with regards to poetry: an attempt to save face.

Resumé by Dorothy Parker

Razors pain you;
Rivers are damp;
Acids stain you;
And drugs cause cramp.
Guns aren't lawful;
Nooses give;
Gas smells awful;
You might as well live.

and some poetry.

So, I've been challenged by this gentleman, my stilt-walking teacher of years ago, to read 100 poems and see if they won't force me to retract some flip comment I made a blog ago about not liking poetry. In a nutshell, for the ones I do like, I give $1 to my favourite charity, for the ones I don't, he'll cough it up for the same. A philanthropic endeavour, to be sure!
Pondering it further though, I have to say I'm going to have to minimize the project. Any review I could give of the poems I have been sent so far would have me outed for an Absolute Wanker, given that I have Plath, Pound, Roald Dahl, Ginsberg sitting in my inbox to name but a few. All of whom I have read (and enjoyed) much prose by, so WHO ON EARTH would I be to decry their poetry!?!
I will, for those who have not read his comment in the initial posting, re-iterate what dear "clicclic" (072666) wrote, who has known me forever, and has put it both charmingly and accurately: "...I always thought of you more as someone who simply hates bad poets (which are epidemic!) rather than one who dislikes poetry. it seems in the 21st century that artists and poets have been largely trained by artists and poets; the new breed have learned how to 'affect' art and affect poetry just enough to get noticed (it looks & smells like a poem, therefore...). Previously it was people of very diverse backgrounds coming to the table and using common tools/mediums to unify and describe their experiences; suddenly one can understand the positions of both the WW II Field Marshall and the decadent Aesthete."

It's true. I'm going to add to it though. Us art sorts are a self-absorbed lot. I'm no exception. I wouldn't be able to do what I do without a bit of critical selectivity as to what touches me (ahem) and what leaves me cold. Lots of poetry leaves me cold. It's not bad because it does so. But to pledge allegiance to it all Just-because-it's-poetry-and-i'm-an-arty-sort-so-really-I-should-love-it seems just as silly.

Ok, enough. Here is the link to Robert's blog on the subject, since he is doing much research in coming up with these samples of the fairest art our language has to offer:http://bobsyblog.blogspot.com/
Funny bloggy world. How odd to read an acquaintance's account of my "communicativeness" (such a kind word for it), and I'm beginning to think I should be paying Darren O'Donnell royalties for all the traffic that seems to unwittingly end up in my small corner of blog world due to that infamous debate of so long ago.

ANYHOW.

The first poem. From what I understand, these poems will appear on Robert's blog, I am long-winded enough without posting them here. You can click on the title for the link, though.

Lady Lazarus by Sylvia Plath.

Surprisingly, I wasn't that fond of this one. i Adore Sylvia Plath, that is no secret, I named a series of paintings after her oven, but I found this poem was too wordy. (shrug) SUBJECTIVE, remember. I'm NOT saying it's bad. I'm just saying, on the whole *I* didn't like it. There were a couple of stanzas that Struck me (the way I imagine the whole thing should, for me to quake in my boots and announce "I've just been poetically struck!", but it was only a few stanzas that did it.
...
I've just read it again to be sure. I just think it could have been alot shorter, and blown my mind with the gems, instead of nestling them in unnecessary wordy details.

Prose is for details.

The second poem: The River Merchant's Wife: a Letter by Ezra Pound.

(sigh) Now I have a feeling this is going to turn my blog into some sort of constant public apology, but this poem didn't appeal to me either. Again, I think it is well-written, for that I'll happily set my $1 aside, but I wasn't really drawn in by it. Sorry.

JUST TO BE ASOLUTELY SURE IT'S CLEAR: MY OPINION OF THESE POEMS IS NOT, AND NEVER WILL BE, A STATEMENT OF THEIR QUALITY. I am not a poet or an expert on poetry, and I am in NO position to evaluate or judge critically. I am, however, as close as it gets to an expert on myself, and I seem these days to have some sort of grasp on what I like and don't like, which I'm assuming is what this is about, if I understand correctly.

