Starting again, again, and again

I picked up my camera again tonight for the first time in what has been an abnormally long time. And while there are a lot of issues with this photo, it's nice to be back at it.

For Most of My Life

I was having fun playing around with this photo, and I really like how this version turned out.

I don't really have all that much to say right now.

I haven't been sleeping well. I crawl into bed thinking I am so tired and am going to have an awesome sleep, and then, no matter how exhausted I have felt all day, no matter how long or busy my day was, I can't fall asleep. I've taken to listening to audio books - mostly children's stories: Winnie the Pooh, Peter Pan, The Chronicles of Narnia - in an effort to help myself fall asleep. I need something for my mind to focus on so that it will stop thinking so loudly. When I told my mother this, she said, "It reminds me of when we used to play music for you to fall asleep as a kid." I'd forgotten this little biographical fact. I distinctly remember though, that a) I couldn't fall asleep without listening to something, and b) there were nights when the tape would finish before I fell asleep, and I really hated that. Apparently, insomnia, like perfectionism, has been plaguing me for most of my life.

Apparently, I had more to say than I thought.

Gatherings of the loveliest sort

Jean soon learned that at Ewa's parties there was always a project on. Huge rolls of brown paper were unfurled and everyone painted a mural; a sheet was tacked to the wall and a film projected while the Dogs played, sewing together a melody out of silence and the whirring of the projector. Actors gathered in the middle of the living room and, with nothing more than a spoon or a dishtowel, transformed reality - having a Sunday row on a pond or floating in a lifeboat on the North Sea; suddenly they were lovers on a picnic blanket, or thieves, or children on a swing. Jean knew these actors had worked together for a long time, a bodily history among them. She had seen Avery perform loaves and fishes with objects, with stones on the beach, with rulers and wooden blocks, creating bridges, castles, entire cities. But his magic was solitary and intellectual compared with the instantly complex communication between these bodies, the moment continually changing, deepening into humour or sorrow. And sometimes this pathos was intense, and a hole opened, and everyone watching from the edges of the room found their own sorrow pouring into it. Crack! the earth of the scene split open and down everyone tumbled together into the wreckage of memory. And then the actors melted back into the party, and the food and the bottles were passed around again.

-- Anne Michaels, The Winter Vault 

Some day, I would love to host gatherings like the one that Michaels describes in this passage.

I was fortunate enough to spend quite a bit of time over the long weekend at low-key gatherings with dear friends. It was a pretty delightful way to celebrate the start of summer, if you ask me.

The Lovelies

I write a lot on here about the loveliness of simple things and how much I enjoy spending time with my friends. And, really, who doesn't? I find though that it's one of those things that I keep realizing over and over again. It's not so much that I forget it, but more that I'm repeatedly struck with the truth of it. This week was a slog. It's not that it was bad really, it was just...gross. I felt off all week. I've been a bit under the weather, it's been raining, I've been feeling a little buried by my ever-growing reading list...in short, it was one of those weeks where everything kind of piles up and you wind up in a bad mood even though everything is actually fine. Despite all of that, there have been sets of hours that have shaped themselves up rather nicely. A couple of my closest friends out here just left. We took a few hours break from work to bake and check out the new crepe restaurant in town. The baking was fun, although poorly planned, and the restaurant was lovely, although they are still trying to find their stride. And the company was, of course, delightful. And we parted with plans for breakfast at the crepe place (yes, this might become somewhere we spend a lot of time and money), coffee shop work, and eating the fruits of our baking adventure. All in all, it was pretty much the perfect antidote to the weird mood I've been in.

Happy Easter

Happy Easter to one and all.

I've been writing a paper this weekend, but I did have a delightful potluck with some friends on Friday, so it wasn't a total loss of a weekend.

I hope that whatever your weekend held, you enjoyed it.

Beautiful and Good Things

Luxury is not a necessity to me, but beautiful and good things are. - Anaïs Nin

On Saturday morning I went to check out the farmers' market here. It's amazing. It runs twice a week, all year round, and on Saturday's there are about 70 vendors. And it is a real farmers' market. There were only one or two booths that were selling crafty things. Instead, there was an embarrassment of riches in the food department. Beautiful vegetables and berries, local wines, fresh bread...everything one could hope for. One table was selling fresh flowers, and they were stunning. I bought myself a few stems to set on my table. They are absolutely delightful. There is something about having fresh flowers that always makes me feel better. They instantly provide me with a smile whenever I look at them. I think I may need to make a weekly tradition of going to the market on Saturday mornings. You know it's a good place when I will get out of bed to go.

