I spent more than two and a half hours last night talking to the Runner. I hadn’t had a real conversation with him for nearly twenty years but he sent me a Christmas Card and I thought Hmm - in guy speak (a language in which I am fluent) a Christmas card after never getting one before is an invitation to be closer friends. So I called him a few days ago to say thank you and he called me back last night. It was a lovely conversation, sometimes quite hard in spots, and yet surprisingly easy all in all. A kind of trust there that you can’t buy and a sweet nostalgic tenderness that you can’t fake.
You’ll laugh when I tell you that he hadn’t read this blog and therefore had no idea that I just wrote about him a few days ago. Serendipity? I talk about him out loud for the first time in years and then the card and the call? I was even brave enough to read the bit I wrote about him over the phone. Hey? Look it me and my courage, eh?
Not that we hadn’t seen each other, we are sort of related so always on each other’s radar a bit. We’ve seen each other about once a year or so at some family thing and said the hey, how are ya’s. But all very superficial kinda stuff. This conversation was very different. It was the who have you turned into conversation and where are we really going anyway with our lives conversation.
We talked up and down the last twenty years and pretty much each and every family member thru triumph and tragedy. We talked a lot about family and who we thought we were. We talked about Mastery – me of the word and him of the flesh. He is one of those people that has maintained a high level of fitness his whole life long which is the envy of all who know him, including me. We talked too much about my younger sister, which made me a bit jealous, and about neither of us having kids, which made us both a bit sad.
In summary we talked about love. The family kind and the friend kind and the marital kind and the self kind and the of life kind. It was a good conversation. I hope we have another one soon.
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
Am I really going to sleep late EVERY day?
Apparently the answer to that is “yes”. Eleven hours of mostly unconsciousness. With, I think three bathroom trips and a glass of milk, but can’t be sure. Shocking, I guess I needed it. Been thinking soooo many thoughts. Funny though you would think I would have written more of them down. Problem now is that I can’t decide what to write this blog about since I have too many potential hilarious topics lined up in the queue. Not really a queue exactly, more a mossy down spout clogged with leaves.
In a pretty good mood today after my Rip Van Winkling and so I should be, gonna be another perfect one with writing and reading and guitar and a friend and even some heavy housework with loud music (only time I ever crank it).
Hmmm, maybe the topic should be sleep and its importance to a writer’s process. But then that will get me thinking about naps and I haven’t even had one cup of coffee yet, let along breakfast and it is almost noon.
I am also relaxed and happy cause I got a nice email from Hoosie giving me absolution for not getting the feature treatment of the rom com to him yet. I am working on it and it is going well, just never ever goes as fast as you think it will. Unlike blog writing which, while it may offer up reportage of real events, is usually just a scene or two stitched together with the prose of the writer’s internal monologue. Screenwriting demands a different approach since you are both making stuff up and building a structure an listening to the characters and trying to ensure that where you are going is properly built on where you’ve been so you don’t lose anyone especially yourself. So that is my excuse for why fifteen minutes of blog writing produces, well this, and fifteen minutes of screen writing can some time produce no more than, “Elliot: Good morning. Ernesto: It’s not morning. Elliot: Well it is still a beautiful day. Ernesto: That is a matter of opinion.”
Now this is me realizing that I’ve broken the cardinal rule of character naming by having two guys with names that start with E, a rule that should only be broken for a comic reason for which currently I have none. So Ernesto needs a new name. Jorge? Orlando? Giancarlo? Nestor? Luigi? Luigi? Really you think? Hmmm.
In a pretty good mood today after my Rip Van Winkling and so I should be, gonna be another perfect one with writing and reading and guitar and a friend and even some heavy housework with loud music (only time I ever crank it).
Hmmm, maybe the topic should be sleep and its importance to a writer’s process. But then that will get me thinking about naps and I haven’t even had one cup of coffee yet, let along breakfast and it is almost noon.
I am also relaxed and happy cause I got a nice email from Hoosie giving me absolution for not getting the feature treatment of the rom com to him yet. I am working on it and it is going well, just never ever goes as fast as you think it will. Unlike blog writing which, while it may offer up reportage of real events, is usually just a scene or two stitched together with the prose of the writer’s internal monologue. Screenwriting demands a different approach since you are both making stuff up and building a structure an listening to the characters and trying to ensure that where you are going is properly built on where you’ve been so you don’t lose anyone especially yourself. So that is my excuse for why fifteen minutes of blog writing produces, well this, and fifteen minutes of screen writing can some time produce no more than, “Elliot: Good morning. Ernesto: It’s not morning. Elliot: Well it is still a beautiful day. Ernesto: That is a matter of opinion.”
Now this is me realizing that I’ve broken the cardinal rule of character naming by having two guys with names that start with E, a rule that should only be broken for a comic reason for which currently I have none. So Ernesto needs a new name. Jorge? Orlando? Giancarlo? Nestor? Luigi? Luigi? Really you think? Hmmm.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
I think I'm wearing Hoosie's Socks
It's not really as much of a creepy stalker thing as it sounds, but I'll get to that in a minute. First we have to get through the speaking of the dream.
