fragrance (and flavour), the botanical roots, are lost and replaced with corn syrup and food dye.

* * *

My fantasy goes something like this:

Imagine the spice aisle in a small, old fashioned grocery store. Glass jars full of fine powders: crimson, buttery yellow, every earthen shade of brown. Some jars holding the spices in their original form, fragrant and whole. Full-leaf teas lined up all along the top. Rows of vanilla extract with actual vanilla beans, clove buds, slices of ginger and zezty little strips of orange peel floating in the black depths. Small bottles of dark elixir with slender seed pods just visible in the liquid. Wooden shelving, polished smooth with age. Candles made from bee's wax strung up by their wicks. Barrels of fruit at the end of the aisle - ripe purple plums, dark cherries, plump blackberries. Maybe a few stalks of rhubarb bundled up, sitting in my basket. Imagine, also, that there is a bakery next door, and something fresh and dusted with flour is cooling out of view.

Imagine distilling all of this into a small vial and dabbing it on your skin. Imagine tendrils of scent wrapping themselves around you, invisible to all but your most intimate companions. Imagine catching subtle hints of this throughout the day.

* * *

It's hard to shop for your nose online, scratching and sniffing forlornly at the monitor. I keep at it because that is the best way to access all of the alchemical entrepreneurs out there, and because I am relentlessly optimistic that one day a brown paper package will arrive containing aromatic perfection.

Actually, a couple of months ago, it did. Or, close to perfection, anyway.

To me it smells purple. Not only purple, but the exact right shade of purple. Dark and fully ripe. Plum, or blackberry wine, with bunches of green herbs and whole spices stewing within. I kind of want to lick my own wrists.

I didn't fall in love instantly. In the pot (it's in solid form) it smells too fruity, too strong. On my skin however, the spice comes through, the green mingles with the purple and it turns mellow and lovely.

I don't think it's the one (alas, is there such a thing?) (probably not for this fussbudget). It doesn't boast enough vanilla, and not quite enough spice either, but it is delightful and I enjoy smelling of purple while I keep searching. Just so long as I remember not to wield it like an olfactory dagger. Which, actually, when you love how something smells, is harder than I thought.

(This is the perfume, for those who are interested in such things too)

Words Planted Like Seeds

2011-02-18T18:00:00.001-05:00

Today is a mirage. A preview of spring, nothing more. By Sunday all this will be frozen over again, encased in ice, piled high with snow. For today, however: icicles shrink, drain pipes gush and heads go hatless under a cloudless sky. I feel a breeze in my hair and it makes me shiver but not from cold. It's like a shard of June has broken off and fallen backwards through the seasons. I wonder if, later this year, we will come upon the fragment of February that it replaced. I wonder if we will go to sleep hot and sticky, in a world of parched grass and air conditioning only to wake up facing a blizzard?

*****

On Tuesday I entered the vault. When I heard that I was invited to visit a bank archive I thought yawn and ah well, it'll look good for class.

I had to be escorted into the elevator by my obliging tour guide; the service elevator is the only one that goes to their floor. Not up, as I'd assumed, but down and into an old vault. We stepped through the giant metal door as if entering a submarine. We're under land though not water; a subterranean instead.

I was surprised by how lovely it all was. It felt newly renovated. Despite the lack of windows it appeared to be a calm and comfortable place to work. Just three people in the department, all bookish and bright.

There was a storeroom full of treasure. I don't know what I expected. I think I'd imagined that all I would see would be reams of graphs (printed on dot matrix, with tear-away edges) showing how the piles of gold belonging to the bank have grown over the years. And this is when we signed a contract with The Prince of Darkness... see how dramatically our dividends increased after that quarter? But of course it was not like that at all. It was dusty old ledgers from the 1820s and artwork purchased by the bank and prototypes of typewriters all gleaming brass keys encased in wood.

The treasures were remarkable, of course, but the best bit was when my host sat me down to show me what she does every day. From outside looking in (not that you could, not that deep underground) it would not appear terribly exciting: cleaing old things, typing away about them in a database. But when she told me about it she beamed.

You are writing the history of the bank, of the city really, and of the items in our collection. This database is it, it's the record. I love my job.

I checked out the little museum on my way out. It's on the main floor and open to the public, unlike the rest of what I'd seen. There were more stories under glass. Crumbling bank notes from before Canada had its own currency; lovely 3D pictures of the construction of the Old Port (made of cut paper and little strips of wood); a handcarved letter opener.

There are things in that vault, solid artifacts with ID numbers, a monetary value and a spot on a shelf. But the reason they matter is because they are placeholders for stories. They whisper, in their hidden lair under the cobblestones of Old Montreal, even if the only souls who hear are the archivists in the next room. It is a library like any other, a treasure trove made up of words whether they are printed on a page or whether they hover, invisible, in the air.

*****

I wish I were an athlete but I am decidedly not.

The truth is, the snowboard won. I get these ideas, I think that maybe this time I will take to something immediately. I will show natural talent and I will swish down the hill in style. And then, of course, reality hits and I am flailing in the snow with a large chunk of fiberglass strapped to my feet, on the verge of tears. How did I get to be so delicate? Have I always been this way? Everybody falls. Everybody gets back up and tries again. It is the only way to improve. I know this, I knew this before I inched up the bunny hill on the motorised ramp. It made no difference though, each time I collided with the mountain I felt the breath and starch both get knocked out of me.

