Rule to Live By #425: Rant Like Nobody's Listening

I just sent an e-mail out to some politicians and a few newspapers. It's a rant against the tar sands and the current scandal-du-jour involving Afghanistan. Our government has been willfully ignorant as well as blithely trying to brush off or play down concerns about its decisions. I'm so ashamed of Canada's leaders right now, I almost want to vomit. Spitting nails has also occurred to me. Seeing as those two options are, in the first case, unappealing, and, in the second case, probably somewhat painful, I settled for a letter.

Living in a relatively peaceful democracy is such a blessing -- one I definitely don't take for granted. However, this is the first time I've ever personally sent out a written statement expressing how upset I am. I've thought about doing such a thing many times, but either I was lazy or afraid of the fallout.

Well, I've now officially jumped down that rabbit hole. I wonder if anything will happen. Okay, I know that politically, nothing will happen as a direct result of my rant, but maybe it will be added to the growing heap of disgust being shoveled onto our Dear Leader and his Hapless Minions. Most likely it will be lost in the shuffle, but at least I finally did it.

Here Comes the Fudge

"Southern psychiatry: Pet some goats, buy some junk, scribble a story, and eat homemade fudge. By late tomorrow afternoon, I should be cured."

- Monda at 'No Telling'

Monda is a blog writer I'm following, and one of my favorites. She's a creative writing instructor and baby boomer living in the American South: encouraging, honest, funny as hell. Obviously, I've been a little short on inspiration, let alone time this month. A read through Monda's latest few posts, though, and I'm good to go again. Witness the quote at the top of the page. She shrinks down life's stesses so that they are more-or-less about as scary as dust bunnies.

Lately I've been having problems with an after-school care program where I'm supposed to do a music session. Admittedly, I didn't know what to expect going in, but now that I'm in the middle, it's got me, well, wound up. The after-school program has been launched there (and at a few other schools) to give the kids an alternative to going home to an empty house or wandering the streets or malls. Right after classes there's a homework club, and later, they can choose from other activities, which differ from day to day.

The school is sports-oriented, so the majority of the kids pick basketball or volleyball. But there are only so many spots available. The few remaining kids, or the ones that don't sign up quick enough, can choose from 'Junior Chefs' or my 'Music' program. Originally it was supposed to be 'Choir', but that didn't last long. The kids were either painfully shy, or borderline ADHD, bouncing off the walls like India-rubber balls. After much trial and error, and a regrettable session which has gone down in history as the "Gong Show", I conceded to the wisdom of the organiser and planned some games.

Now, I can do that stuff: the camp counselor-, boy scouts-, girl guides-,type stuff, but it doesn't teach them much about music. I run a similar program at a second school, but I've managed to set it up so it's closer to what I was hired for, namely to run a choir program. However, at the second school it's all girls, they're a bit more cooperative, and they have proven they can sit still for more than 2 minutes at a stretch. They're only doing rounds and canons, but at least they're actually singing.

I'm not sure whether to give up on this first school or stubbornly hang on. They're disadvantaged kids, so a part of me wants to give in to the Hollywood cliche: dedicated teacher overcomes adversity and inspires her students to lofty goals, punches a fist in the air in the triumphant final moments of the brilliant concert which leads to a standing ovation and swelling orchestral soundtrack, composed by John Williams. Cue the eye-rolling and derisive laughter. I don't have the time or the resources or even the space -- they stuck me in the freakin' library, for the love of St. Cecilia.

I'll stick it out for a while longer. I'm actually on hiatus soon, owing to my upcoming opera contract. I'm wooing a potential replacement; a guy who may well be many times more qualified to lead this particular rag-tag bunch down the path to Technicolor glory. Maybe it will, indeed, result in a better world for everyone. Or at least a few less ulcers for me. Fingers crossed! Cue the homemade (Canadian maple) fudge!!

Evolution of a Species

Gender stereotypes dog us. Men use hammers, women use potato mashers. Men repair cars, women repair broken fingernails. Women go to the bathroom at restaurants together, men pee with strangers. Women empathise, men show by example. Men BBQ, women bake. Woof.

Hmmm. Well, last Monday, over Thanksgiving dinner with friends, some stereotypes were happily ignored. Sure, a lot of the meal was cooked by the woman of the house, but the man of another house brought over a pie, a cheesecake, a mess of biscuits and some home-made butter. His wife just sat there, sipping her wine and beaming. And the men cleared the table and washed the dishes. That did not happen in my family when I was a girl.

Three cheers for small, incremental, geologically insignificant, but nonetheless encouraging social changes.

