gonna sit right down and write myself a letter

A writer friend wondered if anyone still wrote letters by hand. Real handwritten, on paper, with pens, stamps, envelope- kinds of letters.  He spoke of the intimacy of it.
He is so right.
Write.

In the past year I've actually starting writing cards again.

My personal relationship is stretched by distance. Thankfully, it is the geographical kind,  not the emotional one.
Because my partner is working and living in another place, and even though we talk and Skype several times a day, I slip a card in the mail so that he'll have something to greet him when he comes home from work. He does the same for me.
It's always a wonderful surprise. And it does a little bit extra to make sure that the geographical distance doesn't become an emotional one.

This week I wrote to him on rice paper, using  glass calligraphy pens and beautiful inks that I received  as a birthday gift.  I decorated the envelope, sliding the address across it, and took it to the post. I think it was as enjoyable for me to do, as it was for him to receive.

Yes, we email and we text.
But we also write each other love letters and send them by mail.
Those are a luxury.

I can't imagine how people could stand the wait, years ago, when writing letters was the only way to communicate. I can't fathom waiting weeks for contact, checking the mail every day, balancing on hope and disappointment. But I do know how special they felt when one would arrive. How they must have devoured every word, and then gone back a dozen times to feast again. There is something so wonderful in reading the handwriting of a loved one; to know that he has touch the page, sealed the letter.
And that he took the time to write.

As my friend says, "It just costs some time and thought"
He is so right.

Write.

the autumn leaves drift by my window

The trees are nearly bare now.
There are a few patches of leaves that hang on still, but one more rain or wind storm will see them on the ground.

Nova Scotia is blessed with a glorious Autumn season.
And I was blessed to be able to spend some wonderful afternoons trying to capture it.

The Old Burying Grounds

City or shoreline, this province is a photographer's dream in any season. But the Fall seems to splatter color everywhere. It is vibrant and alive.

the clock tower on Citadel Hill, overlooking Halifax Harbour

one of the paths in Halifax Public Gardens

In the centre of the city there grows a beautiful Victorian garden. It's one of my favorite places to visit and spend time, and I have taken many photo's there, in every season.

I find the best way to explore and to see things in a different way, is through the lens of a camera. Since I was a child, I saw everything in snapshots,
Now I get to share them.

November Graveyard

taken in the summer street cemetery, halifax nova scotia

The scene stands stubborn: skinflint trees
Hoard last year's leaves, won't mourn, wear sackcloth, or turn
To elegiac dryads, and dour grass
Guards the hard-hearted emerald of its grassiness
However the grandiloquent mind may scorn
Such poverty. No dead men's cries

Flower forget-me-nots between the stones
Paving this grave ground. Here's honest rot
To unpick the heart, pare bone
Free of the fictive vein. When one stark skeleton
Bulks real, all saints' tongues fall quiet:
Flies watch no resurrections in the sun.

At the essential landscape stare, stare
Till your eyes foist a vision dazzling on the wind:
Whatever lost ghosts flare,
Damned, howling in their shrouds across the moor
Rave on the leash of the starving mind
Which peoples the bare room, the blank, untenanted air.

-sylvia plath

All Hallows

Of course I love this time of year.

The air is cool and crisp, the colours are amazing,
And, there is..

Hallowen!

Happy Birthday John Cleese, Dylan Thomas and Sylvia Plath. And me.

Today is my birthday.
I was born on the 27th of October. It was a Tuesday.
Tuesday's child is full of grace.
At least that's what that poem says.

My birthday actually lasts a week. Everyone knows it. I love that everyone knows it.
For many years, the celebration was usually on Halloween. It was as if my birthday was my own personal Mardi Gras. Over time, it evolved, due to busy schedules, and social anxiety in crowds. Preferring to stick to individual meetings or small groups, the week stretches until All Hallows

While events happen on either side of my birthday, I love to spend October 27th by myself.
Last year I took myself out to lunch and a pedicure. This year, I took pictures.
For a while, I was on leaf- covered paths through the woods, then in one of the beautiful old graveyards in Halifax.
The day was a perfect testament to the glory of this season. The afternoon autumn air was as crisp as the fallen foliage under foot, and I tried to capture the feeling through the lens.
As is often the case, I was blissfully lost in micro scenes.

When the light was fading I chose to sit on the patio of a local pub with a slice of today's special. As I watched the crowd, one of the passers-by did not pass.
She swooped down into my face. Facebook told her it was my birthday.
But she looked unsure.
She asked hopefully if I was waiting for someone.
I told her I was all by myself.

She actually looked sad, but gave me a mouth-smile. Her eyes looked like "poor thing spending her birthday all alone" eyes.

It made me smile.
I may have looked like a maniac, grinning like a carved pumpkin. In any case, she moved along.
I continued to smile.

It made me realize how lucky I am that being in my own company makes me happy.
Tuesday's child is full of gratitude

Three's a Crowd, or, Unless You're A Conjoined Twin, Leave the Other One At Home

Okay, so I suppose this could be classified as a rant. It is not a personal attack on anyone, it's just one of my pet peeves.

