The Moment of Dissolution.

While striking up a conversation with a rather impressionable writer last night, it occurred to me, as I was slapping my drunken tongue around, that I was actually talking to myself. That's not to say that this connoisseur of Thai culture wasn't listening, on the contrary, he was listening all too well, it's simply that for a brief moment of hearing some words spill forth I was suddenly privy to the exact reason why I have been pursing art for over twenty years.      

Before we go on though, let's be clear for a moment; my journey into the world of art is as plural as it can get. In fact I've had all my fingers and toes in so many creative pies that it might be perceived as a defect to mastering any one at all. I must stress 'might be' because the possibility of someone's perception tainting my own is, in my mind, highly unlikely. For those that haven't heard, the crocodiles of Bangkok have all made a recent oath to eat all those who dare quib.

Anyway to paint an overview of a few aesthetically pleasing roads, I nearly drowned myself in a pool of sweat from all those years of ballet, contemporary, jazz and the loathsome co-ordinating movements of tap, to discover how the body communicates. At one stage I started to foster a hump while sewing my own clothes, to learn the beauty of wearing your own strange original choices. I found the expansiveness and freedom of playing other characters in acting, to understand thought. I replicated african necklaces and chokers in the art of jewellery making, to most likely fill in time. I killed numerous bonsai's, to know that shaping and tending to them (or anything remotely green) was not my forte. I would sleep with paint somewhere on my body from the days of working 8-10 hours on a canvas, to see a language of symbolism develop before me. I built sculptures to discover the choices we have in filling space. I bellowed, squawked and finally hit a few notes, to learn that I should not sing in public with a microphone. I repeated a basic knitting stitch about the diameter of a rugby player's neck, for those winter days in Montreal. I played several beats of a more experimental, minimal expression on a friend's drum kit and piano, to end up laughing at the repetition. I found the best filters on Instagram for photos that I'm only now starting to take. I poured metaphor over metaphor in my poetry, to be quietly shocked when many people didn't understand what I was saying. And I wrote a novel because of an idea that wouldn't go away and the attraction to express the inexpressible.

The decision to follow an artistic career wasn't apparent to me for many years, because it was just something I did, although I can now finally understand why I've naturally gravitated towards it, even if my artistic expression lacked the mastery (a debatable and unfortunate thought in itself).

Over the numerous years sewn together by the invisible threads of memory I have come to an observation that all types of art, and I'm talking purely from a personal experience here, can give the same enigmatic, fulfilling experience. I've witnessed that it doesn't matter what form of art you do, if there's a moment of complete surrender than there is, what I call - the moment of dissolution. That timeless, space-less zone, if you're a meditator from way back. The awareness of the right brain, if you're scientifically minded. That peace of God, if you're religiously or spirituality inclined. That state of consciousness open to its highest potential, if you're a patchouli smelling, earth loving being (or close to it). That marriage of butter, sage and fresh pasta, if you're actually thinking more about food and wondering in the back corner of your mind why you're even continuing reading.

Well for those people who are thinking "...but I'm not creative and I'm not good at drawing or dancing or singing or anything for that matter", I tell you this, although it's been said before, I'll say it again anyway - Everyone is creative. Everyone.

Think about it. It's completely stark raving mad and totally 100% absurd to think that one has to make a living off their art, (granted I'm pretty convinced it would help a rather extensive list of things I need in my life) or that you even have to be gifted at it. I am a firm believer that it really doesn't matter because of that incredible moment of dissolution. And it doesn't matter because there is no matter... but that's for another blog.

11.11.11

I must admit it to myself, which means everyone else is included also, that a rather large chunky part of me, comprising of my head, legs and the left side of my chest, was really looked forward to this elusive and auspicious date: 11.11.11.

Some people have coagulated together with the belief that the meaning of triple 11 lies in conjunction with the Mayan Calendar, a prophecy foretelling a healthy combination of doom and the beginning of a new spiritual era. While some believe that this is actually a signal from Angels communicating information to only those who understand the Angel dialect - a cross between morse-code and the wind, if I'm not mistaken. And others swear that it means a strong occurrence in synchronistic happenings.  Although this seems like the more promising possibility, any information as to how these random, meant-to-be events take place apparently cannot be disclosed.

I, on the other hand, have up until this current Bangkok time of 1:42 p.m. experienced absolutely nothing.   

That's not to discredit the smells pervading my taxi ride this morning. A victorious conquest of a wet dog smell presiding over the old man's 1920's wardrobe smell. And who can forget the other character building experiences. The first conscious moment after my coffee, while slumped in my office chair, I had the pleasure to contemplate the reinvention of my blog (again), why my buttocks were hurting more on the right side and wonder several times why the little furry dog, who had visited our office yesterday and left an early Christmas present in my boss's office, wasn't here today. 