Why does it have to hurt so much? When can I go in and drink hot chocolate?

Just once it would be nice to be able to impress him. Just once it would be nice to see pride in his eyes rather than patience and pity. He spent the whole car ride back with his hand on my knee saying You did so well, I'm so happy we went, You should have seen yourself on that last run, but somehow I had trouble believing him.

The next day I expected my tailbone to ache, but it didn't. The rest of me was sore though. Especially my arms and my fingers. All those times I had to hoist myself back up, doing backwards push-ups on a moving board.

People asked how my weekend was and I found myself telling them that I went snowboarding. Just like that, like it was a fun outing and not abject humiliation. Everyone cooed and said Oh my, that must have been hard! I'm too scared to try. Are you any good? and I found myself chuckling and saying No, not really, but everyone sucks at first.

I guess I'll probably end up doing it again, won't I?

*****

The past few days I've been trapped in my couch. I started reading Room and could not stop. Interruptions would not cease: work, making supper, sleep, hygene. I would have preferred that they leave me be, to read for as long as it took.

It's not really my favourite kind of book but it is the kind that requires you to stay up with it, holding a flashlight if necessary, asking over and over what happens next?

The language is deceptive. It seems simple but it isn't and it is now imprinted on my brain. I hear myself thinking in the cadence of a five year old and urging myself to be scave. If that sounds a little too precious, or if you think that books narrated by children are not your thing, I bet you would be surprised by this story. I bet you would be charmed and drawn in and moved to the edge of your seat. Or then again, maybe you wouldn't, but I was and I'm glad.

Art Therapy

2011-02-10T08:55:00.000-05:00

I have files on my computer, heavy with pigment. Folders full of photographs, paintings, illustrations and digital renderings. I seek them out, almost compulsively and then I collect them, hoard them, stash them away. I use them as my desktop wallpaper and sigh each time I close a window. When I feel low, or when I just want to see something nice I pore over the images and find a balm for the ugliness that can, at times, threaten to overwhelm.

The above two photos are by Tim of that's just it photo

Concept artwork for the film Coraline, by Chris Turnham

Flight 3 Cover, by Kazu Kibuishi

Santa Monica Pier by Alice Stevenson


Portrait with Black Bunny, Leaving the Orphanage and Three Springtime Gals by Emily Martin (aka The Black Apple)

Full Body Tattoo, In the Gallery and Birthday by Jen Wang

Oyster Catcher, Bear Mountain (detail) and Anarctic Waters by Diana Sudyka

Tangled, Knee Deep, Shark Bite and (I think this is the name) Molt by Stasia Burrington

I'm so taken with Stasia's work that I actually own all of these images in some form or another in real life, not just in files on my computer (her shop is full of beautiful things). I am checking my mailbox this week, for Molt as a pendant. That's actually not the finished piece; the completed version can be seen here, and it is breath-taking, but I really love this stage of the drawing for some reason. I even kind of like the fact that it's not finished.

Internet Whiplash. And snow. Not in that order.

2011-02-08T23:00:00.000-05:00

It was snowing gently on my walk to work this morning. Something I'd never realized before moving to colder climes was that under the right conditions snow actually falls in tiny, perfect flakes. Cartoonishly perfect. Exactly like those paper ones we cut out.

I think the first time I noticed this was sitting in a car and seeing them land on the windshield in little piles and slowly melt against the glass.

I have this idea that I'd like to take a photo of them, the way I see them as I walk along, against my dark purple scarf. I keep meaning to bring my camera out with me when the conditions are right, but somehow I never do.

+++

Have you ever gotten whiplash on the internet? What I mean by that is you go along reading your usual list of sites, maybe a clever writer here, a webcomic there, all regular daily stuff, but then someone links to a site that's new to you (without warning, possibly) or they write something out of character and suddenly you are blindsided by grief.

Yesterday I found myself here, directed from here (not a site I read a lot, but on occasion), and I continue to feel haunted by what I saw and read.

I am warning you now, it is a devastating story. It starts off breaking your heart and then just gets worse. I'm not sure what I think of making a photo documentary of someone's life in that way. I'm still thinking about it though, and about Julie, which is perhaps the whole point.

[Note: If you are curious, but worried, you will probably get the idea by following the link and reading the introduction. That part, and much of the rest of it, is safe for work, as they say, but there are parts that are not and there are parts that are just too difficult to really look at regardless of your surroundings.]

It's probably a natural reaction to witness a thing like that and be horrified and then, quickly, to start thanking your lucky stars. To watch your own woes shrink to the size of those snowflakes, and then melt away. It would be nice to think that this change was permanent, that it was a forever kind of thing and that from this moment forth I shall never again be petty or take my good fortune for granted. Oh, but it doesn't work like that. I'm sure I was petty again within about fourteen seconds.

Why is this weirdo standing next to me at the crosswalk, GO AWAY WEIRDO.

What do you mean you don't have the plum doughnuts?

The zipper on my tall boots snapped off. The whole world is conspiring against me again, isn't it???

It's too hard to be raw and grateful all of the time. But it is good to be reminded.

I want to say something about the more important reminder, that of human suffering and the cost of privilege (aka "good fortune") and what on Earth can we do about it all?