Lest you think I'm utterly apathetic to the english language, see quote cited two posts down from Lullabyes for little criminals, one of the books I'm reading right now.
Now That threw me across the room (or the laundromat, rather) this morning.

gravely disturbed.

i'd like to say that i'm still rather traumatized from my viewing of Notes of a Scandal and it's four days later. At first I was disappointed that the film didn't have Patrick Marber's caustic wit and stripped dialogue from Closer, and I was trying to figure out why the producers bothered getting him to write this screenplay, if he wasn't going to write in his own style. Closer was DIALOGUE according to its strictest definition, while ...Scandal was characters talking for the sake of the audience, your run-of-the-mill "and then she said this so (the audience) would know about this" kind of deal.
As i've been thinking about it though, I realized that even without his trademark writing style, he's a master at re-creating this hollowed-out horror of what it's like to be a human being alone with one's own thoughts and misunderstandings, even when one is surrounded by others. Which is, of course, exactly what the film seems to be about.
That said, I get it, and I would like the film to go away now.

lullabyes for little criminals

If you want to get a child to love you, then you should just go and hide in the closet for three or four hours. They get down on their knees and pray for you to return. That child will turn you into God. Lonely children probably wrote the Bible.

--Heather O'Neill

of peripateticizing, popcorn, and theatre for the end of the world

This is a sub-headed post. Bear with me. It's been a Very Full Day.

PERIPATETICIZING.
So. Feeling lamentable about it, I left my beloved Dervish lurking in my hallway this morning, given the unsympathetic state of the roads, and set out toward the busstop on foot. I only felt a momentary lurch of horror at the pile of people waiting there before deciding I would at least walk to the next stop, given the absence of any sign of a streetcar.
And then, dear reader(s), I was at Dovercourt. (I live in the very west of the west end of town)
Given that Coco lives in proximity to where I was, I gave her a ring, and asked if she wouldn't like to accompany me, as I decided "why stop now?" was the developing order of the day. She, being suitably extravagant by nature, especially on overly snowy mornings, decided a bit of brekkie was in order before we continued our pilgrimage. And so it was. We then continued onwards, stopping in several glorious stores (including the Paper Place AND Type, OH TYPE) to warm our toes during the trek.

(OUR V-DAY DECISION IN FAVOUR OF LETTERS OF INTRODUCTION)
We did make one solid significant decision on our chatty meandering: that letters of introduction should be...erm...re-introduced into the societal norm. You know, those clever things that once allowed new citizens entry to a work post, a new circle of friends, introduction to otherwise strangers by an indirect acquaintance.
We decided, however, that this practise should be extended to relationships. When one is on the cusp of exiting a relationship, one should be able to procur a letter of introduction from the break-upee for bringing to the next relationship. The same of course for those beginning a relationship. (Of any sort, really.) This would give both parties in the next chapter some idea of what they should and can expect from the corresponding suitor.
It seems to me it would make the practise of suiting (sic), breaking-up, and moving on easier, more respectable, and force people to uphold their good character once the initial excitement has waned.

POPCORN.
Arriving at work, we decided it was lunchtime. And soon after that we decided it was movie-time (lest you think this happens regularly in my work-life, it DOES NOT, but it was V-day, afterall), and we went to see Notes of a Scandal (perfectly suited to the day, if in name only)
I was Extremely Excited because the screenplay is written by one Patrick Marber, who was the mastermind of stripped-bare genius writing in the film Closer (based on his play of the same name) Not since Mike Leigh's Naked(an all-time favourite) had I seen dialogue SO accurate, so simple, so clear, and so intense, and was looking forward to more of the same.
WELL.
It seems he was adapting someone else's book, so the minimalism I had anticipated writing-wise was not to be had, but Intensity, YIKES. For those of you who don't know, I apologize in advance for giving some of the plot away, but it is, in a nutshell, about an intensely lonely woman who thinks she has discovered a lover in one of her work colleagues, and spends the whole film fabricating their relationship inside her head, whilst basically blackmailing said woman with a secret that could lose her her job. And the object of her affections, who sees this woman's solitary life, has No idea how her own sympathies and kindness are being misconstrued, and is led through this bizarre series of manipulative relations with the woman to keep this one mistake of hers a secret. The key to it being so intense is that there is no taking sides with either character, they are both intensely human, they are both doing their best, and they are both causing each other immeasurable pain and/or difficulty.

Anyhow. The film had the solitary ponderer in me want to call everyone I know and double-check with them that everything is in order despite my occasionally overabundant enthusiasms. And conversely, to give every person i am indifferent to and/or not excited about in my life Whatfor.

Of course, I will probably do neither. I haven't the testicular fortitude for the latter, nor the inclination towards disappointment with the former.
But I ponder it, I do.