And then later, with my hunger level peaking, the wonderful experience of ordering a salad but getting a sandwich to finally end up with a different kind of salad, to which all were changed eventually to my original and only order. 

I would like to stress that I was content with the first wrong order that almost dangled in front of me like carrot leading a donkey, but my face must have had a permanent scowl lacquered onto it because the lovely polite Thai waitress who was just so lovely and god-damn polite couldn't bear to give me anything other than what I ordered.

There might be an opportunity later on to grok something of a higher truth, to absolutely understand something about my purpose in life but as it stands right now, I am the same as yesterday.

Letter from Mr. Left

Dear Tanya,

Being the ever observant, helpful brain that I am, I've noticed that since the Bangkok floods have threatened our dry little world with fears of crocodiles rising from the sewers and cockroaches turning white walls black, you haven't had so much work. In fact you've had a bit too much time to meander.
 
So this morning while I was busy reminding you of some sad memories about your unfulfilled desires and filing them back in alphabetical order, it occurred to me that you're not living the life you should be. I only had this realisation because I was flicking through a magazine when that girl you know appeared. You remember the one, she's younger, more beautiful, looks like a doll - she hated you because you had the lead role in that shitty community play. Remember? Well she made something of herself. She's a somebody now. Very successful. And only 24 with a handful of supporting roles under the direction of some really impressive international directors. Everyone just loves her.

Anyway the moment I turned off the television, I thought about your 'arty' career that's crossed so many different mediums like ballet and fashion design and I thought to myself, how it's really quite pathetic. You never really made any money or much of an name for yourself and what's even more funny was that every time you'd get really good at doing whatever it was you were doing, you'd quit or change paths.

I suppose I was to blame in some ways. I had painted you all those glorious and famous scenes of your future success but let's face it after a certain amount of time nothing happened. Did it? Of course I had to burst your bubble and keep telling you it wasn't going to happen. I was worried... for the both of us.
I understand you may still be angry over that but I don't regret all those 'taunts', as you called it. You have to understand I didn't want you to be a loser your whole life, it would make me look bad. So that's why I'm imploring you to be a little more driven at making a career that will make money and to join the status quo because people will see your success and feel comfortable at the same time.

Look there's no point thinking about what I'm saying. Just do it. Let me be the one to make decisions. I know what's best.

And a few other things, which I've organised into point form so that it's easier for you:
1: Drink some more wine every day and stop controlling it at only one. It's not helping.
2: Forget trying to meditate. It just doesn't work. I don't know how many times I have to tell you.
3: Stop recording your dreams. I have no idea what the hell Mrs. Right is attempting to communicate.
4: And buy some more pineapple for the smoothies, for Gods sake.


I trust you will comply. It will just make everything the way it should be. Won't it?

Sincerely,

Mr. Left

Letter to a good brain.

Dear Mrs. Right,

Whether you are aware of it or not, which I believe you are, Mr. Left, has been overstepping his mark for quite some time with his obstreperous and unbearably controlling behaviour. He has been consistently causing trouble with a most despicable audacity, as though he was the only brain on the block.

I know that you don't really see him as a problem, probably because you're just one of those brains that never sees any problem, but I didn't know who else to turn to.

I've tried leaving post-it notes around and a sketch pad and pencil in the hope that after grokking one of the many pictorial or written messages I've left strewn about the house, he'll take a few more holiday's during the course of a day. But you know him, he's simply unyielding, claiming that he's got a tight ship to run and that there's no time to lose if we have to get 'there'.

I had no idea where 'there' was, and unfortunately before I even had time to articulate the question he was reminding me of a horrible memory and linking this memory's events to many more times that consequently followed the beginning, telling me how perturbed and burdened I must be by this pattern that was obviously emerging for a cataclysmic ending. And the worst thing all, was that he was also checking off the grocery checklist in the supermarket - as though the words he had said didn't mean anything more than; can of corn, check.

Naturally I couldn't handle it and when I wheeled towards the canned tuna section, three strides on, I started crying. Blubbering like some giant baby, actually. It was horrible, standing there for a good ten minutes or so I felt so alone, so completely alone. A rotund woman consoled me in a torso of bosoms, saying that she understood and not to cry because they have ordered the organic tuna for next week but I knew then after I shouted abuse at this strange woman holding me, that I had to write to you.

