Me and Montreal

[meandmontreal]

I received this photo yesterday in my e-mail. The subject was "you know".

Nutella, our daily breakfast on homemade toast. Camomille Flower tea, which became my nickname. Those tall candles, which advertised themselves as non dripping wax candles, from the dep 365 down the street (where the family would watch chinese films throughout the day, and eat full suppers on the cash counter, surrounded by every belt buckle imagineable, every chip bag imaginable, and every possible immediately needed item one could conceive of), Amandine was continually buying to cause the apartment to glow contemplatively. That coat, Amandine wore each day. Yuriy was most likely, in this moment, playing some strange flute music, or very intense jazz (making Amandine crazy) or some old timey blues.

I will remember these two through music. Amandine shaking her head with passion as she mimicked the voice of Grace Slick singing Strange Boy, and Yuriy pumping his arms with a transparent bliss I've rarely seen to the gritty rhythm of Portihead's Strangers. This image holds many sounds for me, a composition I will treasure indefinitely.

I love these people. I loved living with them in Montreal. They changed my perspective entirely. They disciplined me to be open, timeless, present, humble. I hadn't known happiness like that at any other time in my life.

What a shift throughout the day here in Edmonton. I awake doubtful, pass the morning contented, endure a rocky afternoon, and laugh deeply into the night. There have been peaks through this avenue of valleys, but there is no grinding or resistence. Yes, challenges, but none which didn't thrill me in their difficulty. I get a rush from keeping on.

There have been new sides to Edmonton I've encountered. New faces, from up close and from a distance. New potential occupations. Even the old has revealed new sides. My family, more human than ever to my accustomed eyes. My friends, beautifully raw in the familiarity. My city, astonishingly bright on the worn paths. I never know my direction, yet I always arrive where I should. I'm a ghost really. I have yet to materialize in this town. I am still a memory to most of the people who see me, who have yet to see how my skin has hardened, my eyes sharpened, my rhythm cemented. I fear it all, but the fear persists, so it doesn't deter me from being.

I made the right choice, I believe. It is true what they say, how the harder decision, the one which you are most weary of choosing, is often the one you should take. Everything is more real here. There is more gravity to what I do. This history I have with this town makes it impossible to move forward without the stains from the mucky mud of the past. But I can look on those stains with a smile and keep up the pace with fervor.

It won't be forever that I'll be in this place, but it will do until I get my next big impulse. Edmonton, be good to me. Give me a struggle, give me a revelation, give me a push in every direction. I want to be ravaged by this city and devoured by this city. I want to be reborn, the phoenix from the ashes. I want to be liberated from the cages I have yet to discover myself in. I know it's here in the city somewhere. I'm on the hunt.

[meandmontreal]

Closing Time

Here it is, my last day in Montreal for some time. 

I'll miss the sun peaking in through the yellow leaves on Mont Royal

I'll miss carrot cake and coffee in the Santropol garden

I'll miss biking along the canal past the farine five roses factory

I'll miss walking home in the middle of the night to the orchestra of conversations on balcony's

I'll miss the endless mornings of coffee and writing and the timeless nights of beer and music

I'll miss the dinners over uneven tables with strange and stranger companies

I'll miss the lonely metros, the rawest of stages before the sad and stiff and sensitive public, and those moments when someone would stop and share such pure feeling with their tender hands twisting with passion.

I'll miss the people I know here, who are now such enduring life companions.

I'll miss Rawdon, ceremonies, the heart berries, the beautiful healing, the caring community

I'll miss my afternoons with Emmet, singing songs together in opposite tunes, dancing together with the grandest gestures we can manage.

I'll miss that smell of tobacco around the table as Yuiry exclaims "My hair, my eyes, you know? This is the end, mother fucker. Ca va, camomille flower?" and Amandine sings "there was a boy, very strange, enchanted boy" and I perform my interpretive dance.

I'll miss Sundays on the grass, Wednesdays at fiddler's green, Friday's wandering the streets after perculiar parties.

I'll miss the life, surely.

But I'm not ready to settle. Edmonton is an opportunity to stay in motion. I could live here indefinitely easily. It's a good reason to leave. The wind tells me there are other places to experience, other people to meet and share moments with, other strange opportunities awaiting me. I have become attached, but there is no time for that. I've got many things to do. It's like wonderland: once you enter you could wander your life away. But I'm seeking something I haven't found yet here.

