Upcoming Show!!

I imagine this is short notice, but as I only just got confirmation myself....
This Saturday May 2nd, I'll be heading back to Sheridan to appear in the Arts Open House and Craft Sale. It should be neat to see the school again; I haven't been there in almost two years. A little intimidating too though, I have to say. Kind of like how I imagine going to a high school reunion would feel.
If you're planning to be in the area, come and see the wares. The show runs from 10 am to 5 pm at Sheridan's Oakville campus on Trafalgar Road. More info can be found at http://artsfestival.sheridaninstitute.ca/.
Hope to see you there!

I've been thinking a lot lately about folks I miss. I've met and become close with a lot of people over the course of my life time so far...high school friends, college friends, people I've worked with, roommates. Any number of little things will make me think of these people and miss them. Some, I visit with. Some pop in and see me. I'll receive a telephone call or a letter or see some pictures on facebook and instantly be reminded of how much I enjoy this particular person and be filled with like and love for them.

Many of the people I no longer see often live around the city; I met many of them while at school. Sometimes, when I'm feeling a little lonely or nostalgic for these people and certain things they brought into my life, it's tempting to pull up and move back down South. But that saying about the grass being greener certainly applies here. There are many people I have in my life right now I'd miss a great deal should I move. My parents, grandparents, best friends, little children, even people at work who I still barely know are a pleasant addition in my life that I would miss should I know longer see them. Besides, the more I think about it, the more I realize my loved ones are all over the map. Toronto, Oakville, Sudbury, Orton, Ottawa, Halifax, Singapore.... I've gotten to a point in my life where I'm close to more people that will stay in one place any more. My friends all have lives of their own to lead and no matter where I go, there's simply no way I could be with them all.

In some senses, it's almost a relief. Realizing there's no way I can chase after my friends takes a bit of the pressure off. I can't really worry if I'd be happier living somewhere else with the knowledge that everywhere I could go would take away as much as it would offer. But it's not hopeless either. I've recieved so much good love over the last little while. A phone call from Kitchener, a letter from Halifax. A Toronto friend popped into my work to say hello. My aunt from China brought her baby home for Xmas. Another pair of Toronto friends, heading North, happened to stop into Huntsville tonight for a bite to eat. And in the hour or so they were here, I was lucky enough to run into them.

I guess what I'm saying is that if people mean enough to you (and you mean enough to people) things may change, but you'll still remain a part of each other's lives. It may be a big part or a little one, frequently or rather seldom, planned or even by ridiculous chance, it's still lovely and it's still something. Like the friend I saw tonight said, it must have been meant to happen.

Thoughts on a Walk Home

I've always been intrigued by footpaths. I enjoy exploring town made trails, getting behind things and around things and coming out again in unexpected places. But what really fascinates me are the paths people make themselves.

Walking the trails in Oakville, Seguin always laughed at the way I was so tempted by the little footpaths that would branch off the main route here and there. Seeing where they led was always rewarding; sometimes to a backyard, other times a hidden fort, sometimes to secret party places with discarded furniture, beer bottles and fire pits. Sometimes they were just an even quicker route elsewhere. Other times they led to a pretty, hidden clearing, a spot that would feel secret and special to each person who had discovered it.

What's really neat to me though, is how paths like this are made. It's the same idea as what I learned in school about the silk road. As it was explained to me, it was a trade route that came about naturally over time, as opposed to something that had been planned and built. As traders made their way from point A to point B and back again, they started learning which routes were quickest and easiest. Over time, they became the established 'ways to go' that everyone knew to take.

That, for me, is the coolest thing about foot paths, back trails, and short cuts. They grow out of the necessity of a number of people who all want a quicker, easier or more pleasant way to get to the same place. And as these different people discover the same routes and use them time and time again, the earth hardens under their feet, the brush and undergrowth stop sprouting there, and paths are born.

Here's what got me thinking about this today. I seldom meet another person when I walk these paths. I know they must get use because they don't get overgrown, but I didn't realize until this morning just how often one of my shortcuts is frequented.

