Click here for The Wild Rumpus.
Click here for Table for One.
Saturday, March 17, 2007
Sunday, March 11, 2007
going live
Okay. Here we are. The royal kiss off:
The Wild Rumpus - Life, 99% of the time. What most of you come for; now served on its own platter.
Table for One - The remaining 1%. Just for me, and those of you who like to watch me stew in my own juices. Don't come here if you haven't been into the "wordy" Oprah of late; you'll be sadly disappointed.
This ending - like all endings - is anti-climatic. Not what you expect, or want, or think it should be, if it was going to do justice to your own investment in it. Because - what? - you've come back here everyday, or almost everyday, for the last 11 months or so? And how is Oprah rewarding you for that? Answer: she's not. Fickle, that Oprah.
Oprah has been with me for almost a year. She's been very good to me - so, so good - but I'm done with her. And I don't know what to say beyond that. Of course, except for the obligatory, I'm going to miss you, you were good to me, blah blah blah. A bunch of bull, really. Because the truth is, I used her more than she used me. And there's no atoning for that.
The Wild Rumpus - Life, 99% of the time. What most of you come for; now served on its own platter.
Table for One - The remaining 1%. Just for me, and those of you who like to watch me stew in my own juices. Don't come here if you haven't been into the "wordy" Oprah of late; you'll be sadly disappointed.
This ending - like all endings - is anti-climatic. Not what you expect, or want, or think it should be, if it was going to do justice to your own investment in it. Because - what? - you've come back here everyday, or almost everyday, for the last 11 months or so? And how is Oprah rewarding you for that? Answer: she's not. Fickle, that Oprah.
Oprah has been with me for almost a year. She's been very good to me - so, so good - but I'm done with her. And I don't know what to say beyond that. Of course, except for the obligatory, I'm going to miss you, you were good to me, blah blah blah. A bunch of bull, really. Because the truth is, I used her more than she used me. And there's no atoning for that.
Friday, March 09, 2007
stay tuned
It's the beginning of the end for Oprah, friends. She talked too much about things that didn't matter, at least not to everyone all of the time. So I'm splitting her into her two complementary and competing parts.
Don't change the channel.
Don't change the channel.
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Wednesday, March 07, 2007
a girl's best friend
Maybe I shouldn’t be so open in the company of thieves and scoundrels, but I’ll just go ahead and say it: I’ve got a pair of big freakin’ diamonds adorning my lobes. They’re beautiful, and extravagant to the point of ostentatious (at least, for me). They were a present given to me on the second Sunday of this past May. Mother’s Day, otherwise known as: Dear-God-Where-Can-I-Get-A-Brunch-Reservation-This-Late-In-The-Day-And-Do-You-Think-She’ll-Disown-Me-If-I-Just-Bring-Her-Burnt-Toast-In-Bed? You can forget birthdays, anniversaries, and even skip Christmas once every couple of years, but Mother’s Day? MOTHER’S DAY? Forget to buy a Hallmark for this one and you forever more live in peril. Or you at least will have to wash your own underwear from then on.
I’ve learned long ago that when I want things from men, I have to ask for them. Be direct, and as clear as possible. (The worst they can say is no; which is fine, because half the time, I don't even really want what I'm asking for anyway. Complicated or just confused? Meh. No matter.)
Anyway, the point is that when it became apparent that the Babe was waiting to make his entrance into this Cruel and Beautiful World sometime in April, as opposed to the end of March when his train ticket had originally been reserved for, I seized the opportunity to finally rid myself of the latest pair of cheap and rusting Shopper’s Drug Mart studs ($8.99) to slowly give me lead poisoning. “You know,” I purred to Adoring and Wonderful Husband. “April is the diamond. Maybe someday I could get a pair of your first born son’s birthstones for my ears to commemorate the fact that I will soon go through the most excruciating pain in my life ALL FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR FAMILY NAME, hmmmm?” (Stage director’s note: Character bats eyelashes and pouts.)
It only took about four centimeters of dilation before Adoring and Wonderful Husband was on the line with The Official Jeweler of Jason Spezza, because DEAR GOD, DO YOU KNOW HOW LITTLE BABIES COME OUT? I wasn’t surprised when I came back into bed after a morning pee that Sunday in May to find a little blue box tucked beside Boh as he lay sleeping in his bassinet on my side of the bed. I was surprised by the size of my newly found heirlooms, though: I had specified small diamonds, which Adoring and Wonderful Husband took to mean, Rocks As Big As You Can(not) Afford.
But I was sincere when I told him I didn’t want anything too flashy, just something small and dainty to remind me of my Favourite Little Guy in the Whole Wide World; something to keep the holes in my ears that my Baba took me to get when I turned five from closing up. Why? Because I’m scared. Scared of losing the things in this world that mean anything to me. Scared that if I let myself get too attached, I will wake up one day to find that one of the backings has fallen away, and that I’ve lost my treasure forever. Scared that people who don’t like diamonds will judge me for putting value in them myself.
Scared that I’m not worth it.
Slowly (well, not so slowly) I got used to my first ever Mother’s Day gift, and I no longer compulsively check to make sure the earrings are still there. And when I’m scared that I’m not worth it, all I have to do is look in the mirror and be reminded that there are people in this world who think that I am.
Bling, bling baby.
I’ve learned long ago that when I want things from men, I have to ask for them. Be direct, and as clear as possible. (The worst they can say is no; which is fine, because half the time, I don't even really want what I'm asking for anyway. Complicated or just confused? Meh. No matter.)
