Personal archaeology

10 pm and should be working
on my first feature article
ever for national magazine,
looming due...
[that on top of film delivery,
starting business,
day job...
god am busy though
not complaining]

but:
i've been bugged by this recurring image
of past boyfriends as
geological layers
strata and substrata
according to assigned significance.

want to blog this with pictures
of each of their hands
no time for that though
just for the layers and their detritus.

layer G is the lowest-
yields first fragments of love
and healthy families
how they work
and can be,
full of generosity
and reciprocity.
a foundation for how i know
mine can someday be.
also contains the broken shards of
first heartbreak.
colour is bleached blonde
and dark brown.

[layer C, just below it, is only a green-eyed sliver
of muscle and dust
well placed
precious
fine
and as light
and insubstantial
as sixteen.]

layer J (above G)
is grey
and gold
and full of creativity
food
wine
jazz
dub
pot
forests
adventure
warm water
and incense.
also contains bits and pieces of
wasted time and effort
depression [his]
and cut cords.

layer C is the black of lust and
danger.
every girl should have one and
move on
fast as possible.

layer K
is all about abundance
and lack
you can see the
fat seasons
and dry droughts in this one.
from this layer i have scraped
the tiny
gold nuggets
and tucked them into my bosom
where they belong.
gold is mine now
i am my own gold.
this layer remains the dark of black soil
untilled.

the little intervening layers are fun
but narrow
red soil of joy
orange soil of play
on a hot afternoon
weird soils you basically forget
except for that weird tattoo
or irish accent.

ok enough of this self indulgence
had to do it though.

nice to be where i am now, i must say.
on the surface, with a companion
who is not soil at all
more like sunlight.

My (Hipster) Crowd

Though we seek anonymity, we choose to submerge our autonomy, instead roaming nomadically through shifting cultural landscapes in pack-like groups.

When we, the hipster generartion, enter elaborate and clandestine public rituals lasting only 7 ADD seconds, what are we seeking? Self? Same? Erasure?

And are we supporting the de-individuation or de-evolution of culture? Or something else?

Take the time to read flash mob creator Bill Wasik's Harper's essay, "My Crowd: Part 1: Or, Phase 5: A report from the inventor of the flash mob". Not only is it a brilliant little essay, it'll also help you to enlighten and question your hipster ways.

Body Before Console

Identity before brain: body before console —
What powers the knowing eye?

Programmer or Serial Killer?

As I was taking a leisurely stroll through the wilds of the world wide web, I came across this question: "Did you know the first computer programmer was a woman?"

"Why no," I thought to myself, "I didn't".

Then I told myself, "aspect-of-self who I call 'Violet', this mystery woman may just compliment the current roster of GBS patron saints" (who are currently Lady Scorpion, Mae West, and Kali).

"Yes, self," I myself decided for this GBS spectre of self, "Skip writing about your other self's trip to Thailand and just write about the fact that the first computer geek was a chick."

And besides, our mascot — you know, the Girl Guide who pitched her own tent — could use a smart, nerdy friend around here; the other bitches are a bad influence on her, always dragging Boy Scouts into GBS to tempt her innocence.

So I googled "first computer programmer" to find the name of our new patron saint, and of course something way more interesting came up... a quiz entitled: Program Language Inventor or Serial Killer?

I know my serial killers. I got 9/10. They're always the ones you least expect.

Take the quiz and view all the creepy pictures: the programmers are unkept and have this wild look in their eye, while the killers are nattily dressed (except one) and dead calm. The shock and awe of it: there's a programmer who also happens to be a serial killer.

That dude should be the subject of a TV movie of the week...doh... right, focus girl: the GBS patron saint for this week is: Ada Byron Lovelace

And, no, she didn't marry "that Byron" — she sprung out of his loins.

Wait a second.

Now I'm starting to think about Byron and Shelly: two sensitive guy pals who saw the smarts in women:

• Percy spit out a daughter bedded Mary, the woman who wrote Frankenstein,
• And Lord B. sprung another who invented the first program language.

Wow... If I decide to get knocked up, I'm bedding me a poet...

My New Local

In the epic wasteland of Vancouver scenesters and flavour-of-the-week watering holes, I think I may have found my niche. Right along the lines of The Atlantic Trap and Gill (minus the hot turkey sandwiches) is Curl at the Marpole Curling Club (8730 Heather Street). I can't say enough about it. I fell in love with this place during my first visit last week.