 I have several friends who are in relationships and seem to have lost their individuality.
Seriously.

If I have made plans with someone, I expect that it is going to be just us two. When my friends show up with their significant other in tow, I have to say, it really irritates me.
If, when we made these plans, my friend would say, hey, do you mind if so and so tags along? then that's different. I know what to expect. But when they arrive with that umbilical chord still attached, I'm pissed.

It has nothing to do with the other person. Of course, often I get the partner who says "your friend hates me" once they are alone.
Seriously.
Go to Walmart and buy yourself a big bucket of Get the Fuck Over Yourself.
Why do you assume I have the energy or interest to hate you? I just want to spend some time with my friend. You may be a package in your mind, but you're not to me. You are not my partner. You are, in a few cases, not even my friend, so why do you want to sit there while we talk about things to which you cannot contribute, except to have an excuse to pout later and say "your friend hates me".
I don't hate you. But it you insist on tagging along every time, I just might start. 

If a friend wants to go for a walk, or coffee and s/he asks me to go, I assume we are going alone. If s/he says "the love of my life and I are going for a walk, would you care to join us?" then that's different. I have the choice of yea or nay.

Honestly, when did being in a relationship excuse you of all manners and consideration?
I don't say to my partner "Hey, I'm going to hang out with the girls, are you coming?"
I love spending time with my love, but I don't assume others will feel the same. Or sometimes I just want to catch up with my pals all by myself. There's nothing wrong with that. And there's nothing wrong with expecting the same from others.

In short, I'm saying, unless you are literally joined at the hip and it is physically impossible to go anywhere without your boyfriend/girlfriend/spouse/whatever, then please, please, come alone.
Or at least let me know we're having company. 

here comes the rain again

The rain has come.

The air has cooled and the rain falls so hard that it is difficult to hear the thunder.
It is a watery symphony; percussive and persuasive.

For me, there has always been an attraction to thunder and lightning. I find it exciting and comforting at the same time; alive and calm.

I am torn between wanting to snuggle in my bed and let it lull me to soft sleep, or to run outside and let it pour down on me. There is something so cleansing about it, physically and emotionally, like a very good cry.

There is actually a sweetness to the air.  It rests on the sides of your tongue as you breathe it in, allowing you to taste as you smell, or smell as you taste. Or smaste.
It is the freshest of the freshest air and it is glorious.

*******************************************************************************

The rain has softened. It still falls, but it is quiet and soothing. Still constant. Less urgent. Still hypnotic. Sometimes it increases and then pulls back again, like a sensual lover, leading and releasing. There are no further signs of lightening, all is peaceful.
This definitely tips the scales in favour of enjoying it through the open window,  from my bed.

Good night rain.
I hope you are still there when I wake.

falling into fall

Fall is almost in the air.
It is barely a whisper in the window,
but it is there, with a light breath

It is that beautiful in-between season, in between times;
like the end of night and the beginning of day,
sun and moon both sharing the sky,
waking and retiring
smiling good morning
blinking good night

I took this shot on Thanksgiving weekend 2011 at Conrad Beach, Nova Scotia

It is the air  that whispers in my window in the morning,
in between wake and sleep,
exhaling that memory of time to get up for school

It is not yet Fall, yet barely still summer.
And it is both seasons at once.

Not quite that crisp definite autumn with sweaters and pumpkin spice latte's..
nor that hot lazy summer with sundresses and big hats.

But the air has cooled and the ocean has warmed, and pumpkins have begun to appear in markets, tumbling orange

It breathes a reminder to squeeze every last drop out of summer

doubleya

I just watched a movie called W.
Oliver Stone directed Josh Brolin in the role of George W. Bush.
 
Brolin's Bush is fantastic.
He actually made me a bit sympathetic to ol' George.
I despise what Bush' s year reign of idiocy did to the world.  But in his portrayal, Brolin shows him as a man who never had an interest in politics but felt it was the only way to impress George Sr. and win his approval. Junior was happiest running a baseball team.

It doesn't shy away from his stupidity, but it does show that if you met W at a BBQ he'd probably be an alright kinda guy. As the leader of the free world... not so much.

The challenge for an actor to portray a historical figure, especially one that is still living, is great.
Meryl Streep was flawless as former British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher. Of course when isn't Streep flawless? But there was also that personal level, that which makes them human, that we don't often see in so many of our leaders. When an actor can bring that, it is something remarkable.

Of course there are always limitations.
I wonder if anyone could make a movie that actually made Stephen Harper seem human?

go blog yourself

Someone asked me recently if I blogged. My immediate response was "Yes" followed by ".. um.. well.. I mean, I have blogged.. I have a blog.. I blog but I haven't really been blogging much lately..." The word Blog became a bit of a swear word.
Oh Blog.
Bloggity Blog Blog.
Bloggots.

It is not that I have a lack of ideas. Oh no, there are many snippets and drafts saved, many scraps of lines in files. I have no trouble producing the pieces. It's the threading it together that is the difficult part. 

