Lists are the thing

I've been keeping myself busy of late, and perhaps that's why I haven't been on here too much. I always talk about the blog as a tool I use to ensure I write on a semi-regular basis, but when I find other creative outlets I suppose it falls by the wayside. Or outlets of any kind of activity really.

Black Creek is open for schools so I'm working there a few days a week, learning the Many Hands program and doing tours. We have three stations in Many Hands - spinning (and wool more generally), baking, and the workshop. Because I'm a fella I'm usually in the workshop. Historical accuracy and all that. It's fun and I still get to eat whatever is left over from the baking, so that's good. It's also fun to tour at this time of year when the village has no one else in it. You can talk in buildings for as long as you want and if the kids feel like losing there minds I can even send them running.

I've also been transcribing, doing taxes, drawing, reading and sometimes writing.

For the last while I've been listing what I want to get done and have been putting write/draw at the bottom of every list. Some days I get to it, others no, and I've been choosing draw most times when I do. I'll get back to the novel soon, no doubt.

Lists have been great as far as getting me to get things done when I have the time. When I run out of jobs like taxes and transcribing, hopefully my lists will see me writing and drawing all day long. Fingers crossed! They've also been helpful in sending me to bed at a reasonable time. If I'm tired and the list is done I go to bed. As simple as it sounds it goes against my normal tactic of finding activities that keep me awake.

Maturity (no matter how smell the steps in that direction are) is weird.

I was drawing last night, sitting on the couch and making little mistakes as I went. I'm inking pencil lines so I really don't want to be making mistakes at this stage, but I just couldn't stop. I was in a tired/out of it mindset where I convinced myself to keep working, and not make the tiny effort necessary that would make the working situation better. In retrospect I should have moved over to the table, set up a light and continued apace. Oh well. Next time. And looking at it now the mistakes aren't the end of the world.

Who knew being crunched up on a couch wasn't most conducive to tiny, detailed drawing?

I also have another show tonight. 8:30 at the Bad Dog Theatre and pay what you want as you exit. You should come. If I don't post this blog before the show, I wonder if I will remember to edit this part. MYSTERIES. (I'm going to make it!)

And I've signed up for a clown workshop, starting in May. That should be a real gas!

Maybe another improv class too, but I've also applied for a couple more jobs - more museums! - so I'm not going to rush at anything too forcefully.

Finally, look at this.

It's from my shower curtain, and it tells me one thing: polyester will bring the world together! Unless you use a different alphabet. In those cases I guess we're at war.

Sorry guy.

bed

Having a blog is great because there is always something to say.

Here's some of Toon's fine work. Sheesh, it sure was great when spring was here.

Oh well. Soon enough it will return.

Maybe those glasses, with that mustache, not such a good idea?

Big news for me today is of course the purchase of a bed!!!

I took a photo but it looks like nothing special and I don't feel inclined towards a proper photo shoot, so instead I will describe the bed.

First it isn't actually a bed. Just a box spring and mattress. This constitutes 'bed' in my mind because I have spent so much of my life on a single mattress on the floor. Also, my new sleeping height will be higher than what it was with my previous, little bed. Two good reasons for declaring bed-dom.

Both box spring and mattress are a pleasing shade of blue. The bed's size is "double" or "full". Basically a queen that is less 6 inches for both length and width. I bought it from the Thrift Store (NEW!) for $250 plus taxes. What a deal!

I know this because I went to both Sleep Country and The Brick to determine their wares and consider pricing. The best I found was $580 ish plus taxes. Not really worth it, especially when I don't understand all the high end technology I'd be paying for. Mattresses with reinforced edges, silver oxide (???) to stop dust mites and body smells, and a variety of coils and squishy bits for oh so much comfort.

Do you know there's a mattress called The Concrete that was introduced to the Canadian market around 1997 when all sorts of Hong Kongers were coming here; a group that carries a demographic preference for a really solid sleep platform.

After being offered a rolling fashion rack to transport my purchases home, and deciding against it, I was given Kimo's number. Kimo delivered me and the bed home.

Kimo's normal gig is delivering vegetables and fruit, hence his large truck (still with a few veggies when my bed went in).

Kimo often delivers to restaurants. Sometimes they need tomatoes, sometimes they need potatoes. Kimo will be there.

Kimo usually finishes his food industry work around 2.

Kimo sometimes moves couches from the Thrift Store, sometimes beds. Whatever.

Kimo bought the same bed a year ago and he is very pleased with it.

Kimo feels fuel prices are too high and is happy to have a diesel truck (1999 model, bought used).

Kimo has some friends who worked on this building:

View Larger Map

It's a new building. I assume he was telling me this because of its Victorian architectural features.

Kimo did not reveal how he became the default Thrift Store delivery man.

