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.