Singing Lessons

I’ve never thought I was much of a teacher. That’s not what I went to school for. Music school was there to teach me to be a better musician, not to show me how to get others to the same point. The idea of me molding, modeling, encouraging, tweaking, coddling, or nudging a young singer was so vague it might as well have been a wisp of smoke in the metaphorical distance. Laughable! That was a job for others, I blithely declared to myself. Tra-la-la! I was on this earth to perform. At least, that used to be the mantra.

A few days ago, I hugged my last student goodbye, after subbing at a music school for three months. And, I actually had the feeling some of those girls were going to miss their lessons with me. This has kind of knocked me sideways because most of the time I’m in that familiar mindset of fearing they’ll figure out I’m sort of a credential-less fraud, like a female Wizard of Oz – frantically pulling levers behind a velvet curtain at the back of the classroom, filling their brains with nothing but hot air.

But damned if I didn’t actually have something to teach them. Holy moly, I actually saw and heard changes. Note ranges increased, and rhythms sharpened. Voices sounded more effortless and words were sung with actual feeling. They didn’t carry that knowledge in with them. I gave it to them. Huh! And double-damned if they didn’t teach me something back. I learned to lay things out in a slightly different way for every student. I learned there’s baggage: that they may pretend things are normal, but starting at a new school, or having a backpack stolen, or getting into a fight with their mother, or not eating enough before their lesson could really mess them up and be heard in their voices. I learned that having a good lesson could palpably lift their moods – and mine. These are all genuine, giddy revelations.

I’m still a student, taking lessons from my own voice teacher. It’s something that we who continue to sing will do from time to time, even in middle life, to keep on top of our game. Most of my singing life I’ve been gathering up knowledge like kindling and stuffing it away for later use. I’ve set it alight on stage and shared it with audiences, but that’s fleeting, and more emotional than cerebral. I think this is the first time I’ve really been aware of passing it on in a form that might just get passed along to others. That may or may not ever happen, but nonetheless, I guess I’d call that a wee little legacy.

Sweet thought, that.

"BURP!"

I gorged at a cultural all-you-can-eat buffet last night. Literally and figuratively. It was Toronto's 5th annual 'Nuit Blanche", or 'White Night'. It's an all-night 7 p.m. to 7 a.m. art-a-thon, free to the public, spread out over many parts of downtown. I joined a friend's family and we wandered around one particular neighbourhood while I and their 11-yr. old daughter had the energy. [Side note: One sad thing about having a regular church choir gig is the Sunday morning babyhead blues. Babyhead: as in, a sleepy baby whose head flops over (got that from a Fringe play way back when) -- often during the sermon. So Saturday nights are generally more sedate than I might otherwise choose. And Sunday mornings more exhausting.]

Lots of stuff was going on, both programmed and spontaneous. Bikes you could temporarily sign out and ride, covered in LED Christmas lights powered by a generator on the bike or, slightly less eco-friendly: a bike covered in multi-coloured glow sticks. Multiple stands equipped with hobo-style oil-drum wood fires, at which volunteers from a prestigious cooking school were serving gourmet grilled sausages and fair-trade, organic hot chocolate. For free. You could keep the mug, and get a free blanket, both of which were inscribed with the word, "MERCY". This was all a nod to the recession, the extremes to which society had dipped in the past (the Dirty Thirties), and an attempt to embody comfort in hard times -- among other things, probably. The many lucky patrons, including me, were a bit gobsmacked at this kind of generosity.

We also partook of amazing free hamburgers, courtesy of a local bistro. High-end, hand formed, marinated, full size, nice bun, free burgers. Damn. Yes, I will go back there someday and patronize that establishment because they went to the trouble of making these amazing hamburgers just to give away. And around the corner, a crowd of people shuffling in a corridor between two buildings. They were wearing huge paper bags over their heads, with eye holes cut out. As we sidled past them, they apologized to all who passed by, over and over. It was amusing and disconcerting, and oh so very, very Canadian.

Because the event takes place at night, most of the art works involve light, including a projection of a story, in giant, plain, black-and-white Gothic font, on the side of a building. The story progressed to the accompaniment of a jazzy, electronica-tinged soundtrack. What really impressed me is that, primarily through the language of the story and the rhythm of the music, and little else, emotions and humour came through, loud and clear. Instructive.

I wish I could post the pictures, even if they were taken by my beyond-crappy cell phone camera, but, alas, they are compressed and I have yet to figure out how to spring them from their digital prison.

