I disappeared the other day. It was something that I wanted. What I asked for. The result, however, was unexpected. I arrived at work on Thursday and checked my bank account. It was payday. I'm never quite sure how much my end of month pay is because I never bother to calculate my overtime in advance. I like to keep the extra dosh as a surprise. I was surprised. No pay had been deposited. I called payroll. The woman who answered the phone asked me to hold the line. When she returned to speak with me she told me she had no idea what happened. She had to check with her supervisor. I hung up and waited. Well. I carried on doing my job. Kind of. I had a sneaking suspicion. I suspected that something was up beyond my comprehension. I had recently looked up at skies and said 'Bring It!' I've been frustrated. Lonely. Fed up. 'Just Bring It!' Whatever was to be brought I figured I could take. I sent a message to a friend and among other pitiable things I whinged on about, I wrote how I wanted to disappear.
The payroll supervisor got back to me. She didn't really know how it happened but apparently I had been disappeared from the main database. Not only me but my job as well. There are various checks and balances in place at the institution where I work to prevent this from accidentally occurring. Whenever someone is deleted, that name is to automatically go on to other lists so that other folk can verify that that someone is indeed supposed to disappear. It seems that my records had been deleted but that my name hadn't automatically gone to any lists. The payroll folk have no idea how this could have occurred.
No harm no foul. It was only money. They cut me a cheque. Nothing bounced.
Strange tho' that I could disappear so quickly. Strange that the timing of this happened just after I had decided to challenge fate? the gods? universal energy?
The same friend to whom I had written my whinge list suggested that I might now need to be careful of what I ask for. Much like the folk in stories who meet up with a genie I should take care when asking for anything because I just might get it.
I've been thinking about what I would want to ask for. I'm stymied. I may not be satisifed entirely with my current situation but I can't really come up with anything that could make it better. I kind of like the journey and the sense of adventure that is wrapped up in my not knowing what is coming up. I guess I continue to have hope and faith in tomorrow. Hope doth springeth eternal. At the same time, despite my whining, I'm doing ok. The choices I've made in the past that have led to where I am now are ones that I probably wouldn't have made any differently if I had the chance to make them again.
I do believe that I will stop yelling at the sky. At least for a bit.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Friday, October 17, 2008
Seeing
My girl has a ‘lazy’ eye. There is nothing physically wrong but her strong eye has taken over the responsibility of seeing. Her weaker eye is getting weaker. We have used glasses, eye drops, adhesive patches and the like. It’s been a frustrating process. Invasive. It's been about five years! My daughter is incredibly strong but enough is enough. We went to the eye doc again yesterday and I asked him about possible alternative visual therapies…a wee bit of internet research has revealed the existence of such approaches; the caveat being that the closest practitioner is in Cambridge, ON. The doc, as should have been expected, dismissed the idea right away saying that what we were doing was right and sometimes it just didn’t work. Maybe.
So I got her a pirate patch to wear after school and on weekends over her strong eye instead of the adhesive bandages that cause a rash and hurt her skin when removed. She’s happier with that. Her words after viewing herself in the mirror ‘Oh mommy, I look absolutely ridiculous! I love it.’ I have also started to work with her in terms of relating the images she sees with her weaker eye to her brain. Instead of just letting her ‘carry on’ I’m trying to be a bit more pro active. (While simultaneously attempting to ignore the rising waves of mommy guilt for not trying to do something about this sooner). We are looking at things together and I am asking her to describe for me the details she is seeing (describe the veins of a leaf…what do they do for the leaf…what do they remind one of etc. all in an effort to make her have to consciously see through that eye and interpret the images) I’m thinking that physical therapists don’t just ask folk to walk on the sore leg until it heals but offer techniques to strengthen the leg. I’m trying to work out ways to strengthen the connection between the visual input and her brain. I can’t move to Cambridge (or can I?) but I need to try something new. At least, according to the doc, there is nothing physically wrong with her eye or the optic nerve. I need to try something but the invasive crap feels wrong.
Perhaps I’m too close to this. I have a healthy distrust of doctors so my biases may be blinding me. Our next appointment with the doc is in December. Until then, I'll work with her and wait & see.
So I got her a pirate patch to wear after school and on weekends over her strong eye instead of the adhesive bandages that cause a rash and hurt her skin when removed. She’s happier with that. Her words after viewing herself in the mirror ‘Oh mommy, I look absolutely ridiculous! I love it.’ I have also started to work with her in terms of relating the images she sees with her weaker eye to her brain. Instead of just letting her ‘carry on’ I’m trying to be a bit more pro active. (While simultaneously attempting to ignore the rising waves of mommy guilt for not trying to do something about this sooner). We are looking at things together and I am asking her to describe for me the details she is seeing (describe the veins of a leaf…what do they do for the leaf…what do they remind one of etc. all in an effort to make her have to consciously see through that eye and interpret the images) I’m thinking that physical therapists don’t just ask folk to walk on the sore leg until it heals but offer techniques to strengthen the leg. I’m trying to work out ways to strengthen the connection between the visual input and her brain. I can’t move to Cambridge (or can I?) but I need to try something new. At least, according to the doc, there is nothing physically wrong with her eye or the optic nerve. I need to try something but the invasive crap feels wrong.
Perhaps I’m too close to this. I have a healthy distrust of doctors so my biases may be blinding me. Our next appointment with the doc is in December. Until then, I'll work with her and wait & see.
Saturday, October 11, 2008
A Little Knowledge . . .
New people have entered my life. One has entered slowly yet, simultaneously and contradictorily, the entry was immediate. I just didn't recognize the impact right away. But, at the same time I did. It needs time. Hmmmmm......
Others have been filtering in. A new balance is to be achieved. I feel that everything that is going on around me is right. It's supposed to happen. I don't know why. I'm not sure if I'm really supposed to know why. Maybe why isn't the correct question? I am feeling more centred. Peaceful.
A recent meeting with a postive thinker has provided me with much needed, and free, childcare. A quaker I met today brought me messages of peace as well as information on upcoming meetings. I will not go but it's nice to be asked to the dance. Dads are coming up to me in the playground to talk. The commonality between all? They are all searching. Actively or passively. Searching for answers. Meanings. Understanding.
I've been thinking about knowing. What is knowing? We use our senses...sight, smell, taste, touch and hearing. Then our minds do the requisite calculations and voila...we know something. Doesn't this put the act of thinking right up there with seeing and smelling in terms of sensory observation? If thinking is a sense does this change how the world is perceived?
Certain things are going on in my life that, when I actively attempt to think about them, my understanding/knowledge of them lessons. I know that I can't know these things through thinking. How do I know this? I don't know. But I do know. You know? It's a knowledge linked to feeling. A combination of the senses I recognize with, perhaps, some senses that I don't. These unknown senses don't need to be understood to do their job. I don't know exactly how my heart and lungs work but I know that they are doing what they are supposed to be doing. My body/myself remain alive. I am more than my body. It makes sense that other parts of me, be they emotional, spiritual, soulful or other, would be, when functioning at an optimum level, not have to necessarily involve my conscious input to do what they do.
So I'm thinking about stuff lately. Not exactly sure where, if anywhere, it will take me. It's fun. Keeping me off the streets (for the most part). Regular scheduled programming will continue at a later date.
Others have been filtering in. A new balance is to be achieved. I feel that everything that is going on around me is right. It's supposed to happen. I don't know why. I'm not sure if I'm really supposed to know why. Maybe why isn't the correct question? I am feeling more centred. Peaceful.
A recent meeting with a postive thinker has provided me with much needed, and free, childcare. A quaker I met today brought me messages of peace as well as information on upcoming meetings. I will not go but it's nice to be asked to the dance. Dads are coming up to me in the playground to talk. The commonality between all? They are all searching. Actively or passively. Searching for answers. Meanings. Understanding.
I've been thinking about knowing. What is knowing? We use our senses...sight, smell, taste, touch and hearing. Then our minds do the requisite calculations and voila...we know something. Doesn't this put the act of thinking right up there with seeing and smelling in terms of sensory observation? If thinking is a sense does this change how the world is perceived?
Certain things are going on in my life that, when I actively attempt to think about them, my understanding/knowledge of them lessons. I know that I can't know these things through thinking. How do I know this? I don't know. But I do know. You know? It's a knowledge linked to feeling. A combination of the senses I recognize with, perhaps, some senses that I don't. These unknown senses don't need to be understood to do their job. I don't know exactly how my heart and lungs work but I know that they are doing what they are supposed to be doing. My body/myself remain alive. I am more than my body. It makes sense that other parts of me, be they emotional, spiritual, soulful or other, would be, when functioning at an optimum level, not have to necessarily involve my conscious input to do what they do.
So I'm thinking about stuff lately. Not exactly sure where, if anywhere, it will take me. It's fun. Keeping me off the streets (for the most part). Regular scheduled programming will continue at a later date.
Sunday, September 28, 2008
Is Your Mechanism Working?