Anyway, the point is that when it became apparent that the Babe was waiting to make his entrance into this Cruel and Beautiful World sometime in April, as opposed to the end of March when his train ticket had originally been reserved for, I seized the opportunity to finally rid myself of the latest pair of cheap and rusting Shopper’s Drug Mart studs ($8.99) to slowly give me lead poisoning. “You know,” I purred to Adoring and Wonderful Husband. “April is the diamond. Maybe someday I could get a pair of your first born son’s birthstones for my ears to commemorate the fact that I will soon go through the most excruciating pain in my life ALL FOR THE SAKE OF YOUR FAMILY NAME, hmmmm?” (Stage director’s note: Character bats eyelashes and pouts.)
It only took about four centimeters of dilation before Adoring and Wonderful Husband was on the line with The Official Jeweler of Jason Spezza, because DEAR GOD, DO YOU KNOW HOW LITTLE BABIES COME OUT? I wasn’t surprised when I came back into bed after a morning pee that Sunday in May to find a little blue box tucked beside Boh as he lay sleeping in his bassinet on my side of the bed. I was surprised by the size of my newly found heirlooms, though: I had specified small diamonds, which Adoring and Wonderful Husband took to mean, Rocks As Big As You Can(not) Afford.
But I was sincere when I told him I didn’t want anything too flashy, just something small and dainty to remind me of my Favourite Little Guy in the Whole Wide World; something to keep the holes in my ears that my Baba took me to get when I turned five from closing up. Why? Because I’m scared. Scared of losing the things in this world that mean anything to me. Scared that if I let myself get too attached, I will wake up one day to find that one of the backings has fallen away, and that I’ve lost my treasure forever. Scared that people who don’t like diamonds will judge me for putting value in them myself.
Scared that I’m not worth it.
Slowly (well, not so slowly) I got used to my first ever Mother’s Day gift, and I no longer compulsively check to make sure the earrings are still there. And when I’m scared that I’m not worth it, all I have to do is look in the mirror and be reminded that there are people in this world who think that I am.
Bling, bling baby.
Tuesday, March 06, 2007
beautiful singing
Vienna was the only European city that immediately struck me to be one that I could live in. In retrospect, I could live in any of them; but then retrospect has always been the best looking glass through which to find beauty. But Vienna was the only one near-at-hand to Home: A tad lazy, but just enough to keep me warm and fed and contented when my head hits the pillow at the end of the day.
My favourite place was the State Opera House. I am not cultured, nor wise about these things. And I don't particularly desire to be, either. I am happy not to know how long the wine I'm drinking has aged, or what type of oak it was barrelled in. So long as it doesn't give me heartburn, or too severe a hangover the next morning. A free bird, or apathetic? Each a side of my coin; though still one coin, surely.
The only time I ever willingly listen to classical music is on the airplane. I'm not a good flyer, digging my nails into the hand of the person next to me on take-off. Even when I travel alone, I think of asking the married suit who's next to me if he will agree to be the last person I kiss as we go down together in a fiery inferno. Strangers, together by chance alone; unrequested, but necessary nonetheless. Though I'm getting better at keeping my heart rate at a manageable pace in the process of becoming airborne, because I try to live my life so that if my plane crashes, I can kiss this Sweet World goodbye instead of wanting to slap it in the face, or throw my drink on its lap.
Chopin and Tchaikovsky are the soundtrack of this love story.
But back to Vienna, city of in-bred Hapsburgs; brothers and sisters devouring each other despite that they already each possess what they crave in the opposite. Vienna, secret capital of the Holy Roman Empire, that stateless beast of redemption and resurrection. (Voltaire can see right through it - neither holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire - so why can't I?) And back to the Opera House, where I heard the most beautiful music of my life.
T'was an olio, really. A mish-mash of stories woven together for tourists posing as connoisseurs. ("Foie gras? Why thank-you. The livers of geese that have been force fed until the organs are 10 times their natural size? Too barbaric. I would not - could not! - ask another to spend so much for my pleasure alone. But, please, could you pass the foie gras, because that stuff sure is yummy?") Half-way into the show, I discovered that I understood the stories being told to me through song better when I closed my eyes; when the unnecessary clutter of ocular stimulation had been shut out, evicted. I possessed! I perceived! I was thoroughly penetrated. Notes made love to me; octaves caressed the nape of my neck, my fluttering eyelid; stroked me in a way that only a true lover would know how to.
It was one of the most romantic hours of my life.
I kept my eyes closed even when the music ended; it continued to echo in my head, despite that the stage had been abandoned, with onlookers left to stand before it, expectantly shouting: Encore! Encore! Expectantly, and ultimately to sad conclusion. Because there is only so much one person can sing without straining his or her voice box. There is only so long one performer can go under harsh stage light before his or her make-up starts to wear thin. And we don't pay admission to see real life, do we? We can simply look in the mirror for that.
Even though I forget what songs were played for me that night - don't know, even, if it was really Chopin and Tchaikovsky I was listening to - I can still hear that beautiful music sometimes, when I remember to close my eyes. And it breaks my heart - tears it into pieces - that I never hear it when my eyes are open. Never, ever when they're open.
***
Post-Script: If I could go back in time, I would be sure to tell those singers thank-you too; because I got to know a bit of myself better through their music, and I like the person that I found.
