'to go where no man has gone before'

(just when you think you've seen it all . . .)

I'm looking for a job in Toronto. However, this is tempting: the Vulcan Advocate is searching for an intrepid, enterprising reporter/photographer.

Yeah, Canada!

'hurrying hard'

The only time I have been on a curling rink was at a learn-to-curl initiation at the city-owned rink in my hometown of Windsor. I liked it; the air was fresh and cool, invigourating. My grandfather and his friends curled every winter up in Bruce County. This wasn't so bad, and it wasn't boring.

Then half way through the game, I was helping to sweep a stone, 'hurrying hard'. A split second later with all my weight on my broom, my broom flew out and I followed, falling from my full height, feet slipping out and up, and landing on my head with an ominous, loud thud. I was surprised I was conscious and surprised I was able to get up. Within minutes I had a golfball-sized lump only half an inch from my right temple.

I retrieved crushed ice and a pack, and applied it to my head. I was shaken, but okay. I watched my friends finish the game. But I was stunned. Who ever heard of curling accidents? I hadn't. This was the game my grandfather played. I was glad I only hit the ice and not one of the granite rocks.

I had a beauty of a shiner for a week or so to show for my foray into the world of curling. I kind of cringe when I hear all the jokes about the game, because I haven't gotten on the ice for it again -- though, I suppose I should. And I'd like to. . . (but I've never seen anyone wear a helmet for the game).

Lest you think I'm a total 'fraidy-cat, I skate (ice and land), cycle, have three years of a martial art, and have been in a whitewater rafting accident (another story). So, curlers, stand proud! That's a gutsy game you're playing!

My congratulations to Canada's finest and their gold and bronze Olympic medals.

swan lake

Photo: Darren C.

Late Friday afternoon I received a phone call from a friend who had complimentary tickets to that evening's performance of Swan Lake by the National Ballet of Canada. Did I want to go?

Of course, of course. Time enough to shower and time enough to get to the Hummingbird Centre for 7:30 p.m. curtain time.

Just time, as we settled into our seats only minutes before the house lights went down. It had been years since I had attended a ballet production, usually seen in Windsor (where the ballet companies toured, often with their second-stringers), and I had seen acts of Swan Lake, but never the complete ballet. As a young girl, I would get so excited after watching a live performance that I would dance in the street on my way home from the bus stop, and try to stand on my toes at home in front of the mirror. Twice I sprained toes badly, not learning until years later in an adult ballet class that real ballerinas use steel-toed pointe shoes.

The magic of the theatre has always captivated me. When it is at the high level of the National Ballet of Canada, it is sorcery. So impractical to spend hours and hours, one's life, to perfect and create illusion, but so necessary to our souls.

And because of the calibre of the musicians, the dancers, the set, costume and lighting designers, not a false note, nor a false step -- only mystery and magic, grace and wonder. The royal purple velvets of the court, thick with luxury, the intricacies of the corps de ballet preening and fluttering, the darkness of the music as the story descends into tragedy, all contributing to a seamless illusion.

Because we arrived too late to read the story synopsis, and were too busy talking during intermission, we were both surprised when the Swan did not die a long, lingering death. We had each seen the Swan die many times in other productions. Apparently there are several versions with several diverse endings. In this one, the Prince fell over after a struggle with the dark ruler of the swan kingdom. Only when the curtain began to come down, did I realize the ballet was over. The Swan did not even have time to grieve.

The magic ended abruptly, not unlike some European films, when one is left wondering what the story is saying. And maybe one is not satisfied with the denouement, perhaps even piqued with it, but the ride and journey are remembered as art at its best.

If you ever get the chance, and have not seen it, find an old film called The Red Shoes. It is full of the frenzy and obsession of dance and the ballet world.

silver sky

Torino test run in 2005. Photo: Zioluc

Of all the amazing feats at the Olympics, I am always in awe of those effected by the sky flyers of the ski jump and nordic combined.

frontline

Last night I watched Sex Slaves on PBS' Frontline. If you have the opportunity, it is on again Thursday, at 12 a.m. I'm assuming that is Thursday night, not Wednesday, but I may be wrong.

