Green

Voici des fruits, des fleurs, des feuilles et des branches

Et puis voici mon coeur qui ne bat que pour vous.

'Green' - Paul Verlaine

This month, the NaBloPoMo theme is Green, and how appropriate that I spent a day cycling through green. The Boyfriend and I spent a lovely summer afternoon riding through Niagara Wine Country, stopping at wineries, huffing and puffing up the Niagara Escarpment, rolling past orchards, admiring lush gardens.

It's a privilege and a luxury to do something like this in a place such as this. We had set aside just a little time for the trip -- only overnight. But one lovely day was all we needed. Even the brisk wind we rode into didn't seem so dreadful, although on the return trip it blew at our backs and I was grateful, considering how many wine bottles loaded down my panniers.

The people serving tourists in Wine Country are all pleasant. Of course, this is essential if you want a hope of someone buying your product. But even the guy picking blackberries off his fence beside our parked car was friendly. He shared a few berries with us, to my delight. All the more charming because it was completely unecessary.

We've settled into a B&B for the night. It's right on the shore of Lake Ontario. Toronto's skyline is visible almost straight across. The sunset was gorgeous, the water calm, the grass and trees are at their greenest moment of the summer, the taste of fine wine is still warm in my mouth. We could have it worse, now, couldn't we?

Here - some fruit, some flowers, some leaves and branches,

And here - my heart which beats for you alone.

Risk Averse?

From Craigslist Personals:

"The absolutely wildest thing I have ever done was… "

Hold on, let me think about that.



Ummmmmmm...




I guess that would have to be having sex in a university art studio after class. The second most wild would be making out with the baddest boy at the party until sunrise. The third wildest? Speaking up at a city-wide union meeting.

Or maybe it was agreeing to go sailing just before the biggest storm of the season broke over the water. Or deliberately getting so bombed at my own birthday party that I would finally know what it was like to get vomitously (made up that word) drunk. Or maybe it was biking to work through rush-hour traffic for two years straight.

Le sigh.

Not especially wild after all, but then again, not bad for a girl who normally takes very calculated risks. It's not that I shy away from recklessness, it's just that I usually make sure most of the recklessness of the activity is eliminated, so that I don't get caught and have to explain myself to the dean of arts/hostess of the party/members of my union local/emergency room doctor.

And yet, my investment profile is considered "high-risk".

I guess it's clear where my priorities lie...

I Am Woman, See Me Bellydance

Well, I'm back at 'er, after a long spell toiling for the bitch goddess Opera. Loved it, but working both the opera chorus and the Science Centre sucked up almost every minute of free time I had. And the weekend after, my sister came a-callin' from Calgary (the first time any family member has ever come just to visit lil' ol' me). So my time was still not my own.

So now here I sit, in the flotsam and jetsam of my basement suite, avoiding housework like it's the flu.

Lots of stuff has crossed my news desk in the last week, including Kathryn Bigelow's historic Best Director win at the Oscars, the beginning of the Paralympics, which CTV dutifully relegated to second-string (must play the advertisers' tune..), more violence in Belleville, ON., and the minimal media coverage of International Women's Day in Canada. Is that latter thing a good sign or a bad sign? Good in that maybe we've come far enough that we don't need a day to recognise our accomplishments? Bad in that well, it's International, if not Universal, and in some places quite a big deal, but not in The True North Strong and Free, where there's still plenty of inequality. And why isn't it International Women's MONTH, for heaven's sake? More than half the population of the world is female. You'd think we warranted more than a measly 24 hours to celebrate ourselves. And it's been celebrated since 1911. Next year is the centenary, for the love of all that's feminine! Give us our month!! We are, after all, ruled by monthly cycles!!!!

Speaking of the feminine and of celebrations, my friend had an early birthday get-together at a west-side club which was featuring a funky belly-dancing extravaganza. There was a groovy, gypsy-ish/middle eastern-ish band, guest belly dancers, and a room full of women young and old who were shaking their thangs and gyrating for all they were worth. I haven't been surrounded by that much estrogen since my last Stitch 'n Bitch, which was quite a while ago. All these smiling women swaying their hips, and waving their arms, swathed in filmy skirts and scarves sporting sparkly sequins (a little alliteration, woot!), made me feel good, very good.

My friend's boyfriend wasn't all that wowed by what he felt was this odd combination of navel-gazing and contrived, sexualized exhibitionism, but I felt it was a rather unique and peculiarly feminine thing, 'cause it really wasn't for the guys at all.. For me, it was an unusual, but not unwelcome, celebration of our individual selves and our shared experiences. Kind of a bellydancing love-in.

Sweet.

This IS Eden

I *heart* this article. Darwin forever!!!!!

