A Suitcase of Memories

As far as I knew, I had moved completely out of my mom's house 14 years ago.  My mom has recently been insistent that I should take some time to clean my stuff out of the closet of my old bedroom.  I was all "what stuff?"

Finally she got me to go up into the closet, on a stepladder, dust cloth in hand.  On the very highest shelves, I did find archaeological evidence of my past life.  

A cassette-tape Sony Walkman.  Contact lens solution that expired in 1993.  The shoes I wore to my high school prom.  A straw hat with a lacy ribbon, very Pretty In Pink.

And then, the box.  Just a plain, cardboard box.  I lifted the lid.  Little did I know it was booby trapped.  A time bomb!  It went off in my face, and just like that I was back in high school.

It was everything my ex-husband had ever given me, from the sweet little cartoons he passed to me in grade nine geography class to portraits of me he'd drawn in his college Illustration course.  Two corsages, almost unrecognizable, crumbled to dust except for the shiny, elastic wristbands.  A candy necklace in an advance state of decay.  

I had also hung on to cards, doodles, and notes from other high school friends.  There were countless sheets of 8.5" x 11" paper covered with caricatures and notations from long-forgotten in-jokes.  There was a greeting card from a classmate called Richard, who invented his own system of spelling somewhat similar to LOLspeak, signed, as was his habit, "Wrych".

In high school I was a high-strung girl: by turns moody, neurotic, ecstatic, flirtatious, terrified, smitten, shy, and hungry for love.  When I was down, the whole world closed in.  When I was up, I flew straight for the sun.  The shoebox was like an urn, containing the ashes of my brightest-burning moments.

I must have kept everything ever signed To Spark, Love [Boyfriend].  It was very odd to find those sentiments, so heartfelt, addressed to me by two men who are both now married to other women.  One of them is a good friend still.  Ken and I visit him, his wife, and their one-year-old son at their home, which they are renovating.  It was so odd to be reminded of our teenage, nuclear-force love.  I was 15.  He was 17.  I thought he was so mature and worldly.  It just goes to show how everything is relative.

I didn't have time to sort through everything in the box.  There was more on the shelf.  More dusty old crap.  Crazy glue that had sat so long it wasn't crazy anymore.  My income tax statements from back in the day when being a summer camp counsellor was my only taxable income.  Reams of complicated sheet music, which I can't believe I ever managed to play on my long-gone violin.

The box is still sitting at my mom's house, waiting for me to sit down with it and go deeper.  I'm looking forward to finding more treasures, but also slightly dreading the emotional roller-coaster that might be triggered, depending on what I find.  We shall see.  In any case, I'm sure glad that I saved my mementos.  My sister might want the never-used neon-pink and neon-green shoelaces.  By next year, I bet they'll be totally back in style.

First one to identify the song that my post title comes from gets a gold star.

Goose Parade

On Saturday Ken and I went down to Toronto Island for a walk in the sun.

One of the feature attractions of the Island fairgrounds is a small zoo called Far Enough Farm. It's got an odd assortment of barnyard animals and exotic birds: pigs, cows, horses, peacocks, pheasants, and emus. There is also a population of big white geese that run free. They usually stick to their territory around the farm, but they are unenclosed, and mingle with the wild ducks and Canada geese.

I know that we're not supposed to feed the birds, for a variety of sound and practical reasons. However, we do it anyway. Every once in a while I try to "do the right thing" and abstain, but it never lasts. I'm a bird-feeding addict. I'm sorry, but it's an illness and not within my control. Until I find a Twelve-Step Program, those lucky birds are getting handouts from me.

All the birds get excited when they see snacks. The ducks begin quacking up a storm. The Canada geese hiss and snap at each other as they compete to stand closest to us. Seagulls, sparrows, starlings, and red-wing blackbirds hover hopefully on the periphery. But the big white geese blow through the crowd like the bullies they are, scattering all the other birds to the wind. They stretch out their necks and honk. Their beady little blue eyes bulge. They flap their wings to make themselves look bigger. And if you try to stand your ground, they will bite. Hard.

The geese can move quickly. Their big webbed feet push them through the water with an impressive show of power. On land, they run. This is not quite so impressive. Their legs are only around four inches long, so they really have to motor just to keep up with a regular human walking pace. When they run on any paved surface, their giant webbed tootsies make comical, loud slapping sounds. Begging the pardon of animal lovers everywhere, sometimes we lure them into a run just to listen to their funny feet.