I'll keep what I've found, wish my friends well, and move on to the next adventure. Montreal will remain in my heart, until I can return.

[meandmontreal]

I stood on a platform for two hours dressed as Winter for the "Song of Seasons" opening Gala at Centaur Theatre. It was my first experience as a living statue. I spoke to one of the stilt walkers afterward, and we mused about the tendency for people to feel encouraged to speak and act freely once you propose the fantastical through costume or performance. People seemed genuinely terrified of me. I glidded through the room between guests drinking wine and eating clams, and each time I approached someone who didn't see me coming they jumped at the sight of me. I made a commitment to locking eyes with people and staying with them as long as they would stay with me. One woman must have shared eye-contact with me for over a minute. That was extraordinary. Though, it seemed that those who were not terrified were inspired sexually. One man asked me in a whisper "what are you doing after this?" to which I shooed him with my gloved hand. Another, whom I was forced to pass quite closely said " don't come too close or my wife might have a problem with it". The amazing part, however, was those people who treated me like a statue when I was standing on my podium. Some people would stand just at my feet and have a discussion about how exciting the make-up was, saying "my, she looks wonderful". I felt other-worldly. One man came right up to me, lifted my skirt and put his hand around my ankle. He then jumped back and exclaimed "Oh! I didn't think you were real! You fooled me!".

Also, I loved my costume. Winter was fierce. Winter was chilling. Winter was casting evil cold spells on every person who passed the theatre. Winter wanted to invade everyone's soul and freeze their hearts into statues like herself. I had jewels accenting every lining of the cape, I had ivory fabrics flowing around me. It was necessary to have Autumn carry my train because it flowed in a great length behind me. Winter was the queen, and an evil one. I was imagining myself as Tilda Swinton the whole time:

It was very exciting too to spend so much time in the costume room. All the old fashioned tools, the great shelves full of details, the room of shoes, the wigs, the coats. I love this sort of space. It makes me wonder about doing a costume program some day. Until that time I did invent a project to do at home in Edmonton involving costuming and atmospheric photo shoots with different themes.

I had a very good time being Winter.

[meandmontreal]

Sylvia's Mistake - The Subordinates. July 2013

[meandmontreal]

Oh Montreal, you sweet soul of whisky song. You better be awake when I come back home

There was six cups of coffee in the morning served with sunshine-balcony musings. There was cheap beer in fancy parks at two am, when half of us were strangers and half of us were family. There was blues melodies beneath a stone bridge on the mountain, when the full moon filled us with old tunes. There was strawberry oatmeal between heavy 5AM sunrise napping (when he was brave enough to dip in the river I was huddling in the blanket to control the shivers). There was alter-ego waltzing in a castle of princes, and black paint smudged on the visage of the participants. There was exstacy in cold beer on impossible summer days. There was misery in endless tea on deadly winter afternoons. There was clown, with complications. There were ceremonies, involving revolutions, revelations, remedies, following which I would never be the same timid Sarah. There were encounters with many faces, beautiful and beastly, to which I spoke, demure and direct.

Reborn in Montreal

A mess in Montreal

Strange in the city of Montreal

Longing in Montreal

Grounded in Montreal

[meandmontreal]

"And why are you so quiet now Standing there in the doorway? You chose your journey long before You came upon this highway." - Cohen

In Sherbrooke, Constantine and I sat in the sun drinking coffee around a large wooden dining table while friends around us were gardening, reading in the hammock, playing that game with six balls on the grass of which I forget the name completely. This co-op was in a huge old house on a large piece of land. The food was shared, music played continually, art was everywhere. It was beautiful.

Constantine said to me "Sarah, why would you want to go back to Edmonton when you have literally found heaven. It costs nothing to live here, you could write your stories and your music and these people could be your family. You would be missed if you left". He was right. I was really meant to see that place in some ways. It was the perfect set up in some ways. Everything about it compelled me to stay, but I didn't want to. If I were to remain in Quebec this year it would be at that co-op, so quite, so harmonious, so inspiring for any artist. And maybe some day I will find myself there. I know it exists, but at this point it doesn't fit.

So I will go. It has been a struggle to come to that decision (just a week before my booked flight sails west), but I am settled. I want to be here to watch Emmet grow into the little man he's bound to be. I want to be here to watch Elena's work progress through NTS. I want to be here to play more shows with my band. I want to be here for more autumn strolls on the mountain. I want to be here to continue participating in the Anishinaabe ceremonies. I want to be here for more beautiful experiences busking in the metro. After deliberating and agonizing, it's become quite clear. As I have said, and as I know to be true, I'll be in Montreal again before long. It's not hard to go, because I know it's not forever.

