Somehow we ended up with kitten to call our own. She was going to be put down, on account of all the animal shelters in Thunder Bay being full. My heart grew three sizes that day, a la Mr. Grinch, and now we have have a wee feline to keep our feet warm at night. We have dubbed her Pierre Elliott Trudeau, and she is a sweet thing. She curls up on my lap while I work at the computer, and Andrew gets his kicks out of tormenting her with a blue thing tied to a stick. Somedays I like to build a fort out of the couch cushions, and she hides inside. We call it 24 Sussex. Other days she spends all her time sleeping in Andrew’s underwear drawer, much to his chagrin. And sometimes she chases shadows on the wall. I thought she might might be special for a while. But it turns out, she’s just a bit goofy. She is quite entertaining, to say the least, especially because she rarely lands on her feet. Now, I wouldn’t peg myself as a ‘cat person’ necessarily. And Trudeau’s presence really hasn’t changed our day to day wheelings and dealings, but I like having her around. She’s alright. The other night while Andrew and I were making dinner, we decided to add ‘Millennium Falcon’ to her name. We think it gives her a certain ‘je ne sais quoi’ of the sci-fi sort. Let’s face it, it was either gonna be Millennium Falcon or Enterprise… or Warbird…. or Battlestar Galactica. NERD ALERT.

In other news, the skiing in Thunder Bay is ruddy fantastic; definitely the saving grace of this no-horse two-bit town. Andrew and I hit up Mount Baldy (Andrew on skis, and me on snowblades), which has a fantastic view of Lake Superior. No injuries were incurred, and some delicious poutine was devoured. Apart from being led down a lone narrow run which nobody else used, losing all speed and falling straight down through 6 feet of snow while calling after Andrew who didn’t answer, and then having to roll my torso onto the slightly more packed down snow to release my constricted body, it was a great day.

Furthermore, we went for a hike yesterday down by Mount McKay. We climbed and climbed up a fairly unused pathway and discovered a fantastic view of the Sleeping Giant, and the desert-like ice of Mother Superior. We had to cut the hike short, though, and backtrack the way we came when the snow became too deep and every step landed us buried up to our waists. So it goes in Thunder Bay. Sometimes the snow is just too deep, and you have to go home.

The woman on the radio says “-28 degrees as if it were a winning bingo number and not the temperature to which I must commit myself shortly. Negative twenty-eight. Welcome to Thunder Bay, Ontario.

I am sitting on the cold tile floor of my new apartment; there are no chairs yet. This is the beginning of a new co-habitational chapter of my 26th year.

I left Toronto in a whirlwind of parties, presents, and perplexing pilgrimages. My birthday party was a spectacular success. In my heart of hearts I considered it my send-off to the north, and my official farewell to my life as a city. I miss the loverlies who remain in Toronto, and wish I could’ve brought them with me. Still, I will keep them warm in the igloo of my good thoughts.

And then there was my Polish Christmas in the Madawaska Valley. Spending the holidays with Andrew’s family was magical. We built a sweet fort, drank warm compote with rum by the fire, and walked in the soft snow. At the sight of the first star on Christmas Eve we opened presents, and ate cookies until we burst. It was a perfect holiday, made cheery by the warmth of the Cudowski family.

Back to Toronto for New Year’s and a final visit with the O’Meara clan left me tired and aching for a place to call my own. After being nomads for three weeks, Andrew and I bid adieu to the GTA and hopped a plane north. North of north.

Somewhat settled and with some time to think, I look northward to a vast expanse of possibility, however cold it may be.

