NATIVE AMERICANS, DREAM DIMENSIONS, AND NIGHTMARES

As I put the final touches on Minx: Dream War, I am in the throes of what can only be described as a combination of fevered excitement, a sense of accomplishment, and a torturous level of anxiety, because the real work begins once a project launches.  

Often, my over-active brain manifests my ongoing to-do list via the form of nightmares - which in turn seems to inspire my creativity (and yet, I cannot watch horror movies).

This is a monologue I wrote circa 2007 from the point of view of Minx, which will be included in the graphic novel:

From childhood, I’ve had trouble sleeping, staying up until 5 or 6 in the morning, as though I needed the cold reality of daylight to soothe me.  The monsters are not as frightening when you can see them clearly.

My nightmares are vivid paroxysms of blood & death.  I don’t know how to draw the line between dreams & reality. 

Native Americans believe that when we dream we go into another dimension.  I know this.  Every day I wake up exhausted, with burning muscles, as though I have fought a tremendous battle.

From Minx: Dream War, as Minx faces off against Ares, God of War.  Illustration by Rey Arzeno.

Often, I am fighting myself.  There is something primal living under my skin.  There is a slow-burning rage & a sense of urgency.

I’ve always had trouble sleeping…

And sometimes I can’t wake up.

Incommunicado & George Orwell

Dear readers,

I have been focused on finishing a graphic novel during the past while, and this project has devoured most of my creative energy. 

As George Orwell said: "Writing a book is a horrible, exhausting struggle, like a long bout of some painful illness. One would never undertake such a thing if one were not driven by some demon whom one can neither resist or understand. For all one knows that demon is the same instinct that makes a baby squall for attention. And yet it is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one's personality."

Andrea Grant photographed by Gigi Stoll, January 2012 in NYC

Finishing a passion project is intense. Personally, I feel like it almost literally carves out a piece of my collarbone, demanding a fleshly sacrifice.  But I love every second of it, as much as it's a challenge, at times.   Heaven and hell, the eternal duality...

THE PERFECT RED...LIPSTICK

In make-up terminology, they say: "Every woman has the perfect red."

How many of us pored over the cosmetic-based books and magazines of our mothers, before we were even permitted to wear make-up?  Fascinated by the various levels of glamour...

My mother wasn't really into red lipstick, and therefore I was utterly struck by the Chanel ads, circa late-90s, featuring Estella Warren as Red Riding Hood. 

Designed to promote the perfect red lipstick.

Chanel used to make a killer red called "Diabolique".  Upon hearing it was about to be discontinued (and believing it to be my perfect orange-red), I bought every last tube in the city of Vancouver that was still for sale...and I still have some in the refrigerator of my New York apartment.

That's loyalty.

TRIBAL ORIGINS, LEONARD COHEN, AND CATHERINE TEKAKWITHA, THE MOST VENERABLE OF SAINTS...

Leonard Cohen is my all-time favourite poet. Should you find his writing to your taste, it would behoove you to read Stranger Music, a collection of his best work.

I've been thinking a lot about what it means to be a contemporary Native, paying respect to tribal origins in the midst of being called to a great adventure.  This is something I'm exploring via the Minx: Dream War graphic novel series, and in my own life, always striving to remain accountable to the things my grandfather and father taught me.  

I'm going home to the Island in a couple of weeks., and I really want to find a Coast Salish headdress - if only to wear it in the sanctity of my apartment while writing...

A GREAT FEAST IN QUEBEC
-Leonard Cohen

A few days after her baptism Catherine Tekakwitha was invited to a great feast in Quebec.  Present were the Marquis de Tracy, the intendant Talon, the Governor M. de Courcelle, the Mohawk Chief Kryn, who was on eof the fiercest converts Christianity has ever commanded, and many handsome ladies and gentlemen.  Perfume rose out of their hair. They were elegant in the manner only citizens two thousand miles from Paris can be. Wit flourished in every conversation. Butter was not passed without an aphorism.

They discussed the activities of the French Academy of Sciences, which was only ten years old. Some of the guests had spring pocket watches, a new timepiece invention which was sweeping Europe. Someone explained another recently developed device used to regulate clocks, the pendulum.

Catherine Tekakwitha listened quietly to everything that was said. With a bowed head she received the compliments which the quillwork on her deerskin gown evoked. The long white table shone with the pride of silver and crystal and early spring flowers, and for a minor second her eyes swam in the splendour of the occasion. Handsome servants poured wine into glasses that resembled long-stem roses. A hundred candle flames echoed and re-echoed in a hundred pieces of silver cutlery as the fragrant guests worked over their slabs of meat, and for a minor second the flashing multiple suns hurt her eyes, burned away her appetite. With a tiny abrupt movement which she did not command, she knocked over her glass of wine. She stared at the whale-shaped stain, frozen with shame.

- It is nothing, said the Marquis. It is nothing, child.

Cathering Tekakwitha sat motionless. The Marquis returned to his conversation. It concerned a new military invention which was being developed in France, the bayonet. The stain spread quickly.

