The WordPress.com stats helper monkeys prepared a 2011 annual report for this blog.
Here’s an excerpt:
A San Francisco cable car holds 60 people. This blog was viewed about 2,800 times in 2011. If it were a cable car, it would take about 47 trips to carry that many people.
I moved my blog to my website address. www.loripaul.com. Same blog but I have better control.
Yes you, dear reader, are invited to the 5th Annual Ryder Lake Flea Market next Saturday, August 20th at the Ryder Lake Hall, located in the heart of the magical mystical rain forest that is beautiful Ryder Lake. Arrive at 10am for the freshest pick of the day then stay for all the last gasp bargains at roughly 2ish…we wrap it all up by 3pm. I’m setting up a display of vintage linens, clothing and one-of-a-kind items, along with a few collars and cuffs I’ve ‘upcycled’ for your consideration so I hope my little booth will be interesting at least and inspiring at best. I’d like to hear what you think about both the items I’m making and the things I am selling so don’t be shy! Secretly, I’m on site to spread the message of the four R’s…reduce, re-use, recycle and refuse (to use) along with the encouragement to be creative and enjoy the process.
My August garden
Is blooming hydrangea and the last
Of the hostas also offer up delicate
Mauve blossoms amid the white phlox,
Spent but for the scent still drifting
On the morning breeze.
House sparrows bicker over birdseed
And sing out from the silent beds
That were growing just last month
When our summer perennials gave
Their best effort to save the world
And distract us from the discomforts of
Our own inevitable autumn.
Our cat Bill cares not one whit for flowers
(Though she enjoys the birds they attract)
She walks in dappled sunlight toward me
Up the garden path, sparkling emerald dew
Beneath her tiny black paw pads.
She smiles her zen smile
Full of memories of birds gone by.
I survey the sweet greens of summer
That fade into the cool of coming days
I’m grateful for the gift
Of her quiet companionship.
Perfect peace permeates
Every lupin, leaf and stem
And for once, I notice.
Rick and I drove down to Seattle yesterday to see the Seattle Opera production of “Porgy and Bess” and I have to say, I love the Emerald City! I lived in Vancouver for many years, in the West End, on the West Side and on the Out Skirts (indulge me) in both North Burnaby and Coquitlam so I know the charms of big city life but Seattle is something else.
The downtown, with it’s skyscraper skyline, is surrounded by the blue waters of Puget Sound and by old neighbourhoods, most with smaller but nicely kept character homes that feature period architecture and mature gardens. These ‘hoods also house funky one-of-a-kind shops and restaurants of every conceivable ethnicity, each more delicious than the last. Seattle has small town vibe with big city amenities that make it irresistible to a quirkfest such as myself. I spent a number of memorable weekends in Seattle years ago when the border was a breeze and I was a single girl with all the time in the world to explore places like Pioneer Square, Pike Place Market, Bumpershoot and Tower Records, all hyped up on Starbucks Americanos. As a guest in the home of my dear friend Caryn May, who had a gorgeous cottage-style home in North Gate, I was toured around to the hippest spaces and fed foods from the freshest places. We engaged in the best kinds of conversation en route to our next destination, rollin’ down the I-5 with the windows down and Robert Cray blaring. It was bliss.
I have tremendous nostalgia for my twenties as I spent them enjoying art and live music wherever I traveled. Vancouver’s scene was thriving back then thanks to venues on every block offering music 6 nights a week and, of course those were the ’80′s so there was also an unwise amount of drug use chalked up to ‘recreation’ that fueled us. By my mid-thirties, I settled down to accept a full time day gig at the Arts Club Theatre Company and that too is a 6 year period of my life that I wouldn’t trade for all the tea in China. This is when I came to love artists and myself, by proxy. I admired actors in particular but also the in-house production and the crew, who are some of the most interesting people I’ve ever met. Watching world-class theatre every night, having a private office window that looked out on swanky Granville Street at 12th and working with these creative people was an unbelievable privilege, in hindsight, and quite an education. It impressed upon me the nobility of a life in the arts, of doing brave work for aesthetic reasons, often at great personal expense yet with a grateful heart and a willing spirit. Ironically, this exposure to artistic theatrical process inspired me to risk my own security and I gave up that very lucrative position so that I could devote my time and energy to songwriting, a decision that, let’s face it, made no sense on paper nor anywhere else but in my soul. It’s all worked out, as I write this, as things so often do, but those changes were a trial by fire at the time, to say the least.
I was thinking of these things as I watched the cast of Porgy & Bess sing their hearts out last night and again, I felt proud to belong to the same tribe as those fine performers, though my contribution may pale in comparison. To be creative in everything I do, to see this life in the poetic light of metaphor, to actualize my self by bringing something beautiful into this world…this is what I aspire to do.
