Yes, it snowed in Ottawa this evening. Just as the sun was setting and I was getting up from a much needed nap -- filled with turbulent dreams spurred, no doubt, from my current read Three Day Road -- I saw the first flakes of the season.
And I was excited!
Weird, I know. But last year at this time I was in Hawaii, where Halloween wasn't the same and winter just meant wetness, no whiteness. When I finally arrived in Ottawa in January the snow was an assumed fact of life. And if we are going to make it through this season smiling or at least sane, we've got start it off with a bang, laughing and crying and knowing that winter in Ottawa is nuts.
So I ran.
Not far, mind you. But far enough to see some swirling leaf tornadoes and hear, through my iPod (yes, still needing musical motivation), a passerby whoop out a cackle at the oncoming storm. Long enough to smell woodsmoke. And fast enough to beat three yellow lights.
Bring it on.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Monday, October 27, 2008
It's been awhile ...
Me and my blog haven't spent too much time together lately. I've been busy with stuff in the 'real' world, most recently the Ottawa International Writers Festival.
So with all those writers around, my boyfriend asked me today 'have you thought about your blog? are you going to write in it again?'
My answer was yes, but first I have to run ...
Ahh. Much better. I"m hot under the collar but my senses are heightened after a 40 minute run to the canal and back home through the Glebe. Even found a patch of park I never knew aobut before.
Soon after I started I felt the baggage sway. My tummy, that is, up and down and up and down with every step, every bounce reminding me of late night beers and baked good mornings, of the Writers Fest that did a number on my usual, somewhat healthy, routine.
I was reminded of the physicality of writing in one of the sessions. Sonnet L'Abbe and Stephen Heighten, I believe. Anyway I know it was Sonnet -- who could forget a poet with a name like that -- who spoke of meditating, of bringing the words from a deep place within, of always trying to go, for lack of a better word, deeper.
My deep insides are hurting right now. I still have to do abs, and while the run felt good I have to admit I was using my iPod for extra motivation today so maybe I wasn't hearing my body cry out 'what's this? it's not beer or baked goods! you mean we [my legs, my gut, my will, etc.] still RUN?'
So I have to go attend to those parts and drink water and generally fuel the machine I plan on putting to good use over the next few months and years. 'Cause I do believe n the physicality of writing, but I can't expect much from a physical self existing off of beer and baked goods.
So with all those writers around, my boyfriend asked me today 'have you thought about your blog? are you going to write in it again?'
My answer was yes, but first I have to run ...
Ahh. Much better. I"m hot under the collar but my senses are heightened after a 40 minute run to the canal and back home through the Glebe. Even found a patch of park I never knew aobut before.
Soon after I started I felt the baggage sway. My tummy, that is, up and down and up and down with every step, every bounce reminding me of late night beers and baked good mornings, of the Writers Fest that did a number on my usual, somewhat healthy, routine.
I was reminded of the physicality of writing in one of the sessions. Sonnet L'Abbe and Stephen Heighten, I believe. Anyway I know it was Sonnet -- who could forget a poet with a name like that -- who spoke of meditating, of bringing the words from a deep place within, of always trying to go, for lack of a better word, deeper.
My deep insides are hurting right now. I still have to do abs, and while the run felt good I have to admit I was using my iPod for extra motivation today so maybe I wasn't hearing my body cry out 'what's this? it's not beer or baked goods! you mean we [my legs, my gut, my will, etc.] still RUN?'
So I have to go attend to those parts and drink water and generally fuel the machine I plan on putting to good use over the next few months and years. 'Cause I do believe n the physicality of writing, but I can't expect much from a physical self existing off of beer and baked goods.
Wednesday, June 25, 2008
in Flux
No, not an influx of inspiration or an influx of opportunities (though I suppose I have had plenty of chances, of various natures, recently). No, I am in a state of flux and it's affecting my blog.
And it's not acid reflux -- I kicked that about a year ago. The endoscopy hasn't come back yet but I'm guessing my G.I. will tell me I'm just a too stressed out, and it's affecting my tummy.
