Thursday, February 5, 2009

If you don't watch it you'll miss the dancing Garfield

I took this on my phone yesterday morning, walking back from an 8.30AM!!! interview at Gunwharf.
The world felt, looked and smelled (no, not smelled, in this part of the city it smells like a brothel's laundry) like an inspiring, welcoming and beautiful place and I wanted to catch it on my phone.

Alright Anonymous, you smart arse bugger - who are you? The intrigue is killing me! Alternatively, it could be like a magic trick and finding out will ruin the art, in which case, stay in the shadows my friend.... I was delighted with your happy facts about Stranger in A Stranger Land, and yes, I was referring to the novel, of which yesterday's illustration was used for the cover in days of yore. I would also have been impressed with anyone pointing out that James Warhola is Andy Warhol's nephew.......

What with the snow and all it's been a funny old week. By tomorrow night I'll have done four interviews and written five articles in the space of three days, which is a record, even for me. But I have met some ace people, each with their own way of inspiring, and each with their own particular passion. I'd love to tell you more but obviously, you'll have to wait for the magazine to come out and read all about it yourself.

It suddenly occurred to me last night that I've got my first paid gig as a proper feature writer and I haven't even celebrated yet! So, I've decided to save it until they're published and then have a little party at mine to celebrate. And you're all invited. Terms and conditions apply*

*If you don't know where I live or where to find me at 3pm on a Wednesday, you can't come. You've got until publication date to find out one or the other.......

Monday, February 2, 2009

I get all stupid and happy

Stranger in a Strange Land - James Warhola
(big points to anyone who can give me some trivia on this one...)

The snow comes silently in the early hours and I, entranced, sit up until 3am just watching it fall. I open the windows to the flesh-ripping chill just to catch a snowflake on my tongue.

Today as I walk to lunch at Churchill's, I remember the last time I was writing here about snow in Toronto over a year ago. So much has changed in my life since the last time I felt the slip of snowdust on my cheek.

I don't know if the change is good or bad, but know that it is, all the same. Life apparently does not need my perceptions of it to be its true bad self (literally? or street? Maybe a bit from a, a bit from b). Which turns out to be just as well, seeing as my perceptions change all the time, seeing the same streets, faces and days here as sometimes liberating in moments of new found or rediscovered beauty, sometimes choking me in a stranglehold of over-familiarity, depending on my mood, the sunshine, the number of cups of coffee I have drunk.

I notice these shifts in my perceptions of the same things more and more. But their transience does not make me trust my feelings less, or give them fewer moments of my consideration to try to learn what they may mean, what they try to tell me when they come back, again and again.

Instead, I try to appreciate my feelings as I do the snow, revelling in the entirety, the novelty, the sheer discomfort of its beauty, knowing that as sure as the sun will return, every last trace will soon be gone.