Bags of Hush
When Claire and I were little, our step-father’s call for “bags of hush” was are cue to calm the fuck down. I’ve always liked the idea of a bag of hush. It would be lighter than air and once opened, would roll out in waves like the mist from dry ice (and you would have to twirl as dry ice and ballet are forever twined in my brain).
Our new apartment is so quiet. Almost too quiet. I find myself lying in bed missing some of what came to be natural sounds of apartment life in San Francisco: people going through your garbage in the wee hours or the snippets of drunken conversation as people made their way home after last call. But back to the quiet.
My current theory to our quietness is that there’s a house elf standing on the roof with a never ending bag of hush. The hush is rolling out continuously, providing a blanket of quiet for all those who dwell under our roof. I’m not sure how I can scientifically prove this theory, but I’m going to stick with it for the time being.
I have a concern that we’re not down with the custom. Are we supposed to leave out plates of cookies or mugs of spiced rum? It would be a massive shame if we were to fail in the appropriate payment or show of appreciation and our house elf were to take a hike. Any thoughts?
Interview with Cazé
While in São Paulo, I was interviewed by Cazé, a former MTV VJ who is working on a documentary about blogging. I took the above during my post interview interview (does that make sense?).
While he was recording me with his Nokia, it appears that another member of the crew was also recording. Here’s the poop on YouTube: Cazé entrevista Heather Champ (00:59) and Cazé entrevista Heather Champ (01:35).
Queen Street West
Years ago, in what now seems like another life, I used to live above a bicycle store in Toronto on Queen Street West. Dot, my large deaf white cat, used to break into people’s apartments through open windows, stealing all manner of socks, which she would lay out on the deck like trophies. She would also make her way from the back over the roof of a nearby one story building to perch outside my studio window (much to the consternation of pedestrians on the sidewalk below).
I received word that Duke’s Cycle burnt to the ground in a 6 alarm fire earlier today. You can view photos of the devastation here.
Heather Powazek Champ never leaves the house without a camera. A Canadian by birth, she now calls San Francisco home. More »
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