windsweeping

children get older; i'm getting older too

2009-05-30T00:50:00.007-04:00

photo by AZADA ENSHA for the new york times

I grew up singing choral music. It taught me not only music theory but a number of lessons in psychology and myself. My last choral director was cruel to me - and me very much in particular; I set aside the harshness he directed at me [an insecure 15 year old] because I loved being a part of the making of music. So I was moved on seemingly hundreds of levels watching the PS22 choir perform. They even made Tori Amos cry in person, singing one of her songs to her.

Each individual expression, each twirl of a finger, each patting of the chest and expressive eye-closing is worthy of its own gallery, its own focus. And yet the meshing of all of these things is what makes this particularly beautiful. I think it shows that the idea of kids making music together isn't just an inspirational concept for cinema, but it plays out every day. I know there must be other choruses out there that are similarly passionate and expressive. Here are some of my other favourites by PS22:

embrace the moment for everything changes and all this will too

2009-03-01T17:03:00.005-05:00

photo: rpeschetz

YOUR MISSION: Download this song [Pumpkin Soup by Patrick Wolf], find the nearest quiet cemetery, sit down and listen to the song. It will change your life.

Yesterday. I leave for a walk near dusk, stopping at the across-the-street neighbour's to help her carry grocery bags. Her husband makes art out of cutlery; in the entryway, there is a sculpture of a tree with carefully-bent forks for leaves. I smile a lot whilst walking, but I am unable to stop grinning walking past some boys playing pick-up street hockey, clouds of breath drifting upwards into the pinking sky. There is a 19th-century cemetery where I walk, where the gravestones are chalky and crumbling, where this winter a few strings of dead leaves cling to the branches, and black birds dot each branch's capillaries in place of green. I have never seen another person there. I sit on the ground and feel the cold from the earth seeping through my jeans. I appreciate the nature of life, that everything changes.

I've been out for an hour, several miles, and when I get home, I eat a bowl of homemade minestrone soup. Later, I bake oatmeal raisin biscuits and read If On A Winter's Night A Traveller barefoot, on the cold floor.

how to conduct

2008-12-30T19:07:00.003-05:00

conduct, v.

transitive verb
1. to direct or take part in the operation
2. to cause (oneself) to act or behave in a particular and especially in a controlled manner

intransitive verb
1. of a road or passage : to show the way
2. to have the quality of transmitting light, heat, sound, or electricity

I was walking in the woods today, cheeks red and numb, but smiling, when I accidentally broke off a twig from a wintry plant. I moved to throw it to the ground, but I thought, perhaps I was meant to have this piece of wood, so I shrugged and accepted it as meant to be in my possession. Its purpose, however, became quickly apparent. Sometimes I find things in a similar way, and they sit around the house before I discover their purpose(s). But as I began humming 'The Carol of the Bells' as I set off in the harsh cold toward home, my hand knew exactly what to do with the twig: it was a conducting baton! 1, 2, 3 it counted as I hummed the melody, and my new baton performed the corresponding loops. I draw from half of my life spent singing in choruses; conductors are not simply waving their hands wildly, though it might look like it, especially when conductors get into it when the music hits a crescendo, because conducting also shows performers how small/loud and staccato (abrupt or choppy)/legato (fluid) to be. Each time signature (about time signatures) has a corresponding arm movement to keep a chorus or orchestra in the correct time and rhythm. My friend, M. used to giggle at me when we went to the symphony for absentmindedly conducting along with just a finger.

3/4 time, 4/4 time, 6/8 time

Counting out a rhythm with one's hand movements is different from counting mentally. Like meditation beads, a simple stick can be a measurement of what's being processed mentally, without overthinking it. Feeling the rhythm of music means addressing it from a different perspective. I once took a course in music theory and composition, and it startled my perspective on music. Sometimes, I pry apart chords and add things up differently. Sometimes a simple melody will do me fine. I couldn't stop smiling, strolling down the empty street with my stick-cum-baton, singing just to myself.

A MUSICAL ACTIVITY: Go somewhere where you won't be disturbed. Get comfortable, and close your eyes. Allow music to enter your thoughts, and sing or hum the first song that comes to mind. Sing it all the way through, or until you can't remember the rest, or until a new song pops up. But do sing/hum the next song you think of - don't skip any just because you aren't in the mood for that sort of music. Allow your brain to flit from song to song, creating a crazy new medley. I did this on a whim today and recalled two songs from my childhood I had nearly forgotten. You might remember a song your grandmother sang to you before you even have memories, or a song you danced to every day for a month in your teenage years that you can now pluck from the deepest memory files.