If you've been following the current events in my head, you'll know that I spent some time last evening ruminating on the qualities of my Perfect Man. Cause it's research don't you know. The co-protagonist of the rom-com that I'm writing is on the hunt for her perfect guy. I've decided though, that a straight up check list of qualities is too dull. If I am concocting my own virtual Frankenstein's Love Monster, I need to be much more engaged in the process than just getting down 1) sense of humour 2) kind eyes, etc. Thus a bunch of guys from my past and present will form the big amorphous lump of qualities from which I will select specific items that appeal and apply. For the record, these are not just past boyfriends, these are just guys I know that have something about them that I like. And if you don't spot yourself on the list, you are quite welcome to remind me why you should be included. I like white roses, Veve Cliquot and diamonds of pretty much any kind. And hand massages - did I mention that before? Between the writing and guitar playing, I need a good hand massage from time to time.
After posting my first batch of qualities I was about to move on to Hoosie's list, but since his listing will be a long one, for many reasons, not the least of which is that I'm writing this bloody script for him so he is in my head a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean almost a creepy a lot so maybe I'm entitled to the damn socks people. Anyhoo, I digress. I decide to wait until tonight to launch into the Hoosie list as it will be a key part of the character development of Elliot, who is meant to be portrayed on screen by the aforementioned Hoosie. Thus I decide to play a bit of guitar and go to bed. Which I did. As I was drifting off, still sorting thru the boys in my head - realizing that most, though not all would be from the My Boys list, who are a select and secret group of guys for whom I would do a Favour - but that is for another post. And so while thinking these thoughts the great ocean that is sleep rises up and gently carries me away.
The dream starts as one of those weird office dreams that is every office you've every been in and yet none of them at the same time it was meant to be my current office at the university I think and I was supposed to be making a short ten minute film about our operations problem was everyone started running around and talking all at the same time about all the things that I absolutely must capture on film and a bunch of folks start roaring around with hand held video cameras and now the whole thing is a big giant Busby Berkley musical number with a big group of graduate students in robes doing an elaborate step dance number I'm chasing around shouting instructions to the very few co-workers I recognize take a left turn down the hall to the accounting offices only to discover that I've walked into an Office version of a Fellini orgy scene and when I tut and shake my head because these people are supposed to be helping me make a movie not getting each other off behind the assistant accountants filing cabinet one of them shocked and embarrassed by my scrutiny asks what I'm doing and i say what am i doing what are you guys doing if you are going to do that one of you should at least have a video camera so we can recoup some money out of this fiasco i shove a video camera into his hand and take off for the main bull pen area shouting instructions to the clueless production assistants trailing in my wake the dancing students have now broken into little gangs of break dancers and I shout for them all to get over by the big giant purple curtain which i pause to note is a very particular pascal purple used by the catholic church to cover statues and crucifixes during lent i can't remember why so the dancers scurry to form a kick line and i move into the kitchen which is much smaller and quieter but messy and we need to shoot in here so I put some hot water and soap in the sink to wash the stack of dirty mugs and my boyfriend is standing right beside me...
... calmly and happily asks what he can do to help and i say you could wash and then i put my hand in the water and it is hot and nice and eases the ache in my hand a bit definitely too much guitar and typing going on and then i say or dry and he says no he'll wash and i say you don't have to and he says no i want to and i say you do and he says yes and he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me into him a bit and kisses my forehead softly just above my left eyebrow and says sure it will give us a chance to spend some time together just breathing each other in then he does breathe in and hold me a moment steps back just enough for me to see his face his hands holding me loosely by the elbows he is about 6 foot one inch tall and his face is young and sweet and his long thick straight blond hair is a bit too long and hangs in his eyes and his body is lean and cut it recalls a cross between a skateboarder named rabbit i dated in my mid-twenties and Brad Pitt circa Thelma an Louise he smiles at me and deep dimples wink and his eyes twinkle but his eyes are not blue they are dark dark green like forest pools almost black around the edges and the color of new growth and sunlight near the pupils he smells of ocean and fresh sweat and grass hot in the sun and he smiles at me and i say good answer and he kisses me and tastes of berries and the kiss deepens and the alarm goes off.
So I get up and write this. Now I have to go to work. Sigh.
If you've been following the current events in my head, you'll know that I spent some time last evening ruminating on the qualities of my Perfect Man. Cause it's research don't you know. The co-protagonist of the rom-com that I'm writing is on the hunt for her perfect guy. I've decided though, that a straight up check list of qualities is too dull. If I am concocting my own virtual Frankenstein's Love Monster, I need to be much more engaged in the process than just getting down 1) sense of humour 2) kind eyes, etc. Thus a bunch of guys from my past and present will form the big amorphous lump of qualities from which I will select specific items that appeal and apply. For the record, these are not just past boyfriends, these are just guys I know that have something about them that I like. And if you don't spot yourself on the list, you are quite welcome to remind me why you should be included. I like white roses, Veve Cliquot and diamonds of pretty much any kind. And hand massages - did I mention that before? Between the writing and guitar playing, I need a good hand massage from time to time.