Driving home from the kids' dance class today I felt on edge. Strange. A whoosh of heat came through me. My mind was wandering. Floating. Walls have come down and I'm picking through the rubble. I'm working on teasing out emotional knots that have accumlated over the past couple years. I thought I had dealt with most things but now realize that I had dealt with the external factors--kids, finances, loss of partner etc. The internal factors had been shunted aside. First things first. Now, I guess, is the time to start dealing with the other crud. The nitty gritty. The essence of who I am beyond what I have experienced. Been through.
Traffic slowed in front of me. A car was stalled. The woman in the car was leaning back with her head in her hands. Waiting. Traffic pulled around her and waited at a red light. I looked left. Another woman jumped out of her car and fussed with something in her trunk. When she moved on there was yet another woman out of her car. She was shaking her head. Her car had started to make a strange noise and she didn't want to continue. Her girl friend, driving in a car behind her, got out to help. I carried on on to the highway thinking 'that was strange.' I kept driving and my mind flew away again. I made it to the off ramp and faced another slow down. When I got to the corner there was another car sitting at an intersection. Another woman in the drivers seat. Stalled. Hazard lights blinking.
I continued home. I haven't stalled.
Traffic slowed in front of me. A car was stalled. The woman in the car was leaning back with her head in her hands. Waiting. Traffic pulled around her and waited at a red light. I looked left. Another woman jumped out of her car and fussed with something in her trunk. When she moved on there was yet another woman out of her car. She was shaking her head. Her car had started to make a strange noise and she didn't want to continue. Her girl friend, driving in a car behind her, got out to help. I carried on on to the highway thinking 'that was strange.' I kept driving and my mind flew away again. I made it to the off ramp and faced another slow down. When I got to the corner there was another car sitting at an intersection. Another woman in the drivers seat. Stalled. Hazard lights blinking.
I continued home. I haven't stalled.
Saturday, September 27, 2008
Icarus
So I reached out and touched the sun. And. And what? Of course I got burned. If only it were a flesh wound. I'll take a couple of days to lick my wounds. Add salve to my ego. And. And what? Continue. Of course.
You see. I needed to know. I already did. But I needed to be told. Straight from the horse's mouth. I was told. I was told that he couldn't. Not wouldn't. Couldn't. He went on for a bit. Explanatory circles. In the end, he had to go. "Ok," said I. "Cool," was his response. So clean. So neat. He hadn't been anything but himself. Sure. I get that. I hadn't been anything but myself. How could I be? How could he? I remember, however, the incident last year when one of my stafflings nearly fell through the ceiling. He had been told where to walk. He had been told to be careful. I was still responsible though. If he had been injured or killed my responsiblity would have been much more palpable. He wasn't hurt. I was still responsible. Life or death.
So.
At least I know I am capable of feeling. Capable of putting myself 'out there.' Not as scary as I thought really. Despite the outcome. The past few weeks were fun. I was happy. I don't know if I'll be quick to try again but I must take care. Take care not to sink. Too far down. He said that he used to try to fly. He keeps saying stuff like that. Stuff that resonates as truth inside of me. A reflection of myself. I'm hoping that I don't lose that part. That truth.
I too need to fly. If only to keep myself at arm's reach to the sun.
You see. I needed to know. I already did. But I needed to be told. Straight from the horse's mouth. I was told. I was told that he couldn't. Not wouldn't. Couldn't. He went on for a bit. Explanatory circles. In the end, he had to go. "Ok," said I. "Cool," was his response. So clean. So neat. He hadn't been anything but himself. Sure. I get that. I hadn't been anything but myself. How could I be? How could he? I remember, however, the incident last year when one of my stafflings nearly fell through the ceiling. He had been told where to walk. He had been told to be careful. I was still responsible though. If he had been injured or killed my responsiblity would have been much more palpable. He wasn't hurt. I was still responsible. Life or death.
So.
At least I know I am capable of feeling. Capable of putting myself 'out there.' Not as scary as I thought really. Despite the outcome. The past few weeks were fun. I was happy. I don't know if I'll be quick to try again but I must take care. Take care not to sink. Too far down. He said that he used to try to fly. He keeps saying stuff like that. Stuff that resonates as truth inside of me. A reflection of myself. I'm hoping that I don't lose that part. That truth.
I too need to fly. If only to keep myself at arm's reach to the sun.
Monday, September 22, 2008
Caught You Looking
Mirrors mirrors on the walls . . .
Catching fleeting glimpses of myself doing things that I have never before been able to see is unnerving. Unsettling. I feel like a voyeur of my own life. I, like many others I suppose, am uncomfortable with myself. I cringe when I hear recordings of my voice. Photographs rarely come close to capturing who I feel that I am. I would probably run screaming into the woods never to return should I ever get caught on film during sex. It's not that I carry a bad image of myself. I just prefer to see myself through your eyes than through my own.
So I face the mirrors and look above myself. I focus on a spot beyond where I am. I can see myself but am not the central image. I am one of many. I can work this way. Then I realize that I have done the same with you. Only occasionally do I look straight at you. Take your gaze. Create a oneness. I now recall that you have never looked away. You have met the gaze but haven't challenged it. You have accepted it and, allowed it to go its merry way when I needed to change my focus. You have been patient. And gentle.
There are so many reflections. Many types of reflections. Reflections upon reflections. Reflecting light. Reflecting Sound. Bats use sound waves to situate themselves. They send out signals that bounce back to them. The faster the signals are reflected back, the closer the object is. There must be a physical sensation/feeling attached to these signals. Wouldn't the bat need to 'know' if the surface is hard or soft. If the fruit is ripe or not? Otherwise, this navigational system would be too simple. Unelegant. When the natural world appears unelegant I tend to think that it's my perception that's flawed. I'm missing a piece of the big picture.
Memory is a reflection. So are moods. Emotions. Thoughts. We sit. We reflect. We reflect upon our world. We reflect upon our moods. Ourselves. These reflections feel incomplete. That perhaps we are only acknowledging part of what is being reflected our way. We see the reflection. Or touch it. Smell it. But we don't fully experience it. Actually, at some level we must be experiencing it fully. We just aren't aware of it. We stop at the image and get scared. Scared that someone else might be there. Looking.
Catching fleeting glimpses of myself doing things that I have never before been able to see is unnerving. Unsettling. I feel like a voyeur of my own life. I, like many others I suppose, am uncomfortable with myself. I cringe when I hear recordings of my voice. Photographs rarely come close to capturing who I feel that I am. I would probably run screaming into the woods never to return should I ever get caught on film during sex. It's not that I carry a bad image of myself. I just prefer to see myself through your eyes than through my own.
So I face the mirrors and look above myself. I focus on a spot beyond where I am. I can see myself but am not the central image. I am one of many. I can work this way. Then I realize that I have done the same with you. Only occasionally do I look straight at you. Take your gaze. Create a oneness. I now recall that you have never looked away. You have met the gaze but haven't challenged it. You have accepted it and, allowed it to go its merry way when I needed to change my focus. You have been patient. And gentle.
There are so many reflections. Many types of reflections. Reflections upon reflections. Reflecting light. Reflecting Sound. Bats use sound waves to situate themselves. They send out signals that bounce back to them. The faster the signals are reflected back, the closer the object is. There must be a physical sensation/feeling attached to these signals. Wouldn't the bat need to 'know' if the surface is hard or soft. If the fruit is ripe or not? Otherwise, this navigational system would be too simple. Unelegant. When the natural world appears unelegant I tend to think that it's my perception that's flawed. I'm missing a piece of the big picture.
Memory is a reflection. So are moods. Emotions. Thoughts. We sit. We reflect. We reflect upon our world. We reflect upon our moods. Ourselves. These reflections feel incomplete. That perhaps we are only acknowledging part of what is being reflected our way. We see the reflection. Or touch it. Smell it. But we don't fully experience it. Actually, at some level we must be experiencing it fully. We just aren't aware of it. We stop at the image and get scared. Scared that someone else might be there. Looking.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Crackers
I've taken to getting myself a bowl of soup at lunch time while I am at work. It's not the greatest soup in the world but, it's hot and relatively inexpensive. $2.14 will get me a large bowl of soup and 2 packages of crackers. Thing is, I can't eat soup without at least 5 packages of crackers. I like the texture to be mushy, not runny. When the consistency can be equated with baby puree I am happy. When the soup of the day is Thai red chicken curry or French Canadian pea, I am ecstatic! So what do I do? Instead of picking out the allowable 2 packages of crackers, I take 5. This always leads to some form of discussion at the cash.
Cashier: You know I have to charge you more for the extra crackers.
Me: Yes, I understand that.
Cashier: You get 2 packages free with the soup.
Me: Ok.
Cashier: Do you still want the extra crackers?
Me: Yes, please.
Cashier: I'm afraid I will have to charge you and extra $.30.
Me: Ok.
The cashier will then shake her head and hand me back the change and offer me a soup club card.
