Knots of Thoughts

wake.up.

2011-07-19T10:04:00.001-07:00

sometimes I wake up immediately.

sometimes a nudge slowly rolls from slumber to consciousness.

and lately I've been a sleep.

a sleep walker through life.
a-sleep at the creative wheel.
a sleep away from satisfaction.

obsessed
addicted
passionless.

a zombie hungering for the next check mark on the to-do list.

until the full moon intervened.

she illuminated the night sky

her light fell on my shoulders
gold down my back
silver up my neck
that started the shiver
that raised the goosebumps
that aroused me from sleep.

the sun spilled over the horizon
and the morning breeze blew the sheets of night away.

her light faded into the blue of day.

I exhaled.

she was the nudge.

and now I roll toward day

awake

alive

creeping toward creativity

pulsing with passion.

Happiness

2011-02-24T10:56:00.000-08:00

"Happiness hit her, like a bullet in the back." -Florence and the Machine

That is what life feels like lately.

Explosions of pure joy erupt in me like stars that illuminate the night sky. And like those celestial bodies those moments make me feel hope, a certain connection to divinity, like I AM on the right track, going in the right direction.

But like those stars I still find myself sinking in the lonely darkness of the night sky. And so I leap desperately, willing my patience, perseverance, and keenly trained perspective of positivity to carry me seamlessly toward the next bright light : a romance, an opportunity, a cherished moment with a friend, a perfect yoga class or dance, a well written line.

But there are too many times lately that I feel I miss and fail to make the next constellation connection to my starlit bliss. Instead I falter and fall, down to a place where I miss home, miss dancing, miss the yoga studio, miss my friends, miss being energetic, miss my sleep pattern miss the chance to write when I want to.

I then doubt myself, my path, my dreams and my resolve.

I continue to fall. doubt. pray. persevere.

Only to unexpectedly land on a new constellation, filled with a new elation that stretches perhaps farther than the last.

So I continue, leaping and praying, practicing and pushing, analyzing and reflecting, hoping that my leaps will become more consistent and my falls won't go down so far as I create my life's own constellation.

2011-02-21T14:53:00.000-08:00

He used to sleep with his back to me.

The first few nights it went unnoticed. But when insecurities about the security of our bond crept in, as they always do, the waves of my restful sleep broke against the wall of his back. Pressed between the contours of his scapula, hoping to erode the hardness of his spinal column, I prayed for signs.

And so when his hand reached for mine in the small hours of the morning, I exhaled. It was as if each finger locking into mine whispered a single word...

will

not

desert

you

So I believed him.

But the addition of his promises were as valueless and dishonest as his hands that night. That last interlock was instead a parting handshake. A pre-emble to his final goodbye: a sinful act of making love. Before he attempted to slip out of my life, as silent and unnoticed as he slipped in.

Britney Spears defaces Alexander McQueen

2011-02-17T20:43:00.000-08:00

Britney Spears' hotly anticipated video, "Hold it Against Me" dropped today to the delight of the blogosphere.

Set in a gleaming, sexy, post-apocalyptic world, director Jonas Akerlund does a pretty good job of disguising the once talented dancer's incompetence. While the quick cuts were enough to make question if there was something wrong with the video card in my computer, then contemplate descending into a seizure, the product placements were what really induced the nausea. But the final and most insulting part of the video was the rip off of Alexander McQueen's Spring/Summer 1999 fashion show.

In the video Britney, dressed in a huge white dress, reveals highlighter coloured paint that sprays from the tips of her fingers, colouring the fabric that flares beneath her. As tweens and fans are oohing and ahhing, Alexander McQueen must be rolling in his grave.

The original concept debuted in McQueen's 1999 Spring show, where the fashion world was brought to tears when two auto-painting robots spray painted a frightened model wearing a white dress. The message was complex; it was a thoughtful commentary on the evolution of fashion as a commodity, a critique of our descent into a digital roboticized age, and a reflection of our exploitation of creativity. The show was iconic and one of the most referenced moments in McQueen's career when the fashion world reflected on his death one year ago.

Today, Britney Spears and Jonas Akerlund spat in the face of the original genius behind this concept.

It is true that art evolves over time, is adapted, referenced and often bastardized. But it breaks my heart that amidst a spastic comeback attempt, where bad editing is only outdone by tasteless product placement, the memory and work of McQueen is defaced. Britney's reference to his work is the antithesis of McQueen's original message.

While artists like Lady Gaga frequently reference McQueen's concepts (the Bad Romance was designed in part by McQueen and debuted at his final Fall 2010 show) at least they pay homage to him and his work by honouring his message and his intent. It is clear all those behind her music are only interested in exploiting true genius for a buck, much like they did to the young southern belle.

The result a bastardized, defaced and cheapened version of the original subversive, intelligent and thought provoking message McQueen first created. But, I suppose by now, we shouldn't expect much more from Britney and her team.

Watch the real deal below...

An ode to the sea.....

2010-06-16T22:48:00.000-07:00

Today it is windy in the city.

The large trees outside my window dance in the night, the rhythm of the gusts inhale and exhale like the ocean. And just like that, with the even imitation of the profound body of water that has always spoken to me, my writing voice emerges.

I know it is my writing voice because it echos in my mind, strong, clear and free from the distraction of superfluous thought. I've missed its presence in my life. I've spent nights worried sick that the disconnect from vast bodies of water has caused my recent writing drought.

Like the writer in me went on strike over her heartache for the sea.

The ocean has always grounded me.

I feel like I can believe at the edge of a shore. Like I am part of something, like I understand, know and feel for the first time. Like I could believe in God (hell, I'd probably drink the kool-aid if I thought the waves told me to.)

As a young girl when my heart ached, my mom would take me somewhere beautiful. To me, the rhythmic breath of the ocean, with pebbles, gulls, crustaceans and sea-weed was the most beautiful of all.

I've had first kisses on the beach, I've swam until I wanted to sink, I've dove to 120 feet, caught salmon, cried, yelled and marvelled, I've made and fallen love. But never have I loved more deeply than I love the sea.

She taught me how to love the earth. I once dove deep into her waters, swam with the Wolfe-eels, jellyfish and anemones and surfaced to admire the curves of nearby mountains, smell pine trees and watch twilight paint the sky gold, peach and blue. Stars emerged like fireworks illuminating the sky with sparks of my new found passion for the earth.

By her side I am fearless, safe, happy, whole.

Her squalls never scare me; I've sat by her through hundred kilometre winds as she shook with rage: waves carving caves.

I've floated, slept, swam and boated.

It is only her depths that intimidate me. I wonder what she hides, doesn't confide, of her secret pains and pleasures, her innermost scars, the friends and the foes of which I'll never know.

And I miss her... every day I fight the drought, the dehydration of not being by her side. A lover love-sick I watch the clock tick-tock until I can sit, swim, sigh and scream on her shores.... silently sending affirmations that I will return to her side again.

Style in the City

2010-05-02T19:33:00.000-07:00

Name: Sandy Kybartis

Occupation: Set Designer

Describe your style: " I don't think about it a lot. Classic, funky."

Favorite item in wardrobe: "A little Prada shrug with a fox collar"

What inspires your look in the morning: "How hard I have to work, how much I need to move around. If I will be on a construction site."

Name : Matt Davis

Occupation : Server

Describe your style: "Fierce and fabulous with classy edge."

Favorite item in wardrobe: "A watch-necklace that reminds me of my best friend in Australia, its my go-to accessory."

What inspires your look in the morning: "My agenda, whether it is work, and outing with friends

Fly

2010-04-19T20:27:00.000-07:00

I turned 24.

When I was little I used to climb up on the counter in the bathroom and half kneel by the sink in the mirror, estimating how tall I would be in my twenties. That little girl had so much expectation about who she would be.

The career- path dreams changed (first National Geographic employee, then dancer, then yoga-teacher, then journalist) but my desires remained the same, I wanted to create change.

The number of 24 suddenly struck me. Not because of its significance, but because of the significance of 25. Because I am approaching the height of expectation of the little girl I once was.

I know what you're thinking. I know I have time, years and years, I know I am young (blah, blah, blah).

But I want to reach that quarter-century and be building something that resembles a life.

I am tired of believing that my age makes my time, energy and emotions disposable. That because I am young I need to lead a life that is frivolous and have relationships to match.

In the past two years since moving to Toronto, I have been more of a "typical young-person" than ever in my life.

Gone was the girl who trained, sweat, bled, cried and lost sleep for her ambitions.

Instead, I tried on rebellion. I hung out with people who weren't good for me, I stayed home, ate bad food, didn't hand in my homework. I kissed girls, kissed boys who smoked cigarettes and pretended I didn't care. I went to Sneak-Dees (five whole times). And now, I stand at the other end, knee deep in self-resentment, realizing that angst isn't what its cracked up to be.

I was always a girl with a dream. And I still am.

But I am also now a woman who doesn't want to live in a dream world anymore. A woman who wants to make dreams into reality. Many of my dreams have come true, but I am ready to cash in on some of the big ones. The ones that felt so big that they were impossible, the dreams about the things that meant something to me. The ones about making change, about living in a way that makes me feel proud to wake up in the morning, about allowing myself to feel whole.

So, I've wiped my slate clean, cleaned skeletons from the closet.

I've been talking honestly for the first time ever. I've told people when they hurt me, when they angered me, when I felt negatively. And something magic happened: they didn't run, they didn't retaliate, they didn't leave or tell me to.

I've purged the old relationships and what-if's my heart was hanging on to and hoping for. I've sifted through old and new dreams and ambitions. I've studied old wounds and realized I don't want to use them as excuses to hold back anymore. I've reached out to old friends and new ones. I've taken a good long look in the mirror, at the mistakes and the messes I've created and realized I know how to clean them up and best get to it.

I stand now, and realize that I am ready to live. Really, really live.

I have a city of possibility.

A home.

Friends who are family.

In the past, I've had inspiration and vision, but for the first time I feel like I can clearly see my own potential. I see that I haven't risen to it. As I stood on the edge of achieving my dreams I was missing the faith in myself to take that final leap. Toward success, toward rewarding relationships and friendships, toward stability, intimacy and achievement, all the things that have for so long scared me.

But now, I am ready. Scared, but ready.

I'm going to jump.

If I don't land on the other side... well, then I might just discover I can fly.

Toronto's Coffee Conspiracy

2010-04-16T18:30:00.000-07:00

In the last year, 22 independent coffee shops opened across the GTA. From Leslieville to the Junction and beyond has emerged a world where baristas are local celebrities, coffee is treated like fine wine, and buzz words like profile, crema and umami mark the average customer an expert.

Still for many, the world of independent coffee shops remains an intimidating world of overpriced beverages, haughty customers and judgmental staffers.

But a small group of shops led by Matt Taylor and Douglas Tiller of Queen Street's Mercury Coffee Bar, informally known as Toronto Coffee Conspiracy are seeking to change that. United by a mandate of education, cross promotion and community, they hope to breakdown the barriers between shops and bridge the gap between expert connoisseur and average customer.

“The idea is a collective of coffee shops that work together to promote and involve customers in certain events,” said Taylor. These events will include coffee tastings, or cuppings, signature drink events, and latte art competitions judged by customers.

“This is about explaining the difference between a latte and a cappuccino or experiencing the difference between a Guatemala Antigua and an Ethiopia YirgaCheffe,” said Taylor. “People can then start developing their palate and understand where we are coming from helping to eliminate exclusive sort of 'coffee snobbery'.”

The first initiative the collective will undertake is creating a Toronto based 'Disloyalty Card'. The premise, thought up by Gwyllin Davies, a London-based barista, creates incentive for customers to leave the comfort of their regular coffee haunt and visit others around the city.

A customer would redeem the card at one of the seven participating shops: Mercury Espresso Bar, Manic Coffee, Sam James Coffee Bar, Crema, Dark Horse Espresso Bar, Blondie's or Cherry Bomb. The customer would then travel to all other participating shops to redeem a stamp with the purchase of a drink. After visiting all seven locations, they would take the fully stamped card back to the shop they started at and receive a free beverage.

“We're promoting quality coffee around the city but also, in a way, promoting different neighborhoods that you might not normally visit,” said Taylor. The collective hopes to kick off the Disloyalty Card April 20th.

Tiller hopes that the collective will not only stimulate community among customers but also among shop owners. “Within most industries there is a sense of competition, rivalry, infighting and backstabbing,” he said. “ This [initiative] kind of stops that at the root.”

“It is about a camaraderie, about promoting good, fresh coffee and about promoting other people's shops because we aren't the only ones. It's showing that we don't hate them and they don't hate us,” said Tiller. He hopes as time moves on the collective will expand beyond the seven shops currently involved, “it's not about being an exclusive club, this can grow out from here.”

Allan Gardens

2010-04-05T10:14:00.000-07:00

Located mere steps from the Ryerson Campus the Allan Gardens Conservatory is a rare gem in the downtown core of Toronto. Built in 1958, the historic site features six greenhouses that connect and intertwine to provide onlookers with 16,000 square feet of botanical displays.

“It’s impressive, Allan Gardens is a pretty sketchy park and [the conservatory] is surprising.” Luka Misolovic a second-year Biomedical Engineering student from Ryerson University who uses the conservatory for study breaks.

Open to the public free of charge, the six greenhouses each display different botanical themes. The main Palm House, constructed in 1910, contains tall banana palms, hibiscus and ginger plants. Other greenhouses include cacti displays, orchids, waterfalls and ponds that attract visitors of all ages and walks of life to unwind and find inspiration.

Maryanne Whiteman, a former journalist from Ottawa makes a point of always seeing the gardens on her visits to Toronto. For her, the seasonal shows remain a large attraction. “As a gardener it gives me ideas about what to buy and what I can do in my own garden,” she said. What she finds particularly unique about the space is its proximity to the downtown core and its accessibility to the public.

Misolovic agrees, “It’s an asset to the city.”

View Larger Map

*photos courtesy of gothereguide.com

Style in the Streets of Toronto

2010-01-31T21:03:00.001-08:00

"Even in the winter, I like to have a pop of colour," says Christine Colombo outside of Anthropoligie in Yorkville.
"This is me, this is my personality," said Carol Nardi, who chose this beautiful combination of fur for its stunning texture.

Style in the Streets of Toronto

2010-01-31T20:16:00.000-08:00

Braving the cold streets of Yorkville, Cristina Ion pairs soft grays and peaches. We love the contrast between the strong boots, heavy wool and soft peach blouse.

Shirky and Herminda weigh in on the death of the newspaper

2010-01-27T13:24:00.000-08:00

As print publications lie bleeding profits on their death bed the internet thrives as it redefines the way we consume media. Clay Shirky, a technology analyst at New York University, says the main issue with the way publications are adapting to the internet is their misguided idea that the organizational format of newspapers is transferable to the web.

Alfred Herminda, founding member of BBCnews.com and professor at the UBC Graduate School of Journalism says that the newspaper once provided convenience. It bundled information, from news to horoscopes and recipes and conveniently delivered it to your door.

"The impact of the internet is that it has unbundled the newspaper," said Herminda."Now you can customize and personalize content to your liking." This, paired with the quick pace of the internet means that the web has both diminished the value and newsworthiness of newspapers.

Herminda says that as journalism moves forward, it must push and reconsider the very role of the modern journalist. “The job should be less about simply gathering information it should be about contextualizing information, letting readers know why it matters and what it means,” he said.

Herminda and Shirky both agree that while journalism has not been devalued by the internet, the newspaper has. “We must think beyond the delivery mechanism and begin to view the newspaper as a concept,” said Herminda. “We must continually ask ourselves, 'does this concept continue to fulfill a need?”

2010-01-25T11:15:00.000-08:00

A couple enjoys view of the Tuscan countryside outside Cortona, Barbora Simek, photo

Photos II

2010-01-22T21:46:00.000-08:00

Photo Time

2010-01-22T21:21:00.001-08:00

Online evolution

2010-01-18T11:49:00.000-08:00

As the internet's presence continues to evolve and become more and more present in our lives, it also pushes the evolution of journalism. In a lecture at Ryerson University today Jim Rankin, journalist for the Toronto Star, explained the way that he has used the web to bring to life his story 'Crime and Punishment'.

Rather than writing a customary feature with the lengthy findings of a freedom of information request, Rankin turned his findings into a multimedia rich web feature.

Crime and Punishmen t features

In combination, these features come together to create an engaging experience for the eyes and ears. Rankin says using all that the web offers in form of video, photo, audio and visuals is important to online success. That, and good promotion.

"If you build it they won't come. Unless, they can find it"- Jim Rankin

Want them to find it? Turn to social media, he advises. For example, in order to promote their content the Toronto Star deploys:

Here is a peek at one of the award winning videos The Toronto Star and Rankin's team created for the project.

*photo of Jim Rankin courtesy of King's University

Naked ambition

2010-01-11T11:05:00.000-08:00

Get ready to drop your trousers in the name of inner beauty, Canada. How To Look Good Naked, the popular British reality TV series, is coming to the great-white North. Aiming to reverse self-image and esteem issues in one inside-out make-over How to Look Good Naked Canada, will hit the airwaves weekly on the W Network. While long term results are not guaranteed, and highly questionable, the show is a step in a positive direction in a world that idealizes single-digit dress-sizes.

Following the tradition of the British series, each week host Zain Meghji and a team of "fashion experts" will lead one woman through a surgery-free makeover and a series of self-esteem building exercises. According to the W Network, by the end of each show one woman will have brought her "inner beauty outside," and drop all attachment to the "unobtainable bodies you see in the media". To show off their new lease on life the women will then participate in a nude photo shoot and walk down the runway in her intimates.

While its a tall order for a one hour episode to turn around years of bad self-esteem, it is refreshing to see reality TV attempt substance, and dare we say, social service.

How to Look Good Naked airs 10pm ET on the W Network

Economist hits hard at Harper

2010-01-11T10:33:00.000-08:00

Rather than buying into the press releases of his "spin doctors," who claim Stephen Harper's recent prorogue is made on the behalf of the 2010 Olympic Winter Games, The Economist has provided their own beliefs about Harper's motivations in 'Harper goes prorogue'.
The article outlines the extensive benefits that Stephen Harper will gain from this recent political move. Among them, tabling 36 bills before the House of Commons, the dismantling of committees whose mandate is to scrutinize the recent blunders in Afghanistan and on climate change as well as giving Harper the opportunity to control the committees of the senate when Parliament re-forms in March.

DIY - Before and After

2009-08-26T13:15:00.000-07:00

With a student sized budget, I have been trying to outfit my apartment as best as possible, still I won't settle for junk. Inspired by the DIY sections of the design blogs I have become addicted to, I decided to rescue some furniture from the backyard of my old apartment and create my own 'IKEA hack'.

Here below is the before and after, which I think turned out wonderfully!

Before...

After a good sanding, two coats of white varnish and two more of varnish. Finally, I took apart the smaller of the two pieces and then screwed the pieces down to the back of the shelves. Here is the result!

After...

Family Secrets

2009-08-26T12:33:00.000-07:00

"What is that smell!?!" my roommate exclaimed poking her head around the corner from our hallway into the kitchen."I thought you were making cauliflower, not something that smells that good!"

In our house cauliflower dinners were me and my brother's favorite, we developed stealthy skills to steal a piece or two away from my mom as she was cooking and always invited friends over for a taste of our mom's culinary genius.

This week when my mom decided to air-mail a full head of organic cauliflower, I had to use it up quick and could think of no better way than making my mom's famous dish. Not only that, but I decided to document it so that I could share it with you all!

With no further ado:

Mom's Cauliflower

Ingredients:

A head of Cauliflower sectioned up

4 eggs

2-3 cups of breadcrumbs

1 1/2 cup of vegetable oil

Steps:

Place all the cauliflower into a pot and cover with water. Bring water to a boil and boil until cauliflower is tender, but not soft. You should be able to stick a fork in it without resistance, however watch that you don't boil it till it falls apart. The difference between the two extremes is about a minute in boiling time, so watch closely.

Remove from water when the cauliflower is done and allow to cool.

Prepare your egg wash, by beating the four eggs until you have an even consistency. Coat your cauliflower in egg and then transfer into the breadcrumbs. Cover the cauliflower in a small mound of breadcrumbs, pressing firmly on top. Take out your little 'tree' and toss it back and forth between your hands to remove any excess crumbs, and then place on the side. Repeat until you have all your cauliflower covered.

In a pan, heat the vegetable oil on a medium heat (this is important so that your cauliflower doesn't burn) and fry your cauliflower until golden brown. Rotate the 'trees' as necessary trying to get them as evenly brown from all sides as possible. When finished place on a paper towel to absorb excess oil. When you put the next batch of cauliflower in, remember that your oil will be even hotter so watch more closely that your breadcrumbs don't burn.

Serve with tartar sauce and potatoes.

My mom used to just make boiled potatoes with caraway seeds, salt and melted butter.

