Stay gold, Ponyboy

new blog site, same old writer

2006-01-31T09:45:00.000-08:00

Hey. To anyone who's still checking this thought scrapheap, I've moved. I am now at www.famouswriter.blogspot.com in the hopes that a change of scenery will inspire a new outpouring of thoughts and ideas that will land me a column in a local newspaper or magazine or something. I haven't written any new blogs at the time of this last posting, but there will be soon. Come find me.

fondest of memories,
stumblebee

a little rust around the edges.

2005-10-30T12:14:00.000-08:00

(A quick, quiet confessional before it all goes down.)

Sometimes, meeting a new person is a chance to recreate yourself. They look at you with fresh eyes, and you could be anyone. You could be perfect. You could be everything they want. They don't know. There's just so much hope in the beginning, it's beautiful and simple and there are butterflies in stomachs and frogs in throats and clammy hands shoved into pockets and long, sideways glances. Some things never change.

But what if you meet someone when you aren't ready? When you can't be perfect?

Right now, there is a message on my answering machine, from a new fellow I'm hanging out with who lives just across the way. He wants to meet for breakfast. I have been conquering not only a compelling bout of depression and a painfully empty wallet, but have also been afflicted with some kind of stomach flu, and where earlier this morning, I was literally talking out of my ass, I am now sucking on plain crackers, trying to combat odd little ripples of naseau. I have a new pimple brewing in that delicate patch of skin under my cheekbone, you know the type of pimple, it throbs, it goes deep and threatens to undermine any whisper of self-esteem I can muster at this rather rough point in my life.

I'm not trying to sound pathetic (look how pathetic I am, isn't it just the stuff anecdotes are made of?) I'm merely trying to illustrate the fact that this is where I'm at right now, and the boy across the way has no idea. He probably wouldn't notice the pimple, nor would he care if he did. I can try to keep my depression a well-kept secret, he probably wouldn't be able to tell, what with all the questions I'm peppering him with, to deflect attention from my feeling-beaten self. And, while I don't wish to tell him the specifics about my sojourn on the toilet this morning, anyone can sympathise with a stomach bug.

I still want to hide all of this from him. I want to be clear-skinned, and bright-eyed. I want to be friendly and funny and lovely, all things I can be on better days. I want to have one of those magic days you dream of having with a near stranger you've only been out with twice, where you talk for hours and eat chocolate chip cookies and go to a movie and wonder if he's thinking about touching you in the dark. Where silences are, if not golden, at the very least, comfortable. I know he wants to see me, I know he is leaving soon, for parts unknown, for an undetermined amount of time. I could be anyone, could be reckless and free and fun, could unburden myself of my misery because of his obliviousness to it. What am I so scared of?

I guess all I can do is try. I can pick up the phone and call him back and tell him I want to see a movie and eat eggs. I can open my mouth and hope he doesn't hear the flutter of butterfly wings, or those frogs leaping all over my words and thoughts. I can hope all the wildlife in me just quiets down, and that whoever he is, he's not looking for something easy and perfect.

Because maybe, just maybe, he's looking for me.

freaks and leaks

2005-08-20T02:13:00.000-07:00

This past week, my best friend, who was recently promoted at work(a round of applause for her, please) and I undertook the challenging task of finding an apartment for her. We first went for lunch at a local healthy food/vegan lifestyle type place. We never go to these sorts of restaurants, frankly, if it's a choice between an anti-cheese-anti-wheat-anti-fat food byproduct and plywood, I would rather eat the plywood. With rusted nails sticking out of it. But on this day, it seemed somehow fitting, a fresh start, a fresh culinary experience. We left half-full of sweet potato fries and optimism.
"We're going to find a place today, I can feel it!" I said
"Yes! Today is the day! I'm pumped!" This isn't exactly what she said, but sort of.
"Let's never get a tofu wrap again!" I said
"Yes! They are not filling and have very little flavour!" she said.

We promised ourselves chocolate chip cookies for later.

It's one of those well kept secrets that seasoned apartment hunters share amongst only their closest friends that the only real way to find a place in this over-priced city is to walk around your desired neighbourhood, find 'for rent' signs and call them. So we started walking. The first street we walked down was in one of those areas where homes look like crumbling gingerbread houses painted candy colours, sprinklers ch-ch-ch-ing, elderly people sitting on their front porches, performing a seemingly unnecessary neighbourhood surveillance. A gentle breeze blew through the trees as birds chirped.

"Look, there's a sign!" I said. I pointed at it. 'Flat for rent. Furnished.'
"Ugh. Furnished. Why?" she said. I think she was picturing doilies and portraits of the Virgin Mary.

We went up the stairs and rang the bell. The door opened after a minute, and an old man appeared, smelling like mothballs.

"What are you selling?" He said, squinting at us.
"Hahahaha," we said, "we're here about the apartment for rent. "
"Oh. There's just one problem. You're girls."
We looked at each other. Was this guy for real? Really?
"What do you mean?" we asked
"I don't rent to girls. I've had nothing but trouble with them. We still have one living here we have to get rid of."
Um. Okay.
"Alright, well, good luck with that" I said, trying to sound snotty. As we walked away, my friend tossed one more salty remark his way. He then called us assholes and told us to go to hell. And I do believe, from the depths of his woman-hating soul, he meant it. Somewhere in the back of the house, I have little doubt his wife was washing his underwear by hand and wishing she had married someone else.

Now, previous to this, my friend had been looking at an online rental site, which gave pictures and descriptions of the places advertised. It was here that she discovered the true meaning of false advertising and white lying. The world of renting isn't like the real world. Here, cozy means claustrophobic. Bachelor means cooking next to your toilet. Quiet tenant means celibate hermit. Several places advertised large basement apartments, and then casually mentioned 6 foot ceilings. Apparently, there is an entire rental marketplace for hobbits and wood nymphs.

Then we met Roger.

"He's wearing a barrette," my friend said, as he approached the front door. Sure enough, his hair was pulled back into a ponytail by a barrette, like the kind we wore in the late eighties.
"I'm obsessed with quiet." he said."And no smoking. Don't say you're a non-smoker and then smoke. One cigarette a day counts as a smoker." He had penetrating eyes and a bitter grin, and I believed he was fully capable of obsessing. He radiated creepy.
"The water pressure isn't so good. We'll have to work out a schedule, or we'll call each other when we want to take showers to make sure no one is using the water simultaneously." Shudder. I immediately imagined Roger racing up to his peephole as soon as my friend called him to announce her bathtime. We didn't even bother with the polite banter you offer when you know you hate an apartment, like "This is a nice bathroom," or "Does the kitchen come with that spice rack?" We just said goodbye and left.

One of the last places we saw had advertised as a bright basement with five windows. But when we got there, one of the windows was actually a brick that had been removed from the wall and replaced with a clear tile. Sunlight shot through that clear tile like water through a burst dam, and I realized with sadness that this corner of the apartment, with it's desperate light and water-damaged walls was actually someone's sleeping quarters. That's one of the things about apartment hunting. You see just how poorly some people choose to, or are forced to live.

As we ate the giant chocolate chip cookies we'd treated ourselves to, we marvelled at how money seperated an allegedly classless society such as ours into distinct groups of have's and have-not's. Money changes a lot of people, damages their sense of fair play, heightens their standard of living while lowering someone elses, enables them to manipulate people with the basic human need for shelter. Things like windows and reasonable ceilings should be a given, because honestly, a hotplate and a prayer simply aren't enough for most of us. In the end, my friend found a lovely, cheerful place, (with a lovely, decent landlady) that she may or may not take, but that is definately worthy of her. And along the road of misogonysts and potential perverts, we met helpful, warm individuals who offered parental-like concern and infused a difficult day with much needed humour and humanity.That's the thing about this city. There's always a little magic to be found.

Just ask the hobbits.

At the corner of front and center

2005-08-02T11:06:00.000-07:00

If Shakespeare will allow me to paraphrase him, I sometimes feel like we're all actors in an almost first-rate movie. No, let me revise that, we're actors in some drama academy, like in Fame or something. I've been forced into the class, and they keep making me do things they say are 'normal', and will help me master my art, like pretending I'm a strip of frying bacon. And all I want to be is the make-up artist. Or work at the craft table.

Is this analogy working? What I mean is that sometimes, I feel so terribly visible. I feel like I have an audience, whether it be people driving by in cars, or bored shop owners looking at me from their windows, or black-clad Portuguese nonas watching me as I walk past. It's something I've never been entirely at ease with. I know, this sounds egocentric, but I don't mean it to. I just never really realized, till this late in the game, that other people are interested in what I'm doing. In how I look. In what I have to say.

As a kid, I clearly remember(because you do not make these things up) auditioning with a friend for the school talent show, doing a lip-sync of Micheal Jackson's 'Thriller'. We were pretending to be zombies, and I didn't have a costume, so I borrowed my sister's puffy ski jacket, grey with pink clouds on it. Oh, there were countless dance routines, politely endured by my bemused parents, or occasional flirtations with singing and acting in school productions. I don't recall too much about feeling silly or so shy I couldn't do what was expected of me. And then it stopped. I'm sure there was some pivotal moment, but I don't remember it. That level of un-self-consciousness, one of the most sublime facets of childhood, died in me, and was replaced with intense self-awareness.

I couldn't speak in front of more than one person at a time. I couldn't order pizza over the phone. I was scared of men. I failed oral presentations at school becauseI couldn't stand in front of the class. My fear was accompanied by a host of symptoms-clammy hands, fiery guts, shortness of breath, and of course, my trademark blush, the betrayal of all calm and coolness. I felt like an alien, even if other people talked about nerves and jitters, I knew my experience was different. It's the worst paradox I've faced, fearing an audience so much that your body trembles out every spasm of nervous energy, making your fear so transparent. And being fearful of your response to fear.

Do we blame hormones?
Overly-critical peers, who teach us, just a little, about breaking hearts and making social gaffes?
How about the media? Aren't they somehow behind every unhinged, deranged impulse and disorder society suffers from?

It took a long time to make even small steps in overcoming my disorder. I still do battle with it, because even with years of therapy, I don't know how I got to be like this. I don't know why I think people are judging me, unfavourably or otherwise. I don't know why some people are shy and anxious, like me, and others are energized by the same stimuli. It doesn't seem fair.
I just want to be normal.