After posting my first batch of qualities I was about to move on to Hoosie's list, but since his listing will be a long one, for many reasons, not the least of which is that I'm writing this bloody script for him so he is in my head a lot. And when I say a lot, I mean almost a creepy a lot so maybe I'm entitled to the damn socks people. Anyhoo, I digress. I decide to wait until tonight to launch into the Hoosie list as it will be a key part of the character development of Elliot, who is meant to be portrayed on screen by the aforementioned Hoosie. Thus I decide to play a bit of guitar and go to bed. Which I did. As I was drifting off, still sorting thru the boys in my head - realizing that most, though not all would be from the My Boys list, who are a select and secret group of guys for whom I would do a Favour - but that is for another post. And so while thinking these thoughts the great ocean that is sleep rises up and gently carries me away.
The dream starts as one of those weird office dreams that is every office you've every been in and yet none of them at the same time it was meant to be my current office at the university I think and I was supposed to be making a short ten minute film about our operations problem was everyone started running around and talking all at the same time about all the things that I absolutely must capture on film and a bunch of folks start roaring around with hand held video cameras and now the whole thing is a big giant Busby Berkley musical number with a big group of graduate students in robes doing an elaborate step dance number I'm chasing around shouting instructions to the very few co-workers I recognize take a left turn down the hall to the accounting offices only to discover that I've walked into an Office version of a Fellini orgy scene and when I tut and shake my head because these people are supposed to be helping me make a movie not getting each other off behind the assistant accountants filing cabinet one of them shocked and embarrassed by my scrutiny asks what I'm doing and i say what am i doing what are you guys doing if you are going to do that one of you should at least have a video camera so we can recoup some money out of this fiasco i shove a video camera into his hand and take off for the main bull pen area shouting instructions to the clueless production assistants trailing in my wake the dancing students have now broken into little gangs of break dancers and I shout for them all to get over by the big giant purple curtain which i pause to note is a very particular pascal purple used by the catholic church to cover statues and crucifixes during lent i can't remember why so the dancers scurry to form a kick line and i move into the kitchen which is much smaller and quieter but messy and we need to shoot in here so I put some hot water and soap in the sink to wash the stack of dirty mugs and my boyfriend is standing right beside me...
... calmly and happily asks what he can do to help and i say you could wash and then i put my hand in the water and it is hot and nice and eases the ache in my hand a bit definitely too much guitar and typing going on and then i say or dry and he says no he'll wash and i say you don't have to and he says no i want to and i say you do and he says yes and he puts his arm around my waist and pulls me into him a bit and kisses my forehead softly just above my left eyebrow and says sure it will give us a chance to spend some time together just breathing each other in then he does breathe in and hold me a moment steps back just enough for me to see his face his hands holding me loosely by the elbows he is about 6 foot one inch tall and his face is young and sweet and his long thick straight blond hair is a bit too long and hangs in his eyes and his body is lean and cut it recalls a cross between a skateboarder named rabbit i dated in my mid-twenties and Brad Pitt circa Thelma an Louise he smiles at me and deep dimples wink and his eyes twinkle but his eyes are not blue they are dark dark green like forest pools almost black around the edges and the color of new growth and sunlight near the pupils he smells of ocean and fresh sweat and grass hot in the sun and he smiles at me and i say good answer and he kisses me and tastes of berries and the kiss deepens and the alarm goes off.
So I get up and write this. Now I have to go to work. Sigh.
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
My Perfect Man Wish List. Part I
So the men referenced here, by in large, are referenced by nickname so as to afford them all a modicum of privacy. In case you are asking. Don’t. If you don’t know who I am referring to, then you don’t’ get to know. Deal with it. They are also not in anyway listed in chronological order, nor in order of IMPORTANCE, though of course since they all appear on my list they are, always and ever, cherished.
Skyhammer.
From my acquaintance with Skyhammer, my Perfect Man needs to have that world-class, take-my-breath-away intelligence. In short, he needs to know lots of stuff I don’t. Good luck with that mere mortal boys.
He also needs Skyhammer’s sense of silly. A man who can giggle without then turning around and leaping on the table in the presence of a mouse? That is valuable indeed ladies.
Someone who would be happy to eat cinnamon toast and tea every morning for a week, simply because you announced that it was “cinnamon toast and tea” week.
The way he makes me feel brilliant. Because he IS brilliant when he gets a very considered look and says to me “You’re brilliant” – I actually believe him. Makes me feel cinnamon toasty.
Gosh, so many great men to get to, but I’m not done with Skyhammer. He can Tango. Never seen him Tango. Never Tangoed with me, but when he describes his love of Tango – I believe him.
Last and not in anyway least – he knows the pointy end of the sword from the edge, and the tang and the hilt and pommel and the cross guard and the fuller and the grip and the scabbard. Not to mention his understanding of the bow and the arrow and the shaft and fletching and nock and draw and nevermind – you get my point. If there is a Dragon around this is one guy I would like to be around to slay him for me.
The Cossacks
There are two. Who have never met each other by the way. One an old friend, one of new acquaintance. Big. Blond. Tall. Light of eye and quick of laugh.
Strangely the thing they have in common was they look surprised to see me and always seem to be surprised at how happy they are to see me. Does that make any sense? I like their sense of confidence in their bodies. Tall, strong and fit and they know it. And they know what to do with it. Comfortable in their own skins in a way few men of my acquaintance are. At the same time, no real sense of arrogance over their beauty or physical prowess. They don’t poster, because they don’t need to, they just are. Their ability to be in the moment.