There were a lot of other things I wished for that night. Mostly for the energy and time to have seen more. This was only a small taste. All I can hope is that I painted a vivid, albeit all too brief, portrait of a magical, generous, delicious night on the town.

The End of the 'N-word'

This is the embodiment of an eloquent, persuasive call to action. To borrow from the blogger at Red Tory, this reminds us to "act in a manner as great as our thoughts." And the kid is only ten years old. With a command of language and poise like that, he will go far.

Ah, Wilderness!!

I missed it by just a minute. I wasn't ready. The light was a perfect, golden wash and the trees were just starting to show brilliant scarlet. But before I knew it, the van rounded a bend, and the view was gone. So this is what I ended up with.

My fellow planetarium Hosts and I went to Algonquin Provincial Park this weekend on a field trip. Our in-house astronomer thought it would be a good idea to see a true, dark night sky, and this was also the weekend members of the Royal Astronomical Society would be stationed on the beach at Mew Lake, their fancy portable telescopes
aimed at the heavens. So we packed up our camping gear and sallied forth in search of the Milky Way, old-school style.

By the time we set up camp, dark was settling in beneath the pines and maples. Once bellies were full, tents and sleeping bags were ready for occupancy, dishes were put away (sort of...at least they were stowed in the vehicles, away from hungry raccoons and god knows what else) -- it was off to the beach!

The beach was swarming with hobby astronomers, shmancy gear, and an enormous number of interested campers. But enough of the earthly scene, what about the sky? In short, breathtaking. The weather was perfect. We had a razor-sharp view of little diamond-shard stars, the Milky Way was glorious, even the shooting stars were glamorous. I could make out our nearest galactic neighbour, the Andromeda Galaxy, the red giant star Antares, the Little Dipper... Through the telescopes I saw other wonders: Jupiter and three of its moons, the Pinwheel Galaxy, the Veil Nebula, globular clusters galore.

Lucky, lucky us. In the face of the vastness of space, something we miss in the city, that familiar, universal feeling of insignificance overtook all of us, I think. Despite the cold seeping under my (obviously inadequate) layers of clothing, I had a fantastic night communing with the cosmos.

The next morning, mist had gathered overnight, drifting inland off the lake, and as it burned off, the suns rays shot through the forest canopy, making for a great photo-op.

Still cold after trying to sleep through a 0-degree C night, we desperately warmed ourselves around the campfire, ate, packed and set off for a short hike before the drive home. The trail was a steep climb uphill to a lookout over Smoke Lake. Again, the light was dazzlingly clear, and we could have sworn the trees were now twice as colourful as the night before, giving hints of the show to come in another week or so.

I have so few chances to escape the city for experiences like this. Astonishingly, everything aligned for a perfect star-gazing trip. And we were paid to do this. Once again I say: lucky, lucky, us.

Whiplash

Portrait of a desperate 40-something wanna-be-20-something, or an attractive, uninhibited bon-vivant?
(p.s.: that's not me)

Today I had my first mammogram; along with it, the expected rush of anxiety over whether the technicians will find anything abnormal with the girls. The procedure was far less traumatic than I thought it would be (not that I had visions of Spanish Inquisition-like tortures involving spikes and leather straps -- or is that my BDSM fantasy?...but I digress...). The technician talked me through it in such a matter-of-fact way, that it almost took on the air of a dental cleaning or getting fitted for a new pair of shoes. So, if ever you or someone you love is facing a
mammogram for the first time, take heart, it's not always that horrible. Nonetheless, it still gave me a mild case of the willies.

The mammogram is just the latest worry about my declining body. I'm starting to acknowledge the fact that I'm really, truly aging. Yeah, yeah, forty is the new thirty is the new twenty, but the old saw, "I'm not as young as I used to be." is really beginning to resonate within my psyche, like a jarring gong. Last weekend, at the CNE, The Boyfriend and I did the 'Guess Your Age/Weight to within 2 yrs./3 lbs.' game. He has snow white hair, I have an enviable lack of wrinkles, so we thought we'd be walking out with a big, plush alien doll in no time. Sadly, disappointingly, crushingly, upsettingly, we were wrong, oh, so wrong. He nailed our ages. BAM! and BAM! I was the 43-yr-old I have never fully accepted, he was the 45-yr-old with a 75-yr-old's hair colour. I felt as if the whip-wielding Goddess of Reality had just given me twenty lashes on my cheeks, for my smug state of denial.

