HAPPY HALLOWEEN!!!

My favorite day of the year is finally here! The veil between the living and the dead is thin tonight! Keep a lighted candle in your window to welcome ghosts. Carve a pumpkin. Let a black cat cross your path. Set a place for dead friends and family at the dinner table. Visit a cemetery and honor your ancestors.

            Feel free to put on a costume, watch scary movies, eat candy, and drink ‘til you can’t stand but remember that Halloween is a very important festival. It’s the witch’s New Year. I suggest you think of all the negative actions, feeling, and emotions that have plagued you in the past year, write them down on small pieces of paper, and burn them in the flame of a black candle. Make sure you thank Hecate, goddess of magic, witchcraft, the night, moon, ghosts and necromancy, for her co-operation. 

            Have fun.

Get Scared.  

Guess how Diego Rivera died???

For those of you who are unfamiliar with Ms. Kahlo and Mr. Rivera, let's just say their relationship was non-traditional. Diego was incapable of fidelity and had numerous affairs with every glamorous woman from Mexico City to New York, including Frida’s sister, Cristina. It should be said that I don’t think this makes him a bad person. He was honest about needing extramarital sex and I personally believe some people are not built for monogamy. Besides, Frida had affairs of her own with people like Leon Trotsky and Georgia O’Keefe. What’s interesting about this whole predicament is that Diego’s affairs broke Frida’s heart over and over and over again and yet she maintained that she could not love Diego for what he’s not. Of all the things Frida has taught me, this is the one lesson that has helped me the most. You have to love people for exactly what they are. You can’t say, “I love you but you have to change your clothes/taste in music/mother.” You have to love everything about them, even the stuff you don’t like. It’s all about what you’re willing to put up with. Either you can love someone despite his or her flaws or you can’t. Frida loved Diego more than anything in this universe. In a letter to him she wrote:

“I love you more than my own skin”

But the interesting thing is how Diego died. Look it up anywhere and sources will say his cause of death was cardiac arrest or heart failure, but that’s a cop out. Everybody dies of heart failure. I’m no medical expert but I’m pretty sure it’s a univeral truth that your heart arrests, then fails, then you die. SO the real question is how did Diego die?

Any guesses?

It wasn’t a heart attack from working too hard (or f*cking too hard)

It wasn’t diabetes caused by his obesity

It was…

Cancer

Of

The

PENIS! You have no idea how hard I laughed at this. I know it’s not particularly graceful to laugh about someone’s death, but it is HILARIOUS. His death certificate might as well read “killed by irony.” How do I know all this you ask? I watched a youtube video of a lecture Hayden Herrera, the most well respected Frida biographer, gave in 2009 and she mentions it toward the end. I highly recommend that you watch this lecture. Even if you think you know everything about Frida (like moi), you’ll hear some things you haven’t heard before.

But yes, cancer of the penis is how Mr. Rivera died. Apparently the doctors wanted to amputate his penis but he wouldn’t let them. He went to Russia for crazy radiation treatments instead which made him even sicker. Yep. Gooood moooorning!

Here’s the link:

Hayden Herrera Lecture

My cat, whose name is Elvis, just went Chuck Norris on a roll of toilet paper. Cue adorable pet photo montage:

As I picked up the little pieces scattered all over the bathroom floor, I wondered if Frida's monkeys ever ripped up toilet paper? What about all her other animal children... what about Diego?

I flipped through one of the Frida books I was supposed to start reading weeks ago (but haven’t got around to yet) on the hunt for pet-related information. Which reminded me that my original intention for this blog was to read all of said Frida books and hopefully gain insight on myself by gaining insight on Frida.

The books are currently in a stack on my desk (along with a Frida 2011 calendar.) In case you’re curious, here are the books:

   

I feel I should mention, the links to Amazon are purely a way of expressing my interests. I'm an epic consumer of books and movies. Also, I'm a ridiculously visual person. If someone told me the names of various Frida books it would go in one ear and out the other. This way you can see the covers, because I know I'd rather see the covers.

Right now though, I have a kitty to clean up after. My evil little ginger cat is glaring up at me as if to say, “you have removed toilet paper from my furry grasp and for this you must die!”

Forgive the terrible formatting on my latest blog....

Update: Neither mine nor my darling boyfriend's computer is capable of fixing up that last entry so I'm thinking perhaps it is the site *sigh* c'est la vie I suppose...

Either Blogger or my Mac is malfunctioning a bit this morning.... I'll be fixing that up asap.

My May-December (breathing-cremated) relationship a.k.a. the spiritual side of things

It goes like this: while praying, I often worry I’m just talking to the chipped paint on my ceiling. Also, I have a habit of starting prayers with, “I know you’re dealing with Africa and the Middle East right now. I know there are a billion orphans and refugees who need you more than I do, but if you’re not too tired at the end of the day, could you send some positive energy my way?” And then I feel really guilty about asking for anything when there are women in the Congo who need divine grace, if it exists, just to survive another day. Then I pray for them. Anyways, lets not talk about religion because it’s GLARINGLY obvious I don’t know what I’m talking about. Suffice it to say, in my lowest times I tend to turn to Frida. Frida has always helped in a tangible, immediate way like any good guru or role model. I often find myself pondering, “what would Frida do?” (WWFD bracelets anyone?)

            It all became clear this past March. I turned 23 and, having spent my entire previous 22^nd year failing miserably at life (bad break-up, no dates, no job, no school), I needed to escape. New York City was the closest, cheapest option. When in NYC, the Museum of Modern Art (MOMA) is always at the top of my sightseeing list. This is due to a combination of factors:

1.    

