It's been ages

I haven't posted here in a very long time. Life gets in the way, you know.

And in some ways I've forgotten that I have a voice. It's small, but it's there. And my audience doesn't have to be any bigger than me. Which, today, it isn't.

Living alone again has been good, and bad. As punishing and rewarding as an artists retreat.

And this city isn't one where you can hop on the subway for fifteen minutes and emerge to another neighborhood where no one knows you.

I missed the first time I came here, full of the idea of reinvention. I'd hoped I could go to a new place and become a new person. I'd hoped I could come here and leave it affected by me, my thumbprint on it somewhere. Indelible, shallow, and still electric from my touch.

But you see, it doesn't work like that.

You're the one doing the moving - and sometimes the shaking - but only very rarely do you get to change yourself. A haircut or a new perfume can make you feel brand new, but to the strangers that see you, you haven't changed a bit.

They, the great they, are not affected by your transformation. And perhaps they emerged, phoenix-like, from the hot remains of a loss or despair. They too are wearing new clothes. But to you, their mate in this fleeting moment, they are nothing different than what they must have been for years.

It's all in the way you're feeling.

Links live in the wilds ...

Puns! It must be after dinner.

So, after making a "what's laying around" salad (romaine, radishes, cucumber, and a quickie vinaigrette) and seafood pasta (shrimp with herbs, pepper, chili flakes, garlic and olive oil tossed in kamut penne), I decided to relax a little in the mighty sea of blogs.

Links? Well, it probably doesn't come as a surprise that I love me a good fashion blog. And beyond the Satorialist, which is pretty much a staple for us all, there's a few I've come across that merit some sharing.

Yours Truly, x features a very adorable English lady who takes her boyfriend on 'London Dates', wears vintage, has mood boards aplenty, and really adores cooking. She's not saccharine so it's totally not annoying if you read several posts in one go (as some blogs similar to this have been). Her sense of style is that great fusion of what's just ahead and lots of influence from the past. And her read hair is gorgeous.

Nest   is a blog to make your house super-stylish, so in a sense, still a fashion blog. Meg Allen-Cole also appeared on the webseries "Threadbanger", which I hate to say totally went downhill after Meg and Rob and Corrine all left. This blog even features a tour of her Brooklyn apartment and of course, it'll make you a green-eyed monster in ten seconds flat.

What I Wore Today is totally more personal, but for sure nice to see how a fellow person dresses. What I mean by that is the people in the photographs from the Satorialist, say, always seem so unbelievably good at dressing, to the point where I'm suspicious. It's probably not warranted, and they are that put-together or original. But she's more down-to-earth. She works, and isn't a supermodel, which adore.

Style Rookie is again the stuff of legend. A 14 year-old suburban Chicago kid, Tavi has become famous for her insights into the world of mainstream fashion. Skeptics and nay-sayers aside: even if she fades from the spotlight, or goes in a totally non-fashion direction, the pictures of what she wears to school will last. And they'll never stop being just, so COOL. I've never had the stones (or, to be fair, the cash) to pull of what she's wearing to middle school. You can't criticize her for not standing out.

She's also so pop culture-savvy, she even rivals my boss. Which is huge.

And we end with street peeper, which is exactly what it sounds like. Cool kids wearing cool clothes. Not my fave, worth a look, though.

Roommate just scared me three grey hairs, so I gotta calm down. Phew!

Enjoy if you're a style geek like me :)

Oh, hai June

It's getting hot here on the Coast. Finally. And I've got the burns to prove it!

I really wanted some iced tea, but decided to bypass the fruity, citrus thing. Love it, I wanted something else.

So, I took a bit of raw sugar, and three tea bags (one vanilla Earl Grey, two Bengal spice) and threw 'em in a pitcher. Hot water on top, steep for five to seven minutes, fridge that mother, and in a few hours, you have the basis for some delish creamy tea by mixing in a bit of milk.

And I'm sure it could be made alcoholic, but I'm not sure with what. Kahlua? You'd probably know better, internoms.

Been busy. Very busy. Something more substantial than tea next time :)

The Better Way

Throughout my travels as a human being, backpacking through this country called life, I've learned a lot. I'm blessed to have had access to the richness of a post-secondary education, an amazing family, a network of friends that has become a second family, and work that has come my way that has been both challenging and enjoyable. And, of course, relative to so many people, I've had it great. I've had it beautiful.

I enjoy the luxury of complaining and of making mistakes that won't cost me my livelihood, my dignity or my freedom, as so many little things could do for women beyond my cushy existence. I'm typing right now, which means I have a computer, internet access, a free voice in my country, and that I am literate.

