Is.

We stopped at a roadside café/bar on our way to the Varadero airport.  As is typical in Cuba, there was a small, rail-thin cat lurking at the feet of the patrons, desperate for a scrap or two of food.  All the cats look like kittens in Cuba. I’m guessing that they never reach full-size due to malnutrition, though I also suspect that their lives are not very long, either.  Either way, I spent a few minutes watching this bony, starving cat sit patiently and attentively.  Then I saw some movement in a low hedge about 50 feet away from the cat.  A hen emerged, three chicks in tow.  The chicks were small; half fluff, half feather, and made a peeping cluck sound that reminded me of a teenage boy’s voice breaking.  The hen and her chicks moved in the direction of the cat, crossed within feet, and…nothing.  

That was my Cuba experience in a nutshell.

When a starving cat doesn’t hunt easy prey, that is defeat. I’ve seen that defeat before.  I really didn’t think that I’d go to Havana and spend a good part of the time struck by the similarities between Cuba and Nunavut, but there you have it.  No fruit, but 14 kinds of mayonnaise at the grocery store.  $7 bags of chips.  So. Much. Pop.  No real change on the immediate horizon.

“Is Cuba,” was the answer to nearly every question we asked all week.  Is Cuba, Is Nunavut, Is Long-Term Lack of Access to Resources Equals Shelf-Stable Food and a Culture of Shrugging Resignation. Like I said, I’ve seen it before.  There were coconuts everywhere, but we never saw a dish or a drink with coconut in it on a menu the entire time we were in the country.  

The food was mostly shit, and the Internet sucked.  I had an amazing time.  But let’s not kid ourselves—everything is amazing when you’re deeply in love and armed to the tits with charcoal pills and Immodium. 

I’m back in Baker Lake.  I just heard a radio announcement providing the local phone number for “if you want your dog to be shot”.  Then they played Aqua’s ‘Barbie Girl’ start to finish.

Is Baker Lake.

Is only two months.

Stark (Naked), Raven Mad.

Blame me.  Blame me.  I don’t care.  Blame me.  Just stop blaming each other.  Give me all of your blame.  Oh, wait.  You already have.  Fuck you, then.  

I’ve been absent.  I had a really bad cold, but more importantly, posting has been a near impossibility because I’ve had no Internet at home basically since I got here.  (By home, of course, I mean the lumpy single bed in which I sleep, under sheets printed with hula girls, a million years old, still inexplicably rough. Anyway.) 

I found a house with wifi that wasn’t password protected.  I found the sweet spot between their truck and front door.  Hidden, in rubber boots and pajamas, an Internet Interloper.  There is only daylight, and I’m sure the people on this stretch of road think of me as the weird, forgetful white lady.  The routine looks a little like this: walk a couple hundred feet from front door, stand and fiddle with wifi device until email uploads, “remember something incredibly important”, turn on rubber booted heel and hustle pajama-clad ass home.  Showtimes: midnight, 3:30, and 7:00.

It was like that for 6 weeks.  Week 7, I was able to steal a feeble signal from my room, so long as I was on my stomach, back hooked like a comma, facing the door, laptop perched on two pillows and a book, the book necessary to maintain a steady and specific angle. No moving.  When I got sick, it wasn’t until I started coughing that I realized I had a cold.  I’d just assumed that all my stiffness and immobile neck were the result of my nightly Internet poaching position.  

Who is to blame?  WHO IS TO BLAME? I'll tell you.  Fucking ravens.  The ravens up here are big, nearly the size of the Chihuahuan Raven (the largest in the world.  and no, i didn't look that up.  i just know that.  which is why i can't do long division anymore. moving on).  

The technician finally came to sort us out last week.  A Finn with a dry sense of humour and unusual dental arrangement, he arrived in a bright yellow jacket, flood pants and athletic sandals on his bare feet.   I was so excited that he'd actually shown up that I gave him my dessert.  He ate it very slowly, while boring me with a complete and detailed list of all the antique cars he owned but didn't drive.  To say that he was peculiar would be an understatement, but I nodded and smiled.  I needed the Internet.  Once he finished his (MY) dessert, he (LEISURELY) climbed a very tall ladder to inspect the dish. He spent so long at the top of the ladder that eventually I gave up and retired to my room.  

The next morning, he gave me the full report.  Rolling his Rs with a gleeful flourish that had to be at least a partial exaggeration, he provided a definitive cause for our long-standing internet issues.  At the top of the ladder, on the shelf built to hold the dish, he found a couple of pounds of caribou bones and fur, dropped by ravens.  "Don't worrrrrry," he said.  "Those rrrrrrravenssss, they arrrrrrrn't going to be a prrrrroblm for you now."  They had eaten the "rrrrrrreceiiiiivrrrr", he said.  It was "verrrrry rrrrrradioactive".  A crooked (and maybe demented?) smile stretched across his teeth.  "The rrrravennnnssss.  They arrrrn't a prrrrroblm ennymorrrrr."

So now I have internet.  I also have nightmares about clutches of glowing green eggs.  Soon-to-be Superravens, HulkHawks, blue-feathered monster birds.  They will perch on the roof of the Northern Store, shoot laser beams from their eyes and read my thoughts.  

What I'm saying is, I love you, Raven Overlords.  I know where all the good garbage in town is, and I'll save all my dryer lint and showerdrainhair for your nests.  I think we can make this work.  Please don't kill me.  I have a lot to live for.  

Stoners In A Dangerous Slime

These days, I would rather stab at the daylight until it bleeds darkness. With all due respect to Bruce Coburn, of course.

There is a season for everything here.  Right now, it is the beginning of both 24-hour daylight season and mud season. And something else is always just around the corner... 

When I first came to this place, in late-May of 2007, there were no stop signs in town. Soon, the company I was working for at the time decided put some up.   The people in town didn’t seem to need or want them, so what was the point?  To give the miners, so far away from home, a bit of familiarity?  In hindsight, it was all a bit silly. The signs themselves seemed out of place, unwilling to stay put.  While you can drill a hole into permafrost, it’s not like putting a fencepost into dirt.  The hole doesn’t close up around the inserted object.  It stays steadfastly wide open. The stop signs wobbled insolently.  They flipped defiantly like weathervanes in the wind.  They practically begged to be plucked from their holes.  And so, naturally, they were.  Yanked in the night, taken home as trophies, beginning a cycle of theft and replacement that went on for some time.  Every day, I got up, took an inventory of signs gone missing, and sheepishly reported the disappearances back to head office in Toronto.  Eventually, the locals gave up the fight against the invasive species, like our own particular cane toads (of Safety. everything in the name of Safety. always.).  The children of the town quickly decided to make vastly better use of them: target practice.  