My favourite place was the State Opera House. I am not cultured, nor wise about these things. And I don't particularly desire to be, either. I am happy not to know how long the wine I'm drinking has aged, or what type of oak it was barrelled in. So long as it doesn't give me heartburn, or too severe a hangover the next morning. A free bird, or apathetic? Each a side of my coin; though still one coin, surely.
The only time I ever willingly listen to classical music is on the airplane. I'm not a good flyer, digging my nails into the hand of the person next to me on take-off. Even when I travel alone, I think of asking the married suit who's next to me if he will agree to be the last person I kiss as we go down together in a fiery inferno. Strangers, together by chance alone; unrequested, but necessary nonetheless. Though I'm getting better at keeping my heart rate at a manageable pace in the process of becoming airborne, because I try to live my life so that if my plane crashes, I can kiss this Sweet World goodbye instead of wanting to slap it in the face, or throw my drink on its lap.
Chopin and Tchaikovsky are the soundtrack of this love story.
But back to Vienna, city of in-bred Hapsburgs; brothers and sisters devouring each other despite that they already each possess what they crave in the opposite. Vienna, secret capital of the Holy Roman Empire, that stateless beast of redemption and resurrection. (Voltaire can see right through it - neither holy, nor Roman, nor an Empire - so why can't I?) And back to the Opera House, where I heard the most beautiful music of my life.
T'was an olio, really. A mish-mash of stories woven together for tourists posing as connoisseurs. ("Foie gras? Why thank-you. The livers of geese that have been force fed until the organs are 10 times their natural size? Too barbaric. I would not - could not! - ask another to spend so much for my pleasure alone. But, please, could you pass the foie gras, because that stuff sure is yummy?") Half-way into the show, I discovered that I understood the stories being told to me through song better when I closed my eyes; when the unnecessary clutter of ocular stimulation had been shut out, evicted. I possessed! I perceived! I was thoroughly penetrated. Notes made love to me; octaves caressed the nape of my neck, my fluttering eyelid; stroked me in a way that only a true lover would know how to.
It was one of the most romantic hours of my life.
I kept my eyes closed even when the music ended; it continued to echo in my head, despite that the stage had been abandoned, with onlookers left to stand before it, expectantly shouting: Encore! Encore! Expectantly, and ultimately to sad conclusion. Because there is only so much one person can sing without straining his or her voice box. There is only so long one performer can go under harsh stage light before his or her make-up starts to wear thin. And we don't pay admission to see real life, do we? We can simply look in the mirror for that.
Even though I forget what songs were played for me that night - don't know, even, if it was really Chopin and Tchaikovsky I was listening to - I can still hear that beautiful music sometimes, when I remember to close my eyes. And it breaks my heart - tears it into pieces - that I never hear it when my eyes are open. Never, ever when they're open.
***
Post-Script: If I could go back in time, I would be sure to tell those singers thank-you too; because I got to know a bit of myself better through their music, and I like the person that I found.
Sunday, March 04, 2007
clef
And this? This is what I've been carrying around in my heart lately. It brings me infinite joy to know that I am connected to people in this Cruel and Beautiful World who feel the same way. People who try to capture through writing the Love that drains our hearts. We fail; we always fail. And necessarily so. But at least we try. We can only ever try.
My heart pounds for a language that communicates with my soul: The treble. I sing like Sarah Harmer in my writing. Gliding, sliding, high notes go low: One trombone is playing so-lo.
I leave embarrassed, having told you too much. Wonder: Is it just me? Am I the only one who has no idea what's going on here? A consequence of my grace deficit: I always go too far, and never as far as I want.
Lay it on us, D-Man. Thick like cream cheese on your morning bagel. My best advice is this: Leave embarrassed.
My heart pounds for a language that communicates with my soul: The treble. I sing like Sarah Harmer in my writing. Gliding, sliding, high notes go low: One trombone is playing so-lo.
I leave embarrassed, having told you too much. Wonder: Is it just me? Am I the only one who has no idea what's going on here? A consequence of my grace deficit: I always go too far, and never as far as I want.
Lay it on us, D-Man. Thick like cream cheese on your morning bagel. My best advice is this: Leave embarrassed.
cool because Vogue told me so
I wanted to believe it was Real. So much. So, so much. So much, in fact, that my heart hurt, quite possibly damaged forever. Everyone would ask me, Is that Real? Yes, I would reply. (Chirp, more like.) Cheap, but Real. Stolen, perhaps; but Real.
Sadly, I found out this weekend it wasn't. Real, that is. I know because it finally fell apart on me. The lining had been fraying, which should have been my first clue. All my pennies were trapped in the parallel purse universe, having slipped through black holes that tore faster than I could stitch them up. And yesterday? The clip that kept the guts of my bag from spilling out all over the floor broke off. I was able to deal with a ripped liner; But what good is a purse if you can't close it?
It's my own fault, really. I asked for this. Said to mom, When you go to New York, can you get me one of those knock off bags that you can buy on the street corner? She obliged, of course, because she is The. Best. Mom. Ever. Brought me back two, in fact.
Please allow me to clarify: The purse - obviously - was real. It existed. I know this because I put my wallet in it. A couple hard candies. A bomb the colour of Blackberry waiting to explode at the most inopportune time. Diapers, sometimes, depending on the task at hand. And pens. Many, many pens. But it wasn't a Prada. I knew it, but others didn't. People will see this purse, I thought, and think I'm fashionable. What a poser.
What a liar.
I threw out my lie yesterday afternoon. It wasn't worth salvaging, taking it in for repair. Because it would cost more to do that than to buy a new purse altogether.