There's got to be something that we can devise together to oust this guy out. I've thought about it for a long time and I understand that it may be an ineffable experience for you because of the sheer nature of your indirect and flexible ways although I'm willing to take the risk and move all my things out of Mr. Left's house, if that's what it takes.

I wait patiently for your answer...

Your loyal friend,

Tanya       

Discovering home...

Last week while being whisked up to the green peaks of Luang Prabang in Laos with the company I work for and then down to the mystical ruins surrounding Siem Reap in Cambodia, I happened to stumble on my ideal home.

Before this pinnacle moment though I had been spending 5 days in 5-star luxury, of which one hotel out of three was still under construction, while trying in vain to fight against my inner sloth by keeping my days as active as possible, certain that the fluffy white bed with its mountain of fluffy white pillows would swallow me and the great book I was reading if I didn't.

Hotel De La Paix in Siem Reap.

So my schedule loosely revolved around such activities like: eating breakfast, attending meetings that deeply delved into the world of hotels (mind you I was not really needed for this nor had I any idea what was being discussed half the time but it was interested on an observational point of view) eating a delightful choice of either Laotian, Western or Cambodian cuisine for lunch, going for a little wander into local shops or the hotels pool in the afternoons or attending a few other meetings with the hoteliers or my book, considering a serious physical workout before realizing it was dinner time and finally dining with my hand glued to my wine glass while periodically reflecting, in between conversations, on a circle of thoughts that including what desert I would eat, why the hotel service staff were so uber friendly and who was the mysterious killer in Kafka on the Shore by Murikami.

Yes... it had all been running quite peaceful in Hotel De La Paix when I was struck with the jolt of desire again, and we're not talking a little static electricity caused by carpet - this was a lightning bolt moment that beckoned every cell in my body saying, Yes! Want it.

It was the last day before our return to Bangkok and we were in Siem Reap, Cambodia, home to the great Angkor temple. The team of well fed hoteliers and I decided to go on an excursion out to some of the temples. Packed into the bus for only ten minutes we arrived to my new desire. Nestled in the jungles and flooded with tourists at 8 in the morning was the temple Ta-Prom.  

Upon gazing at this wonderful sight through heavy draped eyes it wasn't until I stumbled into the ruins that my desire enflamed. There before us (and three bus loads of Chinese) was a 200 year old tree growing on top of 12th Century architecture. I want a house with a tree growing on top, I could hear myself saying. Only I wouldn't want the spiders and bugs or the design layout of the temple (mayhem) and it would need a little work but I didn't care, I thought as I contemplated where I would put my bed.

I guess love really knows no boundaries or it has 8/20 vision.

This would be the kitchen over-looking the courtyard.

Being All Woman.

My father once told me "if you can drive in the city (Melbourne) for five years and not have an accident Tanya, than you'll be a good driver." Remembering his statement, I recently applied it with a slightly different interpretation when I started to morph into a woman; the type of woman complete with killer heels, manicured nails and the unnatural obsession with her hair out of place; in my case it puffs out as frizzy as an afro the moment I step out of the air-conditioner's range.

But let's back-track a second first... I want you all to understand that although I am An Australian Woman Abroad, I have never really looked like this kind of woman previously mentioned. At twenty nine years old, before living in Bangkok actually, I had never owned a pair of high heels, gave a stuff about the birds nest on top of my head, or thought for one second that I couldn't do what every man could do in my converse runners. There were times of course where this was contradicted, but for the most part I was like a cockatrice, only part boy, part girl, part animal and part rubbish.

Yet since I am now the proud owner of three divine pairs of high heels and looking for the most part, better than usual, I realized that if I could master walking in my ten centimeter stilts within these wrinkled pavements of Bangkok without putting myself in hospital than I'll be able to walk anywhere in heels.

The greatest test came recently when I slipped off to Ko Samui for the weekend. For most who don't know, this island in the gulf of Thailand was the 'greatest' test because seven years ago I came to Ko Samui with my sister and while walking on the sidewalk, which ran alongside the beach, I fell in a hole of coral - in flat shoes. I shredded my leg and cried like a baby goat. So of course, I had my reservations about wearing heels.

On the second day, I was told that I was going out to dinner in an upscale restaurant on the north coast of the island. Excited as I was to look the part and taste Zazen's cuisine, a name that had been ringing in my head the whole day, I was dubious about experiencing one of those 'ass-over-tit' kind of moments in public. Anyway fears aside, all went well for the most part, we enjoyed an incredible selection of appetizers, complimented with some N.Z Pinot Gris when I suddenly had the call for the bathroom. Having downed two glasses of wine and about three glasses of water already, I couldn't wait for a stable arm to guide me on the boardwalk, so off I went.
Being all woman and swinging my hips, (the only way to walk in high heels I worked out) got me stuck like a Queensland fly up a nose, right in-between two planks of wood, which for your information was a gap that was the exact width size of my heel. Luckily I didn't go far. I just tap danced around on one foot, aware that if anyone turned the corner they would have a nice snap shot of one divinely clunky woman.

