Keeping The Faith

When I was a kid, I used to have recurring themes in my dreams. Usually the theme was pretty broad - violence was a common one, with either me killing other people or them killing me. Violent dreams never bothered me, not then and not now. Apparently I'm a bit of a freak that way.

For a while it was shapeshifting, only nobody could see me becoming the other, and my sheer belief wasn't enough to keep it real even for me most of the time. I can't begin to describe how frustrating those ones were...and still are.

And there was the phase of the chasing dreams, where I was being hunted down and only my belief in my invisibility would save me. These ones almost always worked, but that's because by the time these ones came along I had learned to lucid dream (by accident and desperation, mostly, so don't ask me how to do it because I really have no idea) and could control certain aspects of the dream to keep myself safe.

Recently - and by recently I mean the last year or two - I've had a lot of dreams where Darkness is out to get me. Now, I have a confession to make. I am afraid of the dark. Not terrified, but afraid, like a spooked and skittish lamb who's too curious to leave well enough alone in spite of the fear. I always have been afraid of the dark, and I've always refused to cater to that fear by using night-lights or leaving a hall light on or by doing anything to alleviate the fear except by ignoring it and telling myself that the dark is not there to hurt me. I used to go check on my full-to-bursting pregnant ewes at night and not use my flashlight until I had to actually see if their bodies were still round or not, as a sheer test of my nerve. Of course, I had my dog with me. That always helped.

But this Darkness, the Darkness in my dream, it is there to hurt me. It wants me and I don't know why. It is not just darkness - it's Darkness. Ecthroi, nothingness, all-consuming Darkness and it's evil and it wants me and I don't know why and it does more than scare me. It fucking terrifies me.

Most of the time I have a guardian in my dreams. A giant butterfly, a bird, a candle. An angel. Faith. Hope and a source of light within myself. Usually all I have to do is face the darkness and it recoils from the light it sees within me.

But last night - none of that was there.

I was alone, alone in the dark, with lost spirits grasping for me, sad and confused girls reaching from the walls, the dark a deep greeny-blue-grey dusk and there was no way out and there were no doors or windows. I couldn't see and no matter how hard I prayed or squeezed my eyes shut I had no light inside, no light outside, no guardian beside me to protect me or inspire me to find my own protection. Nothing.

It was the most frustrating, terrifying experience I can recall ever having. And I've seen an actual evil spirit.

And then light burst through but within seconds - not even seconds - I knew it was fake, it was a facade put up by the Darkness to fool me into letting down my guard and do you know how exhausting it was to keep that up? Fuck.

I felt myself fighting my way through the layers of dreams I was trapped in and finally was able to reach over and feel S. there beside me and in that I knew I was safe, he was real, he wasn't evil and he wouldn't let them get me, and with that the true light burst through the facade, the Darkness recoiled and I was left in my sleep in peace.

And then instead of falling into peaceful dreams, I turned back and prayed to God and apologized for finding safety in S. instead of in Him, and couldn't focus enough on the true light to finish my prayer before I was sucked away into another dream and gone entirely into the land of sleep once more.

At least it wasn't another terrifying dream. It was something mundane and normal enough I don't remember it at all and it didn't stick with me in any way.

Upon true waking, I find it interesting that I felt guilt for finally finding peace somewhere.

And I find it absolutely terrifying that I couldn't find the light inside myself this time.

What if it's gone? What if I can never find the light again?

What if the light is love and I can't find it in God anymore?

Then at least thank God I can find it in S. I can find the light somewhere. Maybe I shouldn't try to analyze this so hard. If I couldn't find the light at all I'd be screwed. I'd never sleep again.

And I should probably blame at least a little bit of this terror on the fact that I've been sick for 4 and a half days now and my mind is probably exhausted and fuelling my dreams with fever and confusion; but that's precious little comfort when the feeling of the dream is still stuck on my skin and in my mind like a mist from a fog that won't quite brush off me. Like spider webs I can't find but I can feel.

So I look up and see the face of the man who I can touch who I know loves me; and I take what I can from that and try to remember that God loves me so much more that I can't even comprehend it (which is the problem, isn't it? If I could comprehend it maybe I'd remember it better...) and try to keep the faith.

Whatever that means.

Sick Sick Sick

God, I love having the flu.

Not really.

This one is kicking my butt. First with a fever (which I think is gone now for good, fingers crossed), then aches so intense I couldn't sit or lie down or move or stay still - nothing is comfortable when your hips and knees and ankles and wrists and elbows and neck joints all feel like you suddenly turned 99 overnight - which has been followed up with faucet-face and a persistent, non-productive cough. Oh, and did I mention the sore throat? It's been here for the whole ride. It's very loyal that way.

But I appear to be on the upswing so let's hope I'm all better in time for the weekend. After missing an entire week of work I'd better at least get something nice out of it.

I'm a Mapple Person!

I have joined the ranks of Mac users.

S. bought me a MacBook for my birthday, which blew my mind a little.

It's so easy to use! So sleek and user friendly and quick! The programs make sense, it prints like a dream (my PC was starting to take up to half an hour to communicate with the printer before anything resembling a document would come out), the keyboard short cuts are so convenient - it's easy to uninstall things, and easy to install them. It takes files of all kinds and just translates them without any effort on my part.

I'm obviously a little in love with it right now.

I was also going to say I'd never had anyone drop that kind of money on a gift for me - but then I remembered that my dad bought my other laptop for me as a gift too.

I've never had to buy a computer. Huh.

All I can say is that I'm one hell of a lucky girl!

Happy Anniversary

It's my parent's 28th wedding anniversary today.

Last week I got really confused and thought this year was their 24th...I was thinking of what I should do for their 25th, but it's come and gone and now I remember that between school and being in a show I wasn't able to do anything for the momentous year.

But 30 is coming up now, isn't it?

Anyway, congratulations to you, Mom and Dad, for 28 years of matrimony - peaceful and otherwise - and for showing the world, and more importantly us kids, that it can be done and it can be done well.

We Strive And Strive And Then We Die

I was told the Eden story this morning. Twice, in fact. Once through LOLCats (which, if you haven’t heard of it, isn’t even English anymore but it’s own twisted subversion [and originally I meant sub – version but now I see the other word there as well and it works too] of it. An example. Genesis chapter one, verse one reads like this: Oh hai. In teh beginnin Ceiling Cat maded teh skiez An da Urfs, but he did not eated dem. 2 Da Urfs no had shapez An haded dark face, An Ceiling Cat rode invisible bike over teh waterz…and on it goes, until it hits my personal favorite of the first chapter, verse 13: An so the threeth day jazzhands.) On a bit of a side note here, since I got tangled up in parenthesis; I actually derive a great deal of pleasure from LOLCats. Now. When I first ran across the site I was horrified. I am now horrified when people use that kind of spelling in their daily lives, but a really clever LOLCats makes me laugh heartily. And reading the Bible in their language is a very entertaining experience, in short doses because after six chapters my eyes were crossing from the effort of it.

Back to my original point, and the other Eden story.

