A Different View From Down Here.

I am crouching under the leaves of a lush, bright-green fern, somewhere in the middle of a forest, east of here. My fingers are firmly planted in the moss and the soil beneath me. I can smell the sickly-sweet decaying leaves, the fresh scent of green living things around, the rain coming in a few minutes. She also senses all these things, albeit very differently. She scoots over closer, leans her rounded shape into the curve of my back. I've removed the saddle for now, it's starting to chap her sides, and I have not yet found enough leather to make another one. I think I'll have to ride bareback for a few weeks, until we return to the scrapyard. We've been tending things in this neck of the woods for a few days now - I can't wait to get back home. We're hunched low - someone has heard us, and we do not wish to be seen. We were stuck in the crevice under the bark of the white birch in the middle of the wheat field for hours - someone is stalking us. And we are usually the stalkers.

The wood piles are high and airing out, the barrels are in place, and we should reap most of the silk we need before the frost hits. Fall is always this busy. We must make rounds, make sure everyone's tucked in and has everything they need. Our allies have grown loyal over the years, and even though they sometimes grunt and protest for show, they are steadfast. When we gather around the flicker of the autumn flames, spirits are high and we share smiles, knowing that our mission is accomplished.

I can't wait to get back home. When I do, I'll have to go through the usual pains, turning back, towering over her, and treading lightly. She will return to the palace I have built for her beneath the floorboards, with her brethren, and I will go back to the oven, the yarn, the soapy water and the warmth of my husband's arms.

I am the tiny Queen of this Land. She is my Ant.

Important note: I have borrowed these pictures from various corners of the web, and have not properly credited their owners. I will fix this. In the meantime, thank you for your images, they are amazing and beautiful.

Never too late.

Well hello, there! 

I hear you saying: "What is this - a huge, mind-blowing comeback?" Nuh-uh. Calm down, I know you're excited. "Okay, sweet longing for writing, need to do something other than just think about it?" Getting warmer... New Year's resolution? Nope. I know. It's December 31st, 2013. I've been silent. I keep doing this, right? I publish a few posts in a row, with high suspicions that no one is reading (with all due respect to you, reading this at this very moment). I'm picking up where I left off. It was an eventful year. It's not all been good. I'll leave it at that. 

We have a very cute, very sweet addition to the family - his name is Euclide Plouf. 

 

Besides being the cutest green thing in the Universe, he is smart, funny, and gentle. His voice (yes - it's a voice) is soft: he kind of sounds like a mix between a child and a chipmunk. Best description I can come up with. Really. He only squawks when he's pissed off. He has intelligent little parrot eyes, and I swear, the way he looks at us sideways sometimes, it's like he's trying to read our minds or understands things we don't. He is a mini-parrot (a Barred Parakeet, or Toui Catherine in French), and we've had him since the end of August. Hypothetically, his birthday is June 2. That means he'll be seven months on January 2. He used to live in a great big house my hubby (I shall henceforth occasionally refer to him as The Monkey) built for him. It is gorgeous. All wood, no nails, no screws.

Birch, pine, a little bit of wood glue and a lot of patience. My boyfriend built in two side shelves, outside the cage, just for greenery. Originally, we wanted to have a mini bamboo forest on the bottom shelf (on the left) and a betta fish on the top shelf (on the right).

However, little parrots with sharp little parrot beaks love to gnaw and bite on things, which we were told this specific little guy was not inclined to do. Well. He's eaten through four bars so far, effectively opening back doors to his home and undertaking his very own renovation projects, which in itself was not really a problem. There is one problem, though: this bird, sadly, does not fly. His flight feathers were cut off before he ever learned how to, and although these feathers eventually do grow back, the reflexes are just not there. I mean, he flaps his wings and kind of floats off for a few moments, then plunges to the floor and hurts his chest. He is an excellent climber, though - quite the acrobat! He has launched himself off the four-foot high cage once too many times. It's too high for him. So he's now moved into a temporary home, as we will build him a nice one out of wood and metal this summer. In the meantime, this is the temporary setup.

A la cucaracha, a la cucaracha, ya no puede caminar...porque no tiene, porque la falta, una pata pa' caminar...(or something which sounds like that, anyhoo.)

 In this picture, he is attentively listening to his favorite tune, La Cucaracha, sung in Spanish by my man. The day we welcomed Euclide in our home, he was understandably very nervous (as were we). As The Monkey started singing the song, this feathered cutie fell asleep. So it became his theme song, and the only way we know to calm him. Life lesson to me when it comes to parrots: they are not cats. I've still got some learning to do. Lots of it. 

