Portraits Galore

Clockwise -
J.F.K. by Elaine de Kooning
Still Image 24-Andrea - Oil on Canvas, Alan Caomin Xie
Magnet #3 - Egg Tempera on Linen, Nuno de Campos
My Father in the Living Room of Our 10th House - Oil on Canvas, James Seward

Papers

Isreal dropped leaflets warning residents to be off the roads of Tyre, or risk being viewed as Hezbollah arms transporters, and duly bombed. You can bomb three or four cars, but what if everyone drove? You can't bomb them all - can you? Isn't the will of the Lebanese people evident in their willingness to simply obey? Or is that what we're supposed to believe? Is this an indication of their faith in the Isreali attack on Hezbollah? Would it be the same next month, a year from now, or would they drive indifferent to the leaflets? When will the faith wane? When will the fear?

Papers in all the boxes, all along the street, tout the arrest of one, two, maybe three Hezbollah millitants. This is not unlike the U.S. offensive in Iraq, where we are rewarded for our faith in the offensive by the occasion killing or capture in the deck of terrorist cards that the government holds so close to their chest. The Isreali offensive is mirrored in our papers, asking us to believe that it's the right thing.

I don't know what to believe.

Heads Up.

I'm not sure what this is. It simply said on the window "Memorial. (Collapse)" It's not an exhibition space.. or it wasn't. Just a building for rent.

Vacationing in Afghanistan

Went out to HR-57 last night with Bryan and our friend Sabina to see a movie called "Vacationing in Afghanistan". Put out by a production company called thefullmonte, it was a small, fifteen minute film about a side trip these two journalists took while in Afghanistan filming the first election. One of them is a reporter and photographer for National Geographic, the other is a cameraman in the same capacity. (That's what I gathered at least) The film was sweet and excellent, a really touching view of the comedic and kind side of Afghans that we usually don't see in the media at large. From what I can tell from the website, thats exactly what they're looking to be - the media at small. You can fund a film and offer a story too - I wish I could send them to India. It was a great way to spend an evening, with a bottle of wine and a room full of curious people.

Help Me. Please.

I'm going insane. I can't sleep. When I do sleep, it's dreams. But now the sleeplessness has almost outweighed the dreamfulness. I've slept maybe 3 hours the past few nights, and I feel like I'm going crazy. Like, literally, laugh at things that aren't funny, googly eyed, high voiced crazy. Does anyone have any suggestions? I'm not anxious, I'm not sick, I just.. can't..sleep. Help. Please.

My Favorite Mask

I Think I Smell Musty

I have been to just about every Gallery or Museum in D.C the past few days, and my feet hurt. *laughing* I have walked from here to.. seemingly eternity (I hate taking any of the three million cabs) in the 40 degree heat and the 200% humidity to sweat in awe at many, many paintings. Yesterday I went to the Freer, Sackler and African Art Galleries on the other side of town. I really need to better interpret the "scale" portion of the maps, because apparently, one inch is like, 5 miles. Damn it. By the time I got to the Freer I had sweat coming off my pigtail braids, and the gaurd immediately directed me to the washroom, instead of the exhibits. *laughing* But they were all worth it, and here's why....

Freer

Freer gallery holds a really impressive group of Chinese, Japanese, Korean, Indian, Persian, Islamic and Buddhist art, as well as a huge holding of Whistler's works. Charles Freer, the founder, was a patron of Whistler, as well as Dewing and Thayer. Each artist, though very American, each imbibed their works with instances of oriental style craft, which Freer enjoyed.

Highlights
- Thayers "A Virgin"
- Whistler's "Caprice in Purple and Gold - The Golden Screen"
- Dewing's "The Garland"


Sackler

While the pottery and glass and ceramic work are impressive, unless you find it fascinating.. it's a little much. I can look at a lot of teacups and buddha sculptures.. but it wore on me. The Egyptian works are really interesting, some of it is so detailed and intricate that it really is worth a stop. Otherwise.. well.. a teacup is a teacup.

There is an intersting exhibit right now based on Portraiture through the ages, from early Chinese actors to contemporary portraits in the Muslim world - it's very interesting. Modern and ancient works are all thrown together, and though I felt they were a little hodgepodge, the unifying fact that they were all portraits really brought the exhibit together. I couldn't help wondering what it was that makes humans so desperate to be witnessed, to pass marked somewhere, to make a record of ourselves. What are we so afraid of?

Highlights
- Empress Dowager Cixi Posing as Guanyin
-Jannane al-Ani's dual portraits of veiled family members



African Art Gallery

I have to say, because I've never visited anything like this gallery, I really enjoyed it. The exhibits range from textiles and printmaking, masks and musical instruments from long ago, to contemporary paintings, sculpture and mixed media. I did find, however, that unlike most exhibits in Smithsonians, the exhibits were not very well marked with appropriate tribes or locations, most were very vague or "unknown" - very strange.

Entitled "Body of Evidence" there are definately some beautiful pieces within the contemporary gallery, definately very interesting, and featured a number of up and coming African artists. Rarely have I been exposed to the proverbs and symbolism contained in African art, and really enjoyed finding both in older, and more contemporary art.

Highlights
-Kwesi Owusu-Ankomah's "Off My Back"
-Jeremy Wafer's "African Form I-VIII".

All I Have To Do...

I have been dreaming incessantly. Long, drawn out, exhausting dreams that leave me sleepier when I wake up than when I go to bed. My brain is always going. Dreams of sadness and pain and unhappiness and desert islands and red dresses and moving and babies and bicycles and dancing and Frank Sinatra and spying and falling. It hasn't stopped for 5 days now. I wake up at ten minutes after two every morning and my heart is racing and I can't breath and my feet are so hot and my heart is in my throat. And I can't sleep anything but this sleep that really isn't sleep at all but this painful movie-going experience that never ends and I don't buy a ticket to.

Yet Another Sushi Picture...

Strange, but we always seem to snap a shot when we're out for sushi. Huh.