The tartar sauce I got once again from Chuck's Day Off, though I didn't use the arugula I still found that it turned out great! Here is the recipe below:

Tartar Sauce

4 tbsp mayonnaise
1 bunch arugula, chopped
1 large shallot, finely chopped
1 large dill pickle, chopped
1 tbsp capers, chopped
2 anchovies, minced

Tartar Sauce

Place 4 tablespoons of mayo in a bowl and add all your ingredients finely diced.
Mix together. Mixture should be green, chunky and not too runny.

Market Daze

2009-08-22T12:18:00.000-07:00

My mom's black-currant jam left me eating cheese like it was going out of style last week. Not that I am complaining, each time I dug in to the good stuff I had the company of great friends, but I could do without the breakouts and subsequent guilt of living off brie.

I decided to turn repulsion into prepultion and finally make good on my summer-long-promise to go exploring and seek out the farmer's markets around the city.

I did a little research and found a comprehensive list of Farmer's Markets in

Toronto here at the Toronto Farmer's Market's website.

After teaching a 8:30am yoga class on Saturday, I made my way down to the St.Lawerence Farmer's Mark et, which hosts a market that has been going since 1803 and continues to run every Saturday 5am to 5pm. Finding it was slightly trickier than I thought, as the market happens in the North building and spills on to Church as opposed to happening in and around the main South building. Happily, I found it and spent a blissful hour walking around, meeting farmers and buying their amazing goods.

I forgot just how good peaches can taste!

Other surpises included the selection of Ontario grown melons, amazing olive oil vendors (where I picked up an amazing Black Olive Tapenade) and amish ladies selling the most beautiful of Dalia's .

I quickly acquired a decadent bunch of goodies in my bag and set off home to put them to good

use.

I used my purchase of green beans (yeah mom, I am eating beans!), new potatoes and farm fresh eggs in an amazing salad I had seen featured on Chuck's Day Off, a great new show on the Food Network. The show follows Chef Chuck Hughes, who whips up recipes for his friends on his 'days off ' from running his successful restaurant Garde - Manger, in Old Montreal.

His hands on, simple cooking style peaked my interests so I decided to give his 'Warm Potato Salad' a go and use up some of my green beans.

I did have to change things up a little in lieu of some of the ingredients. I made the dressing out of 1tsp of Dijon and 1/2 tsp of Yellow Mustard, instead of white wine vinegar I used a 1/8 cup of white vinegar and 1/8 cup of rice vinegar, finally, I switched up extra virgin olive oil for the canola. This recipe was such a success that I think Chuck is in the running to replace Jamie Oliver as my fav. new celebrity chef. Check out the recipe and more here.

2009-08-18T19:24:00.001-07:00

My thoughts as of late have been dwelling on the issue of resentment. One of my particularity colorful employers posted a quote on our staff computer about the shackles that resentment imposes upon us. It read as follows:

“When you hold resentment toward another, you are bound to that person or condition by an emotional link that is stronger than steel. Forgiveness is the only way to dissolve that link and get free.”

As I have moved through life and accumulated experience through my relationships, most of which have fallen apart in the most un-pleasant of ways (then again is there a pleasant way to fall apart?) I have also accumulated resentment to the heartaches of the past.

But as I received an email in the last week from one of the very exes it seemed to take forever to recover from, I started to think about the ways we chose to view our departed relationships. "This is completely innocent," he wrote, "but I wanted you to know that I still think about you."

I realized then that I had two options, to either get frustrated that I could still feel a pang of emotion toward the comment, or to graciously accept the compliment and smile for all the good that had existed between the two of us. I did the former.

Further, as I passed the apartment and epicenter of my most recent love-life fracture, I felt that nostalgic lurch in my stomach, and thought,' I can change this. '

If reality is nothing but a perception, then certainly we can chose the way that we perceive the very real things that tug at our hartstrings. For the longest time, I thought that being 'over' something or someone just meant no longer caring anymore. That in order to be healed and to move on I had to feel a complete dismemberment from events and players of my past. But as I move forward, I realize that thats just not me. I will forever care.

Whether its about the boy who still declined to date me after I made (oh god, I can't belive I am admitting this on the internet) a secret admirer puzzle for him in 10th grade, or the last person who I dreamed of puppies with, I will never be rid of it. I have discovered that I am a woman who will forever hold her past loves close to her heart, and who will on occasion feel a tentacle reach from the past, suction to her heart and pull upon its strings.

And so I am left with a choice of perception.

Do I go forward forever carrying the chip on my shoulder of the relationship that ended because of a lack of commitment, or infedelity or the communication crisis that robbed me of both my lover and my friend... or do I look back and remember the good.

I realize it is my choice whether to continually open my wounds by resenting the hurts of my past, or to remember the fond times, treasure the lessons I so painstakingly came by and forgive the heartache. So, from now I will remember instead the late night dinners: muscles, soups, and Venetian pastas. I will remember the wealth of knowledge, learning about brush-stokes, composition and art history, about design, fashion history, energy orbs and the backstage secrets of Madonna concerts.

Relationships are about the coming together of two people, and so two steer the course of the vessel. But when the two once again divide we are once again the masters of our own course, only a little different, more experienced, hopefully wiser and better for it all. Each of my former partners has changed me into a different friend, partner and woman. Ultimately as I stand on my own two feet I get to chose how the rough seas of the past continue to dictate my course of exploration in the future.

And so I have chosen to sail boldly, to remember hard lessons learned but to still dream of thrill of unchartered waters without the shackles of resentment but instead with the wisdom of experience.

I chose for those lurches of emotion to not make me upset with what I devastation tore at my heart, but for them to let me remember that I did, that I do care.

So, I am responding to emails with notes of thanks for kind sentiments. I am passing apartments and choosing to smile, to giggle even at the memory of happy moments. I am choosing the good over the bad.

I am choosing to view my past in a way that is conducive with what I want to see in my future: hope, love, faith, compassion, kindness and honesty.

Picture of the Week

2009-08-16T16:16:00.001-07:00

New Obsession

2009-08-16T15:24:00.001-07:00

Spices have always proven to be an organizational problem in my house. The only favourable solution to spice storage was one developed by a close family friend and interior designer who installed an insert into what was to become a 'spice drawer' in her home. As this was not an option for me, I have been forced to search out the perfect solution to my spice woes.

Stealing a page out a from a friend's book who used old small jam jars to store her spices, I headed to Home Hardware and purchased two sizes of mason jars to store my growing s

pice collection. The end result is well-sealed spice storage that is easily accessible by spoon or hand (for those moments when Jamie Oliver calls for a pinch of this or that).

The labels were made from heavy card-stock, handwriting done by yours truly with a Steadler Brush Tip felt and invisible Scotch-tape (this way they can easily be peeled and re-labeled).

Here are some other great Mason Jar ideas that I've come across since my new-found obsession.

To the right are the light fixtures in the soon to open Sam James Coffee Bar, just down the street from my new place.

Below to the left are some of the Mason-Jar displays put together by the geniuses behind the window displays at Anthropologie.

So many pretty jars, so little time!! More jar-rific ideas to come!!

♥ B

"50 Ways to Leave Your Lover"

2009-07-28T07:04:00.000-07:00

"You just slip out the back, Jack
Make a new plan, Stan
You don't need to be coy, Roy
Just get yourself free
Hop on the bus, Gus
You don't need to discuss much
Just drop off the key, Lee
And get yourself free"

If Paul Simon is the authority on how to leave your lover, (though he makes it sound far to easy in my opinion) I surely am becoming the authority in how to get over your lover.

My usual routine mimics everyone else's - skip work, loads of Hagen Das, bad chic-flicks and plenty of wallowing. But in the absence of a TV(since my roommate moved her stuff out), having already done months of wallowing at the bottom of ice-cream pails on account of my inter-continental move, I was forced to find a new strategy.

Suprisingly, this one works way better. Featuring many of the usual ingredients like plenty of writing, distressed phone calls to close friends, and coffee, this get-on-and-get-with-it strategy is actually one that I have deployed many times before. Essentially it waters down to this : MOVE.

Literally.

When my stunning fire-fighter lover couldn't commit to the lable of boyfriend or move forward in our relationship, I picked myself up and marched over to the home of my family firends and moved their entire apartment to North Vancouver.

When my tall, dark and handsome artist boyfriend cheated on me, I packed my bags and moved across the country (not because of him, but the timing just worked).

And now, when my heart again lies in splinters after yet another (green-eyed artistic cafe-fashion loving) partner, again I am moving.

There is something very metaphorical about packing boxes, purging and letting go and building hopes for a new home in a time when your heart is desperately trying to mend.

I pack a box, expecting my books all to fit and then find that there are awkward spaces I cannot fill, that somethings do not stack or fit together in a way that allows me to just package up my belongings in a way that make sense. I am left with a miscellaneous box filled of random odds and ends. As my frustration wanes, I smirk at the thought of how my belongings mimic my logic, how my questions and conclusions cannot encompass my experiences and leave them neatly packed away. How I am still after all these years left with one space in my heart full of miscellaneous memories, unanswered questions, unfounded conclusions, preposterous hope, stagnant resentment and lingering, unwanted pain.

I pick up a project, in need of bookshelves I decide to salvage furniture left for dead in my backyard. As I stalk my apartment in frustration after discovering that my friends, indeed, are taking sides, I grab the sanding block and purge. My frustrations fly like the dust from beneath the block remaining on the floor in a pile at my feet until my muscles are sore and the burn of my anger has subsided to mere ash, mere wood-dust. Picking up a paintbrush, I soothe the wood back to life with layers of stain and varnish and realize something in me too has been peeled, exfoliated away, soothed and re-furbished.

And then there is the hope, the dream. A new place, a new neighborhood, a new life. Its as if a pristine blank canvas of opportunity suddenly presents itself. In recognition of the opportunity come strokes of inspiration, not only to rescue discarded furniture, re-organize, finish old projects and start new ones but inspiration to make the right decisions. Its a fresh start, like fresh sheets, the first sunny days of spring, a vacation or the smell of lilacs. And somehow, allowing the hurt and injury of the past to infiltrate all that is about to arrive seems terribly wasteful and disrespectful. Moving always pushes me to make clean breaks, to push myself to seeking new opportunities and finding new ways to embrace all the positive things that come with change.

So here I go, packing, re-finishing and goal setting away. My move is on Saturday, expect some great photos to come!!

<3

B

To the new...(an update)

2009-07-24T19:51:00.000-07:00

They say that the darkest hour is right before dawn, never till now did I believe them.

I came home today to an empty apartment. Void of my roommates belongings, the clicking of my heels bounced off the walls, ceiling, cupboards, into my chest, bouncing from my heart, to spine, to lungs until - short of breath- I took a seat.

I would have predicted that the feeling that took me from feet to seat would have been anxiety, but I was pleasantly surprised when I discovered -after a quick check-list- that it was just a mix of nostalgia and excitement.

There was something about that moment that pulled me back...

My plane landed at 5:54am, and I waited for my over-sized luggage to arrive at the carousel. In my weariness, I misplaced my camera and lost my mind. It took a year to re-gain it.

The cab took me straight to an apartment that I had arranged through a friend, who by conventional definitions was an acquaintance. I didn't know the city, I didn't know the girl who I was about to spend a year with, and I had no idea what the future would hold, only that this was exactly where I was supposed to be.

Lugging all my possessions in a large suitcase and an assortment of bags, I settled down on to a futon my new roommate had spread for me in lieu of a bed. I fell into a nervous sleep.

Moving is hard to do. Some say that it is right up there with death and divorce. I have not experienced either of the later, but I must say that this move has been the most challenging thing I have ever done. But, I have written about that before.

It has taken me a full year to feel like I belong here, to have 'Toronto' leave my lips and feel that somehow we are linked. Maybe this new found connection is because I have endured my first TO heartbreak, perhaps it is something about the cycle of 365 days, 52 weeks,that innately makes us feel like we have come full circle. Or maybe I have endured enough changes, enough cycles, enough highs and lows (and oh boy were they low) to connect to the stability of concrete beneath my feet.

I went through phases: I baked 2 peach cobblers a week, then came the chocolate chip cookies, there was the lamb sausage pasta, the bags of Sour Cream and Onion Ruffles, the coconut sorbet, the Lindt milk chocolate with hazlenuts and finally the lattes and croissants. I watched more TV and was less active in the last year than I have been in my life cumulatively. It was good, but it was a little much (an extra 15 pounds on the scale little much).

I can say that I gained friends and lost them, gained love and then lost it, though they say that true friends or love cannot be lost, so either time will show differently or they weren't real to begin with.

So here I sit, my belongings scattered - piece-meal identity- across the apartment. And I am ready for the new.

I am moving from the dark, affectionatly named 'bunker', that has been my hideout (literaly) to a new place, across the street and next door to a park and right on the border of Toronto's Little Italy, where the Italian men walk around saying, "Bonjourno," as if it were the streets of Florence.

My year here has been one of hibernation, adjustment, where finding comfort was paramount. I was blessed, by the resources, the people (God...please bless my roommate), the coffee shops, strangers who became friends, teachers (in all shapes and forms) who made finding comfort possible. But I am now ready for inspiration...

I don't have much,

a bed
dresser (full of fabulous acquisitions)
a desk
6 great hats
3 pots1
1 pan
1 kitchen table
1 love seat
3 pieces of luggage
7 types of tea
1 bag of coffee from Portland
a grater
6 glasses
4 cups
1 nutmeg grater (that I thought was a lemon zester)
1 teapot
1 mug
lucky bamboo
a gargoyle to ward off bad spirits
a 10lb rock I've carried since I was 10

and an assortment of other fabulous, sparkly, feathered things.

With this I intend to build a home. Full of inspiration and DIY ideas, I intend to keep you all posted on my process and finally make good on all the promises I whispered to myself during the cold and sleepless nights I have finally made it through.

The darkest has passed, the dawn is just beginning....

join me on the journey.

-

Discovery's Blunder?

2009-07-22T09:45:00.001-07:00

In 2008, biologist and filmmaker Rob Stewart released the movie Sharkwater, an in-depth look at the worlds top predator. His documentary sought to dispel many of the myths that have been perpetuated by our society and media about the dangers of sharks and expose the Shark-finning industry that is endangering sharks world wide.

Upon release I remember all my friends and colleagues a-buzz with their new found compassion for these giants of the ocean. "My fiance and I are going to go diving with the sharks," proclaimed one colleague. As more and more people began to talk about the movie I finally saw it for myself, and was astounded by how wrong we have been about sharks all along. It turns out sharks are not the scary, aggressive man eaters as we've seen in Jaws but rather are an intelligent predator that is essential to our ecosystem. In an interview with the Hour's George Stroumboulopoulos Rob Stewart made an astute point, "Elephants kill 200 people a year, sharks kill 5 people a year, we kill 100 million of them and no body notices."

So it struck me as a surprise when I heard about Discovery Channel's new campaign to promote Shark Week 2009. The campaign's creators sent packages to members of the press to promote the event. One editor described his package on his blog:

"An unmarked box arrived containing a frosted, seemingly rusted jar. Inside was a pair of swim trunks, "chewed" up and bloody-looking; a key attached to a flotation disk, as if for a boat, and a few other weathered, nautical items. But the centerpiece was the crumpled newspaper clipping of my own obituary. "James Hibberd, Senior TV Reporter and Senior Online Editor of the Hollywood Reporter died Monday, July 6, of a grisly shark attack..."There's nothing like reading a pronouncement of your own death to give you pause."

In addition to the 'press packages', Discovery launched the website frenziedwaters.com, a page that depicts four different shark attacks and subsequent deaths from a victim's perspective.

While this promotion has bloggers and media talking, I can't help but feel that a nature channel should be more responsible with their advertising. For a channel that seeks to provide e

ducational programing, one would think that they would seek to promote Shark week in a way that reflects their values rather than perpetuating false perceptions. Even though Discovery's Shark Week site provides plenty of information about shark conservation and even articles dispelling the greatest shark myths, it is laced with phrases like "fearsome predator" and features plenty of material about shark attacks.

The question now becomes, have we gotten to a point in advertising where truth is no longer expected? As consumers are we so desperate to be entertained that we no longer care if the advertising reflects the product?

What is more disturbing to me is that plenty of the bloggers who have discussed the promo talk about the quality of the marketing, yet not one has mentioned the ethics of perpetuating myths that continue to harm our ecosystems. In an era where "green is the new black" and everyone is desperate to become more ecologically aware and friendly it baffles me that no one is discussing the prudence of this blatant marketing ploy that has little if nothing to do with the content of Shark week or educating the public about the realities of sharks and how our lack of knowledge may spell the extinction of a predator vital to the ocean's ecosystem.

Such a girl...

2009-05-19T16:03:00.000-07:00

There is a great gift in being the designated confidant of close friends. Giving advice has stolen my sleep at wee hours in the morning (and I don't like to have my sleep stolen), has weighed me down with woe (and a girl is sensitive about her weight) and has often left me hurt when those who's hearts I have nursed with the tissue of my own up and leave; despite all this I still cannot help but feel the utmost gratitude I hear a weary voice at the end of a line.

Recently, as I spoke to girlfriend after girlfriend at different stages of their relationships, I began to see a disturbing pattern emerge. A pattern that painted a conclusion that emotions should be ignored, thoughts and feelings swept under the rug, simply because of an inherent "femaleness" to their logic. Which, many of my beloved girls often conclude can not be labeled as logic at all if it is based on such silly things as emotions.

"I mean, I know I am being so stupid, and so 'girly' about everything," said a friend, who had grown impatient after not hearing from her new boyfriend for over three days.

"I just don't want to be such a girl about the situation," said another friend who was left feeling low after her boyfriend crossed some lines that left her feeling confused about their relationship and his feelings toward her.

"Such a girl,"

We've all said it, certainly its come out of my mouth on more than one occasion.

The thought patterns of men and women are certainly different. Anthropologist Helen Fisher explained some of this in her lecture for TEDtalks. "I don't know why it is that people want to think that men and women are alike," she began. She says that despite our similarities, men and women have evolved to have significant differences in brain function. She outlined how women have a greater capacity for being verbal, finding the right word in a shorter amount of time, as well as educating, nurturing and educating with words. "Women can talk," she summarized. According to Dr. Fisher, women are better negotiators, are more imaginative, and more effective at long term planning. "[Women] tend to collect more pieces of data when they think, and put them into more complex patterns, see more options and possible outcomes, and tend to be more web thinkers," she said.

Which makes sense, in a woman's mind the man who hasn't called in three days has been shot, reconciled with his last girlfriend, found a new girlfriend, he has been seduced by an exotic woman and flown away to Chile, he got hit by a car and is lying mangled in the hospital and no one can tell who he is, he developed a drug addiction, his dog died, his phone spontaneously exploded, he has fallen out of love, out of like, off of the face of the earth or worse, is just no longer interested. The man who is acting differently plotting a murder, a bank robbery, a sex change, planning an escape out of the city the country, possibly the planet or worse, out of the relationship.

And while all of these possibilities may be extreme, (maybe he did just lose his phone or have an off day) what isn't extreme is the real feelings that imagined possibilities stem from. Yet as women we get so caught up in apologizing for the "girly-ness" of our feelings, thoughts and conclusions that we forget to honor the very seed of the situation: that feeling of neglect, insecurity or indifference. We sweep under the rug the little hairline fractures of feeling that become the rifts that tear us apart.

While I am not advocating that all women get up an start crucifying men over the perceived tone of a text or a late arrival, what I am saying is that we should learn to sift through the implausible and even ridiculous conclusions of the web thinking. We should learn to dig out the real issues behind our irrationalities so that we can move forward in our relationships. Maybe when we dig out these small nuggets of emotion we will realize that the problem lies with us rather than our partners, or we will see the real problems in our relationships. At the very least it will teach us to find greater understanding of our thoughts, emotions, and selves so that we can be better friends, lovers and partners.

Certainly, men and women are different. Perhaps our differences stem from the neurological differences like Dr.Fisher outlines in her lectures, or from the way our society socializes us. But the bottom line remains the same: if we continue to place the thoughts, feelings and conclusions of one pattern of thinking over another, or one gender over another, we will continue to perpetuate the cycle of inequality in our collective and individual lives. If there is balance to be found in the relationships that build our lives it is to be found in learning to understand and accept ourselves and each other regardless how "girl-like" or "guy-like" our thoughts and feelings may be.

Unfortunately, we do not live in an pluralistic society that gives equal power to men and women, we live in a patriarchal capitalistic society that places high value on the cut-to-the-chase streamlined thinking of the male mind. And while things remain as such, perhaps teaching that we are all same in a society that doesn't practice equality is futile. Instead we should start teaching, recognizing and understanding the very things that make us different. Because ultimately, recognizing our differences is the only way to find the common ground on which we can establish true equality.

2009-04-18T20:24:00.000-07:00

Dear Toronto,

Forgive me.