Alright, folks. Go make the food for the New Year's bash. That's what I'm about to do. Oh - and nice to see you again. I've missed you. See you next year.

12 juillet 1992.

Twenty years (and a few extra moments) ago , I was at the Québec Agora. I was sixteen. It was a beautiful day and the setting sun had a greenish hue, because in memories, colors fade and change. A slight breeze blew from the river, but we did not care, because that night, that night, it was special. I recall the overwhelming trepidation. I can still smell the crowd, the excitement and the spicy smell of the remnants of the afternoon sun on our skins. It was Indochine in concert, July 12, 1992. That night, I lost my silver graduation ring, the one my mother had paid $110 for.

A colleague lent me a DVD yesterday, the show at Stade de France in June 2010, where the crowd roars and pumps its collective fist in the air, chanting the lyrics Nicolas Sirkis is crooning from the vertiginous stage, almost surreal. I have just been, after barely three songs, catapulted back twenty years. It takes a lot to do that.

Twenty years ago, I think Sirkis was the first man to make me feel that twinge, that slight twisting of the groin. The first instant where, while listening to the melody, the lyrics, the breathlessness caught me unaware. Question marks rolling around: what does that mean? Where does it come from? Indochine as a whole, but more specifically their lyrics, their music, were very sexual to me, and still are to this day, I realize. Maybe Paul McCartney did this for my mom, when she was sixteen. Huh. I'd rather not go there. ;)

Infinite Possibilities.

What? Have I done it again? I truly am sorry. I lose interest, then I come back. This usually coincides with creative cycles (whatever those are) in my life.

Anyway, enough rambling, here I am (tada!).

My readers, all eighty-three thousand one hundred and four of them, must have all gone astray. They have vanished. I am sitting in this big white room full of echo. Good. Finally some privacy.

Only Little Person Living Inside My Head is still here, and she is safely tucked away in her little condo, which I have built entirely out of bamboo, banana leaves and beach rocks. She is currently sleeping. So I'll whisper, now, if you don't mind. I'll whisper to myself.

So - I'm stuck. Maybe that's why I came here. I have choices to make, and no idea where to start. We're painting the new abode, which I am sharing with my husband (yeah, I know, right?) and we have settled on a very nice, calm but happy green for the dining room. But now, I am looking and looking and lifting rocks to look under them and shuffling aside pages and pages of the internet...to no avail. Nowhere to be found is the "zap" of sudden unadulterated inspiration which makes me rush to the store to get that colour. Where are my colours?

Embers.

In rougher times, a long while ago, My Crunchy Lovelies, I used to display an impressive array of self-defense mechanisms, sobbing episodes taking place at completely inappropriate times, and a plethora of other self-deprecating, worrisome behavior. I whined about wanting to be "free". I was unsatisfied. I wanted easy, fast, light and satisfying solutions to big problems. I was hurt, and could not emerge from my cloud of self-deprecation. I was held back. I was not in control. Thank the Pixies, there were no voices in my head (unlike today, mind you, ahem), and I was not under any kind of psychiatric supervision (nor am I today, ahem).

And now? Well! I realized something today at lunch, while eating. Lots of thing happen while you eat. I usually think. If I'm not eating alone, I attempt some form of thinking process, but listen in on my lunchmates' conversations, occasionally pitching in just to interact and be polite. It usually works. Anyway, I realized something today. It seems small, maybe, but it's a really happy realization: I am happier now!

Not to sound corny or anything, but good things DO happen. I doubted that for the longest time. I now sit in my fluffy pink cloud of freedom which smells of vanilla and feels like cotton candy, and make projects which, I hope, will come to fruition. In retrospect, a seemingly unexpected move was the best thing I've ever done. For myself. Don't get me wrong: there are still some not-so-good days, and - yes - tears sometimes, but they weigh the normal weight of emotion: not the amplified, exagerated emotional pattern I used to relish in.

So, I declare to you, oh my Tender Fluffy Numerous Readers: mission accomplished! And here the crowd roars with pleasure, happiness, has goosebumps, and claps energetically.

Thank you. *bow*

Glintlock. Or not.

It is the Dawn of Time. For this presentation, Little Person Living Inside My Head will play the role of Glintlock, the Huge Fairy Living Under A Rock. (Please, Loverlies, bear with me. It's a long bus ride.)

So it is the Dawn of Time, and flaming cauldrons of hot lava are bubbling and gurgling, the toxic air is noxious as it it's expected to be, and the unicellular being (which, happily and lazily, although occasionally with some measure of enthusiasm, has been floating in the pond among other similar beings) is beginning to sprout a little tail. But you can't see it, or its new little tail, because they are super, super small. We're talking microscope small, I swear, it's like trying to see a....argh. Hang on. Someone needs the spotlight again.