THEATRE FOR THE END OF THE WORLD.
Ended the evening at the opening for Mammalian Diving Reflex's "Diplomatic Immunities: The End", which is, as indicated, the last of this project, erm...I think. It was great and I recommend it, it's playing at Buddies 'til 25th February.
I feel like, given my thoughts on their last show (one blog removed from this), I should take a moment to string a few well-intentioned ones here. There were things I liked better about it than Suicide Site Guide to the City It had the usual Mammalian "audience participation factor" which is insightful and definitely thought provoking.
But. For those in the audience familiar with the shows (which was alot of the house tonight, I think), the strategy tends to result in a pre-theatre introspection for attendees, (that is, how daring do i feel today, am i up for being asked personal questions by the performers or would I rather hover in the back and just observe, and if so, will I be allowed to, or dragged into a spotlight to talk about my thoughts on anarchy, God, and/or my covert sexual preferences) It was kind of a relief to have Darren share the question periods with all the performers, who are less confrontational in demeanour, without being any less pointed. The video footage of all the strangers/street people they interviewed was AMAZING, Especially the kids, who were asked their thoughts on the end of the world, the best way to die, and what music they wanted to hear, (possibilities included We will rock you, We are the champions, and a couple of other gems I can't for the life of me think of right now.)
Anyhow. I'm no reviewer, but I do say "Go see it". Perhaps not on a day when you are feeling particularly jovial, as was I, since the subject matter is weighty, and there isn't much in the way of optimism. But it's thoughtful. And thoughtful is good.

And so, to bed, and a happy V day and anti-V-day to all!

the Absolute, Utterly, Very Best thing about snow

is having a bay window in which to perch and watch it fall. Honest to Gods GLEE. Double Plus Glee, even.

poetically challenged!

I received a phone call this evening from the gentleman who taught me to walk on stilts some years ago (of course I did. oh funny bloggy life.), saying that he has been successfully wasting his valuable time reading this blog for a bit now (well, thank Gods someone else is wasting their time, tho' I imagine it's nowhere near as much time as I have been wasting writing it.)
ANYHOW. He was re-directed the other day to my old blog of 2005, where I stated at some point my general dislike for poetry, (excepting, of course, some remarkable and life changing authors (ee cummings, Stephen Crane, Lewis Carroll, etc.).)
So why did he call, dear readers?
To propose a CHALLENGE.
He is going to send me 100 poems over the next while.
I am to read them.
For each one I like I am to donate $1 to my favourite charity, and for each one I dislike, he will donate $1 to my favourite charity.
Goodness. I'm not sure I even have a favourite charity.
I'm not very charitable.
(Except when I'm far too charitable, but that's a different issue altogether)
Small furry animals are of course the first things that pop to mind, but I think Volcano Theatre would well win out as the most apt choice, if for no other reason than their staging of Varieté so many years ago, which made me LOSE MY MIND. (Varieté being "a vaudeville show inspired by the music of Argentinian/German composer, Mauricio Kagel, featuring dance, acrobatics, contortion, burlesque, clowning, magic and the text of Griffin Award winning poet Heather McHugh. Conducted by Robin Engleman.")

So. We shall see how this unfurls.

For the moment, though, I feel a short explanation of my antagonism to the poetic medium is in order.
How is it possible that an artsy minion such as myself, who works at a literary journal and a poetry-publishing indie press, dislikes poetry?
sigh. well, i don't strictly speaking. I am an ardent fan of all things written, and poetry has its place there.
BUT. I have the same misgivings about poetry that I have for contemporary art; why, for the most part, I prefer (ahem) naked italian angels on ceilings, and creepy etchings of spanish wars and monsters (Dear Goya) to nails stuck in the wall with titles like the state of my soul and such.
I just feel like so much poetry (and so much contemporary art) doesn't allow their audience in. So many poets (and artists) get cheeky, thinking they can outwit their readers with their clever ambiguity. (NOT ALL, mind you, NOT ALL, and I hope you will understand I am NOT advocating the composition or publication of literary pablum)
I read poems from here and there that do throw me across the proverbial room, but I respect people who use language to clarify themselves, rather than hide themselves.
Unless they are playing about, which is rampantly obvious, and rampantly enjoyable to read as well.
Art, in my small mind, should be beautiful or useful, but not baffling. Unless baffling, to the individual experiencing it, is useful. In which case I am fully in favour of that too.

of shearing, archivism, and artsy nonsense.

I will attempt not to beleaguer my reader(s) over the next couple of months with tedious details of my book(let)-making process/fixation. If my last blog was any indication, it really did get taxing, re-reading this constant running tally of my navel-gazing progress.
But I will assail you with sundry discoveries along the way. That is, of course, the nature of blogs, chock-full of unimportant but (to me, anyhow) highly amusing drivel.