Coming home from a walk to the store, I cut through a vacant lot that takes me from the main road onto the end of my street. As it had snowed the night before, I clambered over the bank expecting to see the faint indentation of my trail buried under a covering of white. Instead, I saw it nicely packed down with the footprints of a number of people who had already passed through that morning. It was neat reminder of how these paths are really a community creation, and without all these people who had come before, they wouldn't exist at all.

Pretty neat, huh?

I just arrived home last night from my whirlwind trip to the city. I had a lot of preconceived notions about this trip; I lived there for over three years of my life, experienced my first real independence there, formed friendships, built routines, made a home. And I was desperate for it, as I hadn't been there in so, so long. This desperation and my tendancy for nostalgia led me to assume I'd be all fuzzy wuzzy the whole time I was there, and that I wouldn't want to leave when the trip was over.

It's funny how differently things can turn out.

Part of the reason for my unexpected response is because you really can't ever go home again. Things shift and change, sometimes drastically, sometimes subtley, but it never feels quite the same. The other part of the reason is that some things never change.

The whole Toronto part of our trip was like that, exactly the same. I'd expected to have some sort of 'Wow, it's great to be back,' feeling the instant we stepped off the subway downtown. But oddly, it was as if I'd never left. We hit the streets and there I was, nothing unusual about it, every part of me felt as if I did it every day. The only sense of longing or relief I had was that I was able to find every item I needed for work in about two seconds, and a wish that Toronto was closer so I could hop a bus and do that every time I needed something.

The Go train was like that too. I stepped aboard expecting to be gazing out the window the entire time, watching all the old scenery go by, my heart warmed by the familiarity of it all. (Seriously, I'm a cheese ball for 'the way things used to be.') But I may as well have done it every day that week, because I found myself uninterested, and spent the whole time beading, barely glancing at the window.

Oakville was where things were different. I was looking forward to riding a bus around again, but we were picked up in a car by a friend and her new (to me) boyfriend. We went back to her apartment in a building we had never been in and hung out for a while with a cat we'd never met. We then went to visit our other friends in their new house in a part of town I'd never really spent any time in. The stores we visited were new, we went out to a new place, even the taxi cab we rode in was different, with some new-fangled, computerized fare meter instead of the old red, digital clock-looking one.

Throughout this whole trip, I kept catching glimpses of my old Oakville world; a restaurant here, a bank there, the very top of the building we used to live in peeking over the wall as we passed it on the highway. But everything I saw was from a slightly different angle, a new perspective; it was as if I was viewing everything from a dream or like it was an exhibit at a museum. I could see it, but at a distance, I couldn't touch it or experience it the way it used to be.

Back in Toronto the following day, it was much as it had been the day before. I felt like a natural and completely ordinary part of my surroundings once again. And one thing that may seem contradictory to that statement had also not changed; I still can't stand the crowds. The mall, the streets, every place we wandered in an attempt to pass time while waiting for our bus was absolutely packed and busy. Sometimes I'm oblivious to it, sometimes I'm not. And when I'm feeling particulary tired, as I was, and a little ill, like I had since Friday, it's hard to deal with. That was one thing I hadn't expected, to be so glad to finally take a seat on the Northlander home.

Now I don't want to make my trip seem like a disappointment, because it certainly wasn't. The only thing I regret was not being able to meet up with a few good friends of mine there. But everything else was nice. It was cool being able to see Jen in her new apartment, which is an absolute dream, let me say. The view was wonderful, the cat was great, her boyfriend seems like a real sweetheart. I liked hanging out with Simon and Shane as well. That new house is great too and I had a genuinely good time. It was nice to see the city and buy everything I needed and remind myself of all the awesome supplies available to me there. And it was really nice to have a quiet morning walk with Seguin around our old town, even if it was completely different, something about it did feel the same.

What made it so strange, I suppose, was not the absence of emotions I'd expected to have, but instead the presence of ones I didn't expect to have. I was surprised by how instantly at home I felt in Simon's new house, by how nice I felt about Jen's new man. I was warmed by the feelings of home and contentment I got from and with Seguin, walking around and having an unexpected talk about Christmas. I was taken aback by how much I missed little Penelope.

