Sylvie Hill

Je suis la nouvelle blogueuse chez Migraine Québec!

Mon témoignage.
Ma biographie!

“Je m’appelle Sylvie Hill, j’ai 46 ans et je suis une migraineuse épisodique classique. Mes déclencheurs sont les hormones menstruelles et, évidemment, le stress émotionnel épique. Éviter l’alcool et le fromage, mes tantes et les dynamiques familiales angoissantes, la cigarette, et m’en tenir essentiellement à un régime végétarien m’aide énormément. Bien sûr, la routine est fondamentale, notamment des cycles de sommeil et de réveil constants et une alimentation sur une base régulière, afin de maintenir un bon taux de glycémie. L’activité physique peut aider ou nuire. [Lire plus…]”

IN DATING, I wonder why people feel it’s impressive to tell you how good they are in bed? Imagine how ridiculous it would sound if they told you how great they were at loving? And here’s the point: no virtuous and experienced potential lover needs to advertise a thing. It can be read in the way we:

– open the car door for a friend, date, lover, mother, brother
– hold the door open at the pub for another
– help with the dishes after supper
– fetch them a glass of water on the way to the cupboards
– help someone in need walking by
– speak of our exes with appreciation in the eyes
– admit our weaknesses with a chuckle and admission
– humbly reveal how we’re helping ourselves in our mission
– undress the person while seeing them still
– bring them a barf bucket when they’re feeling ill
– say ‘hi’ as a check-in at start of sexy intercourse
– slap on the ass after a quickie when we’re both used to it
– carry ourselves with confidence but awareness
– hear/see/feel the other as we do ourselves.

I never had to question that my friend is an incredible cyclist – because he cycles! I don’t question my other mate is great with cats – he knows all about their food and the perfect toys! The musician practices guitar! The yogi does that yoga, and the Zenmaster has the breathing! The chef does the cooking, and the runner has her running! (I have done the ruminating and no wonder the Healer in Chelsea told me ages ago to change the medium!)

And so what of your choosing is what you are doing? And what you do is who you’re becoming. If you’ve been loving well and treating a body naked as a real person, it’s unlikely you will falter in love, lest you abuse a body like an object and disguise your fear of closeness in shame and hatred… If you feel so empty, fake, and hard, no wonder you would treat a person like a vessel, not real, and — then, simply, discard.

Photo used with kind permission by Loui Jover. Buy his art here.

Hein, qu’est-ce que je dois faire?
C’est vrai je dois bien finir quelque part
Loin de tes terres, de ta mémoire
Je voulais juste te dire au revoir
Juste une dernière fois te revoir
Avant que j’erre, que je ne m’égare
J’aimerais qu’on se serre puis qu’on se sépare

– Le Rempart

BON VOYAGE!

I remember getting ready to leave London to Paris the morning after arriving to Bloomsbury from Ottawa. I was flying to and from London for a couple of weeks, but just hanging around a day or so at the start.

Had time that afternoon in November 2013 to check in to the Jesmond B&B, grab some food, check out the area some, and nap before dinner plans at 5:30 pm with an old acquaintance who I’d met in Soho back in 2000 at a Hawksley Workman gig. A great trip – planned to see the House of Love reunion tour in London and Motorhead, with a sojourn to Paris to meet up with three friends and see Vanessa Paradis in concert. London was so busy — it was a nice to switch gears to Marais, and coast for a few days in the slower pace of le Paris.

I miss travelling for the concerts — especially to cities like New York and over to London. Excitedly, you’d spot the gig online, cost the tickets, then wait for that fated email from your boss at work that read: “For sure – go. Just submit your leave in the system.” Then it was GO TIME as you reached out to your friends in the cities and countries nearby and scoured the Internet for all the other shows happening!! Let the planning start!

And what memories!! These were the trips that would nurture friendships and bonds, and make stories filled with love and fun times – and great food.