There are scads of things I feel socially anxious doing. For example:

Eating sushi in public. And pasta. And veggie burgers. Actually, I think this anxiety is more aptly titled "Eating in public". When I was little, and my parents would force me to eat meat, which I hated, I would chew it for hours and store it away in my cheeks. Gentle mocking ensued. This habit, I bashfully admit, has followed me into adulthood. I take a mouthful of food, and a few minutes later, that odd chipmunking behaviour occurs. I'm trying to tell myself it's cute. But I'm wary...

Purchasing necessities at Shopper's Drug Mart. There are a lot of items that fall into this category. For instance;
Tampons. I go out of my way to act like I don't care. I would walk around with the box on my head and a sandwich board saying "Menstrual and proud" if I thought it would offer credibility but inside, I'm thinking no one needs to know this about me, no matter how 'natural'.
Condoms. I feel like the person behind the counter is thinking,even for one split second 'hmm, this person is having sex'. And a judgement is being made, however slight. Because I used to work at Shopper's, and I can clearly remember thinking things like that about people buying condoms, more specifically 'That person is having sex, and I'm not. Go figure.' Again, another tidbit of highly personal information that a private person like myself feels a bit strange sharing with the general public.
Digestive Aids. I don't mean Pepto. Everyone buys Pepto. I mean things like Metamucil, you know, for when you can't go. Or Immodium, for when you can't stop. When you have to buy these things, when you're in a bad way, other people's empathy, while lovely and well-meaning, can seem a bit invasive.

Going to see live music alone. This one kills me, because music means everything to me. I love a good live show, but more often than not, I have trouble finding people to come with me. I've been to a show by myself, and it wasn't so bad, only I had actually lost the person I was supposed to meet there, so I knew the whole time she was there somewhere, which doesn't really count as going alone. In theory, it makes perfect sense to go alone, because once the music starts, you don't really talk much(unless you are those manner-challenged Torontonians who go to shows only to be seen and gossip loudly infront of me from your lofty five feet and eleven inches-why are you always so tall? why are you at every show?) But in between sets, what do you do with yourself? Do you read? It's so dark! Do you stand by the bar and drink your beer? Do you just stand there, wondering what to do with your hands once the beer is done? I'd love to be one of those loners you see standing against a wall, unaffected by their solitude. Or one of those crazy-haired older dudes, who rock out to a completely different tempo than the one being played, completely oblivious to the rest of the crowd, just feeling the music. Those guys, I respect.

There's more. But I really feel like if I go into more detail, you will stop reading my blogs. You will think 'Man, this girl has issues', and you will dismiss me, but you shouldn't be so dismissive because I'm just quirky. (That's what I call my social anxiety now. Quirky. Idiosyncratic.) Look, I know no one is thinking this much about what I do with my everyday life. I am not the center of anyone else's universe.

I keep trying to tell you other actors that I'm not a piece of frying bacon either, that I'm not like you, but you know what? I am. Like everyone else, I graduated from childhood, and now I'm in charge, directing, producing and starring in my own movie. I do my own make-up. There are plenty of outtakes and bloopers. A couple of gratuitous love scenes. And it's low budget at the best of times.

But the soundtrack is awesome.

deja voodoo

2005-07-21T23:40:00.000-07:00

It's been a while. I don't even know if I still have a readership anymore, so this may very well be a party of one. A diary entry. Egads.

Will my voice be the same?
Will I sound harsher than before?
Can I blame it on the heat?

I am obsessed with fresh starts. I have devised my very own witness protection program, where I move houses and talk big about leaving this elephant of a three-year job that has plagued me with its insignificance and the importance placed upon it by people frightened to death of their own insignificance. I can't seem to leave behind who I am, though. Shy, awkward, a little bit hidden. That seems to follow me around.

But I have moved into a beautiful house with my sister, and we are currently experiencing the re-tiling of the bathroom floor, and our toilet sits pathetically misplaced in our hallway, and we try in vain to not drink too much water in this stifling heat wave so we don't have to run to the library down the street to pee(where toilet paper is scarce)too, too often. And on my way to the library toilet, I notice my bike has fallen, sadly, lonesome-like, on its side, away from the pole I manacled it to, and it looks at me bleakly and meekly, begging for my sympathy, and I walk past it and look down on it and pretend I don't know it. I feel my own cruelty coursing through me. I blame it on the stored-up pee and the heat. Poor, innocent bicycle.

I'm at my parents' house now, in North York, enjoying a brand of hospitality only parents can dole out. My father has just offered me a banana split, and I have, prior to this blog, been sauntering around the house with a large gin and tonic, feeling like a saucy alcoholic, like Sue Ellen from Dallas, perhaps the best television alcoholic ever to clink two icecubes together. I've been finishing a book that I fear I am copying in style and content mentally-have I mentioned I'm mentally writing a book now? It's going to be fantastic, all magic and tragic.

I'm revisiting the territory of risk. A few tumbleweeds have blown by, it's arid and desolate here, but I'm back, because my heart and my head demand some gratification of sorts, and I, too weary to fight them, must grant a reprieve from the misery guts I have become of late. I like a boy. A guy. A man. He is probably a bit of all of these. And I've liked him for a while now, and have liked liking him because it's been entertaining and unreal, but today, I made it a bit more real, and thus, a bit scary.

Let me speak frankly. I have been on my own for a long time now. And the truth of the matter is, I am astonishingly capable at it. I am fantastic on my own. There has been no ache of an empty bed. My hands have not needed to be held. There've been no fights due to moodiness, because I get it, I am moody, and I accept that about myself. There have been many times where I've chuckled at my own jokes, shaken my head at my own stupidities, even rubbed my own sore back. I've cut out the unnecessary people, the ones who talk good intentions, but are really just big phonies.(thanks Holden, for putting such depth in that word)I sound really well-adjusted on paper, don't I?

But the fact is, I've also become a little too adept at making excuses for my well-insulated self.

So today, after a lovely evening the night before with one of my dearest friends,I, in a shirt speckled with both strawberry and soy sauce stains, with sweat glueing my hair to my forehead, with that general glaze of heatsmoghumiditygrossness, ran into him on the street.

He looked good.

Really good.

we stopped on a street corner and chatted. And I had that odd out-of-body thing where my head is doing a running commentary of what is coming out of my mouth; "utter nonsense!where did that come from?" "Ohh, that was a good one though, good work kiddo", that sort of thing. And at the end of it, I needed to punctuate our chat with an invitation, and so I said:
"If you ever want to hang out, you should call me."

Oh, I felt so brave. Full of self-heroics. Because as we were talking, and I could feel the invitation bubbling up inside me, I was remembering the last time I was so honest, and while it had been refreshing and bold, like a Gauloise Blonde, it was also flat-out turned down. And I lived to tell the tale without bitterness or alteration of the general sort of sweetness I try to inhabit, but it's made me scared. Because I told him he could call me and the ball is in his court, and all I want to do it leave this thing alone, let it grow or die on its own and not make a big production out of it, just keep it lovely and fresh and full of maybe's, not act like he's suddenly the only fellow left in the world who could possibly hold my hand or inhabit my funny world with some sense of understanding, or like a no from him would smash my hope like a pumpkin.

So I'm trying not to over-think it.(by writing about it?!?) The thing of it is, I really need something good and gentle to happen, because it's been a tough go of it lately. Is it wrong to hope for a person? Is it too much to put on someone, not to be your saving grace, but to be something to look forward to? I don't know.

I hope I will find out...

gone fishin'

2005-06-12T19:24:00.000-07:00

I'll be back, just taking some time to get fresh again...don't give up on Ponyboy!!!

Phil and Ope

2005-05-28T11:28:00.000-07:00

I've been thinking a lot these days about hard luck and dumb luck and lack of luck. I've been thinking about God, and how I sometimes wished I believed in one, because I think God could make sense out of most of the pain and hard luck we find ourselves fused to. Ask anyone, or just trust me, unemployment/lack of money, caring for an ill relative, battling yet another round of depression and having difficulty finding any sense of direction in life really incurs a bit of wear and tear on the old heart. It scuffs your sanity a little.

Lately, I've been a tangle of endless tears and raw, exposed nerves. I've become the most overly emotional person I could dream up. I am moved, sometimes deeply, watching Oprah, her generosity touches me(go, sister.) I get angry, really grindingly angry at the guests on Dr. Phil who provoke his no-nonsense commentary, I find myself inwardly cheering when he calls someone arrogant or selfish to their face(such honesty! such integrity! such bluntness!) I get weepy listening to one of my favourite bands, Explosions in the Sky, so much so that sometimes, I have to turn them off because the words of the book I'm reading start swimming and blurring and I can't warm the shivers on my arms.

And I fall in love, harder and faster than anyone I know.

It don't take much to warm me to you. Look me in the eyes and ask me how my day's going. Blush or stammer a bit(show me there are more of us out there.) Make me laugh, it only takes one good laugh, I know, I'm easy that way. Love dogs better than cats. Love music more than talking academic about music. Have beautiful hands. Look like you're keeping a really good secret. Be just a little sweet, no matter how many hard edges you've accumulated.

While I presently have many love interests(with such slight criterium, how could I not have an army of infatuations?), my latest love is a first for me. I've fallen for someone famous. This doesn't happen to me. I consider myself immune to the carefully manufactured and groomed charms of celebrity types. I'm fairly pragmatic when it comes to love, I don't usually allow myself much time to moon over some poor sod who doesn't appreciate me, or who is wrong, wrong, wrong for me in any relevant way. I like believing there's a perpetual supply of gentle, real men to keep company with. What's the point of wanting someone who you only want to change? Or wanting someone you'll never meet? And yet, there's a big, slobbery romantic in me, wanting to squash all my boring logic like a bug.

I met my current love, David Gordon Green, on the dvd commentary of one of his movies(hahaha it's like we were on a date or something!) I liked his voice right off the bat. He's a writer/director, and has this lovely and slight southern drawl. Even more delightful are those sharp bursts of prose issued in that slight drawl, a man who speaks like he writes or writes like he speaks. And what he speaks and writes and sees is the fragility and resilience of human beings and the environments they occupy. He sees beauty in things decrepit, rusted and worn down. He sees the reason in slowing down a moment, way, way down, and taking it in before you blink it into another moment. I proceeded to rent all his movies, and listen to all the commentaries, and in the span of a week and a half, I felt like I had an idea about what maybe 1/100th of this fellow was about.(even within my grandest delusions, I know what I know and what I don't know) And that fraction was enough to throw myself into a series of make-believe scenarios that alternate between being excruciatingly embarrassing and thoroughly enjoyable.