Cashier: If you get this card stamped 10 times, you will get a free soup.
Me: Does that include the extra crackers?
Cashier: Ummmm....I don't know. I don't think so. But you get 2 packages free.
Me: Never mind. I'll do without the card.
Thing is, I used to try to use these cards for shoes, coffee, soup, books and the like but I would invariably lose the card and have to start over again. I don't do cards anymore.
Today, when I got my soup, the cashier looked down at my bowl and 5 packages of crackers and then after ringing in my purchase whispered:
I haven't charged you for the extra crackers today.
I thanked her and left a $.30 tip.
Cashier: You know I have to charge you more for the extra crackers.
Me: Yes, I understand that.
Cashier: You get 2 packages free with the soup.
Me: Ok.
Cashier: Do you still want the extra crackers?
Me: Yes, please.
Cashier: I'm afraid I will have to charge you and extra $.30.
Me: Ok.
The cashier will then shake her head and hand me back the change and offer me a soup club card.
Cashier: If you get this card stamped 10 times, you will get a free soup.
Me: Does that include the extra crackers?
Cashier: Ummmm....I don't know. I don't think so. But you get 2 packages free.
Me: Never mind. I'll do without the card.
Thing is, I used to try to use these cards for shoes, coffee, soup, books and the like but I would invariably lose the card and have to start over again. I don't do cards anymore.
Today, when I got my soup, the cashier looked down at my bowl and 5 packages of crackers and then after ringing in my purchase whispered:
I haven't charged you for the extra crackers today.
I thanked her and left a $.30 tip.
Friday, June 06, 2008
Cue Music
Picture this if you will. Last night at approximately 9:30pm I went upstairs to deliver the final 'go to sleep' message to the wee ones. The boy was in the girl's bed and I separated them in order to help bring peace and quiet.
At 9:32pm I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and going to the back door. The boy, in his jammies, put on his shoes and his bright yellow raincoat and proceeded to go outside clutching his two stuffed frogs -- Reebeet and Peebeet -- tightly to his chest.
'Where are you going?' I asked.
'Away. I'm going to live with my daddy. He left so why can't I.'
It was raining. Lightly. I followed him outside. I suggested that he come back in and we give his dad a call.
'No. I don't want to talk to him. But I'm serious. I'm leaving.'
Tears welled up in my eyes, fell down my cheeks and mixed with the rain. Barefoot, I walked with him as he approached the road and turned to continue down the sidewalk. He kept a few feet ahead but stopped every 4 or 5 steps in order to turn around and make sure I was still there.
We walked like this for awhile in silence. We turned the corner and a car stopped and the driver and passenger asked me for directions. It was surreal. My son and I both stopped and seemed to break out of our trance. I provided the information and turned, once again, to look at the boy. We stood facing each other in the rain. Neither of us were moving. It was not so much a stand off but a recognition of the distance between us. A recognition that he was angry, scared, confused and frustrated; that we both were. A recognition that getting older was hard. A recognition that even the relationship between a mother and son required attention. Work. I held out my hand and, at first, he backed away.
I remembered a favourite poem of mine (of course I can't for the life of me remember the author or title right now). The poem depicted a scene wherein a mother and son are outside and the son goes too close to the edge of a cliff. The mother could not cry out for fear that her son, becoming startled, would fall. Instead, she opened up her blouse revealing her breasts. The boy, seeing this, runs towards her into her embrace and safety.
I told the boy that I loved him and that I would not leave him. I told him that I would stay with him regardless of how many 'even ifs' he could come up with. He reached out and grabbed my hand. We walked, side by side back to the house. I brought him up to his bed and held him until he fell asleep.
Tears and rain remained moist upon my cheeks.
At 9:32pm I heard footsteps coming down the stairs and going to the back door. The boy, in his jammies, put on his shoes and his bright yellow raincoat and proceeded to go outside clutching his two stuffed frogs -- Reebeet and Peebeet -- tightly to his chest.
'Where are you going?' I asked.
'Away. I'm going to live with my daddy. He left so why can't I.'
It was raining. Lightly. I followed him outside. I suggested that he come back in and we give his dad a call.
'No. I don't want to talk to him. But I'm serious. I'm leaving.'
Tears welled up in my eyes, fell down my cheeks and mixed with the rain. Barefoot, I walked with him as he approached the road and turned to continue down the sidewalk. He kept a few feet ahead but stopped every 4 or 5 steps in order to turn around and make sure I was still there.
We walked like this for awhile in silence. We turned the corner and a car stopped and the driver and passenger asked me for directions. It was surreal. My son and I both stopped and seemed to break out of our trance. I provided the information and turned, once again, to look at the boy. We stood facing each other in the rain. Neither of us were moving. It was not so much a stand off but a recognition of the distance between us. A recognition that he was angry, scared, confused and frustrated; that we both were. A recognition that getting older was hard. A recognition that even the relationship between a mother and son required attention. Work. I held out my hand and, at first, he backed away.
I remembered a favourite poem of mine (of course I can't for the life of me remember the author or title right now). The poem depicted a scene wherein a mother and son are outside and the son goes too close to the edge of a cliff. The mother could not cry out for fear that her son, becoming startled, would fall. Instead, she opened up her blouse revealing her breasts. The boy, seeing this, runs towards her into her embrace and safety.
I told the boy that I loved him and that I would not leave him. I told him that I would stay with him regardless of how many 'even ifs' he could come up with. He reached out and grabbed my hand. We walked, side by side back to the house. I brought him up to his bed and held him until he fell asleep.
Tears and rain remained moist upon my cheeks.
Tuesday, May 27, 2008
Boys and Girls
The other night in a bar:
Him: Girls are very complicated.
Me: Really? I don't think so.
Him: So you think you're not complicated.
Me: No. What I want in a fellow is pretty simple. I want someone who is good at what he does but isn't what he does. I want someone who is kind and sincere. Stupid folk need not apply. I'd like someone who will stand up for himself, his ideals and me and, who will stand up to me when warranted.
Him: I'd like her to be pretty and in to me...but not stupid.
Me: Ya, I guess girls are a bit more complicated. You win.
Him: Girls are very complicated.
Me: Really? I don't think so.
Him: So you think you're not complicated.
Me: No. What I want in a fellow is pretty simple. I want someone who is good at what he does but isn't what he does. I want someone who is kind and sincere. Stupid folk need not apply. I'd like someone who will stand up for himself, his ideals and me and, who will stand up to me when warranted.
Him: I'd like her to be pretty and in to me...but not stupid.
Me: Ya, I guess girls are a bit more complicated. You win.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Just a Moment
It's about the moment. A moment in time. Stretched out. Examined. Experienced. Lived. A moment that, once past, will never be repeated. Even in memory, the moment is a mere echo. Less substantial. And then . . . poof . . the moment is gone. Like live theatre. One off shows. How can I appreciate the moment when it occurs? How can I make time stretch so that I can touch and see it. Smell and hear it. Taste it. Rub my back against its shoulders and feel its weight drop to the ground. I don't want to control it. I want to be fully engaged within it. A part of it. A moment where I feel energy coursing around me, through me, within me and out from me. The exact point where energy is both given and received. Kind of sounds like an orgasm eh?
I am, of late, feeling pulled in numerous directions. It's difficult to be fully present in the present as strange as that might sound. How can I expect the metaphorical sex to be any good when my focus keeps being drawn to what's happening outside the window, or, worse yet, what's not happening on the ceiling. On Saturday, I did my 5th kyu exam in Aikido. I had a good time. It brought back feelings of performance. I felt, for the first time in a long time, that I was centred. There. Fully present. As soon as I was finished, my euphoria continued for a brief time but then I looked at the clock. I started wondering when the rest of the exams would be complete. Would I have to leave early? What was the protocol? I had to get my kids. I tried to lend my support to the others being examined but my energy was divided. I was already gone from one moment and living in the next.
I wonder if this 'dog chasing its tail' mentality is part of a larger societal problem? It seems that folk are constantly running towards something that can never be achieved. Much like imaginary numbers. I was first introduced to the concept of imaginary numbers in Grade 11 math. They struck me as hugely problematic. It was explained to me that if we take steps towards a wall and always half the distance from one step to the next, we will never reach the wall. I wondered how math could ever be used to create an elegant equation to explain everything if an end result could never be achieved except through numbers that didn't exist. I was told to accept the equations as fact and not to question how they came about. My aptitude for math dropped that year from a 95% to a 60%.
Perhaps it would have made more sense if I had thought that imaginary numbers were like fiction (please note that I am in no ways a mathematician and am probably completely misunderstanding this entire concept...I do like a good metaphor however and I'm going to run with it). A fictional tale does not pretend to tell you what really happened. Nonetheless, a fictional tale can reveal truths not necessarily evident if one were to relate exactly what happened in real time. Fiction allows one to stop time. Examine the moment, as it were. (I might like to add here that I am a fan of both fiction and non fiction and find their differences to be not that great. The best fiction reveals universal 'truths' that help to explain, unveil, reflect or reveal the world around us in a new and, perhaps, yet to be examined light. The best non fiction tells a story that does the same. I see the dividing line between the two groups to be blurry at best).
