I'm going to break my rule for talking about Israel. Why? Because I'm deeply troubled. I'll be brief; I don't want to get worked up. Jews have trouble separating Israel's government from 'being Jewish' and I refuse to do that. This means I'm usually at odds with the majority of Jews. I do believe in Israel, but I believe that somewhere along the way, people forgot what it was all about. I'm not stepping up here to give a logical, well thought-out treastice on War and Peace in the Middle East. This is a mostly emotional post to vent my frustrations. I'm also not saying I'm right, okay? I'm just opining.

Lebanon. God help Lebanon. Beirut, once the Paris of the Middle East. I want to visit Lebanon. I want there to be a Lebanon for me to visit. Lebanon was, for three decades, immersed in agonising civil war. After a painful reconsiliation, the country managed to do what the US is unable to forcibly accomplish in either Afghanistan or Iraq. Lebanon had peace, extended calm and all the potential to regain what it had lost through a surprisingly functional factional coalition government. Of which Hezbollah was a part - not a large part, but elected by people, nonetheless.

Hezbollah is not Lebanon, just as Republicans are not the USA (though some might debate that). Hezbollah's aggression against Israel was out of the blue, so far as I understand, though I am certain it has accomplished its goal of destabilising the current delicate balance. Hezbollah has, it seems, plunged the greater part of Lebanon into conflict. Maybe it's not a surprise, considering the group's beliefs and mandate, but then why did this take the entire world by surprise?

For the record, I believe Israel has every right to respond to Hezbollah's attacks. It's called defense. What is not alright is for Israel to blithely rain havoc upon so many innocents. What Canadian Prime Minister, Steven Harper, called "a measured response" was not. Retaliating in the form of killing hundreds of civilians for the death of a few soldiers is not alright, nor is it measured. Fuck you, Steven Harper, and your ridiculous non-stance. And fuck you Hezbollah and Israel for once again not looking at the larger picture.

Israel has not looked at the larger picture since Yitzhak Rabin's assassination in 1995. How could Israel have responded? Considering the nation's reputation with intelligence and related technology, surely it could have managed an internal strike that could have crippled an arm of Hezbollah. I'm not saying it would have worked, or that the budding war could have been avoided, but they didn't even try.

I was recently asked if I thought there was a solution to Israel's problems. What did I say? It goes against everything I believe in, but I also think it's about the only option left. Isreal needs to let Palestine go. Just give up the land and fuck the settlers. The settlers shouldn't be there anyway. Let it go. No discussion about right of return or any of that bollocks. You want out? There, you're out. Now leave us alone. That's what I think Israel should do. Israel did not create the climate of intollerance, that was the fault of neighbouring Islamic countries who set Palestine up as the sacrificial lamb. Maybe, after ten years of utter separation as sovereign nations, maybe then discussions can begin again. I dunno.

Anyway, I'm done venting. I have no solutions, only emotions. The situation is far beyond what emotions can accomplish. There. That was my annual discussion of my disgust and sadness. I think I can now get on with my day.

Well, she's gone. Tracy's plane has take off for Vancouver and I'm left with a much quieter house. In typical Tracy fashion, I was right and she was wrong - her plane was yesterday, but we arrived at the airport for it today. Air Canada was super awesome, though, believe it or not, and moved her flight bookings over without even charging her an administrative fee. We were both shocked. Then she very nearly left her driver's licence at the check-in counter. I tried to change the American money that Gareth and I had left over from Skagway, but incredibly, despite being an international airport, Whitehorse Airport does not have a currency exchange. I shall have to take it to the bank and pay the fee.

As I said, we went to Skagway on Saturday. Skagway is in the Alaskan panhandle and was the staging ground for the Klondike Gold Rush back in 1898. Well, actually, it was the town of Dyea, from where you picked up the Chilkoot Trail. When the railway was built a year later, they based it in Skagway and that effectively killed Dyea. Skagway, today, is a tourist vacation staging ground. The cruiselines come in from Seatle and Vancouver, bringing thousands of tourists in during the summer. I'm not sure what goes on in town during the winter. The town isn't very big, probably not much bigger than 5000 people, and that's probably a generous estimate, and it has jewellery stores like Toronto has doughnut shops. But, tucked in and around them are some neat little places - like the Rock Shop, or whatever it's called, which sells rock samples and fossils. I bought a tiny trilobite (hah, I guess I'm starting a collection) for five bucks of the Order Ptychopariida, from Utah. At least I think that's it's Order. I'll have to double check. I almost bought a single Agnostida, which is the sort of 'proto' trilobite, but I liked the larger specimen I purchased more. Larger is relative, of course, as it's only about 8/10 of an inch in length. Where I'll mount it is another question, too.

Skagway's not all that interesting, really. Without the tourism, there'd be nothing much there at all. What is has is an extraordinary climate. Situated on what I guess is a glacial fjord, at sea level, surrounded by the very tall Coastal mountains and with the Pacific moderating the weather, it boasts a very temperate climate. The geology is such that you can move from alpine tundra to norther boreal forest, to temperate rain forest in a matter of minutes. We enjoyed dinner at the Red Onion Saloon, which is the less funky answer to Dawson's Bombay Peggy's. It was really nice to eat a fine pizza, though. Seriously. We also hit the liquor store and bought some REAL beer, since Whitehorse doesn't sell any. The Alaskan Brewery makes a charming Oatmeal Stout and I wanted to take it home with me. So I did. There was also fantastic milkshakes, coffee and peanut butter pie at a local cafe called Haven (or was it Heaven) Cafe off the main drag of downtown. Look for it, if you're there. YUM.

Dyea was very interesting, I must say. On a neighbouring fjord arm, it was humid and beautiful. Nearly fully returned to nature, there is little to mark the town's existence. A single false front stands on what had been main street, a straight line of coniferous trees marking the road in an otherwise random forest. Here and there are litter remains: rusted metal; roof sheets and wagon wheel frames. The forest has spent the last eighty years reclaiming the site. The town existed not even for a decade, going from boomtown to a population of three in the span of seven years. The train, bypassing the Chilkoot, made Dyea utterly pointless. We also visited the neighbouring Slide Cemetary, which with the exception of a tiny local burial adjoining the main yard, contains almost exclusively the graves of those who died in the April 3, 1898 snowslide. The obvious exception to this is "Noscitur shot in the mountains" a month later. Noscitur, in this sense, I think means "known to those who know him" or some such, as in its base verb form, "nosco", it means "to become acquainted with, get to know".

And then, yesterday, in carrying out the theme of dead mining settlements, we all went and hiked Miles Canyon until we found the remnants of Canyon City. Marked mainly by its midden heaps and vague structural outlines, Canyon City was a lot like Dyea. The walk along the canyon is stunning, even if it makes my fear of heights act up a bit, and took us about two hours in total. Originally, we'd planned to visit Kluane National Park, where Canada's tallest mountain, Mt. Logan, is located, but the weather was inclemant and we didn't want to drive an hour and a half to find it no better at the park. Hiking in the rain kind of sucks. No one was disappointed, though. Miles Canyon is beautiful and there were very nearly no other people on the trails. Despite the slow and lazy start, we had a great day.

Tracy arrived on the Air Canada Jazz flight from Vancouver last night. I picked her up and gave her a brief tour of the area (since it's still light out at midnight). I have rented a bright red Subaru Impreza for the week and I love it. I've had to reaquaint myself with driving stick, but despite some mildly embarrassing stalls, all has gone well. I'd almost forgotten how much I love driving stick. I cannot understand why anyone would ever want to drive automatic. You have so much control with a stick shift, you feel so much more a part of the driving experience. Of course, I love driving and cars, so maybe therein lies the difference. I love this little car, but I know that even were it on sale at the end of the season, the chance that I'd be able to afford it is still very unlikely. When I return from my visit home in August, I'm going to set up a test drive for a Kia Rio5.

To celebrate having a car, Gareth and I drove out to Marsh Lake. The lake is high now, or 'in' as Gareth said, because the mountain snowpack has been melting. There are dams, too, which may affect the height of the water, I'm not sure. There was only one family at the beach, though, frolicking in the effing cold water. I waded out to my knees, but turned around at that point because it really is the coldest lake I've ever walked in. We also drove in and around Whitehorse, to a lookout over the Yukon River, and up and down roads. Charming way to spend a couple of hours.