Me: Okay, Little Person Living Inside My Head, what now?
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Hi!
Me: Hi. What do you want? I'm telling a story, here.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Sooooo....how are things, buddy?
Me: "Buddy"? Geez, I created you! What recognition!
Little Person Living Inside My Head: What, like you wouldn't call God your "buddy"?
Me: WHAT?
Little Person Living Inside My Head: You know God, don't you?
Me: Um, I know about God. Sure.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Have you spoken to him lately?
Me: Him? No. You?
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Yeah, actually I follow him on Twitter. I totally retweet his tweets. Like, all the time.
Me: Okay. First of all, you sound like a teenager. Second, quit using my iPhone to spy on me and my Twitter activity when I'm not looking. It pisses me off. And third, you are not following the actual God's Twitter feed, you are following some guy who pretends to be God. And he's funny.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Ah! So you admit God exists! You said "the actual God"!
Me: *sigh* ...
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Why are you sighing?
Me: Because you're freaking obnoxious.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: You love my being obnoxious: quit whining! It enables you to write senseless, pointless, absurd dialogues between you and me and kills time while you're on the bus. And you believe in God!
Me: I do not. I don't see why this is any of your business.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Hee hee. I live inside your head: everything about you is my business!

So the tiny, unicellular being we were spying on earlier in this post was merrily zooming in a circle around its cozy pond, humming a light tune and switching directions once in a while, so as to not wear out its tiny hairs/arms/means of propulsion and their tiny follicles.

Little Person Living Inside My Head: Snooze.
Me: Shut up, worm.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Rude!
Me: Obnoxious.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Rich vocabulary!
Me: Shut up.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: ...and plethora of insults! No! Nooooo! I am slain by thy whipping words, oh mighty, mighty creator! Aaaaargh! Pain! Shooting pain through my heart and soul!
Me: Okay. Put your costume on. It's time for the play.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: What play?
Me: The Glintlock thing.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Oh! No. No, I'm not doing that anymore.
Me: What? But we've been rehearsing for weeks! You've made me listen to you in my sleep! You have been waking me up in the middle of the night - while I was on vacation! - to show me your costume and to relieve you of stage fright! You are not doing this to me.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Yeah, no. My agent was supposed to call you about that.
Me: You don't have an agent.
Little Person Living Inside My Head:: Yeah I do!
Me: Oh really? Who is it?
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Glintlock.
Me: No. Glintlock is the character you're supposed to portray in the play.
Little Person Living Inside My Head: Well, he lives inside my head now.
Me: Great. Now the tenant in my head has a tenant in its head.

On Wondering Why.

I have been around the block too many times, at 35, to expect anything. I should know by now that when you have expectations, they are usually shattered. Not to be pessimistic, or anything.

But this time, I am hoping things will be different. I am trying to be free, to be happy, and to accept that not everybody is at the exact same spot in ‘Being’ as I am. It still hurts, though, when the person you thought was rocking your world is apparently not doing that intently or with purpose at all. What they are doing, though, is carelessly wafting through life. They have chosen (by their own admittance) to not make choices in life. They have chosen not to commit. You like their bohemian lifestyle, their carelessness. You like that they get up to go get chocolatines on Saturday morning, that they make chocolate coffee for you when you are still in bed and that their restaurant-owning neighbours have soup delivered to your door for lunch.

 

Your choice (and between the lines, mine, oh My Loverly Loverlings): to play along or to be stuck once again expecting something you feel you won’t be getting soon?  Argh. To be 20 again, and to not care about these things.

On Water Expeditions and Counting Birds.

After the umpteenth hiatus in my blogging life, here I am. I know you've missed me, I have missed you too...

So...let’s see. Oh! I went on a cruise to the Caribbean! It was magnificent. It was very touristy, but still magnificent. For my first trip as an adult, it was totally worth the investment! Not that I wouldn’t enjoy a Japanese/Hawaiian/Moroccan getaway...Oh Future! What holdeth thee in store for me?

I was with a very cool friend who had tastes similar to mine, and I’d go on a trip with her anytime, anywhere. You know, when it’s uncomplicated? Just like that. But that was SO long ago! Now, alas, autumn is upon us, my Cute Little Fall Blossoms, and I fear summer has taken its final bow, at least until next year. It was a good summer, though. But this fall promises to be even better.

There is this new thing showing its face, unexpectedly but with astounding great timing. I don’t know where it’s going. All I know is that it feels good. It speaks to me in a cryptic, complicated language unknown to me thus far. It pays for dinner when I extend the invitation, buys me some wine, and tells me my vanilla perfume is intoxicating. It counts birds with me when we are trying to fall asleep (sheep are too common). It seduces me via text messages. I am smitten. I am cautious, but smitten. We’ll see. Good night, Loverlies.