"So, tell me," Oprah asks, "how did you meet?" David and I are sitting on one of her plush couches, a studio full of breath-holding women(and a few captive men) awaiting what is inevitably going to be some kind of romantic response;
"Well," I start, and David jumps in"She wrote this screenplay and sent it to me. My agent was like, 'David, you have to read this.' And I fell in love with her words. I had to meet her." The way he says it, with such sincerity, makes it sound like he had no choice. I am blushing and trembling a little, there is a collective murmur among the audience. We're holding hands. I pipe up; "I just knew, Oprah, from the first time I heard him speak on the dvd, that I'd found something, someone real." Oprah looks at the audience. "Can y'all believe this? It's like the movies!" We all have a good laugh at this. Her teeth are very white.

"Listen," Dr. Phil says, "you have to stop feeding these unhealthy fantasies. They're inhibiting your ability to create real ideas about relationships." Tears are welling in my eyes, damnit, I've put on liquid eyeliner for the show, which will run in ugly, black streams if I don't steady my wobbly chin. Focus on the moustache. Look for crumbs in the moustache. "But Dr. Phil, I don't want to abandon hope. It's all I've got." He looks at the audience and back at me. "You have to realize life isn't like it is in the movies. This isn't a movie, and you have to stop enabling yourself to live with a poorly planned life map. C'mon now. You have to get real." Everyone nods solemnly at me.

I know. I know!

I know already that I have to find a job, that I have to find some way to keep myself from falling away at the seams, that life isn't fair. I know there's a Second and Third World who are hungrier than I'll ever be, that good people get sick just like not-so-good people. That places like Guantanamo Bay exist, as does child porn, spousal abuse, drug addiction. Sometimes birds just fall out of their nests. And I don't know why. I don't have a God to explain it, and luck is just too arbitrary to base a faith on.

So maybe my current state of hyper-emoting is a coping mechanism, a way of dealing with the senselessness that pervades daily life. My being touched, angry, weepy, is a release. And my love of being in love with love, (Hollywood style, on an indie budget) is a relic of childhood that I'm holding on to like a ratty toy, to remind me of more innocent days. Whatever it is, is it so bad? Is it unhealthy to feel everything so vividly, to hope so ferociously, to play pretend so boundlessly? Because I need to right now, to support and distract me from the storm cloud that follows me like a shadow overhead, threatening eruption. I'm entering new and scary territory in my life right now. I've become a person who knows better, but doesn't really care. And I tell myself that as long as I've got friends who get me, music to sound out my moods, and the hope of David Gordon Green, I'll muddle my way through lofty pipedreams and harder days to come.

It doesn't get more real than this.

the quiet art of breath-taking

2005-05-17T11:30:00.000-07:00

Car horns honk. Dogs bark at hissing cats. An ambulance is going somewhere in the distance. Downtown streets ebb and flow with industry. The radio of everyday life churns out lo-fi conversation. There is an astonishing lack of silence. My ears twitch with every sound. A tortoise and a hare race inside me.

On any given day, I am overcome by my inability to stand still. I am afflicted with the scourge of productivitis, a condition most city-dwellers are prone to. The symptoms are numerous and as common as dirt. Anxiety, depression, the punishing ass-kicking we like to think of as "self-motivation." The constant need to be producing something of value, whether it be a thought, a piece of art, a successful relationship, an eye-catching outfit. I don't know how I got it, they say you can't get it from sitting on public toilet seats, and I wash my hands all the time. And there isn't any cure, except for that children's strength, banana-flavoured relaxation which is lacking in adult effectiveness. It's currently unavailable to the general public, due to sky-high production costs.

I'm glad my condition has a name, even if it's only me who's given it one. It makes it easier to tell myself it's something I've contracted, not something I inherently am. It frightens me that I don't know how to relax anymore. I used to be so good at it. I could just sit in my room and listen to music and stare out the window, and everything was simple and sweet. I often try to re-enact that sweet simplicity, but the failure almost hurts. Like it or not, I am the enemy and hindrance to my free time, imposing structure to my sloth.

When did loafing become so loathesome?

It's a vicious cycle. We go to school in the hopes that knowledge will cure us of a mediocre existence. We work to afford our schooling, our apartments, our food, our phone bills and credit cards, work to afford the vices that will allow us to forget the often mind-numbing work we engage in to afford all this living and learning. All around me, people are going somewhere, in infinate streams, attached to cell phones or discmans' or leashes with dogs on the ends of them. I feel rushed, rushed to keep up with my grown up friends who have real jobs or go to real schools or live with real partners, not the pretend kinds I fill my imaginary life with. I've convinced myself that if I move swiftly and stay busy enough, I'll rocket myself forward into my future life and self, which I've convinced myself will be infinately better than my present one.

This city goes too fast for me sometimes. It reminds me of being a little kid, being afraid to get on the escalator, watching the steps go up and up and waiting for the right step to jump on. Some people spend their whole lives waiting for the right time, the right person, the right step. It's not their fault. It's not that they're afraid of taking a risk, it's that they're afraid of making the wrong choice. Because mistakes, while greatly educational, initially set you back, and who has time to go backwards these days? The concept of a smoothly paved progressive society is fraught with man-made potholes. If you aren't functioning in perpetual(and forward) motion, you are falling behind, falling away from the sense of purpose that awaits you. If you do stand still and unproductive, the world will just go by without you, and you'll fall off the edge into obscurity.

Peace and quiet is one thing we can't make sexy. It's new age and corny. It's too stale, it's too granola, it's for hacks who can't take the pressure. You find it in the self-help section of the bookstore, right between Yanni and yoga. It's tea instead of wine. Knitting instead of rock-climbing. Matlock instead of Kill Bill. It scares me because I feel like I'm not supposed to want it till I'm old, till I'm done chasing the meaning of my life. Like everyone in this with me, I'm supposed to sign up for lack of sleep and constant mental activity. I'm supposed to be over-stimulated at underwhelming social gatherings. But I think it gets a raw deal, inner calm. It's not surrender or the onset of becoming soured milk, no longer relevant to society. Nor is it a constant or monochromatic state. It's just a way to redefine what is critical and what can wait. And most of it can wait. But I know that even as I write this, it's not realistic of plausible. You can't ask your boss and co-workers, your lovers and friends, or even yourself, to quiet down to the pace of growing grass.

I daydream about pressing the slow motion button on time and the tempo of city life, going to a park and just listening to the creaking chains of the swingsets as kids pump their short legs with the belief that if they try hard enough, they can touch the treetops with their feet. I don't like the smell of roses, but I will stop in the street to smell the freshness in the air after a rainfall, or the wafts of chocolate from the Cadbury's factory on College West. I'll resist the take-out coffee, much as I love its sophistication, I'd prefer to sit in Cafe Brasilliano with my over-caffeination and a friend. I won't wear a watch, I'm sorry, I'll probably be about ten minutes late, always. I'll apologize genuinely and try harder next time, but I still won't wear a watch. I'll never see the value in contributing to the huffings and puffings of exasperation on a delayed subway car. We'll get there when we get there, we can't breathe our way there faster, or bend laws of physics with our impatience. I'm done with this cold, mad rush. I'm not going to race the hare anymore.

I think I'd like to take the tortoise out for a beer or two instead.

punch in, punch out

2005-05-08T10:56:00.000-07:00

There are few things in this life that rival the sweetness of chocolate, the intoxication of new love, the delerium of red wine drunk in just the right amounts. But of the few things that do rival them, sorting through the junk mail of decision making, and gaining the certainty that you have chosen the right course of action is at the top of my list. I made one of these choices recently, and fatigue, stress, financial hardship notwithstanding, quitting the latest in a string of horrible jobs has left me glowing with gratification.

Today was my last day waitressing. Ever. I mean it. If I have to waitress ever again, I shall go mad.
If I ever have to decant wine infront of table, sweating out the ceremony of wine propriety,
If I ever have to fold my hands behind my back in true and subconcious servility,
If I ever have the listen to my well-intentioned jokes plummet flat onto a table occupied by humourless, stone-faced bumpkins,
If I ever have to be flagged down, whistled for, hollered at, or summoned with any less courtesy than would be used to beckon a cab...

I shall go mad.

You know, I usually feel a bit sad at endings, even if they are much needed and hard-won. I remember the good times at that restaurant, like understanding, even through the brokenest of English, the kindness and warmth of the plump Ukrainian cooks. Or the few minutes of conversation with patrons who understand that you have a beating heart beneath your apron, and it beats for people and ideas and a better future, just like theirs do. Those rare and fleeting assurances of competance when you see a room full of tables, all fed and serviced, filling the space with that lovely din of conversation and human engagement, and you can say to yourself, "I had a hand in this."

But today, there was no saddness, no remorse, no twinges of "Maybe I could stay on, it's not so bad." No, the party ended, and I should have got my coat on a long time ago. Today, I was at the beck and humiliating call of the owner, as he and his business friends commandeered a table, and me, in the middle of the brunch rush. I was condescended to, and waylaid by more tasks than I could handle. My arms quivered as I carried too-heavy plates and hungered for a moment to silence my own grumbling belly that hadn't seen a morsel since I woke. Instead, I gorged myself on delicious fantasies of dropping the plates and walking out, just like that. Of storming the owner's table and telling him I thought he was a complete jerk(insert various four- and offensively lettered words in the place of jerk) infront of his haughty friends. I counted down the minutes to the end of my shift with glowering impatience, minutes filled with the same question asked of myself, over and over again;

Why do most jobs end in such acrimonious divorce?