I enjoyed my brief encounter with Kimo and hope he continues to enjoy what seems to be a tremendous existence.

Tomorrow I plan to buy proper sheets. Also an under sheet.

To dispose of my last bed I set it out on the street. Toronto's garbage pick-up is great. You just leave your over-sized trash on the street and they pick it up! Probably easier for the city to do that than fight random dumping.

I left the bed standing tall, thinking it would be more visible to prospective walk-bys. The wind blew it over, however, and Annie found it leaning against a car when she went snack shopping. Leaning right into the dents it had made.

After much soul searching and rounds of advice that all pointed toward saying nothing, I did just that.

Sorry friend. Cost of owning a car I suppose.

I guess, now that I'm writing I may as well mention other things going on in my life...I did some shifts at BCPV over March Break. In costume! Long days but fun. Maybe I should write a blog post on the fun I had. More work coming up.

I've also been going to lots of amazing comedy and theatre shows. Maybe I should write a blog post on one of those as well.

Holy jumpin', once the writing starts, look out!

Skip-Skip-Skip to my letterpress and poetry

So remember back when I made this?

Good times, right? Well, check this out.

Imagine all the pebbles and battle beasts I could store in those jobbies. Too many!

The photo is courtesy of The Sweetie Pie Press, and is taken in the workshops of the Trip Print Press. Self described "Practitioners of the black art, letterpress."

Scary!

And fantastic.

Mostly fantastic, because those are not just wondrous wall decorations, no sir. Solely a great place to store toys? NAY! (Although they could do that.) We are of course looking at a lovely set of type trays.

You know how you scroll through your word processor options and can make words look however you want? Well, in real world publishing each of those choices would mean an entirely different tray with a pile of each letter in a particular, coherent style (a font if you will) so you can say whatever it is you want to say and make it look nice too. And of course there are different sizes, so there's that to consider as well.

I may be mis-placing certain terms in the description but I'm hopeful the people that are wiser about these things will lodge their corrections in the comments section.

It's all pretty straightforward, but I'm still excited because this reminds me of the time I spent standing and staring at all the toys in the Black Creek Pioneer Village printing office prior to Christmas, fantasizing. And I'm pleased that such things still exist as viable entities in the real world. There's no reason they shouldn't but like a lot of stuff, until a functioning letterpress is shoved in my face, I don't think about it.

It all makes me want to get married, just for the invitations, or successful enough that I need business cards.

Hell, I'm just really jealous of their drafting table and gigantic rules. Everything is relative of course, and I'm calling them gigantic because I've just spent the last 30 minutes scratching and re-scratching the same, almost 3 mm twinned lines into my next drawing. 3 mm is too small, the margin for error on length and angles too big.

Mercy. I need a drafting table, or a bigger pieces of paper and a regular table would work too.

One day I might put words to paper, rather than just screen, but in the meantime here we are. So why not tack on a poem a poem to the post? It's my blog, so sure!

Here's one that's part of my spit it out while the spitting's good and call it poetry because you're still not totally sure what poetry is or what constitutes good poetry so you may as well show the world what you wrote and maybe the world will tell you it's all right or maybe the world will tell you it's complete crap but it'll be good either way because then you'll know someone read it poetry project.

This particular poem was belched upon the paper in a furious scramble of penmanship, followed by minimal editing. Hopefully said belching is something more than white noise.

-----

Backpack full of groceries

My arms are buzzing

below, above

everything there is to think of

a mash of tortured

black & white

in a world that's the grey clarity

of a nuclear powered mud storm

Malleable is an intention

but to

fight & struggle

against the brain

seems,

feels,

is

wrong & tiring

So much effort except when

walking & walking

and all the problems are there

but fine,

far off at the

destination & nothing

until it's reached.

poetry and the TTC (not necessarily in that order)

Where does one rant?

Is it here?

Okay. 2 rants. One price (free). Oh, and there is no connection between the two.

Rant number 1: TTC fare increase

I'm not mad at the TTC, that would be dumb. Why would I be mad at an organization whose job it is to move people from point A to point B. They're not trying to make a shit-ton of money while doing it, just break even. And yet, people are losing their minds that fare prices are going up. Going bananas at the temerity. How dare they charge me more?

Instead, these people should be getting mad at multiple levels of government that claim to support public transit but fail when it comes to anteing up the money. Either giving nothing or attempting some misguided tax write-off silliness.

Public transit is great. Public transit is vital for a connected, thriving city. To say nothing about where greening initiatives would be without it. Public transit needs more respect.

And, as an aside, streetcars make such a great noise when they're zipping along. It's a hum, but with a tenor cadence, throbbing in the underbelly of the sound. I like the word thrum to describe this noise and have been using it a lot lately. Any other suggestions?

Rant number 2: poetry

What's up with that stuff?

I'm trying to read some right now, but I miss a lot. Some of the poems I fall into, I find the cadence, understand the words and get what's going on. Some remain obscure to me, but although I try to parse a meaning from the metaphor and fail I still find pleasure in the flow and lyric of the thing. Then finally, there are the poems I don't get, at all.

When I read a poem I adjust my reading style, trying to savour the word and form laid before me, and avoid my normal quick read that hunts for narrative and drops details in the process. Sometimes it even works, as a line's structure pokes me in the eye, a word choice makes me smile or nod. My appreciation for poetry ends up stemming more from self-satisfaction at gaining entry to an imagined poetry in-group than any sense of actual understanding.

It wouldn't concern me, but there are way more poems I have no clue about than ones I get. Makes me worry I'm doing something wrong. Does anyone have expertise in poetry, whether reading or writing? Would they like to start a poetry circle? Or maybe just lend or point me towards a book.

How to Expose Your Soul to A Raging Tempest: The poetry teachings of Franz Léderée

Maybe that book exists?

Heh, who knows. In the meantime I guess I'll just keep reading and experimenting and seeing what results. Poetry is difficult because of its density. It requires and sometimes demands re-reading. Like the rest of my daily existence my adventures in poetry will be better served by living with the moment, re-reading to find additional meaning, having patience with what is before me.

Watched this documentary about Leonard Cohen and he apparently spent (spends?) 5 hours a day writing and editing. I'm sure that's part of the answer to my dilemma as well. He is also described as a "very confident young man" who keeps all his correspondence and makes sure to have many photos taken; the duties of one who considers himself the record keeper of a generation but with very little ego, apparently.

He also claimed to have chosen a path infinitely wide and without direction. Sounds like me, so that's gotta be a plus!

(EDIT: I've taken off the Leonard Cohen video because its automatic play function was getting a bit annoying. You can still watch it here.)

And let's sign off with a little taste of some of the good stuff I'm muddling through, the Frank O'Hara poem Mayakovsky was used in an episode of Mad Men. Or at least the 4th stanza was. Caught my ear. So hear it is in word form.

1

My heart's aflutter!

I am standing in the bath tub

crying. Mother, mother

who am I? If he

will just come back once

and kiss me on the face

his coarse hair brush

my temple, it's throbbing!

then I can put on my clothes

I guess, and walk the streets.

2

I love you. I love you,

but I'm turning to my verses

and my heart is closing

like a fist.

Words! be

sick as I am sick, swoon,

roll back your eyes, a pool,

and I'll stare down

at my wounded beauty

which at best is only a talent

for poetry.

Cannot please, cannot charm or win

what a poet!

and the clear water is thick

with bloody blows on its head.

I embraced a cloud,

but when I soared

it rained.

3

That's funny! there's blood on my chest

oh yes, I've been carrying bricks

what a funny place to rupture!

and now it is raining on the ailanthus

as I step out onto the window ledge

the tracks below me are smoky and

glistening with a passion for running

I leap into the leaves, green like the sea

4

Now I am quietly waiting for

the catastrophe of my personality

to seem beautiful again,

and interesting, and modern.

The country is grey and

brown and white in trees,

snows and skies of laughter

always diminishing, less funny

not just darker, not just grey.

It may be the coldest day of

the year, what does he think of

that? I mean, what do I? And if I do,

perhaps I am myself again.

Hopefully I got that all right. Goodnight. Work starts anew demain. Hard run in to Christmas.

The Royal Agricultural Winter Fair

Oh, The Royal, The Royal...where to begin?

I was there because of the Greenbelt display and my close association with the TRCA through BCPV meant I was (somehow) allowed to sign myself up for a bunch of shifts. Said shifts consisted of me reading my book on Tuesday, gaily handing out activity books to children on Wednesday, then aggressively handing out activity books to children while forcing others to learn about the Greenbelt on Thursday.

How do you force someone to learn about something? Basically accost them as they walk past, ask them if they are interested. Then, before they answer, tell them that they are in fact interested until they enter the display area. If that fails, telling them that learning about the Greenbelt and local food is the only way any of us will survive the zombie apocalypse also works.

(The point I was trying to make with the zombies is that a closed US-Canada border would see Toronto out of food in 3 days, I know zombie apocalypse doesn't explain this reality but it's all razzle-dazzle with kids these days.)

Not the most strenuous or all-consuming work so I had to find other things to keep me occupied.

Checking out the hot and heavy cock on cock action in the central ring:

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

FIGHT!

Also, imagine these images facing one another...I'm too tired to make it work.

Food samples: Every break I was off touring, loading crackers with salsas and sauces, pretzels with spicy mustards, and stuffing my face with all sorts of cheese (goat cheese was big with lemon and cranberry and all sorts of party flavours). I didn't buy anything. For that I suck. Oh well.

