Met a friend at the train station. I arrived early having misread the 24 hour clock. Not misread. Mistranslated. Sat with a book on my lap while waiting, curiously watching a large number of single/stay at home dad types with daughters wandering around. Thought it uncharitable to despise them. Decided that train stations are decidedly unromantic places. Thought about my favourite movie -- Waterloo Bridge -- and imagined Vivian Leigh's character walking towards the platform not realizing that Robert Taylor's character would soon return from the dead and take her in his arms. He would hold her and babble on not realizing that she had fallen long ago and could never be his.
Showing friend my home. She's never seen this place. Through her eyes I feel free to love it. Validation through reflection.
Long walk. Long strides. Stopping at the perfect place for Irish coffee and chocolate beer. More walking. Slept free of remembered dreams.
Next day. More walking. More talking. My 'hood.' Stepping into shops when cold and back onto the road when too warm. Perfect finds. Delightful treasures. At one point my friend stated that she wanted to buy some tea. I immediately turned into a shop. 'Where are you going?' 'Into this tea shop.' Serendipity. Received a detailed lesson on tea. Chrysanthemum tea. Green tea. Boil the water and pour it into a container. Let it sit for 2 to 3 minutes. Pour water over loose leaves in pot. Do not trap leaves in a tea ball. The green tea should steep for 2 minutes only before drinking. Art. Lovely.
Final day. To market to market . . .
Leather art: walked into leather shop. Beautiful coats and bags. Saw a purse and knew it was mine. An exorbitant splurge?
Book art: Favourite bookstore/gallery closing. Retirement sale. Sad but glad I had the chance to say goodbye. Touched the books. Years ago when I visited, the gallery used to leave me both light headed and heavy. Many depictions of spirits and gods. This time most of the gods had been packed away. The feeling however was still present. Not negative. Not positive. Just present. A presence.
Light bulb art: Lovely shop which my friend said reminded her of my home. It felt like home. I looked up. The owner was using old light bulbs as vases for plant offcuts. Brilliant! Will do this with my children. Bought incense which was then placed in a bag made out of folded page from a magazine. Nothing wasted.
Chick Pea curry: Walked into and then out of a diner. Walked down the road and saw small curry place. Walked in. Young fellow served me then his dad came and asked for my plate back to fill it 'properly.' Taste buds dancing.
Train station. The end is the beginning. Standing in line for coffee. A stranger approached and spoke. Lovely woman with curious eyes. Ethnomusicological connection. She was friends with the woman who was my mentor in university. Both ethnomusicologists. We talked and we exchanged cards. She's an urban nomad. I recognized her spirit and I think she recognized mine.
The weekend was magical. Full of wonder. Came home to an email from the woman at the train station. She had already sent and received a response from my past mentor. Connections. Roots. Despite my sometimes desire to run away I am reminded and I recognize that I too am a part of the whole. I am, in Siberry's words, 'bound by the beauty.'
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
My father fell down the stairs.
I've been down lately. Not melancholic or whimsically nostalgic but down. Real deep in the depths of lowdown down. Weird thing is that I haven't actually been feeling depressed or even sad. True, tears have appeared in my eyes on a frequent (near daily) and unannounced basis but if I was to state how I have been feeling I really couldn't say that I was depressed. Just down. Perhaps I would also include a dash of frustration, a measure of loneliness, a modicum of anger, and a pinch of exhaustion. My own personal recipe made to order.
I really don't mean to get into reasons or rationalles at this point. This preamble is only to set the stage for what happened next. Leading us to the title of this particular blurb. Last weekend my kidlings and I cleaned house. Working together in order to achieve a common goal is a lovely way to pass a Sunday--good old Protestant ethic. By the time early evening arrived I was ready to indulge myself. It had been ages since I had a long soak in the bath and with a freshly cleaned tub and sparkling faucets I looked forward to reacquainting myself with the idea of relaxing.
So there I was, thoroughly enjoying the experience when I heard the phone ring. Once. Twice. Then it stopped. The girl child had answered it. I heard her voice. "Yes" "Ok" "Just a minute" "I'll get her". I heard her climb the stairs to bring me the phone. I figured I could continue my indulgence and talk on the phone at the same time. No harm done. I am a multi talented individual. My daughter informed me that it was my aunt. "Hello!" I exclaimed purposefully filling my voice with sunshine and happiness.
My aunt replied with a quick hello followed by a "don't worry everything is ok." My father had fallen down the stairs. My father is 78 years old and lives alone in a bungalow an 8 hour (when I'm driving) distance from where I sat soaking in my bath. The water started to feel rather cold. I got more information. My father had fallen down the stairs the night before. He had lost consciousness. When he woke up he had crawled upstairs and went to bed. In the morning, he had called his brother, my uncle, and my uncle and aunt had taken him to the hospital. 7 hours and many tests later he was home. Nothing broken but morphine coursing through his veins to help him deal with bruised ribs and sore everywhere else.
My aunt continued to say that he was alright but was very lucky. There was no sign of trauma on his head so his loss of consciousness was not from him hitting it. I listened and gathered more information. I know that my aunt would prefer that my dad go to a home. That might be the best thing for him. How much of what she says is in my dad's best interests? How much of what she says is in hers? I listen and take it in. She asks that I call my brothers. I am not surprised that I am the one she called. An ally? I say I will call them and thank her for calling me. I ask to speak to my dad. I hear his voice. It sounds strong yet tired. Understandable. Something else is in his tone. Embarrassment? Fear? I listen. I joke. I tell him to get some rest. I hang up the phone and step out of the bath and drain the tub.
I call brother #1. What can he do? He lives 1 hour from my bath and 12 hours (if he drives) from my dad. Leave it to the uncle and aunt he says. I suggest that perhaps it was kind of our responsibility too. He agrees and can ensure that all future monetary commitments would be met. Ok. The venture has financial backing.
I call brother #2. He's working on his PHD. He has no time to think about anything else until it is done. He also informs me that he had been speaking with my dad the night he fell. My dad fell down the stairs because he was drunk. I should, therefore, not worry. It wasn't medical. He also told me that I was better at dealing with personal issues with folk so he would leave it up to me to talk to my dad about options. But, I wondered, you are the one with power of attorney here.
I don't call brother #3. I don't know his number. I don't know where he is.
Feeling a bit like Le Petit Prince I put the phone away. I think about how strange people are. I think about how I do not find this strangeness surprising. While I do not understand my brother's reactions, their reactions are, to me, predictable. I can see them coming a mile away. When did people become so archetypal? When did I? The level of self-absorption witnessed all around me leaves me feeling deflated. Down. I wonder how to write this out. I wonder how to examine the subjective objectively. I wonder how to make it all about me when it was my father who fell down the stairs.
I really don't mean to get into reasons or rationalles at this point. This preamble is only to set the stage for what happened next. Leading us to the title of this particular blurb. Last weekend my kidlings and I cleaned house. Working together in order to achieve a common goal is a lovely way to pass a Sunday--good old Protestant ethic. By the time early evening arrived I was ready to indulge myself. It had been ages since I had a long soak in the bath and with a freshly cleaned tub and sparkling faucets I looked forward to reacquainting myself with the idea of relaxing.
So there I was, thoroughly enjoying the experience when I heard the phone ring. Once. Twice. Then it stopped. The girl child had answered it. I heard her voice. "Yes" "Ok" "Just a minute" "I'll get her". I heard her climb the stairs to bring me the phone. I figured I could continue my indulgence and talk on the phone at the same time. No harm done. I am a multi talented individual. My daughter informed me that it was my aunt. "Hello!" I exclaimed purposefully filling my voice with sunshine and happiness.
My aunt replied with a quick hello followed by a "don't worry everything is ok." My father had fallen down the stairs. My father is 78 years old and lives alone in a bungalow an 8 hour (when I'm driving) distance from where I sat soaking in my bath. The water started to feel rather cold. I got more information. My father had fallen down the stairs the night before. He had lost consciousness. When he woke up he had crawled upstairs and went to bed. In the morning, he had called his brother, my uncle, and my uncle and aunt had taken him to the hospital. 7 hours and many tests later he was home. Nothing broken but morphine coursing through his veins to help him deal with bruised ribs and sore everywhere else.
My aunt continued to say that he was alright but was very lucky. There was no sign of trauma on his head so his loss of consciousness was not from him hitting it. I listened and gathered more information. I know that my aunt would prefer that my dad go to a home. That might be the best thing for him. How much of what she says is in my dad's best interests? How much of what she says is in hers? I listen and take it in. She asks that I call my brothers. I am not surprised that I am the one she called. An ally? I say I will call them and thank her for calling me. I ask to speak to my dad. I hear his voice. It sounds strong yet tired. Understandable. Something else is in his tone. Embarrassment? Fear? I listen. I joke. I tell him to get some rest. I hang up the phone and step out of the bath and drain the tub.
I call brother #1. What can he do? He lives 1 hour from my bath and 12 hours (if he drives) from my dad. Leave it to the uncle and aunt he says. I suggest that perhaps it was kind of our responsibility too. He agrees and can ensure that all future monetary commitments would be met. Ok. The venture has financial backing.
I call brother #2. He's working on his PHD. He has no time to think about anything else until it is done. He also informs me that he had been speaking with my dad the night he fell. My dad fell down the stairs because he was drunk. I should, therefore, not worry. It wasn't medical. He also told me that I was better at dealing with personal issues with folk so he would leave it up to me to talk to my dad about options. But, I wondered, you are the one with power of attorney here.