This is a very important piece of investigative work and very difficult to watch. It concerns the sex trade in the Ukraine, some other former Russian states, and Turkey. Many of the women are tricked and lured with the promise of regular jobs, often by known acquaintances.

Sometimes, with so much misery and hardship in the world, it makes you wonder if you have any right to be happy. Of course we do, but it's good to appreciate our good fortune.

who were you in 1905?

I enjoy (some) reality TV, documentaries, non-fiction. 'Survivor' has been a favourite since its beginning, but I won't write about it -- enough is written about it.

As usual, I'm writing about a show that was completed two years ago, and whose last episode of its recent revival is this Sunday. I only 'discovered' it on its reshowing on PBS. It's called Manor House and presents all the glorious snobbery and stratifications of life in Edwardian England, circa 1905. The show takes us 'upstairs' among the genteel aristocracy and 'downstairs' among the overworked, servant class.

The participants lived by Edwardian rules for three months, and the research done for the show is impressive. Both upstairs and downstairs find the social stratification can be stifling and lonely, especially compared to today's standards.

Check out the website. There is a snob-o-meter to rate your snobbery level, and you can find out where you would have placed on the societal scale.

Alas, I would have been helping to keep a lodging house, living in a cramped dorm, and rarely seeing daylight. Oh, yes, and I'm one-third snob.

in the congo

Check out this amazing site, which I have been introduced to through Mike Armitage. The photography is amazing. The tired, old saying that a picture is worth a thousand words is, as tired, old sayings often are, only too true.

san francisco zen

At Christmas I bought myself the Blockbuster Coupon set, a great savings on their overpriced rentals. After only one month, I am already saving myself money, so it was $20 well-spent.

I can get three rentals for the price of two, which I love because sometimes it's nice to have your own film festival.

I have never been to San Francisco, and I have never seen it filmed as beautifully as in the documentary The Wild Parrots of Telegraph Hill. This is a charming film, finely and intelligently edited. It is about wild parrots in San Francisco, but it is more about the ordinary man, Mark Bittner, who takes it upon himself to care for them, and how that naturally progresses to something more encompassing.

I don't own a lot of films, but am thinking of buying a copy of this, because its beauty and honesty linger.

Near the beginning of this film is a revelatory bit of music sung by Jack Kerouac. I never knew he sang, and if there's more out there by him, I don't know why it hasn't been released. (And to answer my own question).

If you rent it, watch the extra features, as they give even more background and follow-up.

'everybody gotta have a dream'

This film is about second and third chances, the power of dreaming and the need to express yourself. With music that comes up from the sweaty streets of Memphis, and populated by people who surprise and keep you guessing, this is a movie worth seeing and one to remember.

And now that it is on DVD, watch the features, because they present a story as fascinating as the film. It is a story of guts and perseverance that seems to have been a cinderella tale for all involved.

This Terrence Howard is going to get men wearing undershirts again, like Clark Gable got them to take them off in the classic It Happened One Night. That's a good-lookin' look.

did Ben get his dad this gig?

Does anyone else think that, gee, maybe we should find something else for the former leaders of our country to do?

Lots of good monetary prizes behind this contest from Belinda's dad, Magna's Frank Stronach. Anyone have doubts about his little girl's ambition?

february

Don't ask me why, but for some reason, I have never been so happy to see January leave and a new month begin. But I am -- happy it is the first of February.

Could be because I found myself blindsided by hard and deep emotions last month (blindsided explaining too well their unexpected onslaught). Could be because I was so tired of seeing all of those January 31st deadlines for summer internships.

But, hey, the beginning of February, usually the greyest and most dismal of months, feels like the first day of spring, and the start of a belated new year.