movies

And the Oscar goes to…

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I love movies.  Specifically, I love making movies.  I was blessed to call it a profession for a few years in my mid-twenties, and it afforded me travel, adventure and truly unique experiences.  The hours were murder on relationships, however, and I made the choice for me to move on to something else when I chose to have babies.

It was bound to be a natural progression:  I was a theatre junkie from a very young age, spending my teens in the lighting booth and behind the curtain calling the show onstage.  I went to any play anywhere, and the Fall found me at the Fringe every year.  The stage bled into my early Uni days, putting up an avant-garde four-man show in Peterborough, thoroughly puzzling and offending the locals.

I miss it.  A lot.  I miss the performance, the very life of the production.  I struggle with how to maintain a connection while honouring my family commitments  – theatre is more forgiving, but film is a ravenous time-eating thing.

And so for now, I sit and watch the movies, the awards shows, and try and guess at who the Academy will favour this year.  Every year I try and see at least some of the shows up for awards, (Ironic, right?  I love to make them but don’t see a lot of them!) and understand what this years’ crop of movies is reflecting in us.

This year is a good year.  I have seen four of the best picture nominations, and I feel I can come intelligently to the table.  It’s ironic in some ways – some (sure a little more than last year) diversity, no female directors for best picture, and an antiquated machine that is in the process of ageing out in the era of Amazon, Hulu and Netflix.  And still I watch.

And dream.

Perhaps one day, I will return, re imagined and in balance.

I keep dreaming.

And the Oscar goes to…

An Animal Story (or two) Aside…

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I once was a wrangler of bees. True story: as part of a film crew shooting a little independent feature, I was asked to wrangle bees. In lieu of the props department (and by department I mean one twentysomething woman with anaphylaxis and an epi pen) and in absence of a true animal department, I was given a small collection of bees and a Coles notes version of how to train a honeybee.

The shot involved the POV of a driver looking out his cracked windshield into the far dirt road, with a focus shift to a bee crawling across the outside of his windshield. And it was up to me to get the bee to track camera left or right, according to the DOP’s instructions. We shot a number of takes, and I was able (full disclosure: with the help of a lot of sugar water) to get the shot.

Fast forward to the days of early parenthood, and my young children were gifted an aquarium. We took great delight in our first goldfish until one and then two went (literally) belly-up. Off we went to the big-box-pet-store, and secured two replacements.

Replacement fish that brought in their own pets: soon all the fish were infected with worms. Back we went to the pet store for some tetracyclene and instructions. Helpful Pet Store person illustrated how I should capture the fish one by one, place them in my palm, and remove the offending worms with tweezers.

“Won’t they die?” I asked the obvious.

“Oh no, they’re (the fish) good out of the water for ten seconds or so!” I was confidently schooled. (the worms died immediately)

Off home I went, to spend five days de-worming my fish. I broke on the sixth day. The aquarium was retired.

Fast forward to yesterday: I was handed a little orange-lidded bottle and told to get a urine sample from my dog.

Seriously.

I had no faith in myself, and no clue as to how this was going to go down.

So I hatched a plan. I snuck out beside her for her final pee, in the darkness of our backyard. Totally unsuspecting, she nosed around and started to drop her hind. I took my moment, dove to the ground and positioned the bottle in the right spot.

“I DID IT!” I squealed: total victory! I could not believe it had worked, and save for a slightly embarassed dog who wouldn’t look at me for the next hour, I got my sample to the vet.

A small aside!

An Animal Story (or two) Aside…

Bucket Lists

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I think everyone has a bucket list: a small (or large) mental collection of “Hey, wouldn’t it be amazing if….” or “I’ve always wanted to…”‘s in all of us. Some are formal and organized. Mine is more a quiet collection of experiences inside of my head.

I am blessed with many, many amazing experiences. I have hiked the West Coast Trail. I have backpacked across Western Europe. I have crewed on a Schooner off of the coast of Africa. I have worked in film and television, and witnessed the beaches of Northern France transformed with landing craft and hedgehogs into the Allied landing beaches of the Second World War. I have swum with sharks off the shores of the Galapagos.

I’ve driven a tank, cheered in Hawk Alley, and wrangled bees for a perfect camera shot. I have given birth to two incredible human beings. I have also never completed the Grouse Grind. This is on my mental list; my “I want to be able to say that I have done this.” sense of completion.

I tried to wrangle the kids, and there was no talking to them. Not on a sleepy Sunday with the first full day of regular season NFL starting. So I went solo. (***NOTE: DO NOT attempt solo hiking unless properly prepared and always tell someone your plan!)

I knew I would be okay by myself on this trail, as it was so well-traveled. I headed up Nancy Greene Way, and parked, unsure of where it began.

The Grouse Grind was marked by a chain-link fence and a notice to hikers warning them of the task ahead. There was also a whiteboard advising of a bear sighting and a bees’ nest at marker 21/40. I nervously looked around, snapped a selfie and began.

A couple of observations about the Grouse Grind: there are the obvious Pros, with their annual pass lanyards, the weekend warriors, and the newbies. Regardless of your category, everyone, everyone was positive, upbeat, and very, very supportive. I had strangers reassuring me that I was doing great, and I in turn passed on the positivity.

And everyone did it at their own pace. I heard Trudeau returned to the Grind and posted a not-too-shabby time of 52:50. I knew that the really in-shape people did it @ 46-59 minutes. The website warned that newbies should expect 1-2 hours for their time. I was going to time myself, but I was not going to push. I was going to enjoy the ride, as I had no idea what to expect. (Other than the North Shore Grouse Grind warning of a 2800′ stairmaster)

I took lots of breaks, drank a lot of water, and took a lot of moments to stop and look around.   There were easy bits, and hard bits, and bits I didn’t like.  But the forest was beautiful, under a heavy cloud cover and continuous but light drizzle. Little squirrels (chipmunks?) continually zig-zagged across my path with green pinecones, obviously well-used to the human action. The silence was intoxicating, broken only by the occasional group of hikers who were chatting as they ascended. (how they managed to casually chat and ascend escapes me)

The final quarter went quickly, and when I finally saw the break in the trees, I couldn’t believe I had done it. A very leisurely pace at 1:55, but I had done it nonetheless.

And as I sit writing this with my shoulders and knees still sore, I am proud to gently stow this one away in my mental bucket list. I did it.

Bucket Lists