A. A. Gill on Kentucky's Creation Museum Culture: vanityfair.com

Rule to Live By #425: Rant Like Nobody's Listening

I just sent an e-mail out to some politicians and a few newspapers. It's a rant against the tar sands and the current scandal-du-jour involving Afghanistan. Our government has been willfully ignorant as well as blithely trying to brush off or play down concerns about its decisions. I'm so ashamed of Canada's leaders right now, I almost want to vomit. Spitting nails has also occurred to me. Seeing as those two options are, in the first case, unappealing, and, in the second case, probably somewhat painful, I settled for a letter.

Living in a relatively peaceful democracy is such a blessing -- one I definitely don't take for granted. However, this is the first time I've ever personally sent out a written statement expressing how upset I am. I've thought about doing such a thing many times, but either I was lazy or afraid of the fallout.

Well, I've now officially jumped down that rabbit hole. I wonder if anything will happen. Okay, I know that politically, nothing will happen as a direct result of my rant, but maybe it will be added to the growing heap of disgust being shoveled onto our Dear Leader and his Hapless Minions. Most likely it will be lost in the shuffle, but at least I finally did it.

Here Comes the Fudge

"Southern psychiatry: Pet some goats, buy some junk, scribble a story, and eat homemade fudge. By late tomorrow afternoon, I should be cured."

- Monda at 'No Telling'

Monda is a blog writer I'm following, and one of my favorites. She's a creative writing instructor and baby boomer living in the American South: encouraging, honest, funny as hell. Obviously, I've been a little short on inspiration, let alone time this month. A read through Monda's latest few posts, though, and I'm good to go again. Witness the quote at the top of the page. She shrinks down life's stesses so that they are more-or-less about as scary as dust bunnies.

Lately I've been having problems with an after-school care program where I'm supposed to do a music session. Admittedly, I didn't know what to expect going in, but now that I'm in the middle, it's got me, well, wound up. The after-school program has been launched there (and at a few other schools) to give the kids an alternative to going home to an empty house or wandering the streets or malls. Right after classes there's a homework club, and later, they can choose from other activities, which differ from day to day.

The school is sports-oriented, so the majority of the kids pick basketball or volleyball. But there are only so many spots available. The few remaining kids, or the ones that don't sign up quick enough, can choose from 'Junior Chefs' or my 'Music' program. Originally it was supposed to be 'Choir', but that didn't last long. The kids were either painfully shy, or borderline ADHD, bouncing off the walls like India-rubber balls. After much trial and error, and a regrettable session which has gone down in history as the "Gong Show", I conceded to the wisdom of the organiser and planned some games.

Now, I can do that stuff: the camp counselor-, boy scouts-, girl guides-,type stuff, but it doesn't teach them much about music. I run a similar program at a second school, but I've managed to set it up so it's closer to what I was hired for, namely to run a choir program. However, at the second school it's all girls, they're a bit more cooperative, and they have proven they can sit still for more than 2 minutes at a stretch. They're only doing rounds and canons, but at least they're actually singing.

I'm not sure whether to give up on this first school or stubbornly hang on. They're disadvantaged kids, so a part of me wants to give in to the Hollywood cliche: dedicated teacher overcomes adversity and inspires her students to lofty goals, punches a fist in the air in the triumphant final moments of the brilliant concert which leads to a standing ovation and swelling orchestral soundtrack, composed by John Williams. Cue the eye-rolling and derisive laughter. I don't have the time or the resources or even the space -- they stuck me in the freakin' library, for the love of St. Cecilia.

I'll stick it out for a while longer. I'm actually on hiatus soon, owing to my upcoming opera contract. I'm wooing a potential replacement; a guy who may well be many times more qualified to lead this particular rag-tag bunch down the path to Technicolor glory. Maybe it will, indeed, result in a better world for everyone. Or at least a few less ulcers for me. Fingers crossed! Cue the homemade (Canadian maple) fudge!!

Evolution of a Species

Gender stereotypes dog us. Men use hammers, women use potato mashers. Men repair cars, women repair broken fingernails. Women go to the bathroom at restaurants together, men pee with strangers. Women empathise, men show by example. Men BBQ, women bake. Woof.

Hmmm. Well, last Monday, over Thanksgiving dinner with friends, some stereotypes were happily ignored. Sure, a lot of the meal was cooked by the woman of the house, but the man of another house brought over a pie, a cheesecake, a mess of biscuits and some home-made butter. His wife just sat there, sipping her wine and beaming. And the men cleared the table and washed the dishes. That did not happen in my family when I was a girl.

Three cheers for small, incremental, geologically insignificant, but nonetheless encouraging social changes.

