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.