However, what bothered me the most, was my reaction. If I can't be forever young, I'd really love to grow old joyously and graciously. I don't want to be a stereotype, trying desperately to pretend my cells haven't oxidized at all. I don't want to fall into the stereotypical 'cougar' trap (witness this feminist reproach SNAP!!!! -- the sound of a thousand bra straps being released at once). I don't want to ignore the fact that my body is gradually breaking down and I will have to deal with the reality of tending it, and making plans for its inevitable shut-down. I don't want to mourn the fact that I can't bounce back like I used to after a night of debauchery. At the same time, part of me feels like I haven't fully squeezed out all that my youth has to offer. And, though I could stand to shed one or two or ten pounds, and I can't bench press 125, and my 'pores' aren't as small as they used to be, I'm told I'm not too hard on the eyes. I'm pretty youthful for a forty-three-year-old. I could pass for ten years less, according to some. Geez, no wonder Reality's whip stung so sharply.

Should that really matter? Am I not more than just (wrinkled, age-spotted, sagging) skin deep? Am I not the sum of all I have experienced? Aren't I waaaaay more interesting now than I was twenty years ago? It would be futile -- not to mention impossibly expensive and foolish -- to try to erase that. Or so I hope.

Now, to find the right scar-minimizing cream at the local snake-oil shop ...

Anticipation

On my bike rides to and from work, I pass through the Don River valley, overgrown with plants both native and foreign. It's truly a charmed way to commute. Even in winter I've been able to occasionally snowshoe to work. Not exactly efficient, but I loved it. As a result, I see the valley change throughout the year, from cold and white, to lush and green, to dry and colourful. Okay, except for a brief time when I have to give in and take the bus during the messy spring thaw and early winter freeze.

Right now, the path is lined with late-summer goldenrods, asters and expired thistles, backlit by the low morning and afternoon sun. On the far slope, across the river, one or two maples have decided to throw in the towel a little early and start turning scarlet, blazing out against their still-green siblings. More and more dead leaves are crushed under my tires. I have a little trouble distinguishing them from the sex-crazed grasshoppers that lie in the path after work, trying to soak in a few extra minutes of post-coital sunshine (or so I assume). In the afternoon, the shrill whirr from their legs rubbed together, as well as the electric hum of the cicadas, is my soundtrack going home. Even with a freeway running through it, the valley thrums with life. It hits my eyes, ears and nose, even my skin, with surprisingly warm late-summer sunshine (where was it in July????).

I downloaded a recording by McGill neuroscientist Daniel Levitin, who was once a top-tier pop/rock recording producer. It's titled 'Anticipation', and consists of a compilation of count-ins, drumstick taps, and first breaths, seconds before the first note of a song. I love that sort of stuff. I revel in the moments before culmination: the tender, focused pause before a first kiss; the coiled-spring tension of a cat just before she pounces on that tantalizing string dangled before her; the moment I reach the summit crest, looking at the steeply-pitched rollercoaster track or the killer hill I'm about to tear down on my bike. I'll avoid the obvious sexual reference here -- you can fill in that blank on your own.

On the bike path, my favorite days are the ones in early spring and late summer. These are the times I sense the potential, just before the tipping point. At the earliest, when the first few birds are completing their exhausting migration north and I hear songs I haven't heard in months. Buds are about to yield tender, light emerald leaves. The old tangle of brittle grass is being pushed aside by determined new blades. And later, the last of the summer flowers go down heavy with spent blooms, bees and wasps desperately clinging to their yielding petals and diving for one final sip of nectar to tide them over for the winter. Or the waiting trees, not quite ready to relinquish their summer colour, look almost languorous in the shifting fall breeze, on the verge of beginning their autumnal burlesque show.

Spring and fall are my favorite seasons, but those moments when the changes are just beginning captivate me most of all. I can't wait for them to start and yet I never want them to end. It's magical, enchanting realism in my own backyard.

Softly Glowing Night

Friday night we went to the Illumination at the Sharon Temple, in Sharon, ON, north of Toronto. The temple was built by a religious sect that broke away from the Quakers of Newmarket around 1818. Led by the charismatic David Willson, the sect, called the Children of Peace, became known for its charity, music, and astonishing belief (for the time) in the equality of all humankind.

The building itself was inspired by the biblical Temple of Solomon, but, lacking the resources to build a gilded stone monument in the Upper Canada wilderness, they settled for a skillfully-built, completely square wooden building, with some remarkable touches, like a delicately-arching, dizzyingly-steep staircase -- dubbed 'Jacob's Ladder -- climbing to a second story open to the worship space below. The building rests on a six-inch stone foundation, supported by strong fir beams connected with wooden pegs. On the outside, at the corners of all three tiers, glass lamps containing candles were lit once a year, on the first Friday of September, during the Illumination ceremony. The many windows, on all sides of the building, also glowed softly with candlelight. Members marched down the main street of town, singing and playing instruments, into the Temple for a worship celebration. The evening culminated with a communal feast and sharing the 'Illumination Cake'.