I've had approximately 29 jobs in my twelve years of working life so far. Most of them don't last past the first week, because I just know when I'm going to passionately hate something about the place. My seasoned eyes have seen it all, including sexual harrassment, and passive aggressive management, like punative scheduling and condescension, all masked in the cowardly guise of professionalism. Every possible and absurd assertion of authority has been used to put me and my fellow peons in our place. It's been a unique and invaluable education for me. Because I've learned an awful lot about the dynamics and diplomacies of minimum wage hierarchies, and just how terribly awry people go when given the slightest bit of power to rule. And it's gotten me thinking that I don't know how much I believe in the necessity of a chain of command.

Most people have a distinct personality(although I've met some people who are definately lacking in one), a personality that determines whether they are self-driven or need to be given direction. In any workplace, there are leaders and there are people who don't really give a darn. And you know something? They tend to balance each other out. Left to their own devices, and given the credit due and deserved that they are able enough to expedite food orders or ring in sales on a cash register, most people will rise to the occasion of competence. We don't need to be bossed around. We don't need to be told what to do. We simply need to be asked. Politely.

We are a society obssessed with democratic process. And with so little democracy used effectively in our political arena, the only real structure we have to create and excersise it in is our workforce. But it's missing there too!(Democracy-the political Polkaroo?) It's all about absolute power and the stingy distribution of its fruits. Why is it so hard for business owners to realize their staff is the bottom line, not net profits? That appreciating loyalty, accepting input and offering a sense of importance to their staff naturally breeds productivity.That regardless of who does what task, we are all just people, and that actually makes us equals. Without staff, all you have is an expensive space and an inanimate product that can't really sell itself. Without any graciousness or adherence to workers rights, all you have is a parade of strangers who will fill the space of the previous warm body infront of the till. Sure, capitalism has thrived on a disposable and ever-replenishing workforce.

But what damage has it done to our social morale?

I wanted to be magnanimous on my last day. I'd even planned on thanking the owner for the opportunity there(!?!) knowing full well how acidly my lips would issue such a lie. But I didn't do that. I bore the rest of my shift with as much class as I could muster, and when it was time to leave, I left. No sentimentality, no lengthy good bye speeches. I just took my tips and walked out the door, leaving yet another space to be filled. Some coins jingled in my pocket, and as I got further and further away from the restaurant, I knew I was getting closer to things that mattered, like my future. A place that offered no guarantee of escape from difficult bosses, demanding clientele, or moments of servility lived out of necessity. But it would be a place of my choosing, a place where debates on the unsolidity of poached eggs, or the techniques of good martini-making would never have to be endured again.

And so I let the bridges burn behind me.

a giant among zeroes

2005-04-26T01:37:00.000-07:00

Here I sit, sipping my second glass of wine, giddy not just with alcohol, but with accomplishment. Today, I did what few can do without running the risk of nervous breakdown or spontaneous combustion. I bought pants.

This may seem like an ordinary task to you. In theory, it's not really a big deal. Go to a store that sells pants, and buy a pair. But in practice, it has caused me five weekends of stress and borderline body dysmorphic disorder. Take one sane, relatively-happy-with-her-body, non-dieting cake lover, put her in a changeroom with seven pairs of jeans, and watch her unravel. I'm still scratching my head trying to figure out how it all happened...

It started with the first weekend. My favouritest pair of jeans, that had served me and my bottom very well for almost four years crapped out. I was devastated. I mean, it takes months of amateur gymnastics(bends, stretches, lunges) to soften the rigidity of spanking new denim into comfy submission. But I took it on the chin, and went to my old haunt, Kensington Market, to see if I could scavenge myself a pair of orange tab 517's. It was a beautiful, unusually sunny day, and the Market cast its usual spell of sensory overload upon me. Even the stench of the fish monger stalls that we all try to pretend doesn't bother us didn't bother me. I was feeling good, I was feeling positive. I wandered in and out of various stores, tried on ill fitting jeans in cramped and musty curtained corners. I wasn't phased by my lack of success. Any seasoned Market go-er will tell you it takes patience and perseverance.

And I did persevere, over and over and over again. Impatience mounted. And mounted. And mounted. I even braved Eaton's Center(on a weekend!) It was there, on a Saturday afternoon, in the flourescent hell of a Gap changeroom, that I discovered that not only had all the pants in the mall been shrunk prior to my getting there, but that all the mirrors in the mall had been warped prior to my getting there. Something happens when you get infront of a changeroom mirror. Things become apparent that you wish would stay hidden...Like the Tom Selleck worthy mustache you'd always affectionately called "peach fuzz". Or those extra winter-pounds you've been shrugging off as "water retention". Vanity sizing did little to soothe me, if anything it irritated me with its assumption of my vain ignorance. (Hey, clothing companies, vanity sizing only works if no one actually knows about it!)

Me, a tiny room, bad lighting and a pair of jeans. Somehow, this was all it took to undo years of self-worth affirmations and self-esteem building.

As a young girl, I was very thin. And the thing I learned early on was that my thinness was a source of envy. Having always been thin, I'd never given it much thought. But after passing virtually every day with at least one(envious) comment on my size, I came to equate it with my worth as a person. Being a complete nerd, it was pretty much the only positive feedback I received from my peers. It did a lot of damage. Not only did I become obsessed with staying skinny, but when puberty and its inevitable weight gain hit me, I was traumatized and filled with self- loathing. I became terrified of food. It lasted years. Years of determining the relationship of calories and metabolism. Of over- and under-feeding myself. Of chasing the elusive carrot of the model body.

I can say now with some pride that I eventually tired of that struggle. I eat what I want. I don't talk about fat content, I don't shun carbs. But I can't say with all honesty, or without a little saddness, that I am entirely above being seduced by the idea of being the physical ideal. I am not completely removed from the fact that if I stopped eating cake or chocolate, I would be thinner, and closer to the shape of the fashion industry that tantalizes men and terrorizes women. There are legions of us in denial about our attentiveness to body image. We want to be thin, but we don't want to seem like we do. It's uncool to talk about your body, no one wants to hear it because it usually reminds them of their own physical grievances. So we pretend everything is okay, that we are living in a post-feminist society well beyond the battle of the body beautiful. You can avoid carbs and fat and call it allergies or food sensitivities. You can imitate celebrities who are always proclaiming they don't work out and live on cheeseburgers and ice cream(because really, the horseshoes of metabolic luck are only bestowed on the rich and gorgeous) and no one will call you on it, because so many of us are doing the exact same thing...

Who do we take to task for this rampant demoralization based on physicality? Advertising agencies? The fashion industry? Ourselves? Is there any one guilty party? Or are we just buying into the idea that if we are as near as possible to aesthetic perfection, we won't be as prone to loneliness or depression or mortal concerns, like dying alone, unloved, untouched, in our size ten(but really size twelve) pants...

I guess all I can do is hope for a day when our society commends women for what they do with their hearts and brains and guts, and not for how little physical space they take up. When our empowerment as women comes from the assertions of our rights to equality and respect.

Me, I'm taking on the fight. One badly-lit changeroom at a time.

stones in my shoes

2005-04-16T14:43:00.000-07:00

I remember being little, about five or so, and sitting at the dining room table trying to stifle yawns at one of my parents' dinner parties. My chubby cheeks had been pinched raw and lipsticked with the greeting of the guests, and I was anxious to have cake and go to my room. One of the guests turned to me, smiling;"So, tell me, what do you want to be when you grow up?"

Oh dear.

It was that question. The question adults feel compelled to ask kids, usually for entertainment purposes. The thing was, I'd been asked it before, and I always just shrugged and said "I dunno", because I honestly couldn't see that far ahead. But this time, the answer shot out of my mouth, clear as a bell, startling even me with its decisiveness;

"I want to be a lunchroom teacher."

The adults roared with laughter, and my cheeks burned with shame. I didn't understand their reaction, because my answer was delivered with complete earnestness. Once the swell of embarrassment subsided, it was explained to me that there was no such job(and if there was, you'd have to be union). I moved on to loftier career aspirations after that. And kept them to myself.

But what if that night was a signpost, one reading "Simple life, a million km away"? Was my answer an inadvertant display of unambitiousness? Was it a precursor to my desire for a life less complicated by corporate snakes and ladders, glass ceilings, and colour-collared workforces? A yearning for a life peppered with the love of friends and family, a cute apartment, a dog, and the constant feeding of my insatiable lust for armchair anthropology? I told myself I was content to waitress the rest of my days, so long as I had the freedom to figure myself out. It seemed a fair trade, a bit of financial hardship for some emotional integrity.

The principle that work is a part of your life, not the sole governing force has always guided my hand when making life choices. I loved learning, but I hated school. I dropped out several times, for several years, and had no interest in going to university or college to find a career. I figured it would be an even larger-scale, socially apocalyptic nightmare than high school (And you had to pay, thousands of dollars for the privalege of your suffering!) No, I was content to coast along the periphery of bottom end jobs, relatively unskilled, because while they offered no real security or stimulation, at least there was always a multitude of them to choose from to stave off boredom. And while I lacked a structured learning environment, I took it upon myself to read and absorb the life that was going on all around me, to live through observation, trial and (numerous) error. I assumed it would suffice.

But it hasn't.

Lately, I have been overcome with the panic of having immobilized myself with the wrong choices in life. I take it to bed like a joyless lover, I wake up to its unwelcome face. It sits in my guts like indigestion;
Didn't go to school.
Never took up a trade.
Wasted education money on trip to France.
Friends all have careers or are in school.
Am nearing thirty, live alone in basement.

Snippets of pitiful self-doubt float around my mouth, too afraid to be spoken. I make myself feel heavy with my alarming lack of direction. My wants for a simple life grow in proportion with my wants for nicer furniture, for a pet, for a life above ground and beyond fear. My concept of "simple" has reached new heights of complexity because of this. And I feel tired, dead, dog-tired by the pace of life in this city, a city whose pace of life has far exceeded its inhabitants' capacity to live it. To fulfill even the most unmaterialistic want is expensive. And the bottom end jobs are paying the bills, but creating a far greater emotional deficit. I don't feel accomplished, or enriched by what I do for money. I don't feel I'm doing anything of real social value beyond being as decent and kind a person as I can be. Like a lot of big-city folks, I live in the universe of my own backyard, and the gate is rusting on its hinges, making it very hard to open.

