frozen hearts

Oh what joy the Dollar Store can bring.

For instance, today I bought a package of acrylic hearts, took them out to a friend's place.  The pond had frozen over and he had cleared it for skating.

I don't skate.
But I do take pictures.

I tossed the hearts onto the surface.

The patterns in and under the ice were exquisite.
Sometimes the ice was blue, sometimes gray, depending on the angle.

I am quite happy with the results.

I might even say...

I heart them.

diversity or split personality disorder?

Diversify-

(Verb)

1. Make or become more diverse or varied.
2. (of a company) Enlarge or vary its range of products or field of operation.

In my line of work, I have found it necessary to diversify. It has enabled me to stay in the business and contribute in many ways. But it can also be a double edged sword.

Being diverse, able to do many jobs, can sometimes leave you with a feeling of having a split-personality disorder.
While it is good to have skills to tap into the well when other areas are dry,  it can make it difficult to focus when it comes to feeding your own creative soul.

My apartment looks like a clutter of unfinished projects.
Paintings, sketches, many scraps of paper with writing, musical instruments, a desk in desperate need of a clean-off...
I wander from room to room, wearing different hats. Sadly not one of them belongs to a housekeeper.

my apartment resembles my brain

Right now I am in writer mode.
Or at least, I'm trying to be.
There is a book of short stories pressing to be finished. 
Like a person with a split-personality disorder, I want all the alters to be quiet, and let this personality emerge. It is not easy to have this control. It comes and goes in fits of inspiration. But to take on the writer personality, I must think like one. Be one. Believe I am one. It's a small part to the process, but an important one nonetheless. And not as easy as it sounds, especially when all those other voices want to be heard.

Perhaps this diversifying has made me a bit afraid of labels and titles.
I feel  somehow fraudulent in saying I am a writer, simply because I do not write exclusively. True, I have published articles in magazines, newspapers and online, but claiming to be a writer seems to diminish those who have made it their life's work.

Writing has always been in me.
Since I could put pencil to scribbler, I had stories.
Verses, prose, commentary- I kept them all hidden, as the secretive Scorpio child that I was.
In high school, to combat my  record of skipping classes, my English teacher gave me the opportunity to make extra credit by turning in creative writing. The name Margaret Young will forever be held like a beacon of light in my eyes and heart and mind. I was blessed to have had her in the 10th and 12th grades.
She also introduced me to Sylvia Plath (my birthday-twin), Margaret Atwood, Margaret Lawrence, Leonard Cohen, Dylan Thomas (my other birthday twin), as well as the old guard, Shakespeare, Keats, Chaucer, Austin, Bronte.
Of reading and writing and 'rithmatic, reading and writing were never a problem.

Now I sit, trying to channel those who came before, those for whom writing became an obsession, an eaux de vie.
I focus on the keyboard and the screen, trying not to let my gaze wander over the the unfinished painting in the corner, or the folder of photographs that need to be edited or the emails that should be addressed.
I will not look at the clock and think of all the other things that should be done. Right now, I try to be less diverse.
I will think only of characters and word counts and a beginning, middle and ending.

After all, this is what writers do.
And I am a writer.

That's right. I said it.

making it up

The first time I was to do improvisation on stage, I panicked.

It was in high school, and we went to a play festival in another city. Our play was one we had written ourselves; a series of funny sketches that allowed everyone to take turns performing in, and supporting the show. One sketch was an empty slate. We were told by our teacher/director,  that it would be purely improvised, that just before the the show, he would single one of us out to start and end the scene.
I wanted to throw up. The thought of it made me ill.
I wasn't good at improv.

Even when we improvised in the classroom, I tried as hard as I could to avoid participating. Everyone was funnier, more entertaining than I, and I would just feel stupid. I couldn't believe actually wanted he wanted me to be the one to lead the scene.  Surely it would suck and I would ruin the show.
I begged. Pleaded. Cried. Couldn't breathe.
If this were a movie of the week from the 80's, he would have made me do the scene, I would have been brilliant and learn a valuable life lesson about believing in yourself.
However, the real story is, someone else was appointed the task and I could breathe again.

