On Mercury Retrograde and other believing

I have a bit of a problem, which is that most often when asked about my religious/spiritual/life perspectives I say, "I don't really have beliefs, I just kind of have things that I like the idea of, so I go with them."

This is mostly true.

I am constantly awed by the universe, and interested in the great many possibilities of life. I have no idea which of them are true, even out of the ones that seem like facts. I don't believe in an afterlife, per se, or in tarot cards, or in simulation theory, or in astrology - but I kind of like the idea of all of these things, so I count them as possibilities, and act accordingly.

But I'm not sure I can claim that something is not a belief if I follow it. À la: I am planning a trip with my dad. We'll be going to Japan in October. And tonight I said to him, "I don't want to book our tickets until Mercury goes direct." Yes, I - out loud - used astrology as a guiding factor in my life and my decisions. I said it as if I were hiding my face behind my hands, which I might have been, had we been talking in person rather than over the phone. It seems to be that my fondness for astrology has become a belief. I'm still uncomfortable with that word - after all, I can't know. I have no idea. And whatever I believe, or think, or imagine is possible, some day it will be proven right or wrong, whether or not I am conscious/still exist to know it. And so I don't necessarily believe in beliefs - vaporous as they are, they seem sort of pointless.

But. 

But, maybe they're good for us. 

I recently read a couple of books about near death experiences, because it's a phenomenon I find fascinating and, you know, possible. The thing that I was left with, though, is that if there is a space we inhabit after death, a space where all we feel is connection, where all we feel is love, why on earth (in sky, in nonspace?) would we spend time on earth, in the opposite of that? I don't get life. I like life fine; I think it's endlessly fascinating and amazing and painful and weird, but I don't get it. 

And so I decided to just pick a reason. Rather than beating my firsts against the sky, asking repeatedly "why?" I decided to decide. 

I picked love. 

I was reading (still am, actually) Emotional Freedom, by Judith Orloff, and I came across the following passage: 

My teacher says to look at life as your main career and as a divine classroom. Your spirit is in human form to learn what the body and emotions can teach about love, including how to overcome a slew of obstacles. The way you approach everything - your job, family, friends, health - must be in service to that aim. (44)

This made about as much sense as anything else, and, moreover, it felt nice. So I decided to just believe it. I don't know - I can't know - why we're here (or even if we're here, it sometimes feels like), so I might as well pick something. It's nice to have, this belief. It's something to return to, and it has become a kind of mantra. Whenever I am anxious about anything, whenever anything feels like it's going wrong: "I am here to learn about love." I have no idea whether or not it's true, but I'm going to believe it.

And now, because I also apparently believe in astrology, I am going to go back to researching my trip to Japan, without signing any paperwork until March 18, while figuring out what all of this can teach me about love.

The opening line of something.

How long do I get to feel young? Maybe forever.

Books and Movies

Where do I stand with my 100 books and 100 movies in 2013, you ask?

Movies:

1. Stories We Tell
   Who deserves to tell a story? Who does it belong to? It depends on who you ask. 
2. The Lucky One
   UGH. 
3. Groundhog Day
   Interesting how every time I watch this it has a different effect. Last time I saw it, I'm pretty sure I wept - somehow this time was less moving, but still as enjoyable. 
4. What's Your Number?
   UGH again. I'm pretty sure there was one funny moment in this movie. 
5. Sleepwalk With Me
   An odd film, about sleepwalking, relationships, and comedy. Quite enjoyable, though. 
6. This is 40
   I laughed about a thousand times, but there was no plot to speak of, and the people were terrible to one another. I love Judd Apatow, but this was a pretty meagre offering. About 50x better than What's Your Number, but still worse than most other movies I've seen in my life. 