So here I sit, once again, with my panicky confusion. Scratching my head, trying to figure out what I want to be when I grow up. I try to navigate my way through the human traffic along downtown Toronto streets, with honking cars, rising dust, heapfuls of hope and bellyfulls of unsureness. In the parallel universes of dreams and real life, the questions remain the same. Do we ever really grow up? Or do we just grow into lives anchored by the gravity of other people and their expectations of us? Is there peace and quiet if we follow the prescribed course of education, profession, marriage, and parenthood? Is there internal chaos and lifelong regret if we don't?

I don't know, I really don't know. I hope the answers will come someday. And till they do, I will tread in these thought-provoking, heavy shoes, and try not to trip on the cracks.

the deep end of the swimming pool

2005-04-09T01:52:00.000-07:00

When I was little, my mom took me and my sister to swimming classes at the Y. I always felt apprehension, as we sat on the deck by the deep end. There was a feeling of chlorinated unease, of churning, rippling infinity as I looked down into the water. I recognized this as fear. One day, as all of us little dolphins-in-training were practicing our splashing and paddling, our teacher took away the security of the bouyant flutter boards we'd been using, the natural progression in learning how to swim. When it was my turn to venture into the unknown, I panicked. I began to sink. Water got up my nose. I coughed. And choked. And wept. My teacher was unmoved by my fear, and after several long minutes of my suffering, my mother stormed onto the deck from the upstairs gallery where she was watching, tongue-lashed the instructor, and took me home. My fear of deep water remains where I left it that day, complete with irrational fantasies of sharks and evil water urchins waiting to pull me under and hold me down.

Fear of the unknown depths has followed me into my personal life as well. I am not alone in this, although the universality of my fear does little to dilute its potency. Having been shy most of my so-far days, I've been scared of the possibility of being misjudged, misread, mistreated. People have been my deep water. Like most of us, I've avoided risk-taking, especially when it comes to like, lust and love. I've always opted for the surest thing. To me, nothing ventured was nothing lost.

But lately, something's been happening. I don't know what, exactly, whether it's maturity, the lunar cycle, or just being tired of treating fear with more reverence than life, but lately, I am becoming braver. We're supposed to get braver in adulthood, aren't we? But instead, we develop more layers of self-preservation. As children, we are encouraged and more willing to express emotion in as simple and pure terms as possible. As adults, we hide behind protective behaviour, because the idea is that as we age, we are supposed to need the emotional flutter boards less and less. How unfair and untrue this is! We should become more adept at self-expression, not more skilled at deflecting insecurities or hiding them behind nuanced subtext.

The other day, I took my sagely sister's advice, and decided to ask the man of my daydreams(and a former blog posting) to have a beer with me. And he took me up on it. There I was. Sitting on the couch with the man I'd built up an idea, an image, a persona of over the course of two years. Conversation rose and fell like gentle waves. He said sweet things about me, I responded in kind. It was all going so well. Then he told me he thought a girl had tried to ask him out over e.mail. I thought he was talking about me, but he wasn't. He said how he wasn't interested in her, that he didn't know if he was interested in dating at all. At that moment, I knew I had to tell him how I felt. Because while I knew the likely outcome, I didn't care. I still had that last bleary, beery mirage of hope. He looked over at me and asked me what I was thinking. So I said it, as plain as toast;

"I've liked you for almost two years."

It's not that I didn't think about being rejected. I did, a fair bit. But for once, not being open and honest was a bigger atomic mushroom cloud than dashed hope. I just couldn't diffuse the words or the cataclysmic importance of going after what I wanted. He was flabbergasted. He didn't know what to do or say. He'd had no idea.(I thought I was so obvious!) He told me he didn't feel the same way.

And it didn't kill me.

It didn' t sting, eviscerate, implode or drown me. I was caught up in the adrenalin of my boldness. He asked if he could hug me, and I said sure, and as he did, my back cracked,(yes!awesome!) and we both giggled and made jokes. This was what was on the other side of rejection, if you were really fortunate. Not the starchiness or strangeness of bared wounds, only one more barrier of the unknown broken down, and vulnerability met with graciousness and a bit of humour. Towards the end of the night and my glass of beer, I watched his mouth move as he talked, and I knew with near certainty that my kisses would never meet his. I also knew he wasn't who I dreamed he was. Gone was the perfection of courtly admiration, which lacks the burps and farts of realism that humanize love. In its place was a man confused by life and purpose and all the same dragons of existence we all do battle with.

I don't know where we'll go from here. Maybe we'll become fast friends. Or maybe we'll slowly fade from each other's lives. Time will tell, I suppose.

And in the meantime, I'm learning to tread water.

wash 'n go gal?

2005-04-05T00:41:00.000-07:00

There are girls out there who wake up with perfectly rumpled hair. Their freckles are adorably scattered around their neat little noses, there is no toothpaste residue caked in the corners of their pink mouths. Their lashes are long and dark, without the help of make-up. They bound out of bed to the bathroom, garbed in adorable pajamas with lambs in sleeping caps on them, yawning and rubbing the last bit of tired out from under their eyes, and splash cold water on their faces. They don't need practical things like cleanser for 'combination skin', because they don't get pimples. They don't have to deal with the kind of sulphuric morning breath reserved for feral animals and city sewage systems, nor do they have to contend with last night's eyeliner forging its shadowy passage south of the eyelid into the no-man's land of undereye circles. They awake from slumber glowing.

I torture myself with the idea of these girls.
I want to be one of them.
But really, I'm low maintenance theory trapped in the body of high maintenance practice.

I never jump out of bed ten minutes before I'm due for work. There's no such thing as a lick of mascara for me. I take a shower, yes, but there is multiple product usage-shampoo, conditioner, body wash, shaving cream, razor, loofah, spot cream. Then I'm on to make-up. Having trained as a make-up artist, I am quite resourceful with time and eyeshadow. I'm not one of those girls who can't leave the house without make-up, I frequently do. It's just that I love make-up, it's candy for my face. (And I do like candy!) Then I have to decide what to wear, which would seem easy, I mean, I have a closet full of wearable clothes. But the criterium for garment selection is based on mood, and I am cursed with far more moods than clothing options;
The 'I-want-to-be-invisible' mood
The 'I-want-to-be-noticed' mood
The 'I'm bloated' mood(frequent)
The 'I'm-so-not-concerned-with-trivialities-like-fashion' mood(rare)

I think what I'm struggling with isn't so much being low or high maintenance. I'm struggling with the stigma of vanity. The perception of self is meant to be tempered with modesty, but that modesty is really for the benefit of the outside world, the jury of our lives. If women are seen as putting too much effort into their appearance, they are criticized from all sides, mostly by other women, I suspect.(We are terribly watchful of each other) They are scorned for trying to attract male attention, or reviled for trying to incite female envy. They are seen as shallow and vapid. With the merest whiff of vanity, their intelligence is subtracted from their sum total as a person.

We've set ourselves up for failure. We just can't get a break. The entertainment and marketing industries commodify, and thus, demand aesthetic perfection from its female participants, and they, in desperate turn, buy every bottle and jar of overpriced promise of beauty they can afford. And we admire the beautific results, but we loathe the efforts it takes. We look each other up and down, assess, appraise, rate, and largely disapprove. A judgement takes place where there should simply be acceptance, and even admiration. There are cracks and fractures within the framework of womanhood. And vanity just doesn't seem like a viable enough explanation for me. Especially when the branding and stigmatising is at the hands of other women.

I'm not trying to scapegoat. I think every person has to excercise the choice of self-determination, because there's enough information on hand to make an informed one. So why does an intelligent, socially aware girl like myself self-determine and still feel the weight of the scrutinizing gaze? Why do I feel like my femininity negates my feminism? Why do I want to be effortlessly lovely when I clearly enjoy taking the time to commit a little artistry and thought to my looks? This false modesty we perpetuate is more damaging than indulging in a little vanity, because it holds us accountable to ridiculous standards we had virtually no say in designing. Quite frankly, there is nothing wrong with taking a break from the near-constant cultivation of interior beauty most of us engage in and having some rollicking fun with the packaging we put it in.

Or at least just wiping the morning crust out of our eyes.

Gettin' a move on.

2005-03-30T14:09:00.000-08:00

I'd always been scared to live alone. I would get quite worked up about it if pressed for reasons, because I felt it was an unnatural state to exist in-no one to chat with in the kitchen? No one to share cleaning duties with? No one to borrow a banana from? It struck me that single dwellers lived in a kind of social void that was unhealthy and irritatingly selfish. I would get lonely just thinking about it. Which is not to say I didn't. It's inevitable that when you live with a gamut of people, from one other, to seven others, some lovely, some certifiable, you will contemplate getting away from it all. You will imagine a large main floor one bedroom with room for a studio and a pony, a backyard for your dog to play in, and friends over for dinner all the time in your spacious and ever-stocked kitchen, complete with wine rack and boughs of hanging garlic and herbs growing on the sills of large, eastward facing windows. Yes? But for me, fear and finances kept me in the realm of multiple-dweller abodes, and for the most part, quite happily.

It was last year that I changed my entire outlook. After all the 'bumping heads' with roommates over the years, and being in a semi-new relationship which needed privacy and space, I decided to move out. On my own. Only I was with someone, and I just assumed he would be at my house, or I would be at his house, so I wouldn't really be alone. I wasn't scared, I was exhilarated, I felt brave and independant. A week before I was scheduled to move to my fabulous basement apartment for one plus guest, we broke up. And so, freshly single, freshly moved and living alone, I spent the better part of my first week in my basement apartment terrified. Quaking in fear amidst strange refridgerator sounds and the scraping of chairs across the upstairs floors that were my ceilings. I'd even bought a double bed, figuring it was time to upgrade from my childhood single mattress, because I had a boyfriend. After it was delivered, and I'd assembled it, minus one missing bolt(I'm still waiting for the whole thing to fall apart) I lay there, alone, and let it in. The loneliness that issues from solitary living. There was more than enough room for it in my bed. I wondered if I'd made a terrible mistake. I wanted my mom.

