A new look. Again. And other stuff

You know what? Let's just talk about the "other stuff". Which other stuff? Let's talk about Glenn.

Glenn is my boyfriend. He's a kind, giving man, funny, articulate, and damn smart and he lives with a quacky cat. He plays guitar and sings, impersonates voices and works as a retail manager. Sometimes he worries too much.

I met him in the fall, October, to be exact, on plentyoffish.com right about the time when I'd decided to give it up. I'd met and dated a few nice (and not so nice) guys and the novelty had worn off. I was taking what was essentially one last survey of what was out there when I came across a profile with a goofy, but not unattractive guy staring out, accompanied by what was probably the most open and honest bio I'd seen. So I sent him a message.

We had our first date at the Alex P. Keaton, my favourite (lately closed) pub in London. By the time I'd finished my first pint, I'd informed him that the photos on his profile didn't do him justice, because he was "kind of hot." I still maintain this. By two pints and a bit, my inner monologue had leaked out and I stated quite bluntly, "You know, I'd totally shag you silly." He seemed taken aback, but not displeased.

Many doubts about my feelings for Gareth made me freak out a bit in the beginning, and I'd be lying if I said they didn't sometimes catch me off-guard now, because they do. But I like Glenn. A lot. And since New Years or so we've been exclusive. I don't know where this relationship will go, or how long it will last, but it's good and healthy and I care for him a great deal. So that's the story about Glenn.

Or at least part of it. I could talk more, but I don't know if I feel comfortable doing so in this forum. Funny, eh?

Insight

Thanks to a discussion I had with an artist on dA, I offer you my insight for the day. Or week. Or however long it takes for me to come up with another vaguely insightful journal entry.

I had an illustration teacher in high school who was often quite sage, despite continuing to wear the same polyester pantsuits he'd been wearing since 1973. He particularly liked me, maybe because I could see beyond lavender and plaid, and he let me sit in with him when he graded students' work (mine included). "I give ---- a good grade because he's clearly done good work; the composition is good, the flow is dynamic. But he's in a rut. It's the same exact thing, with different characters, every time. He shows no growth. Artists have to grow. Their work has to develop. Even Disney wants a well-rounded portfolio from their artists, more than big eyes and Barbie waists, even if that's all they'll end up drawing..."

A movie review of Slumdog Millionaire

Slumdog Millionaire is not City of God, so if you didn't like the latter, you might still like the former. I loved the latter, by the way. As far as I know, Slumdog Millionaire is not based on a true story, although there is arguably a lot of truth in it, but instead based on the prize winning novel Q & A.

The film uses a creative and non-linear approach to telling the protagonist's story, which I won't go into, through flash-back and recollections juxtaposed with the present. I often dislike the flashback approach, but this works, telling many stories that build the whole. The cinematography is outstanding. Often quick and jarring, it's never nauseating, pretentious or overdone (by which I mean there's none of that spinning, shaking or ridiculous crane shots). The editing does what it's supposed to do, enhance the telling of the story, and at no time is the story subsumed by look-at-me-aren't-I-clever shots or unnecesary artistry. It feels very honest, all the way through, which is important because one of the film's themes is honesty.

The acting is good. I won't say that it's great, because it's not, but it is better than adequate and, in the case of the children, who were/are slum-dwellers in real life, utterly delightful and humourous as only kids can be. The lead, Dev Patel, is very good. At first I wasn't sure of him, but he totally folded me into the story. He's not ridiculously handsome - he's believably cute in a real-person kind of way. He's a little bit goofy looking. The female lead, Freida Pinto, had apparently never acted before, although she's an Indian fashion model. She's not bad. She fulfills the need of being beautiful while not taking away from the film. Once again, I want to stress that the kids are fantastic. The Brits are amazing at finding the perfect, real, natural children to play in film and they did a great job with this one, too.

Slumdog Millionaire is really good. You should go see it. It makes a perfect date movie, being equal parts action, drama, comedy and love story. I have no idea if it deserved the Oscars it won - I didn't see any of the other nominated films - but it was an excellent film and undeniably deserves praise.

Not so festive spirit

This time last year, I was struggling with spending my first 'stmas away from home, up in the Yukon. It was a nice enough time with friends up there, but I desperately missed being surrounded by old friends and family. As you can imagine, I was quite excited for this year's holidays because I'd be home again. Unfortunately, my delight has been tempered by a schedule too busy for card-making and most recently, sad news.

Two close friends of the family are in hospital. One is in varying health, up one day, down the next. She might be dying. It's unclear. The other is my mother's best friend, Julie, who has always been like a close aunt to me. She was just admitted to hospital with kidney stones for which they may have to operate. This is the same Julie who had the massive stroke a few years back. Julie's latest health concern was almost too much for my mother to process as only two days before, we'd heard from another close friend's husband...