The Runner
Not that he was technically my first kiss, but he was actually my first French kiss. Side by side on a schoolyard swing set, on a cold fall night. What we need from him is the taste of raspberries. He tasted of raspberries. And I kissed him longer and more diligently than perhaps anyone since – that is one of those glorious things about teenage necking sessions, isn’t it? You kiss for hours and days and months. Be honest, making out has never really been as much fun since, has it? Kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing. He always tasted of raspberries. Day after day, regardless of food and drink, he tasted of raspberries. I wonder if he still does?
Skyhammer.
From my acquaintance with Skyhammer, my Perfect Man needs to have that world-class, take-my-breath-away intelligence. In short, he needs to know lots of stuff I don’t. Good luck with that mere mortal boys.
He also needs Skyhammer’s sense of silly. A man who can giggle without then turning around and leaping on the table in the presence of a mouse? That is valuable indeed ladies.
Someone who would be happy to eat cinnamon toast and tea every morning for a week, simply because you announced that it was “cinnamon toast and tea” week.
The way he makes me feel brilliant. Because he IS brilliant when he gets a very considered look and says to me “You’re brilliant” – I actually believe him. Makes me feel cinnamon toasty.
Gosh, so many great men to get to, but I’m not done with Skyhammer. He can Tango. Never seen him Tango. Never Tangoed with me, but when he describes his love of Tango – I believe him.
Last and not in anyway least – he knows the pointy end of the sword from the edge, and the tang and the hilt and pommel and the cross guard and the fuller and the grip and the scabbard. Not to mention his understanding of the bow and the arrow and the shaft and fletching and nock and draw and nevermind – you get my point. If there is a Dragon around this is one guy I would like to be around to slay him for me.
The Cossacks
There are two. Who have never met each other by the way. One an old friend, one of new acquaintance. Big. Blond. Tall. Light of eye and quick of laugh.
Strangely the thing they have in common was they look surprised to see me and always seem to be surprised at how happy they are to see me. Does that make any sense? I like their sense of confidence in their bodies. Tall, strong and fit and they know it. And they know what to do with it. Comfortable in their own skins in a way few men of my acquaintance are. At the same time, no real sense of arrogance over their beauty or physical prowess. They don’t poster, because they don’t need to, they just are. Their ability to be in the moment.
The Runner
Not that he was technically my first kiss, but he was actually my first French kiss. Side by side on a schoolyard swing set, on a cold fall night. What we need from him is the taste of raspberries. He tasted of raspberries. And I kissed him longer and more diligently than perhaps anyone since – that is one of those glorious things about teenage necking sessions, isn’t it? You kiss for hours and days and months. Be honest, making out has never really been as much fun since, has it? Kissing and kissing and kissing and kissing. He always tasted of raspberries. Day after day, regardless of food and drink, he tasted of raspberries. I wonder if he still does?
Blue Paper Blues
Okay, so when staring at the screen fails, out must come the pen and the pushing it across the paper making squiggly marks - blue on blue in this case- which can later be translated by the readers’ eyes and brain into some semblance of meaning. So while it may transcribe this fairly faithfully later to the computer, for now it is just me; a girl and a not quite blank page. It is a scrap page in fact. On of those strange sized blue pages packed between each and every copy of the annual report. 500 copies of the report, 532 pieces of pristine blue paper. Couldn’t just recycle it. must use it up some how. It has become dumping ground for my random thoughts. Day job thoughts and night job thoughts and personal thoughts. Have decided to get serious about my perfect man list but think it will be so Gone With The Wind in length it will be in installments.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
I’d rather say in my cocoon thanks
Hey. Yah. It is a bit cramped. Certainly dusty. So what if I know the landscape of every freaking inch down to the last micron. It is mine God damn it and no one has dominion in here but me. Not that I have the slightest clue how to be good ruler of the universe. But I am safe and I am warm. Mostly. And when the cold winter wind blows I put on a Canadian Tenors CD and let myself pretend that out there, somewhere my True Love awaits. Hmmm, there is a song there I think. Never mind. Not creating now. Ranting now.
I mean seriously suddenly I am thinking about romantic love all day every frackin’ day and I am getting really cranky about it. The thing I avoid most is now the frackin’ desktop on my computer. Seriously I haven’t even had a “real” boyfriend since I was in my late twenties. Cause I’m pretty sure you can’t count the married men or the dudes stepping out on their live-in girlfriends, or the gay couple and if any of you guys are reading this. Shame on all of us. But I’m thinking I paid the penance for us now twice over. Enough.
You may wonder whether I gave up on Love or whether it gave up on me. Tough call. Depends on where you sit I think. From where I sit, it gave up on me. Since, at the height of my physical attractiveness and personal joy I was sucked under the riptide of my first and only “Kill or Die for” love. Yes. I would have killed or died for him. I wonder if his wife would have? No matter, it was all so tragic and accidental. I have superior worship from afar skills. Really top notch. Still do as a matter of fact. But when the object of your adoration turns around one day and pulls you into his arms. There is no defence for that. No defence. Only oceans of tears and eight years of therapy.