My next little book(let) begins with a haircut, and so I spent some of today searching for the photographic record of my historic shearing of almost a year(!) ago. Ah photos. Besides a feverish and only slightly regretful nostalgia for my old locks, I also found a few other photographic gems of times-gone-by sundry art ventures. (click on photos to see them full-size)

Reference photo (2006) taken by my fellow dreaded friend Shan, just before my shearing, for her slide viewer/book project Four Failed Proposals for a World that Won't Hurt

Mid-way through shearing (2006); "Possible use for severed dreadlock #12: an inpermiable disguise."

Film still from a fire movie (2002) shot on Toronto Island, where I came prepared with all manner of fire toys imaginable, two bottles of kerosene, and NO MATCHES. So Very Clever. (in the end, a stranger named Leo doing an artist residency at Gibraltar Point saved us with fire and an impromptu bottle of wine, bless him)

Photo project (2003? 2004?) involving many suitcases, old carbon copies, white face paint and lingerie. (Note dreadlocks from 1998,(the second incarnation), in baggie on bottom right. Sigh.)

Pillowman production still (1999), banana (ahem) cocked and ready.

And this, although not an "art" project perse, was taken only a few weeks ago, inside one of the opulent water closets at the Royal York Hotel. Graffitti. In the Royal York. It seems someone was tucked away in the loo, doing the math to figure out someone else's age. Or their own. This, my dears, is how the other half lives.

excerpted from Harper's Weekly

...Japanese Health Minister Hakuo Yanagisawa apologized for calling women "birth-giving machines," hospital staff in Yekaterinburg, Russia, were gagging crying babies, and in Cambodia a Briton named Bowel Anpaul was arrested on charges of pedophilia. Rubber genitals were stolen from the set of the new "Hannibal" movie, an Argentine soccer fan who asked for a tattoo of his team's logo received instead a tattoo of a large penis, and a Chinese man whose genitals were eaten by a dog when he was a child was said to be happy with a new penis built from his chest muscles and hip bones....

ah, news.

and at 3.30am

with dinner and dessert finished, wine bottle empty, teapot drained, knitting tucked away, and Coco heading off into the evening, i thought, Yes. Friends. The Most Lovely Invention EVER.
And then I found myself wondering, most selfishly, what would happen if Montreal went the same way as New Orleans, come June. (sigh)

(unwitting) courtesy of Stephen Crane, late at night.

if there is a witness to my little life
to my tiny throes and struggles
he sees a fool;
and it is not fine for gods to menace fools.

--The Black Riders

35 MINUTES.

Roncesvalles to Scarborough.
I'm Very pleased.
I thought to myself, yes, Victoria Park, I know where that is, that's easterly, isn't it. The beaches or something. No problem, it's a lovely evening.(cycle cycle cycle)
And then I reached a very large rather regal looking building with what seemed like Absolutely nothing beyond it, and the "Scarborough" sign, and I realized i'd reached THE VERY EDGE OF THE WORLD. And in 35 minutes no less. Who KNEW?!?

not that I'm procrastinating by posting COUNTLESS ridiculous stories or anything...

But my bog is busted. It happened about an hour ago. I heard the sound of running water, and went in to find the tank part wouldn't stop filling. An overly ambitious toilet. Who thought it possible.

(This reminds me, inconsequentially, of the tea bag 072666 and I found on our winter vacation in Cornwall in '99. To quote the dear fellow upon its discovery: "Look! It's the most ambitious tea bag in the world! And now, I shall BREW THE SEA!"

But back to my crapper. There was quite a kerfuffle. Javi came over and showed me how to turn off the tap, and told me I have a broken floater. Then Fred, my other upstairs neighbour and a notoriously handy sort, was trying to tell me how to fix it. I officially decided, though, that I will not extend my DIY aspirations to the arena of plumbing. I WILL not.
I finally managed to get ahold of my superintendent, who, bless her, told me the location of a secret key to her home that I might use her washroom, should there be any need, until it all gets fixed tomorrow.

I have to confess, I am feeling very coddled about the whole crisis, at the end of it all.
Glorious neighbours and blasted old buildings. (heheh) Honest to bog.

a bicycle christening.

Ok.
I have, over the last week, consulted acquaintances, loved ones, colleagues and strangers, both devout cyclists and the bikeless rabble, and have at last come to a decision.

DB Ampersand.

This moniker is not mine, alas, it is the brain child of one Scott Waters, fellow Reverent Cyclist, and a clever sort to boot.