I have taken you for granted. You have welcomed me with open arms and given me all things I need to live, to thrive, and yet I have spent all my time running from you. Since I have set foot on our soil I have turned my eyes skyward, and allowed myself to dream. Of New York and new possibilities, of Vancouver and creature comforts of home, of past adventures and ones to come, I boarded too many planes of separation. I became so saturated in my dream world that I forgot to look down, look ahead and take in the view.

But you never gave up, you tried even when I was ready, bags packed off for another whirlwind adventure taking my mind away from the firm footing you gave me to stand on. You sent me glimpses, in a soft wind that caressed nape of my neck, in the kindness of a stranger, the sparkle of the CN Tower, the vibrance of a neighborhood, or the joy of a raspberry stuffed croissant. In those moments I have been roused from my dream like slumber and have found a smile, exploding across my face and gratitude resonating within my chest.

Truth is, I don't know why I have resisted you.

You have given me all I need to create a recipe for my own growth and success. You have provided all the essential parts: support, friendship, safety, knowledge, opportunity (and good espresso) . Yet I sat unwilling to engage with my head in the clouds and my eyes on the stars.

Forgive me.

I pledge to you, that from now on things will be different. From now on TO, we will grow roots together, until I am rooted in you and you are imprinted in me. No more dreams or elaborate schemes of escape. This is our summer of love. Like a good lover, I pledge to stand by you, to embrace and accept you, to discover you — and all your secret spots. Most of all I pledge to let you in, to stand bare before you and allow you to get to know me too.

I'm excited, and I hope you are too.

Love

Vancouver in November

2009-04-06T19:32:00.000-07:00

Written years ago, I decided to dig this out and polish it a little.

November usually turns Vancouverites bitter, but I always felt that there were profound moments of beauty in the month. This is my best attempt at capturing the moments I now seem to crave most.

...enjoy...

Fall falls from the heights that held the summer.
Ripened leaves descend,
exhausted
toward the earth,

carried

by the exhales of the wind
to join their fallen comrades,

mâchéd

to the ground by the kiss,
of last nights rain.

The air is

sweet with,

their final fragrance

The air is

filled with,

earth.

Far in the ancient cedars
fog lingers,
as clouds sweep
the forests,

Prompting:

"Pay still silent attention
do not miss
the grace,
the whispers,
the serenity"

Their slow
silent bodies
the final remanence
of last night's storm.

Pseudo rain
still falls
in the forest.

Ripe
drops descend
heavily
prompted by the

stir

of ancient crowns.

Dew

clings,

to the earth.
While

a purgatory
stillness prevails above,

the final clouds

peel

from the mountains
bidding valleys adieu,
with accidental elegance.

From the edge of the horizon
new clouds
rush,
eager to exhale the burden
in their bosoms:

rain accumulated
from long
adventures across
the Pacific.

From Hawaii they hail,
to Vancouver they are destined.

Arrival inspiring such relief
that
their

bodies
break
beginning

the long exhale
that wreaks havoc on

city
streets.

The wind,

gallivants.

Shaking all that will rattle,
rattling all that will shake,

playfully playing
with forgotten artifacts
strewn about:

Papers pirouette,

and promenade.

Trash cans tumble.
Rubbish rolls.
Leaves levitate.

Wind, whispers,
( only because it cannot shout):

"We have arrived! We have arrived!"

The heavens give
wholly

until,

roads resemble rivers
sidewalks are streams
windows waterfalls

and heated homes
are the only havens of comfort.

Yet,
there are moments
scattered
among dewy days,

when the heavens break
displaying azure blue
that reminds,

"Its always sunny above the clouds."

The city
stirs with life,
as
autumn sunsets
bathe
her in

Buttermilk
then,
Honey
then,
Gold.

Yes,
sweet sun stains the city
exaggerating juxtaposition of,

modern manifestations:

architecture
against
rich rolling nature.

Onlookers,

stop.

transfixed by the city.
gold leafed from tip to toe.
Gleaming.

But, in the morning,
the mountains make
a rebuttal
to the city's sunset seductions.

From miles away,
every
branch and needle
shines and shimmers
texturizing
the volume of forgotten valleys.

Inviting all...

saunters
scurriers
and strollers:

"Pay attention,
to the beauty in bloom,
the showcase,
the depth,
of
surrounding scenery
too often
uncelebrated
and unnoticed."

Fathers be good to your daughters...

2009-02-15T14:09:00.000-08:00

This is the first attempt at a story that could fill volumes. It is with great courage, and not without fear that I begin to tell this tale.

The most challenging thing about moving is losing superficial comfort. In the absence of being surrounded by things that can in some ways soothe you - the presence of a friend who understands, a hug from someone who cares, the relaxation of a flavour or place that just feels familiar- you realize just how uncomfortable you are in your own skin.

Some days, my discomfort excites me as I realize that it makes me reach harder, further, faster to establish myself in my newly-proclaimed home. But on some days, it wears uncomfortably upon me like a wool sweater on a warm day, yet here there is no way to simply shed a layer, release and relax. Yet somehow, stewing deep in discomfort, you find pieces of yourself, reflections deep at the bottom of the pool you knew were there, but had never seen.

In recent weeks the right set of circumstances has lead me to a realization years in the making. The overwhelming loneliness of moving to a new city, accompanied by the still enduring pain of past relationship circumstances, left me craving love, yet unable to fall vulnerable to it.

For the first time I realized that I didn't want some love affair but what I craved was the embrace of a man who unconditionally loved me, a voice on the phone that wanted to hear what I needed to say, and was willing to stay and tell me everything would be okay. I wanted someone willing to hold me, I wanted my dad.

But our relationship has never been such.

Growing up, no one really knew the story of my dad and I. I didn't tell my friends, I didn't write it in my journal nor did I admit it to myself. Instead, I was known as Boy-Crazy-Barb: swept up in the next object of desire. And in some ways, many things have not changed.

I never understood why I was so different about relationships than the girls around me. I loved with a vengeance diving head first into any love, committing myself fiercely to every man who showed some reciprocation of the wildly flaming feelings.

While my passion has lead to some beautiful interludes and affairs, it has also lead to some devastating heartaches. In therapy, my therapist made the connection quickly, I seek men like my father for the familiarity of how I was used to feeling on some level I myself believe that I seek a man like him so that I can succeed where I failed with him, and make a man just like him love me.

It has been hard in the last few years working in the same industry and at the same studios as my Dad, Everywhere I turned people were willing and eager to lecture me about how I should feel and act. I hardly blame them, for the image they saw was one of a charismatic, interesting, personable and intelligent man, different and perhaps quirky but one who cared so much for all his students and the yoga he loved.

And then the element of yoga itself, this discipline of self-understanding, righteous, noble and moral action. How could my colleagues keep quiet when seeing a young 20-something girl, who didn't talk to such an interesting father who cared so much. So I was lectured by more folks than one can imagine, told to be quiet and stop spreading false truths by teachers I admired and respected, and all the while I listened and kept mum.

"Fathers be good to your daughters..."

No one knew, not about the long, forked-tongue lashings that were routine, not about my mothers shaking hands and anorexic frame,not about my stoic brother's tears, not about the dark shadow that could emerge from the bright colorful man he was known to be. They didn't know that at my high-school graduation I broke down with violent tears when my dad walked in the door because I didn't believe that he would show. More importantly, they didn't know how much I loved him.

"Daughters will love like you do..."

When I was 5, and he asked how much I loved him I was tormented by the fact that my little arms weren't wide enough to show him the distance. I would close my eyes and imagine that my arms would leave the earth, go farther than the moon, than Jupiter, Saturn, Pluto and the stars, only then would I feel I had shown him enough. That love, so big and wide, is still within me. But my skin has had to toughen to protect from the blows.

Every missed dance performance, un-soothed broken heart, cancelled father-daughet date. Every angry voicemail, every hour long scolding for how horrible of a child I was, every time I heard he was disgusted with who I was, every time I saw a destaining look in his eyes when he looked upon me, I was hardened. My hardness and hurt began to mount to the point that I couldn't talk anymore. Only when I stopped talking, I started succeeding, and he, standing to gain from the light of congratulation, changed his tune.

And so when my colleagues saw him applauding at a competition or performance, they thought, "Wow, what pride," not knowing that applause came only with medallions and acclaim. When I was young and struggling, when I was getting my heart broken, when no one was there to witness, there was nothing but empty space, not a shoulder to cry on, not a supportive hand to help.

I realize now that this is part of the reason I wear my failures, my slip ups and trip ups harder than the rest. When I exist without achievement I feel as if I am wasting time, energy and worth. Somehow the absence of the one person I loved larger than the universe itself convinced me that without achievement, I wasn't worthy of love. What's worse, is that not only did I believe I wasn't worthy of love from others, but I didn't see myself worthy of self love.

"Girls become lovers..."

I realize that in the absence of that unconditional love I searched for it else where. Between the sheets of one night interludes, or the minutes of three week romances, or multi-month loves I searched for that feeling of validation, for that look in someone's eyes that denoted pride, love, compassion and support.

I suppose that what I had yet to realize is that it wasn't just Dad's love that was missing it was my own. What has been missing over the years is my own voice telling me that I am loved, that I am worthy, that I am enough just as I am, without achievement without success without accolade or praise.

"That turn into mothers...."

But I am working on it. After hours in a small green therapist's den, reading and researching, writing and weeping I am slowly -still have a way to go- finding my peace. For the first time in my life I have moved beyond resentment, frustration and outrage and begun to feel sadness and mourn the passing of a father's presence from my life.

In coming to slowly understanding him, his struggles and his pain has helped me ben thankful, as I realize that my love for this man has made me.

Seeking to right the wrongs in his life, to love him back to life - will make me a better journalist as I seek to finally right some injustice in the world.

Learning to accept who he truly is - will make me more compassionate a woman, a journalist, a lover, a mother, a friend, and daughter.

Acknowledging the gifts he gave me - will help me soar father than I ever thought possible.

Seeking to achieve and to feel worthy - is why I WILL live in New York, doing what I love and dream to do.

Knowing how his hand, tongue and absence effected me - will make me forever want to give back, to women, to girls and make sure that my children will not suffer the same way at the hands of me or their father.

"So mothers be good to your daughters too."

Step two...

2009-01-13T20:08:00.000-08:00

An exact twenty pages into my spiritual journey, I got stuck. It went a little something like this:

Book: "We seek help for what we cannot face or accomplish alone; in seeking help we accept our powerlessness. And in that acceptance and the acknowledgment that we are not in control, spirituality is born."

Barb: "Hold up, wait a minute, don't go there cuz' I ain't with it!!"

There it was, smack in my face almost as if in bold print, the slanderous message : You are powerless, you are not in control.

This has always been my problem with religion, and has also been a huge hurdle in my own discovery and understanding of my own spirituality. I simply cannot agree that humans are powerless to some all knowing God who plays upon his/her/it's puppet strings.

In fact the only way I began to make peace with the idea of being spiritual in the first place , was the belief that human beings are made in God's image. If that is the case then there must be some peice of Godly-ness within us. In some way we must all be Gods, each a different facet of divinity.

Yet the spiritual truth on page twenty, was seemed to be telling me differently. Confused, I wrote to my therapist, and as usual in a few sentances he put the thing into perspective.

He says our powerlessness refers to our ego admitting that it is powerless to our spiritual self. That our inherant spirituality, our inherant divinity is the true power within us and that our ego does not in fact have any control.

My friend Alex further contributed, "If there is divinity in each one of us, then we truly are not in control because we each have the same power within."

Slowly I began to come around.

I guess my acceptance of my lack of control, is a direct result of realizing that each time I have tried to control my life nothing but the worst has come out of it. I tried to MAKE relationships work when they were fraying at the seams, I tried the MAKE friendships work that were taking advantage of me, I tried to MAKE people love me, I tried to MAKE myself love activities that weren't a part of my destiny.

And each-time I have tried to control my life or its outcomes, be it in a relationship or in the pursuit of a specific end I thought I desired, I have come out the other-side beaten and battered, bruised and bemused, questioning 'Where did I go wrong?'

So, while I refuse to relinquish my own sense of accountability I feel that I am ready to open my mind to having a little bit of faith. Maybe, that guy didn't call after the first date because the relationship would lead to another shattering heartache, maybe my passion isn't coming for a certain activity because I should be following something I love more, maybe an opportunity falls through the cracks because the lesson learned will lead to paths with greater vistas.

I am not yet comfortable with the idea of 'God', but in my present exhaustion, I am willing to trust a sense of karma or justice, if you will, to the workings and ways of the world. Furthermore, I am willing to sacrifice the bravado of my ego to some spiritual light that lies within. I don't think I understand that light, its nature or its profound-ness, but I am willing to bend my mind to the idea that there is a place of faith within me that is willing to surrender my sense of control to the idea, to the faith that everything will be alright, that it will all work out in the end, and when it doesn't it just isn't the end.

Gentlemen brace yourselves, we're talking about kids here....

2009-01-11T19:15:00.000-08:00

If you would ask my mother, she would tell you she does not regret her marriage. Even after years of heartache and abuse she would tell you that it brought her two children she loves ("and likes" she always adds) and allowed her to come to Canada. But if she had one regret, it would not be the length of time she allowed the relationship go on, nor would it be not standing up for herself more often; instead, it would be the pain that her two children endured as a result of her relationship.

My mother, like many others, would endure all pain, and sacrifice the world for her children. In fact, if you would ask her why she endured the pain of her marriage so long, she would say it was partly because of her love for my father,but mostly because she thought it was best for her children.

And so, she was able to do what mothers do best and everyday: put their children first. Yet I wonder if this is ability is exclusive to women who have had children, or if even those who have yet to give birth are able to make decisions and personal sacrifices on account of their future children.

"I just kept thinking what marriage would be like," said a friend of mine as we discussed her recent break-up. "I realized he would make such a terrible father, his children would hate him and resent him for the rest of his lives." The thought of that resentment helped drive her to her final decision and break off the relationship. As she confessed a light bulb went off in my head and I was pulled back to a conversation I had many months ago.

"Every woman in my family has been cheated on," I explained to my ex's brother."And a part of me thinks, if this guy ends up being the one, how do I turn to a daughter and say, 'Its okay honey, Daddy cheated on me too, but it was only once, you get through these things with time."

"Uh, Barb," he responded, severely uncomfortable. "I think its little too early to be talking about kids here."

But he didn't get it. And how could a man? Somehow I felt and continue to feel, that I owe something to the children I will one day bear. I see the way that the choices of my mother and grandmothers has shaped my life and I realize what a responsibility and opportunity I have in the life I create for my future kids.

I realize that I have the chance to re-write my family history, chose differently for my children than my mother was able to chose for me. I have the benefit of a western upbringing, of years of women's rights, a Canadian education, the opportunity to learn about myself through yoga and a GREAT therapist. All of that means that for the first time, I have the opportunity to chose a man who will not be narcissistic, misogynistic or abusive.

And each time I chose a man, I feel the weight of that responsibility (so, results so far have yet to show this...but I am trying, ok!?). At times, when I have found myself hanging on so desperately to relationship fraying at the seams I, like my friend, have turned to thoughts of future children to find the strength to say, "Enough."

While there is a certain sweetness to the idea of how children can save their mothers, there is a cruelty in it as well. It strikes me as tragic that so many women are find themselves thinking that they could endure the heartache, hardship, devastation or abuse, and would not put an end to it out of empowerment or self-worth but out of trying to save a child.

"Its true," agreed my friend."I could deal with his shit, I could figure out how to handle it and deal with all of it, but the thought of a helpless baby, or a defenseless child in the situation would make me end the relationship."

I think that the bond of motherhood is beautiful, and I think that it is incredible that even childless women can call upon unborn children for the strength to rise against an abusive spouse. But I look forward to the day that I and others can make that decision for ourselves because we value our hearts, our minds, spirits and bodies enough to stand up for our own self worth without searching for a reason outside of ourselves to put ourselves first.

I will continue to look to my unborn children for inspiration to make sound decisions both in my relationships and life. But I hope that when my girls grow up, I will have made such good decisions on their behalf that they will be able to make their own sound decisions upon the same thing that inspires me: their future happiness and self-worth.

Let the journey begin...

2009-01-07T19:39:00.000-08:00

One of my New Years Resolutions was to deepen my understanding of my own spirituality.

When I was young being spiritual meant that I got to get dressed up in pretty dresses on Sundays, stare at beautiful paintings on a ceiling and sing with a bunch of people in a gorgeous Cathedral in the German countryside. On holidays there were rituals, walking through the countryside while holding candles, and more singing.

But when I came to Canada, no one dressed up like they did in Europe, wood panelling replaced the paintings of the cathedral and there were no interesting rituals that allowed me to handle fire at age six. Bored, I defected from the church.

For years, I didn't think of spirituality. Not until I fell head over heels for my biggest high-school crush. A profoundly Christian boy (and now man) he would send me forwards about the glory of God, and the more often I received them, (and the more he rejected me) I began to question what a lack of "godliness" was doing to me my future and the type of real-estate I would end up with in the afterlife (clouds and feathers or coal and whips.... I wonder if you could have both? Feathers and whips, sound much more fun....but I digress)

Anyways.

Fast forward a couple of years, age 17 and still spiritually confused, I start taking yoga. For the first time I begin to feel like perhaps there really is something within me that has a capacity for a deeper sense of spiritual understanding. So I pursued it, and among studying yoga, going to teacher training and reading some great books I began to get a semblance of a spiritual understanding. The past six years have left me convinced that there is something larger than facts, something more complete linking all of us together, but I... just... can't..... put.... my finger on what/how/who that is...

You see here lies the problem.

While I have experienced a feeling of levitation in large group meditations, have practiced and witnessed the power of manifestation, and have read and watched enough material to understand that Western science is slowly beginning to prove the power of perception, of manifestation and even point towards one source energy, I still feel lost.

I feel lost because somehow I feel like I need for my spirituality to have some sort of definition. I would really appreciate if someone could provide me a mug-shot of exactly what this source energy is, pass me a manual and just tell me how the hell to wrap my head around it.

And no, I don't want a door to door Christian or Jehovah's Witness. In fact my education in the history of religion really prevents me from moving forward and discovering the potential of my spirituality. Every time some kind of "creator", "God", "Almighty" is mentioned it is as if the alarm goes off in my brain and instantly alerting my ears to shut down stop listening and deny all understanding of what is being said.

And while I am admittedly adverse to religion, I crave spiritual understanding. I need to know. I need to know and feel that we are all somehow connected. I need to know that somewhere divinity exists, that there is such thing as some sort of universal justice, some sort of greater power that gives to us, that there is more to us than simply flesh and bone. But I need to have a framework for that understanding. And within that understanding I need answers to certain questions.

How can I believe in a greater power, when I believe that ultimately we control our destinies? Furthermore can you be powerless and yet responsible?

How can I have faith that someone looks over us when there is so much injustice in world that continues to swell to epic proportions?

How can I understand what "God" is if there is if all definitions of him/her/it are so abstract?

How, when raised in a world of facts and evidence, can I trust simple feelings and ambiguous ideas to form belief?

To start my therapist has asked me read a book called the Spirituality of Imperfection... and I plan to keep you all posted on the issues that come up as I read. But for the moment, anyone have any thoughts? I would love to hear...

Quote of the Day...

2009-01-07T12:25:00.000-08:00

"Small dreams make small people"

- Sean

Happy Happy 2009...

2009-01-07T11:50:00.000-08:00

The minute the clock struck 12 on NYE my close friend Laurie broke into a smile and proclaimed that a huge weight was lifted off her shoulders. Yet I felt mine tighten just a little (which I attempted to remedy with a bottle of sparkling wine, note to self: wine is for the sharing, not guzzling).

Don't get me wrong I love New Years, and the symbolic turning of a calendar page that makes us feel as if we can all start anew. I get wildly superstitious and believe that "The way you ring in the New Year is the way you will spend it." So I go out of my way to ensure I do something I want.

But as 2008 left I couldn't help but feel a little nervous. I had some of the best moments of my life in the last year, so I was sad to see it go, but I was also struck by the realization of what 2009 would entail.

You see while I travelled around the world, while I danced and bent my body in yoga class I also bought time. For many years I had taken time out to just build 'self understanding' while dreaming big dreams and doing nothing about it. Yet now, I realize I have to act.

2008 was a year of learning, a year of therapy, seeing my homeland, gaining insight through the crash and burn of some relationships and the thriving of others and now I feel like I "get" it more. Like I understand what I have to "do" in order to truly create the life that I want for myself.

But, can I tell you a secret?

I AM SCARED SHITLESS.

Truly. Every time I pick up a pen to write, a phone to call a friend, go to interview a person, step out my front door, I feel a level of sheer terror. Its as if every-time I go to act and take the reigns to steer my own life, I hit the equivalent of a marathon runner's "wall" and feel like turning around, running straight home to Vancouver, climbing under my bed, hanging out with my favorite high heels and never, ever coming out.