Fast forward. Today. Me. Tricked into writing a romantic comedy. Okay, not actually tricked. But it sounds good and is truer than you can know. Hey? It’s going to be brilliant and successful beyond all your wildest dreams. But for the four of five of you that actually read this blog? Please be prepared to squeeze me tight on opening night because it will have come out of the darkest places of my despair, and there is still a chance that I will dissolve into a dew before all is said and done. Love, bah humbug.
So fine. I can’t fit back into my cocoon anymore because my new wings are all sticky and awkward and won’t fold up small enough. But I am going to go wash the tears off my face and get a big glass of ice with just a little water. I’ll play the guitar for awhile and go to bed early. Teresa and Elliot and their quest for True Love will be waiting tomorrow. Right now? I’m taking the rest of the night off.
Monday, December 14, 2009
The blog with no title
The snow has turned to rain. I can hear it on the skylight.
As I type, the fingertips of my left hand are reminding me how much I’ve been practicing my new Christmas tune. My brain is reminding me how much I suck at it and I better be prepared to amuse my guitar teacher tomorrow, cause amaze him with my musical talent, probably not so much.
Funny isn’t it? In about seven minutes I turned a barely started crocheted scarf into a drawstring bag for my video camera. Really. I timed it. And yet mastering the first eight bars of a song I ALREADY KNOW on the guitar is like… Fine. We all know that of all my multitude of gifts, a knack for melody, not so much. Ironic to many since I actually have the vocal capacity to stun millions, but memory for melody? Pitch? Sigh. I can actually tell I’m off key, but the ability to do something about it?
Often when I’m practicing the guitar I feel like there are two people present. The meat suit, trying to move the fingers and hit the notes and a ghostly ethereal self that loses patience with the plodding flesh and decamps for God knows where. Where the angels are singing perhaps. Lucky me. I do know what that sounds like.
Interesting tonight. There is not a thing on television or written in a book that is more interesting and consuming than what I am thinking right now. Good. That is as it should be. I am going to go away now and kick some story butt. Because. I can.
But seriously I could use to be well kissed somewhere around now.
As I type, the fingertips of my left hand are reminding me how much I’ve been practicing my new Christmas tune. My brain is reminding me how much I suck at it and I better be prepared to amuse my guitar teacher tomorrow, cause amaze him with my musical talent, probably not so much.
Funny isn’t it? In about seven minutes I turned a barely started crocheted scarf into a drawstring bag for my video camera. Really. I timed it. And yet mastering the first eight bars of a song I ALREADY KNOW on the guitar is like… Fine. We all know that of all my multitude of gifts, a knack for melody, not so much. Ironic to many since I actually have the vocal capacity to stun millions, but memory for melody? Pitch? Sigh. I can actually tell I’m off key, but the ability to do something about it?
Often when I’m practicing the guitar I feel like there are two people present. The meat suit, trying to move the fingers and hit the notes and a ghostly ethereal self that loses patience with the plodding flesh and decamps for God knows where. Where the angels are singing perhaps. Lucky me. I do know what that sounds like.
Interesting tonight. There is not a thing on television or written in a book that is more interesting and consuming than what I am thinking right now. Good. That is as it should be. I am going to go away now and kick some story butt. Because. I can.
But seriously I could use to be well kissed somewhere around now.
Saturday, December 12, 2009
Never Send a Writer to do a Programmer’s Job
So okay, Skyhammer, you have to take the blame for manifesting this one. The string of lights that did fall down in the middle of the night scaring the shit out of me were the icicles Po and I hung, not any of the numerous strings hung by the team you spearheaded with Duder and Fast Mike. But since Duder and I helped and we are both writers and you guys are both programmers…Oh, never mind, cancels out I suppose. But that is just the math and my head hurts a bit today. Wonder why.
Did just find three tiny cheese puffs hidden under a couple baguette slices thou. Num. Breakfast. Hah, The Puffs made yet another convert last night. Mandolin Mike was truly skeptical I think. Informed me he wasn’t really a cheese puff kinda guy. Yah. He fell hard and fast like all the rest do. Good man wasn’t too proud to admit it immediately though. Thanks to Squish and Skyhammer for helping me with the heavy lifting on that, you either need some serious guns to do a double batch of choux pastry or a tag team of friends that respond well to my bleating, “Beat it! Beat it hard!” The Mikes were standing bye for the hand off, but Skyhammer pulled it across the finish line, the last great spate of beating motivated by Squish and I screaming cheers in his ears, no doubt. Oh, can’t forget Po’s cubing of the cheese either. Exactly what is it that you did Coco? I supervised of course.
Alright, need some scrambled eggs with the leftover chorizo and some serious coffee. Not fresh-roasted Jamaican Blue Mountain, like Mandolin Mike is no doubt enjoying as I write this. Can’t imagine having the patience to roast my own coffee beans. Hmm. Okay back with some musing on writing from last night that will be infused with caffeine, not red wine. Cripes as I type that I can hear one of the writing Nazi’s in my head whining that coffee is to red wine as caffeine is to alcohol. Shut up. I had too much of one last night and not enough of the other yet today, so if you don’t want me to unleash my supernatural freak collection into your damp little interrogation room, you will SHUT UP! And I will eat scrambled eggs and chorizo, with a little Guinness cheese grated over top.
