The not-writing continues. I spent the weekend at the Ottawa Folk Festival, having my mind blown until I could only grumble that everything was too good. Could Mason be any happier with Broken Social Scene? Why did the Sadies have to pummel us with loud, flawless death country? How can I ever listen to “House of the Rising Sun” after Odetta showed us all how it was done? And thank heaven Rufus Wainwright is merely a competent piano player, because being beautiful, charming, smart and singing like an angel is enough for one human being.

And those were just the high points, the moments at which my eyes rolled back into my head and the line between too much and can’t stop were blurred. The Carolina Chocolate Drops charmed me with their string band-y goodness that kept us banging out time even when we were listening to a CD rather than a live performance. Spiral Beach are way too cool and talented – they make me feel very, very old and their audience of 12-year-olds giving me cut-eye didn’t help. Tao Rodriguez-Seger (Pete’s grandson) was great on stage and also when he was the anonymous guy playing banjo by himself in a patch of shade – utterly charming.

We were there to see Broken Social Scene, a band I don’t know all that well. It’s a tribute to their playing (and Mason’s ecstatic reactions) that I walked away a fan. The same can be said of every other act – either I knew them only by reputation or not at all, and I was converted again and again. Every night we went to sleep in our cold tent amazed that we’d survived another day of beauty. (Especially the first night, when we found out the hard way that this was merely a suggested accommodation and no shuttles or even local buses would run us to the camp grounds. For one used to going to sleep within earshot of the main stage a la Stanfest, this was a tough lesson to get at midnight.)

When we weren’t flopped out in shade patches, dancing or clapping along, we explored a tiny bit of Ottawa’s By Ward Market. I grew addicted to the Montreal style bagels, and the both of us to French pastries so easily available. The food on site wasn’t bad either; there was one booth run by the vegetarian Green Door that was our most frequent stop and each day we would try to hold off buying the dal as long as we could, and then fail and console ourselves with vegan chocolate pecan brownies. Mason is deeply suspicious of vegetarian food (he’s a 100-mile diet kind of guy) and his allegiance to the booth made the sneaky part of me happy.

It was a glorious weekend. I’m sorry you missed it.

Labels: festivals, food, music

Things I Should Be Doing this Weekend:

1. marking the work that was handed in three weeks ago
2. cleaning the frying pan. I made those eggs on Thursday.
3. marking the crummy Catcher in the Rye essays that have been trickling in all week
4. putting away all of the yarn that has migrated to the main floor
5. folding and putting away the laundry that's been lying in the basement hallway since...God, I don't know.
6. going to see Pixie & Kelpie at the bike courier races, so I can give her her birthday present
7. cleaning my toilets. Because the frying pan isn't gross enough
8. marking! Goddamn, exams start on Monday!

Things I Did Instead:

1. ordered a pizza and ate it in the backyard with Blake and without the benefits of plates or napkins
2. took Blake to visit the twins up the street for a playdate/bbq. No bbq, so we played in the back yard until Blake got into it with another kid and I dragged him away.
3. bundled my reprobate into the car seat and went downtown to Lettuce Knit for the Yarn Harlot's birthday a.k.a. Worldwide Knit in Public Day a.k.a. the Toronto branch of the 1000 Knitters Shoot. Even arriving hungry and wondering what I would do with Blake during the party couldn't dent my happy anticipation. Whee! Blake, however, was disappointed when his favourite kid Obi left with his family to go "to Space Island." "Better wear your helmet," I cautioned. Space is rough that way.
4. went to KOS for brunch and a bellini; found Jendricks, Fenner, Tapeheads and Zoe. All the mamas had booze. Blake was happy with his baconface.
5. came back to LK in time to hear Mason's Amazing True Stories of How He Learned About Lapdances to the Detriment of Sage's University Fund. Was totally charmed by his tales of drunken ineptitude, especially as he was unshaven and wearing a new snappy hat, like a character out of Small Change. Blake takes advantage of my distraction to start shovelling sweets into his mouth. Everyone thinks he is the cutest thing ever. They're right, but wait until the sugar crash, friends. It gets real ugly real fast.
6. got my photo taken by Franklin. He is awesome and I just wish I'd had more time to hang out after the shoot when he wasn't working his butt off.
7. left at around 4 o'clock: Blake sticky, Mason hungover, myself sad that I couldn't celebrate WWKiP day with more than a few seconds' knitting. I did start a new project, but I didn't even finish the cast on that day.
8. arrived at Juuki's house for the double-header birthday: her husband and the cat. As the first guests, we had the run of the place, and the adults were able to go up to the balcony while Blake and Paisley splashed around in the inflatable pool. Tranquility interrupted with the news of a missing child.
9. spent the next hour walking around with Blake (who was wearing his underwear and a pair of shoes) and looking for the lost boy. Not as much fun as I'd anticipated. Came home to find that everything was resolved. Ate a slice of meat cake (the frosting is mashed potatoes!) and drove Mason home.
10. fell asleep almost as soon as we got back to our house.
11. went to church. Dragged Blake off the refreshment table after 3 brownies too many and hauled his protesting self home.
12. drove to Mo & Brand's condo for a house-cooling party. Watched Blake run with the herd for 2 1/2 hours before scooping him up and taking him home.
13. watched Blake dump orange juice on the floor in a temper, carried him to the bath and got him to bed without further incident. He was clearly suffering from Too Many Parties.

