Nomadic Tribe Soup

In the quietness of a Mileend apartment I am writing on a messy desk. Radio Radio's new album, Belmundo Regal is playing. In the kitchen there is food, more food and drinks and soon we'll set the table. About six hours or so it is 2011 so why not, I put on a shimmering dress. Two days ago Michelle and Aras had Hind, Astou and I over. Jonas and Amadou, the Spiderman and the Batman ran about as little Zeliha watched in awe. She has curious round eyes, Zeliha, born into this world not long ago. The exquisite wonder of babies and little boys, I thought, as my mama&papa friends did the adult talk. Zeliha lacked sleep. Michelle took her guitar and we took turns singing. Here it goes: Aras' song Astou's Mine Michelle and Astou's impro

The jukebox man played this improvisation piece also known as Pepito el Corazon. Z thinks she wants to make an animation out of it. Meanwhile, enjoy!

I have developed allergies against Christmas and the New Year. Last winter was a sly escape as I exited Montreal, the biting cold, the consumerist craze, Christmas carols and odd lighting arrangements. Where I ended up there were impoverished people with rich hearts, music and sunlight. Then I found myself, because I said "never again", back in Toronto to spend year 2010. Over the few weeks I am saddened to walk to the liquor store, turn on the radio, to look around me at an intersection. Christmas themed songs, colours, bustling. Claustrophobia. This is an alien world and these plastic Santa Clauses are populating my psyche without my permission. Some things are less, like the world is short of Robin Wood and his playful laughter and Lhasa de Sela for whom hours of snow piled over Montreal to soothe the seeming untimeliness of her passing. There is the memory of Christmas times in Gaspé, the frozen river, the fire, the magnificent sunsets, the unlikely company who'd p...

“Should our military kill bad people, or help the good ones?” reads the gore colored billboard, violating my peace of mind on a sunny, crisp afternoon. It is Sunday. The stray clouds are hued in that deep red you see when you roll your index finger and thumb into an aperture pointing at the sun and you release just a bit of sunlight in and out and light and dark and blood red and white light and black again. Violating my intelligence, violating the desolate sadness of the railroad tracks and the immense stretch of sky that background it. My mind goes numb as I delve into the underpass.

Not knowing where to start is how I start because I cannot start otherwise. I turned and tossed the idea of patch-working my life, that of others, collecting stories, sound and images here and there into a blog. The idea was so well executed that I did nothing to actually begin anything concrete. In its nebulous form the 'feeling' of the blog was just so cool. Really cool. And what if the words did not do it justice? What if my idea sucked? Terror. Then I said to myself, 'if you have sore throat, eat ice cream' and precisely after a year or two of attempting to create this blog, here I type away with no basic plan, no structure, no purpose really. Welcome.