365 June 2, 2007

This is a virtual pat on my own back.

A quiet celebration of one year on the North Coast.

And isn’t it serendipitous it should be the exact same day my future-hubby is expected to arrive; to begin his first year in Rupert?

the soundtrack of my life (on random) May 13, 2007

Okay, this has the potential to be embarrassing…

How to do it:
1. Open your library (iTunes, Winamp, Media Player, Rhythmbox, iPod, etc).
2. Put it on Shuffle.
3. Press Play.
4. For every question, type the song that’s playing.
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button.
6. Be honest.

OPENING CREDITS
“The World is Showing Its Hand” by Jonathan Richman

(“When I first smelled the bus fumes/from the diesel motor/well my 2-year old mind could only applaud/such odour/the world is showing me its tricks.”

WAKING UP
“Sunshine and Clouds and Everything Proud” Clap Your Hands Say Yeah.

(Brief, happy sounds.  That about captures my first moments)
FIRST DAY OF SCHOOL

I am a Cinematographer by Palace Music  (I think I may have been a cinematographer at 5)

FALLING IN LOVE
“SweetPea” by Tommy Roe

(“Oh Sweetpea, won’t you dance with me. Won’t you be my girl/” repeat.)

FIGHT SONG
“The Last Time” by Gnarls Barkley

BREAKING UP
“Past in Present” byLeslie Fiest

(“so much past in my present/so much past in my present.”

PROM
“Missing” by Beck (That’s about captures where I was for prom!)

LIFE IS GOOD
“Heavy Metal Drummer” by Wilco (“she fell in love with the drummer”)

MENTAL BREAKDOWN
Anchorless by The Weakerthans (“They called me to tell me that you’re finally dying.”)

DRIVING
“Once in a Lifetime by The Talking Heads (“You may find yourself behind the wheel of a large automobile. And you may ask yourself, how did I get here?”)

FLASHBACK
“Purest Love” byBlackalicious

GETTING BACK TOGETHER
“Sunday Girl by Blondie (“Come and see what your loving means to me”)

FINAL BATTLE
Clap Clap by Max Romeo (reggae and clapping … I guess that’s one way to duke it out)

DEATH SCENE
The Golden Window byJosephine Foster (appropriately poetic and haunting)

FUNERAL SONG
He Gave Us The Wine To Taste It by Jonathan Richman.

END CREDITS
Goin Down Slowly by Tom Waits (“It’s a quarter to two/I’m looking at you/ goin’ down, goin’ down slowly”)

Your turn!

birds May 6, 2007

Spring in Rupert means a tremendous number of birds.

I love birds, so this is a spot of joy. I’m an extraordinarily amateur bird-watcher, but here are some things I’ve recently spotted besides the clusters of Ravens, Eagles and American Robins.

Above is the Black-Crowned Chickadee

Right below: that’s a Belted Kingfisher.  I call him the punk of the forest.  He has this wicked feather-do and likes to show off his fancy flying tricks.  He’s kind of like a 12 year old boy on a skateboard really.

This orange bird, the Varied Thrush,  is really quite glorious. I have never seen it before moving to Rupert, but there seems to be a lot of them in the warm months.

Unfortunately I recently had a very close sighting of this bird. My wretched cat, Ciao Ciao, brought a live Thrush into the house for show and tell.

The cat did some fairly serious damage to the Thrush. But in the end, the bird flew out the window, allowing me to hope for the best.

-c

leah maclaren, she’s my gal May 5, 2007

I love everything Globe and Mail Stylist Columnist, Leah McLaren writes.  Here’s why:

– Saturday, May 5th, Globe and Mail-

“I have a brain outside my brain. It lives on a string in the outside pocket of my handbag. I take it everywhere, and when I need to access something inside it – a half-finished screenplay, say, or an image of my long-deceased family dog – I just plug it into the nearest computer and the contents of my psyche are displayed on the screen. No errors, no omissions, no gaps in recall. My second brain, quite unlike the first, is perfect.

The brain in question is not an organ but a piece of technology commonly known as a “memory stick” or a “key drive” (for the way it sometimes fits on a key chain). This small piece of plastic, metal and silicon, which usually holds up to two gigabytes of information (the total memory of a decent new laptop is around 60), has become a ubiquitous piece of equipment for the legions of borderline-workaholic young professionals employed in the worlds of arts, letters and media.

For those of us who spend our waking, working hours in front of computer screens, the memory stick is not just a disc substitute, it’s a synthetic externalization of our deepest ambitions and desires. A replicant psyche furnished exclusively with half-finished masterpieces and carefully selected mementos, the memory stick – unlike our first brain – is mercifully devoid of surprises. Or as one struggling screenwriter friend of mine puts it jokingly: “For years, I searched for a matchbook-sized vessel to hold the ashes of my hopes and dreams, and now I’ve finally found it.”

And as more and more urban strivers take to toting one of them around like a talisman – shoved in pockets, strung around necks or on key chains – design companies are catching on.