And so, as the slimy mud leaves the road for every surface BUT the ground, revealing pebbles and then larger stones, Rock Season will begin.  The never-ending chorus of howling sled dogs that ring the town will be soon be accompanied by a hamlet-wide percussion section: children throwing rocks at stop signs (and occasional tin roof).  All night long.  And by night, I mean day.  And by day, I mean night.  You know what I mean, goddammit.

Sigh.

To everything, Turn, Turn, Turn. 

(Actually, speaking of that song: one of the first “big girl” auditions I went to (i.e. alone, without my mother in the room), I busted out the Byrds tune.  It was the first time I’d ever heard my voice alone, unaccompanied, in a big, empty room of adults.  It was thin and small, and I lost my nerve by the second verse (it’s okay, nobody knows the second verse, anyway).  I learned to hate the sound of my voice that day, to dread vocal auditions.  And as a result, I choked on every single one that followed.  Well, except for that one time that I ripped off an audition panel member’s toupee while belting out ‘Turn Back O Man’ from Godspell.  That one, I blew for other, very obvious reasons.  But that is yet another digression. I will embrace this turn of seasons, even though the very thought of the rock choir makes me grit my teeth.  I will go headlong into it, if only because it is a season closer to the finish line.  Maybe I’ll even throw a few rocks for good measure. While singing at the top of my lungs.)

Prodigal Sun

This goes on and on.  It never ends. The sun just never sets.  I can’t tell if I’ve been here one day, or one hundred.

(actually, I’m at day sixteen of sixteen weeks.  not that I’m counting. ohgodohgodohgod.)

Everybody likes the idea of coming to visit during the period of 24 hour daylight, but once you’ve been up for 72 hours with ATVs on a constant parade loop outside your window and children throwing rocks on your tin roof from midnight to 5 am, the novelty kind of wears off.  Like a 4 year old mangling a joke.

Knock Knock.

Who’s there?

The sun!

The sun, who?

The sun blazing through your windows at 3am!

(Har har.)

Knock knock.

Who’s there?

SUN!

Sun, who?

SUUUUN!!

Knock knock….

(Nooooooo!)

The Inuit articulate chronology in a way that makes particular sense this time of year.  Everything is counted backwards or forwards from the moment you’re in.  When talking about an event three days in the past, they say ‘today, yesterday, the day before, the day before that.’ Seamless, and somehow separate.  It probably explains why I just listen to the same albums over and over again, and am perpetually déjà-vuing my way through the days. I can’t begin to count the days until my break: five weeks and the day after that and the day after that and the day after that…

Every fall, the roads are sprayed with Calcium Chloride for dust suppression purposes.  The by-product of this process is that every spring, every inch of this town (and every soul in it) ends up covered with silky red mud. Keeping clean is impossible, so everyone just wears an outfit until it smells, itches, or becomes sentient.  I suspect that with a few more days' wear, my fur hat will fuse itself to my skull and start giving unsolicited relationship advice.  "He was a BASTARD to you! More coffee, more coffee!*" Or something.  And as helpful as my hat might be, I still look like crap.  Ugh.

And yet...I feel better than I have felt in a very, very long time.   Look at me, with the optimism and smiling and crap.  

I’ll find you in Hell after the Rapture, at the combo Tim Horton’s/Wendy’s/Esso.  I’ll grab the Double Doubles and the Dutchies. You get the napkins.  We’ll need a lot.  It’ll get sweaty in Hell, I reckon.


*kids in the hall reference.  there will be a test.

Bingo

Barney's wife: I'm going to bingo.  I need money. I can either sell your rifle, or the tv.

Barney (in slow, Baker Lake drawl): Well, I'm watching the teeeeveeee....

Sigh.

Thursday, May 12.

yesterday's highlight: overheard plane mechanic refer to me as 'that broad'. i think i can die now. and given that we have a town necrophiliac, i might even get some sex out of the whole thing.


today started off well, with me having to explain to a coworker why it wasn't appropriate for him to "joke" (incessantly) about how he has been sexually assaulting me in my sleep.


yeah, i'm back in nunavut.  

You Do It To Yourself, You Do.

Perhaps I should back up.  Seventeen months after I left, I am back in Nunavut.  I am back because I need money.  I need money because I took seventeen months off work.  I took seventeen months off work because I used to have a very intense job.  I signed up for a very intense job because I felt like I was stuck in a rut that I needed to get out of.  And sometimes it’s like when you’re stuck in a muddy ditch; you unnecessarily put the pedal to the floor and the next thing you know, you’ve smashed through the nice neighbor kid’s lemonade stand?  That’s me, in a nutshell.  When life gives me lemons, I wind up driving right through the lemonade stand.  In a very expensive, uninsured imported vehicle.  Or something.

So I’m back.  After being up for 48 straight hours, weepy and a little delirious, I made my way to the airport with 2 large bags.  These bags conformed to the weight restrictions laid out by the airline I was booked with—I’d been sure to research that.  What I’d failed to consider was the first leg of the flight, which was booked on a “partner airline”.  THEIR luggage allowance was exactly HALF of what I’d brought with me to the airport.  Here’s what you need to know: I’m beyond broke right now.  Like, hobo broke, and I couldn't cover the excess baggage charge.  So I had no choice; I hastily transferred fistfuls of socks and underwear from one bag to the other, obsessively weighed the thing down to the pound, and then left the rest.  Just left it there, in the airport.  I can’t think about what I’ve left behind.  It’s just stuff.  It is really just stuff.

The attendant on the flight north was warm and lovely, but had such a peculiar personal aesthetic that I found it difficult to look at her.  Her skin was the colour of caramel, which makes her sound exotic and sensual, but she wasn’t.  She had tanned herself to the colour of Wurther’s Originals, and chosen to make the tan ‘pop’ with a highly metallic silver eyeshadow.  To further contrast with her tan, she’d bleached her hair to the point where it was no longer hair, technically.  It was hay, so coarse from chemicals that it wouldn’t lay flat against her head.  Her ponytail stood out straight behind her, as though it were blowing in the wind.  All the time.