There is no completed marking, or housework, or crafting to report. I am going into tomorrow the least prepared I have been in years. And yet, the weekend was fantastic. Wouldn't have traded it for anything. Even those sugar-fuelled temper tantrums and the anxious hour of child-searching were a decent price to pay for pizza in the backyard, bellinis with knitmommies and photos with some of my favourite craftistas.

Labels: bat masterson, festivals, friends, knit, outings

Listening to a lot of music these days, as always. I've been unusually pleased with the albums I bought two weeks ago, and I think I figured out why this morning. I finally have something that the Boy doesn't know about. In some ways the worst aspect of our separation is that he started keeping secrets right away, while he was still living with us and our lives were open to him. Now that he's gone, I'm curious about all manner of things. Is his bathroom as filthy as it was when we dated? Is he cooking real food or stir-fries and pasta? Is he already dating? Is he thinking about dating? Does he spend as much time thinking about us as we do thinking and talking about him?

These are questions I won't ask, nor would I trust his answers. (See above, re: secrets.) Music was/is a big part of what we have in common, and there is something about having music he's never heard that makes me feel a little less vulnerable. I suppose that moving on needs to start with the feeling that I don't need him to enjoy Arcade Fire with me if I'm to enjoy it at all.

Aaaaand speaking of music, I suppose we're all wondering the same thing: how did the third night of the Brampton Indie Arts Fest go? Well, fabulously, of course. I went home for a bit after school, then went to my parents' for dinner and Blake noodling while I waited for Nic to come home. He was an hour late (which I should have expected but somehow didn't) and I had to drop him off at Kenny's house before driving myself to the theatre. There was barely time for a driveway dance-party before he was into the house and I was gone.

The main stage was late, so I saw a bit of Courtney Lynn's set and bugged back to the main theatre in time for the beginning of that program. I caught all of Dan Griffin's set, which was so lovely that it felt instantly familiar, and so intimate that he could hear me boo'ing when he asked if everyone had had a good Valentine's Day. (Hee.) Somehow I managed to get a free copy of his CD (no, not by stealing it, thank you) and will be passing it on to someone else who will love it.

Back to the Secondary Stage for David P. Smith, a quirky solo accordion player from B.C. who isn't Geoff Berner. He was a lot of fun, and there were so few people in the theatre that I could stretch out on the floor in front of the stage and pretend I was at StanFest.

Back to the Main Stage for Dr. Steve Mann's States-of-Matter Quintet. I love the hydrophone, but it was kind of disappointing seeing it so far away after last year's up close experience. Not that I played it last year, but I liked that I had the option.

Intermission! I did something I never ever do: buy and drink a regular Coke after 10. It got the job done, though, and I went back in for Becky Johnson in considerably better spirits. (Weird, spastic, funny monologue about an agoraphobic with social anxiety accepting a write-in election for school president.)

The next act was billed as "A Celebration of Canadian Beards: 50 of the GTA's finest beards will swarm the stage of the Rose Theatre," and I was beard-spotting all night, trying to figure out who I would see. Only one beard was present, and though it was a great beard, I can't help but feel cheated.

