it's carnivale.
We boarded the TTC rather lackadaisically, the events of the night before still lingering- with age comes consequences and hangovers that sips of caffeine may not cure. My camera burned a hole in my bag, the strap digging into my shoulder as a reminder that I had no room for excuses- I was to attend, capture, and roll out. Wham bam, thank you Ma'am, a first of firsts.
After the TTC there was a shuttle bus, express of course, to a different kind of promised land. Fighting motion sickness and the glare of Caribana themed pro-nails we killed the crawling minutes by counting weaves and louder-than-thou Americans.
We arrived and in a matter of moments realized that the $25 price tag was steep for half a parade and uncomfortable bleacher seats. Defeated, we chose to wander, following the sounds of socca floats, 'braapps' and a trail of fallen luminescent feathers. Finally, like Hansel and Gretel stumbling on the path to the candy house, we spotted a very illegal, very irresistible opening in a once impenetrable iron gate. Bodies surrounded and enfolded us- within moments we were carried through to a blocked off parking lot where the next option was to run. I still have bruises on my side where camera-laden purse smacked unyielding flesh. The crowd on the other side absorbed us, and like fugitives we tried to blend in. The smiles came out and so did my lens.
(Click for colour)
Oh and the shoes! Of course, the shoes.
destined to dream
She was a lost cause. Woke up late, ate too little, smoked too much. Her idea of a good time was isolating herself from the benign insolance of her peers by subjecting them to long-winded descriptions of her dreams. They fascinated her. While she slept whole worlds would open up and devour her reality. Aliens played red rover with daffodils and cops were ground into delicious hambuger meat. Of course, every time she recollected a dream, outloud with her indoor voice, her friends would mutter amongst themselves. Once she was even asked who her dealer was. Her response was simple, say no to drugs. This both confused and insulted him, standing there with a freshly lit spliff wedged between his fingers and a pocket weighed down by a powdery packet. She had smiled at that, knowing in her next dream he would reappear. Possibly as a marble soldier who would be crushed by a wayward gust of peppery wind.
Where I attempt to suss out the locals...
Due to poor quality, handling or a combination of the two, I find myself in a new place full of capture-able moments and sadly lacking in the ability to document any of it digitally. If my camera hadn't shorted out, heaving it's last breath moments before New Year's eve, it would provide much needed visuals for those I wish I could be sharing this with. Instead I will attempt (note the disclaimer) to describe what my camera, now gathering dust, would have shown- mainly the following three types of people:
- Tow-headed children in dire need of haircuts racing the chilly surf, while their pot-bellied father half-heartedly looks on, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the sun and any forced interaction.
- Seniors whiling away their retirement creating footprints on the sand and reflecting on whether or not the ones they left behind in their younger years were notable, noticed.
- Middle-aged joggers, caked in sand and sweat, taking bluetooth phone calls while their fanny packs flap with indifference.
They occasionally collide, forced smiles are shared, too-long hair is ruffled, pleasantries swirl in the salty breeze and conversation shallower than the waters of the shoreline ensues.
Each morning I reluctantly walk among them, earphones secured to avoid any in-depth attempts at acknowledgment and wonder if I brought with me remnants of the city. Do they catch the way I avert my gaze to avoid the obligatory hello? A practice picked up due to fear of eliciting unwanted attention from the drug dependent.
I don't want to appear unfriendly, hardened or jaded but I'm not the one permanently surrounded by a picket fence.
- Tow-headed children in dire need of haircuts racing the chilly surf, while their pot-bellied father half-heartedly looks on, sunglasses shielding his eyes from the sun and any forced interaction.
- Seniors whiling away their retirement creating footprints on the sand and reflecting on whether or not the ones they left behind in their younger years were notable, noticed.
- Middle-aged joggers, caked in sand and sweat, taking bluetooth phone calls while their fanny packs flap with indifference.
They occasionally collide, forced smiles are shared, too-long hair is ruffled, pleasantries swirl in the salty breeze and conversation shallower than the waters of the shoreline ensues.
Each morning I reluctantly walk among them, earphones secured to avoid any in-depth attempts at acknowledgment and wonder if I brought with me remnants of the city. Do they catch the way I avert my gaze to avoid the obligatory hello? A practice picked up due to fear of eliciting unwanted attention from the drug dependent.
I don't want to appear unfriendly, hardened or jaded but I'm not the one permanently surrounded by a picket fence.
like a Virginian
Not abandoned!
Many apologies errrone, I know I promised I'd try to be back on the ball and have essentially fallen into the epic fail category, but I'm back! Pinky swears and polar bears.
In recent news, I've been (willingly) kidnapped and shuttled across the border to where folks not only over share their personal lives, but do so in decibels that are comparable to sound of planes taking off and landing at the Buffalo airport. We have yet to reach the promised land of Holden Beach, NC and are currently enjoying (albeit cagedly) the peace and quiet of a typical Virginian 'burb. Seriously, if Mr. Rogers were alive he'd be living next door.
Having spent the major majority of my life in various cities, I have yet to fully understand the purpose and/or appeal of living in uniform houses that require you to drive for half an hour to pick up Lactid fat free milk. The nearest Starbucks is practically in the next county- for serious, picking up lattes is a borderline field trip that requires car seats and just-in-case snacks.
