sabbatical

june

If I said what I meant all the time I would regret it, although feel better, momentarily, before everything collapsed into hurried words and hot-headed agony. So I’m not. And I haven’t. And as you can tell by the lack of activity here, I’ve been keeping it low-key. How else am I supposed to keep you interested and consistently coming back if I’m not shrouded in a bit mystery, huh?

Essentially, I’m summing up this month-long hiatus from writing as the time I buckled napalm to my actions and reactions in order to give you something  good to read--a vacation from scrutinizing thoughts and assessing behaviour and just carrying on in a reckless manner regardless if I remember how or why. You guys cool with that?

So as a 1-2-punch update: life has been a parachute opened, impossible to shove back into the case. So much has happened, started, stopped, and continues on in unknown directions. Read a little, seen a lot. I’ve sat porchside, stoopside, poolside, on the right, and wrong side of bars with my tight little clad of friendly bandits. Some of the writing work I’m doing is chomping away at my senses and poisoning my vocabulary, but then the art!…oh the art projects I’m involved in makes it feel like I’m grabbing a brick and busting through the window of whatever’s making me feel trapped—pure satisfaction.

 My partner in crime is back from Scandinavia. The moon is increasingly more influential. I’m finding new nerve endings I never thought I had. The city! The city is alive and degrees away from exploding some days. I love it; but also am burgeoning in time spent out of it.

Some days are like cinematic feverous dreams, like fireworks in th eyes and swollen kisses and hallucinations that certain moments will last forever. And then there are days spent with my head in between my knees, gently rocking, trying to find balance again. Another nothing. Another something, Another summer. 

inefficient

Oh the word 'efficiency.' Bane of my existence sometimes. So often we're encouraged not to linger over ideas for too, not to slow down and ruminate. Instead it's action, reaction--hurry up and complete one task so there's time to move on to something else. What else? Anything else--the new, the now, the next. 

Take your brain, fraught with all its messy smear of ideas, it's only once you let dreaming take over 

to smooth out the minute details that flimsy, fragmented concepts may enter the real world. So beware creeping efficiency because if you lose the time to dream, you will eventually lose your mind.

so here's my problem

I haven't been able to write anything in the last week. I'm too happy, which makes me too fucking complacent that I have no inspiration. Champagne problems, I know. But thinking, even for a second, that you're losing your voice is like vertigo--at least it's the lovely kind of vertigo that feels like being drunk off whiskey, but without the maddening blindness and consequential hysteria. 

something different. something more.

Change is probably one of the hardest things to implement in one’s life because it takes courage, effort and endurance. It isn’t just a matter of putting left foot in front of right,  it’s making the conscience decision to put the left in front of the right every time--so it's very easy to slip up or give up.

I've always felt that as an artist, or anyone working in a creative field, it's part of the job to be in and out of an unsatisfied state, and to constantly make changes, in some way or another, to grapple with the space between fulfillment and angst. 

....but before I continue my ranty speech allow me to rewind a bit....

I left my job yesterday. Not a big deal except I loved my job, I loved the company I was part of, I loved my boss and all my colleagues. I spent the last year and a half involved in some fantastic projects on behave of an incredible organization . And I was actually writing. For any of you reading this who are also writers, getting people to pay you in things other than favours to write for them is not always easy. But regardless of all of this, there was something important missing and there had been for a long time--I couldn't bear to settle with longing for the unknown any more.


I've always felt like I've been one of those heroines too high strung for a normal* (*read: steady, stable, fixed) existence so now that the cord that tied me to some semblance of a structured life has been cut,  the world is, as they say, my oyster. I have no plans at all. In fact I have no idea what I want, I only know what I don't want--and the things I don't want are to feel too comfortable and too complacent. Reaching a sense of satisfaction is like reaching a state of happiness--you get there and then what? As scary and exciting as it is to tear life up without having any idea of what to do with the pieces, I'm strangely comforted by the fact that I haven't stopped looking for something different. Something more.  


images via http://misspaq.blogspot.ca/

don't stop.don't change.stay beautiful.

You create your own reality. You chose how you feel about the outside world, other people.. you’re even free to chose how you feel about yourself--although, we often forget that. 

You don’t have to be down today, you don’t have to be regretful of the past, you don't have to be the version of yourself that others like and you can't stand. Don't stop. Don't change. Stay beautiful. Sometimes, happiness is much simpler than we make it out to be.

images from inspiration folder

boomboom

Today I was reminded of the importance of not falling in like.

Falling in like is the worst. Falling in like will lead to things such as bruised hips, sleepless nights and hallucinations of a marching band passing through my head.

