Young&Balmoral.

Icelandic Room.

2011-02-04T11:11:00.000-08:00

Against a wall entirely made of windows, the silence is sharp. It is the type of quiet you would feel afraid to shatter. The occasional bleat of a cell phone, clicking of fingers on computer keys, the rustle of fabric (somebody is putting on their coat--bold!), or a pencil gritty atop paper slices through. The silence is intense; intimidating almost. It seems like if you were to drop something or take a bite of an apple or even cough, at least one person would glare at you.

And then there is this woman in heels. She is fifty-something with a smooth white bob. Her heels are leather (navy) and it seems like she is in charge. Not, like, in charge of making sure that everybody stays insanely quiet, but in charge of the books on the shelves, or making sure the plants get the perfect amount of light and water, or something like that. She walks through the room at least once every half hour or so. Her shoes are steely against the wooden floor and it is actually kind of nice because it pulls me out of this smoky writing haze that I am beginning to drown in. A simple reminder that there is an entire world outside of this goddamn project that is dragging me into itself. And so I like her, this woman with the heels.

February is the month of the ice moon. This year, is also the month of my champagne birthday! Yay yayayyyy. I have wanted to be 27 for a long time now, for some weird reason. I don't know why at all, but I have been aware for a few years now that it is going to be a special age for me. Maybe all good, or maybe the opposite?! I hope that it is a happy year.

Click, click click. Here she comes again, the keeper of the Icelandic Room. Light washes through the wall of cool million windows, all dusty luminous white. I sip my coffee, now cold, and reread what I've written for the hundredth fuckin time. It isn't good yet, but it also isn't bad. Okay, for now, is an okay place for it to be.

Cinnamon hearts.

2011-01-29T21:19:00.001-08:00

Each time I sat down to try writing about it, the task become more impossible. Fingers grazing against the keyboard--my inability to keep them still only made me more and more frustrated. My eyes flicked everywhere--wandering; bored. The cat watched me silently, sensing my discontent, I guess. I painted my fingernails a pale jade and sipped a glass of ice water slowly; methodically. I arranged all the shoes (both of ours) in perfect symmetry, and then immediately messed them up again because they looked too weird; all orderly like that. I glared at the blank screen, luminous with the whitest white. Still I battled it. My mind was empty. I lit a few candles in the midday light--a dirty, pearly gray. I felt chilled; then way too hot. I slouched in and out of my boyfriend's thinnest plaid as my body temperature dipped all over the fucking spectrum. I fed the cat, then draped her across my chest. She licked my eyebrow and then my jaw. I tried writing one word, but it wouldn't come. I ate half a grapefruit and then made tea (earl gray), scorchingly hot with milk and brown sugar. It was a tawny colour that slid down my throat buttery-smooth. I took a bath in my tub with the bronze claw-feet and dumped a whole bunch of eucalyptus salts into the water so that maybe I could drug myself into some sort of state of relaxation. When I stepped out of the wet heat twenty minutes later, my hair was in a snarl and black mascara had snaked all the way down my face. This discouraged me--I don't know why but it did. I put on a record (some Bob Dylan thing) and glanced over at my computer sitting there on the low table and I felt like I wanted to smash it out the window. Instead, I put on some flip-flops and walked next door (twenty-five steps max) to the convenience store, I think it was called "Young Food Mart" but we called it "Lee Chong's", something that started after one of us re-read Salinger and then it just stuck. So I dipped over to Lee Chong's, through the strange sultry light of Indian summer. I wandered through the two aisles three, four, seven times. Something like that. I don't know; I lost track. By the time I was standing at the counter, the woman slouched behind it cracking her gum and playing Solitaire gave me a skeptical look. I bought diet Coke, black licorice, peppermint gum, tobasco sauce, cat food and a pack of Benson & Hedges Special Lights. I also bought a BlackJack ticket, for zero reason. I walked home slowly, like I was in the depths of a dream. The air was humid--cool; edible. A little boy and his (friend? brother?) blazed past me on BMX bikes that were too big for them, screaming that they are going to go build a fort. Back in the apartment, I poured black rum and some of the diet Coke into a teacup, and wandered through every room in our place once and then over again. My fingers traced the pale walls--kitchen, living room, dining room, bedroom, sunporch, hallway, bathroom. Laughter trailed through the skinny walls from the people living across from us . I sat cross-legged on the bed for a while, watching bars of cool afternoon light jut through the window. After a while, I started feeling drowsy so I got up and watered all the plants. Then I thought, hey maybe if I move the computer to a different place then I will feel some sort of inspiration. So I put it on the kitchen windowsill, but still I felt myself shrinking away and out of sight of it, so that the tightness in my chest would dissipate. I flipped through a magazine, folded the laundry (now cold; it had been sitting there for days), and rearranged the hallway closet. I thought that maybe I was going to cry; angry tears of course. If I couldn't even put down one single stupid word, then how would I be able to turn out a page, and then more strung along after that? Page after page of building this surreal path towards proving why I was good enough; smart enough; skilled and mature enough. I thought that maybe I was going to throw up, or at least kick a wall or something. Instead, I went to the kitchen sink and cupped a few handfuls, one after the other, of icy water and tossed them onto my face. I could feel that goddamn computer, staring at my backbone--down every curve of my spine and into my soul which was leaping with the flames of a thousand nerves. I didn't want to turn around...I thought that maybe I was going to tear that computer in half. I stood there, facing the sink; the eye-level cupboards; the few scattered dishes from breakfast strewn over the countertop. The cat twisted herself around my feet, bony as hell and shrieking for my attention. I picked her up with one hand; carefully and with calculation, so as not to align my body at all towards the computer. As she burrowed into my neck, I thought--this is crazy. This bitch of a computer is making me actually feel crazy. Very very slowly and lightly, I placed the cat down on the floor. I shot the last dregs of my teacup, and walked right over to that windowsill like I was preparing to kill some sort of prey. I stared down at the glossy screen, the pristine keyboard and I wanted nothing more than to walk away. I thought that maybe I was going to give up. Instead, I knelt my bare knees on the floor, and didn't move from the side of that window. I chipped away at the keys in slow-motion pace for the first while. I thought, this is so stupid. It almost physically hurt. I found myself typing a list; who the hell knows why but that is what came out.

apples
kale
yogurt
cinnamon
almonds
bread
granola
gin
dark chocolate
stationary
get new set of keys cut
pay phone bill
wake up earlier
find a new bicycle
read more
remember how lucky we are
don't take yourself too seriously

And on it went. After a list, it was a letter, and after that some sort of a journal entry. Next it became a mashup of memories and at some indistinguishable point, it transformed into what it needed to be. I chain-smoked while writing it. Who knows if it was any good at all; it might be absolute trash. By the time I peeled myself up off that floor, the bare bones of it were all there. I was finished, sort of. The kitchen was dark, like black-dark, and so was the rest of my home. I think that maybe it was well after midnight. I heard a key fumbling in the lock and like that, it was all over. I cared, but not really. A smile traced over my lips and in that instant my harrowing day seemed funny, almost. Only then did I walk away from it. I thought that maybe it didn't even really matter, even though I knew it did.

The Letting Go (a project of sorts):

2009-07-27T22:39:00.000-07:00

LOVE COMES TO ME
---
Without any words, you hand me a leaf. It is brittle enough to splinter immediately at my touch. I avert my eyes down to the cracked sidewalk beneath us, and you lick your lips. They are very dry. You ask me what I am doing tonight and I say "nothing", and then we are sitting by the river and we share a cigarette and I find myself thinking that you are sort of interesting.

STRANGE FORM OF LIFE
---
If the night air reeked of anything, it was possibility. There was no sign of anybody at all nearby, but I felt a strange stirring in my bones. The only sound that tore through the stillness was my own ragged breath, but I sensed that the hour was charged with something rare. All I could smell was deadened rain and it made me feel wickedly drunk.

WAI
---
In Catholic church, we used to reach out our skinny fingers during communion and trace them over the heavy fur coats of women passing by. These women were going forward to receive tiny pieces of stale white bread, along with a shot of stiff red wine. They always seemed to us, crouched back in the rigid pews of wood, impossibly old and even more boring. Instead of being gifted this food and drink, we dragged our feet forward to be blessed instead; a rough hand brushing our foreheads and the barely suppressed laughter shared between us. Week after week after month after a slice of childhood.

CURSED SLEEP
---
The only aspect of my beautiful new apartment that I hated was the fact that I found sleep terrifying. It was continually fitful; drenched with the grime of ghosts (I realize it sounds laughable, but they were absolutely ghosts) that laid their tongues and their fingers of discontent all over me. They held elaborate dinner parties in my dining room, hung like hovering birds over me in the darkness of my bedroom, ran their spiky fingers all over the walls, and generally just fucked my head up. For some reason, they were always female, always long and dishevel-haired, and always tireless.

NO BAD NEWS
---
I regretted only the placement of my body at that point. I was twisted over a haggard park bench, evergreen trees draping on all sides, and a tile of grass beneath me. There was not even so much as a stick within reach, never mind the possibility of anything sharper. Where was the knife; the gun; the rope? I thought that I might throw up, and then I did. When I peel myself back up off the ground wet with my devastation, the supply of potential weapons is looking no better. I call my mother and dissolve into tears.

COLD AND WET
---
The champagne shrieks open and into glasses that are anorexically thin. Voices lift and fall, twining from room to separate room. The crackling liquid snakes its way down my throat with startling ease. I feel my tired limbs shiver and then loosen. We wander down the Crescent, happy and stupid and far beyond the stage of caring about anything. The scent of Fall creeping into the last lingering stretch of August mixes with the lightness of what we are drinking, and all I can taste is release.

BIG FRIDAY
---
It is late, very late, and we sit curled in the corner of an after-hours Thai restaurant. Save for a pair of elderly men arguing over the crossword and two girlishly young waitresses whispering behind the bar, we are alone. We shovel curry slowly between our lips and you ask me if I have ever thought that love is not real. I say that I have, all the time actually. This causes us both to lock eyes and relax into laughter. You hand me a shoddily-wrapped gift (it is my birthday, after all) and it is a book of poetry. All of the poems are about love and most of them are also accompanied by whimsical little drawings. A fresh wave of laughter pulls me into itself and I kiss you across the table.

LAY AND LOVE
---
We stretch out on the living room floor, three bodies untouching yet close enough to still exchange breath. We throw this old record on, and I don't quite know why, but all the lights are completely off. The music seeps over us like a humid wind, catching us vulnerable. Nobody speaks for a very long time, and I am glad.

THE SEEDLING
---
Under a heap of scarves and sweaters stashed in the crevices of your closet (I was cold and looking for a blanket one gray afternoon) I come across a graveyard of photos. They are from a different time, and your happiness in them makes me gasp. I knew I would find these somewhere, at some point, but regardless--their existence, right here in my hands right now, knives me like ice through the heart. I sift through them all, of course, and my head starts to ache and then I throw them back, further than they were before, under the pile of clothing. I swallow the feeling of blood crawling up in my throat, wrap an afghan over my shaky shoulders, and walk back into the living room with a smile curving. I collapse my frame back against yours on the couch, and you pull me more tightly into you as you unpause the movie. I feel an eerie sense of calm.

THEN THE LETTING GO
---
As soon as I lay eyes on the Arctic Ocean, I know that this separation is real. We are on our own individual planets. You take a slender piece of gold from the pocket of your cardigan, turn in over in your fingers a few times with a troubled look flecking your eyes. Without warning (you seem to even catch yourself off guard), you fling the shit out of the small object way, way into the tossing water. I steal a glance as you press your hands against your face for a long, despairing moment, then turn as if ripping yourself away from the scene of what you have just done (just ended) and walk away, a little too quickly, so that i know you are willing yourself not to cry. As I watch you tread away from me against moss and rock, I know that I should care but I don't. This gesture was meant to bring us towards one another, but instead all I want to do is set off running in the opposite direction you have gone.

GOD'S SMALL SONG
---
There was this flimsy nest of sparrows in our back yard in the country. It was this year, this summer. I was (and I am) twenty-five years old. The birds that we found here were hours out of the shell; wet with newness and eyes still painted shut. They screeched soundlessly for food, and I felt this sickening fear because their nest was very very low to the ground; far too low. I stood there watching them in fascination and helplessness for about an hour, or maybe more. When I came back the next morning, the nest was empty. I still think about it sometimes.

I CALLED YOU BACK
---
I licked your hand and it tasted of sweat. I tried my own and it tasted the same.

Good night and good luck,
With love,
RB.

Tan&blue, peach&navy.

2009-07-06T00:29:00.000-07:00

...so I woke up and started writing. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote until I began to feel like myself again. It took a few hours or more, but it was worth it. I felt myself coming out of the haze gradually, and it tasted of relief. Alone, like really honestly alone for the first time in a long time, I breathed lightly and loosely and without thinking about it too much. Nothing coursed through my veins except blood, clear and untouched. I thought about all the solitary nights that I could make good and real by removing myself from the crowd...the hectic...the endless movement. Laying there in the sunporch with my pen against paper and my head in a space that could be called disarming, something fused together. I began to re-acquaint myself with myself. It was strange and lovely and actually kind of terrifying all at once. And so, there, with naked feet trailing the cool wooden floor, I consciously started thinking forward, and it was scary and interesting. My mind prowled in so many directions like an animal suddenly uncaged. And yet, I knew that it was right. As unnatural as the ground felt under my feet, it also felt like where I needed to be more than anything else. Strong and slender, I felt my confidence swell and then settle. It folded in around me like something fresh but also something very very old.

/

The air is humid--cool; edible. We drink rum out of teacups, and laughter trails through the dimness. We sit cross-legged, limbs (long and coltish) weaving against one another. Bars of pale light twigging through the open window cut our faces into skinny slivers, jutting weirdly in the darkness. Words come scattered, yet with fluidity. My eyes trace the contours of what once was good, but we both know isn't any longer. Somehow and impossibly, this is okay though. We loop Neil Young's "On the Beach", and it is sad, sort of. I make us a nest out of afghans and pillows while you walk down to the corner and buy us some street curry. Just the smell steaming off of it is almost enough to satiate my hunger. We drape ourselves across the mess of blankets and eat slowly, passing the flimsy bowl back and forth between our fingers, savouring it. We try speaking shoddy Spanish for a while, for fun...maybe in a last, loose effort to make some sort of a connection that saves or salvages or something. It doesn't work, obviously. The disjointedness is there and it is very real. So instead of talking about our hearts that don't care anymore, we talk about our hidden talents (you are double-jointed in your arms; I can throw a perfect football spiral. We both make a killer grilled cheese sandwich.), our dream interview (you: yourself in fifty years; me: Leonard Cohen), unassuming pleasures (yours has something to do with Jameson Whiskey and latenight drives to the lake while mine stems more along the lines of canned wine on train bridges--we smile; sans specifics, they are the same), whether we loved studying Shakespeare plays back in high school (me) or hated (you). And so on, and on and on. We exchange words so as to fill the dense, hazy space between us. From time to time, you peel your fingers through my hair, and from time to time I touch your lips, but only with my hands. After a while, you ask if I will stay. I say no, and that I wish you hadn't asked. I sling an old sweater of yours over my shoulders and leave quickly, somehow defeatedly, through the door out of your basement apartment, winding up the stairs and into the now-night. You don't try to follow me, and I am glad. I walk home alone through empty, gritty streets, cigarette dangling from curved mouth. The moon hangs above like ice and I feel fucking alive.

/

Breakfast: avocado drenched in hot sauce. I tear the buttery greenness off in strips, dragging out the process of eating it as slowly as I can between sips of coffee. The sunporch is dripping morning light--the softest kind. I glance down at my legs slung over the dirty chair's arm and wonder why they are so impossibly white. My hair is wet against the tips of my shoulders, and I imagine for a while that it is black again. Something French drifts from the record player, rooms away (Francoise Hardy, maybe?), It is nice morning music, evening and almost soothing in a light and lazy way. I know that within an hour or probably less, I will no longer be curled like a fox in its warm den, but properly clothed and chasing after a bus crammed with bodies too close. And yet...for now, I will linger here--careless; lost in mazes of thought--keeping the day at arm's length.

Tonight will be tea and toast, skin and bone, tawny and still, rooftops and the setting sun.
Until then,
R.

(Sometimes I get this far-off idea that I wish I knew how to take photos, but really I think that if I ever tried, they would likely just end up words anyways.)

***Note (as an aftertaste): Lauren Dukoff is a lady with very cool taste and incredible skill behind a camera. She has, incidentally just published her first book which is named "Family" and I kind of can't wait to let my eyes all over it. I think that her stuff is real, and that is perhaps its most alluring quality.

This is not a blog about fashion.

2009-06-07T22:22:00.000-07:00

However, sometimes someone like MKate looks far too sublime to resist drawing shameless attention to. Here's to being effortlessly cool. Thanks, girl, you put us all to shame.

Prowling photos by the glow of my computer screen is, coincidentally, how I am chipping away at the night. The reality is that I should be working on my piece for the magazine. Instead I am eating Vietnamese with my roommate, drinking lemon tea, researching the steamy past of Fleetwood Mac, and reading a book in bits and pieces.

In addition to hobo-chic at its best, I came across a few other shiver-worthy bites:

(on hearts)
"We don't know anything. We don't know how to cure a cold or what dogs are thinking. We do terrible things, we make wars, we kill people out of greed. So who are we to say how to love."--Miranda July, excerpt from "No One Belongs Here More Than You: Stories By Miranda July"

and (courtesy of my current muse of the hour, Truman Capote):

(on writing)

"My life--as an artist, at least--can be charted as precisely as a fever: the highs and lows, the very definite cycles.
I started writing when I was eight--out of the blue, uninspired by any example. I'd never known anyone who wrote; indeed, I knew few people who read. But the fact was, the only four things that interested me were: reading books, going to the movies, tap dancing and drawing pictures. Then one day I started writing, not knowing that I had chained myself for life to a noble but merciless master. When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended solely for self-flagellation.
But of course I didn't know that. I wrote adventure stories, murder mysteries, comedy skits, tales that had been told me by former slaves and Civil War veterans. It was a lot of fun--at first. It stopped being fun when I discovered the difference between good writing and bad, and then made an even more alarming discovery: the the difference between good writing and true art; it is subtle, but savage. And after that, the whip came down!
As certain young people practice the piano or the violin four and five hours a day, so I played with my papers and pens. Yet I never discussed my writing with anyone; if someone asked what I was up to all those hours, I told them I was doing my school homework. My literary tasks kept me fully occupied; my apprenticeship at the altar of technique, craft; the devilish intricacies of paragraphing, punctuation, dialogue placement. Not to mention the grand overall design, the great demanding arc of middle-beginning-end. One had to learn so much, and from so many sources: not only from books, but from music, from painting, and just plain everyday observation.
In fact, the most interesting writing I did during those days was the plain everyday observations that I recorded in my journal. Descriptions of a neighbour. Long verbatim accounts of overheard conversations. Local gossip. A kind of reporting, a style of "seeing" and "hearing" that would later seriously influence me, though I was unaware of it then,..."--Truman Capote, excerpt from preface of "Music For Chameleons"

Gone,
RB.