Choco and Twee were very excited to have Tracy spending the night on the futon. When we opened it out into a bed, they helped make it (in that special hindering sort of way) and then Choco helped UNmake it by jumping in and out of the covers. I think they slept with her last night, too, which is very sweet and gave Gaz and I a break from their rambunctiousness. Until breakfast time, anyway. There's a brand new hole in my toe thanks to the little beast.

Have you ever been lost in a forest? Lost so that you know where you're going, but just can't seem to find the way to get there? Lost so that you know there's an end but not sure how to find it?

It sounds like I'm talking euphemistically, doesn't it? I'm not.

Twice this week, I've gotten lost in the forest between my apartment in Porter Creek and the Arts Centre in Takhini. It's hemmed in by the Alaska Highway on one side and Mountainview Road on the other, but there is a vast, incredibly wild acreage of boreal forest in between. In which I have now gotten lost twice. The first time involved a gully and my fall into it. This time involved my boyfriend and his irritation at my incredible lack of direction sense. It didn't help that I consistantly viewed it as a merry adventure and he kept thinking he was being made late for his volunteer work at the Film Festival. And fair enough, but he didn't even want to be going in the first place. At any rate, we did eventually make our way out of the woods and to the Arts Centre, quite a bit later than we'd anticipated.

Anyway, we've both been volunteering for the Yukon International Film Festival (or YIFF -ewwww), which has been both pleasant and painful. Firstly, it was the worst organised event I have ever participated in. From symphony galas, to museum fundraisers, to science fiction conventions, this was absolutely the worst run festival ever. And they held it in June. Who the hell runs a film festival at the end of June? Right when school is out and everyone leaves town. Did they think they were going to pack the seats with German tourists?! Crikey. Anyway, I did enjoy some of the films I saw.

In particular, my three favourites, in order, have been: The End of Silence, One of Many and, These Girls. The first was a foreign film set in Toronto about a Russian dancer and the man she falls in love with and the struggle she faces in a new place, filled with passion, and the pull of home, family and the ballet. God, it was lovely, and just brimming with the most beautiful imagery of Toronto as a romantic and mysterious city. The second was a documentary about a woman from Winnipeg (now Whitehorse) and her search for her roots as the child of one of the Lost Generation of Native people. The children of those who's lives were uprooted for residential school and their confusion about who they are and where they belong. The third was just light comedy about three teenaged girls who woo and use a married man in his thirties. It has a strange premise and it should have failed, but it was honest, funny and terribly weird. In a good way.

Anyway, I'm off to the closing party of the festival now. So I'll write more another time. My leg seems to no longer be cramping up and that's good, but better yet, the shuttle will be arriving soon to take me downtown.

This past weekend, in that it was Gareth's first weekend with me here in Whitehorse, I splurged and rented a car. The Subaru dealership here, which also sells Kias, has a rental car programme, which is both helpful and a good way to sample their fleet. The dealership has a very good reputation and I can totally understand why. Family owned and operated, they are polite, pleasant, and warm. They're also happy to provide information about vehicle purchasing. We had big plans to do many things, but didn't end up doing them. You can find the run-down here.

Firstly, I must comment on how widely varied the terrain and geology is in the area around Whitehorse. It's incredible, really. There are six or seven distinct biomes and many animals that inhabit them. In a matter of minutes in the car, we could see sheer cliffs, lake-filled valleys, boreal forest, sand-hills, etc. Truly remarkable. We have been told to keep an eye out for mountain goats and whatnot on the cliffs and mountains as we're out driving. How neat is that?!

Anyway, on Sunday, we headed up Fish Lake Road, which is only a kilometre or two from my apartment. Several people had told me that it was a stunning drive and we should try it. So, in that our initial plans to head for Skagway, Alaska, were no longer happening, it seemed like a very good place to head. Descriptions of its beauty were understating the truth. Quite possibly, I have never seen so dramatic and glorious a landscape since arriving in the Yukon. The road slowly climbs up, one rolling hill after another, and eventually you become aware that you're climbing in altitude. As you do, the trees begin growing further apart, more sparse in foliage, and shorter in height. The mountain peaks surrounding the drive become no longer tower as you head up. The trees weren't even nearly as close to leafed-out as they are down in the city.

Eventually, we came to Sky High Wilderness Ranch, which is a horse ranch in the summer and a dog-mushing locale in the winter. It is just off from the scenic Fish Lake. We first stopped at the lake's marshy shore where, quite literally, the bushes and grasses start to break apart and blend into the shallows, and we were shocked to discover the lake was more than half frozen. Gareth wondered if it would be possible to drive out to a point near to the ice. There was a tonne of waterfowl and shorebirds flitting here and there - and me without any binoculars. When we'd snapped some pictures, we carried onto the ranch where we pulled in to pick up a brochure. We chatted with some staff and guests and were pleased to discover that the rates are not 'sky high' as the ranch's name might suggest. The place was certainly rugged, but the horses looked healthy from what I could tell.

Brochure in hand, we turned around and continued along Fish Lake Road toward the lake. Sure enough, the road did reach the lake, and indeed carry onto the base of the mountain across from it (though we did not follow to it, as I am about to explain). Standing at the sharp bend in the road where it suddenly skirts the lake's edge was a man and a motorcycle, smoking a cigarette. He was sporting a plaid shirt and wide suspenders and seemed to be enjoying the view. "I betcha he's German," I said. We pulled up at the boat launch near to him. As we climbed out of the car, he greeted us and asked Gareth to please do up the button of his pants as he'd had a motorcycle accident and couldn't really move his left arm.

Now, I admit to exchanging a surprised and mildly suspicious glance with Gareth, but I got over it much faster. I know what went through his head: 'he's some kind of perve and wants me to touch his penis...' Back in Toronto or even South Wales, that would likely be the case. I've met a few perves in my time. Paralysed, Gareth looked somewhat horrified, so I stepped up. This, afterall, is the Yukon. Sure enough, that's what the fellow wanted. His shoulder was slumped slightly and apparently, all he could move were his fingers and his arm was numb. I suggested that he should go to hospital and even that I'd take him, but he was concerned about his bike (out in the middle of nowhere) and stated firmly that as soon as his arm felt better, he'd ride home (to Carcross, which isn't exactly a five minute drive) and get his Jeep first. Unable to disuade him, I accepted his choice and went back to Gareth.

I stooped on the boat launch and drank from the lake, which on reflection might not have been the smartest move considering the common occurance of beaver fever out here, but nonetheless, it was freezing and delicious water. Gareth took off his shoes and socks and padded out on the gravel bottom and froze his feet in the water. Faintly, all around us, we could hear the ice creaking, groaning and cracking and little chunks of slushy ice drifted past us. I saw a muskrat and I think we saw greebs floating and diving under the ice.

All the while, the man, who was indeed German, was trying unsucessfully to start his bike. Finally, as we were preparing to carry on, he called out to me and asked if I could get someone from the ranch to help him with a pick-up onto which his bike could be loaded. This was something I'd actually suggested earlier, when he was more obstinate, considering it would be nearly impossible to steer a motorcycle one-handed anyway. I agreed (and was going to do it even without him asking), so Gareth and I piled back into the car and drove back to the ranch where we asked them for help. The ranchers immediately jumped to action in their pickup and we were satisfied that we'd done the right thing. As it was approaching our appointed D&D date, we decided not to carry on to the base of the mountain, but turn around and head back into the city.

On the road, we stopped to take photos. The pickup passed us and we waved. Then, back in our car, we carried on again, only to pass the pickup, which was now stopped at the side of the road. At first I was concerned and then I realised they'd stopped to help out another pickup, much older and beaten up, which had obviously died. There was the guy from the ranch leaned over the old truck's open hood with its driver, and there was the German biker sitting in the ranch's pickup. We waved again and carried on, only to be passed once more as we were again stopped and snapping photographs. We were looking down into a steep, deep gorge and saw what we think was an old car wreck, twisted and rusting amongst the trees.

The Yukon is a strange place where it is second nature to help those in need. Survival in this harsh and remote land would be impossible without the aid of others. Even so close to Whitehorse, the land is wild and dangerous. It was a good and powerful demonstration of what living here is about. Beauty, vastness, remoteness, climate, danger, and co-operation. It was certainly a varied day for us, and quite unlike what we expected.

