Of Quaaluds and cocaine.

Wow. Felt that going all the way down. Just cracked a beer, a Kokanee, actually, a rarity for me to drink at all these days, and even more rare, to choose a beer. Rather partial to single malt scotch, Oban if it is around, which it rarely seems to be these days…
Might have to imbibe in a few more than usual at Passionista next week, as it is my getaway from my life in general... perhaps I will see Brian Ferry…
And by the by, have a glorious partner to accompany me… one of my darling teacup girls, who has decided she and I will hang on each other’s arms and break the hearts off all the obscenely rich men that will be there… we will be each other’s arm candy, I believe is the term she used.
Sitting and contemplating what to write. Inspiration has been short of supply of late, another rarity. As Dale can likely attest, I tend to be rather free with my words in columns in the newspaper, and I am often surprised at how very harsh I get without public outcry about it. Hmm. Or perhaps I just don’t hear the reactions. Journalism is in my blood, and has been since I was very young. Just can’t keep my opinion to myself, you know… and have no plans to change that!
But my soul is weary just now, hence the escape to Calgary next week.
Sitting at my downstairs computer, I look at the rain sticks I bought my boys one year while on the coast for a symposium. The more I think of it, the more I realize how truly blessed I am to have my sons in my life. They are good lads, despite the head butting now and then with my eldest. The child has rather a lot of his mother in him… mores the pity. He has decided he wants to be a chef. For years he has thoughts of being an engineer, but this past year in school he has been taking chef training, and his teacher emailed me and said I should encourage him to take this further. I had never thought of him going that direction, and I have yet to see the fruits of his labours at home… but I am glad he has found his passion.
Ian just wandered in. Home from work.
I told him I was drinking one of his beers as I ran out of Red Bull.
“Hmmm,” he responds. “That's like saying I am taking one of your Quaaludes because I ran out of cocaine,” he quips.
Lippy beggar, sez me.
Fucking journalists, he replies.

It's getting late-ish...

Hmm. 1:23 a.m.
I think I was a vampire in another life... or perhaps a bat.
I am doing laundry, listening to Stargate SG1, and attempting to sort through various receipts for taxes. Ugg.
I wonder what you are all up to at this hour... those of you on this continent no doubt are nestled snug in your beds sleeping... what most rational people do at this hour.
My friends across the world, though, what time is it for you? My dear niece will be in her Dinan classroom attempting to coerce teenagers to expand their grasp of the English language. It is... let's see, 9:27 a.m. for her in France.
I want to post some photos soon. But as I only just managed to get the links to your blogs on my site, I think I will give it a day or two more before I get that adventurous. I think it would be easier on my MacIntosh upstairs in my office, but I do not feel like going up there just now. It is above the garage, and it is dark and chilly out there. Took the garbage out a bit ago and that was enough of that air for tonight... or this morning... or whatever it is.
So in the spirit of the tags I read on your blogs before I became more blog-prolific... I ask you all this:
if you could spend a year in any country in the world, all expenses paid andwith the ability to have your loved ones visit, where would you go, what would you do there and why would you choose that particular spot?
I'll start. (This year would be all about me, brought on my the fact I am very weary these days, and if I were to do another year, it would all be about social work in impoverished countries, but this one would gird my loins for that next one). This is also assuming my darling children have graduated and left the nest.

It would be Italy, because I think in another life I was Italian. I would go on my own, not because I do not love my partner, but because I think it would be good for me to discover more about myself in solitude and peace. I have a strange desire to do so one day. And of course, as part of the parametres, he could visit ever so often... (not every so often, but ever so often!)
I would travel all over the place and shoot endless photographs, and write a book finally. I would learn Italian, and grow a lovely garden with herbs and vegetables, have lots of cats (well, not too many), and be eccentric and odd and have lots and lots of dinner gatherings to share stories. And to create those dinners, I would visit with ancient old Italian grandmothers and beg them to teach me their recipes.
A very self indulgent fantasy... am I terrible?

Who's next?

Woohoo!