I recognized people on the plane, in the little airports along the way.  Their conversations sounded familiar.  It was like I’d never left.  In a good way.

I nearly tripped on a rabbit on my way to breakfast my first morning back.  I work in an airplane hangar, behind a plane, two loaders and a helicopter, in a heated box.  I wear my sunglasses when I walk home at 10 pm.  I’m homesick and more than a little heartsick.  It is a means to an end.  You should really come and visit.  And bring me some cheese.  And truffle honey.  And a custard tart.  

And Again

When I first came up to Nunavut, exactly 4 years ago, there were ptarmigan everywhere.  Early on, someone told me something about the ptarmigan that stuck with me, that I thought of at the time as divine advice: “Never let the birds see your face. You can catch a ptarmigan if you don’t look them in the eye.”  After a series of failures and disappointments, I felt like this was the romantic and personal advice I’d been seeking for some time.  Never show your true self, sneak up on the thing you want or fear most, and then you’ll be able to trap it before it knows what’s coming.  

I walked home tonight.  It was 10pm.  I was wearing sunglasses. The ground constantly shifts shape and texture this time of year, softening and melting and moving and freezing again.  While walking, I kept my eyes to the ground to ensure my footing, because I tend to daydream and trip with some frequency.  About halfway down the long road from the airport, I looked up.  15 teenagers were coming my way, all holding hands.  Stretched across the road like a chain of paper dolls, they ambled toward me.  Even from a great distance, I could see wide-open faces, huge smiles, wordless conversations. 

Whoever gave me the ptarmigan advice was wrong.  Always show your face.  Always be open.  Live in full daylight.  Love like the sun will never set.  

Under Water, Over Snow

Oh, hi.  I hadn't realized it'd been so long.

I guess I've been busy?

Shenanigans, surprises, soul-crushing poverty...the usual.

I've finally begun packing for Nunavut.  I have to remind myself over and over again that I really only need to bring a week's worth of clothing, even though I'll be there for 4 months, maybe longer.  Nobody will care how I look, and I'll be forever buried under layers, regardless.  I'm like Steve Martin in "The Jerk".  "I just need these grey jeans.  And this Skeletor t-shirt. And this ugly sweater." I tell myself that certain items will cheer me up, remind me of home and friends.  I'm kidding myself, I know.  There will be a lot to miss.

I will miss: fresh produce.  good coffee.  live music.  mexican food.  toronto's oppressive summer heat.  ice cream trucks.  my bed.  the rumbling of streetcars.   privacy.  dresses.  heels.  did i mention mexican food?

Mostly, I'll miss my friends.  In the last few years, I've ended up in the middle of an incredible and inspiring group of insane, generous and wonderful people.  And the nerd in me feels like when I come back from summer break, all the ground I've covered and relationships I've built will have dissolved like fruit-flavoured laxative powder in tepid water.  Which I will then be forced to drink, alone, with heavy heart.  And then double over with cramps.  And then nearly poop myself in a Tim Horton's on the highway.  Not that this has ever happened before.

Please don't make me poop myself, friends.  That laxative powder never tastes like fruit, anyway.

Right. But what was I wearing?

I often joke that at any given moment, I’m either thinking about cheeseburgers, the Internet, or sex.  The attention I devote to these thoughts is so great and intense that I often walk into walls, doors or fire hydrants, and I fall down stairs with a frequency that borders on alarming.  And I don’t just stumble down the stairs, I spiral down in what I call a “Twelve Coconut Cream Pies Fall”, a reference to an old Sesame Street bit where a chef, carrying said number of pies, tumbles dramatically and vocally down a flight of stairs.  But I digress.

Nowhere in this city have I fallen more frequently, spectacularly, and painfully than on the stairs at the Art Gallery of Ontario.  What I’m saying is that I should have thought twice about the shoes I wore yesterday to a preview of the Inuit art exhibition opening soon at the AGO.  In fact, given that I was meeting my good friend A's very fancy parents for the first time, I should have thought twice about the entire outfit. But, no.  That’s not what happened at all.

For most of my life, I’ve felt as though there’s been a major disconnect between who I am and what I look like.  We never had full-length mirrors in the house growing up, and I still don’t have one now (which is why I sometimes leave the house in dresses that are, in fact, shirts. Again, I digress). I don’t dry my hair in front of a mirror.  Until I started wearing makeup a few years ago, the only time I looked at my face at all was when I was either brushing my teeth or shopping for clothing.  So when I decided to take the time to figure out who I was, I also made a conscious effort to work out what I looked like.  Consequently, a lot of my clothes feel like markers along the path of my 'journey' over the last year and a half.  

Right.  But what was I wearing?  Well, because I’m going away to the Arctic for half a year, I’ve been digging deep into the closet and pulling out old sentimental favourites that I won’t get to wear for a very long time.  Yesterday, I wore one of my favourite blouses.  It’s a vintage cream thing with giant puffy sleeves and tiny pearl buttons and pleats and a collar like a Georgia O’Keeffe iris.  It’s also completely transparent.  The last time I wore it, my friend C. said “It only looks slutty when I open my eyes.”  And then we went out and had a night that I remember with great fondness.  It wasn’t until I arrived at the gallery that I also remembered that the tiny pearl buttons fly open if I’m not completely motionless.  So that, a cream leather jacket, a high-waisted black skirt, metallic bronze tights and stiletto-heeled granny boots.  All in all, an excellent outfit to meet very reserved parents and/or fall down stairs.

A. and I made our way to the gallery's basement cafeteria to wait for her parents.  I gripped the rail tightly and managed not to fall.  As we sat there, I grew increasingly more anxious about my outfit, and A's parents' reaction to it.  I got nervous, and started talking too much, too fast.  And sweating.  Obviously.

Someone recently said that an outfit I was wearing effectively gave them permission to say whatever they wanted about me.  That I was "asking for it" by dressing a certain way.  I went berzerk.  Cleavage is not consent, first of all.  But also, because I now feel that I look more like who I really am, superficial criticism hurts/insults on a completely new level.  This isn't something I really had to contend with before, somehow.  The possibility that A's parents would judge and potentially reject me based on my appearance (and therefore my personality) nearly did my head in.  As we climbed the slippery wooden spiral stairs, my wet palms could barely grip the railing.  Which only made me more anxious about the falling, which was an inevitability in my mind.