But, back to the moment at hand. It is too easy to get distracted. Perhaps this is where meditation could work? Learning to relax one's mind to allow for the moment to be realized fully? I dunno. I just feel that I and many others are missing out on moments when we dwell on past echos or imagine future scenarios. There is a saying that states that one should 'live in the moment.' Easier said then done I think but, probably well worth striving for.
I am, of late, feeling pulled in numerous directions. It's difficult to be fully present in the present as strange as that might sound. How can I expect the metaphorical sex to be any good when my focus keeps being drawn to what's happening outside the window, or, worse yet, what's not happening on the ceiling. On Saturday, I did my 5th kyu exam in Aikido. I had a good time. It brought back feelings of performance. I felt, for the first time in a long time, that I was centred. There. Fully present. As soon as I was finished, my euphoria continued for a brief time but then I looked at the clock. I started wondering when the rest of the exams would be complete. Would I have to leave early? What was the protocol? I had to get my kids. I tried to lend my support to the others being examined but my energy was divided. I was already gone from one moment and living in the next.
I wonder if this 'dog chasing its tail' mentality is part of a larger societal problem? It seems that folk are constantly running towards something that can never be achieved. Much like imaginary numbers. I was first introduced to the concept of imaginary numbers in Grade 11 math. They struck me as hugely problematic. It was explained to me that if we take steps towards a wall and always half the distance from one step to the next, we will never reach the wall. I wondered how math could ever be used to create an elegant equation to explain everything if an end result could never be achieved except through numbers that didn't exist. I was told to accept the equations as fact and not to question how they came about. My aptitude for math dropped that year from a 95% to a 60%.
Perhaps it would have made more sense if I had thought that imaginary numbers were like fiction (please note that I am in no ways a mathematician and am probably completely misunderstanding this entire concept...I do like a good metaphor however and I'm going to run with it). A fictional tale does not pretend to tell you what really happened. Nonetheless, a fictional tale can reveal truths not necessarily evident if one were to relate exactly what happened in real time. Fiction allows one to stop time. Examine the moment, as it were. (I might like to add here that I am a fan of both fiction and non fiction and find their differences to be not that great. The best fiction reveals universal 'truths' that help to explain, unveil, reflect or reveal the world around us in a new and, perhaps, yet to be examined light. The best non fiction tells a story that does the same. I see the dividing line between the two groups to be blurry at best).
But, back to the moment at hand. It is too easy to get distracted. Perhaps this is where meditation could work? Learning to relax one's mind to allow for the moment to be realized fully? I dunno. I just feel that I and many others are missing out on moments when we dwell on past echos or imagine future scenarios. There is a saying that states that one should 'live in the moment.' Easier said then done I think but, probably well worth striving for.
Friday, April 25, 2008
What Helps Make My Job Worthwhile
Me: Hi There. I'm just calling to confirm your booking time and your technical requirements for your upcoming event. We have you scheduled from 6pm to 10pm. Is this correct?
Client: Yes. That is correct. We will be there at 6pm. My wife and I will be there earlier to set up. You have risers?
Me: Yes we have risers. At what time will you and your wife be arriving?
Client: 5pm
Me: Ok. I'll change your booking time to reflect a 5pm start.
Client: That is good. We have told the musicians to arrive at 5:30pm for their sound check.
Me: Ok. How many musicians will there be?
Client: Only one. Guitar, tabla and harmonium.
Me: So there will be three performers?
Client: Yes. That is correct.
Me: Will the guitarist need a vocal mic? Will he be speaking to the audience?
Client: No. He won't be speaking to the audience. He will only say a few words before each number.
Me: Maybe we'll have a vocal mic on stand by just in case?
Client: Yes that will be good.
Me: Ok. I'll see you at 5pm on Sunday.
Client: How much earlier than that can we get into the theatre?
Me: ??
Client: Yes. That is correct. We will be there at 6pm. My wife and I will be there earlier to set up. You have risers?
Me: Yes we have risers. At what time will you and your wife be arriving?
Client: 5pm
Me: Ok. I'll change your booking time to reflect a 5pm start.
Client: That is good. We have told the musicians to arrive at 5:30pm for their sound check.
Me: Ok. How many musicians will there be?
Client: Only one. Guitar, tabla and harmonium.
Me: So there will be three performers?
Client: Yes. That is correct.
Me: Will the guitarist need a vocal mic? Will he be speaking to the audience?
Client: No. He won't be speaking to the audience. He will only say a few words before each number.
Me: Maybe we'll have a vocal mic on stand by just in case?
Client: Yes that will be good.
Me: Ok. I'll see you at 5pm on Sunday.
Client: How much earlier than that can we get into the theatre?
Me: ??
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
It's Hard
It's hard. It's hard to bring him up. It's hard to discuss. It's hard to acknowledge.
I want to thank a friend. Many actually. One in particular. My son and I went over for a visit. Bringing candy. With no discomfort she, my friend, brought up my son's dad. In a good way. There was no hesitation. She mentioned his dad in a way that made my son proud. A way that gave my son a feeling of connection with his father. A connection that was ok. I found that I could bring him up with more ease then too.
I'd stopped doing that. Stopped bringing him up. Stopped discussing him. Stopped thinking about him. I tried anyway. Consciously. Unconsciously. When we first split up I tried to keep his name in the open. I tried to keep a relationship current between him and the kids. It was hard. I felt that I was fighting a losing battle. I thought it was important to keep bringing him up for the sake of the kids. I wanted him to call more. See the kids more. I eventually stopped. It was tiring. On the occasions that he did call, I found myself becoming irritated. Feeling interrupted. It was easier for me, as time went on, to just pretend he didn't exist.
My friend opened a door. By bringing up my son's father nonchalantly in conversation, she acknowledged my son's history. His lineage. She acknowledged that his father was a part of his life. This was good. This is good. This is something that I can do. Should do. I am starting to tell stories to the kids about my past. Their dad is a part of my past. Our past. I no longer feel the urge to censor things. I can tell them funny stories. Loving stories. Life stories. What's different is that I don't have to depend on Xman to make the effort to take an active role in their lives. I can't make him call. I can, however, give my children a sense of belonging. A sense of history.
*****************************
Coda:
I took the 'missing' posters down from the office walls today. 'I guess she's not missing anymore,' said my boss. 'Yes she is,' I replied. 'It's just that the posters won't help to find her anymore.'
I want to thank a friend. Many actually. One in particular. My son and I went over for a visit. Bringing candy. With no discomfort she, my friend, brought up my son's dad. In a good way. There was no hesitation. She mentioned his dad in a way that made my son proud. A way that gave my son a feeling of connection with his father. A connection that was ok. I found that I could bring him up with more ease then too.
I'd stopped doing that. Stopped bringing him up. Stopped discussing him. Stopped thinking about him. I tried anyway. Consciously. Unconsciously. When we first split up I tried to keep his name in the open. I tried to keep a relationship current between him and the kids. It was hard. I felt that I was fighting a losing battle. I thought it was important to keep bringing him up for the sake of the kids. I wanted him to call more. See the kids more. I eventually stopped. It was tiring. On the occasions that he did call, I found myself becoming irritated. Feeling interrupted. It was easier for me, as time went on, to just pretend he didn't exist.
My friend opened a door. By bringing up my son's father nonchalantly in conversation, she acknowledged my son's history. His lineage. She acknowledged that his father was a part of his life. This was good. This is good. This is something that I can do. Should do. I am starting to tell stories to the kids about my past. Their dad is a part of my past. Our past. I no longer feel the urge to censor things. I can tell them funny stories. Loving stories. Life stories. What's different is that I don't have to depend on Xman to make the effort to take an active role in their lives. I can't make him call. I can, however, give my children a sense of belonging. A sense of history.
*****************************
Coda:
I took the 'missing' posters down from the office walls today. 'I guess she's not missing anymore,' said my boss. 'Yes she is,' I replied. 'It's just that the posters won't help to find her anymore.'
Sunday, March 30, 2008
The Lost Compass
The other night my son woke up screaming. He was having a nightmare. As tears streamed down his face I did my best to hold him. Console him. As he tried to catch his breath through heart wrenching sobs he told me what was upsetting him so much. He told me that he had lost his compass. I was lost. What compass?
'My compass!' he shouted. 'My old compass. The compass my daddy gave me. It's lost. Forever. I want it back!'
I have to admit that I had no idea what he was talking about. Had his dad given him an old compass? I asked him what he thought happened to the compass.
'I think I gave it away. To a friend. I want it back. '
I asked him who he had given it to?
'I don't remember!!! My compass. It's gone. Daddy gave it to me. It was old. It had rust on it. I gave it away. I lost it. I want it back.'