Lazy Days

Spent the weekend in a perfect weekend way. Saturday I rode the bike with Bryan while he did his 10 mile run, then we stopped at Dean and Deluca's for coffee and some croissant. Got home, showered, and went to the Eastern Market. It's a fabulous little market with jewellery and paintings and huge tomatoes and peaches and basil. I loved it, even though it was about 45 degrees in the shade. We stopped at a little cafe called Bread and Chocolate and had amazing eggs benedict and fresh squeezed orange juice. Bought homemade pasta and beefsteak tomatoes and peaches, and made an amazing dinner of Ahi and pasta and salad and fried tomatoes. Sunday, we went to church and then to a brunch and I wore my big hat and felt like I was at peace.. and ate eggs benedict and had bloody marys. Then we lay on the roof by the pool for 6 hours in the sun and drank white wine with our friend Samantha from the 11th floor and laughed and talked books and politics and Ethiopian food and enjoyed getting the little sting from too much laughter and too much sun right on your belly. Perfect.

Found at Scott Circle and Mass Ave

Does anyone else find it strange that I find an abandoned pair of shoes everytime I come to DC?

Dancing In the Street

I took Bryan out for a little dinner at our favorite French place around Dupont Circle last night, and had a lovely time. It's always so bustling and fun and loud, full of good food. I've never had a bad time there. We wandered down to the Circle after, and caught the huge brass band that plays on the rotunda on the overpass. It is so amazing. About 10 guys, playing drums, saxaphone, tuba, trombone, tambourine - it was fantastic. Everyone gathers on the sides of the street, in the street, and dances and has such an amazing time. I even got to go up on stage and shake a little maraca! (Does anyone know how to spell that word?) It was unbelievable.. Everyone sweating these little golden beads, the incredible drum beat, the dancing, the heat, the energy. My soul smiled.

The Duke and I

There are but two photos in Bryan's room. That of myself, about a year ago upon my return from the mountains, and, that of John Wayne in the film "The Green Berets". Should I be worried that that Wayne is bigger than me by about a 1:10 ratio.. or just be happy that it's a picture of the Duke, and not the Boss?

B and Me!

Four Top Please

Made dinner for Bryan and his friends Mike and Mirentxu last night - it was fabulous, if I do say so myself - and pretty easy. We had a wonderful time, I got everything to be cooked and done at the right moment, and we had a fantastic evening. We went out dancing at Citron, this little salsa club which has prolific "Do Not Dance on the Tables" signs that are duly ignored. Mike and Mirentxu are wonderful, and we all had such a good time. Yay for good food and good friends.

Brown Sugar Salmon

	1 tablespoon honey
	1 tablespoon brown sugar
	2 teaspoons unsalted butter
	2 tablespoons Dijon mustard
	1 whole salmon fillet, skin on; about 2.5 lbs and three-fourths to 1 inch thick

The sauce:
In a small sauté pan over medium heat (best to do this part on the range), melt the brown sugar with the honey and butter. Remove from heat and whisk in the mustard, soy sauce, olive oil and ginger. Allow to cool.

Place the salmon, skin side down, on a large sheet of aluminum foil. Trim the foil to leave a border of about one-fourth to one-half inch around the edge of the salmon. Coat the flesh of the salmon with the brown sugar mixture.

Bake the salmon indirectly at about 350 degrees until the edges begin to brown and the inside is opaque, about 25 – 30 minutes. Cut the salmon crosswise into 6 to 8 pieces, but do not cut through the skin. Slide a spatula between the skin and flesh to remove the salmon pieces to a serving platter or individual plates. Serve immediately, and enjoy!

*I more than doubled the sauce, and it carmalized around the edges.. super yum. The salmon was line caught in Alaska, courtesy of Bryan! Pretty cool...

Lemon Brown Butter Green Beans

1/4 lb haricots verts or other thin green beans, trimmed
1 1/8 teaspoons salt
2 teaspoons unsalted butter
2 teaspoons fresh lemon juice

Cook beans in a 2-quart heavy saucepan of boiling water seasoned with 1 teaspoon salt until crisp-tender, about 3 minutes, then drain in a colander. Wipe out pan and cook butter over moderate heat until deep golden, about 2 minutes. Stir in lemon juice and remaining 1/8 teaspoon salt and remove pan from heat. Add beans and toss well.

*I added about half a cup of pine nuts to the finished product, and tripled the recipe. Sue me, I like butter.

Baked Peaches with White Chocolate

4 tablespoons (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, melted
2 tablespoons (packed) dark brown sugar
1/2 teaspoon ground cinnamon
4 unpeeled peaches, halved, pitted
1/3 cup finely chopped white chocolate
3 tablespoons coarsely chopped toasted salted pistachios
4 scoops vanilla ice cream

Whisk first 3 ingredients in large bowl to blend. Add peach halves; toss to coat well. Place peaches, cut side down, in dish, then use the rest of the mix to cover. Bake peaches in a 2 inch deep dish - the recipe initially calls for barbequeing, but our barbeque sucks, and I was afraid they'd taste like steak. So broiling them about 3 minutes each side, or until hot all the way through worked just as well. Melt white chocolate and spoon over ice cream, divide peach halves among bowls. Sprinkle with pistachios and serve.

Africa Hot

I'm in DC, though it feels more like I'm in the Amazon. The humidity is a million percent, and it's at least 40 degrees every day. It's unbelievable. I haven't been this hot since I was in India - and at least there you expected it! It isn't conducive to gallery visiting, as I usually walk everywhere.. and I think it would be rude to shake off the sweat onto Mr. Modrian. Call me old fashioned.

Bryan is.. *sigh* wonderful. It is so good to be back here, to be back in the bed with the plummy sheets, the TV that only gets Spanish Seasame Street, the doorman who knows me, the great Thai food. And to be back, with my mans arms around me, his smell on my shirts, his hands at my fingertips. It is such a different thing to be told "I love you" over millions of miles of telephone line.. another to be told as they envelop you in a hug. I feel like I'm home.

Ghetto Chic?

Perogies and Tetra Pak wine? It might be one of those nights.

Home-ish.

I'm back in the city, doing city things, feeling city strange. Everyone here seems beautiful, and delicate. I feel swarthy and rude and clumsy, like my feet grew and I stick out and am terribly uncoordinated and heavy. Maybe that's how I always felt - I'm just acutely aware right now.