There is nothing more life-affirming than love. And the most lasting, and the most halting of all loves I have been blessed with is a love for life. I am fascinated by desires, by survival ... the fact that we are alive and that so much of the time, we forget to ask why we are here, and just get lost in the rapture that is what we are living. And that the most beautiful and terrible thing about life is that you can't be sure we get any more of it than what we got now.

I don't know if I believe in an afterlife. I certainly believe in heaven and hell, but they tend to turn up on earth. Looking at the shattered world of a war, or the broken skeleton of a city after a disaster, you can't help but think that the devil's taken up residence there. If you've ever been laughing hysterically or felt the rushing undertow of life as you step on a stage ... there are so many morsels of heaven that we are allowed to taste every day. We, as humans, are allowed to feel happy without any reason.

The funny thing I've noticed is that we never sensationalize the millions of moments of beauty. And I think we could stand to spend more time thinking about it.

It isn't New Year's, but I'm re-affirming a resolution made by so many of us, on a conscious level, but kept by so many who take no pains in forgetting to complain: I'm going to celebrate beauty, life, and the world I'm lucky enough to be a part of.

This is all I have.

Back in TV Land

If you know my family, like at all, the fact that we haven't had cable TV in nine years probably won't surprise you. We traded it in to send money to a Foster Child in Niger. Even though it took some adjusting at first, we've really liked not having it.

In Hometown, we have cases and cases of DVDs and a whole lot of VHS tapes from when we were kids. Dad has even gone the route of a big ol' flat screen and a Blu-ray player.

What I've liked about the switch was the ability to pause, and to play whatever you want whenever you want.

Want to watch Fraiser at three in the morning and pause it to take a pee and put some socks on? Go nuts.

And I know, you can get the PVR and Netflix and all that. And I suppose that works.

But maybe I'm just not evolved enough to get past the ownership of a shiny new box set of a TV show I love.

The biggest thing, though, was not having commercials. And I'll get to that in a minute.

Roommate grew up on TV, and so we have it now, and have so for nearly two years.

I'd say that on average, I'll watch maybe three to six hours a week.

Well, for every half hour of a show, about twenty minutes is the TV show itself with ten of commercials. For an hour, that's twenty minutes.

So, for that rainy, boring week where I watched six hours, I saw two hours of commercials.

Ever since getting commercial TV again, I've found myself wanting  things more. One particular example I can think of was at Christmas, I was constantly seeing a commercial for a Tim Horton's coffee mug,

I started to want that mug. Real bad.

And passing a Timmy Ho's downtown, I stopped myself before entering.
Why do you want this??


I never thought I was affected by advertising, and like everyone else who assumes they have a stronger mind than the Mad Men, I don't. I want to be normal. And I want to be happy.

The fulfillment I would get from that dinky made-in-China ceramic mug would last me just a few minutes. An artificial achievement as a substitute for something, say, I crocheted or an assignment completed. I was being sold a feeling, not a mug.

Advertising, through my thinking about it mostly, has really affected the way I see the world. I'm trying to be very conscious about not simply accepting bus shelter messages and girls smiling on the pages of magazines as the truth.

Whatever that is.

On Damage

We don't like damage here. No dents in the cars,
Throw away what's scratched,
what's stained.

And I cut the bruises from the apples I eat
because I don't want something damaged.
I want something unscathed, not
Unbecoming.

And I flinch if they lean in
for a kiss
to shake hands
and my breath isn't perfectly minty enough
If my heart is hurting and if my mind won't let me hide it.

I don't like the stain on the corner of the hem of my t-shirt
Out comes the bleach, the soap,
And I scrub with brushes until my eyes hurt
from seeing a stain that no one can see.

I don't like the hair between my eyebrows,
black, and pushing through destroying two arches
Groomed and pushed and pulled into place.
So, I pick and pluck until they are naked and red and hairless.

And I don't like my freckles because they dapple my skin.
Imperfect and in need of concealing.
So I do.
I dab on liquid skin from a bottle
to erase the years of playing in the sun.

But

It is impossible to wear white in this life without grass stains
and spaghetti sauce splatters
It is impossible to work hard and play harder
and never scar
It is impossible to feel the grace of healing
if you have never been broken.

On damage I am still divided.
On the flaws of others I find myself fascinated,
and on my own?
I am still walking the path of curious acceptance,
moving forward then retreating
Pausing
To pick a scab only I can see.

Dream Fable

I had a dream a few nights ago that just knocked my socks off. And usually, I don't remember them. I just have this feeling after I wake up of knowing that I was involved in something awesome. Usually with a few Australian animals and a light show.

This one, however, was very different. It felt like it was November, and in rural England, where you see bits of old stone walls, and the twisty, newer roads give way to the straight, Roman ones. Just, old and misty, and very green.

The original dream involved myself and my two siblings, but I've changed it in this rendering.

It's spooky (and long) so consider yourself warned.

