I want to walk up to Jean Charest and say "Give your head a shake boy."
I will admit that living just west of La Belle Province, I was taking a bit of 'nothing much has changed since I was in university' approach to the student strike in Quebec this past year. I remember the dramatic increases university students faced in Ontario in the early 90s and was a bit fatalistic about the whole thing. Then, I heard about the Metro attacks and though... "Oy, not good for the cause." And for the student who genuine and peacefully want to speak up. Violence is about silencing voices and scaring people.
Then the elected Quebec government went ahead and lost their minds. In what seems to most of us to be a clear over-reaction to the situation, they passed a bill limiting free assembly all over the province -- forcing demonstrations of more than 50 people to register with the cops eight hours.
Which prompted a protest of 100,000 people and this really funny notification from the Gatineau Chamber of commerce asking police how many plain-clothed officer they'll be sending so they could adjust their catering order. (I'm trying to find it but it seems to have been taken down.) http://talktothehump.blogspot.ca/2012/05/snap.html.
I'm worried however, between attempt to get up in my uterus (again!), alleged election fraud, draconian legal changes, and just a whole whack of stuff that makes me wonder what country I woke up in. I just really have no clue what to do about it.
These, ladies and gentlemen, are a pair of very cute Malhalo ukeleles. One blue, one orange. (I'll let you figure out which is which.) Ukeleles may be my new favourite thing in the world.
"For Christmas, I would like an orange ukelele." I said to The Man, confident that making his Christmas shopping so much easier, he would respond with glee and joy.
Instead he said: "Because Vedder put out that ukelele album right?" In a tone that suggested that perhaps this was not a perfectly valid reason. (As an aside, The Man has been known to enjoy a bit of Vedder here and there. Jewels and I suspect that he's got a ManCrush but dare not admit it. I just want to say to him, Sweetie, The Boss won't mind if you see Pearl Jam on the side.)
Dashed and crushed, I decided to get him coal for Christmas and may have spent a long time huming "You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch" within ear shot.
I did what all reasonable women do in this situation, I called Jewels, aka the best friend who gets it. She responded with the EXACT right answer: "Oh great idea. Eddie would approve. What colour?" She gets it. I love her.
Upon bringing the best present ever home, I quickly realized two things,
1. I have no clue how to tune it. (There's an app for that. Yes there is.)
2. I have exactly no clue how to play it (Requiring more help than YouTube and the Internet can provide.)
And I can't let Jewels down. So I signed up for group lesson and an intro with Manitoba Hal at the Ottawa Folklore Centre. Within an hour or two, I realized that:
1. I can actually make this sound music-like
2. Look at all the pretty pretty better sounding ukes in the room. (I have been known to fall down the oh, shiny syndrome.)
Then The Boy and I went to Mexico with my parents. I told The Boy that I was brining my orange uke (dubbed Wonder Woman), and he wanted one too. So we bought the blue one (that I've dubbed Superman). Soprano ukeleles will fit in your carry on. And your parents won't get why you need to bring them. And your inner 16 year will think this is full of win.
Then we came home and still every week, I'd go and pine over new ukeleles. I'd pick them up and think I need to save up for another one. I expect this how people end up with 35 cats. They're all snuggly and warm. And I started saving up for a ukelele. I saved for a whole two weeks and got to $12.50. (The Man donated the quarters.)
Then one day after guitar lessons, I was waiting for The Boy to be done with his piano lessons. But there were no seats at Starbucks. So I would just go back to OFC and look for ukeleles at my leisure. Look not buy...shapes and sizes, tones... Talked to the guy who said "Buy what speaks to you." And I'd hoped the ones on sale would. Because who doesn't love a sale.
Then I picked one of these up. And the angels sang. And I put it back, and walked around the room again. And we reconnected and I had to bring it home. Isn't he beautiful?
And it's love... There is a healing to the ukeleles. It's damn hard to take yourself too seriously while you're holding. It's just happy, unpretentious and happy escapism. (Unlike the guitar, which I like some of the time, but it's still frustrating in that, I will get this kind of way.) And seriously this sounds better than Superman and Wonder Woman. It's got a depth, a richness and a deep down joy.
But I'm looking to grow the flock some more. Look at this sopranissimo... it's super tiny.
And really no collection would be complete without at least one tenor uke (they come in sizes.) And well that banjolele is oh so fun. And really, watermelon and pineapples and all that. So yeah, one lesads to two, two leads to 20.
I was all set to post my entry from Canada Writes non-fiction bit, but re-read it and it really is rather terrible and needs some work. Really, it's like Twilight minus Sparkly vampires (no old men watching women sleep or things equally creepy.) Actually, my grammar is still better than vampire lady's.