Why I Wear Rubber Boots

So, my last day of work. And I thought (thought) easy! Pick up my equipment, wash it all off, get home in time to make a batch of Saskatoon Jam and pack for the trip home. It was kind of like washing your truck - it guarentees that it rains. A trip that usually takes me about half an hour.. took 4 hours. And, demonstrated nicely for you, my readers, why exactly I wear rubber boots. It couldn't have been a better last day.

I Heart Mud

I Think I Have Trench Foot

I have been wearing these boots for so long I think they have fused to my feet. Oh so many puddles...

Ms. P's Favorite Things For July

1.Old Country - Waylon Jennings, Willie Nelson, Woodie Guthrie, Johnny Cash. It just sounds better when it's really dusty and you're in a truck.

2.Fishing - I'm trying to meet my goal of catching, killing, cleaning, cooking and eating a fish. But it hasn't happened yet. Still, it seems like fishing may be the only sport where if you don't succeed, it's still a pretty good time.

3.Crescent Wrenches - Ok, why haven't I been told about these? They can do anything! Women, get to RONA!

4.Raspberry Jam - With lots of butter on really thick whole grain toast... It's a slice of heaven in the morning.

5.Beaten up blue jeans - The jeans I wear for work are stained with oil and are beaten light blue, soft like silk and more comfortable. I love them. I love that I have lived long enough and worked hard enough to wear out a pair of blue jeans.

6."Return to Cookie Mountain" - TV on the Radio's new album. Beautiful and kind and sexy and smooth, better even than Bloodthirsty Babes. It competes with Bob Dylan on the cd player. Check out "I Was a Lover". Delicious.

7.My Last Cup of Starbucks Coffee - I sat on my stoop and watched the sun go down, and listened to Neil Young sing "Down by the River" and thought of my Bryan, and picked mud off my feet.

8.Kurt Vonnegut's Mini Memoir "A Man Without a Country" - A sweet little book, saying a lot of what's already been said, in a wonderfully Vonnegutian way. A short, summer read, to be savoured.

9.E-mail - I have to admit, I have more than missed my letters from home that were few and far written and received at camp. I carry a letter Bryan mailed me here in my backpack - it's my mail when I'm feeling lonely. What if that was still the only way to get letters.. *Shudder*

10. Sunlight - The air is so bright up here - unlike anything I've seen. So much light, so late into the night, beautiful and clear and strong and hot. It is summer, to perfection.

Hot Damn Jam

So, to thwart any decidedly unlady like, unrefined, unruly habits that I may have picked up (inclusive of spitting far, drinking whisky, and driving with my hand on my crotch) I made jam this evening.

There has been an explosion of raspberries all over the well leases, to the point where all you have to do is stick your hand out of the quad and its full of berries. (The fact that these bushes are now the favorite haunts of bears, evidence by the fuschia bear poop, will go unmarked.) So I took advantage of this and picked a pail full, and decided to complete one of my little life goals.. making jam!
It was great. I felt so.. ladylike. Sterilizing and sugaring and squishing and timing. My house smelled amazing.. hot raspberries and sugar steaming up all the windows. And now, I have 12 perfectly finished jars of jam. And at least the seeds clog up the crack in my teeth that I spit out of. Hot damn.

Noah?

It's been raining.. forever. And ever. And then today.. this.

Kryptonite City

I’m afraid that the city is kryptonite to my super woman. I’ve gained so much strength here, so much ability. In the bush I can do things, and say things, and believe in myself. What if I go back to the city and lose that? What if when I’m out of the jeans and t-shirts, I’ve shaved my legs and dyed my hair…that the magic wears off? That I won’t know how to be strong and independent and capable? I’m frightened that I’ll forget.

Stand in Line Like the Rest of the World. Oh, and behind the Lebanese.

Watching the news makes me sick lately. The Canadians, bitching and moaning about getting out of Lebanon, complaining about their free ride out of a war zone. They actually had a profile of a Canadian woman in Beirut complaining of the damage to her catering business that these bombs had done, when she’d been there for 20 years – and now she’s angry how slowly the evacuation to get her out is taking. It makes me ill. 50, 000 people choose to go to a country, then storm the gates of the embassies to get out. And you know what they were saying? “I have seen other embassies, their evacuations went well and orderly. Canada has done such a terrible job.” Really? Or are we just bitchy, complaining Canadians, pushing and shoving? Many more Canadians showed up for the evacuation than allowed or expected. So we’re just queue jumpers and assholes, aren’t we? Cry me a river, and build me a bomb shelter. You’re the one that chose to vacation/work in the Middle East, in a country with a terrorist group in government, next to the most volatile nation in the world. Give me a friggin’ break, and start walking.

Close

It has been blistering hot for a month, and today fissures in the wave are starting to show. The humidity is mounting, the clouds clamber on top on one another, bringing the ceiling down around our ears, pressing.

It is as though everyone, and everything, knows the storm is coming, even the forest. We are all caught in that uncomfortable and cramped space inbetween. The leaves are turning up, showing their pale and vulnerable side, the flowers are half closed, ghostly pastels. It is as though the very essence of the trees and the forest has buried down, leaving only shadows to weather the storm. It is eerie and pale and your eyes are confused and upset.

Everyone is irritable, it is too muggy and oppressive to work, too cold to sit still, between being able to complain about the heat or revel in the rain. My back aches tight and swollen like a wooden doorjam, and the air is so this it feels as though breathing isn't necessary, and osmosis should work.

The cracks and fissures are growing, spreading, weighing down, splitting. It's close.

A Northern Anthem?

B double E double R - U- N, Beer Run
B double E double R - U-N, Beer Run
All you need is a ten and a fiver,
A car and a key, and a sober driver..
B double E double R - U - N, Beer Run
B double E double R-U-N, Beer Run

Letters From Camp

Our helicopter pilot dropped us off on a sandbar today upriver, so we could swim downriver, and he would pick us up when he was on his way home. We made pillows out of Ziplock freezerbags and layed back and drifted down. There was a beautiful moose taking a bath and we got within ten feet in the water until he took off. It was so wonderful. Sometimes, in between the allergies and the rain and the mosquitos... I want to stay here forever.