Oooms, a contemporary studio in the Netherlands, manufactures memory sticks in the shape of wooden twigs, a cool visual joke in the age of the overextended metaphor. (What’s next, a BlackBerry in the shape of a blackberry? Spam for spam?) Trinket designers are also jumping on the trend, turning the little data doodads into earrings, pendants and colourful silicon bracelets in an attempt to cater to the teen-girl geek crowd as well. Personally, I’m happy to keep my extra grey matter tucked safely in my purse pocket, away from prying eyes (I’d rather not have the outline for my next book hanging from my ears). But the knowledge that it is there, close by, fills me with an inexplicable sense of security. A radio producer friend of mine carries his key drive with him everywhere but rarely uses it. The allure of the memory stick, he says, lies entirely in its possibilities. “It’s comforting to have knowledge on your key chain. I have it in case I happen to be at the office and need to bring home the collected work of Friedrich Nietzsche. Then I can just go to the Project Gutenberg website, download it and read it on my laptop at home.”

So far it hasn’t happened, but my pal is ready on the draw. In the meantime, when his colleague tells him he needs to “read these four articles for tomorrow’s meeting,” he simply puts them on his memory stick and goes out to dinner. “It feels as if I’ve read them,” he says. “Which is almost as good as reading them. It’s like in university, when you’d go to the library to do your reserve reading, but then you’d just make copies instead.”

In this way, the memory stick operates not only as an information storage vessel, but an intellectual photocopier. Putting something on your second brain is only one step removed from absorbing it with your first one, after all. It’s like the smug feeling you get when you purchase a very serious book, as if just owning all that information is making you smarter.

But the second brain goes further than the written word, offering a fully realized interior world of photos, video clips and music. Imagine an alternate psyche entirely removed from your real one in which you can retreat when the need arises. I know people who carry photo albums of their families and hours of music files, all for the purpose of psychological isolation in the open office.

Speaking of isolation, isn’t there something slightly lonely about the memory stick? There it sits, in the pocket of my bag, holding all my fondest as-yet unfulfilled hopes, wishes and dreams. Sometimes I’m tempted to swallow it, like the key to a secret box, or stick it into my ear, so my two psyches could become one.

But that would be crazy. Especially for someone with two brains.”

personality types May 4, 2007

I know, I’m a bad blogger.

And tonight isn’t a good example of my fine narrative strengths.

Rather, I want you to look at these three pictures and tell me which one most accurately represents your mood today:

1)

2)

or 3)

Creatures of the deep sea and psychoanalysis … united at last.

-c

a short history March 2, 2007

A good book is one that convinces you to cast aside all other responsibilities.

Like doing dishes and smashing around a squash ball.

But generally a book that generates this kind of atmosphere for me is a work of fiction.

And it certainly isn’t scientific.

I’m happy to report that for possibly the first time ever I have encountered a book I simply can’t put down.  And it’s a scientific work of non-fiction!

Bill Bryson’s “A Short History of Nearly Everything” was published in 2003 and oh, how it is changing my life.

I would have never conceived rapture over nucleotides and chemical reactions. My Biology 12 high school instructor would click his heels to read that sentence.

Haven’t read it?  Go to the library and do!

There’s few things more satisfying than to suddenly feel able to discuss the origins of life with wit!

~ c

ack! starlings! February 22, 2007

Have I ever mentioned how much I detest starlings?

I loathe them.

As a very amateur bird enthusiast, I know just how devastating these devils with wings are to native species.  They eat the eggs of other birds!  Need I say more.

So, it was with some disappointment that I realized the woman living across the street from me is a fanatic for this loud, abrasive bird.  This is the same lady who takes in dozens of stray cats.

You can imagine my chagrin … and heart-pounding surprise … when I caught sight of a starling in my drapes this evening!!!

That’s right: a speckled, squinty-eyed, cocky starling right in my living room.

I only keep one window open (by a fraction), and that’s at the back of the house.  The entry point for my cat, Ciao Ciao.

Sure enough, a survey of my house indicated a tussle between starling and cat.  Especially the cloud of bird feathers on my bedroom floor (eww!!).

Ciao Ciao has done it again.  But not only did he bring in a bird, he brought in a starling.  And not only did he bring in a starling, he didn’t even have the kindness to end it’s verminous little life.

And so I had a crash course in how to rid a house of a larger-sized bird with just enough intelligence to become a real nuisance.

1. Call boyfriend for moral support.

2. Try to open the living room window (you’ll recall it is in the drapes).

3. Remove troublesome window apparatuses that stop burglars and bugs.

4. Take broom handle and gently shoo starling.  Try not to squeal as it flies across the room onto your bookshelf.

5. Take broom handle and hope gentle shooing will guide it back towards the open window.  Try not to scream as it flies into the kitchen and onto your kitchen counter.

6. Call boyfriend for more moral support.

7.  Arm self with towel and empty, plastic planter.  Then toss tea towel at the  starling in the hopes it will cover the bird and make it stop moving.

8.  Don’t panic when it start flying back and forth across the kitchen with it’s broken leg askew.

9.  When it lands in the sink throw planter over the bird, and the water-filled can of Campbell’s soup.

10.  Now what?  Don’t call boyfriend, he’s getting annoyed.

11.  Slowly, slowly, slowly slip a piece of flexible, but thick paper under the bird, the soup can and the planter.  Do not freak out when the bird’s wings  poke out, nor its beak.

