Assignment #7: “Hey, wanna hear a story?”
(I'll admit, this one wasn't hard to write, but really tough to reread. And, even now, I post with trepidation. But, I made a long-ago promise to wear my heart on my cybersleeve, so here it is.)
***
Showing posts with label creative. Show all posts
Showing posts with label creative. Show all posts
Sunday, October 21, 2012
Tuesday, May 15, 2012
away
Assignment #6: away
Sometimes I wonder if taking a holiday is really a good idea. Sure, I come back refreshed, full of stories and food, carrying memories – but really, all I do is think about the next trip, the next flight, the next bag to pack. If I could find a way to travel perpetually, to spend my life out of a suitcase, I think I’d do it. At least, for a while.
Of course, this is where cognitive dissonance sets in. You see, by nature, I’m a nester. I like my hearth and home. I like the idea of having a bed to call my own and bookshelves brimming with staycation adventures. I like baking and decorating and curling up in front of the TV to watch reality shows about islands or dancing. And yet… and yet.
Sometimes I wonder if taking a holiday is really a good idea. Sure, I come back refreshed, full of stories and food, carrying memories – but really, all I do is think about the next trip, the next flight, the next bag to pack. If I could find a way to travel perpetually, to spend my life out of a suitcase, I think I’d do it. At least, for a while.
Of course, this is where cognitive dissonance sets in. You see, by nature, I’m a nester. I like my hearth and home. I like the idea of having a bed to call my own and bookshelves brimming with staycation adventures. I like baking and decorating and curling up in front of the TV to watch reality shows about islands or dancing. And yet… and yet.
Thursday, April 05, 2012
mantra
Sometimes, I feel completely overwhelmed.
Doesn't happen often.
I like swimming in a big pond with sharp-toothed fishies,
darting about, through the murky waters and the shimmering seaweed.
I like it because it reminds of those dreams I had as a kid where I breathe underwater.
But sometimes,
just sometimes,
I swallow a mouthful and end up
gasping and choking and floundering.
I'm lost in the deep dark
and I feel like I have nowhere to go
and if I don't figure it out right away,
I'm going to drown.
It is then,
especially then,
that I repeat my mantra:
Start where you are. Use what you have. Do what you can.
Over and over until I'm a calm little crab once again,
crawling about the depths,
shaping the wild ocean
one snipped barnacle at a time.
Sunday, February 05, 2012
baking bread
Assignment #5: food
My apartment, last night: suburban lights twinkling outside, uninterrupted by skyscraper, ambient music in the background (“oh this uncertainty is taking me over”), countertop strewn with flour, oven preheating to four hundred. In my life, there are few outlets for creative control. There is writing, but she is a harsh, cruel, and fickle mistress. My hands cannot play an instrument or draw a still-life or knit a scarf. No, my hands can do only one thing: bake.
My apartment, last night: suburban lights twinkling outside, uninterrupted by skyscraper, ambient music in the background (“oh this uncertainty is taking me over”), countertop strewn with flour, oven preheating to four hundred. In my life, there are few outlets for creative control. There is writing, but she is a harsh, cruel, and fickle mistress. My hands cannot play an instrument or draw a still-life or knit a scarf. No, my hands can do only one thing: bake.
Saturday, February 04, 2012
sour
Assignment #4: overheard at a bar
Thursday night is my quiet night. After work, I walk over to the local pub, sit at the bar and read my book. Two amaretto sours, fifty pages or so, and I head home. Thursdays are sometimes local band nights; mostly, though, it’s quiet. The bartender and I are on a first name basis. Alex usually has my low-ball poured by the time I sit down.
One night, on a particularly warm February night with dry sidewalks and a quiet wind, I walked in to find the place crowded. Clearly the natives were restless and had come out to play. I actually had to manoeuvre my way to the bar. Alex removes an empty beer case from the stool furthest from the stage, giving me a wink. He’s a good man, that Alex.
Thursday night is my quiet night. After work, I walk over to the local pub, sit at the bar and read my book. Two amaretto sours, fifty pages or so, and I head home. Thursdays are sometimes local band nights; mostly, though, it’s quiet. The bartender and I are on a first name basis. Alex usually has my low-ball poured by the time I sit down.
One night, on a particularly warm February night with dry sidewalks and a quiet wind, I walked in to find the place crowded. Clearly the natives were restless and had come out to play. I actually had to manoeuvre my way to the bar. Alex removes an empty beer case from the stool furthest from the stage, giving me a wink. He’s a good man, that Alex.
Friday, February 03, 2012
polly
Assignment #3: birthday
I am an only child. Sure I have a sibling, but in my brain, I'm still an only child. I can amuse myself for hours, do not like to share my toys and am most happy when it's quiet. When my mother revealed that she was pregnant and that I was going to be a sister, I said I did not want to be a sister. She said I was going to be one anyway. I was unamused. When LilBro came home, I asked how long he was going to stay. Mom said forever and I cried. It wasn't a great beginning. The months that followed were not good for me. I was only five and couldn't quite grapple with the intense envy I felt for the new baby. I mean, I had gone from being someone to being someone else's older sister. I began having nightmares and wetting the bed. I lost so much "baby fat" that my school uniform had to be resized twice. I would hide under the dining table and blithely turn a deaf ear to being called. My hair began falling out, darkened noticeably, lost all its curl. There are no cute pictures of me holding a baby. As an adult, anyone would say I was sinking into depression; as a child, everyone just waited for me to grow out of it. Perhaps it was guilt that prompted the most lavish birthday that followed.
