No Pictures, Just Words

I know, I know. Where the hell has she been?

What can I say? It's been a crazy couple of months. People get sidetracked sometimes. It's been a time of renewal, of transformation. Winter struggles to thaw, daffodils are peaking out from the boulevards and the sun battles the rain, aiming to bring us all warmth and happy days. The promise of change is all around, isn't it?

I'm finally re-integrating with the North American psyche. Money makes the world go around, especially around these parts. So if I want to pay rent, buy those boots, sip those bevvies and go on that road trip across California, I need dollars, lots of dollars. And discipline. And desire.

I got a second job, in an office, doing morning cash for a certain corporate restaurant franchise that shall remain nameless. For a while I was working three to four mornings a week there, plus three to four nights a week at Alibi, and my life became this dreadful march from bed to work to the bottle and back to bed again. Didn't leave much room for getting inspired, that's for sure.

But all the while, I've been thinking a lot about renewal. Sometimes I feel like my whole life is just this one level played to the enth degree and rather than moving forward I am just restarting it over and over again. Working two jobs and not creating nearly enough, swan diving into failed, fleeting romances and giving up on neglected projects. Floating in a haze of indifference and longing and just feeling generally unfinished, like something very integral and bigger than myself, is missing.

About three weeks ago I had a spiritual healing session with my friend Ari. My best friend had been urging me to go see him since I got back from Europe. He studied mysticism in the forests of Vancouver Island and since had become quite the professional, although not a capitalist by any means. He is willing, when asked, to guide you through an intense internal exploration of your sub-conscious, and figure out what the hell it is that's keeping you from realizing your greatest self. It's not always about purging bad energy, but transforming it into something new, something you can put to good use.

I was not so much a skeptic, maybe just not quite ready. But lately I had what felt like a large nasty ball of black hash in the centre of my chest, one that, over years and years, had culminated into quite the pesky demon. It became so prevalent in my day to day life, that soon I found I had trouble breathing and was getting anxiety. I couldn't focus. So I would work or party or do whatever else I could to ignore and escape the reality that I was somehow sorely dissatisfied.

I finally felt that I didn't really have a choice. I would go to Ari the Mystic. Maybe he could help. Or maybe it was all bullshit. But it couldn't hurt, right?

My best friend and I took the bus on a rainy, miserable Sunday afternoon to Ari's home off Victoria Drive. He, with his slim clothes and long black hair tied easily behind his head, greeted us warmly and made tea. For a long while we all just sat in the quiet comfort of his bedroom, arranged to accommodate a rather serene healing space, littered with crystals and charts and a massage table laden with beautiful cloth - all the expected New Age things that most people would scoff at, including myself. But you know, I've always felt that holistic healing is terribly underrated. The mind is such a complex, extraordinary machine. One needs only to explore it and nurture it to get results, rather than drugging it or analyzing it to death. Maybe all this hocus pocus was foolish, but it beat the heck out of therapy, mainly because it smells nice and is easy on the wallet.

Eventually we began "our work" and I won't go into detail, but it was quite possibly one of the weirdest experiences of my life. It was also overwhelmingly effective, a catharsis I can't quite put into words. Over the course of two hours, amid much humming and scent burning and hypnosis of some kind, we were able to explore in rather vivid detail the architecture of my sub-conscious. And what we found there was a beautiful, brilliant woman trapped within a nagging unlove for her own self. Someone who does not give herself nearly enough credit. He told me that I have been over-exerting my masculine side. Hilarious. I can be pretty emo, that's feminine right? But really the feminine side is the creative, intuitive side and I was failing to channel these into anything worth while, rather just putting all my energy into the latest load of dishes. The masculine side is practical, analytical and tends to focus on doing things rather than feeling things. I realize I spend most of my time running errands, cleaning the apartment or getting all my everyday shit done, and spend very little time nurturing that other part of me, the one that needs it most.