Instead, I went shopping. And my new purse? Perfect. Exactly what I had in mind. It's yellow, and reminds me that Spring is just around the corner every time I look at it. There's room for Blackberries and diapers and pens and hard candies and more. And best of all, it's Real: Because it's not pretending to be something that it isn't.
At peace with myself and on the cutting edge of fashion for only $25.00 at Suzy Shier. Deal.
Sadly, I found out this weekend it wasn't. Real, that is. I know because it finally fell apart on me. The lining had been fraying, which should have been my first clue. All my pennies were trapped in the parallel purse universe, having slipped through black holes that tore faster than I could stitch them up. And yesterday? The clip that kept the guts of my bag from spilling out all over the floor broke off. I was able to deal with a ripped liner; But what good is a purse if you can't close it?
It's my own fault, really. I asked for this. Said to mom, When you go to New York, can you get me one of those knock off bags that you can buy on the street corner? She obliged, of course, because she is The. Best. Mom. Ever. Brought me back two, in fact.
Please allow me to clarify: The purse - obviously - was real. It existed. I know this because I put my wallet in it. A couple hard candies. A bomb the colour of Blackberry waiting to explode at the most inopportune time. Diapers, sometimes, depending on the task at hand. And pens. Many, many pens. But it wasn't a Prada. I knew it, but others didn't. People will see this purse, I thought, and think I'm fashionable. What a poser.
What a liar.
I threw out my lie yesterday afternoon. It wasn't worth salvaging, taking it in for repair. Because it would cost more to do that than to buy a new purse altogether.
Instead, I went shopping. And my new purse? Perfect. Exactly what I had in mind. It's yellow, and reminds me that Spring is just around the corner every time I look at it. There's room for Blackberries and diapers and pens and hard candies and more. And best of all, it's Real: Because it's not pretending to be something that it isn't.
At peace with myself and on the cutting edge of fashion for only $25.00 at Suzy Shier. Deal.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
the Hill
The Hallowed Halls of our Ivory Tower
Pulse well into the Night;
lapdogs, lackeys, fools in suits:
Buzz, text message nothing.
We erected these Marble Slabs together, Friend
Built Chambers and Antechambers;
Constitutions, and Freedoms spent:
Codified by what they are not.
You told me once you knew what It didn't mean
Defined It through It's absence;
Maybe, but is that Something to sacrifice our Sons and Daughters for?
No. No, no, no: Never.
We separate Ourselves by False Distinction
Caress through Man-Made Border Lines;
And though this Map points to where Home is, should be -
It fails to capture This.
Pulse well into the Night;
lapdogs, lackeys, fools in suits:
Buzz, text message nothing.
We erected these Marble Slabs together, Friend
Built Chambers and Antechambers;
Constitutions, and Freedoms spent:
Codified by what they are not.
You told me once you knew what It didn't mean
Defined It through It's absence;
Maybe, but is that Something to sacrifice our Sons and Daughters for?
No. No, no, no: Never.
We separate Ourselves by False Distinction
Caress through Man-Made Border Lines;
And though this Map points to where Home is, should be -
It fails to capture This.
la petite monnaie
Keep me in your left breast pocket, Boss; bills neatly folded, ready to be spent. It's not like you're George Costanza, and you've sent your hard candies and three-year-old expired warranties to me to die. You know what your currency is, and how much of it you're willing to spend. I know you're concerned about recent news events, and so you're questioning your strategy of my strategic location - wondering if you should switch to a money belt, placed dangerously close to your liver, so that would-be thieves would have to shoot you in the gut for it.
Don't. Don't let yourself go there. Night-time robbers following you home from the opera will get what they want from you no matter where I am on your person. A money belt at your abdomen, silver coins in your pants pocket, a roll of bills stuffed into a sock: if hoodlums want these things, they will take them. Yes, keeping me in your left breast pocket makes the level of your wealth more visible and prone to beggars, and isn't the safest location for me if you're worried about truant children swarming you in a dark city street one night as you make your way home for supper. But the damage done from a potential mugging is less violent than if they go for your abdomen, or your pants pocket, or your sock: in those instances they would make away with more pieces of paper, words and numbers ambiguously - and ultimately meaninglessly - scrawled atop.
Keeping me clearly visible and easily accessible means you are less likely to be stabbed for my contents, leaving a trail of blood to follow you around like breadcrumbs, showing others where you've been, suggesting where you're going. You are less likely to be scarred during burglary; wounded forever, permanently, the mark of the beast burned forever into your forehead for all to see. And you are less likely to lose it all. Vultures are happy to get a dollar here, a toonie there, when they know they can come back to the well for more when they like. Keep your bills in a smelly state of wetness in your Asics and, well, the leeches just might want all of it, right then and there: What would you be left with?
No, Boss. Continue to keep me in your left breast pocket, close to your heart. Let others know how much capital is at your disposal. People are more likely to pass you over that way, and look to the person behind you to rob. Humans always search for the greater payoff; they're willing to risk everything to see what's behind door number three, even if the Vegas odds all point to a goat. That's the beauty and the tragedy of currency, Boss. Besides, in this day and age of wireless transaction, faceless and touch-less - and love-less - communication, the Big Banks insure everything; the most you'll ever be out is the first 50 bucks. And it takes more than that to purchase your favourite pair of Gap jeans, doesn't it?