I am an only child. Sure I have a sibling, but in my brain, I'm still an only child. I can amuse myself for hours, do not like to share my toys and am most happy when it's quiet. When my mother revealed that she was pregnant and that I was going to be a sister, I said I did not want to be a sister. She said I was going to be one anyway. I was unamused. When LilBro came home, I asked how long he was going to stay. Mom said forever and I cried. It wasn't a great beginning. The months that followed were not good for me. I was only five and couldn't quite grapple with the intense envy I felt for the new baby. I mean, I had gone from being someone to being someone else's older sister. I began having nightmares and wetting the bed. I lost so much "baby fat" that my school uniform had to be resized twice. I would hide under the dining table and blithely turn a deaf ear to being called. My hair began falling out, darkened noticeably, lost all its curl. There are no cute pictures of me holding a baby. As an adult, anyone would say I was sinking into depression; as a child, everyone just waited for me to grow out of it. Perhaps it was guilt that prompted the most lavish birthday that followed.
Thursday, February 02, 2012
beloved
Assignment #2: music
When I was seventeen, I ordered a set of classical music CDs from Columbia House. Upon receipt of them, I was immediately drawn to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata (which I prefer in D minor). I played it on loop, wrote reams of (bad) poetry, read his encyclopaedia entry. Fifteen minutes was too short. I visited my local library and borrowed all his CDs; I sat cross-legged in front of my floor to ceiling window, watching the crab-apple trees outside blossom white and pink, crescendoes crashing in my ears.
I fell in love. Hard.
For a good month, all I did was listen to Ludwig. I felt his pain, his torture. I felt his frustration and rage. I felt his quiet sorrow. I even related to his pithy attempts at feverish jocularity (which always felt stilted and awkward). This man was made for teen angst.
It is no great secret, then, that whenever I hear the Sonata (standing in my lobby, on hold with a certain cable company) I am immediately transported back to the windy Spring days of 1998. I connect that melody with the beautiful tragedy of the asymptote, which is ever-diminishing even as it carries on to infinity. I think of university applications and awkward (unsent) infatuation letters. Mostly, though, I remember the thick sadness that coated my movements, a sadness that (after a while) became addictive.
I hadn’t heard the sonata in its entirety for many years. Until today. Its power has not waned. I know that I can only give it a few hours before I must stop listening. Its dark thrall is as enticing and as seductive as it ever was. It would be too easy to wallow, to drink deep of his melancholy.
When I was seventeen, I ordered a set of classical music CDs from Columbia House. Upon receipt of them, I was immediately drawn to Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata (which I prefer in D minor). I played it on loop, wrote reams of (bad) poetry, read his encyclopaedia entry. Fifteen minutes was too short. I visited my local library and borrowed all his CDs; I sat cross-legged in front of my floor to ceiling window, watching the crab-apple trees outside blossom white and pink, crescendoes crashing in my ears.
I fell in love. Hard.
For a good month, all I did was listen to Ludwig. I felt his pain, his torture. I felt his frustration and rage. I felt his quiet sorrow. I even related to his pithy attempts at feverish jocularity (which always felt stilted and awkward). This man was made for teen angst.
It is no great secret, then, that whenever I hear the Sonata (standing in my lobby, on hold with a certain cable company) I am immediately transported back to the windy Spring days of 1998. I connect that melody with the beautiful tragedy of the asymptote, which is ever-diminishing even as it carries on to infinity. I think of university applications and awkward (unsent) infatuation letters. Mostly, though, I remember the thick sadness that coated my movements, a sadness that (after a while) became addictive.
I hadn’t heard the sonata in its entirety for many years. Until today. Its power has not waned. I know that I can only give it a few hours before I must stop listening. Its dark thrall is as enticing and as seductive as it ever was. It would be too easy to wallow, to drink deep of his melancholy.
Wednesday, February 01, 2012
mirrors
Assignment #1: internal monologue
How much of ourselves do we really reveal to those around us? Even those to whom we're close? Can anyone really know what we're thinking? Humans seem to be such empathetic creatures, expressing sadness for others, feeling vicarious joy. Sometimes, though, I wonder if indeed that's true empathy or just a reflection of our own experiences as we project our feelings on to others. I mean, whenever I witness someone's pain (physical, emotional) my first instinct seems to be to measure how I would feel in that situation and judge whether that person is demonstrating the appropriate response.
I don't think we ever really think about the pain of others unless it directly relates to us.
There.
I said it.
How much of ourselves do we really reveal to those around us? Even those to whom we're close? Can anyone really know what we're thinking? Humans seem to be such empathetic creatures, expressing sadness for others, feeling vicarious joy. Sometimes, though, I wonder if indeed that's true empathy or just a reflection of our own experiences as we project our feelings on to others. I mean, whenever I witness someone's pain (physical, emotional) my first instinct seems to be to measure how I would feel in that situation and judge whether that person is demonstrating the appropriate response.
I don't think we ever really think about the pain of others unless it directly relates to us.
There.
I said it.
