Monday, October 31, 2005

all that glitters. My late grandmother's black leather jewelry case sits atop my dresser, lined in red and brimming full. I never close it. I like the way it spills its contents onto the crackled white paint below. There are cases within the case, too: chinese silk pouches, flocked ring boxes, leather envelopes and gauzy drawstring bags. Earrings hang from bent brass posts, chains drape from hook to hook, and studs and bangles and timepieces form a tangle on the trays below. I organize it rather stringently every now and then, as is my normal habit with the objects and spaces around me. But -- as is also my normal habit -- it becomes chaos again only moments later, when I absentmindedly toss in the hoops that ringed my ears that day or a dead-batteried watch or a broken bracelet, dripping beads. I have eclectic taste in acoutrements: sometimes I like my round bits of jade on a cord, and sometimes I prefer the milky sheen of freshwater pearls. Sometimes I like the glinty sparkle of the tarnished rhinestones in my dimestore cocktail rings, and sometimes I prefer the smooth pale-gold of my grandmother's wedding band, thinning from wear where it meets my palm. People seem to love to give me jewelry that doesn't quite suit me. This is a common theme in the jumbled depths of the case, too: goldplate chains with crystal pendants in pale blue; a locket with inlaid stones in sickly yellow-green; a slinky silver bracelet acres too loose for my wrist; a safety pin hooked with tiny wooden babushkas in a descending row; a iridescent-beaded set of earrings too big to be delicate and too small to be bold; and the star piece, a floral-cubic zirconium-tarnished brass choker from maid of honour duties for a friend. The most dominant entries by choice are my earrings, since necklaces make me claustrophobic and skittish. I wore a spontaneously bohemian hemp-coral-raffia jumble at my throat today, and if I had a nickel for every time I tugged at it, I'd be able to afford five more. Bracelets are fun, but they click-clack on the keyboard as I type, which means that they're off and languishing in my purse by 10 am. I wore them joyfully when I was a barista, since my hands and wrists flew through air and not across keys -- but no more. Rings are lovely, too, but sometimes my taste in them is suspect. I like the big knuckle-dusters, but I've only got a few rather gaudy examples to show for my preference. My friends make fun of them, and for good reason: my hands are rather tiny... they stand out like monster houses on narrow streets. I don't care, though. I love their weight and their shine. I also have some very plain silver bands and some old heirloom rings that are more in scale with my digits. Those are some of my most cherished pieces, and really, the only bits I would truly mourn if something happened to the case. When I stand back and look at the mess of links and clasps and posts and stones and beads and metals, I realize that my jewel box is a tiny microcosm of my own messy and colourful world. There is the history -- Cousin Norma's brooches, Nonna's rings, Grandma White's pearls, Mom's tiger eye and silver... ... and the whimsy -- the giant finger-cuff of chrome with pink, blue, and green sparklers, the Faberge egg-like pendant with the picture of St. Mary and a tiny dangling cross, the seashell strung on a ribbon... ... and the elegance -- the diamond studs, the silver hoops, the leather-strapped analog watch... ... and the poignance -- the stainless steel bracelet timepiece and Chinese pearls from a long-ago boy, the woven strands of silky thread that once ringed a baby's wrist, the aquamarine pin that I admired on the bosom of a family friend more than 14 years ago that arrived in my hands with a note sometime in September of this year... Every single thing has a story, whether I lost one earring of a set in a late-night cab, or I got the locket from one of my grandfather's perilous trips to the Ukraine, or I found the bracelet at the bottom of my mom's own jewel box and begged to take it home. And the future things! Where will I find room? There is a scarab ring my mother refuses to give me until I "pry it off her cold dead finger" -- but one day it will live in the velvet compartments on my dresser. One day a baby bracelet from a child of my own might find storage there until they grow old enough to want it passed down to find a home in a leather box atop a different chest of drawers. A gift from a husband as yet un-snagged might end up being my favourite thing in there, simply because it came from him -- but who knows what kind of trinkets he might spy and think of me? He has to spy me first! Who knows. The case is plenty full for now, and only I know the tales of how the treasures came to be there and the particular way each item makes me feel when it grazes my hand, my neck or my wrist. These little things are my punctuation, my filagree, my gilding, my foolishness -- and the mosaic that proves that unplanned beauty is sometimes the finest kind. 11:27:18 PM    well, yes, but...  [] peppercorn. peppercorn inside my jar do you know how hot you are? if I grind you will you burn? you fire my lips I never learn next to the salt the picture of calm my mill of casual napalm peppercorn inside my jar cracked and round like me, you are 8:57:50 PM    well, yes, but...  [] dream businesses. Something odd about my dreamlife -- or at least I find it peculiar -- is my tendency to be running companies in my sleep. Not Microsoft or Apple or Pepsico, mind you; nothing so corporate or comprehensive as that. I just run odd little niche businesses as subtopics in my somnolent hours. Just last night, in fact, I was a baby-carrier entrepreneur, making Snugli/Baby Bjorn-type items for a gal at my work who is expecting (but had given birth in the dream). They weren't just any carriers, mind you, but insect-shaped carriers called Baby Buggies. She had her little girl in a carrier that looked like a snail (stuffed, swirly-patterned) and a little toque that simulated antennae. It was so incredibly cute that I wish it actually existed or that I had the wherewithal to make one. I'm sure somewhere, someone has. But apparently, within this line, I had crafted ladybug-shaped ones and bumblebee ones and even one that looked like a carpenter ant (which was actually a tad weird). In other dreams, I've been a goldfish interior decorator (planning and designing optimal spaces for trendy fish), a designer of jewelry based on pomegranate seeds, and the inventor of a device that enabled people to slice vegetables and fruits with vocal commands: the ChatBlade. Maybe I harbour a secret desire to infiltrate the business world. Maybe I am a closeted inventor. Maybe I have the entrepreneurial flair to make a crazy idea work. Or maybe I just eat too much spicy food before bed. 8:31:49 PM    well, yes, but...  [] book? cover? In line at the grocery store: Man: "Hey, you eat meat?" Me (in envirowarrior getup for Halloween, holding a package of chicken breasts): "Yeah?" Man: "Weird. I would not have thought so." Me (forgetting about said getup): "Why?" Man: " You look like you eat roots and leaves." Me (now totally confused): "What?" Man: "I like my granola as much as the next guy, but a little bacon in there never hurt anyone, know what I'm sayin'?" Me: "No?" Man: "Happy Halloween!" I love my grocery store. 6:09:01 PM    well, yes, but...  [] boo Scary things they don't talk about on Halloween: that stuff that collects under the fridge the spider that was on the handle of the blow dryer today that weird guy who works on the second floor my friend's cat that splurt sound that the mustard bottle makes when it's almost all gone Jocelyn Wildenstein that bus driver who slams on his brakes in the middle of the intersection that zit that you cannot see -- you just feel it, like a pain epicentre under your skin, waiting to take over your face Cuba Gooding, Jr. feel-good movies decaf that last sandwich in the case low-rise yoga pants oxidized guacamole the Gatorade list of ingredients Gregorian chants at the wrong time squirrels with bloodlust that look that dental hygienists get when they take out the floss driving instructors Blush wines a world without flip flops that ominous feeling of a middle of the night phone call the fact that Billy Corgan sounds like PMS oily muffins from Costco that sound my fridge makes right before it stops humming Nick Carter in Rent O, the fear! 6:24:05 AM    well, yes, but...  [] sneaky, sneaky, sneaky. That's what I am. I chose a costume that I can put together at home. One that won't make me stand out too, too terribly much on these West Coast streets. I'm going as a tree hugger -- with an actual tree to hug! Bandana, braids, Guatemalan handknit sweater, hemp accessories, ripped jeans, smudged face, wild look in the eye, leaves stuck in the sweater, twigs in hand, fingerless gloves. In no particular order. I swear, I'll fade right into the crowd. So, to get you in the mood, an actual tree picture I took: Tonight's blog will be on a scary topic, fitting for Halloween. But which one? Suggest a great scary topic -- and I mean scary -- and you could end up with a BlogCabin moment dedicated just to you! Okay, now to get my beauty sleep (not enough hours in the day!) and dream of granola and Greenpeace and Genmaicha and galoshes and great owls. Oh yeah -- and Grande lattes. 12:10:39 AM    well, yes, but...  []

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