Wondering

What happens when you leave a little part of your heart somewhere?
Do you ever get it back?

And what happens when you leave little parts of your heart everywhere, in every city you fall a little in love with? Does your heart ever regenerate, is it ever whole again or do you spend the rest of your life with a little something missing?
Can new adventures and new memories ever make up for those little bits of your heart you left scattered along the railings of Pont des Arts, on Soho's cobblestoned streets, amidst the dust and bia hoi of Ha Noi?

There are moments in our life where a small gesture, a word, a simple smile can put us off our course. When we need to relook at the way we hold onto our armour, how we push away for fear of broken hearts and the sting of rejection, how we admit defeat and realize that our hearts can only be kept so close to ourselves and sometimes someone comes along and without our approval pushes past all those barriers and ends up getting too close.

Do we cut and run? Do we give up because all those little insecurities start pouring out of our carefully preserved facade and somehow we need to ask the questions. Are you ready to let yourself fall a little, to take a chance, to let someone in again? Or do we shut ourselves off and deny ourselves, purely because we are scared that the cards will all come tumbling down again?

I have spent the last 5 years alone, dating one man and then another. I have had lovers, but never let them get far enough under my skin that I couldn't walk away, have met men I could have fallen far if I had only put myself out there just that little bit, allowed myself to get emotionally invested in the man who was already committed to someone else and therefore never completely available, took pleasure in bodies and walked away without a backward glance.

Sometimes I cannot always see past all the layers I put up and it is the women closest to me who keep me in check, who remind me on a daily basis of all that is good and whole in me. The last few months have been a journey that began on days when I did not want to get out of bed, when self loathing drove me and a fear of never being good enough kept me from ever being able to look in a mirror until I just couldn't take it anymore, I knew things needed to change. Sometimes someone needs to be brutally honest, and sometimes you have to be brutally honest back with yourself. You need to be able to look at yourself in the mirror and see yourself for who you are. and slowly you begin to build yourself back up, find your way back into your body and feel yourself in your skin. Know that you have so much to give as long as you are willing to open yourself up to all these possibilities.
Out of the woodwork then come all your ghosts, your fears and your trials. You make the choice to fight or to give in and take the simpler road of misery. It's been a struggle, confidence is not always without its ying yang balance and all those insecurities still sit there, they just have lost their voices.

Until now. When one night you look over and realise just how close to your heart he has found himself, that for all your pushing and simple statements of not wanting to be anything more than friends and lovers, you never really kept those layers up because for some reason you let him get closer to you than anyone has been in a long time. You let him see past all the layers and get a good long look at who you really are.

So do you let him in? Or do you let history repeat itself, choose the simple path and cut and run?

A little something controversial

One of the most definitive quotes that came from the media scrum after Robert Pickton's conviction for the second degree murder of 6 women came from Trish Baptie. On hearing his conviction she said

"...families will receive their justice, women were made to be what they are ... women, not former junkies from the Downtown Eastside."

Perhaps we felt somewhat more superior than these women, dismissed their deaths because we have no idea what they must have gone through, what desperation they must have felt because it is so far away from our cozy existence. The saddest part is that we failed them, time and time again, stopped seeing them as women, as mothers, sisters, friends, daughters but as the victims of horrific crimes. I realize every day what a blessed life I have, and the choices and support I had as a child set me up to succeed. I never had to experience the effect of fetal alcohol syndrome, sexual abuse, and foster families. Never had to spend a night on the streets, or turn to alcohol or drugs to get me through the day.

We need to now ensure that the lessons that were missed so many times never happen again. Regardless of how these women lived their lives, whether as homeless, addicts or prostitutes, these were all women who had families, who had personalities and people to love them and who did not deserve to die so brutally. It is time we all stopped glossing over the shaky facts, asked the real questions and made plans to ensure that this never happens again. It is time that we opened our eyes and took a long hard look at what this city is doing and not doing to help get people off the streets, into rehabilitation centres and give back purpose and self worth.

Dina Rabinovitch

I first started reading Dina Rabinovitch's columns when I was working for the newspaper she was writing for.
I was always struck by how brave and how honest her columns were, in the face of what her illness meant.

She passed away yesterday, and with her death I feel as if I have lost a long lost friend. I felt the same when John Diamond passed away, I know I will miss her posts and her grace, will miss how the stories of her children and her bravery. I don't know many people these days who haven't lost a loved one to cancer, and I find those odds far too sad for words.

My only tribute, I suppose, would be for me to share her story.

Find her blog here, and her Guardian Unlimited columns here.

Vancouver - the way I see it

Before I started my new job, my commute to work was a 10 minute stroll up Davie and across Burrard.
On a good day, wearing reasonable shoes I could do it in 7, my iPod plugged in, my eyes focussed in front of me, past the pink waste bins, and Marquise wine cellars. Past Numbers and Celebrities. And along that short stretch of sidewalk from Thurlow to Burrard, always there were figures curled up in dirty blankets, gracing storefronts and often times simply the sidewalk, cardboard signs carefully scribed *spare change*, *broke and hungry*, *anything will help*.