Books:

1. Heads in Beds
   An enjoyable read - quite light, with tons of insight into the Hotel world and how someone can be sucked in for life. I now feel the need to tip everyone I see in a hotel, which was, I think, the point. I'm sure this will pass.
2. Yes, Chef
   The early chapters were really compelling - about growing up in Sweden after having been adopted from Ethiopia, finding himself as a chef and traveling the world, discovering new flavours. The later chapters, once Marcus is established, were less engaging, but the book was, overall, enjoyable. A glimpse at what it takes to become a top chef (let's just say long hours).
3. Don't Breathe a Word
   Was very compelling as I started and got into it, creepy but not so dark I had to put it down as soon as the sun set, but too many questions are left unanswered and I found the ending very dissatisfying. Tuns of twist and turns that seem to end up just in a tangle: instead of the catharsis of unravelling them, it feels like McMahon just cut through it all with a convenient, too-shiny pair of scissors. Snip.
4. The Diviners
   The characters were enjoyable but slightly flat (at times), the 20s-speak felt a little forced (at times), but the story definitely pulled me in. I could picture everything that was happening, and can imagine a super successful film version of this series. Since only the first in the series has been published, I'm looking forward at how everything comes together - hopefully now that all of the characters have been introduced, the next book will have a li...more
5. Sharp Objects
   I knew what the themes were going to be pretty early on, but still enjoyed the narrator - flawed but beautiful, in a whole lot of ways - and the way Flynn tells stories. I loved that everything wasn't tidied up in the end - the mystery is solved but sad people are still sad, and so on. One thing: I think I read this too soon after reading Gone Girl - need to give Flynn's books more space, because the tone/style/plotting (which I do enjoy) are too similar, so far.
6. Heaven is for Real
   Ugh. I find near death experience stories endlessly fascinating, but the overly preachy tone (surprise - the author is indeed a preacher) of this one left me cold.
7. State of Wonder
   So, so gorgeous. Everything is perfectly placed, every story unfolds exactly as one knows it must, and every element comes to have deep, resonating importance. I cried as it ended, and I wanted to know what's next, but I also knew that it was a completely perfect telling of the story, and the end comes exactly where it should.
8. Mr. Penumbra's 24 Hour Bookstore
   For the first chapter I was convinced this was one of those blogs that got turned into a memoir (somehow I missed the whole "a novel" bit on the cover, though I was reading the e-version, so I have a sort-of excuse). It sort of feels that way - I could actually imagine it being written that way, too - fiction in blog form - but it quickly became too weird to be non-fiction. A hyper-modern fantastical journey through the stacks of a very odd bookstore (with very few books for sale) and beyond, this book definitely pulled me in. Where it fell flat, for me, was the lack of emotional depth. Everything was very flat, very surface, maybe to match the shiny tech setting (complete with multiple trips to the Google campus). I chuckled quite a number of times, but while there was lots of cleverness, I didn't find much heart. And I need heart in my books.
9. Proof of Heaven: A Neurosurgeon's Journey into the Afterlife
   Much more interesting than Heaven is For Real (and much less preachy - not surprisingly), and fascinating in light of the author's original skepticism. I wish this had been a long article, though - turning it into a book meant it was full of all kinds of stuff that I had no interest in - what was happening in his hospital room, who came to visit him and when. And I'm not convinced by his arguments as to why this was definitely a visitation to the afterlife, as opposed to some kind of chemical function of the brain upon nearing death (not that I'm sure they are different). Still, if you're interested in life after death stuff, this is a pretty interesting addition to what's out there (Rosemary Altea, anyone?)

So, I'm a little behind, and need to read and watch more. I'm especially surprised by how few movies I've watched, though I realize that I've become more of a television person. Watching a season of television is so much more satisfying than watching a film, much of the time. I'm not counting the TV shows I watch, though maybe I should... every season counts as a movie. If so, I'm almost finished House of Cards (the new Netflix version), which has devoured me (it feels more like that than the other way around, sometimes). 

Sally asked what winter is good for, after Christmas is over (actually, I think she asked how one can conceptualize winter after Christmas - the nerd). My answer: making crafts and watching movies. So I can catch up, I think. 