* * * * *

It is a peculiar thing that occurs to a group of men when a woman amongst them is wounded. The sacrosanct mantle of machismo and bravado are shed, and the layer underneath is one of confusion and concern, mixed haphazardly with a dose of a frightened little brother whispering “Please don’t cry, oh god, please don’t cry.” I bore witness to this Jekyll and Nightingale persona upon putting my little finger in the most perfect place to have it duly crushed above the first knuckle with a union and a hammer while working at camp.

After a cursory exam and numerous claims of “Oooh, that must have hurt”, combined with backslapping and tales of other near misses and medically impossible exploits, most interest began to drift off. It is my observation that males, while uncomfortable with another person being hurt, will not hesitate to attempt to upstage the wounded person with tales of equally, if not superior wounds, as if to say “It could have been worse.” Granted, the decidedly un-wounded looking storyteller must often have the wound or scar in an unmentionable or un-demonstrable area, as I have heard many stories of near amputations but never seen the damage.

It is also my experience that when in doubt, tears to men are akin to holy water on vampires, or electricity on rats. For no sooner had the first few painful tears swelled out than flash bang plans of military precision where being enacted for medical treatment, no matter how righteously hair-brained they were, and without consideration of the distance of the Mayo clinic.

There is a contraption, located at almost every well site and gas plant, designed to test and photograph the strength of welded unions in pipeline. Approximately the circumference of a large dinner plate, and weighing in excess of 25 lbs, it is essentially an oversized and cumbersome portable x-ray.

It was a combination of the hysteria I had induced, the sun, and the plans of men that will always be better on paper, that I ended up in the middle of the two compressor buildings with lead piping lashed to my waist and my finger extended as far in front of me as I could get it while holding the x-ray around it. The lead piping, carefully tied with pink flag tape to my waist was, purportedly, to decrease my chances of x-rayed ovaries and damaged eggs, suggested by the gentleman with an occasional lazy eye and propensity for copious amounts of whiskey. You’d think, by the extreme silence in the yard (minus the 140 decible hum of the compressors) that I was holding a positive pregnancy test or a nuclear bomb, but the advisory was that I stay as motionless as possible while they hit the x-ray button from behind a shed. While I had the 10 inch circumference of a lead pipe to protect me and my children from occasional lazy eyes and propensities for whisky.

An hour an a half later, with the pride and shyness of a child with a finger painting, I was presented with a blurry black and white x-ray of either Mount Everest in the round, or a broken finger. What could I say? The time spent cloistered in the bathroom with only one look at the chemical composition of the x-ray fluid, the hushed expletives, the careful use of measuring cups and shot glasses, mag lights and towels lining the floor – it was beautiful, and fit to be pasted upon the fridge. And decidedly, fractured. Or so we diagnosed after surfing the internet for “finger + broken+x-ray pictures”

Now that the diagnoses could be safely assumed, the concern was treatment. Every splint was made for use on much larger hands, not small thin lady hands, dirty as they may be. My advice is this – if ever wounded, the safest thing to do with a man is have him construct something. Be it an ice bag, a front porch, or a poached egg, there is nothing that saves a man from pointless worrying like the instruction to construct. The stampede to the shop was enough demonstration to suggest this, and the return of four men with a splint made of three quarters of a metal spoon and plastic piping was proof as good as any. It fit perfectly. And it was waterproof.

It is safe to say that by each man’s reaction to illness or pain, one may deduce the major sources of illness or pain from each mans youth. Regardless of whether the ailment in question was a broken finger (as mine was) or a sore throat, I can make a sound conclusion that the treatment from each respective gentleman was to be the same. Those who bring you popsicles most definitely had bouts of tonsillitis, those with calamine and books had chickenpox, those who do nothing generally have wives and have forgotten what to do. Regardless, I was treated as no less than monarchy, and even got to choose the program on T.V. I chose Ultimate Fighting. I had to make up for the tears.

* * * * *

I like my strength. I like that in this job, my strength, my muscles, my ability – is not cute, clichéd or sweet. It is required and wanted and admired and needed. That I can work hurt, tired, in a million degrees – is not stupidity but bravery, strength. It is not cute or handy that I can change oil and fix compressors – it’s my job. It makes me feel womanly and beautiful and competent and strong and able. I can deal with wells and fittings and pipe wrenches and bears, and it is admired, and respected. And I can have armpit hair and leg hair and that doesn’t take away from my worth or abilities, I do a good job.

* * * * *

Grizzly Adams does Alaska

Bryan is back to civilization too, he took his father fishing in Alaska for a week. I've been told to brush up on my salmon recipes, as he's got boxed 83lbs of it for us. We'll be getting our Omega-3s, thats for sure! As you can see, he packed everything he needed. Damn list maker. Good to have you back - missed you a lot.

Forest for the Trees

The trees are beautiful up here. Ansel Adams I'm not (thank god.) but I like this one.

Home Sweet...Camp.

This is where I live.. Yay! Or actually, where I lived. I'm back in High Level for July, a little closer to something akin to civilization. I'm sad to leave the river and my friends... but I had a cup of Starbucks this morning.. and now I'm ok. Bryan, what would I do without you? Not have Starbucks... or socks for that matter.

Misc. Pics

These pictures don't really fall into any catagories... But are little slivers of whats going on up here. (ie - boredom and free time..) I'm a little lonely - nobody else up here, just alone with my boss, my books, and the cook. And the cook drinks. So expect more pictures.

Into the Woods...

You Are My Sunshine...

Andrea and Jade

I've Got Wood

This is all thats left with the tree munchers and mulchers go by and clear the way for wells.

Storm in the Oil Field

Wild Strawberries

Picked these while running a well test. Does it get any better? (Well.. yeah.. the raspberries are starting to turn red...)

Mutant Clover.

This is how high clover grows when not exposed to car fumes and cows and lawn mowers. Yup, that's me in the middle, 5 foot 2.
Standing on about 2 feet of clover.