Despite all my best efforts, the last two days before the new Gallery show and opening are going to be full of insanity and stress. No matter how many times people are asked to provide details for their work - their work, which is being exhibited in an important regional gallery space - they fail to do so. It's very frustrating. Had everything gone as planned, I would have finished my Exhibition Notes on the weekend, all the content for the panels would be at the printers and ready for pick-up tomorrow, the labels would be printed and I would be in the process of mounting them. Instead, I'm transcribing label material from hodge-podge sheets of paper, many of which lack important bits of information such as the title of the piece. Instead, I'm still organising the exhibition information binder. Instead, my Exhibition Notes are sitting half completed on my computer desktop waiting for key bits of information to dribble in via email. Yet, it all must come together for Thursday. Can we do it? God, I hope so.

In other news, I think it's safe to say I now have a small but ecclectic circle of friends up here. There's Owen, the Mad Scribe (Owen Williams, he would want me to say, who is one of two calligraphers living in the Yukon and probably one of Canada's only 'letter artists'); Andrew, my reporter friend as the Curator would call him and, possibly Owen's friend, Dawn (to whom I am known as 'Fuscia'), can be lumped in this strange social heap. There's also Dungeon Master Andrew from D&D and Matt from the YAC. At something more of an arm's length there is Nicole, an artist originally from Peterborough and, Tammy, box office party girl. No great surprise, I'm making friends faster with the boys than with the girls, and for once (at least in most cases), it's not because I've got boobies. Or at least not entirely. Also, there are a few others from Dawson that I can probably count, too, but in that they're in Dawson, they're not really immediately accessible.

At any rate, the other night, Owen, Reporter Andrew, myself and Jessica the ex artist-in-residence at KIAC in Dawson, all went for an ice cream and an impromptu hike through Miles Canyon following a small art show opening at Zola's. Zola's would be the big frou-frou cafe on Main Street, home of the Midnight Sun coffee company. Zola's a big supporter of the Arts. Yay ! Anyway. We got soft-serve ice cream from Riverside Grocery, which is open 20 hours a day (it used to be 23 hours a day), which has possibly the yummiest soft-serve around. The consistency is all wrong, so it comes out with this awesome texture and malty goodness. Yum. We were eating it in Rotary Park (is this a new semi-urban Canadian icon to go with Chinese Restaurants and Cenotaphs?), but since it was a bit chilly down by the river and the mosquitoes were biting, we decided to finish up and pile into Andrew's VW to check out Miles Canyon.

Miles Canyon is, well, it's a canyon through which the Yukon River flows. We originally went to take photos and then head home, but it was so enticing that we trotted across the swaying wooden bridge (held fast by anchored cables) and head out on a delightful hike. We probably hiked for an hour and a half, not quite making it to Canyon City, the site of a... well, some kind of settlement, or something. But, in that it was pushing 10 o'clock and we were still on the trail, you can understand why. The views were spectacular, I must say, with volcanic rock cut down by the river into sheer walls of red and grey stone. The river, itself, is a sort of eerie greenish blue, or bluish green, I guess, kind of thick-looking, and totally beautiful. Tall evergreens and less tall poplars and such grow up away from the sides and on the slopes, hunks of weathered basalt (real basalt - not in a lab !) sitting along the paths. Down the slopes are many alpine plants, low and clinging with tiny flowers. The furry crocuses (crocii?) have gone to seed, which suggests they're not actually crocuses at all, and Owen made me eat some. Holy burning mouth - talk about a northern source of chili-pepper replacement. And then, to make up for it, he picked these tiny pink flowers smaller than my chewed pinky finger nail and fed those to me. Much like clover, but softer in flavour, kind of honey-like. Very nice. I took many photos and we discussed everything from Philosophy and Art, to music and travel. It was grand. I will certainly return to Miles Canyon.

What a night. I suppose it's night time despite the broad daylight, albeit setting sun. I just came in from a short exploratory walk that took me through the marshy area behind my apartment. It lies beyond the creek which runs parallel to the dirt lane. The birds are singing their tails off and the breeze that was cooling down the otherwise very warm day up in the hills around the Arts Centre seems to have blown itself off somewhere else. The leaves, as I predicted to my mother last weekend, are opening at a pace. I took some photos. On Sunday, they were quivering, fuzzy buds, ready to spring into life at any moment. I told my mother that within two days they'd start to open, and they did. I give it no more than two days before everything is in full leaf. I cannot believe how quickly everything is exploding out of dormancy.

This includes the people, by the way. Everyone's up on their bicycles, or walking, or riding their noisy dirt bikes and ATVs. I don't much love the latter two, as they're kind of noisy, but the people around here don't do it too often, so far, so I can bear it. Courtesy. It's all about respecting your neighbours.

In other news, Gareth has booked his ticket to Whitehorse ! I'm thrilled to pieces about it, of course. He's arriving on the German charter flight (twice a week, full of German tourists, direct from Frankfurt) on the 8th of June, around lunchtime. This is the same day as the Gallery Opening, so he'll get to crash while I help finish things up at the Centre and then I'll come back, get changed and pick him up for the festivities. This is going to be awesome and also kind of wacky. He's staying for a while, so it will be kind of like... co-habitating, as they said in the fifties. My apartment, my cats, and my boyfriend, all under one ceiling. Weird. And also neat ! I'll get to play 'house' !

I know, I’ve been neglectful again, but my excuse is very good. I have settled into my apartment and am now the proud co-habitator of two cats ! Yes. I had intended only on getting one cat (Choco – previously spelled Chacko), but I knew there might be a problem in separating him from Twilight (now called Twee). When Choco came into the shelter, he was about four months old and had no experience with humans. He quickly bonded to Twilight, who is a massive, hairy guy of three years old, as though he were a littermate or even sometimes like a surrogate mother. Twilight was just fine with this as he likes kittens and young cats a lot. When I got Choco home, he was extremely distraught, yowling and hiding and whining and whimpering. He kept calling for Twilight in the special trill he uses and of course no cat answered. Then he cowered in his litter box for seven hours straight. The next morning, I knew I had to go back for the other one. When I let Twee out of the carrier, he proceeded to sneak about the apartment making pathetic little growly meows. Each one was answered by Choco who was hiding in my bedroom. When Twee entered my room, Choco leapt out of his hiding spot, trilling with his tail quivering, and full-body rubbed the other. Now, almost a week later, wherever I go in the apartment, there is a small, furry, black parade that follows me. Twee follows me and Choco follows Twee. It’s adorable. And the good news is, Choco, who didn’t handle human attention well at all, now lets me pet him and he curls up on the bed at night. Yay !

So, let’s return to my trip for a bit, since there are so many other things I can talk about. For instance, Cardiff, the capital city of Wales, has remarkably few things open on a Sunday. This presented a challenge since Gareth and I were hanging out with his sister, Carolyn. After sharing a drink with Gareth’s brother as well, who then left for more atrociously bad hockey, the three of us sort of wandered around by the bay. We did enjoy an outdoor photo exhibition put on by Oxfam about the before and after of the 2004 tsunami. The photos were brilliantly presented on all four sides of rectangular pillars through which we could walk and wander while surrounded by the hodgepodge of Victorian and modern architecture. After that, though, what were we to do? Decisions, decisions ! (Let me tell you, Gareth’s family is incredibly bad at making decisions.)

In the end, we decided to do what everyone else seemed to do on a Sunday afternoon in Cardiff. We went bowling. Yes, that’s right. The king of American leisure sports is a central attraction at the city’s main mall complex. There was also an arcade and typical American-style restaurants. This amused me to no end. Anyway, bowling is always fun, and it was this time, too. Carolyn whooped our asses – I think she’s secretly in a league – and much laughter ensued. We also discovered in this mall a small exhibit of new Dr. Who memorabilia. The new series is predominantly filmed in Cardiff, you see, so this was kind of a tribute thing. Anyway, it was my treat, I took them in to see it and we ended up being happily surprised by what we found. Particularly the button that said ‘Do not push’, which Carolyn pushed, and caused the dailek to come to life, scaring the crap out of her. Following all that, we struggled with a dinner decision, wandering around looking at restaurant menus posted in windows before finally settling on an American-style (heh) Tex-Mex place, not unlike Tortilla Flats in downtown Toronto. The waitress was lots of fun and the food was good and I discovered that Bloody Caesars are totally unknown in Wales. Incidentally, I have since discovered that apparently, the Bloody Caesar was invented in 1969 at the Calgary Westin Hotel. Neat.

