Oh if you knew what it meant to me
I hacked down my glorious goddamned bean tower to save the structure from some truly inconsequential winds. I remember being woken up Arthur morning by the sound of nearby transformers exploding. We realized we were absolutely unprepared for the storm that hadn’t been on our radar and got in the car to go purchase supplies. Seven story elms leaned diagonally across the roadway cradled by thick but yielding power lines. Wires were on the ground or slicing the air in the winds. Cue a high-speed reversal with loud cartoon sound effects. Instead, on day two, we ventured uptown to get gas and charge our phones. Coming back across the bridge at night had us driving into pure darkness as not one place on the North side had power. I fondly remember everyone in the neighborhood gathering for group meals in the evenings, barbecuing what had thawed. What a perfect way to meet the strangers next door. We kept up after it was over, caravaning to dark spots at the right hour to catch a glimpse of the northern lights. By day four the haves got generators and that electric whir overwhelmed our revelatory sense of peace. At one point the left side of the neighbouring street got power and the right didn’t. You could see them inside watching True Blood. You’d drive over the super long orange extension cords sharing electricity across the roadway. Dangerous for sure, but uplifting all the same.
I’m sure if it had lasted longer than five days or landed during a colder month, I wouldn’t be able to romanticize it so easily. I didn’t have a nine to five at the time and instead was working away at constructing my Craft Empire. I shifted my desk against the sliding patio doors and worked away while the sunlight allowed. The BBQ had a burner, so we made French toast and soups everyday while perfecting the art of barbecued pies.
The devastation that’s occurring elsewhere feels incomprehensible comparatively. Losing everything you have vs deep cleaning your freezer and meeting the people next door. It’s wild that our geography is what decides.
Monday as Weekend
Submitting pieces for the group show felt waaaaay too vulnerable. I don’t know if I hate the work because it’s awful or if it’s awful because I hate it. How can you be excited about the expression of your deepest grief. Unpacking why I couldn’t make this cathartic will be truly horrendous. Well … fuck my life. Truly.
O.K., Meet Me Underwater
The warmth of summer left with you, the departure bittersweetly ushering in my favourite time of year. Welcome to sunny days with cool breeze undertones, thunderstorms and the absence of mosquitoes. Book ending sunburns, suffocating humidity and bug spray with an absolute ease of outdoor life (why would you even go back in? If you have to, why would you even close a single window?). This is the only time you can just show up, as is, without any other considerations. I left the house without my purse yesterday, just a credit card and lip gloss in my dress! For hours! Unbelievable. Is there anywhere that feels like this for longer?
A lady I deeply admire moved in nearly next door and I am so pleased. She has my dream life: curly hair and two babies. Also she worked for Democracy Now (RIGHT?). I am excited to casually fit myself into her days. It is so thrilling when people move back to this town.
My art piece for the group show is terrifying and I’m going to have a hell of a time finishing it up this week. Good luck, future self ❤
Wait (they don’t love you like I love you)
I submitted my Artist Statement for the Fundy residency after an entire day of abject misery. Agonizing the overshare. Editing out no less than three puns. I handed it in without fully expressing the generational subtext of the piece and I am dripping with regret.
Seasons and life cycles shift, renewing or removing possibilities, leaving generational knowledge to find alternative means of being preserved and passed on. A simple garden, used in every conceivable way, is cultivated to sustain us. It holds space for hope, fills the waking hours and obscures what cannot grow.
How do I convey and condense the sense of absolute overwhelm evoked from using the gifts my Omama shared with me, skills she assumed would continue to be passed down, as the backbone sustaining me while I try to survive not being able to have children inside of this marriage.
How do I negotiate knowing that I am letting her down. Killing her memory. Denying her existence by ending her legacy.
A couple people I desperately love read and reread my multiple pages and shortened drafts while thoughtfully engaging me on these subjects. When it comes to suggesting edits to my fondness for run on sentences, their best bet would be to travel back to 2004 and accost me on LiveJournal before my intense love of forcing an urgent tone during long winded storytelling became a part of my soul. I have so much gratitude for those rallying around my sorrow. Who knew there’s a version of expressing yourself that deflates you entirely. I rise almost exclusively due to the tenderness of those who love me back so thoroughly. When it comes to warmth, I like to match what is given and then actively kick it up a notch to see where we can get. They’ve totally surpassed me and I so look forward to returning the favour.
