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Showing posts from February, 2011

Can *you* solve this mystery?

On Sunday, February 20th, we did not receive our New York Times. This was disconcerting, not only because C was denied her crossword, and had to phone some useless hotline and double-check our subscription, but because I would have nothing to do while I ate my cereal in the morning, all the following week, nothing to do but sit there and ruminate on doom-filled things (what I would do if I had a flamethrower, death-ray vision, the power to make people explode, etc). Obviously, this is not good for me. The following Sunday, February 27th, we (again!) did not receive our New York Times. This time it was not nearly the same kind of mystery. I heard footsteps on the front porch around 5:30 a.m. I thought, O good, our New York Times . Then I heard more footsteps on our front porch around 6:15 a.m. and I thought, O, maybe that was our neighbour I heard before (it's hard to tell sometimes -- we have the same creaking wood muffled under snow). But when I went to get our New York Times at

some notes this morning

traduit ; india ink on math paper, 9.5 x 6.5 inches. * * * * * * Apparently, there is a hygienist in my dentist's office who rather likes country music, and once a week they set the radio to a country music station for her enjoyment. Today was that day. My dentist -- who would usually be humming along to the Scorpions or Heart -- sang 'Desperado' while he injected numbing agent into my gums. Even better, it was the Clint Black version (of Desperado, not the numbing agent) instead of the Eagles. * Freezing in my face always makes me feel (a) sleepy and (b) like I have a harelip. * Do you know how you can tell where the call centres are? Because there will always be a clutch of zombie-eyed smokers hanging around out front. Poor bastards. * The other day, on the radio, they were talking about how women are underrepresented in magazine publishing. This made me laugh. If anything, I find literature is pretty much almost entirely in the female dominion -- they are the readers

pow wow

pow wow ; mixed media on cradled wood panel, 18 x 24 inches. The string series continues. I will have work in Dwell for the month of March. * * * * * It seems all I want now is black lines with abstract colour and the transformative power of words. What can I do? These things have to run their course. * * * * * C woke me up with tippity-tappety typing this morning, saying that it couldn't be helped because she had a Toastmasters emergency , and she had to whip up a speech like quick. Tappety tap! Now, I can think of a lot of things that could be called emergencies -- fires, twisters, baby versus leopard, too much chilli at lunch -- but somehow Toastmasters does not fit the bill. It was 6:15 in the morning. Later she told me that she has now achieved her Advanced Leader Bronze. Which is a lot like telling Queen Elizabeth that the Red Wings are a lock to take the Western Conference this year. Or telling Kirstie Alley that the marathon starts in five minutes.

masters of some secret universe

you can keep a secret ; mixed media on cradled wood panel, 8 x 10 inches. * * * * * Antanas Sileika has an article in the new Quill & Quire about the problems with teaching creative writing. What problems? he writes. Why is it a problem? We don't ask this question in other pursuits, he states. We don't ask if art can be taught. Actually, we do. The only useful art instruction I've ever received was from a charming Egyptian painter who stated, categorically, right from the outset, that there would be no instruction. That would be useless, she said. We were there to paint and show our work and be forced to confront what we were doing. Her only role was to encourage, and she did it with a kind of style that could never be taught. Now, Sileika is the director of Toronto's Humber School for Writers. So he is a *big* fan of the MFA in creative writing. "Most aspiring writers would like to get into Granta. The way to do it is to get with the program." Uh oh!

phil collins is not a cannibal

introduction ; ink on math paper, 9.5 x 6.5 inches. In a store the other day and they were playing Phil Collins over and across the aisles, all I could think about was how he believes that he was at the Alamo in another life, and how lonely he is now, and how he's thought about killing himself, I can't even tell you what Phil Collins song it was, or maybe it was Genesis, all of it was so massively successful and now it means nothing to him, he almost wishes it never happened, except that it allows him to live in a posh house in Switzerland, and collect Alamo artifacts, and wander the halls and ponder weird energies, like a more resigned version of Billy Joel, and of course not drinking as much, having giving up on ever being taken seriously. You become consumed in a shorthand way. A friend of mine once admitted that she would resort to cannibalism if it would save her life, and was astonished when I absolutely refused the idea, saying that then it wouldn't matter if you wer

save me

save me ; mixed media on cradled wood panel, 24 x 24 inches. The string series continues. For an upcoming show at Dwell * * * * * As you get older, you become less and less invested in things and places. They become, hopefully, just things and places. When I take something away from Oona -- a toy, a remote, a sock, a staple gun -- she reacts like some Frenchman watching the German army parade down the Champs-Élysées. When I was fifteen I turned down a twenty dollar offer for a Streetheart album (vinyl, Drugstore Dancer ) because I'd just won it in a draw at a dance. It had to be magic! For my thirtieth birthday I bought a pair of hundred-dollar pants (Pierre Cardin) because a purring girl told me to. Later on I wrote a poem about it. Clearly all these things are insane. Also clear is the fact that I am not yet well, because I *really* hate the Shopper's up the street from my studio. The vibe in there is right out of the office scenes in Joe Versus the Volcano : lemon-dimme

my heart is like an onion (it makes me weep)