I don't call brother #3. I don't know his number. I don't know where he is.
Feeling a bit like Le Petit Prince I put the phone away. I think about how strange people are. I think about how I do not find this strangeness surprising. While I do not understand my brother's reactions, their reactions are, to me, predictable. I can see them coming a mile away. When did people become so archetypal? When did I? The level of self-absorption witnessed all around me leaves me feeling deflated. Down. I wonder how to write this out. I wonder how to examine the subjective objectively. I wonder how to make it all about me when it was my father who fell down the stairs.
Sunday, June 20, 2010
A Fairy Tale
Once upon a time, not so very long ago, when I was a little girl, I believed in magic. I believed in magic so much so that I saw myself as a mystical being that could do wondrous things. Because I embodied magic and could do magical things it only made sense to me that I would be surrounded by symbols of magic. Thus began my first quest. At the ripe age of five I set out into the vast expanse of my backyard in search of a magical symbol. I began to look for a four leaf clover. I searched for hours. I searched for days. I didn’t search for weeks. I was five and had not yet developed the art of long term obsession.
He picked you up from the dentist. You had had a root canal. Together, you went for a drive across the river and into the hills. He was quiet. So were you. Your mind was numb like your jaw. When he stopped the car you willed for it to keep going. He got out, started walking and beckoned for you to follow. You didn’t want to go. Things were going to change and that terrified you. He told you that he had been doing a lot of thinking. Specifically, he had been thinking about the relationship. You remember thinking ‘here it comes.’ He asked if you would marry him. You remember being surprised but not. Your face was reflected in his sun glasses as you said ‘sure.’
A few weeks later I had a dream. I dreamt that I was running across the backyard wearing my night gown. Freshly cut grass covered in dew clung to my legs. I reached the apple tree and pressed my back against it. I could feel the bark on my back. With my right heel pressed firmly against the tree I placed my left heel in front and walked heel toe heel toe heel toe. I bent down to look and right there by the big toe of my foot was a 4 leaf clover!
You got married outside. His shoes cost more than your dress. You remember thinking as you danced that you were lousy dancers. Two months earlier he had come clean about having had an affair. It had happened before he proposed. You remember being angry, not so much about the betrayal but because it had happened so long ago that you no longer cared. The right to anger had been taken from you. Coming home from the honeymoon and looking around the apartment you wondered if you would ever feel really real? Life all seemed a bit make believe. A story witnessed from afar read from a book that could be closed at any time.
I woke up and ran outside. My father had cut the lawn the day before and fresh cut grass covered in dew clung to my legs. I reached the apple tree and pressed my back against it. I could feel the bark on my back. With my right heel pressed firmly against the tree I placed my left heel in front and walked heel toe heel toe heel toe. I bent down to look and right there by the big toe of my foot was a 5 leaf clover!
You both wanted a family. Did you? Didn't you? Yes. But that night you said no. Did you actually mean it? Yes. Really? Weren't you playing hard to get? No. You fought. Really? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. The scene was reenacted. Do it again but this time with feeling! Change the past and rewrite history. The end result is what matters. Why look back and focus on the negative? Just let it go. Count your blessings. Make sure it's completely swallowed lest you choke.
I was distraught. This was not how I dreamed it would be. The story was all wrong. I made a rash decision to change it so the ending would fit. I removed one of the leaves and transformed my 5 leaf clover into a 4 leaf clover. It took me many years to retell the story as it had really transpired.
Recently I told my daughter of my search for a four leaf clover. I retold my dream and its outcome. I admitted to her what I had done when the ending I sought hadn't occurred as I thought it should. Since then she has come home with 14 four leaf clovers. I have them pressed between the pages of ‘The I Ching – or book of changes.’ She is gifted with seeing what she is looking at and accepting what is there.
Will she one day feel the need to pull off a leaf to create her own 'Happily Ever After'?
He picked you up from the dentist. You had had a root canal. Together, you went for a drive across the river and into the hills. He was quiet. So were you. Your mind was numb like your jaw. When he stopped the car you willed for it to keep going. He got out, started walking and beckoned for you to follow. You didn’t want to go. Things were going to change and that terrified you. He told you that he had been doing a lot of thinking. Specifically, he had been thinking about the relationship. You remember thinking ‘here it comes.’ He asked if you would marry him. You remember being surprised but not. Your face was reflected in his sun glasses as you said ‘sure.’
A few weeks later I had a dream. I dreamt that I was running across the backyard wearing my night gown. Freshly cut grass covered in dew clung to my legs. I reached the apple tree and pressed my back against it. I could feel the bark on my back. With my right heel pressed firmly against the tree I placed my left heel in front and walked heel toe heel toe heel toe. I bent down to look and right there by the big toe of my foot was a 4 leaf clover!
You got married outside. His shoes cost more than your dress. You remember thinking as you danced that you were lousy dancers. Two months earlier he had come clean about having had an affair. It had happened before he proposed. You remember being angry, not so much about the betrayal but because it had happened so long ago that you no longer cared. The right to anger had been taken from you. Coming home from the honeymoon and looking around the apartment you wondered if you would ever feel really real? Life all seemed a bit make believe. A story witnessed from afar read from a book that could be closed at any time.
I woke up and ran outside. My father had cut the lawn the day before and fresh cut grass covered in dew clung to my legs. I reached the apple tree and pressed my back against it. I could feel the bark on my back. With my right heel pressed firmly against the tree I placed my left heel in front and walked heel toe heel toe heel toe. I bent down to look and right there by the big toe of my foot was a 5 leaf clover!
You both wanted a family. Did you? Didn't you? Yes. But that night you said no. Did you actually mean it? Yes. Really? Weren't you playing hard to get? No. You fought. Really? Never mind. It doesn’t matter. The scene was reenacted. Do it again but this time with feeling! Change the past and rewrite history. The end result is what matters. Why look back and focus on the negative? Just let it go. Count your blessings. Make sure it's completely swallowed lest you choke.
I was distraught. This was not how I dreamed it would be. The story was all wrong. I made a rash decision to change it so the ending would fit. I removed one of the leaves and transformed my 5 leaf clover into a 4 leaf clover. It took me many years to retell the story as it had really transpired.
Recently I told my daughter of my search for a four leaf clover. I retold my dream and its outcome. I admitted to her what I had done when the ending I sought hadn't occurred as I thought it should. Since then she has come home with 14 four leaf clovers. I have them pressed between the pages of ‘The I Ching – or book of changes.’ She is gifted with seeing what she is looking at and accepting what is there.
Will she one day feel the need to pull off a leaf to create her own 'Happily Ever After'?
Wednesday, April 07, 2010
Pixie Stix
Out for a walk with the twinlets this evening I passed a garbage can in a park overflowing with the coloured wrappers of spent pixie stix.
I remembered Charlie. Charlie brought me pixie stix every day. I don't know how Charlie knew they were my favourite. I don't know where he got them. Charlie was blonde with buck teeth. I don't remember ever really talking to Charlie except to say 'hello' and 'thank you'. My friends all assumed that Charlie was my boyfriend. I guess I thought that too. Why else would he bring me pixie stix? He never gave any candy to anyone else. Not that I knew of. We were five years old and in kindergarten. Already independent enough to take the bus to school on our own we were putting our own stamp on the world. Every day Charlie would find me on the playground and he would give me a pixie stix -- the red and orange ones were my particular favourites. I would rip open an end, tilt my head back and let the powder pour into my mouth. I actually don't remember ever having had pixie stix before meeting Charlie. I don't remember ever having them since that year.
35 years later, walking in a park, I remembered Charlie, the taste of pixie stix and how good it felt to not question the intention behind a simple act of friendship.
I remembered Charlie. Charlie brought me pixie stix every day. I don't know how Charlie knew they were my favourite. I don't know where he got them. Charlie was blonde with buck teeth. I don't remember ever really talking to Charlie except to say 'hello' and 'thank you'. My friends all assumed that Charlie was my boyfriend. I guess I thought that too. Why else would he bring me pixie stix? He never gave any candy to anyone else. Not that I knew of. We were five years old and in kindergarten. Already independent enough to take the bus to school on our own we were putting our own stamp on the world. Every day Charlie would find me on the playground and he would give me a pixie stix -- the red and orange ones were my particular favourites. I would rip open an end, tilt my head back and let the powder pour into my mouth. I actually don't remember ever having had pixie stix before meeting Charlie. I don't remember ever having them since that year.
35 years later, walking in a park, I remembered Charlie, the taste of pixie stix and how good it felt to not question the intention behind a simple act of friendship.
Monday, April 05, 2010
Black and White
Hmmmm....working on an idea here. It's not 'done' but I'm not up to editing it further. 'It's my blog and I can post incomplete gak if I want to.'
Soft caresses and bruised thighs.
Dented walls and gentle sighs.
Forgiveness is a difficult concept. How does one begin the process of forgiveness? "I forgive you." These words, uttered with intent and infused with feeling are just words. What do they mean?
Let it go and don't look back.
Knick and Knack and Paddy Whack.
"I forgive you for . . . ." For what exactly? Ripping the rug out from under my feet? Violently changing the course and direction of my life? But out of this violence came somthing beautiful. A birth. Two births. Rebirth.