Conducting also means to transmit electricity. There is a reason mantras are sung or hummed or chanted; vibration is conductive. It loosens our face muscles and connects us to what's around us. When I got home after my walk, hands numb, I thought suddenly of the opening of a film I had seen. I have only seen the opening, and there was no audio the first time I watched it, but I have a feeling this entire film, August Rush is entirely what I'm talking about. Listening. Feeling what's around you. Conducting, in every sense of the word. I'll let you know how it goes.

wakefulness

2008-12-20T16:38:00.008-05:00

There must be a reason that bloggers have taken to breakfast photography. To me, it is about thankfulness and appreciating the food that I am able to eat. It is about taking a moment to appreciate the imperfect beauty of a place setting, the senses involved in eating, beyond taste (the texture involved in peeling citrus fruit, the scent of cinnamon). Browsing other people's breakfast photographs gives me the satisfaction of peering into a segment of someone else's life, the equivalent of a slice of sunshine through the blinds on the carpet (is that why the cats like it so?). Dinner photography would not be as satisfying; morning is particularly sacred with its cups of tea and quiet and that careful pale light. At its core, breakfast photography symbolises the truth I seek in photography- to capture a moment, raw and simple. To help one find beauty in everything, to see life through a new lens.

Some breakfasts:
simply breakfast: the original
of mornings: breakfast photograph community
louvecienne's breakfasts on flickr: my friend jen's gorgeous breakfasts

Breakfast photography also has motivated me to make the simple change of breaking my typical breakfast habit of cinnamon wheat cereal with soymilk seven days a week. Attention to a daily vegan breakfast means eating consciously and peacefully.

inhale. exhale.

2008-12-13T10:23:00.004-05:00

photo: clouddinner

I sat alone with my laptop and a cup of tea, determined to make a sufficient list of items for a wishlist. I struggled, more this year than past winters. I need little, I want little. Perhaps it was recalling this year's simplifying; I donated half of my possessions nearly a year ago, and I have little desire to replenish the supply. I have curbed my book-buying addiction by ordering books to borrow from the library. I do the same with films; there is no need for me to own films but a beloved few, because I embrace films as I do much of life: a brief imprint, a fleeting but deeply meaningful experiment in existing. In the end, I chose to list a few things that would enhance something I enjoy for its organic nature, attention to this moment and deepening of the senses - cooking. A high-quality chef's knife to improve my cutting skills, and a set of cast-iron skillets. A copy of Keri Smith's How to Be an Explorer of the World (her books are some of those rare essentials to own- they serve as ongoing reminders to live in the moment and make art out of everything).

I realised that by filling my life with more stuff I would only deprive myself of the exhilaration to be found in the tiniest, most unnoticed aspects of life. An ideal holiday celebration would be a solstice festival focusing on the social cooking and eating of hearty, healthy foods and creating (singing, collecting leaves, drawing, dancing) with loved ones - perhaps even crafting gifts together. All gifts would be handmade: home movies stitched together, lopsided home-sewn stuffed creatures, poems and songs and performances, baked goods to take home, plants grown from seed, scribbles on paper, scribbles on scrap wood, scribbles on the backs of hands.

“Be content with what you have, rejoice in the way things are. When you realize there is nothing lacking, the whole world belongs to you.” - Lao Tzu

23

2008-11-25T15:58:00.002-05:00

"I see 23 as being two victorian windows with very nice, wooden frames that warp in the rain." - My friend Andrés and I spent Sunday night, or nearly morning, discussing our interpretations of each number, and how each number has a personality. I like 4s and 2s most. Odd numbers are just up to no good. Except 23. The 2 makes everything ok. And so, a list of 23 nice things:

1. black tea with just a bit of cardamom and soymilk, 2. photographs with perfect lighting, 3. making polaroids with poladroid, 4. my new friend clementine, 5. reading in the bath, 6. soul music when it's cold, 7. keri smith, 8. cinnamon, 9. good cheap red wine, 10. lucy and desi crying during the filming of the we're having a baby scene, 11. making chocolate cupcakes and giving them away, 12. 'hopelandic' or vonlenska on sigur rós's () album, 13. minimalism, 14. note-taking in moleskine cahier notebooks (the brown ones), 15. brackets in general as they are rather useful, 16. getting caught in perilously high winds, 17. getting lost in a book late in the afternoon and not noticing that the sun has set and there is but a tiny a bit of light by which to read, 18. agave nectar in tea, 19. bears, 20. food photography but more specifically breakfast photography, 21. km (my cat stepped on the keyboard, and that is what he was eager to add, apparently, and I'm keeping it), 22. yoga in a warm room on a snowy day, 23. this photo.

take me where the wind blows

2008-11-22T19:17:00.003-05:00

I am in this space in which I am untethered or untetherable. A state of mind that can only be described as floating, take me where the wind blows. It is positive, and it is negative. I am sitting in the centre of my bed, trying to decide whether to watch one of several Indian films described as beautiful by the friend who loaned them to me, read one of four non-fiction library books stacked on my desk (all of which I have at least begun reading), engage myself in any number of projects such as my Wreck This Journal or practising drawing, write a letter to Andrés or Marina.