But I don't think I can without sounding preachy and being a complete hypocrite. Because what do I do? I try to be kind and mostly I'm wrapped up in my own worries. Like everyone else.

+++

Walking home from yoga tonight the temperature had dropped. Despite the earlier flurries, the morning really hadn't been terribly cold. That's another thing I learned by moving east; the coldest days are the clearest ones. Sun at the window lulls you into lighter fabrics, more exposed skin, maybe even a skirt. Don't be fooled though, it's a trick. Cloud cover acts as a blanket, trapping the heat. It's better to wear skirts when it's snowing, and snow pants when it isn't. Go figure.

It actually sounded cold - the drop in temperature meant that the snow was squeaky underfoot. It's quite pretty when it's that cold though. The stars come out, and the places where the snow is left untouched glitters under the streetlights. All those tiny, perfect flakes.

2011-02-03T06:14:00.000-05:00

Recap:

December - Blur! Pretty lights, good food.

January - Blarg. Three weeks of convalescence (so far). One thing after another and I am feeling all Victorian and consumptive. I even had to postpone a long-awaited voyage. Curses.

February - Brrr. It is deep winter. Snow is piling up to the eaves and we are tucked away inside. Except when we have to go out and then we wear the clothing equivalent of puffy comforters. I'm still not fully well, and I have some trouble sleeping. So I am awake, sometimes, in the darkest parts of the night. I feel like Moomintroll - awake when all the world is hibernating.

Moominland Midwinter by Tove Jansson

I may not be a morning person, but he sure as hell is.

2010-11-19T13:30:00.009-05:00

It was still dark when I opened my eyes. Today I woke up a full twenty minutes before my alarm and for once I didn't just take advantage and fall back to my pillow. This may have had something to do with an insistent prodding from the foot of the bed.

***

I swept the kitchen floor before unrolling my mat. The dust moved in beguiling eddies, inviting someone to play. I shooed him to little avail.

***

I stretched out, feeling my spinal column click into place.

Cat pose. So-called because of the way it invites the household pet to curl up underneath your torso.

Inhale, arch your back and look up.

(Shove the cat off the mat.)

Exhale, bow your back and look down.

(Shove the cat off the mat.)

Inhale, arch your back and look up.

(Shove the cat off the mat.)

And so on with each pose. I couldn't lay my hands on the heinous spray bottle so I improvised and flicked water at him from the nearby tap. It worked. For about ninety seconds.

There's probably a lesson in there. About tolerence and finding peace within the chaos of life. Can I learn the lesson while hissing that he's an evil, interfering little troll?

Eventually we reached a compromise. He flopped over on his side right next to the mat. Touching it with the tips of his paws. I, in turn, made some effort not to land on his tail.

***
I was statuesque in seated meditation. Pure white marble, shining with the light of the gods. He circled me, a complete disregard for deference, and rubbed his chin against my circled thumb and forefinger. Enlightenment is challenging with fifteen pounds of fur and menace climbing all over your lap.

***

By now the sky had lightened. Branches made zigzags against an indigo backdrop. Movements could be heard in the apartment above ours as I rolled up the mat (might I have flicked it with unecessary vigor because I know it startles him? Of course not). One car, down the street, pulled away and left for work. And then, soon after, another.

***

I switched the light on in the bathroom, getting ready to shower. He beat me to my task and jumped, eager, from the ground to the toilet to the sink. Imploring me to turn on the tap. But not too much, lest he soak his whiskers.

When I stepped out of the shower, dripping, I found there was only a small corner of the bath mat available to me. Even a cascade of drops did not deter my interloper. Nor did a towel to the face. Oh no, that was just a plaything and had him on his back sprawled out, batting at the frayed edge and pushing me off onto the tile.

***

I congratulated myself when I saw the time.

I have a full half-hour for breakfast. That means coffee.

My daredevil companion curled around my feet as I put the tiny espresso pot on the bright red burner. What are scaldings, nicks from the paring knife I use to cut up a plum, or bruises from a fall when they come with such love, such devotion?

I wanted to curse him but when I saw him trotting ahead of me, towards the living room couch, and I saw his low-slung cat belly swaying and his paws pitter-pattering my anger gave way to mirth.

We sat together while I ate. I knew he was just siddling up to me because he was greedy for the yogurt in my bowl, but who can resist such softness, such perfect feined feline adoration?

***

I closed the door on my way out, not running for once, just heading out for work unflustered, unhurried. I caught a glimpse of him, settling in atop the plumpest pillow on the supplest part of the couch. He was licking white droplets from his muzzle and adjusting his whiskers so as to appear suitably rakish and handsome. I turned the key and shook my head, smitten as always.

Lumos

2010-11-09T09:44:00.003-05:00

1999 – Montreal

Daytime talk shows are not the best company to keep but I am the night shift manager at a Second Cup and I have little to occupy me in the period between waking and working. So, one winter afternoon finds me stretched out on my roommate’s couch flicking between our five or so channels.

Rosie O’Donnell is interviewing an English writer I’ve never heard of. The writer seems a bit star struck, not used to the attention of Hollywood. Rosie is raving about the book. A kids book, something to do with magic. The writer tells us that she wrote it on napkins in a café while her infant daughter napped. They flash the cover. Rosie makes the writer swear to cast her in the movie.

“And mark my words audience – there will be a movie!”

The segment ends with Rosie giving this woman a computer. So she can write the sequel on something more substantial than a napkin.

