I drew this picture on September 5th, 1967, the first day of kindergarten. The Tuesday after Labour Day. I was four years old. It's in terrific condition because my mother had a career in record keeping. I inherited her talent.
Conceptualizing a slide — the stairs and descent — was a lot for a wee brain. And apparently, some men look like angry caterpillars (paging Carl Jung). I hope you have this kind of childhood stuff. Unfolding a yellowing page of newsprint and bridging an almost 56-year gap is sweet.
From the start, being at school made me happy.
I've been thinking about creativity and the winter ahead. About a project I mostly parked over the summer. It seems pressing to crack on this season as an antidote to the bleakness. Staying connected to what's happening in the world and being a good, vocal citizen mean a lot to me.
And I have to feed the spirit to tip the scale toward hope — essential for my survival. I spent years attending meetings where the joy of living was a mandate (sometimes, I hated that).
Making time for self is a hard concept for a lot of cooks. Because our work compass is fucked up, sometimes beyond all recognition.
I am conscious of having art in my life. I went to see the Bowie documentary, Moonage Daydream. It's fabulous. There's a clip of an interview where he talks about shifting his mental disposition toward the positive and being of service to others. He's speaking several years after his Berlin transition.
This week I watched Museum Town on Kanopy (with my Toronto library card) about North Adams, Massachusetts and the MOCA Mass. The Nick Cave exhibit "Until" was captivating. The shimmer and tinkle of crystals and the crank of chains as the great cloud ascended toward the ceiling. The size of the community it took to create. So many believers. I want to stand under it, and have my vision blur from the coloured foil weapon whirly gigs.
On Friday afternoon at work, there was preparation for pork hocks cooked in sauerkraut. I was staying present with memories of my dad. He always made a big crock and had all the equipment, including a big wooden mandoline. I'm pretty sure he bought it at Denninger's in Hamilton. The cabbage and riesling came from a ten-minute drive from his front door in Grimsby. It would ferment in the cold cellar, on a shelf with his oval copper chafing dish and cast-iron Dutch ovens. His cookbooks were down there too. Magic happened in that corner of the basement. I can still smell the boozy-acidic tang.
I have never made my own. That should change. There might be tears.
ELO were masters of the dramatic entrance — they knew how to set the stage for a song.
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