colour theory

just back from the AGO with gabor and csopi. saw an exhibit on colour theory - mostly painters i don't know, with the exception of rothko, who of course everyone knows, and it's becoming a cliche to like him. i did see a few pieces i quite liked but since i haven't a head for names, i of course can't remember them. guess i'll never be an art historian.

our tenants just moved in today too. i think they'll be good - he's an oil painter, she's a puppetmaker (!) and massage therapist. weird to be sharing this new space so soon with people we know not at all, but it's a relief to have someone in the suite as the money situation is a little tight these days. am contemplating getting in touch with Peter to see if he can toss some work my way. the advantage of freelancing on the side, of course, is being able to write things off...

oops

it just occurs to me that the words to that bad song are actually "whatever i did, whatever i said, i didn't mean it." which changes everything. scratch that last post.

double take

6 or 7 years ago there was a very dumb song on the radio, the chorus of which ran something like this:

whatever i said, whatever i did, i'm sorry.

despite the fact that it seemed to me at the time to be some dumbass stereotypically male reaction to the girlfriend's anger, today i'm reading it a bit differently. maybe it was really about someone truly not understanding what went wrong, but wanting badly to make it right...

ha. life lessons in lite pop.

resolution xvii

awoke this morning to that fleeting resolve to *do* something more creative. to find some way to get past fear into something more constructive. part due to talking with j last night - her stories of the landscape of sage hill, the luxury of days spent writing, the discipline of sitting with a poem and making it work. in my head i've always entertained the fantasy of writing - of someday being able to put pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and coaxing out something beautiful. i think i'm beginning to understand that beauty, like everything else, requires practice to rein it in, make it coherent.

so there are tasks to finish. so what? the house will be here, always, always hungry for improvements, always willing to take more. i'm reading cunningham's specimen days at the moment, and quite liking it - there's some stuff in there about the hunger of the dead, of the animate in the inanimate. the dead are in the grass, in the machines. in my house?

the tasks that are more important should be this quiet growth, the building of faith and courage. the finishing of that cursed thesis, the practice of writing, the freedom of painting. light work. or lightening work maybe?

i know i've had these moments of resolve before, and as with so many things, played with it for a while and let it slide, only to pick it up again months, years, later with a commitment to do it right this time. i suspect this is a fatal flaw. i guess the goal for me should be to mend it.

and so off to another day at work, solo in the office today - fridays are my lone day. on the to do list today: writing back to noam chomsky and howard zinn. sometimes my job makes me laugh.

and thankfully, today there's lunch at markham and painting to end the week. and the heat has seemingly abated for a time and it's a perfect summer day outside. there are always morsels of grace to feed on, i guess, no matter how insatiable i feel.

over the hump and into the

a thursday morning that finally doesn't feel like swimming through smog. we'll see if that holds til noon.

am settling into this business of being solo in the house. putzing around with lists of tasks to accomplish - buy these shelves, paint this room, clean this floor, wrestle with the couch (which, incidentally, i finally managed to get into the apartment - after widening the downstairs door, took apart parts of the deck and pretty much forced it through j's office door). freakin' stuff. even as i resent the fact that i have it, i seem to be fairly adept at acquiring more.

been battling that familiar low grade depression thing lately - you know, the one that involves lying on the couch and staring at the pets, thinking you should read or at least do *something* that sort of counts as productive, but the only thing you can muster is to crack another beer and flip through the million and one channels on the digital television and end up watching infomercials for some amazing new tupperware system (we just got digital cable installed - it's nasty shit... to defend myself, i should mention that we only got it to sweeten the deal for our tenants. i was afraid nobody would rent the apartment, but in the end, these two very nice artist types did, and on my first ever showing. probably didn't have to throw in the cable and the internet but at least now we can write them off, kind of). soooooo i finally hauled my ass off to the gym yesterday and i think it helped. don't feel like calling it a day already, so that must mean something.

what the fuck is wrong with people?

a quick rant:
total spent in the past 3 years on replacing stolen bicycles and bike parts: $1253.27.

what is *with* that? and what does someone do with a shitty old cracked bike wheel anyhow? (this morning greets me with an empty set of struts, and sagging brake cables... people really do suck).

in other news, just back from hillside - a weekend away in the midst of sweltering ontario summer, lakeside, and browning, and listening to some really great tunes. run, don't walk, to get all of josh ritter's stuff. of course, i might be the last person on earth to know how great he is, since i've clearly been out of touch for the past few years. but i'm listening to him nonstop since coming back from hillside and it's making everything feel a little more sympatico.

j left this morning for saskatchewan - a two week flight to the plains. wide open skies, wide open land, wide open mind. the familiar growl of anxiety in the pit of my stomach that signals the shoring up of resources for so much time spent alone. how does this work again?