***

Within a week I make my way over to the Chapters on Saint Catherine. The kids’ books are on the bottom level, but it isn’t the bright cornucopia it will become. I brush aside cobwebs and scan the shelves.

A guy in a red vest goes by with a cart.

“Can I help you find something?”

I give him the title. I’ve forgotten the author, but it doesn’t matter. He’s never heard of it.

“Thanks anyway.”

I turn back and with some diligence turn up a trade paperback with a red locomotive, billowing purple steam and a boy with a jagged scar on the cover.

1999 – Montreal (a few months later)

Things have gotten tricky. I am not a happy person.

Home. I need to go home.

***

I am at the airport. Someone that I love has brought me here, and knows I’m going but doesn’t understand why. He is the kindest person I have ever met. My heart breaks to leave him, but every instinct tells me that to save myself I’ve got to go home.

A painful goodbye, a take-off. Above the clouds I pull out the book I brought to read. To take my mind off things a bit. There’s a flying car on the cover. It’s silly and sweet and it lulls me all the way across the granite Shield, the endless prairies, over the jagged edge of the Rockies, to where my province dips her toes in the Pacific.

Home.

1999 – Mission, BC

The air is so clean, so wet and green. My lungs drink it in. I am dizzy from the sudden influx of oxygen.

I go to the grocery store with mom, trailing behind her. I am a child again, it seems. I pick up gourmet jelly beans and a book. Some kind of bird-creature on the cover, wings outstretched. It’s a little thrilling to discover that the third one in the series is already out. It’s a comforting place to put my aching brain.

2000 – Vancouver

Things have improved in leaps and bounds. The hardest part is that once your mind has dipped into those dark places, once it knows the way, it threatens to return with ease at some slight provocation. You get a bit wary of the possibility of relapse.

***

The fourth book is coming out, and I'm looking forward to it.

I wander over to the Chapters on Robson Street to pick up a copy on release day. It's only midday and I am surprised to discover that they’ve already sold out.

2003 – Hamilton, On.

I am in this town learning to be a midwife. For a brief span it is my calling, my life’s work. I am happy, working hard and in good company.

***

Lesson learned: I pre-order my copy of book five at a little local bookshop. I am not the only one.

2005 – St. Catharines, On. and then Montreal (again)

I have left the midwifery program. I don’t know it yet but it will be for good. As in, for ever, and also for my own good. For good. It is good that I left. But it also fills me with grief for the loss of this image I’ve forged of myself. Now I can never be her. Now I have to create a new her.

I find my way back to Montreal, and to him. Even with this new crisis I am in better spirits, better health than last time. I find that despite the time and everything that has passed there is still love. He is still the kindest person I have ever met.

***

Summer. Once again I find myself at the Chapters on St Catherine. This time, instead of rooting through a basement trough I am shuttled upstairs to a special table that’s been set up on the third floor. A long, snaking line is forming for book six. Looking at the crates piled everywhere, I think they’ve ordered enough copies.

2006 (Christmas) – Montreal

Best gift ever. Better than the Barbie camper van I got when I was seven. Better than the combo tv/vcr as a graduation gift. Better than a diamond ring.

I get an ipod.

No big deal, everyone has them. Except it is a big deal, it is magic. Portable music. Of course I’ve been doing that since I slid “Fields of Fire” into my neon yellow walkman in 1986. But did you know that you can get books on these things? Audiobooks? People who read to you, leaving your hands free to chop carrots or paint or enter data while the story washes over you?

It’s a revelation.

2007 – Still Montreal

The heat of summer hasn’t really hit. It still feels nice to be outside, at night.

I do something unspeakably nerdy. I attend a release party that culminates at midnight, when the bookshop sellers are contractually allowed to hand over our copies of book seven. The last one there will ever be.

The party is painfully tiny. It’s painful in a lot of ways. It’s like the smallest Star Trek convention ever held. Still, it is fun and I float home on a city bus crowded with adults sporting striped scarves and stuffed snowy owls. I think they went to bigger parties.

***

I wonder if, for the other attendees, this is tantamount to filling a prescription for antidepressants. That sounds crazy. Am I crazy? I have no interest in dressing up as characters. I am only mildly interested in the film versions. I've never read any of the slash fiction, I swear. I don’t have a great deal of difficulty in predicting the outcome of this epic. I count other books, other authors as my precious favourites. But there is something about this series that coos to my hind-brain and makes me glad.

***

I finish the last sentence later that weekend, on a breezy terrace. A short bus ride away from where I began the first sentence, nine years ago, but a world away none the less.

At first I hate the ending. With subsequent re-readings I will come to like it. At that moment, setting the book down, I feel bereft. But also, grateful.

Present – Montreal

The books gather dust, but I’m sure I will pull them out again one day, when I have someone small to read them to. The audio versions get played about once a year. Or when I can’t sleep. Or when I’m agitated. It is an auditory soother, hot cocoa for my ears. It’s silly and sweet and lulls my mind away from those dark traps. It’s a tiny point of light when I need it to be.

Octoberish

2010-10-13T19:05:00.000-04:00

I love the way taking out of focus pictures makes them look like polaroids. Or at least it does to my eyes.

Picking Apples on a Sunday Afternoon

2010-10-06T22:23:00.000-04:00

Struck Dumb

2010-09-25T14:13:00.000-04:00

I've taken a vow of silence.

