... And Now For Something Different

Dear Northerners, Southerners and all you In-Betweeners,


It's about time something about the north was written, that wasn't about snow. It's such an obvious stereotype, so absolutely conventional it's almost sickening. Honestly it's not as though we live in igloos, we're far more advanced than snow.


Yet, I want to write about it. 


So here is something different. This is a poem about snow, but not. Enjoy. 

"Ice Candles"

Shivering hearts.

Hands laced gently

Trembling slightly

Grateful for the warmth.

Thoughts once so numb,

are waking up

being reborn

blossoming from the remnants

 of dead dreams,

filling our world with light.

Your smile sends me spinning

across the ice,

the heat of conversation

melting my resolve

until the cold disappears.  

May you light an ice candle,

Arctic Hipster

When Peanut Butter Attacks!

Dear Aspiring Bakers,

Sometimes I really don't think. But mostly, I think I'm thinking, but I'm really not thinking at all about the eventual outcomes of my actions.

Why this sudden realization? Peanut Butter Death Squares. I was commissioned to bake for our grad Christmas celebration, and obviously being very conscious of what I was doing, signed up to make a dessert. Now that may not seem like a bad idea, especially because it's a fairly easy task. However, I managed to mess up a recipe with only five ingredients, then practically kill one of my friends with a severe nut allergy.  The squares which were suppose to be consistency of a cheesecake bar, softened so much after I'd taken them out of the freezer that they became a mass of peanut butter an icing sugar. I had left my serving platter out (and far away from the rest of the food, as well as my severely allergic friend), hoping that by some miracle the temperamental squares would magically be eaten before they melted completely.

As per the usual, things didn't work out the way I'd hoped. At the end of the night I came back to the buffet table to find the majority of my squares massacred with a pair of tongs. The chocolate on top had been broken up by an attempt to cut the stacked portions apart, there was peanut butter mash smeared over the table, and I was certain someone had given up on trying to be delicate and just dug in with a spoon. In other words, my dessert was a fail of epic proportions.

Tragic? Perhaps, depending on your perspective. I like to imagine that I succeeded in not killing my friend with the nut allergy, instead of thinking about her obvious shunning of me the entire night. Either way, I won't be using peanut butter any time soon.

Rest You Merry,

Arctic Hipster

Short and Sweet

Dear fellow writers,

You know when you get to that point in an essay where you've just elaborated so much on a point that you can't stop? Or maybe when you are writing in your journal you describe your day in such great detail you only make it to lunch before your exhausted? More obvious than that perhaps, when you are telling a story to your friends and they really don't care about the context, but you can't help explaining it anyways?


That basically sums up why I haven't been posting: there is this need, ridiculous as it is, to correctly fill you in. Yes, this is the Internet and obviously I'm not going to mention names, addresses or credit card numbers. Yet reader, I feel as though we have created this bond, and you deserve to understand the circumstances in which these posts are written. 


It must be the Holiday Season that's making me so sappy. Ugh. 


Even now, I'm catching myself erasing and re-writing to make each sentence more precise. Is there an end to this?
 No. I probably will always write twelve page essays. I will most likely never be able to keep an accurate account of my life in a journal (however that sounds a bit narcissistic anyways). 


But maybe that's okay.


Books are long aren't they? They take years to write, you can always edit and re-edit. Isn't a novelist a failed short story writer anyways?


Maybe there's hope for me then, and for all you excessive describers out there as well. We just have to write the next Harry Potter book. 


Ha ha, hope.


Keeping life Short and Simple,


Arctic Hipster

The Official Sunday Slum is Removed

Dear Weekenders,

It feels like one of those days that really should be spent sleeping and eating, which might just be my adolescent body rebelling against late-night rehearsals and stressful amounts of school work. However, in order to satisfy this need of food and rest, I've created the following list of relaxing activities and accompanying snacks:

• An hour of Yoga, followed by ginger tea with honey and a giant trail mix cookie
• Being woken up from an afternoon nap by the smell of peanut butter and jam toast, made by someone I love
• Cuddling with family while watching a movie,and munching on kettle corn
• Eating M&Ms while having a bubble bath
• Reading a book and snacking on apple and cheese 
• Chowing down on pizza while catching up with friends
• Baking cookies, then eating cookies :)

 For now, I'm about to snuggle with my mom and eat a brownie. 

May your Sunday be filled with warmth and food,

Arctic Hipster.

Back Flips are really just Metaphors for Life.

Dear Artists,


As you've probably discovered, in order to do the things you love as an artist there must be sacrifices. Part-time jobs as a director means a full time job as a waiter, or vice-versa. Selling paintings and making money may be an ultimate dream, but in the mean time portraits or made to order prints are the reality. Theater Career? Oh, you mean all those things you go to when we're all out doing fun things that you NEVER go to? 
Yes, the skepticism apparent in the voices of those who don't understand can be patronizing. So it is also a sacrifice to simply be an artist, because of the lack of stability that parents and friends love to shove in your face. However, if you are a truly in love with what you're doing those things don't matter. You're willing to sacrifice for the thing you love. 