I didn’t know what a city was until I saw New York. In honour of Bridget’s birthday, her man Andy and I plotted to deliver the best birthday present ever: MP in New York. Since Bird found herself a resident of that great city, she has been harassing me to visit. I always meant to go, but never had both the money and the time. Such is working life, I suppose. At any rate, an unbelievably inexpensive flight on LAN airlines (a Chilean company) was found and booked. Bridget had no idea. After meeting some random Irish guy at the airport bar, and after a few too many drinks thanks to the friendly leprechaun, I boarded the plan and just happened to run into some old university friends. We shared a cab into the city, and I met Andy at Juilliard. He managed to get Bridget to stop in for a visit. They chatted in the lobby, and then, from the double doors behind them, I burst forth in Canadian glory! It was absolutely brilliant. Bird took one look at me and broke down crying. It has henceforth been dubbed our ‘Oprah moment’. Definitely one of MY favourite things. And the weekend took off from there. After far too many bowls of guacamole, Grand Central Station, Soho, subways, and Kate Spade, I have finally been introduced to one fantastically bustling city. What’s more, is that I really got to see Bridget in her element. She has found her ‘bee’ people, which is an analogy I take from the Blind Melon video for No Rain. The little girl in the bee costume finally finds that field full of bee people, and they dance their hearts out. Bridget’s friends are beautifully like-minded, and have just as much heart as my little Bird which is a rare thing to find. I must admit, that I don’t think New York is the city for me, but I’d definitely like to stop by more often than not. I will be back in New York, and it will once again rock my world.

I like Autumn. I like it because it is a segue; somewhere between was and will. It was warm and it will be cold, but what is it now? Autumn isn’t now. It’s nowhere, and I haven’t been present during this season that I love so much. I’ve been contemplating too much, and now when I descend the steps of my ivy-covered building, the leaves are gone. I don’t know where I’ve been since they gave up their green and became crunchy cobblestones that stick to the cuffs of my pants. Transition is a strange thing when it happens so slowly. Change seems to be crawling quite slowly, almost impossible to witness. Up until now, I thought that I could just bide my time while I wait to get to what is next, but that seems silly and idle and something that I’ve already been doing for far too long. I am looking forward to what will happen next, whatever it may be, it just seems so far away. I’m left in the wake of something fulfilling, waxing elegiac for something that I haven’t even gained to have lost. Odd. I’m MP. I am five feet and eight and a half inches tall and fancy myself artistic. I like picture frames and the poetry of Emily Brontë. I have a purple scarf that I like to wear around my neck and I never spit in public. I have blue eyes, and I can pout spectacularly. I like daisies and paper lanterns. I took ballet lessons for 15 years, and still believe that I can dance. I want to be a rockstar, but for now am content to sing to the shower tiles. I am misunderstood. I aspire to happiness, and haven’t yet decided on a formidable career, although I’m testing the waters. I wear an amber ring on my finger, but only in the winter, and painted my apartment green. I struggle. I pierced my nose as a protest against symmetry when I was a teenager, and will probably many years from now go blind due to the macular degeneration that runs in my family. If I do go blind, I will become a sculptor; but for now and until old age creeps up on me, my eyes are just fine. I have two tattoos that I used to pretend were beautiful birthmarks that I should have been born with, but now I mostly forget that they are there. I have inspiration. I like to play the Moonlight Sonata on the piano when I am angry, and adore the artwork of Carson Ellis. I am unlucky. Pathetic Fallacy always seems to be in accordance with my life, and my favourite season is Indian Summer, even though it is politically incorrect. I like to stretch. I had my first kiss when I was fourteen, and know how to play the clarinet. I have an infectious laugh and keep dried flowers in a vase by my window. I am sensitive and analytical, and I listen to Hayden. I fear loss. I open my eyes underwater and like to paint my toe nails pink. I like to stay up late and wake up early, and my favourite CBC host is Barbara Budd. I like to wear a small ragdoll pinned to my sweater, and listen to acoustic guitars. I want to be remembered. I like to take pictures of chairs people keep in alleys, and like to look at people’s shoes on the subway. I avoid confrontation. I like to pretend that love songs are written about me, and I never put milk on my cereal. I grew up in Acton and I like to write stories. They are not published. I can’t define myself in a paragraph, and I believe that there are things about me that cannot be consigned to words, but nevertheless, I want you to know me. Happy Autumn.