I guess all this American pop-culture was acceptible having spent the previous day at St. Fagans, a stunningly beautiful 'living history' museum of country buildings dating back four hundred years or more right up until the Second World War. We got there early enough in the day that there weren't many people about (except at the bakery where we purchased a breakfast of scones with jam and the Welsh traditional bread, Bara Brith). We stroled around the entire site, in and out of wonderfully old buildings, many with thatched roofs and tamped earth floors. There was a paddock with an unusually shaped cow (imagine if a horse and a cow interbred) and, of course, sheep. The trees were fringed with pale green leaves and encircled by lush, dark ivy. The daffodils were in full bloom (the Welsh national flower), and the weather was excellent. On the site, there is also a recreation of an ancient Celtic dwelling, which was fun to explore, and a gorgeous estate house with exquisitely beautiful gardens. Sitting on the grass, watching the creek laugh its way over rocks was a serene moment that we particularly enjoyed together.

When I was in England, in Leicester ("It has a cathedral? Oh, well I guess it's a city, then..."), I did a fair bit of exploring, at least considering how long I was actually there. Leicester is a Medieval city, its city centre bears testament to it with its bizarre winding roads and narrow lanes and alleys. There was a sprawling, park-like cemetary across the street from the university where I was attending the conference and when the lectures became too stuffy, I took myself off to it for a walk. I do love cemetaries. I'm really not sure what fascinates me about how people manage their dead, but I have always been interested. I've never been a death-bunny, hanging around in cemetaries and moping about, nor do I have an interest in corpses. No, I'm only interested in what happens after all that. From prehistoric burials and Ancient Egyptian mummies, to catacombs and modern cemetaries; I read articles and make visits to sites and museums to bear witness. This extends to preserved remains, too, like bog people, but that's not related to this particular entry. Anyway, the cemetary across from the University of Leicester reminded me of a slightly older, far less aesthetically beautiful Mount Pleasant Cemetary, in Toronto; not so conducive to picnicking, but still nice enough.

It wasn't so much this cemetary, though, that will stand out in my memory from Leicester. No, it was on the following day, when Gareth and I stumbled upon a gem of a find right in the middle of the city centre. Leicester is a typical city in that it has a vibrant surface life, the feeling of urban sophistication, of things going on. But, like so many cities, if you scratch at it, the veneer begins to peel back exposing a starker, less polished, and sometimes worm-eaten base. Leicester isn't worm-eaten, it's not riddled with holes that threaten to buckle the structure, but it is suffering that particular blight called Urban Decay. Look around long enough and you're bound to discover that there are far too many rental signs and closed-up shops. There are dirty buildings that show scars of age and a lack of concern for defacement. The people who live there, not the students or tourists, but the average folk have a blankness in their faces, a roughness sometimes, and occasionally something darker, like an emotional hunger. Oh yes, Leicester is a city, but not because of its cathedral.

At any rate, while wandering around and getting relatively lost in the process, we stumbled upon a beautiful old church wedged between typical blocky architecture, worn industrial buildings (complete with peeling paint and broken windows), and a construction site. The church is St. George's Church, and the neighbourhood is appropriately named St. George, based on the "Way" that cuts through it. Apparently there is a plan to redevelop the area, which can be read here. On that day, it was like we walked back in time. In fact, that's kind of what we did. Dusty city streets were left behind, their bustling people and vehicle noises and exhaust left behind as we wandered up the lane to St. George's. The church yard, amazingly still intact for an urban church, wound around it, overgrown with lush vegetation of all kinds, headstones covered in moss and leaning precariously. Edwardian lampposts marked out the walk past the church and a chest-high black, iron fence separated the graveyard from the walk.

I immediately wanted to wander amongst the graves and read (where I could) their inscriptions, but Gareth balked at the idea of hopping the fence and, in his mind, disturbing the dead. My argument was that we wouldn't be disturbing anything, instead, we'd be paying them respect that they obviously hadn't experienced in a while. Rubbish was strewn throughout the yard, caught in the long grass. I hopped the fence and knew immediately that no one was going to care. The graves seemed to date from the mid-late 1700s to the early 20th century and were surprisingly thin to still be intact. There are a lot of broken headstones in the UK, be it from moisture or vandalism. After a while, I hopped back out of the yard and joined Gareth again. We followed the lane around the church and realised something. This was a church that hadn't been in use for a long time. The sign, where services were listed, was hand-painted and peeling, using old fashioned lettering that suggested, at the most recent, the 1950s. The stained glass windows were black with soot and no light was going to pass through them. No, St. George's had been dark for a long time. In a way, it was very sad. This was a dead church. While we imagined a few elderly parishiners caring as best they could for it, the reality seemed to suggest otherwise. If anything, the Council would probably send someone to cut the grass once or twice a season.

And yet, surrounded as we were by the dead, a memorial to the fallen soldiers of the "Great War", and a deserted church, life was springing up all around us. Daffodils and other flowers were bursting from the earth and blossoms and leaves were exploding from the trees in the church yard. It was amazing. In the end, Gareth agreed that our exploration of the grounds and reading and photographing the headstones was far greater respect than the site had been paid in a long while. I hope that the church is preserved. I hope that it is allowed to remain and even if it never takes a congregation again, I hope that it is saved as a piece of Leicester's beautiful architectural history and that it's given the care it deserves. Considering Leicester's balancing act as a vibrant living city and a city threatened to be overwhelmed by urban decay, I suspect St. George's future is uncertain. As a university town boasting a strong liberal arts core, there is hope. Perhaps we visited right when Leicester is at the turning point and is actually undergoing renewal. I hope so - it was a fascinating place.

The good news is that there must be some semblance of spring (if not summer) because I saw a total of three robins today. They sing a slightly different song here, as if they speak the same language as their eastern relatives, but with an accent, or a slightly different dialect. Anyway, it was heart-warming to see them. And, somewhere near the Arts Centre, furry crocuses are growing. Seriously furry. I'll get pictures, I promise. Speaking of pictures, I have some nice shots up at deviantArt. Anyway, I will seek out said crocuses if only to prove that there is something growing in this ridiculously harsh climate.

Nevermind climate. Timezones. They suck. Granted, we've both been busy since my return to Whitehorse, but I've hardly had a chance to talk to Gareth all week. Not to mention that taking the bus home from work takes so much longer than driving does that it's already really late where he is by the time I fire up Kinsey and get online again. A remedy for this might be for me to get up earlier and enjoy some online time with him before I head off to work, but eight hours is a lot of difference to overcome. It hurts a bit, because I want to talk with him. Well, I never said it would be easy to handle the distance or separation, but I know that when I'm with him, there's no other place I'd rather be. We'll figure it out eventually, but it's frustrating.

Anyway, more about my trip, hm? The first night in Wales... I tried to be awake and engaged, but after a nearly sleepless flight (thanks to the hostile French couple sitting in the seats in front of me - a story for another time), I decided to lie down for a nap around six o'clock. At nine o'clock it became apparent that I wasn't going to be getting up for dinner and pretty much slept through the night. That first morning, waking up at Cwm Farm, was really lovely. I felt much better. Refreshed. Of course, then there was the challenge of getting the coffee maker to work. This machine took raw beans and spat out hot, delicious coffee. If only we could get it to work. It took three of us (Gareth, myself, and the daughter of his mum's boyfriend) to make it function. Following an uninspired breakfast, we went out to explore the farm. It was so beautiful. Holly trees, gorse in full bloom, everything green and shining with moisture. It was very much like a fairy tale. After seeing the photographs I took of the farm, one friend of mine asked me if it was alright for him to imagine that it was actually Middle Earth and not Wales. In my mind, why can't Wales be Middle Earth? Close enough to the place in which Tolkein was writing, isn't it?

Except that I don't recall a tale from Middle Earth that involved hundreds of small migrating spiders running through the wet grass. As an arachnaphobe, I just had to grin and bear it. They were everywhere. Interestingly, only on a certain terrain and I didn't come across anywhere near the numbers of them at any other place we visited. I expected to find them at the Botanical Gardens, but I didn't. Perhaps these were a special species: Running Cwm Spider. Needless to say, I made sure to keep walking where ever they were, because my phobic imagination had them running over my shoes and up my pantlegs. Because isn't that what every spider wants to do? Run up your pantleg and bite your thighs? No? Oh.