There were once three children who lived in a small town. Everything was generally peaceful. Everybody went about their business, and most of them were friendly. The children lived on a small farm with their parents, their dog Charlie, and many other kinds of animals.

There was one thing in the town that was very strange. Now and then, someone would come across an animal that had been killed in a particular way. It would be drained of all its blood, and the rest left out. People all had ideas as to what could have happened to the animals: a madman in the woods, some kind of wild creature ... some even said it was a vampire. No one knew for sure. But to be safe, everyone locked their animals in at night, and kept a close watch on them during the day.

The children had set off to play early one morning. They walked down the road, and out alongside the woods. On their walk, they found a chicken, headless and without its blood, in the ditch. The children shared their suspicions, but knew that chickens were not very smart, and it could have been anything that could have killed it. And on they went. They were still joking about the stupidity of chickens when they noticed a bell and collar on the road. They followed a short trail of blood into the woods, and came across a cow, missing all four of her legs, entirely bled to death. Horrified, they ran home.

None of the children told their parents what they had seen. They knew that if someone found out they were near that part of the woods, they would be punished. And besides that, they were curious. That night, after supper and before bed, they made plans to go back to that same place and investigate.

That's all I've got for now!

Tasty, Tasty Melodies pt. 5

So, I'm back! It's been awhile, I know. I'm sorry little interwebbies.

You happy few.

If you know me personally, you know why el bloggo might have been neglected for awhile, and it's for the following reasons:

- Finishing up my degree. It's been big, and busy. And now, facing the world for real - not just thinking about how scary it would be - is scary for real. This includes projects, papers and exams, and in order to do it justice, things have fallen away.

- I'm currently in Hometown for the next little while, so the last week has been dedicated to catching up, resting, and generally visiting the family. There has been a stirring of something, but I'll get on that
- not now.

- With the visit to Hometown, a new addition to the family: MAX! A cockapoo-yorkie cross who is very energetic, and basically requires constant attention.

So, the sum of the parts: been busy.

In honor of my newly aquired BFA, I'd like to share something that is based on a university cliché: the pack o' ramen noodles.

This can be made with beef, chicken or tofu. If you want to know how, let me know and I'll give you the tips. This recipe is for chicken.

This is meant to serve two hefty appetites, or three teeny birdie tummies.

Cliché Uni Chow Mein

2 chicken breasts, cut into bite-sized chunks
4 tablespoons low-sodium soy sauce
2 tablespoon sweet chili sauce
1 dash of regular mustard
1 teaspoon sugar or honey
1/4 teaspoon cumin
1/2 teaspoon black pepper
2 cloves garlic, minced
1/2 tablespoon fresh grated ginger (if you must use dried, 1 teaspoon. It's just not the same.)

1 small red onion, cut into thin strips
1 tablespoon oil
1 cup carrots, grated
1 pack of snow peas, trimmed
2 packs of ramen noodles (flavour don't matter. Those things are saltbombs, and I won't have them!)

And here we go!

1. At least an hour before, but up to overnight, assemble all of the spices mentioned above with the chicken in a bowl, an leave it covered in the fridge. Really stir everything together so all of the flavours get distributed. I suggest making a paste, and then pouring it over the chicken, and git in there with your hands to mix it up.
2. Bring a pot of water to boil, and then bring it down to a medium low heat. Get those noodles cooking. Triumphantly throw away the saltbomb packets.
3. Once the chicken's all ready to go, fry up the onion in a wok or large frying pan on a medium heat. Get them crunchy-tender, but not translucent or too mushy yet. We've still got a ways to go.
4.Toss in your chicken, and get in the habit of really stirring it. Get all of that delicious saucey goodness everywhere. The chicken should be very nearly on its way to being cooked before you add the next step.
5. Pop in your snow peas. If you have a big enough lid, or a large piece of aluminum foil, cover the wok or pan. Let it steam for awhile, until the peas are a little tender. Remove the foil and add your carrots.
6. Strain your noodles. Ideally, they should be on the side of underdone rather than a big gluey mass. Although, I've been there before, and it's do-able. Just get a spaghetti spoon or two forks and be mean with that bad boy.
7. Add your noodles to the wok, and stir for even sauce distribution. This is when you can taste what you've got, and get all fancy and add more soy sauce, or whatever you think it needs.
8. Serve, have water on hand, and feel good about how you turned a cliché into something very worthy of praise.

In terms of musical inspiration? This goes back to some more peppy music for me.
Like, okay. N*SYNC.

Yeah, I'm a dork.

Culmination

Things are starting to wrap up around here, and I'm not sure how to feel about it. I've been doing more than feeling, and the feelings that tag along seem to be more along the lines of frustration or being overwhelmed.

I won't bore you with the minutiae of every little task I need to get done in the next (ack! tears!) three weeks, but it is a LOT.