Watching the Mennonites: No real commentary on this, it was just nice to see them about. Also, hearing that loverly German derivation they work amongst themselves is always mighty keen.

Rural chic: I forget how people look different sometimes. Growing up on a farm just outside Keady I like to think I'm well acquainted with rural Ontario life. I've hunted groundhogs, watched tractors bale hay for an entire afternoon, started then had to stomp out a grass fire on my property because the fire department was a 40 minute drive away, and as a result have fond memories of that culture (?) no matter how slick, urban and badass I've become.

I don't want to try to illuminate what I mean here, just acknowledge that differences exist and thank the world for people in all their belt-buckled, permanently-hatted, stern-faced, same-haircut-since-1964'd glory.

Milking: The cows hanging out, waiting to be shown, still need to be milked regularly lest they burst. Interestingly, they need to be full to the right degree before being judged. A challenging life.

I wasn't THAT interested in the milking process. There were, however, some beautiful girls doing some milking. I wanted to write a hilarious commentary on milk maids and eroticism, but now I can't. Oh well.

They did remind me, in a roundabout way, of the straight to the point nature of marriage and relationships for some. You find a spouse to partner with on the farm. You make babies with said spouse so there are more people able to lend a hand. Other concerns, aesthetics or soul mate status for example, tend to be outweighed by something termed necessity.

Dear lonely individuals interested in a bit of hard work and a warm body to sleep beside, farmers need you!

Pigs: saw some pigs. Here are little ones.

The Horsey Set: A huge part of The Royal are the horse related events. I saw some prancing wee fellas and some big work teams, I even saw Ian Millar (THE IAN MILLAR) up close and personal in the warm-up ring.

Legal?

I also tried to take a really great photo. The punch line would have been about flanks, and it would have involved a combination of the following two images...you figure it out!

So many flanks...

But back to the horsey set. Evening shows at The Royal have an additional ticket attached and when I was leaving around 5, people were starting to show up for those. People were always dressed to the nines and sometimes beyond, in tuxedos and gowns.

I think this part of the fair is a great vestige of old Toronto (or perhaps old Ontario more broadly). All the self-styled gentleman farmers from around the province toodling down to Hog Town for The Royal, celebrating their good breeding and that of their animals with lots of booze and party.

Nothing says juxtaposition like a bar in a barn with a sign at the door saying "Private Club - Dress Code in Effect".

I'm expressing these ideas based purely on a general sense I have of Toronto social history. I wonder how significant it is on social calendars now versus 10, 20 or however many years ago? I wonder how many non-white people attend the glorious evening galas? Do any of the head-scarfed ladies guiding their children around the fair at 2 in the afternoon come back in the evening? (Doubtful on that last one.)

Oh jeeze, now I'm thinking of all the interesting and fun research directions that could emerge from a socio-historical analysis of The Royal Agricultural Winter Fair. Maybe I do belong in academia, or maybe I just need to start a marketplace where I can sell people thesis titles.

Okay, time to bring things back down...way down. I had an unfortunate habit of taking pictures of animal's behinds. With the fowl it was because I wanted to make this fella look intimidating. Monster bird!

With this cow I just thought the udder looked funny, it was only later I noticed the...amazed face. Do you see it?

Art!

Then I became entranced with this cow's hips.

No one seemed particularly perturbed (and I assure you there were many more photos than these three), but maybe people pegged me for a judge or something. And for the people that think the hips look a little skinny, don't worry. These fine ladies are well-fed, but they are bred to give milk and milk doesn't need big fat hips.

And finally, it's time to play a game! What is it?

A map of an island off the coast of Scotland?

Okay, maybe an archipelago. With some weird undersea ridging.

Why, that's the craziest map I've ever seen!

Oh, it's a cow.

A freshly shorn cow looks so dapper and given that this one was standing right beside the salon (or what passes for a salon in a cow barn) she was the dapperest of all. I wonder if the guy doing the cutting is a full-time cow trimmer or he's just a farmer with a passion.

And where were all the bulls? I didn't go looking but I'm willing to bet farmers leave the bulls at home. Too much animal, too much danger. Save'em for the rodeo.

I think I've said enough. Other stuff happened too, but that was just me flirting with random ladies and we all know how that ends. HILARIOUSLY. So if I'm going to write about any of that it'll get its own post.

work

Regular employment kills blogging.

A vicious combination of waking early, doing the same things each day then being too tired for evening adventures doesn't leave much to say.

Now, I'm not doing exactly the same thing each day and every once in a while a child will say something mildly amusing but that's the limit of it unfortunately. There are no kids getting trampled by horses or chewed on by geese. I don't want that of course, just saying it would give me something to write about.