Friday night the weather was clear and soft. We arrived at dusk, the last of the sunset making the white clapboard walls of the Temple glow. Inside, it was packed for this very popular event. The Boyfriend and I slipped in a wee bit late and perched on the last empty chairs visible in the dim light. An odd, but skilled, folk music choir, made up of people from the very old to the very young (age eight? nine?) started with a hymn written by the sect's founder Willson. The crowd, squinting at copies of the music in the faint light, were invited to sing along. Not for the first time lately I've wished for reading glasses. My time is coming, mark my words...

Acoustically, with the hard wooden walls and high ceilings, the room is as live as a downed electric wire. The choir leader sang a tenor solo from the era, accompanied by piano, and in-between verses a violinist had his own solo drift down ("...as a rose from above.", the singer said) from the second story. Ethereally sigh-inducing, in a good way.

A guest speaker gave a disjointed, but nonetheless inspiring speech primarily about good, responsible, constructive citizenship, which tied nicely into the Children of Peace ethos. More music followed, clear, bright and bracing, with a slightly out-of-tune pump organ hooting in the corner. 'Illumination Cake' and tea and coffee followed the ceremony in the out-buildings, under the almost-full moon. We admired the Temple from the outside now, the candles as warm golden points on its perimeter, stars glittering coolly in the velvety, dark background. The crickets were singing madly somewhere in the bushes and I could feel dew collecting low in the air at our feet.

I took a few pictures with my digital cameras, and didn't do too badly, but they pale in comparison with the real event. The staff and volunteers at the Temple pulled off a secular, yet still thoroughly spiritual, event that will linger in my memory for a long time. Bravo to them. If there's a heaven, I'm sure the Children of Peace are smiling down from there, over Sharon, on the first Friday of September.

Brand New Old Me

I have been advised to make my blog somewhat topical. Let's start by talking about my job. We were informed via inter-office e-mail just the other day (Monday, to be exact) that our maximum hours are being slashed in half after Labour Day. This, despite a cracking good summer, attendance-wise, and the anticipation that, come October, we'll have a potentially record-breaking exhibit parked in the bowels of the mother ship for a good four or five months. The powers that be also decided it would be a great idea to continue with the concept of 'short shifts' in the middle of the day during our 'busy times', so that we have a solid 'public presence' even during our lunch time period. I'm confused. Is this their way of creating some sort of recession-chic????

Not only will most of us have to look for other part-time work to supplement our incomes, but, if they decide to give us short shifts at any point in the week, our availability for such alternative employment plummets. I'm getting supremely worried. Not only about my employment, but about the morale of my department. We are supposed to be cheerful and inspiring and enthusiastic about what we interpret to the visitors. I'm finding myself increasingly bitter, jaded and reluctant to even jump on my bike for the ride to work. I can only imagine what's going through the heads of some of my co-workers. At least the ones with brains.

It's almost time. I will soon have to bite the bullet and follow my goddamn bliss (interesting: the word 'goddamn' doesn't come up in Spell-Check -- but I digress). I've been a lazy-ass about putting in the work to do what I truly enjoy. I've been coasting for a long time now and getting used to the slightly cushy ride, but I can sense the end of the track ahead. Bloody hell. I'm actually going to have to hustle.

But first... an attitude change.

Yay!!!! I'm going to have to hustle!!!!!!

Paving the E-Road to Hell...

So, in my lame attempts to drum up a smidgen of interest in this blog -- but not too much, mind you -- I have placed a "Follow" app near the bottom of my blog. I read that writing a post about said event is a good idea, so here it is. I'm also a "Follower" of several blogs now. Am I the only one that feels like this smacks of discipleship? Maybe I'm going too far.

The boyfriend has just started a political blog. He's all up on the machinations of our Great Leaders and wants to vent about it. And make a bit of money. So I will include his blog on the list of blogs I follow, and I'll mix it up with a few other political blogs so it's harder to tell who's my boyfriend and who just wants to be my boyfriend. There is a subtle difference, you know.

Eventually, I may gain a follower. Someone who actually kind of digs what I write and comes back for more. Shoot, I guess that means if I start gaining a following I'll have to post more often. Madre de Dios, what have I done????