Edmonton is home to so much: my childhood memories, my family, my oldest friends, a beautiful theatre community, a humble music community. Though these are obvious reasons for returning I still found it very difficult to feel completely justified in my going back. People have been saying "it's early to leave Montreal" and "why go when your band is here?" and "is it just a money thing?", giving me every reason to reconsider. But, what I've realized is that, for me, it's about sharing this project with a city I love, continuing on this fluid un-planted trajectory (not allowing myself to feel stuck anywhere), and gobbling up some fresh inspiration from a fresh situation.

Things in Montreal have never been stagnet, but I prefer to keep it that way. There are so many things I would love to continue experiencing here in Montreal: Amandine and Yuiry asked me if I wanted to take Ben's room and stay in this lovely apartment; the ceremony's in the new Wabbano lodge begin next week and run every week through the year; I have recently cracked the busking-code on what really makes money, after a year of working at it. If I stayed it would be so good, and I would live a contented life.

But I'm not looking to be content. I'm not ready to remain anywhere necessarily. I've got to keep pushing forward: writing, playing music, developing myself professionally. There are steps I know I can take in Edmonton which will offer more concrete growth than I can achieve in Montreal. Still I am hindered by my elementry French, still I am crippled by my lack of experience as an instructor, still I am so poor that I need to go to the land of the golden apple and the Rocky Montana dumpster to get fruit in my diet, and winter's coming...

Going back to Edmonton is partially about giving myself and Montreal a chance. When I return, I am going to be more fluent in French, have some teaching experience under my belt, and be more established/accomplished as an artist. I have ways of making each of these things happen in Edmonton. In Montreal I would still be trying to uphold the same life I've been living all year. Going to live in Edmonton is, in a sense, about ensuring my return to Montreal, in a way that I can experience this city artistically without simultaneously trying to survive.

I don't know when my return will be, I don't know how I will be returning, I don't know what my life will look like at that time (let alone what it will look like next week), but it's not dramatic. It's not goodbye. It could be years before I come back to Montreal, who knows. But, there is nothing permanent about my decision, beyond being firm presently about returning to Edmonton. Oh, how satisfying it is to be settled!

[meandmontreal]

Prince Castle on Friday the 13th.

[meandmontreal]

- merci la vie à la mort -

I remember Ben's face in the doorway. His eyes, like two giant moons. His apologetic smile. I didn't know what he was trying to say to me. In my head I thought "why did you spend the night on facebook when we could have played mario kart?"

I've seen his face in fragments this week. Those moon eyes on a lady in the metro. His Caeser hair in the head of a man washing dishes in his kitchen window. His strong frame in a runner in parc la fontaine. In my head I thought "how can a man who seems so strong be ill?"

He showed me the Quebec Redneck Bluegrass Project. We ate black bean burgers with ketchup and chedder cheese. We talked about his class on the history of Syria, his work building websites. I asked him about the future. He wasn't eager to talk about it. I wondered "if he feels unhappy why wouldn't he try to do something to change that?"

What I didn't understand was that he was living with the prospect of death while I was living with the prospect of life. In every proposed opportunity I offered, every inquisitive remark I made in regards to his interests, every moment of "maybe next time" I didn't understand why it was so difficult to encourage him that there could be more. What I really didn't understand was how serious his condition was. He was built like a warrior. He was 27 years old. He appeared as healthy as could be to my eyes. You cannot simply boost the spirits of a man who is told repeatedly that he won't live past 30.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

This weekend we danced deep into the night. This weekend we held our glasses so high. This weekend we lived as a community. This weekend we drank beer with our pizza. This weekend we kissed and embraced and sang with affection without concern.

And Brad made his debut performance of his music.

And new friendships were formed between warm strangers.

And songs were written from the free thoughts.

And the nights may have well been the days and the clocks may as well have disappeared.

And the young husky was the brightest soul in the universe.

And hot coffee was my first sight of the day and his smile was the last.

And we ate together, walked together, laughed together.

This weekend we said goodbye to Ben, with such life to honour such a life. This weekend Ben was celebrated with beers and songs in his hometown with his friends. This weekend we made such memories and said MERCI! MERCI LA VIE A LA MORT!

