I am gradually becoming very ready for the land of heat. My current days lace by like river water; mainly uneventful, even, and significant only to myself. There are fitful injections of high/low that keep me in my skin, and aware of unpredictability. This is a good thing, I think. I never want to reach the point where I find myself too comfortable; too ingrained in my routine.
I lay in the dark cave of my living room late the other night in the absence of light, save for a scattering of my roommate's hazelnut candles (delicious) and the glow flung from my fireplace. The heat glazed itself over my body like a salve, calming me after an evening filled with voices layered and music waxing loud and bodies cutting around one another behind a starry-lit bar. And as I lay there, post-activity, post-crowd; the heat snatched me and pulled me into itself. I found myself wondering, is this what it might feel like to live in the throes of a more fiery climate for a little sliver of winter? I hope so. I want to feel that startling sense of calm in the limbs of my body and the beat of my heart. I want to eat fresh fish with my fingers for lunch, and dinner in the dark, and even for breakfast...and I want to do yoga on a quiet stretch of beach and I want to notice my ghostly skin grow a shade bronzer and I want to read poetry and foreign Vogue unabashedly and I want to write until my fingers ache.
The other day, during a session of ripping through my bedroom for god-knows-what, I came across the two journals I filled during my season spent last year in Europe. I dropped to the floor cross-legged, and read through lengthy bits of each. It was like being drawn into an alternate world; I came out of (what became) a sort of retrospective trance with a smile on my lips. I am eager to revive that edge of myself again come February; to again lapse into that inevitable challenge and lightness and joy of being apart and away. I am ready for discovery of an altogether different slice of the globe, and also of myself. I find that being away from home in that semi-permanent fashion allows the luxury of space for unique perspective. Even the prospect of it refreshes me. The nice thing about now, though, is that I have days like this one--sleeping in followed by the slowest of wake-ups, coffee at my fingertips and a walk to the Village in the biting cold sunlight. A lazy visit with the Paramix girls topped off with a steaming bowl of tofu veg peanut soup at Spicy Noodle House, book propped alongside.
Current complaints: none, really.
Days off are sometimes all it takes to feel yourself again.
Peace, etc.
RB
Saturday, November 29, 2008
Friday, November 21, 2008
A long long way from home, stop wherever you find yourself.
Self-Interview--
space: my livingoom
time: as the sun dips and night slides over everything
sounds: simon&garfunkel
eats: dark mint chocolate
liquids: licorice tea, ice water
DESCRIBE YOUR CHILDHOOD IN A SINGLE WORD:
Warmth.
WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A LITTLE GIRL?
Inquisitive. I asked a lot of questions, or so I am told. Shy. Playful. Wild imagination. Heavily into books. Wide-eyed and hopeful. Free; I remember feeling very free most of the time.
DID YOU HAVE A FAVOURITE BOOK OR FAIRYTALE?
I read my copy of "Anne of Green Gables" until it was in tatters. "Harriet the Spy" was an obsession for a few years straight. Anything by Roald Dahl. "Charlotte's Web." And when I was tiny, "The Growing Tree" (still one of my favourites), "Red is Best", "Rebecca's New Blue Shoes", "Where the Wild Things Are", "Fish is Fish", any and all of Russell Hoban's "Frances" series. I could go on...I was a fierce reader.
AND HOW HAS THIS CHILDHOOD AFFECTED YOU AS A GROWN-UP?
These elements all meshed together to form the organic foundation of who I am. They are the little things, the subtleties, but they are everything.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE ITEM OF CLOTHING?
Tony Chestnut fitted black stretch dress with the sleeves that go on forever--that piece carried me all over Europe. Black leather jacket from Paris. Paper-thin exboyfriend T-shirts. Plaid stolen from my brother. Hobo-esque gray cardigan with the sleeves now worn through.
DOES CREATIVITY COME EASILY TO YOU?
Yes. No. I find it elusive, inspiration that is. I am also often guilty of reaching for a magazine, phone, computer, snack, book and so forth before hunkering down with pen and paper. In the vein of honesty, I really believe that creativity is raw and shouldn't be forced, but I think that there is also definitely something to be said for making it a conscious choice. Unpredictable yet intentional, that's it. Or something.
WHAT DID YOU LAST DREAM ABOUT?
Parasitic worms infesting my bed. It wasn't a happy dream.
WHERE DO YOU CONSIDER HOME?