It's been a journey to here. Been pondering it of late. My counsellor says I need to enjoy the journey a little bit. Sit back. Take it all in. It's not all turmoil and navel gazing. Though to be fair, I'm doing my fair share of that as well. This is a story about how I got up one morning and words were no longer there. It's not that life wasn't funny or things didn't happen, I just coudln't tap into it. It happened so gradually that I just sort of faded with them. Then one day poof gone, couldn't do it. So I stopped.
To blame the words is a bit like blaming the pen. They were clearly there I just couldn't bring them here. They are the tools of the story. I'm not an outline, brick laying kind of writer, that's the point of the blog. I sort of start at A and end up wherever. There is no real process. It just comes. I mean it's not that I didn't have stuff I could have said. (Harper and his band of thieves still running Parliament give me plenty of fodder.) I start, the words and I connect and they come like a whooosh... sort of like today.
I reckon it's the creative equivalent of a throwing up (minus the gagging and the copious quantities of tequila), it's sometimes difficult but in the end I usually feel better about things. I don't really control it much. It all just sort of lands on the page and we go where we go. I just allow it by getting out of the way.
The really incredible fabulous posts took no longer than 30 minutes to write. The ones I loved. Perfect save for the words that I skip because of speed. When it flows my hands have a hard time keeping up with my mind. Writing for me is not about thinking. It's about flow. Flow. In October, the flow slowed to a trickle and it was all I could do write the corporate crap I had to for work.
In college, I could just plug in. Wooosh. There's a poem. Whoosh, a story. (It was late '80s, there were no blogs or I'd have kicked it at that too. Or rather I'd have thought about it.) Life happened, I got serious. Tried to do the career thing. Felt a soul crush. Left. Had baby. Took time. Tried career 2.0. Soul crush. Took a bit time. (Easier without the baby.) Rinse lather repeat. The spirit is willing, but doubt was ever-present and getting stronger. Whatever it is that I should be doing to keep myself happy and inspired, clearly I was missing the mark.
A few months ago, I saw the signs of the soul crush coming, once more. (It's convoluted and really not that interesting anymore.) Much sooner than expected. The voice within was talking "Are you listening Missy?" it said. "How often do we do this?" Then the words stopped and I was forced to listen with waves of deep engulfing sadness. There were no words. There wasn't much of anything. I fell silent. I crawled into this little room went through the motions. I decided that it was ok for me not write, it was ok not to be creative. It was ok to just push it to the side.
I threw myself into strength training and stopped listening to my own inner voice. Sort of, dabbled in a few things. Took advice that was well meaning, but really not right for me. I knew it wasn't right, yet I silence it. Luckily inner voice may have been silent to myself, but it was clearly sending out a beacon. Help found me.
Two people who didn't know each other and really don't know me very well recommended counsellor. That's either a sign from the universe or really good marketing. (I decided that it was the former.) Enter Di, who I was sure would say "it's ok you don't need to write." It's ok to crawl into that quiet life. That's what you should do. Grow up. Plan B. Your parents were right. Move along now, that'll be $150 please. What happened instead was, she took one look at me and said "Oh my god, you're an artist." I protested told her no, I couldn't write, I wouldn't write. I wasn't a poet or a writer or an artist or really anything. I was a working stiff, who was just a bit confused and needed a new career path.
It's taken a bit with many teachers, concerned friends, and a strong strong Man. There is tremendous love for me. And slowly I'm refinding my voice, and learning to listen to it first. Trusting that voice and trusting that I have all the talents and skills to take me where I need to go. I'm working on it still. I'm rebuilding (I have the technology?) I'm changing, growing and learning to forgive... myself most of all.
So I'm back, funny strong slightly left centre and off on this journey. It's the same me, just a bit mor authentic.
I feel I owe you an explanation.I sort of fell off the planet for a little bit there without warning (that story begins next week, or when I have the courage to write it, whatever comes first.) It was unexpected but really, it was necessary. I needed to have a long chat with myself, get over it, and well, we've re-integrated are generally well balanced and will move on with things.
Time to come out of the shell. Stretch and an affirmation... I trust and believe in myself. Oooohm et tout ça... I may have had a bit of counselling too. I'd like to say I've had a revelation about the blogosphere and my place in it or what I plan to do it... just that for now, I'm back. Like Seinfeld, I trust that it's ok that it's not about anything except me.
