no loitering or the "new" sign in kensington...

If you are currently reading this, firstly scroll down and read the previous post as it is a gooder. Then you can come back and read this one:

I love the plethora of new signs outside CPU and the Roasterie in Kensington. Seriously, maybe if you write in really big letters "NO: loitering, congregating, littering, hanging around, causing a motherfuckinriot" and post it several places the misspent youth will gather their things, wash off their makeup, have a wash of their greasy "all-ages-show" mops and get real. Not likely. Especially when the space there, a little raised garden bed with small trees for shade, surrounded by benches, is perfect for passing-out on and for keeping the hackie-sack from reaching the ground.

I went there tonight and sure enough, there were the youths all standing around the sign, loitering now with an ever more fierce congregating, cause a motherfuckingriot agenda than ever before. This is a shining example of useful public policy that they no doubt came up with at a Council meeting at the West Hillhurst Sunnyside Community Centre.

Applause.

And Calgary Transit is striking, so I'm told, on Friday. I may just not go into work at all. Stay tuned.

hedge trimmer: the lightsaber's distant cousin...

I would like to point out that our hedge trimmer operates as I would imagine a lightsaber does, only it's not cordless. However, when yielded properly with the ample extra cord grasped in my palm, I was able to shape the hedges with surprising finesse and agility, as if I were fighting off the many forces of darkness which exist in my current life situation. Unfortunately it jammed and started making a really awful noise and I started swearing on the lawn. My jedi moment was fleeting but awe-inspiring.

The true purpose of this post though is about music and its ability to change the world. One listener or one lowly down-and-out song writer/composer at a time. When I think about some of the greatest songs ever written, the events that inspired them and the repercussions they evoked, I can say without any doubt that music can change the world. Or maybe just our perception of it. A boy loses his mother to cancer, your young son accidentally falls out a 53 story window, a family friend reaches out to his best friend's son as he can see the boy is distraught by the effects of divorce, doing one more hit of heroin before promising yourself you'll get sober, praying to a god that you never before believed in to get you out of Vietnam. Music was there through it all and we survived.

Every time you hear doo-wop or skiffle or blues, remember that people once had to hole up in basements and listen to it secretly because it was seen as being too devilish, too defiant, too dangerous to be played in public. Music brought people together in church, in jail, in captivity and continues to do so.

Don't knock your parents' or even your grandparents' music, okay? Where would we be without Chuck Barry or Muddy Waters? There would be no Elvis, no Beatles, no Clapton, no Stones, no Beyonce, there would only be silence and poor attempts at soundproofing basements. And you certainly wouldn't be rocking out at the Hifi to remixed versions of "Mr. Postman" and "You Can't Hurry Love".

And lastly, Happy Hanukkah everyone!

rainy day dream away...

Last night I had a dream that I was in love with a jazz musician. No one in particular, but everyone at the same time. By the hazy light at the Vernon Jazz Club and the sweet sounds of his trumpet echoing out into the night, I smoked a cigarette and tried to appear indifferent but my foot kept tapping. I knew that by the light of day that we were nothing, has-beens, never-will-be's, but I didn't care.

He looked like Buddy Holly and I was in love. He wore a silly hat and his pants were too big. He was constantly pushing up his glasses. He could play the sax, the drums, the trumpet and he could sing. Oh, could he sing. His voice was sweet and slow and though I pretended not to be transfixed, I was drunk like a bee on pollen. Off stage he was awkward and neurotic but on stage he was cocky and yet still slightly laissez-faire.

I danced alone, wishing he was beside me but this was what happened when you fell in love with a musician. I knew the morning would come and he'd smell like stale cigarettes and beer and he wouldn't want to get a day job and I wouldn't blame him.

I awoke from this dream and his face had disappeared. Lost, like the name of your first roommate in college whose face you swore you'd always remember but now can't, on the tip of your tongue. He was sweet and I loved him. It was raining outside and then it was time to get up.

home, where my love lies waiting silently for me...

In true Simon and Garfunkel fashion I am Vernon-bound tomorrow bright and early. Though I have had my fill of planes as of late, I am not complaining one bit about going to see my parents.

