Opinion – Page 7 – Rant and Roll

Oh, my heart. My heart.

I like knowing where others have been.

A woman’s perfume that lingers. The faint trace of a cigar, long-extinguished.

It makes me think about all of the lives I may never know.

All of the hearts I may never touch.

This morning I woke to a stretching sun. A ball of bleached blues and sherbet hues, melting its way across the frozen skyscape.

Before the herald of the first alarm, I silently stole from my scattered dreamspace, and crept into the cool dark of the house.

Nymeria yawned and quietly mewled from her corner of the chesterfield, her eyes squinting in discomfort as I turned on one of the small side lamps.

The soft light illuminated the many discarded tea mugs and half-finished books populating the table space of the room.

(Hallmarks of a busy workweek and my inability to ever finish a drink.)

I drank a demi-cup of sugary, dark coffee, and read from one of the books, marvelling all the while at the stark beauty, ablaze, across the New Westminster waterfront.

I then slipped into my beautiful new running pants, laced up my runners, and set forth to immerse myself in the golden glow of a world, seemingly reborn.

There are times in my life, where I am unable to stop myself from crying. Tears stream easily, unencumbered from the corners of my eyes. They are fat pearls of emotion – of happiness beyond equation.

Beyond compare.

And this morning I cried.

Racing time.

Racing an untameable sun.

I felt as though I could keep moving forever. That I might blend my body to my path, eternal.

Returning home, I caught a fragrance of a women. And for that moment, I breathed a life; a mind, body and soul – now vanished, or perhaps vanquished – within the thrum and hum of a waking day.

And I was hit with a sense of nostalgia so strong, I quaked.

I was five and cuddled up next to my mother as she read aloud to me on my bed; I was ten and exploring my grandparent’s basement bookshelves, as the dust swirls sparkled in the amber light; I was nineteen and working late closing shifts, experimenting with eye contact and fake names; twenty-four and riding my bike down Hagley Road under the muggy, Brummy sun; twenty-nine and dancing my heart out, my hair stuck to my back, and my calves like two hot rocks; thirty-five and forty-four, and sixty-seven; I was past, present, and yet-to-be present.

Who are we all?

Why are we here?

From where are we going?

Infinitesimal sums of beauty and strength, of wonder and light, of magic and marvel, of love, of love, of love.

So just keep breathing.

And let in the light.

In it for the long run.

Oh hey y’all!

Long time, no write.

And I must express my sincere contrition.

Now, I know I sound like a broken record every time I return after a long wordless sojourn, full of the same old platitudes – “Life is so crazy!” “Time seems to be slipping away all the quicker every day!” “Why can’t I ever keep track of where I leave my hairdryer!?” – but, in my defence, these inanities are sincere.

TO WHERE THE DICKENS IS TIMING SLIPPING AWAY!?

And it’s not as though I don’t want to be engaged with the blogosphere. I am always very aware that I want to be writing, and get frustrated when I am not.

I miss feeling my fingers fly across my laptop’s keyboard, tap-tap-tapping out a tale or two about the banality of hair removal, or the injustice of fast fashion (and my inability to restrain myself from consuming, and therefore sustaining this industry) or the life-altering qualities of a really good lipstick..

I miss interacting with other writers, and kind commentators, and thinking about my next scheme, or post, or story.

Last night Marc and I cooked up a pasta feast and enjoyed a candlelit dinner, taking turns reading to each other from Catullus’ complete works of poetry.

In between my laughter, I continually croaked, “THIS – THIS IS NOT A POEM!”

Bawdy stuff there folks.

BAWDY AS HECK.

Afterwards, we watched a pretty mediocre movie on the 4 Deserts Ultra-Running Race Series (racers run through the Atacama, Gobi, Sahara, and Antarctic Deserts) which we thought would be awesome, but left us feeling pretty lukewarm at best.

(Unlike the weather conditions in any of those places.)

However, despite the film’s shortfalls, I was completely jazzed just watching each of the runners take on such insane distances (250 kilometers) in downright torturous conditions (unrelenting heat, windstorms, sharp drops in temperatures, freezing rain.)

And I wanted to something similar.

I wanted to push my body to do something it had never done before.

Even if I couldn’t wake up this morning and race across the Gobi Desert, I wanted to do something, anything so to feel a connection with these amazing, fearless racers.

So when I did wake up, I decided to run from my house in New Westminster, to the Broadway/Commercial Skytrain station in Vancouver.

Now, technically speaking, this run would take me across two cities and past eight skytrain stations -which seems like a really long way to run!

But in reality, it only clocks in at sixteen kilometers.

Which seems incredibly short!

(Yet such is truth, spoken by the infallible gospel of Google Map My Run.)

However, in the end, it was a pretty bonkers route, with almost 350 meters of elevation gain, a battery of rogue crosswalks and the odd sketch individual or two, where the only thing rushing through my mind was “don’t want to know what’s being decided upon in THAT interaction!” as I motored on past.

