Succumbing to the Shadow

The flood has come, but already you’ve fled

   As I reach for you, my hand gasps for air
   Running rampant, the seas pummel overhead
   forcing upon me the free-flow, fluidity of vision

Yet I see that which you have felt;

   fading beyond the horizon, such warmth from afar…
   Its final ray the caduceus, my heart at the crux
   stealing a beat and carrying it yonder

             Do you feel my presence within?

… Needless to say, they disappeared quickly.

My cupcake craze?  These little fellows were the beginning of it all—Who knew a simple butter pecan cake mix could present itself like this?

I confess, this idea was not my own.  Traipsing through the supermarket, my mom caught sight of Hello, Cupcake! with its delightful bunny-bum cover picture and simply had to pick it up.

Since the pandas have disappeared, other creations (now extinct—yum!) have included the butterflies from the very same book, as well as the infamous bunny-bums for Easter 2011.  I would never claim to be a professional baker or cake-decorator, but I have to say that it’s a LOT of fun to pour your heart and soul into brightly coloured cupcake foils… And then treat yourself after. =)

I hope that, in addition to the occasional food-for-thought provided by my infrequent writings, I can indulge you with a bit of eye candy for dessert (when I find the time to bake).

The swooning of the flame upon the wick seduces her gaze.  A flicker of warmth, comfort, passion – burning small and slowly, yet with determination to thrive; to grow…

An evening breeze stirs the air, breaking the enchantment with the soft tinkling of the ornate gold earrings draped elegantly from each pale ear.  She turns her gaze to the rustling of the surrounding greenery.  The flowers bow as her gaze follows the warm breath of nature along the rustic patio edge.  A rose-gold curl escapes the confines of its peacock clip and settles comfortably along the nape of the thin, well-poised neck.

The sensation of drunken warmth captures her body as she gazes gingerly into his soft, chocolate eyes.  The server brings a bottle of wine – a Pinot noir from Burgundy.  The couple makes a silent toast, his expression mysterious and alluring as always, her blushed cheeks arranged in the telltale composure of a hidden smile.  As she brings the fragrant, fruity wine to her thin, sophisticated lips, her emerald eyes steal a downward glance at her left hand trembling ever so slightly in her blue satin clad lap.

    Swept up in the moment, she was indulging her fantasies.  Romantic notions were now gushing from her heart, setting fire to her body – the flame consuming her.  Rising from his chair, his eyes gleam with the same fire she feels running rampant within herself.  With a graceful swoop, he brings her hand to his firm lips while excusing himself for a moment.

    Teeming with jittery anticipation, she uses her disciplined elegance to avoid the betrayal of her true underlying anxiety.  Slowly surveying her surroundings, her eyelids are placed in a sultry manner over the green gleam of her eyes, dampening their virescence for a softer appeal.  For one passing moment, however, her mask fails her and the luster in her eyes shines through – he is talking to the waiter in the far, dim-lit corner, arranging his plans.

    Then, the colour of the world is siphoned out of her vision.  The warmth of the flame dissipates.  All of her hope and happiness dwindles to a small point of light in her vision as she is dragged away…

…Captured. 

Her mind breaks from the ethereal dream state in which it was indulging and scrambles to make sense of her situation: branches tug at her hair, yearning to maintain their clasp on its red-gold brilliance; thorns tear at her skin, envious of its soft suppleness; the rustling leaves tire of the soft ring of her earrings and tear them from her lobes…

Sharp pains prickle every point on her body; she cannot even make out her limbs within the tangle of vines.  Gold painted nails chip, tear, and fold backward, desperately and blindly searching for a point of anchor within the soil to stop herself, slow herself.

But all is lost… Flora continues to whip past her, peeling physicality away.  Her distant light—her life and reality has faded beyond infinity, and all she now sees is the Hedge that consumes her.
   

Observing the outdoors from my perch in the Cameron Library pedway, I am pondering the disconnect that Edmontonians feel toward their hometown. I can see white specs litter the air, slowly drifting downward to blanket the city. Mother nature has hit Edmonton hard this year, and refuses to clean up her mess. Snow – the dust of winter imbues the city. It’s no wonder we all feel like dying around this time of the year (if we don’t feel dead already). It’s spring and it’s snowing. Bestowed upon us by nature, Edmonton’s dichotomous seasons sever us from a sense of place.

“Nature,” Mike Davis says, “is constantly straining against its chains: probing for weak points, cracks, faults, even a speck of rust… What is ‘underlying’ urban nature without human control? Would the city be gradually (or catastrophically) reclaimed by its ‘original’ ecology…?”

The original ecology of Edmonton is the North Saskatchewan. Edmonton owes its existence to the river - our roots are entangled along her banks. City-dwellers boast of our superior river valley and flaunt the name “River City”, yet we are not so deeply connected with the current anymore, and instead we build high bridges to avoid her contact… And for 6 months of the year, the river is still. The death of the river flow as the North Saskatchewan freezes over marks the figurative death of Edmontonians. We are no longer the River City. We can no longer wander the streets, filling the city with stories, life, or a purpose. Engulfed by snow, silent and still, the people of Edmonton are confined indoors away from our roots, our nature, and thus condemned to artificiality.

We are made tepid, insipid, inauthentic, even boring. As Lucy Lippard states, “A sense of place is a virtual immersion that depends on the lived experience and topographical intimacy that is rare today… The sense of place… does indeed emerge from the senses. The land, even the spirit of the place, can be experienced kinetically, or kinesthetically, as well as visually.” During the winter months, half the year, we share little intimacy with our landscape; rather, we spend time scorning it and avoiding it. Ignorant to our forfeit sense of place, we complain about the monotony and dub ourselves Deadmonton. How… creative. We cannot flourish; we’re stuck in this perpetual storm of whiteness, sameness. We have drawn the white sheet over ourselves – the self-proclaimed dead.

We long for the vivacity of spring, we yearn for a sense of home – Nature has found its long searched-for weakness. When the river-flow frees itself, the North Saskatchewan seeks to remind us that she masters the city - it takes a flood come spring to cleanse the dust from our souls and to reawaken the humanity within us. After months of ceaseless snowfall, Edmonton is beginning to be released from her entombment. The snowdrifts no longer stand harsh and jagged along our walkways and streets, but have a saggy appearance about them as they become dissipated by hopes of impending spring. Rivers rush down their loose gravel beds, diligently laid out by city workers, and pool into newly formed lakes within the asphalt. The river not only defines this city – it consumes it. Deadmonton is somehow forgotten and replaced by River City once again.

Edmonton has no recollection of the winter months. No one cares to remember. Half of our identity dissipates along with the cruel memories of a harsh winter. With no collective memory and with the topographical features of the city transformed as the snow peels away, the reincarnated River City is but a shell.

We are at home until we forget yet again what it is to be alive come October. Lacking a permanent identity and a concrete purpose, the city-dwellers are trapped by ambivalence. Deadmonton will return, and we will be all too eager to escape her.