I'm between full time and freelance. Between a long-distance relationship and a live-in boyfriend. Between spring and summer (cause I don't quite trust that the rainy spell is over). Between endurance sports and capoiera! pick-up soccer! ultimate frisbee!
I like to play in the summertime. I like to give up my regimes and give into random team sports, sparring as the night grows on. Then out for beers to watch the game.
So I was determined to commit an entry every three days this June, then market my blog to the world and see what happens. Alas, the flux has me watching my back and flexing my limbs, always aiming for a smile and a calm, cool demeanor. 200 words is as much as I can muster, it seems...
And it's not acid reflux -- I kicked that about a year ago. The endoscopy hasn't come back yet but I'm guessing my G.I. will tell me I'm just a too stressed out, and it's affecting my tummy.
I'm between full time and freelance. Between a long-distance relationship and a live-in boyfriend. Between spring and summer (cause I don't quite trust that the rainy spell is over). Between endurance sports and capoiera! pick-up soccer! ultimate frisbee!
I like to play in the summertime. I like to give up my regimes and give into random team sports, sparring as the night grows on. Then out for beers to watch the game.
So I was determined to commit an entry every three days this June, then market my blog to the world and see what happens. Alas, the flux has me watching my back and flexing my limbs, always aiming for a smile and a calm, cool demeanor. 200 words is as much as I can muster, it seems...
Friday, June 20, 2008
Underused word of the day
Fishwife:
a coarse-mannered woman who is prone to shouting.
I was looking up fishy words for a piece I'm writing on Whalesbone Oyster House. I had oysters there this morning at 10 a.m. and they put me in a right snappy mood.
And I think I have now found the fishiest word of 'em all...
I found this interpretation at www.phrases.org.uk, and it really made me wish I shrieked like a fishwife more often:
In London, fish mongers were also known as "The wives of Billingsgate". according to Ackroyd, it is thought that they were descendants of devotees of the God, Belin who was worshipped there at one time. "They dressed in strong 'stuff'gowns and quilted petticoats; their hair, caps and bonnets were flattened into one in distinguishable mass upon their heads." They were also called 'fish fags'. "They smoked small pipes of tobacco, took snuff, drank gin and were known for their colourful language... A dictionary from 1736 defined a 'Billingsgate' as a scolding, impudent slut." You can almost imagine how they must have smelled.
a coarse-mannered woman who is prone to shouting.
I was looking up fishy words for a piece I'm writing on Whalesbone Oyster House. I had oysters there this morning at 10 a.m. and they put me in a right snappy mood.
And I think I have now found the fishiest word of 'em all...
I found this interpretation at www.phrases.org.uk, and it really made me wish I shrieked like a fishwife more often:
In London, fish mongers were also known as "The wives of Billingsgate". according to Ackroyd, it is thought that they were descendants of devotees of the God, Belin who was worshipped there at one time. "They dressed in strong 'stuff'gowns and quilted petticoats; their hair, caps and bonnets were flattened into one in distinguishable mass upon their heads." They were also called 'fish fags'. "They smoked small pipes of tobacco, took snuff, drank gin and were known for their colourful language... A dictionary from 1736 defined a 'Billingsgate' as a scolding, impudent slut." You can almost imagine how they must have smelled.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
Don't ya hate ... golf.
Golf is taking a lot of flack these days -- and so it should.
From soaring rates of cart accidents to second-guessing their right to drain our water resources and even taking the issue of golf as a pleasurable activity to court (and winning!), everyone seems to be picking on the little (white, moneyed) guy.
Me, I have a love-hate relationship with golf -- or should I say golf courses. Like Sports Illustrated writer Frank Deford, I feel that while "only God can make a tree, but golf course architects can make trees seem prettier, and golf course superintendents can make the grass greener, and the flowers brighter, so that even when you can't hit a fairway or sink a putt, a golf course certainly is an awfully lovely place to be frustrated." Or tired but tanned, meticulously pruning and mowing your way through an afternoon for $10 hour.