Thursday, November 03, 2011
love letter, with my croissants
"Hello you. Adorable, quirky you. There’s no one like you in the world – I’ve looked! I’ve tried to find someone just like you, but it isn’t going to happen. Then I realised, I didn’t want someone just like you – I like you. I want you. You with your strange taste in clothes and even stranger habits. Those habits that puzzled me at first but that now I find comforting and familiar.
Monday, June 07, 2010
write what you know
So, I'm supposed to "write what I know" - which is great, if you're Ghandi or Paris Hilton or someone else and people actually want to know what you know - and I'm stuck. I just don’t know a lot. I haven't lived long enough or hard enough, I guess. I mean, I'm good at Jeopardy and Trivial Pursuit so I know stuff but I don't know the right stuff. And now, I've got this assignment - this creative assignment (so, knowing all about nineties trivia? useless) - and I'm stuck. When I say that I'm stuck, she says "write what you know". Yeah. Helpful.
Here's what I know: I was (technically) born in the eighties (1980, to be exact). It's weird to be born in a year defined by its zero and still be attached to the nine other years that come after it. Am I supposed to have stuff in common with a twenty-year-old? You know, the ones still staring at their lives like its sooo far away? As if. Anyway, born in the eighties in a third world country. A country with about 120 million people, in a city with 8 million other inhabitants, in a hospital that wasn't really a hospital but a "women's centre" (birthed by a doctor who later checked into that same hospital as a patient and succumbed to breast cancer), to first-time parents (one of whom paced the hallways and promptly jumped on a motorcycle when he was told his little girl would need a blood transfusion - the clinic didn't have any - in order to bang on the gates of the American Embassy at 0400… that's also called taking your life in your own hands). Had the uneventful childhood of a rich daughter living in a poor country. Seven years later, we moved. Suddenly, I was enduring the uneventful adolescence of a poor daughter in a rich country. I went to school (and realised my third world education was pretty first class), did well, graduated high school, then undergrad, then grad school. Bought a car, bought a condo, got a job, travelled to some places. And now, on the cusp of my thirties, living the uneventful life of a middle-class single-girl (still in a rich country), sitting in a class of other bored middle-class single-girls, I'm told to write what I know. Sadly, it only took this previous paragraph to do just that.
Here's what I know: I was (technically) born in the eighties (1980, to be exact). It's weird to be born in a year defined by its zero and still be attached to the nine other years that come after it. Am I supposed to have stuff in common with a twenty-year-old? You know, the ones still staring at their lives like its sooo far away? As if. Anyway, born in the eighties in a third world country. A country with about 120 million people, in a city with 8 million other inhabitants, in a hospital that wasn't really a hospital but a "women's centre" (birthed by a doctor who later checked into that same hospital as a patient and succumbed to breast cancer), to first-time parents (one of whom paced the hallways and promptly jumped on a motorcycle when he was told his little girl would need a blood transfusion - the clinic didn't have any - in order to bang on the gates of the American Embassy at 0400… that's also called taking your life in your own hands). Had the uneventful childhood of a rich daughter living in a poor country. Seven years later, we moved. Suddenly, I was enduring the uneventful adolescence of a poor daughter in a rich country. I went to school (and realised my third world education was pretty first class), did well, graduated high school, then undergrad, then grad school. Bought a car, bought a condo, got a job, travelled to some places. And now, on the cusp of my thirties, living the uneventful life of a middle-class single-girl (still in a rich country), sitting in a class of other bored middle-class single-girls, I'm told to write what I know. Sadly, it only took this previous paragraph to do just that.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
the end approacheth
I happened to be reminded of my new year's resolutions this past week and am a bit disappointed in myself. Sure, I went more green and, with the help of a new work wardrobe, have definitely upped the glam factor. Less needy and needed? Check, with two nights a week dedicated to having my cell set to vibrate. Spend less money? Weelll… not so much. Though there have been responsible purchases (e.g., new work wardrobe) and preapproved expenditures (NFLD, NYC, etc), there have also been an exorbitant amounts spent on outside food. The biggest disappointment this year, however, has been my writing.. or lack thereof. Blog posts dwindled, fiction writing was nonexistent and the familial memoirs I had thought to get started on never emerged. I know, I've been busy. Still, I feel like I need to make more time to do this. Sometimes I can feel my writing skills leaking out of me and I'm afraid - deathly afraid - that I'll never get them back.
I'm thinking I will try and roll all three of these things together, maybe have memoir blogs and fiction posts. To do so would mean to wear my heart on my cybersleeve… and I think I may be too chicken shit to do that. We shall see if a backbone emerges in the next few months.
On a completely unrelated note: I watched Drag Me to Hell recently. In a word? Don't.
I'm thinking I will try and roll all three of these things together, maybe have memoir blogs and fiction posts. To do so would mean to wear my heart on my cybersleeve… and I think I may be too chicken shit to do that. We shall see if a backbone emerges in the next few months.
On a completely unrelated note: I watched Drag Me to Hell recently. In a word? Don't.
Tuesday, September 30, 2008
a muse
So... I'm having a hard time writing. I know you won't believe me, but it's true: I have nothing to say. I went to NYC last week, and so little of importance happened I couldn't write a Sexy City entry like I wanted to. I'm looking for life to amuse me again. Because, right now, it's pretty mundane. I mean, stuff happens (I bought a $6K home theatre yesterday and almost cried when the high wore off - buyer's remorse never felt so good), but nothing blogworthy, you know?