Guess it will take a bit more time and a few more adventures to metamorphose into a real live woman... let's pray it's not some wilder beast that emerges instead.



  

Vive le France!

It seemed like one minute I was traversing the fun obstacle course of potholes and seemingly undulating pavements in Bangkok, to standing awe-stricken in the enchanting streets of Paris the very next minute.

It could've be called a typically cloudy day for most Parisians, however, for this little Australian Woman Abroad there was absolutely nothing normal about this day. There was the smell of butter churning in the winds, fois gras (duck fat) glistening in the leafy trees and perfect architectural symmetry at every corner - even the dogs seem to emulate that perfect alignment and grace that only comes with an urban planner like Haussmann.

So why did she go there? You may wonder. And why the hell didn't she put me in her suitcase?

Well, this ten day break into pure indulgence and hedonism, of which most days were spent pool-side in Lubéron, South of France, was for a fortieth birth-week. Yes, that's right - birth-week. This is a term coined for people who celebrate their birthday over a period of several days after refusing to accept the one pitiful day given.

Now although I hadn't known the person whose birthday it was or the other eighteen people who had all known each other for ten to twenty-five years, that wasn't a problem at all. Not when my friend, Red Wine has anything to do with it. By the end, I felt like I'd known them for many years too. And an added bonus to my good friend's advice is that I even began to believe that my french was good at one point... that was until I sobered up quickly and noticed that it just wasn't.

Those luscious days of eating feasts fit for a king were among the most relaxing and the most delicious especially when you have the hands of DJ Cook and his trusty side kick working piles of fresh pasta. I mustn't forget their assistance of many helpful french hands and many taste testers, of which my tongue was in line with. And if the kitchen got too hot, a dip in the pool was the welcome relief or if the day was beckoning for a little kip, then there were sun-decks and sofa's to help spur on the night.

Yes, France certainly has many treasures to offer and many wonderful people to meet, so back in Bangkok I am endeavoring not to torture myself over the absence of the mouth-watering dried sausage or the baguettes of which I had taken numerous photos of. Well... I can only try.


Speak to you from the hills of Luang Prabang sooner than later....

Till then. Keep it real.

Curry time.

Having only arrived in India a little over a week ago it feels like I've been here for three months already. And I know now why. Time is measured by smell. Every ten seconds or so there's a new nose curling or chest expanding, though often mind boggling smell that transports you straight to the source and sometimes to your darkest imagination.

Currently based (or should I say hiding) in the Dayananda Ashram located on the banks of the Ganges, Rishikesh, I have been doing quite the opposite to what many travelers do... that is travelling.
One can always learn a lot about travelling by oneself and for me, in this God praising, germ infesting, tooth grinning place, I realize that I am really quite pathetic. I cringe at the thought of going for my daily walk into the action. There is too much for my brain to process. I am overwhelmed by the amount of bodies filling every tiny space imaginable, the poverty spilling forth from every cracked, poo-laced footpath, the barrage of exhaust fumes and dust that coat you're skin in a matter of three seconds, the stares (from men) that laser the first layer of your epidermis off, constant horns honking (which beats China hands down) from the hundreds of cars, rickshaws, buses and trucks, smeared cow patties that pattern the streets, and the heat which tries to sap every molecule of water from your body.

Am I suffering from culture shock.... yes. I think so.

So instead, I am using my time wisely: sitting still, writing and engaging in sporadic, unsuspecting  conversations about spirituality and belief. Although on observation, these conversations seem to be leaning more to one side, and for once it's not me. Take George for an example.
George is an Indian from Chennai, about sixty years young, with spectacles that magnify his eyes five times larger than his own. After sitting himself down next to me, he proceeded to talk for two hours about the nature of truth, the concept of being and becoming, consciousness and thought... to name just a few light subjects. Only he didn't stop talking for the whole time. Even when he asked me a question, he would fill the empty space of my thinking with his answer. Naturally after a while, I stopped listening because my attention started to waver; all that existed for those last sixty minutes was his unflinching eye. I say eye because the sun was reflecting off a white wall which in turn reflected in his right spectacle, blocking it completely from sight, leaving me to fixate only on his giant left eye. With every slight pause in his sentence I thought hypnotically, "yes.... maybe you're right giant eye," until I snapped out of it and thought, "and then maybe you're just not."