Saturday morning, we lost a close friend to what was apparently cardiac arrest. While none of us were surprised by her death - alcoholism had been taking its toll for some time - the timing and how quickly it happened were pretty shocking. We have been estranged from this friend and her husband for a couple of years now as the drinking was almost intollerable. In recent months, there had even been discussion among other mutual friends about an intervention. For almost a decade, my family, another family and this couple had done Christmas dinner together. She was welcoming to my mother when my mom first moved to Peterborough and helped my mother when she had her stroke. It's been a tragic decline watching as the booze changed her. An autopsy is being conducted on her and I won't be at all shocked if it comes back that she had more than just alcohol in her system. You don't drink the way she did if you're happy with your life. What a terrible waste of an intelligent, funny woman.

I pray that our hospitalised friends regain their health and return to their normal lives for the new year. It might be selfish, but I admit I don't know if I can handle more than one funeral over the holidays.

Other than that, I'll be spending my time with my mother and with close friends. My cats are already in Peterborough visiting their 'cousin' Willy. Apparently, they're getting along all right. I plan on writing my final paper of the taught portion of my degree, which is due the 7th of January, as well as putting together a workplan for the upcoming exhibits at ML. I should probably write my draft for the exhibition, too. So, I'll be busy, but at least I'll be able to sleep in.

I sincerely hope your holiday is full of love and good health. Merry Christmas, happy Hanukkah, etc.

Lest We Forget

My mother was born in Holland just weeks before the outbreak of war in 1940. As a child she spoke both English and Dutch. Her father, Jan, her aunt, Ina, her uncle, Gert, and the family doctor, Dr. De Groot, were all involved in the Resistance. Prior to that, her father was rode out to meet the German Army as a member of the mounted infantry and witnessed first hand (and with much disgust) as the Dutch cannons were quickly overpowered by German tanks.

I am, of course, half Jewish, thanks to my father. His family was in the USA already when war broke out and none of his immediate family was on active duty. But they had immigrated only a generation before from all the places under siege, and though I never had the chance to speak about the war with any of them, I am sure friends and family left behind suffered and died in battle and as victims of the Holocaust.

The summer of 1995, 50 years after liberation, my mother and I travelled to Holland to visit family. That summer was a drought and it was hot and dry and everywhere the normally verdant gardens and meadows were scorched and brown. On one day, we went with my mother's uncle to a small war cemetery not far from our family's home and abutting the German border. It's in one of the few hilly places in Holland. I had never visited a war grave before and although it was small, perhaps no more than 1000 graves, it was no less affecting. White headstones stretching out in carefully tended plots, cared for by school children, bearing crosses and stars of David and other symbols of faith. Most of the buried were Canadian soldiers. And there, just over the next hill, was Germany. It was deeply affecting and I carry still the memory of my outrage at the loss, the disrespect of human life, the utter insanity of the Nazi cause. Tears of rage coursed my cheeks as I screamed at the rolling hills beyond.

War and armed conflict are abhorant to me. If as much money were poured into diplomacy and peace-activities as is currently spent on war, I have no doubt this world would be a very different, better place. I am non-violent, which is not, by the way, the same as being a pacifist, but believe in standing up for one's beliefs and rights and in defense of that which is held dear. I could not imagine serving in Canada's armed forces, or any armed forces for that matter, although if it were a requirement of active citizenship, I probably would not oppose it. All that aside, regardless of whether or not I agree with the missions, I support the men and women who join and who are willing to fight. And I am grateful to the sacrifices of the past, the tremendous, bloody sacrifices men and women have made in defense of Canada, the world, and humanity.

Lest we forget.

When in Rome, eat your KD with ketchup

I just made (and ate) a pot of Kraft Dinner. As I poured ketchup on it I suddenly remembered a moment from my youth.

It was the summer of 1992, the summer I turned 15, memorable for a number of reasons, not the least an incredibly scary riding accident that could have killed me and for being indirectly struck by lightning. This has nothing to do with either event.

That summer I was lucky enough to attend a session at an incredibly posh riding camp in the Ottawa valley. It was the kind of camp that brought rich kids from around North America (and the Caribbean, if I recall), including diplomats' children, a number of whom brought their own horses for the entire summer. In one way, however, it was just like most camps: food was questionable at best.

Except for their macaroni and cheese. It's damned hard to screw it up, even in bulk. Mac & cheese was a saving grace. We all looked forward to it. I was sitting with other girls my age and two of them were from the USA. One was a strawberry-blonde princess from one of the Carolinas, I think South. The other I want to say came from California, but I don't remember for sure. The rest of the table was made up of Canadians.

As we came back to our table with our heaping helpings, every Canadian kids at the table reached for the ketchup bottle and whether they put it on top and mixed it in, or on the side, each one of us used it. I remember looking up at the two American girls and they both wore expressions of sheer revulsion and horror. The princess might even have moaned in disgust.

