The minnow and the trout.

It is the blackest part of night, and I sit curled up against leopard-print pillows, listening to Joni Mitchell and warming my innards with chammomile tea. My skin reeks of pizza twined with Kahlua after a late-reaching night rich with slinging bar-starrish teens obscure shots, etc. The emptiness of my apartment has never felt more heavenly, I think, as it does right now. I am cuddled down in my brother's hooded sweatshirt (stolen), and gitch only. Pants slash dress slash skirt are undeniably and consistantly the first articles to go once stepping through the threshold of home after a string of hours spent in server slaveland.

Our Christmas tree is long-dead, and it wilts from across the living room, a sadly skeletal mess. To do: dispose of all holiday-inspired plants (there is also sickly poinsetta lingering on our coffee table). Also, to do: purge through closet and whittle down the copious amounts of articles in my possession. I do believe I am through with clinging on to miscellanious objects that only my inner eighty-seven year old can rationalize keeping. Gone will be moth-eaten sweaters from ninth grade, birthday cards dating back ten years, and make-up from the mid to late '90s. I am not exaggerating. I hang on to things. It is my wistful and sentimental side, and it is a powerful one.
To do: grit my teeth and thrash my way through to the finish of "Crime and Punishment."
To do: slay the crossword come tomorrow morning.
To do: stop spending money that doesn't even exist in the flesh.
To do: spend some serious face time with myself.
And so on and so forth.

Tonight I discovered that I will be working to shed my Euro-iduced debt into the wee hours of the morning on New Year's Eve. At first I felt a little gutted, but as the black-and-white reality of the penciled schedule before my eyes set in, I became quickly okay with the situation. Inevitably, I have found year after year after ghostily repetitive year, that New Year's extravaganzas fail to deliver the brilliance I expect. To be shimmeringly honest, I usually don a pair of drool-worthy heels (that end up murdering my feet by the night's end), drinking too much crystal-cool vodka, and more often than not, ending up in tears. So the sordid story goes. Needless to say, there is a lackluster theme that prevails. Last year, I spent said oh-so-anticipated night with a lover at a metal show, where I melted into the crowd unnoticed and unrecognized. It was lovely. And so, this year, I will breathe yet another breath of fresh air, shelve my killer Parisian footwear, and shroud myself in head-to-toe black for a quiet night of travail. It is actually a stragely refreshing prospect, void of lofty hope and exprectation. An air of sadness, aloneness and overwhelming disappointment will hopefully, if not surely, elude.

I am feeling already that this winter shall be one of hibernation and softness for me. Books, journals, hot yoga, dinner parties, nights hunched over the Scrabble board, records, tea, wine, films, fakey fireplaces, hot baths and some gritty self-reflection, as it stands, are the tentative lineup. So far, so good.

Be well and happy, all of you whose eyes touch on these words.
You are loved and cherished, know that.
RB

"They always say time changes things, but you actually have to change them yourself."--Andy Warhol

Home is home is home is home.

It has been a near-two weeks since our final plane touched ground in an icy Winnipeg. Fourteen days, in the scheme of things, is nothing...and yet it is everything. In this slender frame of time, I have become re-acquainted with my bed, meshed voices with many a friend, embraced Christmas avec la famille (and also a haggard infant tree in mine and Sambo's apartment), flung myself into the throes of a newborn job, coaxed my startled body back into frosty temperatures...and so on and so forth.
It is overwhelmingly good to be back to all that is familiar--back to being able to pluck books at will from my collection; back to 3 a.m. apartment-cleaning sessions; back to brothers and my own sweet computer and my closet and my purple bedroom walls and infinite amounts of music and snow-laden streets, and such. Here is a glimmer of what my days have been looking like of late:







Or something like that.

This afternoon I took myself to the Winnipeg Art Gallery...wandered beautifully alone, and checked out two insane exhibits:


(Warhol)






(PostSecrets)






I'd wanted this to be a shade more inspired...but my eyes are glazed with sleep even as I attempt to write now.
I shall channel creativity...but in the meantime, good night and Happy Christmas and I hope you are all sleeping tighter than tight.

xoxo,
r.b.

Europia: Take Two.

Still in awe of L.V., Paris.


Out for dinner, Paris.


The Louvre...Madge embodies the loveliest of Ukrainian grandmothers, Paris.


Street food, Paris.




Trife dinner, Paris. Tasted even more gag-worthy than it looks--unbelievable, I know...but true.


Bordeaux wine from a grunge corner store for mere pennies, Paris. This one's for you, Mama Dange.


Freshly-hacked hair, McDonald's, Paris.




Oscar Wilde's grave, Paris. (not pictured, but definitely scoped: Edith Piaf's and Jim Morrison's)


Yet another cafe, Paris.


Our own French apartment, Paris. Markus became our kindred spirit for a week.


He preferred to drink tea out of gargantuan bowls.


Our version of Roman Holiday, Rome. Obviously.




Outer skin of the Colleseum, Rome.


Babes in front of the Colloseum.


Innards of the Colloseum.


Wine and some roses, just down the street from the Pantheon, Rome.






Laundry day and an explosion of colour, Naples.




We hunted down the legendary pizzeria from the novel "Eat, Pray, Love" and stuffed ourselves sick, Naples.








(for Sambo)




Rain on the train, Rome to Venice.


The city on water, Venice.




Back alley, Venice.


Spectacular gloves for sale, Venice.


Creepy mask-shop guardian, Venice.


Venice, Venice, Venice...






Mos Def in an underground nightclub, Barcelona. For Les, Turner, Ains--with LOVE.


Running wild on the beach, Barcelona.