I will gather up my memories of you,
And with them I will build a tower,
Sweet thought upon sweet thought,
Until mine is a life of a dream-piler.

And in the spreading meadows below my tower,
The bees will know your name,
And fill the flower with happy nectar,
Until the valleys over-brim with ripened thoughts of you.

And I will whisper your name to the somber sea,
The hushed gray-lipped sea,
And it will murmur your name in low pebbled tones.
Your liquid name will roll upon ageless shores.

And I will sit in the deepening shadow-pool of my tower,
And grow numb in the fumes of the evening meadows,
And lift my face to the drowsy sea-breath that speaks your name.
All ancient children of my love for you.
GB, 2000

I promised myself that I would come home from three days away with a different state of mind. As I am rocking towards Toronto, I am pondering what this different state will be.

There are some things that I must let go of now.
There are new ways that I must look at myself.
There are sacrifices that I must make.

I feel that my greatest strength will continue to come from being still, and from focusing on my physical environment. There are such direct connections between my physical environment and my emotional landscape.

I will clean, and organize, and fill my fridge. I will plan meals, and rid myself of two large boxes of things I don’t need or want anymore. I will launder and mop and place fresh candles around. I will get simple flowers to put on the lovely round table at the top of the stairs.

My strongest urges are consistent. I want to climb naked into clean, crisp sheets with my outdated glasses perched on my nose, and pour over a good book until my eyes are forced to close. I want to hear my dog snoring happily at my feet. I want to rent sweeping costume epics and watch them alone after a delicious meal that I cook from scratch just for me. I want to write things that have nothing to do with what is inside my head and my heart.

My friends have the same advice for me;
Stop looking.
Stop wanting to find love.
Stop thinking about having a partner.
Stop being wistful when you see happy lovers on the street.
Stop caring.
Stop dating.
Stop.

Then it will magically happen.

I’m not quite there yet.
It’s hard for me to stop hoping, and waiting.
I’m not there yet, but I’m close.

As the train paused briefly at a station on the way home, a woman paced slowly along the track, peering into the windows. She grew increasingly anxious as she realized that the person she was waiting for was not on this train, and would not be getting off to meet her. Her face grew pained and drawn and her pace slowed to a resigned stillness. She shoved her hands in her pockets and closed her eyes. I watched the prairie amber of the sunset create a chestnut halo on her head, and I laid my fingers gently on the window.

I had almost forgotten how much I love trains.

You can’t count the GO train, really. It doesn’t go fast enough to rock you the same way, and it smacks of commuter convenience. There is no sense of exciting destination, though I swear every time I’m on one, I can smell my mother’s roast beef slowly simmering away.

As a child, my grandmother used to take the train every summer to visit her family in Winnipeg. Once or twice, I got to go along for the ride. I have vague memories of sleeper cars, and faded photographic evidence of scenes passing by through windows, but I will never forget this rocking motion. There is also something achingly beautiful about the insistent call of the train’s horn.

I fantasize about taking a very old train on a very long trip somewhere through the mountains. I would wear a very smart travelling suit with a hat to match. Probably charcoal grey, with a teal silk blouse. I’d have kid leather gloves, and a valise, a vanity, and probably a hatbox. I think there would have to be a clever, tiny dog too. His name would be Cagney, and he would keep an eye on our stuff while I napped. It’s not possible to stay awake with this rocking motion. It’s just not.

I’ve met a man who drives trains. Actually no. He does not drive them. That’s the job of someone else. Though he’s explained this in great detail, I still don’t quite understand the difference. What I do understand is that he is the one who guides the trains gently, and carefully together in the yard, using all of the patience and careful judgment required for such a task. Trains can be stubborn, and some of them have been through serious abuse on their many journeys. Sometimes these old cars screech in protest, but he simply goes about the task, intent on piecing things together just so. Of course, he has described near-disastrous incidents involving too much speed and cars filled with highly combustible contents. People can seriously get hurt in those situations. I think it’s highly romantic that someone younger than me wants to spend his life workin’ on the railroad. All the livelong day. And, he also happens to be about a thousand miles away. Even when I am in Toronto.

The lights on this train can’t seem to decide whether or not they want to stay on or off. And the hostess (what do you call these people on trains?) found me a yogurt, which I was so excited about, until I opened it to find a layer of blue fuzz on the top. Sadness. Now it sits on my little food tray, untouched and mocking me.