Not to get closer to god, but because if I speak I end up having coughing fits that turn my lungs inside out. Nasty allergies morphed this week into a nasty cold. Poor me, right? Not since that one time when I was twelve have I smoked a cigarette, but still I sound like a 90 year old with emphysema.

No point in seeing a doctor. The same thing happened last year and I went and all he did was give me something to help me sleep. Which I never took anyway. I just have to wait it out with lozenges and endless pots of Cold Formula tea. And silence. But enough about my gummed up alveoli.

****

Earlier this week I was getting my lunch in the break room at the office. It's up on the second floor and the window was open. Someone walked by on the sidewalk below, sending up an operatic chorus. I poked my head out to catch a glimpse of this passing Carmen but no one was there.

****

The annual arboreal fireworks display has commenced. I know, it's such a cliché to get excited about leaves. I don't care.

I grew up on the west coast and so everything east of the wheat fields was "Back East" and made me think of knee socks, ivy creeping over brick and maple syrup. This time of year it's true. This time of year I can just about convince myself that I live on the set of a made-for-TV Halloween movie. It makes me forgive all my seasonal ailments.

****

Adrien and I went for breakfast this morning. He brought a newspaper as I am mute. I wanted to write about how the loss of one sharpened all my other senses. But then I remembered that speech is not a sense. It feels like one.

In the car I pulled out my notebook and asked him questions at a red light.

"Is this a new cd?"

"No."

"It's all achy songs."

(Raised eyebrows.)

"A good ache."

(Smile.)

Some of the music he listens to gives me a lovely, terrible ache. The kind of feeling that comes from having a hopeless a crush. It's nothing to do with the lyrics, most of which I don't even know. It's the music itself, the lowing melody.

If Adrien's musical tastes could be distilled into one word, that word would be "catchy".

If my musical tastes could be distilled into one word, that word would be "unsurprising". I wouldn't say that I have bad taste - who says that about themselves? - but I am not edgy. Still, Alissa convinced me to go out last month to see Juliette Lewis and that felt slightly edgy. Although that admission likely just proves my lack of edge.

Here is one of the songs from Adrien's mix:

****

Whenever we're out and I see a car pass by with BC plates my heart gives a little lurch of recognition.

****

Je n'écris jamais en français. Pourquoi? Ma vie ici est bilingue. J'aimerais voir plus de films et livres qui sont bilingues. Je veux dire, un mélange. C'est comme ça ici, en réalité. Souvent les conversations sont un mélange. Des mots anglais répondent des mots français. Et l'invers. Des phrases moitier-moitier. Des accents, des anglicisms.

Aujourd'hui j'ai vu un panneau pour A&W qui offrait:
"1 oncle burger pour 3.00"
Ça fait bizarre.

I never write in French. Why? My life here is that way. I'd love to see more films and books in both languages. Mixed together, I mean. It's like that here, in real life. Conversations are often a blend. English words answer French ones. And the other way around. Half and half sentences. Accents, Anglicisms.

Today I saw an ad outside A&W that offered:
"1 oncle burger pour 3.00"
Which sounds odd.

****

On the way home today a car passed in the lane next to us, revving the motor. It was an ordinary sedan, newish maybe, but it didn't look sporty to me. Still, the motor gave a satisfyingly predatory grumble and the two dress-shirted men in the car gave war-cry whoops each time it did so. I looked over at them, wondering how much fun it can be to tease an engine in traffic.

I forgot about them, though, when a bus whooshed past stirring up fallen leaves. A whirlwind of copper and gold.

Somewhere above the woollen cloud cover some passing geese honked their solemn fair-well. I wanted to tell Adrien but also didn't want to cough. And my notebook was tucked away. So I'm telling you instead.

Teacup diary entries

2010-09-16T17:09:00.001-04:00

I made soup on Monday night. That's how I know summer is over: soup bubbling on the stove. I don't have a recipe to share, it's Whatever Is On Hand soup. Squash, potatoes, carrots, rice. A bit of spice. Quite nice.

****

Yesterday I went into a Polish bakery. It's just a couple of blocks from the office, and I'd been told it was worth it.

It was.

I've never been to Poland but I love little shops, like this one, that beam you directly from the sidewalk in Montreal to a counter in Warsaw. Inside it was dark and glittery, lots of wood panels and glowing glass cases. The natural history of pastry.

I waited my turn, after a lanky business man (sausage on a sandwich) and two burly construction workers (cake from the display case).

I just wanted one doughnut, just one little afternoon treat. It's not my fault they had three different kinds: apricot, plum, cream. And also, it would be cruel to get one for me and not bring some home to share. I'm not that cruel.

So when I said: One of each.

She said: For only a little bit more you can get six.

And I said: Two of each!

Is there any softer bite than a freshly made doughnut? I think, next time we meet, I will have powdered sugar on my chin.

****

On the sidewalk near my building this morning a stylish man greeted me with undue familiarity.

I don't know him. Do I?

"Hi Katherine, how are you?"

He's very friendly but I'm not Katherine.

"Yes, yes, we met just the other day! At your apartment! I'm the new owner, your landlord introduced us."

"I really don't think it was me."

