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.