Looking Forward

Want to know one of the things I am most excited about for when I'm living in Nova Scotia? Four seasons. That's right folks, they have four seasons. Edmonton theoretically has four seasons, but autumn and spring hardly count out here. They last for about a week. And it's really a shame because they are such gorgeous times of year. Okay. They ought to be gorgeous times of year. Spring in Edmonton is mostly associated with brown sandy sludge all over, the emergence of garbage that has been under the snow all winter, and a really annoying pattern of thawing and freezing that means the city basically turns into a giant skating rink. That's unpleasant, but what really bums me out is the fact that we get gipped out of an autumn here. What we do get can be just plain amazing, but it is so short that for someone who is an autumn-lover like me it is rather disappointing. So, I'm super stoked to live in a province with an autumn that people rave about. I'm hoping for days like the one pictured above: soaked in golden sunlight and saturated with rich colours. I know it's only August, but I am already so excited for autumn that I can barely contain myself.

A little something pretty

Just a little something pretty for the middle of your weekend.

The vivacity of one of those moments would burn us

from "A Tale of Two Gardens"
Octavio Paz

A house, a garden,
                           are not places:
they spin, they come and go.
                                        Their apparations open
another space
                    in space,
another time in time.
                             Their eclipses
are not abdications:
the vivacity of one of those moments
                                                   would burn us
if it lasted a moment more.
                                      We are condemned
to kill time:
                so we die,
little by little.
                  A garden is not a place.
Down a path of reddish sand, 
we enter a drop of water,
drink green clarities from its center,
we climb
            the spiral of hours
to the tip of the day,
                             descend
to the last burning of its ember.
Mumbling river,
                      the garden flows through the night.


I mark the changing of the seasons by these trees, but my absolute favourite time is when the bloom in the spring. The flowers never last very long because the first good gust of wind blows the petals off the trees and creates what my mom likes to call an impromptu wedding in our backyard. The other morning, a couple of days after I took this picture, I actually looked out the window and thought it was snowing because all of the petals were raining down. The weather is a bit gloomy right now, so I thought that sharing something simple and beautiful and summery was a good idea.

I love the opening of this poem. Octavio Paz writes truly stunning poems. The idea of gardens being loci for nostalgia is wonderful and enchanting. They are no longer places but time itself in some way. They capture moments and feelings and then unleash them on you when you return. I think any place is like that, imprinted by the past, imbued with memory. Objects, places hold history within themselves. Not just our personal memories either. I always feel as if locations and objects hold historical memories. Perhaps this is why old buildings or vintage objects are so fascinating. They hold countless stories. And perhaps this is also why sometimes it is nice to have something brand new, something that is blank, that has the room for you to create your own memories without becoming mixed up in those that came before you. I've never had a garden like that, but I can imagine one. It's really lovely to think about.

Because the light says so

You Must Believe in Spring
Jan Zwicky

Because it is the garden.  What is left to us.
Because silence is not silence without sound
Because you have let the cat out, and then in, and then out,
           and then in, and then out, and then in, and then
           out, and then in, and then out, and then in,
           enough.
Because otherwise their precision at the blue line would
           mean nothing.
Because otherwise death would mean nothing.
Because the light says so,
Because a human being can gladly eat only so much cabbage.
Because the pockets of your overcoat need mending.
Because it's easy not to.
Because your sweaters smell.
Because Gregory of Nazianzen said geometry has no place in
           mourning, by which he meant despair presumes too
           much.
Because it ain't over 'til it's over. - Hank Aaron, Jackie
           Robinson. Satchel Paige.
Because Kant was wrong, and Socrates, Descartes and all the 
           rest.  Because it is the body thinking and Newt 
           Gingrich would like you not to.
Because I love you.  Or you love someone.  Because someone
           is loved.
Because under the sun, everything is new.
Because the wet snow in the tress is clotted light.
Because in 1941 it took six cords of wood to get through a
           winter in one room at Harvard and two-thirds
           of Main used to be open country as a result.
Because sleeping is not death.
Because although an asshole was practising his Elvis Presley
           imitation, full voice, Sunday morning, April 23rd
           at Spectacle Lake Provincial Park, the winter wren
           simply moved 200 yards down the trail.
Because the wren's voice is moss in sunlight, because it is
           a stream in sunlight over stones.
Because Beethoven titled the sonata.
I mean: would Bill Evans and Frank Morgan lie to you?
Because even sorrow has a source.
For, though it cannot fly, the heart is an excellent clamberer.


I know this post is a little out of season since (fingers-crossed) summer seems to be underway in this part of the world. However, the lilac bush at my parents' house never blooms when it ought to. All of the other lilac bushes are blooming like mad, perfuming the air and displaying their frothy purple blooms, but not this one. It's still just barely budding. And it will patiently wait until the other bushes have faded. Only then will it burst forth in a jubilant celebration of a season that is long gone. There is something about this that delights me.