It's About...uuuuuuh...I Forget...

This little piggy went to the farmer's market today and guess what she bought? A stinky melon, some pretty carrots, and a totally unnecessary zucchini.

The melon is a muskmelon, so named for obvious reasons. One day in the house and the whole place smells like several rats met a very bad end two weeks ago in an inaccessible nook at the back of the crawlspace you hate to crawl into. Better than durian, though, or so I'm told. The flesh itself is one of the finest melons I've ever had the privilege of eating. It's like a much better version of an insipid canteloupe from Costa Rica which was picked far too young and earned more air miles in one trip to the nearby Food Basics than I will in five years of going back and forth to Alberta. Maybe that's a bad, uncharitable comparison. Really, there is no comparison. It's superb. And grown in Ontario. How rare and exotic.

The carrots were fairly ordinary except that they looked like they had been lovingly washed and buffed. I suspect they'll taste very, very good.

The zucchini was, as stated above, superfluous. I had forgotten my purchase of two far inferior imports last Friday. On that day I also bought a superfluous case of tonic water for the G&Ts I was craving at that time. Turns out I still had more than half a case remaining at the time. D'oh!

Why is this stinky, prolific mind-farting happening? Is is a phase? Is it a sign of early-onset Alzheimer's? Am I still jet-lagged from my trip to see the folks out West? I suspect I'm in fire-extinguishing mode, which means I deal with my needs and wants as they occur, as opposed to doing a little homework first. It's an annoying form of spontaneity that strikes me as somewhat wasteful -- something my inner depression-era housewife deplores. It would be better if my spontaneity involved something along the lines of a fantastic live music show, or a deep, yet spicy conversation with a stranger about why society seems so cold and unfriendly. Gotta get to work on that. In the meantime, I'm inhaling my muskmelon and anticipating the first juicy bite tomorrow morning...mmmmmm!

Stealth-love

From my friend's brother, in response to an article she sent about father-son affection:

"I’ve taken to kissing my father…

"I don’t know how – or why this happened. Perhaps it was the effect of the evangelicals and their “Promise Keepers” movement or perhaps it was my envy of the Southern European cultures where men kissing men does not have to be followed by an immediate move to San Francisco . Yet I remember the day when I first kissed my father. I had been saving up confidence and courage and promised myself that I would. Of course not on the lips for that would be too familiar. No, I would kiss him on the cheek.

"I had become particularly good at hugging him and after years of affectionate squeezes, his ramrod-stiff posture had softened and he began to hug back, to even haltingly whisper “I love you too Arthur.” But till that day, the kiss had evaded me. Yet with apprehension flying like a flag I kissed him. His cheek felt like a new toothbrush, one never soften by use, with his 2 days of growth repelling my lips… and it was not as I imagined.

""He did not revile me in Clint Eastwood-esque fashion nor did he welcome this gesture with a stronger hug or a returned kiss. No, I don’t think he has kissed me for about 41 years. Yet while he seemed set back by this, he mumbled a soft thanks and his face painted a puzzled grin.

"That was 3 years ago and I have not quit. No one has made any movies about it and I doubt Art & Knut will be featured in any news paper or periodical. But I am glad I have begun to kiss my dad. He is far from the perfect father and he still has not kissed me in return but he seems to love the fact that I love him and that I am willing to scale the wall of this social norm to grace his cheek with my warmth.

"And through this exercise, I have learned that there is another man I must kiss yet he is much younger. His mom egged me on and I had to figure out a way to kiss him, sort of like a commando raid. So occasionally, with Navy Seal stealth, I sneak up on this fellow (usually while his mom is distracting him) and then plant one on his cheek while punching him in the stomach or something like that… He doesn’t get mad about it either and seems to wear these kisses like a badge of honor. I guess not too many step-sons get kissed by the “interloper.”

"So now, I am a Father-kisser… and am a Kissing-father… and life seems just a little better for it."

I, too, occasionally kiss my father, who, unlike Knut, is somewhat affectionate when greeting his offspring, giving us rib-crushing hugs -- if not much else in the physical sense. I think the kisses also surprise him, with a little softening in his demeanor when I pull away. It's a small thing, but it leaves a substantial impact.

All Aboard the Pity Train

It started about four days ago. Twinges deep in my left hip, especially when I got up after sitting in one place for a while. Then the hip became stiff. Then it became painful. Now I'm hopped up on NSAID's and Enterics to try to alleviate a painful inflammation of one or more of my hip muscles. And jeez is it humbling.