I don't know.

notebooks

2008-11-07T19:10:00.007-05:00

Some bits of writing from my Wednesday evening fiction workshop, scribbled in about ten minutes each:

From a paragraph originally without punctuation or form: My mother always said, 'when it rains, it pours,' but for the early part of my life, the two words were synonymous; life never was a drizzle. The rain came down in globs — thick, wet pearls that my mother collected in canning jars on the windowsill. Every time it rained, she could fill a jar. Sometimes the raindrops spilled over the top, and she would begin another collection. It's metaphorical, of course. A concept birthed in the head of a little girl, a way to quantify the events in my life that were otherwise too complex to grasp. I counted raindrops knowing that however the rain emptied my young life of something, another part would be filled. It was the first of many balancing acts that have led me to adulthood.

An exersize in narrative flow and rhythm: The sky was tired and dusky. The horizon slid up and down, whilst my body rocked back and forth, back and forth in the abandoned playground where, hours earlier, the town's children had spun and rocked. For them, the days come and go. For me, it's mornings and evenings. I can't help but sleep through each languid and empty afternoon. Whilst I nap, I can hear the children's voices through window and door. I imagine them now, hands and feet, noses and ears, as my body falls backward. 'You're too old and too grey," the children might say, if they saw me here, my wrinkled hands and sore feet. But mothers and fathers have called them home; tea and baths are waiting. My nose and ears are cold, but I continue, to rise and fall.

october afternoons

2008-10-12T14:58:00.002-04:00

Living a content life. I have been going for walks in the woods almost daily. The trails are empty of other humans but busy with wee creatures gathering acorns for the cold months. I sit by deep ravines and finger the moss under me. I meditate lightly; my mantra is 'wind, wind, wind' as the leaves stir around me and my hair flutters slightly into my eyes. I skip rocks in the creek. I'm not very good; my record is three skips, but the creek also isn't very wide. The woods are a library. The rocks pile up like thick books, thousand-year old tomes. I read them like braille and leave with powdery fingers.

The ladybirds have begun haunting my bedroom once again. Huckleberry chases them, but I think he's actually a bit afraid of them, their tendency to suddenly take flight perhaps.

I can't get enough of seasonal foods. I have been baking apple cobbler and drinking warm apple cider in a novelty mug in the evenings. I'm going to a gentle yoga class. I am collecting acorns.

Lately, I have been inspired by the tiny tabletop photography of a new photo-acquaintance, equusignis: om in tibetan script; sowing your point; tuesday morning, scripted. His captures of moleskines capture my heart.

I stroll along serenely, with my eyes, my shoes,

2008-10-02T18:20:00.009-04:00

photo: kk+

My friend Romi and I are driving north, the windscreen is speckled with raindrops that fall sporadically. We talk about the importance of simplicity in life. I appreciate the hum and the countryside. The sky is overcast but not ominous. Our destination, an ashram 1.5 hours away, in rural Pennsylvania.

The building couldn't be more perfect. It is more than a century old, full of stone arches and big glass windows in every room. The bricks outside are off-white, old paint peeling off in tendrils. Only the main part of the building is freshly painted, bright and comfortable. A glassed-in porch is at the front, where sunlight pools in the afternoon. Much of the building is in the process of renovation, bright paint on some walls and none on others. The chipped tile floors are my favourite.

People come from all over to study yoga and ayurvedic techniques with the world-renowned Leela Mata. She is a serene woman; she moves gracefully. In addition to the staff, which lives at the temple, visitors stay for studies from a night or weekend to several months. We drink spearmint tea from the garden and talk about politics with a woman from Puerto Rico. Residents cook big vegetarian meals every day and do yoga in the mornings and evenings. We eat lunch at one, eight or so of us at the table. Romi (he and Leela are friends) and I are there just for the day, but I feel warmly welcomed.

The weather is newly autumnal, and I take a solitary walk around the twelve acres. In the distance, all I can see is cornfields. An old barn is decaying, becoming part of the earth. I discover a labyrinth lined with small stones and walk the path, round and round, to the centre. The act feels sacred, I tread purposefully.

happy autumn

2008-09-24T20:09:00.006-04:00

I finally decorated my pumpkin-coloured walls. The art is a hodgepodge of sorts. The centre portrait is from etsy, but the rest have been given to me. The top right is a watercolour picture from Jenny, nearly four years ago when we went ice skating in early December around the Christmas tree in downtown Pittsburgh. The owls are from a dead woman's house, someone my aunt knew. The others are from my great aunt Tina's attic, where all the beautiful old things of the world are born. I bought some tiny delicate frames at an estate sale in late August that I have yet to hang.