This poem by Jan Zwicky also delights me. This idea that the light demands a belief in spring resonates with me. Light is such an integral part of how I think of the seasons. It, more than the often wacky weather, dictates when the season has begun to change.

This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us

Rain Makes Its Own Night
Anne Michaels

Rain makes its own night, long mornings with the lamps left on.
Lean beach grass sticks to the floor near your shoes,
last summer's pollen rises from damp metal screens.

This is order, this clutter that fills clearings between us,
clothes clinging to chairs, your shoes in a muddy grip.

The hard rain smells like it comes from the earth.
The human light in our windows, the orange stillness
of rooms seen from outside. The place we fall to alone,
falling to sleep. Surrounded by a forest's green assurance,
the iron gauze of sky and sea,
while night, the rain, pulls itself down through the trees.


The other night I stopped at Chapters with a couple of friends and discovered that their poetry section has expanded! I mean, it's still not huge, but it is certainly improved from the measly two shelves it usually is. Of course, I had to treat myself to some new books. Glorious. Simply glorious. It's been raining lately. There is something nice about weather like this. It's relaxing and contemplative. Life seems a bit slower when it's rainy; there's space to breathe and room to think. Rain and poetry are an excellent combination.

The Smallest Things

It is rarely the big decisions that affect us. It is, more often than not, the little ones.

We sit there sweating over the list of pros and cons, about whether we should live in the country or the city, buy the Apple or the PC, take this job or that one. We fret, and agonize, and come to terms with what we think, and then fret some more, and change our minds, and then, finally, we take a big deep breath and come downstairs one morning and announce what we are going to do. And we think it is so big, and important, and monumental, and earth-shattering. And it isn’t. Not one little bit. Everything changes and then - nothing changes.

It is never the move to the country or the decision to have kids that change everything. It is the dinner parties. The little things that you didn’t think twice about. It is the girl you sit beside on the bus without even noticing - the bus ride you took on a whim.

The big things, it turns out, are in the small things - the ones you can neither prepare for nor plan.

And what should we do about that? Nothing, it seems. Mostly, I think, it means we should relax and go with the flow or, better, with our hears. Our hearts know the way, and the trick, it seems, is to follow our hearts. Because if we do, everything will work out all right in the end. And if it doesn’t? Well, you know the answer to that. That just means it’s not the end.

("Small Decisions," Stuart McLean)

Finding comfort in these words as my life tiptoes towards massive change. This is one of the things I love most about literature: it's unparalleled ability to speak directly to the circumstances of your life whatever they may be. The importance of small things should not be lost on me, a lover of all things tiny, like these bitty blue flowers that were growing in Cape Breton last time I was there.

Stymied, stuck, at a stasis

I am stymied, stuck, at a stasis. Some paralysis of the head has got me frozen.

But I must get back into the world of my creative mind: otherwise, in the world of pies & shin beef, I die. The great vampire cook extracts the nourishment & I grow fat on the corruption of matter, mere mindless matter. I must be lean & write & make worlds beside this to live in.

(from The Unabridged Journals of Sylvia Plath)

Apologies for the sporadic nature of posts on here lately. Life has been busy. But more than that, I have been feeling profoundly uncreative. This is not unusual at this time of year. Exams and final papers take a toll on me creatively. Moving knocks the wind right out of me. And the typical end-of-term sickness makes it hard to do anything. I've been thinking the last few days about how dry and sterile I feel when it comes to creative things. It has been so long since I did anything deeply creative. I keep thinking back to last summer; a lot of things about that period of time sucked. It was not a good year. But my days fell into a lovely rhythm, an ebb and flow of creativity, an immersion in artistic pursuits. I miss that feeling. I need to reacquaint myself with pastels. I need to buy some film for my new Diana camera and begin to play with it. I need to spend days taking photos. I need to learn a new song on the piano. I need to write. I just need to do something.

This photo has very little to do with this post other than the fact that it was produced in one of my few creative moments in the past few weeks. I kind of like it for that fact. It promises me that I won't be stuck in this barren land forever. It's a little glimmer of hope.

Happy Easter!

Okay, so this isn't an Easter Lily. But I actually don't like Easter Lilies that much, so here is a white lily. Technically any white lily is a symbol of the resurrection, so I think I'm still good.

I hope everyone had a lovely day. I'm still battling my post-exam illness (which has turned into a really awful cough, making speaking difficult) and I had to work tonight, but at least the sun was out and it was a beautiful day.

A Bit of Loveliness

Just something pretty for you. And me. I'm trying to inject some loveliness into this time of year for me. Also, my brain has no room for anything aside from paper writing right now so I'm having a hard time coming up with anything to post here.