The night I went to see Vanessa Paradis and Benjamin Biolay (below), I had a good dinner with a mate I met in Montreal. He knew Paris, he was French from Brittanny. He didn’t like Parisiens, he was more California. He walked like he owned the place – but with real confidence. Not an arrogance that masked insecurity. He was quiet, self-assured, and brilliant. And had grown quite bored of Montreal for noble reasons. We enjoyed a lovely Italian dinner – our last was sushi before a Miike Snow gig in Montreal! He was years younger but had more character and value than most guys my age who were/are single. On the other side of the world, a great dinner, wine, laughs, and then — off to my show!

I was over the moon to hear this song here, written by Mathieu Boogaerts for Vanessa Paradis. A HUGE fan of the artists on Tot ou Tard record label since back in the day of Record Runner on Rideau Street (Ottawa) that would order me so many imports from Fersen to Breut!, I was excited as hell to see and hear it performed live. I shot some video of the live performance and sent it to Mathieu. The coolest was his response back – that was so like me to want to CONSUME the feeling, the song, the energy and to touch a bit of the stars!!!

After enjoying seeing Vanessa Paradis in concert, I walked off into the amazing Paris city night lights along the big boulevard to try and find my way to the metro to get back home to Rue de Turenne. Of course the day before I had been navigating the Tube, and now another city again. Another key to my flat…

NOT BEING ABLE TO TRAVEL ABROAD DURING THE PANDEMIC is showing me to where I travel in my mind par habitude, and has reinforced my new way of being.

Despite all these wonderful trips and moments with friends — at home and abroad — why such a focus on the flailing or fiery romances, and the fixation on certain persons? To the Writer, this is fertile territory, but like my first Muse said “Let me expand. Do we really need to be the down & out types to express ourselves? Maybe in the past times when thrills were considered cheap, forbidden &/or hidden. When social standing had a modicum of importance. & all the interest of Billiards. It’s all upfront now. Underground’s overground.”

He’s not wrong.

But for CREATIVE TYPES who have sucked the life out of feelings and exquisite experiences — must you continue? CAN you continue? Or does the chaos bleed you dry with only trite to write.

At one point, I would have relished this song in layers of meaning about a personal story I could relate to with some former lover. Who cares, though. Evolved, evolving: now, I see it as a song about the CONCEPT of where we try to look for answers. Is it between the sheets? In the arms of a lover? In the loss of the arms of a lover?

Oui, qu’est-ce que j’espère?
Qu’on me dise la fin de l’histoire
Qu’on me libère, qu’on me repère
Qu’on me dise si je viens, si je pars
Que l’on m’éclaire, que l’on me fasse voir
Ce qu’il y’a derrière, derrière cette histoire
Derrière ce rempart, c’est un mystère

There’s no mystery there. Just confusion. Dashed hopes built from the euphoria of a scent or hormonal bond that, in our age and with experience, we realize does not sustain a reality that shows itself so readily despite masks, tricks, and charades. That’s if you’ve been dating poorly like I have. With real love lost — again: no mystery. Your shit or their shit got in the way: so fix it. Move on.

TRAVEL is a lot like our experiences in life … we go there, we come back: changed, every time.

Maybe we can treat people like this? We go there, we experience, and we leave.

Thinking of it this way – we can better spot the losers.

The ones who have not put any thought into their journey, are following some guide, and will return home boasting they went to Paris and saw all the sights, and went to all the naughty places, but whose souls would have never have been touched cuz they were a superficial tourist, and likely just adding on a few days to the place cuz they were there for some work thing. Sorry.

Then there are those who went *really* to look. To see(k). To feel. Who researched and observed, who were curious and discovered.

I guess people are like places? Places we go to.

So how do you wanna travel to me, or why should I travel to you? And what are the real reasons we’d all want to go back? Or fuck it, and never return again?

Disclaimer: Ludic lovers need not apply here. They’re like the hop on-hop off organized tour bus people while some of us prefer living locally for a while with an investment in the residents.