(Actually, cyclist is a bit of an understatement. Cycling machine as I discovered earlier this year, when I foolishly thought I might match his speed on a pilgrimage up to York University. We were off to see the beloved Shannon Gerard deliver her masters thesis on autobiographical comics.) It was quite the journey. We ended up being a bit early, so took a shortcut through a park (or something) with a river. Though arriving at said river, it ended up the ruddy thing had flooded with the rains of the night before. Not wanting to backtrack, we ended up taking off our shoes and portaging the bikes across.
That's right. PORTAGED. BIKE PORTAGING. I had Totally forgotten about that 'til just now. Glee!!!

Of course, I can't throw to save my life, and one of my boots ended up IN the river before we made it across, and Gods only know what Shan's adjudicators thought, as I took it off upon our arrival so that my sock could dry while they determined the course of the rest of Shan's academic life.
But I digress.

DB Ampersand.
The Perfect name for my bicycle.

DB stands of course for Drop Bars, which are by far the most excitement my bicycle has had since getting stolen and then re-appropriated in 2005.

The D will serve a dual purpose though, standing also for Dervish, which refers (only modestly, you understand) to the constant state (so help me Gods) of my brain.

And the & part (as pointed out by Mister Waters) allows me to leave my options open.

Dervish B. Ampersand.
(slurp) christened with a cup of tea at 7.19pm, this Thursday eve in February, 2007.

i have Absolutely no idea who said this to me.

Found scribbled on the back of a bike tire tube box snippit, whilst going through sundry papers today:
I was very distressed when my grandmother named her cat "cukey"

And it begins again. PART THREE.

Got half the day off from work and managed to be thrilled, despite my consternated wallet.
Went to the ref mit story outline and officially began pictures research for my third book(let). 3 hours sorting through 30 odd picture files, including such categories as London-Camden, flowers-poisonous, and implements-garden, Honestly, it's a Fascinating life, this.
I amassed 173 borrowables in the end, and the reference collection lady was very tolerant, duly stuffing them in five separate envelopes so that I could actually sign them all out. I left the library completely high on this IMMENSE Rush of excitement about it all.
100% Adrenaline.
And so, dear reader(s), it (re)Begins.

Other highlights of the day include a sighting of cookie monster mittens (on an adult), a copy of "the emperor's new clothes" in a (different adult's) bike basket, being fortuitously present for a TPL lecture by George (Yay!!!) Walker about the revered nature of the book, unexpected gustatory victory in my carelessly packed lunch, the discovery and purchase of sea monkeys for bk's birthday, misplacing my ring in this EXCEEDINGLY cold weather, biking across town, and then discovering said ring tucked into my trouser leg which I had rolled up in order to bike, and, last but not least, arriving home to stunningly red kitchen walls, freshly painted last night and then promptly forgotten about upon leaving the house this morning in a haze of pre-grant mailing anxiety.

Non-highlights include pre-grant mailing anxiety, followed quickly by LOSING MY NERVE in front of (IN FRONT OF) the mailbox in the mailing of said bloody application.
Yes, Mere moments away from letting it go, I brought the blasted thing back home with me.
GODDAMMIT.
Only tea and bikkies can save me now.
And a smack in the head should I not relent at least by Thursday, once I've addressed my newest round of anxieties over it.

steflenkbogsagain.

or that's what I thought I read in the browser window just now.

Anyhow. The office phone rang today, and after a short conversation, Coco hung up the phone looking quite distressed.
"What?" I asked. "WHAT?!?"
"I just picked up the phone to the oldest lady in the world at the other end. And do you know what she asked me?" said Coco.
"No, Coco, I don't." I said, which seemed the only correct answer, given the circumstance.
"She asked ..."
"What??? What did she ask?!?!"
She asked.....'do you have ladies underwear... in wool?' "The poor thing! She must be chilly today!"

Goodness. The poor old dear. Imagine the chafing.

In other "news", I spent much of my day trying to re-create this: þ, for a poem we are publishing in our next issue. An icelandic thorn, by name, it is a latin ligature pronounced "th", but is in fact just a P with an ascender, and really a very lovely symbol to boot. It led me through an astounding maze of olde english, mathematical symbols, and countless other typographical ephemera. Of course my computer wouldn't cooperate, and frustration reached fever pitch when I read that the thorn is sometimes used as an emoticon, (:-Þ) to represent a face with a tongue sticking out.
Of course, Here I am casting about with the academics and the typographers for old english ligatures while all the youngins are sticking their proverbial (thorny) tongues out at me. And believe me, the irony is not lost on me that creating a thorn on this blog took about .231 seconds, while creating a printable one in our house font took...much longer.

of eyelashes and bike couriers

I have just had a nearly fatal collision with another bike courier this morning.
Ok, actually we missed each other by a couple of feet but both burst out laughing since we both had the same bikes and were identically attired in 20 feet of sundry woolies and full body ear-muffs, looking not unlike pomeranians on (exceedingly stylish) wheels.
And as I trooped up the steps of the regal George Brown house to our little office, eyelashes (eyelashes!) defrosting, I thought, yes, indeed, I really really love winter. Love it.

