Vanessa Woznow

You’ll listen to it twice, on the radio

Hi kids.

Do you ever get the overwhelming urge to just shout out: “What do you mean constantly talking about it isn’t going to make me any less tired!?”

It’s been but a four day work week and I’m totally ready to pack it in for the next seven.

Good grief.

However, fab happenings this weekend include running the Fall Classic 10k on Sunday, and then later that night hosting the Storytelling Show on Vancouver Co-op Radio.

If you cool cats wish to tune in as yours truly burns up the airwaves, please fix your dials to 100.5 fm (if you live in Beautiful BC) or else surf on over here to catch an earful.

Nine p.m. sharp!

Also, tomorrow I have two talks with the United Way, and then later that night, the man with whom I share my home (but so rarely see outside the hours of 11pm-6am – if you wish to equate “drooling quietly while asleep beside his comatose body” with “seeing”) are going on a date.

Meep!

We are finally going to check out Skyfall and see what all the fuss is about.

I actually really like James Bond flicks – whether they’re old-school cheese-fests or Jason-Bourne-only-in-a-tux (as I like to say about the Daniel Craig iterations) – so I’m looking forward to watching Mr. Broccoli’s latest release.

In the interim, Fry-up time!

If you think I’m sexy.

So in my post this past Monday, I published a photo of just some of the sweet records M and I listen to whilst up on the Sunshine Coast.

One of the singers highlighted was Rod Stewart, and as I mentioned to one of my lovely commenters, my love for Mr. Footloose and Fancy Free pretty much knows no bounds.

I bloody well adore him.

Just last night, I was driving home from my weekly meet up with my Little, and this song came on the radio:

OMG this tune absolutely slays me.

For instance, I can remember the exact moment I heard it for the first time.

Summer.

I am dancing to this song at my grandparent’s fiftieth wedding anniversary.

I am twelve years old.

At one point everyone – all of the aunts, uncles, cousins, friends, my grandparents – join hands and start dancing as one big group, moving to the centre of the circle and then back out again, whooping it up, laughing, smiling; just having an absolute blast.

The love I feel in that moment is so overwhelming I feel as though my heart is either going to burst from my chest and or leak out of my shoes. I so badly don’t want to cry, so instead I smile so wide that my cheeks ache and I swear I can feel a softball wedging its way halfway down my throat.

So even though they are good tears, I don’t want to make a scene, as I am sure no one would be able to understand the myriad of emotions that are running rabid about my body.

In the end, I actually have to go to the bathroom to gather up my wits, as eventually no amount of nutty smiling could keep my tears inside of me any longer.

My body is wracked by deep, guttural sobs, and I desperately blot at my eyes with scratchy paper towel.

It’s a strange (sense) memory, I know, but I will always, always long this song.

And Rod.

I will definitely always adore him.

You talk to a log?

So.

Twin Peaks.

Erm.

I just watched the first episode on Netflix last night.

M kept explaining how he thinks the show is a blend of a Kids in the Hall sketch and how he wishes he life could be.

I don’t know how to take this. Like, at all.

Anyways, I know that the people who love this show, love it like I love a Rod Stewart song, so I definitely don’t want to alienate any rabid David Lynch fans out there.

Suffice to say that I haven’t watched nearly enough of the show to formulate a decent opinion, so I will hold my tongue until I have the chance to immerse myself further in the program.

The one thing I will say is that so far is – V.V. WEIRD.

(But, again, this isn’t necessarily a bad thing.)

Just a v. v. weird thing.

Onwards!

Sweet, sweet charity.

If one of you could please purchase this and send it to me, boy would I ever be thankful:

(I don’t even need the hat.)

Also, I can repay you in excellent shrimp fajitas and apple-blueberry crisp.

I have references.

…

What are you mad hatters up to for the weekend? Are you Twin Peaks fans? Also, let me know if you need my mailing address.

Finally, please pray for mojo that the downpour stays away and I’m not washed down the drain on the course come Sunday.

Because if I’m not running like the wind, I’ll be streaming by like the rain.

I’m really Russian through this book

So I wrote last week about how I’ve jumped back on the Russian literature train (the darkest, gloomiest, most morbidly hilarious train there is) and I cannot believe how much I have missed the ride.

(Alas, Wolf Hall has been relegated to the far corner of my bedside table, YET AGAIN. One day Ms. Mantell! One day I will finish your oeuvre.)

But back to the goods.

The Brothers Karamazov is a bloody long novel – my translation is 985 pages long (I’m a sucker for Penguin Classics and will go to my death promoting their superior products), but reading it doesn’t feel like a slog.