I am going to dye my hair brown with henna. I am happy it is autumn.

the cupcake incident

2008-08-05T03:07:00.004-04:00

photo: massdistraction

This is not my cupcake. Do you want to know why? I'll tell you. Cupcakes are wily, cunning creatures. Their recipes seem nonchalant enough; a bit of flour, some oil, some vanilla and almond extract. A bit of confectioner's sugar mixed with margarine and shortening for the icing. Easy peasy.

It's not. Cupcakes and I are having a showdown, hand mixers holstered, eyes squinting in the heat as tumbleweeds roll past. Saturday night, I thought my first cupcakes were going well. They sat naked and golden on the cooling rack, begging to be coated in sticky buttercream. I patiently waited until they were cool to the touch to begin the icing process. I was armed with my grandmother's hand mixer — a sallow 70s contraption that emits a smell that I associated with fluffy icings and cake batter. I now realise it actually is the smell of burning motor. The precise date of the mixer hasn't been determined, however. Word from my mother is, my grandmother gave it to her in the 70s when she caused a portion of its surface to burn. That could date it anywhere from "Paperback Writer" to "Bohemian Rhapsody". Despite its definite state of vintage, I cannot blame the hand mixer for my icing mishap.

I measured everything correctly, bits of this and that until I was ready to beat the icing to a glorious fluff. I dipped the beaters into the mixture before I switched on the mixer, something I don't doubt I learned the hard way as a child. Beat for three minutes. Add sugar, beat for three minutes and add soy milk. Beat for five to seven more minutes. Something wasn't right. The entire contents of the bowl had collected within the beaters. I was banging them against the side of the bowl as pieces of 'icing' flew off in clumps. Um. 'Walter, here, try this; see if it tastes ok,' I said. He bravely placed a single chunk in his mouth and somewhat more cowardly remained stoic and tactful. 'I'm not sure...Is it supposed to have a taste?" I knew then what I had perhaps known in my heart all the while. Flour.

Yes. I made icing with margarine, shortening and flour. It was a new experience for me because I have a chef's intuition. I'm daring and experimental. I cook elaborate dinners without recipes, scones and muffins that turn out moist and delicious. Sadly, I was humbled by a wee cupcake.

There was a lot of frustration, a lot of scraping and muttering. I recovered, though, and determinedly began anew. I didn't have enough confectioner's sugar after all, and the icing was slightly runny. That's ok. It was sweet and smooth. It mixed easily with my nearly-Steampunk hand mixer. The cupcakes were not beautiful. I have yet to purchase fancy gear such as pastry bags and decorating tips. But they were as cupcakes should be — sweet bits of cake one can keep all to herself, evoking childhood memories and creating perpetually sticky fingers.

I'll try again soon. Perhaps chocolate this time. I can't mess that up, right?

A body of water changes everything. Four days at a lake, and I am ebbing gently. I am every sailboat, every sailor.

The village of Skaneateles sits at the northern tip of Skaneateles Lake, one of many Finger Lakes in central New York. The name is an Iroquois word for "long lake". The water is the clearest I have ever seen. Standing on a boat's top deck just off shore, I could see straight through the water to the pebbly bottom. The village is small and reminds me fondly of Oakmont, the community my newspaper covered before its end. There were dozens of shops, including a wee stationary shop called "Pomodoro Too" that captured my attention for at least a half hour. Several locally-owned restaurants, some of which offer lake views, and a bakery with cups that read "gimme coffee!" A library, a bank building covered with ivy, one bus stop. The parks were the most enjoyable place to spend time. I preferred a quiet one just outside town called Thayer Park where I spent a lot of time writing and gazing and pausing and daydreaming and writing some more. In the evening, young boys often went for swims and jumped into the water with great splashes. In the middle of the village is a long pier that juts into the water, the perfect place to be at dusk. The pier could be infinite; I would have walked forever toward the horizon. The first night, I sat on the shore and watched a family of ducks push soft circles into the dusky waves. Paddle paddle paddle.

I seem to have caught the hiking bug again after discovering several trails in and around Skaneateles. I walked through the woods in a former railroad bed among abandoned paper mills and dams. Most of the buildings were covered in colourful graffiti, but what most caught my eye was a sentence scrawled on a bridge railing with permanent marker: "Just jump! Life is meant to be lived." Later, I hiked up to and then above a waterfall that feeds the lake. The sound of rushing water amplified as I drew closer, and I was overwhelmed with nostalgia for Mexico for a moment.

The Finger Lakes region is known for its wineries. It is the northeast's Napa Valley. Monday, I visited Anyela's Vineyard to try some of their reds. I bought two bottles — 2006 Overlay (a spicy mixture of reds) and a delicate 2006 Rose of Pinot Noir. Owning a vineyard sounds amazing, in a cinematic way.