I was having brunch with one of my friends and her sister this morning when the sister told me the other Eden story, my first one of the day. We were talking about the divine feminine, and as often happens when the patriarchy of the church is brought up, the garden of Eden came into the conversation. I’ve often heard of the subjugation of women being justified because of Eve’s mistake, but the sister added a layer to that for me by telling me that serpents are ancient symbols of feminine wisdom (something I didn’t know) and she said she didn’t believe Eve was tempted by a literal apple but by wisdom, knowledge, and an increase to her natural birthright of intuition and feminine wisdom. She went on to say that she didn’t think Adam was tempted by either the apple or the wisdom inherent in it, but by woman herself…and what does that say about their relationship that he would choose Eve over God? My friend, who had been listening to this conversation silently while she ate her blueberry scone, pointed out that Adam had been lonely, had experienced loneliness – indeed, that was why Eve was there in the first place – but her sister said he also experienced daily, intimate communion with God.

The sister continued, saying that she thinks the reason men have pushed down women, denied the power of the feminine, ignored the references in the Bible to the divine feminine, is out of fear. Not a fear of a woman’s strengths. A fear that should a woman get herself into a position to make a man choose between her and God, that they wouldn’t be able to choose God any more than Adam did. A fear of their weakness.

It brought up some interesting mental fodder for me. How often our strengths become our weaknesses. The fatal flaw – the one thing that makes us a hero is the thing that will destroy us. A woman’s intuition causing a desire for more wisdom, for godhood; a man’s desire for companionship causing a turning away from God. This shows up in people all the time. I see it in manipulative women, in men who can’t settle down. Both seem opposing to the qualities of strength but they feel rooted there for me somehow.

I wonder if we seek to crush that in the other sex that makes us feel inadequate, that which shows our weaknesses and flaws; yet at the same time I think we choose mates that will trigger our insecurities and show us exactly what those flaws are, if we’re open to see them.

Do we seek a higher truth even in our subconscious? Do we seek whether we wish to or not?

As I thought about the imagery of God as female – apparently, according to my friend’s sister, Job refers to God as ‘the breasted one’, which is translated as ‘God of the Mountains’ or ‘Almighty God’ – it came to me that removing the feminine from God doesn’t remove that strength from women. It tries to remove it from God, which can’t be done. It vilifies it and makes it a sin for a woman to be a woman, to be fully feminine and powerful, it makes it wrong for a woman to not be more like a man.

We are very powerful creatures, us women.

My mom told me that when I was a girl.

At the time I didn’t really understand what was being told to me, but I had a vague idea that it had to do with our physical bodies and our ability to arouse. As I got a bit older I figured it meant that a woman’s power over men was entirely sexual, that we had something they wanted and our power came from whether we granted it or not.

Now I think it’s neither of those. Both of those. Bigger than those.

I’m still struggling to define what feminine power is, probably will be for a while as I sort through the lies and truth in my head and heart and soul; but what vague ideas I have so far tell me that yes, my body is a source of power in many ways. I can distract with it; I can give and receive pleasure; I can bear children and be the bringer of new life; but there is more. Not just my physical body has power. My internal body, my soul. My spirit and heart and mind. I am brilliant in so many ways. I feel deeply. I can heal and wound, I can speak my voice, I can move and dance and sense the power of the stars, of light over darkness, of darkness over light. I can choose. I can be a beacon of light and a harbinger of death. My body, my power, my strength, lies in far more than just sex and I am learning that slowly.

As I pondered, I wished that I had been shown this growing up, that I didn’t have to figure it out on my own, now, as an adult. I wished that being told about my feminine power hadn’t come shaded with overtones of sex, and the use of sex as power. I only got confused. Sex was bad, power was good, where did both land? Why tell me I was powerful in the only arena I wasn’t allowed to use? I wished I had been told of the aspects within me of Aphrodite and Athena, Artemis and Hera, the intuition of the Oracle, visions from the goddess, Gaia and Hestia. There are so many aspects to the powerful feminine, the divine feminine, and I am only learning about them now. I wish I had known before, instead of having to find them out on my own as I search for a vision of myself that is true and whole.

Although I might not get that whole look until I’m dead. What a fucked up faith Christianity is, huh? You strive and strive and strive and all the while you acknowledge that your striving is all in vain because you won’t achieve what you’re striving for until you die.

I don’t get it.

It sounds a bit like I’m disappointed in my mom. I’m not. I know now, in ways I could never have understood then, what her limitations were and that she did the best she could, she really did. And she is an example of the strength of woman, more so with every passing day. That strength and power was there all along – when I was growing up it was often hidden under walls of pain, pushed out in spasms of violent anger directed at her loved ones instead of at her enemies. In some ways my mother became a negative masculine force in my life through that misdirected anger and violence, because she refused to recognize the feminine in herself and she didn’t acknowledge that her voice had worth and needed – no, deserved – to be heard. I spent a chunk of the day mourning the childhood I should have had, the childhood she should have had, the lost little girls and the lost powerful young women we should have both been…the things we both should have learned the easy way, by seeing it lived, instead of the hard way of unlearning the lies and relearning the truth.

But that’s not the point. The point is that we both, my mom and I, are pushing past the lies that have been passed down to us and are finding our power, our birthright, and beginning to own it. We have finally acknowledged that our voices need to be heard, that we need to speak, that we are the reflection of the divine in all our selves, in all our femininity. And my mother is an example to me of strength – the strength it takes to heal, to grow and to forgive; to learn and relearn, and to not be afraid to teach; to ask for help and to ask for desires; to give and to receive. There is a lot there for me to gather up and claim as my own, my inheritance, and it has been hard won and I both respect it and revel in it, like the victors revel in the gory battlefield.

There is a lot of violent imagery there and I was going to say that wasn’t very feminine of me, but who the hell knows? Artemis was the goddess of both wisdom and war. Joan of Arc led thousands to victory before she was killed. There is a side to me that does revel in battle, particularly when there is a victory over an injustice, which is what I feel like my mom has fought a lot of in her life. I revel in her victory then.

Plus I’ve been playing a lot of Dragon Age and I just watched The Return of the King. Epic battles stir the blood, what can I say.

To continue. I know I already mentioned that we strive and strive and then we die, but I refuse to go along with this. I refuse to accept that I will strive for something I will never get to see. No. Fuck no. I will see my own power before I am dead. I believe that I can achieve this before the end of it all and I will see myself honest and naked and strong in all my glory.

I will.

And then I’ll probably die right away afterwards. There’s a bit of me that feels that to see that would be to see the face of God – which sounds like blasphemy, but before you haul out your lightening bolts let me explain why it feels that way to me. Because wouldn’t I then be perfectly reflecting His face? And isn’t that perfection?

So maybe I won’t arrive, but that’s not what I’m looking for. I’m simply looking to be able to live a life without fear, a life where I can accept who I am in all that I am. A life where I will no longer be afraid to succeed, where I will no longer play small.

And that, I believe, I can do.

Life Goes By

I don't have much to say.

Life is happening around me.

I feel like I'm floating, trying to create meaning from the other floating things around me in the water. A piece of ribbon, a branch, some leaves...a giant trunk of a tree...a couple of bugs. What does it mean?

I have no idea.

That doesn't bother me.

I think this might be a good thing.

Working

It's nice to have something to do.

I'm in rehearsals again! I can't believe I'm getting paid to write and play with my friends.

I could do this all the time.

Maybe someday I will.

Days Go By

I have a lot of time on my hands these days and I'm not sure what to make of it.

Despite all the evidence to the contrary, I really thought I'd have a job by now.

I would have a job by now actually if it weren't for the acting gig I have for the next two weeks that takes me out of the employable sphere anyway. The business is still looking for help. Maybe I'll reapply in February.

But still. Lots of time right now and I don't know what to do with it.