"That is absolutely disgusting," said the dark haired Californian girl, who was an incredibly talented rider.

"Oh my gawd," echoed the princess, "I think I'm going to be sick. How can you eat that?!"

The rest of us exchanged glances and most of us said, "What?" in unison.

"Ketchup... on your macaroni and cheese," answered both girls.

Again we exchanged looks. Someone was going to have to defend it. But who? I stepped up. "No, no, try it, it's good."

"No way."

"Here, try a bite of mine," I urged, having fully mixed my ketchup in as I am wont to do. "It really won't kill you, and maybe you'll like it." I gestured to the rest of the table and was encouraged by enthusiastic nodding.

"But it looks so... gross." The princess looked like her resolve was crumbling. She glanced at the Californian who sat with her arms crossed firmly shaking her head.

I pushed my plate toward the princess and smiled, "Look around the room. We're not the freaks here." The princess picked up her fork and held it tentatively over my plate. "Come on, I'm not telling you to jump off a bridge, it's food and it's good."

We watched in silence as she slowly dug in her fork and raised the orange pasta to her lips. The Californian looked appalled. "Go on," I encouraged, "I bet you'll like it."

"Oh my gawd !" she cried, loudly enough to turn heads at other tables. We all watched with wide eyes. "That is SO GOOD !" We all cheered and applauded and the princess reached for the bottle of ketchup.

The Californian was grimacing. "I can't believe you like it. No one does that to their mac and cheese in our country."

I was going to say something, but before I could, the princess turned and spread her hands, "Well duh, we're in Canada now. Gawd."

Prime Minister Harper, you are an Ass

In which Harper demonstrates his lack of understanding of the arts, culture and heritage in Canada, or even what an 'ordinary canadian' is.

Harper talks about ordinary Canadians and how they don't care about the arts. Ordinary Canadians who watch films? Television? Take their kids to dance class and music lessons? Ordinary Canadians who go to the museum, even if it's just once a year? Ordinary Canadians who listen to music?

His comments demonstrate that he does not actually grasp what these cuts are and who they affect. These cuts hit museums, galleries, theatre groups, independent music producers and publishers, as well as the individuals thoughout the arts

The people who attend 'rich galas' are his peers, not mine, not yours. Artists are invited to them so that Harper's peers can feel cultured and special. Any artist who's ever received a grant will tell you that grants do not make artists/writers/musicians/performers/museums/galleries rich, or even, for the most part, financially secure. And the majority never receive grants at all.

Mr. Harper, please stop speaking about things you do not understand.

Names I like/dislike redux

Back in 2002, I made up a list of names I really liked and disliked. One of my co-workers here at the museum is preggers and we were discussing baby names. I dug up my list and sent it to her just for kicks. And it got me thinking. Many of the names I dislike are due to associations with people from my past, but in the last six years, some names have become less heinous thanks to new, positive associations. Still wouldn't give the names to my kids (if I ever have any), though.

Anyway, because I'm enjoying a slightly slow day, here's my new list of names. I'll put a strike-through the names which are no longer on my lists, then I'll add new ones.


Names I liked back in 2002:
Adelaide, Stephen, David, Jude, Claire (hi mom !), Anne, Phalar, Thomas, Jack, Ben, Kieran, Megan (and with an H, but not spelled Meagan), Ian, Catherine, Emma, Aaron, Isaac, Ellen, Justin, Chavah, Olivia, Robert, Jeffrey (and with a G), Julie, Evan, Gregory, Nigel, Johanna, Nathaniel (Nathan), Jasmine, Laurel, Lucifer (shush, it means 'bringer of light'), Michael, Vivian (for either male or female), Claudia, Uriel, Maya (Mom got offended that I hadn't put it on, and yes, I LOVE my name), Ira, Ruth, Judas, Rachel, Matthew, James (not Jim), Solomon, Avrum and Eshe

Names I disliked back in 2002:
Crystal (or with a K), Todd, Ilia, Janet, Jane, Janice (or any other variants), Paula, Dalton, Roy, Gordon, Jake, Lyn (or any variant), Elaine, Courtney, Courtleigh, Caitlin, Jordan (spelling it with a G is fine), Ron, Wendy, Saul, Olive, Larry, Brad, Chad, Chaz (who thought that one up anyway?), Melinda, Alana, Frank, Ursula, Ainsley, Georgina, Harold, Nelly, Roger, Telly, Vince, Bernice, Abner, Mabel, Tammy


Names I can add to my like-list:
Caroline, Maude, Ranier, Evelyn (for a man), Joshua, Ffion, Beverly (male or female), Gareth

And names which go on my dislike-list:
Emily (how did I forget this one before?), Joy, Hilary, Earl

Excellent. Now it is time for lunch. Thank you for allowing me to waste your time.