Sure, it’s poetic but it’s also exposing. Falling in like leads to saying things I mean but shouldn't say. And I need control.

So here's the problem: do I let myself continue to fall helplessly in like, or do I start to sabotage it and slowly pick at it like a scab? Or what's worse--do I even get to choose--will I find myself potentially ruining something because I lack the willpower not to? Or will I tear it apart little by little just to beat him to the punch?

This is not a cute dilemma. This is something that is going to end in a rich flavor of hell.

Cue the marching band. Cue the blurry vision and careless decision making. We’ll leave the sabotage-talk for another late night as I contemplate the ins and outs of hour-long kisses and gazes that singe my lashes.

later, at the bar

images Remi Theriault  

Sometimes just going for a drink can change the course of your life. Instead of pacing back and forth in your apartment tallying up your to-do list or trying to think of a word that describes the thing you have no idea you're trying to write, go drink some fine grained liquor. 

Trust me. People's advice sounds much better and you end up talking about oysters and other important details of the evening like the creme fraiche in your ceviche, thinly sliced meats and the handful of characters behind the bar.  

Good things happen to those who go for a drink. Which is why I went to Whalesbone recently with a whimsical lady friend, who sings lovely songs, and a talented gentleman friend, who takes lovely pictures. 

See above. 

as far as lovers go

Can we all just take a minute to fall in love? I don’t mean with the barrista that pours your coffee or the fella sitting at the bar. I mean let’s take a minute to fall in love with your street, with your window, with your route--it’s time to start a love affair with your city.

kiss kill bang bang

We were like our own Jerry Springer episode me and this guy. But it wasn’t always that way. We met. We liked one another. We shared the same interests—we were both easily bored and we liked adventure. And by adventure, more often than not, I mean trouble. And by liked, more often than not, I mean desired.

One of the first things he told me that I actually remember was that I look like trouble. I wasn’t sure if it was a pick up line or a warning, but those words made me feel warm and my actions right.

We would start fights on bridges that would end up in bedrooms—drunken, stupid fights in the middle of winter that left both of us cold, tired and defeated. He would set my bras that I left at his apartment on fire and send me photographic evidence of his rage. After all was forgiven, I would look back on those moments and think of them as acts of romance— minor instants of misplaced love. When waiting in lines and crossing through city parks on my way to work I would imagine all the intensity he must have felt while torching my delicate underthings and I would smile to myself on occasion. How silly! How juvenile and dysfunctional of me to think that way. I should have figured it out then. I should have known it was never romance. This was never love. This was a game –Russian roulette for the emotionally negligent. 

image Rene Magritte 

flu

For the last few days my bed was a garden and my limbs felt tethered to it like weeds. I was smacked with the flu even after all my efforts of eating vegetables, drinking bland teas and tucking myself into bed at a civilized hour. Half in and half out of a responsive state of mind I spent the time staring at the ceiling while flipping through photography books and watching painfully good reality TV. Nyquil sang me a lullaby every night. But my immune system is back and so am I. 

just another existential dilemma

Honesty is always the hardest thing to spit out. Writing the truth takes courage. You have to be  shameless and, at times, quite careless to write down what is really happening in your mind and then share it…. share it. Doesn’t the word “share” sort of imply that the reader is a willing participant in the matter of receiving information? That the reader, in fact, wants and accepts the possible bullshit that he or she is about to read? People should never “share” their thoughts--assuming that others want them-- instead they should expose them while waving a casually stretched middle finger in the air to those who do or don’t want to know what is on the writer’s mind. This is one of those times—whatever you want to call it: sharing, exposing… this is your warning.

If you’re looking for a light and airy post on fashion or romance or what I ate for lunch, then stop reading right now. This isn’t the post for you. When I started this blog, I began writing on the premise that I would be revealing. I would be honest, candid and real. Over the last 2 years I’ve kept this promise on occasion; divulging momentary parts of my life and head space that are at times a bit embarrassing to think that I let strangers in on. But, there have been many, many posts that I’ve been vacant from. Although the images or music, etc that I post have some meaning to or affect on me, really they are only a fraction of what is likely happening in my life.

I’ve been questioning the purpose of this blog lately. It started as a personal project—a sort of exhibitionist’s diary that morphed into something less personal over time. To be honest, I hate it sometimes. Blogging is not like riding a bike. Blogging is like diet and exercise. It’s a lifestyle that can be tiresome, time-consuming and self-indulgent.

I didn’t start writing for the sake and enjoyment of other people. It was always something deeply personal. Then I wanted to get a reaction….I wanted to hurl my words out into the world to see happens…hence, the birth of the blog.