Magic hours.

2009-06-02T22:54:00.000-07:00

The water in the bathtub sighs heat, reeling me into itself. Limbs ache in a way that I am unacquainted with--subtle; searing. I slink my eyelids shut (ice cubes rest, invisible against lashes) and visualize tawny skin and the smell of a thousand waterfalls. If you asked me to teach you this language, I would say no. You aren't ready for it. Neither am I, for that matter. The house washed stone-gray in that field, somewhere in the far reaches of Argentina, grazes my thoughts. I remember its taste; the way the gnarled floor felt beneath my naked feet, and the wet haze that hung like an unseen gauze in the air, twisting down my throat. I am hungry again for that. This water is the same temperature as my sweat-glazed skin, and it tastes like nothing.

Hours ago, I sat folded into a red red booth across from Meg. Angular black glasses framed her face, and our hands played against wine glasses. I read aloud to her from Truman Capote's book called "Music for Chameleons", and all the while she sketched fitfully; beautifully in her brown journal. We decided together that bravery and taking a few skinny chances makes sense for now. Don't you think?

Then I walked to Paris and back. It was quite nice. I took three delicate bites of an almond croissant, listened for a while to a French couple having an argument in the street, took a metro to Montmarte, had a drag of a cigarette, and then walked home. I considered staying indefinitely, but decided against it. For what reason, I can't now quite remember. Back home in my apartment with the dimmest lighting, the dishes lay undone and my cat cried for her dinner. And so, I took my feet back to the collection of rooms and walls that are my own, at least for this evening. I fumbled with the fireplace, heated some soup and turned the pages of a book, softly and slowly. It was not a bad night.

Couldn't/wouldn't.

2009-05-22T23:16:00.000-07:00

The words "don't falter" trail off somebody's lips, somewhere, as rain cuts the pavement. I try walking slowly; slower, and then some. Water streaks down wet, white cheekbones--the skinniest rivulets. It cools and also distracts. I focus on the jutting lack of warmth. It is like a salve, taking my mind off the pain that spreads behind my eyes, and the lilacs that fail to blossom, still. It kind of pisses me off, actually--the flowers, that is. They were supposed to have been here weeks ago. Lilacs always take me back to our red brick house in St. Boniface, back to the wild spray of bushes between us and our next-door neighbour's lanky home (we thought she was a witch; in reality she was just a lovely old flight attendant), back to childhood and back to that seamless happiness. Sometimes I pine for those days--almost mourning that fact they they are locked in the confines of all that was, rather than what is. Being on your own is better and also scarier than you envision it when you are a kid, yes? For me, it is. I was listening to this interview with Leonard Cohen the other day, and he made some comment along the lines of "if people go through life thinking that love is going to be easy, then they will be infinitely disappointed, but if they go through life expecting that love will be the most difficult thing, then they will be pleasantly surprised." (Although I am sure that I butchered his words), I like that. It has just the right twist of insight--not at all pretentious, and basically just honest.

Another memory lights--catches, flares and then seeps away and into the dark street. The night is impossibly late and all my body is asking for is air that refreshes. I toss an old sweater over my shoulders, the last splashes of a bottle of wine into a coffee mug (white, chipped, it says "Lover" in weird script across it), blow the cat a kiss goodbye and slip out of my apartment and into the stillness. The moon is a white layer or skin draping down, and the wind tangles itself in my lungs, sharp. I follow the string of streets towards the park, treading lightly and loosely. Up ahead, a couple is extracting their young, sleeping family from a car. They ease three children, heavy with sleep, out one by one, speaking softly to them all throughout. A boy, a girl, and then another girl (all black-haired, all tiny) emerge from the vehicle, bedraggled with tiredness. For a snap moment, the woman's eyes lock with my own, and we exchange a smile, barely there. And yet. I remember soaking in those sorts of nights as a little girl--those rare occasions where we were allowed to stay out past midnight, and I would wake up to the feeling of my dad's steady arms carrying me inside. The low voices of my parents would layer around my brother and I like liquidly warmth, and I would always pretend to still be asleep. So as not to shatter the experience; that pristine interval of seeming magic and security.

Leaving the visual of that family behind me, I continued on my way feeling almost weightless. It was a simple reminder, but a significant one. I sat curled on a park bench, mind wandering and whittling in interesting fashion until my limbs grew stiff and breath steamed white from the cold. I wove my way home dripping gratitude. If only they knew, if only you knew, if only I knew. That night, I felt the blood hot in my veins and the hammer of my chest and the dipping temperature against my skin. Thank God, because those are the times that make me hopeful (and even expectant) that all of this disjointedness actually means something. In the meantime, and in those oceans of in-between space, I will write (even if it scares me sometimes, often) and I will listen and try to find meaning and rest well and choose my words with consciousness and loosen my attitude and drink tea at all hours and read in the sunlight and just fucking know what is good for me. I am beginning to realize how much stems from basing yourself in simplicity and trying to move through everything from that place.

(light me like incense in the night/light me like a candle burning bright)

Bitter end material, for these two have been an inspiration this week (and always):
:

Tired eyes,
Rb.

Lilacs&white.

2009-05-09T08:57:00.000-07:00

I had today handed to me in unexpected fashion. After dragging myself from sheets and hectically drinking some coffee, I arrived at my (literally) backyard workplace only find myself stepping back into my apartment moments later. Evidently (and understandably), our city is wrapped in hibernation today. Translation: no lunchers for me to serenade with offers of Pinot Grigio before noon. Thanks, Winter in May--you are kicking my financial ass.

Last night Melissa and Zach hosted a "we're leaving for the bush so come hang out with us" fireside gathering. It was rich with faces familiar and not; an interesting blend. As the night filtered by with a lazy ease, it began to snow. Morale hardly took a beating though; everyone just laughed in disbelief and layered on an extra scarf/sweater/blanket/body against them. Warmth radiated from that whirl of people in the night...from the spitting fire and cigarettes aglow and the branches of conversation that twisted together--lovely. As I kicked my boots to the side, home again in wispy morning light, the lingering bits of snow shed off of me and caused me to think listlessly of another time; a hotter time (because heat is summer and summer, for me, has been like this):

That summer was a charged one. It dripped heat and also complication. The open sky was our backdrop, and the air had never tasted quite that fresh licking down my throat. Stillness settled loosely in around me, and it felt like the way things should be. I swayed, without realizing it, into all things natural; neutral--tossed my naked feet on the dashboard, smoked Blacks for breakfast, and played in ditches. The details I care to remember are all a bit like that. Falling asleep against the river, surrounded by dead leaves and a sun that slung itself down like an offering. Driving down the highway through pools of darkness, contentment on our lips. The barest legs, and the stupidest straw hat dipping low over my forehead. Taking the dog for walks that stretched on for hours, somehow losing her again and over. Wandering through the ashy summer wheat. Morning disappearances to the the lake. Drinking beer in grain trucks. Pouring over a garden for the first flush of colour on pale strawberries. The smell of fire during the dying light of day. Watching the skinny moon. And so on and so forth.

There is more, but I am running dangerously late for a wedding social (gag) so I am pulling this to a pause for now.
Here's to a dreamy Saturday on all counts.
Rlb.

A Thousand Kisses Deep:

2009-04-30T23:49:00.001-07:00

I've been grappling for the words to trap my night in the presence of Leonard Cohen in black and white form, but I've concluded that I cannot. At least not yet. I need to keep tasting the experience, again and over, until I can do any sort of justice to it in writing. I was raised on this man. And he as good as had me on my knees all night; much respect, much speechlessness and so much inspiration. I am letting my lips fall together at this point, because (really, who the hell are we kidding) he just says it so much better. Close your eyes and listen to this.

The age of self:

2009-04-26T16:58:00.000-07:00

Last night, Meg and I splayed ourselves amidst brown boxes that yawned open (poised for her imminent departure to the bush) and owned the fuck out of a trillion-dollar bottle of wine. Thanks Uncle James; you placed a very posh night straight into our fingers. I do not know the exact value of this liquid brilliance that we slid down our throats....all I know is that it came in a long, skinny box with a blood-red ribbon looped around it. Cool. Our fake boyfriends, Devendra Banhart and Jana Hunter licked our ears on repeat all night long, again and over more times than I became capable of counting. Candlelight flecked the nearly-naked walls of Meg's living room, and blackened chocolate lay broken into bits on the low table between us. A strange blend of sadness and the loosest contentedness settled in around me as I sat there, folded into the blanketed couch, ribs grazing against. It will be weird to see that space go; for some reason that I cannot quite decipher, I have the fiercest attachment to those walls. Or rather, all that has transpired within them...food and drink and records and laughter and friends and photoshoots and meltdowns and secret-spilling and...I could go on. Here, instead, is a glimpse of what expensive alcohol will do to people whose budgets typically accomadate $10 bottles of wine:

On a completely unrelated note, I have been intrigued lately by this artist named Robert Wyatt. He is a wildly interesting musician who I also find a great deal of inspiration in as a writer. I think that he twists words together in a really unique way. Like this...

Sea Song (Wyatt):

You look different every time you come
From the foam-crested brine
Your skin shining softly in the moonlight
Partly fish, partly porpoise, partly baby sperm whale
Am I yours? Are you mine to play with?
Joking apart - when you're drunk you're terrific when you're drunk
I like you mostly late at night you're quite alright
But I can't understand the different you in the morning
When it's time to play at being human for a while please smile!
You'll be different in the spring, I know
You're a seasonal beast like the starfish that drift in with the tide
So until your your blood runs to meet the next full moon
You're madness fits in nicely with my own
Your lunacy fits neatly with my own, my very own
We're not alone

He was a young babe and now he is an old man. Either way, in my opinion he oozes coolness.

Onwards with my Sunday,
RB.

Caliente.

2009-03-19T06:53:00.000-07:00

I wake earlier than I should--cat weeping at the edge of my door. My fingers, grapefruit-stained in the dirty light filtering through my window, peel through pages; page after page after another, and so on. Reading the ghost of your own words (especially recent, that is the best and also the hardest) is a strange way to spend a morning. And yet. There are a few stretches, lanky scrawl that dips in at the margins and seems to have little regard for the structure of lines and any any sort of structure, that inject memory like fluid warmth. (Here are a few bites.)
:
--(8th Feb, bus station) Buenos Aires bus station. Afternoon. Feet are dirty and smoke (cigarette) trails into my face from nearby. The speakers shriek announcements in harrowing Spanish, slicing through the hot air. Our white skin draws continual glances; stares even. We are getting used to it. The children are beautiful here; dark dark butter-soft skin and eyes, black that goes on for miles. There are dressed, for the most part, simply and haggardly. Babies abound. It is really almost unbelievable, the amount of new life that is scattered, it seems, everywhere. The mothers are young and tired, but also act almost as if toting fresh children in their arms is not really anything all that significant. I notice, again and again, women walking the streets with a baby (new newNEW) slung casually in one arm. It's like more people than not have babes attached to their bodies from some limb or another, and there is a very casual air surrounding this. I feel like in the setting that I am used to, parents are constantly absorbed fussing and preening and obsessing over their small ones, in a way that seems somehow overwhelming in comparison. I kind of like that children here look perpetually dirt-fringed and disheveled. NOT to minimize at any level the poverty that likely lies behind that visual, but my observation is that I like the fact that these kids don't seem reluctant or at all afraid to get dirty. I have seen countless little bodies already, sprawled out in the middle of a sidewalk, playing hard. I cannot get enough of that. And it seems that in this culture (Buenos Aires at least), everyone is chill with the fact that there may be children rolling underneath your feet as you walk the downtown streets.

--(9th Feb., rooftop terrace) I am reading "The Time Traveler's Wife" in the slowest bites so that it will last. It is so drop-dead good that it almost makes me sort of sick. Here is a taste: "I place my hands over her ears and tip her head back, and kiss her, and try to put my heart into hers, for safekeeping, in case I lose it again."

--(10th Feb., dingy bed) Back at the heart of everything, I drain you off the crevices of my body. You are liquid energy; watery hope. Right now, I still feel the underlayer of trepidation...and so I filter you (reluctantly) off of myself. Where you once may have responded grimly, you seem visibly unaffected by this. I like to think that it is because you know I am near. We are both aware of it; starkly aware. The strange and ironic thing about consequences, though, is our inability to predict them. Like, if I keep him at one hundred arm's lengths and then with time realize that I want him nearer to me than any others...will it have slipped out of my reach? Will he slip away; will you? This is the fear that causes me to fret in my sleep...did I fuck it up too far? I can only stand to believe that the answer to this ugly question is no, adamently no. Even though the past with others has often been unkind...comparisons are ugly; I choose something different.

--(14th Feb, waterside) Just this: "There is the hidden presence of others in us, even those we have known briefly. We contain them for the rest of our lives, at every border that we cross."--Ondaatje, M., "Divisidero". Damnation, soso good.

--(17th Feb., cafe.) I feel an evenness in myself right now. These last weeks have lifted a clinging layer of weight off my chest and shoulders and mind, and that organ that feels so sharply. Perspective is a soothing, cooling thing.

--(18th Feb., night bus) The light thrown from the bus station was pale; grunge-streaked. I peeled wooden limbs from beneath my body and unraveled, stretching so as to feel again. Forehead pressed against the cool window, I noticed his naked back, slick with sweat in the moonlight. He was young, so young, barely more than twelve or even eleven. Amidst the muted tones of whitewashed building and rusted fencing and pavement, the wet sheen of his skin stood out like hot breath against winter air. Running lightly; loosely; with a strange sort of beauty, he reached a long and slender arm down, reeling the stray basketball into his left hand. Hardly faltering, he twisted direction and began to leg his way back to his gang of friends--also shirtless; also sweat-laced. They moved with the restlessness of swarming insects around the nearby field, not pretending to conceal their impatience. I watched as he melted back into their midst, suddenly indecipherable in the thick of twining, darkened bodies. All I was aware of as I averted my eyes was how alive I felt.

--(23rd Feb, bus station) Just a little while back, as I was slouching here forcing myself to eat three lukewarm empanadas, I saw a couple about my age saying goodbye before the girl stepped onto a bus. They pressed their forms together and kissed one another's faces all over, like they meant it--neck, cheekbones, forehead, verging on lips, and finally lips. I wonder how long she is leaving him for...are they in love...is it a smooth or a resentful parting, or rather just the predictable bittersweet. I wonder. They looked like nice people, there was a certain sort of ease in their movements; a happy coolness.

--(24th Feb., in the grass) All words from hereon in stolen from "The History of Love", penned by Nicole Krauss (who fast became my idol ten pages after opening this book).

"Her kiss was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering."
"Her laughter was a question he wanted to spend his whole life answering."
"They collected the world in small handfuls."
"The oldest emotion in the world may be that of being moved; but to describe it--just to name it--must have been like trying to catch something invisible."
"Having begun to feel, people's desire to feel grew. They wanted to feel more, feel deeper, despite how much it sometimes hurt. People became addicted to feeling. They struggled to uncover new emotions. It's possible that this is how art was born. New kinds of joy were forged, along with new kinds of sadness..."

--(26th Feb., Bolivian soil) It is hotter; balmier here--that, and also almost frigid. It seems that the air and the sky change often, every few hours or so. Even though we have only left Argentina just behind, already there are significant shifts. This feels barer; simpler and more stripped down. Also more colourful. We are whittling hours away planted outside the train station awaiting our ride to this quaint-looking town called Tupiza. We are draped across a stretch of cracked sidewalk with this Israeli boy who seems to have latched himself onto us. A bit annoying but nevertheless, it is further company. The sky to our East is so ominous right now. The smoky tones are building by the minute, it seems, and it (the sky) has a fierce look about it. I feel as if I want to photograph and/or write about every other person that walks past me on the street--there is so much beauty here. The elderly women especially draw me..their sweeping head wraps and intricately-lined leathery skin. This is the South America that I had envisioned...the one I have been pining for introduction to. I am thankful to be here in the now. Despite how destroyed my body has felt all day, and how frustrating all these legs of transportation have been, there is nowhere else I would rather be.

--(26th Feb., train) Balance. I am interested in balance.

--(6th March, out of doors) Hot hot hot HEAT. I am splayed out, bare-legged and naked-armed on hot stone. It is beginning to hit that time of evening cool, but nevertheless the cement is still throwing insatiable amounts of heat. It feels smooth and lovely. The height of the sun-drenched day is brilliant, but also a bit intolerable. So this fall of evening is always welcomed with a lightened breath.

--(7th March, hammock) My current read is called "What is the What" written by one Dave Eggers. It is heavy as hell, but breath-stopping at the same time. Here you go: "It's odd to say this, but I loved Tabitha most from afar. That is, my love grew for her each time I could watch her from a distance. Perhaps that sounds wrong. I did love her when we were together in my room or on the couch, our legs entwined and her hands in mine, but when I could see her from across a street, or walking toward me, or stepping onto a broken escalator, those are the moments I most remember."

--(9th March, rooftop terrace) It is late Sunday night and I am nursing a (surprisingly delicious) McDonald's coffee. Kate and I are back in Buenos Aires and I am happy, so happy to be here. The last string of days has been seemingly fraught with travel and movement, so a steady stretch of time banked in one place is completely what I have been craving. This is good, yes. My body feels trashed from last night's bus ride, and tonight's installment of vino blanco. Even now as I write, my eyes are falling shut and my fingers are weary; I realize full well that it is time to call it a night. Hello, Rebecca Louise--your body is crying out for some serious sleep. I am off to oblige.

--(14th March, balcony) Saturday morning--heat drips like liquid through the air. It is like a softly knitted web, this heat. It is light and infused with heaviness all at once; it is sensual, almost. You breathe in and it saturates your lungs and down to your limbs like twisting energy...it is extraordinary. It want to hang onto this; the sensation of how it feels. In a week or two, once I am immersed like a shivering creature in Winnipeg wind and ice, I want to draw easily on this memory. I am fairly certain I will be cursing myself for my lack of realization and worship or the warmth and light that is almost a given here. I know that I will dream of it behind lidded eyes, and crave and yearn for it like a woman hungry. It has been a blessing already, though, in so many ways. My body has never felt lighter or smoother...my skin has a sheen to it and my head remains clear. It is refreshing; addicting, almost.

(There are eight hundred thousand more where that came from. I am unemployed, so you will likely find me siphoning them onto here in my endless spare time.)

Amen,
RB.

Emily Haines--Buenos Aires.

2009-02-03T04:30:00.001-08:00

For some reason I was incredibly inspired by this.

Feathers of deep black and cool green.

2009-01-25T13:17:00.000-08:00

Sunday morning. Stop. Can't leave sheets. Stop. Laughter, my roommate's, drifting from the bedroom down the hall. Sigh, stop. I've chosen this, but I wish it wasn't mine; this starkness. Stop. Sleep, but fitfully. In my state of half-wake, half-dream with an injection of self-pity, my mind wanders wildly. Green, pale, eye contact, water, damp salty hair, incomprehensible words (this is not my language), catching one train then another, rearranging cutlery, tracing the bony line of your back and not knowing why but it feels like perfection. Stop.