When last we spoke I was musing about zombie and late slips. The Boy is still not entirely ok with zombies as an excuse for being late. He is still not ok with it, but we've been late a lot less. He did let me use Shark Attack which I am thinking is some sort of progress. I've met with his English teacher and I'm 95 per cent convinced that she'd think both Voldemort and/or zombies would be a fabulous excuse. (Though not so much if the Maths homework wasn't done.)
To make up for not being able to use my most excellent batch of excuses, I made up for it by being on time for school. This doesn't sounds like a big deal, but really, I've been on time for school more in the last six months than I have in my entire academic career. (Oddly, I'm usually on time or early for most of the things in my life. I wonder if it's an issue with authority.) On time for school, feels so damned responsible... responsible makes me sleepy.
We did pull The Boy out of school for three days so that we could go see Bruce Springsteen in Boston and Buffalo. I feel better about it because they weren't three consecutive days.
Boston was awesome. I'm feeling the need to go and do a masters degree or a phd. Because it's so damned me, they wouldn't even be useful. Still it makes me tingle... (but not sparkle because that's for stab worth vampires.)
We all had the snots during the show in Boston. I think we can agree that it's better than getting the shits. Buffalo, thanks to my ticket mojo had fabulous sight lines and was a great show. Seriously the new arrangement of City of Ruin made me cry both times. Boy liked it too... must admit seats are nice for the suddenly exhausted and those travelling with over-excited 11-year-old boys who must suddenly sit down. And he has been schooled at the Church of the E Street band.
Next year, he'll be going the French version of fame school for Grade 7. He's stoked, mostly that he'll be taking the bus to school and won't have to worry about his mother making excuses. They grow up so fast eh?
A bit more introspective here for a change. My deepest sympathies go to Jamie Hubley's family and to all his friends. It feels a tremendous loss for this community and for the world.
The Boy is going into middle school next year. We're facing the hard decision about where to send him, that scary time for parents when you realize it's time for him to leave the spread his wings a bit. Decisions that seem enormous and overwhelming at the moment. Jamie's story hits close to home. Jamie by all accounts was involved in his community, like his dad. He was well liked by his friends. Like Jamie, The Boy has been bullied. And like the Hubleys, the situation was brought to the attention of school officials.
In our case, I'd give the school a solid C+ for handling the situation. I know another situation, the previous year where, quite frankly, I don't think it was handled so well. (The bullied child in this situation left the school.) Our bully left the school at the end of last year, I know more than one parent who was happy we'd heard the last of him. But at the end of the day, leaving the school doesn't solve the problem in the long run. In my mind, the fact that the incidents would happen in the first place is indicative that whatever programs we have in place, are clearly not working.
Kids committing suicide is another.
Zero tolerance, koombaya at recess and "be nice" posters and talks sounds really good in the boardroom but as an increasingly high number of suicides show don't translate well at all to the classroom. I'd go so far as to say the same thing for the pledges.
I'm worried because I know The Boy, try as he may, doesn't fit nicely into the mold. He's not particularly athletic, he's a bit of a philosopher -- an artsy, smart and funny. He's different. He's a lot like me. And I adore this about him. I love that he's not typical, but didn't that make high school a very special inner circle of hell for me. I hope that like me, he'll find some cool close friends and keep his head down. Just makes it through -- those uneventful kids none of us remember. (Yes, in fact I was one of those.)
I was bullied in grade school. Not seriously, you know fat kid with a funny accent stuff. Things were better in high school. I remember feeling like I never quite fit in, but I had friends and it was ok. But things were dark in my head. Very dark. Depression just wasn't something anyone talked about then besides really, I didn't know who to turn to, even if I'd wanted to. Looking back on those years now, I just remember feeling tremendously alone. It was definitely a hard hard time. I can't imagine having to deal with taunts and physical assaults.
But here is my point.
As an adult, there are 800 things I'd tell my teenaged self to do. And I'm pretty sure teenage me would ignore them -- every single one. I confided in no one about the dark ideas in my head except maybe the long lines of angsty poetry I kept in my journal. Really, there is no way I'd have gone to my parents or a teacher or anyone with this. Somewhere along the way, the adults lost me. Somewhere along the way I lost me too. (But that is fodder for another post.) I'm 90 per cent sure that if you'd thrown bullying into that mix, I'd not be here today. It's just one more thing.
It gets better, yes. It will. (Really, if you're a teen in trouble, it does. I swear.) It got better for me. I found my like minded cohort. But damn it if I'm not ok with kids going through for years of torment. And wouldn't it be well, great, if it could be better now. Right now? And isn't that what we should be aiming for? Don't we want to look back on this period as the dark days when adults did the right thing stirred shit up. Why is it we're all ok with high school being so bloody mean? It's time for change.