At the peak of all this, I felt a charge of white light finally breaking down that nasty ball of hash. I could feel it dissolving and splitting open like a seed inside my chest and I wept and cried out in pain and it was frightening and liberating and a huge relief. Ari talked me further through, beckoning the bad, ushering it out of me, steadily easing my nerves as we released some kind of sick emotional toxin out of my body, straight into oblivion.

When I finally rose from the bed, I felt bafflingly clear. Everything just suddenly made a lot more sense, either that or the things that didn't make sense no longer mattered. It was a glorious feeling. Placebo perhaps? Who cares. It helped. I suddenly felt like I had a grip on things. Over the next few weeks, amazing shit began to happen. About two mornings after my session, I woke up with words, endless floods of words, running through my head like race horses. I made coffee and sat at my desk and wrote. I wrote for six hours. I wrote until eventually I had to tear myself away to shower and get ready for work. Then I wrote some more.

Then I went to work and as I was there, all I could think about were these words I had been writing and wanting nothing more than to return to them. And when I did I was happy to see that they poured out of me even further.

A week went by like this, in which every spare moment I had was dedicated to these endless pages of writing. Writing about truth. Writing about love. It felt like I wasn't even writing the words but that they were writing me.

Since then, I managed to level out on a steady high of raised consciousness for about a week and a half. But Ari warned me that the harsh everydayness of life can easily seep back in. This, he assured me, was not necessarily a quick fix. There is no such thing really.

But at least now I have an outlet, a sanctuary in the root of my mind, one of peace and pure happiness. One that I can return to whenever I see fit. One that is solely mine.

Counter Attack

Outside Vancouver Central Library, The Words Don't Fit the Picture by Ron Terada

When people ask me what Berlin was like, my mind shifts into autopilot, flying me first class and one way back to the sexy, gritty and unconventional city where I lived for over a year. On the outside, I'm still here, but inside, I'm wandering the quiet, winding cobblestone streets of Europe. I'm loitering in smoky cafes, seedy kneipes, 24-hour clubs and renegade art studios. I'm sitting under weeping willows that cradle the brown canal, watching white swans drift by. I'm taking pictures of endless graffiti. I'm lounging in one of the infinite parks where thousands of people spend hours sipping 2-euro bottles of beer and smoking hand-rolled cigarettes. Turkish street food, miles of flea markets, bizarre art exhibitions and fearless fashion statements. All of these were things that made me love Berlin and never want to leave. But most of all, they exemplify what I miss most. Freedom. Freedom to drink, smoke, eat, laugh, dance, dress and enjoy life. The vigorous and careless spirit of a city that’s permitted to be deviant, atypical and raw.

It was hard to say goodbye. Real hard. But what has been even harder is realizing how much my perspective of Vancouver has changed. This city consistently rates as one of the most livable cities in the world. And yes, the surroundings are beautiful – the mountains are beautiful, the Pacific ocean is beautiful, the weather is beautiful. One needs only to take a stroll along the seawall on a sunny day to understand the appeal.

But the words don’t entirely fit the picture. Vancouver, I have discovered, is a city whose potential is more often than not repressed by money and laws. System regulations, zoning limitations, expensive rents and unreasonable authorities, all of these things working together to inhibit the lifeblood of culture: Art.

Art, music, activism and alternatives. These things feed a city's soul. But Vancouver falls victim to financial status and the prospects of development. The incessant rumbling of SUVs on wide, busy, noisy streets. The grinding of saws and whirring of cranes as condos sprout up on every corner. Busses packed with weary construction workers who rest their tired forearms on concrete-splattered pants, gazing at their muddy boots. Here, I wander through expensive supermarkets and over-taxed liquor stores, frustrated at the memory of wine cheaper than water and cheese cheaper than a bus ticket.

Money feeds our identity here and as a result, the wealthy flourish and the less than wealthy struggle to survive - and I’m not just talking about the Downtown Eastside. But I do cherish the East side community, if only for its realness. I find comfort in the existence of East Vancouver and that, within its confines, one finds counter-culture peeking through the cracks. Underground party spaces, avant-guard boutiques, urban galleries and cheap Asian foodstuffs. These are the things I am grateful for, lifelines to the freedom I crave, landmarks that locate me in this city since I came back, since starting Bloodhound, since this endless quest for inspiration began. I've become more attuned to the world around me, more appreciative of the things that give my environment spirit and identity.

