Red Doll Illo

Red Doll Illo, originally uploaded by _stringsong.

Had fun doing something creative tonight. The first thing I could think to draw was a doll. I love drawing faces.

Was getting all inspired by Sonja Ahlers and now I want to collage up the world.

Cam Mera

A few weeks ago I took the time to open this old camera bag that we've moved to three apartments in the last two years, which contained- I thought; an old and broken camera. But instead voila! there was a fully working and pretty Canon 1000FN film camera. I am a know-nothing when it comes to photography, absolutely. And taking photos that are anything but point and click, digital and disposal causes mountains of anxiety in me. BUT - I went and bought film and battery and now am happily clicking away. I have no idea what will come if it, but maybe something presentable and even interesting. I'm excited for it. Stay tuned.

Rainy Ol' Saturday

Heading to TCAF a bit later, but first returning to Wychwood barns to buy sweet little tomato plants, all yellow-flower-covered, ready to be pollinated. We're doing our community garden plot again and need to re-experience the tomato-y glory of last summer.

Good day for cuddling cats.

World.

Beautiful Saturday with Andre, back to bike riding, his bike now being fixed.

Last night got to try new bikes at home: a Peugeot, way too tall. Strained back, leg. Woke up this morning thinking brunch, and meat. Caplansky's college street, Kensington Market. Tins that eat each other. Courage My Love. Good day for a Sunburn.

Free Comic Book Day, not so stellar. Not good for indies. Home up one-ways, back to birdfest at home. Shade and sun and cats on screen doors. Leaning and scratching.

glad.stone.

Kitchen Grilling

The other day I was in our kitchen grilling and had the screen door open to let the fumes out. And then I was kneeling to look out of the open screen part without the sun in my eyes, and I noticed the movement of a large grey racoon. He was lumbering like a red panda but also not unlike my cat, the one with the squirrel tail. I watched this fellow as he lumbered across the large garage roof and shimmied down the side of it to lift- I'd seen him do this before- to lift open the heavy lid of one of Toronto's standard issue garbage receptacles. I called Andre into the room, and we watched as he used his small white hands to lift the clamshell lid over himself and then sniffed at the white-bagged garbage within, but there was nothing delicious there. So then he moved on to the shorter, stouter green bin- the lid of which popped open like a present. It was full of delicious things; forgotten leftovers, food scraps and coffee grinds. We watched him do this, and pictured these things suddenly strewn across the asphalt, and Andre yelled "Hey!" so that the racoon stopped to look up. Then Andre stomped his feet so that it wandered over to the grass and reluctantly left us, behaving not unlike Lot's wife and looking over its shoulder.

The Reasons

When your neighbour does not say hi to you:

Why is that?

Maybe they are shy.

Maybe they are nervous.

Maybe they want to enjoy their cigarette.

Maybe they are watching you

and noticing the way you

do not lock the door to your belongings.

Maybe they are villainously unkind.

Maybe they were waiting

for you to say it first.

Two doors slam.

Wednesday Thursday

Red hair, green shirt day two.

Starting with egg, cheese, bread, meat.

The truth is:

There's no use in longing. Both ugliness and beauty mean nothing.

Silly Ol' Poems

Mean-spirited millet maker in
the kitchen stirring
the pot, spitting fire
spitting fits
of rage over events
of ten years ago
feeding her family on
ten years worth of grief and bad
left over feelings
she can't quite come to grips with.
In her mean spiritedness
Millie millet maker
gripes over the short falls of others
and how she's done
them wrong.

The Possessed

Since my husband Andre is taking Russian Literature and Russian Language (I'll call it 101) right now, I have a not quite insider's but sort of inner outsider's view of the crazy and marvelous world of "Russian books and the people who read them;" that being the subtitle of the excellent book "The Possessed" by Elif Batuman named for the story by Fyodor Dostoevsky.

One of the essays included in this collection was first printed in Harpers Magazine and Andre read it then; drawn in by the provocative question posed by the title "Who Killed Tolstoy?" The fact that one of his former Russian lit profs was a character in the essay only compounded his interest. For whatever reason, at the time I had ZERO interest in reading this essay.

When it was published in this collection and arrived at our bookstore though, I was immediately drawn in by the cartoon cover. (What? I like cartoon anything apparently.) And then within seconds of turning the page became completely captivated (captured) by the writing. This book is often hilarious, tongue-in cheek, and full of many interesting factoids, asides and straight-up gossip about the Russian writers we know and love and the surprisingly zany people devoted to studying them.

The following is an excerpt recounting an exchange between Isaac Babel's daughter Nathalie and Janet Lind; one of the organizers of a conference centred on her father's works:

"JANET," Nathalie said finally, in her fathomless voice. "IS IT TRUE THAT YOU DESPISE ME?"

Janet Lind turned to her calmly. "I beg your pardon?"

"IS IT TRUE THAT YOU DESPISE ME?"

"I can't imagine what makes you say that."

"I say it because I would like to know if it is true THAT YOU DESPISE ME."

"That is an extremely odd question. What gives you an idea like that?"

"I just think you were told that I'm a NASTY OLD WITCH."

"This is really extremely odd. Did someone say something to you?" Lind frowned slightly. "You and I have barely had any interactions."

"Even so, I had the impression- that you DESPISE ME."

This conversation continued for longer than one would have thought possible , given how clear it was that Janet Lind, for whatever reason, was just not going to tell Nathalie Babel that she did not despise her. Looking from Lind to Babel, I was struck by the nontrivial truth behind the Smiths song "Some girls are bigger than others."

After reading this book I've become obsessed with checking for updates on Elif Batuman's blog because I need a constant fix of her prose from now on.

Little Mac

They lived in a glass house lit up from inside with the filaments burning. Window coverings were flimsy and insubstantial; the light always got out in spite of them. It was carpeted in mauve in what looked like popcorn, and one could hear crunching under foot with every step taken towards the threshold of the first doorway, down the stairs of which one could find a large room this time carpeted in electric puddles; it was quite intricate really. Not what you would expect actually, from the outside looking in. The main problem in the glass house was that somehow all the light was constantly escaping, and the interior burned like a furnace and buzzed like a bee. It became difficult for living, was actually not life-supporting at all. It was like a planet too close to its own sun. The inhabitants would often need to flee out of doors. The glass was quite high up- suspended, and descent was facilitated only by holding onto and sliding down one of several ropes and ribbons which hung from it, giving the appearance of an airborne jellyfish.

She would often imagine a life set somewhere else. In something called Little Mac the name of a house her grandparents had lived in. It may have been the name of the house or the name of the street, regardless it sat in her mind quite solidly. It had no questions of itself, Little Mac. It was cute and small and made of bricks, planted firmly in earth with an even number of rooms; 4 or 6 or 8. It didn't matter which. Little Mac would have gardens and sensible window coverings. If she could get there, then Little Mac would be real and the glass house would be fantasy.

Depths

Let's be someone and try to figure it out.