I should be writing. Working on novels or plays or journals. Blogging. Doing something creative. Taking up the violin again. The only productive thing I've managed to do consistently since January 1st is do yoga.

I've thought about becoming a yoga instructor. Maybe next year.

I am writing, actually. Just started in earnest this week, challenged by S. who just finished working with a woman who writes a one-act every month. I decided I could do that. Pump out a first draft every month? Why not? This first draft will be done by Friday evening. I hope. All I can say is so far, so good.

I do also have another audition. That makes three this year. One isn't set yet but it's the one I'm most excited about. Three weeks into the New Year, three auditions. I'm pleased.

Broke, but pleased.

This time is a bit of an exercise in faith, and humility, and more faith. But it's okay so far. So far I've only had two minor panic attacks and I've been able to reroute my panic into more productive activities, like writing marketing outlines and press releases. Or not so productive activities such as turning on the XBox and killing as many zombies as possible in an hour.

At least I can take comfort in the fact that when the zombie apocalypse comes along and renders the world of money and gainful employment obsolete I will be somewhat prepared.

Until then though. Until then.

I Just Have To Say

I think I'm in love with Starbuck - Kara Thrace, from Battlestar Galactica, not the coffee.

There.

I said it.

Now you'll never know which S. I'm referring to in my posts.

Nothing Much To Say

Christmas was a nice break from reality.

The other day I was thinking and realized that in the full calendar years since graduation, I have had more than one acting gig every year.

It's only been two years, but still.

Last year: 2 gigs. 1 paid.

his year, 4 gigs (so far). 1 paid (the others potential cuts of the door).

This year I also have 2 plays being produced. 1 paid. 1 maybe-paid.

Not bad. Not bad at all.

Christmas Retail

It's Christmas at the mall.

Some notes for shoppers:

Don't ask me to tell you what Twilight is about unless you are older than 45. However, if you are a 12 year old boy, don't get offended if I ask you if you're wasting my time.

And if you're waiting until the last minute to do your shopping, don't get offended when we're sold out of all the best sellers.

And...here's the big one...if I'm helping someone else, don't interupt me to ask a 'quick question'.

Inspiration + No Excuses = Time For Hard Work

I just learned that "Water for Elephants", by Sara Gruen (which is quite a popular book) was a NaNoWriMo novel.

Also, that one of the Giller Prize nominees was a first novel, by a 26 year old woman (her mother came into the bookstore, very neat experience for me).

All of this to say, that if I want to be a writer, I have no excuse not to be one. I suddenly realized that it is a goal that is completely within my grasp. I could be a published, successful author by the time I'm 28 if I put the work in.

(28 is not a random number, it's actually been my mental goal for a while.)

(Coincidentally, the year I turn 28 is the year my mother will turn 50, and that is her magic number for being a published author too. I picked the number 28 before I realized this. Insert Twilight Zone music here.)

Now my goal is online. People can see it. People will know if I succeed or fail.

I'd better get to work.

Growing

I feel like I'm doing a lot of growing up real fast.

I'm glad I went to church today. I'm glad I have friends like the one who went to church with me.

The message was one I needed to hear. I am plagued with fears - still, goddammit - and today the pastor spoke on the fear of insignificance, which is one of mine.

Fear.

Trust.

I have to choose one, or be ruled by the other.

Isn't growing fun? I know fun times are being had by all on this end of the keyboard.

20/20

I really hope that when I get to heaven, and can see the whole path of my life at once, that I will finally see what the lessons are that I'm supposed to be learning now, and will realize that all my stress in the present was for a purpose, it really was.

Peace?

I had so many other things I was going to write about.

The return of bitch mom with her whiney little girl; the man who had a stroke who can write but can't speak clearly; the strange dynamic at work.

Instead.

I know that if God wasn't a part of my life I would have a hole in my heart.

I wouldn't say he's a huge part of my life...I don't do the external stuff like read the Bible or pray a lot or go to Church (so according to everything I learned in Sunday School I should be shrinking or something)...but now I know that if I cut him out of my life I'd have a hole.

A surprisingly large and painful hole.

Huh.

I'm not at peace. I wish I was. But instead of the active rage and dissatisfaction I now feel...silent surprise. That's not quite right. It isn't surprise so much as a discovery of something I didn't know was there, something I'm not sure I expected or wanted to find and now I have do something about what I've found.

Like apologize. Or repent. Or something equally unpleasant.

That's what I'm pondering on tonight. That and the unexpected well of pain and hurt and anger I have right next to that not-a-hole-today.

Oink, Oink

I spent the last three days with almost all the flu-like symptoms.

Might have just had the flu.

Might have had the dreaded and feared Swine Flu....(insert scary music here).

It's amazing to me people's reactions to hearing that someone had the flu. I was hanging out with some people a few days before I got sick (so while I was the most contagious, sorry guys), and we were all talking about the hysteria surrounding this H1N1 'epidemic' and how it was taking focus from everything else, and what the government was trying to sneak past us while we were all in a paralysis of fear. We were all scoffers at that table, none of us afraid of the flu or of getting it because quite frankly, it's the flu. It hits a bit harder but in most cases people are sick for a few days or a week and then they get over it. I've even heard that most of the cases of flu right now are H1N1 because that's the strain going around, and that most people who have it think they have the regular flu (but that may not be true, I can't remember my source and thus have no way of knowing how accurate this is - but it makes sense to me).

Within hours of our scoffing, when we were hanging out with a few other people who had not been privy to our conversation, I mentioned that S. had the flu and wow, everyone straightened and pulled away from me in minute amounts and asked if it was the Swine Flu - even the scoffers from earlier.

I don't get it. When I say I'm not afraid of getting the Swine Flu I mean it. I'll do all I can short of hermitting myself in my apartment to avoid getting it, but in the end it's kind of outside my realm of control so what's the point of getting all twisted up about it? If I end up in the hospital or if I am one of the small, miniscule percentage who die from it, well...I can't do anything about that. I will either stay healthy, get sick and get better, or get sick and die. That's life in community. That's life in general. You live, you die, you don't always get to choose how that happens.

But apparently some people scoff the fear to hide their fear from themselves and others.

I understand that.

I don't understand their fear in the first place but I understand their hypocritical scoffing.


Either way, I feel better today. Off to work I go. I've been more worried about experiencing some kind of negative reprocussions for calling in sick three days in a row than about ending up in hospital, but if there's one good thing about this fear-mongering, there was no pressure from my employer to go to work once the word flu left my mouth. Hopefully that means I'll still have a full-time job when I look at the schedules today.

Happy Hallowe'en!

My Hallowe'en?

Bram Stoker's Dracula and The Blair Witch Project.

Handing out candy dressed as a priest, with S. as my special nun friend and another friend dressed as a skier (basically because he wanted to wear his new ski boots).

We got 34 kids (well, 32 kids, one adult and one adult who may have been a crack head)! We were expecting 12. Maybe 15.

I'm glad we didn't run out of treats until after the crack head was gone. Although we didn't really have to worry. The treats were lined out as if they were a shrine, only missing the candles. It was great...over two dozen small bags of chips, over a dozen cans of Pepsi and 16 big chocolate bars, plus a couple dozen teeny chocolate bars. At the end we were down to 4 bags of chips, 2 cans of pop, 1 big bar and 4 little ones.

