Radial Symmetry

Technically, I have a daily yoga practice. That is, at least, how everyone describes Mysore style ashtanga. Even before we get to 5:30 am and lazy Sundays, however, you need to take into account that Saturdays are yoga-free, and Mysorers don't practice on moon days, so that's 1 free day for the full moon, and 1 for the new moon. So an ideal daily practice is more like 22 to 24 days out of 28.

But then, of course, the early mornings and lazy Sundays. Between the arguments the bed wins many mornings, and the arguments my lover's warm body wins on Sundays, my "daily" practice is more like 12 days out of 28.

Late last week, I decided to do an experiment: all 6 classes this week, Sunday to Friday.

HYPOTHESES:

1. I will be tired from waking up early;
2. I will be able to put my face on my shins again in Paschimottanasana;
3. I will feel stronger;
4. I will be tired from waking up early.

FINDINGS:
1) Most mornings, my alarm goes of at 5:20 am. I spend the next 10 to 20 minutes alternately dozing and arguing with myself about should I stay or should I go now.

But I'm so tiiiiiiiired, I say. But you won't get better unless you go, I respond. But my shoulder huuuuuuurts, I say. Remember how you almost grabbed your wrist in marichi C yesterday?

They win about 50/50.

Thing is, if you know you're going, it's still really fucking early, but at least you're not also starting your day with a stressful 10-minute argument. This doesn't make it feel later or like you've gotten more sleep, but does make it feel less miserable.

2) Just past the mid-point, my body is not very pleased. Rather than getting deeper into forward folds, my body is rebelling and tightening up even sooner as I'm bending forward. It's like doing it every day doesn't give my body the chance to forget it hates folding in half, whereas if I take a couple of days off, I can be most of the way into my version of Prasarita Padottanasana before my hamstrings cotton on and stop the show.

I suspect that if I can keep this pace up, though, that would give way. Haruki Murakami wrote a book about marathon running in which he says something along the lines of "When my body hurts, I tell it that this is what we do now." Given the way that so much of that book rang true for me and yoga, I think my body would eventually just give up the fight.

Notwithstanding: with two more days to go, I'm fairly certain my face will not be on my shins. My nose on my knee, perhaps.

3) As for feeling stronger, I do, and I feel like I look stronger. Let's hear it for the placebo effect.

4) Oh fuck yeah.

Just nearly a month ago now, d.jack and I went out for dinner. To Town, because we love to go there. I wore a pretty dress, because we both love that too.

We ate some delicious food, drank some nice wine. I waited for d.jack to go to the bathroom. And waited. And waited. The bread come and gone, the carapaccio devoured, the main more than half way through. My plan had been fomented around the fact that we have never had a meal out together without at least one bathroom visit from the other side of the table; it's a family joke. I was certain I could rely on it.

I did what I normally do with uncertainty: flushed and got very quiet.

Fifteen minutes later, after alternately staring at my plate and asking d.jack if he had noticed how suddenly hot it was, I took a small plastic box for organizing your office supplies out of my purse, and placed it on the bar beside his plate.

His eyes widened. "For me? Really?"

"It's a surprise. I'm not sure what you'll think of it."

----

Just nearly four years ago now, Jennifer and d.jack were at a wedding for a mutual friend. Towards the end of a drunken night, he pulled her aside and pressed a shiny silver binder clip into her palm.

"Give this to Megan for me?" he said.

By her report, she was pretty wary. No one wants to be caught in the middle of two friends. "Okay, I'll give it to her," J. replied. "But you're on your own from there."

When she gave it to me the next day, I was confused. "Is he asking me out?"

"I don't know. I told him I would give it to you and that's it."

"Am I supposed to ask him out?" She shrugged her shoulders.

Being otherwise distracted at the time, I tossed it in the jar with my other binder clips, and proceeded to proceed as I was. But pretty much every time he was back visiting Ottawa from school, why yes, I did just happen to be free for a friendly beer.

____

He unclipped the lid of the small plastic box and dug around in the tissue paper. Pulled out a shiny silver binder clip holding a folded piece of paper. It had taken me a remarkable amount of time the night before to get it to just the right size, with the words spaced out just the way I wanted across the folds.

The front said WILL YOU.

Unfold. ELOPE.

Unfold. WITH ME?

D.jack blinked hard and his voice was very quiet. "Really!? You mean it?"

I nodded, staring intently at him instead of my plate.

His eyes got blurry and he said "I will! I will elope with you."