The last time I lived in a 'real neighborhood' I wore rompers, light-up sandals and liked my hair in braids. Being here, even for a few days, is very reminiscent of that part of my childhood. The part where we could come and go as we pleased as long as the street lights were still on. Less than a year later we lost some of that independence to the theoretical creeps and cajolers of the city.
I recently came across yet another fragment of my suburban childhood. Where the Wild Things Are was a book I didn't so much read as devour. I loved the images, the characters and, most of all, the little wolf suit that Max wore on his adventure. At first, learning that the picture book might be made into a feature-length had me worried that it was just the media crying...ahem..wolf.
Many months (and full moons) later this wonderfully capturing trailer hit the internets and frankly, I'm excited:
Very different from the earlier, cutesy Disney cartoon version, this one, directed by Being John Malkovich's Spike Jonze, has already been criticized as being "weird and creepy".
I don't know about others who have read the book, but those words just about sum up why I loved it.
Reality Checks and Real Cheques
When aspirations take a turn, one must insist that they are not for the worst. In a few months I will be rejoining the student ranks, a position I had easily discarded the moment I crossed the newly buffed wooden stage and received that piece of paper. The 'now what?' feeling I had experienced was earnestly followed by the kind of panic that makes you forget that you actually had dreams somewhere.
Words have always come easily to me. The same way athletes enjoy burning muscles, and thespians the buzz of the crowd, words have always been a form of salvation. When I was younger I hubristically fancied myself a god of sorts, able to decide which characters of my own creation I would lead to suffering, longing and the inevitability of death.
And now my own form of deus ex machina appeared in the haze of the media's own version of Armageddon, studded not with Affleck and Aerosmith, but freelance freezes and layoffs set to the music of a Mac being ceremoniously shutdown.
My mother did warn me though. "Writing can be your hobby, your thing on the side," She would vehemently stress. I would push her assertions aside as easily as tucking hair behind my ear. She just didn't understand, I beleived.
Less than an hour ago I found myself accepting an offer for a program that had found me. While perusing the internet one afternoon, in between job postings of course, I had come across the resume of a very random person who I have never met but whose educational and occupational history clearly mimicked my own. It was a surreal checklist that felt like deja vu and looking into the future at the same time. A career I had never quite imagined (not for myself, or in general) had suddenly risen in the ranks of my consciousness. After much deliberation, consistent research and a handful of chats with the Gentleman Upstairs, I became reacquainted with my potential.
I have always believed in karma, but this time I choose to extrapolate that belief unto myself.
Words have always come easily to me. The same way athletes enjoy burning muscles, and thespians the buzz of the crowd, words have always been a form of salvation. When I was younger I hubristically fancied myself a god of sorts, able to decide which characters of my own creation I would lead to suffering, longing and the inevitability of death.
And now my own form of deus ex machina appeared in the haze of the media's own version of Armageddon, studded not with Affleck and Aerosmith, but freelance freezes and layoffs set to the music of a Mac being ceremoniously shutdown.
My mother did warn me though. "Writing can be your hobby, your thing on the side," She would vehemently stress. I would push her assertions aside as easily as tucking hair behind my ear. She just didn't understand, I beleived.
Less than an hour ago I found myself accepting an offer for a program that had found me. While perusing the internet one afternoon, in between job postings of course, I had come across the resume of a very random person who I have never met but whose educational and occupational history clearly mimicked my own. It was a surreal checklist that felt like deja vu and looking into the future at the same time. A career I had never quite imagined (not for myself, or in general) had suddenly risen in the ranks of my consciousness. After much deliberation, consistent research and a handful of chats with the Gentleman Upstairs, I became reacquainted with my potential.
I have always believed in karma, but this time I choose to extrapolate that belief unto myself.
not dunzo.
MAWM has not been abandoned like that 3 million pound 1937 Bugatti they discovered after 50 years of gathering dust and value. Instead, it's been temporarily and lovingly placed in a to-do pile along with organizing my closet and planning my trip home.
In the meantime, you can peep my new project. Still freshly caught in the space between conception and fruition, and not all me.
Details to follow!
the great pumpkin.
We all know sex sells. We also know that getting people to eat vegetables requires a certain level of persuasion. The folks at PETA took both aspects into consideration and created an ad that NBC banned from being aired during the Superbowl:
Apparently, the women being sexual with veggies is just too explicit for viewers who are already used to watching half-naked women prance around with various objects (it's called halftime).This is some of the breakdown of what NBC had particular issues with:
* licking pumpkin
(Scandalous!)
* touching her breast with her hand while eating broccoli
(Brazen Hussy!)
* pumpkin from behind between legs
(is that even English?)
* screwing herself with broccoli (fuzzy)
(okay, can you guys imagine some overpaid NBC exec having to write that in an email?)
See full list of gross acts here.
And just because: Whoopi gives us "the gist"...
Apparently, the women being sexual with veggies is just too explicit for viewers who are already used to watching half-naked women prance around with various objects (it's called halftime).This is some of the breakdown of what NBC had particular issues with:
* licking pumpkin
(Scandalous!)
* touching her breast with her hand while eating broccoli
(Brazen Hussy!)
* pumpkin from behind between legs
(is that even English?)
* screwing herself with broccoli (fuzzy)
(okay, can you guys imagine some overpaid NBC exec having to write that in an email?)
See full list of gross acts here.
And just because: Whoopi gives us "the gist"...
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