Valentine's Day is, of course, utter bullshit. It was started by a pope (and we know how romantic they are) to commemorate the martyrdom of a priest who was persecuted by the emperor Claudius. And by "persecuted" I mean beaten, stoned and finally beheaded outside the Flaminian Gate. Perhaps this priest was made out of chocolate. I don't know. But I do know that -- as bullshit holidays go -- Valentine's Day ranks right up there with Easter (there is *never* a good reason to hide painted eggs from a crucified bunny) and Boxing Day (yes, I need a whole day to hide my presents -- what are they, painted eggs? -- around the house). Still: I have a niece and a nephew and they're still young enough to dig getting a card with a heart drawn on it. And then my friend Sheri wanted to do an art-card Valentine's exchange. So here we are! But seriously, if you really want to save the planet then we need to put an end to this kind of thing.

how to ruin a successful party

On Wednesday I had lunch with a friend who, just minutes before I arrived at the restaurant, was informed of some test results which reveal that she does not, in fact, have cancer. This news -- combined with the chicken curry in coconut milk, otherwise known as the number one -- made it a very cheerful lunch. Yesteday I had lunch with another friend who told me that she's getting married in April to some posh professor she met on Twitter. Capital! She's had a rough go for awhile and this was some nice news. Plus we had more linguini on our plates than we could possibly ever eat. Also yesterday I tried to make a comment on a friend's Facebook activity and was denied. When I (sarcastically) asked her about it, she informed me that she had recently made two big changes to her 'social networking': deleting (and disallowing comments from) people she doesn't know in "real life". She said I had "actually made the cut", but when her husband asked (tw

exclamation points

The sidewalk ploughs must have got the order to blitzkrieg last night -- the walk into work this morning was almost civilized in its levelness. No climbing over frozen drifts, no being forced into the road. There are still a few choked residential streets in the north end (read: our neighbourhood) where the city sort of shrugs and says, Look, you're the kind of people who probably don't vote anyway , but Oona and I got to daycare without her getting pitched out of the sled once. Capital! * * * * * The new infant (weeping, inconsolably) at daycare has shiny little earrings. "You have earrings!" I said, trying to be enthusiastic. She cried harder. * * * * * Most mornings I come across an elderly couple as they (slowly) make their way from the house to the (waiting, running) car. The gentleman, who looks like one of the dwarves on the way to Lonely Mountain , uses two canes. The lady, who is bigger and slower, uses only one. From hearing them talk to neighbours,

the lost weekend

Actually, it was the better part of a week: Wednesday the snow storm (and, unbeknownst to me, the highlight of the next few days, with one of those surreal, abandoned-city walks downtown), Thursday home with (sick/cold, slightly feral) Oona, Thursday afternoon *C* came home sick (flu, womiting), Friday I went back to work, taking Oona to daycare and *praying* that she'd make it through the day, and she did, only now it was my turn for the cramps & nausea parade, starting around midday, and because C was already out of commission it was up to me to get Oona home from daycare, so I stuck it out at the office until quitting time, then walked the longest, slowest, three-and-a-half kilometres of my life to the daycare (somewhere along the way I lost a glove -- didn't care -- and wore the remaining one backwards on the wrong hand, for pulling home the sled), got Oona home and went directly to bed, spent Friday night doing some recreational womiting and strictly professional-level

there is a light that never goes out

hanging lantern in the corner of my studio * * * * * Yesterday was Chinese New Year ... so a happy new year to my niece, Mei Mei! Apparently, 2011 is the Year of the Golden Rabbit. The Rabbit is a lucky sign. Rabbits are private individuals and a bit introverted. People born in the Year of the Rabbit are reasonably friendly individuals who enjoy the company of a group of good friends. They are good teachers, counselors and communicators, but also need their own space. According to Chinese tradition, the Rabbit brings a year in which you can catch your breath and calm your nerves. It is a time for negotiation. Don't try to force issues, because if you do you will ultimately fail. To gain the greatest benefits from this time, focus on home, family, security, diplomacy, and your relationships with women and children. Make it a goal to create a safe, peaceful lifestyle, so you will be able to calmly deal with any problem that may arise. Hmm ... this says nothing about gambl

toodles

Well, Oona pulled the Daily Double this weekend, pooping in the bath on Saturday and puking in the car on Sunday -- the former just for fun and convenience (who hasn't been there?) and the latter a case of car sickness, I think, as it's happened before, this time just as we pulled into the parking lot of the sports complex (and swimming pool). Baby might need a tiny bit of Gravol before the road. * * * * * Came downstairs this morning to find a small pile of dirty tea towels and damp dish cloths on the counter. All rumpled together. I ignored this and began making coffee. Keeping the kitchen counter clear is an aggravation of mine (when C can't figure out what to do with something, she just puts it on the counter) but one has to be selective in their comments. For example, I will remark on the baking dish that's been "left to soak" because this is the domestic equivalent of the boar's head on a stick: here's something gross, beware, and *you* deal