And then, what? There's a great big, old - seemingly vacuous - world waiting for me, and I really don't feel like I know what I want to do there. I've got the big, pie-in-the-sky dreams. But those, I feel are good to keep as ideals. If they happen, holy moley, do a dance and celebrate. If not, well, they were pretty lofty. No huge loss.

But, I've got friends auditioning here and there, getting jobs lined up ... I know what I'm doing until August. And then? Wow.

This is all leading me to think that I might not be ready to leave the bubble. But at the same time, I feel really done with the undergrad experience. I want to work. I really want to work, and I'm willing to work hard.

Sometimes I wish you'd get a schedule delivered, at every birthday, and it would lay out your next year. But, on the other hand, it's kind of the beauty of life that I'm going to have to free fall sometimes.

Enough, bloggeroni. Time to get off book with Helena from Look Back in Anger. Time to kick ass.

Time to figure out who the hell you are.

Tasty, Tasty Melodies pt. 4

Life is what happens when you're busy making other plans ...

So, the date with Roommate did not go as planned, but hey. That's life!

We did make chicken, but it was a little undercooked and was bookended by some hard discussion. So, while productive, it wasn't the pseudo romantic Valentine's Day we'd expected.

This is a song my mother constantly references. As I am sure most people my age have, I grew up on the Beatles. My parents are still very open to us exploring various religions and spiritualities. The fact that the Beatles dabbled in transcendental meditation (a practice that my family has been engaged in for decades), and that John is kind of the patron saint of acceptance and love for the millennials made them the soundtrack for our house.

Whenever something went the other way, Mum would reference this song. And it's so true. Whenever I find myself thinking or second-guessing a decision, I always resurface to find that life has kept on going.

And even though Roommate and I didn't get our lovely little dinner, we still had something of value.

Love is action. Love is motion. Love is not just going forward, but growing. And there are growing pains that go with it.

All my life, I'm trying to reach back to that place where all I did was trust. Where my entire life was a free-fall into my parents' arms. When love was law.

So, no recipes this time. But there will be more food blogging soon, I promise. But I hope this has been some food for thought.

A Tasty Prequel

So, amidst all of the papers, monologues, film scenes, architecture readings, class presentations, masques and mainstage work ... the fact that Valentine's Day is coming - and is on my mind - is baffling.

And oddly enough, not in a "OMGZ IM SINGLE SO I HATE COUPLES" or "This is a bullshit Hallmark holiday" kind of way or even "What will I get for my manboy this year?"

It's in a "So, I'm going to need a stick of butter, some prosciutto, a roasting chicken, thyme, rosemary, garlic, sea salt, crushed chillies, smoked paprika and some potatoes."

Yeah. I'm letting the St. Whoosits day friend date take over.

I've never really seen this day as one for couples, actually. My strongest memories are of those little boxed cards you'd fill out for every kid in your class, and my mum putting pink foil-wrapped Kisses in my lunch bag. Also, cinnamon hearts contests at the back of the bus (I came in second with fifty-seven in my mouth at once). I've not been in a relationship when the day has come around, so it's never meant romantic love to me.

Last year, a bunch of us girls went for a dinner at Pags, followed by seeing the (awful) movie Valentine's Day, and then Cheesecake at QV. All in all, pretty good. But it required some forethought, just as a real date would have.

This year, the elaborate dinner is homemade, and for Roommate. She and I are calling it couple this year, and deciding to forgo the "eff you, we can go out, too!" mentality that so many people seem to take.

I'm going to post the recipe (and hopefully pictures) of the chicken I'll be making. It's a marriage between Jamie Oliver's roast chicken, and my own. So, of course, with due credit I'll try and find a link to that and add my modifications.

The best thing about Valentine's day? Discounted pink candy on the 16th. Aw yeah.

Comme Ca

Oh, sweet blog.

I should really be sleeping. I smell like papier maché and I have been awake since six. Sleep would be good.

But instead, el bloggo.

I've just been thinking about the sheer insanity that is the life I am currently leading. Tomorrow, I'm going to put on a fake belly, and pretend to be in the first stages of birth in front of my friends, instructors and other students.
Other people balance chemical equations and design lesson plans for grade nine social studies.

Should I feel as though this way of educating myself is self-serving? Because sometimes, I really feel that way.
I could be more optimistic and think that I'll end up sharing in some way. A book? Teaching?
Who the eff knows.

I've just finished session four of a mask workshop being done with other members of my class. This explains the aforementioned smell. It's been quite something to create a face. You're not just sculpting a nose and defining cheeks when you do this, but manufacturing an entire type of being. It's like a completely physical way of the process we do with a text. It's been amazing to see it come to life in a physical way.

This is enough for now, but I thought I might as freaking well post something on here.

And this makes me happy: