Everybody loves the music

I've been passed a baton.
Not one to back down from a relay race, here goes nuthin.

Total volume of music files on my computer:
I don't actually have a computer right now. My poor little delapitated G4 tower didn't pack well into my backpack, and was left in the homeland. The computer that I utilise while at work appears to have 0.

The last CD I bought was:
I am a Bird now, by Antony and the Johnsons. Heavenly.

Song playing right now:
Nothing. Once again, the work puter isn't helping me out a great deal. I was listening to Iron and Wine on the ol discman earlier, does that count?

Five songs I listen to a lot, or that mean a lot to me:
“The King of Carrot Flowers” by Neutral Milk Hotel. Short and sweet.

“The Littlest Birds” by The Be Good Tanyas. Makes me happy happy happy. She sings in my pitch.

“Brim Full of Asha” by Cornershop. Don't know what it is. Can't get enough of it.

“Jezebel” by Iron and Wine. Beautiful. A glass of wine on the porch in summer.

“Neighbourhood #1(Tunnels)” by The Arcade Fire. Love it. Love it. Love it. If you haven't seen them live, you must do this.

Five people to whom I am passing the baton:
Greg
And none of my other friends have websites. Nevertheless:
Jason
Ryan
Laurena
Bradley

Some of us just weren't born to bake

Once you have shipped your life across the ocean, you get occasional cravings for the comforts of home. You miss your friends, you miss your family, and in this particular case, I missed my mom's chocolate-chip-oatmeal cookies, circa 1984.

After a quick phone call home to retrieve this heavenly recipe from the sacred recipe box, tucked somewhere between the Fruity Jello-mold and the scandalous Sex-In-a-Pan, I set about my nostalgic little project. The local grocer (bless you, oh local grocer who stays open late on Sundays) proved very fruitful in terms of late-night baking supplies. The only absentee was the chocolate chips, but it was decided after much debate over the quality of the chocolate in a smartie, that a large, bittersweet dark chocolate bar would be an apt substitute.

Everything was going great guns, until I decided to halve the recipe. I'm not sure what happened, I can only chalk it up to using a liquid measuring cup and table spoon for the entire process, alongside my, devil-may-care "I can just approximate all the measurements, you can't screw up chocolate chip cookies!" attitude, but the cookies looked more like fried pancakes then cookies. Plus, I consumed WAY too much chocolate and cookie dough in the process, so that the mere thought of a chocolate chip cookie right now makes me want to gag.

I'm left with a plate of chocolate-chip-oatmeal cookie bits and pieces, bashfully hiding beneath a thin layer of Tesco plastic wrap, like one of those baking experiments you did when you were 10 and decided to mix tabasco, sugar, peanut butter and oregano, just so you could watch your brother gag.

I'm slightly narcissistic enough to attempt another batch tonight, but perhaps I should just leave the fond memory of my mom's cookies intact.

Don't get your knickers in a twist

I've been concerned about the mood of my blog as of late. It's less burlesque and more one-act play starring Bill Pullman. (And the debate for actor with least range of facial expression rages on...Pullman or Paxton, Paxton or Pullman?)

So, to lighten things up a bit; pictures of Delicious French Knickers.

Yum.

Friday

A rain so light that the mist sticks to my eyelashes.

The hesitant sound of Damien Rice from another's headphones.
a mouth that says O again and again in wonder and pain*

A stocking with a seam running into it's high-heeled shoe.

A small girl helping a blind man cross the street. The expression on her face, that pure elation; the result of helping. The quiet secret that she needed it more than he.

Foregoing the ban on dairy to sip a latte from my favorite Italian coffee shop.

A stack of worn books about artists who's paintings I have never seen, about places I have never been.

A red brick building.
Dreaming of far-away places.

Dreaming of me dreaming of you dreaming of me.

*from "Variations on the Word Love", by Margaret Atwood

I think my brain is a trigger food

Much to my delight, my stomach went wonky again this morning.

Over the past 4 years or so, I have endured an extensive list of tests, from the dreaded barium sundae, to the slightly more innocuous blood test. I've kept detailed lists of 'trigger foods' (at one time it seemed that raisins and bananas were the culprits), I've cut out caffeine, I've avoided dairy and wheat. I've taken pills that did little more than simultaneously ease my mind and empty my bank account.

We don't know what's wrong with me, and in cases like this, what's a girl to do but consult her old pal the internet and do some home-diagnoses?

Over the course of one particularly bad month, I was inflicted with hypothyroidism, arthritis, IBS, ovarian cancer, pancreatis and anemia. It's admirable that I even got out of bed. I was clearly on death's door.

My paradoxical self-diagnoses of being a hypochondriac has become a bit of an on-going joke for my family and friends but the reality is thus: the searing pain of 'you've just done 20,000 sit-ups and chased them with a pint of kerosene' is real. Real, unexpected, unpredictable and horrible.

Despite this, I think that there is some part of me that doesn't mind the pain. Not for any of the typical reasons; not because I like to be pitied, or doted on, or sympathised with, or even because I like skipping work, but because I like to heal. I like the feeling that when I loose control of my body, it's because it's telling me something, and that I can re-gain control if I just listen. Perhaps that message runs deeper than just "eat fewer raisins".

I believe very strongly in "mind over matter", and perhaps it's time for me to look beyond what I have been consuming, and more at what has been consuming me.