It feels like I am blazing through the work – paragraphs and pages flying by in the blink of an eye.

I need to emphasize that this isn’t a bad thing.

In fact, when I say that reading this work reminds me of travelling by train, that wasn’t just my attempt at a heavy handed simile.

As I sit and read, I watch as fantastical landscapes whiz past – bright colours, flashes of light, villages, country sides, peasants, gentry – all stream together, and I have make sure that I don’t get dizzy and lose my place.

Because the book is delirious; it makes me feel delirious.

It’s maddening.

And passionate, and hilarious, and brilliant.

Also, another thing that I seem to have forgotten is just how much Russian people (in particular, Russian men) love, LOVE to soliloquise.

(That is, of course, if I’m to take Dostoevsky’s prose as a truthful representation of 19^th century Russian conversations.)

Because goodness gracious do his characters ever enjoy a monologue and a half.

And if they’re not monologuing, they’re falling prey to crazed, impassioned fits.

Sometimes they’re doing both at the same time.

Not that I have any right to call out anyone for their liberal use of hysterics when waxing eloquent on a matter at hand (pot being black et. al.)

HOWEVER, it never fails to leave me breathless and a little exasperated every time Dmitry starts beating his chest, or when old papa Fyodor starts acting like a classless arsehole (or buffoon by his definition.)

But mostly I am just bowled over by the writing. The attention to detail, the tangents, the word play, the physical descriptions of characters, ranging from the lowliest urchin to the highest ranking official – they all enthrall me.

They ravage, they provoke, they inspire.

I’m about a fourth of the way through, and I find myself fidgeting throughout the day, wishing that I could crack open this tome and once again lose myself in the provincial world of Alyosha and his brothers. To relish in their dialogues, their anguishes, their fears.

It also makes me reminisce about my trip to the motherland.

Two weeks gallivanting about St. Petersburg, presenting my writing around town, exploring museums and art galleries, dancing until the wee hours of the morning, eating dinner at midnight, and drinking coffee so strong it would tickle your fingertips.

What about you friends? What are you reading these days? I want to know.

Spokoynoy nochi, malyshi!

Take a deep breath, and jump right in

Home again home again, jiggity jog.

Our short sojourn up the BC mainland has come to an end – much too quickly (as always), but we have many hilarious and brilliant memories to keep us content and warm until our next hop to paradise.

The mercury has dipped like a salsa chip here on the west coast – if I had to wager a guess, I would say that it dropped at least ten degrees Celsius over the past few days, from sitting comfortably in the low-teens on Thursday, to flirting with just above zero this morning.

Something shifts when the weather changes.

Just this morning, out on my run, my interactions with nature seemed both comforting and slightly stilted.

Like my environs were a dense wool sweater – protection against the frost – that I hadn’t yet grown into.

I swear I could hear ever rustle of every leaf, every gust of wind winding its way through every branch of every tree. The piercing call of a steller’s jay, the haunting call of a loon, the unsure bark of a dog – everything somehow magnified and yet muffled, overwhelming but also out of reach.

The rhythm of my breathing, a friendly, reassuring constant, despite the slight discomfort in my little lungs, adjusting to those first big gulps of frigid air.

My favourite route – high hills, blind curves, douglas firs. The sea salt air tickling my (red, running) nose.

Sometimes I run so fast I cry; tears streaming down my face, propelled by the wind, the cold, my speed.

Sometimes I don’t want to blink.

Because if I blink, it will be gone.

Magic:

Ferry.

Morning sunshine.

Afternoon fade.

Work.

Into the woods.

Games.

Dinners.

Music.

Fires.

Fog.

…

So there you have it beauty cats.

Memories, for another day.

We are now back at home, hunkered down. The fire roars and the fat rain drops coat the world a cool, slick, black.

What did you all get up to for the weekend?

Hang up those wet coats, and rest awhile.

Call me home and I will build you a throne

Hi kidlets.

Today my love and I are up on the Sunshine Coast, drinking dark, sugary coffee, sitting in front of the fire.

The bay sits cool, and calm, just outside our window; every so often a duck armada will sail past, marking a course for the next dock or rush.

They call out to one another, “Over here!”

Oh boy, do I really love ducks.

M and I are up here for an extra long weekend, relishing the opportunity to just sit back and breathe, and actually spend some time together.

We’ve both been running about with our hair set on fire, and looking forward, well, the next few months aren’t exactly going to be relaxation central.

So we’re going to revel in this beauty and eat, drink, run, read, laugh, and love.