These days, my apartment would be the first answer off my lips--its messy, humble and lovely. I am thankful for it and in love with it every single day. Home is still also my parents' roost in the country, and a little sliver of my heart continues to linger in St. Boniface in that old red brick house.
WHAT DO YOU HOPE FOR?
A settled mind and a heart that is alive. Joyous days and smooth nights. Simplicity. Satisfaction. Love that doesn't disappoint. A cat winding at my feet. Coffee in the morning, tea through the afternoon and red wine at night. Laughter that comes effortlessly. Inspiration like water streaming rain-like over my body. Continual growth. Copious amounts of silence but also the sound of voices.
WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GREW UP?
A ballet teacher, HA. I think also a nurse for a while. And a writer, always a writer.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE?
By the ocean or on a rooftop in Paris.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO GO TO SLEEP TO?
I usually fall asleep to the sound of nothing more than my own breath, but if I would have to pick...then I would probably choose something by Iron & Wine or Sufjan Stevens..."Borderline" maybe? Mmmmm yes that one. Or anything Leonard Cohen.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO WAKE UP TO?
I think that I would choose something happy and energy-giving. Still something with an edge of softness, though. Charlotte Gainsbourg or Beirut. Page France could be nice in the morning too.
TELL US A SECRET:
I spent $80 that I don't have to spend on perfume today. Eeeek. Its gorgeous though. Totally worth it.
WHAT WAS YOUR BEST, SCARIEST HALLOWEEN COSTUME EVER?
I don't know about scariest, but my best was probably Holly Golightly, Audrey Hepburn's charater in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" a couple of years ago. It took the cake. As a kid I remember falling back more than once on the princess-wearing-purple silk-gown-with-shoddy-homemade-crown look. Predictable but classy.
BAM, YOU HAVE FIVE CHILDREN. NAME THEM.
Magnolia Jade (christened after the sweetest slash wildest cat ever)
Audrey
Annick
Isaac
SImon
On that whimsical note, goodnight and goodbye.
XOXO and all that jazz,
R.Louise B.
space: my livingoom
time: as the sun dips and night slides over everything
sounds: simon&garfunkel
eats: dark mint chocolate
liquids: licorice tea, ice water
DESCRIBE YOUR CHILDHOOD IN A SINGLE WORD:
Warmth.
WHAT WERE YOU LIKE AS A LITTLE GIRL?
Inquisitive. I asked a lot of questions, or so I am told. Shy. Playful. Wild imagination. Heavily into books. Wide-eyed and hopeful. Free; I remember feeling very free most of the time.
DID YOU HAVE A FAVOURITE BOOK OR FAIRYTALE?
I read my copy of "Anne of Green Gables" until it was in tatters. "Harriet the Spy" was an obsession for a few years straight. Anything by Roald Dahl. "Charlotte's Web." And when I was tiny, "The Growing Tree" (still one of my favourites), "Red is Best", "Rebecca's New Blue Shoes", "Where the Wild Things Are", "Fish is Fish", any and all of Russell Hoban's "Frances" series. I could go on...I was a fierce reader.
AND HOW HAS THIS CHILDHOOD AFFECTED YOU AS A GROWN-UP?
These elements all meshed together to form the organic foundation of who I am. They are the little things, the subtleties, but they are everything.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE ITEM OF CLOTHING?
Tony Chestnut fitted black stretch dress with the sleeves that go on forever--that piece carried me all over Europe. Black leather jacket from Paris. Paper-thin exboyfriend T-shirts. Plaid stolen from my brother. Hobo-esque gray cardigan with the sleeves now worn through.
DOES CREATIVITY COME EASILY TO YOU?
Yes. No. I find it elusive, inspiration that is. I am also often guilty of reaching for a magazine, phone, computer, snack, book and so forth before hunkering down with pen and paper. In the vein of honesty, I really believe that creativity is raw and shouldn't be forced, but I think that there is also definitely something to be said for making it a conscious choice. Unpredictable yet intentional, that's it. Or something.
WHAT DID YOU LAST DREAM ABOUT?
Parasitic worms infesting my bed. It wasn't a happy dream.
WHERE DO YOU CONSIDER HOME?
These days, my apartment would be the first answer off my lips--its messy, humble and lovely. I am thankful for it and in love with it every single day. Home is still also my parents' roost in the country, and a little sliver of my heart continues to linger in St. Boniface in that old red brick house.
WHAT DO YOU HOPE FOR?