Oh Internet

The last time I did any serious thinking about my childhood neighbours in Brooklyn and tried to find information on the Internet about them, the resources were a good deal slimmer than they are now.

Anyway, the neighbours in question are the Scopos and the information I refer to is about the death of Joe Sr. I used to play with Joe Jr when I was a little girl. We didn't stay in touch with them when we moved away in the early 80s, but Joe Sr. was killed just days before my nana died and so we were in New York while it was all still being discussed in papers and in passing. Seems my account of how it went was a little off, now that I've found some online resources, including the NYT article, but I was pretty close. There's also a page about the guy who did the hit.

Based on this list, it looks like Joe Jr. is in the Family. Also, apparently he's been indicted in some business. I had kind of hoped that by some miracle he'd have avoided it, but oh well. He had very good table manners as a kid.

Summer School

Leicester Day One

It’s pretty weird sitting in a hotel in Leicester, having just eaten possibly the most delicious lamb korma of my entire life, watching Field of Dreams on TV.

“Whoa, whoa, what are you doing?”
“I’m going to beat you with this crowbar until you go away.”

For some reason, Field of Dreams has come up several times in the last month when, beforehand, I probably hadn’t thought of it in a few years. It used to be one of my all time favourite films and as I watch it again now, I’m thinking maybe it still is. I’ve already cried twice. Man, that scene when Shoeless Joe first is on the field blows my mind.

Anyway, the weather sucks as does Gatwick Airport. The train was on time and comfy. It seems my ticket was for 1^st class, which was neat. Leg room and tables is nice.

After a short nap, but longer than intended, I called one of the staff in the Museum Studies department to find the pub where some of the students were having an informal meet. I met some of my fellow students and chatted about things.

Now back to Field of Dreams, a beautiful and poignant story about people, dreams, hopes and magic.

Leicester Day 2/3

I am having a marvelous time. It’s a bit weird, being here alone, in an inn, but also quite liberating. I usually stay with people I know when I travel, as I’m graced with friends and acquaintances around the world. I can do what I want and there is no one to judge me but Snuffles, my stuffed bear. And he’s dotty in his old age.

Last night, after a good day of school and excellent lectures, I went with several other students and staff to the pub, the Landsdowne (the same place I went on Sunday night). There was some fine ale imbibed, which on top of a couple of glasses of wine at the quiz/dinner night, left me buzzing merrily. There was chatting and a great deal of flirting, and general merry-making. This after my team won the quiz game, soundly beating the others. What did we win? Bottles of wine ! It’s still sealed, don’t worry.

Today we went into London on our field trip to the V&A. It was stimulating and fun and we got to meet new people as we were split off into groups. We were looking at ideas of Britishness and otherness, etc. Afterward, I went over to the Museum of Natural History, which was fun, and completely different and mindless compared to the working visit to the V&A.

After an Indian* dinner, where we were only marginally under-dressed (and received stern stares from a pearl-and-twin-set-wearing woman) I came ‘home’. I watched a terribly schmaltzy TV movie called The Abduction Club, a frivolous costume drama about love. It had attractive women, more attractive men, horses – what more could I want? It did have one particularly glaring error, however. Based on music and dress styles, it was apparently set in the mid-18^th Century, yet one character stated, and I’m paraphrasing, “Perhaps if there had been more soldiers like Powers, the Americans wouldn’t have won the war.” Oops.

Anyway, it made me lament my situation with Gareth all the more, because I know it’s over for us, no matter how much love we have. Schmaltzy fairy tales are just that.

* I use the term "Indian" loosely. It was Indianish, tasty, but not really great.

Leicester Day 4/5/6

The week has absolutely passed in a blur. It has been an amazing blur of classes, tutorials, workshops, drink, food, laughter and conversation. I have been surrounded by a wide array of intelligent people and from morning until night we have engaged in funny, though-provoking conversations on many subjects. I’ve made friends. I’ve been dancing at the student union pub and club. I’ve been drunk on museums as much as on drink. It has been wonderful. This is what university is supposed to be, I think, the sharing of opinions, debate and banter, research and camaraderie. I don’t know if these friendships will last, but the feelings will and when I feel overwhelmed by the course, stupid, out-of-my-depths, I will remember my time here and recall that I am doing this on my own. I am very sorry it’s over.

Here’s to next year.

PS. You can read more in depth coverage of the week at the Summer School Blog, with many photographs posted by me.

Where have I been?!

Everywhere. For real.

Feel free to catch up on my life at my LJ: http://mambolica.livejournal.com

I would like to come back to this one, though. I miss it.

Airport Sitting

Back-dated entry. The joke was: matched luggage, like a jet-setter, but jet-setters don't move to the Yukon. Oh really? Since moving to the Yukon, I have never travelled so much in my life. It didn't take me long to realise that people in the Yukon tend to get the Hell out whenever they can, and I'm no different. Maybe it would be easier if I did it on a Government salary, though. That would be nice. Well, next time I move someplace totally remote and off the beaten track, I'll remember that.