It kills me a little sometimes to think that in order to increase followers one must appease to the typical reader’s desire to see pretty pictures or skim text five sentences or less. Don’t get me wrong. I like looking at pictures too. I guess it just frustrates me when I know I could use this blog to express something more significant at times and then I don’t.

So I’ve reached the point of thinking fuck it –I’m in a slapdash state of mind these days and no sense representing myself any differently. There are times before I hit “publish” I hesitate putting the truth down on the page because my heart is in my throat (likely will happen at the end of this rant), but let’s face it, the truth is the only thing worth reading.

So here’s a hefty dose of the truth. I’m stuck. I’m locked in love, lust, like and well, mediocrity at times. All simultaneously.

Sitting on my bathroom floor night after night after I get home from a bar, dinner or just being out I slam words into my keyboard hoping that I can look back at the sentences and turn them into formulas…maybe then I can begin to make sense of things. I’m trying to chase dreams that my mind made up but I don’t know if these dreams are actually mine or spotty bits of an unfiltered subconscious.

Chase the dream? Don’t chase the dream? Damned if I do and damned if I don’t.

I write to remember the moments--to immortalize, remember and eventually draw from them—but I have to remind myself that there are people attached to those words. And every word from someone’s mouth was fueled by an emotion that was influenced by an event. There’s so much I want to publish, so much I want to say, but I’m trying not to exploit my friends, foes and lovers. I’m trying to figure out where the line is and how much of this blog should be commentary on reality and what should be left private. Should everyone be notified out of common courtesy that nothing is off limits or do I show some modesty?

So that’s today’s pickle: an existential writing dilemma. Check back tomorrow. Maybe there will be some pictures. 

A Guide to Sexual Philanthropy

Another Valentine’s day has come and gone. Despite the obviously sappy connotations, over-priced flowers and copious amount of candy hearts I happen to love valentine’s day.

Admittedly if I were to be in a relationship right now I’d certainly had to have been tricked, but aside from that, I’m notorious for abandoning all responsibilities for a brief moment of passion. Therefore any holiday that celebrates romance and encourages crack-pot love affairs is a-ok to me.

Perhaps you’re not into the sappy stuff? Or maybe you’re against the commercialism aspect? At the very least Valentine’s could be a day that spurs you to challenge your assumptions about love, sex and relationships.

During the course of the day I ran into a friend who was telling me about his newly-vowed dedication to being a socially-conscious member of the community and all around good citizen of the Earth—essentially pay more attention to his recycling and composting habits, eat only locavorious and/or organic foods , volunteer a minimum of 5 hours a week and  march in at least one protest this year.  Good on him, I thought. But what was missing in all of this do-gooding were charitable acts to help the future of fucking. Maybe it was the love in the air but I thought it was imperative to add a dimension of sexuality to one’s daily dose of charitable acts –it’s one thing to be sex-positive but another to act sex-positive, right?

So, I slapped together this little guide to sexual philanthropy. Applying any and all of them do require a sense of humor and levity…and perhaps a mischevious grin. If you have any other suggestions on how to be sexually philanthropic, I’d love to hear them!

A Guide to Sexual Philanthropy 

1. If you find yourself staying at a hotel and there is a bible in the bedside table, replace the bible with a few condoms. God is fine for some but he won’t protect against chylamidia.

2. Don’t bother with posing or facial expressions. Now is not the time. If you’re focusing on your face, you’re not focusing on what you’re doing. You can make cutey pouty faces in the mirror later. Respect your partner’s time. Refrain from the Alba Emoting lesson and leave your vanity at the door.   

3. Stop buying cosmo mag. Seriously stop. It’s as grotesque as it is tragic. I’m sure it made sense to many impressionable female minds at some point but not any longer. Even the headlines “sex boosters” “turn-on tricks” “flirty lashes” inspire a bout of dry-heaving. Subscribing to this magazine  is like attending a gynecological conference without the brains or knowledge to back it up. Until cosmo starts offering advice like Cosmo Sex tip #666, when he’s least expecting it, carve a pentagram in his chest and begin summoning satan do not purchase.

4. Don’t refer to things you think are weird or bad as “gay.” You may not be a homophobe but you’re associating negativity with the word “gay.” Not cool.

5. *Romance is certainly not dead. It’s just hooked up to a respirator, feeds through an IV and pisses in a tube. Romance may appear unaware of what ‘s going on, but really it’s in a state of what medical professionals call “locked-in syndrome”—it can’t move or speak without assistance. But romance isn’t dead. It can hear the beeps of the machine sitting next to it and romance feels alone. Romance waits for someone to sit next to it. You should be that person.

