the year in review not really

What is there to say about 2012? I almost don't know. This might be a function of age – as you grow older, time seems to undergo a certain kind of flattening, with distinctions of recent history getting compressed, and losing all their colour-coding. Every so often C will ask me how long we've been together now, and instead of being offended (another product of age -- lack of outrage) I simply take it as the vanishing of her near history (or maybe she wishes it would vanish). As for myself, I can tell you a lot more about specific episodes (last month of university, first summer working at a mental hospital, the year I moved to Kingston, the months before and after Oona was born, etcetera, etcetera) than I can tell you about this last year.

The only sense I do come away with is that I spent a great deal more time thinking about course correction, which is a technical way of describing the ability to turn with circumstances (or at least trying to). When I was younger I used to think, Okay, today's the day, we're going to act like this, and then everything will fall into place. And of course I would fail in spectacular fashion. Now my thoughts run more along the lines of, Okay, that didn't work, we'll let that go, and try to sort this other thing out instead, and you don't need to mention x to y, and that other thing is royally fucked, so ignore that, it didn't matter anyway, and for Christ's sake do something about that other thing, and see where you're at tomorrow. And there's a strangeness to all this, in that you start taking less and less of it very seriously, while at the same time knowing full well that you're just one crisis and maybe two or three paycheques away from disaster. But still: forward. Keep trying. Most of us don't really know what we're doing anyway, and are not in control of our lives, and have little or no understanding of what fires the very thoughts in our head. And then what? But still: forward.

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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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