Now with seven days left, before I fly back to Bangkok I'm sure there'll be a few more adventures which can only happen when you're jumping off the cliff into the great Unknown. In saying that, don't expect a blog about anything amazing any time soon 'cause this little monkey ain't jumping. :)

Om. Shanti. Shanti. Shanti. And all that jazz.





    

Bangkok adventures...

When I first arrived in Bangkok seven years ago I remember all too well how my nose scrunched up, how the head ached with the constant visual bombardment and what shade of black I had painted over Thailand's hub. First impressions can sometimes be tainted when you don't give something time. And time is what I needed to see this city for what it really is, a tooth-grinning, cultured, peaceful, old-world-meets-new-world explosion of sun lit energy. (Granted there is night time here to - obviously - but when the weather is still thirty degrees all you have to do is close your eyes and imagine the sun.)

I was extremely fortunate enough to be bestowed with the grace of some fabulous hosts; one in particular, who has shown me the beauty and culinary delights of the city's finest.

One place in particular which caught my eye and my sense of humor was a restaurant, club and bar called Bed. This place has the je ne sais quoi unlike any other place in Thailand. The interior in one room is all white and furnished so that you can eat dinner in bed, while your eyes feast on artistic expressions of food and live performance. This always brings a wry smile to my lips, imagine saying to your friend or a new business acquaintance, you want to go to Bed with me tonight, or you want to eat dinner in Bed? Genius. And after content bellies the restaurant converts into a club so you can dance it off or you can wander over to the next room where the bar often displays live acts. Nothing but sheer fun.

Bed

One live performance which I enjoyed thoroughly was Norman Jay and the Cuban Bros. This outfit of two middle aged Cubans and a Japanese guy had brilliant showman ship: good beats, awesome singing, tight dancing, hilarious injections, strong connection with the audience, (which went almost to the groin of some innocent hands) outrageous costumes, fat hairy bellies, dirty innuendos, more dirty innuendos and finally, to top it all off - a strip tease. If you can visualize a rather large protruding belly over tiny red, white and blue jocks with knee length socks, bright yellow shoes and a 1940's style hat than you've got the image burned into my retinas.

It's always the people that make a place feel like a home and well for the couple of weeks that I've spent here, I'm already snuggling into a comfortable little nest of happy faces.
I highly recommend you stop over and check out some of Bangkok's treasures.

Until next time...

Keep it real.

A six legged flashbacks from the past...

My last two weeks in Laos took me and my childhood arch nemesis north to Muang Ngoi, a little village surrounded by other little villagers. Who or what was this childhood arch nemesis, you say? What noun dares rival this story more than the beautiful green, limestone mountains, the simple laughing village children and the cushioned hammock of eternal sloth?
Ants. Ants were my childhood nemesis for reasons that can only be whispered because of the fear that wraps itself around me and sets: strangulation mode. From a five year old perspective I couldn't quite articulate the reasons why I dreaded these 'apparently' innocent insects. Well now I have it. They are all cloned workers working tirelessly, under order of the Queen without so much as a day off or an antenna massage. And not only are there billions upon billions of them but with one ants communication to its posse of where the goods are they are able to invade any sized space and take it over if they so wished it.
There were so many varieties that could be with you on every occasion. There was the regular black household-sized ant that is so commonly seen on the kitchen bench in Australia, the bull-ant minus the pincers, a red ant that really wants to be the size of a bull-ant but doesn't cut it size wise and the worst one of all (a new one for me) the tiniest ant that you could ever imagine before it got down to needing a microscope. This one in particular in Laos crawled into every visual platform that one could spy: computer, bed, clothes, books, dinner plate - every big thing, those little darn devils were there.
I'm not sure if it was the sheets of rain that ushered them inside or the pressure cooker sun roasting every tourist that had them actively sourcing me, but I have lost count in my killing spree.
I will now that I am leaving for Bangkok to obtain my visa for India, recover and attempt to write you more memorable stories that will darn your heart into a pair of baby pink socks.
For now though....

Keep smiling and jiving!

xxx

Moving to a new beat.

After surviving Thailand's Songkran festival (the largest water fight and clay cheek exchange I have ever known) I am finally sitting here from the deck of a large three bedroom house in Laos. Thanks to an eccentric white knight who loves his coffee and giving aid to people where-ever he can.