My my, how things can change with time. Five years ago I was "coming home" from Mexico. I use quotations because "home" was a relative term back then and "home" for me meant where ever my mom had decided to hang her hat (and her many objets d'art) as she'd packed up and sold our house, divorced my step-dad and moved into Jamie's house. I came "home" to a new home, a new family and a new life, for the second time in my short life.

Now that new "home" has become the home without quotation marks. It's become the place of serenity and comfort and stability that I yearned for as an angsty teenager. I go home and I know exactly what to expect (depending on the particular folliage of any given season, mind you). My mom will tell me jokes and make me laugh like I didn't know possible. She, Jamie, the dogs and I will listen to jazz and watch sunsets together and I will remember why I am the luckiest girl in the whole wide world (because of said "home" finally being just a home) and I will feel refreshed and invigorated and most of all: loved.

All of this begs the question though, what will another five years bring?

painting the roses red...

I'm back again where I started. Back at a job, back at school. Things feel slightly different but surprisingly the same. The seasons pass like fireflies, flitting elusively with the turning of the calendar's pages.

I have a lot to say but the words come out all wrong. My biggest fear is that I love something more than I had planned and try as I might, I cannot shake it. What of this city? What of this season? Why do things get so higildy-pigildy in the Spring time?

Am I just trying to paint the roses red? Is this an attempt at something impossible? When I say that I'm certain, not judge-jury certain, but certain-ish, does that count? And do all the cliches of loving and losing and which is better and all that, do they ring true or we agree to simply call our mistakes 'experience' and tear our hearts from our sleeves and move on? Can a hurt so profound still be immune from 'regret' status?

"Hey Jane... get me off this crazy thing... called love."

c'mon l-diggs or a list of don'ts...

In an attempt to pull it together (it being the perverbial "it" of life, love and why are we all here?) I've come up with a list of don'ts that I am currently dabbling in that are not making the pulling-it-together process much easier. Without further adieu, do not under any circumstances undertake the following:
1. Listen to the playlist entitled "Criers" and if you must listen to it, DO NOT INDULGE AT WORK!
2. Do not utter words like "I love you" or "I miss you" under your breath to no one in particular.
3. Do not check facebook more than twice in any given afternoon.
4. Do not start another painting until the Elton John one is finished.
5. Do not quantify things like emotions, this process is a recipe for disaster and disappointment.

Instead:
1. Curse the photocopier at work for only working when the people who could replace it are around.
2. Call your mother, she has all the answers and talks of all the fish in the sea.
3. Turn that fucking playlist off. Seriously. Anything called "Criers" can only be meant for dark days and we're not doing those anymore.
4. Schedule your volunteer interviews and plan training. That should take two weeks. Seriously. Do it.

Oh diggs, you're only a mess when you want to be.

a brief mention of bsd 2007...

This does deserve honourable mention for being a truly exceptional gong this year: Towers outdid himself. Allan Bailey outdid himself. I outdid myself. Well played by all.

Next up: Hannukah in May and the 'Pede where I again try, this time by honest means, to obtain a giant Bart Man.

lest we not play that old, haggard game again...

It's been a month since I last blogged. I guess that's bad. I guess I'm not as fervent a blogger as I once thought. It has been a lovely month. I so enjoyed my sojourn to Ireland, Scotland and England and am happy to have returned safe and sound to the homeland.

I am pledging to myself to stop playing this haggard game we play of "oh weren't these the best times when?" or "how I wish it were this other time/place/life situation" or some variation of those. I refuse this retrospective 20/20 thing. It just makes us sad and miss what is happening before our very eyes. Would we have done anything differently, if given the opportunity? Probably not. Maybe we would have cried more, kissed more, laughed more, drank more, smoked more, prayed more, loved more. Maybe not. But we'll never know.

Even today's epic journey home, the Circle line of the tube being closed, the screaming child on the airplane (when I had no earplugs) could not take away from the joy of being home, seeing familiar faces and knowing that I had been missed, being the centre of attention for a moment, eating at Tazza, being up for long hours and knowing that I am living. This is living. Every day is precious. I've never been more inlove and infatuated with life and all its complexities than I am today and this is okay.

What more of a sign do you need than two people both being afraid of the slimy depths of under the sea?