there is no music in the immigration line, but there is a dancer inside you - fucking use it.*

Image of Tune Yards via Stereogum.

I don't normally write about music, mainly because I can't write about music, and don't care to pretend that I can. I usually can't identify the same song twice, can't recall the musical influences behind what I'm listening to, and normally can't even remember the names of any songs I love - even for the bands I love.

Which should in no way lead you to believe that I don't love music. I adore music, and adore my friends who are passionate enough about music to seek it out and share it with me.

Take it as a sign that for me to write about a band here - and to push me out of my comfort zone - that band must have really made an impact.

Last night found me at the blog launch for Inside the Frozen Mammoth, where I was treated to a show by Tune Yards.

It seems like it's been a very, very long time since I've been to a show that I enjoyed so completely.

I smiled, I danced, I wanted more. She's incredible, and if you get a chance to see her live, I get the feeling that this is where she really shines.

I'm not going to say anything beyond that, because well - I can't. But check it out. Download her album for whatever you wish to pay. Even if you hate it, it's worth the experience, trust me.

Now go and smile and be happy.


*butchered lyric by Tune Yards.

for Emma

Last night, at about 6:30 p.m., my Grandmother, Emma, passed away.

My Grandmother was the type of woman who would give you an almost suffocating bear hug the minute you walked through her door, and then immediately ask what you were drinking.

My Grandmother was also the type of woman who would buy her wedding dress via the Sears catalogue, wear it to her wedding and then return it the next day.

She used to tell me how when things were really bad during the depression, they would save the wrappers from clementine oranges and use them as toilet paper. I think she enjoyed telling me that story.

I was my Grandmother’s only Granddaughter, a point she reminded me of each time I saw her. The last time I saw her, her health had deteriorated and she was no longer the plump, boisterous woman I once knew her to be. Before I arrived that day, she had managed to lose her teeth, and I was sent on a ridiculous quest to find them. Despite her apparent embarrassment of being seen without her teeth (truth be told, I had only ever seen her once before without them), she was quick to laugh it off. My Grandmother laughed easy, loved hard, and spoke her mind.

My Grandmother was a Grandmother in every sense of the word – wherever she was, there were plates and plates of homemade food - cabbage rolls, perogies, buns, sausage, pickles, cakes, donuts and cream puffs. Under her roof, there were two constants: an abundance of food, and a constant game of Farmer’s Rummy. I’ve played it a few times, but only remember winning once, much to my Grandfather’s chagrin. That fistful of dimes was pure gold to me.

My Grandmother was endlessly giving, and showed her love for us with food. When she discovered my weakness for her cucumber pickles, she went out of her way to ensure I always had a well-stocked pantry. Her pickle jars have followed me to University, to Calgary, to New York, and to Montreal.

The parties at my Grandmother’s house would last long into the night, but I would always hear the floor creak beneath her early in the morning, as she drank coffee, smoked her morning cigarette and got breakfast ready for the crowd who still lay sleeping.

Her house was always full – full of friends, full of laughter, full of life, full of food, full of an endless amount of love.

My Grandfather and she built that house together, as well as the memories they shared beneath its high rafters. Although I’m uncertain if I will ever return to their home or to that sleepy town - still sleepy after all of those late-night parties - I know that somewhere where I can’t see her, her heart is full too, filled with memories and the best parts of all of us, still sleeping under her watch.

love

Above photo via Monkey About.

Two photography sites that I love for very different reasons:

Joe's NYC, found via an enchanted life

Monkey About, found via Jason.

photograph

My Mom, age 20.

Three people who I wish I had known for longer:

Fritha.
I met Fritha at a party a few weeks before moving from London. The friend of one of my roommates, it was explained to me that when said roommate broke up with her boyfriend, "the boyfriend got her heart, but she got Fritha". I loved her immediately. Fritha was charming, completely confident and unafraid of anything. She left with me the following Scottish saying: What's meant for you won't go by you. I've already decided that if I ever have a daughter, her middle name will be Fritha. Her first name will be Madeline.

The man and his family who kept me company while on the train to Pecs, Hungary.
I was incredibly lost (trying to chart a path between Zagreb and Pecs that didn't actually exist, I discovered later), and this man - who spoke a little English - stepped into my amazingly confused conversation with one of the yardsmen at a train station. He helped me find the right train, and then he and his family sat with me until the end of their journey ("we will sit with this girl - she speaks English" he had said to his daughter and grand-daughter). We talked about Hungary and Canada and all the spaces between, and he made me a list of places to visit. I never got through the list (not even close), but still have it. Without his help I would have spent the night in the middle of nowhere Hungary, completely alone and terrified. He - and the thousands out there like him - is one of the reasons that travelers travel.

Brenda Stratton.
Once upon a time I lived in Calgary, Alberta, and attended a textile printing and dyeing class taught by Brenda. It was an amazing experience and ultimately led to my current leap-of-faith into creative self-employment. Brenda would let me come into the studio on weekends and print with her, something I still hit myself for not taking enough advantage of. Brenda and I would talk - not all that much because I was very shy - but I still think of her as my mentor. When I can't remember what I need to do while printing something, I always find myself thinking "what would Brenda do"? She is an amazing soul, an amazing craftswoman, and someone who's company I often miss.

They're all still out there, living, laughing and loving.

And that makes me incredibly happy.