Also, before I left, Marc told me that it very cold outside (due to the amount of fog that was blanketing our house and its environs) so I made the tragic mistake of wearing a tight, long-sleeve fleece, over my wicked (also long-sleeved) running shirt.

Marc’s note: “It WAS cold! I went out running an hour and half before you!”

Thank goodness I forwent the toque.

By kilometer four I thought my head was going to blow right off of my body, leaving the remains of my cranium looking like modern day Vesuvius.

I feverishly tore the fleece from my body and immediately felt the cool relief of the morning’s breeze make its way across my steaming torso.

Then I resigned myself to the fact that I was going to have to run the remaining twelve kilometers with my shirt tied about my waist.

Now, I’m not sure exactly what it is that bothers me so much about clothing tied about my midsection, but since childhood it has driven me to distraction, and I especially hate it when exercising.

I guess I have always (erroneously) equated (or conflated it) with non-serious runners, and prided myself on knowing how much clothing to wear at any given time, on any given run.

However, this silly theory of mine was completely obliterated on my run today, as I went on to spend the majority of my time, waist cinched, simply flying through Burnaby and into East Vancouver.

So, I’ll be the first to say it – I’m still learning.

And I hope to heck that I never stop.

Just like those ultrarunners.

So hang tight. I’ve got but two hundred and thirty-four kilometers to go.

‘Tis the season

Shit dudes.

The internet.

It’ll get ya.

See, I was reading Sarah Jane’s first fashion post, and one second I was marvelling at her adorable outfit, and the next I was deep in the bowels of Forever XXI’s “Festive Finds!” webpage, desperately emptying my shopping cart and manically clearing my browser history.

Honestly, it’s a good thing that I have some modicum of self-control, lest I find myself spending hundreds of dollars (on the regular!) on every single sparkly shift dress that I happened to encounter, whether in-person or over the world wide web.

Although what really grinds my gears is that I spent the majority of the time looking for this dress without any luck whatsoever:

Zilch.

Nada.

Bupkiss.

This dress may exist somewhere in the Forever XXI online ether, but for all I know, having it displayed on the site’s landing page is just a clever ploy to get shoppers to 1.) look at their wares for sale and 2.) just end up purchasing some other piece of clothing in its stead, because everything costs less than thirty dollars so who really give a crap anyway?

(This is just a theory of course, but one that I think may have legs.)

One question I do have for everyone is:

Is December really a time where people gallivant about, going to multiple holiday parties that require a continual rotation of fancy duds and perhaps also champagne flutes, and other cliche Christmas-inspired accoutrement?

Is this a thing that really does happen?

(I am inclined to think no, but then again that one Joe Fresh ad that keeps popping up on my Facebook feed is making me believe that the majority of others are very much disposed to think otherwise.)

I mean, I love December and the many social engagements that it brings. I normally receive invitations to two or three friend-thrown parties, and maybe Marc’s staff Christmas get-together, plus fun, after work low-key hangouts with good friends that I have not seen in a while (the operative word here being “low-key” – we’re talking fireplaces, hot drinks, comfortable clothes, and a lot of laughing.)

But it’s definitely not as if I am careening about from event to event on a nightly basis.

My schedule, busy as it can be, would never require the purchase and cultivation of multiple yuletide specific getups.

There are only so many party skirts one gal can handle over the course of thirty one days.

Plus I’m also apt to believe that after a week of solid fa-la-la-la-ing I would literally be forced to throw out the partridge and chop down the pear tree.

But maybe I am completely wrong – perhaps there really are individuals out there, who spend the entire month decked out in their finest metallic body-con minis (googled it for you), partying each and every night to the strains of Bandaid 30, drinking their Bailey’s on ice, and waiting until they get to the top of the grandest of staircases to bite into their Ferrero Rochers.

(Can you tell my love for Christmas springs not from its spirit, but from its ridiculously cheesy and year-to-year repetitive series of advertisements?)

No doubt that for this my name is firmly entrenched at the top of Santa’s naughty list.

Which if I had to put money on it, is definitely another section of Forever XXI that I haven’t had a chance to explore.

Haven’t had a chance to explore – yet.

I love to hear you speak

What are we talking about again?

Oh yes, of course. I remember now.

My heart is broken and full.

I am split.

I am whole.

Yourself, electric.

We turn up a song, and dance around the kitchen on the tips of our toes.

You grab my waist with one hand, and twirl my twisting torso, round and around.

Each time you make a face, I laugh.

Each time you laugh, I laugh harder.

My hair reflecting the soft light of the dying sun; the new night air drifting slowly through our windowpanes.

We breathe deep.

You hold me.

As we dance.

On the tips of our toes.

…

What are we talking about again?

Oh yes, of course. I remember now.

Putin in single.

He’s been flirting with China’s first lady.

His libidinous and hyper-heterosexual machismo manifesting itself in tan shawls and gallant gestures.

At least he wasn’t bare chested and riding a horse.

I always wonder about the nomenclature we affix to the husbands of women who lead countries.

First man?