In 2013

Image via Flickr user davidmonro

Initially inspired by the massive influx of new Goodreads friends and their 2013 reading challenge aims, I committed to my first real resolution of the year: read 100 books in 2013. Except, being a hippie, I don't believe in resolutions, and instead call them intentions. And also, being a hippie, my sister and I had already done early Solstice intentions for the coming year (complete with burning them to release the energy into the world), and mine centered on taking action more. Anyhow, 100 books in 2013. Okay.

Then, listening to my favourite, they discussed their own resolutions for the year, and I was again inspired to set some more goals.

100 movies. Unlike Ms. Holmes, I will not require myself to see new movies (and I have yet to decide whether they have to be new to me), but I'm going to watch 100 movies this year. And read 100 books. And, the strongest bit of inspiration, I'm going to write about them. I was sitting around the other day, after reading some great bit of writing about some great bit of pop culture, and I was getting down on myself for not writing about things, mostly because I worry that I won't have anything to say. Brainwave: write about things you love and why you love them, and about things you hate and why you hate them. Easy. Hopefully I'll come across (or, you know, have) some insights, and I'll find some interesting things to say. But yes. Action. Action!

I've made my way through the first of my books for the year: Heads in Beds: A Reckless Memoir of Hotels, Hustles, and So-Called Hospitality, by Jacob Tomsky. I'm giving it 7/10 - a solidly enjoyable account of a life spent working in hotels, along with all of the dirty (like, pretty gross) secrets of the industry. Included: how to steal from the minibar, and how to get an upgrade. Also included, an odd undercurrent that felt like it was leading to a story of sobriety, but maybe that's still coming (he needs to keep something for the next book). The main theme: Tip! Also: Unions are awesome.

I'm writing a book

So I'm writing a novel. I'm forcing myself to say it that way, rather than the thing that would come easier: So I'm doing this nanowrimo thing. Every day since November 1^st, save for one, I’ve written at least a few words of fiction. The first few days were easy. After day three, when my banished inner editor somehow managed to escape from his or her (I think maybe it’s a he, though maybe not. Actually no, definitely a thin faced woman.) cell (the first thing I did was lock her there, as per instructions), it got hard. If that sentence is any indication, I probably should not have, but that is exactly why she got locked up in the first place. There is no space, in noveling, for second guessing, because second becomes third and fourth and seventeenth, and then there’s no more writing happening. So, back to the start. For the first few days, she stayed where she was supposed to be. I may have heard some murmuring coming from way down below, but I was fairly well able to ignore her and just keep writing things down. Then, on day three, the thought:

This looks nothing like a novel.

How one is meant to recognize a novel with only about 5000 words written, I have no idea, but the thought was still there. To be fair, I had no real plot, no real end goal in mind, only vague meanderings towards a theme, and a character who was nothing more than a sense I had. Each time I sat down to write I just picked a point, whatever came to mind, and started. The first day’s writing had nothing to do with the second’s, and so on. So, I might have had a point, wondering where the novel was, but all it did was stop me. I found the next couple of days to be enormously difficult, feeling like I should be able to step lightly across mountain ranges, and instead moving slowly, at odd angles, stumbling here and there. I was able, quite quickly, to realize that this fear was doing nothing more than making this harder than it needed to be, so I decided to let go. It more or less worked. I can admit that it’s still there, a little, a thin layer of fear and shoulds (this should make more sense, I should figure out exactly what’s happening here, and so on), but I’ve done my best to muffle it with a blanket of bravado and the actual belief that not knowing what I’m doing is entirely okay. Maybe even magnificent. And that the point is not to write a perfect novel; the point isn’t even to write a novel – it’s to write a draft of a novel, in whatever form it’s managed to take. It feels sort of like there is this thing that is struggling to create itself, as if from scavenged materials, arms made of twigs and marbles for eyes, slowly taking form, and however monstrous it might be when it’s finished, it will still be something of a miracle.