OH ! Before I sign off, because I'm really tired and it's pushing 2am, I have put in an application for a cat at the Yukon Humane Society. His name is Chacko and he's very small, a runt. He's shy and not comfortable with humans, though he's really bonded to another cat. I'm hoping that he will handle the separation alright and discover that I am a good person to bond to. He's black and white and delightful. If I get him, I'll probably pick him up mid-week, once I'm in my new apartment.

Stories about my trip will come, but I thought I'd share some commentary on the Conservative's new budget, first. If you're not interested in that, I recommend you visit my flickr account and look at my photos from the trip and entertain yourself that way.

Below are the post-budget comments from NDP Heritage critic Charlie Angus, reprinted from CAPACOA.

May 3, 2006

BUDGET IGNORES ARTISTS AND THE ARTS: Angus says Conservatives fail their first big test

OTTAWA - NDP Heritage Critic Charlie Angus (Timmins-James Bay) condemned yesterday's budget after Arts and Culture were virtually shutout of new spending and tax reform. The Conservatives, like their Liberal predecessors, failed to provide real security for the future of Arts and Culture in Canada, said Angus following the budget announcement.

"The only reference to arts and culture in the budget today was $50 million over two years to the Canada Council, while we saw absolutely nothing for the CBC, the film and television industry, Canadian museums, or Francophone and First Nations culture."

Even more surprising was the fact that they announced a series of tax cuts, but found no room to introduce income-averaging for those in the arts industry, and no tax credit for parents who enroll their kids in developmentally beneficial arts programs, said Angus.

"We knew that Canadian Heritage wasn't one of the Conservatives' top five priorities, but it's clear now that the Arts aren't a priority for them at all."

Chronic under-funding over the 12 years of majority Liberal governments has left the future of the Arts uncertain in Canada. There was a glimmer of hope in the 18 months of minority parliament where the NDP forced the Liberals to walk the talk of their social spending rhetoric, said Angus on Tuesday.

"The precarious state of Canadian culture after more than a decade of Liberal neglect required a significant reinvestment in artists and in the arts from this budget, but it simply hasn't come. This budget was a litmus test for the Conservative commitment to preserving Canadian Culture; they've failed." Angus concluded "It is now clear that the New Democrats are the only Federal Party committed to working toward a real future for artists and the arts."

It's time for a story. I have many, but I think I'll share a pair from April 22nd first. Gareth and I were given a lift into Cardiff by his mum and her boyfriend (which was very kind of them as they were heading elsewhere to a wedding). We stayed that night in the city centre Travel Lodge, which was a hole-in-the-wall hotel (there are a lot of them in the UK, it seems) making use of a building already in existence. This was a good idea on his part, booking us in, because we attended his brother's hockey game which wasn't until 10pm that night.

We went for dinner to a really delicious Indo-Malay restaurant called, if I remember correctly, Bali. The food was excellent and the portions generous but not ridiculously so. I didn't drink any alcohol, as I'd done my fair share the night before, instead having a yummy lychee nut drink. The service was really good. The waiters were attentive if perhaps a bit too eager to please. When Gareth got up to use the washroom at the end of the meal, I looked toward the bar and three or four of the waiters were standing at it looking straight at me. Then, seconds later, one arrived to clear dishes and proceded to ask me where I was from, etc. I thought to myself, "Is he hitting on me, or is he just being really nice?"

As he went away, the head waiter appeared, smiling and asking if our meal had been satisfactory. I got the feeling there was more to the smile than just common curtesy. I was right. "Can I buy you a drink?" he asked. "I would be very happy to buy you a drink at the bar," he said, gesturing to the bar where at least one other waiter was watching. "And maybe I could take you out?" I think I managed to look more flattered than shocked, but I'm not sure. Regardless, my answer was simple, "Thank you for your offer, but I really don't think my date would appreciate that." When Gareth returned, I couldn't resist telling him and when I went to the loo, the waiters came to him and were very nice. I told him that he should be flattered that his girl got hit on.

Later, we went to see the hockey game. Played by the university B team, let me tell you, this has got to be the worst game I've ever seen. Now, to be fair, the Welsh are not known for their hockey prowess. Leeks, sheep, choirs, and dragons, yes; hockey, no. But, what this team lacked in skill they made up in enthusiasm and fun. Even the guys working the sound booth (a pair of players from the university A team) were funny and enthusiastic (even offering stick handling advice in the intermissions). They picked some really appropriate tunes to highlight the insanity of the match, and I kid you not, they had the goalie up and dancing more often than he was stopping pucks, that's for sure. At any rate, it was no surprise that the Belfast team creamed them (12-2).

Following the game, one of the players called up to Gareth: "Sorry, Richard's brother !" in an appology for the worst game ever. Then, while decompressing afterward, they were mucking about on the ice and I managed to get hit in the knee with a puck that was aimed at the boards ! My response was, "Oh, fuck you !" which brought the player up into the stands appologising profusely. I told him that as pennance, I would keep the puck and go back to Canada and tell everyone how badly the Welsh play hockey. He agreed it was a fair trade. Anyway, it was a ton of fun, regardless of the bruise.

In other news, unrelated to my trip, I now possess the keys to my apartment and will soon be moving into it ! My mother has sent the first batch of my stuff up via Greyhound and it should arrive sometime late this week or early next. I am pretty excited to be getting a place of my own, and then I will get some furniture for it... and a cat. :) Yay !

Verdant, lush, beautiful: three adjectives aptly suited to describing Wales. Possibly, also ‘damp’. The people are amazingly friendly, kind and welcoming, the ales are strong and delicious, and the towns have unpronounceable names. I think it’s not incorrect to say I may well have fallen in love with the countryside of South Wales. I spent three days at Cwm Farm (pronounced Coom). This is the home of Marion (Gareth’s mother) and belongs to Dave, her boyfriend. It’s not a working farm, although a neighbour does pasture his cattle in one of its fields, but it makes charming habitat for local wildlife, which is essentially Dave’s intention. Birds fill the trees, holly trees and gorse grow everywhere, ivy climbs over everything, and a creak wends its way past the lovely farmhouse. There are outbuildings, one of which is being converted into the leisure/guest house. It already boasts an indoor swimming pool, but is currently being equipped with a film-screening room and getting a rather complete renovation. Despite the technology that fills the house like ivy does the woods, the whole locale is tranquil and extremely relaxed.

Visiting with Gareth was beyond wonderful. I cannot begin to describe how much fun we had. Meeting his family was not stressful as they are as great as he is, though it was possibly a bit embarrassing for him as his mother and I were more than comfortable swapping stories. His brother and sister are funny and warm, just as his mother is and I felt very comfortable with them. It is infrequent that a person gets to fall in love, which is different from loving someone. I’ve loved, and once, a long time ago in my teens, I was in love, but nothing compares to the intensity of feelings I have for Gareth. For the first time, with anyone, I feel like I’m a complete person. Comfortable in each other’s space, able to finish each other’s sentences, we fit together so well that it’s as though we’ve always known each other. We laugh and laugh, tease each other and have heart-felt, deep conversations about everything under the sun. Every moment with him feels as though it’s been well spent, regardless of whether it’s been wasted watching stupid flash animation on the internet or discussing American foreign policy.

Leicester was fun – the conference quite good and hosting numerous interesting speakers. It was nice to be surrounded by so many international museum and gallery workers and graduates of Leicester’s museum studies programmes. It gives me a good feeling about attending the Interpretive Studies degree as I plan. Amazingly, I was something of an exotic coming from an institution in the Yukon, almost as fascinating as the woman from Cameroon. I particularly enjoyed swapping stories about misconceptions of the north with a curator from Norway. It seems they, too, have a proliferation of polar bear images despite the fact that most of Norway does not boast the white beasts. I met interesting people with whom I hope to keep some contact and discussed at great length, well, museums. Surprise ! Leicester was an interesting old city, too, but despite the university and tourism, showed a rougher, seedier side belying the financial depression it seems to be suffering. London, too, was fun, but more than seeing the sites (or is it sights?); it was spending time at my mother’s childhood best friend’s flat in North London. Pat and her partner were generous and humourous hosts and made the last day and a half of my trip truly enjoyable. Gareth came with me to London and they accepted his presence without question and behaved exactly as if they’d always known him. Pat cooked a marvellous lamb stew for our first night, and for the last night, I treated everyone to a delicious meal at their favourite restaurant.