We were also told we had the best pumpkins in the city of Calgary which either means that everyone else carved lame ass pumpkins or ours were really awesome - one was an evil tree and the other a hissing cat, and then an evil clown face.

Job well done I think.

Yesterday we went to Scream Fest and I screamed multiple times. It was great! A guy with a chainsaw chasing people, a clown in a car who drove at you and stopped just before he hit you, air guns blasting air in your face, four amazing haunted houses and one that was all outside. Someone was dressed as the Joker and he was pretty scary too.

Tomorrow I start National Novel Writing Month for the second year in a row so I may not write here much as I frantically write a 50,000 word novel before December...but I'll try to throw a note up here every week at least.

Again, Happy Hallowe'en, until next year!

Apocalypse vs. The Empty Wallet

A lack of money makes a person desperate.

My faith takes such a beating when I'm stressed about money.

I hate this feeling.

Is this what I've doomed my life to be? Does this have to go hand in hand with being an artist? Do I constantly have to be struggling on a financial level?

I hate how financial stress makes the rest of my life feel stressful too.

I really wish our society wasn't money based - but things are too big for us to change that.

Oh well.

When the zombie attack happens money won't matter anymore. Until then I'll scrape along somehow.

And keep a supply of weapons and food in my apartment. You know. Just being prepared.

Snapshot

I look over and see him lean over and kiss her on top of her head. It's such a tender moment I feel like I'm spying but it makes me smile and warms my heart.

I like moments like that. Especially at work.

Happy Thanksgiving everyone.

Back At Work

Almost everyone I worked with in April is gone.

Just two people and me.

New manager. New assistant manager. New co-workers.

One of whom swears on the sales floor.

One of whom stands at the tills and doodles.

One of whom looks up LOL Cats at the front till computer.

???

Is it a real surprise that work is either crazy hectic or boring as hell?

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

We're home.

It's so nice to wake up and not be cold! And to have a shower with water pressure! And to have carpet, and internet at my fingertips, and my friends close by!

It's just nice to be home.

Singing Fools

We're at my parent's house now and through the house you can hear snippets of musicals, pugs snoring, washing machines going crazy and fish tanks burbling. Nice sounds as the sun wafts in the window. A day of peace and rest before driving home.

Home!

I can hardly wait.

Pocket Rocks

This is what I wore yesterday. Yes, all at the same time.

Modern underwear.
Long johns
2 pairs of socks.
Jeans.
A long sleeved shirt.
Rubber boots.
A petticoat.
A skirt in the style of the 1870's.
A bodice in the same style.
A bustle fluff thing.
1 knitted shawl.
2 capes, one long and thin and one short and wool.
2 scarves.
1 1870's hat.
1 pair long gloves.
1 umbrella - I didn't exactly wear it but I had it on my person all day so it almost counts.

And I was still cold. So I added a little bag with a pocket rock in it. Pocket rocks are rocks that you heat up on a woodstove until they're too hot to touch and you have to hold them in little quilted bags. They warm your hands and are the best invention in the world.

Today I have the day off and I have finally warmed up. There is no way I could live here all year round. No way at all.

Love

we fight
we bicker and squabble and pull and twist
for control
of ourselves and each other

control

isn't what love is about
is it?

i can't let go
not without a fight

but i don't want control
i'm just afraid
afraid of what will happen when i let go
let go
no control
falling
headfirst
into

what?

it's all new.

we learn
we live

we let go

those moments sustain
keep me hoping
hopeful
knowing that the struggle for freedom
is worth it
in the end.

Noise, Hippies, Noisy Hippies

That is what this weekend is here in the bustling metropolis of Wells. The town has been taken over by 'artists' who boggle my mind - they are the stereotype of hippies! Wandering about, bumming things off people, asking to use your bathroom or shower, camping on our lawn in their van...it's insane.

Oh, and a lot of them are half-naked. Not pretty half-naked either.

And they play bongo drums late at night outside our window. And sing weird hippy songs all over the place. And there are going to be loud metal concerts at midnight (and later) at the Community Hall next to our house.

Remind me never to live next to a Community Hall ever, ever again.

Requiem for a Good Dog

My dog Emma died yesterday after a few days of violent illness. We think it was poison. She was 10.

I got her when she was a puppy. My brother’s dog had babies unexpectedly – how we never once noticed she was pregnant, ever, until two days before she gave birth was something I’ll never understand but it happened every time. I really liked the little blonde one with the retriever’s nose but I didn’t expect to be allowed to keep her. It was always my dad and my brother who got to keep pups against all logic. Dogs and cats weren’t something I got to keep when it didn’t make sense.

When my parents told me I could keep her, if I wanted, I was shocked and deeply moved. That they had even noticed how much I liked her meant a lot to me. More than I could really express. That my dad was willing to give up the puppy he liked so that I could keep mine touched me too. I gave it a few days of serious thought because having a dog is a big decision, and then I said that if the offer still stood I would like to keep her, thanks.

I took a few days to name her too. The name came from a Jane Austen book that I had actually not read. The tag line – a beautiful meddler – was what inspired me to name her Emma. She was beautiful. Somehow the vagaries of Golden Lab, Chow, Terrier and Poodle had combined to create a 30lb white blonde retriever. Right from the beginning she was my dog. She looked to me first for everything. She didn’t like children because she’d been briefly tormented by a visiting child and she had a good memory. She was extremely protective of anything she deemed to be our property, to the point of biting our landlord’s brother in the butt when he came to borrow some tools. When she killed a chicken at the age of six months, she took the scolding with a confused expression – but she remembered it (until she was about a year old and killed another one…but that’s an impressive memory for a puppy, and she never killed another one after that). When she realized I didn’t like something she did her best to fight instinct and obey my inscrutable whims. I could put an egg on the ground in front of her and she’d do everything in her power to not even look at it, though I could see the hunger for it in her face.

She went nuts when I first put a collar and leash on her. She was so frightened, being restrained. But when she got used to it and realized that the leash meant quality time with me, she’d go nuts for a different reason. I had to walk her at heel for at least ten minutes before I could get her to listen to any other commands. But once she learned to stay I could make her lay on the lawn while I herded sheep or dealt with other animals that were spooked by the presence of an overly helpful dog.

When I went away to school she moped around and stopped eating for a while. I think she thought I had died, because eventually she moved from sleeping below my bedroom window to sleeping outside my parents’. They didn’t appreciate being woken up by her barking in the night but it meant she was eating again so I didn’t mind. When I came home for Christmas she treated me with disdain for a day before deciding I had been punished enough and whole-heartedly welcoming me back into her life. After a few trips away and back home she had figured out the routine and no longer withdrew, although she no longer greeted me with the same enthusiasm either. I wasn’t the reliable pack leader I had once been. I think instead of transferring that role to another human she took it on herself, bossing the other dogs around with aggression and the attitude of a much larger dog. Even though her pack mate Phoebe was at least twice her size it didn’t seem to phase either of them that Emma was the leader. It was the accepted order of their world.

It doesn’t surprise me that Emma was the one to die. When she and Phoebe were out wandering the fields and forests, if they had come across some piece of rotten or poisoned meat, Emma would have never allowed Phoebe, or the pugs, to eat any of it. Instead she would have claimed it all for herself. She protected the other dogs lives with her firm belief that as leader, she should have all the best things in life. It was an accidental act of nobility which caused her death.

