My week was all work. In my few spare moments, I reached for easy things; magazines and Italian soda, my new favourite sweatpants (can you believe I bought coral sweatpants? I can't) and the beautiful fade of peonies.
Some more substantial things caught my eye too, but I mostly filed them away to later read. One piece I did read was Alexandra Molotkow's piece on friendship and loneliness over on Hazlitt. I fight this feeling, but I do sometimes feel that - as a single woman so far from home - loneliness is especially mine. But I also find that, for me, there's a tremendous and rarely articulated upside to brushing up against loneliness.
I often feel this way about insomnia too (not so this week, when I felt I might die on the subway one morning). But I love this piece, which I tweeted a long time ago and just dug up again. I believe it too speaks from the side more often unspoken.
Ireland's new postage stamp - shown above - features an entire short story (found via Mark on Twitter). I must mail a few when I go home in June. (coming up fast now!)
It's a three-day weekend here, so I'm hoping to catch up with myself a little, enjoy the sun from the shade, start a new book. I'm excited about this one.
Howe London is one of those most special shops. I usually go straight to their upholstery section, but last night it was the mirror images that struck me. These have got to be some of the most beautiful product shots I've ever come across — so painterly and atmospheric.
I also, you may recall, have a thing for imperfect reflections (see here and here).
It occurred to me today that I'm coming up on my ten year emigration anniversary. And I remember arriving in Toronto and the taxi-ride from the airport, the driver saying he thought Spadina was the most beautiful street in the city and me knowing - even then - that he was cracked, heading to an apartment in Little Italy.
It was the summer of the big blackout. The summer of SARS. Biblical times, my arrival.
And we walked the city looking for a place. Figuring it all out. I strained for a sense of the town and found only fragmented neighbourhoods, all seeming so arbitrary. Until we walked into Glenn Gould's building.
I don't mind coming up on ten years at all, but I dread the year (I haven't done the math yet) when I'll say I've lived longer in Canada than in Ireland. I dread feeling less Irish over time, like sand in an hourglass, draining the top half empty.
When I flew back from Calgary, I got a towncar from the airport. The driver said he liked my accent. Never lose it, he said. I could have cried. It already shifts like sands.
Reverse Emigration
When I boarded the plane, everyone looked like Uncle Tom
ruddy, some were empurpled
gray hair or auburn in terrier thatches
pale blue of eye
a smidgen of resignation:
the tribe.
I thought We are driving to the interior
I thought holy god
the airline upholstery
was Yeats, Kavanagh and Heaney
handwriting. I thought
holy shit, this is the maw.
The maw.
I filled my place with colour on the weekend. Coral peonies, lemon and grapefruit-hued roses. Armfuls of lilacs and peonies. Corners of my apartment are alight with verdancy, in others basks a perfect yellow bloom under the glow of a lamp. And though I love all this colour, it's the backdrop of wispy greys and soft neutrals that feels more me.
I watched I Am Love on Friday night. So beautiful. Tilda's Swinton's character wears all kinds of colours, flaming reds and vibrant corals. And her character inhabits a world of cold and wealthy greys, a Milan subdued and sorrowful. Maybe I'm the opposite, muted in a world of colour. I don't know what that really means though. These opposites don't go anywhere. Yet, I know I stand a little apart, a little aloof, seeking mist and shadow, which seems nonetheless beautiful to me.
I was exhausted on Friday and took the entire evening off working, so I'm paying for it today. It means I'll soon be buckling down to get a tonne of work done and e-mails written.
To be honest, I had a whole other Sunday best in mind, a gorgeous Helmut Lang dress with Lanvin flats. But it seemed so ridiculously far from the reality of my day that I couldn't bring myself to use it.
Still, favourite jeans and sweatshirts hold a special place in my heart too. Perhaps the most special place. And on days like this, when I won't venture farther than the local Starbucks, there's no need for anything more fancy than that. And even if there was, I'd probably wear this anyway.
I'm three people at work for the next three weeks, so I really had to strain to remember my nice thing from each day this week. But they were there, like treasures hidden in forgotten pockets. I was grateful to make myself find them again.
For the same reason, I'm so very behind on my reader, but I did spot this over on TNQ's wonderful beauty blogosophere post. In the late 1980's and early 90's when I first was dabbling in lotions and potions, animal testing was a big issue. We'd get mad at our mums over it and demand to be taken to the Body Shop for our animal-friendly vitamin-E soap and white musk perfume. I can't say I'm massively surprised that a company (any company) would either adopt or abandon ethics when dollar signs dance, but this story still smarts.
While I'm on ethics and shopping, I'm feel very knotted about fashion lately. We all want the high-low mix. We also cultivate a love for beautifully, locally, ethically made brands. Most of us also support such brands and purchases by making compromises elsewhere. We save and splurge. We believe in treating ourselves, but also in consuming less. We promote constant lust on our blogs but we worry most about our own financial security. We worry about being seen as promoting inaccessible things but wonder about the real cost of what seems too affordable. We cry over Bangladesh factory collapses, but then cheer about Phillip Lim at Target.
This push-and-pull has been really pushing and pulling me lately. The Target collabs really put me off those designers, to be honest. But just because I don't touch those examples, doesn't mean I only ever the right decisions. And, of course, it's more and more (via) difficult to make the right choices, to know what you're really buying, to trust a brand no matter how much of a lovebrand you feel it is. But of course, we're not meant to solve these things and move smugly on. We're supposed to live with these dilemmas and engage with them and feel the burden of choice.
Two things I did recently contribute to that I'm proud of: Socrates and His Clouds, a play written by my dear friend, Bill. The image of Wittgenstein above is by Sean Lingwood and part of their Kickstarter campaign. Also, Miel Retreat Scholarships, a project by Éireann, who does so much to support writing and writers. I've also signed on to be a reader for The South Circular, a quarterly journal of short stories that I admire very much. I do hope you'll check it out - each issue blows my mind a little more.