I remembered having a couple compasses. I described these and asked if these were the ones he had lost.
'No! Those are new. The one I lost is old. Rusty. From my Dad.' His cries took over his voice. Words were impossible.
I held him. I rocked him. I told him that everything was going to be ok. I told him that I would help him look for his compass in the morning. I was grasping at straws. I felt helpless. I was clinging to him as much as he held on to me. I was able, eventually, to calm him down. He sniffled and snuffled in my arms and his breathing became more steady. Regular. He was almost ready to go back to sleep. As his eyes began to droop closed, he said that there was another thing that was bothering him. I asked him to tell me what it was.
'I see my daddy going down a long dark tunnel. You are going down another tunnel and my sister is going down another. I'm not sure what tunnel to go down. Who should I follow. Should I go with one of you or am I supposed to go down my own tunnel? By myself?'
Ok. I was floored. My son is six. 6. What the Fuck? I got him to start to think about things that would make him smile. I sang a couple silly songs. He giggled. He turned his face toward my chest and fell asleep. The next day, nothing more was mentioned about the lost compass or dark tunnels.
What am I to think about this? Freud and his ilk would have a field day to be sure. I know that my son misses his dad. I know that he hasn't seen him much lately. Xman has been too busy. My son did, however, see xman briefly on Easter Sunday. The nightmare occurred the next night. Ok. My son feels a bit lost. Directionless. I get that. It appears that my son also has an inner well of metaphor deep within him out from which his subconscious draws understanding. I find this to be both extremely cool and vaguely disconcerting.
How do I feel? I feel that I'm doing the best that I can. I feel that I'm living day to day to the utmost. I feel that I'm groping down a long dark tunnel without a compass.
'My compass!' he shouted. 'My old compass. The compass my daddy gave me. It's lost. Forever. I want it back!'
I have to admit that I had no idea what he was talking about. Had his dad given him an old compass? I asked him what he thought happened to the compass.
'I think I gave it away. To a friend. I want it back. '
I asked him who he had given it to?
'I don't remember!!! My compass. It's gone. Daddy gave it to me. It was old. It had rust on it. I gave it away. I lost it. I want it back.'
I remembered having a couple compasses. I described these and asked if these were the ones he had lost.
'No! Those are new. The one I lost is old. Rusty. From my Dad.' His cries took over his voice. Words were impossible.
I held him. I rocked him. I told him that everything was going to be ok. I told him that I would help him look for his compass in the morning. I was grasping at straws. I felt helpless. I was clinging to him as much as he held on to me. I was able, eventually, to calm him down. He sniffled and snuffled in my arms and his breathing became more steady. Regular. He was almost ready to go back to sleep. As his eyes began to droop closed, he said that there was another thing that was bothering him. I asked him to tell me what it was.
'I see my daddy going down a long dark tunnel. You are going down another tunnel and my sister is going down another. I'm not sure what tunnel to go down. Who should I follow. Should I go with one of you or am I supposed to go down my own tunnel? By myself?'
Ok. I was floored. My son is six. 6. What the Fuck? I got him to start to think about things that would make him smile. I sang a couple silly songs. He giggled. He turned his face toward my chest and fell asleep. The next day, nothing more was mentioned about the lost compass or dark tunnels.
What am I to think about this? Freud and his ilk would have a field day to be sure. I know that my son misses his dad. I know that he hasn't seen him much lately. Xman has been too busy. My son did, however, see xman briefly on Easter Sunday. The nightmare occurred the next night. Ok. My son feels a bit lost. Directionless. I get that. It appears that my son also has an inner well of metaphor deep within him out from which his subconscious draws understanding. I find this to be both extremely cool and vaguely disconcerting.
How do I feel? I feel that I'm doing the best that I can. I feel that I'm living day to day to the utmost. I feel that I'm groping down a long dark tunnel without a compass.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Missing
For me, it started with a message sent to my inbox at work. At the same time both innocuous and niggling. A girl was gone. Missing. There was really no other information. Just a request to keep one's eyes open. A couple days later, her picture was everywhere. Covering the walls. A beautiful girl. Missing. Gone. Drawn to the picture, I gaze at her eyes. Searching. For insight? Understanding? Who is she? Her eyes reflect strength and vulnerability. A sense of humour and a serious streak. Mischeviousness and sorrow. The eyes are haunting. Her expression relaxed yet I know that after the picture was taken she would have gotten up. Moved. No longer frozen. Disappeared from the frame. As I look into her eyes I begin to see myself reflected. That's a danger. I don't know her. I only see her picture. What I am reading into the picture is coming from myself. My own fears. Insecurities. Hopes. Dreams. Slowly news starts to trickle in. She went skating. She was angry. She was depressed. She left her computer on. She left her wallet. She left her cell phone. Left them behind. Police are on campus. Searching the river. Searching the shadows. They are as shadows themselves. They work alongside us but make no contact. They are both in and outside of our world. Parallel. Like her. Now that she is gone. Missing. Her family has made pleas. Heartfelt. Heart breaking. That she left with no word is uncharacteristic. Not her. The police don't suspect foul play. We all, however, are peering into shadows ourselves. Into mirrors. Aware that the boogie man exists. He hides behind corners ready to jump out. He is beside us. He is within us. Ready to take us. Do damage. Steal. Remove us. Make us gone. Missing.
When I was in the Sault I examined two pictures in my father's house. They are pictures of his father. My grandfather. I have looked at them in passing over the years. I had never really looked at them in order to see. One of the pictures depicts my grandfather, my grandmother and my uncle posing for the camera. This is the only picture that survived the war. The only picture that exists from the time when my father still resided in the village where he was born. The second picture is of two headshots side by side. One of my grandmother and the second of my grandfather. The picture of my grandfather was taken from the family portrait. There is only one image of my grandfather left. Someone had carefully drawn in a shirt and tie to his headshot. Funny that I only noticed this now. I examined his eyes. Trying to find myself in his face. In the past, I remember looking to my grandmother for this. His face never really drew me in. He seemed inconsequential. I asked my dad about him. Apparently, my grandfather had a reputation of being tough and fair. People looked up to him and followed his lead. When the communists came to their village, he was chosen as a farm leader. A spokesman. The people of the village didn't care much for the communists. To them, communism was an excuse for laziness. One day, my grandfather was taken away by a couple men driving a black car. He was never seen by his family again. He was gone. Missing. My grandmother tried to find him. She searched. She asked questions. She demanded answers. Finally, she was told. She was told to let him go. He was gone. Missing. If she continued, she too would go missing. Be gone. She should focus on her family. Her sons. She took her family away. She left the village and went to Finland.
I look at the face of my grandfather. His image. His jaw line appears strong. His hair thick and full. His eyes are bright but narrowed. Are they mean? My father says no. His frame is light. I see my son's structure in his. I asked my father if he remembers hugs. Play time. My father's memories are sketchy. He remembers being held after falling off a wagon into horses. He was held and comforted. The gash in his forehead tended to lovingly. My father remembers getting punished with a belt after knocking over a bag of salt that he had been told explicitly not to touch. What memories will I carry with me into old age? What will I discard? What will be taken from me? What will be stolen?
The village where my father came from no longer exists. Its people scattered. Missing. Gone. The language too no longer exists. No longer spoken. No longer heard. I know only a couple words. Out of context. I repeat them in vain. Mayaa. Sayaa. Me. You. I don't know the word for us. The connection to my past is gone. Missing. I am left with only a few clues. A few pieces. A picture. An image. Scattered memories.
When I was in the Sault I examined two pictures in my father's house. They are pictures of his father. My grandfather. I have looked at them in passing over the years. I had never really looked at them in order to see. One of the pictures depicts my grandfather, my grandmother and my uncle posing for the camera. This is the only picture that survived the war. The only picture that exists from the time when my father still resided in the village where he was born. The second picture is of two headshots side by side. One of my grandmother and the second of my grandfather. The picture of my grandfather was taken from the family portrait. There is only one image of my grandfather left. Someone had carefully drawn in a shirt and tie to his headshot. Funny that I only noticed this now. I examined his eyes. Trying to find myself in his face. In the past, I remember looking to my grandmother for this. His face never really drew me in. He seemed inconsequential. I asked my dad about him. Apparently, my grandfather had a reputation of being tough and fair. People looked up to him and followed his lead. When the communists came to their village, he was chosen as a farm leader. A spokesman. The people of the village didn't care much for the communists. To them, communism was an excuse for laziness. One day, my grandfather was taken away by a couple men driving a black car. He was never seen by his family again. He was gone. Missing. My grandmother tried to find him. She searched. She asked questions. She demanded answers. Finally, she was told. She was told to let him go. He was gone. Missing. If she continued, she too would go missing. Be gone. She should focus on her family. Her sons. She took her family away. She left the village and went to Finland.