But I am determined to do it. I am determined to take the steps to truly become the woman I want to be, and step on to the path that will lead to my dreams. I do not apologize for having dreamed big, but now I must act big to make those dreams a reality.

So, here I go, one unsure foot in-front of another.

I have decided to include more of my journey within these "pages", and I hope you will join me for the ride.

Top Ten Moments of 2008...plus a few

2008-12-29T23:54:00.000-08:00

Runners Up...

New Years Eve, 2008
Smoking green for the first time with Laurie and killing myself laughing. Cooking great local food, binging on that food and falling asleep content on the quite hillside of Bowen Island.

Seabus Rides in Vancouver... any one, any time I just love watching the city and the mountains loom closer....ahhhh

Girls night with Laura in Zurich. Sex and the City + Champagne + Paris' hotest DJ + Zurich's most adventurous femme fatale= made for one of the best nights out EVER

In no particular order...

10) February 27th 2008... New York City, USA
Dressed in a metal shirt (if you could call it that), white skinnies, my MiuMius and hot pink lipstick, I hit the town with my favorite of favorite ladies Nuala, met up with some mutual friends and rocked the martinis at Marquee.... fast forward 8 hours and I was on the bus from Hoboken to Long Island, watching the sun rise over the Manhattan skyline grinning ear to ear. Fun times.

9) May 27 -29th 2008...Gimmelweld, Switzerland
So Switzerland was full of highs. It is tough to choose between strolls by lake Zurich and cake at Sprungli, but out of all of it Gimmelweld and the Lauterbrunnen Valley were the highlight. Hiking in the Alps, soaking in hot tubs and listening to goat bells, biking through the valley with Danielle and visiting the Tremelbach waterfalls... nature at its best. It seemed as if I was living in a fairy-tale.

8) June 6th 2008...Venice, Italy
I got up early in the morning and wandered alone through the winding streets catching scenes with my camera. I watched the tourists and went in the opposite direction, and wound up at a fishermen's market. Walking among the amazing Venitian produce, and fresh fish with my red heels and red lipstick the fish mongerer's called to me, "Miss Red, Miss Red, smile at us please!!". I truly felt like I was in Italy, fresh food and sexy men.

7) June 12th 2008... Cortona, Italy
I made it, to the place where one of my favorite films was made. But the best moment was when I ordered an appetizer from the restaurant where Dianne Lane pens a postcard in Under The Tuscan Sun. Made of steamed Riddichio, local cheese, barley, cream and "local secrets" I died an went to heaven with each and every bite. And the wine....Oh, the wine!

6) June 14th... Cinque Terre, Italy
Basking in the sun, I decided to go for the best ocean swim of my life. Buoyant in the salty Mediterranean I feel head over heels for the sea, the rocky beaches and mountainous skylines of Cinque Terre. It was so, so incredible.

5) June 22nd 2008... Paris, France
After weeks of museums and galleries I found myself alone in Paris. After a search I found exactly what I was looking for. A beautiful cafe with gorgeous outdoor tables, the freshest of baguettes and streets bearing food, fashion and people to die for. That night Paris leapt to life and I found myself surrounded by musicians and beautiful Parisians partying in the streets. Magic... but what else did you expect it was Paris!!

4) July 1st 2008... Prauge, Czech Republic
Nikki, my cousin and I, walked over the moonlit St Charles' Bridge, we drank an absurd amount of booze at hidden martini bar in Prauge's old town. We found a guardian angel for the night, by the name of Marek, who decided to make it his duty to show us all that Prauge's nightlife had to offer. Two hours later I was salsa dancing to hip hop with a Mexican stranger who insisted on dancing the night away. Nikki and I walked back to our hostel barefoot, across the warm cobblestone in an empty Old Town Square watching the sun rise over some of the world's greatest feats of architecture, stumbling giggling and dancing all the way....

3) Sept. 2nd 2008... Toronto, Ontario
The first time I saw a Ryerson University sign, and knew, I had made it there.

2) October 12th, 2008... New York, USA
Coffee in Chelsea, dance class at Broadway Dance Center. Getting dressed to the nines, and meeting up with BDC's best looking ( and rather good dancing) dancer and having the most fun night out that in recent memory. Never, have I had so much fun dancing and connecting with someone.

1) December 6th, 2008... Toronto, Ontario
Locked out of my house, I got a hot cocoa with Nyomi. We watched "Love and Basketball" gushing over crushes and stories of love life tragedy till 4am. As I fell asleep watching the CNTower put on a very suggestive light show, I realized, I dream of this moment long ago and never thought it attainable. That I would be in one of Canada's Best Journalism Schools, in Canada's biggest city ( and oh so close to NYC) with a great friend and even greater opportunity ahead of me.

It has been a damn fine year....

infidelity and intuition

2008-12-28T01:57:00.000-08:00

"What gives, what helps, the intuition?" asks Leslie Fiest in one of my favorite songs of all time.

I think its this very question that makes our intuition so questionable. Facts without evidence...could it be? And yet, too often the words "I knew it all along," or "I had the feeling..." grace conversations laced with regret. Those words left my mouth so many times after the events in July when an email left me knowing that my boyfriend had traded our bond in for another and cheated on me.

Few facts matter but, of them these are the few that do:

I knew....and I ignored it

When I first saw their facebook connection I knew

When she called late at nights and texted in early mornings I knew.

When he refused to introduce me to her,

When I first saw the her email accusation,

When he touched me.... I knew.

But I ignored it...

One night he crawled into bed, home later than planned, kissed my forehead and a voice inside said "He was with her," Clear as day, may as well have been written on my ceiling.

And yet, I ignored it.

Until he admitted it. Admitted that for a month he had lied to me, that when he accused me of having faltering feelings it was him who was locking himself behind bedrooms doors with a woman of reckless reputation. Admitted that it was him who had talked her out of telling me, him who had let me squirm for a month questioning why I could not connect to him when a lie so large hung over his head.

They say hell hath no fury like a woman's scorn. (I question if the pain of infidelity and the scorn that it arouses is exclusive to the Y chromosome)

If I could describe what hearing those words was like, I would say that they were shattering. In a single moment everything was broken, my trust and faith, hopes and dreams for a future together, every effort, every romantic gesture, every happy memory was instantly shattered. Broken beyond repair , I felt as if I caved in the absence of all the things about us that I had used to stand tall upon; gone was this pride in a relationship that was built stepping across borders of countries, expressed in ink stain and brushstroke, suddenly all of the details did not matter. And as I crumbled I shook not only physically in my hands, but internally within my soul.

That quake, that shake, started the tsunami of destruction that left nothing untouched. I was angry, loud, lewd and violent. I hit him. I wanted to take a bat to his car, and stopped myself only because I knew that his little brother wanted it. I sent hateful messages, swore slander in his ear, I investigated and interrogated every detail. Each act was like a grain of small sand, a mere particle of the mountain of hurt that instantly arose within me. And no matter how hard I dispelled these grains of pain, no matter how many of them I spewed, those acts did nothing but scratch the surface of the injustice of infidelity.

But what was most damaging, was that tsunami also destroyed me. Blew me over and made me weak desperate for love and affection to fill the void that was left by our shattered bond. I stayed, I was swayed by the empty promises, the crocodile tears and feigned gestures of apology. Even though I still knew.... I hung on believing that from the wreckage I could still salvage the bond that once made me strong.

I listened, I waited, put my heart on hold. Until conversations turned to accusations, till name calling began and bizarre narcissistic emails commenced, till all most all promises were broken. Only then did I turn away to survey the broken pieces and let Toronto and New York mend me...

This week when I saw them walking together in the streets of Vancouver, I was not surprised. Nor was I shocked by photos of her in his arms, or his final violation of the one promise he had faked the best : that he was rid of her. Yet what did surprise me, was that in some strange way I was happy for the two of them.

The mad hatter, the compulsive liar and manipulator together with his lose mistress, 'they deserve each other,' I thought. In some weird way I am thankful to this terrible twosome.

Indeed they left me scarred, yet in wielding these wounds of experience I have learned. I have come to understand the importance of listening to whispers of wisdom that seem so fact less. Yes, I have really learned the importance of intuition

I have gained insight to what it means to be a woman. I feel that rising from the depths of such maddening heartache helps to build compassion and empathy. Like I have earned my badge to belong to the sisterhood of women done wrong, and in gaining my stripes and colours I have come to understand the bond that women all share and how we must care for each other. ( This is a whole other blog entry really)

True, there have been times when I have become unintentionally entangled in the relationships of others. There have been sad moments of fear when I realized I overstepped and became the third in a triangle of love that left me running far away in opposite directions. I regret the subsequent consequences and I will not make excuses for my actions.

In the end, despite the pain I feel privileged to have survived, to recovered and learned when so many others are not so lucky.

And at the end of the day, if nothing else, the situation makes for damn fine writing material.

Time is a ticking...

2008-12-04T11:00:00.000-08:00

Since it is exam season I thought it appropriate to share with you my newest methods of procrastination. Wonderful Web hangouts have made themselves known to me over the past few weeks, some too good to be kept to myself. So, in the spirit of exam season I am here to share them with you all

www.jezebel.com

Run by a group of women, this site combines all things you always wanted to read but couldn't find in once place, news links, sex advice and ruthless gossip all in one fabulous blog. Many of the femme-based articles skillfully walk the line between smutty entertainment and intelligence...fun fun fun

Pot Psychology

Never in my life have I actually found something that makes me want to go and smoke something green, not until I watched this that is. It was a slow go at first but after watching a few episodes I fell hard for the hosts and their stoned antics. Those of you who are Savage Love fans, will find this equally entertaining. Rich and Tracie post weekly videos in which they answer questions under the influence of Mary Jane. Small disclaimer, if you are squeamish this is not for you, questions can tread into bizarre fetish territory, after all Tracie did write a column for Vice Magazine about how she hired a prostitute to fulfill a rape fantasy that is close to erotica.

You Tube, YouTube, YouTube

I have rediscovered my love for late 90's/early millenium R&B. Jagged Egde wearing oversized fur jackets and dancing like they're in a club to a ballad in 6/8 time... priceless.

I have also found an increadible make up artist thats inspired me to go a little further with my make up than before. While I find this useful, I fear that given the fact she only does make up on herself, it is all techniques that would be used on someone with a more caucasian eyes, so my asian sisters are a little out of luck. Still its worth a browse.

Dance videos, dance videos, dance videos.... I keep tabs on my favorites and find new ones all the time. This is how I get stoked for NYC every time.

The animations of musicANDmuffins is so heart warming that I melt everytime. My favorite, Kate Nash's Nicest Thing, a superb song and an oh so cute animation to melt your pre-exam winter woes.

Oh, Canada.

2008-12-03T16:20:00.000-08:00

Peter Mansbridge just admitted to "dragging the puck" while waiting for Stephane Dion's address to the country in rebuttal to the creepy, creeeeeepy, disingenuous address to the nation by Stephen Harper.

"This shit is so Canadian its out of control," says my roommate, " Thank God no one gives a shit about us in the world, or I'd have to be really embarrassed for us."

Between the 80's fro of one of the political commentators, the plethora of patterns (polka-dot, plaid and pinstripe in one outfit) on another and the pseudo-apocolypitic storm over Parliment Hill in the CBC graphics, I admit I spent the coverage of the "crisis facing Canada" giggling like a school girl.

Here are my thoughts.

Since I am not a Canadian citizen yet, I cannot vote. Still, I would not have voted Conservative in the last election. That being said I am against the forming of a coalition.

Here is why...

Despite following the news, I still don't know WHY we are discussing, or creating apocolptic storm cloud graphics in the first place.

Since becoming PM Harper has set a precident for being the most secretive leader in Canada's history, keeping a tight leash on all his MP's and controlling what they say to the media with ferocity. So whenever Harper comes across a screen and makes decelerations or promises I simply cannot trust him. Especially when he is all smiles during an address during one of the most heated moments in recent Canadian politics. Though I really don't believe that Flahtery's announcements were really that terrible for the country, I don't have the confidence that there isn't soemthing hidden within the plethora of pages in the budget announcements.

Not trusting Harper is not aided by the fact that he is continuing to make misleading public statements. Things like claiming that forming a coalition is making deals with the Bloc, which has been confirmed to be not true (yes the Bloc will support the Coalition in matters of confidence, but will not be a part of writing budgets etc). As well, as making false statements that the coalition is violating the constitution of Canada....puh-lease.... every major newspaper in Canada has de-bunked that theory.

Of course then, there is the coalition of the NDP and the Liberals. Layton, the sore loser of the last election told Harper to accept his defeat and I couldn't help but think of a mustached barking chiwawa... all bark, no bite that's even worth mentioning. Then there is the disorganization of the Liberals that left them so late in handing in their taped statement to the networks who agreed to air it that it got cut off on CTV and Global. Whats more is that the tape was out of focus and so badly framed it made Dion look like a talking head.

As the daughter of immigrant parents, I have always had a particular skill for deciphering my way through an accent. Still when Dion begins to speak I get confused and spend so much time trying to figure out what he said that I miss parts of his statements. While that doesn't change my opinion that Dion is a learned individual who really could have done some interesting and great things for this country, had it not been for his poor communication skills.

In the end I feel that the only reason we're having this conversation is because the NDP are putting politics over the interest of Canadians and is acting to protect both their own salaries and funding to their parties. Yes, the conservatives have now retracted the statement that they would put an end to government funding for federal parties, however the orginal budget opened a huge window for a mighty power grab by a very defeated Dion to try and win leadership in the name of protecting the economic interests of every day citizens.

Do not be fooled this is all about money, power and regardless of what Dion tries to spatter, partizanship.

It will be interesting to see how Michelle Jean will weigh in on this...

I will be watching, and hopefully things will be more a less apocalyptic this time.

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow....

2008-11-30T10:21:00.000-08:00

So in moving to this East Coast city of mine, I realized that I have not once in my memory experienced a snow storm. Sure I've seen Vancouver pseudo-snow-storms that leave behind a slushy 10cm of snow, which leaves all West Coasters dumb and frozen with stupidity that nearly shuts down the city. But I have yet to witness a bona-fide scared-to-go-out-the-door, can't-see-you-hand-in-front-of-your-face, careful-or-you-might-freeze snowstorm. So while my other Torontonians are still bitter from the bite of last years winter that saw record snow falls, I am jazzed that the thought that tonight, Weather Canada is predicting the first snow storm of the season.

I've got my boots, my gloves, and my game face on, ready for what promises to be an oh so fun night.

Oh! And apparently, there are blizzards around here too!! Exciting!!!

"If you are going through hell, keep going"

2008-11-25T22:27:00.000-08:00

Good old Winston Churchill...

How can you tell that times have been rough?

I haven't been writing. My journal has been abandoned for so long that it collects dust and I have yet to post since Obama made history.

Writing is my truth, I bleed words onto pages and screens from the very fabric of me, so whether it is a journal entry or a simple essay I need to believe that what I write is real. Its like I need words to hold something, the addition of my vowels pregnant with life and concenents sharp with truth somehow must equate some figure that leaves a mark, more than just a symbol for a sound, but something with meaning behind.

I just cannot lie when I write.

So when things get rough, I avoid my truths but turning away from blank pages and screens in avoidance of a plague of sobering reality. Because one always knows, I know when I am deceiving myself, betraying myself, harming myself by continuing to engage in the things that pull me down, so sometimes I run from admitting hard truths.

And in the last two weeks I had reason to run.

7000 photographic memories slipped from the slippery silver disk of my hard drive into oblivion. Yes, I endured a hard drive crash that left me crushed beyond description. Gone are, all my photos from Europe, recipes from my grandmother, poems, essays, letters and songs.

Past affairs blazed hot and angry across my screens in voices and tones I have so desperately tried to eliminate from my life : manipulation, selfishness and greed.

I learnt lessons the hard way, slaps of reality in my face. I slept through alarms, didn't research thoroughly enough, missed work, pulled all nighters and get so frustrated and lonely that too often I could do nothing but cry and pray that some force from the universe would provide some way forward.

I am now one article away from being done...

Where do I stand?

I am in desperate need of a pedicure, my room is a mess (there are post-its glued to the floor, making me feel like a real writer) and laundry need to be done. I haven't put on real make-up in quite a while, and I've made some startling discoveries...

I realized that this city doesn't belong to me yet. Nor do I belong to it, or Vancouver. Which is a frightening thing in the sense that I feel a bit like the littlest hobo, lost and without a place. But not all is lost. Vancouver feels like my hometown, a small place in which I grew strong enough to venture away and develop into something more. I am no longer just a high-school student, no longer just a yoga teacher no longer just a Vancouverite.

And of Toronto, I know this isn't my final destination, but more so a launch pad to New York. It's interesting that I am so determined to make NYC my final destination, but since I was 13, I just knew. There has only been one point in my life where I tried to deceive myself into thinking I would be perfectly happy going back and forth between New York and my city of residence, but that quickly boiled over. No, New York is my destiny and I have never been more certain of anything.

But Toronto, despite just being my launch pad, I want to own it too. I want it to make a mark on me. This city is more alive than my former West Coast home, festivals, events, showcases and parties happen more often with greater vibrance and so far I have yet to engage in all this city has to offer. I know little of this place, I've familiarized myself with some of its corridors, but instead of venturing further I have been desperately hanging on, white-knuckling, any feeling of familiarity. Which is understandable, but as school ends and leaves me without a structure I realize just how rootless I am. So today I start my journey, back to writing, back to more organization and towards building a greater bond with this new home.

After a pedicure that is....

Election Musings...

2008-11-02T19:47:00.000-08:00

Well, it is the eve of one of the most historical elections in my lifetime (if not ever), even the music on the evening news is more dramatic. Personally, I must say I am both excited, and a little terrified.

I sincerely hope that all of my American friends use their votes wisely, go out and make their voices heard tomorrow.

That being said as a "Canadian" or at least permanent resident of this country I feel a mix of emotions.

For one, I feel that the world needs America to elect Obama. In some ways I feel like everyone is willing to forgive the US for electing George Bush, even the second time, but they need some sort of indication that the US is no longer aligning themselves with the Bush Doctrine, something that a McCain victory would in no way indicate. We need America to redeem itself.

I do have to confess that despite desperately wanting an Obama victory, in some ways, I fear it. It has been reported in newspapers this side of the 49th parallel that if Obama were to win, Canadians would be significantly more likely to align themselves with US policy, especially that pertaining to border regulation (soon to be seen at your border stations, mandatory identification cards that provide all your info to the US). Which, given the post 9-11 privacy policies of that country, is frightening.

I am not, however, one of the Canadians that is scared of Obama's contentions with NAFTA regulations. I realize that it could mean a huge problem during an economic era in which even bumps can be deadly. But I am a British Columbian who has seen huge losses in the softwood lumber dispute, which has seen the US violating free trade agreements with little consequence. I am a concerned Canadian who understands the strength of our resources in a time when Global Warming is threatening the contamination of drinking water. A time when the scarcity of oil is putting a higher priority on discovering new ways to generate energy, and Canada has a wealth of hydro, wind and thermal energy capacity. Those types of resources are not things I would want to be traded freely under regulations that too often play to the sound of the US tune. That and hearing the plight of women in Juarez, Mexico which is largely a result of free trade regulations under the NAFTA agreement. So any move to change NAFTA regulations, if not dissolving the concept of free trade (which, really, does not exist) is fine by me.

Now that being said, I am not so sure that Obama will deliver on his promises. Yes, he has campaigned on Change yet that doesn't mean that anything will. Not only would he take over a huge mountain of problems left behind by the Bush presidency, but his "Campaign for Change" has largely been paid for by the very elite he claims to intend to tax and regulate should he be elected. Will he do so? I'm not entirely sure.

That and the problem with politics in North America is not lack of visionary leaders, but rather lack of citizen involvement. After spending a summer in Switzerland, and seeing the effect of a democracy in which the population actively participates (the Swiss show up to vote in numerous referendums held through out the year to vote on legislation at numbers higher than the most recent turnout at Canada's federal election) I am of the opinion that we need not only electoral reform but reform of our entire parliamentary structure. We need to participate, we need to be involved and we need to have power redistributed and handed down to the lower levels (we referring to the general population). We need to learn the power of our voice.

Regardless of whether Obama delivers on his promises or god forbid, McCain wins the White House, at least this election has given the US population a bit of their voice back. I like to think that even if a Republican victory becomes the reality, Americans will not take the decisions of its leaders lying down as it has for the last eight years. Perhaps that is the optimist in me, but I like to have a little faith in my neighbors to the south (the ranks of which I hope to join one day).

I like to have faith that tomorrow they will chose the chance (even if it is small) on "Change". I like to have faith that America is ready for a black president (what an incredible victory that would be).

Tomorrow I will be watching and waiting, hoping that my friends are exercising their rights and taking part of history.

Never thought I would say this but tomorrow I really hope that God (Authority, Creator, Allah, whoever will you) does, bless America.

Ode to You...