It is a great let-down to be back in Whitehorse and although I love my work, I can’t help thinking that I’d rather be in the UK than here. Nothing is growing yet – the snow in town only cleared a few days ago. Temperatures struggle to reach 5 degrees whereas I had gotten quite used to 15 degrees in England and Wales. I am happy to have had such a grand time, but I wish it was still going on. I said it when I was there the first time, and I maintain it still, I like London, and now I can add that I really love Wales, too. I miss Gareth terribly. It’s amazing how much a person can slot themselves into your life without you even realising until you’re apart. Living nearly half-way around the world from each other will continue to be difficult (and expensive), but now that I’ve got him, I don’t want to let him go. Thank God for the Internet.

Anyway, next post will be stories. I have tons of nifty things to talk about, but this is enough for now.

Finally, I have a moment of peace in which to write an entry. This week, I'm in Dawson City. Don't know where Dawson is? Well, look at a map of Yukon Territory. Find Whitehorse (near the bottom). Now, follow the highway north for about five hundred kilometres and you'll find Dawson. It's not very big, and it practically shuts down in the winter, but it's a beautiful place full of incredible history. It was first the fishing site of the Tr'ondek Hwech'in (People of the River) and then the home of the Klondike (a terrible mispronounciation of Tr'ondek) Goldrush. Gold was discovered in 1896 and the Rush was underway in 1898. At it's peak, Dawson was a tent city of anywhere between 30 and 40 thousand people, with only a few permanent wood structures in the central downtown. There were theatres, stores, nightclubs, hotels, you name it, Dawson had it. It was the capital city of the Yukon until the mid-point of the last century, when the population began to dwindle and it was moved to Whitehorse. Gold is still mined up here, and there is a lot of earthen scarring thanks to the mining activities, but that, along with the dilapidated, rustic buildings, adds to the charm.

So, what am I doing here? Well, Dawson City happens to be one of the hippest communities I've ever been in. No, I'm really not kidding. It's extraordinary. During the summer months, it hosts a myriad of festivals, arts and music (the Dawson City Music Festival being an international draw for performers and audience), and the kick off for the season seems to be the Dawson City International Short Film Festival. It commenced in 1999 and has been growing every year. This year, there are several films from around the world, a number from Scandinavia and at least one from the UK and a few from the States. So far, I haven't gotten to see all the films I wanted to, but I've seen a few really excellent works. I guess I'll get to them later. I still haven't explained what I'm doing here.

Essentially, the Exec Director of the Yukon Arts Centre sent me to Dawson as something of a gift-in-kind. For one week, I get to be the Festival Producer's slave. No, I'm not the coffee girl, nor the goffer, I'm actually serving a purpose and have authority. I'm kind of like a 'handler' for the important people as well as being the Producer's Exec. Asst. I feel important and have a fun role to play, and yet am still just part of the team. Also, I'm racking up so many hours, I'll have a pile of time off in-lieu ! The days are long, but fun, and I'm getting to see films, and I'm still meeting lots of people and making good connections with people from all areas of the culture and arts spectrum. The Festival is mainly held at KIAC (Klondike Inst. of Art and Culture), which is in the old Oddfellows' Hall. Mostly I work in the classroom area - kind of the nerve centre for the festival. The films are screened upstairs in the lovely Ballroom. KIAC also has the ODD Gallery, which is a funky little art gallery, currently run by the woman I replaced at the YAC. Wacky.

I've done everything from create award certificates for the participants and winners, to wrangle the jurors (haha, worse than herding cats, let me tell you), to deliver dietary needs to the caterers, to arrange private screenings, to ... well, you get the idea. Oh ya, and I wrote the Festival Statement. Can you imagine? Seven years in existance and they didn't have a mission statement. Well, they do now. Beyond that, I've been answering phones, taking messages, ordering peons - I mean 'volunteers' - around. I know, exciting. I'm mildly stressed today, but mostly, things are good. I'm enjoying myself. Some of the films I've seen have really impressed me.

There were two films screened last night that really made an impact on me, but the short drama works were all pretty high quality. The first one that really impressed me was filmed in Toronto and is called Big Girl. It's about a little girl and her single mother and her mother's boyfriend. The girl hates the men her mom brings home, more on principle than for any tangible reason. So, she and the boyfriend enter into a competition by which, best out of five, they vie for what they want. Should the daughter win, the boyfriend gets out of the picture. Should the boyfriend win, the daughter has to suck it up and be nice to him. It was surprisingly touching as well as being quite humourous and the acting was a real stand-out. The second film that I really enjoyed was by the Norwegian filmmaker, Egil Pedersen, called Vakenatt (Awake at Night). It's a very simple film, one location, two actors only with very standard cinematography. The acting and direction shines, though, making the pain of the moment come alive. It's about a couple, disfunctional after the loss of their infant, and a particular interplay between them after the man has been out drinking and the woman alone in the house, cleaning out the baby's things. Extremely powerful. The director is here for the festival, too, and he's my neighbour at the B&B where I'm staying. He's my age, very humourous and open and quite a bit of fun.

Although I'm working my buns off, I've had a few minutes here and there to enjoy myself. There are the drinks at Bombay Peggy's (named for the Madam who operated the brothel it once was), which is an inn and very fine pub. There are tasty breakfasts and good coffee from Riverwest Cafe. I've been to people's homes for dinner twice - Friday night's serving as a combined Easter/Passover/Birthday dinner. People are very friendly here and Dawson is an amazingly egalitarian spot. Seriously, Native, non-native, all walks of life; everyone treats everyone like an equal. There is a surprising lack of prejudice at all. In fact, if it weren't so damn cold, I'd call it utopian (some people, not bothered by the cold, already do).

One of the interesting things I've done has been to walk across the still frozen Klondike River to see "Caveman" Bill's dwelling. It's - you guessed it - a cave ! In fact, it's three caves. They're not natural caves, I don't think, probably hewed from the rock face back during the Goldrush days. Anyway, the central cave is about 12 feet deep, maybe a bit more, it was kind of hard to judge, and is set up with a little seating arrangement, a single bed, a wood stove and kitchen shelving. Outside the entrance is the cooking set-up. There is a storage-type cave is to the left and to the right is the Chicken Cave. Yes, it's where Caveman Bill keeps his chickens ! He has nine laying hens and one rooster and he sells his "Cave Eggs" in town. He's originally from Orillia, ON and lived in Toronto for ages where he was a street performer. He came to Dawson ten years ago, set up camp in the middle cave and as the season progressed, people started to ask, "You're not gonna live in a cave through the winter, are you?" His response? "Well, that sounds like an intriguing challenge !" And he's called it home ever since.

I'm not sure I'd want to live in a cave like his, it's a bit too rustic for my tastes, but it maintains heat far better than an exposed dwelling like a house and stays cool in the summer. It's just a little tricky to get to during river freeze-up and break-up. It was really amusing, because on our little impromptu tour was the MP, Larry Bagnall. On exiting the cave, as we crossed the river back to Dawson, he said, "Well, I can now say I've seen every constituent in Dawson." Which led to a discussion of a short film idea called: The Last Constituent.

Saturday nights are the hardest night of the week in terms of loneliness. For much of the week, I'm too tired and too busy to think much about home. Sure, there are moments where I feel my isolation keenly, but not like on a Saturday night. Maybe it's the fact that I'm relaxed, taking it easy... patterns of behaviour years old are broken. Saturday nights were nights for one of many things: hanging out with a video or movie on television with Mom, Dungeons & Dragons with the gang, or a date night with the boyfriend. Well, last night I got to experience D&D with a new and very different group, that doesn't really help my feelings of missing my friends back home. I have no TV and, well, no boyfriend here to cuddle up with. I don't even have a cat.

I miss people very much. I miss contact and love and things like that. I'm happy enough out here in the wilds of Canada's frontier lands and I know I'll make a good life for myself here. I have a job that is so far incredibly satisfying, and I'm connected to the world by many forms of media, but still, contact. Eventually, I'll be used to this place and it won't matter so much, but home is where the heart is, and mainly, that's a long way east.

Anyway, soon enough, I'll be heading to Dawson City for the Short Film Festival up there. That will be a strange and new experience and I'm looking forward to it. The folk up in Dawson seem really cool and quite with-it considering it's a town of something like 500 people in the winter and totally remote. Some in Whitehorse say Dawson is far more enjoyable and exciting than this city is. I guess I'll find out ! Then, the day after I return from the Film Fest, I'm off on a plane to Vancouver and then to Wales, via Amsterdam (ya, weird connector, I know). I'm looking forward to that trip even more. Not only will I visit with one of my very closest friends, I'll also get to head up to Leicester to participate in a learned conference hosted by the Uni of Leicester's Museum Studies Department. Gah, I can't wait ! This promises to be a very exciting month.