In 15 days (ack, today is the halfway point, how terrifying) I will have written 50,000 words of fiction, a work that won't exist until I pull it out of wherever it is coming from and put it down on the page. That seems pretty magical, to me. I still don’t have a real plot, I don’t know my character as well as I’d like to, and I have no idea what’s going to happen to her or why, but I just keep writing things down, whatever comes to mind, and accepting that as all I need to do.

What's making me happy this week: Friday, June 29, 2012

What's making me sad this week is Nora Ephron's death. What's making me happy is all of the remembering going on, about this fantastic writer and movie maker and woman. Specifically Lena Dunham's piece in the New Yorker.

For why I love this woman (aside from When Harry Met Sally, as if you need an aside): things she wouldn't miss and things she would.

What's making me happy this week: first week of May

Aside from the fact that it's the first week of May, a realization that has blasted a smile across my face and right into my soul, there are a couple of things making me happy this week.

Firstly: I discovered today that Drew Barrymore is, at least probably, pregnant. This made me giddy. Drew Barrymore is the only celebrity whose personal life has the power to affect me like this. I'm not sure why; I just adore her. I found out she was engaged to a handsome, nice-looking non-celebrity a few months ago, and it just made me glad for her. This, too. I really, really want Drew to be happy.

Secondly: when other people prove to be hippies. I am a total hippie, but usually try to hide it, at least a little, because I feel like smart, rational people disapprove. But I am smart and rational, or at least smart, and I love astrology. And crystals. Hooray for paying attention to energy.

What's making me happy this week

I love stealing ideas, especially good ones. Something that makes me happy every week is Pop Culture Happy Hour, NPR's weekly pop culture podcast. At the end of each episode the PCHH gang discuss what's making them happy this week. As I listen I'm constantly imagination-responding, thinking, "Oooh, ooh, yeah - that made me happy, too."

Rather than just chiming in silently, I'm going to steal Pop Culture Happy Hour's idea, so that I can share the glory of whatever thing is making me happy. I intended to have this posted on Friday, because that seems like a good day for things that are making one happy, but I was at work. And also, I didn't encounter the thing that is making me happy this week till about four o'clock on Friday afternoon.

Bon Iver Erotic Stories.

This is all you need to know.

Draft draft draft draft

I suppose that title could refer to the wind you can feel moving through this space. It is almost empty, but still there is that feeling, like you've walked into what might be a scary movie. Somewhere, someone (or something) is hiding.

I guess that something is me.

Really it refers to the fact that when I go to my dashboard I see a line down the middle of the screen: draft draft draft draft. I have been thinking a lot about writing, I have even been doing some of it, but somehow the publish button stays unpushed, just unrealized potential at the bottom of the page. I've realized a lot of it is fear. I am terrified of writing. I was about to stop myself and say, "No wait - I'm terrified of people reading what I write and hating me (or worse, not loving me)," but that's not true. I am a little bit terrified of that, but I think I am just as much afraid of writing and hating myself.

I read. A lot. I am not afraid of reading. I think I'm an amazing reader. I see nuances and imagine settings  and feel characters and laugh at all the right spots (and some I'm probably not supposed to). I appreciate and recognize great writing. And it paralyzes me. Because it makes me want to do that, too. It makes me want to find just the right words and capture feelings and truths and tell stories that take you up and down and around and around. But what if (and this will happen, undoubtedly) what I write isn't as good? What if it's just terrible? Somehow my body must be convinced that if this happens I might die. That's the only thing I can think of. That is the only good excuse for not doing what I know in the depth of my being (note: find a better line than depth of my being, ugh) is something I need to be doing to survive. The world doesn't make sense until I write it down.

I'm taking a course on writing for a living. In the first class we talked about that - the idea that one writes because (and I almost quote) something something spider weaving web of words from the soul something something. Which is a perfectly good reason to write, but not really to write for a living. So now I'm trying to find that spot, where I can write for me, for my soul and so on, but also write stuff that people want to read. And that people want to pay me for.

I suppose it's also partly a war that's happening within me between earnestness and snark. I like funny, snarky writing. I really do. I also find myself in that age of aquarius place where I just want the world to be full of love. But I still want to be funny. And it's kind of hard to be funny without being mean. (Thing I just googled: how to be funny without being mean. Judd Apatow comes to mind.)