Don't. Don't let yourself go there. Night-time robbers following you home from the opera will get what they want from you no matter where I am on your person. A money belt at your abdomen, silver coins in your pants pocket, a roll of bills stuffed into a sock: if hoodlums want these things, they will take them. Yes, keeping me in your left breast pocket makes the level of your wealth more visible and prone to beggars, and isn't the safest location for me if you're worried about truant children swarming you in a dark city street one night as you make your way home for supper. But the damage done from a potential mugging is less violent than if they go for your abdomen, or your pants pocket, or your sock: in those instances they would make away with more pieces of paper, words and numbers ambiguously - and ultimately meaninglessly - scrawled atop.
Keeping me clearly visible and easily accessible means you are less likely to be stabbed for my contents, leaving a trail of blood to follow you around like breadcrumbs, showing others where you've been, suggesting where you're going. You are less likely to be scarred during burglary; wounded forever, permanently, the mark of the beast burned forever into your forehead for all to see. And you are less likely to lose it all. Vultures are happy to get a dollar here, a toonie there, when they know they can come back to the well for more when they like. Keep your bills in a smelly state of wetness in your Asics and, well, the leeches just might want all of it, right then and there: What would you be left with?
No, Boss. Continue to keep me in your left breast pocket, close to your heart. Let others know how much capital is at your disposal. People are more likely to pass you over that way, and look to the person behind you to rob. Humans always search for the greater payoff; they're willing to risk everything to see what's behind door number three, even if the Vegas odds all point to a goat. That's the beauty and the tragedy of currency, Boss. Besides, in this day and age of wireless transaction, faceless and touch-less - and love-less - communication, the Big Banks insure everything; the most you'll ever be out is the first 50 bucks. And it takes more than that to purchase your favourite pair of Gap jeans, doesn't it?
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
requiem for a blog
What is it about you that makes me want to vomit words? Open the shades at my darkest hour, expose myself to you? I am Mona Lisa, a Shakespeare play; studied, dissected, and – worst of all – rehearsed. Circus clowns escort you past me: “Nothing to see here, folks. Nothing to see here.” I know this, and yet I still scream. Dangling in a cave in a Utah canyon; unknowable, unknowing. I cut off my nose to spite my face.
I sit before you, coffee in hand, and try to think of something to say. Nada. Ziltch. Zip. Void. You stare at me blankly, vacuum tubes pulsing light; we play a game of chicken. Who can make a fool of themselves first? One, two, three…GO! I lose. I always lose. One of God’s gifts to me was never a poker face. A pair of fours may be all I have, and I want to share it with you. I show you my hand before I even know what I have myself. If I had an eating disorder, it would be bulemia: binge, purge; binge, purge. Not to eat at all? That takes real restraint.
How sad, that I should feel this way, when I can hear the whispers of the most important people in my life in the background: Talk to me! they plead. Tell me a story! Catatonic, I keep the life preserver they request to myself. I don’t have the energy to throw it ten feet. But if it came down to it, I would swim for them. Jump in shark-infested waters. Drown, never to speak – or write – again.
In the end, it’s just garbage I give you. Thoughts that cannot translate into deeds. Caveat: Not all thoughts, of course. Some letters strung together (signs) form words that would be too much (signifier) for your pious selves to bear. WITNESS! your soul granted a pergatory pass would scream. A SINNER IS BEFORE YOU! (Indeed it would, because even THIS is too much for you, isn’t it?)
Another heap for these words I should find, lest they continue to bounce around inside me trapped - rotting, stinking, festering – until one day their toxic gases seep out of me, poisoning both of us in the process. Mona Lisa had a secret journal; that’s why her lips are curled.
I sit before you, coffee in hand, and try to think of something to say. Nada. Ziltch. Zip. Void. You stare at me blankly, vacuum tubes pulsing light; we play a game of chicken. Who can make a fool of themselves first? One, two, three…GO! I lose. I always lose. One of God’s gifts to me was never a poker face. A pair of fours may be all I have, and I want to share it with you. I show you my hand before I even know what I have myself. If I had an eating disorder, it would be bulemia: binge, purge; binge, purge. Not to eat at all? That takes real restraint.
How sad, that I should feel this way, when I can hear the whispers of the most important people in my life in the background: Talk to me! they plead. Tell me a story! Catatonic, I keep the life preserver they request to myself. I don’t have the energy to throw it ten feet. But if it came down to it, I would swim for them. Jump in shark-infested waters. Drown, never to speak – or write – again.
In the end, it’s just garbage I give you. Thoughts that cannot translate into deeds. Caveat: Not all thoughts, of course. Some letters strung together (signs) form words that would be too much (signifier) for your pious selves to bear. WITNESS! your soul granted a pergatory pass would scream. A SINNER IS BEFORE YOU! (Indeed it would, because even THIS is too much for you, isn’t it?)
Another heap for these words I should find, lest they continue to bounce around inside me trapped - rotting, stinking, festering – until one day their toxic gases seep out of me, poisoning both of us in the process. Mona Lisa had a secret journal; that’s why her lips are curled.
Monday, February 26, 2007
cheese, wine, and other imports
If I were a Dude, I would be all over French chicks. Especially ones named Annick. I have yet to meet an Annick I don't like. The woman who leads my Saturday morning gym class is Annick; a beautiful brunette with an imperfect tongue and an infectious smile and laugh: the pale and predictable prairie girl I am is pathetic next to her. She's a dream, and is one of the only ones who can coax me to count aloud squats with her (I don't chant with the others usually; I feel like a dumb ass). But for Annick? I'll even numerate en français.