The black material against my skin is soft; worn. I don't know where it came from and I don't at all care. It feels like smooth hands and that is all that really matters. I make too much coffee, watch absently while it brews and once a cup coiling heat finds its way into my hands, I wander my apartment, immersed in thought (yet thinking nothing in particular). Sometimes, rather than reflecting or sorting out or analyzing, I find myself identifying emotions. Like, here I am leaning against the side of my hallway that is covered with art: sadness. I trail fingers along the wall, deep red and cool to the touch, and by the time I've transitioned into the living room in one fluid motion, there is also regret. They layer against one another, companions that lend comfort and also unrest. I twist myself into a corner of the couch, the sun-streaked one, drain the last of the black liquid warming my innards, and all I can hear is the softness of my own breath. There it is...confusion. It settles in like an old friend; a ratty t-shirt that you put on and remember its exact folds; how it falls and feels against your body.

My insides bleat for another coffee, and so I peel myself off the couch and slip into the dining room. That is where the fear resides, or at least where it preys on me. My steps falter for a moment; wondering, recognizing. I don't even need to look that one in the eyes to name it and know it. Being afraid is a sensation as familiar as exhaustion or hunger. It's there and I know it. I stand, wordless, as it joins the sadness, regret and confusion. They are an intimidating force, and it seems that they are a united front today. Bastards.

In the kitchen though, there is hope. As I drape the remains of the coffee pot into my mug, I feel it. Compared to the daunting gang of negativity, it is weak, but it is there. It beats like a baby sparrow heart, frail but determined. It strips a layer of the weight off me, and the lightness is a significant change, if only to myself.

It is there, and I know that it is not going anywhere. If anything, it has yet to fully flower and show itself. When it reaches the surface, I am confident that I will know it and embrace with a vengeance.

Until then, bisous.

Dream exorcism, and other endeavours...

2009-01-11T15:32:00.000-08:00

The other day I stood in a bus shack listening to Charlotte Gainsbourg and feeling okay. Limber arms and cold breath made for a wait that I didn't at all mind; observation and motionlessness. A little girl with eyes--glassy, large--hovered next to me on the bus, chirping an endless string of questions into my ear, and I loved her for it. I didn't know her name but I pretended that it was Iris. She looked as if it would be.

It seems that lately a blazing topic of inquisition (directed my way) has been children and whether they are in my plan of action. It's strange because up until now, the odd question would snake itself my way, but it seemed cool and manageable, given the long stretches between. For some reason though, these days the mother interrogation ("Do you want to be one?") chases after me like a loaded gun. I don't necessarily mind it, but its frequency is becoming startling. I always feel as if I answer awkwardly and vaguely, which is not what popular demand seems to be looking for. To burn the spotlight on this issue by choice for once, my position is that yes, I think that I do. Want little beans of my own, that is. It just all seems so far off and not really at all relevant to my focus, and the rhythm of my days in the now. The thing is that, unlike a lot of people I trade words over this with, I can envision my life edging in either direction--that is, sans babies or with. When I leap ahead in my mind to the years that have yet to play themselves out, I don't necessarily see a sharp image. I don't see anything all that concrete; recognizable; detailed. I see, rather, warmth and meaning and balance and joy. I see taking pride in what I do, whether it is baby-holding or writing or office-inhabiting, or any other number of motions. If I am living intentionally and with a smile against my lips more often than not, then that is all I really care about.

A few evenings ago, Meg, Kit and myself had a lovely reunion over dinner with our friend Beatrice from Belgium. She is sixty-eight years old and one of the coolest ladies I know. She has skin that is bronzed like pale leather and eyes that radiate light and energy. She has a husband named Raphael, and a slew of dogs, and a gorgeous spread of home in the Belgian coutryside, and a secret garden, and a vocabulary that would make you reel. Her French is smoking and all throughout the evening, she and Meg's Auntie Daryl flipped, smoother than rushing water, from one language to the other. It was amazingly beautiful to listen to. The evening was dominated by the sounds of those two twining languages, but when Lady Bea fround out Kit and I are flinging ourselves onto South American soil in a matter of weeks, she obliged us by layering some boisterous Spanish into the mix. Draped around the dinner table, us five bodies, in the heart of Auntie Daryl's breathtaker of a lanky apartment (I would die to inhabit a space like that at some point in my life, even for the briefest interval), something fell into place. There was a click; a sigh; a distance broached. Two elders and three young, wispy individuals with so much to discover; so much yet to learn...it was like we just relaxed into our respective roles, and it felt right. It felt better than good, actually. We poured over photos from those months spent an ocean across, and we laughed and stories flowed and we all three missed it very much, I think. Long after the warm, delicious arrangement of food was consumed, long after melting wedges of chocolate cake had found its way to our bellies, we lingered there at that table, sipping at the last dregs of red wine and exchanging words. I sincerely hope one day to be with my best girlfriends as these two are, Beatrice and Daryl. They extracted stories of insane love and lust and humour and injustice like plucked blossoms from a source from which I am sure held endless amounts more. These women have had passion and they have had devastation and they have lived abroad and traveled everywhere and cascaded down into despair and been left alone only to be picked up again, whether it be by a kindred spirit or a lover who just knew what to do and how to do it well, or by one another, or most importantly themselves. They inspired me in a unique way that night, and I would want them to know that. Aging gracefully has never taken on such a lighthearted, appealing air as it did for me during those hours, in the presence of those women. I left altered, in a subtle way but also in a permanent way. It was almost as if I was flown back to Europe for a single night, in the company of a lot of wisdom and laughter and good food and it was absolutely perfect.

I passed yesterday afternoon, Sunday afternoon, quietly hidden away in a Bar Italian nook. Both halves of the room were mayhem; apparently the whole of our neighbourhood congregates on the corner of McMillan and Cockburn, in that lovely dingy space, come mid-day Sunday?! It felt somehow nice to be a part of things, yet definably removed. At one point, I glanced over the array of objects littered across my table, and thought to myself, if I were to step away for a few moments, would somebody be able to tell it was me hanging out here just by my belongings? It is an interesting thought. I took inventory my possessions in the present--one coffee (half-drained, second round), one book ("The Mysteries of Pittsburgh" by Michael Chabon, courtesy of Hilary's intimidating book collection), one issue of British Vogue (outdated; October 2008. but still alluring in every way.), one pen, one folder (containing all four glossy issues of G.Love; a portfolio of sorts I guess), one pair of mittens (green, containing rips, stolen from my brother one season ago) and one heavily-laden snakeskin/paisley tote bag. I would like to think that anybody who knows me well would attach me to this paraphernalia. Any takers? Madge? Drewber? Lopez? Etc. etc. etc.

My dreams in the dark have been haunted as of late. I don't like it; they cause me to sleep fitfully and wake feeling angsty and scattered. These days, the content is always similar and it leaves a wretched taste on my lips. Space and time seem all fucked up by the time that I pull myself into wakefulness, and it takes some intention to feel reality out again. I am learning, though. Lessons weathered and perspective gained, right?

I'll find you after dinner, in that place we call summer.
Time to start the day,
RB

Desire and decay...

2009-01-07T19:54:00.000-08:00

I read the other day somewhere that "love is a brittle teacher." I think that I agree. It's not negative; just honest in a refreshing way.
---
brit⋅tle [brit-l]
adjective, -tler, -tlest, noun, verb, -tled, -tling.
–adjective
1. having hardness and rigidity but little tensile strength; breaking readily with a comparatively smooth fracture, as glass.
2. easily damaged or destroyed; fragile; frail: a brittle marriage.
3. lacking warmth, sensitivity, or compassion; aloof; self-centered: a self-possessed, cool, and rather brittle person.
4. having a sharp, tense quality: a brittle tone of voice.
5. unstable or impermanent; evanescent
---

Yesterday evening found me curled, chin on knees, at Meg's kitchen table. We made dinner; translation: I listened to her banter (always intriguing) and watched her cook. This is the usual scenario when the two of us peel ourselves away from our beds/bars/studios/etc. and break bread together. I sip at my glass of wine and hunker down in perching mode, and Madge whips magic together over a stovetop. Bless her. I think that if I am ever a mother, I will force her to teach me her ways. I know that she will be more than game; gleeful even. Bitch. I'll read aloud to you, poetry and fashion literature, while you coo my babies to sleep and sling cakes and casseroles in and out of my oven, okay lover?

The night was eventless and effortless; it was exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed and she knew it; I knew it. One of my most cherished things about this lady (and there are many) is that I don't have to pretend around her; ever. I can cry or rant or make slim to no sense or say absolutely nothing at all, and it is always okay. She is a tirelessly graceful audience for all of the glaring highs and lows I have pulled, and everything in between. We just mesh in a way that I cannot explain and I carry the mystery of that around like something very dear and rare. Je t'aime, Francie. You are one in a trill.

On a complete subject skip--Argentina count: one month, less three days. I feel so so ready for heat-streaked mornings, and fresh cool nights. Drapey dresses and damp hair and sand against skin and Spanish lilting through the air and water. Water, water, water. I want to walk and write and lay and listen and feel and observe and learn and reflect and be.
I am chasing it and it is near, nearer than I think. Somehow our take-wing date seems a lofty distance away still, but it is creeping like an insect and it is moving with haste.
Going going going gone.
Rab Louise.

PS. Apologies, Demetra, if this wasn't the profound collection of words you were hoping for. I owe you one.

The world was wax, hers to mould.

2008-12-20T12:29:00.000-08:00

Standing barefoot in my kitchen, tiptoed...for the floor is so cold. There is a pale fur stole draped across my shoulders, for no reason in particular. One hand occupied with a simmering stovetop--eggs for my roommate and I (breakfast at 1:30 pm), the other leafing through a frayed book of old Cohen poetry. Here is the best one so far--

"Beneath My Hands"

Beneath my hands
your small breasts
are the upturned bellies
of breathing fallen sparrows.

Wherever you move
I hear the sounds of closing wings
of falling wings.

I am speechless
because you have fallen beside me
because your eyelashes
are the spines of tiny fragile animals.

I dread the time
when your mouth
begins to call me a hunter.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want to summon
the eyes and hidden mouths
of stone and light and water
to testify against you.

I want them
to surrender before you
the trembling rhyme of your face
from their deep caskets.

When you call me close
to tell me
your body is not beautiful
I want my body and my hands
to be pools
for your looking and laughing.

(Cohen, Leonard)

---

Disarray; how come there is clothing stranded everywhere it doesn't belong, water in rivulets all over the floor, stale coffee standing frigid in cups and why is there this pain behind my eyes? I think that is it nothing, really. Just another Saturday, another day skimmed off the calendar like a tree shedding its leaves. My limbs crave warmth, yet I can't see it happening. Candles ignited in the daylight feel startlingly nice. I always thought that fire was a thing of the night, but in the pearly afternoon sky they are very lovely.

In my mind, I wander the streets of a different city...beat a separate heart...feel a breath altogether not my own. It is part imagination, part game. Part real. My lips speak a language I've never known, and everything is the opposite of parallel. It's funny, and indecipherably sad at the same time. Stepping, stepping. I don't know these feet but it seems they recognize me as their own.

Here is the new black: Stop thinking and start feeling.

I can't think of words any more fitting to part with.
With love,
RB.

Based in simplicity.

2008-12-14T22:26:00.000-08:00

Between the hiss of the radiators, I ponder why/why not. Either way would be the clearest, but in different ways. Personal philosophy, snaking out the window--in the edgy cool; in the night? You know what's good for you. If I had a flat piece of copper for every time...

Limbs eyes heart head. I'm starting to think that there's no real way of ever knowing. Every once in a stretch of time, a chance licks at your (my) skin like trickling water and it's so easy, almost effortless, to brush it away like a feathery wind or a loose strand of hair. Such a careless, ingrained reaction. Like breath or like eyelashes fluttering tiredness, or a key in the door, shoes tossed off of feet after the longest of days.

The truth here is hardly profound, it is rather just that I want to stop thinking and start feeling. I am reaching blindly in the darkness when it comes to tomorrow and the day(s) after that, but the sensations of this evening, the dying day--that's what is real. Imperfect, but real. And to that, I say yes and yes again.

In parting, here is a bit of an Emily Haines tribute. Her stems kill me (jealous), as does her voice. She is cool and she should know it.

(likes nature)

(perfectly disheveled mane)

(slays)

(exquisite taste in company)

(babe. end of story.)

Practically asleep,
RB.

I'll take the pictures if you stay in bed...

2008-12-06T16:10:00.000-08:00

And I'll take the pictures
If you stay in bed
I'll run down the park
If you put up your head

Don't put up your borderline

Four or five years ago
I wouldn't believe it
I wouldn't receive it
And I'll take the stitches
You put in my head
I'll run down the ark
If you put up your head

Don't put up your borderline
Don't put up your borderline

(genius cred--Sufjan Stevens)

I would nearly venture to say that this is the song of my life. It haunts me and seduces me, smooths me out and stirs me.
It transports me back to Italy...and warmth...and train rides...and a heart on the mend, shard by shard.

*

The first time I realized that you would let me down was cold January, four years ago. I lay feverish and alone in my basement apartment, and I needed you--your fingers like cooling ice on my cheekbones and your scent in the air. You weren't there and I knew in the oblique spaces of my innards that you wouldn't come. That bit like a bonfire through my veins.

Cut/ resist, retain, revive--spring's first streaks of gray, and a faded wooden shack of a cabin. Clear Lake. You and I and the neighbour's dog, walking for coffee in the newborn sunlight down deserted gravel roads. Layers of musty clothing (your grandfather's? your sister's from faded years ago?). We look homeless and we could care less. There is nobody around except for us, as if this humble village of cabins is our own private universe. Back at (our makeshift) home, we brew honey-flavoured tea and shoot it with whiskey. You make dinner, green curry, while I dig myself into a corner of the ragged couch, afghan-clad and book in hands. I break to sift through the tattered collection of records your parents still keep strewn away here--Cohen, Mitchell, Dylan, Young etc. We agree on an old Serge/Jane compilation, and their voices twine around us; twining us together, buttery-smooth. The lazy/sexy sounds melt us into themselves. You lock in with my eyes across the room, this twiggy space between us, and smiles radiate; softness. It is an undeniable exchange, and the heat is like liquid static forming rivulets from me to you and back again.

Once we have devoured our meal of heat and spice, we lay--curry-laden bellies-down--on the chipping slats of the verandah floor. A Scrabble board stretches in the middle of us, filling the gap between our bodies. At first it is serious but then I start inventing words (salinla--a rare type of Balinese worm) and you draw your pipe out from some pocket, somewhere. The sweetened smell of tobacco smoke drifts around us, hanging like a spidery curtain in the dark air...and we have forgotten about our game.

Later, we run down towards the beach, so still and void of sound or movement, you trailing after me. We align ourselves there, in the chilled sand against the water, and then we stop talking. You are in your own thoughts and I in mine. But we are irrevocably joined there, alone in the last dying moments of winter. For the next trailing period of time that we sit there, breathing in the sharp beauty of it all, you only open your lips to say these words--"We should probably never leave here."
"I know," I reply, and lean against the warmth that is the righthand side of your body. It's cold now, and I feel it.

Purple and black in the day, in the night.

2008-12-04T19:02:00.000-08:00

If I could scrape your thoughts naked and siphon them back into our mutual jar of light, would I? I am undecided. Today, right now, draped black from tip to toe--I would say no, without hesitation no. It is, rather, when scent or body language or frail-light touch catch me unaware, that I reconsider. I ask my self why/why not, and all that undefinable space that lingers in between. I hardly even remember the tones of your voice anymore, the shape of your breath--the lifting and the falling of both. For this, I am worshipfully relieved. I would rather stow those months and years and millimeters that make up days in some concealed (yet far from forgotten) cache within the layers of myself--a tiny vial, slender and embroidered with a protective web of skin and blood and tissue. There, I can handle it. I can travel back to it when I feel loose enough, or ready. If details blur; the length of a feathery eyelash or the way that you would go through the motions slowly, ever slowly, then I can peer back into that pristine yet shielded oval hollow of memory, and realize--oh yes, those were the words you used to say goodnight, or that was the way you held your fork. Or I could choose not to, which is drizzling into stronger likelihood with each passing day.

The almond tea laced between my fingers burns the white of my skin, but in a way it feels nice. Like heat with a little searing edge of pain. It energizes, almost. The socks pooled at my feet, now bare, are older than I can even trace back...were they my father's or maybe my brother's or a boyfriend's now long melted away? I can't recall, and I don't even care beyond the point of curiosity. The patchwork of everything--not just the material against my body; all of it from then until now--presses in on my silhouette, sometimes sadness shot through with an injection of light...but usually spirited like a wind that cools.

Back and forth; forth, back...forth and back and over again. A bird winging itself northwards, exhaustion setting in amidst the darts of rain lashing down. Rhythm seduces, and something tells me that it always will. No matter the angle, challenge is almost alluring as it is off-putting. Didn't we always know it would be this way?

where softness meets urgency...

2008-11-29T15:14:00.000-08:00

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

A long long way from home, stop wherever you find yourself.

2008-11-21T15:02:00.000-08:00

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.

matter/antimatter, tangled like vines...

2008-11-11T16:17:00.001-08:00

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.)

where were you when the world turned black?

2008-11-04T12:41:00.000-08:00

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.