12.  If you have difficulty lifting the paper, bird and planter in a secure manner, do not hesitate to use hockey tape to fasten the edges of the paper to the planter.

13.  Run your humane starling-trap outside (who cares if it’s raining and you’re in socks!) and tear the hockey tape away.

14.  Watch with satisfaction as your starling with the broken leg flies back into the yard of the woman across the street.

15.  Wash your hands three times and call your boyfriend back.  You’ve earned it, sister!

~ c

the cold February 18, 2007

I woke up late Thursday night knowing I had it.

A rare kind of clarity at 3 am.  But Friday morning’s sore throat was proof enough for such mental accuity.

I have only been away from the house for 2 brief hours since Friday evening.  It’s noon on Sunday.

Tomorrow is garbage day.  That means I can rid myself of the plastic shopping bags filled with used tissues.

The good thing about a fearsome cold is the opportunity to watch loads of movies, alongside a smattering of novel reading by the window.

The bad thing is not having someone (Craig) to go to the grocery store when you have an inexplicable hankering for fish sticks.

The good thing about not having a caretaker is they can’t make fun of you when you decide to stuff your nose with tissue instead of blowing your nose continuously.

The good thing is finally giving your cat all the attention he has been hankering for.  And, at long last, being a stable lap upon which cat naps can occur.

The good thing is having the sensible excuse of not doing anything for the first time in many months.

~c

doing stuff January 22, 2007

I’ve been taking an unofficial poll of this winter’s windy season.

So far I have heard from close to a dozen people that this is the windiest winter they’ve seen in their 30, 20, 12, or 2 years in Rupert.

If you’re a north coast reader, feel free to add your opinion.  I use the word “opinion” because outside of trained meteorologists, aren’t weather recollections often based on something emotional rather than data-based.

The point to all this is that it is dark and nasty in the great outdoors.  Today I took a long walk and in no time my pants were sticking heavy and cold to my legs.  I was walking very quickly to get to a meeting (which I was already late for), and te house felt like it couldn’t be farther away.

The driving rain was enough to make me curse out loud on top of a particularly exposed hill.

I took shelter temporarily in the library and almost cried.  Seriously.

It took all of the gumption I had to carry on.

I would have taken a taxi had I finally made it to the bank machine to get some cash.

But no, there I was dragging my soppy self to a stranger’s house, half and hour late, and without two copper pennies to rub together.

The point to this story is that despite today’s meltdown at the corner of 6th and McBride, I’m trying new tricks to psychologically deal with dark, windy and rainy days and nights.

I finally enrolled in a yoga class to stretch the sedentary muscles and breathe out the doldrums.

But that’s just the start of my new fitness rigamorole.

Have also been bashing about the squash ball (and I do mean bashing) and cycling my thighs into oblivion at the gym.

And all I can say is it’s about time.

I’m not sure why I was so anxious about getting sweaty and sore.  But I’m glad I’ve finally jumped in rather than spending another weekend procrastinating while also feeling lethargic and increasingly soft.

There’s one incredibly motivating reason for the return to health and hotness: marriage.

I haven’t said “boo” about the upcoming nuptials on this here public diary.  For some reason it seemed cliche?

That’s not to say I haven’t been talking about the big news.  I’ve been gab, gab, gabbing about it non-stop.  Especially in my own noggin.

Here’s the story in a lovely, burnished, nutshell:  My tall, handsome treeplanting man got down on bended knee on our drive back to the Coast.  He asked for my hand as we walked across Tyee Lake in Smithers.  “Walked across” because the lake was frozen over, not because we are apostolic … though Craig could be mistaken for an angel.

So now, as though I’m a character in the Nutcracker Suite, I have visions of sugarplums dancing in my head.  And I also have long bouts of wakefulness as I allow myself to be sucked into the vortex of planning anxiety.

I vacillate wildly between being a surly teenager who doesn’t want to do the homework of making an event like this happen. to a pale shadow of Martha Stewart  thinking I really should get a binder to organize all those crucial details.

One word to the wise: if you think a wedding proposal is in the works, don’t rush to the store and buy a ton of wedding magazines.  Too many of those things at once will make you crazy! Especially when you read stories of a Vancouver couple renting a helicopter equipped with a 500 thousand dollar camera with which to take unobtrusive photographs of the event!

Or that other Vancouver couple who had all of their peonies flown in on a jet the morning of the wedding!

Gadzooks!

But outside of torrential weather and an overdose on wedding magazines, my life is tight, trim and sleepless!

-c

chinook day January 6, 2007

Here’s one heck of a good idea from the decades past: chinook day.

It was proposed 20 years ago as a tongue in cheek holiday.   A long weekend purely for the sake of easing the arduous stretch from Christmas until Easter.

What would Chinook Day celebrate or commemorate?

I don’t know.  Canuck things?

Perhaps more thought needs to be put into it before I get the petition circulating and book my flight to Ottawa to appear before cabinet. But I need a holiday to look forward to!