Yesterday, I took the bus to Syracuse for the day and gazed contentedly out the window until my stop at Fayette & Salina. The city was a major hub in the 19th century because of the Erie Canal's presence. Yesterday, however, the city felt distinctly modern. The sun was harsh, and I walked and walked and walked. I first visited the Everson Museum, which surprised me with its sensual, passionate contemporary art by central New Yorkers. Another part of the museum showcased art by people with disabilities, where I saw a photograph I likely won't ever forget. A woman standing on the street, an elevator encased in glass behind her. The sun streamed through above, overexposing the upper half of the photo. The title was something like "Elevator to Heaven."

I had lunch at the vegan Strong Hearts Café — warm scrambled tofu, blueberry pie and herbal iced tea. The owner is Joel, to whom I had the pleasure of speaking before my visit. The café has been open for about two months and already has experienced success.

I stopped into the Erie Canal Museum on a whim late in the afternoon. I was the only one there, so I enjoyed the quiet and solitude. Lately, I have become increasingly interested in history and decided I must teach myself history properly to cleanse the school rubbish in my head. Some of the museum was fascinating, particularly the displays about immigrants working on the canal — the photographs, letters and postcards. I found myself alone in the children's room with a rack of clothes and a sign that said 'have fun trying these on!' Of course, I couldn't argue and covered myself in old white linens and men's vests, women's aprons. A woman walked past at one point, and I wish I'd said something witty. Instead, I simply admitted, 'I miss being a kid and playing dress-up.'

I walked to Clinton Square and watched the children playing in the wide, shallow fountain, which had jets that sprayed up into the air intermittently. I was sitting in the shade of a stone monument when a man approached me. In case I wasn't happy enough exploring a new city, I also had one of those brief, meaningful connections. His name was Levi, and he is an Onondago Indian. 'You were just taking pictures, right?' he asked. He flirted a bit, but I liked that, as a person, he was sincere. I sensed that he appreciated the uniqueness of human interaction, which is rare I have observed. I took his picture.

I am home now, happy to be in my bed with Huckleberry the ginger cat. Scratching bug bites on my knees and humming.

the sixpenny book

2008-06-21T20:40:00.004-04:00

I know, it has been nearly a month. My newspaper is closing, and the last edition is Tuesday. Bits and pieces of me belong to that newspaper and community, especially the library (an Andrew Carnegie library, complete with dramatic stairs leading up to Oak doors). As a result of the closing, my position as staff writer no longer exists. Some freelance opportunities have opened up, but still I feel bitter about the closing. I have mostly been focusing on things that comfort me— favourite novels, Jane Austen film adaptations, etc. Currently I am halfway through the most comforting novel, I Capture the Castle (excerpt), and I am remembering more and more why I adore it so.

He stood staring into the wood for a minute, then said: "What is it about the English countryside — why is the beauty so much more than visual? Why does it touch one so?"

He sounded faintly sad. Perhaps he finds beauty saddening — I do myself sometimes. Once when I was quite little I asked father why this was and he explained that it was due to our knowledge of beauty's evanescence, which reminds us that we ourselves shall die. Then he said I was probably too young to understand him; but I understood perfectly.

So often I feel terribly like Cassandra, locking myself in attics and barns to write in beloved journals, warmed by my ginger cat (mine, Huckleberry, and hers, Abelard). Today I drank coffee at the kitchen table and watched all the light drain from the room. I am making a list of the most comfortable things in the world.

a new simplicity

2008-05-27T23:37:00.004-04:00

Dear May, I love you, and I will miss you when you're gone by next week. Until then, I will continue basking in your sun-drenched days and cold nights, reading books feverishly and taking a hundred photos to pin on the walls and send across the ocean.

Spent the weekend eating good food and exploring in Walter's side of the state, eastern Pennsylvania. We walked for hours. Found his favourite place in the woods of his childhood, a decaying log stretching across the stream where we sat for a while, tiny insects clinging to our eyelashes. Walter's shoulders burned and freckled as we walked in the unexpectedly harsh sun. Blew into cattails and watched the geese and their fluffy children waddling across the golf course. We walked and walked until we reached the house where he lived when he was five. He inhaled deeply; the same peculiar scent between the shed and the house. There was a little boy in the distance sitting on a stool, but from far away, it looked as though he had the longest legs. Photos from the weekend.

Walter's mother filled us with delicious (vegan!) food all weekend. Mint tea from the peppermint plants in the garden. Lasagne, grilled summer squash, blueberry coffee cake. Walter's grandmother made strawberry salad that was just a bit sweet, and we had a picnic outside the trailer. Walter and I took naps in the afternoon and drank too much coffee because we felt so calm and soporific.