(ballad of a thin man)

2008-10-30T16:03:00.000-07:00

Is it Sunday yet?
I have a (sort of) date with Bob Dylan, and am ready to rip into the night with both teeth, ten fingers and whatever else is necessary. Insert sharp intake of breath here. Since burning Neil Young off my airy list of "to see before death", I've been hungering for Dylan and Cohen. One, two, three bold checks beside each groundbreaking name and then one facet of my life is complete. Dear Leonard Cohen, please grace Winnipeg with your presence and I will be forever indebted.

````

Have you ever dreamt of somebody, as-yet faceless/nameless who will serve you tea in bed, and smile when you wear deadened leaves in your hair? Somebody who will lay down in a golden wheat field with you and remain there for hours talking about both the least and the most significant things? Somebody who will scale a tree with you during that ashen hour just before morning slithers into existance? Somebody who likes cats and doesn't think that you are crazy when you talk to them for long stretches of time? Somebody that gathers you into their arms and loves you more when you suggest black olives and a bottle of merlot for dinner? I know I have.

The night starts here. I want to be reminded of summer, and of water and light and laughter and breath. I want to desire taking happiness in like tiny sips of air so that I might spread it out; prolongue it; keep it pristine as it is. I want worn wood and lanky windows and expanses of space and coffee brewing at all hours and bookshelves flanking every room and gargantuan closets and nights spent drifting by the fireplace and scandalously late breakfasts, and so on in a similar vein. I don't care if all these elements are shabby and small and worn and used and laughable. I think that they are exactly perfect and I wouldn't ask for any more or any less.

Off to make a living, all night every night,
RB.

cripple creek ferry(fairy).

2008-10-27T22:22:00.000-07:00

Ever since I saw the godly Neil Young play last week, I've been on a steady and exclusive diet of his albums. He is good, he is better than good. I love him because of this, and because he reminds me of my parents and of my brothers. He reminds me to be hopeful; he reminds me to strip things down to their slimmest bones and look at them that way. I think that if fate would hand me even a skinny half hour with this man, I would buy him a coffee (or maybe a stiff scotch on the rocks), and take him on a frosty walk through downtown Winnipeg in the dusk. We would weave down Wellington to Sherbrook to Ellice to Albert, and our feet would maybe drag and our bodies shiver in the October chill, but our lips would move quickly, trading words. I would ask him questions and I would pray that he would answer. I'd question if he has always believed in love, and even if so (or if not) what bleeding it took to get him there. I have seen his wife, she is very beautiful. And also looks as if she would be quite a lovely individual. I hope so, it would trash my heart to see Neil with anybody less.

I think that my best nights are those involving red wine shared with other(s) and then tea shared with myself, and maybe a book and Devendra's soothing sounds at most. This eve I traipsed to Meg's pretty lair for Mexican eats showered with red wine and layers of secrets shared. It was exactly what I needed, she was exactly what I wanted. I have the most brilliant mum, but if ever I am clawing for an immediate surrogate, I know with instinct that Madge is my lady to go to. She takes care of me and tells me when enough is enough. She also tells me when to go to hell and tells me when she loves me most. And for all these things, and more, I love her most.

Janique, in all her radiance, joined us midway through said hangout. She greeted us, in typical endearing fashion, with coos and kisses and embraces and a fresh bottle of ruby red. We nestled all into one another, listened to records and tossed words around and watched Meg fold her laundry. All was well and there was a lot of hand-grasping and soft laughter. I appreciate those girls, very much.

I leapt onto my frail green bicycle for a lung-icing ride home through abandoned streets. Empty apartment, Harvest Moon lapsing me into relaxation, and hot licorice tea sliding down my throat. I think that this hours calls for no less than a three-hour bath and a sleep no more untouched than death.

This is where I say goodbye.
So goodbye, then.
Rebecca L.

.here's to you, Franny and Edie.

2008-10-22T23:30:00.000-07:00

Melancholy
aviation
chocolate
perfume
cigarettes

(...Gainsbourg, C.)
----
How's this for a nighttime intermission? Due to an elongated afternoon nap, the hour is late latelate and I am awake as the fakey owl gazing into outerspace on my mantel. Fooling myself into tiredless is pointless, maybe I will slide into a hot bath instead? I kind of feel like brewing some tea and taking myself on a walk through blackened streets; rain-streaked pavement. I'd arrange my body, askew, against the watery grass and pull the sharp air into my lungs in greedy sips. The night air, espeically in autumn, is always the best air. It makes me feel as if nothing could ever touch me or hurt me or make me feel any less alive. Energy winding like thin unseen ropes against my skin; nourishment significant only to myself. Like absinthe coating my throat, except imagined not real.

Here is a reel for the eyes, miscellaneous as heck, from the past few days:

(l'apartment)

(falafel place, breakfast in the late afternoon light)

(new roommate, trish. babe.)

--photo cred, all, attributed to a mysterious photographer.

Eyes wide shut,
RB

take my body, hide it in a boat.

2008-10-10T08:45:00.000-07:00

One year ago to this day, I stepped onto a plane bound for London. As I lay here now in my warmth-encased apartment, a wave of nostalgia ripples through my veins. I recall the torrent of emotions ripping my innards during that piece of time; that long-anticipated day. It was fear and hopefulness; trepidation and wonder and a liquid energy. Fragile as I was, I question now if, at that point of departure, had I known of the tears that would flow and the discouragement that would plague at times....would I have gone through with it?

I know I would have. Those two months saw me at my most pristine, my most inspired; but also at my lowest and darkest. I am blessed to have faux-sisters that were willing to weather all through with me, regardless of which extreme I was experiencing at the time. And for that I am grateful beyond words. Meg and Kit, you might as well be blood to me. Thankyou for your goodness; thankyou for tolerating my tired feet and my relationship cul-de-sacs and my stupid drunken questions and my inability to read any slash all maps and all the rain that fell from my eyes and my frailty underneath a backback and my yoga by night and my vegatarianism. You are la creme de la. Know. I will cut my throat if either of you ever change.

So thankyou again and over, continent that is Europe; you were a breathtaking teacher; ground-breaking actuallly. You roughened me up, and also you softened me. You whittled me down to the bones of myself, and you although you trampled on me at times and left me for dead, you also revived me, and brought forth a layer of life from within that I hadn't known was there.

It seems fititng that on the one-year anniversary of our wedlock with Europe, aforementioned trio would make a second pilgrimage to our shitstorm travel agent. We laughed; we poured over a map (this time of an altogether different slice of the world), we exchanged stories, we sipped coffee (black) from mugs usually reserved for construction workers and the like. I shed my dark eyes and sleepless haze; I found myself drawn into the excitement of what we are beginning to piece together. Ruthie is infectious; she has a heart of gold and pearl and amethysts and emeralds and whatever else is best and richest and purest. Adoration only, sent her way.

Shivering on the sidewalk this morning, coffee in white hands and wide-eyed with fatigue, I stood waiting for my ride Ruth-wards. The air was sharp and stiff, and its raw fingers aganst my lungs reminded me of a loose collection of things. Waiting for the school bus with my brothers in the barely-there morning light // sliding in next to a lover--passenger seat of rickety car, kiss hello on cool lips--thrusting shared coffee back and forth between one another's hands as we snake towards the open highway // solo walks through Wolseley towards the University--barely awake and thoughts whimsical. One, two, three...like electric surges, or gunshots. Perhaps a little bit of both.

As one of my most idolized writers has penned, and yes I know I have quoted this before, but bear with me it is shameless in its authenticity--
"Memory breeds memory. The very air is made of memory. Memory falls in the rain. You drink memory. In winter you make snow angels out of memory." (MacDonald, A.M.)

Memory breeds memory breeds memory breeds memory.
I could not agree more feverishly.
Its the grayest sort of day, and my candles have somehow burned down to nothing.
I've a closet to slash through and slenderize, wish me luck.
R. Louise.

PS.

Dear Devendra, can you make me your bride?

Or if not (and let it be said that I fully understand if you decide to make Meg your betrothed instead, she is a fox. and the truth is that we both have an insatiable fetish for you,) would you at least introduce me to this one?

Sincerely yours, Rebecca.

Dirt and soul (Bits of time).

2008-10-06T10:53:00.000-07:00

It's a black winter night. I am nineteen. I am walking down a street glassed with ice and fringed in show. A tired smile plays at my lips as the air, frosty, licks at my exposed skin. Hands slip into rough wool coat pockets, and my steps quicken. The house on the corner is afire with light and sound. I move inside; voices twine all around me. Someone thrusts a glass of red wine between my fingers. I am grateful for it. I slither out of coat...boots...scarf...mittens and say an array of hellos. An unexpected shyness blossoms through my veins. There are one or three familiar faces, but more than most of the house strewn with bodies are those unknown to me. I like this, for some strange and hazy reason. It makes me feel safe; anonymous. My real reason for coming here tonight was to let myself breathe; peel myself from textbooks. Was it a foolish idea? Now I am standing here, body thawing out, feeling like an awkward baby colt on wobbly legs. I am netted within a web of strangers, and now what? And so I drink, quickly and so I will feel smoother. It's latelate December; skinny days before Christmas. There is a tree in the corner, nearby to where I find myself standing. Its smell is raw and refreshing, and vaguely intoxicating. There are candles as well; a ridiculous spread. The collection flung across the living room windowsill is interesting; religious paraphernalia. Fire licks against glass-streaked images of the Virgin Mary, her arms full of the Christ child; Jesus draped over the Cross; a rain of angels. I can't tell if they are meant to be taken seriously or in jest, but regardless, they reel my eyes in towards them. They fuel a memory; Catholic church service as a child. I fall onto my own planet of thought for a heartbeat, and the next thing I know a girl in a man's tattered dress shirt and a cigarette at her lips stumbles into me. I'm in the way. I apologize; melt to the other side of the room.

I'm curled in the corner of a couch, cool black leather. My friend who the house belongs to wanders over, an open bottle of red slung loosely in his left hand. He sits with me awhile, refills my glass to the brim, and we talk about my midterms, the hecticness of the season, the new girl he is dating. After a time he is gone; a tidal wave of life. I am alone again, but not really lonely. By this point I am relaxed; even; content to observe the swirling scene around me.

In the midst of watching a girl exhibit her newborn glittering engagement ring to a knot of people--"Hey, can I sit with you?" I flick my eyes towards the voice; so near although soft. You are there, and you are beautiful. You are a complete stranger to me. You are drinking something in a low, clear glass with ice. Gin, maybe?

I discover that Winnipeg is a very new city to you; you've barely grazed the surface of it yet. We talk about cafes, I tell you my favourites. We talk about dreaming at night, and whether we think it has any sort of meaning at all. Both of us think it does, but still, we agree, it's mysterious. We talk about old music and how the best sorts of days are the grayest ones and how walking alone at night down an empty street can feel so exhilerating. We talk about the obvious; how we aren't organically at ease within a crowd, and how we are happier and more fulfilled by a longer, intimate conversation than frantic snatches of talk with person after person.

I feel like I was made for this conversation; it has been years in the making. It fits flawlessly. I feel like there are a thousand things I want to say and ask you and share and have flow between us. I like your voice, and the words you choose, and the thought you visibly put into them. In a strange sense, in the edges of my mind, I am frightened of losing you...to another person passing by; to menial small talk; to the ocean of people. I can tell you want to hang on to me too; keep me here with yourself. It is a chemical reaction, and we share a magic not so subtle.

We talk for hours. The party yawns; quiets; sighs and deflates like a creature settling down for sleep. We are virtually alone now. The remaining few people crawling over the proximity of the house draw together as if magnetically; they draw towards us. Fuck. Neither of us want this. Yet we must embrace it, and gracefully. Or else what would that look like to the others around? It changes, once we're not alone any longer, inhabiting our own separate universe. All seems back to normal again, yet we are altered, the both of us. I realize my eyes are gritty with weariness, and the hour is immeasurably late. I've an exam to slash through in the morning, and already I'll be falling into bed dangerously close to sunrise.

The last thing I want to do is leave you, though. Our eyes speak volumes--
Stay here with me.
No...no, I can't. I shouldn't.
I know...we only just met...but please stay. Or leave, leave with me.
I...I want to. More than anything I want to. Its just that...
What? What is it? I'm scared too.
No, its not that. It's just that I need sleep, it seems so irrelevant I know, but...
Yeah. I know. Of course, it makes sense. I just couldn't help but...
I know. Me too. I want...
Me too.
Yeah.
Yeah...

Our goodbye is quick; to prolongue it would complicate. I thank my friend for having me. I say goodbye to lingering partiers one, two, three, six. You I leave for the end. Our eyes flash energy; daring us to let them speak again. But no, it's later than late and beyond time for me to go. You walk me to the door; a few others follow, innocently enough, thrashing around for footwear. Laughter falls all around us, but as far as either of us is concerned, none of it exists. We say nothing more; exchange no information; make no plan to see one another. And I'm glad. It seems that it would somehow strip this night of its naked perfection. And so I go; I turn and I walk out the door and into the dark. All I know is that I feel alive.

**

Indian summer; we sit against the river. My feet are bare. You lay on your back, eyes closed, soaking in the unexpeted warmth. We have tea, gray vanilla. The trees are skeletal, bare but for a few final bronzed leaves that still cling, defying the oncoming winter. You stretch over onto your side, and reach down to trail a finger over the skin of my foot nearest to you. It makes me shiver, but in the best sort of way. You ease your body up to sitting; pull me into yourself; lay your lips against my forehead. Its my sort-of favourite place to be kissed; you know it. My laughter is soft, and appreciative.

We talk about love. I have a slender amount to say; you have far too much. Our experiences are glacially opposite. But its okay. There is nothing we can change about that, and so we offer what we have to one another with an almost raw innocence. Afternoon light bleeds a shade less golden by degrees; somehow the hours have whittled themselves away and now its dusky dark. We lay there, backs pressing into the dock's dishevled wood, tracing the lines of one another's bodies. Eventually, we fall asleep.

this is where i put my foot.

2008-09-29T17:58:00.000-07:00

This is where I put my foot—right beneath yours. Breath is even; heart is not. I’ve no idea why I am here. I don’t know these walls, and the sheets are not my own. Yet somehow, it all feels strangely familiar, disarmingly safe. It is better than okay, and it is not okay at all. Arms are winter twigs, brittle and not altogether inviting. I want to be here, yet I cannot ignore the biting urge to slip from the smooth body beside me, piece my clothes back onto my skin and melt away into the night, into the street. It would be hurtful—I know. It would be fucking stupid—I know. I would regret it—I know. Still, I toy with the idea of leaving; toss it around like a piece of forbidden fruit in my mind’s eye. I won’t. Run away, that is. It is less complicated to remain here, uneasy but carelessly content. Tomorrow will be time enough to examine myself. I’ll brew some tea, throw my father’s ragged old cardigan over my shoulders, and let my feet take me down to the river. There I’ll roost, like a spindly baby bird, one set of fingers twined through the mug in my hand, the other set going through the motions of chain-smoking. And I’ll reflect…I will let the snaking autumn river carry my fretful thoughts away with itself, leaving me desirably empty.

That’s what I’ll do. And so, for now, it is alright to stay. I focus on not moving, on a spider legging its way along the ceiling, on the faint dusty light siphoning in through the window from outside. I focus on the narrow closet with its door flung open, on the sound of the cat rustling through the hallway, on the white-hot beating of my heart. It feels erratic. Is it that there are still traces of the red wine we drank earlier sifting through my veins? Although it couldn’t be, I only had a single glass. I am willing myself to drift into non-consciousness, into release. I want it too badly though, my body won’t have it. This aggravates me. Were I alone right now, I’d peel myself out of bed, pull knit slippers over my naked feet, and go sit in the sun porch. I would drink frosty water out of a glass with ice and wedges of cucumber. There would probably be a cigarette involved, or two. I would set the array of candles strewn across the room alight, and I would feel calmer, feel more myself.

It would be insane for me to go ahead with that right now, though. It would only bathe the night, this night, in an obvious complexity. I’d rather recognize it as such myself, and let it go at that. As far as anyone else is concerned, all is well. I’m laying here, now successfully motionless, and my eyes are draped closed. I’m so visibly at rest. The fact that I am playing a role is irrelevant, because I’m pulling it off. It’s making me feel like I’m at a funeral inside, though. Instead of sleeping, I am mourning. Who’d know?

Sky’s light is turning a pearly heather-gray; morning is near. I’ve startled myself by remaining here. I don’t feel any more at ease, but a smoothening resignation has set in.

We wake up; make coffee. Laughter is soft. Legs are bare. Coat, boots, scarf, bag slung across shoulder. Day has set in and I am gone. Like that, I am gone. And its okay. I can breathe again. Light and heat and my feet touching on cement drenched in morning warmth. Its done and I know it. But for now, there is today. There is today, and it is good. I walk away, and home. Moving through, moving forwards, moving forwards and through.

*

(Chase Cohl--http://www.littledoeislove.com)

All I miss is all that I am ashamed of.
Bisous.
(All is well, even though words may seem to speak otherwise. Rest assured.)
RB.

River rat.

2008-09-12T19:42:00.000-07:00

I am setting up camp in my living room, sipping a hells spicy self-made caeser with olives and cucumbers. It is startlingly delicious. For the moment, this Friday night hangout consists of myself and Neil Young. So that is funny. And also a little bit sad. But friends are en route, and I am just using Neil to whittle the present lone hour away. In his defence slash favour, he is really quite good company.

This afternoon we were blessed with an injection of---what is it called??--Indian summer? Yah I think that is it. Regardless, the iced air gave way to light and actual warmth. It was unexpected, and I liked it. Winding my bicycle down Assinaboine mid-day, after a gargantuan lunch courtesy of my amazingAMAZING grandmother, I couldn't bring myself to resist the open air licking enticingly at my skin. And so, instead of marching responsibly home to address matters such as dishes, laundry, credit card paying and magazine article writing, I fucked it all. I flung my spindly green bicyclette down amidst leaves in a deserted nook along the river, and I curled down like a satisfied cat in the sun's reaches. I thought, I dreamed, I reflected, I fretted, I breathed in and out and over again, I slept a little, I surprised myself by cascading down into relaxation. Sometimes, I think that losing all rational track of time and obligations is the most freeing sensation. It fed me today; nourished me down to the bones and also, on a lesser level, to the heart.

For now, that is all I've time to share.
Good night, good night.
RB

/Love until your hands bleed/?

2008-09-08T22:48:00.000-07:00

Tonight I played "Clue" with Andrew and Hilary. They are enchanting, both separately and in combination. On the sidelines, we let our ears take in Billie Holiday, and our lips champagne. The champagne's presence on the dimly lit hallway table was somewhat of a mystery to me...not, after all, being my beverage of choice ever since a horrendous experience in my latter teen years. Regardless of what it was we were celebrating (the official advent of a fresh season? monday? hil's bangin dance audition? moving on?), my stomach was a kind recipient tonight. I was both startled and thankful, because all disastrous experiences aside, it is a completely delicious beverage.