But a funny thing happened as I struggled along, alone. I found big reserves of time, time I could use any way I wanted! I could write, I could draw, I could use all the hot water. I had to make an effort now to see my friends, but without the social safety net of roommates, I did exactly that. I made my neighbourhood a home, by going to the same fruit market every week, where there are usually more flies than fruit. Or to the video store across the street, where the fellows always let me off my late fees and laugh at my corny jokes. Or to the cd/book shop down the way where the employees are all bashful politeness and occasionally steer me away from bad recordings I pick up. Relations with my landlord and his wife have been terrific, they took on my various pest control problems as their own, and in return for my never complaining about the frequent, early morning furniture moving, they never complain about my frequent, all day loud music. This living alone lark has grown on me, and grown me up. I've come to rely on myself for organizing my time, entertainment, toilet paper.

But there is one downside to this kind of freedom and independance. And that is, that with every relationship, whether with another person, or just yourself, there is the tendancy to get a little too comfortable. To let loose those behaviours you were taught to suppress for the benefit of social progress and development. For example, there is this pair of pants. They are made of flannel. That's not the worst part. They are made of flannel, and I have loafed in them so much, the bum reaches down to the back of my knees. It's not pretty, and I wear them all the time. I come in from work, take off the pants I'm wearing, and on go the saggy bum pants. I would never wear such a thing in public, but in my house, there's no need for style. I have no one to impress here. There is also the eating of food in the fridge. Yes, I mean opening the fridge, getting a fork, and opening a container of food and eating it with the fridge door open. Why I can't sit down like a normal person at a table is beyond me, it's like I'm fooling myself into thinking I'm not really eating if I'm still in the fridge, which is supposed to be a decision-making area only. There is the not-as-infrequent-as-I'd-like renegade hair removal, grooming for the sake of avoiding social humiliation, like errant chin hairs, or freakishly long eyebrows, like Larry Hagman/J.R. Ewing on Dallas. And there's the dancing. I know we all do this, turn music up really loud and dance in our rooms, but this is the reason I don't dance at shows or clubs, because I know what I look like when I let loose, and it's alarming. If I was dating me, I'd be a little turned off by now. I'd want to put some of the mystery back where I found it.

I find myself missing those impromptu chats or nights out with roommates. I worry I'm becoming too set in my ways, too unyielding, too independant. It's really kind of fun calling home to ask if you need to buy milk, or if you should pick up a movie. Or when a roommate crosses the border of cohabitant into the kingdom of friendship, that's a bit of magic. I suppose it's a good thing, to get the chance to really see yourself uncensored, unguarded, unkempt. I think everyone should try it. And at the end of the day, it is lovely to come home and strip off all the trappings and pretenses of control, out of plain sight. But it's far more humbling, somewhat endearing, and definately braver to let yourself be really seen. Just as you unstylishly, imperfectly are.

Debunking the myth of cool

2005-03-25T16:24:00.000-08:00

In the social pecking order of youth, I'd never been "cool". I blame, in part, my parents, for doing their most unintentional best to ensure my sister and I were never hip. We weren't allowed to wear denim. Ever. We weren't permitted to wear anything with a logo, for my father's fear that we would become walking advertisements for unworthy clothing companies. We couldn't watch television during the school week, except for Fridays, when we were allowed to watch both Dallas and The Love Boat. We couldn't hang out at the mall with friends, or go to rock concerts. My parents did this completely out of love, out of wanting us to be individuals, thinking independantly from the crowd. In hindsight, I really respect this brand of parenting. At the time, though, I really resented it. I just wanted to belong. I didn't want the harrassment that was meted out to me by the school bullies for being so shy and awkward. I walked with my eyes cast low, the weight of my misery pushing my head down deep into my shoulders. I hid my pimpled gawkiness between the two curtains of hair that hung in my face. I ate lunch in the school bathroom, with spirals of toilet paper and sexually explicit graffiti for companionship. I hid in my pained nerd vortex. I wanted to be invisible.

They say your teenage years are supposedly the best years of your life. Really? Had I lost my government-issued manual on adolescent enjoyment? Because the bluebirds of my teenage years persistently shat on my shoulders. My clouds didn't have silver linings , only rusted ones. It wasn't so much that my emotional mountains were insurmountable, it was that I just wasn't very cool. Coolness dogged me at every turn. And in high school, it's everything. This all-pervasive myth of cool is what drives us, what aligns us with our cliques, what determines how happy we will be from one day to the next. It's an indescribeable quality that some people genuinely possess, while the rest of us scramble to shopping malls in vain hopes of purchasing the illusion. For me, the idea of being cool was really the absence of loneliness. It was the recognition and acceptance of being different. It was, in reality, a cruel mirage. I was locked in social purgatory, and my only escape was growing up.

But the thing is, even with the passing of time and the coming of age, we are no more immune to the need for cool as we were in high school. We simply have a more disposeable income with which to camouflage our inner, shivering nerds. We can legally drink away our insecurities, blather on about the miseries of irrelevant jobs and opine our socially acceptable left-of-center political views. We can admire Mexican-trucker couture one season, only to replace it with old-man avante-chic the next, outfitting ourselves with fleeting styles made from scorn and irony. We approach new ideas with almost vampirical desperation. But on some level, we've realized that cool cannot be bought. It is an energy that can't be harnessed or co-opted. It's a visceral element, one that depends on its shape-shifting mystique for survival. We've confused style for cool. We've created advertising and marketing wet dreams with our confusion, and they, in turn, have freed us of millions of our dollars spent trying to get it right. Coolness is not, as consumerist culture would have us believe, the one-way ticket to respect and universal love. It is not freedom from public scrutiny and judgement. So what is it? What is this idea that promises us a little piece of heaven at the cost of so much social hell?

I was thinking about it as I walked home from a coffeehouse this morning, a sloshing take-out cup in my hand, a newspaper under my arm, and as I watched the random strangers passing by, it hit me. Coolness is the complete lack, either of posturing or awareness, of 'cool'. There's no such thing. It's been this social boogeyman for as long as I've taken breaths, held me hostage, kept me foolish, and the whole time, it's simply been a fake! Golly, why couldn't I have figured this out sooner? I could have erased so much self-loathing and doubt! Maybe those years really would have been the best of my life. Who knows. And really, who cares. Those years are gone now, and I survived them, with relatively few battle scars. It's taken me 27 years to learn how to walk with my head up. To look people in the eye and feel I have something of value to say. To have the sand to be a little bit different. And it's as close to cool as I've ever felt.

ex, why, zed.

2005-03-20T20:48:00.000-08:00

Jason Steadman. That was the name of my first boyfriend. He was nineteen years old, and I met him one night at a seedy rooming house that sheltered ex-street kids and various welfare fraudists and substance abusers past and present. I was going through a time in my life where my home life was so painfully functional, I simply had to tamper with it to conform to my non-conformist, existentially heartaching friends. Jason was into Deep Purple and drugs, had long hair and wore tie-dye(eeek!). But I didn't care. I was fifteen years old, and I had a boyfriend. I was one of those girls in high school who had somewhere to be on weeknights, someone to give me illicit hickeys that I would make little attempt to hide(the elbow-jab hint of sexual activity-scandalous!), someone to buy me wine coolers...My first love affair lasted a lengthy three months, and when I broke up with him, I was so wracked with the guilt of inflicting his tears that I gave him forty dollars for beer.

After Jason, I had several short term, ill-fated relationships. There was Bryan, who had no intention of ever taking me out in public, or loving me. There was John, who I lived with for one month, and who broke up with me by moving away, and taking all my belongings with him, never to be seen again. How I cried over these unworthy fellows! Each time, I vowed the next time would be different, but I kept dating a different hue of the same colour. I was drawn in by their damaged childhoods, their dark moods, their fixer-upper potential. I wanted only to be their saving grace. In teenage years and adult retrospection, love can be quite selfish. It can be fickle, volatile, and awfully temporary. Our first forays into love are often quite a far and frequent cry from the fairy tales we grew up hoping for.

Then I met someone in high school, and over the next six years, we would shift from a true love, into a vivid hatred, and then into a quietly acid complacency. This relationship imprinted me, changed me, scarred me. As with most of us who live and date in Toronto, I can't seem to throw a stone far enough without hitting someone who knows my ex. Occasionally, I see him. He walks past me like a shadow of something once sacred, and I'm thrown by how someone who could once mean so much can now be a stranger with a familiar face. The process of reclaiming once mutual property, like songs, or restaurants, neighbourhoods and friends, is endless. There is always some reminder, some backwash of memory to be triggered and endured.

So what good can we glean from our exes and the affairs that sour like milk? What purpose do they serve if their memories mainly cause twinges and pangs and upset? Who we chose to love speaks volumes about who we are; Are we still looking for someone to fix? Are we afraid to be alone? Are we shivering with anticipation at the prospect of seeing them? Or is it really about how they see us? Maybe exes are simply barometers of where we are, emotionally or otherwise, in life. And if we're lucky, we grow up in between the spaces of lovers. Our standards and hopes rise monumentally. Our capacity for forgiveness expands, and we become more accepting and open to imperfections. We are less afraid of being academic about the formulas of people and emotion that yield us the greatest happiness. We stop fixating on the aesthetics of desire, and become braver with our vulnerability.

Lots of us rise triumphantly out of the ashes of a troubled love. We redefine who we are, which is easier when you aren't in a relationship. Me, I started my own business, and learned how to be my own girl. I take myself to the movies I want to see, and sleep in my own bed among the cracker crumbs and piles of pajamas behind the pillows. I get to cross contaminate the peanut butter and jam jars with the same knife, something that used to drive my last boyfriend crazy!, and I get to inhabit a space free of compromise( a treat which may be kind of hard to give up one day when I'm dating again) And I've had a chance to commit to memory some of the lessons I've gleaned from loving the men I've loved best;
Never date cheap people-anyone who freely and miserably monitors every last penny is usually stingy with their affections as well.
Don't go to bed mad, just go home. There is no greater loneliness than sleeping next to your partner with an ocean of anger and bedsheets between you.
Date someone who will be your best friend.
Always trust your gut. Sometimes, it's not just nerves, or last night's chicken curry rolling over, it's that instinct that is urging you to be saved, from headaches, heartaches, and sometimes even from yourself.

If I'm to use my exes as a barometer, I think I'm finally heading in the right direction...

Part-time waitress, full-time grrrl?