So, you can see how I can be filled with conflicting emotions about this whole living-in-Whitehorse thing. It doesn't change my strong desire to make a visit home in August, but with a car I'll need to buy and whatnot, I can't really see a way to afford it right now. Well, we'll see, we'll see.

I'm babbling. I guess I'll stop now and save you from any further ramblings.

Well, it's been a long haul, but tomorrow it all comes to an end. Tomorrow will see the completion of a thirteen day work cycle without a day off. Time flies when you're having fun... and when you're extremely busy, so in all honesty, since I was both, I can't really say I've been suffering. What I am is tired. Extraordinarily tired. I feel like I could sleep for a week and rather wish I could, but since I can't, I'll take as much time as I can in bed this weekend.

Putting together this show was a pretty amazing experience quite unlike those I'd had before. Many of the Arts Centre staff pitched in to help, mainly from the Gallery, but the theatre's technical director set the gallery lights today and did a marvellous job of it. He really brought the carved antler portraits to life. It's amazing just what the setting of a light can do. The teamwork exhibited was superb, with a genuine feeling of comraderie, which is not to say there wasn't sniping, bitching, and complaining, but overall, we all worked well together and shared the load.

It's humourous to me that I spent as much time as I did (which is to say, a lot) writing up condition reports, first for the out-going show and then for the incoming show. Apparently, I do a perfectly good job of condition reporting so nyaahh to my collections management instructor who said it wasn't my thing. Of course, I also spent a lot of time taking hangers off the backs of work and affixing better ones, rolling paint on walls, scraping spackle into holes and other sundry activities. It was today's activity that I quite possibly enjoyed the most. This will possibly sound fairly anal and strangely compulsive coming from someone who generally comes across as pretty laid-back, but truly, applying the vinyl titles to the walls today was a great deal of fun.

Working mainly with Matt, one of the preparators, with some assistance from Sarah the intern, I got to put up three titles on the wall. Have you ever wondered how those big letters get pasted up on the walls? Sure, sometimes they're painted or screened on, but often they're printed vinyl. Like a cross between car window clings and gigantic Letraset, these titles were massive poster lengths of text sandwiched between sheets of coated paper that had to be peeled off (from underneath) and pressed onto the wall with special rubber-spatula-type tools. Before we could do any of that, though, we had to measure, line up, centre, level and tack up each line in the place we wanted it. While levels and tape measures were made use of, so were our eyes. Matt had to agree, I am something of a human level. It also turns out I'm a pretty excellent judge of inches. We bonded while we worked and laughed a lot, which was a foil to the tension of the job. Once a letter is up on the wall, it's very difficult to get it off or reapply it so with each line we only really got one chance to get it right. And, with only minor set-backs and hitches (tears, bubbles, etc.), we did it.

The opening itself was pretty good. It was well attended and everyone seemed to have a fairly good time. People actually looked at the art, discussed it, and stuck around until almost ten o'clock. The Curator had to actually start herding the remaining people out the door. I didn't get home until after eleven o'clock and I'm really tired now. Tomorrow, I get to lead a group of people from, and visiting, the Chamber of Commerce on a tour of the new gallery show. I wonder what I'll say. Heh. I'm sure I'll think of something.

I had my doubts about this weekend. I was being sent to an Arts Summit in town and was apparently signed up for it even before I had arrived in Whitehorse. Granted, much of the conference did end up being a review of things I already knew, or had experience with, and the first morning began with the over-used and terribly cliche "mind-map exercise", nonetheless, it was a good experience. I was able to introduce myself to many of the poeple with whom I'll be working and generally make myself known to some of the Yukon arts community. And, perhaps most importantly of all, I did glean some insights and ideas from a couple of the sessions, in particular, the session on getting results from your endeavours, and the very poorly attended (or should I say 'intimately' attended?) session on voluntarism. The latter was quite interesting for me as the Gallery has a serious shortage of volunteers, as in, none. It was also interesting because the executive Director of the Centre sat in on this with me so we basically went back and forth and used the YAC as our model. In the end, we came up with nothing definitive, but I now have a tentatively scheduled meeting with the voluntarism consultant later this week.

Yesterday, there was a session for which neither myself or the intern had any interest. Succession Planning is not an issue that touches us quite yet. As the hour long session butted up against a fifteen minute break, we decided to hop into the YACmobile and take a drive up the Alaska Highway. And so, that is exactly what we did. We drove about half an hour north of Whitehorse and before needing to turn around to head back. Within seven minutes, we were out of the city and in the middle of... well, I hesitate to say 'nowhere'. When you're surrounded by rank upon rank of mountains, rising one above the other, and there are nearly sheer drop-offs on either side of the two-lane highway filled with spruce, jackpine, poplars and birch, and there are fluffy clouds rolling down the sides of the higher mountains... Well, anyway, it certainly felt remote (which is is) and despite the "9-1-1 will no longer work" sign informing you of your remoteness, the surreality of the scenery does not make it feel like a nowhere. We took some particularly stupid tourist photos at a look-out, and then turned around and headed back into the town. Just that little foray into the wilderness was enough to make Whitehorse look like a booming metropolis.

Time is flying like a sparrow in a hurricane. I've already been here for four weeks. Busy does not even begin to express what I am. When I get home in the evenings, often after 7pm, I make dinner while listening to the CBC (oh, bless you, Canadian Broadcasting Corporation !) and then settle down with Kinsey and play on the MUD for a few hours before showering and hitting the hay. Sometimes I manage to read for a bit before I conk out, or do a crossword, but more often than not, I lie down and within minutes, I'm unconscious.

Spring has finally sprung, and hopefully it will last now. After a month of -30 degrees, this +5 degree business is a relief. It feels like an heat wave. Whitehorse is becoming somewhat gruesome, though, as the hardpack starts to melt revealing all the layers of sand for the road and accumulations of dog crap, massive turds made by massive sled dogs. Kind of gross. I bet the slopes around the city look fantastic when the flowers start to bloom, though. I look forward to that. I understand that May is lovely.

I have begun the search for an apartment, and if things go alright tomorrow at the viewing I have scheduled, I may well have one. I won't get my hopes up, but it certainly seems to fit my needs, at least in description. It will even allow me to have a cat (or two !). People seem to have a strange idea of what being a good pet owner means, and so a lot of apartments are pet-free zones. Also, apartment prices vary widely up here. In some instances, because of electrical heating (ouch), they can run more expensive than an apartment in Toronto. Crazy, I know. Anyway, this place is available in May, and if I'm lucky, the cat at the Humane Society with which I may be smitten may also still be available in May. For the cat's sake, I hope he gets adopted first, but I know I'll be a wonderful pet owner for him, so I'd like him to be mine.

Last night was the "Burning Away the Winter Blues" festival. It was a strange family event with strong pagan overtones that celebrated the return of the sunlight to the Yukon. It's been running for about eight years and has varying popularity. Maybe 200 people came out for it, which is actually less than I'd expected, but considering they market it to the arts community, rather than the wider community of Whitehorse, I guess that's a good turn-out. Each year, someone constructs an effigy to represent, I suppose, Old Man Winter, which is then paraded along the river to a great big bonfire and ceremonially thrown in the flames. This year, there was a dragon puppet, kind of like a Chinese dragon, that 'fought' with the effigy before triumphing and hurling Winter into the fire. People are encouraged to bring things to burn and there are refreshments served, etc. It was fun, but poorly organised, and the poor guy carrying the effigy didn't even get offered a glass of water at the end, nor did he receive any thanks for carrying this thing for 45 minutes along a slippery, snow-covered path. Anyway, I decided that Old Man Winter was my representation of George Bush and we were burning him to celebrate the 3rd anniversary of the War in Iraq, which apparently the USA hasn't, in fact, won. It made for me the whole thing a much more poignant cleansing ritual.

Now I must don my coveralls, originally bought for my Rosie the Riveter costume for Hallowe'en last year, and go help paint in the gallery. The paint was donated, but not the labour (nice), so we have to do it. Of course, I have no appropriate footwear for this activity, so hopefully they won't mind me using bare feet. If they do, I'll wear my socks.