The looping journey back apartment-wards through stillened streets was a frosty one to my skin, but a relieving one on my heart. There is a lightness I acquire through pulling icy air into my lungs, and transforming it into an energetic heat (if significant only to myself).
Speaking of heat that is hot, I curled down to take in this film the other day:

(Bernardo Bertolucci's "The Dreamers")
...........

(synopsis courtesy of my worshipped Wikipedia:)
"A young American exchange student, Matthew (Michael Pitt), has come to Paris in order to study French. Though he has lived there for several months, and will stay in Paris for a year, he has made no friends. As a huge fan of film, he spends most of his time in the Cinémathèque Française. Eventually he forms a rapid friendship with a Frenchwoman, Isabelle (Eva Green), and her brother, Théo (Louis Garrel). Isabelle and Theo are twins, and were originally conjoined at her right and his left shoulder, respectively. Throughout the film, scars on their shoulders can be seen. All three have an avid love for movies, especially "the classics". As their friendship grows, Matthew learns of the extreme intimacy shared by the siblings (what one reviewer described as "incestuous in all but the most technical sense"[4]) and gets pulled into their world. Over time he falls in love with them, and the three seclude themselves from the world, falling further and further from the reality of the 1968 student rebellions. An abrupt ending to this relationship comes when that world is shattered and they are compelled to face the reality of 1968 France."

It is beautifully sexy as hell, but also fringed with a subtle slash glaring sensitivity.
I liked.
Parts made me gape, others coaxed a curvateous smile, and then there were those moments that were just plain loco insano.
Either way, it is worth a few hours of your time.
(If nothing more than to salivate over Parisian living.)

This one is also an object of my current affection:

(Woody Allen's latest, "Vicky Cristina Barcelona")
I am amped on its unconventional attitude towards love and all things at all remotely related.
Refreshing and interesting....not to metion Penelope Cruz is nailing the heroin-chic trainwreck babe look with a passion.

Sleep is dragging me into itself.
Regrets, this array of words is apologetic-worthy.
Enough of my ramblin for one late nuit, that is for sure.
Time for the hot hottest bath, and layers of blankets strewn upon my bed.
Soothing/relaxation/rejuvination/out,
RBudyk.

Good and goodness/goodness and good.

2008-09-03T05:50:00.000-07:00

It's seven a.m., and I am awake. I cannot even faintly remember the last time I was conscious at this hour, but my instincts tell me it was at some point in the mid-to-late ninteties. Stunning (and shameful). Regardless, for some ghastly slash lovely reason, I find myself eyes open and mind awander this morning. Candles strewn across the shape of my bedroom are blazing in the pearl gray light, and I feel even.

Last night I attended a book launch with my girl Meg. We slithered wine and (the goddamn smoothest) creme brulee down our throats, all the while listening enraptured to Miriam Toews share an excerpt from her newborn book. She is good, I felt good, we were good. Flung into an alcove where Meg's Menno blood knew everybody and their mother's grandmother's sister, I hung back and observed, happy to soak it all in. I am not Mennonite, but Mennonites fascinate me. I kid you not, within five seconds of us sitting down in the tiniest, homeliest corner of the cafe...I looked on spellbound as Madge was shriekingly greeted by every woman within a mile radius of us. I have never experienced that myself, but I will tell you that it is quite the spectacle to witness. As I was introduced to the Dorothys and Margarets, a genuine smile played at my lips. It was good, they are good.

In my early morning musings, I came across a Hungarian-born photographer named Andre Kertesz. I have never before been aware of his work, but I felt an immediate affinity. Perhaps it is his infatuation with shooting the city of Paris, but something resonated within my core when I laid eyes on these images. Have a go...

(Montmarte, 1927)

(Under the Eiffel Tower, 1929)

(Untitled, 1919)

(Untitled, 1924)

(Lion and Shadow, 1949)

(Self-Portrait, 1927)

(The Dancing Faun, 1919)

(Chairs of Paris, 1927)

(Mondrian's Pipe and Glasses, 1926)

Swift and unexplainable adoration. Immediate connection. Inspiration by the layer.

I've been homesick for Europe lately. By bones ache for it, my head flails for it, and my my spirit trails back to it...whimsical, lingering. This happens more often than not these days. I am trying to channel this longing energy for good in the present...for writing and conversation and laughter and hours of lacing throught.

The air snaking through my window is like cool ice, and I like it. I'd stay here for hours, I think.
Instead...its time to start the day...
Breathe in and out and over again.
Happy Wednesday.
Out/RB

want.

2008-08-23T13:19:00.000-07:00

for some fast decadence on the eyes, go here:

http://www.acnestudios.com

----

I came across this line while thrashing through this month's fattened issue of Vogue, and fell quickly in lust.

A little interweb creeping reaped me these jeweled facts:

*Founded in 1996 in Sweden as a 4-person collective, making high-quality raw denim jeans.
*Led by Creative Director Jonny Johansson, Acne began to branch out to other areas, presenting a complete collection for the first time in 1998.
*Collections focus on quality basics with a twist.
*Acne now is a full fledged lifestyle company, putting together full clothing and accessories programs for men and women, as well as forays into film, publishing and digital design.

Fall is in the air these last days, and I couldn't feel its embrace any more sweetly. Tonight, my bedroom windows are slung open, and oldold Neil Young is on the continuous play. I feel light.

As for lingering last words...I think they will be these--my current mantra: What would Jane Birkin do?

(so bloody cool)

Finissimo.

whats to lose, whats to gain?

2008-08-23T12:34:00.000-07:00

iamthecolourgrayandineedanothercigarette.

It is a Saturday of the frostiest summer sort, the sky a metallic shade of cold. Fall is in the air, and I am thankful. This is a season I feel I can identify with...slip back into like an old, worn coat that is haggard at the elbows but oh so loved. Winding home on my bicycle the other night, through deserted streets, I breathed in and out and over again, and felt more alive than I have in a long, long time. Autumn grazed my lips, snaked its way down my throat and seeped through my innards, flooding me with a sense of vitality. Cool air against bare skin was welcome and like a wave of relief over my entire body.

I am ready for this summer to be over. It has been a challenging one, rough around the edges and drenched in sadness. It has also been an extraordinary teacher, though...the strangest and surliest of my life as of yet, dripping in intricacy. In many a way, it has been transformative...gutting and healing, weepingly frusterating yet restorative. Its funny...when I think of the most influential teachers in my own experience to this point, I would include elements such as seasons (example: this summer), cities (example: Berlin, Prague), books, living spaces, music, yoga, strangers, intimacy, observation from afar, pen and paper, mum and dad...physical/intellectual/emotional growth. And that is just the iceburg's outer layer.

My eyes are laced in black and I feel like someone else altogether today. An older self, a me from a year or maybe even two ago. It is weird but kind of interesting. I am working with it.

Lunch at the Royal Albert Arms with my lover twin sister Madge awaits...
Until soon,
RB

a tribute?

2008-08-14T11:50:00.000-07:00

John and Yoko: the epitome of cool--

James Dean: my original love--

Edie Sedgwick: waifly, gruge-chic goddess--

Leonard Cohen: worship-worthy craftsman of language and sound--

Just a little inspiration for a Thursday afternoon...
Warmth and light,
RLB

water fairy--

2008-08-10T17:35:00.000-07:00

The week I spent in Vancouver last month left a distinct taste in my mouth. The fabric of what I learned from my time there (layers upon layers) is multi-faceted, but one realization I came to was that I am a lover of being near water. There is something about the open scape of cool blue-black that gives me shivers in the best sort of way. One of my favourite nights, that remains tattooed on my innards and emblazoned in my memory, was a stretch of hours spent in the darkness, laying barefoot on cold sand. Cigarettes were chain-smoked, humid midnight air was breathed in and out and over again, crevices of silence were embraced, and hearts were cracked open. I don't know one thousand percent, but I feel as if that experience would have been altered in a significant way if it had not spun itself lazily out alongside ocean.

Either way and anyways...

Here are a few more pieces of my world:

Lately, on days when I wake up and feel like I cannot possibly spend another day slash night behind a bar, I pretend that I am Amelie. Somehow, that changes everything. Instead of feeling primarily listless, I feel whimsical, and rather than frusterated, fanciful. It is actually quite a remarkable transformation, if significant only to myself.

I am really beginning to miss the presence of a cat in my living space. In reflection of my days as a Wolseley inhabitant, it's all too clear to me that one of my most cherished hours of every day was the one where I would piece together some sort of (usually trife) dinner, Magnolia Jade twining herself at my feet. It became ritual for me to talk aloud to that loco insano cat jewel about my day. She didn't mind the trivialities and often mundane details, and she was a beautiful listener. So yes, in the coming months there is a good chance that my mothering skills will come forth from the distant woodwork and test the waters of cat ownership once again.

I had a laughable slash interesting experience yesterday afternoon. I was way down in the sinewy heart of far-reaching Portage Avenue, my arms laced around an approximate five hundred pounds of thrifting prowess. I felt lighter than I have in a long time, perhaps as a result of my magnificant grunge vintage finds, or perhaps for no particular reason whatsoever. Regardless, as I was traipsing solo down God-knows-what St, weaving my way towards catching a bus en route home, the dirt-toned sky ripped open and shrouded me in torrential rain. This rain did not give me any sort of a grace period, and it carried on in angry fashion for hours upon hours after its untimely (in my circumstances) beginning. This is the funny thing. Having given up on keeping myself from hobo drowned-rat status quo, I waded down the street, water grazing my bare ankles, hands clutching my treasured finds. So there I was, thrashing towards Portage like some homeless herion-chic sketchbag, and straight out of nowhere, a cab reeled to a stop beside me. Open inched the backseat door, and an immaculately-dressed man, suit, mid-fifties, eyes fiilled with laughter and an edge of pity, beckoned me inside. Flowing water like a mermaid, I flung myself inside, shopping bags streaking water all over, black eye makeup slinking down the skin of my face. I said a tentative "Are you sure you want me in here?" (the obligatory question when one is beckoned by a flawless Mr. Big-type while looking like an absolute train wreck). His response was to laugh at length and question me as to the ins and outs of my life, including just how it had led me to my current state of dishevelment. I think he thought I was funny, in an extremely pathetic way. He then made the cab driver escort me home. It was quite nice, when all is said and done. Not entirely unlike a pride-slashing moment experienced by one of my favourite femmes in a world not ours:

On a complete change of subject matter, I discovered as of tonight that sometimes a potted plant says enough. This sweet piece of life appeared in my bedroom after a rough day. Madge, I love you. One thousand "merci beaucoups" for always, always knowing.

I have been very much in the vein of feeding off of the creativity of others, while floundering to bring my own forth in organic a way as possible. Here are some vitamins that have fed me to the marrow the past while...

"When the vultures rise it's a sign that night is about to end..."--Italo Calvino, 'If On a Winter's Night a Traveler'.

"Then I find...that I have given away my whole soul to someone who treats it as if it were a flower to put in his coat, a bit of decoration to charm his vanity, an ornament for a summer's day...nothing can cure the soul but the senses, just as nothing can cure the senses but the soul."--Oscar Wilde, 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'.

"And you know that she's half crazy but that's why you want to be there."--Leonard Cohen, 'Suzanne'.

"If you want me satisfy me, if you want me satisfy me, if you want me satisfy me, if you want me satisfy me"--Glen Hansard and Marketa Irglova, 'If You Want Me'.

"Go to him, stay with him if you can, oh but be prepared to bleed"--Joni Mitchell, 'A Case of You'.

"You held on to me like I was a crucifix, as we went kneeling through the dark."--Leonard Cohen, 'So Long, Marianne'.

'No hands are half as gentle or firm as they'd like to be..."--Iron and Wine (Sam Beam), 'My Lady's House'.

"Do his hands in your hair feel a lot like a thing you believe in... How I've missed you lately, and the way we would speak and all that we wouldn't say"--Iron and Wine (Sam Beam), 'Bird Stealing Bread'.

"We were always weird but I never had to hold you by the edges like I do now."--The National, 'Start a War'.

"If we put our hearts in twenty thousand tiny jars they'd never leave their homes."--Final Fantasy (Owen Pallett), 'This is the Dream of Win and Regine'.

"And by the way, everything in life is writable about if you have the outgoing guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to creativity is self-doubt."--Sylvia Plath

"Ukrainian girls are easy."--Meg Kroeker, 11th October/2007, London, England. (referring to yours truly...! regrets, but i had to slip it in there; it is far too good not to be shared.)

"The death of desire is a bottomlessly sad thing. Books are written, documentaries are made, and counsellors are paid to help people want each other again. Perhaps it's just a momentary ebb in the tide of our relationship, let's take this opportunity to see what treasures have washed up on the beach in the meantime. Get to know one another again. Take a holiday. And perhaps it comes back, or perhaps it does enough for one party but not the other. Desire can be detected at such low levels that it's difficult to say when it's dead."
and
"Memory breeds memory. The very air is made of memory. Memory falls in the rain. You drink memory. In winter you make snow angels out of memory."
--(both the former and the latter courtesy of wordsmith) Ann Marie MacDonald, 'The Way the Crow Flies'.

"Be happy. Love life."--Lesley Dianne Bohay, circa an email she wrote me months upon months upon ages ago.

"Entire forests have been felled to provide all the tourist literature that has been written about France's capital. Everyone has an opinion on Paris, having travelled there or not...Paris stands in a class by itself. France's bijou extraordinaire remains the benchmark for beauty, culture and class the world over. Even the most cynical traveler, skeptical that any city could live up to Paris' reputations, can't help but be charmed by its magnificent avenues and cozy cafe life, its unparalleled arts scene and energetic but composed pace. Paris is the Paris of the Parisians, the Paris of France, the only and only Paris. Nothing comes close."--'A Note' on Paris (Je t'aime) a la 'Europe on a Shoestring'. And you know what? Its dead fucking true.

"I can see a lot of life in you...I can see a lot of bright in you...I can see a bed and make it too..I can see a fireside turn blue..."--Sufjan Stevens, 'The Dress Looks Nice on You'.

"They enjoyed the miracle of loving each other as much at the table as in bed, and they grew to be so happy that even when they were two worn-out old people they kept on blooming like little children and playing together like dogs."--Gabriel Garcia Marquez, 'One Hundred Years of Solitude'.

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

"To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything, and your heart will certainly be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it in tact, you must give your heart to no one, not even to an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries, avoid all entanglements; lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket--safe, dark, motionless, airless--it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable."--C.S. Lewis, 'Mere Christianity'.

"For when people leave our company in our time we are never certain of seeing them again, or seeing them unaltered."--Michael Ondaatje, 'Anil's Ghost'.

"If this were the last night of the world what would I do? What would I do that was different, unless it was champagne with you?"--Bruce Cockburn, 'Last Night of the World'.

"The world is full of seasons; of anguish, of laughter...and it comes to mind to write you this--Nothing is sure, nothing is pure, and no matter who we think we are everyone gets his chance to be nothing. Love's supposed to heal, but it breaks my heart to feel the pain in your voice, but you know it's all going somewhere...and I would crush my heart and throw it in the street if I could pay for your choice..."--Bruce Cockburn, 'Isn't That What Friends Are For?'.

"A million faces at my feet, but all I see are dark eyes...All I feel is heat and flame, and all I see are dark eyes...Nature's beast fears as they come, and all I see are dark eyes...The earth is strung with lovers' pearls, and all I see are dark eyes..."--Bob Dylan, 'Dark Eyes'.

et pour la fini (suchSUCH shoddy French. regrets.)--

THE EMBERS OF EDEN (Cockburn, Bruce)

You knelt on the carpet, crimson and stained
Light trickled over your black dress like rain
Your lips were hot and my shocked heart screamed
And I can't scrape my eyes free of this dream

We each occupy the same space/time
Matter, antimatter, tangled like vines
And the awful tolling, and the cold rain outside
And I cannot scrape this dream off my eyes

And the embers of Eden burn
You can even see it from space
And the great and winding wall between us
Seem to copy the lines of your face

And the embers of Eden burn
You can even see it from space
And the great and winding wall between us
Seem to copy the lines of your face

-----

Cockburn is a poet and a bloody briliant one, if you ask me. He is sacred to me on soso many levels, the foundational one being that I was raised on a steady diet of his music growing up. There are few individuals I currently idolize more as an artist than this man. To me, he is a magician.

Apologies for the absurd length of this posting. I was feeling introspective.

Finally, finally finally...to ice the cake...

Eff those two. No honestly...I adore them. In a viciously envious sort of way.

XXOOXXO.
I'll kiss your chest, just below your throat.
And so on and so forth.
Rebecca L.B.

orange and yellow (the colours of heat).

2008-08-10T00:28:00.000-07:00

My fingers smell of fresh basil and my head is aspin with thoughts. Here is the gist of them--
1) It is not a fanstastic idea for me to drink beer. My stomach feels like it is carrying the weight of five-seven unborn children, and my temples ache.
2) The new Emmylou Harris Album (All I Intended to Be) is a jewel of jewels.
3) I need to get back in touch with my creative side. Time to crack that whip and get writing again.
4) Academic advisors know shit all.
5) I am moderately adjusting to being ash-blonde. Anonymity equals comfort.
6) The time has come, the walrus said...to skinnify my closet. I am looking to downscale. Any takers?
7) I miss my family. At least, the three fifths of it that are absent. Mum, Dad, and baby Bear--your presence (or lack thereof) is noticed.
8) I cannot wait to go to Bolivia. Argentina and Brazil.
9) After 1+ years, I actually quite like my bedroom walls.
10) Ten seems like a brilliant number at which to cut myself off.

Here is the ghost of the beginning of something like a story that flowed from me 1, 2, 3, 6 months ago. I fumbled upon it in the exotic wilderness that I call my journal the other day and I kind of liked it all over again. And this is how it reads:

"The first time I met Talia, she was wearing a tattered man's dress shirt that draped down to her knees. She wandered into the dimly lit living room, eyeliner in fingers. One eye was lined with smoky black while the other lay naked, waiting to be shrouded. She tilted her head to one side, bird-like, and gazed at me with eyes that I could not depict."

I don't know. It is not the fabric of great writing, but I think it is okay. In my eyes, it is at least worth some semblance of expansion...whatever that may be. I think, more than anything, I wish that I knew that woman...my imagination's wistful love child...I feel she is an alluring mix of all that I notice and admire and desire in the passionate individuals around me. Maybe she will live, or perhaps even not. All depends on my head and my my heart space...although I instinctively want to know her better.

To any and all who were in my company tonight, apologies if I was somewhat of a dreamy presence. If I seemed gray, it is because I felt so.
I am, however, a person who channels hope. So I am doing that and I am doing it now.
Sleep, now.
Honour yourself, etc.
RB

have you forgotten the alphabet of desire?

2008-07-24T00:12:00.000-07:00

later than late rain hangs
loosely in the air, careless like
it may or it may
not although i hope that it does
not let me
down dark air laced with a
wild freshness playing against my
skin at at my lips tired
eyes restless
hands wish i didn't have to sleep alone
tonight.

or something like that.