Anyway, I'm sitting at YVR, Vancouver International Airport, drinking an unfabulous Starbucks coffee, listening to golden oldies being piped in. Through the glass, across a waiting area, I am being stared at by a large, Cathay Pacific 747. I'm thinking how small the cockpit windows are compared to the whole nose of the plane. It's a bit disconcerting. International travellers are walking back and forth in front of me, all different walks of life, skin colours, shapes and sizes, and yet all of them have that same bewildered expression on their faces that says: I'm in an airport and I think I'm going the right way, but I'm not sure. Even the crew walking by have an element of this in their faces. The same very tall man has walked by twice now, looking no less confused than he did the first time.

I'm wondering now, where the myth of the tiny Asian person comes from, because as I sit here, I am impressed by many tall Asian men and a few tall Asian women, too. Sure, every so often a stereotype walks by, but not as many as I assumed. Also, some of these people are sporting the most amazing outfits, sometimes stylish, sometimes outlandish, frequently layered and heavy on textures. Wow.

I'm going to Los Angeles and I don't know what to expect. I've never been to West Coast USA before in my life, excepting Bellingham, WA this summer to catch the ferry. California, though, that's pretty exciting. I do not anticipate falling in love with it as I did Philadelphia when I first visited it, or Cardiff, Wales. But I am looking forward to fun, sun and smog. Yes, really, the smog too. Is that weird? I'm a big city girl at heart and smog, although gross and bad for you, is part of the city experience. Sometimes I like to know that the reason my eyesight is bad is because of particulate matter.

Some confused people are walking by; I suppose they've missed their gate, or can't find it. And the Cathay Pacific flight attendants - they're so adorable. Does that sound patronising? It might be, except, well, there's no other word for them. I flew Cathay in May when I went back to New York for Alfred's funeral. "Tuuu-buuu-wance, buck-o seat behrts preease !" All of them could have been characters in an anime, looking unbearably cute and pretty in their uniforms and getting all excited and flustered. I really liked Cathay Pacific, too, they still treat their passengers well.

My coffee is nearly finished and I'm contemplating following it up with an Orange Julius, but maybe I'll just use my money to buy a 15 minute massage at the spa down the terminal. Whoever thought to put in spa/massage areas into airports was brilliant and deserves to die a multi-millionaire. Honestly, I recommend it ! Sure, it's probably a bit overpriced and they don't work you like a real massage therapy session would, but if your knapsack, like mine, is really heavy and you slept poorly in an uncomfortable seat on the first leg of your journey, nothing says bliss like 15 minutes of having your flesh kneaded. Awwww ya. Okay, on that note, I'm off for some kneading.

Airport Sitting

Back-dated entry. The joke was: matched luggage, like a jet-setter, but jet-setters don't move to the Yukon. Oh really? Since moving to the Yukon, I have never travelled so much in my life. It didn't take me long to realise that people in the Yukon tend to get the Hell out whenever they can, and I'm no different. Maybe it would be easier if I did it on a Government salary, though. That would be nice. Well, next time I move someplace totally remote and off the beaten track, I'll remember that.

Anyway, I'm sitting at YVR, Vancouver International Airport, drinking an unfabulous Starbucks coffee, listening to golden oldies being piped in. Through the glass, across a waiting area, I am being stared at by a large, Cathay Pacific 747. I'm thinking how small the cockpit windows are compared to the whole nose of the plane. It's a bit disconcerting. International travellers are walking back and forth in front of me, all different walks of life, skin colours, shapes and sizes, and yet all of them have that same bewildered expression on their faces that says: I'm in an airport and I think I'm going the right way, but I'm not sure. Even the crew walking by have an element of this in their faces. The same very tall man has walked by twice now, looking no less confused than he did the first time.

I'm wondering now, where the myth of the tiny Asian person comes from, because as I sit here, I am impressed by many tall Asian men and a few tall Asian women, too. Sure, every so often a stereotype walks by, but not as many as I assumed. Also, some of these people are sporting the most amazing outfits, sometimes stylish, sometimes outlandish, frequently layered and heavy on textures. Wow.

I'm going to Los Angeles and I don't know what to expect. I've never been to West Coast USA before in my life, excepting Bellingham, WA this summer to catch the ferry. California, though, that's pretty exciting. I do not anticipate falling in love with it as I did Philadelphia when I first visited it, or Cardiff, Wales. But I am looking forward to fun, sun and smog. Yes, really, the smog too. Is that weird? I'm a big city girl at heart and smog, although gross and bad for you, is part of the city experience. Sometimes I like to know that the reason my eyesight is bad is because of particulate matter.

