Work is good. Life is better.
The Cultch Bees are thriving on the roof at 1895 Venables Street. I’m planting a bee friendly medicinal garden for the apian ladies. Penelope and Circe are reigning over their queendoms; the hives are full of healthy brood and gorgeous waxy hexagons of honey. My community garden plot is already showing signs of a certain wildness - but I come by that honestly. A new bike - light and fast, bombing around the city, my skin to the wind a simple pleasure. People I love gathered round my dining table. My teenage Masai warrior daughter flitting in and out of my field of vision, deigning, occasionally, to spend an evening with me watching re-runs of Grey’s Anatomy over tv-tray dinners. Dusting off my fave thrift store sunfrocks. Life is good. It ain’t perfect - but I wouldn’t be living honestly if it was. And as a beautiful, wise friend of mine says - just keep peeling back the layers. Bring it on, Artemis.
4 more episodes of The Murders (Citytv), Mondays @ 9PM.
Workshopping Pamela Sinha’s latest play, New, with Soulpepper Theatre in TO.
The Second Woman by Nat Randall & Anna Breckon (Performing Lines/Australia). A mulitimedia theatrical experience - staged and projected live through multiple cameras. 1 scene from the classic John Cassavetes film Opening Night, performed 100 times, by 1 actress, with 100 different men, over 24 hours straight, in 2 different cities. Oh fuck yeah - I’m pretty excited about this one. More details soon.
Audiopile: Maxing out on 80’s Brit Ska and 2-tone these days - UB40, The English Beat, vintage Police, The Clash - some wild card PJ Harvey thrown in to temper that rankling English chauvinism - but the hooks are so daaayam good, it’s got me like swing-kick-swing-kick-swing-kick. The The’s Dusk, Mr.Jukes’ God First, both brilliant spins. Drake, I broke up with you man, but you keep showing up at my door, and end up spending the night. Getting my 70’s Canadiana folk-on every night at The Orchard (After Chekhov): top of Act 2, Joni’s earthen tones guiding me across the inky darkness of the stage to my starting mark; and Gordon freakin Lightfoot, who brings back childhood suburban Ontario memories of lying in the back yard in our bikinis under the sprinkler on humid summer afternoons…