devendra banhart's new music vid (carmensita), featuring the ever-lovely natalie portman, is worth a watch or even two. quirky but i loved. magnetic.

can't sleep/can't stay awake.
bath and a myriad of candles and the new bonnie 'prince' billy (meg, my thanks again)--an almost certainly flawless cure?
i am hopeful.
gone, etc.
rlb.

fruit and tea:

2008-07-08T10:02:00.000-07:00

These days, my dreams have been more vivid; more frequent than usual. In the midst of a night now past, I woke from this:

I am walking along an expanse of beach. My feet are naked, my body draped in a gauzy dress, and my hair in loose waves. It is long, and it is ash-pale. Why is my skin wet; my hair? Is it that I have been slipping like an otter amidst blue-black layers of ocean or, rather, has there been rain? The sky is iridescent gray, like heather, and I notice streaks of water grazing my bare arms--rain. From the skeleton of a house (there are houses in the midst of this solitude; my solitude? I'd thought i was one thousand miles from anywhere...or at least a few planets away...), a woman, aged, traces one hand through the space between us--motioning me towards herself. For some reason that evades me, I find my feet obliging. Moments lace by, and I am there at the edge of her decrepit porch. I am soaked to the bone, and guarded. Yet...her lips curve in smile, and she beckons me nearer. As I draw closer towards her (why am I so unresistant to her will, this stranger?), the thousands of lines carved into her face seem to visibly give birth to fresh ones. Her eyes are green like moss and there is a cat twined against her willowy frame. As I fold myself into the reedy rocking chair next to her, the animal snakes from her warmth and onto the glacial chill of my body. The cat licks my dripping fingers--tasting the rain; the salt of my skin, and seems quickly greedy for more. Its tongue feels like the tiniest shards of stone against my skin; rough and raw, yet strangely soothing. It occurs to me in this hovering moment of time that no words have yet passed between myself and the presence a mere fingers' touch away. Yet somehow, the stillness lacks discomfort. I don't question this; it is a blessing. My eyes flick to the table, low to the ground between us. It is laid with an assortment of tea--two cups, already poured, exuding the breath of heat, and a scattering of fresh fruit--slices of sweet mango, a myriad of grapes, mandarin wedges, and blackberries glittering like gems. She gestures a thin hand--also etched with the markings of a hundred years--over the array, as if it is an offering (has she been expecting me? How could this be? A piece of me feels sick and another feels wonder. They twine.) I feel suddenly vulnerable; exposed. This transparency unnerves me, yet under it all glows a distinct sense of calm. We remain in this silence; the silence we have mutually created. The cat grows tired of the taste of my skin and slinks off into the dark. I reach tentatively for my tea. As my fingers move through the air, the woman draws a long, soft breath in and then I feel her hand, feather-light against my chest. From it, effortlessly (or so it seems), she draws my heart. It is startlingly small...fits like a newborn bird cupped inside her palm. It is cool, like ice, and visibly beating...it is terribly alive. I feel tears pool in my eyes, and my body tense. (What the hell has she just taken from me, and how has she taken it? Is she a witch...a criminal...a fallen goddess? I want to kill her; hurt her...anything it takes to get that shard of myself back.) But my body relaxes; releases as I realize the tenderness and the caution with which she is cradling it, now encircled in both hands. All ten fingers, though somehow, fleetingly, they look like thirty or forty. And before I know it, she is speaking...smooth, velvety words, and I am listening, enthralled and terrified. "This heart is blue...the blue of water and of cold-blooded fish and the sky at the edge of evening. I know this frightens you...how could it not...surely, it is rare. But rest assured, love, you will feel deeply, more deeply than you can even comprehend at this time. In this moment, I am teaching you more about love than you can ever ask or imagine."

____

And then it had vanished, like smoke or melting ice. I awakened to bars of faded sunlight slanting through my window, and the imprint of this dream tattooed on my memory. Haunted by dreams? Haunted by dreams. Though, I'm beginning to believe that haunting is not always a negative experience.

Here are a few other things to share...

***Meg, you've disarmed me with your words. Only gratitude, only adoration. You are a ruby-encrusted diamond in the rough. And let it be said that you are infinitely gracious for sharing Devendra with me...Lord knows he was yours first. Kisses flung across the miles in your direction.

***I had my body ripped and restored by a massage this morning. Liquidy music and dim lighting; cooling heat. I feel lighter.

***I discovered my quasi-dream yoga studio yesterday in a town meshed deep in the Kootenays. Twisted my body through a long-esque class, and since then my breath has come more evenly. Thank Jesus.

***During the last dwindling hours of my departure from Winnipeg, dear Hilary gifted me with Michael Ondaatje's breathtaker of a novel, "Anil's Ghost." I have devoured over half of it already, and am trying to slow myself down so that I can savour what remains of it. Here is my favourite string of words thus far....take and taste...

"At night, returning from work, Anil would slip out of her sandals and stand in the shallow water, her toes among the white petals, her arms folded as she undressed the day, removing layers of events and incidents so they would no longer be within her."

I would strongly reccommend this book to anyone and everyone, along with their respective friends, kin, lovers, and so on and so forth.

This is goodbye, at least for now.
Be.
RB.

lose our clothes in summertime/lose ourselves to lose our minds...

2008-07-06T20:56:00.000-07:00

I am perched like a sparrow, tired from fluttered flight, as the night air begins to cool itself over my body. In something soothing a pseudo-sister wrote to me the other day, she included these words: "Go now and be restored." In and out over the fabric of these last days, I have thought often and almost meditatively of this statement. It has become a mantra of sorts to me. And I wonder...in those pieces of time, those smoothing hours spent cooking dinner, sharing wine with my parents on their skinny porch, curled on the floor playing Scrabble with my smallest brother, crafting slow words into my journal, laying trance-like on a stretch of beach, tossing strangely in my sleep, looping the sounds Sufjan/Devenda and other such fantasy husbands incessantly through my ears---is this restoration? I think, in a veiled way it is. Yesterday, at the sun's crowning height, I slipped to a foreign space of park and fell into an infinite amount of yoga. It was just me, alone, and it was very different from what I am used to, but it was good. I felt my body shedding heaviness, shedding anger and shedding grief until there was little more than myself remaining. I felt stripped and raw and, in a way, terrified, but more than anything, I felt back to the sinewy core of myself. I think there is both paralyzing fear and a glaze of exhileration in inhabiting such a place. I am trying it on for size. Currently, it fits...though awkwardly. My instinct fights it...thrashes at it and into it, but I feel a gradual acceptance. There is only forward, and that is the direction where my gaze is locked.
Stability and freedom.
Be brilliant today, as you are.
All my heart/Bisoux.

(good lord. love.)

and i am an alien and a citizen...

2008-07-03T11:36:00.000-07:00

Last night I was gifted with an unexpected chance to lay eyes and ears on this artiste:

He is a dream in every sense of the word. For me, there was a completely organic sort of beauty in his presence and performance--draped in raw simplicity and a gorgeous, gutting air of melancholy. I sat, shoes slipped to the ground unnoticed, glass of wine in fingers, curled against Meg...and I think that we both experienced a temporary transformation of sorts. I resisted the urge to leave at times, so great was the depth to which emotion was startled and stirred inside of me. If you are wondering, I did not leave. I remained there, inside of the stunning darkness/lightness of it all...and eventually I felt myself ceasing to resist it...leaving the fear of what I might feel in a shroud of abandonment. I moved into into...fell into it, flowed into it...and found myself free.

So for that, Jose Gonzalez, I thank you.
Merci beaucoups also to Madge and to Laurennnn...down the chain of how that ticket came into my posession...
Experience: disarming, yes...but in a very necessary way. And there is goodness in that.

"I am the silence that is incomprehensible and the idea whose remembrance is frequent." (--unknown)

I am melting away for a pair of weeks.
Open mind and open heart...
rb

tat vam asi/i am that:

2008-07-01T00:38:00.001-07:00

how long...so long...too long...
the night is dark like ash and i am post-cafe, post-2 am, post-any remaining streaks of energy. candles aflicker and heart dripping unrest...i am here and "i am that"...tat vam asi...a golden person in my world shared these words with me a few weeks ago...before/before/before...and also enlightened me as to their meaning....that being, "i am that...which i want to be"....translation: all that it is i want to better about myself--i am already that. desire is a powerful thing. and so, by yearning to create differences in ourselves, we are already that which we look towards.
for me, this is hopeful.
hope recreated, and realigned.
heat on my skin like a
second skin like a layer of liquid
energy faint but
real it is there i can feel
it into the velvet solitude that is
tonight don't feel very much of
anything but in that absence there is presence there
is presence it will be
okay.
sadness found me...but reamin in it i will
not cutting it like slender
vines, gentle, spiderweb-light it will
die a little every day i will
dedicate myself to it.
rain and lilacs/lilacs and rain.
for now, that is all.
perhaps sometime soon words will find me again.
rb

The glitter and the gold...

2008-04-04T00:14:00.000-07:00

Tonight, walking home from cafe latenight slaving, the streets were blackened...and so soso still. The air lingered with rain, hanging midair like some strange and invisible web. Wind gorgeously cool and silky-dark against my skin, I breathed deeply...in and out, and over again. Taking the long, listless way home. Ahhhh. What I mean to say by all this is...it's spring. Embraces all around.
Time for these weary feet to tread towards bed. Fresh, light sheets, and such.
Here is some love to you all.
X and O.
Rebecca L.B.

Imitation of:

2008-03-18T23:40:00.000-07:00

Christ?

...

...

Worlds atwine and intermingle...
More. Soon.
Dark night and cool sheets.
RLB

Open your eyes, it's springtime--

2008-02-25T12:00:00.000-08:00

Freshess and lightness is coming; I feel it. And I am embracing oceans of hope.
This week I discovered a breathtaker of a book,

written by this alluring femme named Sophie Dahl.

It is the thinnest, loveliest read I have touched fingers on in quite some time. Who would ever have thought that fairy tales written for adults were just a stone's throw away on the nearest library's bookshelf? Not I. So this is a precious find for me.
If I were you, I would not hesitate to hunt this nombre down and thus give your eyes and heart a delicious feast. I felt a warmth while and after devouring the volume, but not in a stupid or cliche sort of way. I just felt lighter, happier...a smile playing on my lips paired with a quirky sense of spirit.

Here are a few bits of knowledge (albeit verging on the brink of irrelevant) I have acquired in the last recent while:

--feeding bits of buttery toast to a waif-like cat can result in painful results
--vodka meets apple juice meets cinnamon dust does not make for a delicious drink
--days lacing slowly past can actually be a friend, rather than a frusteration
--I am still prone to burning utensils when I cook
--birthdays, and the anticipation of them, is so so very nice.
--Charlotte Gainsbourg is still seductively amazing beyond measure.
--everything is really, truly that much funnier at 2:30 in the morning. chained to responsibilities at work. lying in a haggard booth under a fake sea of stars. waiting waiting waiting to slip home and beneath sheets.

Taking wing,
RB

Paint by numbers, paint it black.

2008-02-19T08:19:00.000-08:00

It is laundry day for this tired face, and I am actually quite enjoying the process this frosty morning. I have peppermint tea scorching in our new (but ancient) mold-green teapot that is in fact shaped like a very wide-eyed chicken. Or maybe it is a rooster. My farm animal savvy is not the sharpest these days. Either way, home is a nice space to be when the coldness hangs outside in the air, so heavy that you can almost see it.
Time is a bit of a strange concept for me right now. It feels as if it is slipping by like the blink of soft lashes...I cannot lull it, yet I know this is a good thing. My days are draped with the familiarity of routine as of late. In a way, I like that. I feel that in the present, I am wearing it well. I am really beginning to savour my days spent often alone, and my later nights of cafe work. It is a temporary fit, I realize this, but for know it is better than okay; it is startlingly satisfying. I have a few interesting side projects on the go...messing around with words and with art, keeping my creative side somewhat less than starving. I have also been taking to my yoga mat far more in the past weeks, treading the blocks to my favourite space of heat and open-heartedness...having the sweat lace off my body...down my legs, along my spine, and across my cheekbones again and again. It is good to feel nourished in these ways. I have come to know afresh that I crave, among other things, creative expression and care slash challenge for my body--I need these elements in my world to keep me feeling focussed, achieving balance.
I feel the shift of seasons stirring again...thank God and the stars above...I know perhaps this sounds a touch mental seeing as it is minus thirty-fazillion and dropping in our city at present, but I think somehow that spring is nearer that we may realize. Or maybe I am falling into optimism as a last-ditch method of survival...
Regardless, I am ready to peel the layers of winter off. And I think I am pretty accurate in saying that we all are, by now. I am primed for rubber boots and bare arms, afternoon walks and iced coffee, the river aflow once again, bicycle hangouts and reading in the park.
Loves, nothing here's for sure (to quote a little Page France)...but it is nice to know that the changing seasons (whether early, late, or somewhere in between) are something stable, something unwavering. I like being able to remind myself of that, especially when things seem blurred or inconsistent. Okay and okay. I have officially spent too much time hunched over my slender computer's keyboard...here's to the day ahead. Happy birthday, dear Hilary. You are so so loved!
So long, farewell...(Meg, you can finish the rest of that lil nombre yourself, okay?!)
RB

tangled up in blue.

2008-02-11T00:57:00.001-08:00

One love in my life rekindled with a new fierceness:

So. Effing. Good.

There really aren't the words to do this justice. Bob Dylan entrances. Has my worship, at the very least.
More, soon. I have stories to sling...

Brilliant.

2008-01-31T21:29:00.001-08:00

Brilliant brilliant.

Frida Kahlo--current muse.

Love until your hands bleed--

2008-01-27T12:07:00.000-08:00

Sunday, Sunday...day of rest, or at least in all books hypothetical. It has been a full morning thus far. I rose early as a bird (in night-hawk terms) in time to slide in some standing and kneeling and thrashing of my way through hymns. This was followed by a brimming spread of breakfast food...hashbrowns, french toast, black coffee and slivers of fruit all intertwined on the plate balanced between my fingers. Dreamy.
The sun is sweet and heavy today, and my body is aching to soak up whatever warmth and natural light that it can. Of late, my limbs are frail from repeated pilgrimages to hot yoga classes. It is a good ache; the best sort. Like my bones and muscles are cursing and thanking me all in the same breath, but mostly they are adoring it.

I feel like I have been thinking a lot about the frailty and fleetingness of life these past few weeks. Although impersonal, the death of Heath Ledger streaked me with immeasurable sadness. The night following the news of his slipping from life, I saw a film that spiraled me even a little further into this head and heart space of thoughtfulness and borderline-melancholy. It was called "The Diving Bell and the Butterfly", and it is a stunning story of tragedy and a strange sort of renewal. Maybe it is my own personal slant on the world and all things life-giving right now, but in the space of that slender hour and a half, my innards were stirred. I felt drawn into a degree of sadness and awareness that is new to me; unrecognizable even. It feels alien-esque still. I think it is maybe to do with the fact that the emotions brought forth were so beyond myself--they failed to revolve around me or those in my reality; but, rather, the human condition in general, and our state of absolute unknowing and vulnerability. I continue to find it difficult, impossible even, to grasp the realization that the precious things I take for granted today, right now, in this very moment as my fingers graze the keyboard, are not guaranteed. They fail to be now, and the truth is that they never will be.
My intention is not to make this a reflection drenched in darkness and negativity. On the far-reaching contrary, I feel like collecting these pieces of tragedy and pain in my extended surroundings...picking them up like deadened leaves or water-glazed stones on a beach, internalizing them and living in consciousness of the beauty and sanctity of life--that is inspiring and that is good.
To life in the moment.
RB.

Best is best.

2008-01-14T23:40:00.000-08:00

These are a few of my favourite things, January-style:
*grunge breakfast at The Toad.
*2 a.m. faux-fireside yoga sessions.
*blueberry tea.
*soundtrack to "I'm Not There"(magic).
*a fresh scattering of plants throughout our apartment.
*wool socks.
*jewels of thrift store finds. (boots. sunglasses. fur-trimmed coats. to be specific.)
*pristine new journal, asking for words.
*lingering again and again over trip photos. feeling inner warmth.
*tasting and tossing around the prospect of going back to school.
*candles candles.
*scorching baths.
*hair-hacking inspiration.
*cat naps at strange hours.
*embracing hibernation.

It is time to crawl between sheets and lay eyes on my book of the moment.
Here's to hoping you are all warm and curled in your respective burrows as I am.
x.
Rebecca

Element Eden:

2008-01-08T14:03:00.000-08:00

Today I took myself on a frosty afternoon walk to the bank. The walk itself was uneventful...my thoughts like fluttering birds, but in a good way...hopeful and smoothened. There is an evenness to things right now that I cannot explain.
(Hang in, I assure you this story is more than a brutal reiteration of me depositing a cheque into my still-anorexic bank account)

I fail to exaggerate when I say that the teller, a bespectacled grandmotherly-type, pounced on me as if I were her own flesh & blood. In her defense, she was quite sweet about it. She also felt compelled to shower me with a torrent of questions about my life et. al., all the while clasping my hand over the counter in both of her own. I am actually laughing now as I realize how strange slash funny we must have looked to the flurry of people all around us...who, more likely than not, thought that I was confessing my sins to her, or some such thing. Anyways. Tears virtually glittered in my now-(apparently)BFF's eyes when she extracted the fact from me that I had just traveled through Europe. And, ridiculous as this may sound, her heartfelt excitement disarmed me. Initially, it weirded me out just a little, but then it hit me like a weapon--she was right. This random person who had known me 8-12 minutes, had a perspective that has eluded me...one of wonder and acknoweldgement of the significance of where I have been these past few months. Ironically, she was a breath of fresh air...this encounter that started with me wondering how I could slide myself away from it ended up turning into something real and necessary for me. I tore myself away from her revived and smiling. Jewel, that one.

And so, continuing the theme of cherished times had and indescribable experiences whilst hanging out all over a continent not my own, here are a few more stills...some of the best that had been evaded in the mess of photo organization. Enjoy, if you will.

My kitchen is dirt-streaked and calling. Pots and pans, broom and rubber gloves await.
I am off to oblige.
Embraces, and such.

Love and some verses...

2008-01-07T15:26:00.000-08:00

I am cooking asparagus and yam fries, sipping water, while Emmylou Harris twines her brilliant voice throughout my apartment. It has been a day of the good sort thus far...lunch date with Hilary, phonecall from my brother in the land that is hot, some letter-writing, and snatches of reading slipped all in between. I am a free woman tonight...sans shift at work, or any obligations other than a hangout with Melissa further along in the night. I am whittling away precious solitary hours sifting through photos, piecing through my own writing both past and present, and generally just enjoying the luxury of time at my fingertips.

I came across a gold mine of photos taken by the now-absent Tristan Fast (a la moment, also in the sun-drenched land of Costa Rica with my brother...bitches...!). He is my fakey-roommate, aka Sambeth's lover, and also an amazing photographer. Here is a bit of his magic on the eyes...

My apartment is a keeper, oui?
I think so too.

Current status:
One brother less...

and this petit one remaining...

for the next three months.

I am off to talk a walk in the darkness of this balmy January night.
Out,
R.

The minnow and the trout.