But none of this mattered the moment I stepped into the room full of art.  The work of people I've known, whose homes I've been in, on the walls of one of the largest galleries in North America. I was almost immediately overwhelmed.  And then I saw Tony's drawing.  I nearly came undone.

Tony, it was said, had sustained a moderate head injury a long time ago.  But what really messed him up was the gas huffing he'd done after.  He used to sit in my office 3 or 4 times a week, grinning, grinding his teeth, drinking our shitty coffee.  He was looking for work, and it didn't matter how many times I told him that we weren't hiring, he'd be back a day or so later.  When I first started, Tony had been employed by us out at the tent camp on the tundra.  He had been charged with emptying the giant buckets in the outhouses, and then setting the waste on fire along with the other garbage.  He loved his job.  The position no longer existed, but he always asked.  His snowpants were held together with duct tape.  He was always dirty.  He reeked of smoke.  I would sometimes pretend to be on the phone when he came by, having one-sided fake conversations with a ringtone.

But his drawing.  Was beautiful.  I stood in front of it for a long time, in my ridiculous outfit, in a Frank Gehry designed building, thinking about Tony and his duct tape repaired clothing and how I'd judged him, and I felt like a royal asshole.  I tried to imagine how he would even feel about the show, if he even knew about it.  I didn't want to even think about the valuation of his work, how little of it likely makes it to his hands.  All I know is that when I get back up there in a month, I'm looking forward to telling Tony about how much I liked his work, and how proud I am to know him.

More Har, Less Binger

I'm having crazy dreams.  I'm sleeping worse than usual.  I'm being haunted by songs.  I'm not sure what's going on.  I mean, things are always bonkers.  There's always adventure.  But something different is going on right now.  

In chronological order, I present to you the dreams of March, largely as recorded in my Facebook statuses, with a little added commentary:

"Drakkar Noir Dreams and Whitesnake Slowdance Flashbacks. Thank you, "Talking to Your Kids About Sex", for triggering some sort of grade 7 synapse meltdown..." This is pretty self-explanatory.  This was the first dream in a long time that involved smells and specific songs.  I'd been sifting through some boxes for a bit of a job, and stumbled across a parent's guide to answering teens' questions about their burgeoning sexuality.  Naturally, I flipped through it.  

"Q: Can a boy get an erection while he's dancing?

A: Yes, it happens quite often"

other excellent Q/As include:

"Q: Will it hurt if I stick my finger in my vagina?

A: It won't hurt if you do it gently, but you shouldn't put any other things in that might scratch or might even poke a hole in it.  Remember your vagina stretches slowly, so put your finger in carefully.  And always wash your hands first." (After?  Not so much, apparently.)

"Q: How can I stand up and pee like boys?

A: For Girls: You can pee standing up if you spread your legs wide, right over the toilet, but if you get the seat wet you'll have to clean it up! Why don't you practice in the shower to see if you can do it without making a mess?  It's really easier for women to sit down." (For the record, I've actually never peed in the shower [but apparently everybody does??], and this is not a compelling enough reason to start.)

There are also answers to these questions: "Why does Aunt Alice have more pubic hair than you do?", and "Dad, when I went to the gym with you and Uncle Bill the other day, I saw how big your penises were.  I'm scared mine will never get big enough."  Frankly, these questions raise more questions.  My head hurts.

MOVING ON.  

Two nights later, I had a dream that, in order to cheer up a man I'd once dated (though we weren't dating in the dream), I agreed to do whatever he wanted.  He covered my face in a red nylon Canadiens jacket.  I thought he was going to go get me a surprise.  And then he surprised me by peeing on the jacket.

NEXT.

"Escalators like an Escher drawing, warm chocolate cake, cold hands, the snap of crisp cotton, Rolleiflex with a leaking lens, caramel light, and the smell of burned coffee. (As tangible as dreams can ever hope to be.)"  This was a good one.  Just...deeply...sensual.  That's a word I'm not really at ease with, but that's absolutely what this one was.  Really, really nice.)  

And then, for 5 fucking mornings in a row, I woke up with Master of Puppets in my head.  I was unable to shake it until noon all of those days.

NEXT.

"dream #1: i went to an 'erotic big top circus' that included old lady trapeze artists in purple plastic diapers. dream #2: 'scary sexy' dream that involved baseball, the south, and the hardy boys tv show. BUT! i woke up with 'enter sandman' instead of 'master of puppets'. does this count as victory?"  (No.  It doesn't, really.  Master of Puppets is way better than Enter Sandman.  Neither is morning music, unless you're camping.)

So then I started trying to listen to other stuff before bed....you know...to curate my dreams, and ditch the Metallica.

HENCE:

"Fell asleep listening to Lucrate Milk, woke up singing the 'ice cream cones cereal' jingle. COINCIDENCE?"  (So, that didn't really work.)

NEXT:

"whoa. just remembered a dream i had last night: i was on a dating game show. i had to choose from three guys. all three were dressed in full clown makeup. this is where i mention that i am terrified of clowns. way to be subtle, subconscious. yeesh."  (No comment necessary.  Obviously.)

LAST NIGHT:

"Went to bed too early. Had crazy dreams that I went to (basically) hipster woodstock and invented doowop harmonies. Wrote so many good songs in my dream and woke up and lost them all. My sleep is now worse than my waking time. GREAT." (So now, I guess I have to keep a tape recorder AND a notepad in bed with me.  Between the cookbooks and the phone and the piles of clean laundry, I'm running out of room, even though it's a big bed.)

Okay.  This is a pretty clear snapshot of everything, right?  Sigh.  

Today's pre-noon quote of the day: "Listen, I'm a total maneater, but at least I can fill out paperwork."

And yes, if you're wondering: I taped that tv show.  I'll let you know when it airs.  But I can't talk about it.  Yet.

Cock(roach) Boss

Today began with promise.  I woke up early and clear-headed, ready to go answer phones for WFMU's pledge drive, something I had been looking forward to for a week or so.  I showered and headed out the door with tons of time to spare.  Look at me! Volunteering! Clean and punctual and optimistic and good-sore from exercise!  It was warm in the sun, and the wind whipped my hair into ten kinds of great crazy.

