- they were right, when they said we should never meet our heroes -

So.

Begin.

For some reason, my path has found me on this side of the coin instead of food-wandering - although there's been lots of that recently: tapas nights, stellar craft brews (there is, I've learned, such thing as a Chocolate Milk Stout, which should probably not work, but certainly does) and card games, stories over hot pot in Uptown basements painted lemon yellow with signage I could only grasp at weak straws to read - food and literacy are two loves of mine, and there's a post in and of itself somewhere, there: senses and language barriers and learning to trust your nose (and your friends.) Lots of thoughts and never enough time to write them down?

Something like that; still a little haunted by how the Cracked article (is Cracked ever SFW?) that drifted onto my Twitter feed about six hard truths left one solid impression: every minute you spend taking in someone else's media/effort/work is time not spent on yours.  It's worth keeping in mind, as both of these blogs put together don't quite hit the 2/month goal I'd set at the start of the year, and it's something I'd still like to work towards.

On the upside, I did climb three mountains this year! And, M - I'm not even counting Heart as more than one peak despite its fifteen-or-so summits. ^_~

A good friend also challenged me to write about my first city; the city we shared for twenty-odd years, and its legendary winters; eleven days from the deadline and my pen is stalling. I've realized that for all that winter tinged a lot of my writing, none of it was directly about my city - nothing is, except the half-finished NaNo work that I started in Japanland and pushed into bloom over the first November of my return about art galleries and friendship and noodle bars and magicians-of-sorts in a city that was Edmonton-but-not. I'll tackle it soon, but it won't be in the next week; the piece is unedited and at least 30,000 words too long to submit. Still, I'm just about ready, though I fear one of my protagonists won't survive the re-visioning. Sometimes, you grow out of characters, just as you grow out of socks, or bands, or heroes: you see the world differently, or you just don't quite fit, anymore.

(which is where this Metric song fits in: seeing them again at Osheaga this summer was like seeing an ex-lover who you don't love anymore, but who you're happy to see doing well. There's something to the restlessness in this song that gets at me, and oh, something bittersweet there, too.)

I think that my problem with starting something new, on the other hand, is that winter doesn't seem real here, despite the snow flurries that peppered my windows at work today, or the Technicolour light display in the windows of houses down the street.  With green grass still flourishing, it's hard to remember what cold feels like.  But the downtown rink is open; maybe this weekend, when life slows down enough to see it straight-on I'll lace up my skates and slip slowly around the ice. In a hockey family, I was the black sheep who stayed inside and broke boards all winter, but there's something to the movement of skating itself that I'm hoping is a clue; a cue; a key.

Here's to remembering; here's to staying warm and keeping cool. Here's to the holidays; to the time when, as a wiser woman than I once said that hope is currency. Take care, and best wishes for your 2013, where-ever it may find you.

(don't forget - don't forget I love, I love, I love you.)

♥music of the moment: breathing underwater (see video above.)

- things are getting weirder at the speed of light -

...It may be hopelessly hipster of me, but I still harbour a wonderfully large soft spot for the Shins. Seeing them at Osheaga was an unexpected delight, and my only regret of the festival was leaving their set early to get to Bloc Party's (who I'd seen before but always enjoy) in time.

This video - for the new-ish track "The Rifle's Spiral" is no exception! It's equal parts Coraline and ancient myth (the bit with the thread and the scissors is chilling and gorgeously subverted from where I'd thought it would go); adventure story tied up with bits of magic and possibly my favorite fictional bunny to date. (Bunnies and I have history; I take Anya's stance on them in general.)

 The song itself is also wonderful. When I'd first read the lyrics, my mind went much darker places, but I like the spin that they've taken on it.



The Shins: The Rifle’s Spiral on Nowness.com.

- always the last one; never ready for the fast ones -

...breathe in.

So, life? Life is kind of interesting right now.

I'm woefully unfocused (it's the time of year; the trees outside are beckoning through my big windows and my computer just doesn't have the same pull; it's being in-between projects and planning big trips and trying to balance relaxation with scheduling with time away with time engaged.)