2007-12-27T23:15:00.001-08:00

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

2007-12-18T23:36:00.000-08:00

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.

2007-12-09T18:12:00.000-08:00

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.

Europia: Take One.

2007-12-09T10:27:00.000-08:00

Apologies for the scandalous delay on the visual.
In sincere hopes of making up, here is a plethora for all eyes interested...

The first supper, London.

Riding the bus, London.

Petite cafe, London.

Wandering through back alleys, London.

Big Ben et al., London.

Graffiti, London.

For Luke, London.

Bird bath, London.

Night on the street, Brussels.

To ease ourselves through said night, Brussels. Wine and cribbage with faux-Drewber and fakey-Creme (two Californian boys).

Hostel snapshot, Amsterdam.

Feet, Amsterdam.

For Les, Amsterdam.

Maxing outside in the sunlight, Amsterdam.

Bicycles by the fazillion, Amsterdam.

Waterside wine sipping, Amsterdam.

A stolen cigarette, Amsterdam.

City by night, Amsterdam.

Red Light District, Amsterdam.

First Dior sighting, Amsterdam. Starry eyes.

Channeling elegance, Amsterdam.

Anne Frank's house, Amsterdam.

Keeping ourselves amused a la train, Amsterdam to Berlin.

Debaucherous night out with the Australians, Berlin.

Cafe whores, Berlin.

Mirror antics, Prague.

Waiting for the bus, Prague.

Solo time, Vienna.

Being idiots, Vienna.

Madge loves her wurst, Vienna.

Hofburg Palace, Vienna. Wee Meg being flanked by one hell of a lion.

Hofburg Palace, Vienna.

Cafe perching, Vienna.

No words can quite explain what was going on during these hours. Insert imagination here. Vienna.

Beautifying, Vienna.

Playing dress-up before embarking on the longest night train in all the universe.

Meg had an admirer...

Kit loves dogs. More than maybe life itself.

Cafe, Brussels.

Cheaper-than-water wine. We are classy girls, oui?! Brussels.

PARIS, JE T'AIME!!!

My arch-enemies, Paris.

Tipping the Eiffel Tower, Paris.

Louis Vuitton sighting, Paris. We were literally losing our minds with glee.

I got robbed. Sob.

2007-12-03T02:52:00.000-08:00

Some low-life Spaniard lifted precious articles from my purse on the metro last night.
What a snake.
Last night, I dreamed of punching and kicking and shredding and maiming this faceless, nameless culprit with all my bodily strength.
After a night of pulverizing via dreams, and a tearful conversation avec my maman, I feel far better.
x.

La plage dans mon coeur:

2007-12-01T09:52:00.000-08:00

Dear Barcelona is treating us, thus far, like queens afresh. This is a city that embraces you like an old, old friend or perhaps an eager child...I do believe it likes us. Warmth prevails...and my intention is to savour every second of flowered light, as there are a mere few days remaining before I am back in the presence of snow and wind and ice. Current blessings: COUNTED and cherished.
Yesterday afternoon, we followed our pulsating hearts towards water...and found ourselves in a heaven of sorts. The lanky expanse of beach became our own personal Eden for a blissfully contented few hours. Upon lighting feet on sand, we ripped boots and socks from our feet (mine, at this point, looking like emaciated bird claws--backpacking is murder on les pieds), hiked our jeans sky-high, and ran with ash-pale legs over the cool stretch of beach. There was, admittedly, a fair share of shrieking involved. The Mediterranean Sea is striking--green blue gray black clear, as the light happens to strike, and we took in its liquid loveliness with hungry eyes. We waded and splashed like feverish five-year-olds until our skin was drained of all discernable sensation (it IS December, after all). I cannot remember the last time I played as freely as that, though it was probably when I was fourteen (or sixteen...) years of age and still catching frogs and scaling trees with my brothers. Scandalously late bloomer alert, oui?!
Either way. Laying in the sand, basking like cats, we remained still and exhilerated for a senseless amount of time. It felt right and pure and far too euphoric to be real...yet it was; it was. I was almost afraid to move, to breathe, for fear of it all slipping from my fingers, whisper-thin as a ghost or some all-too-lustrous illusion. Those hours were richer than many and most.
Last night spun itself out as a dreamy finish to the jewel of all days. Kit and I donned our prettiest selves, and set out on foot in hopes of finding Club Bikini. The night air like the softest fingers on our skin, we wandered like waifs until we found ourselves at the threshold of this elusive bar...incidentally, it was an underground cavern; nothing more on the eyes than a grimy parkade from the surface. We glided in, uninhibited by the seeming trifeness, and found ourselves immersed within moments in a lower-level den of goodness. Firstly, the boy manning the door opted to let us in without shedding a single euro each, which was mental. God knows why he decided to throw us such a bone, but Dange and I pounced like starving wolves on the opportunity. And so we moved inwards and downards...weaving down steps, through sleek stone tunnels, and into a scene ablaze. Sensual sound moved through the darkened room like unseen energy, smoke hung like a gauze in the heat-streaked air, throngs of appetizing young Spaniards swayed wildly in dance, and Mos Def flooded the room (which was crammed to the edges, and beyond) with his melting voice and jaw-dropping beauty. Astounding. Us two sipped stiffened cocktails (the Spanish, evidently, fail to mess around when it comes to hard alcohol--one drink=the force of at least three), and feasted our eyes and ears on all that was around us. We left, hours later, as the night dwindled to a close, walking on air; walking ourselves home to bed through the sleeping city streets.
Shall I count the ways this meshed to form my sweetest of days? Au contraire, think I will leave it lingering simply at that.
In my hands, an array of crushed stars.
I'll see you soon...
R.

Our bodies like glass

2007-11-29T09:21:00.000-08:00

We have been feeling a little fragile these last couple of days. This lifestyle of movement, of carrying the weight of our lives on our backs, is beginning to take its inevitable toll. I should be falling on my knees in thankfulness that it has eluded us in its fierce entirity until now. For me, it cascaded over my body like bullets or a phantom wind two days ago in the train station Milan. All of a sudden, I felt as if my feet could not take me another step, and every shard of my bodily self seemed as if it might shatter to the dirt-streaked ground. My already large eyes widened with the sheen of tears, and with all that was in me, I wanted to give up. For twenty seconds, I considered it; toyed with the idea like a piece of forbidden fruit; tasted it and tried it on for size. A dingy corner of the station, offering cold cement and a snaking rancid smell, seemed like a logical place to curl up agaist my loathed, now-haggard belongings, and pretend I was a little girl again, in my flower-petaled bedroom, or at least a fox in its den or a hobbit in its hovel. I wavered at the edges of decision...do I break in half, or even into quarters or miniscule tatters here and now, in this dank station, and by doing so, in part break the two extraordinary women at my side...or do I breathe deeply, clutch my heart back into its cavity and press onwards, upwards, forwards. In the end, it was not even a choice. I collected my seeping emotions up off the ground and willed my feet to tread again. In the span of those suspended minutes, I learned at least five. hundred. thousand. intricacies and volumes about myself, and about resiliance in the face of apparent hopelessness. Coming out of a following 12+ hours of precious, dreamless sleep, clarity was somewhat restored, and morale pieced back together. All carries a veiled freshness now...at the very least, I am fresher in myself, and better able to take on the push and pull/come and go of what continues to blossom into our path.
Last night, to name a singular experience...last night was 1000% comprised of tossing and turning. Milan to Barcelona, a la night train, was an ominous challenge. In the disarray that is now my tote bag, I could only extract a solitary earplug in the darkness, so sleep was fitfull and laced with the grating sounds of shudder-worthy snoring. BLEGH. The 14, etc. hr. stretch of (seeming) death was livened further by a French police raid of our train somewhere between the gaping distance of Milan and Barce. A man sleeping a mere few seats away from us was plucked from his slumber, and dragged off the train for reasons my shoddy Italian barred me from understanding. It was un peu mental, and in the throes of my Gravol-induced state of dreaminess, felt like a sliver out of a film or a cutting-ege fairy tale. Strange, oui?
Barcelona's streets have, so far, embraced us with eager arms. Ladybirds and I are feeling relaxed already here. We spent our post-train afternoon slash evening revelling in steaming showers, wandering beneath palm trees, curling up to feast our screen-hungry eyes on mindless movies, and sipping tea and budget red wine. As food has been scarce today, I apologize if my words are senseless...bear in mind, they are empty-stomached and wine-induced.
It is a wonder to think that I will be back in my own sweet apartment in one week less a day...I intend to hug all the clothing in my closet for at least three hours, my roommate for a minimum of four, and fall into sleep for three-five days straight.
I am dying to see you all. Traveling has been a God-send, but at the end of the end of the end of the day, there is, after all, no place like home. And I cannot quite believe that I just quoted 'The Wizard of Oz' in black-and-white, but I am sticking by my words. Snow-laden prairies, I am coming. Palm trees and gleaming sunlight are all very lovely in and of themselves, but I am aching for the naked trees and grayed skies of home right now.
Wednesday, December 5th, 8:34 pm...Northwest Airlines, Minneapolis to Winnipeg--if anybody is interested in an airport reunion. I, for one, shall be there with one fazillion bells on.
Adios pour le moment.
Be happy.
Love life.
See you in a flash.
R.B.

Cut to the bone; quick to the kill--a lot of sequins with an undercurrent of grunge.

2007-11-25T01:32:00.000-08:00

Months ago, in the midst of summer, I had a vividly memorable conversation with a friend in the aisles of a grocery store. During that time and space the reality of this trip was still largely unborn, and my doubts and fears were growing with a weed-esque severity. I was shaky; I was unsure; I felt trepidation. The unknown is, perhaps, more daunting than anything we can touch or taste or feel.
And so. He began telling me of his time spent in Europe, and his gracefulness; his ease and energy-lit eyes calmed me. I was soothed and inspired. One concept he spoke fervently about has stuck with me like a second skin throughout my time abroad--and that was of embracing all the incredible, epic places I light eyes on as backdrops. He went on to explain that he felt that these landmarks and settings, glorious as they are in physical presence, are regarded far more richly when thought of as backdrops to the experiences you are having in the shadow of them.
I am explaining this poorly and crudely, but it has shaped the way I look at things and internalize my surroundings within these two months...and so I feel stirred to give it mention.
To paint somewhat of a visual, here is a glimmer of my encounter with the Eiffel Tower in light of this stream of thought. My initial glimpse of the Tower by night was sensual and stunning as expected, but beyond its gaudy radiance ripping through the darkness, I remember more, more, more. Meg and I were han solo that night, Katie opting to channel her inner Sleeping Beauty, and so us two remaining bodies were pulled like lightweight magnets to said beautiful structure. It quickened the beat of our hearts, and stilled our words. I have written of this already. But here is what was going on in the real, tangible flesh...here is what the Tour D'Eiffel served as such a breath-stopping backdrop to. We were layered in clothing; the air was laced with winter. We leaned up against a cool stone wall for ten or fifty minutes, I lost all conceivable track of time, and shared a bottle of rouge, sans glasses (as has become the pattern these last many weeks). Voices meshed all around us--teens getting rowdily drunk, lovers making out on the ground/on top of benches/in trees (this legendary French kissing obsession is not a cliche, it is dead accurate), vendors waving neon Tower keychains and sugared crepes in our faces...and so on. We eventually found ourselves tucked into the outdoor portion of a nearby cafe, our pale faces still littered with the myriad of light being emitted from the Eiffel. We sipped a single glass of wine each...we talked about life, about pain, about love...we observed the world of Paris weaving itself past with fascination and tirelessness. I slipped between sheets thankful that night.
It was something like that.
I have been fortunate. There have been others that stand out as wildly significant...backdrops embedded all across a continent. The city bus in London...a riverside bridge underneath the throes of traffic in Amsterdam...a concentration camp on the edges of Berlin...a grimy phone booth in the streets of Prague...a barren courtyard in Brussels...a lake underneath the Swiss Alps in Geveva...I could go on. There are vibrant, unforgettable memories attached to each of these settings, and they have become fragments of myself.
Our train leaving Rome for Venice is drawing ever nearer, so I am off to collect myself. I am amped for the city upon water.
Fare thees well,
R.B.

Still despising pigeons:

2007-11-21T01:37:00.000-08:00

Good day and good day and good day from Roma, Italia--the land of ancient architecture, oozing cheese, drop-dead disgusting champagne, and (apparently?!) palm trees. Ohhhh, my. What a web of complication we encountered upon kissing Paris goodbye. We count ourselves lucky...or blessed, rather, to even have slipped out of the debauchery of streets astrike. We reunited with a fresh-faced Meg in the Geneva train station, only to inform her that our only way out of this place (that avoided the inevitable French stop-over) was to turn around and catch a train straight back to Zurich, the exact city she had departed from mere hours ago. Murder. Madge took the potentially-crushing news like a warrior, and only laughed at our agonized eyes and consolation offering of cigarettes. And so. Instead of weaving ourselves to Spain/the south of France/Italy, we have twisted la route around. As it looks right now, we will spend our last string of days soaking up pure relaxation in the glitteringly affordable land of the Spanish. However, if I have learned any lesson repeatedly and, at times, crushingly on this trip...it is to plan tentatively but not in solidarity. Circumstances change on a moment-to-moment basis, and the by-far best attitude to take on is one of lightness and spontenaity. So I am channeling that. Besides, we are hardly fretting, as our magician of a travel agent will be able to make whatever we need happen, leaving us none the poorer. Winnipeg livin in two weeks still glows like something radiantly cherished in our hearts and heads.
In the spirit of movement and living in the present moment, though, here are a few words on the city of Rome. It is no word of a lie that the gelati here is of the life-changing sort. By the light of day, everything here is coated in warmth and loveliness, yet as soon as the sun dips down, the city cools to the point of inducing shivers. It is a curious climate. A good portion of all life stemming fom the soil is still lustrously green and growing, while the streets are also littered with burnished autumn leaves. Palm trees blossom upwards into the sky, alongside others that have long since turned skeletal, shedding their leaves for winter. It is a strange and entrancing sight. Wandering through the Colleseum the other day felt out-of-body...there was this discernable yet indescribable glaze of wonder draped over the place, and the people within it. I felt very young and incredibly naive in such an age-old, legendary place. Locking eyes on the Pantheon by night was quite the rush to the senses as well...us three all a little light-headed from the evenings copious amounts of red wine. The icing on the cake that night was the fresh, long-stemmed red roses we were gifted by our server at a bebe outdoor wine bar...we sipped our liquid deliciousness, and he stood there and laughed at us. Hectic English-speaking girls, clad in our token 'dress-up' outfits, talking five trillion miles a minute. I imagine we were quite a funny sight.
Other than the fact that our hostel is a shrine to elderly women everywhere (bless their hearts), a bit weird, our temporary life here is a delight. We are all swimming in relief at the fact that the Italian langugage slides off our backs like water off a fish's...the men here are AGGRESSIVE, and it is probably for the best that we remain blissfully ignorant of the content of their hollered words. Today we are dipping over to Naples for some serious street-wandering and exploration...the intention is to not get killed; Naples is notorious for its loco insano traffic. I am actually happy to embark on this blink-and-it's-over train journey, knowing there is no possibility for it to reach the twelve, thirteen, fourteen hour span. Au contraire, I am looking forward to this opportunity to curl up with book and thoughts, catching glimpses of the Italian countryside as it flies past.
It is so strange to think that two weeks from today, we will be on a plane bound for home. I am ready--ready to embrace these remaining fourteen days with renewed fierceness, and ready as well for home. My bed and bath are going to be receiving some serious face time once my feet are light on Winnipeg ground again.
I am off to catch a train. I hope you are all better, better, better than well.
Yours,
Rebecca L.

We hear the leaves fall to the ground...

2007-11-18T03:16:00.001-08:00

One and all,
This strike of the French sort continues to lay its fingers on us again and again, just when we start to think we have escaped its clutches. Long long story short, Magpie/Kit/myself are perched in Rome, instead of Barcelona, a la moment. A torrent of details to follow...
Hearts and embraces,
Rab

And you know that she's half crazy, but that's why you want to be there:

2007-11-16T09:02:00.000-08:00

Current status: sipping red from the bottle while slavedriving over laundry, all avec my belle fleur, Kathleen Mackenzie Dange. We are missing our lovely sister Meg...she is nesting in Zurich while Kit and I are dragging our haggard selves around a freezing Geneva. Tomorrow, a joyous reunion of three in the Geneva train station, equally frosty in temperature. This time tomorrow we will be together foreverrrr and Barcelona-bound. The sole intention for Spain is to treat our broken bodies with as much soothing and luxurious rest as humanly possible. Massages have been mentally scheduled for this city since day one of our travel extravaganza. I am holding my breath. My shoulders are frailer, my feet more repulsive and my legs more bruised and battered than in all of self-history...backpack scars, etc. Nevertheless, there is a smile curving over my lips. Movement and newness is good, good, intoxicatingly good. Steaming hot showers are even better...in the dead of last night, Katie and I crawled into our Genevian (Genevan? Geneveuse?!) hostel like smashed insects, barely discernable as ourselves. We both fled for the showers like wild-eyed women, dirt/sweat/tear-streaked after a bleary fourteen, fifteen hours a la train. Haggard Harriet and Haggard Hannah we were...but that scorching water streaming over my body revived me to the point of a blossoming contentedness...praise the Lord and the stars and the galaxies and all that is sacred. Delving into yesterday's debaucherous events un petit peu...it is no farfetched fairy tale that the French love their strikes. How beautifully convenient that they should decide to declare one just as us sparrows were poised to take wing from Paris. Chaotic. Kit and I cursed fully and scandalously for 2-3 minutes' time, and then drew the deepest breaths and forged forwards like wide-eyed soldiers, not really knowing what the hell we were doing. The result? Dawn to pitch-dark midnight running from train to train, city to city, country to country, cab to cab, language to language. In a matter of a single day, we streamed, whirlwind-style, Paris to Salzburg to Bern to Basel to the Geneva we had been weeping for all the while. All in the time frame of this, I ate a drop-dead disgusting sandwich, finished my (incredible) book, ran my iPod dry and engaged in copious amounts of thought. We laid eyes on our first snowfall while leaping onto a train in Basel...and my heart fluttered, bird-style, in sudden and paralyzing longing for home.
Anyways and anyhow, we made it here and have been thoroughlly laying lower than low today. The Swiss alps are stunning. Everything is sickeningly expensive. Oh and we saw swans, closer than ever before, on the edges a shatteringly windy lake. Buying Parisian Vogue is a complete rip. And I had the loveliest conversation with my maman this afternoon. That is it and that is all.
Embrace one another for me, all of you.
Rebecca L.B.

Breathe out, it's fall...

2007-11-13T02:11:00.000-08:00

Our sketchy jewel of a Parisian apartment has one particularly charming feature: slim to no heat. Here is what I wore to bed last night...
2 pair socks (one woolen)
1 pair leggings
2 tank tops
1 long-sleeved shirt
1 hoodie
1 knit sweater
2 scarves
1 coat

YEEP.
I am off to indulge in my morning espresso and almond croissant.
You are loved and missed, friends.

"You'll never be a vegetable; even artichokes have hearts..."

2007-11-11T15:48:00.000-08:00