Some confused people are walking by; I suppose they've missed their gate, or can't find it. And the Cathay Pacific flight attendants - they're so adorable. Does that sound patronising? It might be, except, well, there's no other word for them. I flew Cathay in May when I went back to New York for Alfred's funeral. "Tuuu-buuu-wance, buck-o seat behrts preease !" All of them could have been characters in an anime, looking unbearably cute and pretty in their uniforms and getting all excited and flustered. I really liked Cathay Pacific, too, they still treat their passengers well.

My coffee is nearly finished and I'm contemplating following it up with an Orange Julius, but maybe I'll just use my money to buy a 15 minute massage at the spa down the terminal. Whoever thought to put in spa/massage areas into airports was brilliant and deserves to die a multi-millionaire. Honestly, I recommend it ! Sure, it's probably a bit overpriced and they don't work you like a real massage therapy session would, but if your knapsack, like mine, is really heavy and you slept poorly in an uncomfortable seat on the first leg of your journey, nothing says bliss like 15 minutes of having your flesh kneaded. Awwww ya. Okay, on that note, I'm off for some kneading.

Saving Toronto's Matador Club

I live in Whitehorse now, but for most of my life, Toronto has been my home. I've been amazed that the Matador has made national press on CBC Radio repeatedly. "Q" has covered it, which is probably available as a podcast from cbc.ca, and this morning I woke up to hear a major discussion about the Matador on "The Current".

It's on the radar and the City is looking pretty bad. The Parking Authority, an agent of the City of Toronto, is now talking about EXPROPRIATING the site for its incredibly backward-looking 20-unit parking lot across the street from the College St YMCA. This seems like madness to me, considering that this is an easily accessed intersection (by streetcar and bus) in a highly pedestrian neighbourhood.

Writing to Councilor Adam Giambrone is not the answer. He is ineffectual and hypocritical and you'll just get a form letter. Attached below is the letter you will receive. However, if you want to contact him, visit his website (which does not seem to mention the Matador at all, as if it were a non-issue, although it does link to his role as TTC chair and show a marquee of him sitting in the drivers' seat of a streetcar, no less). Take this higher - to the Mayer - take it to the street. Flood the media - CityTV, Global, CBC, CTV. Visit Speakers' Corner, write letters to the Editor. Rally, blog, do anything, but take this to the next level !

This movement needs organisation. I wish I could be there to help.

The form letter from Giambrone's office, wherein he passes the buck and effectively shrugs his shoulders:

Dear Resident,

Thank you for contacting me about this issue. I can confirm that the Toronto Parking Authority is interested in purchasing 466 Dovercourt Road, known as the Matador, for a new parking facility.

The TPA is an independent agency of the City, the municipal equivalent of a crown corporation. The TPA, not the City, funds its own capital purchases out of its own revenues. They do not come out of the City budget.

The TPA is pursuing this property because it has made a business case showing that it believes there is sufficent demand for parking in the area and it will be profitable for them to operate there. The owner of the Matador is willing to sell, and the TPA wants to buy.

The reason the TPA has come to the City is for the authority to expropriate if necessary. The expropriation process requires both a 'hearing of necessity' and third-party arbitration to determine the price if there is a discrepancy between the City's assessment and the seller's.

If the TPA does end up acquiring this lot, I want to use this opportunity to to make some real innovative changes to our community. How can we make it contribute to the pedestrian and cycling environment? How do we reduce its environmental impact? Are there opportunities for the inclusion of public art? Can some sort of memorial to the Matador be included?

I would like to invite community members interested in this issue to work with me and explote creative opportunities. Let's start sharing our ideas on how we can re-imagine and re-invent this space so that, if this purchase does happen, it ends up being a very different kind of parking lot than what this city is used to---one that contributes more to the neighbourhood than just space for cars.

You may also want to contact the TPA about this issue. Their website is www.greenp.com, their email is tpamail@toronto.ca, and their phone number is 416-393-7275.

Yours truly,

Adam Giambrone

Stardust

Stardust might very well be the lovechild of The Princess Bride and Gormenghast and as such, 20 years since the release of The Princess Bride, it might just be the heir to the fantasy-romance throne. As a fairytale, it is quite predictable, almost from start to finish, but it's not really about how it all shakes out in the end, but the journey it takes to get there. And it's about love, unfettered and unconditional, dreams and being all that we can be. It's also about goats and gay pirates - go figure.

Three years ago, I would have loved this movie but thought it just that, a fairytale. And then I met Gareth. I hope he sees Stardust and, just as I thought of him throughout, I hope it makes him think of me. I hope he and I have a future, but if we don't, at least, in that possible bittersweet ending, at least I will have had my star, for a little while, here on Earth.

Autumn

It's here, the fall, that is. The leaves have turned their yellows and oranges, have browned and curled, and in most places they've fallen from their branches. Tomorrow, the last of the 2007 cruise ships docks at Skagway, then the stores will be shuttered to wait out another winter. The days are shortening at a pace - the harsh price of those blissfully long summer days. The nights are frosty and the flowers in their planters are starting to wither. My strawberries, on the other hand, seem to be doing really well. I shall let them go dormant for a time once the cold really sets in, then I'll bring them inside and give them a start so that they may fruit earlier in the season.