So let's see. I guess I tuck my shirt in a lot these days, and as a result look dapper as fuck. Yes, mum. I'm using the F-word intentionally. In fact that's my new catchphrase.

If I made t-shirts with "dapper as fuck" on them, who would buy?

Heh.

Heck, even most of my groups have been awesome, so I don't have much to complain about. Someone suggested it might be simply because I'm a tall man which lends an air of authority to my person, and these children don't know me so I suppose that might be the case. Or maybe I'm just particularly skilled. Let's assume I'm just fortunate to get the good classes/teachers and hope it continues because I'm already awesome in other ways. There's no need to overdo it.

I have had one bad class. They were a private school that may or may not have told the kids they were the chosen on a regular basis. Apparently the school is awful every year. The teachers are less concerned with the quality of the tour as they are with getting to as many buildings as possible. Mine informed me and the class her record was 10 buildings and if they behaved we might be able to break it. It didn't help with discipline but I obliged as best I could, bypassing the interactive fun stuff like getting dressed up.

Nothing holds a child's attention more than being rushed through something their teacher has already told them is more about speed than learning!

What else...

This job is really the first time I'm interacting with the multiculturalism that Canada keeps yammering on about on a regular basis. The past week has been a bit more mixed, but up until now it has been no white kids in the classes, just a myriad browns. One of the other guides is a former principal in the TDSB and she has some really interesting insights on the Toronto board and certain areas of the city where the white folk go, trying to enclave and isolate themselves. Guess what people, we're on our way. Time to let go of the past and get used to it.

Another of the guides is currently an archaeologist for the Toronto Regional Conservation Authority (who run BCPV as well) so yesterday we chatted briefly archaeologically (she only completed her degree relatively recently and is 40+, so there's still time for a career change).Also yesterday my assigned school was misbooked, so I ended up in the office counting activity sheets for the Christmas season and chatting with another guide. She having recently graduated from a master's in museum studies at Leicester University in England.

Not only is the job decent, when you have 25+ other people around you're bound to find some interesting experiences to learn from.

Up until now the only complaint has been the commute distance. Starting work at 9 means leaving the house no later than 730 to catch all the buses and trains I need to get there. And if it's only a morning shift I work 3 hours and am hurtling south by 1215.

As per usual fortune has smiled upon me and another new guide lives mighty close and she owns a car. She's been driving me home after work when she's heading downtown (out to another job some nights) and the last two days has been kind enough to pick me up in the morning. Hello 8AM departure!

Too sweet.

It's all ticking over really purdy like.

Except for this one thing. This morning, after a restless night, the clock said

when I opened my eyes for the umpteenth time. There was a fraction of a second where I thought, Awake, and too early again. That was followed by, Stef's picking me up exactly NOW! (my clock's 4 minutes fast you see).

Oops.

But that's what bananas dipped in peanut butter are for right? And she was 2 minutes late herself so I even had my shoes tied by the time she arrived. I win!

born to busk at rancho relaxo

If I was in a corn farming cooperative I'd want to call it Born to Husk. And then the other farmers would kill me.

But seriously folks.

Last night, Wednesday night, was a night for good times and good music at Rancho Relaxo. Born to Busk, Deck's band, were playing a set so despite an early morning wake-up for work I went out. And yes, I have settled on Deck, which is Toon's blog name for him but why reinvent the wheel?

Anyway, there are no pictures, good blogging me, but a good time was had by all. niXon was there (that's a new nickname and I think it's a good one for her because she is not a crook, just a candy fiend) as well as Chewy (damn this should just be the introduce a bunch of new nicknames post. This nickname came about because I am stupid and half deaf). This is Chewy's face. I'm really working my way into the Toronto blog scene now, I'll tell you what, what what!

There was an opening band, heavily influenced by The Killers. Their lead singer had a high school jacket that said Jets and that's all I have to say about them.

Then there was an outdoor adventure made amusing by a wee blond boy and his crack friendly female companions who kept telling him to Run! Run! Run! This was funny for a bit as he carried his chubby little body along with an amusing strait legged gait. Then he started coughing some dry long wheezy thing that should only come from a 70 year old 3 packs a day for the last 55 years kinda guy. I became slightly less amused.

And then there was B to B. I danced, Toon danced, Chewy danced, niXon bopped (she might have danced, I didn't see) and a bunch of other people flailed.

Then I went home with buzzing ears - why sound people? why so loud? - and was unable to fall asleep. Hey! Perfect.

No matter. I was up and at work on time. In time in fact for the morning meeting to hear, amongst other things, jeans aren't cool for work unless they are black and tailored. We need to look professional for the 8 year olds. My pants do have a hole in the bum, so I guess I was pushing my luck right from the start. Meh, I needed to get new pants anyway.

The end.