But most of all, when the trip was over, I was caught off guard by how relieved I was to be back in Huntsville again. The instant I stepped off the bus, I was so completely grateful for the cold, clean air, the empty road, the space, the dark, the snow, the quiet. That's not to say that I no longer like the city; I'm still eager for the next time I visit. But having felt so torn between two places for the last year or so, I fully expected this trip to trigger a desire to move back. So I was completely surprised by its having the opposite effect, providing me instead with a sense of closure and contentment. Another era of my life has ended and the parts that remain have taken their places in my life. And another era has begun.

A Personal History of Radio

Back in the day (aka grade 8) my main source of audio entertainment was the radio. I first started out just listening to the local station while I spent time in my room by myself, cleaning, making things, whatever. It was friendly, it was reliable, and I didn't have to think about what I was in the mood for listening to. I just turned it on and there it was, and I could enjoy some tunes while putting my main focus on whatever I was doing at the time.

Somewhere around grade nine or ten, I discovered a call in program that came on in the evening and ran into the night. The music was varied and I even called in myself once or twice, something I hadn't done since I was in grade school and called More FM to tell Santa what I wanted for Christmas. Something else I started doing around this time was to tape songs (that's right, TAPE) off this program. That left me with a whole box full of Maxell tapes filled with songs that have the beginning cut off or spoken over, and the occaisonal run of commercials from when I forgot to shut the recorder off at the end of a song. But at least I had something good to put in my walkman.

Towards the end of grade 10, my best friend gave me her old CD player, as she was getting a new one. A stereo all my own! Around this time, I was seriously starting to get into some of the bands I was hearing on the radio and I started buying CDs. I listened to my CDs a lot, on my way to and from school, all evening while I hung out in my room, while I did my homework, art, etc. But I still had a serious relationship with the radio. In the morning, I listened to the Deejays on the Edge. I loved them. They played good music and they were hilarous. I even won concert tickets from them once.

I would also listen to the radio at night sometimes if I was staying up really, really late (all night) to finish an art project. When I stay awake late, CDs are good up to a certain point, but eventually, the empty silence between one CD finishing and another being put on just makes me feel lonely and a little creeped out. At this point, it's nice to have the radio playing, as it helps me to feel I'm not the only one still awake out there.

My favourite grade 11 radio time, however, was when I would go to my father's house for the weekend. At this point in my life, I was heavily into writing in journals. And I must admit, I was also seriously lovesick. So when I finished writing about whatever else was on my mind, I would write about a boy. Friday and Saturday nights, I would stay up very late in my little bunk with curtains around it, writing by candlelight, listening to the radio. The particular station I listened to played some sort of soft rock (the complete opposite of what I listened to on CDs at the time) and it played a lot of sappy songs. Even when I was finished writing, I would often stay awake, listening to 'just one more song,' waiting for one that would leave me with a lovely gooey feeling to finally fall asleep to.

After that, the radio pretty much left my life for a while, short of waking up to it every morning (I can't stand a traditional alarm) and listening to CBC Radio 3 online with Fiona when we were staying all night at the textile studio.

How I finally came across Coast to Coast, I really can't remember. I think I heard it once before, late at night in the textile studio, but at the time, I had no idea what it was. Just some wacky program featuring this lady who claimed to have grown up with the man who killed John Lennon, and how he was filled with demons and that's why he did it. I didn't recognize it for what it was until months later. Seg and I were laying in bed listening to a random AM radio show. The host was taking all these calls from people who had crazy stories about ghosts and aliens and the supernatural. It had bumper music between segments, where they would play about half of some song and then lead into the program. Other times, they would play the show's theme music for about a minute, then say we'll be right back, then a clap of thunder, and back to commercials. When the show finally ended around three in the morning, they played a strange song some guy named UFO Phil had written for the show; the lyrics were hilarous, it was so bad it was good. It was odd and quirky and very funny, and we were hooked.