I just wish that I could have been there to take care of her as she died. She suffered a lot as she went, more than any animal deserves. If there is an afterlife for our pets I hope she’s got a good one – a place in rabbit hell would be perfect for her, as that was the only animal on our farm that I never succeeded in training her to not chase. And maybe someday I’ll get one last chance to let her know that she was, indeed, a good dog.

Reflections on Death and the Gossip Mill

I think I actually have some buttons from my Uncle John’s death. I had no idea that his death had affected me in any way. I feel that I didn’t really know him, that it was the death of a stranger to me that nevertheless ripped my father apart. Most of my pain from that death arose from the pain I saw my father, my grandmother, my cousins experiencing. But I have buttons, buttons about respecting the privacy of the family to mourn. Buttons about giving people space. Respecting the process, the death, the loss and the grief for even just one fucking day before that gossip mill starts up again, just one fucking day, people, that’s all I ask.

This revelation was triggered by the death of one of the people in Barkerville. One of the Chinatown shop keepers, who also worked in the Chinese restaurant, died in a car accident. Her entire family work in BVille. It’s a small town. Something like this, a death, especially a sudden and unexpected death, gets around fast. It’s how a small town works and I know that. But I didn’t expect the rampant gossip that accompanied it: they were on their way to pick up their son; he was in the car; he wasn’t in the car; the husband has minor injuries; the son must feel so much guilt; the driver must be beside himself; the father and son are in Vancouver; they’re coming in tonight to pick up some things from the shop.

And the insincere comments of grief. Okay, I know some people were upset, some were really upset; but funnily enough they weren’t stopping to talk to anyone who wanted to talk about what had happened. They stuck to themselves and stayed out of sight for most of the day. But the ones who were whispering on the street – “She was so nice. I’m going to really miss her. I didn’t even know they were married.” This, verbatim, from a lady who has been working here for years. Years. I’ve been here two months and I didn’t know the deceased. I’d met her twice. She served me in the restaurant once, and sold me a fan from the shop. Yet I knew who her husband was. I wanted to ask, “Just how much are you going to miss this woman whom you obviously never got to know, who you just saw when you ate at the Duck when she took your order with a happy smile and a polite greeting, how much can you miss her? You knew nothing about her life. You don’t care, you just want to gossip about her death and her family, you stupid bitch.” But I didn’t. I walked away instead and avoided all the gaggles on the street for the rest of the day.

Maybe I’m too cynical.

But when I overheard a shop keep telling the story (a gossip version, so full of inaccuracies no less) to tourists – plain ordinary tourists who don’t care, who don’t give a shit about the family or who died, they’re just callous voyeurs in someone else’s pain – I got infuriated. Again, I wanted to shake them and scream in their fat ugly face, “How dare you? How dare you say, ‘It’s a big family here in Barkerville, when someone dies we all feel the pain’ when you aren’t even doing the bare minimum to respect the family, the actual family who are in actual pain, you don’t even respect their right to grieve privately without a bunch of curious eyes on them, eyes from people they don’t even know?” Again I held my tongue and kept walking, walking away from the idiots who I think would change their tune if it was their mother/daughter/sister/wife who had died. But maybe not.

This isn’t Michael Jackson, who the world felt they had a right to (whether they did or not); this is an everyday woman who I would bet most of the people in town didn’t know anything about, didn’t spend a moment’s thought on when she wasn’t serving them in the restaurant or the shop.

They didn’t even wait for the corpse to cool. Gossip flies in this town, to the point where the lady who runs the Wells General Store came into Barkerville to share the latest news as soon as she got it. She couldn’t even wait for people to get off work and come into the store, in case they heard it somewhere else first; no, she had to come into our working place, interrupt our work day to tell us all the newest gossip. Not professional. Not polite. Not respectful, but it makes her feel important and she doesn’t care about the people at whose expense she feels big. She just knows something we don’t know, and can’t wait to share it with us. I walked away before she could talk to me. I have another two months here. I don’t want to say something I’ll regret.

I don’t know the woman or her family. I am not in pain or upset or grieving but out of respect for those who are I feel it’s wrong to comment on her death and guess at what happened. It’s just rude to speculate on the guilt those who were involved must feel. But all day that’s what I heard and it made me furious, absolutely furious, to the point where S. had to tell me to stop ranting and just accept that small towns are vicious with their gossip.

The thing is, I’ve lived in small towns before. I grew up in a small town community and spent the last four years of my life in Rosebud which is almost as small as they get. The gossip mill was (and is) alive and well in Rosebud too. But it felt different. I thought about it for a while and I think it’s because in Rosebud the people you are gossiping about are usually your classmates, roommates, cast mates or friends. Or all of the above. Rarely in Rosebud is there someone who is only involved in one of your spheres of existence. There’s a more personal connection to everyone you’re likely to hear gossip about. I won’t deny that I’ve heard some downright nasty and cruel rumours in Rosebud. No town is immune to that kind of thing, unfortunately. But to gossip about death? Not something the town would do with such rabid ferocity. It wouldn’t have been treated like a piece of entertainment, a piece of news to liven up the day. Not like here in Barkerville. I’d like to think that in Rosebud we would instead get together and comfort each other and the bereaved; pray; go on with our lives without telling the patrons of the theatre about the death in all it’s details instead of speculating on things until four different stories of the event were circulating throughout town.

I think the difference there though is that in Rosebud people have a vested interest in each other. There the lives of the people around you touch you in some way and when you actually know the person who is suffering, you are less likely to just stand around and whisper about their loss; their loss is in a way your loss too. You at the very least feel echoes of their pain. Here in Wells and Barkerville people don’t live together. They work together. Whatever the shop keeps might say, there is a difference. Working together doesn’t make you family. If I had any doubts, the rumour mongering this weekend proved it to me. Family doesn’t gossip about the death of one of it’s own. Family doesn’t spill the news to strangers just for the thrill, or to feel important. Family bands together and weathers the emotional storm. Family holds each other up instead of ripping each other down for every last nugget of information.

When my uncle died there was a bit of both, I guess. He died in unusual circumstances which meant that strangers thought they had a right to know what had happened – in reality they couldn’t control their curiosity and for some reason that was our problem to solve in the midst of grief. It didn’t help that some of those strangers were from the press. One reporter phoned every person with our last name in the phonebook, asking the same questions which (I believe) we all declined to answer. They didn’t give up but they ended up getting their information from some satellite ‘family’ member who didn’t know what was going on…and it got printed in the paper, gossip presented as journalism.

On the other side of the coin were the people coming in quietly with support, food, hands to hold and shoulders to cry into, stories to make us remember my uncle and stories to make us laugh. Those people were the true friends, the family, the ones who maybe didn’t claim to share our pain but who respected it and let us know they were there for us. All without agenda. They didn’t come grieve with us so they could feel important or whisper about the circumstances of our grief with their curious neighbours. They came because they actually gave a damn about us, about our loss and about my uncle.

When people feel the need to share intimate details of loss with voyeurs to make themselves look and feel important, they aren’t family and never have been. The sad thing is that some of them can’t see the wrong in what they’ve done. People like that get no respect from me but bigger than that I think they’ve lost sight of something precious, something compassionate that makes us humans noble.

This whole event has done nothing to make me less jaded about human nature, that’s for sure.

Right now I feel that even if the rest of this place…it’s remote natural beauty…the easy job…the general friendliness of the people…even if it all begged for me to come back this one incident is enough to make me turn my back on this town forever and never come here to work again.

That might change as time goes on. We’ll see. But right now I think I’ll leave and not be sad to go.

