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.
Sunday, February 27, 2011
Monday, February 14, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, February 10, 2011
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.
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.
Friday, February 4, 2011
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?)
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?)
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