2005-03-16T00:39:00.000-08:00

I was sitting at work, moderately busy with the dinner rush, scribbling notes about what makes a good waitress, and whether I was one or not. I was recalling all the examples of my shaky server instincts, like timing, something that makes a bad waitress-the poor man who scalded his throat because I asked him how his food was right when he was spooning in some freshly heated soup. Or of how you can't fool some customers with shortcuts, that there really is a difference between Coke and Diet Coke(who knew?!?) as I found out tonight by a horrified diner. Sigh. The night wore on, and towards the end, this couple came in, and turned my night upsidedown.

I am not one to judge on appearances, in as much as my socialization allows me. Yes, they stank of already consumed booze(or perhaps they bathed in it?) And yes, they did look like the stereotypical inhabitants of a mobile home facility. But it's just my way to treat everyone with a little graciousness unless proven wrong. Sure, they were suspect, the man paid for his coffee with a roll of nickels, and they both kept pretending to take calls on cellphones that didn't appear to be ringing. And yes, red lights flashing, the man seemed a bit off when he went to the back to look at some empty jazz cd cases. I kept a watchful eye, made sure he knew I was watching him, and listened patiently as he told me of his mother being in the hospital with a short time left to live(really? I'm very sorry) and of his frequent trips to our bathroom because of his kidney stones(yes, they can be quite a nuisance, can't they!) But, for the most part, I let them be. Because I didn't want to be that kind of person. Mistrustful because they weren't dressed like 'downtown' folk.

But as they were leaving, something didn't feel right. All my senses were heightened, each one calling on the others to man all stations, batten down the hatches, call the captain. It was the oddest thing, but from all the way at the back of the restaurant, I heard his fingers in my cash jar. I heard two coins clink together, and I knew. I just knew. I got out of my seat, and the woman came up to me trying to distract me, "Ok, so we're all paid up? Oh don't get up, take a rest, we're fine", but I ignored her, ran to my cash jar and saw all the bills missing. I don't really remember any thought process taking place, don't remember any swirl of colour or inner rage rising like a tidal wave. I just ran. Ran after the man and screamed at him. "Give me my money back. Give me my money back, I know you stole it." He looked at me blankly, and I repeated my instructions, adding a few salty words my mother would blanche at if she heard me. He reached into his fanny pack(I mean really, who wears a fanny pack for Pete's sake!) and pulled out some bills, they floated like smoke in the cold winter air, and fell to the ground. "All of it," I hissed, "Give me all of it, every last dollar." He reached in and more money fell. I told him to get out and never come back again, not before I wrung the wad of money in his face and said "I have to work really hard for this money!", (which isn't entirely true, because most of the time, the restaurant is empty and I'm doodling in my notebook) I firmly ushered his lady out, and stood there, clasping my money, shaking.

I was prepared to hurt him. I was prepared to throw a soup can at his head, like in Crocodile Dundee(don't pretend you didn't watch the movie!), to behave like the inner banshee we all subdue most of the time. I didn't think for one second that he could have a knife, or that there were two of them against me. All I could think was "No. I've had enough." I was pushed to that place you never want to push the quiet ones to, because even we don't know what rage we're capable of. Women aren't really taught how to manifest anger, we're taught to tame it, to knit it or bake it or yoga it away. And that's wrong. We have to learn how to be effectively mad, we have to learn that sometimes, there is no room for docility, there's no time to wait for someone else to save us.

And so, miles away from caring whether I'm a good waitress or not, I've realized my voice isn't always too quiet to be taken seriously, and that sometimes, beyond rosy cheeks and wide eyes, I am a force to be reckoned with.

Rejection, have you met my friend fear?

2005-03-15T22:21:00.000-08:00

There's a fellow. There's always some fellow who I imaginary date and feel imaginary happy with. It happens in an instant. A fellow comes into my work, and with him, he carries that thing, that 'I'm comfortable in my own skin' thing that draws me in. He takes my breath away, not in a Romantic novel sort of way, but in a literal, uncomfortable, I-need-my-air-back way. I blush and try to recapture the composure he's stolen from me. He is handsome, but I honestly don't care, so long as he just keeps wearing himself like a favourite sweater. He's got something lovely I hope is contagious, some sweetness I want to be near.

One day, I force myself to talk to him, because the possibility of letting him slip away and be unbearably great somewhere far away from me is impossibly unbearable. I'm aware the whole time we're talking that the words are slipping out of my mouth like wet soap, that he's making something physical and silly to happen to me, that maybe he could become more than daydreams to me one day.

He'll come in and out of my daily life, and have no idea how many times he has imaginary held my hand.

Months go by.

There are other fellows, some gentlemen, some not, who try to woo me in the meanwhile. I hate knowing already that they are not for me, but you know when you know. I go on some bad dates and try to stumble graciously out of second bad dates without hurting anyone. I have a boyfriend for a little while, and he is handsome as can be, and smart, and really wants to know me, but he's also a little too selfish and hurt from past loves, and we break up. Then come some serious changes to my life, and there is little room for daydreams and the fellows who inhabit them, because my heart is instead breaking for someone closer to home who needs me.

And then, through some weird snap of luck, the fellow somehow, after two years of intermittent and imaginary courtship, is in my life in a real and unromantic capacity, and he's sitting in front of me,talking to me, asking my opinion on things, and it all seems so unreal and tenuous because all I want to do is impress him. I want him to think I'm neat. And in moments of bravery and feeling hot, I convince myself I'm going to take some kind of risk. Bolstered by coffee and the advice of encouraging friends, I prepare, look at all the angles. I even imagine the conversation we might have(don't pretend you don't)

me: Hi, um, you there, do you want to go out sometime?(a little vague, lacking finesse, I know, but I'm nervous and trying not to pee myself like the perps do on NYPD Blue when they're being interrogated)
him:Oh, geez, (because I think he's the type to say 'geez') I'm terribly flattered, but, um, I don't think it's a good idea...
or
him: Oh, gosh, that's awfully nice of you, really, but I'm seeing someone.
or
him: Oh, good heavens. No.(head shaking vehemently)
or, finally,
him: EEEEUUUWWWWW.

I know. He won't say that. But this is what I do when I'm scared. I try to familiarize myself with the negatives, examine them critically, because maybe if I get used to them, they won't scare me so much. Right? Right? Only I am scared, pull-the-covers-up-tight scared of the possibility that he will reject me. Scared of being so naked with my want, and naked with my disappointment. Scared of what's on the other side of rejection. I'm so scared of the hundred or so crash and burn scenarios I've 'familiarized' myself with that I'm a 27 year old with an imaginary friend...

So how do you do it? How do you get over the fear of rejection?
Do you try to understand it?
Do you just say it really fast;"doyouwannagoonadatewithmesometime?"
Do you try to talk yourself out of wanting someone?

Perhaps what it all boils down to isn't his wants or his response, or anything about him really. Maybe taking risks isn't about being at the mercy of someone else's opinion of you. Maybe it's just as simple as thinking enough of yourself to go after the things you want...

The silencing of Peter Pan

2005-03-13T16:29:00.000-08:00

I've thought a lot lately about why I named my blog after a quote from The Outsiders. When I first watched this movie, in my early teens, it had little impact on me. I would never have said it was one of my favourite films, nor would I ever have quoted it to express something that is being left unsaid, something that is being lost in our society. It was just a movie about the greasers and the soc's, with an impressive roster of the young, male heartthrobs Hollywood had to offer us at the time, playing it young and misunderstood on the wrong side of the tracks. So I rented it the other day, to refresh my memory, to understand why this movie's relevance surfaced after all these years. The wary adult in me snickered at the tight jeans and corny lines, the awkward overacting. But the other part of me marvelled at just how natural the awkwardness was. This movie was made at a time when kid actors played kids, and were allowed to let some of their own pimpled angst seep into the roles. The authenticity, the lack of pretention, made the message of being safekeepers of innocence all the more potent and gave weight and validity to the emotional lives of kids.

Kids are heartbreakingly easy to damage, their ideas and naivetes entirely too vulnerable to prey upon. Having a childhood is a necessity. It is the temporary and unparalled freedom to indulge in awe and curiosity, to feel and act on emotion unfiltered by propriety. And as we age, and adults guard, guide, misunderstand and envy our youthful dispositions, we bristle and resist the interference, protecting our wonder and freedom to explore it in the context of an adult world. Drinking booze and pretending to like the taste, feeling the first hazy fog of pot, understanding sexual potency and identity, groping it in the dark. This is the electric thrill, playing adult with the closeted sensibility of a child, and it marks that time in our lives where we straddle the line of innocence and maturity, and are forced to give one up for the other. It is the first choice of real consequence we have to make in our lives.

But it's a choice that is riddled with interference.We are a society crackling with contradictions. We are obsessed with youth, but we impose maturity and adult situations on kids when they are scarcely out of the womb. We tantalize them with sexuality and the power structure it operates within through visual mediums like movies and television and magazine ads, and are somehow shocked when they display a willingness to participate in it. We are loathe to putting kids and sex in the same sentence, but are unable to accept our complicity in doing just that. Kids are being ruthlessly seduced into relinquishing their childhoods for the illusion of respect, to grow into lives shaped like beer commercials. We are hesitant to explore the depths and complexities that come with being a child, and scratch our heads with confused defeat when we fail to understand the surges of aggression and violence, high risk behaviour and emotional acidity they exhibit. Where has the joy of being a kid gone? When were books replaced with video games and television, when did materialism replace idealism? What's the mad rush to grow up?

I count myself as one of the lucky ones. I had a real childhood. I have the pictures and recollections to assure me. There were long car rides to Niagara Falls, ending in the consumption of countless cheese sandwiches and Oreo cookies. There were walks to the library every Saturday afternoon, holding my father's hand. There were skating parties in winter, all rosy cheeks and hot chocolate and avoiding Wilson, the boy who pestered me with his affections every year. There were movie nights with the old projector and a pull-down screen in our living room. There were magical nights sitting on lawnchairs on our backporch, watching the skies turn from day to night, swaddled in blankets and parents' arms under the watch of stars. And there were days to follow that were filled with inner torment, depression, migraines, acne, arguments, struggles with authority, and early dalliances with adult vices, all symptomatic of growing up. Like Holden Caulfield, Ponyboy Curtis, Thomas Penman, any of my coming-of-age anti-heroes, I wanted to be brave enough to question the pressures of 'cool', eye them through critical lenses. To hurt and act with quiet tenderness, and be a little bit delicate. To be weary of both adults and my peers. To never fully grow up and out of wonder.