Cold

I hate having to check my email in the store.

There's people around all the time and I can't be sure that no-one is reading over my shoulder.

That's one of the things I really miss about being home. That and having a house all to ourselves, with only our dirty dishes on the counter.

And the heat.

It's so cold here, even though it's a sunny day. I've been told July gets warmer. It had better be true.

But life is good. Even if I'm cold. And the job is good as well. So I'll stop complaining now.

Life

My life is going pretty well. I'm enjoying myself and don't have anything to complain about.

The lives of some of the people who are important to me aren't as free from care.

It's confusing. I don't know what to think or feel. I'm trying to just feel what's there and not think about it too much right now.

Other than that I don't have much to say except that I'm really, really glad S. is there for me.

Northern Life So Far

The week we left for Barkerville my car died. I drove it to Rosebud so that it would be looked after, cared for, started once in a while – so that it would still run when I got back from BC – and on the way there the water pump decided it was no more for this world and the engine overheated and I perhaps cooked my engine. I still don’t know. I left it in the hands of a friend and we’ll see in five months whether I have a car or am in the market.

I do appreciate the bitter irony of the car situation.

The actual trip to BC was made without incident. We drove through the mountains with snow and rain and sun each taking their turn. We didn’t see any animals much to my disappointment. I did see birds – a Great Blue Heron, a few hawks and some ducks of various breeds – but no animals that run on all fours. Unless you count squirrels, in which case I saw one.

The hotel we stayed in was small and much, much dirtier than the images on their website led me to believe. I walked in and said, “I have a reservation.” The woman at the desk said, “You have a reservation? Here?” She sounded so surprised. I knew right then that things were going to be a bit squibby. When she looked down at her papers and called me by name, it clinched it. Obviously the place is not a well-used hotel, as the three vehicles in the parking lot implied. (One of them was ours.) We watched some television and went to bed.

The rest of the trip was also without incident. We ate breakfast in a place that had no fruit on the menu which normally I wouldn’t have noticed but I really wanted French toast with fruit that morning (damn); we commented on the remote farmhouses and ranches and wondered who in their right mind wanted to live out there all year round? Or at all? We kept a sharp eye out for the turn Google Maps had told us about – but when we got to Prince George we realized that the road didn’t exist. (I have since learned that Google Maps was directing us to a road built in the 1860’s which is no longer in use if it even still exists.) In Prince George the highway was being used as a parking lot and we had to drive carefully to avoid hitting mirrors. I have no idea what was going on but apparently it was a big deal, as everyone in town was there. With their dog and their dog’s car.

We explored Quesnel briefly and then went to Wells. The road was long and curvy but we made it there in one piece and found the house we are staying in – the yellow house next to the even yellower community centre. It was indeed easy to spot, as we had been told it would be. We met our roommate, Tim, who is a nice guy and reminded both S. and I of someone we know. It took us almost the entire evening to figure out who – the art teacher from our Certificate year! I don’t think he sleeps much, as we’re always in bed before him and he’s always up before us. When we wake up at night he’s either not home or he’s up eating or drinking coffee. I don’t understand it but that’s just because I like to sleep 10 hours or more a night.

The snow here. Wow. The snow! When we got here it was piled up against buildings, laying in thick white blankets on the baseball diamond – six to ten feet near the house and probably four out in the open. I wish I’d taken pictures as now, after a week or so of sun and (mostly) rain it has shrunk considerably. (Near some buildings it was piled up to the eaves!) It was cold our first few days of work.

We got costumes after a few days, which actually made it warmer. A corset holds in a considerable amount of heat and the dresses hide all the civvies I care to wear underneath them. On the coldest day I was wearing two pairs of socks, long johns, jeans, two shirts, a corset (as well as the necessary modern underwear), a heavy petticoat, my green dress, a scarf, gloves, a wig (to keep my ears warm), a hat, rubber boots and a thick woollen cape.

It was warmer today so I wore my blue dress. I like it quite a bit. It has a lace collar and cuffs and a lacy bustle as well. Those women in the 1870’s sure liked their bustles. Not to sound vain, but I look good in period costumes. A part of me wants to wear those kinds of clothes all the time, except for how sore my back and shoulders get. They’re heavy and really, I couldn’t wear a corset all the time. I like being able to tie my shoes and lean back on chairs and snuggle up on a sofa with a book, all rendered impossible with a properly fitted corset.

However, I was not the only person who thought I looked fine, much to my dismay. Today I collected a follower of the male persuasion, much to the amusement of all my co-workers. I can’t remember his name but apparently he latches on to a different pretty girl each summer and I’m the unhappy target this year. The fact that I have a boyfriend isn’t likely to deter him – one year his object of affection was clearly and obviously married. My boss has had to talk to him before about bothering actors who are working, so if I can’t shake him on my own at least someone will deal with him for me. Actually, my boss gave me and S. permission to kiss – full on French – in front of this guy; this while we are portraying an era where men and women didn’t even touch in public.

Hopefully I won’t need to resort to that.

I’ll try to keep this blog up to date through-out the summer. It’s a bit hard – I have to bring my laptop to the local general store to access the internet and after work it’s the last thing I feel like doing. However, like I said, I’ll do my best.

I'm Not Dead

But I do have limited internet access.  I'll be back, I promise - I have blog posts written and waiting for me to get my computer to an internet port.  Soon, soon!

Awesomeness

Migraine medication would be awesome if it worked.

Frick.

I have a super-power - the invincible migraine! My last prescription migraine pill, Advil by the (over)dose, Aspirin (even though I'm not supposed to take it), Robaxacet, to relax my tense muscles...all it does is make me sleep really well and wake up to -

a migraine.

Oh well. It'll go away eventually.

I hope.

(Just for the record, I didn't take all those drugs at once. That's, like, two days worth of headache fighting.)

Observations

The other day a little girl was looking at books in the front of the store.  She turned to tell her mom something and her mom wasn't there.  She was looking around but she couldn't see her mom anywhere so I asked her what her mom looked like.

"She has Lulu lemon pants," she said.

That's it.  What kind of little girl doesn't tell you what her mom's hair colour is, or what colour she's wearing?  Brand names?  Really?  But that's what she said.

She ended up finding her mom right away after that, thank goodness.  Her mom wasn't a very nice woman.  She didn't pay any attention to her little girl calling out, "Mommy!  Mommy!" at the front of the store and it's not like she couldn't hear her.

I will grant the little girl was a whiny thing, who when they got to the till asked over and over and over, "Mommy can I have a book?  Mommy can I have a book?" without even enough time for her mother to answer.  Very annoying.  When I hear a child do that I immediately assume they are spoiled and used to getting what they want.  Otherwise why would they keep asking?  But instead of giving her the standard distracted "No" answer, her mother replied with, "No.  I know, I'm a terrible mother, not buying you anything.  Not giving you what you want," complete with a knowing look to whoever was helping her at the till.  (I hate that.  It creates violent urges in me.)

Then the little girl switched tactics.  Not getting a book?  Fine.  Bookmarks are smaller, more attainable perhaps.  Her mom denied her again with the same phrases...but then she asked if we had Twilight bookmarks.  The little girl got so excited - but then the mother just bought one for herself.  She was going out of her way to buy the things the little girl wanted for herself.  There was a malicious tone to everything she did, directed towards her child.  I didn't like her one bit.  She was a mean woman who took out her meanness on her little girl because her child was small and powerless.  Those are the kind of people I want to punch in the face until they bleed.  Copiously.