2008-10-22T20:33:00.001-07:00

In keeping with the theme of "truth" from previous posts, I have decided to post this poem. It's a personal one, that came to me quite quickly after returning from a February NYC trip, fresh with Nuyorican Poets Cafe inspiration.

....... enjoy.......

Today,
We passed in the streets like strangers

For the first time in a long time,
you did not notice me.
So I studied you secretly.

The contour of your chin,
the dip of your collar
where I always seem to slip,
and drip,
into a puddle of desire.

Before I,
collect,
myself.
And remember:
You belong to another.

But,
this poem is not about
secret fantasies,
unrealized possibilities,
or even girlish jealousy.

No,
this soliloquy,
is about how I wished
I could have run to you today,
take your hand in mine and say:

“You saved me.”

A rescue mission conducted in such a secrecy,
not even you were privy.

You see,
I had studied what it means to happy
so I could mimic its exact geometry.
The art of my deception
rooted in mathematical precision:

I stacked my vertebra
so my columns curve
conveyed confidence,

smiled to a specific degree,

while the angle from chin to nape
denoted a sense of pride,
Inside,
the days were darker than the nights.

Until you blazed across my sky,
bright like Halle
constant like Polaris.
You were the beacon that beckoned
me back to light...

Your bright
shone deep into me
until glee was splashed on my face
and with joy glistening in my reflection
I blanked with a lack of recognition
at the depth of my own stare...
...for the fresh happiness that was suddenly there.

During espresso scented conversations,
I nursed myself on your connotations.

Your eloquence and sense
of humor sang to me…
Light arias and soulful melodies.

Your importance—
was and is—
not defined
by your success at winning me—
not by the sparkle of a blue eye
when you flash your dimpled grin.

But, by your ability
to create a change in me:

You were the push, that
flattened my dominoes
of carefully aligned self deception,

The first call
back
to a truth that has always belonged to me:

My own divinity

And for that,
I will always be yours.
Not always in desire,
but always,

in gratitude.

Because, you saved me.
You were the light that
showed me the way home:

back into my own.

Truth...

2008-10-20T21:13:00.000-07:00

I'm up late once again... wondering why it seems that I still maintain a Vancouver sleeping schedule while my feet are firmly rooted in an eastern time zone.

Many thoughts have popped into my mind today... whisperings of new and old that rise and fall like the tide, like breath...

I've been reading a lot of other blogs lately, and while they have served to inspire I also question as to why my writing is so different here than anywhere else.

I made a decision so long ago to keep my blog writing impersonal enough so that my emotional self is kept far away. Close friends, lovers, family members are rarely mentioned, emotions are kept behind a veil of secrecy unless they are easy enough to share. While I express my thoughts, I rarely touch on my feelings.

Whats more intersting is that as I filter my ideas, I change my voice. Here is a place of casual wit, while my journal reveals the writings of a hopeless romantic, pages smeared with similie, rhyme and metaphore.

So I begin to wonder what other things I keep secret, and what is worth keeping secret.

In truth I have always admired brash honesty. Women who live fearlessly. Yes, I am a fan of that Angelina, not just because she is beautiful but because she doesn't apologize for testing the waters. And whenever she has chosen to test, it has never been with a small dip of an extremity, but with a headfirst dive into situations that would downright scare me. She moves through her phases, self damaging cutter, award winning actress, Gothic blood veil wearing seductress, lover of women and emerges as a mother, complete and round like her belly that gives life to children both her own and not.

I admire honesty, yet still secretly dwell backstage dreading my own curtain call.

I remember the first night I went to a New York poetry slam.

Late night, in the heart of Alphabet City, I clung to a chair and watched pear shape women spit into a mic that could scarcely keep up with the raw emotion they delivered. And the best poems? Were the most honest, the ones ones about the biggest mistakes: one night stands, past-due relationships, accidental children and purposeful passion. The poems about insecurity, imperfection and accident were the ones that moved me to tears, until I sat goosebumped all over, and for the first time told myself I too was willing to stop trying to be perfect and make a mistake.

True to that silent promise made one cold Febuary night I have been slipping up. Defying the ridiculous "hallmarks" of perfection I once clung to.

I stopped trying to prove I was too smart to care about clothes and make up... and have emerged painted face, glowing all over in Victoria Secret push-up-bras feeling like the center of the universe on a Friday night.

I stopped pretending that I was too wholesome to enjoy the presence of a person for just one night... and boy did poetry ever follow.

I stopped pushing myself to define my appeal by the number on a scale and the size of my pants... okay, so I'm still working on that.

But at the end of the day I am learning, learning to stop wanting perfection. Because what i learnt on a cold Febuary night in New York, is that its not perfection but rather imperfection that makes us so beautiful. Be it the mole that sits above a lip (a beauty mark), or a tale of a tryst told with a twinkle in an eye, it is the things that that undo us that define us in the end.

So, I'm making a push to be a little more honest, more honest with you and more honest with me.

Here are some things you might not know...

I'm ruthlessly self depricating, but mostly in my head.

I read tarot cards... seriously...

I procrastinate more than I would like to admit...

And when I am bored on tranist I look around and guess who would be the best lover aboard the bus or train.

I'm damaged, imperfect, weird, and quirky. But I am begining to figure out, I like it that way.

New York...

2008-10-16T11:38:00.000-07:00

I cry each time I leave the city.

Its as if the contour of the city skyline is the prefect puzzle piece completing the jigsaw of my complexities. Like when I am here I am all of a sudden complete, and yet without this "Big Apple" I am anything but. Its true that I learn here, and take home with me new revelations each time I come, strengthened in some shape or form, yet I cant help but feel that there is something that I leave behind.

And I love the place.

I love so big that my love fills the streets and sidewalks, explodes through all places, until it boars through concrete and roots me firmly here, leaving some little piece of my very spirit deep in the heart of this urban oasis.

I walk these streets amidst the car horns, surrounded by the urban decay of tossed away newspapers and crumbling brick and i can't help but fall for all of her imperfections.

What I love about New York, is what I loved about Venice, two cities like old sages, different and yet alike in their attitude. Like Venice, New York is like fading movie star, wearing her scars proudly, signs of addiction, heartache on her sleeve. And while Venice seems to no longer try, letting the locals dress her for the tourists, New York still rocks the rhinestone studded heels, hot pink lipstick and fur coats. New York, comes and goes with bang, or more accurately a taxi horn.

The first time I came here I remember feeling the pull of this place, as if there is a gravity that yanks your forward to achieve. Opportunities for success are endless, there is not just one definition of reward here. So everyone is seemingly reaching for something better, something bigger than they have. Yes, this hub of capitalism creates a tangible, palatable desire within me to go forward, like I get swept up in the current of some great river pushing me forward forever towards my dreams.

I imagine that this is what settlers felt, once they completed their Atlantic journey and first laid eyes on the Statue of Liberty.

While I am sure that the world holds many places that inspire, what I love about New York is that not only does she urge you to reach your destination but she challenges you to do it as loudly ad boldly as one could ever dream. Rhinestone studded heels, boas, lipstick and all.

Life is a party, a broadway musical, a late night cabbarret and steamy backroom encounter. NY life is sexy, edgy, sultury, seductive and ruthlessly unappologetic.

If home is where the heart is...mine is in the streets of New York.

News..

2008-10-04T09:20:00.000-07:00

I have a new coffee home

Investment Advice...

2008-10-01T20:40:00.000-07:00

About a year ago, I was really concerned about the fact that I didn't have a retirement plan.

Everyone says that its never to early to start planning for you future. So I thought that I should put together a thousand dollars and invest that into some stocks.

Of course one thing came to another (ie one store lead to another) and I never ended up scrounging up the cash to do it.

Now, a year later, the markets have gone haywire and I have learned a very important lesson...

Fashion never fails.

Had I invested my money into the market, by today it most likely would have been mostly gone, yet as we speak my beautiful shoes lie safe and sound in my closet, my trench-coat hangs on its hanger and my jean collection is nicely folded in my drawers. Sure I have lost a yoga outfit or two to the fast handed yoginis of Vancouver... but all and all, investing in fashion was a much wiser choice!!

xo B

Publicity....

2008-09-26T22:10:00.000-07:00

I've grown up in an era where people explore their sexuality on the profile pictures of their myspace or facebook accounts, in an era where bad nights and alcohol mishaps are forever immortalized in the zeros and ones of computer file, breakups are blasted across pseudo-"newsfeeds" and first sexual encounters start in chat rooms rather than bedrooms.

I sometimes wonder how this has changed the way feel for one another. Is the Internet helping our relationships or hurting them?

As a woman with family and friends strewn around the world I have always been an advocate of the world wide web. I've had every major Internet network profile that has been popular in the last ten years, from ICQ and MSN to LiveJournal, Myspace and Facebook, I have been there and done that.

But when my most recent relationship fell to shreds, I got a little worried about what my forthright Internet use meant to my emotional state. Of course, I did what any vindictive Internet-era girl would do and skipped egging his car to leave nasty comments (well just one comment...posted over and over about 25 times) all over his "wall". And damn...did it ever feel good.

I dreaded removing my relationship status, for so long I was the lucky girl who owned the profile photo of her and her handsome boyfriend kissing before the Eiffel Tower... but a mere month later I was walking wounded in front of my closest friends and almost forgotten acquaintances. Surprisingly instead of the wave expected embarrassment I was touched and consoled by comforting messages of encouragement.
But months later the story is a little different...

I mean, I admit that I still Google even some of my ex-ex-boyfriends. I still look up old crushes from time to time, sneak peeks at their new lives (and sometimes wives). But is it healthy?

I sometimes feel jealous to think that there was an era when breaking up meant that you didn't have to face a glowing green circle showing you that she or he is online. I resent the women who could walk away and have it be done with over and gone...out of sight and out of mind. Women who didn't have to be reminded of the existence of the jawline that made them weak in the knees every time there was a photo update on so-and-so's page.

And while I envy them, I wonder if the Internet provides us the opportunity to make sure that there are indeed no unanswered questions in life... letting us catalogue our "what ifs" into neat contact groups.

I wonder if the safety of being behind a computer screen takes away from our true knowledge and experience of life's relationship moments. Little things like finding out that the boy in science class really has a crush on you... how much of that thrill is lost when its typed in a chat room rather whispered in the flesh? It scares me to think that I may have kids who have Internet sex before they experience the real thing, and how that may change their experience of it.

I suppose the connection of the web has its ups and its downs. While we have more opportunities to connect more than ever, perhaps we are corrupting and taking advantage of the very thing that truly connects us to each other : our ability to feel with one another in the presence of one another.

I guess at the end of the day, while I support the Internet and all its advancements I will forever and above all else advocate experiencing meaningful moments face to face rather than face to screen.

Quote of the Day...

2008-09-24T21:47:00.000-07:00

"I think you should have a meaningful one night relationship."

-- my boss

Dearest Gentlemen....

2008-09-24T21:30:00.001-07:00

Please, pay attention.

I do not understand why when I mention that I am a yoga teacher or dancer, a large majority of men are inclined to respond with something along the lines of,

"So, you must be pretty flexible, eh?"

What exactly are you expecting the response to be?

"Oh yes! I should show you how wide I can spread my legs! Why don't you come over later and I will demonstrate in my bedroom!"

Now really...

If I met an investment banker, lawyer or doctor and upon hearing his occupation would respond with , "So you must have a pretty big savings account, eh?" I would be labeled a materialistic gold-digger. So why is it that a man seems to think that he can get away with a comment like that without seeming like an objectifying ass?

Here is a news flash for you...

A woman who choses to pursue any occupation that increases flexibility or fitness isn't doing so so that she can be better in bed (although I am sure many enjoy the benefits in this area). So when you meet a dancer, yoga or pilates instructor, gymnast, etc, please do not consider her choice of occupation or hobby to be an invitation to your sexual inquires.

If you really want to know, learn some subtlety and class and you might be lucky enough to have your questions answered first hand...

Thats all.

psst..

2008-09-23T13:58:00.000-07:00

I have a new camera...

Tee's and Quotes...

2008-09-21T10:13:00.001-07:00

Highlights from this weekend...

"Broke is the new BLACK" -- T Shirt on Queen St

"Sticks and stones will break my bones, but Haters never hurt me." --T Shirt on Queen St

"Club Sandwiches...NOT Seals" --T Shirt in Kensington Market

"Only needy and ugly people are in relationships, nice people have to wait for the right one." Calvin

"Is that a baby on his back or just baby legs?" Calvin

A shopping tale....

2008-09-20T10:53:00.000-07:00

One of the many blessings here has been that my Vancouverite friend and colleague David has also moved to Toronto. Too add to it, his equally fabulously gay friend Calvin has flown out to Toronto to visit. So I joined them for my first visit to the Kensington Market.

- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -

Word of advice: NEVER shop with gay men.

Not only are they the most convincing judges of potential purchases, they have an unequivocal talent at getting you to buy something.

A large reason for the purchase of my first MuiMuis was due to a gay salesman. This guy managed to compliment just how good the shoes looked, convince me that it was a smart purchase because the shoes were "timeless" and "every girl needs a pair of classy black heels" all the while talking to me as if I was most stupid woman alive for not buying them that instant. It was one of the most impressive guilt trips of my life, complete with 360 degree eye rolls punctuated by disgusted grunts. This guy made me feel so bad about myself that I actually bought the shoes.

Only a gay man (and perhaps the most passive aggressive of divas) can multitask attitudes with such talent.

So, fast-forward to Friday afternoon: I am in Kensington Market with David and Calvin, and Calvin keeps buzzing in my ear, "This is Kensington Market, and we're shopping you have to buy SOMETHING." The comments flood my ear without stop, I'd pick up the smallest of trinkets, and there he would be "...buy SOMETHING", a pair of ridiculous glasses "...buy SOMETHING", a fur jacket "...buy SOMETHING" a lamp, "...buy SOMETHING."

It got to a point where my inner shopaholic (who has been on a shopping diet) just...couldn't...take...it...ANYMORE!! So at last, one fabulous see-through boho blouse later (purchased for a steal! $18 at a vintage store), Calvin finally shut up.

But it was upon getting home that I realized the next gay-shopping truth: their advice is priceless. Not only is that blouse oh-so-wonderful on its own, now a myriad of skirts which were previously matchless now have their prefect lacy-boho mate . Much in the same way my MuiMuis opened a plethora of fashion possibilities, my new blouse opens fashion doors that were previously in-accessible.

In conclusion, while gay men may be toxic to my bank account, it seems that my wardrobe could always use a little of their influence.

Favorite Things...

2008-09-15T14:21:00.000-07:00

There are endless laughs at the"Best of Craigslist"

Check it out, click here.

I laughed till people gave me dirty looks....good times.

Shoot the moon...

2008-09-15T13:43:00.000-07:00

Today this Craigslist posting inspired me...

In recent relationships I have often become frustrated by people's adverse reactions to my optimism. I suppose that I could consider myself to be a glass half full kind of girl, a dreamer and someone who really believes in manifestation. I have always figured that I can't get what I want if I don't know what it is.

And its true, sometimes I go out and quiz jewellery salesmen at Tiffany's, sussing out my perfect engagement ring, while being single and a good decade before even considering engagement. Which I admit, is a little extreme, silly and earns nothing but resentment from the diamond sales folk,but hey... one can dream right? After all, I should know early whether 1.5 carats would be enough or if 2 is nessecary....(jokes...kind of)

I've always been picky in life. If I go out and I want champagne and they aren't serving it, I won't drink, simple as that. With inclinations as anal as that, I figure if I plan to be successful and satisfied, I need to do just that: plan it.

That means I dream big with wild abandon. I believe in manifestation, the "Secret", law of attraction whatever you want to call it, I truly believe it works. I think that our successes start as small seeds, little notions of directions we'd like to see ourselves travel in, destinations that we would like to arrive at. And the more you know about where you want to end up the more easily you can take the appropriate path (scenic, less travelled, direct or even short cut) to get there.

Now that's not to say that I think you an sit on a roach infested couch, close you eyes and "visualize yourself in your BRAND NEW CAR!!" a-la-Rhonda Burns' Secret and it will happen. You need to put other wheels into motion, there are other laws in the universe too...the law of action being a big important one. You need to get up off that couch find a job and get on your way to that car, but that process starts with some kind of dream, some desire to act within oneself. So, it's important to dream, to have clear ideas of the things you want in life and love (and diamonds).

And really...

the bigger the dream, the better the results.

T Dot...

2008-09-13T14:03:00.000-07:00

Finally, I hung my shelves today, a small yet personally significant (final) step to moving in. Moving in not only to my first apartment, but to my new city. A transition that is not as easy as I may have hoped it to be.

Being relatively well traveled, or at least, accustomed to traveling I assumed that moving to this city wouldn't be unlike traveling somewhere for a longer period of time. Yet this really isn't the case. For some reason there is so much more loneliness to moving, little things are what I miss.

Like calling someone just because...

Like having more than one option for things to do on a Friday night..

Like feeling home in company of a friend...

Like knowing there is someone's shoulder to cry on that is within physical reach...

Those are the small yet essential things that I find are really making things a little more challenging than expected.

Being new means that I have to pursue friendship with a new gusto. Every connection that feels nice means that I throw out my phone number like a fisherman, desperately hoping that someone might bite and call me back. That this time I make a friend worth keeping, and when calls aren't returned, while I don't feel rejected, I can't help but feel a little more lonely.

But its not all gloomy,

This city is far more alive than Vancouver wishes it could be. I've gone out a few times and though I haven't found the exact venue that suits my taste (more on my clubbing adventures next time), I know that its out there.

I've found a fabulous little butcher shop that makes incredible sausage, a mere 5 blocks from my new pad.

My program fits like a glove, every project seems easy because it is what I want to do, what I am inspired to do. Hopefully it is something that continues...

Hopefully life will continue to bloom here and I will truly feel at home sooner rather than later.

Stepping out of the Closet...

2008-09-10T13:03:00.000-07:00

Here is my confession.

I am a closeted hip hop lover.

If you were to peer at my iTunes you would find a ton of Fiest, Death Cab for Cutie, Flaming Lips and other indie wonders. Bands which I do love, bands which have nursed heartaches, been soundtracks for beautiful moments and tracks that are frequently my choice on quiet candle lit evenings.

But were you to look at my most frequently played list it would go something like this:

Because of You - Ne-Yo
Lost in Love - I-15
Don't Stop the Music - Riahnna
Give it to Me - Timbaland

You get the idea. So, not only do I love hip hop, I love mainstream, top-40 shake-your-booty-on-the-dance floor hip hop. And when I say love, I mean I listen to these songs like its going out of style: 10 repeats on the subway ride to school another 5 on the way to class, and indulgence mid day and a repeat on the evening commute home....and that is just one tune.

So, here is the thing. While I love these songs they make up less than 10% of music collection. Why, you ask? Because I am ashamed.

Take today for example, I was rocking the pavements walking to school as I listened to Riannah, and I bumped into a new friend. We got to talking about my iPhone (the device fueling my Riahnna dance party) when my screen shot in his direction, immediately I compulsively hid it, in shame that I may be recognized for the top 40 hip-hop addict that I am.

Now really, this is preposterous.

I've grown up with an older brother that called my music 'crap', saying that instead I should listen to the likes of Queen and Led Zepplin instead. And being that I thought my big bro was pretty cool I listened... to Incubus, Wintersleep, I tried punk rock when I dated a guy who was into it, I did the works. But nothing fit like hip hop fits. Don't get me wrong, there no one can get a road trip off to a great start like Freddy Mercury, nor is there anything like listening to Bon Jovi while washing windows.

But when I want to enjoy an otherwise mundane moment, like taking the subway, like getting ready to go out for a Saturday night, there is NOTHING like a little bit of Justin or JayZ or Timbaland. Truth be told, I am the girl who grew up in love with Micheal and Janet, I am the girl who dreamed about hip hop while confined to tondues in ballet class....through and through.... the truth is I LOVE THIS SHIT!!!

A woman's right to chose...shoes that is

2008-09-09T18:44:00.000-07:00

In reading my school's feminist magazine (which I do plan to write for) I got to thinking.

Somewhere among the glossy pages filled with interesting chick fueled articles a pattern started to emerge. A pattern denouncing the consumerism of our era, and a corporate driven desire to 'look good' and be fashionable.

But really, since when did feminism become synonymous with a rejection of femininity? Simply because skirts and flowing fabrics are paraded down runways and sold in designer stores, because Karl Lagerfeld choses a model to his taste instead of a woman's (or even the taste of an average man, for that matter) we should reject the entire fashion industry?

Ridiculous, I say.

For me there is nothing more empowering than walking the streets in an banging outfit that just screams sexy, nothing like feeling fabulous about a well moisturized face, with the right shade of lipstick and a new oh-so-volumous mascara. The sidewalks then become my runways, regardless of whether Karl would approve or not.