I boarded the PATH train and headed for New Jersey.  I listened to music really loudly and smiled at my reflection, far on the other side of the car.  The Pathvision monitor offered up two way too easy scrambled word puzzles. I rolled my eyes, "m-u-n-d-a-n-e and o-r-d-i-n-a-r-y".  Pffft.  

As the train approached Hoboken, I opened my purse to reapply lip gloss.  Normally, the contents of my purse are: 4 or 5 different kinds of lip product, a tangle of receipts, a few sets of keys, 2 hair elastics, and a few loose almonds.  But I've been trying to pare down.  So today, my purse contained just a handful of receipts, a jar of harissa (don't ask), and a giant cockroach.  A giant, "Girl on Fear Factor Eats This Thing to Pay For Big(ger) Fake Boobs" kind of cockroach.  My first thought was, "Oh God.  That is some Naked Lunch type shit, Jim." 

I quickly zipped my purse back up.  I blinked my eyes about 15 times.  I thought about Naked Lunch some more, and The Metamorphosis, which had actually come up in conversation yesterday.  I wondered if the cockroach would offer me any wisdom.  The Pathvision told me that my horoscope involved being careful about what I spend my money on.  Kanye West's Power came on my iPod.  I stopped looking for messages and meaning.  I had a giant bug in my fucking purse.  End of fucking story.

I opened my purse again.  It was still there, and unmistakably alive.  Its antennae were easily an inch long, and as I stared at the thing, they rotated around in twitchy circles.  I zipped my purse up again.

I fumbled for my camera, knowing that nobody would ever believe this story.  When I opened my purse again, the cockroach was gone.  I got off the train at the next stop without thinking.  I walked in a whipping wind, trying to find an abandoned corner where I could quickly empty out my bag.  

But it was rush hour, and I was in a very cute and tidy corner of New Jersey.  

And so I had to walk awhile before I found a quiet enough stretch to do what I had to do.  Which is how I found myself on Carlo's Bakery Way.  Yes, that Carlo's Bakery.  Which is how I found myself emptying my purse in front of the home of THE CAKE BOSS, wondering what he would say if he stumbled across me on all fours, feet away from his place of business.  "Heh! Yeah! I'm just gonna do my thing with a roach cake!" It was fruitless in the end.  The roach had completely disappeared.  At least to my naked eye.

Oh, but also?  WFMU isn't in Hoboken, and I was cutting it close on time.  I'd jumped off the train before making the transfer that would actually get me to Jersey City.  It's not far, but still.  Sigh.  I zipped up my purse, I jumped in a cab, and hustled over to the radio station.  With a cockroach the size of a big toe in my purse.  I answered some calls, I met some lovely people, I ate a donut.  I kept my purse closed.

When I got back to Manhattan, I emptied it the bag out again.  I could have just stomped all over it to ensure that I killed the bug, but...I didn't want it to die, even though it was a cockroach.  Hopefully, he's out there giving someone else a pretty ridiculous story to tell.  

Blow Your Jellybeans Out Your Ashram

I’m sore all the time.  I’ve fallen apart since wrecking my ankle at the end of November.  The winter was not kind to me.  I was not kind to myself.  I went to yoga yesterday with C.  I was a little nervous for several reasons:

1)    Despite a few months of private lessons and a period of regular practice last year, I’ve fallen off the yoga wagon and into the prickly ditch of inflexible stiffness and cynicism. 
2)    It was Kundalini yoga.  Which, I was warned, involved chanting.
3)    An hour before class, I ate a small bag of sugar-free Jelly Belly jellybeans.  80 or so beans, 160 calories.  Whatever.  Then I read the label.  64% of my daily fibre in one sitting, and a written warning that said jellybeans might cause stomach “discomfort”. The label advised to start with an 8-bean-or-less sampling.  EIGHT BEANS OR LESS. 

I was nervous, I was wearing leggings, and there was chanting in my future, but I went anyway.  Compared to the yoga I’d been used to, it was physically pretty unstrenuous.  Mentally, it was a different story.  

Did I mention that there was chanting?  

There was also dancing on all fours, and 5 minutes of jumping/cross-kicking legs in front while criss-crossing arms above the head.  "I NEED TO FLAG DOWN THE RESCUE PLANE TO GET ME OFF THIS DESERT ISLAND, BUT I ALSO REALLY HAVE TO PEE!".  I slipped in and out of focus, from calm to thinking about dirty things to writing and work and back to being calm again.  And probably back to dirty things again. Who are we kidding?

As we were winding down, the instructor started playing a particularly crappy piece of music.  "Ugh," I thought.  "This blows."  She advised us that we would be listening to the piece of music for 11 minutes, and that it was meant to summon miracles. "Har har," I thought.  "I will need a miracle to get through 11 minutes of this goofy nonsense."  

I sat, cross-legged.  My right hand gently cradled my left hand.  My left thumb rested on top of my right thumb.  I settled the knot of fingers and palms over my heart.  "This meditation is to eliminate fear of the future," the instructor said.  "This meditation is to eliminate the fear of the future that you have largely created yourself.  This meditation is to release you into the promise of a future without fear."

A smile that can only be described as beatific crawled across my face.  I probably looked insane--eyes closed, giant grin, flushed cheeks, wild hair--but i felt radiant and beautiful.  It was kind of awesome.  Sometimes, you're in the right place at the right time, no matter how off your game you feel.

Come and find me.  I'm not afraid.  I'm not afraid of you or jellybeans or anything.  I dare you, life.

Yeoman's Omens

We had a good run. I'm not superstitious, but I think The Shirt once had special powers. It was ancient and thin and felt like silk. Almost like lingerie. Almost.

I was wearing the shirt here: http://goldheartedsociopath.blogspot.com/2010/12/i-have-never-relied-on-kindness-of.html and here: http://goldheartedsociopath.blogspot.com/2010/10/personal-floatation-devices.html  and a bunch of other times that were real turnaround moments for me.