Love and thanks to my dear friend Patricia Todd, who invited us to the opera as her guests in honour of her 78th birthday today! Pat’s two great loves have always been her dear husband Norman and the opera. It’s been a pleasure to learn about this great art form from a passionate and lifelong devotee.
I doubt there is anything I despise more than painting crappy old kitchen cupboards. I have painted more than my fair share of crappy old cupboards and I am weary to the bone of their imperfections, their refusal to accept a 47th coat of paint, their insistence on showing every brush stroke like primitive stucco housing artifacts…a fly’s wing, a bristle hair from some previous brush long gone. There are drips at every corner preserved for all time with 20+ coats of impervious latex protection. Typical. Yes, I should have sanded them down before beginning and I would have, were it not for my arms already falling off in numb response to reaching up, over and over, to paint the loathsome shelves. So now I am waiting until tomorrow to add yet another layer to the 3 I’ve applied so far. I type this with a frozen shoulder, fingers cramped, awash in a sea of self-pity wherein I hope to drown to avoid more frickin’ painting… but aside from that, I’m having a fabulous time and life couldn’t be any better.
I’m preparing my vintage linens for sale at an upcoming flea market to be held in the Ryder Lake Hall August 20th so mark your calendars as this is a fabulous event and you’ll enjoy sorting through the variety of gently used items for sale as well as sampling the home-made baked goods, if my experience is anything to go by. I’d love to see you there.
Here’s a gorgeous vintage quilt that is my current desk top image. What an inspiring piece of work, the detail is incredible!
Bird Of Paradise bride's coverlet 1858 Poughkeepsie N.Y.
Is greening my garden
growing my lawn
watering weeds
mosquitos live on
soaking the blossoms
puddling the mud
dirtying dogs…
this summer’s a dud!
This poem won’t make sense
To anyone but us
Only we were there
When you taped your tits into position
To work that green velvet dress
On new years’s eve...first to
Monk McQueens, then the Backstage Lounge
You winding up back in your little apartment
In False Creek where some fine young thing
Was helping you out of that dress...
And you suddenly remembered!
But I’m getting ahead of myself...
You must have known how much I loved you
When, upon arrival at SeaTac
You closed the car door with my keys inside
And I didn’t kill you on the spot
But rather paid the man in the tow truck
To pop the locks and we were on our way
To some Seattle hotel then home to Coquitlam.
You arrived in your Dad’s brown suede jacket
A hundred years old at least
Pockets full of his memories of Vancouver
Back in the day when he was single
And traveling the world, just like you
His spirit of adventure inherited it seems.
We packed you into a car with our grandparents
And me and my Mom (your Mom’s only sister)
For a road trip damn near across Canada.
You, jonesing for a smoke, a Tim Horton’s
Double double clutched in your sweaty palms,
You looked over at me in the back seat
And the expression on your face, said it all
"How the f*** did I get here?”
We arrived in Calgary, then drove on to Winnipeg
Where we dragged Maureen out to a night club
So we could check out the local talent
And you could smoke your ass off
Before arriving back at Lorne & Lorraine’s
Where we slept the drunken sleep of youth
JD & coke emanating from every pore.
We woke with voices hoarse from talking above
The blaring juke box in that neon prairie bar.
When we settled in back on the west coast
You were dressing displays at Sears
Navigating your new world with ease.
I can still see you in your first winter coat
(the wool equivalent of a buffalo hide)
You were prepared to spend any amount
So you could wait for the bus on Lougheed
Without freezing completely.
Damn thing weighed almost as much as you
But it did the trick.
Alan loved you right from the beginning too.
You, always up for a cocktail
Always ready for a dance
The queen of carousing.
Fancy you getting your driver's license
On the very first try
Wrong side of the road
Wrong side of the car.
Free from the bus schedule
You came into your own
And we all knew then
That coming to Canada
Was a good thing, a great thing
The right thing for you, to move on
Even though you felt responsible
For Kym’s well-being and missed
The rest of your family.
We needed you more
And you knew that somehow.
You experienced the insanity
Of the Robson street riots
When disappointed hockey fans
Mixed with hooligans and beer and
All hell broke loose, making
Headlines around the world.
You rode the back of Scott’s bike
Down to Seattle for a concert,
If memory serves, was it Pink Floyd?
It was more of a trial than a joyride
But you weathered it with good grace
And it became one of your best stories.
Christmas at Hummingbird Hill
You were the shining light that day
Grandma & Grandpa both delighted
To have more family at the table
To see you happy in this life.
Finally, a joyful, spirited grandchild
To buoy the moody, neurotic one
They’d been worrying about for years.
Mom too, was pleased to have you here
And to see you learn to love our country
Almost as much as your own.
Of course there are many more memories,
Maui, Whistler, Victoria with Mom, and later
When you returned with your husband,
Campbell River opened up before us
The water blue forever in all directions
The sky as wide as the world.