The rain has been falling for the last several days, and at higher altitudes, the rain is replaced by wet snow that seems surprised that it can last more than a few seconds on the cold ground. There is a thin blanket of snow on the mountain tops already. The feel of the days reminds me of early November in Toronto, the drab days before winter decides to set in. The difference being that in Toronto, sometimes the winter never makes the decision. Here, on the other hand, snow will be a permanent feature come Hallowe'en.

My longing for the Cottage has passed with the ending of summer. I have to hope that next year I will visit. Two years away is too long. My longing for Christmas holiday at my mother's has not started yet and when it does, I shall be disappointed. I will make do with a short visit home in that drabbest of times, late November, and will enjoy it to the fullest. For now, all I really want to do is sleep, tucked up tightly with my cats, and wait for spring once more.

Summer's over

"Hot town, summer in the city, back of my neck gettin' dirty and gritty..."

That Lovin' Spoonful song is like an anthem (it's on the radio right now, forgive me) and there was a time I knew summer was come when it would get semi-regular playtime. It makes me a bit sad that I didn't get any real "hot town" weather this summer. I enjoy it for about a week every year, and then I want it to die. Well, although it reached the mid-20s here on several marvellous occasions, summer in the southern Yukon is a mild and fairly pleasant affair.

However, it's over now. We're probably dead centre in the glories of autumn now. The trees have been turning since the end of August and some trees are starting to look kind of bare. Within a week there might not be any leaves left at all. I've taken advantage of the fine weather a few times to go get some photography done. I can look forward to real frost, soon, too. We've had some patchy frost a couple of times, but later this week, it looks like the nighttime low will dip below 0.

As there will be no trips home for Christmas or to Wales (ever again?), I jumped at a seat sale and bought myself a plane ticket to visit LA over the Thanksgiving weekend. Now my Godmother, Liz, cannot complain that I don't visit. I know she'd kick my ass if I moved off somewhere else before visiting her. Her son, Orson, is apparently looking forward to seeing me again, too. They haven't seen me since 1996, when he was something like 8 or 9 years old. At the time I was quite fit from working with horses and at the stable and I picked him up and tossed him around like he weighed nothing. I hope he realises I can't do that to him any more ! Anyway, I'm looking forward to that trip.

Maybe in LA I'll get a delayed 'hot town' gritty summer. That would be nice.

Emotional Me

I wrote a poem tonight. The thing about me writing poetry is that it rarely happens and I'm either intensely hopeful/happy or deeply troubled. I can count on both my hands the number of poems I've written in my lifetime. The best, and sadly long-lost, being the one I wrote after spending a strangely special night with a musician that I didn't quite date. But I was hopeful. Tonight's probably isn't very good and it's pretty depressing. I guess the kids nowadays would call it 'emo' or something. ;) I really hate that term. But it is pretty emotional and it's sure not happy.

For myself and for him, I've decided to think in terms of being single. Gareth needs the space to do what he's got to do and I need to get over being heart-broken all the time and hoping for a future that may not come to pass. I need to get on with things. I'm reminded of that year when Tracy vanished from my life... Of course I want for this to end similarly, with it all working out the way I hope and pray it does. I'm setting myself up for disappointment, though, so I'm trying very hard to move on. I need to put the same emotional distance between us as he is, I need to free myself and prepare for a different future than I'd wanted.

No easy task.

Anyway, I'm not going to share my poem. It's private. But I'm not looking forward to another lonely winter in Whitehorse, that's for sure.

Instead, I'll give you the incredibly apt lyrics from the Mika song, Happy Ending:

"Happy Ending"

This is the way you left me,
I'm not pretending.
No hope, no love, no glory,
No Happy Ending.
This is the way that we love,
Like it's forever.
Then live the rest of our life,
But not together.

Wake up in the morning, stumble on my life
Can't get no love without sacrifice
If anything should happen, I guess I wish you well
A little bit of heaven, but a little bit of hell

This is the hardest story that I've ever told
No hope, or love, or glory
Happy endings gone forever more
I feel as if I feel as if I'm wastin'
And I'm wastin' everyday

This is the way you left me,
I'm not pretending.
No hope, no love, no glory,
No Happy Ending.
This is the way that we love,
Like it's forever.
Then live the rest of our life,
But not together.

2 o'clock in the morning, something's on my mind
Can't get no rest; keep walkin' around
If I pretend that nothin' ever went wrong, I can get to my sleep
I can think that we just carried on

This is the hardest story that I've ever told
No hope, or love, or glory
Happy endings gone forever more
I feel as if I feel as if I'm wastin'
And I'm wastin' everyday

This is the way you left me,
I'm not pretending.
No hope, no love, no glory,
No Happy Ending.
This is the way that we love,
Like it's forever.
Then live the rest of our life,
But not together.