And then give her little girl to someone who gives a damn and will raise her to be a healthy, functional adult.  Because this woman certainly won't.

Family Visit

I had a good weekend. Three days off in a row is always nice, nicer still when I get to see people I love. My mom came down for a few days. We had good conversations and went shopping together - we even took in a theatre show.

It was so nice to see her again. I went from living at my parents to seeing them every four months to now, where I see them every...eight months? Every year? It can be a long time in between visits now that my schedule is no longer ruled by the school semester but by work and all too infrequent holidays. If we lived closer geographically it would be different but alas, this is how life goes sometimes.

I think of my mom, moving away from her family and going years without seeing them. I don't think I could go years. Of course my family will come see me sometimes too so the onus isn't all on me to do the travelling like it was on her. That helps a lot.

The next time I see my family might be this summer. I'm going to Barkerville BC to work for five months. It's a place my family likes to visit so they'll kill two birds with one stone and I'll get to see them again. Except for my youngest brother, who is now beginning to experience the constraint of a working schedule too.

But there's always Christmas. I hope.

It's Been A While...

...but not much is going on.

I had an audition with ATP...I still work at the bookstore...oh, the french guy who gave me his number and then asked me out on a date who I then turned down but then stupidly decided might be friend material is 'still hoping' as my co-worker put it, and worse, still showing up at work to chat aka flirt when I've done everything I can think of (other than freezing him out) to show him I'm not interested...I'm preparing to go to Barkerville BC for the summer...S. opened a show tonight in another city and I really hope it went well...I'm preparing for another audition next week...my mom is coming to visit me tomorrow!

My life in one long paragraph with lots of elipses. I love elipses.

Promotion

I have keys to the book store.

That might be a bad idea.

Hopefully there are still books in there tomorrow.

Company

I got this from my brother.

A married couple was in a car when the wife turned to her husband and asked, "Would you like to stop for a coffee?"

"No, thanks," he answered truthfully. So they didn't stop.

The wife, who had indeed wanted to stop, became annoyed because she felt her preference had not been considered. The husband, seeing his wife was angry, became frustrated. Why didn't she just say what she wanted?

Unfortunately, he failed to see that his wife was asking the question not to get an instant decision, but to begin a negotiation. And the wife didn't realize that when her husband said no, he was just expressing his preference, not making a ruling. When a man and woman interpret the same interchange in such conflicting ways, it's no wonder they can find themselves leveling angry charges of selfishness and obstinacy at each other.


When I read this, I laughed out loud because it was almost verbatim a conversation S. and I had about a year ago. We figured it out within the half-hour - but it's nice to know we aren't alone in our misunderstandings!

Random Thoughts from a Migraining Brain

I have specific rituals that help me deal with a migraine. I take drugs with coke, I perhaps eat corn chips with salsa, and I lay in bed in the dark, listening to CBC radio while I zone in and out of consciousness until I feel better and can function again. I have been in bed for something like 16 hours now, and I feel a little better but not enough to get up and do anything. I'm a little surprised I'm writing on a computer actually. It goes against all of my migraine patterns and it isn't helping me at all.

It's so hot in the apartment. I can't handle it. I turned down the heat to 15 and it's still hot in here. Damn heat malfunction. I want to stand out on the balcony in my pajamas but I'm not sure what the bylaws are on that sort of thing. I'll settle for opening my bedroom window and letting the cold air soothe my overheated brain.

Apparently St. John New Brunswick is the happiest place in Canada. The people have various reasons. One guy said it was because people were friendly. One 17 year old said there was nothing to do. He wanted to go to Calgary, but couldn't leave his girlfriend. "She's having my kid," he said. Is he scared? No. He's so happy about it, about giving that kid the life he never had. Weird, but he sounded happy anyway, even if he was bored with St. John.

One old guy said the key to a long, happy life was sex and lots of it. Maybe that's why the 17 year old was so happy sounding.

Yesterday they talked about a study on cheating, and how when they asked people to recount the 10 commandments and then gave them chances to cheat or steal, they didn't. Even if they couldn't remember any of the commandments. And that when you are one step away from actual money, you are more likely to steal. What would you take from work? A pencil, or 10 cents from the till? The pencil! And when they made people aware of the monetary value of objects in the office, theft went down. And that giving people huge bonuses makes them less efficient at their work because they spend time being stressed out at the thought of losing the bonus instead of spending time thinking about how to do their job. It was fascinating but I can't remember the name of the study author now.

My computer is literally falling apart - the tiny screws in the bottom are falling out. I wonder why. And why is it hot to the touch? Does that have anything to do with the fact that the battery is unrecognizable to the system? Should I take the battery out? I have no idea. What I don't know about computers could fill a warehouse. Although they are making a quantum computer that can hold way more information than the computers we have now. I do know that, thanks to Quirks and Quarks.

I feel high. Drugs kicking in but I'm still unable to function at a normal level.

I have no more random thoughts. I think I'm going to go back to sleep until my brain is normal again - well, that could take eternity. Until it's back to my normal, at least.

Another Pet Peeve

I hate it when people interrupt me while I'm helping one customer in order to ask for help themselves.

What am I supposed to do? I'm already busy. Legitimately helping someone, doing my job - I wish I could point out how rude they're being but I can't. Although today I came really close. Some guy, who had already interrupted me once - when I was mid sentence, I kid you not - then proceded to yell at me from across the store, asking "Is there anyone who will help me with this?" He was very impatient. And rude. And I was the only one he could see, and we were all busy with other people.

So I said, as he turned away, "Can you not see I'm busy with someone?" and felt bad instantly only because my customer was so nice and I hated to expose my frustration in front of her. Oh well. Guess what, I'm human too, customer. And idiots annoy me.

At least there were no Children of the Exorcism today.

I Love the Smell of Commerce in the Morning

Today a small child screamed like she was possessed by the devil. Like "Exorcism" screaming, all gravelly. It was impressive. Over and over - "My book! My book!" were the only discernable words. Her mother was trying to buy the book for her but she wouldn't let go long enough for it to be scanned at the till. So her mother took her out of the store, and then when it became apparent she wasn't going to stop, her mother took her away. Her screams eventually stopped - but only because she was out of earshot. After they left, we clerks were the only ones in the store, so we chatted about Devil Girl and her mother, and our childhoods and our parents.

Later a man barged into the 'staff only' area, made a beeline for our bathroom and started using it without shutting the door first. How did he even know there was a bathroom back there? It's not advertised and we don't tell customers about it, much less let them use it. We quickly realized he wasn't quite all there, so at least he wasn't a creep who wanted to expose himself to the Coles girls. But still. It was...surreal. And then he left the store without saying a word.

Just to round things out, the fire alarm in the mall went off twice. It's loud. We have an alarm in our ceiling and it flashes a blue light as it beeps. Beeps is too kind a word. As it shrieks on par with Devil Girl it blinks a calm blue light. If that's for deaf people they get the better end of the deal. Except if I were deaf, I wouldn't realize that meant fire. It's too calm and blue.

That's been my day. The things I would tell S. about if he were here. Sigh.

Thoughts I Repressed Today

"Telling me the title over and over will not help me find the book, so SHUT UP ALREADY."

"If this computer says we don't have it, the other computer won't give us a different answer!"

"Why are you here?"

"Why didn't you follow me - do you think the book will just hover over to you?"

