Sunday, November 18, 2012

Dear Artist

Dear Artist,

The world needs you to keep feeling. You may find as I do, that your life is consumed by extreme happiness, extreme loneliness, extreme sadness. And although at times these extremes can be crippling, they are also the very reason your art is appreciated. People want to feel, and you do.

Feel hungry, feel broken, feel wrong, feel love, feel loss. And if ANYONE tells you that you are too emotional.

Tell them to live in a world without art.

- Keenan Lawlor

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

short story - The Song

Her fingers lightly brushed the keys on the piano, sometimes pressing, sometimes not. Aimless and distracted she let the soft discordant sounds swirl and settle, waiting for... what? The right sound? The right moment...

Suddenly memories swirled out of the brief lull of quietness her mind indulged in, and the scattered notes of the piano began to coalesce into harmony and rhythm. Without thinking melody poured from her lips. The memories, like ink, emerged to write themselves into lyrics. The song was born and she felt herself give in to it. Grasping for a pen she scratched out the creation, aware, like so many times it had happened before, that the gossamer thought could burst and shatter before becoming something permanent.

But there, she had it. And methodically began to play it again and again, etching something ethereal - just a thought, just a sound, something intangible and brief in time - into something rooted. Fixed into psyche and onto paper.

I wonder what he would think if he could hear this, she thought almost emotionlessly to herself, as if the tempest of music she just spilled forth briefly drained her of the feeling. For the moment, it was outside of her. Ridiculous, that I would write to share, but can’t share it with the muse.

The spell broke, and she looked up, suddenly aware of the present; the sound of the cars passing outside her window, the hum of the fridge as its motor kicked in. Someone outside in the hall closed a door and turned the key, locking it. Soft padded footsteps faded from hearing as they walked away, keys jingling faintly.

Her hands went to her face and she rubbed it between soft palms as an exhale of breath huffed out of her.

I could post it online. He might see it there, she thought to herself. 

Shaking her head she laughed softly, her head dropping to the side.

Right, that’s not at all obvious.

She leaned back, Do I care?

Her eyes drew back to the words written on the messily stacked pile of papers that perched precariously on one edge of the digital piano, an old torn off sketch book cover masquerading as a clip-board.

Reaching forward she lightly she brushed the surface of the paper with outstretched fingertips.

God, I’m such an idiot. She whispered quietly to herself. How can I still miss this? Knowledge. Emotion. What a bitter fight until the end.

Clapping her hands on her thighs she stood up, the finality of the sound loud and abrupt. Despite the depressive state the song emerged from, she felt a sense of completion and gratitude, a strength that always seemed to emerge when she wrote. She switched off the piano and the amp it was connected to, and walked away.

Tuesday, June 19, 2012

my birthday present

If you know anything about Vancouverites, it's that we love our hockey. From the slightly disinterested to the band-wagoners to the full fledged adrenaline pumped Canuck loonies, you'd be hard-pressed to find someone here who doesn't have at least some sort of passing interest in the hard-hitting, fast paced, team orientated sport.

I may not be a falling on my face, die-hard, hockey junkie, but I do love my boys in blue and green.

So I had a work meeting about three weeks ago - on my birthday, lucky me - and after it was finished I sat in the parking lot of Safeway making calls and trying to organize some things. Then suddenly I saw my good buddy Mike whom I hadn't seen in ages walking out of the store.

I whipped out my phone and called him up yelping at him to stay put because I was comin' in for a hug. And as I walked towards him he say's to me "... and you wouldn't believe who is sitting in the Mercedes parked beside me. I think it's one of the Sedin's."

(Don't know the Canucks? Suffice it to say, the Sedin's rock the casbah.)

Oh ya, by the way... This little Canuck Monkey just happened to be sporting her teams t-shirt that day. Love when coincidences collide.

I have to admit I was a little distracted during my convo with my friend - sorry, Mike! - because my eyes were constantly straying to the black SUV, trying to peer in past the reflections on the wind shield to see if one of the best players on our team actually was just chillin out in the parking lot of a grocery store.

After we finished up our conversation I gave my friend a good squeeze and wandered back to my car, still a little unsure.

As I sat there in my vehicle about to tweet that 'I THINK one of the Sedin's is in the parking lot with me,' I realized what a shy goof I was being and entirely ignoring on of my life's philosophies;

You live once, so do it.

Sooooo I found the only pen I could find in my car, sheepishly slinked back up to the Mercedes and knocked lightly on the window.

The handsome man inside smiled and opened up the door. He kneeewwwwww it was coming. C'mon.. Girl stands in front of his car for five minutes in a 'Nucks tee and DOESN'T show up with a pen? I would have had to have been a complete nutter butter not to have.

And sure enough, it was definitely a tall red-headed hockey pro.

I giggled nervously and said "Hiii.. I um.. HAVE to ask.. I mean.. I'm wearing the t-shirt!"

He laughed and said in his light Swedish accent that it was no problem at all.

I turned around and he tried to sign the back of my shirt. Note to you all, ball point pens SUCK on t-shirts.

I asked him if it was working and he apologized and said, "No, not at all."

So I said, "Oh.. I guess you have to sign my chest."

"Ookay!" he say's.


Okay, Maybe I'm adding the emphasis out of bias, I don't know :p But he certainly didn't decline.

Annnnd there you have it. I got me #33, the captain of our team,  Mr Henrik Sedin's john hancock scrolled across the only writable surface of my t-shirt. (Which just happened to be covering one of the softer sides of the female form. How unfortunate.)

Happy Birthday to me!!!


Tuesday, May 1, 2012

Homebound for 12 months and counting

I’ve been homebound for 12 months and counting, and the ache to travel is steadily worsening. I’ve thought constantly about my love for photography and writing, and how exquisitely those marry with my passion for travel. A veritable orgy of combined pleasure. I genuinely hope one day I can make my living - no matter how pitiful, or plentiful, it may be - off of this trifecta obsession.

Unfortunately, as it happens to us all once in a while, I am currently chained to my homeland with financial shackles. And though I wrench and pull and whimper and cry, I must yield to their unwavering strength of reality. For the moment, I am stuck here. But this does not stop me, as it would not stop any hungering traveler. The cogs are turning and the wicked glint of percolating thought is twinkling in my eye. Something will happen soon, I assure you. And maybe I will be able to find those elusive dollar bills along my way. Tricky little buggers though they are, I do need me my good eats and the occasional roof over my head.

In the meanwhile I must still get my travel fix. And so I have decided to try and re-start up my travel blog here, regardless of the pathetic and troublesome lack of actual travel. I can still write about my home city – which, all biases aside, (ya right), – is a lovely place to visit and definitely worth writing about, and I can research, investigate, and create my opinions and thoughts on other places in the world.

Now, if this doesn't end up happening, (god that pesky mutiny of mundane boredom), I will probably still write a bunch of random crap. Just for the sake of feeling the words drift from my thoughts through my fingertips. It's such a satisfying feeling, and I will pop the cork from that wine bottle and drink from it as it should be.

Salud, Na zdorovie, Yamas, Salute, and Cheers.

Daddy's Advice

When I was sad as a little girl my dad used to kiss me on my nose before bed and tell me everything would look brighter in the morning. It helped me sleep because I found myself looking forward to waking up. I had unconditional trust in my Father. The sentiment and metaphor were simple and sweet, but the amazing thing....was that it worked. Things were brighter. And refreshed and invigorated I took on the world with a renewed vigor. I love you, Dad.