I’ve spent the last few days down a Toni Morrison youtube rabbit hole. That shift in perspective helped to get me through the week.
The Greater Times
August Playlist
The days feels like they’ve slowed down. Summer blossoms have taken their sweet time (only two dahlias are up) while the berries are almost gone. I let the vegetable/herb/tea/dyeing garden go to seed and it is truly wild. The mustard is taller than me! The best part of my day is smiling at those twinkling florets as they brush the hair out of my eyes while I breeze by.
The Fundy residency crew met up again to further develop our exhibit. I’d never say no to a road trip. Seeing and assisting with shaping what others are creating is such a deep and touching honour. I’m slowly settling into things. There’s a gravitas I didn’t invite readily but won’t outright reject. Feeling casually haunted and sitting with it while refusing to look directly at the ghost.
Hands and Feats
Changing my mind again and again for this gallery submission. Sorting and resorting to all manner of things. My friend has teased me mercilessly for instagramming photos of my blender at work during this paper saga. I smile so big when I think about it.
The Stressed/Distressed breakdown/build up
I strive to show up everyday ready to discuss grey areas with anyone, but I know I am an all or nothing individual. I want cold turkey inductions and painstakingly intentional paths forward. I want to plot a linear route even when there is a fourteen foot bank left by the plow with an absolute promise of a snow-up-to-your-crotch kind of climb. I want the passion, the adventure and the heartache of a direct approach. There will still be nuance, I swear.
I used to think that my inclination towards direct routes were shortcuts and they meant I was lazy. I held shame about it for years, but didn’t really change much about my approach. Now I wonder what’s lazy about clawing yourself out of an inevitable snow hole that’s half as deep as your body just because walking a quarter block extra/around felt like the absurd option. Truly it may be stubbornness more than anything else. I wouldn’t consider scaling the bank if others were along with me (humans: no/dogs: yes). I have a lot more connections to make before I know what I’m actually trying to sort out here. It’s got something to do with being in a training class with mostly strangers for weeks on end while we learn a job I’ve already done (but that time without the training!). Unfortunately I’ve got a lot of time left in this situation to figure it all out. At least when things settle down I’ll get a window seat. Small pleasures.
Is it the bridge between worlds that makes you feel alone
The original July playlist feels unresolved so I put together another. The summer vibe expands.
Our paper making saga continues! I’m learning more with each sheet and it’s beginning to feel intuitive.
And truly, the garden is giving back in so many ways …
I’m trying to figure out how I could make an actual career out of garden things. What’s really viable in a place with a 3 month growing season? If you need me, I’ll just be over here dreamin.
The house and yard are great and it is a privilege to be on this super stolen land. It’s just … I’m ten months in and it still doesn’t feel like a home – just visiting at best. I’ve painted. I’ve built in shelves. I’ve arranged and rearranged. I’ve dug up literally everything that was possible to dig up and replaced it with a garden perfectly curated to my needs and tastes.
It is the nicest place I’ve ever lived, while growing or grown, there’s no denying that. But when I had thought of myself in my first or forever home, it shared aspects of my childhood houses. Over 100 years old, seasonal shifting (with specific creaks for each one) and constant drafts swiftly made up for by the dry heat of the wood stove. The character, the artistry, the depth and history. I loved joining the fabric of that. Your house as your biggest and life long art project. You opened the door to a meadow with flowering bushes so expansive they felt like they could swallow you whole (the country version of the wardrobe). I get overwhelmed when I consider what I’ve given up to get here. And … where am I.
I’ve been thinking a lot about where I want to be or have wanted to be and the path I’ve taken to get/not get there. It seemed clear for so long. Rural life, greenhouse(s), chickens, three goats named after the Beastie Boys. Early mornings and relaxed sunsets after full days. Children. Community. It’s hard not to question working full time for a giant corporation to afford a (next to) downtown mortgage for just two humans (and an excellent dog).
The path to that dream life held heaps of hurdles, more than I can count or recount. I easily admit to having to have a reactionary or defensive response for many years rather than being able to be deliberate with selected directions. I know that I could be happy almost anywhere I’d land (and that is a skill), but now that I finally have the agency to make real choices and to authentically choose those choices … I feel at a bit of a loss. I guess it makes sense for me to question everything now that I could really do anything. And that my first questions are directed at the job that’s opened up such financial security/possibilities/shackles.
Guess I’ll make some art about it. It’s never the wrong time to celebrate what remains.
Fresh Cut Feelings 