So with all that in mind, this entry pays tribute to a few things in Vancouver that I find freeing. Each, in their own way or another, make a stand for change.

The East Van Cross by Ken Lum

Erected in February 2010 as part of Vancouver’s Olympic public arts project, this glowing beacon of glass and steel at VCC-Clark Station is 20 meters high, ablaze with LED light and impossible to ignore. It’s also beautiful. And badass.

Douglas Todd wrote in the Vancouver Sun that the East Van Cross “seems to suit what appears to be the secular, activist, anarchist, centre-left attitudes of people in many parts of East Vancouver.” You said it Todd. This neighbourhood has for years been home to immigrants, artists and small business owners who could afford its cheaper rents. But naturally, as with any city, that condition has changed. Real-estate prices are rising, condos are popping up and working professionals are moving in. Lum stated that the structure was a "rearguard gesture of defiance, protest and assertion of identity" - identity for a part of the city whose gritty history is perpetually threatened by development. He has intriguing perspectives on architecture, ideas that I find relatable to the overall Vancouver condition. He notes "an overwhelmingly segregated contemporary condition, fixed ideologies and over-rationalization, uninspiring and rigid." The East Van Cross is controversial. Sacrilegious. Gang-related. Badass. It memorializes a history and spirit that will hopefully always survive.

View from VCC-Clark Station.

De-fenced, Main Street and Terminal Avenue

This is a prime example of how you don’t need a spray can to execute street art. Along a huge vacant lot on the southeast corner of Main and Terminal, a long fence made from cheap plastic green panels was meticulously rearranged to create a row of heart-shaped patterns. I love how the loose ends of this cheap material are magically transformed into draping, palm-like fringes that float organically overhead. And the perfect sunny day made all of this even more beautiful.

Not a few days later, the fence was slid back into place, another short-lived counterattack lost, which made this mischievous act of “de-fencing” all the more special.

A Bit More Street

Broadway and Ash St.

Lights on Water Street, Gastown.

Yep.

Chef Boy-Are-Steaze

For numerous reasons, I’m lucky to work at the Alibi Room. Delicious beer, cool clientele and most of all, awesome co-workers. This includes the adorable army of metalheads that run our kitchen. Part of what’s interesting about these guys (aside from the bizarre shit that comes out of their mouths on a daily basis) is their ability to wear uniforms and still celebrate their own personal style.

Adam here didn’t want to talk about himself too much. When I asked him what he was doing the following day, he told me he’d probably be tanning in a graveyard. But instead I managed to convince him to be this entry’s feature for street style. Originally from Victoria, he’s a certified pastry chef who apprenticed for nine years at Café Brio. Meanwhile he honed his 20-plus years of guitar skills and apparently is "a practitioner of modern Witchcraft and endorser of the occult.”

But enough about him, let’s talk about what he’s wearing. I love how Adam has ditched Crocs and checkered anti-flammable pants for perfectly hung dark denim DC jeans and a pair of Yo! MTV Raps. Top that off with a slick black chef’s coat (and even slicker hair) and you’ve got someone who seriously wants to make you food. Or kill you. Your choice.

Babe Rainbow/Salazar

Let’s end with some music shall we?

I caught the buzz on Babe Rainbow while checking out the amazing demo reel of local film company Salazar, who make incredible music videos for tons of Vancouver talent. But their video for Babe Rainbow’s “Shaved” is by far my favourite. The song is sick and right up my alley – dark, atmospheric, lo-fi. Sort of sounds like humpback whales singing in a prison cell.

And the video is almost better, spooky as hell and set against the gorgeous forests of the Pacific Northwest. But more so, the girls look absolutely perfect. The soft blues and warm reds of their clothes are the perfect contrast against the wet green backdrop of the trees. They look almost pinafore – innocent but modern. Whoever does the styling for Salazar has proven, time and time again, impeccable taste. Check it out (and get creeped out.)