Or, if it is blogworthy, it's full of gossip and salacious rumour that I can't post without fear of Facebook reprisals, which, I'm quickly discovering, is seriously hampering my muse. Oh, she has lots to say - and I mean lots - but it's hard to write when you know the subjects of your scorn can just catch up on your Notes. So, this is it - the official disassociation from FB begins! Perhaps I can get my muse to come back now that she's not thrust into the spotlight all the time.
Or, if it is blogworthy, it's full of gossip and salacious rumour that I can't post without fear of Facebook reprisals, which, I'm quickly discovering, is seriously hampering my muse. Oh, she has lots to say - and I mean lots - but it's hard to write when you know the subjects of your scorn can just catch up on your Notes. So, this is it - the official disassociation from FB begins! Perhaps I can get my muse to come back now that she's not thrust into the spotlight all the time.
Sunday, June 15, 2008
art attack
So... I have a confession to make. I not only suck at art, I once received... a pity pass. in Grade 7. for art. yes, I am that bad. I couldn't draw a human body to scale for my life. As a result, I never picked up a paintbrush or pastels again. I mean, why try at something I'm going to fail anyway, right? I have since relegated myself to colouring books (I kid you not) and the brown paper table coverings at restaurants. This is all well and good... until you have a creative itch you just can't scratch. I really want to paint.
Photography, writing, spreadsheets... nothing quite relieves it. Finally, after years of ignoring the urges, I broke down and bought myself paint and vases upon which I would unleash all my horrible, terrible non-talents. You can see from the first one, that it was a dark and swirling mass of garbage. The second one, I decided, would be different, clever. Quoting Amelie, I wrote "Sans toi, les émotions d'aujourd hui ne seraient que la peau morte des émotions d'autrefois"- I was speaking to my newfound crush: forgiving cold ceramic. By the time I hit the third vase, I longer cared about Mrs. H and her insistent "F" or about people saying "honey, you just don't have the talent" or even about 
messing up and making the vase uglier than when it started. There they are. Transformed from plain janes into something with a little character. Are they perfect? Hell no. But they're mine. Hello art... nice to see you again after all these years.
Saturday, April 12, 2008
sleep writing
Some history: I have always been susceptible to what doctors call "night terrors" - this is different from a common nightmare in the sense that, unless treated, NT can actually lead to destructive behaviour and physical harm. It also leads to things like sleepwalking and amnesia. I have been dealing with them for a while and have basically gotten them under control. I usually only have them now when I'm having moments of high anxiety (university was particularly spotty). As a child, I had them all the time, but could never recall actually having them; being a sickly child with heart issues, my parents were understandably worried. One of the ways to deal with NT is to keep a journal near the bed so you write down as much as you can remember (first, one has to train oneself to actually remember the dream, something most people can't do) and then deal with it in the harsh clarity of day. Often, nightmares are precursors to NTs and so if you can figure out the trigger, you can usually avoid the entire episode. Though I have been having far fewer NTs in the past few years, they have been resurfacing of late. In the past few weeks, I've filled my pad with unintelligible scribbles that (except for a few words here and there) I can't decipher. I've decided to turn these lemons in lemonade and post the translatable ones here. Here's what came out last night: 
Translation:
Translation: 4:53 am There are trees, I think, or at least branches, I don't know, something sharp and snappy is hitting my face and scratching my arms as I run blindly through the ... forest? bush? jungle? I don't know. Lions, though - for sure there are lions - in a forest? that doesn't seem right - but I can hear them growling and I can hear my sharp intakes of breath - seems so loud in the forest - definitely a forest - and I'm running hard now, jumping over roots, ducking under branches and I can hear the soft but determined padding of paws steadily trotting behind me. I don't look back - I'm scared to look back - I know he's there - he? - so why bother to even confirm it when I should spend all my energy trying to get out of here - is there a way out? I can't see it or feel it. I think it's there, but I don't know if it's there and am I running toward the exit or just deeper into the forest. I don't know - I'm still running hard, but I can feel him closer behind me now, brushes of fur against my legs, distinct against the trees, hot gusts of breath against my clammy neck - run or stay - run or stay - run to fight another day - stay and make it go away, run or stay - I trip, head first on a stump and then - I'm awake.
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
night time scribblings
so, he says to me "even if I said I was sorry, would you forgive me?" and I say, "you should say you're sorry and see what happens" and he paces around the room, looking at everything but me, his face pretty much a blank and I think "I'll never know what he's thinking" and I say "tell me what you're thinking" and he says "it's so pointless, this back and forth" and I say "yeah, it is, so stop going back and forth; decide if you want to be here or not" and he says "I do want to be here but I don't want you to be there" and I try not to feel hurt when he says that because at least it's honest, at least he's talking, at least something is being said instead of terrible, unfathomable spans of silence and I say "well, you can't control where I am" and suddenly I realise that neither can I and that even were I to try I couldn't possibly answer why I'm sitting here instead of standing anywhere else and I can see he doesn't like that answer, that he wanted me to say something else so I ask "what do you want me to say?" and he replies "what do you want me to say?" and there we are - at an impasse of our own making - one struggling to keep her emotions in check and the other not struggling at all. Not at all.