Childhood rhymes set to repeat.
Simple chords, a vibrant beat.
"All is forgiven." A blanket statement that covers all bases. Does forgiveness lead to trust? What does it really mean to lose trust? Is trust possible after it's been broken? How can one negotiate without trust?
Rainbows painted large and bright
Remind us that it's never just black and white.
Soft caresses and bruised thighs.
Dented walls and gentle sighs.
Forgiveness is a difficult concept. How does one begin the process of forgiveness? "I forgive you." These words, uttered with intent and infused with feeling are just words. What do they mean?
Let it go and don't look back.
Knick and Knack and Paddy Whack.
"I forgive you for . . . ." For what exactly? Ripping the rug out from under my feet? Violently changing the course and direction of my life? But out of this violence came somthing beautiful. A birth. Two births. Rebirth.
Childhood rhymes set to repeat.
Simple chords, a vibrant beat.
"All is forgiven." A blanket statement that covers all bases. Does forgiveness lead to trust? What does it really mean to lose trust? Is trust possible after it's been broken? How can one negotiate without trust?
Rainbows painted large and bright
Remind us that it's never just black and white.
Friday, April 02, 2010
The Unknown
Into the Unknown
A spider’s web
The perfect union
Of strength and fragility
Beauty and deadly intent
Can withstand a summer storm
In all its ferocity
But falls apart
When a careless passerby
Walks through it
Oblivious
A spider’s web
The perfect union
Of strength and fragility
Beauty and deadly intent
Can withstand a summer storm
In all its ferocity
But falls apart
When a careless passerby
Walks through it
Oblivious
Monday, March 29, 2010
Confessional
My father is 78. He is an old man. His life was already half lived before I was born. I always listen closely when he speaks about his life--the life he experienced before me. I absorb each story and weave it into my own history creating a connection from shared memory. A tapestry of a family that exists within me and extends outwards to the past and the future. I use his memories to know myself although like adding breath to the wind the questions I have resonating within me are released with no echoing return.
I had never met his father. My grandfather was taken away when my own father was only five years old. His mother began the journey of single mom at that point. I think of her and make parallels to my own present situation. Any perceived trials I endure pale in comparison. She had four boys. She worked hard and brought them through the war alive and self-sufficient. Who could ask for more?
My father was the second youngest. His younger brother was less than a year old when their father was taken. He has no memories of him. I have always wondered about the connection my father has with his younger brother -- my uncle Topi. I know that my father has always felt protective over him. They both left Finland together in 1959 to settle in Canada. They both worked together in the same lumber mill. My father had not received any education past public school. He and his older brothers needed to work in order to provide for the family. Topi was the one who received the education. When he and my father arrived in Canada, my father became a worker in the mill. Topi became a foreman. I have heard Topi tease my father with an air of superiority and I have watched as my father has taken it. I wonder, at times, who my father would have been had he received a formal education? Would I have been different?
Lately, my father is keen to tell me more stories. I know that my time with him is nearing an end. I call when I can. I listen. I know that that is what he wants more than anything right now. He wants to be heard. He wants to be understood. He wants to live on. Don't we all?
The last time we spoke he told me a story I had never heard before. When he was six years old, his mother had to leave her boys at home in order to go to work. She left a list of chores for her sons to do. Each task had to be completed before any free time could be had. My father asked, rhetorically, if he had ever had the chance to be a child? They swept the floors, did dishes, sawed wood for the stove, made dinner and looked after Topi. How did his mother feel when she left their one roomed home each morning?
I heard a change in my father's voice. I heard a six year old boy. One afternoon he watched as Topi was playing in a sand pit. Topi was too small to get out so was relatively safe. My father saw his older brother run off to the creek? river? lake? I cannot remember how my father described it. The important part was that the boys went swimming. It was hot. My father felt that if the older ones could go swimming so could he. He left Topi in the sand pit. When the boys got back they saw that Topi was covered in blisters from the sun. They quickly brought him inside and when their mother returned home she gave them all royal hell for not looking after him. For almost getting him killed. How much of her anger stemmed from guilt?
My father's voice pleaded to me from out of the past. 'But I was only six!'
My uncle's scars from this incident remain. As do my own father's.
It was about twenty years ago when my father was reading a magazine article that suggested a link between childhood sunburns and skin cancer. My father was always reading. Always wanting to learn more. My father, still protective over his younger brother, watched for signs as they sat together in the sauna. One day, my father noticed that one of the blister scars on Topi's back was discoloured. He had to fight with his brother to get him to see a doctor. He told him that he bore responsibility for it but would be damned if he let his brother not get it checked out. It was skin cancer. The spot was removed. The cancer had not taken root.
My father blamed himself while simultaneously trying to forgive himself. 'I was only six!' Old man and child facing a memory together. A timeless confrontation.
My father then went on to tell me about the cancerous mole he had had removed from his own neck ten years ago. He mentioned it as a matter of course. Shit happens and he dealt with it. The irony escaped him. I realize at times like this that I have more of my father in me then I would be likely to admit.
I had never met his father. My grandfather was taken away when my own father was only five years old. His mother began the journey of single mom at that point. I think of her and make parallels to my own present situation. Any perceived trials I endure pale in comparison. She had four boys. She worked hard and brought them through the war alive and self-sufficient. Who could ask for more?
My father was the second youngest. His younger brother was less than a year old when their father was taken. He has no memories of him. I have always wondered about the connection my father has with his younger brother -- my uncle Topi. I know that my father has always felt protective over him. They both left Finland together in 1959 to settle in Canada. They both worked together in the same lumber mill. My father had not received any education past public school. He and his older brothers needed to work in order to provide for the family. Topi was the one who received the education. When he and my father arrived in Canada, my father became a worker in the mill. Topi became a foreman. I have heard Topi tease my father with an air of superiority and I have watched as my father has taken it. I wonder, at times, who my father would have been had he received a formal education? Would I have been different?
Lately, my father is keen to tell me more stories. I know that my time with him is nearing an end. I call when I can. I listen. I know that that is what he wants more than anything right now. He wants to be heard. He wants to be understood. He wants to live on. Don't we all?
The last time we spoke he told me a story I had never heard before. When he was six years old, his mother had to leave her boys at home in order to go to work. She left a list of chores for her sons to do. Each task had to be completed before any free time could be had. My father asked, rhetorically, if he had ever had the chance to be a child? They swept the floors, did dishes, sawed wood for the stove, made dinner and looked after Topi. How did his mother feel when she left their one roomed home each morning?
I heard a change in my father's voice. I heard a six year old boy. One afternoon he watched as Topi was playing in a sand pit. Topi was too small to get out so was relatively safe. My father saw his older brother run off to the creek? river? lake? I cannot remember how my father described it. The important part was that the boys went swimming. It was hot. My father felt that if the older ones could go swimming so could he. He left Topi in the sand pit. When the boys got back they saw that Topi was covered in blisters from the sun. They quickly brought him inside and when their mother returned home she gave them all royal hell for not looking after him. For almost getting him killed. How much of her anger stemmed from guilt?
My father's voice pleaded to me from out of the past. 'But I was only six!'
My uncle's scars from this incident remain. As do my own father's.
It was about twenty years ago when my father was reading a magazine article that suggested a link between childhood sunburns and skin cancer. My father was always reading. Always wanting to learn more. My father, still protective over his younger brother, watched for signs as they sat together in the sauna. One day, my father noticed that one of the blister scars on Topi's back was discoloured. He had to fight with his brother to get him to see a doctor. He told him that he bore responsibility for it but would be damned if he let his brother not get it checked out. It was skin cancer. The spot was removed. The cancer had not taken root.
My father blamed himself while simultaneously trying to forgive himself. 'I was only six!' Old man and child facing a memory together. A timeless confrontation.
My father then went on to tell me about the cancerous mole he had had removed from his own neck ten years ago. He mentioned it as a matter of course. Shit happens and he dealt with it. The irony escaped him. I realize at times like this that I have more of my father in me then I would be likely to admit.
Saturday, January 23, 2010
My Reality is Not For Sale
So many things in this world that I don't understand. Reality being manufactured and sold as a commodity is one of them. Advertisements used to sell products are one thing. I get that if an attractive person is shown eating, drinking, wearing, wiping, riding or just walking by a product, chances are good that that particular product will 'sell' at least in the short term. One hopes that any future sales of this product may be attributed to the quality and value of the product. One hopes that the wheat will rise from the chaff or, better yet, that things that suck won't sell. This is not always the case (think lite beer) but there is no accounting for some people's taste.
Selling a product placed within a particular made up 'reality' is one thing. Selling reality itself is another. Entertainment shows are being created that analyze other entertainment shows. So called 'reality' programming proliferates our airwaves. 'Real' people doing 'real' things are followed around by cameras and film crews so that our self referential voyeuristic needs are met. How do our own personal realities compare? Can they? There exist self help groups for people who are genuinely bummed out that the world depicted in the movie 'Avatar' is not real.
People are attempting to create space for themselves within this new market. Remember the boy in the balloon? As people watched this 10 minute crisis unfold over the airwaves the parents were figuring out how they could swing a sequel. In today's paper, a short corner of page article told of a woman in the UK who had forced her child into a wheel chair in order to pass him off as the 'sickest boy in the world' in order to gain free trips for them both to Disney World. She injected him with glucose to simulate diabetes and ... ok, I stopped reading at this point because it was causing the Americano I was drinking to curdle. It boggles the mind and sickens the heart.