And so, years later, I am still straddling the line. I can feel the ligaments slowly tearing as the opposing sides of youth and aging pull away under my feet, but I'm resisting, still hanging on to every last shred of gold.

Luddite lite

2005-03-09T11:38:00.000-08:00

It is the early nineteenth century, and a huge fire is roaring in a town square, in the counties of Cheshire, Lancashire, Derbyshire, Yorkshire. Amidst the crackling and yelling and jeering, men are throwing pieces of machinery into the flames, giving voice and visual power to their deteriorating standard of living. At the heart of the Industrial Revolution, a group of angered English craftsmen, championed by Ned Ludd, formed a counter-revolution called Luddism. They were fighting for their rights to not be replaced and made obsolete by technology. Their rebellion, peppered with human cost, was contained and eradicated just a few years later.

I've always considered myself a moderate when it comes to technological innovation and progress. The washing machine:good. Nuclear missiles:bad. And I've always been just a tad smug that I haven't succumbed to the legions of cell phone have-ers, i-pod wearers, the car users. Somehow, to me, these intentional exclusions have made a statement, that I refuse to immerse myself in the ocean of the technological frontier. I am, and always have been, content just to get a toe wet.

Only it's not just a toe. I've been in denial. Chocolate covered, smug denial. Because technological dependance has crept into my life without the flashing red lights and warning signals, and made itself at home. I have become hopelessly addicted to my computer. I originally received the computer as a gift, to get me writing. Internet came shortly after, and I set up e.mail more for the novelty than anything else. Slowly, e.mail became a shortcut to communicating with friends when travelling. It managed to maintain the relevancy and timeliness that often got lost in hand written letters. When I returned from my travels, e.mail pretty much replaced the phone. It became a way to still 'talk' to and 'love' my ex-boyfriend without all the irritants of talking to and loving him in person. It became a means of storytelling to my friends, with the added bonus of self-editing. And it had became another, more powerful extension of my voice, a voice at times too soft and timid to be heard.

The crux of my addiction became apparent around Christmas time last year. Amidst a bout of depression, I was sending e.mails fast and furious, not because I had so many things to say, but because I wanted, no, I needed, the response. I'd barely touched my phone, except to check for messages. I would check e.mail about 17 times a day. Even when I knew, in the back of my mind, no one had written me, such was my mania, my need for that fix of attention. I would get irritable and sad when there were no new e.mails. I would get angry at no one in particular; "You don't get it," I'd huff at Yahoo, "Checking e.mail is really just a pit stop on the way to Google." But I had nothing to Google. I wasn't fooling Yahoo, and I wasn't fooling myself. I needed to take a step back, cure myself, find some perspective and balance. Did the Luddites have the right idea? And did they have a website?

What would my life be without technology? It couldn't be all bad. I could teach myself macrame. I could take up the lute. I could make my own tortillas in the stone oven I'd build. I could participate in barn raisings, or write letters with feather pens and squid ink and deliver them on horseback. And yes, I could read books, and, I suppose, stretch my imagination. And really, who doesn't look better in candlelight? But then I remind myself of the rosy side of tech innovations. Waffle irons. Listening to old radio plays like The Shadow. Fish and veggies on the George Forman grill. Coffee makers. The CBC on a cold and wintery day. And keeping in touch, at a moment's notice, with loved ones, by phone, by e.mail. Because at the end of all the technological madness that can swallow us, in between lunacy and Luddism, is simply the constant and fragile human need to feel anchored by someone else. It's to accept that while we may not be able to slow or steady the manic pace of our daily lives, we can use with moderation the tools we've fashioned, technological or not, to stay close, stay decent, stay humane. The Luddites, bless them, fought for this choice and failed. We don't have to.

lights, camera, quiet.

2005-03-06T16:07:00.000-08:00

I remember having a fight with my sister once(and only once!) in which she told me I was too finicky and stubborn, that I liked things "just so", to my detriment. I remember blustering and reddening and fighting that idea, but it stuck in my head for many months after. And I think that's because it's true. I am the postergirl for retentiveness.

Nowhere is this more obvious than when I go to see a movie at a theatre. I love everything about movies and the experience of seeing them. Getting caught up in this jumbo-sized fantasy world that may or may not portray real life. The smell of fresh popcorn. The cozy plush seats. The movie magazines you get for free at the ticket booth. Bathtub sized orange pop. And then, when the lights dim, and the opening credits begin, the hush of silence. Or not...

Sometimes, very chatty people go to movies. This is a fact. Now, a little chit-chat, a necessary clarification of plot or character detail here and there, really, not a problem. But then there are the literal observers, the ones so into the movie, they almost become one with it, giving a play-by-play of what's happening, to no one in particular;
"Oh my goodness, and now he's wiping his glasses with the shirt of his wife's lover, and he doesn't even know!"
"Look, there's someone lurking in the shadows, and oh, ohhhh, he's going to attack Al Pacino!"
"Did you see that? Did you see how she just threw that wine in his face? Fantastic. I could never do that."
These people are usually audible no matter where they are sitting in relation to you, so moving seats isn't much of an option. And asking them to not be so emotionally participatory would be mean, so I usually suffer in the silence of repressed frustration.

There are also the popcorn rustlers. There is, to be sure, an unspoken etiquette for eating popcorn during a movie. It's almost choreography with me. Grab a handful, look around quickly for withering looks from between hunched shoulders and eat. Grab another handful, repeat process as necessary. It's no one's fault really, that popcorn comes in such rustle-y paper bags, but a small awareness of the noise it generates is nice. I went to a movie once with my sister, and we sat about two seats away from one of the worst offenders of this activity I'd ever seen. Clearly, she hadn't seen a proper meal in several days, and this big bag of popcorn was the first real sustenance she'd been allowed. There it all was, acute rustling, spittle flying, speed and determination in every movement, an alarming lack of time elapsing between each re-grab. She even rifled through the creases at the bottom of the bag for errant kernals that had escaped her hunger-charged hands. My sister and I exchanged looks of disbelief and wonder. We were in the presence of a professional.

There are some endearing noise infractions, though. I don't want to sound like a complete grump. I do kind of warm up inside when the bad guy gets his dues, and the audience, so elated and feeling so served by the tidy and poetic justice only a movie can deliver, start clapping. The retentive me wants to shush them(they can't really hear you in there...) but I try to keep it to myself. I'm also warmed by the collective audience responses, laughs at the funny bits, sharp intakes of breath at the scary bits, lumps in the throat that we pass off as coughs at the sad bits. We're processing the same emotions at the same time, which is a unifying experience.

For me, the silence in a movie theatre, the embrace of darkness, the larger-than-life screen, this is the magic used to make us suspend real life and disbelief and be pulled in. And it's a bit of a curse that my suspension is as fragile as it is. I really don't want to be the shush-er. I don't want to be the turn-around-and-glare person. I don't want to be the inwardly screaming quietnik I seem to be. I know my intense need for total escape makes me a volatile movie companion. I have a ways to go before I inhabit a place of careless abandon and surrender. But maybe that's where the real magic of the movies begins...

of mice and women

2005-03-04T03:19:00.000-08:00

It's six-ish in the morning. I actually awoke at five, and attempted a different blog, but it featured on the heavy side with genocide and political activism, and I decided that was just too heavy, both for five in the morning, (why would I get out of bed? The world is a mess!) and for my first post. And so, I'm going to write about the reason I got up so early. And it's not nearly as heavy as geopolitical strife.

I live alone, in a fabulous two room basement apartment. No, really, I'm not being sarcastic, it's fabulous for a basement! Anyways, when I first moved in last summer, I discovered that the illusory element of living alone below ground level is that you are never truly alone. My first visitors came in the form of ants. Now, I'm not talking about a few sprinkled here and there in various corners of the house. I'm talking colonies. Primarily, I was alarmed, started liberally applying boric acid to their headquarters, put the garbage out nightly, and hoped for the best. No dice. I began appealing to them, asking them nicely to avoid the parameters of my house, maybe they would like the next door neighbours' house better, so much more room?, more garbage readily available for sorting through? Still, they persisted. I scolded, yelled, began attacking masses of them with toilet paper wads, but there seemed to be an endless supply of them replenishing those lost to the bathroom tissue massacres that were occuring daily. All I could do was pray for winter, when the armies would cease and leave me alone.

And sure enough, winter came, and the ants disappeared. Solitary living resumed, and while I craved a pet of some kind, preferably a dog, maybe a Shepherd-Husky mix, I knew it was for the best not having one. And then, something else came along. It started as a quickly scurrying object across my kitchen floor. I shrieked, much like women do in the movies, which I always thought I was above, and went on with my day. Then, it became rustling into the night. Upon the sound of plastic bags being foraged through, I found my now lax daily garbage removal was rearing consequences worse than ants. I decided there was no other way but to confront the fact that I had a mouse. Maybe several. Having learned with the ants that there is no real way to reckon with a pest, I decided the Zen thing would be to accept the mouse and establish some ground rules. Upon discovering the mouse at my feet one night as I sat at my computer, we decided, mainly I decided, that we could happily co-exist so long as we were never in the same room at the same time. The mouse would have to try leaving less turd deposits under my kitchen sink, and would not be allowed to rustle through the garbage past one at night.

It's one thing to think you have control over a mouse. It's entirely another when you realize the mouse has severe behavioural problems, and simply will not respect authority. We are frequently in the same room at the same time, despite my hand-clapping, foot-stomping, and aggressive-assertive voice of discouragement. The turd deposits continue to multiply, regardless of my now regular efforts to Fantastik them away. And as for giving me peace after one at night, well, who am I fooling? Try leaving a kernel(really, just one!) of microwaved popcorn in a metal bowl on top of the stove. Just try it, and see if you don't jump out of your skin at three in the morning when it crashes to the floor because somebody just had to eat.

I have forcibly named the mouse Herbert, and have deluded myself I have a willing pet. He, in turn, has convinced both of us that he is the real owner of the apartment, despite my paying the rent, and pretty much establishes when we go to sleep and when we wake up. It's an imperfect relationship, for sure. But then I tell myself, all relationships have their hiccups. I can't help wishing it were summer again though. Those ants sure were quieter.