In 1859 a small group of families arrived in the beautiful Madawaska Valley. Hailing from a region of Poland known as ‘Kaszuby’, they found this small pocket of Canadian wildnerness as their home. At the north end of Lake Kamaniskeg, at the town of Barry’s Bay, they lay claim to the land and rooted their culture in the rocky earth. The surrounding area was primarily Irish in its settlement, and to this day both cultures are prominent between the townships of Wilno and Barry’s Bay. Years later, as fate would have it, two cottagers of the area would meet. A Polish lad named Andrzej would win the heart of a young Irish lass named Mary Patricia, and the duo would enjoy the cool waters of the Madawaska Valley together, united in the cultural and historical diversity of the land. The young Irish lass would then paint a bench in traditional Kashub tradition to try and win over the family of the Polish lad. It was a lovely bench of love.

People in transition are all around. Back to School Sale signs have started to pop up in store windows. The cold wind of seasonal change is about to begin blowing an ominous breeze of scheduled existence and early sunsets. And I’m sure the odd leaf will soon fall to the ground, brining the end of summer with it. People will leave, people will return, and I will remain with my bad haircut. The perpetual Sunday that is August is here, and still I feel as though my summer hasn’t really started. Odd.

At any rate, the end has begun and Andrew’s apartment over on Windermere is now empty of us. Last week we packed up all of his earthly possessions and somehow managed to fit most of them into the little blue car. With our seats pushed up as forward as they could go, we set out on a very long and very cramped journey to Barry’s Bay. After 20 minutes of unloading what took as nearly 12 hours to pack, we dropped in at the Trout Lake cottage to see my family and some summer friends of yore. After a couple beers, a couple burgers, and a game of ‘Last Man Standing’ on the raft with the Nagy kids, we returned to the cottage on Lake Wadsworth, and swiftly set out on an Eastern Ontario adventure to Tyler’s cottage down on Big Rideau Lake.

A small congregation of Andrew’s housemates from Queen’s came together at Tyler’s island abode. Beer, boats, and belly-aches were made our pleasures at the gracious hands of our hosts. I don’t know if I’ve ever been to a finer cottage. Love and comfort oozed from every wonderfully uneven floorboard… even in the outhouse. You could just feel the years of childhood joy that several generations of Tyler’s family have experienced there. After a kayaking excursion, a barefoot trail hike, some sailing, and a whole lotta risk, we had to leave the lovely oasis and head home like the rest of the long-weekend adventurers. A car full of Queen’s alumni traversed the 401, when we realized that during the 4 years each of us had going back and forth in between Kingston and Toronto, none of us had ever stopped in at the Big Apple. As we saw that red orb grow in front of us on the horizon we figured ‘why not?’ We stopped, we ate pie, and we climbed the steps inside the Big Apple that let us look out upon the bad traffic we would soon face. It was all actually incredibly anticlimactic. In the end, we made it back to Toronto with overly full stomachs.

In Toronto I remain, with a new bad haircut and trying to lose the 6 pounds I gained over the long weekend. Humbug. Now Andrew and I are trying to find ways to escape the city again… which is made more difficult with work pending and schedules undefined. Feels like Fall already.

I love you because you are beautiful and smart and in control of your life and finances your business acumen astonishes me and makes me want to arrange your flowers.

www.rogannyc.com

Dredger had a brilliant Thursday idea. The idea involved vacating Toronto in favour of trees, towels, and twang. We packed up our hats and headed to Orillia for the Mariposa Folk Festival on the shores of Lake Couchiching. We went for Joel Plaskett, and hung around for Peter Elkas, Hayden, Cuff the Duke, and some other folkies. It was definitely one of those days that ends with such satisfying and mellow happiness that only the tenacious strum of acoustic guitars can generate. The drawl of the steel strings peeking through a cover of Dylan’s “Ride Me High” had me hooked. Oh lord, we’re gonna fly down in the easy chair. Twang really is a fine spice that I have a ferocious appetite for. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a fan of Country music… with their ‘gas tanks full of dreams’ and ‘man, I feel like a woman’ bullshit. But I do like my twang. I like it a lot. I like it particularly when it accompanies the likes of hipsters like Joel Plaskett. Frankly, the hipsters have embraced the twang and I am right on that bandwagon with them, bumbling along this crazy indie rock hayride. Anyway, Andrew and I lay in grass and listened to acoustic guitars in the sun. After a sufficient amount of sun exposure we opted for the beer tent. During a set with Peter Elkas and Joel Plaskett I yelled out “I Love Clayton Park!” Afterwards, some guy approached Andrew and I and asked “Are you from Halifax?” Our answer: “No. We’re just hip.” Ha cha. And then it was back to Toronto, and back to humidity until another weekend delivers us to the forest.