I don't think that in order to feel empowered about my rights as woman I need to reject the very thing that makes me feminine. And yes, I believe that make up, fashion, flowing fabrics and stilettos are all a part of my femininity. Which isn't to say that there aren't other women out there who feel just as feminine and empowered in a pair of overalls or baggy jeans, all I'm saying is, that is just not the path for me (and trust me I tired it... a whole year of Tommy Hilfiger overalls did nothing but create a pile of unflattering photos).

To me feminism is empowerment, its about a woman's right to create herself without feeling pressured to behave a certain way or become a certain version of herself. And so, while women should have the right to walk away from the design industry and reject mascara, I should maintain my right to daydream about tomorrow's outfit and my next perfect pair of heels.

The truth is the women's movement is about the right to chose, and whether its and abortion or a pair of designer heels, we should be able to do so without discrimination from men, and especially without discrimination from each other.

Lets talk about it...

2008-09-05T21:21:00.000-07:00

because its pretty much confirmed.

My camera is gone.

Some where between leaving Vancouver and arriving in Toronto my camera went missing. And I have gone over it every last detail... called every venue at which it may have been left, but so far no avail. It seems I have exhausted all avenues, and my Nikon, my dear darling D40 has left me for good.

And so my heart aches.

I walk around in this new place, and involuntarily compose photographs. I see a chinese man with long whiskers selling lychee on Spadina and think of how I would crouch down low and zoom in to capture the hunch of his backbone. I parade down the streets dancing behind samba bands in school pride parades and I dream of running, as other fellow students, around the event, up on benches, on flatbeds of trucks take pictures from high and low to immortalize my first Frosh week.

But I can't, all I can do is crave to feel the snap of a shutter, and the thrill of a capture. All I can do is miss my camera, left behind, like the rest of my life.

New Begginings..

2008-08-31T12:49:00.000-07:00

Grocery shopping takes so much longer when you don't know the store, or haven't built up your own stores.

Stupid things rack up grocery bills, and suddenly I'm sweating over the price of Ziploc bags.

I have the blessing of living within a 5 block radius from a Loblaws (ie Superstore), Fiesta Farms (think halfway between Capers and Save On), and Street busy with independently owned small shops. Fresh is found easily, and best prices can be quickly compared, its ideal really.

My bedroom is nearing completion. I'm simply in need of a drill and level to hang my shelves and really get settled in. My room looks great thanks to my mom, IKEA and Homesense, the only downfall is the lack of natural light, fortunately there is a window that lets in fresh air.

So now, with a great pad, I am ready to set out and begin my journey...first day of school comes quickly.... more updates to come.....

T Dot...dot...dot...

2008-08-26T12:52:00.000-07:00

I have arrived.

Random Thoughts...

I have traveled through so many cities as a visitor, knowing that my footprints would so soon be eroded by the hoards of folk whose paths would cross my own. But here, I realize that I am simply taking the first step of my just like it. The new subway route, that I will eventually sleepwalk through, finding the classroom that will become a second home, the new city that will become my own. I live here now, I dream here now, I happen here now... how strange it is.

I cried when I saw the first building that displayed "Ryerson" on the side of it, an iron affirmation that I had indeed made it..got in..stayed in...traveled..arrived...enrolled and now this is the vessel that will move me forward, and I couldn't be more happy that I have made it aboard.

And I am nervous beyond belief, nervous about independance, nervous about school, about really making this happen for myself. I am so sad, neausously sad, achingly sad to have left my nest, home, mom, family, friends, co-workers, students, loves, cafes, restraunts, Westcoast downpours, mountains, the sea bus, the sky train...and...and...

BUT

I realize that today is the first day of the rest of my life. For so long I have been dreaming, scheming of what the future holds for me but now I must leap, and reach for all the dreams that I have dreamed up.

I knid of like it here...

Travelling...

2008-06-04T02:02:00.000-07:00

The last lazy days in Zürich have been both enjoyable and insufferable. It was pleasant that whenever I had seen it all I would stumble upon a spot, or a square that took my breath away. What has been so enjoyable is that the folk of Zürich seem to enjoy these spaces as much as me, men walk through parks together after work, couples make out, business folk read newspapers and the glamorous women stroll in their Prada flats.

While I have so enjoyed girl talk with Laura and Timo, lunches, shopping, eating cake and drinking wine over the past few days, I have been secretly counting the minutes to my departure. Of course, I am anxious to see Andrew and have someone to experience travel with, but also I....just...wanted...to...move.

It got me thinking about the nature of travel. While I see travel as an invaluable experience that brings understanding, tollerance, patience and education into a persons life, I also see travel as an indulgent, and even dangerous, escape. As we travel I feel we seek to somehow escape the disquiet, dissapiontment and discontent of our lives. Perhaps its a week in Mexico to forget about work stress, or a month traveling through South America to escape capitalism, or a weekend in the mountains to escape the city, we all run from something.

The very literal word of travel, to move away from one location, be it emotional, physical or spirtual to the next.

Its no wonder that scores of North American twenty-something students spend summers running around Europe, Asia and South America as they escape the pressures of deciding just what to do with their lives, themselves and discovering how they would like to relate to the world around them. I too am guilty of seeking such escape.

I took this trip to experience Europe before heading to journalism school, to enjoy a little down time, but also to get away from a career that has in many ways recently disapionted me, to escape my fight with my yoga practice and to just fill the time and the space until I could finally, finally just start to persue what I feel I was born to do. In my final days of spending time here all of those feelings have moved back into my life, that itch to go forth and make something of myself, the desire to move away from the things that no longer fullfill me the way they once did. And at the end of the day, that disquiet and discontent all gets channeled into the feeling to move on, move forward and explore something, somewhere new.

I have always in some ways admired those who travel for months, years or decades on end. The lifestyle is something I could not handle for too long (I need a larger shoe collection than this type of lifestyle allows). But I also wonder how it is that folk like this can detach themselves from stability both physical and emotional. I think of all the relationships that blaze like shooting stars bright and brilliant, but lacking the true depth that can only result from time with another. I wonder how they can detach from the stability of having a home (and a regular washing machine) physically.

In the end, I feel that travel is a very double edged sword. Travel offers a beautiful escape with life changing and expanding experiences, but can be dangerous, addictive, and indulgent. I suppose one simply has to know the difference between the two.

Last...

2008-06-03T02:11:00.000-07:00

These are the last few moments of my stationary life in Zurich. In about 20 minutes I will leave out the doors of the beautiful apartment I have called my home and not return. It breaks my heart to just type it. I have felt so at home here, save for feeling the bite of solitude as I was living alone, I will miss this place to no end.

So here begins my European journey. Its a miracle I managed to pack everything into my pack. I don't know what I was trying to prove when I came here with nothing but a 50 liter back pack and a small Heyes carry on. If any of you saw me pack for New York, with my three luggages for two weeks you'd be stunned to see the lack of things I have brought for this trip.

So now I have very few clothing options, and everything is crammed into my bags with no room for more (don't let that fool you into thinking I won't shop). But, that being said, don't feel sorry for me, feel sorry for Andrew who has to put up with me for two weeks living out of such a small selection. He has to deal with all the packing and repacking of goods, the irritation I am bound to feel when that one grey slinky DKNY top is at the bottom of my pack.

So here I go...first a spend a night or two with Timo at his place, then head to Venice to meet Andrew and thus begins our Euro Tour 2008....

its bound to be epic.

ughhh...

2008-06-01T15:32:00.000-07:00

So because I started the "To Switzerland" post a while ago before finishing it, it is listed lower on the page than usual. So scroll down for the latest post.

Or click here.

xox

food for thought...

2008-06-01T15:18:00.000-07:00

I would have liked to incorporate this into the last post, but it didn't quite fit and it was long enough as was. This was said by a yoga student named Michael during a conversation about quality of life in Switzerland versus the rest of the world. It pertains specifically to the readiness of post-secondary education in Switzerland versus the USA...

"It seems to me, that is almost as if in America education is deliberately unattainable. Like the elite keep people stupid and poor on purpose. If you give people an education you give them a voice. So if the population cannot educate themselves, they cannot fight their government, and the government does not have to answer to their people. It is like the rich make it more unattainable to have more control over the population."

Party like... a ROCKSTAR

2008-06-01T06:38:00.001-07:00

So I tried to party in Zurich once more....

And this time I hit it out of the ballpark...

All I needed was a little help, which came in the form of Laura and Pamela.

Here was the formula for success

Sex and the City (the movie) + champagne at a swanky Zurich bar + 3 girls who love to dance + a great DJ + MJ, Bob Marley, QUEEN, Busta Rhymes, Britney, Kanye West, Chilli Peppers, White Stripes + cosmopolitans + some great outfits and make up = The BEST girls night EVER!!!

it was one for the history books...

An oldie...but a goodie.

2008-05-29T16:27:00.001-07:00

This post is from my old website... but I like it so here it is for you to enjoy...

“I just don’t have time to write anymore, between teaching, practicing, rehearsing, taking public transit and fitting in what time with my friends I can, there never seems to be enough time to pick up a pen anymore.” I confessed to Monica
“What about writing while on the bus? I’m sure you could jot things down then.” she replied.
I hate being told what to, or more accurately, I hate the mere suggestion of what I could/should/might like to do. No matter how good your advice is, if its unsolicited it will promptly be rejected. This situation being no different: I lied in response. “I only EVER take transit in rush hour, with bags, BIG bags and I NEVER get a seat. So that would be impossible” Success! Another opinion rejected! Monica simply shrugged, though I’m confident she could see through my ploy.
Now,I’m starting to think that my resistance to such input is a bit of a problem, but its all a part of being so brilliantly stubborn (okay,okay so maybe brilliantly stubborn is an oxymoron, but I think my stubbornness is a sign of good character). But of course her comment stuck in the back of my head and a month I found myself the proud owner of (yet another) Moleskine journal, pocket sized this time, scribbling like a madwoman on the bus balancing with my arm halfheartedly linked around a pole, a 30 kilo bag dislocating the opposite shoulder, in a state of utter bliss because I.... ladies and gentleman...I was writing.

I’ve always written. I have notebooks filled with thoughts and stories from the time I was six (SIX!!!). Every major event in my life has been well documented, and I can easily reference any period in times of need (arguments, breakups, blackmail etc.). What’s interesting is not the volume of writing, but rather the quality of it. How, even at the age of ten, (TEN!!!) I strove to not just tell my story but tell it well; with similes, metaphors, tone and distinct style . I came to love parentheses and side notes, triple dots (...), rhyme, onomatopoeia, and any other literary device I could get my hands, or rather, pens on. Still, I never considered myself a writer.
There are women in the world who buy skirts, shoes, shawls bags or boots without, despite or even in-spite of necessity. I couldn’t call myself female if I didn’t like those things; but my problem is not clothes or accesories , I have an uncontrollable urge to spend money on pens, stationary, notebooks, books and anything to do with the very act of writing. My collection contains writing utensils in varying thickness ( 0.01 being my favorite) and colour (Turquoise or ultra fine black are the colours of choice), notebooks, (Moleskine’s in all shapes and sizes) stationary, ( Good God what they can do with paper these days!) and books (I have over 500 books, maybe a hundred of which I have read) in all sense of the word I am addicted .
To leave the house without a notebook and an assortment of pens (minimum 21) seems unfathomable to me. Words get stuck in my head like songs, I cannot control the fact that I have ‘words of the day’. To spend an entire day writing, be it at home, in a cafe, restaurant, on a street or beach feels like a day well spent to me. I fill hours re-writing my thoughts, re-wording, re-punctuating, until they are worthy of the ink and pages I am addicted to. Still I’d tell you “I’d like to be a writer, someday.”
But I live to to write. To find the words to embody the richness of what I experience. But I’m afraid to call myself a... Writer. I fear I’m not worthy of such a title, I have not suffered this art, I am not ready to face the scrutiny of others, I... am just scared of the title and responsibility of : Writer. I fear that calling myself a writer would bring greater judgement (from me and others) of what I produce and how I produce it (How would and could I cope with the rejection of the language that is so dear to me?) I fear it because the very admittance of the thing would force me to demand a new dedication to and a new quality from my work. Which is another issue entirely.
I’ve always wanted to speak to the world through the pages of novels, newspapers and magazines. But a career? How could I allow myself that? Burdened by the knowledge and idea that I am woman fortunate to have an education, and a North American lifestyle. How could I pledge my life to something that would bring me such great pleasure without giving to those who are less fortunate than I. No, I should become a peace-corps worker, a career political protester, a teacher, a nurse in Africa, a Doctor without Borders, a psychiatrist who helps build personal borders, something, someone, anyone that means something. Someone that somehow makes some kind of difference. But then, between enraged scribbles on the Skytrain, I looked up.
I saw a men reading newspapers, women reading books, people of different ages, sizes, shapes, sexes, races and classes reading magazines. In fact on this busy morning, as all busy mornings, it was easier to count the people who weren’t reading than the ones who were. All these people reading the very words that I love so deeply, all these people making the written word part of their day, part of their routine. All of them, and more, all the people on all the trains, in offices, streets, homes, classrooms, toilets, in every corner and nook of the world need and, more importantly, want words. I thought, ‘If just a fraction of them would read what I have to say, then I could make a difference. I could educate like a teacher, heal like a doctor or psychiatrist, fight for ideas like a protester. With the very use of language breaking all borders physical, geographical, psychological.’
Since that morning what has become more clear to me is that in pursuing what I love, I serve the world too. To be happy individually allows all others around us to do the same. By filling my cup so full of pleasure and joy for life that it overflows into others is the only way to successfully help others. Teacher, Doctor, Nurse, Psychiatrist would never fill my cup the way that Writer would and does. We are not born to cower in the shadow of our calling fear it while envying others for theirs. How ridiculous does it seem to reject our true calling and passion so that we do what is seemingly, stereotypically right? Ludicrous!
“Acceptance is art.” A good friend of mine once wisely wrote, and while I’m still working on my masterpiece of acceptance; I am ready to accept that my punctuation is not perfect, my vocabulary could improve and that my flow and structure need work. I am ready to do that work, hear what people have to say, I am ready to suffer for my art.

I am ready to accept that: I am a Writer.

To Switzerland....

2008-05-29T01:08:00.000-07:00

Sadly, my time in Switzerland is coming to a close. I am so excited to see the next parts of my journey, to experience Italy, France, see my old hometowns in Germany and Czech again, but I am sad to leave this place.

Switzerland has slowly and surely found its place in my heart.

Indeed some of the stereotypes, Zurich is teeming with bankers, prices are high, the cars shiny and expensive, people are punctual to a fault, the chocolate is amazing and patriotism is high. The swiss are comically stubborn about the most trivial of details, like always calling their currency the Swiss Franc, in line at the store it is not uncommon to hear someone ask you for 34.50 Swiss Francs. The electrical outlets in Switzerland are different from all the outlets in the rest of Europe making things considerably frustrating for even the swiss as many appliances are manufactured with the standard European plug. And yes of course there is the scandal of Jewish gold and assets that were "discovered" in swiss banks long after WWII.

But for their faults, I must say I have come to respect this country. Everything just seems to work. Pensions and government benefits are impressive. Post secondary education is virtually state provided (citizens will have to pay a maximum of 5 thousand dollars for a bachelors degree). Trains and busses run on time (if not a few seconds early) and are the stuff of legend.

Swiss parliament has an incredibly interesting structure. Rather than relying on who wins most votes, Switzerland's federal council is determined by a 'magic formula' that shares power between the four major parties. This council has seven ministers who all maintain regular working jobs as their positions are only part time (this includes the president). The president serves a one year term and the position rotates between the seven ministers of the federal council. Many of the laws are are voted on by Switzerland's population in public referendums that occur many times a year.

Yet, what is most striking in this land of affluence, is the attitude and goals of the people. In my experience, the swiss have moved beyond looking to their titles and bank accounts for validation. It is surprising the joy that people find in their work. While in North America we teach our children the dignity of being a doctor of lawyer while preaching the wisdom of going for a six figure salary, the swiss teach to always do what you love regardless of the perceived couth of the career.

Perhaps it is a result of the education system, or that shortage of money has never been a huge issue in this red and white flagged land. But you feel the passion the swiss have for what they do. Recently in a conversation about occupation a man said to me, "I love my job so much, everyday, I go somewhere new, I meet someone new, and for me this is so interesting." his eyes lit with passion as he described being a Whirlpool Mechanic. What would be considered a menial blue collar job, in which people usually would not feel inspired or stimulated this man described with such joy.

It is almost as if because there is no need to worry about education or because of the quality of it, there is a higher importance placed on moving the quality of life and efficiency of the nation forward. "The swiss have had money for generations," said another student, "they've already had all the cars, the properties, the toys and now are starting to downsize. It is as if there is a collective understanding here that money does not necessarily equate to happiness. People leave their six figure salary jobs and trade in their luxurious lifestyles for a simpler more joyful life."

But do not let that fool you. This is land where mothers walk behind strollers in stilettos, the elderly dress in bright colours and classy styles, and haircuts of children are immaculately styled. Movie theaters have martini bars, leather seats and attendees are better dressed than a majority of the people who attend ballets in Vancouver. The swiss certainly know how to be glamourous be it in a restaurant, a car, walking down the street or around the lake. Of all the cities I have visited, New York, LA, West and North Vancouver, I must say that the swiss are the most fashionable. That being said I am sure that there are New Yorkers and LA folk who out do the swiss easily, but as a group the majority of the population in Switzerland outdoes any other.

But when all is said and done it is the way that the Swiss government treats their citizens that makes me respect them the most. Aside from free post-secondary education, workers benefits are staggering. Each worker is automatically entitled to four weeks of paid holiday a year ( something virtually unheard of in North America). Pensions are surprising, for example, a swiss citizen who worked for some time in Switzerland, now living in Canada can receive a $1,200 pension from the swiss government along with full coverage of his Canadian medical expenses including prescriptions (again virtually unheard of).

With benefits like this it is easy to understand why the swiss are so proud of their country, and why it tops the lists of best places to live. As a visitor, Switzerland and Zurich in particular did not wow me at first, it does not have the same dazzle and seduction of metropolis' like New York, but it wins you over slowly and surely.

I feel I understand why many people see the swiss as rigid for on the surface these are immaculate, rich, punctual and efficient folk. It is when you look deeper that you see the true identity of the swiss, a culture that works hard to drive quality of life higher for both themselves and their country. Had I not spent this amount of time here, I too would have had a very limited view of this population. But after time after meeting so many interesting people, having so many engaging conversations, and gaining an understanding for this place and its people; I can say that I love Switzerland.

I will miss greatly it when I leave.

Laundry...

2008-05-21T14:39:00.000-07:00

Means numerous descents and ascents down the creaking wooden staircase that is the only means of moving between the floors of my building. What was first monotonous, and draining has become a fun game for me as I observe the way the lives of my neighbors spills from their apartments and into the hall. Having not met any of them , I make guesses and judgements based solely on the belongings strewn along my journey.

We start in the cellar, the earthy smell of concrete and brick is thick in the cool air, broken only by the scent of fresh laundry from the small space occupied by the washer drier and pile of clothes from whichever tenant has once again forgotten their laundry.

We climb our first flight of steps, not forgetting to turn off the light, and close the wooden door behind us.

We pass four strollers on our way out of the building, this is a place for families. There is a lone door on the bottom floor. Occupied by an older couple, they are glad to be so low in a lift-less apartment building. They are tidy and clean, and rarely hold on to unnecessary mementos, and this is reflected by the lone aluminum waste basket that stands outside their door.

As we climb the steps the earthy smell of the ground foyer is replaced by the smell of aged wood. I always smile, it reminds me of happy times playing in my grandmas attic as a child. Upon turning the corner and rising our second flight of steps we see the overflow of a rich family life.

There are three kids who run this household, with two merry parents trying to keep up. The mom has a knack for interior design, and loves to flip through books of swatches. Unfortunately with the kids, her swatches too often end up outside in the hallway, unloved collecting dust. They are my kind of folk, mac users, as is obvious by the stickers that adorn their kids' toys. Unlike their downstairs neighbors, these are sentimental folk, hanging on to the art work of their kids, old postcards from forgotten friends, and shoes that no longer fit. And when it doesn't fit into the house, it ends up in the hall. Life explodes from their home onto their doorstep and sometimes....falls down the neighbors steps.

Careful not to trip over the teenage shoes, and the toddler toys, we continue upward. To the only childless couple in the building. A chesterfield is kept company by an interesting modern hat stand, which too often hangs empty. While there are no kids, there is a beloved dog, small furry and cute, he's been know to have digestive problems that are the create the only mess in this highly organized power couple's life.

Up once more, and we've arrived on the steps of my outdoorsy, do-it-yourself-er neighbors. They are organized, stacking their materials carefully in labeled rubbermaid containers, they approach each project with mathematic precision. When not attempting a new project they are out enjoying the swiss wilderness, putting to good use the skies that stand carefully zipped up and ready for the next ski season to begin.