And now I have written all this and am feeling slightly anxious about putting it into the world because it is just a bunch of ideas and I feel like it should be a perfected essay in order to go out and be read, and if I try to wait for that right now it's just going to stay a draft and so I'm just going to push publish.


Most of this is inspired by reading I've been doing lately. Other blogs. Especially ones where people are dealing with desire and doubt. Like Christina Kelly's. That name feels so good to read again; those Sassy ladies felt like... what and who I wanted to be. 

Dreams by Mary Oliver

DREAMS

by Mary Oliver

All night

the dark buds of dreams

open

richly.

In the center

of every petal

is a letter,

and you imagine

if you could only remember

and string them all together

they would spell the answer.

It is a long night,

and not an easy one—

you have so many branches,

and there are diversions—

birds that come and go,

the black fox that lies down

to sleep beneath you,

the moon staring

with her bone-white eye.

Finally you have spent

all the energy you can

and you drag from the ground

the muddy skirt of your roots

and leap awake

with two or three syllables

like water in your mouth

and a sense

of loss—a memory

not yet of a word,

certainly not yet the answer—

only how it feels

when deep in the tree

all the locks click open,

and the fire surges through the wood,

and the blossoms blossom.

but vs. and

This is going to be a hippie post.

I was walking down the street just now, thinking about how I'd like to win a billion dollars (or something in that vicinity). I was thinking about the fact that if I did win this large sum of money, I'd like to have someone to help me figure out how to manage it ethically, meaning help as many people as possible, and in a way that felt meaningful and important to me. I started explaining it in an imaginary conversation, saying, 'So I want to have a comfortable life, and have things I enjoy, and make sure that my wealth grows and my family is taken care of and my life feels good, but I also want to-.' And I stopped. I was going to continue with, 'help as many people with my money as I can, and make sure that the world is benefiting from my riches.' I stopped because I suddenly recognized that that word - but - meant that something in me saw those two ideas as opposed, and how likely was it to believe that I could do both things if I also thought that they worked against one another. And I realized that a very easy transition, replacing the word 'but' with the word 'and' meant that I could (subconsciously) accept that the two ideas could work together. This seems to me like it will help everything to flow a little easier.

So: I want to have a good life, enriched by wealth and access to material goods and experiences I might not otherwise afford, and I want to contribute to the betterment of the world by sharing that wealth and using it in ways that fulfill my own vision of wonderful.

Now I'm really noticing my internal monologue (or dialogue) and where there are conflicts between things I want. Example: I want a career I enjoy and I want time to write creatively. Further: I want a career that supports me well financially and I want to write. I want to enjoy Toronto and I want to maintain strong connections with the people I love around the country (/world). I want to feel healthy and I want to eat things that I enjoy. Before this afternoon I likely would have used the word 'but' where you see all of those pretty slanted ands (so open and nice, and). No longer.

Resolutions

Instead of New Year's resolutions, Sally and I spent the solstice making lists of things we were releasing and things we were inviting into our lives. Top of my list for things I'm inviting into my life: a focus on creative projects, and sharing them with other people. Because as much as I write, and make, and experiment, it's usually just for me. I know that that can have its place, but where I'm stuck is putting those things out into the world, and out in the world is where I think they should be.

Then I came across literary resolutions, and decided to make one of those, a fair bit after the fact. I posted mine in this week's edition of bookishness, but here it is again:

I resolve to write something that's not an email every day (and read some classic literature). This is today.

Nomi Chi

I am still totally obsessed with Nomi Chi's tattoos. (That she makes, not has.) I think you can see why. Sigh.

Yum y Yummier

Please please please, if you are in Toronto, go to Agave y Aguacade.