Beautiful B and Me

I Heart My Job

It has been 30 plus degrees this past week, impossible to breath without inhaling bugs and dust and frustration. Everything has been breaking, all the vehicles and tools and meters and monitors, one after another. You get grease all over your body and it locks in the heat further until you feel like you're boiling on the inside and baking on the outside. Today we knocked off early, unable to bear the heat any longer, stuck in the swamp with the horseflies and our boots filled with water, so we bailed and called the chopper.

We were dropped off at the river by the pilot, upstream of the beach. With our makeshift waterwings (inflated Ziplocks) and a beer a piece, Nicole and I floated down the river...Right in front of a moose. It was so beautiful. He stood at the waters edge, taking a little bath, laying in the river, as we quietly floated by. He finally noticed us and stood up, enormous and majestic, and ran across the shallow sand banks and into the woods. It was so beautiful. Five minutes later the chopper arrived and plucked us out of the water, and took us back to camp.

I have a wicked job.

Right Side of the Tracks

Burnt

Arctic Desert

My Office

Lush Spider Traps

A Butterfly In Hand..

Sunrise, Sunrise

Somebody once said that eternity was two people and a baked ham. They have not lived in the North.

The days begin here at approximately 3 in the morning. When I can’t sleep because of the encroaching sunshine, I often sit in my kitchen window and watch the sun rise behind the poplars. It creates this beautiful, flaming mirage that eventually, (though briefly) blisters the trees from existence, as though they have gone up in flames. Then as the sun pushes on above them, they grow from the roots up again, years of growth in minutes as they flower, bloom and leaf.

I never thought that it would get so hot in the daytime here, but with the sun in the sky so long, it only makes logical sense. The hottest point of the day is no longer one or two in the afternoon, but four or five o’clock, which lends handily to me being in the sun for the majority of my workday.

While discovering eternity, I believe I may have also stumbled upon it’s cohort, Hell. I have been working in the permafrost lately, which has the interesting effect on a soul, leading one to believe you are walking through a meat locker, while being blasted with a million blow-dryers on high heat. Essentially, it has the endearing quality of never quite allowing your feet to warm, while your nose blisters and your shoulders crack from the heat. Add to the mix a million mosquitoes, horse flies, and black flies so thick that you need a dusk mask, and you have my average day in the muskeg/permafrost.

The sun does not set until sometime around midnight, by the time it rises the sky has only achieved at best a light dusk. This allows for a) golf tee off times to be booked 24 hours a day, and b) me to get no sleep at all.

Somebody pass me a ham sandwich.

Whoa, Bear

In order to be completely certified to work for all oil companies in the North, I was required to take a brief, though laughable, “Bear Aware” course. Shown a video constructed mainly from a bear lover and conservationist perspective, pieced together from various clips of 50’s bear footage and 80’s hikers – mostly what I garnered that was that in the event of a bear attack, one has barely (har har) 5 seconds to determine what to do, and the two actions are vastly different. Allow me to explain.

There are two types of attacks that bears make – predatory and exploratory (bluffs). In the event of an exploratory attack, they will run towards you and rear up at the last moment, all the while clicking their jaws, flailing their paws, and providing the number one laxative known to man. In this even, the video advises calmly identifying yourself as a human, making yourself look as big as possible, and making as much noise as possible, in the hopes that the bear will view you, and your overstuffed North Face backpack as just a smaller and slightly less hairy version of itself.

The second type of attack, predatory, the bear has every intent and purpose of making you into lunch meat. No rearing up, no bluffing. They charge, full bore, until knocking you to the ground and hopefully for your sake, out of consciousness. In the case of this type of attack (which could only be determined in essence in the brief moments where the bear does not bluff and when he crosses the remaining 4 feet to maul you) one is supposed to fall lifelessly to the ground, covering all susceptible veins and hoping for the best.

All this is demonstrated on the video through spliced footage in which a young woman repeats “Whoa bear” to the right, cut with footage of a bear on the left, ambling amicably away off to play with Piglet and dip into his honey pot, content that he has been calmly notified of your presence.

I have encountered but one bear in my life, the black bear I mistook for a Doberman pinscher on our picnic table when I was approximately 10 years old. And I had to get my brother to close the back door so frozen in fear was I. I am hoping for better results, now aimed with my bear aware knowledge. Given that my choices are a)act like a bear and b) cover major ventricals.. I’ll let you know.

Cue Vaughner

How I know He Loves Me

He travelled from Washington to Edmonton, and then took a bus twelve hours to High Level. And he brought me Starbucks. While I was at work, he cleaned my house and ran with the buffalo and biked into town to buy beer and strawberries and Kraft Cheese slices. He cheered for the Edmonton Oilers, just because they are my team, and I think he actually watched more of the playoffs than I did. He built me a fire, just so I could roast two marshmallows a night, and cooked my steak to perfection. He let me have way more of the blanket, and got up to make me coffee before work. He listened to CBC and updated me on the news, and always left me hot water. We walked down to the railroad tracks and sat and watched the beavers build damns and put pennies on the tracks and talked about everything. And everyday, he wrapped his arms around me, and looked at me with those beautiful blue eyes.... and told me.

Butterfly Beats

High Level and surrounding areas have been infested by caterpillars, decimating the trees - it looks like winter. The trees bloomed, and two weeks later the leaves were gone. In their place are just piles, heaps.. of writhing, soft worms of wool. And weeks later.... butterflies. Now there are just flocks of them, kamikaze geishas flying everywhere, swooping and spinning. Driving on the quad, they slip across your cheeks like tiny little bits of cool silk and cling to your hair. They lay on the ground in beautiful patterns until you get close and then they exlode over you.. I think my heart stops, or just explodes into millions of tiny little butterfly beats, until they pass.. then my heart collects its beats.. and keeps going.

North of 60 - Iambic?

Last we saw our heroine she was naked, cold, and frying her socks,
Her chocolate brown hair turned to fried bright blond locks.
Working all day, learning pressure and swedges,
Oil, gas and water, meters and wrenches.
She was driving through swamps and warding off bears,
For the first time in her life, didn't care what to wear.
Only three t-shirts she had, and on this rotation -
"Wear three twice a week, and a clean on Sunday - for celebration".
Her neck it was tanned, her nails they were dirty
Waking every day at 6, in bed by ten thirty.
Although she was busy, one thing she did bemoan
Her love was oh so far away, and she felt so alone.