What's in store for you should you venture down to the ass end of town? Jethro Tull on the Hi-Fi and glasses of wine (you get your choice of red or white) for $2.95 and they fill’er right to the top. You can even curl a bit if you feel like it. Thursday is Business Ladies Night. Get out there and network girls!

Oh sure, I have tried denied my white trash heritage in the past but this place brings it all screamin’ to the surface. It reminds me of the period in my life when my family lived in Atikokan (which is two hours NORTH of Thunder Bay in Ontario). We lived there for four years and my mother used to curl every winter. I don’t think she particularly liked it but it helped to stave off the winter-induced suicidal ideation. My sister and I spent many an hour sitting in the curling lounge eating boiled hotdogs and reading Choose-Your-Own-Adventure books.

I call for the first GBS field trip.

Major Arcana

LOVE this 70's rock tarot deck from local design guy Bienvenido Cruz. Rock on!

The Mata Sutra

We didn't learn everything from our mothers.

Not to slag on them: they were women with their own lives and troubles, who unquestionably loved us, no matter how complicated our relationship with them was, or remains. (Mine finally feels as if it is slowly untangling.)

But it's strange to think of the weird little biases and prejudices we hand on, or pick up. In my case:

Buy only black shoes. Any other colour is impractical.
One purse is enough. Black.
One coat is enough.
What's makeup remover? Use baby oil.
What's shaving cream? Use soap.
There is no such thing as lipliner, or makeup brushes. The little brush that comes in the eyeshadow container is fine.
You look better in navy blue than black.
Wear flats, not high heels.
Spices are dried things that live in a cupboard. It's OK to keep them for a decade.
Lack is the paradigm: abundance isn't yours.

These stuck with me for a long, long time. It has taken me a long time to shake them.

On the other hand, she also taught me:

Jumping on the bed is a fun thing to do.
You can run around India and endanger yourself and still be loved, few questions asked.
Singing in the house is a sign of happiness.
Cleaning is rewarding.
Women work, and are thus both cool and strong.

Later I learned what her story was. How affected she was by her own mother (mad, selfish and largely absent). I don't judge her for what she gave and didn't, how she alternately (and I'm sure unintentionally, both loved and crushed me.) She was 26 when she had me, for fuck's sake, she looked like the girl on the Modess package up there. Ten years younger than I am now. God. We were talking the other day about how much has changed since she was a girl: think sanitary belts, think that there is nothing left in the world priced at 49 cents.

So I thank her for the Mata Sutra, all that she taught me, the good and the bad, what I had to learn and what I had to unlearn, or learn for myself.

...

On a completely other note, just how cheesily fabulous is Legends of the Fall?



Total melodrama, the gorgeous Julia Ormond and Brad Pitt (both luscious and wrinkle-free, just like we all were twelve years ago, I suppose) and best of all, you can do the spot-the-Gastown streets in the city scenes. Once again, the Alberta landscape steals the show.

Burning Chrome

Mercifully, the whole thing is starting to fade, to be-

come an episode. When I do still catch the odd glimpse,

it's peripheral; mere fragments of Violet Chrome,

confining herself to the corner of an eye. There was

that flying-wing liner over Vancouver last week, but

it was almost translucent. And the shark-fin roadsters

have gotten scarcer, and freeways discreetly avoid un-

folding themselves into the gleaming eighty lane

monsters she was forced to drive last month in her rented

Toyota. And I know that none of it will follow her to

Bangkok; her vision is narrowing to a single wave-

length of probability. She's worked hard for that. Tele-

vision helped a lot.

Travel Tips from Friends

• bring condoms (this was everybody's first recommendation).
• you don't need malaria pills where you're going, but you can still ride the elephants.
• don't bother taking the dysentery pills; you'll lose tons of weight (eww).
  
• just buy some flip flops when you get there.
• it's hot there.
• it's totally hot there.
• you're going to soak in your own sweat.
  
• make sure to eat the papaya salad.
• don't bother with Bangkok, just head to the beaches.
• make sure to bring your passport.
• if a deal looks too good to be true... it is.
• seriously, once you get there, if you don't want to come back... don't.