We had a good run, but I should have known that The Shirt's days were numbered. I pulled it on for the bus ride to New York a week ago, and noticed that the ribbed collar was about to separate from the body of The Shirt. I paused, but wore it anyway. I responsibly packed a lunch, and emptied the fridge's produce into my purse so it wouldn't go to waste. At the border, the guard lectured me while confiscating my orange, and waved the English cucumber in my face before handing it back to me, saying, "I don't want it. It's Canadian." Yes. I had a cucumber in my purse. What? I didn't want it to go to waste. Plus, cucumber is a refreshing snack. I almost got sent back to Toronto because I only had a one way ticket, and no proof of employment. The child behind me only stopped his incessant coughing in order to begin noisily vomiting. I nearly wrecked my ankle (again) squeezing through a turnstile with my huge bag. I got in and immediately looked for something else to wear. And that's when I discovered that I'd managed to pack only two other t-shirts.

I had no choice. I bought other shirts. One showed early promise, but is at least temporarily suspended after suspected involvement in Friday's TERRIBLE DAY. The second drew mixed results: a cute guy stopped me to pet the dog, and then bought me a hot dog. However, as I waited on line, a small British child asked if she could 'stroke' the dog, and then the dog growled at her, earning me a lovely stink eye from her parents. The third shirt, I managed to stain within 3 hours of putting on. Thanks again, boob shelf. I have one other option, but I'm not feeling it yet.

But really, these things, these shirts, these signs I'm searching for, they're just distractions. They're reasons not to blame myself for fucking up. Reasons not to blame others for letting me down. Reasons to continue moving forward. Reasons to deflect from the uncertainty and vague anxiety I have about the rest of this year. Gratitude lives in a bag of everything bagels from Brooklyn, and walking a dog in the warm sunshine with your favourite Pixies song on infinite repeat. Comfort comes in small gestures, the hugs I allow myself to receive, the compliments I accept, the love I give, and a new pair of low-cut chucks. It's easy to sit around and wait for the other shoe to drop, but I've worked pretty hard to force myself out of that pattern of thinking. I'm just going to put the first shoe back on, dammit. We're all naked under our stupid lucky shirts, anyway.

333 Sunset Maugham

Lately, I've been playing a game (with myself) called "Sunday Shuffle". Last Sunday, I had a good shuffle stretch that included a Dudley Moore/Peter Cook sketch, AC DC, Reigning Sound and Dayglo Abortions. I generally like this game.

Yesterday, I decided I wasn't going to talk to or see anyone for at least 24 hours. At 4 pm today (hour 21), I hit shuffle and went for a walk. Lost in thought, I didn't pay much attention to what was playing, but...

I was at the (mostly organic) fruit market. While waiting in line, a child of about 7 was flailing about, and accidentally punched me in the thigh. He was crying hysterically because I was between him and the display of granola/energy bars. That's when "What's Your Problem" by the Circle Jerks came on. It was pretty surreal. And hilarious. I started to giggle (SILENTLY), and crouched to face level with the kid. I grinned (SILENTLY) right in his face. And he stopped crying. And smiled back. End of meltdown.

That's when I realized that this kid was about as old as I would have been when my mother was my age. Today (wait, now yesterday) would have been her birthday.

She would have likely been confused by my purchases (wild mushrooms, baby greens, hot pepper, fresh garlic), but happy that I was cooking. She might have been disappointed by my professional life, but she would have been pleased that it hasn't crushed me (yet). She would hopefully have understood that while I am not in love, I love and am loved, and that is most important of all.

My life has been dramatically different from hers, largely because her death served as a catalyst for me. I learned about the brevity of existence at an early age, and I have lived accordingly. A life full of experiences is not the same as a life fully lived.

My friend S. said tonight, "Was there any point to this, or was it just for your own amusement?". Those things are one and the same for me. Amusement and comfort are the name of the game. I'm sticking with the plan.

Hare Pie

For 8 days in mid-January 2008, the town of Baker Lake, Nunavut was snowed in as the result of its longest blizzard since the 1940s. Baker Lake is considered to be the blizzard capital of Canada. It averages 75 snowy days per year, and my first year in the community, school was cancelled due to blizzard 55 times. So, while snow is not uncommon, it’s unusual for planes to be unable to land for more than a couple days at a time. By the third day of the blizzard, the national CBC was reporting that several towns in Nunavut had begun to run out of food. I knew this only from watching it on the television, because I was—of course--snowed in.

The night the blizzard started, I had gone to friends’ trailer to watch a movie. It was snowing lightly as I left my place. Less than 3 hours later, when I went to leave, I discovered a 5ft high and 4ft deep Arctic concrete snowdrift blocking the doorway. I was trapped.

This wasn’t such a big deal, initially. The two inhabitants of the trailer were a pilot and ground crew employee, and basically my only friends in town. We spent a couple of days eating through the food in the freezer and watching movies; a little giddy about the brief vacation from work we’d been given.

It’s at this point that I should mention that a few short weeks before, I’d been sleeping with the pilot. We'd always had a brother/sister dynamic, but it was Christmastime, we were lonely, and after a night of drinking bootleg Courvoisier while counting dozens of shooting stars under northern lights so low it felt like you could touch them, we fell into bed together. The morning after, we did it again. In the sober light of day, it was suddenly a little awkward. A few hours later, we had to dress up like Santa Claus and the Sugarplum Fairy. We had to hand out 550 presents to local children in 90 minutes. By time that was all over, things had gotten really awkward. But I guess why there's that saying...“fuck santa once, shame on me...". Anyway, that’s another story. We secretly clung to each other for comfort until parting company at the Winnipeg Airport Sheraton on Christmas Eve a few weeks later. It had been fine since returning from break, but as the days passed in captivity, things grew a little tense between us.

By the fourth day, we were basically out of food. I made banana bread for breakfast, and then we used the peels to lure arctic hares to the living room window. While we waited for them, we watched a cannibal movie, because of course that's what you do when you're running out of food and trapped with a couple other people in a confined space. Eventually, two rabbits took the bait, and the pilot shot them with a pellet gun. While he cleaned them, I got the ladder. I leaned it up against the drift in the doorway, and squeezed out through the 2ft space near the top. I walked, completely snowblind, 20 metres to the house next door to borrow flour. I phoned back to the trailer when it was time to return, and the ground crew employee yelled so I could follow his voice back.

We watched a second cannibal movie while the rabbit braised. The pilot and I gave each other the stink eye from across the room.

I made puff pastry from scratch, assembled two hare pies, and we watched the day’s third cannibal movie (I KNOW!) while they baked.