Babe Rainbow - Shaved from Salazar on Vimeo.

Thanks again for taking the time to read this entry of Bloodhound. I hope I don't sound too much like a "hater," hence why I'm paying tribute to some cool things about Vancity. Keep 'em comin. I'm here for a while.

Also, I'm sorry about the occasional weird inconsistencies with the font and formatting. Html really gets pesky on this site.

Souvenirs from Home

Sometimes inspiration can arise from the smallest, most ordinary things. Erica Jong writes in Fear of Flying (my new favourite book) “The wonder of everyday life fascinates me more than the wonder of great shrines and temples...Somewhere between the bathroom and the bedroom, somewhere between eating an egg and taking a crap, the muse alights...” In this case, Jong was talking about exploring Beethoven’s modest 2-room flat in Vienna. In my case, it was re-exploring Home. Home with a capital “H” as my Mom likes to call it.

This Christmas vacation I experienced a great many “ordinary” things. A hefty twelve-day holiday in humble Hubley, Nova Scotia, sitting by an infinite vigil of cozy fires, enjoying endless conversation and an obscene amount of food and wine. After several years of travel, a trip to the ol’ homestead can provide one with just the right dose of peace and calm to reflect and gain new perspective. I thank my family for this meditative pause, paired with some good cheese and crackers. It was a vacation from vacation so to speak, and I look forward to sharing with you my top five souvenirs.


1) Fear of Flying by Erica Jong


I’m not the most avid reader out there. I’d like to be one of those people that can read a book a week, but often I’ll find something “easier” to do like surfing the internet of watching reruns of Mad Men. But every couple of months I stumble upon a copy of something that seizes me. In this case, Fear of Flying, an erotic novel from the 1970s, which has more brains and brawn than anything I’ve read in a long time. Isadora Wing, a strong but uncertain writer, accompanies her husband to a psychoanalytic conference in Vienna where she eventually embarks on an unbridled and adulterous adventure through Europe. This book is famous for being one of the first pieces of literature that fearlessly outed female sexuality. And when you put it in historic context, it is indeed shocking. The Sex and the City girls ain’t got nothing on this chick. But more so, Jong’s musings on art and writing (and all the wonder, self-reflection and anxiety that comes with it) is truly what makes this work so powerful. Isadora’s voice has become a soft, sympathetic comfort to me during a time of grave creative crisis.

Not only that but how funny is it to read a book called Fear of Flying when you’re flying on an airplane? Isn’t that ironic? No, that’s not irony...is it? God, I should read more.

2) Magazines

As with any long flight, it’s always best to come prepared. This includes a hefty supply of reading material. For me it’s usually about 30 bucks worth of magazines. Magazines are expensive and they tempt me to want things I don’t need. I didn’t know I wanted an opera coat, until I read this month’s issue of Marie Claire. But where a lengthy plane ride is involved, a trip to the airport is now always accompanied by a sinful splurge at one of YVR’s many newsstands. I stock up on stacks of fluffy fashion and gossip rags to get me through the rough 7+ hours it takes to fly across the country. Under the harsh white beam of that little cabin light, I’ll spend the majority of my time pouring over every swatch of trend and swig of Hollywood juice. For me it’s one of the few things that, aside from the destination, makes a long economy-class journey worth while.

And believe it or not, fluffly fashion rags are an unrivaled source of inspiration for me. Among many other things, I can’t wait to put my new eyeshadow brush to some good use and take a stab at Mila Kunis’ gorgeous smokey eye. And one of my all-time music heroes Patti Smith interviewing one of the greatest actors on earth, Johnny Depp? I mean, uh-mazing.

Also, I now NEED suspenders. And a flowy three-quarter-length skirt. And some restraint.

3) Luxe Utility

A long-time Vancouverite and Blanche MacDonald graduate, Larissa now resides in Berlin, Germany where she worked at projektgalerie, a contemporary showroom for Berlin Fashion Week. In November 2010 she also managed a tour for LA's beloved Polyamorous Affair, opening in venues across Deutschland for Vancouver's musical treasure You Say Party!