It was a strange mix of feelings, and the sudden rush of oxygen maybe made them all the more heady. I leaned in and kissed him, then pressed my cheek to his cheek. I smelled him into every crevice of my lungs.

I've had a basement for almost 10 years now. For the first chunk of time I was living on my own in apartments with no storage, this was fine. My mom had storage in her house. I didn't have a ton of stuff; or rather, I hadn't replaced my childhood tchotkes, given to me by various aunties, mostly, with grown up tchotkes, gathered from various curbs and garage sales and flea markets in three cities.

And then I had a basement, and another basement, and another and another and another. And two rented houses in which I framed and drywalled some rooms, and another apartment in which I fixed up a fair bit of stuff because I wanted to, and then two more houses in which I had part-ownership with ginormous basements big enough to store all the stuff I was gradually collecting.

A big tote just for wrapping paper and boxes I might use someday? Why not. A T-square and two levels? But of course. More expensive to replace than to store, right?

+++

It all happened very quickly. Once it started, that is. I often take a long time to make a decision about something. I like to consider the best- and worst-case scenarios that might result, then change a factor or two and re-do the thought experiment. Rinse and repeat. For months, sometimes, about big decisions. So Shelley and I talked about selling the houses and I demurred; and then I waffled; and waffled; and waffled; and then I said yes. And as soon as I said yes, we were off to the races. We made the decision, tried to sell it to friends, found an agent, and had the sold papers signed within 3 weeks.

The next challenge, of course, was to find a new place to live. I was specific in my desires: west of Bank, east of Preston, south of Laurier, north of the Queensway. Cheap, because I may well not have a job by the end of July. We looked at several hideous shitboxes, and then I got desperate and emailed and emailed a guy who was not emailing me back. We got that place. I have no idea how big it actually is, because everytime I think about it, the walls creep about a quarter inch closer together. And I think about it a lot.

+++

It's not just tools in my basement, of course. The tools, really, I'm fine to disperse them amongst the basements of friends and neighbours. But I have a moldy suitcase full of most of the writing I did as a kid and teenager. I have another tote filled with one million framed photos, and the diaries I wrote in my 20s when I didn't have a computer. I have a larger tote filled with teacups from aunties, handmade gifts, the "nice" jewellery I've collected over the years. All those silver dollars I was given for Christmasses. A wedgewood commemorative plate from the year I was born. What makes that box heavy is the treacle of sentiment and guilt that thickly coats each piece.

The mission was to track down a thin publication, released in 1967, possibly by the Canadian Wildlife Service. The thing you don't realize before you work in reference is just how useful those old timey mid-century bibliographies are. They're on paper, actual paper, which means you can flip back and forth quickly instead of ticking off agonizing seconds while the screen changes to the digitized page you think you might want. You can unfocus your eyes enough as you flip though the book on the table and let the right word reveal itself to your brain.

I didn't find what I was looking for, in any bibliography of the CWS, Environment Canada, NRCan, on the Publications Canada website, or in the Canadian Publications catalogues. No. Dice.

But in one of those bibliographies, and this was before I was Collecting collecting, which means I was just scribbling little notes to myself on the backs of AMICUS printouts, there was a listing for another thin paper. Just a few pages, I believe, and if you've worked in non-profits or the gov, you know the type - 10, maybe 15 pages, thick staples leaving flecks of rust on the cover cardstock. A block of now-retro colour across the bottom half of the front, maybe avocado, maybe burnt orange, a square with rounded corners cut out to reveal the title on the title page. One corner with a diagonal tear where someone picked it up once with clumsy fingers.

I never did see the book, but the title was "This Trout is a Great Fighter."

A flat statement. A specific trout. I like to imagine one fish, fighting a great fight against a predator’s teeth, claws; the encroaching ice.

It puts me in mind of a poem I can’t remember – one that involves river water glinting like diamond scales. I thought it was “The Fish” by Marianne Moore. Or a poem by Elizabeth Bishop – maybe “The Fish” again, or “At the Fishhouses.” No and no and no. I think I’m focused too much on the fish-image instead of what was back of it. No mind, though. I can still see the river in the fall, running hard, small crests flecked with foam under moonlight.

If you've never done a systematic search for archival photos, well. It's a process. I took the training session twice, and still flopped around like a fish out of water doing this.

First you need to search our online database for photos - but only about 3-4% of the photos in the collection have been described individually (archivists say "at the item level"). So if you strike out there - or, in my case, found a couple of what you wanted, but wanted to see if there were more - you go to the paper finding aid for the collection.