The subject of this is controversial, the sidewalks of this city are literally littered with ragged faces and dirty fingernails. A couple sits together on the sidewalk with beaming smiles and outstretched hands. A shaven haired girl sings, her guitar held across her chest. A trembling man holds out his hat *spare some change*, a bearded man throws his arms in the air and fights the demons only he can see. A dreadlocked woman dances and teases the cars speeding past.

This is how I see Vancouver, this gritty reality of a city. Of addicts, and illness. Despair and circumstance. This is as part of Vancouver as the mountains and the oceans, it is a part of the city I never want to ignore, nor turn a blind eye to.

When I started this blog, way back in 2005, it was as a way of keeping in touch with my family and friends back home in Vancouver; to regale my unfortunate mishaps, my stumbling blindly through single life and finding my feet in the first year that I found myself single again after a 5 year relationship ended.

Along the way, I have had some incredible people find their way here and stay a while, have made new friends and interesting acquaintances, moved countries and continents. Over the last 2 and half years, it has been a cathartic adventure, it has been therapy and support, at times it has been candid and painfully personal. The blog adapted to each new situation, evolved and grew and then suddenly, I hit a plateau. I seemed to have achieved what I set out to do, and in the process gained much more than I had ever anticipated.

But the sense that there wasn't anything left for me to accomplish here has been niggling at the back of my mind for some time, that perhaps it was time that I found new outlet for my writing, that perhaps it was time that I started taking myself and where I wanted to go seriously, that I took every happening in my life out of the public domain and healed. I have always written, kept tallies of my pain, of my happiness. I have always wanted to write, have always wanted to be a writer but have hidden behind my own negativity.
What happens from here is anyone's guess, but I know in my heart that right now I have done all that I can here.

Thank you for all your posts, your links, your emails and your comments... but I am really actually officially taking an indefinite break this time.

x

Out of Office

My bag is packed.
My carry on sits at the front door, ready for a few small early morning additions, I have remembered to send my mother a Mother's Day card, have left a note for the flat sitter, emailed itineraries and contact information to parents and sibling, arranged pictures for visas. My alarms are set for 4:15am, flights confirmed. In a few minutes, I will turn off my laptop, put it away for a long time and go to bed.

For the next 3 weeks I am going to be travelling through South East Asia with Amelia, my cameras, a journal and a rough itinerary. Not exactly sure where we'll be on any one day, just knowing we'll go where we need to be.

This last week threw me off balance, a confusing and frustrating appointment with the specialist and the death of an uncle on Monday left me flailing and gasping all week. One foot in front of the other, one more hurdle. Such is life. And suddenly the trip was right around the corner, and now, finally, my bags are packed.
I'll be writing, but most likely not here*. I am going back to the basics; pen and paper and a clearer mind.

At least, I hope.

(* I will however be sending out email updates to friends and family, if you'd like to be included please send me an email. And Mark Morford.)

An interview in which I do not jump on a sofa.

Several weeks ago, I came across a post on Izzy's blog, where she answered some questions posed to her and offering others the chance to be interviewed in return.

I realise, as I get older, that I am an attention seeker and love the chance for a little self promotion.

*ahem*

I hope you enjoy,

LMM
x



What's the ringtone on your phone?
I dislike most ringtones, and my phone is almost always on silent. However, since I lost my last phone and got a funky new one, I am loving my new sound. It's a Hong Kong-esque kitsch little jingle.


How long did your last unrequited love-affair last, and how intense was it? Anything interesting happen?
I've had so many! The last one was a journalist I worked with, whom I had trouble speaking to. I'd get all red and stammery. The jist is, after a few sambucca shots at the Christmas party I made a complete fool of myself. The upshot is that afterwards I was not only able to speak to him afterwards but also flirt outrageously with him. I eventually got over it, and haven't met anyone for a long time who got me like that.

Would you rather be 20 pounds underweight or 20 pounds overweight?
20lbs overweight. All curves and stuff.


Which do you like better: public or private transportation? (Public being something like busses or subways, and private being something like you driving yourself.)
It's weird, I used to hate buses and public transport and loved my car. Then I moved to the UK and relied heavily on public transportation. I've been back a year and I have still not renewed my driver's licence. I'll get around to it, eventually. Would I be happy if I never had to take another bus? Not so sure, but if it was a long trip I'd rather have the music turned up and be in the comfort and solitude of my own vehicle.


Is there an author or artist whom you simply dislike, and can't fathom why he or she became famous and loved?
Where to begin? Off the top of my head: Danielle Steele. Maeve Binchy. Need I say more?


Do you prefer pen or pencil? Ballpoint or gel? Mechanical or wooden?
Pen, gel with a fine tip. Amelia once gave me a beautiful red Cross pen which I loved. I loathe those cheap biros. *shudder*
I'm such a pen snob!

Now your turn. The rules of the game are simple, leave me a comment saying, "Interview me." I respond by asking you five personal questions so I can get to know you better. If I already know you well, expect the questions to be a little more intimate!
You then update your journal/bloggy thing/whatever with the answers to the questions. (No excuses; it's required.) You will include this explanation and an offer to interview someone else in the post. When others comment asking to be interviewed, you will ask them five questions.