One of the women I work closely with is a Francophone. Spending time with her in Whitehorse made me realize why I always pick up the phone when she calls my desk after 6 pm (I don't with everyone). She's always been a sweet thing; accommodating, understanding, and, most importantly, patient. These qualities were tested though, when at the Fancy Dancy Supper we were at, we walked into the room to discover an Assigned Seating Arrangement (party planners everywhere are gasping). We had planned to sit next to each other; the master list had us at opposite ends of the room. "I hate when people tell me where to sit," she hissed, unleashing her inner sovereigntist - personal, not political (although how can these two things ever be separate?) "I. Hate. It." Beowulf couldn't slay that dragon.
This is why I love them, those thorny roses who could care less if you'd prefer they not smoke in front of you. ("There's the door. Use it.") Because - piss on it - doesn't matter what you think. No one tells them where to sit. No one suggests to them when it's time to go home. No one writes their constitution for them.
Blow smoke rings in their faces because, well, piss on it. And that's the only reason. I dig it.
One of the women I work closely with is a Francophone. Spending time with her in Whitehorse made me realize why I always pick up the phone when she calls my desk after 6 pm (I don't with everyone). She's always been a sweet thing; accommodating, understanding, and, most importantly, patient. These qualities were tested though, when at the Fancy Dancy Supper we were at, we walked into the room to discover an Assigned Seating Arrangement (party planners everywhere are gasping). We had planned to sit next to each other; the master list had us at opposite ends of the room. "I hate when people tell me where to sit," she hissed, unleashing her inner sovereigntist - personal, not political (although how can these two things ever be separate?) "I. Hate. It." Beowulf couldn't slay that dragon.
This is why I love them, those thorny roses who could care less if you'd prefer they not smoke in front of you. ("There's the door. Use it.") Because - piss on it - doesn't matter what you think. No one tells them where to sit. No one suggests to them when it's time to go home. No one writes their constitution for them.
Blow smoke rings in their faces because, well, piss on it. And that's the only reason. I dig it.
Sunday, February 25, 2007
happy birthday grandma-ma-ma!
I can't wait to see you at Easter! I am practising running to you for kisses and hugs. See?
Love, Turkey Roll
xo
Love, Turkey Roll
xo
Saturday, February 24, 2007
the dresser
This is the third time I've been made-over. Fourth, really; but one cannot really count the transfer of wealth from one generation to the next as "reinvention." At least, I cannot. True change requires a stripping of my soul; a new purpose. Ironic, how in each instance less of me remains, but my value increases. Funny, how a society of such gluttons - mass producers of Che images, collective individuality; insatiable consumers of artificially-flavoured breakfast shakes in the pursuit of health - should value me more now that I've been used, sanded down into something brittle: my purpose, questionable. Open to interpretation.
Do you chase the history of humanity through your desire of me, or do you crave the chemical lacquer that covers my wounds, now called "character?" Is it love, or do you like choking me? Starving out my oxygen with each coat of clear, just to see your own reflection in me better?
Does this really matter to me? Not quite. They're just questions I have. The truth is, you can never define yourself through me, and I think that deep down you already knew that, despite how you sit on the edge of your seat, waiting for my number to be called, so that you may frantically, casually, raise your paddle, assert your authority over me. I am just a cover for you; a facade. You will stuff me full of socks maybe; summer soles in winter. Guest linens. Yellowed letters of love, buried like treasure, but just paper, just words: everything and nothing simultaneously.
You will give me much more than the deed to your house, folded neatly in a lock box, the bottom shelf (because thieves are too lazy to bend over). You will surrender more than the stains that tattoo your outer shell, the pieces of cloth that you strip away each night: equalized.
The currency with which you purchase me is more valuable than the manifestations of Mammon you humans are so quick to shed blood for; and yet you do not value them at all. Your secrets. Your essence. Your measure of self-worth. The representations of your own image in your mind's eye. What you do not share with others in this earthly life, but leave for them to discover in your death, once it's too late.
I am much more than slabs of wood precisely nailed together; a whole of parts, constructed, reconstructed, until, inevitably, deconstructed, used for kindling for the Christmas fire, memories of dressers past forgotten against the prospect of the new Dustbuster under the tree (so much cleaner, don't you think?)
Me? I am Your Protector.
Do you chase the history of humanity through your desire of me, or do you crave the chemical lacquer that covers my wounds, now called "character?" Is it love, or do you like choking me? Starving out my oxygen with each coat of clear, just to see your own reflection in me better?
Does this really matter to me? Not quite. They're just questions I have. The truth is, you can never define yourself through me, and I think that deep down you already knew that, despite how you sit on the edge of your seat, waiting for my number to be called, so that you may frantically, casually, raise your paddle, assert your authority over me. I am just a cover for you; a facade. You will stuff me full of socks maybe; summer soles in winter. Guest linens. Yellowed letters of love, buried like treasure, but just paper, just words: everything and nothing simultaneously.
You will give me much more than the deed to your house, folded neatly in a lock box, the bottom shelf (because thieves are too lazy to bend over). You will surrender more than the stains that tattoo your outer shell, the pieces of cloth that you strip away each night: equalized.
The currency with which you purchase me is more valuable than the manifestations of Mammon you humans are so quick to shed blood for; and yet you do not value them at all. Your secrets. Your essence. Your measure of self-worth. The representations of your own image in your mind's eye. What you do not share with others in this earthly life, but leave for them to discover in your death, once it's too late.