And, like Deford, I have seen first hand the environmental scourge that these oases of greenery are, by nature. Nevermind the pesticides flowing into waterways, or the gas spills that naturally occur when you put teenage boys behind the wheel of all-terrain vehicles and tell them 'quick, the Gator's out of gas and the first tee-off is in five minutes!'
No, it's the need for constant water that really plagues the regions that golf courses call home.
In the summer of 2003, while sitting out a summer, waiting for cracked pelvis to heal (another casualty of the golf industry: poor workplace safety records), I had a lot of time to look around my mountain town of Invermere, B.C. -- and watch it wither away for lack of water.
This was the same summer that saw B.C. break record after record for high heat, drought, and, of course, forest fires.
So while I absorbed the rays from my balcony, the bush and trees were dying and igniting. From Google maps it must've looked like Armageddon. I know that as I passed through Banff National Park in late August (that is, after an hour of waiting -- with the threat of fire so high, they could only let traffic pass through in spurts), I put on "The End" by the Doors and imagined it all falling away...
Though Deford insists that the golf industry is beginning to understand that it's fundamentally unsustainable, I'm doubtful. New grasses that require less moisture? Overseeding 'frowned upon'? There's only so far that recycled water can go, my friend, and fostering the notion that man can (and will!) control nature will be an uphill climb -- with a heavy load of metal sticks.
I call on golfers to follow the lead of Henry Rachfalowski, the financial executive who shunned golf -- and shocked his colleagues -- by refusing to golf. He not only set a precedent for individuals who are taxed on benefits they don't enjoy, but he also got people saying ... outloud, everyone, 'Don't you hate golf??'
Maybe this could be their swan song...
(I can see it: black ash raining down on their golf umbrellas as bit their lip and straighten their plaid collars)
The End
This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
Ill never look into your eyes...again
-- The Doors
From soaring rates of cart accidents to second-guessing their right to drain our water resources and even taking the issue of golf as a pleasurable activity to court (and winning!), everyone seems to be picking on the little (white, moneyed) guy.
Me, I have a love-hate relationship with golf -- or should I say golf courses. Like Sports Illustrated writer Frank Deford, I feel that while "only God can make a tree, but golf course architects can make trees seem prettier, and golf course superintendents can make the grass greener, and the flowers brighter, so that even when you can't hit a fairway or sink a putt, a golf course certainly is an awfully lovely place to be frustrated." Or tired but tanned, meticulously pruning and mowing your way through an afternoon for $10 hour.
And, like Deford, I have seen first hand the environmental scourge that these oases of greenery are, by nature. Nevermind the pesticides flowing into waterways, or the gas spills that naturally occur when you put teenage boys behind the wheel of all-terrain vehicles and tell them 'quick, the Gator's out of gas and the first tee-off is in five minutes!'
No, it's the need for constant water that really plagues the regions that golf courses call home.
In the summer of 2003, while sitting out a summer, waiting for cracked pelvis to heal (another casualty of the golf industry: poor workplace safety records), I had a lot of time to look around my mountain town of Invermere, B.C. -- and watch it wither away for lack of water.
This was the same summer that saw B.C. break record after record for high heat, drought, and, of course, forest fires.
So while I absorbed the rays from my balcony, the bush and trees were dying and igniting. From Google maps it must've looked like Armageddon. I know that as I passed through Banff National Park in late August (that is, after an hour of waiting -- with the threat of fire so high, they could only let traffic pass through in spurts), I put on "The End" by the Doors and imagined it all falling away...
Though Deford insists that the golf industry is beginning to understand that it's fundamentally unsustainable, I'm doubtful. New grasses that require less moisture? Overseeding 'frowned upon'? There's only so far that recycled water can go, my friend, and fostering the notion that man can (and will!) control nature will be an uphill climb -- with a heavy load of metal sticks.
I call on golfers to follow the lead of Henry Rachfalowski, the financial executive who shunned golf -- and shocked his colleagues -- by refusing to golf. He not only set a precedent for individuals who are taxed on benefits they don't enjoy, but he also got people saying ... outloud, everyone, 'Don't you hate golf??'
Maybe this could be their swan song...