In the meantime, Fry-up time!

This doesn’t actual seem “cosmopolitan”.

While standing in line at Safeway the other night, waiting to pay for my raspberries, eggs, mint chocolate ice cream bars, granny smith apples, and unsalted butter (aka THE STAPLES), I came across this:

Oh Cosmo.

Champion that it is of the high-brow (not to mention safe haven for intellectually rigorous prose), it never, ever fails to surprise me with the depths of depravity (and inanity) in which it is willing to sink.

And don’t even get me started on the people who buy this shite, because if I do I will spend the next half hour alternating between banging my head against the wall and falling to my knees shouting WHHHHHYYYYY?

Instead, let’s have some fun shall we?

For instance, what are some alternate answers to the question:

“So you ate a cupcake?”

Are you allergic to cupcakes?! If yes, you should probably go to the hospital!

Was it chocolate or vanilla? WAS IT MARBLED? Never trust a marbled cupcake.

Did it fall on the floor first? Remember the five second rule. Longer than five seconds and I’ll have to eat it.

How do you feel about being a cupcake murderer?

Is it weird that one of the first things that pops into my head when I hear cupcake is Katy Perry’s boobs?

I hate Katy Perry.

Cupcake in French is petit gâteaux, which in terms of a french word is lame as heck.

Would you like another one before we start the self-flagellation? Self-flagellation starts in five.

And finally: Who bloody very well cares? YEESH.

EAT ALL THE CUPCAKES.

GO FOR ALL THE RUNS.

But seriously, don’t beat yourself up over one stupid pastry.

It totally defeats the purpose, because after all, cupcakes are made from happiness.

They should make you happy.

p.s. My tips for hot late night sex? Sleep all day first.

Stripes and waves.

I bought a few pretty pretties this week:

The skirt is from H&M and the sweater is from Joe Fresh.

I am massively in love with the skirt because it looks like it is made up of little white-capped waves. I wore it to work yesterday with a black turtle next, grey tights and little black boots.

Basically, I was a superhero.

Also, I probably should have just bought one of these sweaters in each available colour because goodness knows I had a hard time deciding which one to purchase.

Stripes are always the best.

What can I saw, I love me some old-timey jail bird chic.

East meets west.

Seeing as though we’re away for a couple of days I thought it best to bring a back-up book just in case I finish the one I am currently working on.

I started Wolf Hall a lifetime ago, and although I really liked it, somehow it fell by the wayside and I didn’t make it past the half-way point.

Now I’m back, knee deep in Tudor gossip and intrigue.

If I do in fact finish this tome, I have brought some Dostoevsky to satisfy my literary urges.

I had my first real Russian love affair with Mr. Fyodor when I was in first-year of uni. Somehow I’ve managed to read most of his bibliography, save for this work, so I look forward to finally cracking it open.

There is something about his mastery of the macabre that just delights me to no end.

This could of course say more about my deranged psyche than his fantastical wordplay, but I’m one to stay positive.

(Unlike, of course, Mr. D.)

…

So there you have it folks.

I wish you a weekend filled with good books, delicious food, crackling fires, wind-swept walks, and all the laughs your abdominal muscles can take.

And have a cupcake or two – on me.

Let us be loving, hopeful and optimistic

Short post tonight beauty cats.

I am knackered, and as much as I want to writewritewrite, I just don’t have any energy to put together something grand.

Alas, thus goes everyone to the world but I, and I am sunburnt.

I do, however, have one thing to say.

I have written in the past about the amount of time I have spent in the United States, and how these trips have been for a myriad of reasons – be it sports, school, pleasure, or what have you.

For instance –

I got engaged in Hawaii.

My older sister lives in New York.

My dad lives in Palm Dessert six months of the year.

Seattle always feels a little bit like my home away from home. (A city from another missy?)

In short, I have never had a bad experience in any of the places I have visited.

So while I have no qualms at all about the outcome of last night’s election, (I am in fact elated) I would also be lying if I said that I didn’t find the political and ideological divide that currently exists in America to be incredibly disconcerting.

Versipellusfenris over at Unnecessary Words wrote a great op-ed today, reflecting on this (growing) disconnect and the future (but also the past) of the Republican Party. I urge you to read it, as it is excellent food for thought.

In this vein, I want to leave you all with this quote from Jack Layton, the late leader of the Federal New Democratic Party (and official leader of the opposition) here in Canada.

I feel as though his words are very fitting for not only Americans, but indeed all those struggling to find common ground in our world today.

So how about it?

Let’s change the world.

All of us.