6. When sitting in a café sometimes it’s alright to slightly turn up the volume on the conversation you are having with your friend about the guy who likes a slip of a whip over his bottom.....or another other sexually-charged narrative you're recounting. We whine and complain about getting dumped or going on dates enough in public, we might as well give eavesdroppers an interesting story once in a while too.

7. Give sex-positive gifts to friends --and not just the ones you want to get down with. Buy gift certificates to local sexy stores (Ottawa: VenusEnvy) that have more than just lube and stuff. They sell erotica from local writers and artists, as well as hold classes and informational events for people of all interests. Buy the people in your life gifts that are both educational and incite in them a need for adventure. 

8. Girls can fake an orgasm. But guys can fake a whole relationship. It’s best just to be honest and upfront about everything.

9. Don’t assume that just because someone is conservative (especially in this government town) that they are the same way in the bedroom.

*Romance and sex and two very different things and they can help one another out once in a while. Not always the case, but romance and sex should at times overlap.

right time wrong turn

Installation Images by Alicia Kwade

“I like to be the right thing in the wrong place and the wrong thing in the right place. Being the right thing in the wrong place and the wrong thing in the right place is worth it because something interesting always happens.” 

This quote from Andy Warhol echoes the theme of recent days for me. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I have a habit of being at the wrong place at the right time. Timing, in general, has always been a point of interest and concern for me --I’m chronically tardy, I never wear a watch, and I have an unrealistic perception of time. And luck! My (mis) fortunes should be tracked and studied by the Lady Luck herself  due to the sheer volume of people and opportunities storming in and out of my life in the most peculiar ways. Luck and timing always go hand in hand. And although many people are afraid to acknowledge the huge dependency their lives have on luck --thinking they have this great control -- the truth is that we don’t have as much control as we want to believe. After many years of experiencing head-spinning chance encounters, I’ve realized that there’s no sense trying to control them. So when the clock strikes trouble I’m usually nearby. As much heart- and head-ache as I experience, being where you perhaps shouldn’t (or didn’t want to) be can also be life changing and force you into unanticipated situations where, as Warhol put it, interesting things always happen.

Has a wrong turn ever turned out right for you? 

x

i'mnotdead

Nope. Just took an enormous step back from all things social and all things digital for a while. Let me tell you: it was a great escape! Sometimes getting away from all internet distraction is the best and quite possibly the only way to get some clarity when things around you are not so clear. But I’m back with a bang and have a lot of wicked projects and news to share with you guys. I don’t want to give too much away but stay tuned this week for the launch of a fashion experiment series I did for Ef magazine in partnership with Canadian design line Nixxi.

Before I sign off, I want to quickly say thank you to all of the people who read and follow my blog. What a year it’s been –probably the most thrilling, tumultuous, revealing and important year I’ve ever had! Through this blog, you have all been here to witness a strangely intimate part of my life and I want to sincerely thank you for all of your support, comments, critiques and opportunities. 2012 is going to be a good ride!

the future

Miranda July by Daryl Peveto for Huck Magazine

This is all just a series of interactions and reactions. And sometimes the avoidance of them. It's almost romantic that the greatest moments were not always necessarily when you were happy, but when you felt the potential of happiness.

a room with a view

Life moves with horrendous speed. Sometimes it’s best to figure out where you're going so you know what to watch for as moments whiz by. By sticking to some plan, you might have a better shot at recovering slivers of memories. Whether they are real or imagined. You can at least retrace your steps and try to recall all the things you've done, or that have been done to you, that got you to where you are now.

I wish I could say that I’ve got a plan. But over the last week I’ve traded my plans for the unknown. My boyfriend and I parted ways after seven years of the most unusual, intense, meaningful, tragic and perfect relationship I've ever had. From the second I saw him, I was drawn to him. I kid you not, it was love at first sight. I remember walking over to him like a warrior princess going into battle. He was mine and no one would get in the way.  We were each other’s black magic and together our lives became electric. I remember the first thing I ever wrote him, I said I would eviscerated myself and present him my internal organs so he knew he had everything I could possibly give him. Dramatic? Just a touch. But I meant every word of it.

We started this crazy little adventure by taking a risk and we are parting ways by taking another one. Uncertainty scares the shit out of me, but if there is one thing you should know, I love a good scare. If my life is a horror movie, seeing that I’m not a voluptuous blonde, I’m sure that I’ll be one of the survivors.

I’ve been getting down to the sounds of Mayer Hawthorne and singing an ode to my divorce. Like a lady spider, I weave a web that makes it difficult to let go of anyone or anything all that easily. I’m not one to look back, but when you leave someone behind who was your world, it’s impossible not to. But I’ve made up my mind to make a new start and I’m excited about everything that could be, even with a slightly tainted heart. Its hard to say what we regret more, what we do or don’t do. I chose my side.