I look at the face of my grandfather. His image. His jaw line appears strong. His hair thick and full. His eyes are bright but narrowed. Are they mean? My father says no. His frame is light. I see my son's structure in his. I asked my father if he remembers hugs. Play time. My father's memories are sketchy. He remembers being held after falling off a wagon into horses. He was held and comforted. The gash in his forehead tended to lovingly. My father remembers getting punished with a belt after knocking over a bag of salt that he had been told explicitly not to touch. What memories will I carry with me into old age? What will I discard? What will be taken from me? What will be stolen?
The village where my father came from no longer exists. Its people scattered. Missing. Gone. The language too no longer exists. No longer spoken. No longer heard. I know only a couple words. Out of context. I repeat them in vain. Mayaa. Sayaa. Me. You. I don't know the word for us. The connection to my past is gone. Missing. I am left with only a few clues. A few pieces. A picture. An image. Scattered memories.
Monday, March 17, 2008
The Passage is the Journey
I love driving. I especially love driving long distances. This is something I didn't really know about myself. I should have. Speed. Music. Meditation. Control. Yes, I do in fact own the road. Deal.
It all came together for me this past weekend. I made a driving cd for myself. Welcome to the 20th century! A good driving cd must take into the account a need for a good rhythm section. The beat has to vary however because too much of the same thing could cause road hypnosis. I am a bit of a classisist at heart so my disc has a good sense of form--kind of an AABBCCAA type of structure. Yes, I am alone a bit too much. Being a bit anal comes naturally.
There is a new overpass leading into the Sault. An American style highway. I don't like it. I was looking forward to passing familiar landmarks. The turn off to camp. The giant Loonie at the side of the road. Shinwauk Hall. The railway bridge that has 'This Is Indian Land' written on it even though for years people have tried to wash it off. It just keeps getting rewritten. It needs to be there. Instead of these signposts leading me home I found myself travelling way too fast, too far from the river, too close to the hills and unable to orient myself. When the highway finally reached the end I was there. In the Sault. I felt cheated. I had missed out.
I started thinking about childhood drives. When my family would travel past Sudbury, we would invariably stop at the Big Nickel and have lunch--smoked whitefish from Clarence's fish and bait shop--and take photos. We would bring visitors there. It was a landmark that everyone stopped at. Yes it was kitsch. It was familiar kitsch. It was a part of our collective experience. The Big Nickel was special. When the new highway was made I remember cheering it. It really did cut the travel time to Ottawa not having to pass through Sudbury. Now I think about what has been lost. I haven't once visited the Big Nickel since the new highway was built. My children have travelled the highway many times and not once have we stopped at what used to be for me a trip highlight. I'm sure it would be a highlight for them too. I can't even see where the Nickel is now from the road. It's like it has disappeared completely.
I have a friend who comes from New Brunswick. When I first visited her, I was in awe that we had to travel over a covered bridge to get to her home. She lived on an island. The bridge was lovely. A few years later when I visited again, we drove past the bridge. A new highway had been built. The old bridge was rarely used. I remember thinking what a shame. When her dad drove me off the island for the last time he turned off the new highway and drove slowly over the bridge. I remember feeling like I could burst out laughing or burst into tears at that moment. I knew that some things would never again be the same. Such is progress?
When I left the Sault yesterday, I made a point of not taking the new highway. I drove over the old path soaking in the landmarks that would be all too soon relegated to history. The beach where we would sneak out to at night with bottles of alcohol and cartons of smokes deftly stolen from our parents' cupboards. The trees that had stood the test of time. Ugly. Knotted. Beautiful. The diner that made the best grilled cheese sandwich I have ever tasted. The bridge separating the reservation from the village. The farms. The cows. The giant Loonie. The river that has always been a part of my life.
Driving home I started to think about how much I enjoyed the travelling. The journey. I also started to think about how much joy I would lose if the journey became sterilized by bypassing all the communities that helped to bring the road to life. The journey is made all the more special because of how the highway connects disparate people. The road shows us how we are all connected even though we stand unique and individual with our Big Nickels, road side blueberry stands, giant apples and the like. The super stops one finds on the larger highways don't have the same heart. A McDonalds grilled cheese will never compare to one made at a small diner in Echo Bay.
Do I want to stop progress? No. Do I want to hold on to the past? Perhaps. More importantly however, is that I want to remember and be reminded how unique we are. In some ways, I believe that it's our differences that bring us closer together. When we strip away our individuality and reveal only what is the same, we become more isolated. Alienated. So far apart from each other that no highway can bridge the distance.
It all came together for me this past weekend. I made a driving cd for myself. Welcome to the 20th century! A good driving cd must take into the account a need for a good rhythm section. The beat has to vary however because too much of the same thing could cause road hypnosis. I am a bit of a classisist at heart so my disc has a good sense of form--kind of an AABBCCAA type of structure. Yes, I am alone a bit too much. Being a bit anal comes naturally.
There is a new overpass leading into the Sault. An American style highway. I don't like it. I was looking forward to passing familiar landmarks. The turn off to camp. The giant Loonie at the side of the road. Shinwauk Hall. The railway bridge that has 'This Is Indian Land' written on it even though for years people have tried to wash it off. It just keeps getting rewritten. It needs to be there. Instead of these signposts leading me home I found myself travelling way too fast, too far from the river, too close to the hills and unable to orient myself. When the highway finally reached the end I was there. In the Sault. I felt cheated. I had missed out.
I started thinking about childhood drives. When my family would travel past Sudbury, we would invariably stop at the Big Nickel and have lunch--smoked whitefish from Clarence's fish and bait shop--and take photos. We would bring visitors there. It was a landmark that everyone stopped at. Yes it was kitsch. It was familiar kitsch. It was a part of our collective experience. The Big Nickel was special. When the new highway was made I remember cheering it. It really did cut the travel time to Ottawa not having to pass through Sudbury. Now I think about what has been lost. I haven't once visited the Big Nickel since the new highway was built. My children have travelled the highway many times and not once have we stopped at what used to be for me a trip highlight. I'm sure it would be a highlight for them too. I can't even see where the Nickel is now from the road. It's like it has disappeared completely.
I have a friend who comes from New Brunswick. When I first visited her, I was in awe that we had to travel over a covered bridge to get to her home. She lived on an island. The bridge was lovely. A few years later when I visited again, we drove past the bridge. A new highway had been built. The old bridge was rarely used. I remember thinking what a shame. When her dad drove me off the island for the last time he turned off the new highway and drove slowly over the bridge. I remember feeling like I could burst out laughing or burst into tears at that moment. I knew that some things would never again be the same. Such is progress?
When I left the Sault yesterday, I made a point of not taking the new highway. I drove over the old path soaking in the landmarks that would be all too soon relegated to history. The beach where we would sneak out to at night with bottles of alcohol and cartons of smokes deftly stolen from our parents' cupboards. The trees that had stood the test of time. Ugly. Knotted. Beautiful. The diner that made the best grilled cheese sandwich I have ever tasted. The bridge separating the reservation from the village. The farms. The cows. The giant Loonie. The river that has always been a part of my life.
Driving home I started to think about how much I enjoyed the travelling. The journey. I also started to think about how much joy I would lose if the journey became sterilized by bypassing all the communities that helped to bring the road to life. The journey is made all the more special because of how the highway connects disparate people. The road shows us how we are all connected even though we stand unique and individual with our Big Nickels, road side blueberry stands, giant apples and the like. The super stops one finds on the larger highways don't have the same heart. A McDonalds grilled cheese will never compare to one made at a small diner in Echo Bay.
Do I want to stop progress? No. Do I want to hold on to the past? Perhaps. More importantly however, is that I want to remember and be reminded how unique we are. In some ways, I believe that it's our differences that bring us closer together. When we strip away our individuality and reveal only what is the same, we become more isolated. Alienated. So far apart from each other that no highway can bridge the distance.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Another Dress Rehearsal
The set revealed itself tonight as a woman giving birth. Birth to a band. Birth to a musical. Birth to a Bat Boy. I mentioned this to the designer. Although it wasn't planned, he was pleased with the outcome -- yet another instance where post justification usurps intent and a new reality is created. Perhaps his sub conscious was guiding the process? Perhaps it was dumb luck? Whatever the cause, the outcome works.
The lighting has moments of beauty. My problem overall with how the piece is lit is that it sways too much between realism and stylization. I think the production would be better off lit in a stylized over the top fashion. It's a musical about a bat boy. I think it's ok to leave realism at the door. The scenes that worked were highly stylized with broad strokes of colour. I believe that the designer was trying for more stylization in other scenes but it needed a bit more ooomph.
When performing music, one needs to be aware that any dynamic changes made need to be exaggerated before they are registered by an audience. One of my favourite examples of this occurred when I was performing at a masterclass. I had a huge crescendo at one point and I thought I had really sold it. When I finished, the person hosting the class mentioned that he felt that a crescendo would really have worked at one point (the point where I had thought I had added one). I had only added enough of a dynamic change to make the listener feel that a change would be needed. This is the feeling I was left with in terms of the lights for this show. The ground work is there but I am left wanting a bit more.