Mr. Mom?

Ugh.

Probably not.

I don’t think Joachim Sauer ever worries about these things.

Luckily, being a quantum chemist and full professor at the Humboldt University of Berlin, he can likely depend on a solid “Doctor Sauer” anytime he needs be introduced.

Even better – he’ll probably never have to fend off unwanted advances from the likes of Park Geun-hye or Simonetta Sommaruga.

Meanwhile, poor Angela Merkel has had to put up with George W. Bush and his ridiculous compulsion for ill-timed and completely inappropriate shoulder rubs, amongst I am sure, many other forms of completely sexist garbage.

Speaking of which, I keep laughing because the media has been telling me that we’re currently experiencing a watershed moment here in Canada in terms of the physical and sexual abuse of women.

As if this is a thing that we didn’t know existed.

Or that is supported.

Or that is propagated.

Or that is reinforced on and by all levels of society, from individuals, to the organizations that create our rules and enforce our laws.

I know I shouldn’t have been, but I was genuinely shocked to learn that there are people who didn’t know that sexual impropriety and abuse are rife amongst the affairs of our parliament.

I just (wrongly) assumed, that much like steroids in professional sports, these practices are an integral and important element to the running of our national political organization, and all the safeguards and policing practices geared towards finding and stopping this abuse are outdated, inadequate and completely impotent.

They are run and overseen by the abusers.

What good could they possibly do?

…

What are we talking about again?

Oh yes, of course. I remember now.

Beautiful, beautiful Nova Scotia.

Just hold on tight – don’t let it in

Okay, some things.

1. Marc recently purchased Dark Souls II.

For those of you who are not versed in From Software’s latest release, this is a game famed for its incredible difficulty, infinitely unforgiving structure (you cannot ever pause gameplay), and relentless onslaught of terrifying and hard to kill monsters.

So of course my husband (and millions of other gamers the world wide over) love to drive themselves crazy engaging with this insanity.

Marc, in particular, really likes to set the right tone before picking up his player console, and as such, this is what our living room has been looking like for the past few nights:

I mean, I’m all for mood lighting, but I’m not sure if the candlelight is really fulfilling its intended function if he is still rage quitting every time he accidentally gets obliterated by a boss, or inadvertently walks off of a cliff.

This game, man.

It destroys lives.

(And souls)

2. Last Tuesday night I went to see the band Jungle in concert.

It was AMAZING.

Due to my slight crotichiness and very busy life schedule, it really takes a lot for me to stay out past my bedtime on a school night.

So to find me at a club downtown (on a Tuesday no less!), waiting for this band to storm the stage at the ungodly hour of 11pm, I was beginning to question whether or not my choice to come out and see them had been the correct decision.

My dance mate (my very good friend Chelsea, whom I had invited to accompany me as a “Holy crap you just published a book” gift) was equally as skeptical – she being of similar mind and crotichiness.

But sweet mother of pearl, I’ll tell ya. As soon as the first strains of their song “Platoon” propelled forth from the stage, I knew we were in for a treat.

This band is very, very good.

For the next hour we danced our little hearts out to the most epic of new soul-funk-rock tunes, dazzled by the most brilliant of accompanying light shows.

It’s not often you’ll go see a new band (they formed in 2013) that is so tight, and polished, and all around AMAZING.

They were playing at The Imperial, and I doubt they will be playing such a small venue the next time they roll around in Vancouver.

They will be selling out the Commodore in no time flat.

And I will be there.

And I won’t question that decision for a second.

Young Scamps

That’s me on the right and my big sister Kate on the left.

Ah love.

Would you look at us?

As ridiculous as it would seem – I remember that outfit so well. I was absolutely mesmerized by the plums!

I am also fairly certain that this photo was taken somewhere in the east coast of Canada, during one of our many summer sojourns in and around Nova Scotia – only I cannot for the life of me pinpoint the exact location.

I’ll probably bolt out of bed sometime around 3am tomorrow, having remembered the date and time, and also the fact that I forgot to pre-set the coffee and switch the laundry into the dryer.

The stuff of which my nightmares are made!

But until that time, I’ll just enjoy it for what it is.

Unbearable cuteness.

And joy.

…

So that’s a couple of things swinging about our corner of the jungle.

Vancouver has been having the most inconsistent and mind-boggling weather of late – one minute it’s raining so hard I keep expecting to see kayakers navigating their way along our roads and side streets, and the next it’s so hot, entire hordes of people find themselves simultaneously engaging in the terrifying practice of frantic and communal disrobing.

(It’ll be a trial sport in the next summer Olympics)

I am becoming a champion of layering all of my outfits, all of the time.

Halloween is also coming up, and I’m having a hard time getting into the spirit of things.

I think I may have done myself in on the creativity front last year – I don’t think I am ever going to top my Samara from The Ring.

However, should things change, I’ll keep you posted.

I hope all of you are warm and dry, wherever you find yourselves tonight.

And beware of dark souls (of any form).

So light a candle. Or two.