Thailand's Songkran

When I arrived yesterday I was guided into town to get my bearings of where things were like the expensive wireless cafe. I had been advised to put my laptop back into the same plastic bag I had used for Thailand. I instantly understood why. Songkran was also celebrated in Laos. Could you believe it. I was there for wettest three day New Year's and I just happened to be carrying all electrical goods. So when I thought I had escaped from Bangkok from being pistoled in the eyes and my cheeks, neck and arms, clayed I clearly hadn't. Sure it's fun at the beginning and cooling when you least expect a bucket of water being thrown down your back but to be wet - like really really wet for the whole three days... well let's just say I have a fungus. On my toe!

View from front porch. 

It's day two, there's a red sun that crept up just after six and a soft rain rippling over the lake. Although I am sitting alone on the best broken deck chair ever - I am nowhere near alone. A hundred mosquitoes have joined me (unfortunately to their demise from the bug zapping tennis racket) tens of birds chirp, squark and cry strange exotic sounds and the pack of neighbourhood dogs who had sniffed me more than once on a earlier expedition to find the location of the tens of cock-a-doodlers that I had heard but so far hadn't had the luck to come so close as to take any of their pictures are now happy to sit and stare, wagging their mangy bits.

Check this out! Ha!

My lovely hosts and I went out to a restaurant last night and enjoyed several culinary delights like a few baskets of sticky rice, a seafood Tom Yum and some chicken thing with basil. My favourite was the juice I ordered - the first being red dragon fruit and for the second one - papaya and guava. If I return again to this life I want to be freshly squeezed as one of these fruits. They make people feel so good. Sooooo goooood!
A local duo strummed it out on the stage and did a nice repertoire of local hits and for some westerners like me the famous song Country Road by some guy I can't remember. Only the male singer who had the voice of a woman was passionately singing in all innocence Cunty Road. It made my night.
Such simple pleasures.

Well I promised myself that today was the day for beginning the last leg of writing the book, so while I sit here steaming like sticky rice I better just put a little soothing Rachmaninov on and get to it.

Until the next adventure...

Some book talk.

During the past two weeks my life has been revolving once more around writing my book, "This is not a book," so I think this is what I will be filling you in on this week because I have no other life to speak of.

Due to a very hectic schedule last month I hadn't had a chance to put pen to paper so I thought when the work hours soften (as they sometimes do) I can kick start the writing intensive with a creative writing workshop, a little gift to myself.

The workshop would take place over two days and be (in my mind) the most wonderfully inspiring exploration. However things were not to go as planned...

I arrived from an early bus trip to the country side of Quebec full of a creative hunger. I found another woman who was also taking the workshop at the drop off zone and together we waited in the middle of nowhere. We chatted well past thirty minutes when both of us realized no-one had come yet. The tiny bus depot was connected to a gas service station which was then connected to an A&W (big, fat, meaty, meat-burgers) restaurant.
We decide at this point to call but would you believe I don't have a cell phone and neither does my new friend. We do on the other hand have the organizers number so using the only phone at this gas station, a short walk into the freezing winds, my friend attempts to put five dollars worth of quarters into the long distance phone. She and I both try again and again over the next few hours to get through to the cell phone but to no avail. Meanwhile, I have been secretly debating whether to buy a tube of Pringles for the entire time. I write this in a scrap book to release the angst building from these fake potato things getting the better of my judgement.
After three hours of waiting a bus comes and in short I leave to go back to Montreal. What I thought would do the trick to start writing again was not to be.

A few days later, I began back in the bedroom that had a view of a thieving squirrel looting a cat's bowl from across the street. This is where I now currently sit, on a big, blue, bouncing ball for an ergonomic sound posture, writing a minimum of 500 quality words per day. And in just two months people this baby will be screaming, giggling and pooping.

You ready for a Chinese adventure?
   

The Grandpa Guru...