[meandmontreal]

Concern for a Life of Inspiration

You know those mornings of "well maybe I'll just each chocolate cake for breakfast" or those evenings of "well maybe I'll just watch another couple episodes because my plans were dropped" or those conversations of "well maybe I'll just indulge in this conversation about hair"? And you know also that feeling of discontented calm that comes from each of these scenarios? In some ways, whenever I get that feeling, I feel like I'm your traditional adult now: remembering the days of my radient emotions as experienced in my youth, and how everything was incredibly affecting. It feels very modern-day-adult to swallow your situation and go on knowing that there won't be a time like that again in your lifetime.

And then I stopped, and thought "hmmm, terrifying". I recognized that I was beginning to let my habits eat my spirit to the point that I would choose not to make an effort in places that I knew would inspire me. I was getting soooo fucking old soooo fucking fast.

It's the little things. It's eating what literally makes me feel good (fruits, veggies, etc.), spending my time with people whose company I earnestly enjoy and doing only what literally gives me inspiration (going for walks, going to galleries, going on adventures, playing music, painting).

Something I realised is that the biggest energy-drainer is the internet. It needs to be gone from my life in a big way. Certain writing tools via the internet are very exciting from time to time (such as tumblr), but even when it comes to writing, I do better work when I have a pen in my hand. The other thing I use the internet a lot for is music, but again, the more inspiring form for me is vinyl. When a record is playing I'm more presently listening to the music instead of filling the sonar space around me out of habit. News, as well, is pleasantly accessible via the internet, but I admittedly prefer physical versions of my preferred sources, which I can access in any library - a more inspiring place to be then my all-too-familiar apartment.

The thing I am realizing is that there is no time for diddle-daddling. I could easily exhaust my life on the internet, but I would be wasting my life's energy. I'm 24, and this is not a time in my life when I need distractions. Maybe when I'm old and disfunctional and immobile I will happily sink into the endless sea of articles/shows/music. But I'm at the thrilling place my life's work is visible, my ideas for projects - bounteous, and my energy toward such efforts - ceaseless. Why interupt my flow with anything but what will drive me further forward?

It takes care, discipline, insistence.  I bit the bullet and spat it out. It'll be awhile before I can get the taste out of my mouth, but one day I'll wake up and forget the flavour. When I begin any thought with "well maybe..." it is an immediate indicator to me as to where my time is better spent: only with activities, company and motivations which are completely inspiring.

[meandmontreal]

Long standing calamity; potentially perpetual

This poem is a featured favourite from my morning reading. It's been a very Sarah morning: a full pot of coffee taken in my Grandmother's teacup, peanut butter and clover honey on toast (the bread I proudly made with my own two hands, this time with cinnamon!), Julie Nesrallah guiding me musically through the morning (featuring classical improvisations), and poetry. I have not passed a morning like this in some time. There have been far too many distractions, unfortunately. So, this morning was especially splendid, and honest. This poem mentions Westmount, the neighbourhood just a five minute walk from my place, where I love to walk and sing and do all sorts of crazy things. It's one of those doors-closed, windows-shut, well-lit, stalely-lifeless neighbourhoods, save for the gracious few children who have not yet met the walls of their environment. For some reason, places like Westmount charge me artistically. It could be because I grew up in the Edmonton equivalent, or maybe it's because these places yern for art. They are not filled with people who cannot appreciate artistic impulse, quite the opposite actually. These are the sorts of people (as made obvious by the way they arrange their homes, their patience with their gardens of flowers, and the appreciative smiles the send me when they catch me in action writing furiously under a willow tree) who do not know where to find the path of expression, but every so often happily catch a glimpse through their stained-glass windows or from the refuge of their SUV's, giving them enough life so-as not to rot and making them long for another glimpse. This poem makes more sense of my concept than I am currently able to manage:

Calamity F.R. Scott A laundry truck Rolled down the hill And crashed into my maple tree. It was a truly North American calamity. Three cans of beer fell out (Which in itself was revealing) And a jumble of skirts and shirts Spilled onto the ploughed grass. Dogs barked, and the children Sprouted like dandelions on my lawn. Normally we do not speak to one another on this avenue, But the excitement made us suddenly neighbours. People exchanged remarks Who had never been introduced And for a while we were quite human. Then the policeman came-- Sedately, for this was Westmount-- And carefully took down all names and numbers. The towing truck soon followed, Order was restored. The starch came raining down.

[meandmontreal]

Crazy things happen to all of us. This happened to me.