(I can see it: black ash raining down on their golf umbrellas as bit their lip and straighten their plaid collars)
The End
This is the end
Beautiful friend
This is the end
My only friend, the end
Of our elaborate plans, the end
Of everything that stands, the end
No safety or surprise, the end
Ill never look into your eyes...again
-- The Doors
Sunday, June 15, 2008
The Book of the Year: 1960
It was one of those Sunday evening moments, like a relaxed, enjoyable phone call with your cousin or playful, invigorating game of soccer. I walked around my house in my pajamas.
The garbage was at the front of the house and the recycling at the back and I am responsible for putting the garbage out this month so yes, I walked around my house in my pajamas (and it's not the first time!).
And there, on Gilmour Street at Lyon, were two stacks of encyclopedias, tied up with string. Being the proud user of such reference books as a child (no Nintendo here), I stooped down to have a look. And there I saw it: the Book of the Year for 1960. Yes they had 1959 and a bunch of other regular reference texts, but I stuck with my gut and yanked 1960 out of it's twine.
Honduras -- Home furnishings. Communism. Baghdad Pact -- Baking industry. Motion Pictures.
Special feature on Hawaii! (The Island State?!!)
With Canadian Supplement!
I really don't know where to start, but I do feel a new part of my brain tingle. I've never been good at history, I've felt a total imbecile, actually, but I'm feeling this book might be good for something...though I have already noticed that the information is mostly about market prices and industry production.
But it is signed by Diefenbaker -- who, I have learned since my curbside find, was Canada's 13th prime minister (1957-1963).
The garbage was at the front of the house and the recycling at the back and I am responsible for putting the garbage out this month so yes, I walked around my house in my pajamas (and it's not the first time!).
And there, on Gilmour Street at Lyon, were two stacks of encyclopedias, tied up with string. Being the proud user of such reference books as a child (no Nintendo here), I stooped down to have a look. And there I saw it: the Book of the Year for 1960. Yes they had 1959 and a bunch of other regular reference texts, but I stuck with my gut and yanked 1960 out of it's twine.
Honduras -- Home furnishings. Communism. Baghdad Pact -- Baking industry. Motion Pictures.
Special feature on Hawaii! (The Island State?!!)
With Canadian Supplement!
I really don't know where to start, but I do feel a new part of my brain tingle. I've never been good at history, I've felt a total imbecile, actually, but I'm feeling this book might be good for something...though I have already noticed that the information is mostly about market prices and industry production.
But it is signed by Diefenbaker -- who, I have learned since my curbside find, was Canada's 13th prime minister (1957-1963).
Friday, June 13, 2008
Very Superstitious
Are you superstitious?
It's a tough question.
I would say no, but I believe that some 'omens,' call them indications if you want, can get the better of our ability to maintain a positive outlook and a sense that we're in control of things.
It's Friday the 13th ... and I have my second triathlon tomorrow.
On the day before my last race, the wind broke my mirror. My roommates mirror has since been similarly smashed -- she also puts the blame and the seven years of bad luck squarely on the shoulders of the wind. And who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I ...
Sorry, Couldn't help it.
But somehow we feel like we have to appease the bad forces that might trip up a race, and because i love lyrics and Stevie Wonder:
Very superstitious, writing's on the wall,
Very superstitious, ladders bout' to fall,
Thirteen month old baby, broke the lookin' glass
Seven years of bad luck, the good things in your past.
It's a tough question.
I would say no, but I believe that some 'omens,' call them indications if you want, can get the better of our ability to maintain a positive outlook and a sense that we're in control of things.
It's Friday the 13th ... and I have my second triathlon tomorrow.
On the day before my last race, the wind broke my mirror. My roommates mirror has since been similarly smashed -- she also puts the blame and the seven years of bad luck squarely on the shoulders of the wind. And who has seen the wind? Neither you nor I ...
Sorry, Couldn't help it.
But somehow we feel like we have to appease the bad forces that might trip up a race, and because i love lyrics and Stevie Wonder:
Very superstitious, writing's on the wall,
Very superstitious, ladders bout' to fall,
Thirteen month old baby, broke the lookin' glass
Seven years of bad luck, the good things in your past.
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