Meara Olive McDonald was born at 3:08am on June 12th, 2008. She weighs 7lbs 10oz and is a precious little girl. I especially like her when she is cozy and all swaddled up in blankets; she looks like a wonderful little jellybean. In fact, I think that is what I will call her. Little Jellybean. I’m a very proud aunt and sister. Frankly, I don’t know how Katie did it… gross, man. But the end product is more amazing than words can describe. The O’Meara clan is certainly growing. I met my parents at the hospital this morning, to meet little Meara. My Dad brought with him an old silver coin to fulfill the old Irish custom of having silver cross the palm of a newborn for good luck and a blessing of fortune. It was the same coin that crossed the palms of myself, my brother, my sister, and my nephew when we were all born. Today is a very happy day, and I’m so happy that Meara is finally here. She’s a fine lass.

So Toronto is in the midst of a wee heat wave. We’re melting, and frankly, I like it… especially since the one and only Andrew of my dreams installed my air conditioner yesterday. I’m sitting in icicles at the end of this wonderfully busy weekend. Freaky Friday involved a day of photo blogging with Conor, followed up with some paths of no good and an over-cooked burger. Saturday brought the beach… or at least brought us to the beach. The east end of Toronto sometimes seems very alien to me, a west-end sort of girl. Andrew and I shook off our preconceptions regarding the elusive east, and hit up the area known as The Beaches. It was fucking hot, and every second of frisbee-throwing fun felt like walking on hot coals. To ease the scorching heat, we dipped our toes in icy Lake Ontario. The sand was so hot, and the water was SO cold. Very bizarre, but that’s Toronto for you. This heat wave makes us all want to charge our nearest body of water, ripping off clothing as we approach the coast… but to our dismay, it’s far too cold to wade in farther than ankle-deep. We gave up on risking the thermal regulation of our feet, and read aloud while resting on a towel and taking in the beach volleyball tournament. I’ve started reading ‘Love in the Time of Cholera’ by Gabriel Garcia Marquez, even though it’s been bastardized by the stupid Opera Book Club sticker of doom. The artistry of language is beautiful, and I was happy to read such a romance on the beach in the sun.
“He recognized her despite the uproar, through his tears of unrepeatable sorrow at dying without her, and he looked at her for the last and final time with eyes more luminous, more grief-stricken, more graceful than she had ever seen them in half a century of shared life, and he managed to say with his last breath: ‘Only God knows how much I loved you.’”
Whoa.

A little rock goes a long way. I’m going to be feeling the frenzied guitars of Eric’s Trip for at least a week. Even though they technically broke up in 1996, Eric’s Trip still delivers the frenetic angst and tender disquiet of the early to mid 90s in a most excellent way… and it still seems relevant, even to this post gen Xer, who was still only twelve years old when they disbanded. And even though their guitarist and drummer look like someone’s crazy grandparents, they fucking rocked their hearts out. Julie Doiron was adorable as usual, and has inspired me to only ever dance with my hair. In the midst of the crowd of 30-somethings, who wanted to mosh but couldn’t bring themselves to actually do it, I turned to Andrew and ever so seriously said “We should start an Eric’s Trip cover band”. Follow me back down.

The first thing we did when we got to the cottage was have a campfire. “That’s a lot of wood,” said Andrew. “That what she said,” remarked Andy. And thus began one of the finest weekends I’ve spent.

Bridget, her American boyfriend Andy, their friend Chris (or ‘Sales’ as many call him), Andrew and I packed up the family car and hightailed it north. We had a jeep full of food, hearts full of timbit love, and a whole lotta true-north-strong-and-free to introduce to the Americans.