I was given a television last year because it was noticed that the one I used was too puny. It never bothered me but seemed to bother my friend that I was living in the dark ages. Even this 'new' tv, however, would be seen by many as passe. It is not a flat screen. It is not HD. I don't feel a need to own HD. When I want to see something 'real' I look out the window or, better yet, walk outside. Now with the current influx of 3D movies (what, is it the 70's again?) new technologies are being created to provide folk with yet another 'can't live without it' product. 3D television sets! With the market already saturated with HD I wonder how these will sell. There are also potential dangers linked with this new device. Apparently, watching a lot of 3D may make one experience nausea (although I tend to feel nauseous already when watching my 'normal' tv but that could be linked to a combination of horrible acting, pitiful writing or the graphic prime time violence depicting decapitations, gun shots and brutal torture scenes).
I was weirded out when water started being sold in bottles. I raised a sardonic eyebrow upon hearing about oxygen bars. Reality as a commodity seems to be an all time low. Thing is, it started off so slowly and innoucously that it was hardly noticed. What is now considered the 'norm' was once dreamed of only in sci fi texts. I shudder to think of what is coming next. Until then I guess I'll put on my coat and boots and take a walk in the sunshine and just be real.
Selling a product placed within a particular made up 'reality' is one thing. Selling reality itself is another. Entertainment shows are being created that analyze other entertainment shows. So called 'reality' programming proliferates our airwaves. 'Real' people doing 'real' things are followed around by cameras and film crews so that our self referential voyeuristic needs are met. How do our own personal realities compare? Can they? There exist self help groups for people who are genuinely bummed out that the world depicted in the movie 'Avatar' is not real.
People are attempting to create space for themselves within this new market. Remember the boy in the balloon? As people watched this 10 minute crisis unfold over the airwaves the parents were figuring out how they could swing a sequel. In today's paper, a short corner of page article told of a woman in the UK who had forced her child into a wheel chair in order to pass him off as the 'sickest boy in the world' in order to gain free trips for them both to Disney World. She injected him with glucose to simulate diabetes and ... ok, I stopped reading at this point because it was causing the Americano I was drinking to curdle. It boggles the mind and sickens the heart.
I was given a television last year because it was noticed that the one I used was too puny. It never bothered me but seemed to bother my friend that I was living in the dark ages. Even this 'new' tv, however, would be seen by many as passe. It is not a flat screen. It is not HD. I don't feel a need to own HD. When I want to see something 'real' I look out the window or, better yet, walk outside. Now with the current influx of 3D movies (what, is it the 70's again?) new technologies are being created to provide folk with yet another 'can't live without it' product. 3D television sets! With the market already saturated with HD I wonder how these will sell. There are also potential dangers linked with this new device. Apparently, watching a lot of 3D may make one experience nausea (although I tend to feel nauseous already when watching my 'normal' tv but that could be linked to a combination of horrible acting, pitiful writing or the graphic prime time violence depicting decapitations, gun shots and brutal torture scenes).
I was weirded out when water started being sold in bottles. I raised a sardonic eyebrow upon hearing about oxygen bars. Reality as a commodity seems to be an all time low. Thing is, it started off so slowly and innoucously that it was hardly noticed. What is now considered the 'norm' was once dreamed of only in sci fi texts. I shudder to think of what is coming next. Until then I guess I'll put on my coat and boots and take a walk in the sunshine and just be real.
Wednesday, December 23, 2009
No Me for the Wii (for Kate)
Filled with glee
She came home to see
Her lad with a book
Reading A B C's
No more T.V.!
She thought wistfully
As her boy flipped the pages
With quiet intensity.
But then entered hubby
And he was quite merry
He unpacked and set up
What looked like a monstrosity
'My darling wifey,'
He mentioned with revelry
'Your sister dropped off a great game
Will you play with me?'
She stared at the Wii
Asking quite cautiously
'Did you see that your son
Is beginning to read?'
Non plussed was the hubby
As he fussed with the packaging
'The first thing you need to do
Is create a 'me' for your 'Wii';
'A 'me' for a 'Wii'?'
She asked a bit shrilly
'Why would I want to create
A me for a Wii?'
'I have a me for the Wii
Just wait 'til you see
How much fun we'll all have
Interacting with the T.V.'
She noted dejectedly
That her son threw down the A B C's
And seemed transfixed by this gadget
That was being played by his daddy.
'I will not create a new Me'
She stated with unhidden hostility.
'I will not play with this new fangled gizmo
I will not create a new me for the Wii.
Let me speak clearly
So that you can hear me truely.
I have absolutely no interest in playing this game
And I will not be making a me for this Wii.
I must state emphatically
Although I love you dearly
We differ in ways as good couples do
So I will not be making a 'me' for this Wii
Looking dejectedly
Feeling defeat
She watched as her son
Left a book by her feet
But then quite excitedly
He picked up his ABC's
And flipped through the pages
And turned to his mommy.
As time goes on inevitably
The boy and his daddy
Interact and enjoy the games
As they play with their 'me's' and the Wii
But what warms her heart magically
When her son picks up his ABC's
And he finds the warm spot on the couch and asks,
'Mommy will you read with me?'
She came home to see
Her lad with a book
Reading A B C's
No more T.V.!
She thought wistfully
As her boy flipped the pages
With quiet intensity.
But then entered hubby
And he was quite merry
He unpacked and set up
What looked like a monstrosity
'My darling wifey,'
He mentioned with revelry
'Your sister dropped off a great game
Will you play with me?'
She stared at the Wii
Asking quite cautiously
'Did you see that your son
Is beginning to read?'
Non plussed was the hubby
As he fussed with the packaging
'The first thing you need to do
Is create a 'me' for your 'Wii';
'A 'me' for a 'Wii'?'
She asked a bit shrilly
'Why would I want to create
A me for a Wii?'
'I have a me for the Wii
Just wait 'til you see
How much fun we'll all have
Interacting with the T.V.'
She noted dejectedly
That her son threw down the A B C's
And seemed transfixed by this gadget
That was being played by his daddy.
'I will not create a new Me'
She stated with unhidden hostility.
'I will not play with this new fangled gizmo
I will not create a new me for the Wii.
Let me speak clearly
So that you can hear me truely.
I have absolutely no interest in playing this game
And I will not be making a me for this Wii.
I must state emphatically
Although I love you dearly
We differ in ways as good couples do
So I will not be making a 'me' for this Wii
Looking dejectedly
Feeling defeat
She watched as her son
Left a book by her feet
But then quite excitedly
He picked up his ABC's
And flipped through the pages
And turned to his mommy.
As time goes on inevitably
The boy and his daddy
Interact and enjoy the games
As they play with their 'me's' and the Wii
But what warms her heart magically
When her son picks up his ABC's
And he finds the warm spot on the couch and asks,
'Mommy will you read with me?'
Saturday, December 19, 2009
Portrait of a Girl
My daughter is special. She speaks in terms of hearts and spirits and love. She is intelligent, insightful and wise beyond her years. She is a girl who embraces being a girl. I want her to hold on to that. When I was her age I thought girls were pretty useless. I liked hanging with boys. I understood boys. Girls made no sense to me. When playing games on the school ground -- boys against the girls -- I always played for the boys team. My daughter's love of pink, fashion, teeny bopper television is not part of my own experience but, through her, I am coming to understand not only her but myself.
The other day we watched an episode of 'The Jonas Brothers.' She really wanted to watch it and said she loved it. I am not a fan of the Disney channel or the tweeny pop aesthetic that proliferates its airwaves. Everyone is different though and I love the chance to snuggle with her on the couch. I asked her what it was about the show that she liked. She laughed and was embarrassed. She's young. I wondered if she was already getting caught up in 'crush' land and teen idol worship. (Can't be! I thought. Not yet please? She's not quite 8 years old.) I asked her if she thought the boys were cute. Her answer was immediate and honest. 'No!' She paused and explained. 'I like the colours mommy.' I continued watching. The colours used are bright and vibrant. Each scene has a different palette. It's actually quite cool to watch the show in terms of colour. She pointed out different shades at work and how the character's outfits always seemed to work with the background walls. 'The acting is pretty good too mommy.' Hmmmm. I disagreed with her on that point but noted that it wasn't worse then 90% of the dreck passed off as evening adult programming.
My daughter once mentioned that she wanted to be an artist when she grew up. She then said that she already was an artist. I love seeing the world through her eyes; the eyes of an unapologetic girl who embraces the beauty of the world around her.
I want to tell her to remain free of guilt. I want to let her know that it's ok to cry and that showing emotion is not a sign of weakness. I want her to be able to love freely. I want to tell her that although there will be many folk who will try to label her, pin her down and make her feel in someway wanting that she should just shrug it off and continue to just be. I want her to feel the strength of her grandmothers within her. I want her to never feel threatened by forces beyond her control. I want her never to feel threatened period.
The strength that she shows me each day astounds me. Her insight teaches me. Her love centres me. Her spirit guides me.
