see my path but not the road

On the Monday holiday we went to Grass Creek Park. Early. The first ones there. A big crowd on hand the day before, for Canada Day, and over the garbage bags and red parking tape the seagulls circled and swooped obligingly. Still, it wasn't bad at all, mostly just things left behind. And people began arriving soon enough, in their standard sets, moms in wraps or self-conscious cargo pants, and dads with their bellies and bad tattoos, letting it all hang out, and kids in pink racing packs, these little stick girls who somehow manage to run full tilt and scream at the same time. Oona's going through something weird with the water, so she mostly just went around destroying other people's sand castles.

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And despite the sun and wind and all sorts of snacks, including a Happy Meal on the way home, Oona decided to skip her afternoon nap. Part and parcel of some larger issues about control (or, in my mind, CONTROL). C always reminds me that this (her behaviour) is normal, and I always respond that I don't care. Anyway, she (Oona, not C, for a change) was a full-on mental case by supper, and bath time before bed became somewhat abbreviated.

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On a dingy whim, I picked up Star magazine's STARS WITHOUT MAKEUP issue the other day. C and I "read" it in the backyard, with our feet in the wading pool, while Oona poured water in containers already containing water. And what did I learn? A woman's twenties and thirties are fine, make-up or no. The forties, however, come in a bit cruelly. After that it's hit and miss. Does anyone expect Barbara Streisand to look good at 70? I'm impressed that she doesn't wander the streets, throwing cassette copies of Hello, Dolly! at people. On the other hand, it's hard to believe that Helen Hunt looks *that* bad at 49. C says it's because she has no fat in her face. Since I've got plenty, I guess I'll always look fabulous.

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glamour, by extension

C is friends with the fashion stylist Rebekah Roy (left in both pics above) ... one of those people who personify calm and smiling success. On her blog she presents glamour in this very sincere, straightforward way ... whether she's taking pictures of people on the street , talking about stain removers , her favourite videos , or attending some glittering party . One minute she's ruminating on hair extensions, and in the next she reveals how she's been featured on the Vogue UK site. A real disarmer and charmer (and this without meeting her yet, although I feel like I know her because we both did our time in Winnipeg). * * * * * Coming home from Russia, we did many bad things. ; mixed media on canvas, 10 x 10 inches. In my own life, the glamour is wholly imagined. * * * * * witches, smoke ; mixed media on canvas, 10 x 10 inches. My second go at this one, and for some reason I'm painting a lot of smoke lately (note to self: tell C that I want to be cremated). *

the indisputable weight of the ocean

People are always telling me that my work is too dark. So I've put up this sunnier story, but even it has a shadow, as its original publisher – a fine Atlantic Canadian literary magazine called the Gaspereau Review – is no longer in business. ---------------- It was a simple enough thing and that thing was simply this: Edmund Kelley was a gentleman. Of course his mom called him her 'little gentleman', as in 'Oh Edmund, you are my perfect little gentleman,' which did seem to hold to a certain logic that these type of things often follow, considering her affection for him and the fact that he was, after all, only ten years old. Still, Edmund himself was not particularly fond of the diminutive aspect of that title. Gentleman was enough; gentleman summed up the whole thing rather nicely, thank you. He was definitely a more refined version of your average child. He lived in a state of perpetual Sunday m

Oona Balloona (doesn't care about new tables)

Well, it's Friday, and since I'm pretty depleted in the chit-chat department, I might as well put up some pictures of Ol' Giggles At Ghosts before Grandma starts sending me hate mail. Man, what a goofball. At this rate it's going to be, like, eighteen years before she has gainful employment and moves out of the house. I mean, come on . * * * * * C is especially crazy and frantic today. About two months ago she decided that she no longer liked our dining room table (take that, dining room table! no more BFF for you!). Since then she's switched the dining room and kitchen table (and all the rest of the furniture in the house -- about thirty times, but that's another story) as a provisional solution while she scoured area stores for an upgrade. And she thought she had found one, on Wednesday, at JYSK ( Whatever , I said). But when she ordered it, JYSK called back to say that they were really low on stock, and that the stock they did have was damaged, and

red-handed

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