I hadn’t seen Bridget in far too long, and when the two of us get together, awesomeness always ensues. We indulged in the things we do when we’re in each other’s company, like cheesy harmonies and songs of our youth, as well as our schtick, which really only consists of me bullying Bridget and her enabling it. Ha! I was also excited to finally meet her man, who I had only every argued with over the phone. Arguing in person is much more satisfying, especially when neither side will stop until they win. Stalemate every time. By the end of the weekend, Andy and I were not allowed to discuss movies… specifically Zombie movies. But I can tell you this: if I ever have the unfortunate fate to become a zombie (albeit a super-strength zombie, hopefully with the power to levitate), I’m heading straight to New York City to bite Andy. I don’t think there could be a bette zombie-comrade than that Andy-man.

If you ask my fellow cottagers what the best part of the weekend was, they might mention sparklers, or hiking, or sandwiches, or MSG, or Andrew’s fireside guitar-playing, or maybe even swimming i frigidly cold water. But if you ask me, the high point of the weekend happened on the second night’s campfire. After “That’s what she said” had become the official motto of this motley crew, Andrew drunkenly subverted it after some sort of sexually charged comment and said “She said that.” Laughter erupted and really didn’t die down until 40km from Toronto on Sunday evening. Now THAT is a weekend.

May 2-4 Weekend is just an incredible concept. It’s generally understood as the weekend that all residents of southern Ontario head north to open up the cottage, which generally entails a bit of manual labour paired with a lot of many beers. So Andrew and I packed up the car and drove up to Barry’s Bay where, as it conveniently happens, both of our families have their cottages. The thing about May 2-4, though, is that we all generally delude ourselves into thinking that the weather will actually be warm and that summer has actually begun. This is never the case. Never. Yet, we still try to don shorts and tanks and all things skin-revealing, and end up freezing our forested asses off. You probably wouldn’t believe me if I told you that it actually snowed this morning… but it did. I woke up to Christmas, threw on my Birkenstocks, and braved the “summer” weather I believed in. After all, if May 2-4 has taught us anything, it’s that summer is really only a state of mind anyway.

The weather didn’t start off so wintery. We actually enjoyed a lovely afternoon of reading The Economist and napping in the sun, followed by a canoe excursion and kicking it with a Polish Priest. We paddled over to the outdoor church called ‘Kaszuby’, and explored a bit. We figured it wasn’t trespassing since we’re both technically baptized. And and and I finally got to test out my new fishing rod (it’s a quantum) and I totally morphed into a wickedawesome female version of Bob Izumi. I caught a pike, and some bass. Being MP, however, my immediate reaction to a good hook-set it “Andrew! I don’t wanna touch the fish!!!!!”. It is true. Despite my incredibly impressive and mad fishing skillz, I do not like the part that involves rescuing the fish from death by lip-ring. I support piercings, but I do no support gross fish skin. I am far too Glamorous for that… flossy flossy.

The wonderful Andrew took me on a hike to an old abandoned farm from 1912. It was wonderfully decrepit and exceptionally ramshackle. The farm was abandoned since the land is far too rocky to actually successfully grow any sort of bumper crop. The homestead was so eerie. Newspaper and straw poured out of the old walls, having insulated the inhabitants, once upon a time. And you could see where they kept the animals, and lived their simple northern lives. I wonder what happened to them. A small grotto with a statue of Mary was placed at the edge of a clearing, encased within a portion of the old building. It was serene, and lush, and I was happy to explore.

Saturday was a big day in Barry’s Bay. It was the annual Bay Day, which is really just a glorified street party with old cars and even older dudes playing the oldest Polish waltzes on fiddles, with washboard strumming backup. Saturday was particularly cold, and rather rainy, but The Bay gave’r and Andrew bought new hipster sunglasses. Not bad, if you ask me.

The ride home was somewhat morose, since the weather was still shitty and we had to return to city lives and city problems. Nevertheless, we plugged in some wonderful Canadian indie tunes, and rocked our way back to Toronto going 65km per album.