On the naming of bicycles and tea with Woogie, (the wise and dreamy guardian of the lavender sheep) in the first colour of the rainbow

Out on a skating expedition last night, I was asked my bicycle's name. I abashedly admitted that I have yet to come up with one (the naming of a bicycle is a task not to be treated lightly, and I have yet to feel adequately up to the task.) When I returned the query to my questioner, his answer was "Mathilda Junkbottom" A Fantastic name, I thought admiringly, while my brain niggled...why does that sound so immensely familiar. Why why. Finally I asked, from whence came such a remarkable moniker. His reply: Doctor Snuggles.

DOCTOR SNUGGLES.

Well. I nearly lost (what little is left of) my mind.
Doctor Snuggles is only THESINGLEMOSTFANTASTICGREATESTKIDSSHOWEEEEEVVERERRRINVENTEDBYMANKINDONTHISPLANET.
(second only to the muppets of course).
I have not seen it since I was about 7 or something, but have just spent one Ridiculously Happy Sunday morning plumbing the depths of the internet for bits of Snuggles' nostalgia. *sigh* oh my Goodness. Doctor Snuggles.



Doctor Snuggles, a bespectacled inventor, complete with pinstripe trousers and duck-headed umbrella pogo stick, lives with Miss Nettles his stiff and formidable, but well-meaning housekeeper (stiff and formidable, indeed!), Dennis the badger and Nobby mouse, and of course Mathilda Junkbottom the robot built from junk to perform various useful and enigmatic roles. They spent each show (done in the 80s[?]) running around the forest and such, doing good deeds, flying to space in Snuggles' home-made rocket Dreamy Boom-Boom to have tea with WOOGIE (WOOGIE!!!!) the freckled camel,
(the wise and dreamy guardian of the lavender sheep) in the first colour of the rainbow, and doing their utmost to foil the dastardly deeds of one Professor Emerald, the malevolent power crazed magician and Doctor Snuggles’ archenemy. (descriptions courtesy of the Doctor Snuggles website)

Sigh. I include a few more characters for your (possible) edification, dear reader(s):

Madame Dumpitoo, Miss Nettles' pipe-smoking consort,
Winnie Vinegar Bottle, the witch who lives in salt and pepper mountains
Charlie Rat, Willie's fox's pea-brained serf

And an Abundant and Vociferous encouragement to visit youtube where a benevolent chaply sort named Sebastien has posted the episode of "the Remarkable Fidgety River", where big square blocks of the sea have gone missing and the river has retreated to a cave in mortal fear, until Snuggles comes to the rescue. Written by one Douglas Adams. DOUGLAS ADAMS!!!
Sweet Toenails of Tartarus. Could there be any greater thing to have graced our boob tubes, EVER???

all hail tiny gems.

Came upon this during the course of my editorial-y duties on Friday:

"He moved at a speed that allowed him to replace loss.”
MO

Truly Wonderful.

a long forgotten gift.

I, along with my good friend and excellent comic-book artist/partner in crime Willow Dawson will be teaching a book-making workshop affiliated with AGYU starting in two weeks time. In an attempt to gather some samples to show students, I asked my mum if she could lend me some of the sundry gifts I'd made her over the years, of a bookish nature. She brought some unexpected treasures, that I'd completely forgotten I'd made. These excerpts are from a scrapbook on the revered nature of journaling that I made her in 2000, complete with fragments of stories I wrote when I was 8 (including the infamous "The Adventures of Super Pickle" and "The Hair Grower"), as well as my very first report card at the age of 6. I was particularly enamored, in a navel-gazely kind of a way, with this latter document, which (of course) begins: "Stefanie is a very verbal child...."
(click on pages to see them in full detail)

Licensed at Last!

I have AT LAST, well, yesterday, received my official motorcycle M2 license in the mail, a mere days before I would have had to troop out and get another temporary one. I look, suitably I suppose, and not surprising at all, like a terribly overweight jail convict. Upon examining the contents of the envelope, I also found the following, which I sincerely hope they send to all new drivers, and not just those getting motorcycle licenses.