- Even the tablecloth is thirsty for this good wine, joked the Marquis. Don't be frightened, child. There are no punishments for spilling a glass of wine.

Despite the suave activity of several servants the stain continued to discolour larger and larger areas of the tablecloth. Conversation dwindled as the diners directed their attention to its remarkable progress. It now claimed the entire tablecloth. Talk ceased altogether as a silver vase turned purple and the pink flowers it contained succumbed to the same influence. A beautiful lady gave out a cry of pain as her fine hand turned purple. A total chromatic metamorphosis took place in a matter of minutes. Wails and oaths resounded through the purple hall as faces, clothes, tapestries, and furniture displayed the same deep shade. Beyond the high windows there were islands of snow glinting in the moonlight. The entire company, servants and masters, had directed its gaze outside, as if to find beyond the contaminated hall some reassurance of a multicolored universe. Before their eyes these drifts of spring snow darkened into shades of spilled wine, and the moon itself absorbed the imperial hue. Catherine stood up slowly.

- I guess I owe you all an apology. 

PRETTY THINGS: KOI SAKE, BRYANT PARK

Bryant Park is one of my favorite places in New York City.  Even though it's near the tourist-saturated Times Square, in the Park there is a certain redemption by way of trees, the view of classic architecture hovering in the background, and also the collectively lovely restaurant/bars which are ideal for an after-work respite.

On Monday, a friend invited me to Koi for something called the "Sake Bubble", of which this is the speel:

"Keeping with the time-honored tradition of New Year’s makeovers, Koi is introducing a new, unique twist on the sake bomb. Unlike a traditional sake bomb, the Koi Sake Bubble features a solid sake ‘sphere’ – made using reverse spherification – designed to be slowly dipped into a glass of beer using a small serving spoon, then taken together as a shot. The gummy-like sphere, which is made with Koi’s own brand of sake and peppered with edible gold flakes throughout, pops in your mouth and releases its delicious liquid center."

Welcome to a typical Monday @ 7 p.m. in January, dear readers.  Gold flakes are always exciting, for some reason (perhaps because I love jewelry)...

THE SUBURBAN WAR

This morning I woke up and felt a pang of nostalgia upon realizing how deeply I miss the sound of weekend lawnmowers.  This is a sound I haven't thought about in a long time. 

I've lived in cities for several years, but when I lived in more rural areas, there was something so comforting about a neighbor mowing their lawn, the din of the machine pulling you out of your dreams, the scent of fresh cut grass ripe in the atmosphere.  And, when you had to mow your own lawn, there was something so satisfying about it.

I find that when I'm home in Toronto, they marvel at the fact that the Americans don't always realize The Arcade Fire is a Canadian band...c'est dommage.

Here, a song about the suburbs that's on my Winter 2012 playlist, which haunts me in that nostalgic kind of way.




"The Suburbs"

In the suburbs
I learned to drive
And you told me we'd never survive
Grab your mother's keys we're leaving
You always seemed so sure
That one day we'd be fighting
A suburban war
Your part of town against mine
I saw you standing on the opposite shore

But by the time the first bombs fell
We were already bored

Sometimes I can't believe it
I'm movin' past the feeling
Sometimes I can't believe it
I'm movin' past the feeling again

Kids wanna be so hard
But in my dreams we're still screamin' and runnin' through the yard
And all of the walls that they built in the seventies finally fall
And all of the houses they built in the seventies finally fall
Meant nothing at all

Sometimes I can't believe it
I'm movin' past the feeling and into the night

So can you understand?
Why I want a daughter while I'm still young
I wanna hold her hand
And show her some beauty
Before all this damage is done
But if it's too much to ask, it's too much to ask
Then send me a son

Under the overpass
In the parking lot we're still waiting
It's already passed
So move your feet from hot pavement and into the grass
Cause it's already passed

Sometimes I can't believe it
I'm movin' past the feeling
Sometimes I can't believe it
I'm movin' past the feeling again
In my dreams we're still screaming...

2012: FIND YOUR ISLAND

Happy 2012 to all my readers and supporters.

The Mayan calendar has ended, we're still standing, and in the spirit of new beginnings, here's an excerpt from one of my favorite books.

From The Tao of Wu, by the RZA

"Many cultures consider an island to be the ideal home. 

Vintage Dior

First, because you're surrounded by water, which is life.  Second, because you're isolated from the masses, which allows you to find yourself, to develop inner strengths you couldn't find anywhere else. 

An island shows you the true nature of life itself...I advise everyone to find an island in this life.

Find a place where this culture can't take energy from you, sap your will and originality. 

Since anything physical can be mental, that island can be your home. 

Turn off the electromagnetic waves being forced upon you, the countless invisible forces coming at you all the time."

BURNOUT

In 2011, I witnessed several of my close friends and acquaintances burn themselves out, as though a collective of the best and brightest were consumed with a perilous fever.

And, in turn, I watched myself burn out while working on Minx, in the nether region between Summer and Fall 2011 (typical to form, I observed this exhaustion happen with the detached interest of someone reading a book, and tried to dismiss it).

Recently, I traveled to Mexico on a family holiday, where my mother regarded my fatigue from the perspective of one who doesn't want to witness the travails of her offspring.  She said, "You look...different, dear."