How was the show itself? Entertaining. Yes there are some weaknesses and it probably could use a bit more time to fine tune some details before opening and although I didn't walk away singing any of the tunes (something I find a bit unfortunate but none of the tunes was particulary memorable to me) the show is a campy piece of rollicking fun. It's irreverant -- poking fun at itself and the world around it. The audience will enjoy it.
The lighting has moments of beauty. My problem overall with how the piece is lit is that it sways too much between realism and stylization. I think the production would be better off lit in a stylized over the top fashion. It's a musical about a bat boy. I think it's ok to leave realism at the door. The scenes that worked were highly stylized with broad strokes of colour. I believe that the designer was trying for more stylization in other scenes but it needed a bit more ooomph.
When performing music, one needs to be aware that any dynamic changes made need to be exaggerated before they are registered by an audience. One of my favourite examples of this occurred when I was performing at a masterclass. I had a huge crescendo at one point and I thought I had really sold it. When I finished, the person hosting the class mentioned that he felt that a crescendo would really have worked at one point (the point where I had thought I had added one). I had only added enough of a dynamic change to make the listener feel that a change would be needed. This is the feeling I was left with in terms of the lights for this show. The ground work is there but I am left wanting a bit more.
How was the show itself? Entertaining. Yes there are some weaknesses and it probably could use a bit more time to fine tune some details before opening and although I didn't walk away singing any of the tunes (something I find a bit unfortunate but none of the tunes was particulary memorable to me) the show is a campy piece of rollicking fun. It's irreverant -- poking fun at itself and the world around it. The audience will enjoy it.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
Back to Bach
The trick to playing Bach is to trust the notes. You don't need to infuse it with anything. Although technically difficult, if you play the notes clearly and cleanly, the music will be there. In a sense, you almost have to strip away all of your personal affectations until you are left with a stark, humble and often painful honesty.
I once told a man who was to become one of my mentors that I didn't care much for Bach. I was taking private lessons in music theory at the time. The next week when I came for my lesson, this man, my teacher, sat me down with a score -- The Goldberg Variations -- and then pressed play on the cd player he had brought in. As I watched/read/listened to the score unfold before me I was mesmorized. I was taken away. I felt simulataneous joy and heart break. Of course it was Gould. When the music ended, the man took the score from me and informed me that he wouldn't charge me for the lesson. Ironically, I learned more about music on that day than I had during any of the weekly lessons leading up to it.
I have just spent the last two hours reacquainting myself with my guitar. My fingertips on my left hand are sore. Grooved. I have been working on remembering the Prelude for Cello Suite No. 1. It took awhile but my hands remember. It amazes me how my fingers can do things so easily without my consciousness being aware. Instead of focusing on my hands, I am free to sing the music so that I can hear it played the way I know it in my heart.
When I was younger I would watch my mother draw. I yearned with all my heart to be able to draw like she did. She could bring lines on a paper to life. I wanted to be able to draw what I saw in my mind. In my heart. I couldn't. It took a number of years for me to realize that my desire wasn't so much to be able to draw as it was to express myself in such a way as to give a voice to a something larger than myself. A something that couldn't be readily defined. A something that I would occasionally notice out of the corner of my eye when the sun caught the side of a building and a reflection could be seen in a drop of dew. A something that can be revealed when the right shade of light is used to capture an actor's expression on stage. A something that sounds like Bach.
I once told a man who was to become one of my mentors that I didn't care much for Bach. I was taking private lessons in music theory at the time. The next week when I came for my lesson, this man, my teacher, sat me down with a score -- The Goldberg Variations -- and then pressed play on the cd player he had brought in. As I watched/read/listened to the score unfold before me I was mesmorized. I was taken away. I felt simulataneous joy and heart break. Of course it was Gould. When the music ended, the man took the score from me and informed me that he wouldn't charge me for the lesson. Ironically, I learned more about music on that day than I had during any of the weekly lessons leading up to it.
I have just spent the last two hours reacquainting myself with my guitar. My fingertips on my left hand are sore. Grooved. I have been working on remembering the Prelude for Cello Suite No. 1. It took awhile but my hands remember. It amazes me how my fingers can do things so easily without my consciousness being aware. Instead of focusing on my hands, I am free to sing the music so that I can hear it played the way I know it in my heart.
When I was younger I would watch my mother draw. I yearned with all my heart to be able to draw like she did. She could bring lines on a paper to life. I wanted to be able to draw what I saw in my mind. In my heart. I couldn't. It took a number of years for me to realize that my desire wasn't so much to be able to draw as it was to express myself in such a way as to give a voice to a something larger than myself. A something that couldn't be readily defined. A something that I would occasionally notice out of the corner of my eye when the sun caught the side of a building and a reflection could be seen in a drop of dew. A something that can be revealed when the right shade of light is used to capture an actor's expression on stage. A something that sounds like Bach.
Friday, March 07, 2008
Splitting Roles
I'm feeling good. My job, in many respects, puts me in a position wherein I have to train/guide folks. This isn't always easy. I am fully aware of my own limitations in terms of patience, ego and insecurity. I do, however, love a good learning opportunity. I'm constantly learning. Today I fell in love with rosco 378 and a blend of rosco 24 & 27. Nice. I sense a change to my house plot in the near dance future. I also made head way with a young designer who, turns out, has a great deal of potential and, when egos are set aside, is a damn fun person to work with too. There were a couple of amusing bumps:
Him: Can I see your wash colours?
Me: Ok. Here.
Him: Ok. Now I want to see mine.
Me: ??
Him: I'd like to see mine so that I can compare. Bring them up please.
Me: We've only just started the hang. Nothing has been focused. Your colours aren't up in the air yet love.
Him: Ahhh. Got you. Ok. We'll use your wash then.
Me. Ok.
I love pre show energy. I especially love pre show energy when younger folk are involved. There's something to be said for inexperience. They take more chances cuz they don't know that 'things aren't done that way.' Maybe a youth orientated theatre company could fly in this city? Something to mull.
I've started work on the next show. Opera. The director wants to fly a doll house in and have it float 6' above the stage. He asked me if it were possible. I said yes because I totally want to see a floating doll house glowing above my stage. How cool is that? How...How....Opera? I love opera. It's totally garish and over the top. It makes no excuses. It doesn't need any.
*******************************************************************************
The other night I took the kids to a fire station. The girl's Sparks troupe was taking the tour and the boy and I tagged along. I'm a fan of the burly fire fighters. One of the fire fighters asked the group if any of the kids smoked. My girl blurted out 'my daddy smokes.' The fire fighter said, that that was too bad and he wouldn't be able to hang out at the house if someone was smoking. My girl responded, 'that's ok. My daddy doesn't live with us so you can come any time.'
A little later, the same fire fighter asked if the kids knew whether or not their homes had smoke detectors and if they were tested regularly. Once again, my girl raised her hand. 'We have one. It goes off everytime my mommy cooks dinner.'
A mom came up to me and said 'you've been totally outed as a single mom who burns her food.' Sigh.
I've also tried to sew the wee ones' snow pants. I can't justify to myself purchasing new ones this close to winter's end but...my sewing sucks. At least the wee ones are still young enough to think that my frankenstitching is half decent.
Today is the first day of march break. My mom and her fella are driving up from the Sault tomorrow -- I'm a bit more than a wee bit concerned...there's gonna be a huge storm -- and they will take the wee ones back to the Sault with them on Monday. I'll have 3 days kid free. How do I feel about it? The best word would be conflicted. Glad for the break but I'll be missing them. Perhaps though, I will actually make time for me. The non mom non td me. Who is that exactly?
Him: Can I see your wash colours?
Me: Ok. Here.
Him: Ok. Now I want to see mine.
Me: ??
Him: I'd like to see mine so that I can compare. Bring them up please.
Me: We've only just started the hang. Nothing has been focused. Your colours aren't up in the air yet love.
Him: Ahhh. Got you. Ok. We'll use your wash then.
Me. Ok.
I love pre show energy. I especially love pre show energy when younger folk are involved. There's something to be said for inexperience. They take more chances cuz they don't know that 'things aren't done that way.' Maybe a youth orientated theatre company could fly in this city? Something to mull.
I've started work on the next show. Opera. The director wants to fly a doll house in and have it float 6' above the stage. He asked me if it were possible. I said yes because I totally want to see a floating doll house glowing above my stage. How cool is that? How...How....Opera? I love opera. It's totally garish and over the top. It makes no excuses. It doesn't need any.
*******************************************************************************
The other night I took the kids to a fire station. The girl's Sparks troupe was taking the tour and the boy and I tagged along. I'm a fan of the burly fire fighters. One of the fire fighters asked the group if any of the kids smoked. My girl blurted out 'my daddy smokes.' The fire fighter said, that that was too bad and he wouldn't be able to hang out at the house if someone was smoking. My girl responded, 'that's ok. My daddy doesn't live with us so you can come any time.'