Today I made chocolate chip cookies and bought a picnic basket from the thrift store down the street. I have been spring cleaning, and my life is taking on a new simplicity.

this sunday

2008-05-11T23:38:00.000-04:00

Sunday has treated me well. Woke to electricity in the air, the beginnings of a storm. Lying in bed, surrounded by pale linen, listening to wind and spatters of rain, rumbling above. Pancakes for breakfast, no blueberries or chocolate chips, just plain and fluffy, with a bit of cinnamon. Wet weekends have their own unique lighting, glow. Pale overcast light that illuminates only the whites in the room. The checkered floor, some old towels on the wooden table, a cup of earl grey.

I am daydreaming about Thursday last week, an attic poetry reading in the Mexican War Streets of Pittsburgh. Maggie invited me to spend the evening with her, so we walked through the North Side on a cloudy, rainy evening to Hoi Polloi for vegan soup and sandwiches, and coffee. The lesbian-couple-owned café opened last year, but I had never heard of it until Maggie. After, Maggie and I stopped at her flat to get her poetry book and walked down the block. The poetry reading was in an attic, crowded with a group of friends who own the Beleza Community Coffee House a block away from Maggie's. They knew each other from studying in Michigan and somehow all made their way to this little Pittsburgh neighbourhood. Most people read or performed, stumbled nervously to a brass and wood podium, lit by a fizzling yellow light, that could have been rescued from any Victorian hotel. Everyone gained confidence though, in the sallow light, perfect quiet. People were strewn about, lying on the floor, pillows, each other. I was intoxicated by every syllable. We were stretching up from the floor, blooming with the creative power of the evening. Emily sat in a rocking chair and performed a piece from a play she wrote, a collection of stories from travelling out West and finding spare rooms. "The type of people who have spare rooms are often people who have lost someone in their lives," she said. She was a pastor's widow, she was the bitter wife of a quadriplegic. One woman shared the words of her fourth and fifth grade students, another woman cried. Maggie read poems she wrote during the years she spent working at an AIDS hospice in Washington, D.C.

I read last, barely able to breathe but still passionate and honest. Fragments of a novel I began writing last summer poured from my mouth. Three minutes, perhaps four or five. Afterward, people shared the kindest words with me. Despite my history of writing poetry, I had never read any of my writing to more than one person at once. The experience was terrifying for a few moments, but I felt free, and connected, afterward.

unfinished

2008-05-06T23:20:00.002-04:00

Sunday in a quiet railroad town somewhere on that long stretch of highway heading home. It was early afternoon when I stopped in Altoona on a whim, "I've never been there, why not?" As I wandered the nearly-deserted town, I munched on a pink lady apple and developed sore but happy feet. The trees were still full of spring blooms, lots of pinks and greens. Pretty little mint houses and graffiti. Photographs.

Last night I dreamed that my grandfather was handing out balloons, balloons the brightest colours, on a hillside during a hockey game intermission. When I couldn't find my seat, he used the balloons to lift us over the game so I could watch from above.

Tonight, after a long day of work on deadline, I concocted a pasta dish from spinach pasta, roasted grape tomatoes and capers with white wine sauce. Definitely a success.

And. Life is. Writing a letter to Claire in Rwanda, reading, wandering, enjoying spring, eating dark chocolate and hibiscus sorbet.

hello lilac

2008-04-28T00:45:00.002-04:00

I have a cold. Tumbled out into a spring evening to refresh my bare cupboards, sniffling all the while. Wet tissues filling my pockets. The shelves are bright, now, with oranges and pink lady apples, sunflower seeds and tomatoes.

Last Sunday, I spent the afternoon cooking for an evening potluck. I baked cranberry almond oatmeal cookies, and a quinoa pilaf for my Jewish friend who was keeping kosher during Passover. The potluck was cosy, and we piled our plates with everyone's creations.

Last night, flat shoes and cold toes on cement at 2 a.m. in a seemingly endless warehouse full of art. Art All Night was the biggest yet, and my head was swimming as I devoured oil paintings in dim light, a tiny (found) dead bird in a glass box with a flickering yellow lightbulb. The night was cold; the chill set in achingly in the harsh warehouse, and I found myself longing for last year's rickety schoolhouse despite the crowdedness and sticky air.

A storm, tonight. The vast wetness saturates the air with the already-heady scent of lilacs. I remember how they never bloomed years ago, but the past springs have brought big, sweet bundles of purples and whites.

I am swallowing books whole, again.

the day the popcorn kept on popping

2008-04-13T20:47:00.001-04:00

The forsythia bloomed this past week, and I am afraid that the tiny yellow flowers will die as cold April weather descends during the next few days. I was happy in my skirts and flats.

