realia

it's official...

...summer is here.  Dad - they're early!  I hope we're still able to bring you some next month!

I bought these in the morning and my desk area smelled heavenly until I had some later. 

fixing the part of the idea that wasn't good

Okay it’s not working.  Those kind friends who have been visiting me here for a long time will agree.  I started the photo journal for the purpose of feeding my creative hankerings, enhancing my ability to see.  To see if I could commit to a daily act for a year.  I wanted to enrich the Realia project, add more layers and depth to it.

But my participation in it has distracted me from the writing Realia efforts.  I remain committed to putting up a photo a day, and I am still really enjoying it.  But I miss living here in this space.  I still want to be here and share stories about my life and experiences.

Some time ago I came to the conclusion that I never should have started a second blog, that I should have just incorporated the project into this one.  I did play around with that at first, with the photo project on a different page, but I found it was easier to keep the projects separate by just having a second blog space. Why did I feel the need to keep them separate?  Who knows?  Call it a brain fart.

Back when I was first working out the ideas for Realia, I saw it as a space that would change and evolve and grow, as I’d hoped I would.  Of course the photography project is representative of growing and changing and evolving.  So why not incorporate a photo a day project into it?  It makes sense to me to merge the projects.  Simple is always best; one space is enough.  It’s all part of my story; it’s all my realia.

So my plan is to move the photo blog back over to this one and incorporate them back into one project.  The photos will continue to be posted daily, and they will be accompanied more often with the stories.

I hope this won’t alienate the people who come here to read what I write.  At least there will be some fresh content when you do come!  And I hope those who subscribe to me on the photo site will update their feeds and visit here instead. 

It’s sure great to have you along, whether for the stories or the pictures.  Roll on!

rubble

there should be someone in charge
of finding the stories living on
in the buildings
before they tear them down
to make way for the steel and glass giants

1000 stories
live in there
amidst the scratches on a windowsill
and in the triangles of dirt accumulated in the corner of the floorboards pushed there by generations of janitors’ mops
stories palpitating
under decades of floor wax
and stained walls
reflecting the colours of the words that once rang within

every action has a consequence, they say
every breath, every movement contributes to who we are
and what we will become

what occurred in that alley or in that cellar or behind that window
skewed the particles of the universe just that much
so it would never be the same
as it was in an instant before

I imagine stories murmuring
in that pile of rubble
swirling in the spaces

and I want to dig in there and find them
before they drift off into the atmosphere
like fine dust

happy earth day - now go take a walk...

...and pay attention.  The earth is a pretty amazing place.  And beautiful thing number eighty-nine.

 

 

we all want to help one another, human beings are like that

Charlie Chaplin, always one of my favourite actors, is timeless for a lot of reasons.  This one most striking, these days.

Please, take a few minutes.  The atmosphere is badly in need of some positive messaging. 

 

 

shadowy figures on the sidewalk

I walk out of the office tonight and it’s drizzling a little and after working an extra couple of hours, confined in the office space, I find it hard to warm up as I walk. 

“Just stop thinking about being cold you’ll stop being cold” says my internal coach.   Of course it’s the lights reflecting off the wet streets that distract me from the chill a minute or two later. 

It’s dark by this time and it occurs to me that I'm starting to look differently at the people I encounter at night - I'm enamoured with the shadowy shapes of them.  I’m not sure if that's a good thing - seeing their shapes and not their faces, but it's firing my imagination these days.  It’s as if I'm seeing them as part of the moving, breathing city. I imagine that the shapes of now are walking in tandem with those of the past; as if I’m encountering many generations of life upon these sidewalks, from there behind those walls.

My imagination isn’t working alone.  In the past number of weeks I’ve been looking at a lot of my city’s archived photos, which somebody has been posting on Facebook.  I’ve always liked to look at old pictures, to travel time through them.  But the experience of looking at old images of this city – in particular the streets I walk every day; those which I’ve been looking at closely and photographing for my photo journal project – has given me cause to locate myself amidst the strata of time. 

The figures in those pictures - some 30 years ago, some 50, some more than 100 years ago - have, in my mind, begun to simmer together like the chemicals that once caused an image to emerge on paper.  Ghostly like.  Lurking at every corner of my consciousness.  As they should. 

I get close to home and the winter feels good.

 

 

mismatched or something

Early in the week I stop on my way home for something to eat after working late.  About halfway through my meal a couple sits at a table nearby.  They seem mismatched, both in size and style.  I check myself for making this judgement; after all I’d like to think I’m deep enough to remember that human connections have nothing to do with size or style; that they’re made up of much more interesting and mysterious things than that. 

Still, humour me.  He looks younger than her, at least by way of style.  He looks to be the kind of guy who shops at the mall for clothing and assorted electronica and other boy bling with his buddies.  That kind of guy didn’t exist when I was his age, in my little world anyway.  Boy bling was only popular among the white polyester pants and open shirt set of my parents’ generation; and electronic toys came in really large boxes with really large woofers and tweeters that took up whole corners of living rooms or was installed in the doors and rear windows of the shaggy-haired owners’ beat up Monte Carlos. 

This guy has perfectly trimmed hair and a nice shirt and expensive looking jacket and has just set his expensive phone on the table after checking for messages.  The gal is not the kind you’d imagine our guy and his buddies cruising at the mall. She doesn’t look like she goes to malls much.  Her hair isn’t modern; neither are her clothes. She doesn’t set a phone on the table upon sitting down. 

But it’s not the appearance of the two that gets my attention, it’s the expression on his face: a bland smile, which is not a smile; the kind of face you wear on a first date when you’re trying to hide your disappointment, trying to pretend you’re up for a good time when really you’re counting the minutes to the moment when you can call an end to the evening and chalk it up to experience.  His eyes match the insipidness of that not-a-smile, trying to look at her as if she were somehow interesting but seeing through her instead.

I can’t see her face but I expect it is either (1) wearing the same bland mask of resignation, or (2) wearing a face of an eager, insecure not-a-smile, not quite covering a furious search for something clever to say.

She takes a long time to order a drink and the guy and his bland not-a-smile are patient as the gal discusses options with the server.  I'm taken back to a time when I was about 15, sitting in the corner of a car with a bunch of kids having skipped school on a gorgeous June afternoon.  We stopped at a drive-through window and I ordered a large pop because I was thirsty but was mortified to discover just how large the large pop was, and I spent the rest of the glorious June afternoon feeling miserable and embarrassed about having ordered a bucket of pop (no doubt puny by today’s standards) and thinking I must look so ridiculous.  Of course the only thing that made me look ridiculous was the embarrassment over a stupid cup of pop which nobody noticed.  That moment of insecurity ruined the experience of the afternoon which should have been fun, with boys and skipping school and early summer and all. 

My mortification over that pop is probably the only thing that keeps that memory alive in me.  And what gives me compassion for that girl who seems to be trying hard to order the right drink.  After she finally makes her decision, he orders a craft beer in a fancy bottle without hesitation.

I can’t bear to watch as she considers the food menu and turn back to my book, ironically, 51/50: The Magical Adventures of a Single Life, a memoir by Kristen McGuiness who embarked on 51 dates in 50 weeks.  Looking up now and then I see the couple’s conversation slipping in and out of the air between them.  When it’s not sliding off to the floor in a heap, the talking is quiet, serious, polite.  He nods kindly at something she says and then it slithers away again.  Between bites she watches the filler content running on the hockey channel right above their table.  He looks around for something to be interested in. 

No doubt I’m in tune with the couple because of this book I’m reading which is all about a whole bunch of first dates.  I’d heard the author interviewed on the radio a year or two ago, and quite possibly it was she who inspired me to embark on my own Year of Dating Fearlessly.  Certainly I’ve had my share of bad first dates, more of them than good ones and like McGuinness I was searching for some kind of flaw in me that was hindering the success rate. 

In the end, my year of dating was more successful than hers – on one level.  What we both got was a little more self-understanding.  For me, it was a reaffirming of my awareness in knowing what I want and what I don’t want and being secure with that.  I’d venture to say that wouldn’t be far off from what I knew back when I was 15.  At least when I wasn’t agonizing about what boys were thinking about my drink choices. 

As I ask for my bill, things seem to be warming up, the conversation more animated and relaxed.  Maybe it’s the drinks loosening them up a little. I’m hopeful for them. 

But then as I walk past them to leave, she’s watching the hockey channel with a bland not-a-smile and he’s talking on his cell phone; and my hope for them slides to the floor along with their failed conversation.

terra firma, rich fabric

Last night I had conversations with four of my oldest and most valued friends.  I wish we didn’t have the reason that we all talked, but that we did made me feel better than I had in the twenty-four hours previous.  I hope that was the case for all of us.  Mostly for Denis, because on New Year’s Day he lost his dad. 

I’d been feeling blue about it on a number of levels.  Mostly because someone I love is torn up; he’s been hit, unexpectedly, with life’s cruellest circumstance.  His dad was a really lovely man; a husband in a seemingly inseparable partnership, a good father and pépé and neighbour and respected teacher and now he’s gone.  

If I’m not censoring (it’s a start, Lisa), I’ll tell you that this is one of the two situations in the past year that threw my own mortality in my face.  Hard.  It sounds so selfish.  My heart is truly with my friend, but a feeling of scared came swift and forceful.  A parent is only one generation away. 

I have all my parents – and none seems like s/he is going anywhere soon.  But I got scared about losing them.  They’re still too young.  Like Denis’s dad.  He shouldn’t have gone yet; his family’s hearts shouldn’t be heavy now.  And yesterday evening I was wondering how to move out of the sudden funk – how could I call my friend and be supportive and somehow make it a little better when I felt like I was teetering on some thin emotional wire; psychically a piece of shit?