The other day we watched an episode of 'The Jonas Brothers.' She really wanted to watch it and said she loved it. I am not a fan of the Disney channel or the tweeny pop aesthetic that proliferates its airwaves. Everyone is different though and I love the chance to snuggle with her on the couch. I asked her what it was about the show that she liked. She laughed and was embarrassed. She's young. I wondered if she was already getting caught up in 'crush' land and teen idol worship. (Can't be! I thought. Not yet please? She's not quite 8 years old.) I asked her if she thought the boys were cute. Her answer was immediate and honest. 'No!' She paused and explained. 'I like the colours mommy.' I continued watching. The colours used are bright and vibrant. Each scene has a different palette. It's actually quite cool to watch the show in terms of colour. She pointed out different shades at work and how the character's outfits always seemed to work with the background walls. 'The acting is pretty good too mommy.' Hmmmm. I disagreed with her on that point but noted that it wasn't worse then 90% of the dreck passed off as evening adult programming.
My daughter once mentioned that she wanted to be an artist when she grew up. She then said that she already was an artist. I love seeing the world through her eyes; the eyes of an unapologetic girl who embraces the beauty of the world around her.
I want to tell her to remain free of guilt. I want to let her know that it's ok to cry and that showing emotion is not a sign of weakness. I want her to be able to love freely. I want to tell her that although there will be many folk who will try to label her, pin her down and make her feel in someway wanting that she should just shrug it off and continue to just be. I want her to feel the strength of her grandmothers within her. I want her to never feel threatened by forces beyond her control. I want her never to feel threatened period.
The strength that she shows me each day astounds me. Her insight teaches me. Her love centres me. Her spirit guides me.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
My Left Needs a Break (before it breaks)
Just over a week ago I went to class early in order to run through some lock and rubber guard techniques. Got my left calf squeezed pretty tight and by the end of the class I was limping a wee bit. No biggie I thought. Working the techniques at a seminar 2 weeks ago did a number on my right calf but the soreness went away after a couple days. I could feel a bruise forming but thought nothing of it.
Saturday I went to class a bit worse for wear. I had enjoyed a lovely evening with a gf the night before but I indulged in a few too many pints. We were set to call it a night but then this Irish dude started chatting and bought another round. Blame the Irish indeed. I survived the class. Actually, by the time class came around in the afternoon I was no longer feeling ill -- just tired. The kidlings had gymnastics in the morning and I had a short shift at the theatre. Dropped the kids off, rushed to work, came back to pick up the girl, we went for a quiet hot chocolate, went to get the boy and got home for a short nap. My daughter made lunch for us -- one of the best sandwiches I have ever had. Very nice to feel pampered.
Oh this is a bit of a ramble but I want to mention the hot chocolate that my girl and I had. We went to a place called 'Truffle Treasures' and asked for hot chocolate. We were asked what type we would want. Type? There was a ginormous list! Ok. I chose Aztec (with chili spices) and the girl chose Peppermint. Then we were asked if we wanted dark, milk or white chocolate. Ok. The drinks were fantastic but I never realized that hot chocolate had become as diverse (and expensive) as coffees. Thing is, I'll probably never want to go back to the plain old hot chocolate served in styrofoam cups. Sigh.
Class on Saturday went well. Lot's of people and not too much stress. That evening, however, my calf started to swell and turn a garish purple. Sunday came and the calf got bigger. I figured it was time to bite the bullet and have it checked out by a medical pro. Monday morning I called my supervisor and informed him that I was going to go to emerg. He figured it was a good idea. I got the kids ready for school, sent them on their way and got ready to head out myself. I then remembered that there was work on stage that had to be done before a new screen was installed. I called my supervisor and told him I was going into work first to get job done.
Funny. I was climbing up and down the ladder humping lights and my supervisor was chatting to a contractor saying 'she'll finish these lights, the two of us will move the gear around in the booth and then I'll send her to the hospital.' Job dedication? Stubborn pride? Anyway, I got er done and went to emerg. It turned out to be a very pleasant 6 hour stay. I had a good book, they powers that be assured me that I would be done before having to be home to meet the kidlings and time passed in a restful almost serene manner.
Turns out I did not have any clotting (although I'm to check with my GP early next week to make sure all is still well). I had, however, blown a couple blood vessels which made the leg swell and turn a ghastly shade of dark purply green.
I went to class on Tuesday wearing a tensor bandage. I can do the aikido but am staying away from the jiu jitsu for a couple weeks (Dr. says a month and a half for the healing -- we'll see). Class went well until I turned over on my left ankle and hurt the left side of my neck with a bad fall.
So now I have a bruised leg, bruised/sprained ankle, bruised toe and stiff neck all on my left side.
Guess the Christmas break has come at a good time.
Saturday I went to class a bit worse for wear. I had enjoyed a lovely evening with a gf the night before but I indulged in a few too many pints. We were set to call it a night but then this Irish dude started chatting and bought another round. Blame the Irish indeed. I survived the class. Actually, by the time class came around in the afternoon I was no longer feeling ill -- just tired. The kidlings had gymnastics in the morning and I had a short shift at the theatre. Dropped the kids off, rushed to work, came back to pick up the girl, we went for a quiet hot chocolate, went to get the boy and got home for a short nap. My daughter made lunch for us -- one of the best sandwiches I have ever had. Very nice to feel pampered.
Oh this is a bit of a ramble but I want to mention the hot chocolate that my girl and I had. We went to a place called 'Truffle Treasures' and asked for hot chocolate. We were asked what type we would want. Type? There was a ginormous list! Ok. I chose Aztec (with chili spices) and the girl chose Peppermint. Then we were asked if we wanted dark, milk or white chocolate. Ok. The drinks were fantastic but I never realized that hot chocolate had become as diverse (and expensive) as coffees. Thing is, I'll probably never want to go back to the plain old hot chocolate served in styrofoam cups. Sigh.
Class on Saturday went well. Lot's of people and not too much stress. That evening, however, my calf started to swell and turn a garish purple. Sunday came and the calf got bigger. I figured it was time to bite the bullet and have it checked out by a medical pro. Monday morning I called my supervisor and informed him that I was going to go to emerg. He figured it was a good idea. I got the kids ready for school, sent them on their way and got ready to head out myself. I then remembered that there was work on stage that had to be done before a new screen was installed. I called my supervisor and told him I was going into work first to get job done.
Funny. I was climbing up and down the ladder humping lights and my supervisor was chatting to a contractor saying 'she'll finish these lights, the two of us will move the gear around in the booth and then I'll send her to the hospital.' Job dedication? Stubborn pride? Anyway, I got er done and went to emerg. It turned out to be a very pleasant 6 hour stay. I had a good book, they powers that be assured me that I would be done before having to be home to meet the kidlings and time passed in a restful almost serene manner.
Turns out I did not have any clotting (although I'm to check with my GP early next week to make sure all is still well). I had, however, blown a couple blood vessels which made the leg swell and turn a ghastly shade of dark purply green.
I went to class on Tuesday wearing a tensor bandage. I can do the aikido but am staying away from the jiu jitsu for a couple weeks (Dr. says a month and a half for the healing -- we'll see). Class went well until I turned over on my left ankle and hurt the left side of my neck with a bad fall.
So now I have a bruised leg, bruised/sprained ankle, bruised toe and stiff neck all on my left side.
Guess the Christmas break has come at a good time.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Reading (Into) the News
So if Dubai reneges on a $60B debt will the recovering N American markets go to crap again? Perhaps they should have thought twice before building an indoor downhill ski slope in the middle of a fracking desert? The very fact that such affluence appears to breed a contempt for common sense and human decency serves to scramble my temporal lobe. Carleton University is spewing sewage into the Rideau River because of a number of aged/cracked pipes that haven’t all been accounted for. New buildings are being erected but the bare bones nuts and bolts maintenance is being accomplished with gaffe tape and concrete bandages. If the foundation is not strong, when problems arise (inevitable that they will; naïve to believe otherwise), the structure will implode upon itself into nothing. This appears to apply not only to physical structures but to economic, ideological, emotional and spiritual erections as well. After the shit hits the proverbial fan and the knee jerk recriminations, name callings, selfish cries and quixotic head banging’s pass, it is the foundation, or lack thereof, that will remain. Foundation or not, (re)growth is possible. It’s just that with a solid foundation the growth may occur just that little bit faster and be, perhaps, just that little bit stronger because at least there is an actual point of departure and reference.
Thursday, November 12, 2009
There I Was, Tied Between Two Coconut Trees
A variation on Snoopy's 'It was a dark and stormy night.' A friend introduced me to this phrase in a letter he once wrote me and we have used it since as an opening conversation ice breaker. Better than 'hello' it pretty summed up how we were feeling--trapped. Yes, we happened to be trapped in paradise but we were trapped all the same. Perhaps I read too much into things (no perhaps about it really as I know that I do read too much into pretty much everything. I am a victim of a liberal arts education after all) but the idea of feeling pinned down and trapped while in paradise is appealing. The inherent contradiction and instability that is evoked by this image calms and soothes my soul. The recognition of the need to break free from convention, however seemingly peaceful/wonderful, is something to be embraced.
I tend to not trust when all is well and going smoothly. That and I get bored. Although I have been called self-destructive (among other things) this is a bit unfair. I require a certain amount of chaos in my life.
A couple years ago I went to a Cuban spa with my mother. The first couple of days were unique and strangely surreal enough to keep me occupied. As time passed, however, a sense of complacency came over me. I relaxed into the routine of daily cardio, 'treatments' and such. The days went like this:
Wake up and dress for breakfast.