I need to get this out. It's been quite a week. We performed our first two shows here in Montreal, and preparing for that was enough to keep me busy. But it turned out that I had another complication to deal with: Tyler. Everything seems alright at first. Then, when I returned from my bike trip (I biked from Montreal to Halifax over the course of three weeks) everything became surprisingly messy. I am so lucky that I had my band over on each of these days rehearsing, and that they are such amazing people. I'm not sure where I would be now without them. Brad, the fiddle player, wrote an account of the whole incident in a letter he sent to his friend. I am displaying it here for the sake of remembering this chaos.

"My band mate Sarah who lives by vendome metro hosts our rehearsals, and so Ive been heading over there a lot. But something has happened. madi, this is crazy. here we go: so Sarah was the girl who actually took this major bike trip to cape breton and stayed with me a little while I was home, it was great, we played music, my family loved her, it was great. But just before sarah left montreal, the person who was subletting for her roommate had to back out last minute, so Sarah was forced to find another subletter 5 days before her major cross canada east coast bike trip! So frantically she put up an add on facebook and she found this guy named tyler who seemed like he had it together, he seemed pretty cool. When the trip was over and sarah got back to montreal, and I got back to montreal and we went back to sarahs apartment to reherse, we met tyler, there was no mess except in his room... he told us that he drank over 80 bears in the time that we were gone, and then he laughed .. we didn't laugh, because it wasn't funny. He was a pretty small guy, didn't wear a shirt, had tattoos and scrapes all on his bony body. Because of our up and coming show on the 18 of July, (anna and I *the other bandmates*) were spending a lot of time rehearsing at sarah's apartment. Tyler got incresingly more sketchy every day, we found out that all of his front teeth were fake, he had cuts and scrapes that were apprearing all over his body he was constantly drunk (from 830 in the morning until 3 am) and he would stumble around, smelling really bad and saying lots of ridiculous things to us and making us super uncomfortable. Sarah, was sure she wanted him to move out, but wasn't sure how she was going to do this. here is some more disgusting things he did -made a steak and left the frying pan on the floor of his room, spilled steak juice on his bed, never cleaned it. -left the same steak in the pan, in his room for 2 days in 37 degrees, the whole apartment smelled like china town. - Hucked loogies into his sweatpants and rubbed it in. - spilled beer everywhere, making the floor sticky - puked all the time in the washroom, never flushed. SO we were at the last straw, and sarah was just about to say something to him when he called her into his room. She went to the doorway and he said he was going to leave by august. Then he asked for a hug, she said that she wasn't comfortable. He got really pissy and made lots of snark commment about her in front of me so I said, whats going on? He said : "you know, when someone asks for a hug, you should really listen to them" so I got up to give him a hug, because I figured he would stop bickering if I did. Madi, as soon as I got up and made the gesture he launched for me, wrapped is arms around my back as tight as he could and squeezed me really hard and started to cry very heavily. He proceeded to kiss my cheek over and over again. I kind of just went numb because I didn't want to feel, I didn't want to smell, and I didn't even really want to think. After that one hug, he talked in circles about how fucked up the government is, how everyone in the world is bad and he just wants a gun so he can shoot everyone in the system, bash their heads into the side walk. I just stared at him, so that he could see himself as I was seeing him, and a few times he did, then he would hug me again in the same way. This went on 6 or 7 more times. He talked about love, about how having love on the inside was bullshit and that he needs people to give it to him and how Sarah is a bad person because she didn't want to hug him. He also said that he would kill himself if people didn't hug him, kill those people who didn't hug him if he had a gun. So eventually as you could probably imagine, I needed to leave. I went to a park and took off my shirt which smelled so fucking bad, and just sat there for like 30 minutes. My heart actually felt really warm, like something was sucked out of me, it was quite strange. I called jesse (because I knew he was a social worker, his parents were also alcoholics) and he basically said that sarah had to tell him to leave right away, give him like 3 days, because if not, he would latch on to everything, the way he did to me. So I told sarah that she could stay with me while she waits for him to leave. Sarah, got up the nerve to tell him that he had to leave by monday very firmly, and she gave him the rest of the money for the rent, he didn't get angry or crazy thank god. She went again last night with a big guy and did a background check with the police (the police cant do anything because it is an illegal sublet, this man was invited into sarahs home) so basically we are hoping that he sees that sarah has plenty of people that have her back and he will leave by monday. If hes not gone, we are getting an army of friends together to scare him out of the apartment. I feel like I'm in a movie. all this while we are playing beautiful music. things are good other than this crazy thing, I am happy, plants are good, Im enjoying montreal. -love brad"

I went back to the apartment this morning with my dear friend Trevor to chase him out, if that was necessary. When we got there there was no sign of him beyond the beer bottles (at least 60) the packages of sleeping pills, the stains and that wretched smell. I've doused the whole apartment in vinager and lemon, and I've been continually burning vanilla candles. HE'S GONE! HE'S GONE! HURRAY HE'S GONE!