Did just find three tiny cheese puffs hidden under a couple baguette slices thou. Num. Breakfast. Hah, The Puffs made yet another convert last night. Mandolin Mike was truly skeptical I think. Informed me he wasn’t really a cheese puff kinda guy. Yah. He fell hard and fast like all the rest do. Good man wasn’t too proud to admit it immediately though. Thanks to Squish and Skyhammer for helping me with the heavy lifting on that, you either need some serious guns to do a double batch of choux pastry or a tag team of friends that respond well to my bleating, “Beat it! Beat it hard!” The Mikes were standing bye for the hand off, but Skyhammer pulled it across the finish line, the last great spate of beating motivated by Squish and I screaming cheers in his ears, no doubt. Oh, can’t forget Po’s cubing of the cheese either. Exactly what is it that you did Coco? I supervised of course.
Alright, need some scrambled eggs with the leftover chorizo and some serious coffee. Not fresh-roasted Jamaican Blue Mountain, like Mandolin Mike is no doubt enjoying as I write this. Can’t imagine having the patience to roast my own coffee beans. Hmm. Okay back with some musing on writing from last night that will be infused with caffeine, not red wine. Cripes as I type that I can hear one of the writing Nazi’s in my head whining that coffee is to red wine as caffeine is to alcohol. Shut up. I had too much of one last night and not enough of the other yet today, so if you don’t want me to unleash my supernatural freak collection into your damp little interrogation room, you will SHUT UP! And I will eat scrambled eggs and chorizo, with a little Guinness cheese grated over top.
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Why is finishing so hard?
Okay.
So I am in fact in bad, bad, bad mood.
For absolutely no reason I might add.
I had a great day. Work worked, laundry done, nap, guitar, waxing poetic about the perfect man.
But I do have to finish something. Why oh why oh why does this have to be like walking over glass every time? I don’t even want to try and finish. What I want is to have another drink and play Vampire Wars until Glee is on TV.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Because it isn’t what I really want. What I really want is to have this movie outline finished. But no, not the least of it. I want it to be finished in grand and pleasing fashion. However ya big schmoop, it can’t even be a bad outline if it ISN’T FINISHED!
Resistance. The knot of phlegm in my head that must be expelled each and every day in order to get writing done.
If you pray, please pray for me.
Cripes, now my glasses are dirty and I must arise and clean them. And get a glass of ice water. Heavy on the ice. And wash my face since I’ve been crying and it feels all sticky.
Then I have to resume the position, tell my self again that writing is joyful, god damn it. And finish.
So I am in fact in bad, bad, bad mood.
For absolutely no reason I might add.
I had a great day. Work worked, laundry done, nap, guitar, waxing poetic about the perfect man.
But I do have to finish something. Why oh why oh why does this have to be like walking over glass every time? I don’t even want to try and finish. What I want is to have another drink and play Vampire Wars until Glee is on TV.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. Because it isn’t what I really want. What I really want is to have this movie outline finished. But no, not the least of it. I want it to be finished in grand and pleasing fashion. However ya big schmoop, it can’t even be a bad outline if it ISN’T FINISHED!
Resistance. The knot of phlegm in my head that must be expelled each and every day in order to get writing done.
If you pray, please pray for me.
Cripes, now my glasses are dirty and I must arise and clean them. And get a glass of ice water. Heavy on the ice. And wash my face since I’ve been crying and it feels all sticky.
Then I have to resume the position, tell my self again that writing is joyful, god damn it. And finish.
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Just a thought or two before sleep.
This girl is going to bed early. The subconscious needs to process a rather full day, week, month…yah, year.
I’m a bit stuck with my feature film outline. I know what happens on page 45 and 60 but am drawing a blank on how to get everyone there. So I do what I do when I’m stuck. Any creative thing I can think of that might walk me sideways into a solution. So the Canadian Tenors are giving me “What Child is This?” my all time favorite carol, and I am going to turn them off shortly and pick up the guitar and try and figure it out.
My guitar teacher is back. Oh, how I missed him. I shook his hand and told him so too. He composed the music for the Sci-Fi Fantasy mini-series “Alice” airing this week already on Showtime. So he took a bit of a break from teaching my slow-to-learn magnificence and made some cash-o-la. Now he is back, I did miss him. I proclaimed him of Angel blood in previous blog and seeing him again and playing music with him, I stand by my earlier assertion. Huh. I think he was a bit surprised at being happy to see me too. But you know, I am a bit of an acquired taste, but once you acquire me…
My lullaby is playing now, Hallelujah which really is my cue to shut down, turn off and pick up the guitar. So I will kiss you all good night and tackle my story problem tomorrow. Damned Romantic Comedy. I got tricked into writing it and now look at me, asking everyone I know how to recognize True Love. I’m starting to think it really is true, what Dara Marks says about the connection of writer to theme. It is a question or thought seen very personally thru the lens of the writer. Which would be me. Who doesn’t really believe in Romantic Love other than as a sort of temporary glandular condition. Sigh. Okay. Tomorrow I promise to spend my blog time composing the ideal man. Jeepers. I could hardly type that sentence and if you could see my face you would be laughing at the sneer.
Did I already say G’night and G’bless? O well, I guess I have now. Until tomorrow.