My destination is Montreal, a city I’ve scarcely spent any time in. It’s strange that someone with such a love of all things French would be able to count on two or three fingers the number of times she has visited the Canadian Mecca for Frenchie goodness.

The trip is for a work conference, so it will be a busy one, but I have a free day on Sunday to explore. I truly wish that I could speak French. I made a promise to myself to learn once I got home from Paris, but like so many of these things that I want to do, it fell by the wayside.

So, this train journey will wipe clean my slate, like any voyage is wont to do. I will go, then return feeling fresh and open to greater possibilities. I’ve been in a little rut. Call it February blues, call it falling into old, bad patterns, but whatever one may call it, this has not been so good. When I left the house today, spring was most certainly in the air. I’m going to hang on to that fresh, clean smell until the buds appear on the trees. And I’m going to buy a beautiful pair of rain boots.

I promise to only do this once every few months…

Sunday’s show was spectacular. It was exactly the kind of high-art, high-class, sexy, sultry, comedic, variety onslaught I’ve always dreamed about.

The resulting photos are phenomenal, of course, thanks to Ryan Visima. There are some really gorgeous shots of the guys and gals, but I found myself cringing at some of my own photos.
I know I’m too hard on myself, and that probably nobody else cares about my thighs the way I do. Or my tummy for that matter. In fact, I know that once the weather thaws and I can ride my bike to work every day, I will feel better in no time, but yeesh.

Why is it so hard for us to be objective about ourselves? I suppose that it might have something to do with the fact that we have back-stage access to all of the crap we carry around inside our heads.

I try not to indulge these feelings, because I think they are stupid. I do think it’s important to share the fact that I feel them though. I grew up really, really awkward. I was bookish to the extreme, with an over-the-top vocabulary, and the giant glasses to match. My adolescence was spent basically unnoticed, until I hit about sixteen or seventeen. I don’t think I’ve ever quite shaken the feeling of being a dorky kid. This is something I’m actually quite grateful for. I learned very young that there had to be other interesting things about a person, besides the way they look. I think my brother learned the same lesson.

We will always have that voice telling us “we can’t”, or “we’re not good enough”. The voice that mocks us with “who do we think we are”? As far as I can tell, in dealing with this voice, we have three choices; we can lay down in surrender to that, we can numb ourselves until we can’t hear it any more, or we can embrace it, stoke it’s angry little head, and tell it that it is loved.

I’m going to try option three for awhile. I’ll let you know how that goes.

On a side note, would anyone like to school me in the proper use of the semi-colon versus the colon? A friend told me it would be a great cure for my penchant for run-on sentences.

Billie Black, Photographed by Michel Mersereau

This is what I see as I sit in bed, breaking my own no-laptop-in-bed rule, surveying The Fortress.
It’s almost show time, and my apartment is a sea of feathers, and sequins, and silky drawers. There are rhinestone encrusted shoes, wigs, boas, tiaras, scarves, and tassels as far as the eye can see.

Tomorrow night I have cleared my schedule so that I can meticulously work through the set list and put together each outfit for each number. This is one of the show elements I most enjoy.

If you walked into my apartment, and didn’t realize it was mine, you would think someone’s grandmother lived here. The majority of my furniture was made well before I was a zygote, and I have so many old things. In many ways, I really have created my own little world up here.

I have visions sometimes of becoming a gin-swilling Auntie Mame; growing old, and pickled, and still traipsing around in the same flowing robes and perfumed feathers. In this fantasy, I have a grizzled but distinguished cat who follows me everywhere, punctuating my worldly pronouncements with a throaty “Meowrrr”. There is of course a young ward in my charge, perched on the brink of his burgeoning sexuality, to whom I wholeheartedly endorse any and all misadventures. (For the sake of having great stories when your sexy bits have become withered and pendulous)

Until then, I remain Schnoo. I am out of place in these times, yet completely at ease in them. I can smell the need for nostalgia, and communion, and personal interaction with strangers. I and my fierce posse of fabulous females endeavour to bring you slowly, and lovingly into our world where we are all friends. Where we are all celebrating the ability gasp breath. Where we are all beautiful, and tragic, and fragile, and free to explore. Where we are sacred and holy in our humanity.

All set to a jazzy tempo, of course.