THE BRIGHT LIGHTS OF THE DARK SIDE

People with tiny minds seem to forget something about those of us who have suffered tough childhoods…

In the case of a sociopathic parent, chances are – that parent was brilliantly charismatic, highly achieved, and supremely competent in the public world while …triggered privately.

In the case of the emotionally abused and battered wife, she was equally determined to work hard for her single-parent household and resilient as fuck, and … about as resourceful as you can imagine.

Where there are siblings in this difficult family upbringing, there is also a shared story — and whether it’s discussed consciously, or guarded genetically, there is great strength in not being alone and inherently, always, understood on some unspoken level.

These are delicious traits to pass down, minus the strange stuff. And it it’s very possible to not inherit the strange stuff if the child took to school and helpful teachers; role models; and good friends and their families like I did growing up.
While psychology traces all neuroses back to our childhood — be cautious, here. This is a sure route, yes, to the root in the mind of how we may instinctively respond to triggers — our lenses. But the soul. Aw, the soul and spirit look forward: there you will trace forward all strengths to your endurance and likely in many of us from “broken homes” your immense appreciation for balance and achievable beauty.

Those of us who missed out on a steady family life, may be smarter than most in knowing what has been missing. In the absence, we craved it. Why is that a bad thing? The crime is not having been deprived, it’s the feeling not-so-worthy to accept it when it’s there. We fall back on assholes because it’s what resonates to us as unfinished or sad business that we want to fix them — while continuing to walk toward better people hopefully.

But trust us, and look to the company we keep as close friends – you’ll see we surround ourselves with quality, peace, and sanity. That’s because we know a good thing when it happens to us, and how to leave a loser.

So you’ll likely find us single a bit longer than most. And how appreciative we are to receive a lover with a clear mind, generous heart, and kind spirit… We will not take you for granted *because* of our plight in life, and our compassion for the families that fell apart for the reasons we do not judge. We know our family wasn’t meant to be but came together in the 60s or 70s because someone didn’t know how to use a condom.

Be careful about how you judge someone’s “fucked-up” past. You may just accidentally reveal that it’s you who is the disturbed one.

If one has sorted it and resolved their pain over the years, you may actually only hear the good stuff about someone’s challenging family life. So, it is you who is not sorted, you may feel betrayed, scared, or critical — or innocently confused — when they reveal the truths about their father who had a temper and got off on scaring some women, or their mom who ignored them for an emotionally immature reason for a year or four. You may not ‘get’ it, nor them nor be able to cherish their empathy for most humans.

I’m amazed by the simple minds who have no grasp on the grace that comes from passing through a turbulent past. I recall my second Muse once explaining it this way: that our parents are just ignorant. Some are evil though. Others not so much; they’re just like bulls in a China shop and mean no harm when they ask us things about our lives that they do not understand. He said it similar to T.S. Eliot in “The Cocktail Party” in speaking about families —

“They do not repine;
Are contented with the morning that separates
and with the evening that brings together
for casual talk before the fire.
Two people who know they do not understand each other, breeding children whom they do not understand
and who will never understand them.”

To me, that is an equal death, perhaps, in the stablest of families, then? Can the havoc wreaked from divorced units enlighten in ways a passive and dull acceptance of subpar relations prevent?

It’s not to say we have to be broken to shine bright but like Leonard Cohen wrote, if it’s through them cracks that the light gets in, then man … I’m broken in all the right places.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, December 14, 2020

What are we really saying when we’re speaking?

As mentioned in this You Tube video on language, while a Roman Emperor said once that knowing a second language gives you a second soul, Juliet in Shakespeare says that a rose by any other name would still be a rose and still smell as sweet.

Judgey, I always felt us folks who were enrolled in French Immersion in highschool were somehow ‘better’ than the English-only stream kids. Did you think that? Did that actually come from insecure French Canadian parents, though? Parents who maybe didn’t even actually speak good English?