Sunday, March 30, 2008
before you go cutting your ear off...
I can't help but feel happy when the weather is sunny, bright and clear. We're entering one of my favourite periods of the year - when smog is (almost) non-existent, when heat/humidity isn't a concern, when it's not snowy, windy or bitterly cold. It's a glorious time that makes me want to paint (except I have no talent), write (except my poetry seems insipid), sew (except my needlework resembles a blind woman's) or bake (except I share a kitchen). This leads to much frustration.
So! Here are my solutions for people just like me - people who want to be creative but have no in-born outlets:
1) Organise stuff: organising is the talent-poor substitute for actual skill. Instead of painting and drawing, use colour-coded file folders and different colours of ink. Instead of sewing new curtains, make new labels for spice jars/Christmas boxes/etc. Not only will stuff be easier to find, but you'll get to finish a project with some sense of satisfaction.
2) Copy other people's stuff: yeah, so my poetry blows. You know whose doesn't? Eliot, Rossetti, Shakespeare, Cohen, Plath, etc. When I get the urge to write but have nothing in my own brain, I find a poem I like, rewrite it meticulously and give it to someone who I think may appreciate it. It's like spreading the joy of reading! Last year, I recorded several Seuss poems for the library (complete with sound effects and voices) during one of these phases.
3) Give yourself an art project for dummies: there are sure-fire projects that you can do without aid of "talent" - such puzzle-making, photo collages and filling in colouring books. When I was but a poor student in Kingston, I filled dozens of dollar-store colouring books with various media (paint, crayons, markers, pastels). This had me pretending to be all bohemian (sitting on the marina surrounded by art supplies) without any actual talent at all! Brilliant I think.
4) Finally, who cares if you suck? I do stuff that ends in disasters all the time. I once tried refinishing my dresser - I ruined it and it had to be pitched, but hey it was old and was going to dumped anyway. Today, I'm going to go home and paint a certain butterfly (thanks H2), sketch a design on my cheap IKEA vases and maybe even redesign the cover of "the novella". If it all sucks, well at least I will have had the pleasure of indulging my non-existent arty side.
Do you have any suggestions for the talent-starved? Let me know!
So! Here are my solutions for people just like me - people who want to be creative but have no in-born outlets:
1) Organise stuff: organising is the talent-poor substitute for actual skill. Instead of painting and drawing, use colour-coded file folders and different colours of ink. Instead of sewing new curtains, make new labels for spice jars/Christmas boxes/etc. Not only will stuff be easier to find, but you'll get to finish a project with some sense of satisfaction.
2) Copy other people's stuff: yeah, so my poetry blows. You know whose doesn't? Eliot, Rossetti, Shakespeare, Cohen, Plath, etc. When I get the urge to write but have nothing in my own brain, I find a poem I like, rewrite it meticulously and give it to someone who I think may appreciate it. It's like spreading the joy of reading! Last year, I recorded several Seuss poems for the library (complete with sound effects and voices) during one of these phases.
3) Give yourself an art project for dummies: there are sure-fire projects that you can do without aid of "talent" - such puzzle-making, photo collages and filling in colouring books. When I was but a poor student in Kingston, I filled dozens of dollar-store colouring books with various media (paint, crayons, markers, pastels). This had me pretending to be all bohemian (sitting on the marina surrounded by art supplies) without any actual talent at all! Brilliant I think.
4) Finally, who cares if you suck? I do stuff that ends in disasters all the time. I once tried refinishing my dresser - I ruined it and it had to be pitched, but hey it was old and was going to dumped anyway. Today, I'm going to go home and paint a certain butterfly (thanks H2), sketch a design on my cheap IKEA vases and maybe even redesign the cover of "the novella". If it all sucks, well at least I will have had the pleasure of indulging my non-existent arty side.
Do you have any suggestions for the talent-starved? Let me know!
Thursday, March 27, 2008
Composition Challenge: One (Thousandth) Word
composition challenge
1) Finish this sentence with precisely one word:
"I am __________." [The word cannot be a name.]
2) Illustrate that single word with a photo you took before you ever read this entry.
If the word accurately describes your life, you shouldn't have a problem finding a photo of it laying around.
1) Finish this sentence with precisely one word:
"I am __________." [The word cannot be a name.]
2) Illustrate that single word with a photo you took before you ever read this entry.
If the word accurately describes your life, you shouldn't have a problem finding a photo of it laying around.
I am reflective.
inspired by: Little White Liar
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
how to shuck a crab
For those of you who don't know, there is an art - a delicate art - in shucking a crab. By nature, crabs are not known for their easygoing tendencies. They're hard-shelled and have pincers that can be a real bitch sometimes. Yet, they're highly sought after, because underneath that ridiculous exterior, they're soft and tender and (with a little buttering up) downright easy to swallow.
For the most part, they're pretty docile. It's true. Presented with an obstacle, these crustaceans will spend a lot of time finding a way to avoid it. Don't believe me? On a beach, try placing something in the path of a meandering crab. You'll see exactly what I'm getting at. The crab will first stop and stare at the new development. You'll almost hear its little crab-brain thinking: what the hell is this? Unlike a goat or a bull or an elephant, it will not try to muscle its way through - it knows its limitations. No doubt, within moments, it will try to sidestep and resume its original path. If you've chosen to place a large floating ring around it, it will realise (after much backing up and sidestepping) that there's nothing to be done and will bury itself underneath the sand to avoid detection. If it can't remove itself from a situation, it will try very hard to make you believe that it's not even there. It's fascinating really, to watch it go to such lengths.