I went to the lobby to complain to Nic and stood around chatting to him and Kenny and some of their friends. Kenny is an old friend and old bandmate of Nic's. He has a moderately successful music career and knew enough about tech to get he and Nic employment as teenage roadies at a variety of festivals and concerts when we were all in highschool. Kenny is also probably the weirdest functioning adult I've ever met. As a kid, I found his company hectic and unpredictable in the extreme, but he can also be as charming as Satan, and this was the side on display Friday night. I think we made a playdate for him and Blake.

nic and the gross bald spot he's shaved into his head

his eyes shut under the radiance of his own sneer

I went back to the theatre for Maypole, a film inspired by a Joel Giroux poem and scored by Gavin, another old friend and bandmate of Nic's. The follow-up was Dorit Chrysler, an awesome blonde sex-kitten theremin player. She was poised and talented and kind of spooky in a way that totally fit the sound of her instrument. I liked her a great deal, even though the Coke had worn off and I was getting sleepy again.

Two more films: Golden Age, a hilarious animated short following the later lives of various imaginary candy and cereal mascots. Then, Nic's film: A Day or More in the Life of a Russian Furniture Maker! A Grade 12 story that had received a 60% was produced by Kenny into an OAC project that got a 90%. This was that film. Silly and clumsy in parts, but fun and weird. After it was done, Kenny got into the puppet booth to chat with Curtains, the puppet MC. (He and Nic had been talking about doing it, but only Kenny had the guts when all was said and done.) Somehow, seeing Kenny as a puppet only made me like him more, especially when that puppet plugged my brother.

Because all enjoyable experiences need a palate cleanser, the next act made me want to tear out chunks of my hair to distract from his voice. No names, because I don't want him to ego-Google and get sad. But it was the first time I truly understood what it would be like to listen to Vogon poetry. Ugh.

The festival closer was an outfit called Samba Punk Sound System, a group of percussionists somewhere between a marching band, a drum circle and a house party. They encouraged dancing, and when they started up, I knew that all my time in the hippie dance circles of StanFest would compel me onto that stage. I waited until two girls ahead of me started dancing up the aisle, and did a different dance behind them so they would know that I wasn't biting their style. We got onto the stage, joined the guy who was already dancing up a storm, and started the wild rumpus. At one point during that frenetic first dance, I opened my eyes and saw my brother and Kenny playing drums at the other end of the stage. I danced over, one of the two girls following my lead. Nic caught my eye and grinned. And then I danced until the drums stopped, at which point I realized that I had lost my breath some time ago and could taste blood at the back of my throat. So when the next song started, I got up and danced some more. Absolutely glorious.

When it was over and we had shaken hands all around and gone back to our seats to watch I Met the Walrus, I tried to catch my breath. The endorphins were still sizzling, and I found that I didn't care much about anything. Even the lingering cough didn't bother me (although I decided that dancing had somehow given me the TB, and delighted in accusing the other dancing girls.) When the film was over, I caught up to Nic and Kenny in the lobby. Kenny held his palm up. I high-fived it, smiling.

"I have got to thank you. You took it up a couple of notches."

I smiled bigger, wondering what this was about.

"I was sitting there with Nic, trying to get him to go up. He was complaining about his wrist. And I said, how can you stay here when your sister is up there, owning the place?"

Like I said, charming as Satan. And I, for one, welcome my Satanic acquaintance.

Labels: dancing, family, festivals, friends, music, the boy

Day 2 of the BIAF. I'm not going tonight, as is my custom. I know myself too well to think that I'll have the energy for three full nights in a row, especially when they start on Wednesday. Yesterday I went by myself, which was perfectly adequate. It would have been nice to have a friend along, but who wants to come to Brampton on a Wednesday night? My brother was around -- somewhere -- and we'll be driving in together on Friday night, but other than that I just enjoyed the solitude.

