Tuesday, July 31, 2007

"I Drew a Map of Canada, with Your Face Sketched on it Twice..."



I sit in full lotus on the grimy station floor, little white headphones in my ears... humming Joni Mitchell as I wait to board the London train.

I feel happy.




I am still leading a surreal life -- hovering between nations and suitcases (linen skirts and poetry). I feel content here, in this state of suspension -- more content to hover than to land.

But it seems I am landing -- gracefully, like a weightless dancer -- in the second land I've grown to love; Ariel has asked me to return to Toronto in October -- to love and live with him -- and I have agreed.




For several months now, I have been thinking about the nature of love -- feeling gratitude for my loves (past and present). I've grown so much with them, and in such unexpected ways -- just as I have also grown (in different but harmonious ways) in the spectrum of my solitude.




I'm agnostic, with no desire for illusions of god, fate, or destiny. I do not believe in "soul mates" -- cannot imagine that each person has only one partner they are somehow "meant" to find. I simply believe in the love, friendship, and trust that two people can mutually construct over months and years. I believe in passion -- and (atheistic) transcendence.




And I know of at least two men who feel like part of me -- who I love more deeply than my jagged tongue can say. Each man is so much of what I want (close friends... romantic lovers... intuitive artists... trusted companions...) and so much more than I had really hoped to find.




There is no right choice here -- and no wrong one.

The fallacy is in the choice itself: the insistence of monogamy, the dichotomy of "lover" and "friend," and the fear that imposes limits on ineffable love.




To the one I couldn't choose: I love you. I do. And I'm sorry...

Sunday, July 29, 2007

9:48 PM: On a Bus Bound for Toronto

I am living up to my "postmodern vagabond" nature: flitting between Toronto and London (Ontario), a few days in each place, living out of suitcases and backpacks. Much to my delight, each time I travel I feel compelled to bring fewer items with me.




Years ago, I could not "travel light." I carried thick binders of creative notes: sketches for paintings... new stanzas of poetry... pages of in-progress theatre scripts... collages and mixed-media journal entries... and sentimental relics from people I'd met during my journeys.




And now: an electronic revolution!

A modest library of music CDs (and a series of French-language lessons) fits onto a player the size of a deck of cards. My photographs (and some raw video footage for a short film I'm brainstorming) fit on a tiny memory card in my camera; most of my other creative projects are on a laptop computer. With the exception of a bulging folder of random text (scrawled on coffee-splotched napkins and the thin white borders of newspapers), most of my creative life is now digital. As a result, the weight of my creativity is a mind-bending eight pounds...


Saturday, July 21, 2007

Butterflies and Gnawing Locusts

After six months apart, we met on a park bench.

I sat in the sun, a flowing pink skirt brushing against my calves; he arrived with a guitar case slung over his shoulder.

We embraced.




And then -- what exactly?

It's so difficult to say...




We spent seven hours together.



He played a few songs...

We shared a picnic on the top of a hill in Riverdale Park (fresh multigrain bread, seasoned olives, Canadian brie, and smoked fish) while children tossed baseballs to each other on the fields below...

We trekked through the Don Valley, charting new paths...

We argued -- as we so often did.

But we stayed -- as we also often did -- and found points of connection: the words unsaid, and the real sense of words we'd each spoken.



I am learning to live with less certainty -- and more trust.

Thursday, July 19, 2007

Pigeon-feeding, Popular Culture, and Echoes of the Freemasons

I intended to take a ballet class tonight -- but as I was stuffing my workout clothes into my backpack, a friend called to invite me to dinner. With my calves already sore, and already feeling a bit hungry and rushed, I pulled the workout clothes out of my bag and hopped on the subway to meet him for Thai food.

Emerging at Yonge and Bloor, I found a strange woman with a shopping cart piled with buckets of birdseed. As she sprinkled seeds on the sidewalk, she cooed at the pigeons and began speaking to them -- affectionately, it seemed -- in a language I couldn't understand.




Then -- with bellies full of mango chicken and green curry, I walked with my friend to a building on Yonge just North of Bloor: the headquarters of MTV Canada.




It's quite an exceptional space -- a former Masonic Temple that has been converted to various small TV studios. My friend (who runs lights for a few of the MTV shows) gave me a tour, and I snapped a few photos -- with a strange degree of trepidation.





Despite its conversion to a pop culture mecca, the building retains many original details -- which lend the space an incongruous sobriety. I felt like an interloper...

To see abandoned fragments of the masons' rituals, out of their formal context, felt surreal -- and perhaps even disrespectful. What right do I have to photograph the relics of the freemasons -- and to document something I do not understand?



So I've decided to do a bit of reading about the masons... and to go back again in the next few weeks.

I hope that a deeper awareness of their rituals may let me capture something I felt I couldn't really see tonight.

Wednesday, July 18, 2007

Poetry, Elliptical Orbits, and Heliocentric Lives

This was a truly lovely day.

I saw Ewan, after he'd been away from the city for a few days... and it felt so nice to take his hand and wander around the Annex streets. We stopped to sit and talk beneath trees, on campus benches, and in a small courtyard with a chessboard inlaid into the concrete tabletop...




He's delightful.




I want more of this: more poetry, more kindness... more afternoons with dark chocolate... more moments of connection, of slowly drawing each other back to the sun...

Saturday, July 14, 2007

Iran, Afghanistan, and Remembered History

I wasn't looking for conversation; I just stepped into the Persian carpet store to pet the cat that was sleeping on a stack of wool rugs.



But as I hoisted myself up onto the top of the rug stack, I couldn't help but overhear a conversation between the store's owner, Ali, and an articulate woman with a British accent. They were talking about Iran -- and Iraq -- and Afghanistan.