Light's Embrace

I love light. That has been well established on this blog. Sadly, now that the sun has emerged on a more regular basis and the days have gotten longer I have had to hole myself up in windowless rooms to do work. But there was a moment at work today when the golden light of the cusp of sunset came in the window next to my desk and wrapped me in its embrace. And for those precious few moments all the stress and worry drained away.

This picture is from the walk my roommates and I took through the river valley in the fall. It is probably my favourite shot from that evening. The gorgeous golden-hued light just makes this lovely plant all the lovelier.

To Spring

Sonnet: to Spring
Sylvia Plath

you deceive us with the crinkled green
of juvenile stars, and you beguile us with
a bland vanilla moon of maple cream:
again you tame us with your april myth.

last year you tricked us by the childish jingle
of your tinsel rains; again you try,
and find us credulous once more. A single
diabolic shower, and we cry

to see the honey flavored morning tilt
clear light across the watergilded lawn.
although another of our years is spilt
on avaricious earth, you lure us on:

Again we are deluded and infer
That somehow we are younger than we were.


Sylvia Plath wrote this poem in her journal in August 1951. She was eighteen at the time and finishing up a summer post as a governess of sorts. It was never published, but I still like it. Spring and I have a complicated relationship. I like spring in theory. I am the first to admit that the change in weather has a profound effect on my mood. I always find it amazing how as soon as the sun comes out and the snow starts melting everyone just comes alive. I've really been struck by that wandering through the school the past week or so. It's the most stressful time of the semester, but the emergence of the sun has brought people to life. However, living in Edmonton means that spring can also be downright cruel. There is no guarantee that we won't see snow again before summer. And the mess created by the melting snow and the sand and gravel that has been put on the roads all winter long is just plain disgusting. Plus seasonal changes mean exciting things like my knees swell (I know, I sound like an old woman). So Spring and I have a complicated relationship. I feel like Plath's poem gets at that sense of knowing I am being deluded and yet falling for it every year.

Macro

The moment one gives close attention to anything, even a blade of grass, it becomes a mysterious, awesome, indescribably magnificent world in itself. -- Henry Miller

I am fascinated by macro photography. It's one of my favourite ways to shoot actually. There is something about getting up close to everyday objects that is so cool. It changes your perspective. There is something magical that happens in the best macro shots. A new world opens up. I always feel like the characters in fairy tales or kids' books that discover a secret world under the floor boards or in the forest. Like I've glimpsed the fairy world in Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens or wandered into the secret kingdom in Twelve Dancing Princesses. It's profoundly beautiful and moving.

Those of you who know me and spent some time with me this past week know that my fellow Ballyhoo editor and I spent a lot of time disparaging the number of flower pictures we received as submissions. I am very conscious of the fact that I personally take pictures of flowers almost every chance I get. I think though that this concept of intrigue and uniqueness is what makes or breaks nature photography. You can have a perfectly lovely photo, you can even have a beautiful photo; however, I think that for me to genuinely fall in love with something there has to be something different about it. It has to grab my attention. It could be light, or colour, or composition, or subject matter, but something has to grab me. For me, this often comes from the exact sentiment Henry Miller is talking about.

Sometimes...

Sometimes the smallest thing can turn your day around and put a smile on your face.

Smiling anyway

First, I would like to apologize for two things blog related. I am sorry my posts have been rather sporadic lately. The last week was crazy. This week doesn't look any better. In fact, February is pretty much just nutso. Additionally I haven't exactly been feeling like I have anything to share. Most days it has been an effort just to haul myself out of bed and make my way through the day, so by the time I sit down to stare at a new blog post I am usually drained of any ounce of creativity or thought. Which brings me to the second thing I am sorry for. I am sorry that this blog has been so Debbie-Downer-ish lately. That's just the headspace I've been operating in and I find it difficult to be less than honest here. Perhaps it is because it is my art, and art, I find, seldom lies about my mental state. I can smile all day long, but if something is bothering me it will inevitably come out in my creative endeavours.

In an effort to balance out this and this here is a list of 10 things that are making me happy lately.

1. The flowers that my dad bought me a couple weeks ago and are still alive. (I took this photo of them a while ago on an exquisite morning of sunshine, tea and French music.)
2. Tonight's sunset. It was gorgeous. An intense golden sun and the perfect blue/yellow/pink watercolour sky.
3. Pictures of tiny kittens.
4. Professors who genuinely care about me.
5. Conversations with my best friend. Even if they are via text message.
6. Fried mushrooms.
7. Fantasy shopping for furniture/accessories for wherever I end up living next year.
8. Blackberry Vanilla Lipton tea.
9. The fact that I finally feel like I fit in with the guys at work.
10. Watching the latest episode of Greek.