I also really enjoyed the Chinguacousy Collective - great big pounding teenager fun - and I didn't expect to, because I do not enjoy seeing my dempgraphic on my time off. Scott Thompson played the sousaphone in his underwear again. Toca Loca did some stuff with maracas that I wouldn't have thought possible. And the Molonari String Quartet did a lot of shouting in the midst of their string work, which seems more fun when I remember it than it seemed at the time (although they did some pretty enjoyable playing when it was modernist rather than post-).But I think my favourites (excluding the Tiny Chef puppet, which belongs in a class of appreciation all his own) were the films. "Paradise" was a stop motion film with really compelling automatons, and how thier lives fall apart. And I loved loved loved the VOC Silent Film Harmonic, who played live music to two Guy Maddin films. These were worth the price of admission.

Labels: festivals, music, outings

(or How I Learned to Bomb Through Nuit Blanche and Love the Run)

Artist's Statement:

In the rush of modern progress, our reliance on technology has passed from a coping strategy to a neurosis. The artist will put on a costume with no watch, leave the house with her cell phone turned off, and perform the piece. Scheduled movements include

• meeting up with volunteers
• knitting in public
• interacting with other artistic events both positively and negatively
• performing impromptu improvised dances in a carefully staged club-like environment
• locating a volunteer who may or may have been drinking all day
• spotting at least 6 random acquaintances from her past in the crowd
• finding a place to sleep that night (this piece begins no earlier than midnight)
• experiencing the environment as our primitive ancestors (i.e. without a coat)
• making and abandoning pom pom(s)
• getting up after five hours sleep to catch a "bus"
• taking the wrong "bus"
• participating in a charity walk with thousands of volunteers

The cumulative effect of these small performances is intended to show the struggle of an average woman resisting the expectations of her communication-crazed culture while still managing to make a number of complex meeting points despite her intentional technological crippling. The sheer number of participants makes this an unforgettable and unmissable performance.

I shouldn't take the piss, because Nuit Blanche was a truly unforgettable night. I started out alone, met up with a few choice members of the Gorgeous Ladies of Knitting at the new Tequila Bookworm, found the Boy while at a club, and wandered the streets with my knitsibs and him as long as we could stand it. The Boy, who was initially unenthused about the whole NB experience, opened up like a flower once he started seeing the various pieces along Queen West. We met 2 Bridesmaids, Pixie's ex-boyf & 3 of the Ferg res crew while milling about, an impressive total for a night boasting crowds of thousands.

(I even got to make a "date" with Casey to meet at the chocolate deer at 2 a.m. "Hey, I just made a date with your wife," he laughed to the Boy. And I have to admit that it gave a very petty part of me smug satisfaction to know that, after more than 10 years, I finally had a chance to stand Casey up. But I have to say, I was very close to sticking it out and making the date, so maybe standing him up is not what I always intended.)

We took an hour out in the middle of NB (were we blanching?) to try and enjoy ourselves at Panic. Problem was that we were too distracted by the possibilities of the night to really enjoy the possibilities of retro music. The only interesting part of it was my unexpected decoration. When the Boy showed up, he thought that we had been putting on glowing makeup at some installation.

"No," I said. "Where do I glow?"

It was only when we were back under black light that I remembered Blake colouring on me in yellow highlighter Friday night (see: too tired to suggest an alternative). When I woke up Saturday morning I no longer looked jaundiced, so I'd assumed that it was gone. Instead, I danced to Skinny Puppy with abstract squiggles on my arms, and a glowing tip to my nose. Cute.

The next morning I got up from Nad's soft futon at 7 a.m. so that I could do the breast cancer Walk for the Cure as a part of Team Knitty. I did the run "alone" (if that can be said when you're walking with a crowd in excess of 10 000), as various issues came up for all members of Team Knitty save myself and a woman named Michelle. We tried to meet up, but I was foiled by a very very slow transit system that kept chewing at me for more than an hour and a half before spitting me out at Osgoode. I wore my very noticeable bunny ears at first so she could recognize me, but aside from entertaining a number of small children, my ears did not serve much of a purpose. But.