I am much more than slabs of wood precisely nailed together; a whole of parts, constructed, reconstructed, until, inevitably, deconstructed, used for kindling for the Christmas fire, memories of dressers past forgotten against the prospect of the new Dustbuster under the tree (so much cleaner, don't you think?)
Me? I am Your Protector.
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
what, me bully?
I call it a "grace deficit." Dad? He calls it "rammy." Whatever it is, it's true: I am a bully. It finally hit me last night, as strong a thump as when I'm walking down a hallway and run right smack into a doorframe. Suddenly, without warning, I veer to the left, causing a hip hematoma the size of a grapefruit. Grace deficit? Nah. I claimed for bankrupcy a long, long time ago.
My ramminess causes me to hemorrage words as well. Sitting last night in the hotel bar with the only colleague I have here who doesn’t consider me a spy, I interrogated him: How old are you? Where do you live? How old is your financee? How did you meet? Where do you see yourself in five years? Where do you come from? These rapid fire questions held him against the wall not ten minutes after he’d complained about the nosiness of a woman at the airport, who’d come up to him to ask him why he was so moody. “You look stressed,” he said she’d said. “What’s wrong? You can tell me.”
He’d thought her odd, and rightfully so. Who was she to probe him for such personal information? What gave her right to lay claim to his secrets? I agreed, and noticed no irony in my own line of questioning later on, until I’d tucked myself under the covers, thinking about how I’d asked him to expose himself through response.
He’s 37. He lives in a condo in the Market. His financee is 10 years his junior. He met her a lawyer party. (Um, isn’t that an oxymoron?) He’s not sure where he wants to be in five years. He comes from London, Ontario.
Aha! My mind’s lightbulb flashed bright as I clicked off the bedside lamp. That’s the difference between him and I. I am too open, too honest, a consequence of my Western Canadian immigrant heritage, maybe, ghosts within me recalling their wait in the line at Pier 21, answering The Man With The Stamp: Where do I come from? How old am I? Where do I want to be in five years? These answers pour out of me; my heart leaks onto the table. Which is fine for me, but maybe not so much for the person I’m confessing to, who is left to clean the table up.
And for him? Gentrified sensibilities of proper tea times past cause him to get his back up when the questions start coming. Ontarians like to keep themselves corseted. And while I have the ability to draw them out, like a naïve farmer harvesting friendship, I have to remind myself of my grace deficit before people start to feel like I’m pushing them into the doorframe as well.
Besides, generalization like that above is what keeps this country great.
My ramminess causes me to hemorrage words as well. Sitting last night in the hotel bar with the only colleague I have here who doesn’t consider me a spy, I interrogated him: How old are you? Where do you live? How old is your financee? How did you meet? Where do you see yourself in five years? Where do you come from? These rapid fire questions held him against the wall not ten minutes after he’d complained about the nosiness of a woman at the airport, who’d come up to him to ask him why he was so moody. “You look stressed,” he said she’d said. “What’s wrong? You can tell me.”
He’d thought her odd, and rightfully so. Who was she to probe him for such personal information? What gave her right to lay claim to his secrets? I agreed, and noticed no irony in my own line of questioning later on, until I’d tucked myself under the covers, thinking about how I’d asked him to expose himself through response.
He’s 37. He lives in a condo in the Market. His financee is 10 years his junior. He met her a lawyer party. (Um, isn’t that an oxymoron?) He’s not sure where he wants to be in five years. He comes from London, Ontario.
Aha! My mind’s lightbulb flashed bright as I clicked off the bedside lamp. That’s the difference between him and I. I am too open, too honest, a consequence of my Western Canadian immigrant heritage, maybe, ghosts within me recalling their wait in the line at Pier 21, answering The Man With The Stamp: Where do I come from? How old am I? Where do I want to be in five years? These answers pour out of me; my heart leaks onto the table. Which is fine for me, but maybe not so much for the person I’m confessing to, who is left to clean the table up.
And for him? Gentrified sensibilities of proper tea times past cause him to get his back up when the questions start coming. Ontarians like to keep themselves corseted. And while I have the ability to draw them out, like a naïve farmer harvesting friendship, I have to remind myself of my grace deficit before people start to feel like I’m pushing them into the doorframe as well.
Besides, generalization like that above is what keeps this country great.
Tuesday, February 20, 2007
traitor
It's a small country. Plane mates on the Vancouver to WHITEHORSE stint (yes, I'm in Whitehorse; which, I guess, is better than finding out mid-flight that you're going to Winnipeg, or something) included two dudes with whom I used to work with in Saskatchewan. Been almost four years since I've seen them, and save for a few grey hairs on their heads (not mine, of course), they are the exact same friendly, down to earth guys they've always been. I felt transported back in time for 2 hours and 18 minutes, until the plane touched down, and the various passengers scattered to form groups of colours around the baggage conveyor belt: red, Ontario; blue, I don't know who; black, well, you get the point. I drifted to the reds, who were hanging out with the colourless (because we can't pick favourites, now can we), and watched from afar as all the green plaids hugged, chatting happily with each other. The reds and colourless? We all checked our Blackberries, confirming that there is indeed no wireless service (THANK. GOD.)
I miss my green plaid peeps, even if their fashion sense is questionable.
I miss my green plaid peeps, even if their fashion sense is questionable.