Monday, December 7, 2009
Lost Hour, Nanaimo – 4:31am Sunday December 6, 2009
Lost Hour came late today. Makes sense in that we didn’t shut it down till 1am. And then after a half dozen 5$ martini’s between us in the hotel bar after the Canadian Tenor’s show. Such a great day today, ah, yesterday. So many laughs large and small. Lots of talk, music, wine and joy. Hard to get the pen moving now though in that it is so much easier to sink into a dreamy reverie. I do want to write down one thing about the day though. Before Moosie (my new stuffed moose wearing a mini Canadian Tenors t-shirt – Yah, I see your eyes rolling, but you can’t really ever take the teenage girl out of the middle-aged woman you know.) and I return to the land of Nod.
Lil’ Dude asked me today, in and amongst about a billion other assorted questions, what did I think was more important? Memories or Dreams? Tough call, ay? Given that memories form part of the fabric of who we are and give context to our dreams. I’m going to side with dreams as I strive to live joyfully in every moment and I can’t live backward, so faith and hope in my dreams pulls me forward and, quite honestly, keeps me alive. Then again, all of my writing is memory and dream intertwined, so closely knit as for there to be nothing to choose between them.
So maybe I don’t have an answer to that question at all Lil’Dude. I’ll just put it in the big box of things-to-think-about and take it out and mull it over from time to time. To turn it over in my fingers and feel the cool slick hardness on one side, the gritty powdery bit underneath, the squishy bit round an edge. All the while I breathe in the scent of cheese puffs and lavender, stale beer and creosote, basil and sweet spicy boy.
Moosie says G’night and G’bless.
Sunday, December 6, 2009
Caught Between a Rock and a Harp Place. The Canadian Tenors Christmas Concert.
Nope. Not at typo. There really was a harp on stage I was really caught out. I was vastly embarrassed to find myself in the very front row of the Canadian Tenors and Vancouver Island Symphony Christmas Concert last night. No! I thought I was in row 4, close enough to enjoy all the action and catch the best sound. But instead, they took the first several rows of seats out to accommodate the orchestra. What I thought was row 4 or 5 was row 1. And when I say row 1, I say 2 feet away from the toes of the boy’s shoes. No, two feet is an exaggeration. It was maybe 1 horizontal foot and 3 vertical. I was mortified.
Not that it is about me people cause it surely isn’t and it was a sold out house and the boys are nothing if not professional. But. Gotta be a little bit like having your third grade teacher breathing down your neck during your doctoral exam. Jeepers. I actually contemplated trying to trade seats with someone further back. Lil Dude said I was overreacting and reminded me that the guys are professionals. And they already knew I was there as we ran into them on the ferry. Where I told them we were in row 4.
Okay, of course they are professionals, but jeepers, I don’t want to be the one to prove that Angel Boy can handle distraction. Cause, not proud of it, but I am a distracting person. All thru I keep thinking okay, good, I got a little smile and a nod but they are doing great and sending it out into the house and so maybe not so distracting as I thought. Then - post performance he tells me that he was aware he was of me sitting, like right there, and all the things it stirred up in his mind about his past and stuff. Rats. I was hoping my fears were all ego. Oh well. Next time I'll try and sit further back.
Hey, maybe we all learned something new from the unusual juxtaposition of past and present. I am a fan, after all, so don't expect an unbiased review. Though come to think of it all reviews are biased, aren't they, otherwise they wouldn't be reviews, they'd be summaries. But I digress, I do plan some vacation time and creative renewal around the expense of seeing these guys for three reasons.
First, they are brilliant musicians and the music makes me feel better about myself and the universe I inhabit. I just does. And given my natural penchant for melancholy, I need that.
Second, their mastery inspires the pursuit of my own. I strive to be as good at what I do as they are. Transforming people’s mood, perceptions, beliefs and maybe actions? Sounds like the goal of an artist’s life to me.
Three, I met one of these artists when he was a child, a pivotal place in his life where he found himself elevated first and foremost beyond his peers into the rarified and highly demanding life of professional opera. It was also a pivotal place for me. It was the same time I started writing. I remember him from then. He remembers me. We are connected in a strange and entirely inexplicable way. We give context to each other's artistic experience. Okay, that sounds a bit pompous, and is probably punctuated incorrectly, but I still think it's true.
Einstein says time and space are illusion and certainly there are moments when I am watching Angel Boy sing when I can’t tell if he is ten, thirty or sixty. But ever and always, he reminds me of what happens when talent, hard work and a positive mind-set meld.
So okay. Not about me. About the Canadian Tenors - Fraser, Vic, Remi and Clifton. About their music. Which was truly sensational.
Not only do the Canadian Tenors rock, but they attract some fine-ass musicians to the party. The Vancouver Island Symphony was spot on. On guitar, bass and drums were other fine, fine musicians who may never forgive me for not remembering their names, but I will try to make up with extra chocolate just for them next time I attend a performance. Hard to judge the sound levels from my strange seating placement but hey the group’s manager consulted me on my opinion after the show. And didn’t that do lots for my ego despite not really being able to give him accurate data. It is very important to know that they question, and listen, and strive for perfection. Hey Jeff! Happy to attend future performances as your ears!