Melancholy Mademoiselle

This week, my SuperSweets, I feel lonely.

I  have no clue as to why I feel this way, I just do. Maybe it's the weather. Maybe it's the awesome weekend I had with a friend. Maybe the introspection is getting to me. Today, I had a sudden rush of adrenaline when I actually considered dishing out a lot of money to go on a cruise to the eastern Caribbean with a friend. In two weeks. It's a great spur-of-the-moment, fuck-it-if-I-don't-have-a-passport-I-can-get-one-really-quick instinct. I walked into my boss's office with a sense of elation and my heart was racing as I listened to him tell me it was my decision. There's a little voice in my head which is telling me not to do it. I have, as I think I've mentioned before, always followed my instincts. But the idea is nagging at me with all its might. It's screaming and kicking. I think I just need a change of scenery. I want to get the hell out, somewhere unknown. I am *this* close to booking a freaking swanky hotel for the weekend and ordering everything off the menu, but that would be a waste of money.


I have unfinished business here. I have things that are on standby. To quote Dolly Parton, of all people, and according to my iPhone's Fortune Cookie app, " to get the rainbow, you must suffer through the rain"...or something like that, anyway. I want the rainbow now. Bad Mademoiselle. Bad, Fool Mademoiselle.

“There is no coming to consciousness without pain.”

- Carl Jung

Funny thing is, no specific event triggered this mood. It just fell on me, like rain. Like a shroud. I tried to shake it off. I put on my happy cheery face whenever people are around. But melancholy creeps out. It never stays under the plastic tarp you try to apply over it. So the moment I am alone, it seeps out of the walls, the furniture, my pores, it seeps out and takes over. I cannot wait for this episode to be over. I feel like a fraud. It'll pass, just like the rest.

Benefits of Having Too Much Time on Your Hands When You live Alone with Two Cats and an Obnoxious Cyclops Pink Dog Doll.

Greetings, you bunch of Cutesy-Pies,

You must concur - that was the longest blog post title ever. Love it, right? Me too. It is way past my bed time, and I cannot sleep, so I figured “what the heck – I’ll show them what I am thinking of working on tomorrow because I need a project and I’ve been putting this off for way too long”. Intrigued? Good. So am I (glad we agree on so many things, things are looking good between you and I. Maybe we should take this to the next level). Let’s see where this takes us.

Months ago, on a bright, sunny, awesome day on the south shore with my Most Loverly V, I ordered (well – she ordered) some fabric off eBay. A quick look, shall we?

Yum, right?  I think so, anyway. So I was ready to commit to a long project, go figure, and I decided quilting would be it. I actually thought of hand-quilting, but then I remembered only my sister has this kind of patience and goddammit, I have a sewing machine, so for my first quilting project, it would have to suffice. So here I am, almost a year later, and these one hundred and twenty-six squares of fabric have been sitting all alone in one of my craft drawers, silently moping and hoping one day, I would fondle them and assemble them into one crazy, awesome united entity, My First Quilt. Since I live in quite the confined quarters, my craft drawers are in my room, and I swear I could hear them scream at me at night. They would bellow at me from the fourth drawer, and although muffled, their yelps sounded awful. The drawers they live in are see-through, too. So in visual terms, it looked like this (can’t you just see them scream?):

 Then this guy (who lives on my bed between two striped cushions during the daytime, but totally gets his ass hauled to a pile in the corner of the room during the night, because he would just bite my ears off, I swear) started sniggering and generally projecting an unpleasant vibe:

So that was it. Tonight, I got home after a yummy Mexican dinner out and decided it was time I kicked myself in the ass and did something about the nocturnal fabric screams (wow – that would sound so wrong in another context). So out of the plastic drawers the yummy fabric squares came.

Tomorrow, I will :

1. Wake up too early as per usual on Saturday mornings;
2. Remember it is Saturday;
3. Yawn, smile, yawn again for good measure;
4. Fall back asleep;
5. Wake up again about five minutes later;
6. Get up, make coffee and have breakfast but keep my jammies on instead of getting ready for work;
7. Maybe go for a shower, maybe not;
8. Set up some sweet tunes;
9. Open the windows and curtains even if it’s going to rain;
10. ...and whip out the ironing board, the straight pins and my sewing machine, and I am totally officially starting My First Quilt.

I am scared. But I promise I will post progress pictures. I am accountable now, as I have committed to you, my Rainy Day Ghouls. You Lucky Bastards. ;)