Bedtime came. The pilot and I retired to his room, a tiny, wood-paneled, orange-accented box with two single beds. We laid in silence for ten minutes, and then he came over to my bed. And then we did what sad, lonely people do in the Arctic when shack wacky in a tundra-tied tuna can. And then he went back to his bed. I rolled over to face the wall, and started to cry. A little bit at first. I heard him sigh. And then I cried harder. Ugly cry hard. He shushed me. And then he asked me to stop. And so of course, I couldn’t. In the previous 7 months, I’d left an 8 year relationship, moved to the Arctic, and was barely surviving 50 day runs of 18 hour days by living on off-brand energy drink and beef jerky. I was a little "delicate". And that’s when he shot me in the ass with the pellet gun he’d killed our dinner with. He shot me in the ass to get me to stop crying. I stopped crying, alright. And then I got up, took the gun and got back into my tiny bed. And then I shot him in the leg. And THEN I slept pretty soundly.

You know that moment? That moment when you know you’ve probably slept with someone for the last time? I’m often guilty of being in denial about those moments, but later am inevitably forced to admit that I KNEW. Anyway, the moment he shot me in the ass with a pellet gun at close range, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to sleep with the pilot again.

The next morning, though the 110km/hr winds continued to blow, the snow had largely stopped falling, and a loader was carving the snow away from the entry door of the trailer. The pilot drove me home to the Iglu Hotel, where I was living. As I got out of the truck, I felt relief. I also felt a wave of the premature nostalgia that often befalls me. Reminiscing on moments that are still happening, and so on. And I was so lonely in those days that I already felt utterly alone before I was even out of the truck. So as I stepped out, I felt a little sad. I paused, holding the door open, and tried to imagine maybe sleeping with him again. That’s when, lost in thought, I lost my grip on the door in the 110km/hr winds, and the door crushed my nose. The pilot LAUGHED at me, and then basically drove off. You know that moment when you’re SURE you’ve slept with someone for the last time? That’s when I was SURE I was never going to sleep with the pilot again.

In the years since then, the pilot and I easily mended fences. He's a dear friend. Two nights ago, I accepted a contract working for him for the summer. So, yes. I will be returning to Nunavut for a spell, which should help bankroll some cool things I plan on doing in New York. I'm actually kind of excited. But if the pilot pulls a gun on me again, I will fuck him up. Mark my words.

oh. so that's where i left my petard. huh.

good lord, it's february.

i have spent much of today alone, in my usual home uniform (ancient concert t-shirt, jeans, chucks), with my hands folded in my lap. quietly. quietly. thinking. quietly.

i have spent a lot of time alone in the last three and a half years. i have spent a lot of time sleeping on couches. i lived out of suitcases until a week ago. i sleep best in my clothes. i listen to music more than i listen to conversation. i cook better than i eat. i write more than i read. i think better than i speak. but dude, i feel the shit out of everyone and everything.

what's next is now. today was supposed to be the day that the universe revealed itself, but by now, i should know better than to rely on the universe. and so, universe unyielding, i made some decisions. by decisions, i really mean that i have been listening to music like a ouija board, and i think i know now what is next. and by next, according to iTunes, next is Pablo Cassals and Dead Kennedys and Biz Markie. maybe i shouldn't let iTunes make all the decisions around here. hmm.

i spend a lot of time thinking about how to quantify abstractions. how to show happiness. how to eat satisfaction. how to wear self. how to call bullshit.

a friend wanted to hug me tonight. it was difficult. i don't like hugging. rather, i don't like being hugged. once i'm in, i'm in. but i don't like being hugged. i am clothed, always.

here's what i know: i am the same as i was at 5. here's what i know: i'm shy. here's what i know: if i stop moving, i sink. here's what i know: i am a shark.

here's what i know: it's going to be okay.

when i was 12, i won the district 26 spelling bee. on the spot, i fudged the spelling of the word "scythe", and i won (sorry, CJW). i won a horrible week at a horrible summer camp, where i had to stuff my own horrible mattress out of horrible hay to the dismay of my horrible allergies, and spread horrible margarine on horrible white bread toast. it sucked, but winning is sometimes important (to me). i feel like i've won, on some level. the prize might be shit, but i'm willing to accept it.

dear prize: don't be shit.

sincerely,

me

p.s. (this blog gets 1400 hits a month. who the hell are you people? comments? please?)

Enthusiasm, an Open Heart, and a Selective Memory

(that thing you always are, that thing you'll always be. again.)

I found unmailed letters, written by my mother.

On My Sixth Birthday

"I was so afraid that this year would change her, rob me of her headlong joy. It should be a lesson. She is as brave and intractable as ever. She reads as a fully literate person and will not print to prove it to them. Her birthday wish this year was that everybody be at her next birthday."

On My First Day of Grade One

[Brian P. was a boy that i was fixated on as a very young girl. after 2 solid years of HARD rejection, i gave up on boys altogether. i didn't develop another crush until late junior high, and didn't lose my virginity or get a boyfriend--in that order--until first year university. but the Brian P. story goes a long way to explain the way that i approach life; enthusiasm, an open heart, and a selective memory.]

[K] "started school today. After a summer of not missing school or Brian P., she was wildly impatient for the morning to pass and school to start. Spent the morning buying Snoopy pencil case, crayons and ruler at City Pharmacy. She couldn’t wait for school, wondering/hoping that Brian would be excited to see her. Completely forgetting that she had accepted that he hated her before school closed. She wanted me to walk her to school. More and more excited as the minutes passed, planning show and tell. She will take Scrabble Sensor and give everyone in the class a word. She has it all thought out.

At one point as she dressed, she called out “I’m really a big girl now, aren’t I?”. Walked her up, leaving at 10 to 1. When we came to the gates, she raced in forgetting all about me [and my baby brother]. Very few children were there, all appearing older. She drifted from one group to another. Stood outside the fence, unable to tear myself away, marveling at her enormous strength and bravery. Only then realizing that I’d taken [K] half an hour early. Watched her stand, alone, for a time.

[K] came home with word that school was terrific. Asked if Brian was happy to see her, she said no. He hated her. When she told him she was moving, he said, “Good”. And she didn’t even chase him or kiss him. She looked regretful, then in typical [K} bounce back said, “sometimes he does like me to chase him, you know”."

sometimes you're embarrassed enough to delete.