I have not mentioned it, mostly because I really didn't know what to say, but our beloved Julie was hospitalised eight days ago for what was apparently another stroke. This is a terrible set-back. Some of you might remember that she had a stroke in the spring of 2001 and it was a very serious bleed that did a lot of damage. It has been a long struggle for her to regain as much mobility as she had, even with a fall a couple years ago that broke her hip. But, she was able to write and draw and work had just begun at the house to have an elevator installed to take her back to her upstairs studio space. And then, a stroke. It has affected the other side of her brain compromising her stronger side, particularly in her leg, and has utterly sapped her strength.

When I speak to her on the phone, which I've done twice, I hear the frustration, exhaustion, and disappointment in her voice. I feel so helpless. The first time she had a stroke, everyone could take shifts in the hospital with her, but five years later, her husband is older, more fragile. Her children both have small children of their own. My mother is not as well as she was and cannot visit as often as she would like. And I no longer live anywhere near Toronto. It hurts my heart that she is in the place she is and I can do nothing but think of her and call her. I feel my isolation here and can only imagine the isolation she surely feels relegated to an hospital bed. I hope she is able to move to a rehabilitation facility soon.

In other news, today was a Toronto kind of day in Whitehorse. No, we didn't suddenly have an immigration spike, nor a drive-by shooting. Instead, it is slightly above zero degrees and wet snow has been lightly falling for the last ten hours or so. It's wet and mucky out. Warm, but mucky, snow sticking to everything and soaking through the ankles of my jeans. Is it strange that it made me feel homesick? I suppose not. But it made me think of the times I ate fresh wet snow off of tree branches, went sledding behind my school, and a myriad other strange nostalgic memories. Maybe it was that I was watching the kids playing in the park and doing the things kids do. My lunches, filled with the Art Camp kids, are a lot of fun. Today, getting over a migraine, though, I took it easy and mostly just observed them, rather than actively playing with them.

The dynamics of children are complicated. There is a constant testing of boundries, shifting of roles, and pushes for supremacy. In this group, when left to its own dynamics, there are a pair of children who lean toward the bully side of things, and a third who can be careless with the feelings of her friends, but ultimately, they're all a good group of kids. I know the art teacher has had real problems managing them, but I haven't. This doesn't suprise me; I lay down the rules and talk to kids at their level without resorting to concepts of interaction that simply do not apply to children. Kids respond to respect and contact, but they also take advantage of those they deem weak.

On Monday, they all wanted to test me. How much could they get away with. I had to figure out what was my limit and let everything under it roll off of me like water from a duck's back. When the limit was reached, swift warnings were given. When it was passed, I cut them off and shut them down. I cannot really explain how I do it, but it almost always works. Sometimes I must sound harsh, but bullying and disobeying is not something I'm willing to tollerate - and I have a high tollerance for kids 'being kids'. Yesterday, the testing was less. They had all figured out that I am lenient and fun, and by not pushing my buttons (hah, I sound like my mother), the fun was continual. The fun stops when the behaviour changes. Ultimately, fun is better than not-fun. Heh. Imagine that. Kids aren't stupid by any stretch.

Today, when I went in and asked them to keep their voices down and not to man-handle me because I had a very bad headache, every single one of them respected that. Even I was surprised. Before we could leave for the park, one of the six year olds, a girl who can be very bossy, told me that one of the group was hiding. It was the six year old boy in the group and he was hiding behind the upright piano. I crouched right down in front of him and asked him what was the matter.

Boy: Please, just leave me alone.
Me: I can't just leave you alone, we have to go as a group. What's the matter?
Boy: I don't wanna say. Just leave me alone.
Me: You aren't gonna tell me?
Boy: (shakes his head)
Me: (pushing back his hood and brushing the hair out of his face) Hey sweety, did someone say something to you? Was someone mean to you?
Boy: (nods his head)
Me: Ohhh nooo. Who was mean to you?
Boy: My friend.

I knew who he meant - it was the little girl who told me he was hiding. I went and collected her from the group and brought her behind the piano. The other kids totally knew I was "dealing" with someone and fell silent. Behind the piano was out of their eyes, though, and semi-private. I stood her in front of the boy and crouched down again, this time facing her.

Me: ***** tells me you were being mean and bossing him around. It is not nice to boss people around, hon, and it has to stop, do you understand?
Girl: (miniscule head nod but with a defensive glare)
Me: You have to appologise.
Girl: (stoic silence)
Me: Do you like it when people boss you around, tell you what to do? Do you like it when people are mean to you and hurt your feelings?
Girl: (shakes head and whispers, defiant look replaced with big, round, glistening eyes) No...
Me: I don't like it when people are mean to me, either. By doing it to *****, you hurt his feelings and to make it better, you have to appologise.
Girl: (turns to the boy) I'm sorry.
Me: (nodding to her, I turn to the boy again) Do you accept her appology for hurting your feelings?
Boy: (looks at the girl, then nods) Yes. It's okay.

I turned, then, and hugged the little girl, thanking her for understanding. Then to the boy, I asked if he was ready to go to the park and he said yes. I took his hands and helped him up and hugged him, too. The two kids looked at each other and gave little smiles that communicated more than their words ever could and then she hugged me and he grinned and joined the group. The rest of the kids knew that something 'serious' had just happened and very thoughtfully did not ask what.

The next incident didn't happen until we were at the park, when one of the bullies got a taste of her own medicine and cried foul to me. My response was simple. "I don't care who did what to whom, do you understand? I care that it does not happen again, do I make myself clear? When you're with me, you treat each other respectfully and fairly and you do not tease or bully anyone else. You treat each other the way you want other people to treat you. Do I make myself clear?" I think there must have been an implied threat in my tone because they cut it out and went back to playing really well together, laughter filling the park again. When we got back to the studio, I stuck around, despite my head, for another hour and a half, to help with the sculpey projects they were starting. Everyone was helpful and co-operative, to the point where their instructor, who gets totally frazzled by them, actually started to relax and have some fun, herself.

When I left, they all told me to feel better and waved.

On my first day at the Yukon Arts Centre, a beautiful bouquet of spring flowers arrived from my mother (and Chester). Although I've pulled out the tulips and some of the little purple flowers have dried up and died, half of the bouquet is still fresh and remains quite attractive - twelve days later ! I, too, am feeling fresh (and attractive !) twelve days into my posting. I've already done a fun variety of things, including hanging a massive 70-piece salmon-related exhibition in the children's gallery. I particularly like the metre-and-a-half long papier mache salmon, which we ingeniously strung from the ceiling. The people are fun and although I'm having some difficulty figuring out exactly what my role here is, I am enjoying it.

I am starting to enjoy Whitehorse, the town, too. Small though it may be, it has many of the things I've come to expect in any locale that claims to be a city. It even has a decent comics/gaming shop on Main Street. It's not The Silver Snail, mind you, but it serves the purpose and they can order things for me. I even took the proactive step of giving them my contact information should anyone be seeking a player for a more 'mature' D&D or similar fantasy-style game. I figure, what the hell? It's a way to meet people outside of work. I have also eaten in one fantastic Mexican restaurant and one less fantastic, but still yummy, Indian place. Restaurants are expensive up here as everything is trucked in and anything 'exotic' is particularly tricky to come by. I also found a decent music store and there is a bookstore I'm itching to browse through. Additionally, I went to the Humane Society and put my name down to start volunteering there. I hope to go there on Thursday for the first time to actually get involved in it. I guess it's a good way to meet the animals and for the cats to figure out which one wants me as a 'mom'. :)

The weather is glorious, if a bit chilly. In twelve days, I think this is only the second cloudy day. I cannot get over how bright and sunny it is. The days have already visibly lengthened since my arrival and probably by the end of the month we'll have surpassed Southern Ontario in daylight hours. I look forward to having a car of my own to explore the surrounding countryside, but when the snow clears, there is also a bicycle at my disposal. I'm not sure I'm quite fit enough to effectively tackle Two-Mile Hill, but there's only one way to find out, right? I have already started to browse the car dealership websites and adverts, though, because this really is a car town. It sprawls up and down mountain sides for kilometres. I've already determined that Subaru is right out of my range, since they no longer make an entry level vehicle. Also, I've determined that it is not necessary to have four-wheel-drive here - most people don't. People seem to do just fine with good winter tires. It looks like entry level Kia or Toyota are my two best choices here. Anyway, we'll see. I do not look forward to paying for a car. Who knows, for summer weekends, it may make more sense just to rent one. I'm more concerned that I find a permanent place to live for May.