A cornered crab, however, is a dangerous crab: its pincers can easily slice through skin, leaving you bleeding and raw; its shell has pointy bits that can make it hard to get a grasp on them without doing yourself some damage. But once you have a crab in your grip, don't waste time! The longer you try to get a handle on the situation, the more opportunity you give the crab to do irreparable damage to both you and itself.
The thing about crabs is that they know they have these soft mushy centres that most people find appealing. All their defences are useless once people figure out that a shell is easily cracked with well-placed jab. That's why they spend so much of their lives avoiding conflict - while they defend themselves admirably, they're always worried about that one lucky shot that will pierce them fatally. If you'd like to enjoy a real crab (not those fake stick things), may I suggest you have a plan as to what to do with your angry crustacean once you have it trapped. Blood and bruises only tend to spoil one's appetite. Then again, nothing like a little work to make the fruits of your labour that much sweeter. You've just got to ask yourself: is it worth it?
For the most part, they're pretty docile. It's true. Presented with an obstacle, these crustaceans will spend a lot of time finding a way to avoid it. Don't believe me? On a beach, try placing something in the path of a meandering crab. You'll see exactly what I'm getting at. The crab will first stop and stare at the new development. You'll almost hear its little crab-brain thinking: what the hell is this? Unlike a goat or a bull or an elephant, it will not try to muscle its way through - it knows its limitations. No doubt, within moments, it will try to sidestep and resume its original path. If you've chosen to place a large floating ring around it, it will realise (after much backing up and sidestepping) that there's nothing to be done and will bury itself underneath the sand to avoid detection. If it can't remove itself from a situation, it will try very hard to make you believe that it's not even there. It's fascinating really, to watch it go to such lengths.
A cornered crab, however, is a dangerous crab: its pincers can easily slice through skin, leaving you bleeding and raw; its shell has pointy bits that can make it hard to get a grasp on them without doing yourself some damage. But once you have a crab in your grip, don't waste time! The longer you try to get a handle on the situation, the more opportunity you give the crab to do irreparable damage to both you and itself.
The thing about crabs is that they know they have these soft mushy centres that most people find appealing. All their defences are useless once people figure out that a shell is easily cracked with well-placed jab. That's why they spend so much of their lives avoiding conflict - while they defend themselves admirably, they're always worried about that one lucky shot that will pierce them fatally. If you'd like to enjoy a real crab (not those fake stick things), may I suggest you have a plan as to what to do with your angry crustacean once you have it trapped. Blood and bruises only tend to spoil one's appetite. Then again, nothing like a little work to make the fruits of your labour that much sweeter. You've just got to ask yourself: is it worth it?
Monday, February 04, 2008
an old pair
I have this old pair of jeans - had it for nearly ten years now - that I just love. They're so comfortable and worn-in, like second-skin. I don't ever have to worry about not having something to wear. They're stonewash blue Levis, nothing fancy, nothing trendy. They sit at the sweet spot on the hip, hitching comfortably on the curve that separates the women from the girls. They're touchable (like velvet) and they've faded in all those places I unconsciously rub or chafe, as if they're used to me irritating them there and they're okay with it. When I first got them, they were a little too long and a little too big, but I've since grown into them and they've grown with me; better that that, they've even self-hemmed themselves to fit my short legs, wearing down stitch-by-stitch so now they have a soft fray around my ankles. They even have a few threadbare spots from when I was too rough with them, but they seem all the more personal for it.
I can't wear them everywhere, though. When I first got them, I wanted to. They made me feel so good, I thought I could make them appropriate for all parts of my life. I soon learned that a blacklit club made them look a little silly and they were out of place at a family wedding. So, they don't go to those places anymore. But they're with me for all those quiet moments of reading; comfy moments of travelling; those essential I-need-something-that-feels-made-for-me moments. There are phases: when I first got them, I wore them until they almost fell apart; later, I realised they can only take so much abuse. So, I let them sit in my closet for a bit. However, more and more these days, I find myself reaching for them when all my other pants just seem like too much work.
I shop a lot. I buy a lot of clothes, but not a lot of jeans. Lately, though, I've been eyeing this new pair: a sexy-smart, black pair that look amazing, with their mysterious silk patterns embossed over the denim. They're in a store I pass really often and I think about buying them whenever I see them. They're a really expensive pair, an amount of money that's not worth investing unless I know that I'll have them for a while and that they won't fall apart on me. Last week, they went on sale. After vacillating, I decided I should at least go and try them on. The sales clerk, taking one one look at my dangling earrings, my Infinite chain, my knee-high black boots and my neo-goth silk/chiffon top says "those jeans are made for you!" I was happy to agree. She says to me that they're not available in my size, though, but she has one size up and size down. I said I'd try both.