I quickly shifted from a shy eavesdropper to an active participant. I learned that Ali had been born in Iran and spent most of his younger years in Kuwait; the woman (named Joy), had lived in at least three countries before immigrating to Canada. Their sense of history was impeccable, and they guided me through some recent history of the Middle East: the 1979 Iranian Revolution, various invasions of Afghanistan, and some information about oil reserves in Iraq. Joy recommended two books by Jason Elliot: An Unexpected Light and Mirrors of the Unseen -- Journeys in Iran.



In the most chilling part of the conversation, Ali described being pulled off the streets of an Iranian city for interrogation. Over the course of two hours, he was interrogated by 12 officers -- all under the (specious?) premise that he resembled a man who had passed a counterfeit travelers cheque...



As I left Ali's store and continued wandering through the market, I felt a wave of gratitude for my safety. Few can claim that the United States lives up to the democratic ideals of its founding (the US-led School of the Americas, also euphemistically known as the Western Hemisphere Institute for Security Cooperation, has been a training centre for some of the most brutal Latin American dictators of the past forty years -- and who can hear of the Patriot Act without supressing a wary twitch?), but when I compare my safety in the US to this man's insecurity in Iran, I can't help but feel gratitude for my home.



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All of the photographs in this post are from Kensington Carpets (193 Baldwin Street) in Toronto.

David and Manjit at the Gladstone Hotel

A few shots from David's wedding reception at the Glastone on Friday night...





Thursday, July 12, 2007

"His Eye is on the Sparrow"

We intersect at Bloor and Yonge: an accident on the corner. We watch medics pull bodies from broken glass. I try not to stare.

Fingers light on my wrist, you guide me down a quiet street. The barista greets you by name; you carry our lattes out the back, smiling over your shoulder from the fire escape.

I lean against the café wall beside the vent from the roaster (gentle smoke, deeply aromatic, arousing as any scent) and watch you pull a moleskin journal from your bag.

I am squinting in the sun as you recite Catullus – a translation you wrote this morning. Two millennia incarnate in your voice: gentle as the sparrow you tease from my breast, pecking wistful hands…

In your measured cadence, your sonorous voice, I hear us make love: rhythm of tides… ductility of gold… spinning of stars over hemispheres...

(I hear you moan, one octave below: content in my taste and your sweat.)

You’re closing the notebook, your hand touches mine, and we fly.

Injera, Four Used Paperbacks, and a Blues Bar

This was another delightful day.

I intended to see "Gladstone Variations" at the Fringe Festival -- but after waiting in line for an hour and a half, I still wasn't able to get a ticket for the show. So I ended up eating Ethiopian food on Bloor Street with Moses (a sweet friend I lived with in Madison seven years ago)...

Then I dropped by the bookstore to see Ewan, the lovely poet/translator who inspired another blog entry: His Eye is on the Sparrow. We wandered through a nearby park, sprawling beneath old trees and talking about literature and theatre...

Later in the evening, I arrived at the University of Toronto to stage manage the show in the swimming pool, and I found my friend John waiting in the lobby. I noticed his datebook -- scrawls of blue ink and fringe shows:



After another exceptional performance, I headed off with the cast to Grossman's tavern, the legendary blues dive on Spadina. The band (two guitarists and one drummer) was incredible, and the drummer was simply phenomenal; I watched the rhythm course through his body, and because I could see the music (instead of simply hearing it), I felt (and understood) the music on a truly intuitive level...

Wednesday, July 11, 2007

On Hanlan's Island, a Short Ferry Ride from the City

Yesterday afternoon, I headed out to the Toronto Islands with five colleagues and friends from Perpeual Motion Theatre Company. (They're a brilliant young troupe from Minneapolis; I'm stage managing their show at the Toronto Fringe Festival, and I'd like to encourage anyone reading this to please see it -- and to write a review on the bulletin board at eye weekly...)





While waiting for the ferry, Derek pulled out a pocketknife and began whittling...




And Mark pulled out his notebook, showing me the pages for the virtual rock / paper / scissors tournament that he recently hosted on his blog, Enriched White Bread...




I watched the boat's wake through a small porthole...




... watched small sailboats through tree branches...




... and smiled as I saw the CN Tower through the trees and summer smog.



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(The first photograph -- the gorgeous underwater shot -- was taken by Avye Alexandres, who documented an earlier production of "The Depth of the Ocean" in her fantastic photo blog.)

On the Beach with Colleagues and New Friends



(Thanks to Terry for taking these photographs -- and for amusing us with some of the funniest stories I've heard in years...)


Thursday, July 5, 2007

I Could Not Take a Photograph

thick fog:
streetlights twine
through maple leaves

softly, in pace,
past teens on the swings:
(2 a.m.) pendulums swaying...
haze of the night
like stratified time

(your hand in my hair)
(knees damp on the grass)
(overexposed)

moment replayed:
lines overlaid

Wednesday, July 4, 2007

Sunjye on Bloor and Brunswick: A Healing Ritual and a Delicate Balance

Walking toward the subway last night, after finishing a dress rehearsal with Perpetual Motion Theatre Company, I wandered around Bloor Street: tired but happy, a particularly delicious beef shawarma in hand.

When I reached the corner of Bloor and Brunswick, I stopped, curious; all along the sidewalk, someone had stacked bits of concrete, transforming utilitarianism into art:




Soon, Sunjye appeared. He was just starting to dismantle the sculptures for the night, loading chunks of concrete into a metal shopping cart:




I asked him to stop for a few moments while I took photographs. He was kind enough to oblige...




He said he'd be in the Bloor/Brunswick area frequently for the next two weeks (since the Fringe festival headquarters is nearby). If you see him, please stop and admire his artwork. (And then, if you're able, please toss a bit of change his way...)