"How am I supposed to find a book based on, 'it's got a silver cover'?"

"Are you buying this book or not? And if so, will you please come back to the till, you moron?"

"Did you not hear what I just asked you?"

(That last one I think almost every day with more and more irritation. Why? Because I am developing a new pet peeve. I'll ask a customer, "Can I help you?" and they'll say, "Yes, I'm fine," and walk away as fast as they can. Did they not hear what I asked? Do they think I'll pressure them into buying Twilight? God Almighty, it makes me want to punch them in the face. It's not like they don't speak English. The ones that don't speak English usually just smile and nod, or say, "Browsing!" like it's a magic word that will protect them from pushy sales clerks. But I don't get a commission from selling books. All it does is give me something to do.)

On a side note, today I actually chased a woman away from the store. All it took was a "Are you finding everything okay?" and she nodded and barely had time to say, "I'm fine thank you" before she was out the door and gone.

I don't understand.

Maybe on my last day I'll say what I'm thinking - but I say that about every job and I never do it. Too polite and professional I guess. Too used to repressing my real thoughts and showing a happy smiling face to a world that doesn't bother to look beneath the surface.

I'm not sure why my thoughts are so dark. I started out the day happily enough. I had way more happy customers than unhappy ones. I had a fairly uneventful benign day at work. And yet I'm just frustrated and fed up with not living the life I want. Not paying my bills with my writing. Not getting paid to tell stories in one form or another.

I enjoy working with books all day.

But I really don't want to do this forever, and every job I get that isn't what I want for my life wears on me quicker and quicker.

Maybe that was the one thought I should have repressed today - just for the sake of my short term happiness.

And maybe it's the one thought I should be most aware of.

Things I've Seen

I saw a small Asian boy smiling like Buddah would smile if he were a baby with no cares in the world, as he was pushed through the mall in his stroller. He only stopped smiling when he saw me watching him, even though I was smiling at him. I wonder why. Then he went back to his own little world and the look of pure contentment came back.

I want to look that content while I go my way through the world.

Today I was met by my boss without a smile, not even in her voice. I think now that she must have had a stressed morning but this morning I took it personally and the first hour or two of my day were terrible. I wanted to quit. I wanted to throw books at stupid people. I wanted to gouge the eyes out of wailing children. And then I realized that my boss has always greeted me with a smile and a friendly word and that there was nothing I could have done in the first thirty seconds of my day to make her upset, so it must be from a cause outside myself. I am very egocentric. I must be two years old. That must be why I look so young. ;) Although if I keep taking everything personally it will age me before my time.

I was told by an older man that I was wise beyond my years. He doesn't know me, so he doesn't know all my faults - that I have the ego of a toddler. We talked about the school system and the lack of balance therein. He teaches shop, and the troubled kids 'get better' in his class because instead of trying to build with letters and numbers and failing, they build with their hands and succeed. The school wants him to take his counselling degree but he doesn't want to because he cannot counsel out of the context of his class. Or he doesn't think so. He was so easy to talk to. He said not many people believed in the need for balance. That's why he thinks I'm so wise. Because I know that balance is a need, even if I can't acheive it myself. He asked how I got so wise and I said I'd just always been a thinker. He said him too. He'd always stood on the edge and watched others, and half-wanted to get involved but holding back because most of the stuff others were doing looked so damn stupid. I added the damn. It's the first time I've met someone who put in words what I've lived my whole life. It was exhilerating and sad. I don't know why it was sad. Perhaps because I know that there is a cost to being the watcher and I'm not sure I want to pay it, even if I don't know any other way to be.

He seemed happy. He said if I ever had time and saw him around the mall, we should go for coffee.

It made me wonder why the only guys who ask me out for coffee are either older than me by decades, or younger than me and socially awkward. Even though he didn't ask me out on a date. It didn't feel like that, anyway. More like he enjoyed our conversation as much as I did and would like to chat with me again sometime. That I wouldn't mind.

Now I'm down because I'm an observer. Like Britney says, there are two types of people in this world. The ones that entertain, and the ones who observe.

Who would have thought wisdom could come from pop stars. But if it can come from the mouths of babes, perhaps it can come from anywhere.

Good Fences

"Good fences make good neighbours."

Our upstairs neighbour is not a quiet man. He's either blowing his nose or he has a baby elephant up there. (Maybe that's what happened to the baby elephant at the zoo.) He gets up and stomps around at 5 in the morning on a regular basis. (I've even been woken up by a string of swear words, cause unknown. Not the best way to face the world in the early morn.) He spends his weekends listening to truly terrible music late into the night, as though unaware that there are other people who have to work on weekends (every weekend, thanks boss...) and need to get to sleep at a reasonable hour - not one in the morning. And he cheers for the Flames. Which is bad enough on its own. And he cheers loudly. With a lot of swear words.

The guy downstairs is either dying of lung cancer...or he's just got a really terrible cough.

I wonder if they secretly want to stomp on the floor to shut us up, but I really doubt it. We're pretty quiet people, S. and I.

Good fences?

I think good walls make good neighbours.

Advice on the Radio

I wake up in the morning to CBC Radio. A good way to get a clue about the outside world, a bad way to remember dreams - they fade in the blur of murders and the many varied tragedies that are deemed important for me to know about.

This morning, although I don't remember what happened on the news (except for a school shooting in Germany), I did lay in bed and listen to half an hour of Q. They were going to interview some Monty Python people but couldn't get ahold of them, so instead they aired an interview they had already done with David Sedaris.

Working in a book store (which I may not be for much longer but that's another story) I see books and authors all around me every day that I was previously unaware of. David Sedaris is one of those authors. He's in the humour section. Guys are the ones who pick up his books so I had relegated him to a pile in my mind labled, not interesting.

What a mistake that was. The interview was fascinating. He's a morbid guy. Morbid and funny and all he does is observe the world around him. And when he writes about his friends and family, which he does a lot, he always clears it by them first. Gets them to read it and tell him if there's anything they want him to change. Why? Because he values his relationships over his writing. What he's going to share with the world, he clears with the ones he loves first.

That level of respect impressed me greatly.

I don't think I've done a very good job of doing that. So now I'm going to start.

It doesn't cramp my creativity. I write what I want and no-one stops me. But if I'm going to share that writing with the world? There is a fall out from that, and it had better be one that I, and those who are important to me, can live with.

Thank you, David Sedaris. You will probably never read this (unless you have that Google thing that lets you know anytime someone writes your name online) but thank you anyway.

No Shame

I have no shame. When I’m at work and I know a man is interested in me and not the books, I walk the very thin, precarious line of flirtation to see if I can make him buy something.

I have a pretty good record so far. Hurrah for the retail world. Just doing my part to stimulate…the economy.

And yesterday I got a phone number out of the deal.

Too bad I’m a) not single and b) 15 years younger than him.

At least he was good looking. He was from Montreal and has a steady job as a flight attendant for West Jet. When I said I’d thought about trying to get hired on there he said he could get me a job.

That was why he gave me his number…or at least the pretence.

I’m not sure whether I can follow up because I don’t know for sure that he had no ulterior motives. He was flirting pretty heavy by the time he gave me his number. At least, most guys don’t say they’re good marriage material in regular conversation.

Oh well. It’s not like I can work for West Jet right now anyways. I’m going to BC for the summer to work as a street performer. Maybe when I come back. If I have no acting work.

We’ll see.