Just realized my attempt to put blog links has worked... only have Lannio's up so far, but it is a start.

the Russian piano teacher

Sisterhood of the Travelling Teacup

Okay. Everyone be very quiet.... we are at my son's piano lesson with his extremely talented and hugely strict Russian master piano teacher... Inga.
She is brilliant. One of the best in Canada, easily. She studied at the St. Petersburg Conservatory, taught at Mount Royal, played with the Calgary Philharmonic for years, made CDs with Cenek Vrba and sopranos and on and on.... retired here in the valley but could not stand to not teach, and my son is one of her few students. As he shows great promise, and has an true talent, she adores and dotes on him, but is also very strict with him. And oh my goodness gracious, piano is everything. Oh, and there is no dropping him off and picking him up after the lesson. Oh no. I am to stay for the lesson as well so I know just what he has to work on.
If Scott actually practiced the way she wants him to, really put the effort in... holy crap the kid would be amazing. I think he is amazing anyway, doing as well as he does with as little practice time as he puts in... but if he ever really puts it into gear... wow. But I don't want him to hate piano as a result of too much pressure, know what I mean? And boy oh boy, the Russian work ethic puts us all to shame to be honest. SO we are getting ready for his Grade 6 Royal Conservatory exam in the spring... and putting together a few little concerts for friends as he really loves to play for people and has not had too many opportunities. He told me recently, what really gives him pleasure is for people to hear him play. He is going to play at the long term care facility soon, and then at the retirement home (where, incidentally, Inga's mom now resides.. no pressure).

Shhh. I am pretending to be getting work done. Don't tell Inga I am blogging. Hee hee hee!
I love to hear him play. He and his brother are such joys in my life, as is my stunning step daughter with the brilliant pink hair... LOVE IT!
talk to you later... I just got the "look."

ugg.

Sisterhood of the Travelling Teacup
Man, I feel like hell. I hate being sick, and I especially hate being sick when I don't have time for it. Nothing major, a stomachy thing, but dammit I have no time for this.
I am hoping to go to this fundraiser for Carewest in Calgary in a couple of weeks. It is an evening of musicians, dancers, art, cocktails and culinary delights at a three story art gallery called Artists of the World, a total escape from reality for a few hours, something I could really use just now. The tickets are an absurd price, but it is after all a fundraiser, and as I have had several family members go through the Calgary system (the money will go to quality of life programs) I feel pretty good about the money going there. Now, to find a girlfriend to go with. It seems like a girls night out event to me... or rather, I want it to be! I have asked a couple, and so far no luck, both are booked already with things. But I am determined, and if need be I will go alone and drift around and be all mysterious... that might be lots of fun! Best run. Have a meeting soon, but thanks for the help in adding links... haven't done it quite yet, but getting there!
S

Um...little help please....

Sisterhood of the Travelling Teacup
okay, I feel like a gluehead, but... how to I add the blogsites I visit to the list on mine??

My Calgary...