Photos at LAC are organized by Accession. So we get a whole whack of photos from the Dept. of National Defence, e.g., and give it a number - in my case, the magic number was 1964-114, or, the 114th collection acquired in 1964.

For this fabled accession, there's a complicated finding aid, FA-22, a box full of ratty handwritten or typewritten or photocopied pages. I wanted the O-series - O for Ordinary, comprised of shots of the troops overseas doing, I suppose, ordinary things.

I suppose that most of what I found was actually reasonably ordinary. One or two photos of the xth battalion, buying oranges from French children. All the Non-Commissioned Officers from the nth battalion, a scarred field their backdrop: so many of them they are interchangeable in the camera's eye, pale skin and dark hats. A few men from another battalion are leaning back against the damp walls of the trenches, steely faced as a superior officer makes a brief visit. Few people mentioned by name.

In all of this, suddenly: Yvonne.

There wasn't another single page of the O-series that had this many ditto-marks. Yvonne, described as "the pretty railway gate keeper" the page before, was, I would say, hot shit for a war photographer at the front. As well as for a few of the other men from whatever unnamed battalions.

I could picture her - a thick rope of dark hair twisted and pinned at the neck. Swept off her face. High cheekbones in a pale oval face. Wide, dark eyes. Leaning on her crossing gate and staring with insouciance into the camera.

If I were interested in writing historical fiction, this would be a gold mine. What was Yvonne like? Was she really that pretty? How many men went to visit her in a day? Did she like the attention? What does a railway crossing gate keeper - pretty or no - do? Is pretty then the same as pretty now? Was she sad when the war was over and the men went home? Was she relieved to hear no more clumsy Canadian accents and choppy French? What was her family like? Did she live with her parents? Did the men compete for her attention, hoping for a few kind words, a bright smile in the midst of death, boredom and filth.

When I was blogging before, I was very very careful to not blog about the organization I was working for or even the cause we worked so hard on. Part of that was because I wasn't really interested in blogging about the topic, since I already spent all day thinking about it. Also, it's just stupid to write personal stuff about work on the internet, unless you want to spend all your time worrying about alienating your co-workers and/or getting fired.

Now though! HaHA! I am FREE! And I will be blogging about work all the time.

Though: nothing personal of course; and as far as your concerned, I have absolutely no thoughts about the grand machinations of my department. I'm still not stupid.

So, the big news, even if it is old by now. I started working as a Reference Librarian at Library and Archives Canada going on a year now. It was a very weird shift to go from being the webby-webby barely-librarian at a small non-profit to being the librarianest of librarians at the librariest of libraries.

The joy of this job is really in the collection itself. I spend my days answering questions, mostly about the published collection, but a little bit about our archival holdings as well. And boy howdy, is it ever an insanely amazing bunch of stuff we have. Depending on the question I've been asked, I could be looking at the correspondence of Stanley G. Grizzle, going through old train schedules, searching old government publications catalogues for a specific report, or photocopying articles on someone's famous Grandma.

The collecting I've been doing is amazing. Sentences, images. Words. I have no idea how all this stuff will come together. Yet. But stay tuned.

It's nice to think about the hows and the whys, and maybe that will get me there someday. Not fast enough. What do I do now to start writing again? Aside from exercising my word brain here.

There's a book I have been dipping into occasionally, and probably not as much as I should: The Creative Habit, by Twyla Tharp. Among her many recommendations: habit; collect.

Habit is almost everything, fuck. Why I'm in this position at all. Lots of things aren't that hard to do once you're doing them, but the starting feels as if it might kill you.

I'm a person who goes in cycles: I run for 2 years, then stop. I knit for 5 years, then stop. I lift weights for 18 months, then stop. I write for a decade, then dry up. Sometimes I start these things again (knitting), sometimes I don't (lifting weights), sometimes I really want to, but can't seem to make myself (writing).

Tharp suggests not thinking but doing. Your alarm goes off and you put your feet on the floor. You are already wet in the shower before your mind registers the indignity of being awake before 6 am. You sit and the keyboard and press your fingers fast before you realize you're scared of sounding like an ass, worse yet, a bad writer.

Frankly, that habit's not enough. Not for me. I got tired of re-hashing my daily life in blog. No real reason why, though I could come up with a half-dozen half-truths, I suppose, if I were pressed. I want something that is not my daily life to sink my teeth deep into. I want a project to plan and to push around, to push out when it's ready. I have some vague ideas, blurry outlines, but nothing that's coalescing.