Occasionaly, when I want to escape the fluroscent buzz from my work and the lobotomy drill sounds from the one dollar coffee machine, I often meander down the street only to get stuck on the first shop on the corner. It's an 'Artisan Quebecois' shop primarily full of art, shoes and clothing made from local native artists with the exception of overseas products from Asia.
The man who runs this crowded little boutique is seventy years of age with gigantic ears, a huge nose and the appearance of a garden gnome who's look has been magnified.
He's become somewhat of a friend over the last few months because I seem to get lost in his store full of trinkets and pretty things and then before we know it we're both babbling away. To be honest, I have no idea of this mans name and in fact we have never even thought to exchange such knowledge but to give you a brief idea of him I have adopted him and named him my Grandpa Guru.
(Not that he has any idea of this, of course.)
He's the type of man - if you're ever privy to meet one - that has lived a life to it's fullest.
I recently had a problem regarding the cross bearing word choice. So one darkening afternoon, I opened up to him. I laid out all my thoughts and fears regarding this choice I felt somewhat responsible to make.
He stood leaning over the counter, listening like only a person with time can. I finished and waited.
He began with a story that went like this.
One day when he was travelling in a handmade canoe packed with stock through the Amazon Jungle, the water began to pick up pace. There were two other canoes also carrying cargo in front of their two maned vessel. He could see the rapids up ahead crashing against the rocks. The first canoe entered this dangerous part and turned over losing all their stock and injuring a man. The second canoe also turned over as they hit the troubled waters. The young Grandpa Guru lept into action ordering the other man in his canoe to copy him and lie flat. They lay flat just as they were entering the danger zone. The canoe rocked and tossed but regained its equilibrium.
"So you see," he says over the gypsy-jazz playing in the background, "if I hadn't got the guy to work with me we wouldn't have got through those fucking waters. And when the moment of choice comes about in your life, you'll have to work together with what you've got."
"But I wouldn't worry about anything until then..." he adds, "life has a strange way of working everything out. In the long run..."

I thanked Grandpa Guru and left feeling like I could get through those waters even if I had a canoe full of screaming cats.

Farmer Tan

After being bed-ridden last week without so much as a nurse maid to swab the pools of sweat from my forehead or to cook me a pot of my beloved chicken noodle soup when I wanted that sweet sweet grandma goodness, it was nice to get into some overallls and to plough a few fields. Not literally of course, I don't have a plough and its too icy outside. It was in fact, sitting around a warm kitchen table with a glass of port and some devine proscuitto snuggling a grape like a new born.
But how can you plough a few fields around a kitchen table you ask?
Agricola. The ultimate farming board game. Yee ha.
To give you a brief rundown of how it works, you have a farmer and his wife collecting resources like wood, clay and stone to build fences and barns to house sheep, wild boar and cattle. The animals really look special alas the farmer and his wife is simply a flat disk of coloured wood. So my blue flat farmers renovated the mud house, planted a few harvests and procreated along with the sheep! The choices were endless up until round 14 then what ever I had on my land was calculated and to my surprise I lost. Even though my farm was clearly the prettiest.
It made me entertain the idea that maybe I could be a farmer. A real one. Only the equivilant of a half a one though, because let's face it, I would no longer be living in the Land of Oz (no pun intended) I would tied to boulders in Kansas.
If only we didn't have to pay for land and everyone got a little share to build a little something on.
Wouldn't that be swell? Wait. Is this sounding a bit too much like utopia? Probably.

Well maybe I'll resort to growing my underarm hair and joining a commune to share the load - somewhere warm of course.
 

A cracker to have with cheese, please....

This week, considering I'm practically sleeping at my work and 'teaching' whatever English nonsense bubbles out, I've decided to let you in on the quality of characters I teach and who never cease to amaze.

Koko Bis, whose actual name is Guy Phillipe on the role call is from the Ivory Coast in West Africa. He's about forty years old with not a wrinkle on his beaming, smiling face. In my class he has the loudest laugh I think I've ever had the privy in hearing and he takes a very, very long time in silence before he answers even the most basic question. In his personal life, he has three children who still live with their 'crazy' mother in Paris, his home for about fifteen years before he came to Montreal and he works six days as a butcher. He proclaims himself a special butcher, (why special - I still haven't got an answer) and a philosopher but to me he's got the goods of a class-A comedian.
Now, every Monday and Wednesday night for the last month I've seen Koko Bis tell the nine other students bits of his life story through a whiskey breath, which fortunately has reverted back to its original smell (his breath that is) due to the influence of his new Jamaican girlfriend. Not because she said so, I might add, because now instead of coming home to an apartment with only a bed, chairs and a table, he had a loving woman.
  
Two stories which spring to mind revolve around his illegal activities in France and his abscess.

As I mentioned before, Koko Bis lived in France for fifteen years. Fifteen illegal years, I should say.
But how could he do that? You ask. Wouldn't he eventually be caught by the police who travel in groups of three in France just waiting for an ethnic to walk down that street so they can demand their papers? Well, yes. And he was caught. Many times. But as Koko Bis will delight in telling to his avid listeners, he never had any fear of the police or the authorities and so they never cuffed him, booked him or threw him out of the country.
"You must respect them," he preached, before he told us of one time he got in a physical scuffle with them.
Perhaps his recipe of fearless respect was the perfect combination for a lineage of French cops...