One size up: roomy, comfy, but I'd need a belt or it'll slip off my hip. Also too long, so I'd have to alter the hem by almost 2 inches (no hope of a comfortable fray here). If I alter them, though, I'm unsure if I'd ruin the cut of the jeans, the pattern that attracted me in the first place. These are not the kind of jeans that are meant to be loose and free; they needed more structure that one size up could give me.
One size down: too tight. I felt restricted, like if I made the wrong move, a button would pop or a stitch would give. They looked fabulous when I stood straight up and didn't breath deep; but the minute I let go and tried a more natural stance, they felt awkward and uncomfortable.
Slipping back into my comfy-blues, I felt like I was sliding into a warm bed. Even the zip gave little sibilant yawn. I took the black jeans to the counter where the clerk eagerly asked which of the sizes fit and I had to watch her face fall when I said neither. She said that if I left my number, she would call if any new sizes arrived or (more likely) someone returned a pair. I said thanks and I did, but I doubt I will get a call. Most clothes are a get-'em-while-you-can kind of deal.
Walking out, I briefly thought about maybe looking for another pair of jeans. Sticking my hands into my pockets, though, I paused. These jeans were just fine. They were broken-in; they knew my curves; they were worn in all the right places. Yeah, sure, they weren't dramatic or full of flare; they certainly weren't going to Funhaus with me next weekend. But between the clubs and the opera, comes life. And these jeans were made for life.
For the time being, I'm appreciating my blues. Maybe I'll get a call from the clerk; maybe I won't. The more time passes, the less I care either way.
I can't wear them everywhere, though. When I first got them, I wanted to. They made me feel so good, I thought I could make them appropriate for all parts of my life. I soon learned that a blacklit club made them look a little silly and they were out of place at a family wedding. So, they don't go to those places anymore. But they're with me for all those quiet moments of reading; comfy moments of travelling; those essential I-need-something-that-feels-made-for-me moments. There are phases: when I first got them, I wore them until they almost fell apart; later, I realised they can only take so much abuse. So, I let them sit in my closet for a bit. However, more and more these days, I find myself reaching for them when all my other pants just seem like too much work.
I shop a lot. I buy a lot of clothes, but not a lot of jeans. Lately, though, I've been eyeing this new pair: a sexy-smart, black pair that look amazing, with their mysterious silk patterns embossed over the denim. They're in a store I pass really often and I think about buying them whenever I see them. They're a really expensive pair, an amount of money that's not worth investing unless I know that I'll have them for a while and that they won't fall apart on me. Last week, they went on sale. After vacillating, I decided I should at least go and try them on. The sales clerk, taking one one look at my dangling earrings, my Infinite chain, my knee-high black boots and my neo-goth silk/chiffon top says "those jeans are made for you!" I was happy to agree. She says to me that they're not available in my size, though, but she has one size up and size down. I said I'd try both.
One size up: roomy, comfy, but I'd need a belt or it'll slip off my hip. Also too long, so I'd have to alter the hem by almost 2 inches (no hope of a comfortable fray here). If I alter them, though, I'm unsure if I'd ruin the cut of the jeans, the pattern that attracted me in the first place. These are not the kind of jeans that are meant to be loose and free; they needed more structure that one size up could give me.
One size down: too tight. I felt restricted, like if I made the wrong move, a button would pop or a stitch would give. They looked fabulous when I stood straight up and didn't breath deep; but the minute I let go and tried a more natural stance, they felt awkward and uncomfortable.
Slipping back into my comfy-blues, I felt like I was sliding into a warm bed. Even the zip gave little sibilant yawn. I took the black jeans to the counter where the clerk eagerly asked which of the sizes fit and I had to watch her face fall when I said neither. She said that if I left my number, she would call if any new sizes arrived or (more likely) someone returned a pair. I said thanks and I did, but I doubt I will get a call. Most clothes are a get-'em-while-you-can kind of deal.
Walking out, I briefly thought about maybe looking for another pair of jeans. Sticking my hands into my pockets, though, I paused. These jeans were just fine. They were broken-in; they knew my curves; they were worn in all the right places. Yeah, sure, they weren't dramatic or full of flare; they certainly weren't going to Funhaus with me next weekend. But between the clubs and the opera, comes life. And these jeans were made for life.
For the time being, I'm appreciating my blues. Maybe I'll get a call from the clerk; maybe I won't. The more time passes, the less I care either way.
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
hey, look out into left field
I'm so done being heartsick.
Here's the first page of the story that precipitated the week-long hiatus.
Enjoy :)
Lucy stirred her now-cold coffee. The heavily beating rain muffled the sounds of the lunch rush. She was the last of the breakfast crowd, her plates whisked away efficiently hours ago, her cup filled for the fourth time. She felt like a fool. The woman who had filled her cup had even looked at her with pity. This was the last time she would sit on this stool, she vowed, the absolute last time. Staring out at the sidewalk, watching people rush hither and yon, she knew she was being ridiculous. There were just so many more important things to be done than to keep vigil on three metres of crowded pavement. She wanted to be in the crowd, not an observer to them. Swigging the bitter dregs in her cup, she pushed off the stool and strode purposefully out door. Heedless of the rain pounding on her – streaming down her neck under her long black leather – she turned the corner and disappeared down the subway tunnel.