Quickly he rode, like a knight dressed in white,
Flying all day, riding the Greyhound by night.
She returned from work one day, found him on her stoop,
Sweeping her dirty body to his in one strong swoop.
He brought her lipbalm and new socks, Starbucks by the cup,
Made breakfast each morning before she got up.
He cooked her buffalo steak and held her by the fireside,
Welcomed her home from work each day, with arms open wide.
To him she introduced the Stanley Cup and Sleemans Beer,
An on game nights the trailer erupted in cheer.
Every night she layed beside him and prayed,
That he would forget his job and home,
And with her he'd stay.
But their time ran short, and the days ran away,
And soon he departed to the dear U.S.A.

She missed him the worst in the evening, at night,
But it was tempered by her heart taking flight.
Literally.
Morning and evening on a chopper she flew,
Through the hills and the swamps, marshes and slews.
Soon the lot of them moved into the camp at Haig,
A camped far North where all the workers lived and stayed.
Here is where we rejoin her, swimming in the lake,
Where she'll tell you some more stories of triumphs and mistakes.

The Dirtiest Girl

(c'mon.. this is PG)

The View From My Window.

Commonly known as the 4th green. This is the storm that rolls in every night at around 7. Beautiful.

Last Year I Was In India..

...and this is where I spent my birthday this year. Hot diggity.

Me, and the 60th Paralell. Literally.

Took a trip up to the North West Territories, and didn't see another person, except for the gas station attendant who looked like she had been born with the stool attatched to her ass... and would probably die that way. Visited Alexander Falls in Hay River - nothing to sneeze at, pretty beautiful. The scary thing? Only had to drive 3 hours there, and were successfully away from civilization and toilets for 2 hours and 50 minutes.

Me and My Bear Dog

The best looking ladies in High Level

Northern Bulletin

Hail from the North! Some stories for you, my adventures in the North. I love it here, and am having a blast. A dirty, cold, hard work, eat lots of carbs, blast.

The Beauty of Lists

I have a boyfriend who is fond of lists – grocery lists, guest lists, goal lists. His greatest triumph, however, are his packing lists. I have peered into his notebook and seen packing lists appropriate for warm weather, cold weather, holiday occasions, sporting events, adventure events, each with apparel and accessories relevant to activities on each trip. I, on the other hand, fly by the seat of my pants that I sometimes forget to pack, content that when travelling if I have my passport, bank card and plane ticket that I am doing well. Everything else, I reason, I can purchase for the price of worrying about it. This is how my duffle bags often end up far over the 50lb limit at the airport and run out of underwear on day two, and he has a small rolling suitcase and manages to remember watch batteries.

It was sadly without this guidance that I packed my backpack up North, though I must admit I administered more than my usual care in packing for this trip. I rolled up t-shirts in order to save space, made sure to only pack one pair of sweatpants that could double as pyjamas, (I was being resourceful!) , two pairs of pants that I could afford to lose to oil stains, and so on and so forth. So imagine my surprise my first day of work when I peered into my shoes and found not socks, as I had watched my boyfriend do so many times – but panties. Not underwear. Stringy, lacy, panties. Not a sweat sock or wool sock in sight. Apparently, in my careful and resourceful packing, I had not thought that socks would double as…socks.

Embarrassed, I called my co-worker and Rick’s daughter Nicole, to beg for secrecy and two pairs of socks that I may borrow until I could stretch my 12$ further into the pay period. These two pair, I realised as I handled them as gold, would have to last me the next 20 days.

There are only so many ways that you can wear a pair of socks before they need washing, whether there is a washing machine handy or not. And in my case, there was not. Fancying myself smart, I washed them by hand, singing cowboy songs at my sink, scrubbing foot out of them with dish soap. The next morning, stuffing my feet into thick wet socks and boots and returning that evening with blisters the size of silver dollars, I realised that my method would have to be perfected. That is how I came into my nightly routine, wherein I would get home, take a shower with my socks on, scrubbing them with almond scented Dr. Bronners. After getting out of the shower, I would jump up and down on folded towel, squelching the water out and shaking my trailer in the process. After that, I would heat up a frying pan on the propane stove, and lightly fry my socks until dry. The Teflon provided a surface akin to the inside of a dryer, and my socks never shrunk. Instead of the usual sour odour when work boots were removed, mine smelled like candied almonds and hot rubber, not altogether an unpleasant scent.

And on a cold morning, there is nothing like a skillet of refried sock in your boots.

Cold Water Lady

There is a luxury inherent in living in an apartment, one which most of us, myself included, have taken for granted for much too long – that of unlimited hot water. Of course, I had reassured and steeled myself for lack of such an amenity in living in the bush – but lack means some, and I had none. There was a valve left unturned, a switch un-flicked, somewhere in the belly of my trailer, far out of reach of my dirty and unhappy body. It is one thing to know that there is no hot water, filthiness can be borne with a light though greasy shoulder – it is another to know that hot water is there, and just beyond your smelly reach.

So, fancying myself a pioneer, I surveyed the small bathtub and my number of pots and pans, and promptly started them to boiling water for a shallow, yet warm bath. The bathtub itself was about two feet by four feet, and maybe two feet deep – enough for me, a small girl, to get herself properly wet, if not clean. So I put 3 large pots of water on to boil, and sat down to listen to the radio. A few minutes later Rick arrived, asking if I would like to go to Sunday brunch, surveying my greasy hair and snarly face. I mentioned that my hot water wasn’t working, thus the reason I looked the way I did. Coaching me into the bowels of my trailer, describing with suspicious accuracy the way the valves looked now, and the way they should look for hot water to be present – I fixed the problem. At this point I am now covered in dirt, spider webs and grease, and am much relieved when Rick suggests a shower before Sunday brunch, and gives me half an hour until he returns.

I don’t want to appear prissy. Prissy won’t do when I’m expected to ride quads and fix oil wells and fend off bears. I need to be ready in half an hour. I quickly strip, and jump in the small shower, sudsying up my hair quickly, factoring in time to blow dry my bangs – when the hot water gives out. Not slowly. But with the force of a Mac truck I am hit with glacier temperature water, so cold that it will barely remove the shampoo from my hair, despite my feeble attempts to simultaneously rinse with one hand and keep my nipples from falling off with the other.