I am currently somewhat debilitated right now, which frustrates and scares me. This probably happened as a result of overdoing it on the bike last week. The offended muscle(s)must have simply lain in wait until I made one more horrible move and then, "Time to teach that girl a LESSON!!! Full Stop!!! Mutiny!!!!" I'm now getting a taste of what it's going to be like when I'm 88 yrs. old or so. Can't go up the stairs one leg at a time. Too painful. I have to do my right one, then the other joins it and so on. Can't get out of a chair without wincing. After waiting for my turn at the walk-in clinic for 1.5 hrs, I got up so slowly that I had to give a loud verbal acknowledgment that I was, indeed, on my way to the examining room, or I was afraid they'd give my hard-won appointment to someone else. Can't run. Can barely get on a bike (shouldn't anyhow in case that just makes it worse).

Two years ago this happened to my left arm. It was the most pain I have ever experienced, and just as debilitating in a different way. I couldn't brush my hair, I had trouble feeding myself, I had to be careful steadying things with the offending limb or (god forbid) knocking it inadvertently on something hard, unyielding and inconveniently placed. After twelve hours of my life I'll never get back, the diagnosis from the Emergency doctor was, "We have no &^%$#@!* idea what's wrong." Great. Thanks a lot. Oh, I should be grateful it wasn't gangrenous? I'll make a note of that for next time.

So now it's happened again, with a larger limb. A limb that holds me up. A limb that makes it possible for me to do my job, which I didn't do today (for which I get no sick pay). I'm so used to being active and problem-free that this sort of thing really rattles me. One of the most frustrating things is it's so vague. Sort of like a really bad spasm, but not. More like, as I already mentioned, my body staging a revolt instead of bouncing back like it used to. This means greater care must be taken in the future. Le sigh.

And the worst part? I can't eat chocolate or drink alcohol while I'm on the drugs. Yup. It Sucks To Be Me. :)

The Return of L. Deedah

Oh mercy, it has been soooooo long since I last posted. I blame it on romance. My last post was just before Valentine's Day. That fateful evening I sang in a concert to which I invited a man I had been in touch with through an Internet personals site. We hit it off and he came to see me sing. A strange circumstance for the first face-to-face encounter. It's one thing to meet someone at a cafe, in their street clothes, speaking the native tongue at a conversational level. It's another thing to encounter the individual in full evening wear, hair and makeup, wailing opera in a foreign language.

I was overtired and on the verge of a very, very bad flu. But we persevered, went out afterwards, kissed, and then didn't see each other for another two weeks as the flu did its pestilential thing.

Since then, D and I have gotten to know each other much better and are currently an item. Happiness tends to distract me, and makes me exponentially less inspired to journal or blog, or whatever. That being said, it does not excuse me from neglecting this blog. I started it in order to sharpen up my writing skills, and I think that's been somewhat successful. However, the 'discipline' end of things has gotten mighty flabby. And you thought I was going to go on and on about my (relatively) new relationship! Ha!

While I find the thought of sitting down to write something immensely daunting, the actual act is a degree or two easier, and the results are (usually) satisfying, if not downright gratifying. I will plainly admit I'm a procrastinator, avoiding what I consider unpleasant or difficult or annoying tasks, whether it's blogging or doing the dishes, or practicing singing, or finally tackling my taxes. I have mastered the fine art of puttering in an effort to avoid rolling up my sleeves and doing the dreaded job. Even leaving the house is a case study in stalling tactics: I tidy, I fold, I pull hair out of the brush, I fluff pillows, I check the weather forecast, etc.

So the blogging is often on my mind, but not on the site. Lately I've been aware of subject ideas rolling around in my brain box.

"The Toronto garbage strike. Yeah."

"The perils of running alone."

"Life before the computer."

"Why is meditation so bloody hard?"

"My adventures with the moon-landing hoax believers."

Fascinated? Well at least one of us is. And really, that's all it takes, right? Nuh-uh. It also takes actually sitting down at the computer and *&^#!^$ typing it out.

So, at long last, I have made the effort. As god is my witness, I pledge not to let such a long period of time pass before I do it again.

On Creativity and Genius

Elizabeth Gilbert shares an amazing, potentially freeing idea with her TED audience:



It's heartening to me to think that my compulsive need to keep going with this stupid singing thing is actually me collaborating with some other force. I don't own it, I simply work with it. Hmmmm.

Not that I think 'my' force is at the genius level, but still...