Is it true that knowing more languages fleshes out your reality in a way that being unilingual cannot? My answer: yes. From the expression and structure to the underlying history of how the words came to be, how can one not be enriched by this capability?

And, in knowing the differences between any cultures you’re dealing with, a talent for deciphering their codification and contexts could very well be, in some cases, more helpful than therapy in comprehending major differences and resolving interpersonal issues.

Like, “that guy’s not an asshole for describing to his girlfriend that his sister has ‘a great rack’ three times! He’s just from Boucherville [a Montreal suburb] and treats his partner like his buddies is all.”

At what point will we be called racist or classist for attributing particular graces and sophistications, or deficiencies and blemishes, upon a particular language/culture and its expression?

Would the above situation with the guy complimenting his sister’s tits be different coming from the mouth of a Brit wit for whom we may endow a fast brand of sardonic style worthy of a Ricky Gervais?

Or, is the déclassé-ness of the guttural and inappropriate reflective of Quebec suburbs or village mentalities?

Might it simply be, as French is the language of the scientifique and exacte, accurate — just bastardized in translation from French delivery to English? Or might garbage uttered be garbage in any dialect?

In either case, what are really saying when we’re speaking?

You Tube video: How Language Shapes the Way We Think

Tune in to Shaun Galanos‘s Pop-Up Podcast from Parc Lafontaine, Montreal recorded Saturday, June 2, 2018, featuring three informal chats with strangers who were drawn in by his “FREE LOVE ADVICE” sign!

I was happy to be one of the chatting ladies — catch me at 13:33 talking about how I think my Sex life is over having completed the Muse story through Russell Square Station: mine the trash, and my making love era done for after my break-up in 2011. I also harken back to the glory days of enjoying many men’s bodies through sexless one-night stands, and what to expect with sex as I get older.

Shaun had tremendous advice — take a listen. I even give him a bit myself about how we might all find love…

PS: I have no idea why I mentioned Kool-Aid but I was de-corporatifying myself from work on Day 1 of vacation here in Montreal and I’m not sure the transition was complete what with having been self-identifying lately with my day job (aka, drinking the Kool-Aid). It was always the lure of a beer, or one time — scotch sucked from a commemorative World Cup glass soccer ball enveloped in a plastic football. But that involved a woman and a black evening gown on a late night we parted, only for her to return after last call, following being chased by weirdos into the Quickie only to emerge for safety in my side alley window. Ah, memories.

Montreal (let me count the rooftop potted plants.)

Tonight I’m watching the planes cruise the sky
like sharks gliding in an upside-down dive.
Over there, overhead they’d be near Jean Talon Market
And here in Plateau Mont-Royal you see them in the distance.

Tonight, I’m watching the clouds hang by
Like exquisite canvases of paintings from trained eyes
And mountains mirroring Pont Jacques Cartier in peaks
And lower down, closer, all the spiral staircases and trees.

Tonight, I’m the most happiest of all!
I saw an attractive man’s hairy muscular legs in Converse at the store.
And it was enough I looked back to check out his ass
And I would rather not be on Tinder, let me count the rooftop potted plants.

Tonight, I’m watching life from above the Rue Saint Hubert
And I can hear the traffic driving on Sherbrooke one block over.
And I’m filled with gratefulness at having all my senses clear.
And to find the utmost beauty in life’s TV scenes out here.

And tonight I watch the planes cruise the sky
Like sharks gliding in an upside-down dive.
And the serenity in the Big City feels we feel up here on balconies
Is like front-row centre in a grandstand of such a precious theatre-comedy.

It is laughable how exhausted we become doing things for which we’re incompetent.
It is silly how we waste our potentials and our energies instead of improvement.
It is comedic how we stew in disgrace for a little piece of cock or heart.
It is most hilarious that we gave ourselves to people for whom we didn’t matter at all.