What I will do until then is collect what my eye catches. Maybe all the bits will be too different to bring together, maybe they'll form too neat a pattern. Maybe I'll bring all my bits together and they'll make a pattern that no one else could have seen, but that rings true for people just the same.

There was a conversation I had with a roommate, oh so many homes ago, about creativity, innate talent, and hard work. It was a debate we had several times, and neither of us was ever able to bring the other onside.

He was a multi-talented kind of guy – great musician, good songwriter, fantastic artist. Walking by his room one day, I stopped to admire a portrait he was working on.

“Enh,” he said. “Anyone could do that. It’s all practice.”

I said, simply, “No.”

Not that he didn’t have a point – I could always see where he was coming from, and I also partially agree. When you see someone who’s really good at something, it’s highly unlikely that they just came like that. People who are really good at something have generally put a lot of effort into being that way. My roomie had gone to art school and had spent a lot of hours at the easel on his own because he loved it.

Next I asked him, “Why did you start?”

And he started, like most of us who get pretty good at something, because he enjoyed it, and because when he was finished doing what enjoyed, people saw something good in it and praised him. Which felt good, which made him want to do more, and so on. He had natural talent, and the relationship between that nascent talent, the innate joy of being creative and the societal reinforcement all lead him to put hours and hours of practice into becoming really really good.

Me, I couldn’t be an artist. Well, fine, maybe if I had three lifetimes of nothing else to do, sure, I could put in enough hours to train my eye to talk to my brain to talk to my hands a bit better. In this lifetime? Even if I had nothing else to do, artist is a long shot.

I could maybe have been a musician – I have some natural talent, and received a fair amount of praise when I was a kid. But the feeling I got when I played music was more often frustrated than satisfied.

But writing?

I have always loved words, as long as I can remember. The sounds of them separately and apart, the feeling they gave me of being somewhere else, even when I was tucked away in a corner at home or school. The prickle of them under my skin when they were particularly right.

It seemed, too, that I had a natural ear for the written word, if that makes sense. The words I put on the page sometimes sounded like they were supposed to when I thought them in my head. I was a good mimic – still am – and could make a fair facsimile of writing I liked, which garnered me praise from my peers and grown-ups alike.

And those things together, made me work hard. I played music when my mom made me. I wrote whenever I could, because I knew I could do it the best of all the things I could do, and there is pleasure in doing the thing you do best.

It's been a long time since I've written. Like, a long fucking time. And like, fucking anything outside of work. The last thing I handed in, I handed in to Bitch Magazine, on time and needing few edits. It was a total high, the email I got from the editor, saying how pleased she was with it. That on the tail of my story in Best Bondage Erotica should have left me feeling really good about what I'd been doing and where I was going. The high subsided, and quickly; I felt flat instead.

That probably bears closer scrutiny, but more obviously, my life was in complete turmoil. It's been quite a year and some.

Since this time last year, I got laid off, got another job, worked both jobs, welcomed This Charming Man into my house, and then we pretty promptly moved into bigger digs. I was freaked out, frankly, by just about all of it.

What I knew already, but learned well again, is that I do not function at a creative peak when the rest of my life is in upheaval. When I am worried about whether I will be able to afford my roof, I do not feel like writing sexy stories, or amusing blog posts, or interesting anything. My output becomes very quickly limited to list upon list - generally lost and re-written with a different pen, or in pencil or in the draft folder of another email account, or lodged and lost on the cloud - of how to cope with what I am trying to cope with.

And fair enough, eh? A person only has so much electricity to push through their circuits.

The problem, of course, is that when the anxiety circuits stopped needing so much energy, I discovered that my creative circuits had pretty much rusted out.

It's been stressing me out, but I don't really know what to do about it. So I figured this old blog, that once had me writing with frequency and pleasure, might be a good place to start.

Judith Halberstam is a name that looms large in my queer hagiography. The cover of Female Masculinity is as burned into my brain as those of Gender Trouble and Sexy Bodies and Sex Changes.

A tasty morsel drawn from my latest venus envy post.

It's been a long time since I blogged anywhere, eh? Well, my life has been nuts for, oh, the past 8 months, but particularly since early December, and particularly particularly since the end of January. It's been a whole lot of lotting Chez Butch.

Perhaps, when things calm down somewhat, perhaps in the next few weeks, I will fix myself a hot toddy and tell you a little about it.