And now to the final short story of the wonderfully entertaining Koko Bis.
His abscess. When he was a child of nine he developed a rather large abscess on his arm. His father was advised to take him to hospital promptly, which was many miles away. They tried many different medicines and treatments in the hope of not having to go to the hospital. When nothing worked Koko Bis grabbed a knife and sliced it open, much to his mother's horror. The family called him crazy which stuck with him until adult hood even though the action of piercing the protrusion not only let all the puss out but healed itself in three days.

So there it is.

A real cracker...

 

Stretching into new places...

What could I do to combat my forlorn mind in the event of thinking about the delightful squiggling presence of a not so near but dear three year old who at this moment likes to call people 'poo-poo head'...

What could I do when I've tried over and over to reason with our solar sun to push a little more rays our way and all you get is a cloudy reception... 

What could I do when I started talking to my family's pictures on Facebook and making up the daily dialogue for all of them...

The answer came from Santa. 

Ironic isn't it? The person who was created from a soft drink company actually gave me a ticket back to sanity on his sleigh. And this ticket is unlimited for one month. So lucky people living in the five mile radius of me, now you'll get to experience a very balanced somewhat content Tanya Wenczel. 

For the last week I've been burgeoning my own child-like sun somewhere in the pit of my belly through the yogic practice of Ashtanga... again... for the hundredth time.  

I had to face facts. Learning to breath slowly while moving into the unknown through the understanding of the body has always been the only real language of cultivating sunshine. Well, for me anyway. 

Strangely though in the years leading up to this, my mind had always convinced another part of me a different story by lisping, "are you ssserious Tanya? You have to do thissss every day! It'ssss too hard. You'll hurt yoursssself. The classsss issss an hour and a half? Hold on. That takessss too much time in your day, doessssn't it?" 

I see now that this had sabotaged the process of growing a least a fire ball. 

I also see now that I was a lazy banana head. 

So now I can control the sun or at least the effects it has when its not there in sweaty smelly clothes. Also with the month of February looming towards me, which as every Quebecois knows is the hardest winter month - people actually get frozen to a statue, I hear - I think I'm just in time.

Well I have a date with my book so I'll catch up with you some other time.

I think this dog does yoga too

Shenanigans and Snowballs

View from terrace

Having just spent four days in a Chalet over the New Year, (which is really an all encompassing word for deluxe holiday house) tucked away in the sleeping country-side of Quebec with twelve other friends, copious amounts of alcohol and as many fine foods as we could slather on many a good baguette, I am now attempting to re-adjust again to my simple diet and obviously not all at once of beans, lentils, rice and a jar of Promite, compliments from a loving sister.

On day three, I think Time itself even went on a little holiday because it honestly felt as though I had already been there for a week. I thought to myself, wow I really feel so rested and so relaxed with gravity. Unfortunately though it was actually a hangover. One that I hadn't sported for a while. It eased only somewhat after a few downward dogs (a yoga move) a plate of fried eggs and the occasional dig at someone who looked far worse than I.

After eleven hours sleep my days would commence with either a toboggan ride down the hill and in my case always into a tree, a stroll in the wilderness strapped to a pair of 'raquette' which look like giant tennis rackets that you put on your feet, throwing snowballs in a friends face or ice skating in borrowed skates across the local ice hockey arena and then throwing snowballs in a friends face.

As you can see from the picture above, our lake wasn't frozen as yet so most activities were out of the question. I was happy enough to imagine that at some point this lake could be skated on.

We played many games in the evenings. 

Mostly in French. 

And mostly ones with words. 

We even prepared for a WHO-DO-IT murder mystery game, where much to my luck I was the bearded woman from a traveling carnival and the murderer. We had our parts to read and our characters to enact but in all honesty I must really take my hat off to each individual who squeezed a nice little translation out after the french version because to my eye it kind of killed the excitable momentum that was naturally building with a group of circus freaks and zany characters.  

Now some may think I would already be at an excellent level in my French studies so this would all be easy to listen to. No! I tell you. Absolutely not. I am only elementary. I cannot understand native, fast-paced, sloppy (depending on who it is) speakers. I strain just to translate one sentence and once I have a notion of what is being said, the fluidity of a conversation has already progressed, concluded and transformed into another topic.  

Returning home was met with a warm promise of Spring. I was almost in thongs and a bikini walking in that sunny 2 degrees down Mont Royal. Except it wasn't. And tomorrow is back to minus seven. So I will endeavour to keep baking in our shit-house oven and create some of the worst things I will ever cook just for the fun of it. But mostly because the oven is the hottest place to hang out and I get to photograph these restaurant quality meals.

Avec plaisir...

With pleasure :)

Rösti loving - mmm...