Singing Lessons

I’ve never thought I was much of a teacher. That’s not what I went to school for. Music school was there to teach me to be a better musician, not to show me how to get others to the same point. The idea of me molding, modeling, encouraging, tweaking, coddling, or nudging a young singer was so vague it might as well have been a wisp of smoke in the metaphorical distance. Laughable! That was a job for others, I blithely declared to myself. Tra-la-la! I was on this earth to perform. At least, that used to be the mantra.

A few days ago, I hugged my last student goodbye, after subbing at a music school for three months. And, I actually had the feeling some of those girls were going to miss their lessons with me. This has kind of knocked me sideways because most of the time I’m in that familiar mindset of fearing they’ll figure out I’m sort of a credential-less fraud, like a female Wizard of Oz – frantically pulling levers behind a velvet curtain at the back of the classroom, filling their brains with nothing but hot air.

But damned if I didn’t actually have something to teach them. Holy moly, I actually saw and heard changes. Note ranges increased, and rhythms sharpened. Voices sounded more effortless and words were sung with actual feeling. They didn’t carry that knowledge in with them. I gave it to them. Huh! And double-damned if they didn’t teach me something back. I learned to lay things out in a slightly different way for every student. I learned there’s baggage: that they may pretend things are normal, but starting at a new school, or having a backpack stolen, or getting into a fight with their mother, or not eating enough before their lesson could really mess them up and be heard in their voices. I learned that having a good lesson could palpably lift their moods – and mine. These are all genuine, giddy revelations.

I’m still a student, taking lessons from my own voice teacher. It’s something that we who continue to sing will do from time to time, even in middle life, to keep on top of our game. Most of my singing life I’ve been gathering up knowledge like kindling and stuffing it away for later use. I’ve set it alight on stage and shared it with audiences, but that’s fleeting, and more emotional than cerebral. I think this is the first time I’ve really been aware of passing it on in a form that might just get passed along to others. That may or may not ever happen, but nonetheless, I guess I’d call that a wee little legacy.

Sweet thought, that.

"BURP!"

I gorged at a cultural all-you-can-eat buffet last night. Literally and figuratively. It was Toronto's 5th annual 'Nuit Blanche", or 'White Night'. It's an all-night 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. art-a-thon, free to the public, spread out over many parts of downtown. I joined a friend's family and we wandered around one particular neighbourhood while I and their 11-yr. old daughter had the energy. [Side note: One sad thing about having a regular church choir gig is the Sunday morning babyhead blues. Babyhead: as in, a sleepy baby whose head flops over (got that from a Fringe play way back when) -- often during the sermon. So Saturday nights are generally more sedate than I might otherwise choose. And Sunday mornings more exhausting.]

Lots of stuff was going on, both programmed and spontaneous. Bikes you could temporarily sign out and ride, covered in LED Christmas lights powered by a generator on the bike or, slightly less eco-friendly: a bike covered in multi-coloured glow sticks. Multiple stands equipped with hobo-style oil-drum wood fires, at which volunteers from a prestigious cooking school were serving gourmet grilled sausages and fair-trade, organic hot chocolate. For free. You could keep the mug, and get a free blanket, both of which were inscribed with the word, "MERCY". This was all a nod to the recession, the extremes to which society had dipped in the past (the Dirty Thirties), and an attempt to embody comfort in hard times -- among other things, probably. The many lucky patrons, including me, were a bit gobsmacked at this kind of generosity.

We also partook of amazing free hamburgers, courtesy of a local bistro. High-end, hand formed, marinated, full size, nice bun, free burgers. Damn. Yes, I will go back there someday and patronize that establishment because they went to the trouble of making these amazing hamburgers just to give away. And around the corner, a crowd of people shuffling in a corridor between two buildings. They were wearing huge paper bags over their heads, with eye holes cut out. As we sidled past them, they apologized to all who passed by, over and over. It was amusing and disconcerting, and oh so very, very Canadian.

Because the event takes place at night, most of the art works involve light, including a projection of a story, in giant, plain, black-and-white Gothic font, on the side of a building. The story progressed to the accompaniment of a jazzy, electronica-tinged soundtrack. What really impressed me is that, primarily through the language of the story and the rhythm of the music, and little else, emotions and humour came through, loud and clear. Instructive.

I wish I could post the pictures, even if they were taken by my beyond-crappy cell phone camera, but, alas, they are compressed and I have yet to figure out how to spring them from their digital prison.

There were a lot of other things I wished for that night. Mostly for the energy and time to have seen more. This was only a small taste. All I can hope is that I painted a vivid, albeit all too brief, portrait of a magical, generous, delicious night on the town.

The End of the 'N-word'

This is the embodiment of an eloquent, persuasive call to action. To borrow from the blogger at Red Tory, this reminds us to "act in a manner as great as our thoughts." And the kid is only ten years old. With a command of language and poise like that, he will go far.