My lesson (as my friend Michel put it): These things cannot be rushed, and if they are, you're bound to get the crazies binging in your hallway and leaving excellent surprises for your pleasure.

Thank goodness it's over.

[meandmontreal]

It has begun. We've done two shows now. There is so much to do. We have a show to prepare for on August 1st, and I feel like I must be dreaming. Just yesterday we sent out our band bio to two of our venue managers. This is what we created:

Sylvia has allowed her subordinates to present her memoir through song. Bradley Murphy, Anna Lyon and Sarah C Louise will be bringing a generous taste of Sylvia to the public, painting images sonically with traditional instruments: Accordion bellows, syrupy fiddle, and earthy percussion, straight from the mucky mud. Through theatrical tales and enchantments, Sylvia’s Mistake will lure you deep into the evening. Come to hear more of the infamous life of Sylvia.

Sounds about right to me. Oh Sylvia.

[meandmontreal]

We brought Laura outside with us to share some of the chocolate cake I prepared for anna's birthday. Laura was quite overwhelmed. She's been hiding away in my room for weeks now. We offered her some cake, but she froze. I believe it was the spectators walking close-by. It seems that we may need to take smaller steps with laura. She turned a new shade of green when I asked her why she wasn't wearing any pants. Poor thing is constantly suffering from embarasment of the accutest kind. We begged her to share her feelings, to ease the experience. Her reaction was a sudden leap out of her chair, landing face first on the grass. Did she hope to blend in? It all was fairly dramatic, but we couldn't address the scene easily, for Laura's conscious was at an all time low. She's back inside now, still cooling herself down. We're at a loss for ideas on how to help her.

[meandmontreal]

I have fallen in love. This kind of swirling bliss and deep warmth I've only known once before, but this time it's different. This time it's not a man who's inspiring these emotions. This time it's much more complicated.

It involves relationships. My relationship with both Brad and Anna, the members of my new band, being the particularly pivotal component. But it also involves my relationship with what we create. When I spend time with these beautiful people it is constant laughter and unabashed goofiness and poised clarity and severe honesty all at once. A more excellent time has rarely been had by me throughout my whole time in Montreal. And then we start to play together.

Imagery of dark forests and moonlit skies and wandering wantons and timid hopefuls and ecstatic lightning and secret shelters and windy dances and magical eye-sparkle and bleeding souls and marked elk and furious eagles and ocean crash and soaring leaves and lost gloves and road forks and lively trees and curious squirrels and dying snow and mossy boulders and rain. Flavours of rich red wine and blood trickle and sea spray and coloured wind and sharp apples and savoury stones and mucky mud and fresh cries and old wishes and love. I feel like my body is singing each word. I feel like every note played is an object found in a dusty attic. I feel like we could infect the world with the feeling of our music. I want to taunt audiences from basement stages. I want to spin people into a forgotten world of freedom. I want to invite people to behave like beasts.

This texture is just what I've imagined for my music since each song was created. And yet I never knew what kind of power each song held. It's as though Brad and Anna have excavated my words and melodies and uncovered elements buried out of sight and brought them into the unforgiving sun to be admired, studied, exposed. Each song is completely new, and I feel I am singing them all for the first time. I can no longer claim them to be my songs, for they cannot survive without Brad's intimate, opulent violin melodies or Anna's chaotic, alluring drum rhythms. It's like we have founded a family, and the songs are our strange children. Each child demands different feasts and games, to which we willingly comply.

I feel like my life's work has been awakened. The prospect of this high coming to an end is not something I can dwell on presently, though I undeniably fear that this is all just a dreamy few months of my time. No matter what sort of future takes place, this is a treasured time for me. I find myself singing, smiling, behaving just as I did the last time I fell in love. People have asked me if I met someone. I say "yes, I've met two people. I've never felt this way before!". It almost feels scandelous. The combination of our instruments is an airy intercourse of invisible romance. It's intoxicating!