1.  1. I’m insanely introverted and would rather spend time with paintings than people.

2.     2. It sounds so Disney-esque, but I always feel my heart swell when I look at those famous paintings. I fill up with happiness. It charges my batteries.

3.     3.They have a nice garden. Out back. It’s very Edward Scissorhands. I highly recommend it.

I hadn’t been to MOMA since back in my pre-Frida days. I was looking at the Van Gogh’s and Picasso’s when I wandered into this little room in the bowels of the museum. I could see one big, white wall full of Diego’s big, bright paintings. Then, I turned around and… There. She. Was.

I burst into tears. It was something about the fact that their paintings not only shared a room, they faced each other. It was something about the contrast between Diego’s huge, overpowering paintings and Frida’s quiet, small, personal portraits. Mostly, it was the element of surprise. I didn’t know she would be there. It was like turning a corner and seeing a friend and then collapsing into her arms in your hour of need. It was the first time I’d ever seen her paintings in person. Frida’s “Self-Portrait with Cropped Hair” and “Fulang-Chang and I” were more beautiful than I possibly could have imagined. I left feeling calm and centered. It was the closest thing to a spiritual experience I’ve ever had.

Finding Frida Kahlo

So when did my epic, whirlwind love affair with Miss Kahlo begin? I came across her while reading something for an art history class (that I most likely flunked out of, especially if there was group work involved.) It was actually Diego Rivera’s name that popped up, somewhere between the Venus of Willendorf’s bodacious ass cheeks and Andy Warhol’s crazy Einstein-esque hairdo. I didn’t like Diego’s paintings. They looked, to my untrained eye, like they should be lining the halls of a 3-star resort in Cancun. Or maybe just 2-stars. Later, I came to appreciate him for the celebrated muralist he is, but 19 year-old me was far more interested in the phrase “married to the artist Frida Kahlo.” 

I’ve always been fascinated with historical rebels. If I could have majored in “unconventional women in history” I would have gotten my Ph.D. long ago. Anne Boleyn, Princess Ka’iulani and Kristina of Sweden are a few of my personal favourites (side note: please indulge that extra “u” as a little piece of Canadiana). Anyways, I saw Frida’s paintings for the first time and they instantly felt like home. It was like they’d been hanging in my childhood living room. Like I’d passed by them every day for 19 years on my quest for a morning bowl of Fruit Loops. I instantly felt like they were an integral part of my existence. 

Trust me, discovering this unibrowed, mustachioed, ruby-lipped goddess blew my university educated mind. It took years before I realized why I’d been so attracted to her in the first place. At the time, I was suffering from a severe lack of self-esteem and I was desperate for assurance. I looked at Frida and knew it would be ok. Her paintings looked like truth. I could trust her, and I don't trust anybody. In fact, Frida’s beauty resonated with me so strongly that I was no longer tethered to that narrow, media defined idea of what is beautiful. I had my own definition of beauty now and she was magnificent.

Look at her. She's still like nothing I've ever seen before. When I was 19, she was so ethereal and strange. Like looking at an Amazonian warrior woman who somehow survived, untouched by society, into the 20th century. It was love at first sight.

You know…the light…and stuff…

So how do I find this aforementioned light? I’m not an optimistic person. I’m suspicious and paranoid by nature. I was born sans faith gene. There’s truth to that Hunter S. Thompson quote, “pray to god, but row away from the rocks” and I’m a firm believer in “hope for the best, plan for the worst.” I read Eat, Pray, Love. I was with her through Eat…then she lost me. Not intellectually. Just spiritually. 

So what is it that I believe in? I’d say my personal belief system could only be described as a vague sort of kitchen witchery. I need something more personal. A guru. A role model. Someone whose face just happens to be my computer background. Frida Kahlo. 

I’ve decided that beautiful Frida, who’s paintings I’ve admired for years, will help me get through this quarter-life crisis. Obviously. Clearly, a Mexican folk artist who died 33 years before I was born will have all the answers. A raging alcoholic and morphine addict is the perfect choice for a mentor. 

And they lived happily ever after…la la la...

I think this is what they call a quarter-life crisis…

Hello my new (hopefully) friends,

Here’s the truth: I’m 23 years old. Here’s some more truth: I’m scared that I’ve messed up my life before I even started living it. I’m not talking, “Oops! I dropped it but I’ll just patch it up with some super glue.” 


Nope. I smashed that sucker up good. 


It’s more like “I took an elevator straight to the top of a 110 story building and purposely threw it over the side.” My life is now lying on a city sidewalk, somewhere in Southern Ontario, cracked into approximately a bazillion pieces. 


How is this possible you ask? Drugs? Alcohol? Bieber? Sadly, nothing that tragic. It’s just that in my 23 years as a privileged Canadian girl (woman?), I’ve never really decided what to do with my life. I’ve wasted a lot of time. I tried university and hated it. I tried college and hated it. I quit perfectly good jobs that I financially needed because they were just, you know, KILLING MY SOUL. I watched a bunch of reality television. I neglected to get my driver’s license (I also neglected to learn how to spell the word “license.”) All in all, I think I might be a… what’s that called?… how does it go again?… what the French refer to as… fuck-up. Yes. I might just be a bona fide fuck-up. 


But if one is to believe the gravelly-voiced words of Leonard Cohen, and I always do, then “there’s a crack in everything. That’s how the light gets in.” So I should be headed for a whole lot of light, right? RIGHT???