It's in Kensington, and it's hidden away in a little nook of Latin American food stands (as I said to everyone I told in real life, "You know the place with the churros? Way in the back behind there."). I am rarely willing to pay for Mexican food, because it is usually oh so disappointing, but this: there are no words. Okay, there are a few words:

Fresh.
Insanely fresh.
Delicious.
Oh my god delicious.  

R and I took our lunch (the Tostada Verde and the Tostada Tinga, about $7 each, along with drinks from across the street) to the tables out back. It was so so so so so so so delicious. And so (wait for it) fresh.

When Agave y Aguacade opened it was staffed by just one person, Chef Francisco Alejandri (he has a blog. It has recipes. They are surely wonderful.). Early reports focused on (guess) the freshness and deliciousness of the food, along with the waaaaaaaait that came with (or rather, before) it. When we went there was a second person working alongside the chef, but we were still standing around for 15 minutes or so before our food was ready. Just to say, plan ahead, and know that there may be a wait (though it's actually fascinating and fun watching them prepare everything with so much care and precision). Know also that the food is totally worth it.

Very pinteresting

As I am an early adopter (or at least like to think of myself as one, ahem no smartphone yet what?), I had to take Ms. Spankie up on her offer of an invitation to join Pinterest. What is Pinterest, you ask? I HAVE NO IDEA. BUT IT'S NEW AND PRETTY.

From what I gather, you "pin" things you come across on the internet (pictures only? Not entirely sure...) onto "boards" that you categorize. Here is mine. So far I have pinned one thing.

If anyone's interested in trying it, I have five invitations. Yes!

I will always and forever be 15 inside

Grounding my anxiety by cleaning the apartment while listening to Hole's Live Through This and drinking red wine. Except for the fact that I didn't get drunk for the first time until I was 17 (xawesomex), I could be 15. Although 15 year old me would probably be throwing things around, rather than picking them up.

Radical Self Love

 photo by flickr user Scoobymoo

Of late, I'm obsessed with loving myself. I've felt slightly disappointed by circumstances lately, by the fact that living life is sometimes challenging, and I get stressed out, and feel down sometimes, and I would much rather be feeling good and excited and happy. I find myself wondering how to feel good despite the challenges, because I know that changing my circumstances is not the great cure-all it sometimes seems it should be. I (me, moi - not my job, not my apartment, not my blind date, not my novel-in-progress) am in charge of how I feel. I hate coming across all new-agey (even though I am, at least a little bit), but that seems to be the truth of it. And if I don't feel good then... well, then I just need to start feeling good (and doing whatever it takes to make that happen).

I've made an internal, as yet unwritten list of ways to do that, and at the top of it: fall in love with myself.

I remember reading something written (or said) by Iyanla Vanzant about falling in love with herself. I felt: intrigued, envious, inspired. I realized, yes, I like myself a lot. I sometimes love myself. But I'm not in love with myself. And that's not okay with me.

So -  how does one go about falling in love with oneself? I'm still not entirely sure, but even just by being aware that that is my ultimate intention, I've noticed changes. I realized that at heart I actually do love myself - I think I'm fun, and interesting, and pretty, and smart. I like hanging out with myself. I guess I'm kind of dating myself.

I think it was thinking about dating, relationships, etc, that prompted this recent impulse. I've been single for a long time, and pretty fine with that. I've always said and believed that I would much rather be single than in a relationship with someone who isn't a wonderfully, delightfully, astoundingly great match for me. Lately, though, I've been hoping for that wonderfully, delightfully, astoundingly great match to show up. I'm still hoping for it, but at the same time I realized that I don't want to spend my time longing and yearning. I'd rather spend my time recognizing my awesomeness, developing it, and knowing that no matter what happens I'll be more than okay. (I'll be awesome.) Only then will I actually be in a position to be really great in a relationship.