Usually we get a crowd of between two and four geese, and that's plenty. But this time, we hit the Goose Jackpot. We found a gaggle of them grazing in a quiet, grassy area. Ken broke out the bread, and we were off to the races. All he had to do was rustle the plastic bag and several of them immediately broke into a run towards us. We started dropping bread bits and walked backwards slowly. More geese caught wind of the excitement and joined the crowed.

As the crowd of geese grew, we made our way along a paved path, luring them forward. It was difficult to get an exact count, but at the peak I think we had close to twenty of them chasing us, backsides wiggling energetically. The sound of forty webbed feet slapping against the pavement in surround sound was unparalleled in my experience.

At a certain point I stopped suddenly, for some random reason, without realizing that there was a goose racing hot on my heels. I braked, he didn't, and his beak collided with my rear end. It took me a moment to realize: I'd just been goosed by a goose!

I've eaten Salade Nicoise in Nice, France; I've bought Oxford shoes in Oxford, England; and now I've been goosed by a goose. Let no one say that I don't live a rich and exciting life!

Down by the water

This Saturday was the first day in a long time that I didn't have to be anywhere by a certain time, or do any particularly onerous chores. It was SO AMAZING not to be on a schedule.

I woke up at 6:18 am when a thunderstorm came crashing down outside my window. I rolled up my blinds and watched the downpour for half an hour or so. Thunder sounds different here, in my neighbourhood of looming condo towers. The echos ricochet from building to building before dying away.

When the KABOOM!s had turned into rumbles, and the monsoon was reduced to a gentle summer rain, I rolled the blinds back down and slept again.

Much later, Ken and I ventured out into the city, armed with a big umbrella. The weather forecast called for thunderstorms all day, but we had to get out. So far this year, since the snow finally melted, every weekend has been either chilly or stormy, and I've been suffering from cabin fever. It's time to get outside at any price!

We considered going to check out the Lesbian and Gay Pride Week celebrations, but decided against it. It's always an eye-popping adventure, but neither of us was feeling in the mood to deal with rowdy crowds. Saturday is always the Dyke March, and the big Pride Parade is Sunday. The city shuts down a whole section of the downtown to accommodate the celebrations.

I've always been impressed by the female impersonators. I tell you, some of them are more womanly than I'll ever be. With their elaborate wigs, gowns, and fluttering false eyelashes, they're like a rainbow of exotic butterflies. They also manage to keep their makeup flawless in the summer heat, which is more than I've ever managed to do.

Pride Week is the place to go if you want to experience a goodly amount of public nudity. Men and women go topless. There are always plenty of buttocks hanging out of short-shorts. And some go straight-up nude. Let's just say that not all nudity is equally appealing, and leave it there. Anyway, the free-spirited, let-it-all-hang-out atmosphere is fun and contagious. There are as many tourists there as there are participants, but no one's really counting and it's just one big party.

I guess we'll catch this year's highlights on the news later.

Instead, Ken and I opted to head down to the lakeside, due south of the city's centre. It's always a few degrees cooler there. Even on the hottest days there's usually a breeze coming off the lake. We hung out on the boardwalk, watching people stroll by. There was a constant stream of folks: old; young; dressed in shorts and a T-shirt; dressed formally for a wedding reception; walking dogs; just learning to walk; skateboarding; licking ice-cream; holding hands.

There was a free concert nearby; music floated to us across the water. We stopped at the international food tent for samosas and tandoori chicken. I relaxed and didn't once look at my watch to mind the time. And guess what? It didn't rain one single drop all day.

How to Play the Didgeridoo

I have a didgeridoo by my desk. According to Wikipedia "The didgeridoo (or didjeridu) is a wind instrument of the Indigenous Australians of northern Australia."

Didgeridoos sound weird, like giant, alien kazoos. Here's a video clip of an aboriginal Australian artist playing the didge. Note that he never stops to take a breath . There is continuous sound. How does he do it? The secret is in his cheeks.



It's called "circular breathing".

I made my own didge from a length of PVC pipe and beeswax (for the mouthpiece). Just getting a sound out of it at all is tricky unless you're an experienced horn player. You have to buzz your lips, like blowing a raspberry, at just the right frequency, with your mouth pressed tightly against the mouthpiece. At first all you get is elephant farts.

Keep practicing! After many frustrating hours of blowing elephant farts, and wondering why the hell you're wasting your time with this ridiculous project, you'll figure out how to get a tone. Practice more! Practice until your lips are numb, your face is red, your head is spinning, and your didge is leaking saliva. (Sorry - it's gross but true. You can't blow raspberries down a tube for 20 minutes at a time without spraying spit. Go ahead: try to prove me wrong!)