Sisterhood of the Travelling Teacup
When I refer to my Calgary, I speak of what it is I see when I walk down the street, or drive downtown very late at night.
Stephen Ave. is my first walk when I arrive, always. It takes as long as it takes, sometimes hours, but the stark, almost brutal contrasts that are always present make the artist in me thrill, the untrained social worker in me long to be doing more, and the philosopher in me wax poetic. I have taken photos of Stephen Avenue before, and no doubt will again.
My Calgary is CUPS, The Mustard Seed, The Salvation Army. It is the skuzzy downtown cafes and pawn shops. It is the old architecture, the decaying buildings on which you can still see the old words that advertised what the business was. It is the ghosts of better days on the façade of the Grand Theatre on Stephen Ave, the homeless, the hopeless, the hopeful, the street vendors. It is the man who today, professing to be a “real gypsy, 100 percent, not like those other guys” who read my tarot cards on a bench for $10, really just a good study of human characteristics saying what he thought I wanted to hear.
He watched me when I bought an old native man coffee a few benches down. Easy mark, that’s me.
After he read a few cards, he told me, I am “more man than any man will ever be, and more woman than any man could ever handle.”
I could care less if it is true or not, I am going to run with that one.
What really strikes me about that avenue is that absolute juxtaposition of so many worlds, of past and present, of rich and poor, stunning beauty and contrasting ugliness, of the good hearts and the ones who would happily relieve you of your wallet. More than any other spot I walk in Calgary, it is that Avenue that is my Calgary, so old, so new, so downtrodden in one step and upbeat on the next. There is a whisper on that avenue, one that speaks if you listen closely. But so few will, do, or want to. It tells of a thousand heartaches, even more of laughter, of lovers, and quarrels, and total despair and of unbridled passion. That avenue is like a secret preacher, speaking only to those who truly stop to listen, telling stories only told to a privileged few.
But in my own contrast, my Calgary is also sitting in Devonian Gardens, inhaling the heady, intoxicating scent particular to greenhouses, earthy and moist. It is the little shops, like Art of My Heart, the owner of which, Harold, has never failed to remember me over the past 10 or 15 years of sporadic visits. It is the bartender at The Unicorn, Greg, who knows, even though I stop in only a few times a year, I drink Oban neat, I like the barstool at the far end corner, and he keeps the drunks away from me. Calls me young lady, like it is my title, though he knows my name is Stephanie. My Calgary includes art galleries, mostly on the Avenue mind you, and the theatres, the Glenbow Museum… still all on that avenue. It is CKUA instead of CJ92, it is The Unicorn at 11 p.m. on a weekday or The Auburn Saloon at 6 p.m. any day. It is in the faces I remember and the ones I will never forget. It is in the ones I will buy a coffee or sandwich for, and the ones I know may need help but are beyond me. It is the old man who walked with contented, aimless purpose ahead of me this morning, smoking his pipe, just going where he was going with no hurry or concern. I stayed a few steps behind him to inhale the fragrance of his pipe tobacco. It is the old woman, white hair done in an up-do with what must be a hundred cans of hairspray, decked out in her old fur, her makeup overdone in 1940s style, all that she owns that glitters on her neck, ears, fingers, her warped feet still thrust into shoes with heels, still carrying herself with a bearing of class and days gone by.
It is the little girl skipping on that brick avenue in the sun, her mother not far behind keeping a close eye on her.
My Calgary has become like a patient and ever forgiving lover, one that amazes me, makes me joyful, makes me weep, gives me both hours of hope and moments of despair, one that will always be there waiting for me, eternally patient and ready to take me in its arms to share its secrets, fill my soul, and bring me home.

ah, the quiet moments....

Sisterhood of the Travelling Teacup
Well, here I sit, sipping coffee and stealing a few moments to myself in this crazy life I have. My son is at his piano lesson, which I am really supposed to be at as well, making sure I know just what needs to be worked on and learning along with him... but not today. Today, I needed a few minutes to myself.
I heard from my lovely Lindsay, one of my teacup girls, last night... a long, wonderful email full of her and her energy.
AND, most wonderfully, I got my scarf from my Miss Margery, my niece in France. I have hardly taken it off, and it wraps me in love and security while I bounce around in a rough section of life just now. Nothing dramatic, the speedbumps have just gotten a little larger lately.
And just as wonderful was the little film cannister of sand she enclosed. I collect sand, and it was a perfect addition. And instead of just writing the location and time she collected it for me, she wrote what she was doing (taking a lovely walk) and where she found it. And in doing this, she took me on that lovely walk with her.
And I have been a dreadful blogger. Those of you who have been so sweet as to stop by and chat must think I am horridly rude not to be at least saying hello and wishing you all a belated Happy New Year! I hope you are all well and have settled into 2007 with smiles on your faces!
The valley has chosen to embrace winter this year, I think, though I might just be off base, more so than in the previous few years. Dale, doens't it seem to you to be more winterty than usual?
I took an amazing workshop in Vancouver on digital storytelling. I was looking forward to it, but once I was there and actually learning what we were learning, I was swept away. I would have loved to stay and learn more and more, but one step at a time. It will be a powerful tool for both the youth centre and for the literacy program I facilitate. And the fact is, I love Vancouver. Downtown Van, that is. I love to walk down Robson street, starting in the early evening and walking for hours, the colours, the sounds, the mix of it all. It is much the same love I have for downtown Calgary, which I have written about before. When I get home, I will post that bit.
For now, I suppose I should rejoin my son at his lesson. I will get the stern look as it is from his strict teacher.... yikes!
Be well all, and I'll talk with you all again soon.
S