(Click on pic for detailed view of the Ministry of Transportation's benevolent campaign)

the UCCS; a most civilized event of a Saturday eve.

I haven't the witty wherewithal to post fully on this, for the moment, but I had the privilege of joining (via my pseudo-caricature Pippa Ellsworth Marigold, Esquirée) a Upper Canada Chap Society party celebrating the return of their founder, one Ozcar Wildeflower III, on Saturday night. Held at the Library bar at the Royal York Hotel, the revelry was over 23 personages strong, all of them decked out in full regalia, indulging in G &T's, Pimms, and, ahem...plenty of cucumbers.
Check out correspondence leading to the event as well as the event itself here. Alas, there are no photos of my costumed self, due to the fact that I was behind my camera, but I'm hoping fervently that some other members will post their own photos of the event in the near future. We shall see.
I will say though, that it is one of the first times in an AGE that I walked into a room full of strangers and was able to hold my own (COMFORTABLY) in a conversation, with nary a concern over my ignorance of the latest on television, newspaper or tabloid. Bliss and Glee!

yeah, swell.

So.
To any of my reader(s) who got spammed not once, but THREE times today, my Profuse apologies.
I still don't know how/what happened (trying to work it out right now) but, despite running test messages in all three instances, somehow the emails got sent out with only my subscribe/unsubscribe details in them. And though I am quite soliticious when it comes to whether or not people actually want to be on my list, I really don't need it reaffirmed three times, nor do I think people want to reaffirm it.

Anyhow.
My original intention, after a long arduous think about it, was to forward a message that got forwarded to me.
Yes, one of those. That we all already get too many of, that put me through ethical trauma everytime I get them, 'coz I really would rather use my list for what it was originally intended, namely, to let people know what I'm up to, that they might come say hi, buy a book, pat my shoulder if they feel so inclined. I don't know that I feel alright carpet bombing people (a great many of whom i barely know) with my politics.

But here it is below, then, Goddammit, if only to end the ruddy thing.

(And yes, I hereby guarantee that I will no longer forward messages of ANY sort to my mailing list. Senders be warned. I love you, I care about this stuff, but I'm officially traumatized about the whole forwarding messages fiasco.)

Please pass this around. It's a French initiative that is just arriving in North America: The 1st of February 2007. Participate in the biggest mobilization of Citizens Against Global Warming! The Alliance for the Planet [a group of environmental associations] is calling on all citizens to create 5 minutes of electrical rest for the planet. http://www.lalliance.fr

People all over the world should turn off their lights and electrical appliances on the first of February 2007, between 1:55 pm and 2:00 pm in New York, 18:55 for London, and 19:55 for Paris, Bruxelles, and Italy. 1:55pm in Ottawa, 10.:55am on the Pacific Coast of North America. This is not just about saving 5 minutes worth of electricity; this is about getting the attention of the media, politicians, and ourselves. Five minutes of electrical down time for the planet: this does not take long, and costs nothing, and will show all political leaders that global warming is an issue that needs to come first and foremost in political debate. Why February 1? This is the day when the new UN report on global climate change will come out in Paris. This event affects us all, involves us all, and provides an occasion to show how important an issue global warming is to us. If we all participate, this action can have real media and political weight. Please circulate this call to your utmost ability to your network.

note to self on a monday.

one of the many merits of working at a Coach House

Our toilet bowl? Frozen. Solid.
We all stood around it in mute horror (and silent mirth) on Friday.
Someone suggested that filling it in the usual manner would no doubt break the icey pond encased in porcelain, but no one wanted to test and be sure.
Finally a cup of boiling water did the trick.
But not before I wished fervently, SO fervently, that a camera had been present.

enthusiasm binges

It occured to me today that I may have a strange affliction: enthusiasm binges.
I have been indulging them lately, in a manic frenzy of over-activity. Book-making, letter-writing, scarf knitting, pot-plant planting, web-site building, manic-hard-drive organization.
I mean MANIC.
Rational thought will have NO ESCAPE from this evening's organizational tactics.
And though this may sound just peachy to some, I am really not quite sure. It's getting excessive.

I really need to get cable. Or perhaps the motivation to figure out how this television I was loaned actually gets even the basic channels, which I haven't quite had the patience to do yet.

Anyhow, I'm not sure what all this means, but I did feel the need to post a vague concern.