***
Precisely 17 days earlier, Lucy had been sitting in Flo’s Fifities Café enjoying the largest, strongest cup of coffee she had had in a long time. It was perfect: burnt and bitter from being in the percolator too long. Her waitress, whose nametag announced her as “Karen”, had offered to make a fresh pot, but Lucy had insisted that she get what’s left and made a big show of enjoying it. Karen seemed to appreciate the gesture: Lucy was nothing if she wasn’t charming. In the city for less than 24 hours and she already thought she would have to stop by more often. It was still early downtown; her stool facing the window allowed her to watch the streets fill in fast with briefcases and blackberries, double-breasted suits and trench coats. Spring was arriving, and the confusion could be found in the varying degrees of warmth with which these denizens dressed. Flo’s did steady business from 6am onward – but at 8:30, the lineup for a coffee-to-go was almost out the door. She couldn’t blame them: the coffee here was better than any triple grande, half soy, half breve, 1 pump cinnamon dulce latte offered elsewhere. She had tried them all – but this was almost as good as Bogota or Marakesh. Having absolutely nowhere to be at 9am afforded her the luxury of indulging in her favourite past-time: people-watching. Most people viewed people-watching as a hobby; Lucy, however, attacked the task with intent and fervour.
People fascinated her, always had. She remembered (ages ago when she still felt young) spying on a couple while they went about their garden. Their intimate touches, easy conversation, exchanged smiles – how the young Lucy had longed to have that same camaraderie with someone. For the first time, she had felt jealous and cheated. When Izzy and Ish teased her later, she had lashed back at them in way that one could only regret. Not that she would change anything – not that she had been wrong – just that she should have chosen her words more carefully. Asking why wasn’t always going to give you the answers you wanted.
These coffee-to-go people were boring – there was a sense of sameness to them. Same gadgets, same black pumps, same pinstripe, same knots in same ties. Dull. She had just resolved to find more varying pursuits when something flashed in the corner of her eye. Ice blond hair – so light it appeared almost blue in the still-weak sunshine. Broad shoulders on top of a tall frame. Long strides. And then, just like that, gone. But not before a distinct frisson of static familiarly jolted up her spine. Almost upending her cup, she rushed out and around the corner, but there was no sign of him. Frustration and relief collided violently. Too long. Mikhail.
***
Here's the first page of the story that precipitated the week-long hiatus.
Enjoy :)
Lucy stirred her now-cold coffee. The heavily beating rain muffled the sounds of the lunch rush. She was the last of the breakfast crowd, her plates whisked away efficiently hours ago, her cup filled for the fourth time. She felt like a fool. The woman who had filled her cup had even looked at her with pity. This was the last time she would sit on this stool, she vowed, the absolute last time. Staring out at the sidewalk, watching people rush hither and yon, she knew she was being ridiculous. There were just so many more important things to be done than to keep vigil on three metres of crowded pavement. She wanted to be in the crowd, not an observer to them. Swigging the bitter dregs in her cup, she pushed off the stool and strode purposefully out door. Heedless of the rain pounding on her – streaming down her neck under her long black leather – she turned the corner and disappeared down the subway tunnel.
***
Precisely 17 days earlier, Lucy had been sitting in Flo’s Fifities Café enjoying the largest, strongest cup of coffee she had had in a long time. It was perfect: burnt and bitter from being in the percolator too long. Her waitress, whose nametag announced her as “Karen”, had offered to make a fresh pot, but Lucy had insisted that she get what’s left and made a big show of enjoying it. Karen seemed to appreciate the gesture: Lucy was nothing if she wasn’t charming. In the city for less than 24 hours and she already thought she would have to stop by more often. It was still early downtown; her stool facing the window allowed her to watch the streets fill in fast with briefcases and blackberries, double-breasted suits and trench coats. Spring was arriving, and the confusion could be found in the varying degrees of warmth with which these denizens dressed. Flo’s did steady business from 6am onward – but at 8:30, the lineup for a coffee-to-go was almost out the door. She couldn’t blame them: the coffee here was better than any triple grande, half soy, half breve, 1 pump cinnamon dulce latte offered elsewhere. She had tried them all – but this was almost as good as Bogota or Marakesh. Having absolutely nowhere to be at 9am afforded her the luxury of indulging in her favourite past-time: people-watching. Most people viewed people-watching as a hobby; Lucy, however, attacked the task with intent and fervour.
People fascinated her, always had. She remembered (ages ago when she still felt young) spying on a couple while they went about their garden. Their intimate touches, easy conversation, exchanged smiles – how the young Lucy had longed to have that same camaraderie with someone. For the first time, she had felt jealous and cheated. When Izzy and Ish teased her later, she had lashed back at them in way that one could only regret. Not that she would change anything – not that she had been wrong – just that she should have chosen her words more carefully. Asking why wasn’t always going to give you the answers you wanted.
These coffee-to-go people were boring – there was a sense of sameness to them. Same gadgets, same black pumps, same pinstripe, same knots in same ties. Dull. She had just resolved to find more varying pursuits when something flashed in the corner of her eye. Ice blond hair – so light it appeared almost blue in the still-weak sunshine. Broad shoulders on top of a tall frame. Long strides. And then, just like that, gone. But not before a distinct frisson of static familiarly jolted up her spine. Almost upending her cup, she rushed out and around the corner, but there was no sign of him. Frustration and relief collided violently. Too long. Mikhail.
***
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