I guess sometimes you have to burn the house down to keep the dreams alive. So, I’m packing up my life and moving across town to a place with a new view, where I’ll wrap my wild dreams in a torched dress and walk them around town. I'm the girl that smells like a fire. Maybe I'll see you around.

Q

image ?

I'm an uninspired baad-baby blogger these days. So you get this- a bunch of crap about me you never wanted to know. x

where is your cellphone? good question. coat pocket?

your hair? loose bun

your mother? committed and strong

your father? kind, but hesitant

your favorite food? oysters

your dream last night? the plot of the Italian murder mystery film Giallo mixed with a magic puppet show experience

your favorite drink? champagne

your dream/goal? travel. working somewhere between fashion and art. eating ice cream for breakfast.

what room are you in? the room where the dancing tends to take place

your hobby? will be my career

your fear? mediocrity

where do you want to be in 6 years? hitting the town regularly on romantic rendezvous

where were you last night? out

something that you aren't? punctual

muffins? eat the top. ditch the bottom

wish list item? a holiday

where did you grow up? the prairies

last thing you did? took my top off. kidding. pressed repeat

what are you wearing? grey/silver escada mini dress. slouchy dusty-gold boots. geeky glasses.

your tv? doesn't exist

your pets? ingaborga, the cutest mini-schnauzer on the block

friends? a whipping good time

your life? instance vs happenstance

your mood? anxious

missing someone? everyday

vehicle? feet

something you're not wearing? a watch

your favorite store? drug store

when was the last time you laughed? today

last time you cried? yesterday

your best friend? a destructo girl

one place you go to over and over? the path along the river

one person who emails you regularly? spam

favorite place to eat? al fresco 

taxicab confessional

Only in the back of a taxicab at the stroke of midnight can a girl tell herself, "I want to be a songwriter" and mean it. Although this particular girl has never written a real song and can hardly hold a note, girls tend to be dreamy when they are chauffeured around after dark.  


The city has been a playpen for the restless lately. The wannabe songwriter and her posse have been bumping into all four corners of Ottawa's snug confines trying to rattle the cage. Some of the songbird's friends are toying with inclination, while other's are flirting with infatuation-clearly all are curious about matters of the heart and questioning the loves of their lives. The minute love starts clouding the brain of silly girls with scattered dreams they start to act like someone in a high fever-bizarre, nervous and fantastic. These girls begin to gaze at everyone wondering if they are their true love, the one destined for them and whether they might be passing them by forever.


Pitted against one another, head vs heart is an unfair fight, wouldn't you say. One knows the outcome, while the other calls the shots. The songbird and her girls may want to give up on love and go back to dreaming in the backseat of cars. 

n.sync

givenchy FW11

If February is the month of love and July is the month to give into lust, then September is the month to wear Agent Provacateur lingerie underneath a smart trenchcoat and walk around seducing the city. September is fashion. September is desire; desire to dress sharply, look chicer and toss out the old in order to welcome the new. With all the post-fashion week buzz going on world-wide and in Ottawa, I’ve felt compelled to put some thought into what’s actually going on in the fashion world.  No. I won’t bore you with a list of what hot and what’s not, nor will I try to fake my way through a trend report. But lately, in the always theatrical fashion world, I’ve noticed a trend in synchronicity. People are becoming enlightened with universal connectivity.  

Living in a world crammed with information, and having it all at our fingertips, things can get noisy. We often don’t hear the right notes in a rhythmic succession when they are drowned out by the toneless ones. Over the last year media, technology and especially fashion have focused on curation more than ever to cut through to what’s authentic.

Once upon a time, fashion was exclusive. Only specific industry insiders were invited to attend, take part, comment and engage in the stylish scene. This is not the case anymore. Bloggers, magazines (on and offline), designers, spokespeople and fashion followers are emerging quicker than I can type s-a-t-o-r-i-a-l-i-s-t.  Whether or not the doors to this coveted world were opened up or knocked down, one things is for sure-we no longer receive information about fashion from a single omniscient source. Fashion is interpreted, represented, mocked and criticized in countless ways by a myriad of perspectives. This change towards a more scopic attitude in the industry makes me happy. I think the more individualism in any field grants opportunity for greater innovation. However, inclusivity leads to oversaturation, which leads to overkill. This is why it is necessary that the tastemakers stay true to their aesthetic, in both design and direction. The industry leaders should be the ones to represent the truest form of autheticity within a conceptual framework that encompasses, but is larger than, any of the systems that display synchronicity.