Eat breakfast in dining room and order eggs (that's all they had).
Go back to room and change into bathing suit.
Go to 'doctor' for blood pressure check.
Go to 'gym' for cardio
Go outside and stand while someone took a paintbrush and slopped mud taken from the back field all over your body.
Stand in sun til mud dried.
Stand in cold outdoor shower to remove mud.
Jump in very hot salt water pool for 15 minutes or so.
Go to 'rest room' and lie down on a wooden slab and be served tea.
Go to water treatment room. Water treatment consisted of lying in a hot bathtub of water and having a high pressure hose jet water over your body. After the hose one is to stay in tub for 20 minutes.
Go back to rest room
Have massage. I did this only once. Carlo's hands wandered a bit too much :P No quiero.
Go to sauna.
Go back to room and have lunch consisting of chicken and rice or rice and black beans--Moors and Christians.
Afternoon = rest/quiet/relax time.
Dinner.
Bed.
Alright. After one week of this I went to the 'doctor' and was told that I could not participate that day in any spa treatments. My blood pressure was at an all time high. Go figure. With that much mind numbing relaxation I was ready to do harm. I was, in effect, tied between two coconut trees.
I convinced my mom to walk with me to the next village -- 17 km away. We hitchhiked on the back of a truck carrying workers, had a beer in the village and walked back. When we finally got back I jumped straight into the pool. The next day my blood pressure was normal.
Do your worst to me. Just don't bore me. That just might be my end.
I tend to not trust when all is well and going smoothly. That and I get bored. Although I have been called self-destructive (among other things) this is a bit unfair. I require a certain amount of chaos in my life.
A couple years ago I went to a Cuban spa with my mother. The first couple of days were unique and strangely surreal enough to keep me occupied. As time passed, however, a sense of complacency came over me. I relaxed into the routine of daily cardio, 'treatments' and such. The days went like this:
Wake up and dress for breakfast.
Eat breakfast in dining room and order eggs (that's all they had).
Go back to room and change into bathing suit.
Go to 'doctor' for blood pressure check.
Go to 'gym' for cardio
Go outside and stand while someone took a paintbrush and slopped mud taken from the back field all over your body.
Stand in sun til mud dried.
Stand in cold outdoor shower to remove mud.
Jump in very hot salt water pool for 15 minutes or so.
Go to 'rest room' and lie down on a wooden slab and be served tea.
Go to water treatment room. Water treatment consisted of lying in a hot bathtub of water and having a high pressure hose jet water over your body. After the hose one is to stay in tub for 20 minutes.
Go back to rest room
Have massage. I did this only once. Carlo's hands wandered a bit too much :P No quiero.
Go to sauna.
Go back to room and have lunch consisting of chicken and rice or rice and black beans--Moors and Christians.
Afternoon = rest/quiet/relax time.
Dinner.
Bed.
Alright. After one week of this I went to the 'doctor' and was told that I could not participate that day in any spa treatments. My blood pressure was at an all time high. Go figure. With that much mind numbing relaxation I was ready to do harm. I was, in effect, tied between two coconut trees.
I convinced my mom to walk with me to the next village -- 17 km away. We hitchhiked on the back of a truck carrying workers, had a beer in the village and walked back. When we finally got back I jumped straight into the pool. The next day my blood pressure was normal.
Do your worst to me. Just don't bore me. That just might be my end.
Monday, November 09, 2009
Singing REM and I Feel Fine
I talked to my mom on the phone the other day. Always an interesting experience. She will usually tell me about how busy she has been, what her dogs *kids* have been up to and how although so and so or such and such has somehow let her down she has managed to prevail. We all have our coping mechanisms.
This particular conversation led in a different direction. She had been watching a television show on Nostradamus and Edgar Cayce which delved into the upcoming 'end of the world as we know it' posited by the Mayans. Well there is a movie about it. It must be true.
Seems that Cayce would put himself into a hypnotic state and once there would begin to speak. Speak the truth. At first folk would take advantage of him as they asked for lotto numbers and winning horses. Self gain. Cayce didn't like that and so had his wife be the only one to ask the questions. The questions had to be the greater good. Apparently, heads of state and other such important world folk were given the opportunity to ask him questions. His answers were always true. Hmmmm. This process would take a lot out of him but he continued to put himself in this trance up to 7 times per day. Later he died of a stroke but not before relating that the Mayan calendar was right.
The world will shift on its access in 2012 and life as we know it will end. Japan will be gone. The East Coast of Canada will disappear. Rome will fall. Again. My mother continued and mentioned something about Atlantis and a new continent etc. etc. Then she told me that she was sorry if she had worried me. I told her that I wasn't worried. She then went on to say that she was working on a plan to get the whole family together at that time because when the chaos finally erupted she wanted us all to be together because it would be difficult to have contact otherwise. Hmmmm. She was also trying to figure out a way to get my brothers away from the East coast. It was beginning to sound more like she was planning a grand family reunion then preparing for the end of the world. I guess it's difficult to actually plan for the end though eh? Gotta make sure there's enough milk for the coffee.
Ok. 2012 is coming. I agree. Time passes. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Months. Years. Neatly divided. 2012 is over two years away and already the hysteria is beginning. I fear that it will be a very long couple of years as varying camps discuss the end and how to prevent it and/or survive it. I wonder how long it will take before the canned goods are stripped from the shelves, folk start building survival shelters and basic trades classes get overbooked in local colleges.
I also wonder at people's seeming hyped up joyous? elation at the thought of mass destruction. Or even over 'little' destructions. Joyous is the wrong word but there's a feeling of nervous excitement in the air. I've felt it during this current H1N1 pandemic. People are dying. People are getting sick. Yet there is a perverse almost celebratory energy as folk are talking about it, coughing into their elbows and washing their already washed hands. I don't believe that folk are happy that others are suffering but something is odd. Similar to the feeling I had as a child when watching the parade of people who would follow fire trucks and then gathered and tut tutted as walls burned down and bodies were carried away I also wonder if this same feeling could explain the mentality of people who would gather around the gallows in order to witness executions.
I wonder how this whole 2012 thing will pan out. I feel that the lead up will be far more interesting then the 'event' itself.
This particular conversation led in a different direction. She had been watching a television show on Nostradamus and Edgar Cayce which delved into the upcoming 'end of the world as we know it' posited by the Mayans. Well there is a movie about it. It must be true.
Seems that Cayce would put himself into a hypnotic state and once there would begin to speak. Speak the truth. At first folk would take advantage of him as they asked for lotto numbers and winning horses. Self gain. Cayce didn't like that and so had his wife be the only one to ask the questions. The questions had to be the greater good. Apparently, heads of state and other such important world folk were given the opportunity to ask him questions. His answers were always true. Hmmmm. This process would take a lot out of him but he continued to put himself in this trance up to 7 times per day. Later he died of a stroke but not before relating that the Mayan calendar was right.
The world will shift on its access in 2012 and life as we know it will end. Japan will be gone. The East Coast of Canada will disappear. Rome will fall. Again. My mother continued and mentioned something about Atlantis and a new continent etc. etc. Then she told me that she was sorry if she had worried me. I told her that I wasn't worried. She then went on to say that she was working on a plan to get the whole family together at that time because when the chaos finally erupted she wanted us all to be together because it would be difficult to have contact otherwise. Hmmmm. She was also trying to figure out a way to get my brothers away from the East coast. It was beginning to sound more like she was planning a grand family reunion then preparing for the end of the world. I guess it's difficult to actually plan for the end though eh? Gotta make sure there's enough milk for the coffee.
Ok. 2012 is coming. I agree. Time passes. Seconds. Minutes. Hours. Months. Years. Neatly divided. 2012 is over two years away and already the hysteria is beginning. I fear that it will be a very long couple of years as varying camps discuss the end and how to prevent it and/or survive it. I wonder how long it will take before the canned goods are stripped from the shelves, folk start building survival shelters and basic trades classes get overbooked in local colleges.
I also wonder at people's seeming hyped up joyous? elation at the thought of mass destruction. Or even over 'little' destructions. Joyous is the wrong word but there's a feeling of nervous excitement in the air. I've felt it during this current H1N1 pandemic. People are dying. People are getting sick. Yet there is a perverse almost celebratory energy as folk are talking about it, coughing into their elbows and washing their already washed hands. I don't believe that folk are happy that others are suffering but something is odd. Similar to the feeling I had as a child when watching the parade of people who would follow fire trucks and then gathered and tut tutted as walls burned down and bodies were carried away I also wonder if this same feeling could explain the mentality of people who would gather around the gallows in order to witness executions.
I wonder how this whole 2012 thing will pan out. I feel that the lead up will be far more interesting then the 'event' itself.
Sunday, November 08, 2009
Punishment
It really isn't a punishment. It is not a punishment to have my kids returned early. It is not a punishment to make them dinner. They ask me if they can have a Sunday dinner with you. It's ok with me if you do this but it is not a punishment to have them help me throw together a dinner that we will all take into the living room and have a special Sunday evening watching some bizarre cartoon creatures prance across a screen as we giggle together. It is not a punishment to have more time with them. It is not a punishment to look through their bags when they get home and discover homework incomplete. We spend extra time going through the science questions. I'm learning things too. Tonight we planted some trees. It is not a punishment to be a part of and help with their education. It is not a punishment to pack their lunches. It is not a punishment to do their laundry. It is not a punishment to run their baths. It is not a punishment to stay home with them when they are sick. It is not a punishment to have more time with them. It is not a punishment to have them with me for all but one weekend per month. They ask me why they can't see you more. They wonder why they can't spend more time with you. They answer themselves saying they know that you are very busy. Your job takes up a lot of your time. They are making themselves understand.