It happened. Somehow. I met Conor at Sushi on Bloor for lunch. After a tasty spicy tuna crunchy roll my comrade and I wandered down to Kensington Market in our quest to ‘enjoy the weather’. Such was our mission, as we opted exclusively for the sunny side of the street. Now, if you’ve been to little borough known as Kensington on a particularly warm day you’ll understand the sensory eruption that takes place. The smells that waft down the narrow hipster streets vary between sandalwood, weed, and the odd fishy-litter-rotten smell that snakes through Toronto every now and then. At any rate, we found ourselves in Courage My Love (one of my favourite shops) where Conor tried his hand at being a Mexican wrestler, and I bought buttons for everyone. Four for five bucks. Not bad. After our little consumer adventure, we decided that since we were in Kensington, we might as well stop in at the Hot Box Cafe on such a lovely Tuesday afternoon. After some Italian Sodas and other such things we took it upon ourselves to walk all the way back to my place. What better way to enjoy the day without having to pay for anything? Brilliant.

This is when we broke the space-time continuum sans flux-capacitor. As we strolled through Little Italy we saw ahead of us a woman in a bright blue helmet. She was standing in the middle of the sidewalk while two other women put things into her backpack. The scene reminded me of kindergarten kids getting notes to their parents about PTA meetings stuffed into their schoolbags. We passed the tableau, commenting on the helmet girl, and laughing at whatever. And then, not five minutes later, what do we see ahead of us? Blue Helmet Girl and her compatriots. They did not pass us. They did not get into some sort of earthly vehicle and speed beyond us. We don’t know how the fuck it happened, but it blew our minds. It will forever go down in history as ‘That Time We Travelled Through Time’.

After the encounter with the theory of special relativity, we wound up with a couple pints in hand at Whelan’s. This seemed like the natural thing to do after a brush with a glitch in the matrix. Nerd alert.

The thing I like best about High Park in the early evening is the incredible amount of older gentlemen gently jogging in silly looking puffy short shorts. They jaunt around the forested expanse catching the wind in their bloomers with their sinewy legs fighting the pain in their joints. With withered faces towards the sun, they jog with such conviction in their trouser-wear, I can’t help but wonder “Why such short shorts?” An impromptu after-work picnic with Andrew rendered me time to contemplate these old men and their shorts. I asked Andrew what he thought of these skimpy trousers and with honest gusto he replied, “They’re really comfortable. I’d wear them all the time if I could.” Hot.

After a little vino with some baguette, tomato, and brie, Andrew and I tossed a frisbee around and walked through the zen maze, dreaming of the summer soon to come. I don’t think there could be a better spent evening on this, the cusp of summer. Summer and love… could a girl ask for anything more?

 That was a kick-ass weekend. After working on a shoot all day Saturday, I met up with Andrew and my pregnant sister for an early Colin Meloy show at the Phoenix. I can honestly say that it was one of the best concerts I’ve been to in quite a long time… since Coachella in 2004, even. The weather was fantastic, for one, so absolutely everyone was in wonderfully warm spirits (even though this sudden onset of ’summer’ is rather suspicious, and makes me realize that Canada only has two season: Winter and July). Anyway, Colin played the one song I wanted to hear which was his cover of Morrissey’s ‘Every Day is Like Sunday’. Trudging slowly over wet sand… 

I never run into people I know in Toronto. Those random meetings that I always witness on the subway between strangers long divided are rarely, if ever, part of my city experience. So you can imagine my surprise when, standing around between Laura Gibson’s and Colin Meloy’s sets, I see a familiar face in the distance. “I think that’s Heather. We bonded over River Phoenix in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade onetime at summer camp when we were 14. We laughed for hours.” After a few minutes of trying to determine whether or not this truly was my 14 year old friend, I slowly sidled over to where she was chatting with her friends, with brilliantly large gesticulation. It was Heather. We shared brief updates, reminisced for a moment, and then continued on with current lives. I find it satisfying that it’s possible to know someone even when you don’t know someone anymore. 

Later on that evening I was outside getting some air and was approached by a random hipster. Suddenly I hear the words, “Did you go to BR?” Holy shit, I thought.  High school. After a brief shudder I admitted that yes, indeed, I had gone to BR. So did she, this random hipster. Not so random anymore. It turns out that we were in the same class, but never really actually knew each other. I felt a slight pang of embarrassment when I didn’t remember her name, but still and again, satisfying that such pleasantry can abound from people my current self doesn’t even know anymore.