Last night, I wore my favourite dress to the annual (117th!) Women's Press Club dinner. Held at the River's Club in Oxford Centre, it was the sort of place where bruschetta is served on tiny plates and a plush day lounge sits in the middle of the restroom. A man played a grand piano as we slid around clutching wine glasses. Perhaps I can pretend to be rich and graceful, but I am very much not. I would much rather gather in the woods, plunk down in the mud in my torn and perfectly soft clothes, and drink cheap red wine out of the bottle. Playing dress up is fun, but I can't relate to the upper class, or snobby people. Luckily the event was full of journalists, who, contrary to popular belief, are typically underpaid. The guest speaker was Connie Schultz, the Pulitzer-prize winning columnist at The Plain Dealer. She spoke of the evolution of her career whilst dating and eventually marrying U.S. Senator Sherrod Brown, who introduced her speech. Her words were those of a strong woman, of a feminist. She writes for the underprivileged and the working class. She told stories of men who wanted to change her surname to her husband's and how she related the struggles of her family that caused her to hold onto 'Schultz'. I spoke to her during the cocktail hour but felt compelled to approach her after her speech and ask for her email address. I needed her passion to recharge my journalism batteries; it is so easy to get caught up in sadness of the news we report and forget the importance of telling someone's story, and the value in that.

Tonight I made popcorn on the stove that over-popped to the point of hilarity, spilling across the entire stove. Made me think it would make a good children's book, in which the popcorn won't stop popping and fills the house, then the street, and finally the whole neighbourhood. But then everyone brings out their sea salt and toppings, and it feeds everyone. Unfortunately the same didn't occur when I made cranberry-almond oatmeal cookies last night! They are so delicious, I can't stop eating them. The recipe is the first I have tried from the cookbook I just bought, Vegan Planet, and was an absolute success! I was inspired to get it and try its 400 recipes after Candice made sweet potato-peanut stew from it last Sunday. I'm getting hungry, and my belly is already full of fruit salad, oatmeal cookies and lots and lots of popcorn!

contentedness

2008-04-07T23:39:00.001-04:00

Last week, baking lemon scones with Walter. He zested the lemon, and I squeezed the juice out. It soaked into my cuticles and stung for a long time. We ate the scones straight from the oven, cross-legged at midnight, with margarine and lady grey tea. Watching Father Ted, and then home videos that seemed slightly abstract, avant-garde. Huckleberry the ginger cat curled between us.

Wednesday, sitting at the café eating soft-inside, crispy-crust french bread and drinking hazelnut coffee from a warm white mug. The sun setting behind me, and the windows making it look like a triptych, ever evolving.

Standing in the front yard in the afternoon, in the sun for what felt like the first time in ages, I was completely cheered by the warmth and hope for spring. Seeing Walter in the sunlight and warmth filled my head with dreams of picnics of strawberries and citrus, exploration and cloud-watching. We are going to run away to a cabin for the weekend soon.

I have been looking forward to Thursdays every week, meeting at a flat on a busy corner with our small group dedicated to understanding racism and white privilege. The first night, now seven weeks in the past, everyone drank warm apple cider, and now I will forever associate the smell with the cosiness of the group, cross-legged and intense. The sunsets have been later, and the sun streams through the blinds into our eyes much longer. Particularly impressed on my brain are readings from damali ayo's How to Rent a Negro, and the classic work, 'Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack' by Peggy McIntosh. Outside of the study group, I recently finished a book given to me by a friend — Carol J. Adam's The Pornography of Meat, which shows the ties between two forms of oppression that encompass our lives; that of nonhuman animals and of women. Currently reading Julia Serano's Whipping Girl: A Transsexual Woman on Sexism and the Scapegoating of Femininity, an eye-opening work loaned to me by a friend.

Last night, I had dinner at a friend's house in the Bloomfield/Lawrenceville area. Candice cooked (vegan) peanut sweet potato stew with mahogany rice for Noah and me. We played Scattergories as the sun set, then drank tea with apple pie. It meant the world to me to spend the evening with two vegan activists, in quiet, casually. Life is full of heaviness and sadness, but today it is ok to be ok.

a change of scenery

2008-03-19T14:19:00.002-04:00

Only 225 miles from 'home' but even the slightest change of scenery, temporary relocation, can enliven me. I pay particular attention to details, beautiful fresh details that are abundant (t)here. Mould, clothespins, dramatic doors with peeling paint, rust and wisps of things. Walter's childhood home, a trailer, full of afghan blankets and armchairs, dust flowers and bonsai trees that his father grows. Three cats traipsing, which can always make me feel at home.

We go to a little café and cinema in Annville, nestled amongst the Civil War architecture. It is raining, hard, and we are walking down the main street as the wind blows harsh spatters of water into our faces. The rain soaks through our coats and dampens our shoulders. Walter sketches me as we drink good coffee, pushing a dull pencil into my moleskine. Back at the trailer, the mountains in the distance. I feel safe in this valley.