[meandmontreal]

Morning Haiku Venture

Sweet morning sunlight

Omen of new beginning

Shame you won’t stay long

  Patience calms the heart

And prudence settles the nerves

Can’t halt angry wind

  Bearded lady laughs

Miniature man does a dance

Crowd watches, unsure

By Sarah C Louise

[meandmontreal]

Petit Dejeuner from the Dump

This morning I am enjoying a fine organic mango with some crisp slices of mackintosh apples and a beautiful butter crossiant, and it all came from the trash. It's been a bit of a struggle forcing my mother's voice out of my head, which would inevitably be describing the 1000s of bacteria and the effects of eating rotten food and the dangers some store owners put in place to prevent this sort of thing. But truely, this breakfast tastes better than most of the breakfasts I have had recently, it was all free, and the thought of this food going to waste keeps me up at night. If I didn't know where it came from I would pay money for this meal.

It feels good to be living this way, which coinsides more harmoniously with my values, but I do still feel the socital critcism knocking at my brain. When I biked past some smokers outside their apartment who witnessed my whole venture I felt like I should have been ashamed (though internally I was singing "YAAAAHHH! MANGOES! TOMATOES! AND APPLES UNTIL MY STOMACH POPS!"). I have more pride now than I had putting more money on my credit card to pay for food to two companies who really did not need my support (and 100s of others along the way) just to pay more than I could already afford. But the social critique is a looping track of "to stoop so low, tisk tisk" and "are you sure it's safe?" and "you must be crazy". Ridiculous, all of it, and yet, voices in our head cannot be stopped; they can only be fought.

BESIDES, it's such an adventure! I have my little sacks, my flashlight, my keys around my neck, and it's late at night (so-as not to run into any business owners, the prospect of which still freaks me out), and I'm creepying into back alleys and diving in a dumpster. And what do I find? TREASURE! Perfect eggplants, 100 of them! Honey oranges, mandarin oranges, navel oranges. Apples from every corner of the world. Bags of peanuts! Apricots, peppers, and the finest mangoes on this face of the earth. And only I, Sarah C Louise, could have uncovered such riches, when so many walk by unknowingly. I hop back on my bike, sacks full of reward, and dance in my kitchen as I go through my new goods. It's an amazing feeling! I probably could get by just fine not dumpster diving, but this way I spend so much less money, I eat better, I sleep better because I'm not spending money and eating better, and I do this little bit to change the world. When the alternative is shopping with a bunch of crazy consumerists in a store that doesn't give me any of the variety of good vibes and coming out feeling panicked about my finacial situation I would much rather jump into the muckiest dumpster of all.

I wonder what dumpster diving is like in Wabamun, Alberta, where I will be spending my Autumn and part of my Winter. Hmmmm. An adventure, I'm sure!

[meandmontreal]

Day One of Cutting Myself Off from English Music

Toute la musique qui joue dans mon appartement est maintenant français.

It's necessary since I have become personally more driven than any other time this year to really get on learning the language, for good! I have decided that I won't let myself listen to any English music casually for the rest of my time in Montreal. Hopefully it will have the intended effect and I will be workably fluent in French by the end of the Summer. I had my butt kicked yesterday when I was watching two French boys for the afternoon. The young boy continually would say "parle français avec moi!" with his charming little "I think I'll get my way if I twinkle my eyes and make my smile cuter" expression. However, of course, I would reply to every "pourquoi blah blahhhhh french sounds like blahhh for me still for the most partblahhhh" question, "umm, je ne sais pas!". It was the most vicious of cycles. He clearly got frustrated, even more than I, and at one point when I couldn't communicate with him he grabbed my face and growled like a bear. The feeling was mutual. His mother kept saying "Ahhh baht Gildas est uhn chaild ahhnd eat ease not uhn probleme. Juhst utilezeh yauwr expressionne to taulk weeith gildas". Mais, C'EST VRAIMENT DIFFICIL POUR MOI QUI NE PARLE PAS BON FRANCAIS OU ECRIS FRANCAIS AUSSI! 

And so, as with every complication I encounter, music is my solution. My current favourites are Tino Rossi, La Bolduc, Edith Piaf, Thomas Fersen, and the musical numbers from notre Dame de Paris et Romeo et Juliette, and anything Rufus Wainwright braves in French, and this song in particular:

Mes Aïeux - Dégénérations