Throwing it up and out and waving at it...

First up, this is for D: Paul's Boutique. Put it on... :)

I'm a lazy writer. I do run through my thoughts, put words into order and play with them in my head and hands and at my own pace. Where the process breaks down is in the recording of this play, in making these thoughts concrete. Because I also have a bad memory and so.. ideas can be with me but fleetingly.

I'm a flutterby sanctuary.
I'm an aimiable goldfish.

I'm an old woman busy with her memories of yesteryearday...

The point of this is just that I have so much to update at once, it becomes too much to do well and I throw pictures at you, sans histoire. And quite a bit of my blog is spent making excuses for that.

Anyway. Perhaps I'm only talking to myself. So it must be time to throw some pictures at the wall...

Walking the alleyways, enjoying good food, good company, good pictures.

and then:

Fred started painting again. We both did. It must be a sign of finally feeling settled here. It's a good thing.

I also went to my first Drink & Draw session which I hope to attend at least every second week... it felt wonderful to just do it. In a room full of people with friendly eyes and charcoal smudged cheekbones.

My house feels more like home now. It takes time and it will feel more and more like us as time goes by. Even sparsley furnished and with very little on the walls, it's feeling pretty good. As do my new PJs. I can't get over my little room. I feel incredibly lucky to have such a beautiful workspace, me space. I must have photographed the window in here a hundred times already...

Mirou is well & truly happy to be here now. While Fred was away, he slept near my pillow all night and was watching for my waking so he could come and purr on me.

So maybe, after a bit of a dark & stormy two months, this augers the beginning a new cycle, one where I'm feeling consciously grateful for all that is good. And then gathering it up and throwing it out here, against this wall.


The Baby

When we were in Melbourne last, my love took me to a store to collect the birthday present he had organised for me. It was a handcrafted wooden pinhole camera - the cadillac, he described it as. The baby, we dubbed it.

The camera takes 35mm film but it's not easy.. We spent quite a while at a beachside bar with our stickytape and scissors, spare (sacrificial) rolls of film to splice to the new... We felt like MacGyver but the curious party of elderly patrons at the neighboring tables just thought we were strange. Or possibly creative terrorists.

Today, finally, we got the first roll developed. The lab had trouble with it so we've lost many of the pics. Still, I'm amazed at what we did get and have a better idea of how to work with it next time. Alas, I can only show you my accidental magicks here - Fred's were incredible but I'm not allowed to show you. (Yet...)

Observations about Montréal

#6: Ikea is as much an essential here as oxygen, water or poutine.

#7: All punks own dogs and take them everywhere. It's neither here nor there but not something I ever noticed at home...

#8: There is no such thing as a uniform, standard caffé latte. Every cafe/restaurant has their own definition. Some of them are quite creative. That's not always a good thing...

(This place was a wonderful find)

A delicious calm

photo: Frédéric Chabot
acrylic on wood, original photograph by traci matlock


Something I found (someone else's recollection)

the recollection

I can't remember the last thing I said to him exactly.

It had started to fall apart in routine avalanches, gradual lapses in courtesy. The gap between our bodies had started to widen, cold sheets acting as filler. The decimation of our domesticity had been encountered and I viewed it with a defiant form of nonchalance; we were invariably tied to a plethora of shifting variables. I was at a loss to pick which one would be the downfall.

The days before were spent treading water. We witnessed the poppies bloom in March and the mosquito bites of June. August brought the first breakdown, I was the first to push. But in the rough stillness of October nights, we began to rekindle our laughter. January whited our knuckles and by July the heat had left us smoldered; long nights spent opening suitcases to convey the threat, salt water staining our cheeks. Breakdowns became habitual. Knives strewn across the counter, pinpricks of indignation surfacing at the tips of our fingers. Both of us were too aware of the distinct appendage each of us carried by carrying on, shifting the added weight uncomfortably shoulder to shoulder, but neither of us had the courage to grasp the handle correctly.

The attempts at retaining some form of civility were meshed with the ability to acquire substitutions. I found his jawline in the threadbare spines of discarded novels; his eyes in the small petri dish of rain water in the emptied pool below our apartment - teal algae clinging, forming the iris. The chalky grout of the tile; the narrow space between his fingers. Breakfasts of black tea conjured memories of off-white silk dresses and weeknights when my clothes came down, caught by my hips, the occasional hem skimming at the knees.

In the end, we were overcome with silence. We had been obliterated by the black hole we had quietly assembled.

(I don't have the name of the author, just the link to their blog)
I lay there, trying to remember which paintings had been on the walls.
I felt as though the bed was shaking beneath me. I felt sick.
I missed my girl.


Lying low

I know, it's been a long time between posts.
So I'll start with some pictures for you to look at while I try to find my words..

We begin with storms..
32 steps from my front door to my front front door. Mirou, settling.. Colourful MontréalOn Mont Royal.. This is the Marché Jean Talon. I could spend days here, exploring.. And end with storms..