4:12 am
Dear Fate,
You have perfect timing. Shortly you're to ring on my door, and carry me away for 96 hours. To a place where maybe Blackberries work; maybe they don't. Don't count on anything. Don't take anything for granted.
A good book, and two solid days to read.
No computer, green light flashing "on"; siren song of escape, and confinement.
Just me and, quite possibly, a pickled thumb.*
-----
*No, I guess that's Dawson City, not Yellowknife. At least, that's what Google says.
You have perfect timing. Shortly you're to ring on my door, and carry me away for 96 hours. To a place where maybe Blackberries work; maybe they don't. Don't count on anything. Don't take anything for granted.
A good book, and two solid days to read.
No computer, green light flashing "on"; siren song of escape, and confinement.
Just me and, quite possibly, a pickled thumb.*
-----
*No, I guess that's Dawson City, not Yellowknife. At least, that's what Google says.
Monday, February 19, 2007
sending in my $1.99 plus shipping and handling
By now you will agree I've never been a normal girl. I've tried; oh, how I've tried. I've made the requisite list of Teen Beat, Teen Street and Seventeen and told my Dad I neeeeeded them, could he just pleeeasse pick them up on his way home for me? And, perfect papa he is, he did. They never really did anything for me, though. Kirk Cameron was kind of a weirdo. (Although Joey was always sooo much better than Jordan; maybe I was just drawn to him though because he was a December baby like myself. Though he was technically a Capricorn, that was close enough for this narcissistic Sagittarius.)
I flipped through the flimsy pages, passing easily the advertisements promising a one-on-one conversation with whatever heart throb my little heart desired. Nah. Not interested. I pored over the advice columns, solely for the smirk factor. What kind of self-respecting person cares about what her best friend thinks of her new shoes? Just go tell her to $@#& herself! Leo DiCaprio full face centre-fold? Pshht. (Though maybe I'd put that up on my wall now.)
The one page I could never get past? Usually, it was in the last two, maybe three, pages of the magazine. The ones where they advertised packages of sea monkeys and t-shirts with your boyfriend's name on them and pen pals? Yeah. I wanted a pen pal.
I flipped through the flimsy pages, passing easily the advertisements promising a one-on-one conversation with whatever heart throb my little heart desired. Nah. Not interested. I pored over the advice columns, solely for the smirk factor. What kind of self-respecting person cares about what her best friend thinks of her new shoes? Just go tell her to $@#& herself! Leo DiCaprio full face centre-fold? Pshht. (Though maybe I'd put that up on my wall now.)
The one page I could never get past? Usually, it was in the last two, maybe three, pages of the magazine. The ones where they advertised packages of sea monkeys and t-shirts with your boyfriend's name on them and pen pals? Yeah. I wanted a pen pal.
Sunday, February 18, 2007
introducing the dank
Dear Uncle Chris,
Daddy is taking an on-line real estate course right now, so he needed a couple hours of "Boh-free time" to study on Saturday afternoon. So Mommy took me to Irene's, because where else to take a baby on a sunny weekend afternoon whilst Winterlude is keeping our Nation's Capital aglow and abuzz but an ill-lit stinky pub with greasy burgers, cheap Blue on tap, and the names of patrons past carved into your table? We think we saw your picture on the wall...
Uncle D. had rented out the basement to host a jam session with Uncles B. and S. The girls ate greasy fries and showed Mommy their wares from a morning of spending too much money.
Mommy said she missed the days of disposable income. The only thing disposable in her purse now are diapers, Size 3.
It was open mike, and some regulars got up to play a few tunes. The last song they played was a Neil Young cover, Rockin' in the Free World. I was getting fidgety, so Mommy and I got up and danced. (Funny that; Irene's has no highchairs.)
It was my first live band. Mommy said it reminded her of Paris, and the night she danced with Carlos, a Mexican who could not speak a lick of English but for Elvis Presley lyrics. The band then played Can't Help Falling in Love, and Mommy took Carlos by the hand to a small spot by the stage to dance.
Carlos glowed.
The band yesterday didn't look much different than the band from the restaurant in Paris (pictured below). Except, you know, they were English, so the flare was relatively muted.
But it was still a good day.
Love, Boh
XOX
Daddy is taking an on-line real estate course right now, so he needed a couple hours of "Boh-free time" to study on Saturday afternoon. So Mommy took me to Irene's, because where else to take a baby on a sunny weekend afternoon whilst Winterlude is keeping our Nation's Capital aglow and abuzz but an ill-lit stinky pub with greasy burgers, cheap Blue on tap, and the names of patrons past carved into your table? We think we saw your picture on the wall...
Uncle D. had rented out the basement to host a jam session with Uncles B. and S. The girls ate greasy fries and showed Mommy their wares from a morning of spending too much money.
Mommy said she missed the days of disposable income. The only thing disposable in her purse now are diapers, Size 3.
It was open mike, and some regulars got up to play a few tunes. The last song they played was a Neil Young cover, Rockin' in the Free World. I was getting fidgety, so Mommy and I got up and danced. (Funny that; Irene's has no highchairs.)
It was my first live band. Mommy said it reminded her of Paris, and the night she danced with Carlos, a Mexican who could not speak a lick of English but for Elvis Presley lyrics. The band then played Can't Help Falling in Love, and Mommy took Carlos by the hand to a small spot by the stage to dance.
Carlos glowed.
The band yesterday didn't look much different than the band from the restaurant in Paris (pictured below). Except, you know, they were English, so the flare was relatively muted.
But it was still a good day.
Love, Boh
XOX
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)