Well. At least, I'm not the one being punished.
Well. At least, I'm not the one being punished.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Looking Past
Another Halloween did and done. Boy was a mad scientist zombie. Girl was a black cat. Rain stopped around 4pm and the sun came out. Dinner consisted of spinach and cheese ravioli with Alfredo sauce tinted green with food colouring and some extra drops of red fc for blood. Trick or Treating went well. As we walked around from house to house my mind wandered into my mind's archives dredging up ghosts of Halloween's past.
I remembered being too young to trick or treat but not too young to remember my brother's costumes and that my mom would put their candy in the pot we used to boil potatoes. The pot was put on the high shelf in my parents' closet.
I remembered going out with my 3 brothers and mom one year and looking down to discover that there was a hole in my bag and I had lost all of my candy. The next day walking to school I say candy strewn around the road and in yards and I felt that I felt strangely proud of the mark I had left.
I remembered that our costumes were always last minute, homemade and, each year they were the 'best costumes ever!'
I remembered going to a Halloween sleep over at a girl's house that I didn't want to go to and my mom didn't want me to go to (she thought I would be too cold) but I went anyway because I knew I would probably be the only person to go. I was. Her mom had made many treats but she wasn't popular. We had fun. I remember thinking that the rest of the people in our class were jerks.
I remembered not being allowed to go to a Halloween party one year because I hadn't believed my parents when they had told me to be home by 7pm the night before. I had never before had a curfew. This was as close to being grounded as I ever got. Looking back, it was worth it.
I remembered my mother making peanut brittle to give out to the kids and having to put her name and phone number on the bags so that parents would feel safe to let their own kids eat a homemade treat. I remember that Jimmy loved the peanut brittle and my mom would always give him more than one bag.
I remembered putting on green eyeshadow as I prepped to dress up like Peter Pan. I explained to my older brother that even though Peter Pan was a boy it was good to accentuate the eyes. I remember feeling that not only did he believe me but he was actually listening to me. I suddenly felt quite grown up.
I remembered being asked to sing for candy at one house. I sang a French song I had just learned. I still remember part of the melody.
I remembered trick or treating in the rain, the snow and the wind. I loved all the weather cuz Halloween was always a night of magic. My favourite time was that period before dark where one's eyes would play tricks and the light would enhance and make unreal our everyday surroundings.
I remembered dumping candy onto the living room floor, sorting it and then proceeding to trade with my brothers to get the best deals. Chocolate was worth most. Those toffee 'kisses' that looked like dried up dog turds were worth least.
I remembered the different houses we would go to and the order/path we would take. Always the same. Each year the same house would be skipped and we would whisper in incredulity as we passed it: 'they don't celebrate Halloween.'
I remembered going to bed with my candy bucket on the floor beside me. My mom had stopped keeping the candy away from us when my little brother and I began trick or treating. We were all responsible with our own.
I remembered the unspoken competition between us as we all tried to see who could keep their candy the longest. It was not unheard of to still have some Halloween candy kicking around over Christmas.
I remembered being old enough to be the one to give out the candy. I would sit in our porch, read a book and wait.
I remembered giving out candy as a 'grown up' from my own various apartments pre children.
I remembered my children's very first Halloween.
I remembered that the path we took this year was the same as the one we took last year, the year before and the year before that. My kids' memories will be of this neighbourhood. My memories are enriched by theirs and the cycle of my life is entwined with theirs. Separate yet united.
I remembered being too young to trick or treat but not too young to remember my brother's costumes and that my mom would put their candy in the pot we used to boil potatoes. The pot was put on the high shelf in my parents' closet.
I remembered going out with my 3 brothers and mom one year and looking down to discover that there was a hole in my bag and I had lost all of my candy. The next day walking to school I say candy strewn around the road and in yards and I felt that I felt strangely proud of the mark I had left.
I remembered that our costumes were always last minute, homemade and, each year they were the 'best costumes ever!'
I remembered going to a Halloween sleep over at a girl's house that I didn't want to go to and my mom didn't want me to go to (she thought I would be too cold) but I went anyway because I knew I would probably be the only person to go. I was. Her mom had made many treats but she wasn't popular. We had fun. I remember thinking that the rest of the people in our class were jerks.
I remembered not being allowed to go to a Halloween party one year because I hadn't believed my parents when they had told me to be home by 7pm the night before. I had never before had a curfew. This was as close to being grounded as I ever got. Looking back, it was worth it.
I remembered my mother making peanut brittle to give out to the kids and having to put her name and phone number on the bags so that parents would feel safe to let their own kids eat a homemade treat. I remember that Jimmy loved the peanut brittle and my mom would always give him more than one bag.
I remembered putting on green eyeshadow as I prepped to dress up like Peter Pan. I explained to my older brother that even though Peter Pan was a boy it was good to accentuate the eyes. I remember feeling that not only did he believe me but he was actually listening to me. I suddenly felt quite grown up.
I remembered being asked to sing for candy at one house. I sang a French song I had just learned. I still remember part of the melody.
I remembered trick or treating in the rain, the snow and the wind. I loved all the weather cuz Halloween was always a night of magic. My favourite time was that period before dark where one's eyes would play tricks and the light would enhance and make unreal our everyday surroundings.
I remembered dumping candy onto the living room floor, sorting it and then proceeding to trade with my brothers to get the best deals. Chocolate was worth most. Those toffee 'kisses' that looked like dried up dog turds were worth least.
I remembered the different houses we would go to and the order/path we would take. Always the same. Each year the same house would be skipped and we would whisper in incredulity as we passed it: 'they don't celebrate Halloween.'
I remembered going to bed with my candy bucket on the floor beside me. My mom had stopped keeping the candy away from us when my little brother and I began trick or treating. We were all responsible with our own.
I remembered the unspoken competition between us as we all tried to see who could keep their candy the longest. It was not unheard of to still have some Halloween candy kicking around over Christmas.
I remembered being old enough to be the one to give out the candy. I would sit in our porch, read a book and wait.
I remembered giving out candy as a 'grown up' from my own various apartments pre children.
I remembered my children's very first Halloween.
I remembered that the path we took this year was the same as the one we took last year, the year before and the year before that. My kids' memories will be of this neighbourhood. My memories are enriched by theirs and the cycle of my life is entwined with theirs. Separate yet united.
Friday, October 30, 2009
Had a Thought but it Left so I Wrote this to Write Something
Pumpkin is carved. Seeds are roasting in the oven. Costumes are ready. The boy is getting over the flu. Hopefully he'll be ok to trick or treat tomorrow night. I'm just happy that he's feeling better. Happy is not quite the right word to describe the feeling. Overwhelmingly relieved? It has been a tough go. Not sure what type of flu nor do I really care. All that matters is that he's on the mend. Hopefully the girl will not get this one. This week I've been home and at work and at home and at work. Trying to care for my wee one but not letting other stuff slide. Selfish? Perhaps. The work keeps my worry for him at bay. Holding him puts the work worries into perspective. I'm not good at staying home. I'm not good at staying still. I'm most content when I'm juggling.
My voice is stronger. My singing voice. I've been singing more. Different styles. I'm being nudged to do something more. We'll see. I would want to do it right. Thoughtfully yet impulsively. Work and play. It has be the right time and place. I've been asked to record some stuff on my own and pass it along. The first step is sometimes the hardest. Leap of faith.
My inner dork is resurfacing as well. I did a routine reminiscent of vaudeville for the boy. He joined in by the end. So much fun. Joy. Finally feeling safe enough to be myself. Keeping the critical voices in abeyance--voices from inside and outside of my being. Damn but I can be a flake sometimes.
It's been a tough go as of late. I'm seeing the light though. I'm moving forward. I have no idea where I'll end up but I'm curious enough to keep going.
My voice is stronger. My singing voice. I've been singing more. Different styles. I'm being nudged to do something more. We'll see. I would want to do it right. Thoughtfully yet impulsively. Work and play. It has be the right time and place. I've been asked to record some stuff on my own and pass it along. The first step is sometimes the hardest. Leap of faith.
My inner dork is resurfacing as well. I did a routine reminiscent of vaudeville for the boy. He joined in by the end. So much fun. Joy. Finally feeling safe enough to be myself. Keeping the critical voices in abeyance--voices from inside and outside of my being. Damn but I can be a flake sometimes.
It's been a tough go as of late. I'm seeing the light though. I'm moving forward. I have no idea where I'll end up but I'm curious enough to keep going.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
Home
Today was a day off. Beautiful blue sky and sunshine. Got lots done. Went to the market with the kidlings to the Lush store for bath bombs, bubble bath and shampoo followed by a quick trip to the grocery store. Then we gardened. Cleaned up and turned the veggie garden, raked leaves in the back, put the tarp on the barbecue, struck the hose, put summer toys away etc. Back then to the grocery store to get the two things we went to get in the first place but forgot -- oatmeal and butter. Home again to make apple oatmeal muffins. The girl read the recipe from the computer as the boy and I mixed the ingredients. They turned out fantastic. Then I put a chicken in the oven with a thai/peach glaze. Dinner was chicken, rice and a spinach salad with a warm goatcheese dressing. Three loads of laundry and kids in the bathtub. Bedtime for kids, tea for me and watch tele 'til a gf arrives later tonight. She wants to move to Ottawa and will crash here for a while until she gets things sorted.