Finally we've made it to our door step, or the doorstep of Barblin and Christian. an outdoorsy couple as well, they enjoy hiking in the mountains with their day packs as much as they enjoy biking around lake Zurich in the summer. Travelers, their taste in decor includes trinklets they've picked up around the world: a small buddah head in asia, dried flowers from the country side, a pair of baby shoes in Paris. They are clean folk, and store all their cleaning products carefully behind a white sheet, but regardless of home much they clean they never seem to be able to downsize their ever growing shoe collection...

Step inside for a closer look...

...to be continued.

I SPOKE GERMAN!!!

2008-05-19T05:30:00.000-07:00

Walking home from the supermarket close to my place, I spotted a shoe repair shop a block from my place. This was increadibly fortuious since i brought a cute pair of Stephane de Roncoure shoes which I bought a size too small. I packed them in hopes of getting a true European cobbler to fix them.

I walked into tis tiny store, and a little man straight out of a fairy tale came to the front. With his small hunched frame, long polish stained fingers, braided grey hair and gold rimmed glasses, it was all I could do not to reach across and hug him. Anyhow, I asked if he spoke English and he confessed no, so he asked if I spoke Spanish and I said no. So I tried my best in german..and it came out of my mouth without a thought...

"Ich haben shouen"

Now, I realize there is nothing revolutionary about telling a cobbler that you have shoes. In fact, its kind of already implied when you walk in the door. But the fact that I didn't even need to think about saying something in german, or reference a dictionary....

thats a bit of a revolution.

woot.

Party like a grandma....

2008-05-18T05:40:00.000-07:00

I partied like a loser last night....

Here's the thing, for a young 23 year, free with her own apartment I have not been doing so good 'living it up'. I usually get off work around 8 o'clock, or 9:30 at the latest. At this point the street patios of the cafe's and lounge's that litter the streets around my neighborhood are teeming with Zurich's most beautiful folk. Each day, I simply retreat home to my pad, cook myself a nice meal, respond to emails, or post blogs, read a little and hit the hay.

I am in one of Europe's prime party destinations, I am free to do as I please and still I stay at home night and after night. Something had to be done, with only two weeks left I decided it was time to go out an party.

I asked around the studio, and got a good recommendation from Markus, a club owner. This guy is so convinced about the place he has recommended me to go, that he is constantly wearing a silver VIP ring proclaiming his dedication to the place. I figured that it must be the best thing since sliced bread.

So I got ready, tried something new with my make up that worked out great, and headed out at about 1:30 as per the directions of the locals. I walked through the red light district ( a stones throw from my place and got to the club a mere 4 blocks from my place.

I wondered if I was at the right place, there was one guy standing outside smoking a cigarette: one lone doorman and no line (quite the change of place from the armies and winding ques outside Granville night clubs). I dig for my id, passport and anything I can show for legit ID, the guy laughs at me glances at my passport and says "thats very nice.." I was stunned....then again the legal drinking age in Switzerland is 16.

So I continue, down the steps to this underground club, walking alone through hallways opening a succession of heavy metal doors all painted black like I'm heading into the depths of the CIA. Then I get there....

And the place REEKS.

There is so much smoke in the air that I am convinced that they've had the smoke machine going over time, but the smell denotes its just cigarettes and weed. So I decide to suck it up. But listen, its not just that every person in the club is smoking but its the fact that for the duration of this club's life, every patron has BEEN smoking. Essentially it was like sticking your face into a bucket of cigarette buts and taking a whiff....and staying there to breathe.

So I stash my stuff...I am going to be a cool party goer tonight. So I start to dance... but the beat doesn't change for the whole hour I am there. Sure it slows down, the crowd stops bobbing, and when the DJ speeds things up again they scream in relief, as if there was actually a chance he may have left it going halfspeed the whole night.

So here I am, annoyed with the drugged up clientele that keeps spilling their drinks on my shoes, annoyed with the every person who can't dance but only seems to be body checking me around the dance floor, I'm coughing (literally) from the smoke, and they bring out the laser pointers.

LASER POINTERS

Suspended from the ceiling are these lighting machines that flash lasers all around the club to the great delight of the party goers. This is when I realized I needed to leave, because rather than rejoicing like everyone else (it did look cool), I immediately cast my eyes downward and thought

"What a safety hazard!! What if one of things hits someone's retina!!"

That combined with the fact I was constantly thinking about the welfare of my brand new Globus leopard print scarf, wondering if I was able to hand wash it to get the smell out, made me decide that I really needed to leave.

So I went home, got on Skype with andrew, ate chocolate and finished the night like every other, safe and sound in my bed.

I really need to work on my cool status....

Lost... and found....the shopping version

2008-05-17T13:04:00.000-07:00

I got lost today.

In missing Vancouver coffee culture, I went out searching for a good coffee today in Zurich. I got lost, (not surprising since i wandered by word of mouth around Zurich without proper directions) and found myself in the lingerie section of Globus (Zurich's Holt Renfrew equivalent). I literally hyperventilated over Dolce and Gabana and Dior undergarments... and the other brands too...holy shit do European's ever know how to do underwear right!! Lace, mesh, tie up undies and bras, bras that hold the breast but do not cover the nipples, underwear in every conceivable cut colour and texture of fabric.

It was a transcendent experience for me. I nearly wept over the red lace bra with black white polka dot bows... (yes that exists!!)

Anyways....

I made it out of Globus, only buying a fabulous silk leopard print scarf, which was a necessary acquisition. You see all of Zurich wears scarves, its like theres a scarf club and every woman is am member ( even some men join). In fact if someone is not showing their membership by donning a scarf, its probably because this is the one day in the week they take a break.

I sought so desperately to belong, a stranger in a strange land, the least i could do was to conform by buying a scarf so that I truly fit in with the locals. Now I can make eye contact with the girls on the streets and feel as if I am one of them...a member of the Zurich scarf club.

Zurich Style...

2008-05-16T11:46:00.000-07:00

The sloppy slapping of my flip flops has become offensive in a culture where the click of high heel on cobblestone is the norm. I admit it, I am envious of the swiss girls. If you've ever flipped through the pages of a magazine and thought "Really, who looks like that when they leave the house?" Well, the swiss do.

I have never seen so many perfectly manicured haircuts, expertly accessorized outfits, and immaculate shoes. On Sundays at lake Zurich, if it wasn't for the fact that stores were closed, I would swear all of Zurich collectively went to the salon and stylist for their promenade on the lakeside.

I'm perpetually plotting what I would be wearing if I wasn't living out of a backpack (black short-sleeve with the tie collar, black and white polka-dot skirt, MiuMius). If only the sold Mary Poppin's bags, I could REALLY use one right about now.

The thing is, my inspiration to dress better, girlier is not out of insecurity, or feeling inadequate next to the perfectly put together swiss. Its that the women of Europe inspire me to find the same thing within me, that they express so freely : femininity.

The women here are women: hair styled, lipstick donning, perfumed, highheeled women. The glory of it, is something that must be experienced to be understood. Everything here reflects a woman's right to look good, athletic stores are few and far between while shoe boutiques litter Swiss streets, there are hairdryers are everywhere (Bikram Yoga provides 4!! Two communal hairdryers, in front of a communal primping mirror and one in each of the mens and ladies showerooms), and mirrors are readily available for a mid stroll primp down the Bahnoff Strauss.

What is most refreshing is that the elderly look just as fabulous as the young. Just this week, I was joined by a woman in her late sixties for a piece of afternoon cake at Sprungli (Zurich's top confectionary, and the makers of Lindt Chocolate). The street patio was busy, and so she shared my table, wearing kakhi pants a white shirt and a funky iridescent jacket, she had a wonderfully dyed hairstyle, and after finishing her ice cream was sure to re-apply her lipstick before grabbing her oversized shades to go. Having grown up in Vancouver, I am thankful to the Swiss for showing me that aging does not confine you to fleece and Mark's Work Warehouse fashion.

Having learned so much from these folk, I wonder what the Italian and French women will have to add....

I cannot wait to learn.

A cure for the blue...

2008-05-15T03:26:00.000-07:00

I have a strategy for when am upset about things... usually when I am in a terrible rut of a mood, I call Translink. I chose a bus I frequent, (usually the 19 because its always late) and I complain. There is something about the way that complaints department knows how to respond that just makes you feel like everything is going to be okay.

Today I have decided to add to my strategy.

Whenever I am depressed I am going to call hotels in Italy and make reservations. Sure, I will cancel within a day's time but, the experience! I've been calling hotels in Venice to book a room for Andrew and I. since its the weekend when we arrive, there is added urgency to find a great place for a greater price. What once seemed impossible to do under 400 Euro, seemed within reach once a few emails were sent out.

The first phone call I made was to Leo at the Hotel Bernardi "Si? Pronto!" He answered and I immediately melted to a puddle on the floor. I gathered myself quickly and made the correct arrangements. Still I thought I could get a better deal so I called Silvana at Hotel Marte, her cheery nature was contagious. She ended the conversation with an overjoyed "Perfecto!!.... Ciao, Ciao, Ciao!!" As if I had just told her she had won the lottery.

I'm still shaking with the joy of Italian... in reading Eat, Pray, Love once more I am beginning to realize and understand what prompted Liz Gilbert to go and study Italian and why she felt it could heal all her wounds...

Oh how I can't wait for Italy!!!

Zurich... a temporary home

2008-05-14T07:58:00.000-07:00

A week has gone by, and today marks day 11 of my trip. Everyone talks about how expensive Switzerland is and I must concur, prices here could stand to be cheaper. But alas, I can't complain. My apartment is painfully beautiful. Situated on the top floor of an older building, its wooden beams and vaulted ceilings won me over immediately. Now, I have to force myself to step out of the house because sitting in front of open windows by my computer, and eating fresh bread and cold cuts has turned me into more of a homebody than I would like to admit. But I have told myself that enjoying my accommodations is also a part of my journey.

Adventures have come in all shapes and sizes. Learning to work a gas oven was a little scary, the elements were not too much trouble, but the oven oh the oven. I looked up on google how to light a gas oven, afer not being able to work it out on my own (and I really tried, for like 10 minutes). I psyched myself out after reading everyones warning, I tried to figure out just how much gas had gotten into the air after trying to light the damn thing for the last 10 minutes, and decided I didn't like even coming to a conclusion. Even after airing the area for ten minutes, I was still convinced that I was going to blow up the apartment and burn down the building, or at least my eyebrows (which would have been equally tragic). Luckily nothing happened, except of course that i lit the thing and made a great dinner.

I've explored a good chunk of Zurich now, but explorations have been limited to my neighborhood, the lake and old town. I've done some touristy things, but still have a small list of things to do. One of which is to go out clubbing, the other to see an exhibition happening which features a replica of King Tut's tomb, hike up to veiw point looking over all of Zurich and do some more drinking and eating at local spots.

This and some more weekend trips to explore Switzerland, and I should leave with a good impression of the place. Expect more adventure stories to come....

Finally..

2008-05-08T02:00:00.001-07:00

Its taken me a few days to secure a good internet connection and find the correct adaptors for my Canadian plugs. But I am all set now, and ready to start blogging.

To bring you all to date, I am traveling in Europe for the next two months. I start teaching yoga in beautiful Zurich for one month before meeting Andrew in Italy and traveling with him for two weeks and then visiting my family and the Czech Republic before heading home to Vancouver in July.

Here are some entries I wrote while en-route to Europe.....

Vancouver - Calgary May 2, 2008

Departure… and so it begins.

Some tears and a margarita and I was on my way. In tearing myself from Andrew and making my final phone calls I still remained desensitized to the reality of Europe. This enigma of history and heritage lies before me and I feel like I may as well be going to Winnipeg for the weekend.

As I staggered (I don’t remember asking for a double) from my seat down the carpeted gateway, I laughed out loud. “I am going to Europe.” I thought.

I didn’t even make it through the take off and was out like a light, thankfully closed mouthed and drool free.

The descent into Calgary woke me gently. Conversation bubbled around the airplane, eager Europe bound passengers reciting their travel itineraries eyes bright and eager like small children.

The hour in Calgary offered me an opportunity to flex my journalism

muscles. Finding out from my fellow passengers the EuRail passes can only be bought outside of Europe, I had 45 minutes and a cell phone to figure out how to score a pass. Andrew came though with a flight center phone number and I managed to secure a pass that will be available for use three days from now. Crisis averted.

Amsterdam May 3, 2008

I arrived in the Amsterdam airport and wasted no time. I b-lined to the Capri-Sonne juices and bought a bag of Haribo coke bottles. I nearly squealed when presented with all the yogurt options, man Europe has it right! With a Body Shop and Whistler Water, this airport is so heavily westernized its disappointing.

Though I would love to spend the day in Amsterdam and fly out to Zurich tomorrow,

I managed to find a flight for under 200 Euro to Basel where I will catch a train to Zurich and arrive with enough time to get somewhat settled.

In recent conversation a friend told me that our sense of smell is our strongest of the five. While I briefly stepped out of the airport, my nose filled with the small of cured meat and European cigarettes, and I recognized it. Like, “oh yes, this is the smell of home.”. Could it be that I remember?

The people are already well dressed and beautiful, but I am still searching, hungry for an experience that will make me feel like I am in Europe

more to come tonight I promise......

I love...

2008-04-09T23:09:00.000-07:00

My students. It is so gratifying when someone genuinely tells you they've enjoyed your class, when people go out of their way to make it to your class. I simply cannot tell you how greatfull I feel. When I started to teach I questioned whether I would be able to comand respect within a class, but to be appreciated and enjoyed by students is a fantasy beyond my wildest dreams.

Though I must say this: learning people's names makes such a HUGE difference as an instructor. Since I got back from NY I've been making a conscious effort to learn every students nae in my classes. The value in learning a persons name, is that it builds a connection between teacher and student.
When you use a name you create an interaction, and that interaction can lead to better understanding of an individual, a relationship of sorts is instantly formed. I've enjoyed teaching in the last month more than ever, because of these relationships. I have shared more laughs with my students, more inside jokes and have helped and encouraged more people than in my past two years of teaching. I feel that I finally understand what it means to have a dialog between you and your students. I care about them, they care about me and we share with each other, my students pull me through class as much as I pull them through.

man...this love is forever.

The Whore and the Madonna

2008-04-06T23:06:00.000-07:00

This is part of the reason I got into journalism school...

A glistening scantily clad Beyonce gyrates and rolls around in the sand, while a panel of contributors comment about her blatant display of sexuality. Interviews are incomplete without questioning celebrities how they feel they are influencing youth, and the example they are setting for the younger generation. Studies are produced showing a relationship between sex in the media and the attitudes of adolescents, yet the relationship is not clinically understood, recommendations are made. Doctors, columnists, psychologists and laymen alike point the finger at the entertainment industry, recommending parents block, censor and protect their girls from this plague of promiscuity. The injustice is not that sex and promiscuity has become prominent in the media, but rather, that through a lack of understanding we continue to perpetuate archaic gender stereotypes.

“ I feel guilty when I want to look beautiful” admits 20 year old Julie, “every time I go out shopping and I buy something I feel pretty, or god forbid, sexy, in I feel like I am just degrading myself. At the end of the day I don’t want to be seen as ‘that girl’.” Julie is among the ranks of girls who rather than turning to promiscuity as a result of the media, rejects her sexuality and femininity for fear of belittling herself. The issue that Julie addresses is one that is not often televised when it comes to the issue of sex and the media. Julie’s fear centers around becoming “that girl”: a sexually expressive, promiscuous woman compensates for a lack of intelligence with sex appeal.

Julie’s dilemma is not new; women have faced the same issue since the time of Christ. Are they virtuous, good and holy like Mary the mother of Jesus, or are they promiscuous, dirty and sinful like Mary Magdalene? Are they the Whore or the Madonna? For centuries we have taught women that intelligence and virtue are not synonymous with sexuality and free expression of femininity.

In 2007 the message is not sent through scriptures and priests but through the new voice of reason: the media. According to the New Journal of Medicine, “teenaged viewers see 143 incidents of sexual behavior on network television at prime time each week, with portrayals of three to four times as many sexual activities occurring between unmarried partners as between spouses. As much as 80% of all movies shown on network or cable television stations have sexual content. An analysis of music videos indicates that 60% portray sexual feelings and impulses,” But, could it be that it is not exposing youth sex in the media that creates the greatest damage, but it is the reaction that follows that is most damaging?

While peackocks display feathers and penguins create bugle calls; women dance, dress, and flirt seductively to attract a mate. The desire to be beautiful, sexually appealing and alluring is something that is innate to any species that intends to survive. Named one of the basic needs in Abraham Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, sex is a huge psychological motivator. Not only does sex motivate but it sells, and in a society where money equals security it is not surprising that the media capitalizes upon the power of biology.

And when media sells sex, instead of encouraging understanding and education we force censorship, installing v chips to steer our children away from indecent material. We watch and air programs on TV were critics scoff at artists who dance provocatively in music videos, we write articles about how outrageous sex in media has become. Yet very rarely do we choose to use these media conditions for educational purposes, or to empower women in their sexuality. As we choose to denounce sex in the media we teach our girls that their sexuality is dirty and shameful. This, only conflicts with the realities of the world they live in and their natural desires which only breeds further confusion.

By not teaching our girls to understand all aspects of themselves, we create an environment in which they are either ashamed of their developing sex drives, or overindulge in its temptations. We continue to teach that there are two routes, the virtuous and the un-virtuous. And it is this that is the greatest tragedy. Because we lack the ability to become open-minded we rob our girls of developing into empowered intellectuals who are fully realized sexually, able to both indulge and censor themselves within reason.

It is not sex that we should be battling, or the desire to be sexy or even the exposure of our youth to sex. What we should be fighting is ignorance, and we should empower our girls to discover their sexuality in a healthy way. We should teach them that they can be sexy and intelligent, appealing and independent, strong and beautiful, and that all of these virtues are synonymous with becoming a fully realized woman. We should teach our girls that they can be both the Whore and the Madonna, and they need not be ashamed of either aspect of who they are.

By Barbora Simek

Barbora's Favorite Things

2008-04-05T17:17:00.000-07:00

yeah yeah... I copied Oprah so deal with it

Pigma Micron Pens 0.01

These fineliners not only provide a clear and fine line, but feature archival waterproof ink. Ideal for folks like yours truly, who have been known to spill water-bottles all over their journals.

MAC Eyeshadow

Alright, everyone knows that MAC is superior in providing a wicked spectrum of vibrant colour. But a lesser known fact is how long wearing this stuff is. Look, I do Bikram yoga, so I sweat hard. After a night of hardcore dance-floor destroying, a few wee hours of sleep, copious amounts of alcohol I have been known to show up to teach yoga class looking like I was ready for the golden globes....let's see L'Oreal do that. (not that I condone sleeping in make up)

And...during teary therapy sessions MAC always stays put and looks good as new as long as you dab, don't smudge.

Coconut Water

Electrolytes up the ying yang, this naturally delicious drink is delish after a hard workout...try it!!

iEverything

phone, laptop, earphones, TV, tunes, laptop.... long story short I love apple. Bite me.

Nikon D40

My lightweight baby is so ideal for a pro shot in a heartbeat. Love this camera for shooting life's kodak moments.

MAC Lillacrush Lip Gelle

Lipgloss thats slippery not sticky...so pucker up!!

NARS Minoii BodyGlow

There is a reason why the ancients lathered themselves in oil. Oil makes skin glisten in a way that makes lotion jealous. Not only that but lotion is full of synthetic stabilizers to keep it emulsified, leaving that slippery feeling as a result of your skins inability to absorb the junk. This dry oil not only absorbs better but smells like you want to jump between the sheets to boot.

more to come....

Adieu

2008-04-05T16:35:00.000-07:00

Dear Vancouver,

I will never tire of your views. Watching the back allies of Gastown grow nearer and nearer on the sea buss will whet my appetite for your streets forever. My westcoast princess, watching the september sun reveal the intricacy of your peaks, bathing in your emerald green waters and searching for cafes amidst your city streets will draw me back time and time again. No, Vancouver, our love affair is far from over. You will always be my metropolitan portal to the wild, my dewed oasis and my home.

But my dearest, things have to change, we cannot move forward the same that we have . I feel caught and stiffed in your smallness, a quaint city no more, I feel held within your perimeters. And now to grow I must outgrow your city limits and move east. Search for a new spaces, places and faces to fertilize the next growth spurt.

My dear, lets make the most of these final moments. I want to see you in your element, be it rain, sun, wind or snow I want to experience the best of you. Let us make lasting memories so that when we part your brilliance will shine so bright in my memory I will be forced to return to you.

love

Barb

Its time you all knew that....

2008-03-19T11:02:00.000-07:00

I have a therapist.

Yes a therapist, a certified psychologist, a counselor, a "shrink". And I am not embarrassed or shy to admit it. Yet by admitting it I have been startled by people's reactions...