Mark Camilleri, the pianist and musical director doesn’t play the piano so much as he dances it. If ever you have the chance to see them live, don’t limit your attention to the eye candy down front, check out the piano player doing his thing. Dancing with the piano. You may have seen and heard a great pianist command his instrument, but I guaran-fracking- tee you that you have never beheld the like of this young man dancing his piano.
“The Perfect Gift” the Canadian Tenors’ Christmas release is so worth buying I don’t even know how to begin to describe it. I own one and have five on order. By the way Clifton, I got hugs and I got smiles, and I even got kisses. But when you saw me you actually capped your pen and hugged me instead of signing my CD. Shameful professional practice. But I forgive you. I will most certainly give you an opportunity to make it up to me. And I repeat, an unbiased review this ain’t.
Further, I could be detailed and glowing about each stand-out performance of the night. And perhaps I should since they all delivered moments worthy of mention.
Yeah, that’s me cold and impartial reviewer. Yet, hah! If you know me at all, you know I wouldn’t and couldn’t cite them without the musical and artistic excellence that is there. Because I can’t. I won’t. I’m funny that way. Cut my perception of artistic excellence on Dame Margo Fonteyn and Mikhail Baryshnikov and the Kirov ballet and Kiri Te Kanawa and Antonio Pappano and Judith Forst and David Pittsinger and Richard Margison. All of whom, with one exception I have met. Don’t know who they are? That’s what Google was invented for kids. My fatal flaw is attraction to genius. Why is it fatal and why a flaw? For another post.
Suffice it to say, for me, stand out moments musically and performance wise at the Canadian Tenors December 5, 2009 performance at the Port Theatre, Nanaimo, BC Canada –
- Because we Believe – I’m a sucker for the lyrics, kinda my theme song
- Adagio – brilliant music, brilliantly interpreted
- Instrument of Peace – extraordinary arrangement of timeless hope and untouchable beauty
- Clifton Murray taking his space with humour and humility as an equal with his peers, his solo of Wintersong was just lovely. Warm, wistful, a bit sexy, well, a lot sexy, and achingly sweet, bye and bye. Gosh, I look forward to hearing you in future.
- Victor Micallef – Yep. I stood up for his solo. Had too. Unwritten rule in our highly critical and unforgiving world. When someone delivers all – you get off your butt, even if you stand-alone., not that I did actually stand alone. Now I don’t leap to my feet with the herd. Always been a bit ornery and stubbornly butt-in-chair about that. It's a big butt, takes a lot to motivate it to move. O Sole Mio. A purple piece, a chestnut as it were in the halls of opera, but with...
- Mark Camelleri at the piano and Victor at the microphone--I can truly say that the Neapolitan Sun shone upon us all at that moment. And I understood in a wholly new way, the relationship between composer, singer and accompanist. This alchemy, this magic – a perfect moment of live musical performance. Joins my Pantheon. The whole of which, if you are oh, so lucky, some day I will reveal. (and laughing at my apparent opera expertise. I think that was the song, but hey I am an opera fan, NOT an opera buff, and with no program and only my middle-aged memory to rely on…)
- Remigio Pereira – Now, you may not know it, but Remi is a Guitar God. Fine, don’t believe it at your peril. Just remember you heard it from me first. Fine you may have heard it before, whatever, it's my blog. Took me 6 months to master the way he plays Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah on guitar. When I see him pick up the guitar on stage it makes me extra happy over and above the extra happy I already feel at being in the audience in the first place. In fact when the lovely handsomeness of Fraser Walters got in the way of me examining a flamenco strumming pattern, I was highly put out.
- Last in this list, but never least in my heart, Fraser Walters and a song that I have never heard before “Mary Did You Know”. Not an easy song. Not a tried and true universally loved song. But oh my. When Fraser sings it is never just pretty, though it is often sweetly so, it is never just perfectly pitched, though it is always so - the little burr in his voice tonight elevated the depth of the question. The man can phrase a song like no one alive.
Together, as I stood in line to have my CD signed (the stuffed Moose with the Canadian Tenors t-shirt in my purse and out of embarrassment’s way) I listened to the favorite songs and moments of the crowd. I wonder if most critics ever avail themselves of the overheard lobby and bathroom comments? In the end who cares what they said and it’s my blog and no-one is paying me for anything!
Highlights for me:
Because we Believe
Instrument of Peace
O Holy Night
Silent Night
Wintersong
O Sole Mio
Mary Did you Know
O Viens Emmanuel (nice Remi!)
And not fair to mention their rendition of Hallelujah which, bye the bye is my bedtime song. And I will forgive them not doing What Child is This, my all time favorite Christmas song, since it is on the CD “The Perfect Gift”.
And no, i didn't quite describe every song in the program as a HIGHLIGHT. Well, fine, almost.
So no. I am not am impartial critic, how could I be? But I am a writer to whom truth is important. This is my truth. The concert was a cherished memory. The Canadian Tenors “The Perfect Gift” – a great holiday CD. Take a chance, download them from iTunes, buy “The Perfect Gift” for your parents and be astonished and captivated by their sound for yourself.
So no. I am not am impartial critic, how could I be? But I am a writer to whom truth is important. This is my truth. The concert was a cherished memory. The Canadian Tenors “The Perfect Gift” – a great holiday CD. Take a chance, download them from iTunes, buy “The Perfect Gift” for your parents and be astonished and captivated by their sound for yourself.
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