As the show nears, we are really amping up production in the drama room. There's a fight scene where the entire cast is on stage, but to start it off is a back flip. To be more specific, an assisted backfield off a five foot set piece into the hands of cast mates. Guess who's doing that back flip? Oh yes, we all make sacrifices for our art, even if we've been dropped on a concrete floor more than once this production. 
More than anything though, the back flip sequence in the show is cooperative, a real trust exercise. The only things stopping me from hitting the concrete, are the outstretched hands of my cast mates. I remember the first time we ever tried the flip. I was shaking so much I wasn't even sure if I could do it. But I shut my eyes and leaped anyway.
And maybe that's all you need to do: to trust that your love of art will be strong enough to guide you through the unknown. 
After all, the best thing I've ever learned about art is that you can do anything. Just fake it 'till you make it.


Take the leap, not the plunge,


Arctic Hipster

"Sign Me Up Sir!"

Good afternoon lovely readers,

Today is one of those days. They say happiness is a conscious choice, and so I'm fighting tooth and nail against fate trying to choose to be happy right now.
As the day progresses, it seems as though I'm digging myself deeper into a hole. Not only is it that disgusting half-rain-half-snow despicable type of weather out, Mother Nature has decided to make us extra miserable today by creating wind! But no, I awoke with a skip in my step this morning, unknowingly rushing out the open. Of course I was stupidly smiling when the wind whipped my jacket's hood against my face. That wasn't discouraging though. Nope, because I was set on being happy.
And then I got to school.
Now you know how when you're on a team, certain people inevitably get lazy and there's always that one person who picks up the slack? I'm that person.
Lately though, it doesn't even get to the point where everyone is assigned equal jobs and then some team members lose motivation. There's other people's crap on my plate when we start projects now. It used to start with an innocent question, a simple plea; so and so can't do this, would you be able to? And because I'm sympathetic (ie: a major sucker), I would try to help everyone out. Now the conversations go like this:

Chief: "Alright so I'll take this on. So and so can do that, and you can do this."

Annoying Team Member 1: "Oh. But I have this that night. Let's trade!"

Chief: "Okay. So She'll take mine and I'll take yours."

Me: "But that means I have two? I thought...."

Chief: "Yes but you can handle that much. Besides it needs to get done."

Me: "But I feel as though there's a bit of imbalance here. Can we ..."

Annoying Team Member: "Oh thanks so much! You'll do such a great job. I love how you always pull it together at the end."

That, my friends, is my life. Let me let you in on a secret though..... I AM SICK AND TIRED OF PICKING UP THEIR SLACK! I am not a maid. I am not any one's mother. For the most part, I'm a kind person. That does not mean I look forward to doing other people's stuff. I'll do it for the team, because I am a team player. The worst part of all of this though, is the fact that I was chided for helping someone out. Someone insulted me because they didn't do their job, and I had to fill in for them. Is that fair? No, it's not.
So this is me giving up on fair play. If you want something done, do it yourself!

Be an M.V.P.,

Arctic Hipster

The Weight of Grief

Dear Concerned Readers,


As you've probably already read on the front page of The Edmonton Journal, of The Yellowknifer or of News North, this past month has been one full of tragedy for Northerners. Thursday September 22, a Twin Otter crashed in front of The Dancing Moose Cafe in Old Town, killing two and leaving two in critical condition. 
Now, for those that live in bigger cities or are unfamiliar with the north, when there is an emergency, the entire community is affected. Yellowknife may be classified as a "City", but it is certainly no exception: the plane skimmed the roof of my cast mate's house, hit a power line and left my friend's without power for a night, and it was my mother's co-worker's fiancee who pulled the pilot out of the cockpit. 
There was an announcement at our High School a couple hours after the incident, calling all Old Town residents out of their classes. Now, if there's something else that is inevitable when there is a crises in the north, it's the quick spread of news. Every student who passed through the hallways knew what had happened, but no one could give out sure details. I was sitting in by the library window, half reading, half people watching, as they filed out of the classrooms. It's interesting to consider people from a solely objective view, to numb the part of yourself that allows for sympathy, and simply observe peoples reactions. Every face wore the same expression of apprehension, mouthes pursed with worry. There were the more emotionally driven teenagers that already showed signs of tears, so perhaps they already suspected the fate of the flight's passengers, and felt obligated to keep possible names to themselves. Either way, it was an image of unease.
I suppose the administrators would have tried to breech the subject gently, but it couldn't have made much of a difference. When people have an outcome set in their minds, it's impossible to make them believe or react otherwise. The plane crash quickly became the only topic of interest that afternoon, and the more it was talked about, the more people became paranoid that someone they knew was involved. 
I must admit I fell prey to this. One of my good friend's dad is a pilot who is hired out by both of the bush plane companies in the city, and as soon as I found out what was going on, I called her. 
It's funny the way things work, because of course she didn't pick up, which only made me panic more. After about forty five minutes I finally got a hold of her, and was able to calm down enough to ask her if her dad was alright. He wasn't involved, but boy was the moment where she had paused after I'd asked her where her father was tense. 
That's the nature of crises up here though. No matter how many people you know, you know someone involved, and share the loss. It's been a little over a month since the plane crash in Resolute Bay, and now this one has refreshed the pain. In a way, these tragedies have helped to showcase the humility and the generosity of Northerners; residents organized themselves to assist in the rescue of the survivors as well as the honouring of the brave souls who didn't make it. Tonight there is to be a public gathering at seven to remember the victims of the plane crash and to support their families in their grief. 
In fact, it's beginning to feel as though grief is a blanket that stretches across the North itself. Even though I still haven't come to terms with the loss of my grandfather, I can't help but feel my hands rising to lift the blanket's weight from the shoulders of these families.


Lift your hands up in support,


Arctic Hipster