In The Spirit Of Things

I used to do some acting as a kid. Beyond a lot of show choir and dabbling in musical theatre, I was in a few commercials, all low budget and mortifying. I was in a few movies, as well. They too were all low budget and mortifying while ALSO having the curious distinction of ALL being costume dramas. Partly, this was because the place I grew up was close to an historical village/tourist attraction that drew its share of film crews. I also suspect that I was cast in these movies because I have that kind of face. I don’t even know what “that kind of face” is, other than “not exotic”, or “plain” but there you have it. I only ever got cast in period dramas that involved me wearing bloomers and petticoats and bonnets and dresses, all made of itchy wool that bordered on felt, something akin to torture when shooting in the rain.

So it came as no surprise when I auditioned for a movie set to shoot at the historical village and was invited for a callback…in Toronto. Very exciting! I had an exceptionally “not exotic” face! I presented myself to the on-camera Toronto audition in a plain dress, my hair pulled simply back. I looked the part. And the part. Yes, the part. What of it? I was reading the part of a girl in a quilting circle. The youngest (and only unaffianced) girl in a quilting circle, to be exact. The scene read something like this (I’m GS):

A: I am very happy to be betrothed to Ezekiel. He is a good man. Every day, he helps father in the field. He will be an excellent provider.

B: I am very happy to be betrothed to Jebediah. He is a handsome man. Even Martha Featherstone agrees, and she is the prettiest in the whole town!

C: My marriage to Samuel is so wonderful. You have much richness and love to anticipate. Being a wife is a bounty of things to enjoy (giggles).

GS: Oooooh…Ezeeeeeeekiel….Ohhhhhh! Jebediah! Ezeeeeekiel! Oh Ezekiel! Jebediaaaaaah! Oooooh! Saaaamuel! Samuel! Samuel! (wild giggles)

Read this to yourself. How does it sound?

Here’s how I read it: like I was a ghost. Like I was a ghost, haunting three very unfortunate men. Like a ghost who really enjoyed, uh, ghosting, hence the maniacal (read: head thrown back) spin I put on the "giggles" bit at the end. Obviously.

I read it once. The table sat in silence. They asked for another read. They told me to be more “into it”. I went for it. More wailing, more vibrato, more EVERYTHING, drawing directly from my favourite ghost of all time, Jacob Marley in the Alistair Sim version of ‘A Christmas Carol’. They dismissed me after a third read.

I thought I had it in the bag. I mean, I had totally ghosted the shit out of that thing, right?

Sigh.

Yeah, I have a favourite all-time ghost. What of it?

p.s.(i was 20)

(I had forgotten about this whole debacle until this week, when ‘Operation Take Back The Music” decided to reclaim The Mountain Goats’ ‘The Life of the World to Come’, which I’d had to break up with not long after its release fall of 2009, owing to some unpleasantness which I will not go into here. Anyway, I got the album back, but this story came with it. Do with it what you will.)

Actually, no.

(In the office, in Nunavut)

Local Clerk: Which one is John Candy?

Local Receptionist: He's the guy who lost all that weight by eating at Subway.

Local Clerk: Right. He only ate 6" subs until his pants got big.

Local Receptionist: 6" subs without mayo. WITHOUT MAYO.

Local Clerk: Right on. I wish we had a Subway. I need my pants to get big.


It's not that you're getting smaller, it's that your pants are getting bigger. I like that.

Bawdy Language

I grew up in a house without a full-length mirror. It was important to be smart. It was important to be creative. It was not important to be popular or pretty or to put any sort of effort into your appearance. I still have to force myself to try on clothing before purchasing it. I only started wearing mascara a few years ago. I wasn’t a tomboy, but we listened to ‘Free To Be, You And Me’ a lot in my home.

That said, even though I wasn’t a tomboy or jock, I did join the rugby team the year I was at Dal, with the hopes of making friends, even though my joints were sort of in tatters from years of jazz dance in cheap shoes. What I mean to say here is that I joined because I wanted to get invited to parties where there would be male rugby players. And while I’m telling the truth, I should confess that I never played a game, only practicing with the team for a couple of weeks before getting so sick that I had to stay home for 5 days.

The first day I felt well enough to leave the house, I went for a very long walk in the rain. When I got home, while changing out of my wet jeans, I realized that I was quite stiff and decided to stretch. I lunged over my left leg, rolled my head around in a circle to stretch out my neck. That’s when I saw it in the mirror. I was boarding with a family at the time, staying in their guest room. The guest room had a full-length mirror, and there it was. My ass. In the mirror.

I was 21 years old, and I’d never seen my own ass.

I was wearing gigantic purple underpants (bloomers, nearly), but that did not stop me from—head swiveled around 180º—grinding and shaking my rump, marveling at its existence, not to mention the fact that it was ATTACHED TO MY BODY. Have you ever seen an infant who is completely mesmerized by their own hands? Like that.

I must have kept at it for a good 5-10 minutes. Until, on the other side of the room, the phone rang. I turned my head to face the ringing, my weight shifted slightly, and…

I heard a loud snap.

I dislocated my knee.

I lay on the floor for hours, waiting for someone to come home, and when they did, they found me helpless in giant purple underpants. Not my finest moment.

When you injure your knee, they ask a lot of questions at the hospital. This is so they can anticipate what sort of damage you’ve inflicted. As they cut me out of my overalls (my knee had swollen considerably, particularly after I was dressed and ‘mobile’. and yes. overalls. it was the 90s.) and put me in a cast, I was forced to repeat the story several times. Several times more than I suspect was medically necessary. Again, not my finest moment.

I still don’t have a full-length mirror, and sometimes leave the house completely inappropriately dressed (see: the great shirt vs. dress battles of 2010). Sometimes, like today, I feel like I should make more of an effort where my appearance is concerned. And then I remember my knee and worry that I might wind up with a bone break or worse if I tried to use tinted moisturizer or a hair styling tool.

Happy New Year, everyone. Here's to keeping it real while making a whole lot more carefully considered bad decisions. Here's to hot meals burning the roof of your mouth, and cold hands freezing the small of your back. Here's to being okay with being happy without fretting too much about the sadness that might be around the bend. Here's to being okay with being sad, so long as you're willing to let people try to cheer you up. Here's to comfort wherever and whenever we can find it, no matter how fleeting.