A settled mind and a heart that is alive. Joyous days and smooth nights. Simplicity. Satisfaction. Love that doesn't disappoint. A cat winding at my feet. Coffee in the morning, tea through the afternoon and red wine at night. Laughter that comes effortlessly. Inspiration like water streaming rain-like over my body. Continual growth. Copious amounts of silence but also the sound of voices.
WHAT DID YOU WANT TO BE WHEN YOU GREW UP?
A ballet teacher, HA. I think also a nurse for a while. And a writer, always a writer.
WHERE WOULD YOU LIKE TO LIVE?
By the ocean or on a rooftop in Paris.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO GO TO SLEEP TO?
I usually fall asleep to the sound of nothing more than my own breath, but if I would have to pick...then I would probably choose something by Iron & Wine or Sufjan Stevens..."Borderline" maybe? Mmmmm yes that one. Or anything Leonard Cohen.
WHAT IS YOUR FAVOURITE SONG TO WAKE UP TO?
I think that I would choose something happy and energy-giving. Still something with an edge of softness, though. Charlotte Gainsbourg or Beirut. Page France could be nice in the morning too.
TELL US A SECRET:
I spent $80 that I don't have to spend on perfume today. Eeeek. Its gorgeous though. Totally worth it.
WHAT WAS YOUR BEST, SCARIEST HALLOWEEN COSTUME EVER?
I don't know about scariest, but my best was probably Holly Golightly, Audrey Hepburn's charater in "Breakfast at Tiffany's" a couple of years ago. It took the cake. As a kid I remember falling back more than once on the princess-wearing-purple silk-gown-with-shoddy-homemade-crown look. Predictable but classy.
BAM, YOU HAVE FIVE CHILDREN. NAME THEM.
Magnolia Jade (christened after the sweetest slash wildest cat ever)
Audrey
Annick
Isaac
SImon
On that whimsical note, goodnight and goodbye.
XOXO and all that jazz,
R.Louise B.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
matter/antimatter, tangled like vines...
On this rooftop where we're sitting
In the rays of the setting sun
Glasses of wine on a crate between us
Catch the light -- seem to glow from within
And there's a laugh
Hanging in the air
And there's no
Desperation anywhere
So many miles, so many doors
Some need patience, some need force
All fall open in their own due course
To allow us this time
And your limned
In light, golden and thin
Looks to me
Like you're lit up from within
And look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
To paint you
This way
And I picture us in this light
Friendship a fine silver web
Stretched across golden smoky haze
And this is simple
And this is grace
And this light
Is a guest from far away
Passing through
The last whisper of day
And look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
To paint you
This way
(Look How Far--Bruce C.)
In the rays of the setting sun
Glasses of wine on a crate between us
Catch the light -- seem to glow from within
And there's a laugh
Hanging in the air
And there's no
Desperation anywhere
So many miles, so many doors
Some need patience, some need force
All fall open in their own due course
To allow us this time
And your limned
In light, golden and thin
Looks to me
Like you're lit up from within
And look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
To paint you
This way
And I picture us in this light
Friendship a fine silver web
Stretched across golden smoky haze
And this is simple
And this is grace
And this light
Is a guest from far away
Passing through
The last whisper of day
And look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
Look how far the light came
To paint you
This way
(Look How Far--Bruce C.)
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
where were you when the world turned black?
I wonder (as I wonder) why it is that my intentions clash with my actions so often, more than I would like the admit? It's as if, once night drops or I am feeling particularly young or the light glazes someone's cheekbones in just that way or my hands feel thinner than usual or a glass slips through my claws and shatters--those are the times that control evades me. It can really be anything, even the stupidest things. I could write a thesis on this; I could fill a room with words or a lake with glassy water. I want consistancy, and I want it more than anything in myself. There are stretches of time, afternoons and into the dark that I even lust after it.
Self-drenching in guilt over what might have happened had you (I) been enabled is sad and it is really pretty pointless, after all. There can be little to no structure in this state of mind. It is broken energy, I don't want it. I just wish that I were stronger, more smoothed out and resistant and resilient. Again, consistancy visits like a cat layered against your body in the night. It is slippery, it is there and then without a breath of a warning it melts away. I want to weep when it vapourizes; I want to smash things and I want to be better and sweeter and decades more aware.