OK, so now you can reliably get a tone out of your didge. You are so proud! Show all your friends. Practice changing the shape of your mouth to get different overtones and fancy flourishes. Cool!

But. You still have to stop when your lungs are empty and take another gasp of air to keep going. This breaks up the soothing, hypnotic, didgey drone that you are ultimately aiming for. Now is the time to take that next step to CIRCULAR BREATHING.

Actually, circular breathing is a misnomer. It's not circular at all. As the old saying goes, you can't suck and blow at the same time. The trick is: you fill up your cheeks with air, like a bagpiper's bag. Then, as you quickly sniff more air in through your nose, you squeeze out the air in your cheeks to keep the sound going. You have to take a lot of quick sniffs to fill your lungs, because you don't have time for a deep breath.

Sounds complicated? Let's break it down. First pretend you have some water in your mouth. Now squirt that water out through your lips in a slow stream. Got it? Try it with real water if you're not sure. Once you're comfortable with the slow squirting-out thing, try doing it at the same time as sniffing in through your nose. Squirt+sniff! Squirt+sniff! Good! OK, you just did some circular breathing!

Now you just have to take that over to your didge and keep your lips buzzing the whole time you're at it. Yeah, that's a little harder. It'll take some practicing. Don't worry, your neighbours love didge sounds. Everyone does! I promise. They'll be at your door begging for lessons of their own.

I don't play my didge much, but it's like riding a bicycle. Once you learn, you won't forget. I'm not as good as the guy in the video, and I tend to choke when playing for an audience, but I like being able to say that I can do it. I think it complements my training in violin, and ballet very nicely.

The Island

This post is dedicated to Jameil of Unabashedly Me. I'm trying to convince Jameil visit me in Toronto. In fact, all of you are welcome! Start making your travel plans now. Toronto is currently wearing her grimy winter face, but she'll be beautiful again in a few short months.

My favourite place to hang out during the summer is down by the lake (by which I mean Lake Ontario). The lakeshore just south of downtown Toronto is known as Harbourfront, and there's something cool going on down there every weekend. There are vendors selling crafts and imports from outdoor stalls. There's every sort of food you could want, from milkshakes and hot dogs to boneless goat roti and tandoori chicken dinners.

These are some of the free outdoor festivals you'll find in the public park, which also has a covered stage for free performances: The Spicy Food Festival. The Hip Hop Festival (which has an amazing beat-boxing competition). The World Rhythms Global Music Festival. The Dim Sum Chinese Festival. The Island Soul Carribean Festival. And plenty more!

If you want to lie on a beach, you can drive east of Harbourfront to the ritzy Beaches neighbourhood, where yuppies pushing designer strollers jog along the boardwalk. Or you can take a ferry from the Harbourfront docks to Toronto Island, which has many beaches to choose from, including a "Clothing Optional" section. (Straight guys: don't get too excited - it's mostly gay guys strutting their stuff.)

Toronto Island is my Happy Place. You can walk it east to west in around 45 minutes. North to south, you can get from one end to the other in around 10 minutes. And the entire Island is one big public park. No cars are allowed except maintenance vehicles and a couple of open-sided shuttle buses. Cyclists are plentiful. Dogs and little kids can run around without fear of being mown down by traffic.

At the centre of the island is a cute little amusement park, with rides for kids and a zoo called "Far Enough Farm". It costs around $4 for a soda at the concession stands, but most families pack a picnic lunch and eat on the broad, green lawns. You'll see families on the ferry with shopping buggies full of watermelons and bags of charcoal, and coolers full of treats to be cooked on one of the Island's public barbecues. There are always extended families of every ethnicity, spread out on blankets on the grass, with boom boxes playing lively music, and filling the air with the incredible smells of their BBQ.

Ok, so the entire island is not public parkland. There are actually two small neighbourhoods where people have homes on this paradise. The waiting list to live there is currently 50 years long. This is the case even considering how inconvenient it is. There are no stores on the island except the gift shops in the amusement park, so people have to do their grocery shopping in the city and then take everything over on the ferry. Remember - no cars are allowed on the island! I don't know how they do it. These communities are breathtakingly lovely.

So come to Toronto! I'll take you down to Harbourfront. We can eat kebabs and fresh pita on a bench overlooking the lake, and then we can walk the Island end to end. We'll go wading on the beach. It'll be so much fun! I can hardly wait.