A brief trip

My bus left the coach terminal this morning at 9:30. It arrived in Kingston at 12:30, where I caught a 12:45 bus downtown. I walked to the Queen's campus where I had a brief meeting before saying hello to a few people. I then bought a wrap from the Swedish chip truck (out of beet salad...grrr) and walked up Division Street to catch another Kingston Transit bus that returned me to the bus station. There I caught the 3:15 bus (actually 3:08 for the math kids) back to Toronto that deposited me at the Bay and Dundas terminal at 6:30 or so.

What a day. I ate light, but I think even that was too much for the effort expended.

I was in Kingston to meet a prof. She provided a reference for my BCPV job and subsequently offered me some marking work. This was the first get together and paper pick-up. I'm still not sure how the job is going to work because the prof had to bolt to pick up her son, but I'm hoping she will be able to organize some more funding so I can make the trip to Kingston a few times over the term to meet with students if needed and still actually be making money. $100 per return bus ticket is a bit much, no matter how much of The Count of Monte Cristo I get to read. I'm going to be investigating both cheaper ticketing and craigslist options for future journeys.

Or, screw the students and I'll do everything by surface and email. Nothing says extrapolating on nuanced points of academic argument like email!

Grunt.

On an unadulterated positive note (ie what you are looking for when you read this blog) I got to ride with this guy!

On his bus.

It's a fun colour scheme! What do you want from me?

moving

Slippers and TOMson are both pretty much vacated from their park pad and yesterday Daydream was finally kicking things into gear, so I went over to help him move. It was brief, as I had to scamper off to improv, but it got me thinking (surprise!).

Moving. It might be the thing that makes me crack. Makes me grow up.

The idea of going through my things, having to decide what to keep and what to toss, then sweatily stuffing it all in a vehicle lacks a certain appeal.

Don't get me wrong. Moves can be okay; I enjoy some sorting, tetrissing a vehicle to its absolute limits brings a smile, and there's always pleasure in finishing a task. I even have fond memories of moving myself and my sister after my first year at grad school. In that instance my life had been all brain and my body, feeling ignored, was happy to sweat it out.

BUT...

there's so much to loathe as well.

Finding a new place can be a pain, and until you know where you're going there's a fog of uncertainty perturbing life.

Then, when time syncs wonkily and you need to be out of your old the same day you're into your new, stress levels balloon.

Recruiting friends, securing vehicles then getting it all done. Limited muscle and space means choices must be made, and who likes to make those?

And this is all in terms of the relatively light life I currently lead. Half my stuff sits in my mum's basement but I still dread the thought of packing what's on hand. I'll eventually want to live in my own place (rented or owned) and that means more stuff even.

I like to imagine myself living lightly, but the reality of my room reveals my true nature. I've come into more than a few maps since arriving in Toronto, there are pieces of a child's bed and a three-legged chair across the room, and look at what I happily took off Slippers' hands in the last few days.

(If anyone wants to play board games...talk to me quick because I am turning some of these things into things. And by second things, I mean stuff for a wall [art?]. Bocce will remain bocce however - call me if you want to play. Anytime. I'm think a winter tourney...)

So... Moving and growing up.

I'm lost.

The premise of this post, now that it's written, seems to be growing up means getting lazy and rich - being able to collect stuff, wanting a place to keep the stuff and being able to arrange said stuff in a particular fashion.

I don't think I know what growing up means.

Let's try this.

Someday I want to live somewhere I know will be my home (base) for an extended period of years. And if I have to focus, find a career and make some money to do it, so be it.

Someday. If I have to.

Resolved!

4 things about painting parking lots

It's raining outside. I'm bored and uninspired. Here is an entry that I started writing a while ago. Maybe if I do this job again I'll have more to add, but in the meantime...

Here are, in no particular order, 4 things I know (to varying levels of certainty) about painting parking lots.

1 - There can be a surprisingly large amount of filth on a lot and you can still paint successfully, so long as it's little filth. Rocks and liquid and sludge are all bad, but a thin layer of dust is nothing. It gets blasted away when the painting trolley starts blowing paint onto the ground. And if any dust is left, the paint particles eat them.

2 - Fancy touches are not helpful. Putting curves on the ends of double lines every few spaces not only cuts down on the overall number of stalls in a lot, but takes a hell of a lot longer to paint. It looks like a penis fer crying out loud!

3 - You lose track of the day when painting an underground garage. There's no sun. There's no wind. The day passes not in terms of time but in stalls marked out in blue chalk, lines painted and numbers stencilled on columns.

4 - A building with a small footprint means more underground levels and that means way more walking. Stairs or car ramps if we're moving the machine about. Grunt.