He seems unfazed by my inability to remember him. I'm sure he's confusing me with someone else, even though he knows my apartment number. I remember my landlord picking up the rent check the other day and he was alone. No introductions were made. The stylish man walks off chuckling, wishing me a good day. I walk off, perplexed.

****

There is a corner in the storage area of the staffroom at the library where all of our Christmas books are kept until the Festive Season begins. The shelf is a mess of red and green spines shoved higgledy-piggledy. Even though today is the 16th of September I lingered.

****

A Scottish gentleman who is new to the area borrowed the library phone today to contact Bell for a telephone installation. His fluffy grey hair was styled in an unnecessary comb-over and his navy blazer went well with the dinner plate sized spectacles.

His voice was soft, and lightly accented.

"No, I don't have a phone number, that's what I'm telling you. I won't have one until you come set it up for me."

"I'm sorry I can barely hear you..."

"Yes, I have an email address but as I say, I won't have internet at the house until you come set it up."

"No I don't have a phone number yet."

This went on for about thirty minutes, poor guy. The fact that his new home was completely disconnected from any form of telecommunication was apparently beyond comprehension for the customer service agent.

We all shook our heads and gave the patient gentleman grim smiles of encouragement as he battled on.

****

Some people have such a great deal of presence that they fill any room they enter right up to the ceiling.

Someone like that was here today, working for an hour or so. She's lovely and funny and I like her very much. But she can, as Marilla Cuthbert so aptly put it, talk the hind leg off a mule.

I asked her where she was going on vacation and fifteen minutes later I'd said not a word but she was still telling me about her plans. Shortly after that she segued into her impending surgery.

I'm not sure that she paused the whole time she was here.

As soon as she left we slipped into a comfortable silence that gave way to the distant patter of rain.

Mr Sensitive Ponytail Man

2010-09-14T19:33:00.000-04:00

Perfect moments are rare. When they do happen I get this tingling pins and needles feeling on the back of my head, like someone's been playing with my hair. Often these tiny perfections arrive for no reason whatsoever. Just: there they are. Fleeting delight.

One of my clearest memories of such a moment occurred in the living room of a guy I dated when I was nineteen.

It must have been summer, but early or late I don't know. It was dusk though, the windows were open and the breeze was velveteen. There was soft music playing. There were a few people over, chatting, probably sharing a bottle of wine. The room was open, airy, and there was a nice wooden mantel with carvings and lit candles.

"This is what being All Grown Up feels like." Pleasant shiver. Goosebumps.

****

We met at an Art History class at the local college. A field trip into Vancouver was organized, to visit some galleries. I didn't drive so I ended up getting a ride with him.

I barely remember the exhibits. Something to do with plastering a room with sheet music. Oh, and a thing where the artist went to sleep at a hotel (in cotton pyjamas, possibly with the aid of sleeping pills) and had some friends come along in the night to take him home. The piece consisted of footage of him sleeping in the back of the car; it was quite dark, with just the intermitent street lights to illuminate rain mottling the back window while the whump of windshield wipers and the hum of tires on wet pavement droned on in the background. It was supposed to illicit memories of childhood, those times when your parents took you out somewhere past your bedtime and then drove you home and transfered you from car to bed without waking you.

I remember wearing a long flowy dress with clunky shoes (it was the 90s). We had lunch together and the fact that John Keats featured prominently in our conversation should have been a bit of a warning sign.

Romantic poets notwithstanding, we flirted shamelessly and ultimately decided that it would be fun to get together sometime outside of a school function.

I still lived at home then and when my parents found out that he was in his thirties they were not impressed. They were too smart to make a fuss about it though, knowing that to do so would only add glamour to the situation for me.

He played it very cool. He even gave me a speech about how conflicted he was - I was so young, so innocent, we probably shoudn't be doing this! I fell for it - thus proving myself both young and innocent - and threw myself into the task of appearing thirteen years older than I was.

It must have lasted a whopping three months. Four, tops. These are the things I remember: his short blond ponytail and thick black-rimmed glasses, ridding on a the back of a red motorbike, his love of Ovaltine, a black and white stripped shirt, a picture of him from the 80s with a perm, his funny little dog called Sobria, mysterious weekly meetings pencilled in his day-planner (viewed by me on the sly and never discussed), feeling like a minx and an intimidated kid in equal measures, watching The African Queen at his mom's place, eating out a lot, and that one perfect moment at dusk in his living room.

***

I knew things were coming to their natural end when we were at his friend's birthday party playing Trivial Pursuit. A question about Gen Xers was put forth and someone at the table pointed to me saying "Well I don't know if we qualify but she sure as hell does."

***

I found out later on that despite his feigned protestations I was not the first girl he'd dated who was fresh out of high school. I don't think he was a creep though, just a little lost. Hadn't caught up with his age. Now that I'm the same age he was when we met (and being lost myself sometimes) I can understand that a little.

I don't know why that one memory of sitting in his living room is etched in my mind. It had little, if anything, to do with him. Maybe it was just one of those instances where the picture you form in your mind about How Things Should Look coincides for a split second with How Things Actually Are.Who knows? I still get goosebumps though when, for a fleeting, minuscule little moment I feel like a grown up. It doesn't happen often.

Labour Day ~ Westmount

2010-09-13T23:47:00.000-04:00

My Enemy Wears Yellow

2010-09-09T21:04:00.000-04:00

What a magnificent grump I've been of late.