I am feigning typical French life in a rented-for-the-week apartment in Montmarte, Paris...the very district of the city where my beloved "Amelie" was filmed. The Two Windmills Cafe itself was hit up HARD by us ladies late this afternoon, after a physically-gruelling pilgrimage through the most gargantuan cemetary of my life. All our sweat, tears and whispered curses were worth it, however...as soon as I as standing at the grave edges of Jim Morrison, Edith Piaf and Oscar Wilde, I was soaring. Well worth the screaming sensation in my legs, when all is said and done. To dip back to 'The Two Windmills' or, more appropriately-christened here in the land of the French, 'Cafe des 2 Moulins', the place is more humble and grunge than I had expected, and as a result, I love it far more fiercely. I sipped vin chaud (hot red wine with cinnamon and a scalded wedge of orange swimming within) for the first time, and revelled in the sacred quirkiness of my surroundings. Smoke clouded the air, The Velvet Underground snaked through the space, and a small dog wandered at our toes. Sheer brilliance, oui?! I, for one, was in my height of personal glory. I plan to slide back through those doors, solo, avec journal, pen and book sometime in the next few days, and drink it all in a little more deeply...

Fuuuck, it is good to be here; one thousand goods. I am counting my blessings more vividly every day, and they are a rich many. Us prairie nymphs have our moments of tears and trembling, but somehow, we continue to find ourselves dissolved in laughter at the end of any and every travesty we have encountered thus far. Take the other day, for example. After a hectic and disheartening half-day of dragging our thousand-pound backpacks from metro line to metro line in attempt to find our hostel for Paris: Part Deux, we were the most haggard editions of ourselves yet. Mon dieu...how does one quite sum up a complex sensation of disenchantenment, exhaustion, directionlessness, defeated spirits, trepidation and physical defeatedness all in one simplistic breath? Our entire bodies were sweat-streaked, our backs breaking, and our words clipped. (Sidenote--Damn that backpack directly to the gates of hell...eternally grateful as I am to its owner for the brilliant loan, it is currently the bane of my bodily existence. Excuse my rawness of language, but once I am home, I never want to lay eyes or touch on it again. HA.) Once behind the closed doors of our new abode, all three of us flocked towards various methods of solace. I swaddled myself in three pajmenas and collapsed on my trife bottom bunk in immediate sleep, Dangerfield healed her spirits tap-tapping away on our own (for now) personal computer, and Madge attacked the kitchen with a scouring pad, cleaning gloves and the savage energy of ten armies. So is illustrated our wildly varying methods of soothing broken spirits and licking personal wounds.
In other noteworthy happenings...
1. Sunday afternoon found us attending mass at Notre Dame Cathedral...shivers shivers shivers all around...I have never heard voices quite like I did that day, meshed with melancholy organ and bathed in the glow of five million flickering candles. There are no words...all I knew in those moments is that my entire sense of time and space slipped away, and all I was aware of was the pulsating energy in that amazing space. Needless to say, I have not felt that utterly worshipful in, perhaps, ever.
2. At the risk of coming across as a starry-eyed teen queen, here is a tiny sketch of an experience I had on the street just the other day...I was traipsing through the Latin Quarter, apple in hand, when the most absolutely stunning babe man caught my eye...so of course I snapped my head to get a fuller glimpse, and as I was gazing in worshipfulness (of an entirely different sort than the church service variety), I continued walking at breakneck pace, and proceeded to smash headlong into a very disapproving midde-aged Parisian woman. To say the least, she was unimpressed and glared me down in fiery fashion. In our throes of laughter after this encounter, I lost my imaginary-boyfriend in the crowd...Domage domage.

In closing...
To dispel any unspoken doubts from potentially skeptical (but dear, sweet) readers, IT IS ACTUALLY cheaper to drink wine than water here. I rest my case. The French know best.

We are having a quietly luxurious night in, full of journals, candles, Earl Gray and some soft Neil Young. Said indulgences are calling; I am going, going, gone.
Love etc.,
rlb

Aglow and aglitter...

2007-11-09T07:34:00.000-08:00

Hello and hello and hello,
Paris is frigid a la moment...the brilliant sunlight streaking across the sky is deceiving beyond measure, because upon stepping foot outside, all is polar ice. Swaddled in a plethora of scarves, toques, mittens and pajmenas, we continue to stomp the streets with energy and (hopefully) grace. Morale is not to be toyed with; it is ever and only up, up, blazingly up. The other night we tossed deliciously-cheap wine down our throats, sans glasses and straight out of the bottle, while gazing up at the Eiffel Tower, all afire with a shitstorm of dancing lights. It was gaudy beyond measure, but somehow still left us screeching with pleasure and wonder. Ohhhhhh, Paris je t'aime.
In other noteworthy happenings...
Yesterday, we were serenaded by a sweet, albeit hectic traveling band ON THE METRO. Considering the slender size of metro compartments, this is moderately crazy in terms of sights to lay eyes on. A few stops into our luxuriously long ride, three musicians leapt into the train, and launched straight into a ridiculously animated rendition some quirky French tune. Mental. Every born-and-bred Parisian, on their respective ways to the office or the market, either ignored this spectacle entirely, or looked disdainfully on. Our trio, however, met shining eyes across the narrow space. We were enchanted; others were irked. Our lips curved in smile; others closed their eyes in pointed indifference slash annoyance. It was an interesting moment. All at once, I felt a stark sense of belonging and affinity, but also of alien-esque separation. I was inside and outside of the experience all in one soft, slow series of breaths. It brought forth a reflective head space within me...the contrast of myself revelling in this haggardly charming music, while locals paid negative zero attention.
Okay. This computer continues to gobble up my precious Euros...so bittersweet...so I shall be taking wing before it robs me of my last pennies and leaves me in starvation tonight. Stay happy, stay well.
Rebecca

Don't ask, don't tell--a note on Paris de la melancholy.

2007-11-06T08:14:00.000-08:00

Lovers and lovelies alike,
Hello hello from the dwindling light of my first day of fullness in Paris. It has been fittingly epic; layers upon layers of wide-eyed discovery. We blazed our way through the French metro system like we'd been born and bred for the ordeal...peeking our faces from the darkened underground only to be greeted by le Tour D'Eiffel spiraling gracefully into the sun-streaked sky. It was a moment of immense wonder...I felt the world pause around me for a string of moments--children ceased to wail, heels snapping the pavement were silent, and all my senses were aware of was my own shriek of delight and amazement. Sheer brilliance, yes. Our very own collective six feet took us up, up, onwards and upwards flight after flight after hundreds of flights. Elevators are for the weak of spirit, oui!? Height-sensitive moi took a soldier-esque attitude on, and refused to let a lingering fear of being sans feet-on-solid-ground taint the experience for me. Gazing out over the far-reaching city, I felt like a bird or a ghost...weightless and drenched in life and lighter, lighter, lighter than I have in a very long time. It was both humbling and moving. The rest of our day unraveled in an effortless flow...we stumbled unwittingly on the Arc de Triomph, sipped coffee and watched the world slip by from the windows of a miniscule cafe, and indulged in an extensive photoshoot in front of Louis Vuitton (YEEP!)
I am content. Paris has haunted my dreams of both the day and night variety for as long as I can even remember, and so it is quite the glittering blessing to be living that long lusted-after experience out in flesh and blood. I am grateful beyond measure, and brimming with renewal and a trembling anticipation for the next nine days. Expect an overflow of words from these lips in said coming fragment of time...
Okay. I am off to nap in the manner of a cat before a night that promises to revolve around dirt-cheap wine, stunningly dark eyes and our fair share of street-wandering.
Until soon,
R.L.B

Oh, and...
a jewel from the book I finished recently:
"Don't be afraid. There are exquisite things in store for you. This is merely the beginning."
--Oscar Wilde, 'The Picture of Dorian Gray'.

Vienna, Vienna...

2007-10-30T02:36:00.000-07:00

has stripped me of a few demons.
In spite of its intense loveliness, I needed to leave Prague.
Here is better; here my feet are lighter; here I feel my heart beating evenly again.
We laid eyes on a stunning Klimt exhibit yesterday (as it stands, he will forever have my heart), lounged in a cafe with tea against our lips, then drank in the stimulating chaos of an Austrian street market--copious amounts of scents wafting, voices screaming, languages twining, dogs wandering solo, and aggressive vendors, etc etc. And that shoddy description hardly does it justice. It was enriching and entrancing...my observation instincts went into full blossom, and it is no exaggeration that I could have walked up and down that same lanky strip for hours, and not have grown tired of it.
I connect well with this city...we have a strange and fierce affinity for one another...I feel its energy slipping through my veins like liquid inspiration...
and I am savouring that.
Going going gone,
R.

I'll put my kaleidascope on and meet you by the river.

2007-10-27T02:44:00.000-07:00

Prague is a curious city.
It is prettier than Berlin, though more slippery to define in head and heart.
Perhaps it is just me...
I feel a little as if I were in a dream right now.
We saw a drop-dead amazing film last night, called "Once."
Do see, do see...if my instincts are right, it will stir slash inspire you in a powerful way.
I was left saddened, and strangely hopeful.
The book I am tearing through at present is also one thousand percent gem..."If On a Winter's Night a Traveler." It is keeping my mind sharpened and entranced.
The snaking smoke in cafes...bars...in the station...on the streets still startles me. It continues to seem so strange and foreign, but cigarettes are like gloves or earrings in this place...it is not merely a Europen cliche, but a complete truth, that more individuals than not are partial to the cigarette here. Oddly enough, I have never been less inclined to partake.
The espresso here is liquid pleasure. I am off to indulge, and then to take my feet to Prague Castle.
Tomorrow, a first taste of Vienna...
Carrying on, soldier-style,
but with a sense of wonder on my breath and in my blood,
Rebecca L.B.

Cat naps between paper-thin walls:

2007-10-21T11:30:00.000-07:00

Oh, hello.

This afternoon I fell asleep on a stomach chock-full of Thai delicacies, and dreamed that I was eating gooey candy hearts and cleaning my apartment. I woke up smiling.

I have breathtaking new pirate-esque boots, and sunglasses that channel Audrey Hepburn with sheer brilliance. I am content.

Berlin is frosty, however, this face is blessed because she brought along an approximate seven scarves on this trip. Touche.

We ordered coffee and muffins at a sweet cafe this morning...and we were brought coffee and ice cream. My German needs some serious honing.

I could eat olives and only olives for dinner every night and be satisfied beyond measure.

Tea is the new coffee. Or something like that.

Love.
R.

Street-schlem and Hobo-chic.

2007-10-20T08:52:00.000-07:00

The German countryside is pure beauty. Whipping, six-hour style, from Amsterdam to Berlin on the train...my breath was taken more than once. The green was of a sort that I had not laid eyes on before--lush and rich and vividly lovely. I polished off 'Down and Out in Paris and London' (thankyou, thankyou, thankyou, George Orwell) amidst tattered fragments of sleep, a plethora of Yo La Tengo in my ears, and pieces of laughable conversation with the drunken Australian lads parked in the seats directly in front of us. Light blazed through dirty windows like arctic summer, feeding my frighteningly-white skin, and continually drawing my gaze to the wonder outside.
Berlin, still a little shy of my full 24-hour acquaintence, has shown itself unique already. Ladybirds and I took a frosty tour of radiant churches and buildings today...stood before the Berlin Wall and over top of the bunker where Hitler took his life...heavy heavy heavy boots, but still an extraordinary privilege, oui? So I felt. Night has fallen here, and Berlin's extravagent streets call. Nightclub mayhem, anyone?! Apparently, in this city, techno is the new black. I am off to see for myself...

current muse: i am, i am, i am...

2007-10-18T01:51:00.000-07:00

My little cherished wolves,
Here is a glimpse of just the thinnest sampling of curiosites/thrills I have noticed thus far in the Netherlands:
1.dogs in cafes
2.tea in glasses
3.candles in the afternoon
4.Dutch Vogue
5.wine in dingy corner grocery stores
6.babes lighting cigarettes in said afternoon candles (seriously)
7.pigeons, pigeons everywhere (for clarification, this one is a curiosity and NOT a thrill. blegggh, shivers. birds are not my forte.)
8.bread and cheese picnics on bedroom floors
...and so forth...

Aussi,
here is my latest, hottest mathematical discovery...

tea of the Earl Gray sort + George Orwell + cozy layered clothing + brittle leaves + candles aglow + grim lighting + Amsterdam outside the window = the perfect rainy day.

The Red Light District blew our minds. For anyone who desires explosive stimulation of the eyes, ears, tastebuds...in essence, all the senses and more...I would urge you to take yourself there, immediately if not sooner. Enchanting and startling all in the same breath.

You are all in my heart and on the frosty edges of my thoughts.
Stay well, loves.
Berlin waits a startling one night away...
Rebecca L.B.

from the land of bicycles:

2007-10-15T11:17:00.000-07:00

There is a raw magic about the city of Amsterdam that I had not expected.
Sleep is sweet at last, wake is glowingly stimulating, and the wine is scandalously cheap...among many, many other things.
Multiple children (including those fresh out of the womb) and multiple dogs are roosted more often than not right on the bicycles with their occupants. Exquisite.
My sickly camera is now in the possession of fresh batteries, so the visual images are fast-approaching, I promise promise.
Over/out,
Rab/Olga.
***Our alibi (if we ever encouter the need for one) is that us three femmes are a Ukrainian dance troupe, traveling the world and performing along the way. I was blessed with Olga as my alter-ego name, and I tend to embrace it with vigour.

poetry and dream.

2007-10-12T09:58:00.000-07:00

All,
London london london is beautifully off-the-chain. We are starry-eyed and mere bebes in the realm of city navigation, but our hearts are light and our bank accounts becoming gradually lighter. But the money melting into thin air is spent well...fish and chips at a petite cafe, the occasional stolen Marlborough (stolen as in snuck in, not thieved!), wine shared three-ways, fruit stands spilling onto every street corner, double-decker buses, a traipse through the Tate Modern Gallery and Shakespeare's Globe Theatre. Inspiration is flowing like cool water, and our makeshift family of sisters is thriving and blossoming. Precious minutes are trickling by in this haggard basement Internet cafe, though...I must take wing to search high and low for hostels in the Amsterdam realm. We are fluttering from this brilliant city via ferry tomorrow, for I fear if we were to attempt staying a third night, we would be selling our bodies in the street to make ends meet...
Alas, no photos yet...copious amounts have been snapped, but I promise a full-fledged post sooner, rather than later.
Amour,
RB

Ready, set, go:

2007-10-08T21:34:00.000-07:00

Hello bonjour, cats et kittens. Photos this rain-streaked night are begged, bartered and (mostly) stolen, for my camera is being temperamental. Forging ahead, though, sans shots courtesty of myself, is the name of the game pour moi this evening. I am feeling rather reflective...my bedroom is in the complete glory of disarray...half my closet and an estimated one trillion other objects of the miscellanious sort are strewn all about. I cannot see my bedroom floor for the books, boots, dresses, scarves, et al. In stark contrast to this chaotic space that currently surrounds me like a very daunting sea, I am feeling calm and refreshed. Thanksgiving with mum, dad and brothers was intensely relaxing and decadently low-key. Fires, cats, Monopoly avec les garcons, a little red wine, a lot of Leonard Cohen and some gray prairie rain...my head was cleared and my heart lightened.

My last number of days in the land of home have melted by with a strangely effortless grace. This city is at it's best...if there is one thing Winnipeg wears well, it is autumn, oui? Here are a few golden reasons why I am such a lover of this season...

-dead leaves crackling under boots.
-layering on scarves and sweaters for an afternoon of reading by the river.
-pumpkin spice lattes.
-watching "Amelie" for the seventeenth time, and still being inspired.
-catnaps midway through a frosty day.
-curling up with cup after cup of earl gray tea and the crossword.
-letter-writing.
-a newborn season of Grey's.
-the latest Iron and Wine album, in all its brilliance.
-London/Paris fashion weeks.
-my fiery-warm apartment.
-goodbye, geese.
-splurging on long lusted-after books and magazines for my trip.
-pristine bicycle weather.
-cool hands and flushed, wind-kissed cheeks.
-the air by night.
-i could go far, far on...

That's it that's all. Next time I write it will be with a different light in my eyes and energy coursing through my body.
Love, etc.

Bird-free and watery-light.

2007-10-03T21:00:00.000-07:00

Guest appearance: Esther and Ethan. Both these beauties belong to my boss. They light up the restaurant like no others.

A drop-dead sushi slaveland was blessed by later visitations from two of my my all-time favourite individuals. One thousand
"merci beaucoups", Barkman and Drewber. You two were angels in the flesh that night. Chopsticks may have found their frantic way to my heart if you hadn't dropped by and heeded my commands to stay and dine...

Luke, remember when we were young? Mere bebes...

I despise goodbyes. They make me ache. So, in parting, here are a collection of words far lovelier and more profound than I could ever claim as my own. They have meant more to me over the past few years than I can even begin to articulate. And I feel as if they will only continue to speak volumes...now, later, and even in another life, when I am a cat or perhaps a Russian princess. Yes yes. Bon nuit, friends/foes/lovers. RB

THUNDER PERFECT MIND
(Poet: Unknown.
What I do know: --"Thunder Perfect Mind" is a poem discovered among the Gnostic manuscripts at Nag Hammadi in 1945...and takes the form of an extended, riddling monologue, in which an immanent saviour speaks a series of paradoxical statements concerning the divine feminine nature. These paradoxical utterances echo Greek identity riddles, a common poetic form in the Mediterranean.--God bless Wikipedia.)

...For I am the first and the last.
I am the wife and the virgin.
I am the mother and the daughter.
I am she whose wedding is great, and I have not taken a husband.
I am the bride and the bridegroom,
I am the silence that is incomprehensible and the idea whose remembrance is frequent.
I am the voice whose sound is manifold
I am senseless and I am wise...and establish the great ones among the small first creatures.
Come forward to childhood, and do not despise it because it is small and it is little.
And do not turn away greatnesses in some parts from the smallnesses, for the smallnesses are known from the greatnesses.
I am the one who is honoured, and who is praised,
For I am knowledge and ignorance.
I am shame and boldness.
I am shameless; I am ashamed.
I am strength and I am fear.
I am war and peace.
But I, I am compassionate and I am cruel.
Do not hate my obedience and do not love my self-control.
But I am she who exists in all fears and strength in trembling.
I am she who is weak, and I am well in a pleasant place...
I am peace,
And I am an alien and a citizen.
I am the substance and the one who has no substance.
I am control and the uncontrollable.
I am the union and the dissolution.
I am the hearing which is attainable to everyone and the speech which cannot be grasped.
I am a mute who does not speak, and great is my multitude of words.

Boot status: lighter than ever. London has no room for heavy boots...

2007-09-28T14:03:00.000-07:00

Happy happy fall afternoon, pets. Is today not a breath of fresh air? I lounged, patio-style, sipping white with my mum all afternoon...it was tres relaxing and made approaching winter seem decades away; galexies, even. Our trio of birds is down to numbered days here in the streets of Winnipeg, and I am scrambling to fill them with hours spent in all my favourite places with my very dearest of people. Yesterday involved Cafe Kohler, girlfriends, a junk food fiesta, and some serious roommate face-time. Check, check, check, check off the glittering list in my mind. These are all good, good, brilliantly good. I am over and out now a la moment...time to shroud myself in head-to-toe black and slam sushi all night.

Full moon, full heart.

2007-09-27T14:21:00.000-07:00

Francoise Hardy: current infatuation slash inspiration. This is how I plan to whittle my European days away.

Bobby D. and...me?! I have literally been approached by strangers on more than one occasion, and told that I look like this woman. Strange, oui?!

One of my all-time favourite photo jewels of the summer.

This stunning Yukon terrain has kidnapped my lover for the time being.

Sunday brunch with the fam. Baby bear brother time.

A steaming coffee, a wee bit of lit, and a journal full of pristine pages...
doesn't take much to make me happy.

Tim tams and Russian Serenades.

2007-09-27T01:01:00.000-07:00

Here are a few haggard attempts to be tech-savy. Good luck, self.