A pleasant and beautiful surprise from a thoughtful friend of mine, Miss Kate Millet. From a wonderful store on Queen West, Ten Thousand Villages is a fair trade not-for-profit organization that sells artwork from artisans in low-income countries. Their mission to financially support families by way of allowing them to market their crafts and share their stories inspires me. How incredible. I think of the hand that crafted this, the story they possess, and that their beauty has transcended onto me.

The lovely Miss Kate picked this up thinking of my most favorite word, thinking of lovehard… and well… just thinking of me=) You don’t know how symbolic this is to me in my most current circumstances. I’ve been reminded again what it means to practice what this word embodies. Courage comes from the heart, and it’s a choice I want to make every single day. It’s the only way to experience life in all it’s possibility.

Love.

I’ve spoken my piece.
Peace.

— And the day came when the risk to remain tight in a bud was more painful than the risk it took to blossom.

— I know your weakness.

— Umm… What are you doing to me?

I once stated, “I simply do not believe the charm of The Story anymore.” About a year ago when I wrote this, I was in denial that I was actually bitter about my most recent experiences. I look back on this jaded statement and presently live the repercussions of having made such a declaration. That is, after all this time of establishing myself in a new environment, with new people, and a  new confident outlook on life, I neglected to see that walls were building up around the most precious part of one’s body: My Heart.

I guess when you make the choice to detach yourself from what you should be the most connected to, you fail to realize that it can sometimes be more difficult to break down what you’ve built up.

Someone hand me a jackhammer.

I want to remember what it’s like when all of this felt good. Because… that’s kind of how it’s supposed to be, isn’t it?

I’ve spoken my piece.
Peace.

That statement about New York is undeniably true. It’s been awhile since my last post but I’ve been home since Sunday evening. I haven’t had any time nor any desire to want to sit down in this 30 degree weather to post/organize/blog about the rest of my time spent in the Big Apple.

To quickly fill you in:

Friday:

[yep, the best spokesperson one could ask for.]

I returned to B&H in record time to see what all the hype was about before they closed down for the rest of the weekend. I actually… died of freaking excitement. The outside display windows did not do it justice. Let’s just say, I dropped a lot of coin, (an investment, I keep telling myself), of items that cost 40% of the price that they do in Canada. It’s stupid disgusting. This empire is built on efficiency. There was a line up for everything, and they weren’t lying about all the orthodox Jews that work there either! I was most fascinated, though, about their conveyor belt system. “You wanna see a microphone? Hold on.” 2 minutes later, a little green bin appeared via way of conveyor belts located underneath the desk beneath the sales representative. Apparently this computerized system is synced to the inventory basement where there are billions of dollars worth of beautiful equipment. WAY. TOO. COOL.

Celsius, Fahrenheit… Fahrenheit, Celsius. 26 or 60… it don’t matta cause today, it was HOTT. New York City was graced with 26 (60) degrees of absolute gorgeousness.

The day started off in the early afternoon, with a trip down to Manhattan to scope out B&H on 34th and 9th. A haven to all photo/video/audio nerds alike, I scoped the scene only to discover they were closed… on “holiday”… on a THURSDAY?! (Apparently it’s because evverryone who works there is Jewish. And guess what, today is a Jewish holiday. Lol.) I guess tomorrow will have to do.

The megabus ride here to NYC was smooth sailing. I couldn’t have asked for an emptier bus. For a ten hour ride, this trip has become nothing but an extended, uncomfortable nap for me. I arrived here at 7:30ish am and hopped right onto the L Train towards Brooklyn, where I’m staying with my homegirl Rachel. An old girlfriend from the days of the Lu, she and I spent many nights canoodling after drinking and dancing outings in Toronto. She’s been all over the map since she left last year — Santorini, all over Europe, and finally here in NYC. I couldn’t be more happier for her knowing that this is where she’s always wanted to be.

I’m rushing right now to post something real quick before I do 4873297289 errands and my most dreaded activity, aka PACKING, before I dipset for NYC at 9pm tonight. The decision to head down for the week was spontaneous and random, inspired by Mr. Lance Drummonds, who has requested that I film his upcoming concert on Friday night.

Lance and I met for the first time back in November (Makin’ Fire: Round 1) when I was working with Old Money. Waking up on Sunday morning to see Konrad and Lance producing music in the living room, Lance’s first impression of myself was that of a red-flanneled sleepy-eyed Char. Who would’ve thought that the next time I’d be going down to NY would be to work with the ridiculously incredible R&B artist on a video of his own?!?

I shall be in the Big Apple for the next four days, so if anyone wants to introduce me to some delicious new eats, undiscovered rooftops, or happenin’ events, please keep me in the know! As well, if you’re free on Friday night, you’re all invited to “The Fly Experience Volume II”, Lance Drummonds in Concert!! BRRRRAP!

To learn more about Lance and his buttery smooth voice that has men and women alike, SWOONING, check out his blog here or his myspace here.

Till my return!

I’ve spoken my piece.
Peace.

[Disclaimer: for full effect of mass epic proportions, one must read this with legendary movie trailer voice… Failure to do so will automatically translate into the author’s ethos which is that of a crazy person….]

For centuries I’ve roamed these pot-holed streets, fiercely riding into the wind, traveling afar where no night rider has gone before… With my black water-resistant moisture-wicking lululemon running gloves strapped on, and my lucky imitation leather H&M jacket… the concrete of Toronto knows nothing else but rubber skid marks and the smell of burning black substance.

Boldly cutting through vehicles and racing street cars, I embraced the night alone. We were one.

But I knew something was amiss… I knew that greater things were to come… I felt it in every bone as the barren, cold streets whispered it, with every whir of my chain.

I was to be alone no longer.

I stumbled upon a crew… no, a family, who have shared a secret I thought only my mind possessed.

“Hey Char, how did you get here?”

“I biked.”

“Sick, you have a bike too? … We’re ALL biking.”

Walking out into the familiar almost-summer night air, we gathered into our perfectly imperfect assembly line. A feeling overtook my senses as I embraced the approval of myself and my other half, Sinthuja. It was an acceptance beyond measure. It is what the streets have whispered into my being for the many centuries I fought through the city alone…

I have found… my Goonies.

My Night Riders.

“Ride Safe. … May the Force be with You.”

I’ve spoken my piece.
Peace.