We listened to Coast to Coast every night for the rest of our final months in Oakville, sometimes just for a few minutes, sometimes for an hour or more. It played all night; one morning I had to get up really early for a gallery show and the Coast to Coast theme music was what was playing when my alarm went off. It was horrible. It was still dark out and my bedtime show was playing...it was all wrong!! Now that we're back home and can't quite get reception for the show, it's one of the things I miss most about our times down South. I could listen to it on the computer, I suppose, and sometimes I do, but it's just not quite the same as rolling over, almost asleep, to finally shut it off for the night.

For about a year now, I'd been without regular radio in my life. Working during the day, I would listen to CDs or nothing at all. I'm not sure what possessed me to turn the radio on to CBC 1 about a month ago now, but I did, and once again I'm hooked. Every day now, my routine involves the radio at one point or another. I'm becoming familiar with the Deejays, the programs, the features. I like hearing the news. The discussions are intriguing. I think this sort of radio has made a nice change from CDs for me because it's somewhat more engaging. While a CD is often times still nice for the afternoon, in the morning it's good to tune into the world around me, to find out what's going on beyond my four walls. It helps me feel connected even when I don't have time to leave the house. And while it's sometimes so easy to bock out the music I've listened to a thousand times, the radio keeps me guessing, thinking, wondering, anticipating, a welcome accompaniment to what can sometimes be tedious work.

What's best though, is the balance radio offers between this sort of stimulation and a certain familiarity. When I was in grade 5, my brother would listen to Back to Bible every night as he fell asleep. I could never hear the show itself, but I could just make out the theme music faintly sounding from his room across the hall. It eventually became a source of comfort to me, safe and cozy and familiar. The Coast to Coast music brings me right back to my bedroom in Oakville, lying in bed in the dark, the sound of our roommates, the green glow of the clock radio. The one o'clock time signal that CBC sounds each day makes me think of my Gramma's house where I would always hear it from up in the loft, reading a book or petting a cat, while she puttered about down in the kitchen. I think perhaps some of the reason I've gone back to radio now is the reguarlity if offers. In this new part of my life, where most days are self structured and I'm trying to establish a responsible routine, it's nice to have something familar to tell me what time it is. I don't mean one o'clock, midnight or three in the afternoon, but breakfast time, break time, sewing time, organizing time.

Anyone else have a history with the radio? I'm sure I'm not the only one. Maybe it's just the interactive nature of the CBC getting to me, but I'd love some feedback. Talk to me, friends.

Mir

Always always torn.

I think I am fated for the rest of my days to be leading a double life. Ever since my parents' divorce at the age of nine, I've been split between two homes, two families, two ways of life. In high school, it became two groups of friends who represented two different aspects of my personality. In college, it became my life when I was away and my life at home.

For a long time, I've had this dream, this yearning to find myself a little apartment here in Huntsville, to decorate it, to fill it with my books and music and art, and with the people I love, make it my home. I think a big part of that longing had to do with always feeling so torn between one life and another, and wanting to make one perfect place, a base to lay my heart down and let it take root. But for a long time now, I've been suspecting college has killed that dream for me.

I lived in the city for over three years. I made friends, developed routines, found favourite places, built memories. I made myself another life. My whole time there, part of me was longing to return to this life here. But now that I'm back, and I knew this would happen, a new part of me I grew while I was away longs for the life I led there. A life of back and forth is always how I've dealt with this sort of situation in the past. And technically speaking, it seems like a totally feasible solution. But having lived this way for as long as I have, I've come familiar with the flaws. The main one being this. Part of what makes a life a home is a commitment to it, I think. And when you spend half your time somewhere else, life there goes on without you. You miss things. Children grow, trees fall, people live and love and change. And each time you come back, as much as you feel you are coming home, you feel like an outsider as well, because of all you missed.

I suppose this is the life I'm fated to. Many people live this way, I'm hardly unique. And I suppose, with time, I'll get used to it. Here's hoping.