So. Yeah. Falling in love with myself. I've been keeping an eye out for ways to hasten the process, and today, thanks to a meandering blog path started by a suggestion from my sister (my lovely sister), I came across Gala Darling. I'm kind of in love with her. She loves sequins, which aren't really in keeping with this whole minimalist vibe I've got going on, but I am so so glad that there are people out there who love them and wear then and celebrate them. I suppose I can wear metaphorical sequins, if nothing else. Anyways, along with sequins, Gala loves herself. She practices (and preaches) radical self love, which is exactly what it sounds like. Here are 100 ways she thinks we can start doing the same, and an email from one of her readers that touches on the whole relationship/self-love thing.

Throughout the process of thinking about this, and writing about it, I keep coming back to something I know I must have said as a snarky tweenager, "Oh. My. God. She is so in love with herself." It depresses me to think that when I said this, I said it with poison in my voice. With judgment. It feels weird to say, aloud (or in print): I want to be in love with myself. I worry about being judged, about people thinking I'm vain, or selfish, about people thinking that I should focus my love on others (believe me, I want to love all the rest of you/them/us, too). I guess part of this process is letting go of that fear. About finding a place where I am so self-assured, so certain that I will love myself, and take care of myself, and do what I know is best for me no matter what other people think or say (or what I worry they're thinking or saying).

Because I'm the one who has to (gets to!) live with myself and my decisions for the rest of my life. And maybe longer.

Whee.

Really.

Tanita Tikaram

I so love this.

Media gluttony

So, my experiment is over. What did I do with my time spent not watching TV, movies and random youtube clips, reading, web browsing?

Cooked a lot. Fresh sage was of particular importance.
Meditated a bunch.
Wrote a lot.
Sang along to Hole's Live Through This while cooking, among other records
Played bananagrams 
Did a leetle beet of hot yoga
Made conversation
Made birthday cards
Edited down my wardrobe
Shopped (erm... not sure why this was allowed, although I suppose creating my outward identity via clothing is, indeed, creating)

And now, as with any crash diet, I am responding to its conclusion with a glorious binge. Mainly in the form of signing up for zip.ca, because I found an online coupon for a four month free trial. DVDs! In the mail! I've also got tons of stuff to read and watch saved up, because people have been sending me recommendations throughout. I didn't realize how frequently people recommend things to me. Currently on the list:

Portlandia
The Great Man
Great House
Crazy Sexy Diet
On Writing (haha)
Blue Valentine
Somewhere
The King's Speech
All of the Guardian's top 50 television dramas
The Lotus Eaters

The pile next to my bed (and in my mind) has been growing, and I am so excited to start in on it.

Pleasure Reading

I went into Chapters today to buy a book for a friend, and while there I stopped at the discounted fiction table. Pretty much any time I see a novel published by Harper Perennial sitting on that $5 table, I buy it. I've had great experiences with that little olive - I see it and I think "smart and enjoyable."

So anyways, In a Perfect World, by Laura Kasischke, was sitting there. I'm not sure what the rules say about reading the backs of books, but given that I invented them, I decided to see what the book was about. It sounded interesting. So I opened it. I'm pretty sure the rules say that reading the inside of books isn't allowed. I really, honestly could not help myself. 

It has been so long since I've read anything other than film criticism and recipes. Over three weeks. It feels like a lifetime. 

I read the first line. And then the second. 

It was like I was inside an awful romance novel, what with the frissons of pleasure that were actually, literally, running up and down my spine. I am so ready to read novels again. So so so ready. I'm off to Montreal tomorrow for a whirlwind reunion three of my beloved Halifax ladies. 29 hours in the city, with a 5 hour train ride on either end. What happens on the train stays on the train? 

As far as the actual fasting part of my culture fast (I keep changing what I call it) - it's going well. I've managed to wake up an hour early every morning, so that I can spend an hour writing before I go to work. I don't think I can fully express how wonderful it feels to make the time to find that connection every day. I also went to a hot yoga class for the first time in months. It kicked my ass, but was also great. I've been meditating lots, and cooking lots, and talking lots, and thinking lots.

Oh yeah - it was my birthday yesterday. I cheated on my no restaurants rule (I decided that there are no rules on one's birthday) and went out for chinese food and frozen custard. It was a lovely day. I love birthdays.

Happy weekend.