Too Much Information

It's getting verrry late, but I can't stop. I just posted 25 Random Facts about Me on my Facebook page. It was harder than I thought to come up with 25 little-known things about me. I think it's because I'm a fairly open book, and because I have a self-censor that still wants to keep a few secrets. Even though this is an anonymous blog, I'm still aware of the fact that if I tell someone about it, word could get out and I may have lawsuits and Armageddon on my hands.

In some aspects of my life, I'm fairly aware of the need to tread the line between privacy and openness. On the Internet, I have a reasonable, though not water-tight, level of privacy, while still allowing enough info to get through that I can keep actively connecting with people. On the face-to-face personal, emotional side, if I like someone, whether it be romantically, or simply as a friend, I tend to let a lot more hang out.

While such a situation shows a lot of trust (or, rarely, stupidity on my part), it can sometimes lead to vulnerability, or alienation, if someone can't accept the confessional. Not everyone is keen on having a close-up view of my warts. When I was in high school, that fact finally dawned on me. In my efforts to make my friends aware of my mother's mental illness, and the effect it had on me and my family, I would just blurt out the whole damn story. At the time, though, this freaked a few friends out. Crazy people were a lot further into the shadows than they are now, skeletons in somebody else's closet.

I'm a lot more judicious now about who learns my history. Overall, I find most of the new people I meet aren't spooked by the concept of me having a crazy mum. They're a lot more empathetic and curious than in the old days. In fact, most know very well they are separated by only a few degrees from someone who's struggling with mental illness. They're usually very aware and supportive. Or maybe I just have better taste in friends than I used to...

Thank you, Mr. Hill

I just finished reading 'The Book of Negroes', by Canadian author Lawrence Hill. A Damn Fine Book, if I've ever read one. Sweeping in scope, sharp in observation, and profoundly, thoroughly researched. Of course, his main character, Aminata Diallo, an incredibly strong-willed, honest and loyal woman (especially to herself) makes this story so much more vibrant. She is a locus around which all these fascinating historical events spin. By no means the cause of these events, she is at times swept up in them, and at times an influence. But always, she's the humanizing element, making them so much more vivid and real. Bravo to Mr.Hill.

One of the main reasons I'm glad I read this book is the world it opened up to me, regarding the history of slavery, and the Black Loyalists who took up residence in Canada. I was a little too young when Alex Hailey's 'Roots' came out to take up that hefty read (although I watched one of the mini-series associated with the book -- still at a pretty young age). On a vague, intellectual level I understood what had happened, but I was more detached from its horrors. I have a much more empathetic reaction now.

Obviously, I'm a white chick from a peaceful and relatively privileged background. I haven't been tossed about by violent forces beyond my control like Aminata. I am acutely aware of my luck. So even if I experience it vicariously, I'm glad for the opportunity. It humbles me, and makes me want to know more. Thank you, Mr. Hill.

The IDIOT Rant

Why are some people such stupid-risk takers? Yes, I typed that right. There are risk takers, calculated-risk takers, and then there are stupid-risk takers. Case in point: two men buried in avalanches at Whistler/Blackcomb , and a third snowboarder found alive after three days in the cold on Mt. Seymour in North Vancouver THEY ARE IDIOTS!!! Not only that, Mr. Outdoorsman-Snowboarder-Dude didn't even follow the basic rules of being rescued which include: stay where you are and make yourself noticeable. He SAW the damn helicopters and waved? Among all the hemlock and fir trees? In blowing snow? IDIOT!!! He kept thinking each day that he'd wander out and find his way back???? IDIOT!!!! I used to work on Mt. Seymour as a snowshoe guide and even I got lost a few times. Not seriously, because it was always in areas where the trail looped and I would cross it eventually, plus I had a very good sense of direction and orientation, but still... He told no one where he was headed and when to expect him back???? IDIOT!!!!!!!!!! The only reason people knew he was missing was that some alert resort staff members noticed his abandoned truck in the main parking lot for more than one night. He can thank his sorry ass they were on the ball.

Having worked among people who skied and snowboarded every day, and occasionally went off-trail, I know the allure of biting into fresh powder, of going where there is no one else, of tackling truly challenging terrain. But, for god's sake, with all the warnings, the absolutely perfect avalanche conditions in those areas, and the knowledge that you might not know what to do if you got lost, WHY would you take such a stupid risk???? Not only would you be risking your own life, but those of the Search and Rescue crews that are sent out to find you. Then there are the friends and family waiting for you, not knowing your fate and fearing the worst, or hearing the worst and facing life without you. How pointlessly stupid and selfish. Want thrills? Look elsewhere IDIOTS!!!!