You and Paul, happy together
Me, relieved knowing you found the one
Who would bring out your best
And father your two little beauties,
Soon to be three! It’s amazing to me...
How good this life can be.
Here’s where I would say
I love a happy ending
But your life is still blooming
And your third child will soon arrive
Bringing yet another new beginning,
A new light for the world.
Your life is everything
You always said you wanted
And my heart is full to bursting
With my love for you
And my conviction
That you and I will always have
A special bond beyond words.
I sit at my kitchen table and
Recall the bygone days
Like favorite movies in my mind
How we worked and played
And danced and dreamed of how
Our lives would play out...
Somehow it’s all worked out
And we are still a witness
To each other’s joy.
You in your corner of the world
And me in mine.
I send you
love love love as you reach 40,
Today and always.
Heather's daughter Violet, named after my Mom
Here it is friends…I’m not really one for too much change but I thought maybe you, dear constant reader, might enjoy a little more colour when you visit me here at Spiderlodge. The CD release party was a great success as we played with friends for a warm audience and raised just under $1300.00 for the Chilliwack SPCA in the process, thanks to our volunteers Marti McCarvill, Lisa Usher and Chelsea Weisse. Thank you ladies! Special thanks go out to the lovely Jacquie Simpson who donated the venue, the flowers and arranged a beautiful spread of cheeses, crackers and fresh fruit for our guests. We enjoyed playing songs from The Secret Language of Birds and may have some video of the event sometime soon. Thanks to all of you who have supported us in getting the album out to the public. We appreciate all your efforts on our behalf.
It’s stressful planning and producing events. Promoting the concert and selling tickets along with the daily rehearsals puts you in a hyper state where you’re myopic in your vision, unable to see the bigger picture. It’s extraordinarily stressful when, on top of the ongoing preparations, you witness a crime in progress and fail to recognize it as such until it’s too late to do anything about it. Our neighbours were robbed yesterday by three young white men, boys probably, driving new cars. They parked one of their vehicles in front of our house and I saw the three of them behind their car talking animatedly but thought nothing of it as people often stop out front to use their phones. Moments later, one of the young men, wearing a helmet, wheeled a dirt bike past so again, I assume he ran out of gas, naive as I apparently can be. It was only after our neighbour told us their garage was hit that we connected the dots. In hindsight, we should have gone out to interrupt them but it never dawned on us that anyone would be so bold as to steal in plain sight, in broad daylight, with us at home. Five grand worth of tools and that dirt bike are likely now available on Craigslist, thanks to our failure to get a clue and it’s taken a toll on us, poking yet another hole in our illusion of safety in this world.
I’ve always thought of thieves as down and out, druggies who are desperate for cash and reckless as a result. We’ve been robbed in the past and lost goods that were uninsured, some irreplaceable, but seeing young, white men, clean cut and in nice (stolen?) cars, no doubt responsible for the theft, has unnerved me in a big way. It wakes you up to your assumptions and I suppose we’re lucky to have this reality check so that we can better protect our own home. Both my husband and I are natural born worriers and we try to keep a balance in letting go of the worst-case-scenario type of thoughts we easily gravitate toward every day. When something actually goes wrong, it makes you feel like you let down your guard (usually where people are concerned) and now the appropriate response is to redouble your efforts, focus on all the things that can possibly go wrong in a vain effort to be prepared. It’s all a waste of time and energy and we know that yet we are once again pulled back into believing that the world is a dangerous place, one we cannot navigate without extreme caution and blanket skepticism covering every person in every situation. It’s a terrible way to go about life and so we strive to give these matters only the weight they deserve and to fill our thoughts with the countless number of things that go right everyday, all the people out there trying to change this world for the better. This is yet another test on how to balance our own personal abundance with the lack that is in evidence all around us.
How is it that some of us are so fortunate as to have our health, our families, our friends, our pets, our homes, our jobs, while so many people on the planet don’t even have clean drinking water? These thieves were not starving but they are bereft of hope for themselves given their modus operandi. This heartbreaking discrepancy between the haves and the have-nots is at the root of the misery of the human condition and it seems to me to be a great unchangeable truth…life is not fair. No news there but what about the added declaration that it never has been and never will be fair no matter what humans aspire to? Death is the ultimate unfairness and it takes us all indiscriminately. The length and quality of our lives is up to us, we play the hand we’re dealt and we share what we are able to, depending on whether we cling to the illusion of security or trust some invisible universal force that promises it will all work out one day (when we’re dead, I expect). This is why so many people need God or at least a belief in some higher power at the helm. The random chaos of our modern world and the endless examples of man’s inhumanity to man and other living creatures is otherwise, simply too much to bear. I’m of the belief these days that God is a prayer we need to be able to say to save our sanity. God is a poem that comforts us. Seems to me, we need to believe in something greater or we despair entirely. God is man’s ultimate creation, born not of a virgin but out of our desperate necessity.