On Saturday night, we drink wine and martinis at a 19th century brewery that extends capriciously over several floors. We wander through the art gallery, empty, and emerge above ground to tap our feet to a jazz trio. "I want to decorate my house like this someday," I tell Walter.

The whole weekend was cosy, sleeping in the trailer shaded by pine trees hanging low like weeping willows. The comfort of rain, and the scent of it hanging in the air. I felt comfortable, crossing creeks on bridges as Walter told me their colloquial names. The warmth of his mother and her cooking - she bought Vegan With a Vengeance before I visited and made a coffee cake that we ate both mornings, with tea, and a big dinner of tofu-ricotta shells. Cats everywhere, and the entire family's appreciation of hot tea.

wrapped up in books

2008-03-06T15:26:00.003-05:00

"In the case of good books, the point is not to see how many of them you can get through, but rather how many can get through to you." - Mortimer Adler

fragmentation

2008-03-05T22:38:00.001-05:00

Happy 30th birthday to K, 4 March. Today is a day for vivid awareness of blessings (n. good fortune). The day began with the sound of an explosion, a house vibrating and then burning passionately just one kilometre from my kitchen table. Eating granola with soy milk as I watched the first fire truck scream down the highway, thankful that my brother was still in class, likely sleeping, and not charging into a collapsing building somewhere. Recalling immediately the story he told me last night of a firefighter barely older than him dying with burns covering most of his body from a Grove City house fire. The newsroom was buzzing when I arrived today. I called K to tell her about the fire trucks I saw and the dispatch my brother relayed to me, but she was already on scene. She arrived a half-hour ago, frozen, 'I have never seen anything so crazy in my life' she said. The entire street was evacuated, insulation could be seen hanging in the trees streets away from the house that exploded. So far, it appears a four-year-old girl and her grandfather were critically injured. As a journalist, I feel like I have a choice to drown in the tragedy I witness and report regularly, or develop a fierce appreciation for life. I choose the latter.

Perhaps it was serendipity that today I would read this archived blog post by Alicia Paulson of Posie Gets Cozy ("I've been looking at this paragraph for an hour, trying to figure out what to think about it, but really, all I can see is the future.") I am acutely aware of how life can change like this.

This weekend was » Mexican hot chocolate with cayenne pepper that I slurped off a spoon, a new watercolour moleskine notebook and reading the history of moleskines aloud to Walter in three languages, watching the bulky man in the café gingerly knitting a pink and black muffler.

A stream of consciousness list, because lists are beautiful.
01. this poem, 'Mare Crisium' by Sarah Catherine, sounds startlingly similar to my poetry, I wonder who she is?
02. brightening life: children's scribblings and fearless fashion
03. spring spring spring spring spring spring, please?
04. I love this walls in Pittsburgh photoset
05. I bought a MacBook and have called her Hedvika. She is perfect for curling up at cafés and restaurants, Hedvika perched lightly on my knee.
06. moths recall their childhoods, did you know?

侘寂

2008-02-29T16:27:00.004-05:00

"If an object or expression can bring about, within us, a sense of serene melancholy and a spiritual longing, then that object could be said to be wabi-sabi." - R.R. Powell

Consciously embracing wabi-sabi in my life. Not tearing pages out of my journal when I scratch out too many words. Appreciating the transient things like precipitation, that waves churn themselves into nonexistence and freckles fade and reappear. The stars we are seeing might have already burned away by the time the light reaches us.

And ikebana in Lost in Translation which is precisely the sort of melancholy and spiritual film that embodies wabi-sabi to me. The symbolism of the hotel, imperfection of the main characters' lives, the melancholy and loneliness, from which "wabi" originates.

As a perfectionist by nature, part of me deeply wants my pages to be crisp, inked cleanly. But the free spirit that truly dominates reminds me it's ok to be messy and imperfect.

cracks in everything

2008-02-20T20:00:00.002-05:00

A list, nspired on a Sunday evening browsing photos by Stephanie Congdon Barnes, who has a creative family life I sometimes think I would like to have someday:

The sort of life that involves cooking fresh organic meals for someone other than myself, people for whom I care deeply. Spending weekends on nature hikes and picnics, building tepees in the dining room and waking up early. Creating wee gardens, and yearly family camping trips in the mountains. Getting muddy and covered in watercolours and flour. Weekly library visits and hot cocoa. Shared simple moments.

I have been trying to embrace wabi-sabi (侘寂) recently, as it is one of the biggest challenges in my life. This stanza from a Leonard Cohen song stays with me throughout the day:

Ring the bells that still can ring
Forget your perfect offering
There's a crack in everything
That's how the light gets in.

I am rereading The Book of Tea. A little teaism could do a world of good for everyone. There is a lunar eclipse in a half hour.