And then after supper I talked to Debbie.  And then Denis.  And then Robbie.  And then Lynn.  And at the end of the evening I was back on terra firma.  I’m sure it’s because each of them were part of the journey to now.  Last night I'd got away from the moment and they brought me back to it.   

We all exist here in this unstoppable march of time and we all have to face it, and most of us deal with loss when it happens and maybe we don’t get over it but we learn to move on and to be happy again even if there is a new hole in the family’s fabric.  But then again, isn't the fabric richer and more beautiful for that person having been a part of it?

The fabric is precious and beautiful and it’s all any of us has.  And I’m not that articulate, but I’m sure it’s pretty much the point of it all. 

in which we are not clever or good for 365 days

I’ve been needing a creative kick in the pants.  More, a swift kick in the creative pants.  

And I’ve been giving lots of thought to this blog and what I want to do with it.  I suppose part of that is the time of year, this time of birth and renewal, and most of us start to think about change naturally.  But I’ve been feeling a little stuck here; losing motivation for participation in the blog world.  

Not long ago I protested to my lovely friend Susan that I don’t participate in blogging as a social networking forum; that I wish this to be a creative endeavour – to improve my writing, to become braver about what I put out there, and to foster my creative perspective.  But all that can’t be entirely true because blogging is a social endeavour by its nature.  And oh I love the friends I’ve made here; you’ve all enriched my world, and I mean that from the bottom of my heart.  

But it is like minds I seek in the comments section, not numbers.  I’ve had lots of fun participating in blog challenges; and it has found me some of YOU, but it also turned me off to one element of blogging - in that many people dart in and out of other’s writings to make a quick, superficial comments, just for the sake of making an appearance.  And for the higher count in your comments section you’re obliged pay the person back by visiting them and adding to their numbers.  After a period of that, the numbers just didn’t mean anything to me anymore.

Having said all that, I do want to come back and visit you more, and find more of you.  Things distracted me this year.  A new job in a new industry, which required lots of learning and new commitments.  And later in the year a new man.  Things with him have settled into something warm and comfortable; a kind of matured happy that accommodates me sitting in the same room with him and being able to sit at my computer and write.  Like now.

If I were to listen to myself when I offer advice to others about how to kick-start creativity, I would say “journal more.  Just journal.  Get the moments down, write with no mind to 'good' or 'clever.'  Just let go of the need to be good."

I’ve never lost inspiration – I still find that everywhere; and so it seems natural that I have been thinking about expressing that in a new way.  It’s my resistance from making a commitment that has stopped me from full out beginning a 365 Project.  But here I am, committing: a photo a day for 365 days.  

I’ve always loved taking pictures, and occasionally I can produce a pretty good shot.  I take lots of photos these days, mostly thanks to a half decent phone camera.  Sometimes I take pictures to help me find the appropriate words later. Sometimes I just like an image and can't articulate why. Or I take a picture because I don't want to forget a moment. Sometimes there are just no words.

So I have given birth to a new, sub-blog of sorts – a photo journal – my 365 project.  In keeping it separate from this blog, I hope to better sustain the focus for both.  This space will still be dedicated to the story, and my endeavouring to become better at telling one.  The photo journal is more for me; going public keeps one accountable.  It’s a forum in which I can write bad sentences and post shitty photos (and hopefully some good ones!) and just record my daily comings and goings for a year.

So it’s not so much a change for this blog, but just adding a new project on the side.  Getting back to journaling without mind to how the writing sounds, to it being clever or interesting, will improve the original project.  Of that I have no doubt. 

My Photo Journal is found here:  365 Project: Photo Journal

first snow, sort of

It's been raining all day today. I was itching to get out for a walk early, but seeing the hunched people down there on the sidewalk bracing themselves against the weather got me finding things to do around here instead.  Eventually it got to the "go now or don't go" point so I layered on my rain jacket over my coat and went out.  

Me and my umbrella wandered a bit in the Harbourfront, took a few pictures and watched the people skate at the outdoor rink down by the lake and felt I like a wuss for putting the outing off.  I walked some more and then went up to the grocery store and on the way home got a bottle of wine then the rain changed to snow.  Apparently we had some snow when I was in Vancouver all those weeks ago, but I never saw it.  So technically, this is my first snow of the season. 

There are two really great "first snow of the season" experiences.  One is waking up to a layer of the stuff blanketing the world.  The other is looking up into a light at night and seeing it falling all around you.  

After standing under the light, trying to capture a picture and feeling the snow on my face and hair and seeing it dotting my glasses and my phone (camera), I walked home significantly lighter than I felt when I left.  Happy winter.

Snow falling in a streetlight:  Beautiful thing number eighty.