Out-dated ideas towards sexual orientation need to make their way out of the curriculum. Normal need be about love and caring and healthy relationships. Not so much about who does what to whom ... not about sin, and fire and brimstone. It should also be about respect for differences. And if the teachers and parents disagree, fuck 'em. This attitude is killing our kids.
And it's not citing the bible that is going to be make it better. In fact, one could argue that it's what created this problem in the first place. Reciting the Bible did me absolutely no good either.
As adults though we need the courage to support our kids 100 per cent and that means being ok with different sexual orientations.
More importnat than this, we need to give kids the strenght to stand up and in turn ostracize the bullies. Because it's only through social pressure that these kids will see the problems they're creating. But I have no clue how we get there... And right now, I'm not sure the school boards around here do either. But it's time they got wise and fast.
As for me, all I can do is be there and be loud in support of all kids. A lot of us care... come find us, we'll work through it together. Promise. And if I can't make it better today, I promise to help you get through for tomorrow.
The Boy goes to a private school and I have to drive him to school. As part of our marching orders, they routinely send us emails about getting our children to school on time. Though I'm all about being punctual usually. School on time is occasionally problematic. You know traffic and morning and can't get my shit together.
When we get to school, I have to fill out the late slip, which includes such pertinent information as name, time and reason. Usually I make up traffic jams and things like "overslept." This morning it occurred to me that maybe, these excuses lacked creativity. And I suggesed a few new ones to the child.
As a result I have been strictly forbidden from putting the follwing thing in the "reason" box of his late slips.
The turtle ate his homework.
Took the red pill.
The police said that the first bell DID NOT constitute an emergency. Tuition payment for next month will be late.
This story begins a long long time ago when The Man was just a boy. His mother came home with a surprise for her sons -- two small turtles. I'm not entirely sure how it transpired or if it was a June Cleaver-esque type thing: "Hi boys, I was in pet store and brought you home each a turtle. Here have some soy milk and vegan, ancient grain beet carob cookies" or if the guys nagged her into it. (Don't buy pets in pet stores.)
We ended up with both turtles when The Man's brother moved to the States.Then in the 90s, a girl who was trying to woo The Man asked him to take care of her turtle. "Hey Baby, want to take care of my turtle." Then we never heard from her again.
Sucker written all over us.
In the last ten years, two have died. We also lost track of who is who. Really, they do all look the same and they quickly grew to be all the same size. And then there was one... it's like a discount Agatha Christie novel. (Seems like a waste of that line.)
Given that they need a spot to bask, she has a stack of rocks that she can up on to get close to the light (and heat). The rest of her aquarium is filled with water. (This, I understand, is not the way most people keep red ears. Then again, most people's red ears don't live to be at least 30. So fuck 'em.)
In the spring and in the fall, the turtle goes on these walk abouts (sex and hybernation we think). She climbs onto her rocks and props herself over the side to freedom. Once out, she'll explore things like the bathroom (a favourite spot) and the hallway. Or the middle spot under the bed where I won't stick my hand because of monsters. (And the turtle bites if you put your hand in front of its head. Under the bed it's hard to tell which end is which.)
Now if we miss the original escape. (You can hear it.) Or we're at work and she has a good long walk about tracking her down can be problematic, leaving turtle pee ponds for me to walk in. From time to time, she's waiting for me in my shoes (no doubt peeing in those as well).
This season, for whatever reason, the turtle has been particularly active and got out of her tank FOUR times last Saturday. Which is, quite frankly a pain. There have been a number of slow speed turtle chases. Then if The Man catches her she happily succumbs and let him put her back in her tank. If I catch her. She'll hiss and pee on me...and you hear all about it on twitter. (@natsbrain)
As most of us in this city/country, I have much to be grateful for this Thanksgiving... and as we've done with the feast with terrific wine and conversation. I usually do this Abundance Journal on paper for tonight, an exception.
For all of you, who take moments out of your day and share it with me, thank you. It's safe to say you've made me a better writer.
For the bloggers and tweeters, who've become in the flesh friends ... I'm thankful to the technology and the interface that makes this possible. And to you for open your lives up for me to share in them.
I'm, of course, tremendously grateful for The Man and The Boy, who allow me my journeys of self-discovery -- and who never ever let medown. I love you guys, and I'd be lost without you. Gratitude isn't big enough a word for the immense joy that our family unit has brings me every day. I love you two so much... (it's that bone crushing can hardly see kind of love.)