I finally feel at home and it feels very good.
I finally feel at home and it feels very good.
Friday, October 23, 2009
Pulling Punches
Interesting class last night. One moment brought to the forefront an issue that lately has been swirling around in my brain. Ok. Not an issue but a lens through which, after blowing on it and wiping away extraneous environmental and social crud and and then peering through, revealed a beautifully laid bare illustration of some of the crap that one has to go through to be a functional woman in a dude's world.
We were practicing a move wherein the attacker is thrown backwards after being pushed in the chest. I attacked and was pushed back. Sensei stopped to make a point. The fella that pushed me was told to 'be careful when practicing with a woman' so as to not, I inferred, hit the squishy bits on my torso. He should 'ask first' before touching me but even better should alter his technique so as to not risk touching/damaging? my breasts. (The squishy bits were not named but were merely alluded to. To name them I guess posed a further danger to my fragile self?).
Huh. First off. When I enter the dojo and step onto the mat I am giving implicit and explicit consent to have my body pushed, pulled, pinned and thrown. You don't have to ask me special permission cuz I have tits just as I don't expect to ask the dudes if it's ok to push, pull, pin or throw them. It's a martial arts class. Physical contact is part of the program.
Now, in class, I won't go around and punch or kick a dude in his 'junk' (that would be rude) but that does not stop us all from learning techniques that, if a dude puts his genitalia in harm's way the potential for it getting punched or kicked is pointed out. Many positions are explained in such a way as to tell the dudes to protect their valuable assets. Instead of telling my attacker to avoid my breasts, why not show me how to better protect them (ya, they are sensitive to being hit as is my face) and that way we can each learn to practice on a more even keel. Each body is different, male or female, and practicing with various sizes, abilities, sexes is a privilege. The attacker and receiver must each learn to protect themselves from being hurt. Ultimately, it becomes a personal responsibility. Protect your own body.
If we are practicing and you are stronger then me or have more experience, then yes, pull your punches. I will also pull mine if I am practicing with someone weaker or with less experience than myself. It is a sign of respect. Respect for the human being. It is also a part of a good practice. We learn from those more and less experienced then ourselves. If I get hurt, I look to myself to see what I had done to not better protect myself. If I hurt someone else I look to see how I could prevent that in the future. The point of the practice is not to disable someone but to learn the techniques. Ok. There are times when people are arseholes and go out to cause pain. They aren't fun to practice with but face it, if one is going to be attacked on the street is the attacker going to watch out for your delicate womanly/manly bits? Isn't it best to learn to protect oneself from all manner of attack?
Treat me like a human being and I will return the favour.
But wait, there's more! I have been so guilty this past while of complicity. Trying to play and be accepted in this dudely world where because I have tits I am, whether I like it or not (and I don't) shoved into the sex class. I am ashamed to say that I once convinced myself that being called 'fuckable' was a compliment. I listened in silence (actually my mind was playing the 'I Dream of Genie' soundtrack on full volume) as I hung out with dudes who claimed a distrust of woman because of their inherent duality and that women who expressed interest in some of these dudes were immediately labelled as prostitutes/whores cuz they couldn't possibly be out dancing at a bar without an ulterior motive. This unspoken motive was to somehow/someway screw said dudes of money, self respect or both. Geesh.
When I dared speak up I was told that my reaction was 'not intended.' Huh? Ok. One's intentions may be important but even if you don't intend to hurt someone and you end up hurting someone you have hurt someone. The hurt has been done. I will accept that I need to learn to protect myself from being hurt as I learn to protect myself physically in class. I'm not quite sure, in cases like this, how this may be accomplished. I could ignore the words/vitriolic/misogynistic sentiment, develop a thicker skin or even 'lighten up' but that just adds to my complicity. I could speak out and be beaten down time and time again for not buying into the dude perspective but this gets tiring.
In life we are taught to pick/choose our battles wisely. It doesn't make sense to kill your spirit over something that, at this time, may be unwinnable if you are left with nothing with which to carry on. At the same time, perhaps I have been seeing my attackers as somehow weaker or less experienced then me and have been treating them with an undue (and in keeping with dude centric compliance), maternal/nurturing gentleness. There are times, even in class, when a more experienced person will 'teach a lesson' to a less experienced one by going a wee bit harder/more martial in order to illustrate where the technique could lead.
Perhaps, it's time for me to stop pulling my punches.
We were practicing a move wherein the attacker is thrown backwards after being pushed in the chest. I attacked and was pushed back. Sensei stopped to make a point. The fella that pushed me was told to 'be careful when practicing with a woman' so as to not, I inferred, hit the squishy bits on my torso. He should 'ask first' before touching me but even better should alter his technique so as to not risk touching/damaging? my breasts. (The squishy bits were not named but were merely alluded to. To name them I guess posed a further danger to my fragile self?).
Huh. First off. When I enter the dojo and step onto the mat I am giving implicit and explicit consent to have my body pushed, pulled, pinned and thrown. You don't have to ask me special permission cuz I have tits just as I don't expect to ask the dudes if it's ok to push, pull, pin or throw them. It's a martial arts class. Physical contact is part of the program.
Now, in class, I won't go around and punch or kick a dude in his 'junk' (that would be rude) but that does not stop us all from learning techniques that, if a dude puts his genitalia in harm's way the potential for it getting punched or kicked is pointed out. Many positions are explained in such a way as to tell the dudes to protect their valuable assets. Instead of telling my attacker to avoid my breasts, why not show me how to better protect them (ya, they are sensitive to being hit as is my face) and that way we can each learn to practice on a more even keel. Each body is different, male or female, and practicing with various sizes, abilities, sexes is a privilege. The attacker and receiver must each learn to protect themselves from being hurt. Ultimately, it becomes a personal responsibility. Protect your own body.
If we are practicing and you are stronger then me or have more experience, then yes, pull your punches. I will also pull mine if I am practicing with someone weaker or with less experience than myself. It is a sign of respect. Respect for the human being. It is also a part of a good practice. We learn from those more and less experienced then ourselves. If I get hurt, I look to myself to see what I had done to not better protect myself. If I hurt someone else I look to see how I could prevent that in the future. The point of the practice is not to disable someone but to learn the techniques. Ok. There are times when people are arseholes and go out to cause pain. They aren't fun to practice with but face it, if one is going to be attacked on the street is the attacker going to watch out for your delicate womanly/manly bits? Isn't it best to learn to protect oneself from all manner of attack?
Treat me like a human being and I will return the favour.
But wait, there's more! I have been so guilty this past while of complicity. Trying to play and be accepted in this dudely world where because I have tits I am, whether I like it or not (and I don't) shoved into the sex class. I am ashamed to say that I once convinced myself that being called 'fuckable' was a compliment. I listened in silence (actually my mind was playing the 'I Dream of Genie' soundtrack on full volume) as I hung out with dudes who claimed a distrust of woman because of their inherent duality and that women who expressed interest in some of these dudes were immediately labelled as prostitutes/whores cuz they couldn't possibly be out dancing at a bar without an ulterior motive. This unspoken motive was to somehow/someway screw said dudes of money, self respect or both. Geesh.
When I dared speak up I was told that my reaction was 'not intended.' Huh? Ok. One's intentions may be important but even if you don't intend to hurt someone and you end up hurting someone you have hurt someone. The hurt has been done. I will accept that I need to learn to protect myself from being hurt as I learn to protect myself physically in class. I'm not quite sure, in cases like this, how this may be accomplished. I could ignore the words/vitriolic/misogynistic sentiment, develop a thicker skin or even 'lighten up' but that just adds to my complicity. I could speak out and be beaten down time and time again for not buying into the dude perspective but this gets tiring.
In life we are taught to pick/choose our battles wisely. It doesn't make sense to kill your spirit over something that, at this time, may be unwinnable if you are left with nothing with which to carry on. At the same time, perhaps I have been seeing my attackers as somehow weaker or less experienced then me and have been treating them with an undue (and in keeping with dude centric compliance), maternal/nurturing gentleness. There are times, even in class, when a more experienced person will 'teach a lesson' to a less experienced one by going a wee bit harder/more martial in order to illustrate where the technique could lead.
Perhaps, it's time for me to stop pulling my punches.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Letting It Pass
The other day my son and I discussed lonliness. In the course of this talk I asked him if he were ever lonely. Looking at me with surprise he said 'of course mommy. I feel lonely all the time.' I was taken aback. I asked him what he did to make himself feel better when he felt lonely. He responded with yet another look. This time it was one of incrudulity.
'Mommy. There is nothing you can do when you feel lonely. You can only let it pass.'
Huh. How many people spend thousands of dollars on therapists or bang their heads over and over again on metaphoric brick walls before they come up with this answer. Honest. Elegant. To the point.
'Mommy. There is nothing you can do when you feel lonely. You can only let it pass.'
Huh. How many people spend thousands of dollars on therapists or bang their heads over and over again on metaphoric brick walls before they come up with this answer. Honest. Elegant. To the point.
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