"I'm so exhausted I think my bones are about to protrude through my skin because I can't carry anything more upon my shoulders in this lifetime," I replied.  "I don't really have time to sleep more than 5 hours a night, and my deadlines never end."

Photo by Miles Aldridg

 I expected her to understand, but she regarded me as though I was a changeling in some Celtic fairy tale, rather than a child she'd borne.  "Rest, then...and swim tomorrow.  You've always brightened in the sun.  It will be 80 degrees this week."

It's true that warm temperatures always make the world a bit more beautiful.  Poolside, I began to reflect on burnout...and also felt re-motivated to adhere to my deadlines.

SIGNS OF BURNOUT

- Hollowed circles under the eyes that no amount of concealer can erase.
- Tense posture, particularly in the shoulders.
- A low tolerance of overly shrill tones: sirens, women with panicked voices speaking loudly in public places, and terrible music when you go out that makes you hate the venue.
- Random acts of vomiting, when nerves hit you hardest.
- Weeping, unexpectedly...especially if a stranger walks up to you and says something so depressing it makes your skin turn inside out.
- Uttering fatalistic, absolute statements about your burnout that include adverbs such as 'always' and 'never'.
- The sudden adoption of bad habits: smoking, excessive drinking (like, 3 shots in addition to your already-strong martini).
- Thoughts of jumping off the nearest bridge.
- Laying in bed for hours with no motivation to shower or dress (forgivable on a Sunday, but if this feeling lasting longer than 24 hours, beware).
- Feeling convinced that it will rain/be freezing cold as long as you will live, and dreading it.

So what is the cure for burn out?

Supposedly, some B Vitamins will help the cause, and a little bit of sun if you can manage to travel somewhere warm in winter.

Recovering the brain and moving forward is always a work in progress...Happy 2012, darlings.

ON HIS HANDS, THE SCENT OF CINNAMON STICKS

Photograph by Steven Meisel, for Vogue Italia

A holiday weekend approaches, along with some solitude to finish creative projects, and daydream goals for 2012.

Today I'm thinking about one of my all-time favorite poems, incidentally written by a Canadian poet. 

"The blind would stumble certain of whom they approached 
though you might bathe under rain gutters, monsoon."

So much of love and attraction depends on scent.  Skin.  Cinnamon.  Vanilla.

Lit cigarettes burning in the night.  Perfume, worn off.

The idea of someone leaving their mark on you with their fingertips.




THE CINNAMON PEELER
-by Michael Ondaatje

If I were a cinnamon peeler
I would ride your bed
and leave the yellow bark dust
on your pillow.

Your breasts and shoulders would reek
you could never walk through markets
without the profession of my fingers
floating over you. The blind would
stumble certain of whom they approached
though you might bathe
under rain gutters, monsoon.

Here on the upper thigh
at this smooth pasture
neighbor to your hair
or the crease
that cuts your back. This ankle.
You will be known among strangers
as the cinnamon peeler's wife.
I could hardly glance at you
before marriage
never touch you
-- your keen nosed mother, your rough brothers.
I buried my hands
in saffron, disguised them
over smoking tar,
helped the honey gatherers...

When we swam once
I touched you in water
and our bodies remained free,
you could hold me and be blind of smell.
You climbed the bank and said

this is how you touch other women
the grasscutter's wife, the lime burner's daughter.
And you searched your arms
for the missing perfume.

and knew

what good is it
to be the lime burner's daughter
left with no trace
as if not spoken to in an act of love
as if wounded without the pleasure of scar.

You touched
your belly to my hands
in the dry air and said
I am the cinnamon
peeler's wife. Smell me.

PROPRIOCEPTION AND PERCEPTIONS OF REALITY

As some of you dear readers may or may not know, I had a severe accident last summer.  I am still going to physical therapy to rehabilitate my severed tendon, and last week the doctor told me that I will forever have to be careful, because proprioception tends to be faulty when it comes to ankle/foot injuries. 

"What's that cut on your other ankle from?" he asked.

"I don't remember," I replied.  "I think it's from trying to train myself to wear heels again...just around the apartment, for 10 minutes a day.  I'm tired of only being able to wear boots."

"Well you'd better wear your ankle brace in your boots when you walk around New York, since your proprioception is probably off."

So then I started to think a lot about proprioception...

Andrea Grant photographed by Joseph Marranca in Toronto, October 2011 (foot brace hidden, since it's not exactly glamorous)

Rather than sensing external reality, proprioception is the sense of the orientation of one's limbs in space. This is distinct from the sense of balance, which derives from the fluids in the inner ear, and is called equilibrioception. 

Proprioception doesn't come from any specific organ, but from the nervous system as a whole. Its input comes from sensory receptors distinct from tactile receptors—nerves from inside the body rather than on the surface.

And then I started to think about perceived reality and how Stephen Hawking once posed the question: "How do we know we have the true, undistorted picture of reality?"

Answer:  We don't. 

Sometimes that's beautiful, and sometimes it's terrifying.  But it sure keeps things interesting.