The one where I say 'cock' in the correct context

I woke up at 4 this morning but I feel really good about it. My lights were out by 11, so I'd already slept decently, and I really needed to pee. As a general rule sacrificing sleep to not rupture internally is okay. It might have been nice to doze off more quickly after awakening, but the 2 hours I lay awake were excellent. They featured a comic book,

peanut butter on a rice cake,

Note: a rice cake was unavailable at the time of the photo shoot

a glass of milk,

and relaxed amusement with my current lot in life.

Then, as a bonus, when I slept again I had a dream featuring Toon and a shower.

Sexy time?

All the time.

Today at work was more of yesterday. Lots of wandering and learning about the buildings. I got to see the inside of the mill finally and it is freaking amazing. They don't have a mill interpreter right now due to cutbacks - the miller is currently the doctor and the cabinet maker once in a while - so the giant cogs and gears are motionless. But when they put that big ol' wheel back to spinning I'll never leave!

Gonna grind my grain so good.

I also met some new animals. We have some new Light Bramah fowl. That's one to the right. Imagine him, but even more handsome, strutting slowly across the barnyard with his feathered feet rustling on each stomp. That's what our cock looked like, and there were also some really pretty hens.

For him.

Not me.

I also met Jake and Ross, a Percheron and Clydesdale respectively (horses for the uninitiated), some Toulouse geese (I wish there had been only one) and their Embden cousins. Yesterday it was Hereford cattle and Leicester sheep along with some fancy-pants pigs whose breed I didn't catch.

We're all about the rare and heritage breeds at BCPV.

We're also all about dog powered butter churns. Or at least the example we have attached to one of the village homes. A quick interweb search tells me such things were not wholly uncommon, but unlike most of the pictures I'm finding ours looks more like a giant enclosed hamster wheel. The dog runs inside and his or her power is transferred to the butter barrel by way of a belt.

In the olden times even the butter was better.

It's my first day

Yawn. Stretch it out. Deep breath.

Oh who am I kidding? Nothing terribly vicious today. A bit boring, but that's what first days are for; paperwork and long explanations read from sheets.

This first day started well, out the door before 830, then became sad when the Ossington bus went past. I was nervy about the 7 minute wait for the next one and just missed a train at the station, but I hopped straight onto the 35 at Jane Station and the driver turned out to be a madman. In the end I had a leisurely 15 minutes to stroll a 5 minute distance.

Loverly.

Formalities were dull but mercifully short, and the rest of the day was touring, talking and asking questions. I would have enjoyed it more but the weather went weirdly humid (shorts tomorrow) and my knee has decided to play silly monkey. I just need to remember to walk carefully for a few days and I should be back to normal. Or at least to the point where I can forget it was sore then injure it even more severely next time!

We were told they received 170 applications for this job, and there were only 7 new people hired (plus 1 who had worked there a few years ago). Numbers like that make me feel good, and judging by the talent around the table I'm in a pretty top notch group. I think 4 of us had master's degrees of some type, 2 were just out of teacher's college and everyone had some form of current or past museum interpretation or education experience, some of it really impressive. Yikes. Good thing I had an awesome interview.

A few of them knew each other from already running in Toronto museum circles. The practice seems to be get a number of part time jobs at different sites and earn a living that way. I don't think the museum and culture game here is a closed circuit, but I am very happy to have my foot in the door.

STATS!

Departure (home) 8:27

Arrival (Ossington and Dundas) 17:14 (delicious heritage cherry tomatoes in the farmers' market distracted my homeward momentum)

COMMENTARY!

I get on the Jane bus at the station or at the opposite far end. Either way I get a seat fairly quickly. Also, the morning journey had lots of empty stops, so we flew north.

We met an old Scottish fellow named Gordon. He told us about how things were when everything was wind, water, solar or gravity powered then demonstrated toys to prove his point. Well met!

I slept really well, as in I fell asleep quickly and awoke at the needed time. My neck was really sweaty (been happening a lot) and I was lying across my mattress with my feet on the floor, but I can accept that.

brain election

I think my brain tries to predict the future.

I went to bed early last night, needing to be up for the St. Paul by-election. I took a while to doze off (surprise!), but when I did it was time for my brain to play Predict Tomorrow's Events, a fantastic game with millions in prizes.

My brain does this a lot. Often when I have to be up early, rather than wait for the alarm, I will wake up repeatedly from 4 or so on. The only reason I know what my brain is playing is because all this waking and sleeping lets me remember what I was dreaming.

Here is a run down of what my brain thought would happen today.

-I would be working a poll set-up in an old church

-I would spend most of my time in one of the pews looking through my backpack for distractions

-someone would be training us in the intricacies of electioneering (no one would listen to the drone)

-I would never see any actual voters

-eventually the wedding that was also booked for the church today (obviously) would start

-I would need to move myself to the back of the church so as not to be in the way (by-elections aren't that important)

-when the minister asks if anyone had anything to say one of the bridal party would speak. She thought the groom was a bit emotionally mean sometimes

-the bride wouldn't react in any way

-the groom would make a comical shrug and gesture with his arms, saying Me? I'm the best!