The run itself, because I was alone, was so clarifying, so uncluttered. Instead of using my precious ergs of energy on chatting, making friends or announcing my weirder impulses or observations, I just kept it all for myself. All of my jokes, all of my ironies, all of my chafes and all of my problems; they all began and ended with me alone and that was incredibly freeing. Without a run buddy or buddies, I was like a lone tourist, and I was able to be open to so much more of the world around me. I talked to strangers and asked them for help. I took pictures of who and what pleased me without announcing my intentions and without the risk of appearing trivial or vain. I stopped and started and persisted, listening to the workings of my own internal clock. I knit, walking steadily, for at least a kilometre. And the best part was that it was all for me; I was watching and laughing and pondering each thing as if it was just one more installation in my own personal Matin Blanc.

How do you walk 5K on 5h? Maybe you just need to be in a huge crowd of happy, purposeful people on a beautiful morning, with the freedom to experience each thing on your own terms. And maybe the bunny ears help too.

Bonus! Something about being very overstimulated and very tired made me come up with a poem last night, as I was going to sleep on the futon. Here it goes:

Thy name is woman

Dave once told me that
"there would always be
an Aleta-sized hole
in his heart."
We haven't spoken in years
but I still wonder
if that hole
is still there.

And if,
by some miracle,
I could manage
to shake off those extra pounds
that dog my vanity,
would I still
fit in that hole?
Or would I
stick,
like the wrong key in the right lock,
able to slide in
but unable to turn usefully?

He's not the only one with
the impression of me
in him
like a noble seal
on good red wax.

And vanity aside,
I know that I have made holes
inside a good many people,
holes that
still expect me
to lie down quietly inside them
and unhole them for a time.

We haven't spoken about this, but
I sometimes wonder if
my teeth were straight and
my neck unstooped, if
my jaw was obvious and
my moles a fond memory,
would I still
fit into the place
I made inside you,
a snow angel in your memories?

Or would
the new me,
the beautiful me, the
perfectly pretty me,
mar the first perfection of that hole,
and be prevented from taking flight
and soaring in you forever?

Labels: festivals, friends, knit, outings, poetry, the boy

Blake broke my heart twice today - a new record, since he hardly ever breaks my heart. I was trying to get something written up in time for church when he ran at me with his baseball bat, yelling something unintelligible.

Me: What are you doing?
Him: I'm shooting things.
Me: What are you shooting?
Him: Bad guys. I'm shooting them with fire.
Me: Where did you learn this game? (My voice begins to rise. Insert a highly unsuccessful interrogation that fails utterly to determine where he heard this. Tactics are changed.) How do you know they're bad guys?
Him: Because I'm shooting them.
Me: That's right! You don't know if they're bad! What makes you think that you're good and they're bad? (At this point I dissolve into tears. Blake comes to comfort me.)

All of the tiny battles of infancy fade into insignificance before this moment. Despite my most unrealistic expectations and most firmly held opinions, my child has been exposed to and infected by military culture.

I pulled myself together for church, just in time to supervise Blake and an older boy in the nursery. I soon noticed that this older boy was playing a shooting, soldier game, giving me at least one possibility of origin. How ironic. But then, when this boy's older sister collected him for Sunday School, Blake broke my heart again.

"No, Malachi, don't go! Malachi, I love you! Don't go to Sunday School! Don't go Malachi, I love you!" All without looking up. Seriously, my nerves can't take this kind of treadmill.

The last four days of our lives have centred around the BIAF, and have been almost as intense as a stint at Stanfest (except: warmer, drier, cleaner and with a measly 15-minute commute to our own bed at the end of every night.) We've seen a number of bands that have rocked our socks, walked out on a number of avante-guard improvisational acts that make me question why I'm not performing for money, and generally chatted & played & knit as much as possible.

Rotundus Maximus Series:

Borje Salming did not perform the Swedish national anthem on the sousaphone Wednesday night, clad only in Salming underwear and a Jofa helmet. (But his mysterious fraudulent proxy allowed us to chat at length with Geoff Berner, about whom more later.) The Boy was quite disappointed, and we left soon after.

Despite this letdown, we felt much better when Jeff Burke delivered a blistering bassoon rendition of Side 1 of "Master of Puppets" on Friday. The audience was absolutely rapt, with many spontaneous exhibitions of air guitar, air bass and two air drummers. The Boy's favourite part was the beginning of the title track, which was greeted with wide smiles and a smattering of polite applause. I don't think I've ever thrown the horns so many times at a solo bassoon show. We also confirmed that he was the bassoonist of Cosimo Cat fame, but in the middle of the conversation we were shushed in favour of a performance artist hitting different parts of her body.