A Little bit of love, little bit of love
Little bit of love, little bit of love [repeat]

I feel as if I feel as if I'm wastin'
And I'm wastin' everyday

This is the way you left me,
I'm not pretending.
No hope, no love, no glory,
No Happy Ending.
This is the way that we love,
Like it's forever.
To live the rest of our life,
But not together.

Self expression

I did art tonight, rather than my essay or sleep. It's 5am.


Seeking Solace - 2007 by *Mambolica on deviantART

It's neat, because I don't usually do digital art and this is worked out entirely on the computer with stock images and serious reference stuff, and I painted it in photoshop7.

Call it escapism. It's my RoD character, Suliss, as an elder priestess, knowing her time is come. Yup, I think I'm killing her off.

Faith

I am writing this post as a personal response to an article in the LA Times, written by the paper's former religion columnist. It's a very moving piece of writing about a spiritual journey that took him in a direction he'd never expected: the loss of faith.

I have faith. In some ways it is deeply at odds with the rest of me, my doubt and skepticism, more than anything. I used to call it spirituality, what I possess, but let's be honest. It's faith. What I do not have, nor do I want, is religion. I consider myself, if pressed, a Judeo-Christian-Paganist. Haha. My little joke. I'm culturally closer to my Ashkenazim roots than anything else, but I'm no practicing Jew. I try to observe the High Holidays, not because I think it's my duty, but because I like to feel closer to my cultural roots. I don't beat myself up if I miss one. I also really enjoy Christmas. Not because it's the birth of Jesus, but because it's a beautiful and ancient holiday borrowed from several pagan traditions that predate any idea of "religion" common to the Western world. Even current polytheist religions don't quite compare.

My faith isn't tested by my belief in science, far from it, in fact. No, I look at the awesomeness of the universe, from the Big Bang to evolution to plate tectonics as facets of an incredible creation. Not Creation, as in the Bible, but I believe that something started it all off and put the ball in motion. Like I said, it's not spirituality, but faith. I choose to believe this.

Sometimes, I forget that I believe in the existence of something bigger than all of this. 'God' is a funny word. It doesn't seem quite right to me, mainly because I can't help envisioning a bearded white guy in the sky. I do not believe in that god. I don't want to say 'force' because this isn't Star Wars, but I prefer to think of 'God' as a something, intangible and invisible, but able to take the forms that people need in order to feel connected. Today, God is this rock. Tomorrow, perhaps God is you.

When I plead with 'God', I look up. This is not because I believe it is up above, but because, I think, by craning our necks backward, we are making ourselves vulnerable and in pleading to 'God', we are undoubtedly feeling vulnerable. I thought about this the other day as I wept in the shower. I felt, at that moment, as though my whole world had fallen in on me, Gareth had told me he needed a break. My plea was not to make him change his mind, but to give me strength to bear it, to be okay, because I believe that things happen for a reason, even though we rarely can see the why of it at the time it's happening.

No, I don't believe that 'God' actively intercedes in our lives, not really. I think it's more that 'God' has an unlimited energy or strength that when we are in need, and open to it, we can share. Does that sound strange? I am okay, and whatever the outcome is, I have to trust that it will work out. That's faith, not spirituality. But it's not religion. I do not need people to interpret for 'God'. People just screw it up. People get in the way. People have ulterior motives.

Among my friends I have counted Jews, Christians of many sects and stripes, Wiccans and Pagans, Hindus, Baha'i, Muslims, Buddhists, Atheists and agnostics. These people have been of various colours, creeds and sexual orientations. I tell none of them that by believing what they believe they are wrong, because they're not. I find no issue if they associate themselves with a particular religion or are lapsed, for our actions speak clearly about us as human beings, and there have been some awful people who did what they did under the mantle of religion.

When I was a teenager, I thought I would make it official. I had plans to study my Torah and have my bat mitzvah once I'd turned 18. I'd chosen not to when I was a child because I did not feel, coming from a multi-faith home, that I was ready to make such an important decision. Smart kid. Through my teens, I successively lost five relatives over the course of three years, not all close, but starting with my beloved Nana, and ending with my father. That final loss, when I was 18, threw my religious plans in a tailspin. I lost my faith, or so I believed. I was angry.

I hadn't lost it, it turned out, I simply put it somewhere safe and then forgot where I'd hidden it. It was two years later, maybe three, when I stumbled upon it once more. I don't remember what happened or where I was that triggered it, but I think that as a guess, it was probably my cottage. When I recovered my faith, I had found that my interest in associating it with a religion had disappeared. I was what I was and no brand name was going to change it.

I do not love 'God', but I have respect and I believe that 'God' is there when we need it.