As one of my good friends pointed out this morning, I've been a bit distant lately. I know I have, it seems to be an inevitability of mine. Sometimes I flow and sometimes, like now, I ebb. I hole up in my shell. I like being tucked away in here, it's quiet and I can think. The only company I seem to crave is Stephen Fry on ye olde ipod. He reads and I slip through the bricks into Diagon Alley.

One reason for this habit of mine is that I have reverse SAD. Actually, really, it's regular SAD, it's just that I pass most sufferers going in the opposite direction. Summer finds me clumsy with heat stroke while the onset of winter sets my heart ablaze. Whatever else I am, I am certainly a champion hibernator. Despite my urban postal code I act like a country wife of yore and stoke up the oven, kneading and mixing, baking and roasting. I walk around in a haze of cooking smells, wiping away steam from the windows to peer out at the snow. It's wonderful.

But not in summer. In summer I swelter and slump. I scowl and bite. There's no denying that it brings out the worst in me.

By the time the copper tones of August slide down the seasonal horizon I am often in a state of nervous exhaustion. So very ready for the leaves to turn, for the advent of frost and apple picking and pumpkins on doorsteps. Temperatures drop from the 30s to the teens and I rejoice, reaching enthusiastically (if prematurely) for scarves and mitts and warm things to drink.

But then: enter ragweed.

Just as I start to feel the relief of Fall, just as my eyes shine in anticipation of the wonderfulness that is BackToSchool-Thanksgiving-Halloween-Christmas-NewYearsEve-MyBirthday I am struck back, my (red) eyes now shining with tears. I am reduced to a sneezing mess with an itchy palate.

What a kick in the teeth allergy season is. I'm not complaining, not really (yes I am). This is still my favourite time of year. This pencil case toting, molasses flavoured month is lovely. But could someone, for the love of kleenex, please do something about the ragweed?

Leftovers

2010-09-05T10:49:00.000-04:00

These are a few shots that I took but didn't get around to posting for August Break. It was nice to capture so much of the month on camera, something I am often too tired or too scattered to do. Thanks Susannah for inviting us to play along. It was fun to do and I really enjoyed seeing August through the eyes of lots of lovely people as well.

Around my neighbourhood at dusk:

At the park:

Mr & Mrs Claus?

Around town:

Rain:

Flora:

A lot of walking (and a break for souvlaki)

2010-08-28T23:22:00.000-04:00

For a description of where I went last night, visit Alissa's blog here. I wasn't quite as taken with the opening act as she was, but he certainly was ear-catching and an energetic performer. I was taken by Stereo Total. They were a lot of fun.
I spent most of today walking. It was a superb end-of-August day. Warm, but with a chill wind to remind us that apple & pumpkin season is nearly here.

We Want Miles

2010-08-25T22:51:00.000-04:00

Not my photo today, as I left my camera at home. But I headed here after work. Just in time too, it ends this weekend.

Photo by John Rizzuto

Playing with Light

2010-08-24T08:52:00.001-04:00

Attempting to follow some good advice from a master of the artful blur.

Wildlife in the Park

2010-08-22T11:36:00.000-04:00

Saturday Outing

2010-08-21T20:14:00.000-04:00

Purple

2010-08-19T20:56:00.000-04:00

Piano Repair Shop

2010-08-18T23:11:00.000-04:00

Beguiling covers

2010-08-17T23:46:00.000-04:00

The last two days went something like this:

2010-08-14T11:26:00.000-04:00

New York City (from June 2008) ~ Part 4

2010-08-10T10:22:00.000-04:00

Saturday (or: a little break in between thrifting and bookshopping)

2010-08-09T16:41:00.000-04:00

New York City (from June 2008) ~ Part 3

2010-08-06T09:24:00.000-04:00

New York City (from June 2008) ~ Part 2

2010-08-05T12:25:00.000-04:00

New York City (from June 2008) ~ Part 1

2010-08-04T09:29:00.000-04:00

In 2008 I went to NYC with Alissa, and I took twelve million pictures. I've never posted any of them here but since Alissa is back in Montreal this week (for good! or at least for a good long while) I thought I'd travel back in time and revisit our brush with the big apple.

After the rain

2010-08-03T18:43:00.000-04:00

We are getting quite the crop of rainstorms this summer in Montreal. Sudden and deliciously terrifying! So different from the slow, steady rain I grew up with. These were taken on my walk to work at the library this morning.

twinkle, twinkle

2010-08-02T09:18:00.000-04:00

Underfoot

2010-08-01T17:37:00.000-04:00

August

2010-07-24T17:14:00.000-04:00

For August, I am thinking that I would like to dig in to being a bit more creative. It's my break from school and I will have a week off of work in there too and while it is tempting to take on big projects like cleaning up my WHOLE APARTMENT, I think what I need most is some fun. So I've decided to join up with Susannah's August Break. Which, given how infrequently I post is maybe not a "break" exactly. But I have not been taking many photos lately, and I'd like to. I like having a snapshot record as the seasons pass, even if they aren't all masterpieces (which, of course, I want them to be). I like taking a bit of time to find a new perspective, a pretty shot, a good angle.

(Caveat: I may not actually take a photo every day... when I am not up for new shots I may go back to my bulging files of photos that have yet to see the light of the internet and post one of those instead. We'll see.)

Want to play along? Don't worry. There are no rules.

