16 December 2007
10 December 2007
29 November 2007
Subtle Bodies
The fantastic Scott Everingham - who I am consistently in awe of and endlessly inspired by - has featured my work in DeviantART's 1st Art Exhibition: Subtle Bodies.
Please have a look at the extremely talented artists with whom I have been lucky enough to be featured.
Please have a look at the extremely talented artists with whom I have been lucky enough to be featured.
7 November 2007
27 October 2007
Homemade Haircuts are Both Funny and Free
I got bored and cut my own bangs with hilarious results. I think I'll throw away all the scissors in the house.
17 October 2007
1 October 2007
31 August 2007
Montreal
Being back is weird.
The crickets in the evening are deafening, louder still than the neighbors on their riding lawnmowers. It never gets dark at night, especially when it's overcast. Not because we're far north or anything, still riding south of that forty ninth parallel, but because the orange hue that oozes from the east reminds me exactly where it is I'd rather be. Everyone is still paranoid, everyone still drives a silver sedan. Everyone coaches a soccer team on Saturday, goes to church on Sunday, and washes their cars and walks their dogs between 5 and 7 on those days left over.
Everything is so far apart.
The city is still dirty, still loud, charming and rich. People still push, budge, spit, hang loosely off of lamp posts and cat call to the women around sunset. Cars continue to run red lights, ignore pedestrians, park on funny angles and endlessly crash into each other. Busses are crowded and awkward jittering things, and no one ever knows if they should sit or stand or give up their seat to anyone with a gray hair or two.
My house is still big, warm, familiar, mostly empty, and will never be my home. I came in to anything resembling me sitting on or around the bed I'm allowed to sleep on. Boxes everywhere. Sometimes I think Doug marks his territory with computer boxes. The clocks in the kitchen still run purposely ten minutes fast; it is still my kitchen in the future. Two of my plants died, two of them lived and Miss Canada was moved to the side of the road.
Things are still the same, but I suppose it's only ever the perspective that changes.
The crickets in the evening are deafening, louder still than the neighbors on their riding lawnmowers. It never gets dark at night, especially when it's overcast. Not because we're far north or anything, still riding south of that forty ninth parallel, but because the orange hue that oozes from the east reminds me exactly where it is I'd rather be. Everyone is still paranoid, everyone still drives a silver sedan. Everyone coaches a soccer team on Saturday, goes to church on Sunday, and washes their cars and walks their dogs between 5 and 7 on those days left over.
Everything is so far apart.
The city is still dirty, still loud, charming and rich. People still push, budge, spit, hang loosely off of lamp posts and cat call to the women around sunset. Cars continue to run red lights, ignore pedestrians, park on funny angles and endlessly crash into each other. Busses are crowded and awkward jittering things, and no one ever knows if they should sit or stand or give up their seat to anyone with a gray hair or two.
My house is still big, warm, familiar, mostly empty, and will never be my home. I came in to anything resembling me sitting on or around the bed I'm allowed to sleep on. Boxes everywhere. Sometimes I think Doug marks his territory with computer boxes. The clocks in the kitchen still run purposely ten minutes fast; it is still my kitchen in the future. Two of my plants died, two of them lived and Miss Canada was moved to the side of the road.
Things are still the same, but I suppose it's only ever the perspective that changes.
26 June 2007
I had a dream last night that it was summer and I was small again. One of those hot, sticky summers when we as a family would go into the Laurentians to the cabin of the Shells.
It must have been that summer before my mother died, I guess. We were on the shaded side of the lake - I was sitting on the damp wood of the dock, close to the shore as Douglas fished off the far end, his back to me and feet hanging into the water. I wanted to fish, too, so I had a green wire net, the kind used for domestic fish in pet stores.
Sitting at the edge of the dock I was next to the stairs that made the steep trip back to the cabin sitting high above on the hill. That cabin with its rusted screen door to the porch and the white and red check pattern to everything inside. That terrifying outhouse that during the day was much too close to the house and at night was always too far.
I saw the minnows, on my sunburnt knees leaning over just a little too far above the water that, when the sun finally hit it, was the colour of dark honey. It wasn’t working. Douglas could see that and laughed. I sulked and copied his posture with my legs spreading over the sun bleached wood and so far into the water I could feel the slimy tops of rocks with my toes.
When I got bored of digging in the water with the net I pulled my legs out and had a leach comfortably between my big toe and the next. I didn’t know what it was but my dad, his hair still black, came down when Douglas called and made a big fuss and I cried, not because it hurt but because of the fuss people made about it.
Maybe it wasn’t a dream but just me remembering.
Summer was better then.
It must have been that summer before my mother died, I guess. We were on the shaded side of the lake - I was sitting on the damp wood of the dock, close to the shore as Douglas fished off the far end, his back to me and feet hanging into the water. I wanted to fish, too, so I had a green wire net, the kind used for domestic fish in pet stores.
Sitting at the edge of the dock I was next to the stairs that made the steep trip back to the cabin sitting high above on the hill. That cabin with its rusted screen door to the porch and the white and red check pattern to everything inside. That terrifying outhouse that during the day was much too close to the house and at night was always too far.
I saw the minnows, on my sunburnt knees leaning over just a little too far above the water that, when the sun finally hit it, was the colour of dark honey. It wasn’t working. Douglas could see that and laughed. I sulked and copied his posture with my legs spreading over the sun bleached wood and so far into the water I could feel the slimy tops of rocks with my toes.
When I got bored of digging in the water with the net I pulled my legs out and had a leach comfortably between my big toe and the next. I didn’t know what it was but my dad, his hair still black, came down when Douglas called and made a big fuss and I cried, not because it hurt but because of the fuss people made about it.
Maybe it wasn’t a dream but just me remembering.
Summer was better then.
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