Its a progression and it bites me in the heart organ (muscle? I should know this.) more often than not. The organic skeleton of what I want is to spare the circles of people around me pain. When I flail and thrash yet still come out of it all on the bottom, it frusterates me. God knows it doesn't do anybody else favours. Sometimes there are not enough ways to apologize; I think that regret would be well-suited to having a language all its own.
This afternoon I don't feel pristine or even remotely light about myself. Its okay though, I deserve it. I think that I will brew some licorice tea and blackify the nails on my toes. I will feather Meg with some words and she will transfer her own back and into me. That I know will be nice. A magnum of house red at Cafe 22 is 52 ounces and Tanqueray gin trapped inside a sleek green bottle is 40. What I am trying to say is that you should come by. Sit at the bar, slide a cool drink down your throat and tell me a story.
For now I will loop these two songs back to back and over again, like the weight of skin and bone and muscle transferred from one foot to another--
Sufjan Stevens--Borderline
Emmylou Harris--Take That Ride
When I feel streaks of gray like this, my friend Shira reminds me about prana yama breath. Thanks, Shir...my intention is to prana yamify my breath into feeling okay again. The truth is that I feel better already. Christ bless Le Suf and Emmylou, they are the ultimate beauties and the most calming of salves.
On a (somewhat frivolous) sidenote, eye up this month's American Vogue...there is a gorgeous spread right near the end featuring the lovely Natalia Vodianova, her sexy husband Justin Portman and their three breath-stopping children. She makes motherhood look like a blossoming adventure, and also pretty damn cool.
No more cigarettes by the river for this lady; we are as good as moving into winter-esque mode and with that season comes my personal murder of casual smoking. Thankyou London and Amsterdam and (especially) Paris for seducing me into this questionable past-time. Shaun and Ken (the jig is up, I know you are reading this!), please don't fret, I am hardly addicted. It is a onceinabluemoon temptation and every few weeks I cave and give in to it. So never fear, your daughter is not a smoker.
Okay, I am officially boring myself with this rambling.
Over/out,
rlb.
Self-drenching in guilt over what might have happened had you (I) been enabled is sad and it is really pretty pointless, after all. There can be little to no structure in this state of mind. It is broken energy, I don't want it. I just wish that I were stronger, more smoothed out and resistant and resilient. Again, consistancy visits like a cat layered against your body in the night. It is slippery, it is there and then without a breath of a warning it melts away. I want to weep when it vapourizes; I want to smash things and I want to be better and sweeter and decades more aware.
Its a progression and it bites me in the heart organ (muscle? I should know this.) more often than not. The organic skeleton of what I want is to spare the circles of people around me pain. When I flail and thrash yet still come out of it all on the bottom, it frusterates me. God knows it doesn't do anybody else favours. Sometimes there are not enough ways to apologize; I think that regret would be well-suited to having a language all its own.
This afternoon I don't feel pristine or even remotely light about myself. Its okay though, I deserve it. I think that I will brew some licorice tea and blackify the nails on my toes. I will feather Meg with some words and she will transfer her own back and into me. That I know will be nice. A magnum of house red at Cafe 22 is 52 ounces and Tanqueray gin trapped inside a sleek green bottle is 40. What I am trying to say is that you should come by. Sit at the bar, slide a cool drink down your throat and tell me a story.
For now I will loop these two songs back to back and over again, like the weight of skin and bone and muscle transferred from one foot to another--
Sufjan Stevens--Borderline
Emmylou Harris--Take That Ride
When I feel streaks of gray like this, my friend Shira reminds me about prana yama breath. Thanks, Shir...my intention is to prana yamify my breath into feeling okay again. The truth is that I feel better already. Christ bless Le Suf and Emmylou, they are the ultimate beauties and the most calming of salves.
On a (somewhat frivolous) sidenote, eye up this month's American Vogue...there is a gorgeous spread right near the end featuring the lovely Natalia Vodianova, her sexy husband Justin Portman and their three breath-stopping children. She makes motherhood look like a blossoming adventure, and also pretty damn cool.
No more cigarettes by the river for this lady; we are as good as moving into winter-esque mode and with that season comes my personal murder of casual smoking. Thankyou London and Amsterdam and (especially) Paris for seducing me into this questionable past-time. Shaun and Ken (the jig is up, I know you are reading this!), please don't fret, I am hardly addicted. It is a onceinabluemoon temptation and every few weeks I cave and give in to it. So never fear, your daughter is not a smoker.
Okay, I am officially boring myself with this rambling.
Over/out,
rlb.
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