Summertime

2010-07-22T20:24:00.000-04:00

photo by: Cameron Wellock (see below)

Posts I've been meaning to write (and may eventually get to):
~ Pretty things (ex: mom's lovely handmade necklaces, some thrifted books, my owl ring)
~ A little round-up of all the new tv shows I'm currently devouring, when no more homework can be wrested from my brain (namely: Being Human, Glee and Huge)
~ Bits of summer: recipes, pictures, stories

~ Book reviews and recommendations (in the meantime, I've been posting the reviews I'm writing for class to my goodreads account )

Other stuff trotting around my head:

* Birthday wishes for a certain bosom chum (I'm totally sending you imaginary strawberry shortcake)
* Finding gorgeous things to look at online, mainly through blogs and flickr (perfect examples: see photos I've included in this post)
* I haven't taken a photo in... hrm. A long time. Should really dust off the camera and point it at something.

* The stack of books I want to read when this class finishes is taller than I am and August just isn't long enough for all of them ... sigh

* Somehow all the wildflowers this year are purple - are they always this pretty? I first noticed them on a drive to Toronto a few weeks back, lots of blue-mauves and buttery yellows against a soft green backdrop of summer grass. Almost makes up for the Heat Waves. Almost.
* Shiatsu. I'm thinking it's time to book a massage during my week of vacation.
* Speaking of which - yoga. Better reaquaint myself with my mat.
* Hyperbole and a half. My new favourite website. Actually, not that new. But still a favourite. I recently made it through the archives, and I think this is the best one. But really, it's all pretty wonderful.
* British Country Living magaizine. Why is it still June on the newsstands?
* The arrival of another bosom chum, who is moving to my fair city. Hurray! Huzzah! I'm so looking forward to hanging out and seeing Montréal through her eyes. But we shall not stop our pen-palling! Oh no, snail-mail will still criss & cross.
* And speaking of snails:         -------------@=<:

Photo credits: The pretty Patio Lanterns at the top are from my flickr favourites, by Cameron Wellock (aka cwxyz75); The lovely turquoise lanterns are by Jeanine Caron of Wonderings and Wanderings; the soft evening with twinkle lights (bottom) are by Brian Ferry of The Blue Hour; the cover of Nocturnes was found at goodreads.com

Bookworms Unite

2010-06-29T12:54:00.000-04:00

Library Advocacy Day

Did you know that was today (in the US)? I didn't. But now, thanks to children's illustration blog, I do!

These images were found via children's illustration, but originated at St Paul Public Library.

Is it really like a writing desk at all?

2010-06-23T13:05:00.001-04:00

I'm not sure just how much stock can be put in this website, but it seemed a good, reasonable answer. I like the response "they both have inky quills" best.

"Raven" by John James Audubon. Have you

seen his illustrations? Gorgeous. Definitely encouraging

my creeping birder tendency. Found HERE.

* * *

From wikipedia. Please click to enlarge. It's worth it.

I'm thinking about ravens. Or rather, of one raven in particular.

A few years ago I went camping somewhere north of Montreal with my love and we met a raven. I know I'd seen them before (I am from British Columbia after all, where they grow on trees) (ha) and had certainly heard them before, on walks in the woods, but this was a very up-close encounter.

Did you know that ravens are the size of turkeys? I wonder if the raven has swollen in my rememberings. Maybe it was the size of a very large chicken? No, I'm sure it was bigger than that.

He was so brazen, so cheeky. He almost seemed able to grin. Or wink. Or both.

(I only assume it was a he... could just as easily have been a she)

It was morning, and we'd just come out of our tent. The forest was mostly still, although you could hear the mist-muted sounds of other campers making breakfast, off in the distance. We heard a percussive noise in the trees above our site and looked up, all groggy and bed-headed, to see a feathery black giant. His head was twisted to the side, the better to see us.

He hopped down to ground level, having decided that we were about as threatning as kittens, and strutted around for a while. We were totally enchanted.

The campers next to us were either not up yet, or had already left to do some early morning activity, so our raven friend wandered around their site looking for snacks. Or trouble. Or both.

He poked around a woodpile ("Look how BIG he is!" we exclaimed, "He must be as big as a turkey!"). He snooped in their stove ("Look how CLEVER he is!"). He scratched in the rubble under their picnic table ("Look how BEAUTIFUL he is!"). He clicked his beak and made throaty noises ("Listen to how WONDERFUL he sounds!"). He catalogued their garbage and found little of interest ("See how endearingly CHOOSY he is!"). He moved here and there, sometimes quite near to us ("See how his black feathers gleam PURPLE and BLUE!").

I remember being struck, not just by his size, but also by his shape. I sort of had in mind the image of ravens as big crows. But they aren't at all. Crows are much sleeker birds. Ravens have heft, and also shaggy throat feathers. They both have crafty, intelligent eyes.

We were crushed when he moved on, about twenty minutes later, to cause trouble elsewhere. How wrong would it be, really, to have a raven for a pet?

This stunning photo was found, through a google hunt, at this curious spot.

As far as I can see, no credit is given to the photographer.

It appears to be a book proposal by one Boria Sax. I don't know if it ever got published.

Boria Sax is a delightful name, don't you think?

Now I want to read The Mythical Zoo.

Dear Mr. Boria Sax, you seem so interesting (and are possibly a fanatstic raven photographer),will you be my friend?