"Wow, thank you for sharing something so private with me"

"That is so brave of you to admit that you are in therapy"

"Really!?! Wow! I had no idea"

Am I missing something? Why is being in therapy such a big deal?

We have all dealt with shit in our lives. Some of us more than others, but whether it was your parents, the bullies on the playground or the super models in the magazines at some point we get fucked up by life. The only difference is that some wear their wounds better than others, some people's pain you can see others you can't.

I became an expert at hiding mine, only when I hid my pain I hid my brilliance as well. There were a lot of trip ups that lead me there, but ended up seeing an image of myself so skewed I would have fallen into a life far less rewarding.

So yes, I am in therapy and I am damn proud of it, because it is not easy! There were whole weeks where I felt I was wearing my emotional turmoil on the surface of my skin and every bump stung like a fresh wound. And after months of dealing, sifting through old ideas, of struggling to go against my conditioning, I am not ashamed; not of crying on the bus, not of freaking out unnecessarily and not of admitting I am in THERAPY.

Top 10 Reasons I <3 NY

2008-03-13T00:14:00.000-07:00

My love affair is with New York is no secret. I've wanted to live there since I was 13, and as I grow older my passion grows deeper. After this years two week excursion I have come up with this top ten list.

10. The Museum of Natural History...

I walked through this place with my mouth gaping open, tripping over my own feet with delight. Someone designed this place with me in mind, artifacts, rocks, civilizations and evolution, science and archeology, and dinosaurs. Where was this museum when I was 8?

9. The Scented Candles...

Okay, designer scented candles in Vancouver are an arm and leg ( I know because I have paid it) but in New York not so much. New York boutiques almost always carry at least one, if not three, lines of scented candles. Not only that but they also burn one of these candles so that every boutique has its own signature scent.

8. At the club...

The girls apologize when they step on your shoes. And do so sincerely. No joke!! Not only that, they are aware of your shoes, and make a conscious effort not to step on your shoes, even when drunk!! I was speechless... I ended up thanking a girl for apologizing for stepping on my darling Mui Muis.

7. Diversity...

I found it so fascinating really being surrounded by people of so many different cultures. Not only that, but the diversity leads you to be able to experience so many fascinating culinary adventures. What struck me most about New York's diversity is being able to experience something so wholly outside of your own reality. Stereotypes are shattered and simultaneously confirmed, while understanding is deepened. Experiences can be uncomfortable, awkward, inspiring, surprising but are always interesting.

6. The Neighborhoods...

Chelsea and its museums, Lower East Side and its vintage stores, Midtown with its glitz and glam, and the list goes on. Emerging from the subway one never knows what exactly to expect, what is for sure is the that your experience will be different and intriguing. Whats more is the architecture that is scattered through these neighborhoods is a delightful juxtaposition of old and new. Gothic churches lie next to skyscrapers, while 80's box apartments stand across the street and brownstones are littered throughout.

5. The Subway...

yes there are rats, and congestion, homeless people and often unpleasant odors. But the system is so comprehensive traveling around Manhattan is incredibly easy.

4. "Junk" Food...

New Yorkers know how to do the bagel and cream cheese thing so well. A bagel comes with its own weight in delicious artery clogging cream cheese, and is dense yet fluffy, not a brick as is the Canadian custom. And of course...there is no such thing as a bad slice in NY. I have no clue what they do to make their pizza taste so good, whatever it is they are doing it right!!

3. Art...
The Met, MOMA, Broadway and Lincon Center are just the beginning. Art rivals litter in this city, found in the most unlikely of places: the walls of the subway stations, decorating barbed wire fences, unlikely theaters up precarious staircases and the t shirt of someone passing by. Public art is provocative and whether it is appealing or not always leads to good discussion. Whether your tastes are classical, modern or something altogether different, the New York art scene will have something for you.

2. The men...

I knew I had landed in New York when the border guard spent more time hitting on me than asking me the regulatory questions. When a man checks you out in this city, he wants to get caught. When you look good, you KNOW you look good. In the clubs, when you dance the men don't scurry into corners like nocturnal creatures running from lamplight, they step up and buy you a drink....LOVE IT!!!

1. The NY attitude...

there is no time for bullshit in New York. People are upfront, honest and kind. They will give you honest directions, they will check you out and tell you what they think. Go to coffee by yourself, and you can still have endless conversations with the surrounding clientele. With people being so upfront and honest, you are forced to throw your facades by the wind and act from an authentic place. Forget passive aggressive bullshit, forget manipulation, and welcome in honesty and truth. Thats what makes New York my favorite place on earth.

Resurection...

2008-03-12T23:59:00.000-07:00

Of the blog.

So its been a while. Slowly and cumulatively I have been realizing constructive having a blog can be. I have so many ideas for things that I would like to write about yet so few of them come to be materialized. Yet I never lifted a pen or finger. I figure that publishing my own blog is a good step along the road to getting someone else to publish me.

So, here goes nothing. I hope you all chose to tune in and enjoy.

Much love

B

In the span of a year....

2006-02-11T00:06:00.000-08:00

I will see this veiw...

Grandma, I'm comming home

5:55

2006-01-25T00:03:00.000-08:00

My eyes tore open and adjusted to the dim light. The emerald blue sky outside denoted that the hours had sunk far into evening. I lay immobile for decades of seconds, the stiffness of dehydration had flooded my joints and masterfully engineered a deep throbbing between my temples . This alone made the ascent from the floor agonizing....'What time is it?' I muttered to myself, before glimpsing the alarm clock planted at my feet. '5:55' it blurted in rhythmic flashes, the symmetry of the hour mocking my disheveled condition.

Shaking my head I attempted to make sense of the past couple of hours, 'or was it minutes?' I caught myself mid thought. It all seemed so unfeasible and yet all the while so real. I closed my eyes and allowed my mind to travel back to the warmth of the summer night...

Desiring fresh air, I left the amber glow of midsummer festivities and stepped out onto the dimly lit balcony. My shoes created a rhythmic clicking on the concrete balcony, while my black dress moved slightly in the warm evening breeze. With a glass of champagne in my hand I leaned against the ivy clad raining to admire the sight before me. The penthouse suite offered an unparalleled view of the city, skyscrapers littered the skyline, glittering like diamonds with spectrums of light that shone from within. But tonight it was not the city that took my breath away, but the sky that hung above.

Not a single cloud hung in the bronze sky. What I had always known to be a black or blue heaven at such a late hour , now displayed magnificent sepia tones. Rich and deep brown melted into blood red, rose quartz pink, to light amber and then beige. The sky was lit with more stars than I had seen on the darkest of nights far from the obtrusive lights of the city. It was as if a nebula from the farthest reaches of the galaxy had made its way to neighbor our blue and green planet lending its gas, plasma and dust to provide a night time spectacular unlike that which I had ever seen.

Momentarily, I looked back to the warmth of the party continuing on behind me and smiled at the moment's perfection. Turning back to the perfect sky, my breath stopped, in slow motion my glass slipped from fingers, danced with gravity as it fell before shattering into hundreds of peices on the concrete some three stories below. I could not believe my eyes, this surely could not be. I ran... back through the party, out the apartment down the swirling staircase, out of the doors to the street below. I couldn't understand. It did not make sense, no force of nature, no force of man could create the scene that was playing before my eyes. I fell to the corner of the sidewalk with my eyes glued to the sky. An intuitive knowledge rose from within, and I knew that this was not no show, no figment of my imagination but true and real events unfolding in the most impossible of circumstances.

They had hung the Golden Gate Bridge in the sky. Hundreds of clouds colored in the same sepia tones as the night sky composed its grandeur. The clouds hung together like the interconnected tissues of magnified marrow. The strength of one of the worlds greatest architectural wonders was made known simply by its colossal size and impeccable symmetry as it floated nearer and nearer. Soon it took up more than half of the heavens, before silently and abruptly, it stopped. Though its position ceased to grow nearer, the scene continued to move in a now different and unfathomable way.

Slowly the clouds began to break away, falling away like the pieces of a jigsaw puzzle turned to an angle not suited to the laws set by gravity's dictatorship. Had I been able to utter words I would have alerted all those inside, but due to the sheer impossibility of what was happening I could spare none. With my mouth gaping open, I watched as bit by bit the bridge fell to shambles. It was what happened next that silenced more than my voice, but the onslaught of loud thoughts as my mind struggled to make sense of it all.

With the clouds falling faster and faster, it became clear that the bridge would soon cease to retain a perceptible form. As the final grouping of clouds fell away, the air trembled and the sky exploded. Thousands of black birds projected through the hole in the sky where the bridge had once stood. I followed as the massive flock of black silhouettes dis burst across the sky. And then my eyes fell upon them..... the Empire State, The Pyramids and several other architectural marvels of the world were suspended in the heavens above. Piece by piece they too began to fall apart.

Crowds of pedestrians had begun to form through the streets, all pointing, all waiting in horror as their minds slowly began to conceive of the horror of dissipating reality. The clouds forming buildings and monuments began falling apart quicker and quicker, soon a cannon of black bird explosions was beginning to fill the sky. Soundlessly they soured as the sky's darkness increased, soon very little of the night's sky was visible. Black engulfed every single corner of the sky. It seemed to me that the world had never been so still, had never been so silent, paralysis had infiltrated all living things, no a soul had the courage to breath or blink. Motionless fear slowly began filling the spirits of all and a shallow murmur gave way to terrified screams as blackness began to descend upon the earth. I stood still as frantic crowds began to dash through the streets. I observed in petrified horror as the buildings around me began to slowly fall apart soon become un-recognizable. Intuitively I knew what was to happen next. As I closed my eyes, I began to feel the soft caress of wings, opening them again I found myself surrounded in darkness. Now I knew...this was the end.

I fell through space, through time, and was born to this floor, this time 5:55. Stiff and sore I lie surrounded by black.... with no past, no present, no future. No hope.

We the mourning.....

2006-01-23T00:38:00.000-08:00

"What becomes of a man in his final hour?

What forces draw his soul toward his final rest?

And why?

What sensations does he feel with his last synapses'?

And why?

What final images project in his mind?

And why?

Most of all...... WHY?"

We the mourning ask.

We the mourning, as we are defined: those who have lost. Those who remain to endure the pain of having one ripped from our lives. The tear that leaves us torn......

Torn and asking same questions posed for centuries....

"Why?"

Whole heavens have been constructed....

and still it is not enough.

Schemes of justification have been created....

and still it is not enough.

We are still left sifting through facts, ideals and ideas, measuring the good and the bad the pro and con alike, yet the scales of justice never balance. The cold facts prick like thorn to the very tissue of the heart. Each death, individual in circumstance is similar in tragedy. Yet the tragedy is ours to own. Their souls have departed, be it cruelly or un, they are at rest, whether in a place far from earth, or destined to the very soils that once gave them life. No, it is us: the mourning, that live to endure the pain of loss .

And though we are the mourning, we are also the blessed. It is our lives that were blessed to be touched by the soul and the presence of the departed. The depth and magnitude of our pain a testimonial to the depth and magnitude of the person. Though it is our curse to be the mourning, it is our blessing to be those that loved, laughed, and shared in the life of another.

In memory of Brendan Midgley, though we are sad to see you go, we will always remain proud to have known you...

Random...

2006-01-06T23:17:00.000-08:00

Wicked band you should all check out :

"TV on the Radio"

Suzanne's Message...

2005-12-30T16:23:00.000-08:00

The heat and discomfort of my condition left me fleeing the yoga room in an angry frenzy. With my mind spinning, I fell into a white leather couch in the marble lobby of the Yoga college. I could have chosen to venture outside and soak in the warm California sun, but the soft body of the couch held my body just right and the warm breeze flowing past the glass doors soothed my mind. I sat, breathing deeply, trying to dissipate the subsequent dizziness of deciding what the information, pain, ridiculous amount of yoga really meant to me. I planned on spending the few hours relaxing in that very spot, soaking in my silence and stillness...

But then, I caught a scent, a perfume so sweet I had to know what it was so that I could have it for myself. Surely, it was not one of my fellow trainees; hygiene had become as basic as possible in order to conserve energy, and cut down time spent in the washroom shared by some 180 exasperated yoginis. No, it was not one of the women I sweat alongside with day in and day out, it was the colourful woman who sat next to me.

She turned to Rachel and I and asked with wide eyes " How is training going?" we answered with slight enthusiasm, our answers not nearly as in depth as she obviously desired. Unsatisfied with our run of the mill, "Oh its going really well, hard, but really good," she continued to ask question after question. At some point I found the annoyance of having my peace robbed by an inquiring stranger dissipate. In its place grew a fascination with the things she was telling me. We began with sharing basic facts about ourselves, our backgrounds and our practices.

Her name was Suzanne, a jewelry designer and practitioner of 5 years, she had recently made LA her home after moving from New York. Soon our conversation began to journey down many different paths, exploring a variety of topics. Two of those paths we traveled, left their sights so deeply ingrained in my mind that I feel an absolute necessity to share them.

" Fear," I said, "I've always had a negative relationship with the emotion, if you can call it that. But I am beginning to feel that even fear has its purpose. Fear somewhat serves to give us some sort of guidance, to keep us in check."

"I understand your point," she said, "and I could even argue it. But I've come to understand something different about fear. I truly feel that there it has no productivity. That decisions should rather be made based on knowledge and not fear. '
' For example, imagine I was in Hawaii, standing alone on a beach late at night. And, imagine that there is nothing that I would rather do than take a swim. Taking into consideration that there is a rocky shore, and as the tide comes in the swells are huge with the dark making things hard to see, swimming is really, not such a good idea. But, if I were to make that decision based on fear, I do nothing but demean myself. I debilitated by being in a position where I feel I cannot do something.
'If, however, I can look out at the waves understand their purpose and my purpose; and realize, that at that time of night, on the rocky shores as the tide comes in our purposes have nothing to do with each other. I can then make my decision not to swim based on knowledge, empowering myself rather than choosing to cower in fear. This way I know that I am capable of swimming, but it results in consequences I would not gladly endure. In this situation fear and knowledge lead to the same conclusions, but choosing to be fearful only made me weak, where knowledge gave me power."

Our conversation continued to grow, and take many twists and turns until our discussion arrived at the intersection of..

"Insecurity?" Though it was one word, I said it knowing she would understand I sought to know what she had to say.
"No need for it." Suzanne began, "There is a realization we all must make in our time here. There has never been a person like you that has walked this earth, and there will never be another like you again. This in itself, the very fact you exist, is a gift! You are an individual and a miracle, and being given the privilege of existence it is you DUTY to live to your best potential. There is no use looking around seeing what so-and-so is doing in hopes that you can be him or her, because you can never be that person. You can only be you, and to be the best you is the most beautiful and powerful achievement. '
'Not only is it important to realize this about ourselves, but its important to realize this about others as well. Its too easy to look at others and put ourselves on a pedestal. I am a jewelry designer, but that makes me no better than the guy who drives the garbage truck down the road. I don't look at him feeling sorry and say 'Gee, I'm glad that's not my job,' I NEED him! He NEEDS me! All of us are dependent on each other, and no one is better than the other, we all have our own role to play.
'When put in the context of insecurity, attempting to play someone else's role in life, by putting ourselves down, by seeking to be like someone else, doesn't contribute to the greater picture: the interplay between us all. It simply robs us of another brilliant person strong in their individuality. Be yourself, be proud; don't try to fit into a mold you do not fit into, because the only mold that fits is, in fact, your own."

The words that Suzanne left me within the hour and half we spent talking on the couch, have continued to touch me and change the way I view and conduct myself in my day to day situations. I strive to always remember that we all have our path, beauty and purpose, and in understanding and appreciating this in others and our environment, we can all live a life rich with knowledge and power, free of fear and inhibition.

Random....

2005-12-27T20:15:00.000-08:00

FACT:

Most elephants weigh less than the tounge of a blue whale.

Christmas...

2005-12-27T11:08:00.000-08:00

It seems that every year the discussion of what Christmas has come to mean in our modern society intensifies. Christmas was once defined by celebrating the birth of Christ, and the beginning of his coming. Yet now, in the year of 2005, Christmas is seemingly a prisoner of corporation, tortured into relinquishing its once holy meaning, beaten into telling us to 'Buy! Buy! Buy! Though Christmas controversy is seemingly new it has, in fact, surrounded the holiday since its inception. However the question remains; has Christmas lost all its meaning, or is it simply undergoing a metamorphosis coming to mean something new?

Christmas is known to be a celebration of the birth of Christ. Yet even this is a falsehood, as many historians have come to agree. According to descriptions from the Bible, "shepherds [were] living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night." (Luke 2:8) This passage alone has led historians to believe that Christ was in fact born in spring or summer months as the winters would have been to harsh for people to sleep exposed to the elements. So why is it that the eve of December 24th and day of December 25th was in fact selected?

As Christian powers seized Europe, a challenge lay in converting the masses from the dominant religions of the times which varied from Paganism, Roman mythological beliefs, to local and regional beliefs throughout Europe. To achieve conversion, action was taken to replace existing traditions with those of Christian origin; in doing so eliminating the religions they were associated with. During December many of these religions observed mid-winter festivals, and traditions while others paid homage to different gods.

In Rome, the festival of Saturnalia was celebrated from December 14th to 25th paying homage to the god of peace and plenty : Saturn. During this time of "relaxation and merriment ..law courts were closed. No public business could be transacted. Schools kept holiday." Wars and Punishment ceased and gambling was condoned by the government. The French celebrated the 'Festival of Fools' on December 26th during which the English Lords of Misrule paraded as mock clergy, bishops, popes, abbots and archbishops. Babylonians, Egyptians and Germans observed mid-winter and fertility festivals. The Persians celebrated the birth of their sun-god, Mithras, on the 25th of December. Because the coming of winter ended the growing season, Scandinavians celebrated the festival of 'Yule', during which festivities were conducted void of spirituality. Mistletoe and holly, thought to be important symbols of fertility by the Celts, decorated homes. While Druids, who worshiped trees as a religious symbols, held sacred ceremonies around evergreens. Most of these festivals were accompanied by glutinous feasting, gift giving, endless celebration and indulgence.

It wasn't until 350 ACE, that Pope Julius I named the 25th of December as the day of Christ's birth. An action, thought by many historians, taken to make the conversion to Christianity easier for a population so accustomed to winter festivities. Not surprisingly, since its inception the tradition of Christmas has been shrowded in controvercy. Early outrage was expressed by members of the clergy who believed the birth of Christ should be a holiday focused on the simplicity of nativity rather than a holiday celebrated with the sins of indulgence. Exactly 1,655 years later and the tradition of Christmas is still hotly debated.

In 2005,the true meaning of Christmas is at stake as we buy more and more each year. In the year 2004, shoppers in Canada alone spent a staggering $34.5 billion on retail goods. On average, per Canadian, that's a whopping $804 each! These figures, released by Statistics Canada did not include any sales made in the automotive retail sector. It is such information that leaves many with substantial evidence to support the claim that Christmas, has simply become a marketing tool.

'The Christmas Resistance Movement' (www.xmasresistance.org) proclaims that "holiday shopping is offensive and wasteful... Christmas "wish lists" and "gift exchanges" degrade the concept of giving" ; in light of this they call on readers to boycott Christmas. Refusing to subscribe to any Christmas traditions from gifts and cards to decorations, 'The Christmas Resistance Movement,' seeks to show their care to their family at this time of year by giving the gift of time. Is this just another case of counter culture madness, or a view of things to come?

As atheism increases in the 21st century, so does the mass of those who appreciate Christmas without religious or spiritual reason. Though Christmas is still a time of celebration and indulgence it is quickly being stripped of its traditional, "birth of Christ" meaning. But, is a new meaning begining to arise? Surely one could argue so. Stemming out of sentiments of old, many are beginning to feel that Christmas is simply a time for family and friends. And while it is true that the materialism of Christmas has increased, one could argue that this too is a reflection of the desire to treat those who we hold dear to our hearts. Need this be done by spending $804 per Canadian? Definitely not. But as we progress to an age where tradition is fading, it is important to remember that not all is lost. Even the members of 'the Christmas Resistance Movement' would have to admit that despite rampant materialism, the holidays still remain a time of family. Christmas is one of the few times of year people go the extra mile to connect and celebrate with those close of kin, whether they are armed with a bounty of gifts or not.

Regardless of the arguments that can be made, Christmas will remain forever immersed in controversy and debate. It has been this way since Pope Julius I's declaration some 1,655 years ago, and will surely remain so for 1,655 years more. Whether the meaning of this holiday changes again in years to come, one thing remains certain, the populous will always demand a reason to spend mid winter celebrating and indulging with those who mean the most; its been this way for centuries, and surely will remain so for centuries to come.

Bilibiography:
http://www.xmasresistance.org/
http://www.ccg.org/english/s/p235.html
http://www.christmas-time.com/ct-history.htm
http://de.essortment.com/christmaspagan_rece.htm
http://www.biblegateway.com/
http://www.cbc.ca/news/background/holidays/sales.html