Good try brain, I said, but it's 6:37 and I'm getting up. No prizes today, but as thanks for playing please accept breakfast.

In reality, I biked up to Bathurst and St.Clair, getting nice and sweaty, then sat in a really warm room (the one I had training in before) for about an hour listening to a lady drone about what the DRO and the IA and the RO and the PC would be doing. There were a lot of us there and most of the people had apparently worked an election or two before.

I made a decision (I'm getting better at that, maybe I'll write a post about it!) to leave. If I stayed it would be at least until 1230 and if I was actually sent to a poll I'd be working until

9 PM.

I have a job starting next week and they seemed to have enough people to fill any voids, so I claimed sickness and left.

I do have a sore throat and a runny nose, so it wasn't even a lie. Also, I did something to me knee last night and if there's one thing that can ruin an election it's a gammy knee (see: 1842 election in Canada West between Francis and Jenkins) so my departure was for the best.

And now I get to have coffee with Toon!

job

JOB!

Black Creek Pioneer Village.

Exciting details (no doubt) to follow.

I'm also working tomorrow for the by-election in St. Paul's. As much as I enjoy money if they ask for volunteers to be sent home early I'll be at the top of the list. We need to be there for 730, and if we are needed at a poll we'll be working until 9pm.

And if money isn't a crushing priority...easy choice.

Painting lines on life

Well the weekend of painting was an absolute success. Saturday was in an underground garage for a new condo. The Sunday was a 530 am wake up so I could catch the Bathurst night bus at Dundas, which took me to Wilson (just north of the 401) and from there it was all the way to Warden and the 407 to do the lot below. 900 spaces they tell me.

View Larger Map

This place was loads of fun, what with the clouds scudding across the sky and my sleep deprived brain contemplating what this land looked like 10, 20, 50 years ago. Undoubtedly some brilliant farmland swallowed up by development. And the spot on the map that is a brown field, just north of the parking lot, is now turning into condos. Wha? I guess some people like walking across a parking lot to work, or like the idea of being right on the edge of the 407 at all times. Not me, but some people just have to rocket to work. Once we finished there we drove clear across to Mississauga to do another condo lot, interesting in its own right because the smaller footprint of the building meant it had to go deeper to fit in all the parking spaces. Something I had never contemplated before.

At the outdoor site the breeze was nice, and the notion of weather added another novelty to the scene. Watching dark clouds looming from the west then moving over us without loosing more than a drop of water was a minor victory each time as we worked to get things done. And as you walk across a vast, empty parking lot, with nothing to see around you but a few buildings, some under construction, and a highway, it gives you time to contemplate what we, as a species, are doing.

The idea of the place is bad. Destroying farmland, sprawl, office parks and highway side condos all ring awful to me, but there was something...engrossing about the setting. Perhaps even enchanting. The buildings were nothing to be amazed by, rectangles of glass and steel, but their aesthetics combined in my mind with the geographic, historical, social and cultural of the place to become something vibrant and pleasant in its own right.

The to-ing and fro-ing as people came into work on a Sunday was another source of interest for me. Some were there before we arrived, leaving after noon, others pulled in and didn't leave, and a few popped by before disappearing 30 minutes later. Yes I was working too, but for me there was something especially unappealing about the idea of coming to this office, in the middle of nowhere, to work on whatever. Maybe if they could open their windows it wouldn't be so bad. It must, after all, be a nice view from the upper floors.

Eventually I'm going to write a few thoughts on the notion and specifics of painting cement. What a peach of a casual job!

And as if by magic...

Employment? Wah? Exciting!

Just as I was being questioned about such things an answer arises proving once again the universe has my back.

It's just for the weekend, maybe just tomorrow even, but dollars are a pleasant thought.

I'm going to be working in the underground parking garage of some Condos going up at Spadina and Lakeshore, so in doubly good news even if it is raining tomorrow I'm not involved! And I'm pretty excited because at some point, in a few years I will inevitably be chatting with someone and they're going to say, "Oh, I live in the tower at the bottom of Spadina."

"Down there?" I'll say. "I painted the parking lines in that garage." We will then stare into each other's eyes, slowly comprehending the depth and majesty that surrounds us. Our mouths will hang agape in astonished wonder until one of us starts crying. Then we will bind in a warm embrace, whispering "parking garage" between sobs until we part ways, promising to keep in touch but knowing the emotions are too strong to bear and we can never see one another again.

So, yeah. Up at 7 I guess. Which is cool because that's when I awoke this morning. Body knows where it's at.