And tonight I watch the planes cruise the sky
Like sharks gliding in an upside-down dive
And we’re made of stars I think
And we come from the ocean I surmise,

And I belong to this City of Montreal for now, I believe,
And doesn’t she ever make me smile…

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, July 29, 2019

Suzanne of Montreal (a poem for no one but Montreal)

Oh well, yesterday I talked of you.
My feet foot steps soles up on my desk
And I told her of you: I was OVERTAKEN!
My arms started flailing at your mention!
My eyes welled up teary at reflection!
Oh how we walked together after work
lost in the magic of you and your worth
and we ate our dinners together
on balconies over looking your Earth.

Oh well, yesterday I talked of you.
And I was reminded of me and my memories.
The way you looked in sunset: made me weep.
The way we travelled by metro: or BIXI.
Our lunches in parks, our strolls in the rain
And our noodles bought by vélo after errands.
Oh how we slept together in silence!
Watched movies at Avenue du Parc!
And wondered much at groceries.

Oh well, yesterday I talked of you.
Today I am planning the return, too.
A quote for the moving truck to Montreal
The Régie rules and insurance stuff.
The details of storage, do I sell the sofa?
Will I choose a high-rise I’m not sure of?
And he once said: “you’ll be lonely.”
And I laughed then scoffed, returning:
“How can I be lonely when it’s there I find me?
How can I be alone in Montreal when I’m accompanied by…

my energy and my smiling?”

Sylvie Hill, November 2018

(Dear Olga:
as I sign off on my poem,
the radio plays Leonard Cohen
Do you know which song?
If you say “Suzanne”,
you would not be wrong.)

Clean

I’m innocent
to the man who loves me.
For the ones who don’t –
I’m square.

I’m virtuous
to the man who cares for me.
For those ones who don’t –
I’m slow.

I’m beautiful
to the man who sees me.
For those ones who don’t –
I’m hot.

I’m everything
to the man who feels me.
For those ones who don’t –
I’m a bore.

Sylvie Hill, Montreal, July 21, 2019

Maybe, Baby

And even in the gore…
And before the stories, poems, lore…
And like some times before…
I still brought you water.

You laid in the bed and watched
as I packed a suitcase, shocked.
I paused, got you water
and came to touch your shoulder.

“My poor dear” is what I thought.
“You silly man.” Your rage.
Your anger, temper deranged.
Your big brown eyes, so afraid.

Christ I want to write you about brownies
How you could sell them each for $6 NZD.
Turn a profit on a dessert vegan treat.
If you’d only start smiling less sarcastically.

And even in the gore
Of all my new assholes you tore.
And like some times before
I still want to save you, your business more.

The thought of you doing wages
Making schedules, sketching budgets.
I’ll look after the FOH
While you go mental on some aspect.

“My poor darling,” lighten up.
You’re loved and all is forgiven.
You’re still the last one inside my system.
And the only one whose maybe baby I live with.

Christ I want to invite you to Peru
Soak in ayahuasca and be healed by a guru.
Like our migraine auras in fractal vision
Releasing demons, all is forgiven.

Maybe, baby you’ll see sense
Calmly reunite in renewed friendship.
When you go down under do you get right in the head?
Or scare and taunt forever in challenge?

Sylvie Hill, September 11, 2020 – Montreal

***

Here’s the recipe. Use a DARK cocoa for the topping so it contrasts with the lighter cocoa filling with the dates you’ll use. This kind of thing fetches $6.99 in Canada. They’re so bloody rich and filling, cut your portion, save the batch. Add some coffee beans on top before freezing. But not pepperoni, keep that for your pizzas that apparently take too fucking long to cook according to your reviews. And look at this Netflix program, Restaurants on the Edge. Good bunch, the dudes are reachable via Twitter. You’re a resto on the edge and on the edge, so reach out. This is a code red. Ship ahoy. I don’t actually know what that means and learned recently a code red apparently is a kill code or a bomb threat, but really I always thought it to me a “mayday.” Nope, just looked that up and it’s a distress signal, which is apt. But maybe it’s a lighthouse I was after. A beacon. A sign. A dashboard light. Keep driving through the city lights.