Archive for December 2011

I May Be Sticking My Foot In My Mouth, But Thank God It’s Not Your Foot In There

December 30, 2011

Al Gore does not have the monopoly on inconvenient truths.
I have one. And when it comes to *my* inconvenient truth, Al Gore is as guilty as anyone.
Prob’ly.

The fact of the matter is, other people’s feet are weird.

Throughout this holiday season, I’ve been privileged to attend a few dance recitals in my hometown. These have been in connection with a couple of different dance troupes, involving a couple dozen or so dancers, many of whom have been dancing barefoot. It has reminded me of something that I normally only need to process in summer, when sandals abound and the genetic dissimilarity is everywhere in evidence, and a thought of socks is but a pleasant emotion recalled in agitation–other people’s feet look different and weird.

It should go without saying, that while my feet are full of technical imperfections (after years of wearing heels on even the shortest run out for a newspaper, I’m far from foot model material) they are still–to me–the ur-feet.

There is no foot but mine, and yours are weird.

And I would hasten to add that I have no problem with other people having different faces, or chins, or elbows, or necks, or knees (sometimes those are a little weird), or asses or hips. That’s fine. You’re beautiful; celebrate it. Just….keep your shoes on.

Can you imagine being a podiatrist?? It would be other people’s feet all the time. A degree in Other’s People’s Feet. I think even if I were to go into general medicine I would spend uncommon amounts of time getting over the weird things other people’s feet do–they go in this way, they go out that way; some people have really wide toes; others have funny nails. I mean–in the spirit of full disclosure–my baby toes are barely developed. They’re like hunchbacks; just kind of folded over and dependant on the strength of the 4th toe. But that’s fine for me. It’s what I know.

Then there are the feet with wildly pronounced arches. These irritate me. I don’t understand it. They’re melodramatic; they labour the point.
What do you need all that arch for–do you shelter kittens under there??
They seem to me to be in bad taste.

I  have flat, practical feet. Nothing goes under them without my say-so.
I could not have danced in a ballet company (though really, my entire physique rebels against ballet–my body fairly flips the bird at Margot Fonteyn) and I suppose my feet say more of tree-climbing apes, than *Bolshoi Magic*. The point however is not at all that my feet are anything superior to those of another–I fully accept that in many ways they really are quite inferior, and I am generally careful to retain a professional handler to make them as tolerable as can be managed in the run-up to any kind of Mass Exposure.
Somehow it just always comes as a shock to see that other people have such other-looking feet. How did they get like that? What are the advantages? Could I love a man with feet like that?

That said: I do manage to make some sense of it–I don’t let it stop me from living my life.
But I suppose, in the way that some people are just like big, open wounds–shocked and dismayed every time they hear of violence and hatred springing up in the world–I’ll just never quite wrap my head around all the strange feet out there, lying dormant in their socks; their toes doing God-knows-what…


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More Like, Don’tbonnet

December 28, 2011

Installmenté Trois in our petit serie……

The Saint John Wine Timeszs: Because There’s No Timeszs Like The Pressie

December 26, 2011

So–the AMAZING thing is–good ‘ol Contributing Factor and I have decided to share our secret love of talking about stuff that we may or may not know anything about with you, the person who is out there, and not in our heads.

Inspired by all the people on the internet discussing things that they don’t understand, this Christmas we’ve decided to create a series of videos called the Saint John Wine Timeszs. Each roughly 10-minute video will feature us drinking, and talking about what we’re drinking, or about what we’re not drinking.

Since founding the Saint John Wine Timeszs with old C-F, the one question I’ve faced more than others has been simply this: why?

To that I respond simply: it’s up to You, to find out.

And now, here for you in undescribed video, Youtube presents, The Saint John Wine Timeszs

And now, also here for you in undescribed video, Youtube presents, The Saint John Wine Timeszs: The Also

Once More, And With Feeling

December 22, 2011

I haven’t been writing here much lately, why just look at the dates! Long intervals between what I have written and when I’ve come back like this, to try to get things going again. Crank up the old motorblog–check for rust!

It all began with 2010. 2010 was just one of those years that kicked the stuffing out of me. Or if not the stuffing, then some of it. A portion of stuffing. I recall once serving at a church dinner in Nova Scotia with my cousins, and in the kitchen the ladies of the parish had a stainless steel container full of hot, hockey puck-shaped portions of stuffing. Stuffing discs. It was, naturally, a strawberry festival.

Anyway, so 2010 kicked a stuffing disc or two out of me, and then 2011–while many many times more pleasant–has continued to present a variety of spiritual paper cuts on the index finger of my soul.

All of this has put me into a place of great internal upheaval and thinking, and reconsidering, and emotional renovations of all sorts. Help me choose the backsplash of my heart.

A lot of the time, this process has left me mute. Or at other times, I have had a lot that I wanted to say, but felt it would be imprudent to do so. And other times still, I’ve had a lot to say on topics that I felt unable to write about in any kind of engaging way for those outside of my head. As the primary audience of this blog remains, at this point, outside of my head, I refrained from writing on these topics.

And that last circumstance brings me to another point that has had me holding my tongue–suspending my finger. The self-aggrandizing and over-sharing that is the bread & butter of blogs and social networking sites.

As I have tried to work out my feelings about this, I suppose I have in the interim been less inclined to share. I have, for instance, mostly stopped posting images of things I’ve cooked or baked online as—while it can be sort of fun in a show-and-tell way (ahem, especially when you live alone and there’s no one there to pat you on the head for making 17 jars of green tomato chutney with YOUR OWN Goddamn balcony-grown tomatoes—NOT THAT I DID THAT, OR ANYTHING, I just like, heard about someone who did) yes, while it can be sort of fun—there’s a glut of people out there posting photos of every Goddamn piece of toast they burn, and thinking that we give two shits. And I find it stupid, and weird, and so I suppose then that I should not be so hypocritical as to assume that when I burn the toast, it’s news.

I’m also in the process of reconsidering my life in Germany, and applying to grad school, and trying to get my foot in the door of at least 3 different possible career paths as I search like a baby elephant for a reservoir on a desert plain for some kind of reliable income (ahem, btw, if you know of anything you think I can do—msg me ltr ;D  ). This has taken up a lot of emotional and mental energy and dominated my thoughts, when I wasn’t doing the jobs that I do do, or considering what to bake and not take photos of next, or trying to make sense of my lost stuffing discs.

Despite all of this, I’ve still found the time to attract and ultimately repel emotionally disturbed people and for that I suppose, I continue to be grateful. As I lie in bed at night, I can look up at the stars, and know that I am still a beacon in the dark for those human container ships of uranium, flying the flag of an obscure African nation, but ultimately distancing themselves from me for glowing in the dark.

And I’ve taken up knitting, which I will also not be photographing. Excepting the one photo of the first thing I ever knit that’s on Facebook. But in the photo I’m wearing it so it’s as if it’s in disguise. It’s a shawl. It’s a shawl dressed up like an Elizabeth. Very clever Mr. Shawl, indeed–how very knotty of you…