Needless to say this girl has accumulated more style status than she knows what to do with. Not to mention she's one of my best friends. With that in mind, anyone that's met her knows she's never quite short of opinions. I particularly enjoy our conversations on fashion. She and I often agree (and often don't) about many things, but we both concur that the above picture could very well be the beginnings of a hot new winter look. After inheriting two amazing foxy furs from her Oma, Larissa paired them with LL Bean boots, super skinnies, dark red lipstick and an easy up-do. Not to mention her mother's Lunenburg farm in the background. Yeah, she pretty much nailed it.

As celebrity stylist Rachel Zoe says: "I died, like, I couldn't breathe."

4) Annfield Manor, Little Bras d’Or, Cape Breton



Over a hundred years old and originally owned by a wealthy coal baron, my parents and I stayed in the gorgeous Annfield Manor for two days while visiting my sister in Cape Breton. The owners of this transformed B&B are lovely, quiet people that make these really good eggs in muffin-molded ham slices. But what inspired me most was not only the history, or the coziness (or that yummy breakfast) but the incredible Victorian decor. Damask embellishments, rusty red walls, crisp white embroidered linens, shiny mahogany woods and Christmas trees EVERYWHERE. if I were a fashion designer I would base an entire collection on this place. Transform those mahoganies into shiny leather miniskirts and britches, pair them with voluminous brocade dresses and blouses, and think of the wedding dress one could design based on those bedsheets! At this point I’ll just let the pictures speak for themselves.










5) Ukrainian Christmas



Who needs one Christmas when you can have two? Luckily my Ukrainian mother makes sure to celebrate her version, based on the Orthodox calendar, every Jan 6. And forget presents. Those are for whiny North American suckers. Ukrainian Christmas is all about food, and lots of it. The delight I feel when Mom breaks out her aunt’s handmade embroidered tablecloth and all the good china is just the beginning. Forget turkey. Sip Beaujolais out of the good crystal and enjoy a six-course, meatless feast over a long, leisurely 4-5 hours. Here's a few descriptions of some of the highlights:

Course 2: Kutia
A dainty spoonful of this traditional sweet porridge made of boiled wheat, crushed poppy seed, assorted nuts, dates, figs, apricots and honey is traditionally supposed to be tossed upwards and the amount that sticks to the ceiling determines how good the year’s harvest will be. But considering we live in suburbia and don’t have much to harvest (not to mention extremely high vaulted ceilings) we usually skip this step.



Course 3: Borsche
Next to the perogies, this is by far my favourite part of the meal, if for the colour alone! I cherish the rich, red hue of cooked beets. The only thing better is their resulting sweet, earthy flavour.
This version is not your usual chunky everyday borsche. The beets are simmered for hours with a pile of assorted root vegetables and seasonings, then strained to create a clear, delicate broth. The “crowning” touch - Mum makes “vushka” (little ears), and serves three or four of them in each portion. These yummy bites of soft pastry stuffed with mushrooms soak up the delicious goodness of the soup. They are simply out of this world. Three of the vushka are shaped into little pyramids and represent the three kings. It’s considered good luck to get one, so naturally in our house the whole thing is rigged for our most special guests.



Course 6: Pyrogies (and a lot of them)
Two flavours. I was surprised to discover I enjoyed the sauerkraut ones almost more than the sinfully good potato and cheese. The acidity of the pickled cabbage is a nice contrast to the buttery pastry and sour cream. Mum also told me that in the summer one can make perogies stuffed with cherries or blueberries. This is an all-time must-try when the warm weather arrives.




To describe the end of this meal, I can only quote my mother:
“Since all this is accompanied by serious booze (unlike our effete wine) by this time everyone is bursting and maudlin and/or belligerant ("I love you, Man", "We will liberate the Ukraine", "your mother wears army boots", etc.). Thus endeth the evening (except that in the olden days, people actually went to Midnight Mass, before they started eating again).”

Afterward
Thanks for taking the time to read about some silly, everyday things that get me excited. Plenty more to come on Bloodhound, so please follow and enjoy!