I turn the water off, and stood, shivering, in the bathroom, until I remembered the three pots of hot water sitting steaming on the stove, three small pots of salvation. I manoeuvre the frozen rubber plug into the drain, and attempt to prop my soapy frozen hair upon my head before grabbing a towel and opening the bathroom door. I am greeted with bracingly cold air, having left the door open after Rick left, giving me the motivation, and visualisation powers of an athlete – I picture myself sitting in far more water than these three pots will ever garner, warm and soapy and clean, ready within half an hour. In reality, I grab a pot, slip and slide back into the bathroom, depositing half in the toilet on the way there. The second pot goes smoother, filling the bathtub another painful 8th of an inch. The third pot, having two small handles on either side, I grab and heft off the stove, as a soapy strand of hair flops into my eye and I simultaneously realise that the handles are made of metal. Dropping the pot back on the stove, I rip my towel open and use either side to take hold of the handles.

It is in this state, boiling pot of water in front of my breasts, towel draped like a cape with utility pot holders attached, that I peer through my one good eye not covered in shampoo at the three golfers on the 4th green peering into my kitchen.

I was not ready in half an hour.

Greyhound, the Poor Man's Airport

There is little other way to begin a true adventure than with a ride on the proletariat chariot, the Greyhound Bus. Locations that would by car take only a few hours, now take half a day or more, inclusive of stops at locales still too small to have a McDonalds. This allows plenty of time for contemplation on the decisions made leading up to said adventure, and the possibility that they were made under faulty pretences, namely those involving alcohol or credit issues.

Therefore, it is at a Greyhound bus station, populated by the poor, the working class, those with home made tattoos and a couple of very confused Japanese tourists whom were convinced to see our great nation via bus, where I begin my journey up North. North, with a capital N, and all that is inclusive in it – cold, mosquitoes, trees, salmon, bears and oil, my primary goal. While one cannot fail to mention the seven to one male to female ration, there is no romance in this story, save that of a girl and a bear dog. My romance lay East, with a capital E, in Washington, calling me on the satellite phone to remind me of finer things like Starbucks and warmth. Maybe remind is the wrong word. Perhaps gloat is more appropriate.

With my heart in my toes and my ticket in my hand, I found a seat which afforded me an equal view of the road ahead and access to the door less that view become too forbidding. As I was boarding at midnight, I’m not altogether sure of what I was expecting to see, but when the sun came up at 4 the next morning over the Canadian Shield, boreal forest replete with said bears, mosquito and oil – I was certain that my choice was going to be interesting, if not enjoyable.

In reality, my story starts years before hand, with a credit card and very nice pair of shoes. Credit cards, I had reassured friends and family – were easily manageable if you used them solely for emergency purposes. The consummate shopper, I quickly discovered exactly how many emergencies could be found in your average shopping day. I easily wracked up dept commensurate with that of a small country, say, France – unmanageable on a salary that only occasionally afforded me the opportunity to eat day old sushi. Spending the next few years having my savings account, and eventually investments in my name (but by nothing but name, belonging solely to my parents) being applied to my credit card, enough was enough. Said my mother.

So, through nepotism, prayer and my natural smarts, I managed to land myself a job doing gas/oil line pressure testing in the great Canadian North of High Level, the last stop on the Greyhound bus route north. That’s where I was heading on May 6th, 10 days before my twenty second birthday, 105lbs and 5 foot 3 inches, twelve dollars in my bank account, with two things competing for the heaviest item in my backpack – a Maglight my boyfriend had gifted me with, and my blow-dryer.

12 hours and 3 cups of horrible coffee later, I stepped off the bus in High Level and into the truck of Rick Lyndsay, my new boss and guide. The Chevy behemoth was amazing to me at first, outfitted with Sirus satellite radio, leather seats, full cab, and with a height that required me to vault my small frame into the seat with something (what I felt) akin to Olympic grace. It was within minutes that I realised that everyone in High Level drove trucks of this size and calibre, and that they were indeed the source of all oil shortages that we may be having. Rick took me to my new home – a beautiful little trailer set up on the outskirts of High Level – in the middle of the High Level golf course near to the 4th hole green. As it stands today, I can pick out the sound of a golf cart and a good swing with my eyes closed.

Equipped far better than the dorm that I had just left, I loved my new home immediately. Putting my groceries away and exploring all the nooks and crannies of cupboards, my one channel (CBC) television, and my 3 country station radio, I reached that moment, upon being left alone, where all the tidying is done and the first meal is made – that you have nothing, but nothing to do. I sat at my kitchen table, smile pasted on my face, surveying my small yet utilitarian kingdom, and burst into tears.

Adventures in the Great White North - ish.

Alright - so here's the deal. In less than 48 hrs I leave for High Level to go work doing oil well pressure testing until.. August. Alternately living in camps near the North West Territories, helicoptering to different well sites, and living in a trailer house on a golf course. I've got one backpack of clothes, and one of books, neither of which hold too much of either. I've considered jettisoning my bag of Starbucks gold, but I figure I could trade it for a horse or something. I'm not sure I'm ready for an occupation that calls for steel toed high top rubber boots, mosquito netting and bear awareness training, but I think "ready" can be relative. I'm not sure how much I'll be able to update Poshlust, but I'll be typing on my computer regularily, so I'll post in big chunks. Poshlust in the oil field. Thanks always to my family, Ian, and of course Bryan, for being so supportive and not laughing at my small muscles.. and always, always, encouraging me on my adventures. Hopefully I'll talk to you all soon - Wish me luck!

Some Funny Things I Saw Today.

Living Martyr to Die With a Whimper

After a lengthly deliberation, Zacarias Moussaoui, the only known and captured 9/11 conspirator, was sentenced to life in prison - not death.

I'm not sure I'm clear on how I feel about this. Apparently not all jurors were sure that he played as big of a role in the attacks as he said he did, given the fact that during the attacks he was in jail on immigration charges. He stated at his sentencing hearing that being put in jail for life was evidence enough that he had won, and indeed, Americans have lost.