During the show, when the improv sketch was happening, I did not participate at all. I sat,  watching the guy who was chosen to lead, as he had the entire place in stitches. It was absolutely the right choice and perhaps even the highlight of the show.
I didn't regret not doing it.
But I did feel I had disappointed my teacher, for whom I had the greatest respect, and that I did regret.

Ironically, a great portion of my career has been based in improv and sketch comedy, yet I still fight the fear that I am not a funny person. I still struggle with the pressure of thinking that everything has to be funny.

Even as a child, I didn't like to do something if I couldn't do it well the first time. And even now,  if I know I can't be great the first time, then I like to observe and learn until I feel comfortable enough to present it. That, of course, is the antithesis of improvisation.
Recently I watched a lecture by John Cleese, on creativity, where he said, "Nothing will stop you as effectively as your fear of making a mistake".
Ain't that the truth.

thanks for the swanky chart, google guys

The first (and best) teacher to really break it all down was the director of a show in which I was cast.   He was a comedy writer, comedian, and could reduce a person to tears on a daily basis. At least he did that to me. I lost count of  how often and how close I came to quitting. On a daily basis.
There was a lot of improvisation during the days  and I dreaded each morning's rehearsal. It was a boot camp of improv and he really was a drill sergeant. He could fire a size 9 Florsheim shoe at you faster than you could block an offer. But I did not quit. Without knowing it, I learned.

Of course,  I didn't just learn skills that would help me on stage. What I learned could (and has been) be carried into life. It has helped me think on my feet, whether it is speaking in front of a group of people, or to someone on the phone.
Oddly enough, the art of "making it up" follows some hard and fast rules. The most important rules of improv can be applied to the way in which we live our lives, which of course, is the greatest form of improvisation there is, really.

Don't block.
This means to never say "no" to any idea. Saying no will completely stop action. Be open to offers, say yes. Or even "yes, but..." But never say no.

Take risks.
Fear is going to make you take the safer option. Sometimes that's not a bad thing.  Learn when to tell the difference.

Depend on the people you trust and know that if you falter, they will step up. You'll ever have to worry about losing your lines, or your way.
Know those you don't trust, and stay alert.

Don't act, React.
And move the action along.

Know when to take focus, but also know when to give it.
It's not always about you, sometimes you are better served and can serve better,  among the supporting cast.  When it is about you, step forward and shine like a young bride's diamond.

Be committed.
Own the decisions you make. Follow through.

Years ago, when I was ducking to avoid a flying shoe in rehearsals, it seemed to me that I was given a more difficult time of it than my other cast mates. Years later, as friends, I asked my shoe-throwing director why he was so hard on me.
"You had it," he told me. "You had it all along, and you just didn't see it.  I pushed you until you did."

And for this I am eternally grateful.

(Now)

Sofa King Cold

It is cold.
Sofa King cold. 

Bone-chilling, face-numbing, hate yourself for not wearing tights, cold.

There are varying stories on the degree of cold, as it fluctuates depending on who relays whom on which weather channel. But the general consensus lies frozen in ice somewhere between -25 and -28 with the windchill.
I don't really care about the specifics, it is beyond the point of making a difference. Whatever the number, it hurts.

My plan for today was to roam about and grab some photo's, but that was not going to happen. Instead I took a picture of my two cats as they went crazy over birds landing on the balcony to pick at open compost bin. 

Ring in the New

It's a fresh and shiny New Year.

A clean slate.
A new beginning.
A new hope, new promise.
Mama's got a brand new bag.

2013, I want to make out with you.

Let's have a beautiful mad affair.
Let's not break each others hearts.
Let's last 365 days and nights.
Let's leave each other with glorious memories.

Let's do it.
Let's fall in Love

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.