I suppose this productivity does keep me in tow over the winter months, and alleviates some work worries I've been having.
I googled enthusiasm binges, anyhow. Only got four hits: two blogs and two dead ends. So if it's an ailment, I'm the only one who has it. (sigh) Great. Oh, would that I were a normal human being!

my anatomical leanings and a horrid nightmare.

well.
This'll be a post with subheadings, i think.
It's just that kind of post.
And I love subheadings.

MY CLEVER LITTLE BRAIN.
I went to bed feeling immensely clever.
I taught myself to write html and build websites etc from scratch many years ago, so whenever I finish one I always have this memory of my very first web page. (It was hand-coded, so to speak, and took about 13 hours. I kid you not. It was a red screen with the word hello that linked to a green page that said well done!.)
(My roomie at the time, 073666, was most impressed, especially when I got him out of bed to show him at 2 in the morning.
"Oh." he said, if I remember correctly.)
Anyhow.

MY NEW WEBSITE.
For those of you unfamiliar with my new site, one of the splash pages has four mason jars on a shelf, which, when rolled over, reveal different parts of human anatomy floating in the formaldehyde which lead you to the pertinent pages (ie. eyes for paintings, heart for books, stomach for freelance work)

I know.

MY ANATOMICAL LEANINGS.
I love anatomy. It fascinates the hell out of me, I think the human body is the most beautiful and AMAZING machine that exists. I think about it every day, and it never fails to remind me of magic, and I am convinced that every single thing we do, have, or have created, can be found to be a mere and modest mimicry of something that already goes on inside us physiologically.
(shrug) It's my ideal metaphor.

OTHER PEOPLE.
When I first told Coco (aka. 231079, aka RSS, aka what on earth do you want to be known as on this blog?) about my new design, she was vaguely horrified.
I chuckled a bit, as I do, seeing as I am the FIRST one under my chair, hands paralysed, when the horror movie trailers grace the theatre screen. I can deal with them, but from beneath my chair is the place I do it best.
When concocting my little splash page drawings, it didn't even occur to me that my little mason jars have much the same effect on your (well, not really average), but definitely sane human being.

WELL.
I had a HORRIFIC nightmare last night.
Literally a "cold sweat and awaking in manic terror of the dark room" sort of dream. I don't have them often, and i hate them. HATE them. Probably because I spend so much time dissecting them for significance, I end up feeling like this is it, my time is up, etc etc.
I won't go into any details about it here, not only would it send you, dear reader(s) running, but would probably bring the little men in white coats clamouring forward to remove me from the internet for content violations.
But I will say in part of the dream I was decapitated.
(Don't worry, I sewed my head back on and even managed to smoke a cigarette.)
(And I don't even smoke.)
(Beetlejuice's got nothing on me.)

Now I comprehend, and now I worry.
I'm not really sure what to do, because what looks like four modest mason jars with anatomy in them is really a week and a half of toil and hairpulling.
So I suppose this is a disclaimer of sorts.

I guess for now, did I say go visit my website? Don't go visit my website.
(sigh)

i'm sorry Coco, there are no dancing ladies.

But it's DONE. and up. Not content to just add the few trifling things missing, I rebuilt my whole website in the last week.
Off my head. Utterly Potty.
But thrilled nonetheless.
It's quite the task, I was doing a link check to finish up and my hefty website program told me there are 1545 links in the bloody thing. How does it keep TRACK of everything?!?! I wonder.
Anyhow. Come visit.

a cyber respite.

it's true. I have been remiss.
But.
Not content to just "update my website" with new projects, (how GAUCHE), I am toiling away at a redesign, which is so on the cusp of being finished that I am salivating, if it is possible to do such a thing online.
Coco, I don't know if there will be dancing ladies, but I am striving, oh how I am striving.

I'm aiming for the end of the week to upload said site, and I pray you, be patient. You bloggy sorts will no doubt appreciate my new html efforts in this latest venture in websitedom. It is true, I have discovered....(cyber drum roll) SLICES. (sounds of accelerated heartbeat and heavy breathing) Goodness.

In the meanwhile.
Discovered this quite by accident whilst writing a (thumpa thumpa) letter this evening.
(No, like a Real letter. THEY STILL EXIST. IT'S TRUE. And I'm BACK OFF THE BANDWAGON, GLORY BE)
But yes.
I dropped my thesaurus, a formidable tome, and as I leaned down to pick it up, I saw that the honorable sorts in Oxford have provided us english speakers with three synonyms for "man on the Clapham Omnibus".
These are: (in order of importance) "hoi polloi", "people", and "plebeian"

How extraordinarily competent of them.