Why is it that I feel this is true? That some sort of vindication, some sort of "win" would have been exacted had they decided to execute the only man we known and have in custody for the deaths of over 3,000 people? Somehow him recieving 6 life terms seems comical, our high road that we've taken paved with jokes and pathetic righteousness. The judge stated that "When this proceeding is over, everyone else in this room will leave to feel the sun, hear the birds, and they can associate with whomever they want. You will spend the rest of your life in a supermax prison. It is absolutely clear who won." Why does it feel like she was simply agreeing with him? That he now lives, birds be damned, instead of dying? When you are faced with death, the fact that you will live is compensation enough, forget birds and sunshine. I don't believe that strength comes in being able to execute somebody - but I do believe that it comes with holding true to a social contract that states that if you kill somebody in a manner so horrific, you know that you will face death - and it is our duty to uphold our end of the contract, and complete the deal. We've failed on our end of the deal.

Everyone is nodding their heads in the solomn belief that we have done the right thing, because now he has to spend his life among the people he hates - Americans.

You know what? There are plenty of Americans to spend time with in hell.

Namibia Invades Starbucks?

Attemping to alleviate a headache, I stopped by Starbucks at about 1 o'clock. I jumped out of the car, intending to just run in and out. It was the strangest thing. I walked in the door, and into the middle of a pulsating, singing, smiling group of kids, singing the most beautiful music. I felt a little stunned. I know for a fact that I stood in the doorway, gaping, until I turned around, walked out, getting Ian and coming back. They were a young Namibian choir, dancing and singing. It was phenomenal - their voices were so warm and filled all of Starbucks with the feeling of sun and dry heat, energy and vibrancy. (Given that it was 2 degrees outside, it was a feat. ) We stayed and listened to about 15 minutes of music, then left. It was the nicest surprise.

It was this, or "Bad Mother Glovers"

These are my Man-Handlers for work. I don't think I'll ever put them on without laughing.

But I Hate Winter.

It was snowing this morning.
Enough said.

Somebody Call the Wambulance.

First Aid is very utilitarian. "Do what you can immediately to prevent loss of life, no matter the everlasting damage." "Life over limb." "You can know what you're doing now is helping, what happens later, you can't know." You give them CPR, even if you break their ribs, you tie off arteries even if you lose a limb. You can never know whats GOING to happen, but you know what you can do right now.

I took my first aid course for both my jobs today. 15 students and an instructor intent on horrifying and shocking us with stories of lupus limb losing and drunken ear removals, vomit in his breathing apparatus. I was sandwhiched between an Arab man who kept asking why exactly every step of every procedure existed, and a woman really excited about going to Vegas to play pool. I now know the most trivial, non-sensical facts, and basically how to get in the way of a paramedic. It seems like they all have this funny chip on their shoulder, and I'm pretty sure it says "I wanted to be a paramedic, but instead I'm an unpaid St. Johns Ambulance volunteer who pretends that attending concerts in my dorky uniform is what I really want to do".

But hey, I'm certified again. I am now licenced to apply pressure.

Coveted Item of the Day

My gift to myself at the end of the summer, for all the hard work... Won't it look pretty on my finger?

I Heart Summer

Just had an amazing cafe latte and gelato down the street at a little cafe... Blood Orange gelato, and Pistachio gelato. So tasty.

Still Rockin'

The last time I saw The Stills they opened for Broken Social Scene at the Dinwoodie... and we actually walked out of the Broken Social Scene set. It was a long time ago... But this Saturday, after I had moved out of dorms (finally) had no more essays due, no more tests to write (despite my horrific dreams of having to write a 'drama' exam for a class I had never attended) - it was a nice event to look forward to.

I hadn't really heard hide nor hair of their new album, "Without Feathers" - I was still listening to "Logic Will Break Your Heart". And honestly, if I didn't find out that they had a new album, I would have thought they were doing covers of somebody elses music, so different was the sound. Gone is that edgy, somewhat 80's guitar, the screaming and thumping, they're a little more accoustic and.. relaxed. A little more confident (despite their frequent and ridiculous use of the word "motherfucker" in their tween song dialogue). They're still really good, and still rock really hard.. But it just seems like they're not really The Stills anymore. They're still really really good - and when they played classics like "Still in Love" and "Lola Stars and Stripes" it was evident that they still rocked all of them hard. They seemed so much more comfortable and into playing the older, rocky stuff.

Given, the new album is GREAT. "Shoplifter" is a rollicking, clappy, catching single that I think everyone will swallow, and "Helicopter" was played with a lot of enthusiasm, even though there isn't a lot of that guitar they're known for. "It Takes Time" is a little more like "Logic WIll Break Your Heart" - but still lacking.. something. Lyrically, I like the new album a lot - its a little more in depth. If you didn't like LWBYH, then you might very well love "Without Feathers".

As for the show - it was amazing, as always. I wish every CD could come with a little note, instructing the purchaser to see them live if you don't like the CD -- Live makes all the difference. They're fantastic. Ian and I had a blast drinking Red Stripe and kicking back, enjoying singing and clapping and really getting into it.

And I didn't have to write an essay about it. Bonus.

Dorms, Over and Out.

Good-bye constant noise. Good-bye person who always cooks bacon and the one who always burns toast. Good-bye couple upstairs who drops marbles and has sex all the time. Good-bye smell of beer and urine and rotten vegetables. Good-bye late night doughnut and coffee runs that have successfully given me birthing hips. Good-bye paying 3$ for a load of laundry, and having a smoke alarm that goes off when I use a blowdryer. Good-bye to not having an oven but a toaster that takes 10 minutes to brown a piece of bread. Good-bye to having Dollar Draft Mondays, Martoonie Tuesdays, 25 cent Highball Thursdays, and naseaus weekends. Good-bye to the bums in the tire yard who fight over the big spacious tires to sleep in. Good-bye to having one next door neighbour who makes great crepes, and the one who always appears to be eating tuna. Good-bye person who walks in high heels through the halls at 2 in the morning. Good-bye dorms, good-bye!

Until next year.