I find I need to be inspired. And so I wait for inspiration to hit me; wait for the Muse. It is not elusive, she comes quite often in fact. But I never know how long a visit from that flighty sprite will last.
Try as I might the discipline to write when not in the mood escapes me. And yet I know it is something for which I should strive, plug regardless.
What would Plath do? Or Woolf?
They would force themselves.
They would be happily consumed.

Perhaps it's not inspiration, but focus that I need; the ability to concentrate without wandering off and following every shiny speck of dust that floats it's way into my peripheral vision.

How can I finish a writing a book if I can't finish writing a blog post?

Oh Blog.
Blog Off.

accidental gifts

I felt a bit of a creeper taking this shot, but so glad I did.

I've always seen the world in photographs. As far back as I can remember, the world has been broken down by frames, and memories are snapshots.
 Even as a kid with my family's Kodak Instamatic, I would try to capture my view, whether it was the dinner table from underneath, or clouds that looked like dragons. Thankfully in today's digital world, I no longer have to wait for photo's to come back- only to find one out of the twenty four was decent. Or that I got carried away with twenty two shots of the chair leg.

Sometimes, as the shutter closes, I hear a voice that says "this is the one" and I know this will be a good photo. But sometimes I am surprised. Pleasantly.
Sometimes what was an accidental shot, becomes the best in the roll. So to speak. This picture happened to be one of those photo's at one of those times.

We were spending a few hours at a local swimming-hole. It's a fast moving river that runs through the woods, and eventually feeds into the ocean. This is a place where you park your car at the bridge and followed the footpath through the woods. For a while my friends and I were the only ones there, but gradually, others arrived. 

She was young and he was quite a bit older. He sounded as though he were trying to impress her with the things he was saying. She was young, but looked hard. Thin. She gave the impression that she had seen a lot and grown up fast.
I was drawn to the writing tattooed across the right side of her back but couldn't read what it said. Pretending to take a picture of the water beyond her, I zoomed in with the intent of quickly snapping it and reading it later. The text was familiar, and although I couldn't identify it at first, I knew it was from a poem I studied in university literature class.

Back at home, on my computer screen, I remembered the stance from Kubla Khan by Coleridge. It made me want to ask this girl why was so impressed with this passage that she chose to scrawl in on herself with the most permanent of inks. Did she decide on it herself, or was it meant for someone else?

And then I realized... although it wasn't intentional, there's something I really like about this shot. Something about it speaks to me.
Sometimes my favorite pictures aren't even one's I've consciously taken.

I like to think of those as little gifts from the Universe.

going on record

I can safely say that this has been the best summer.
Ever.
The weather has been gorgeous, hot, sunny. Right now the humidity is high, but I don't even care.
Trips to the beach have been plentiful and glorious.
Sunsets have stopped my breath.
Salt water has been warm (Atlantic warm) and healing and invigorating.

I am never happier than when I am at the beach, so the past three months have been happy happy happy.
I just want to go on record as saying that.

the process before the process

No matter how long I've been doing this, no matter how many times I do it now, I can never, never get over the absolute horror of auditioning.

It happens the same way every time-
I wake up feeling sick. I think "I'm not going. I'm not doing this. I'm not putting myself through this again."
I run through the possible scenario's, play pro's and con's- what is the worst that can happen? why should I do this? And this is all before I get out of bed.
Eventually I talk myself down. Sort of.
That is to say, I keep talking myself down as I shower, as I moisturize, as I dress. The whole time I'm applying make-up, I'm telling myself not to bother, because I'm not going. My body fights with itself- I become sleepy, my belly feels sick. And my mind keeps trying to be the boss of me, telling me to crawl back under the covers.
But my hands and feet ignore it all. My fingers dress me- pull on pants, do up buttons, lace up shoes. My legs carry me and my feet are on a mission.

Every step becomes a march. Every left. Right. Left. Right. GO. HOME. GO. HOME.
But my body keeps walking as my stomach keeps churning and my lower intestine is threatening to turn to liquid any minute.

It happens with any audition, whether voice-over, film, or stage. For me, the worst of those is stage. There is that awkwardness of "acting" in front of one or two people.

Auditions always run long, so you rarely get in at the time you were originally given. In some ways, that's good; you have time to get centered and prepared. But in other ways it's bad because you have time to think. And that's never good. I think I am blank. I think I don't remember the lines. I think my mouth is too dry.

Then I get in there and I am soaked. I imagine I must look a mess and try to put it out of my mind. Whenever I get to choose the piece, I find it best to aim for someone strung out, rather than put together, so that I look the part and make my shvitzing work in my favor.

I have learned that most auditions take time, with dialogue between the auditioner and the auditionee. When I finish my monologue, and I hear "that was great, thank you- we don't need you to read any more", I know it doesn't mean "that was great and we don't need to see any more because we know that there's nothing for you in this show". I don't take it personally.
A friend of mine once said "I go to more auditions than actual jobs". Strangely, that comforted me, because this person is well respected and always working. I guess my point is, we all have similar insecure reactions to this process in some way.

Usually someone who knows I was going to audition will ask at some point "how did it go?" and I have no idea.
The only thing I can go on is this: if I didn't shit myself, vomit or pass out, the audition was a success.

So, I guess, so far, so good.