It's going-to-be-hiking-Half-Dome in less than three months and still being (more or less) out of shape. Kind of. Starting to make changes, and loving the weekly/twice-weekly hikes, and yoga in the mornings.

But. Have you met Half Dome?

Repeat after me: the best kind of crazy. That's what this is.

I'm also wibbling over whether a free-verse poem I scribbled in March is good enough to send off to a local literary magazine. The more rational side of my brain which sounds curiously like M, and my mother, and a handful of other folk who have more faith in me that perhaps is logical, is saying y'know, you should really let those literary folks figure that out for themselves, right? (Minus the "y'know," because that's not really part of their diction.)

But they've got a point.

Shine on, you crazy diamonds; I hope you're doing well. ♥


♥music of the moment: road to ride on

...josh radin is awesome; I'll link a video tonight.

- i knew true love and i knew passion (and the difference between the two) -

...I've just finished Mark Oliver Everett's Things the Grandchildren Should Know, and it's gorgeous.

Everett's the lead man behind the Eels, an alternative rock band that caught at my ear somewhere between second and fourth year of university. What a book; what a life. Things is hard to put down; it deals with dark and largely uncensored subject matter (when the book jacket lets you know its autobiographer has survived his entire family, you know you're not in for sunshine and rainbows) but it never quite loses a hopeful quality; that somewhere amidst death, life weaves up through the words he strings together, braided at times with lyrics from the Eels' albums.

In turns funny and rousing; tear-jerking and too strange to be fiction; smart and searing - Everett's gift for storytelling caught me right away. He moves, by choice, around the fringes of the celebrity world, and his anecdotes about fellow musicians like Tom Waits, Aimee Mann, and Elliott Smith are wonderful; the Tom Waits moment had me grinning.

In the end, as it should be, though, his life frames Things with depth, tragedy, and a dose of hard-earned wisdom. If you know of/enjoy the Eels, enjoyed alternative music in the 90s, or are looking for a window into an interesting life (that beats on, perhaps against even his expectations), I'd definitely encourage picking it up.

But for now, start with a song.

. . .

♥music of the moment: railroad man

- i bet you think this song is about you -

"...yeah," she says, leaning against the bumper in the half-light. "She's been a ghost since she fell in love. I miss her, sometimes." Her voice takes on a playful tone at the last, but neither believe it fully.

"I know," he answers, looking away - into the middle distance, away from the curve of her shoulder as he remembers the film star she dressed as, once; finger waves and dancing Charleston under a blinking streetlight. (She wasn't half-bad, he remembers, and he grins at the thought, grateful her eyes are distracted by the sudden glow of her smartphone screen.)

He smiles, differently, and continues. "It's different, now. She's not around, and you don't mean to lose touch, but -"

"-so it goes," she says, finishing his sentence and thinking she should do the same.

Go.

They are still strangers, for all their common ground, and this no-man's land where they've met isn't fit for long conversations.

"She's doing well, though," she says, rocking off her heels and standing straight. "Busy past all reckoning, but well. It's really good to see."

He's not her type (too fey too flighty too focused) but her heart or something close to it lightens as his smile warms and he meets her eyes. He doesn't do a lot of that, she thinks - but then, she's a very black pot herself.

Forty minutes, and they're still talking in the half-light from his flat's window - company is the key here, and there's a shift in the balance between them that hints at respect and uncertainty (she's not his type, either.) They'll puzzle it out one day. Sunlight is good for that. For now, the half-light and half-sentences are a code: listen; hear me, though the notes have changed.

if you fly on broken wings

cardboard cut-outs tied with strings

from phony played-out ouija boards

i'll sing for you in major chords

'cause it's not the end of the world

just yet -

...and no, this song isn't about you. ^_~ It's a short snippet from Closed Tuesdays, my NaNo that sprawled well past the deadline and lives in semi-peace in scribblers under my bed and on my shelves. This little bit's been dancing around since summer and wanted some air. Purple italics belong to Danny Michel; purplish prose is mine.