A little later, the same fire fighter asked if the kids knew whether or not their homes had smoke detectors and if they were tested regularly. Once again, my girl raised her hand. 'We have one. It goes off everytime my mommy cooks dinner.'
A mom came up to me and said 'you've been totally outed as a single mom who burns her food.' Sigh.
I've also tried to sew the wee ones' snow pants. I can't justify to myself purchasing new ones this close to winter's end but...my sewing sucks. At least the wee ones are still young enough to think that my frankenstitching is half decent.
Today is the first day of march break. My mom and her fella are driving up from the Sault tomorrow -- I'm a bit more than a wee bit concerned...there's gonna be a huge storm -- and they will take the wee ones back to the Sault with them on Monday. I'll have 3 days kid free. How do I feel about it? The best word would be conflicted. Glad for the break but I'll be missing them. Perhaps though, I will actually make time for me. The non mom non td me. Who is that exactly?
Friday, February 29, 2008
Random Excerpts from a Morning in the Life of ...
It's cold outside and I know why. Xman is taking the kids overnight. Hell must officially be freezing over. I jest. It'll be good to have a night off. Now, I'm searching for someone to share a pint or two with. I'm working until 7:30pm ish. If I'm unsuccessful, I may just go home and do my taxes.
I have had two visits in the office this morning from staff I don't see much anymore. Both have said that I look better and more relaxed than ever. I embrace the compliments but wonder how crappy I have allowed myself to appear in the past.
A stranger is standing beside the stage. I wonder if he is considering leaping upon it to do a bit of on the spot performing -- thinking that he is completely alone and unobserved. That would be cool. Nope. He left. Stage fright I guess. I enjoy my voyeuristic vantage point a bit too much sometimes.
I have a meeting at 1pm with people from a group doing a 'fund raiser, variety, film, speaker, play, musical performance type thingie' on Easter Sunday. Here's hoping I can narrow them down a bit.
This morning I met with a fellow about the booth window. We have the funding for a new one. One that can open up completely. That will be good. Question now is how to do it. I have a feeling that the funding provided might not cover the actual costs. The way the fellow was talking I may as well have been asking for a dissolvable force field used in many an old Star Trek episode to detain prisoners. It'll be interesting to see what he can come up with.
I went down to the carp shop to see how the set build was going. The lumber is still there in neat piles wrapped in tape. The load in is on Sunday.
Tonight's concert is East Indian music. Should go seamlessly. We'll see. I'll help get the staff set up and the sound check running. Then I'll rush off to pick up the kids and bring them over to xman's and turn around and get back to the theatre.
My car is beginning to sound a wee bit like a single engine bush plane. Should I be concerned?
I have had two visits in the office this morning from staff I don't see much anymore. Both have said that I look better and more relaxed than ever. I embrace the compliments but wonder how crappy I have allowed myself to appear in the past.
A stranger is standing beside the stage. I wonder if he is considering leaping upon it to do a bit of on the spot performing -- thinking that he is completely alone and unobserved. That would be cool. Nope. He left. Stage fright I guess. I enjoy my voyeuristic vantage point a bit too much sometimes.
I have a meeting at 1pm with people from a group doing a 'fund raiser, variety, film, speaker, play, musical performance type thingie' on Easter Sunday. Here's hoping I can narrow them down a bit.
This morning I met with a fellow about the booth window. We have the funding for a new one. One that can open up completely. That will be good. Question now is how to do it. I have a feeling that the funding provided might not cover the actual costs. The way the fellow was talking I may as well have been asking for a dissolvable force field used in many an old Star Trek episode to detain prisoners. It'll be interesting to see what he can come up with.
I went down to the carp shop to see how the set build was going. The lumber is still there in neat piles wrapped in tape. The load in is on Sunday.
Tonight's concert is East Indian music. Should go seamlessly. We'll see. I'll help get the staff set up and the sound check running. Then I'll rush off to pick up the kids and bring them over to xman's and turn around and get back to the theatre.
My car is beginning to sound a wee bit like a single engine bush plane. Should I be concerned?
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Solitaire
I used to love playing cards. I'm sure I still do. I haven't, however, played in years. I played cribbage, war, crazy 8's and rummy with relish. I would also play a couple games with Finnish names that I know how to pronounce but haven't a clue how to spell. With a deck of cards in my hands I could be entertained for hours.
My dad used to tell me that his mother was very much against card playing. She believed that cards were linked with the devil. Yet, when I visited my grandmother in Finland -- I was ten years old at the time -- she revealed a deck of cards that were tucked away in a drawer in her sitting room. She handed them over to me and winked. This was the same woman who demanded I accompany her to Christmas Eve service but when she noticed that I was a bit figidity -- I had never gone to a service before and this one was all in the Finnish language -- she opened up her purse and slowly unwrapped a hard candy making sure to make more then her share of crinkly noises with the paper. She winked again as we both noticed others in the congregation turning around to give us the 'be quiet or else' stare and giggled along with me as we both popped candies into our mouths.
My grandmother had to be stern with my dad and his brothers. She was their mother. She raised them on her own after her husband had been stolen from her by the Stalinist's. She led her family out of occupied territory during the Second World War to the relative security of a new country -- Finland. She worked many different jobs to keep food on the table and clothes on their backs. I didn't know any of this when I met her. I only knew what my dad had said about her. When I finally stood before her for the first time my preconceived ideas disappeared almost immediately. This woman was a jokester filled with giggles seemingly always on the cusp of bubbling out of her. Her eyes were bright blue and sparkled with mischievous warmth. Most importantly, this woman was my grandmother. The hug she gave me when I first stepped into her apartment was one of the best I have ever had before or since. This was love unconditionally given. I felt grounded by her arms and her history. Centred. Whole.
Years later, I saw her again. This time, she was in a home. This time she didn't know me. Once again I had to juxtapose the image before me with preconceived notions held in my heart. She spent the entire visit dipping sugar cubes into coffee and sucking them into nothingness. This action was made all the more poignant when examined as a metaphor. Her eyes were still bright but instead of being warm they were cold and sharp. Distant. My grandmother was gone. Away.
My memories of her will remain with me for as long as I am. I hope to pass these on to my children so that they too may feel rooted in a history that reaches out beyond their immediate perception. Our histories are made up of so many collective and individual experiences: wonderful, enchanting, terrifying, heart breaking, ugly, beautiful . . . . Although the order of these experiences appears random I have to wonder if this is really the case. Maybe it just seems random because we are using a newly shuffled deck and are only dealt a few cards at a time. Is it up to us to make sense of it all or should we just concentrate on playing the game?
My dad used to tell me that his mother was very much against card playing. She believed that cards were linked with the devil. Yet, when I visited my grandmother in Finland -- I was ten years old at the time -- she revealed a deck of cards that were tucked away in a drawer in her sitting room. She handed them over to me and winked. This was the same woman who demanded I accompany her to Christmas Eve service but when she noticed that I was a bit figidity -- I had never gone to a service before and this one was all in the Finnish language -- she opened up her purse and slowly unwrapped a hard candy making sure to make more then her share of crinkly noises with the paper. She winked again as we both noticed others in the congregation turning around to give us the 'be quiet or else' stare and giggled along with me as we both popped candies into our mouths.
My grandmother had to be stern with my dad and his brothers. She was their mother. She raised them on her own after her husband had been stolen from her by the Stalinist's. She led her family out of occupied territory during the Second World War to the relative security of a new country -- Finland. She worked many different jobs to keep food on the table and clothes on their backs. I didn't know any of this when I met her. I only knew what my dad had said about her. When I finally stood before her for the first time my preconceived ideas disappeared almost immediately. This woman was a jokester filled with giggles seemingly always on the cusp of bubbling out of her. Her eyes were bright blue and sparkled with mischievous warmth. Most importantly, this woman was my grandmother. The hug she gave me when I first stepped into her apartment was one of the best I have ever had before or since. This was love unconditionally given. I felt grounded by her arms and her history. Centred. Whole.
Years later, I saw her again. This time, she was in a home. This time she didn't know me. Once again I had to juxtapose the image before me with preconceived notions held in my heart. She spent the entire visit dipping sugar cubes into coffee and sucking them into nothingness. This action was made all the more poignant when examined as a metaphor. Her eyes were still bright but instead of being warm they were cold and sharp. Distant. My grandmother was gone. Away.
My memories of her will remain with me for as long as I am. I hope to pass these on to my children so that they too may feel rooted in a history that reaches out beyond their immediate perception. Our histories are made up of so many collective and individual experiences: wonderful, enchanting, terrifying, heart breaking, ugly, beautiful . . . . Although the order of these experiences appears random I have to wonder if this is really the case. Maybe it just seems random because we are using a newly shuffled deck and are only dealt a few cards at a time. Is it up to us to make sense of it all or should we just concentrate on playing the game?
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