Secondary Space: Wednesday

Ultramagnus = hot Afrobeat rhythms that make the dishes get up & dance. Raised By Swans caused me to totally rock out while knitting the border of a new hat (they do gorgeous Cure-influenced soundscapes and I think I was the most moved of the whole audience.)

Geoff Berner did all new stuff from his latest CD, with a Carmaig song right at the end for fun. I always love the Geoff, even if I can't sing along, and there was some great stuff about "the agony of childbirth" and what you have to do to shut your husband up. We talked to him later at the merch table, after we bought one album and Nic bought the other. (Yeah, Nic stayed for the whole set too, and was doubled over at many points. I'm always surprised when he likes what I like.)

Main Stage: Wednesday

Dr. Steve Mann didn't really play in the main space, but in the frigid patio outside the theatre. Holy Ghost, it was cold out there, and I can't imagine how cold it was to play an instrument that uses continually running water as its main sound generator. There was a fairly respectable crowd watching, and I'm told that after I gave up and went inside, both the Boy and Mayor Susan Fennell took turns on the hydraulophone. Me, I joined the Parade of Noises and went to the theatre. I kind of had to; the recorder player was wearing the Boy's finger-less gloves so that her hands wouldn't fall off. As it was, the gloves almost went to Guelph before they were rescued by a helpful member of the Futuristic Art Research Team. I therefore forgive her for gutting a plush Larry the Cucumber in search of his voice box.

The Diableros were quite good, and reminded me of both Joy Division and Sonic Youth. I used the time to cast on for a new hat, and enjoyed every second of their set.

Secondary Space: Friday

I really wanted to like Kids on TV (especially since they released a single with Maggie M.), but frankly they scared the crap out of me when they dressed up in wolf suits and crawled around on the floor. The next act, Laura Barrett, was a vision. When I walked in the door, the audience was all sitting crosslegged on the floor like an obedient kindergarten class. Halfway through the first song, I turned to the Boy and said, "I love her. I'm leaving you for her." I was utterly ensorcelled. Don't take my word for it, go to her page and lose your heart too.

Main Stage: Friday

Ohbijou were as cute as their bio: "laying in bed, in a fit of unbridled happiness, hitting me like an unexpected sneeze, I looked at you and said…ohbijou." Like Belle & Sebastian, only sweet and soft and lovely, they knew the power of a good crescendo.

Most of the rest of Friday was spent swooning over Laura Barrett and knitting in the lobby. I did manage to catch the beginning of Trevor Dunn & Shelley Burgon, but five seconds into the first piece I realized that I was too tired and possibly too close-minded to enjoy experimental improvisational duets created by mallets and strings. So we went home.

Secondary Space: Saturday

Giant Killer Shark! The Musical was viewed from behind Nic's book display. I'm a total sucker for ironic comedy musicals, and this one had the added bonus of cheap ass props, improvisation to cover mistakes and a mustache that refused to stay on and was replaced halfway through with a double line of electrical tape. "I'm going to go fix my fucking mustache." The three of us laughed and laughed. After the shark blew up and the final song finished and the lights came up, I was so completely content that I could have gone home right then.

Main Stage: Saturday

Three words that changed my life (or at least, my night): Nihilist Spasm Band. So loud, so wild, so much sound that I was utterly transported. Like having the flu, like what I dimly remember of being high. And their lead singer had exactly the right voice for declaiming spoken word pieces, a clear sign that he should do so.

The only other act I caught was Elliot Brood, a self-described "death folk" trio that would have fit into StanFest like a (finger-less) glove. Unfortunately, I was completely spent from the week of music, from laughing my lungs out at "Giant Killer Shark," from real estate negotiations, and from the sonic assault of the NSB. To conclude, I folded like a tent before the Friendly Rich Show at midnight. I still regret missing his act, but I guess I'm not a kid anymore. Boo. But yay on Friendly Rich (who is quite friendly, even when my toddler is running around willy nilly during the set-up on the first day of a 4-day festival), and yay on his excellent festival. I'm a convert.

Labels: blake, festivals, outings