To my nearest and dearest friends, you all bring something unique and terribly necessary to my life. I've learned so much from you all. Thank you.
Thankful for the tremendous unwaverign support of my family. Thanks guys.
For music, the folks who make it and the all the audio equipment I own. Sigh. Life savers.
For the communities I live and work in. And the folks who make it tick. Thank you for making walking down the street a fun experience. Abundance and gratitude ...
For this life that is, by most measures spectacula, I have much to be thankful and grateful for...
I am working through a bit of a creative blockage of sorts when it comes to writing. It's not that I don't have time to write or that I have nothing say, really materials isn't lacking or time... well time is at a premium always, but you know I could cut back on Facebook time. I'm somehow gripped with fear and just can't quite put it out there. You know? Yeah, I could go on about any number of top of mind issues. Rant about this or that... women's rights, head scratching politics, odd things along the street. But I'm not. I just can't quite bring myself to do it.
And then I think, do you really need to know that I'm worried about how you all re-act if it's not "good". Then I think well how the fuck cares if you don't accept me. Except, you know, part of me does, and I'm working to get over that. Yeah I know, maybe I need to suck it up... high art and punk rock et tout ça.
I was speaking to a friend, who as most of you are, is wonderful. I think part of me was hoping that she would give me permission to quit writing. Rather than that, she gave me a warm hug and bit of inspiration, and a kick in th ass. (Great you're drawing and painting, write something would you.) Sometimes I need that. Amazing, she really is...
And she gave me tips and advice and we had a jolly good chat about playing and nurturing ourselves. Starting soon, I'll be posting how I've been playing. I'm also toying with the idea of creative practice. I'll be talking about that a bit as well. How do we, as people, make sure that we are nurturing our inner creativity... and maybe a bit of writing too.
“I'd rather be hated for who I am, than loved for who I am not.” Kurt Cobain
I was walking down the street carrying a newly purchased $40 black Buddah under my arm. When a man in an old Toyato Corrola winked at me from inside his car. Now given, this is Hintonburg -- I'm pretty sure he wasn't looking for a trick. Unless there is a new string of hookers walking around with Buddahs. Perhaps it's a code that I, not keeping up on hooker trends, didn't even know about. Some sort of weird Buddhist fetish thing...
There is the possibility that he's a guy I know and I didn't recognize him. Still it made me chuckle. And we'll never know what he wanted because I didn't stop. (Probably for the best.) Still I was smiling and saying hello to folks along the street.
All in all, it had been a very good week. The 1st year on my forties ended with little hooplah. (or is it the last year of my 30s?) I settled a rather long standing issue with a former employer. In the end, I got exactly what I wanted and then a bit more. To top it all off, I found this Buddah and he had to come home with me. Right then1.
Buddah is now sitting on my baker's rack, laughing. Because the kitchen is the most sacred spot in this house and well, it means he's facing me when I work here. I like that. I think he's supposed to live in the garden but so did the gargoyle and he's never seen winter either. He's an indoor laughing Buddah.
I was thinking about the girl at Herb and Spice. Buddah made her smile too. "Oh you bought a Buddah," she said. I laughed. I suppose most customers don't put a Buddah on the counter as they pay for their broccoli. She asked if I wanted a bag for Buddah. That just seemed wrong... "No, I want to carry him home like this." She gave me a warm smile and a knowing nod.
All this Buddah stuff did get me thinking about a question posed to someone's status Facebook.
Who do you want to be? It said.
I dislike this question. Because it implies that I shouldn't want to be myself. And quite frankly, I don't want to be anyone else. (Even when life was turbulent I don't think I ever wanted to be anyone else.) Simply because I don't think that gets you anywhere. There are people whose talents and skills I admire, people I'd love to work with and be mentored by, people whose successes and failures have a lot to teach me, people I'd love to befriend. But, I really don't want to be anyone other than genuinely and authentically me -- real and true me. Aiming to be anyone else is a lie, and every time I've deviated from my true path, it's led to all sorts of misery. I think this is the sort of answer they were trying to elicit (or maybe not) But it occured to me that this is entirely the wrong question. But I'm not sure exactly what the right one is. But I didn't post that to Facebook.
All that aside though... right at that moment, I wanted to be the woman walking down Wellington street with a Buddah tucked under her arm. Life is good, people. Life is good.
___________
1. Upon showing my new purchase to The Man, he raised an eyebrow, which I interpreted to mean he thought $40 was too much to spend on a black volcanic ash Buddah. (I actually saw the same Buddah online for $48 + shipping) He says not so... maybe it was more questioning my sanity. This morning, he said he liked Buddah. This makes me happy.