Apparently my pitituary stalk is nice. I'm so proud of its manners.

Turns out it is a tumour after all.

But only a little one.

Preliminary results suggest that nestling lovingly along the anterior lobe of my pitituary gland is a 1- 2mm microadenoma.
The good news is that it is most likely benign, it can be treated without surgery and it is treatable.

I don't have an enormous amount of information to hand and I have limited my web research as there is alot of scare mongery out there - I'd rather get my facts clear and concise; my referring doctor is on holiday and doctor who gave me the results was a woman of little words. Granted, pitituary microadenoma and endocrinologist were amongst those few words so can you blame her? I have been trying to pronounce them all afternoon and am still tongue tied.

There is an enormous amount of relief with this, I think the last 3 weeks waiting for these results have taken a toll I hadn't appreciated. There have been a lot of "what ifs', and although I think we were all convinced it was something else entirely, I'm glad I know, so that we can start working around something. The irony is that there have been symptons for a number of years, symptoms I habitually ignored. And several of the symptoms prevalent with these tumours never presented themselves. I will not go into details, but let's just say there was none of that lactating business.

Walking home from the gym this evening, I felt like screaming. Or crying. Not out of anger, or fear, but out of a general desire to feel something. Anything. I wanted to stand at the edge of a cliff and just yell and hear my voice echo back.

Over the next few weeks, I'll be seeing a variety of different doctors and will make some decisions about treatment. I will have questions, and will perhaps not hear what I want to hear. Or maybe I will. I don't know.

I just know that there is one more hurdle behind me, and more in front. As long as I keep moving forward, I will be just fine.

84:01

About 3 years ago, I made a determination to myself that I would do something that physically and mentally challenged me.

Well, apart from getting up on time each and every day.

This determination was made when I first got diagnosed with that little niggly health issue which has kept me a constant companion for these long years, has made me friends with doctors and nurses in the UK and back here in Vancouver and has, at times, made me ashamed and angry, frightened and frustrated. Last July, I seemed to be winning that battle, and then suddenly over the last few months I'm faced with a stronger foe. This time however, I know in my heart that I am going to be just fine, that despite all the uncertainty at the moment waiting on results and undergoing 'just one more test' again, I know that it will be okay. Whatever happens, I can deal with it.

And so I wanted to do something that would push me, physically and mentally. I have never been an athlete, have never really taken much joy in physical exertion. I've joined gyms and rarely gone, or started fitness programs and never seen them through to the end. Indifference or laziness, or a combination of the two, I've never been sure.
So what better solution to my determination than to attempt to run? And how about that 10K? And I tried, a little. Back when I was living in the Wonky Cottage in Bromley, November rains and dark, wet pavements provided a training ground. But then December came with its promises of parties and Saturday morning runs became Saturday morning lay ins to sleep off vodka induced fugs. There was always something, after all. And so it fell by the wayside. And I tried again, with The Swiss attempting to drag my protesting form out of warm Sunday morning beds and get my feet flying along Hampstead Heath. I tried, halfheartedly. In my heart I wanted to, it was my mind and my feet and my sprained ankle and my hangover and my laziness that pushed that determination to the wayside again.

And then January 2007. Why not? This year? And so I ran. Looked at training schedules and plugged my ipod in. Ran along the seawall, at night, in pouring rain and hail.
And then I fell, losing my edge snowboarding and bruising my tailbone on an icy slope and somehow I couldn't seem to get myself back out there. I lost focus, again.
Yet this time something had happened, had shifted. The day I hear that what may be the cause is a tumour, I walk home slowly, without thought. Sit down and for the first time in a number of week pull on my running shoes and run. I run as long as I can, breathing slowly. Nobody lets me give up on myself this time, despite my grumbles and complaints. Friends come and run beside me, at my pace. Amelia takes me to the Endowment Lands and keeps me on track. I, on the other hand, carry on with my hangovers. A date with the Rockstar, or Tall Dave or a night out with friends give me an excuse, prove my undoing. No one gives up on me, no matter how hard I try, lending support and encouragement and still we run, through forests and trails, past other runners, in cold and rain and sunsets and somehow I get a small sense of what peace may feel like.

I quit my job, start a new one and the second week in I am ill with a cold, struggling to get through each day. For the first time in years, I am in bed early, exhausted mentally and physically. There is a week to go until the big run, and I am ready to give up. Yet I feel like I have let myself down. Again. And this time I actually feel ashamed, that I had the opportunity to do it and lost focus. That for the last 2 weeks I had been looking for any excuse to get out of this.

And then suddenly, it is Sunday morning and we are stood in a crowd of people. Shuffling slowly, some of us eager to get to that Start line. Me, perhaps not so eager.

The first mile goes by quickly, turning the corner towards Lost Lagoon the air smells of fresh blossoms. And so we run, slowly. Cheering every km passed, setting little goals, running a full km and then a short walk. Over the Burrard Street Bridge and past Granville Island. Halfway there, and passing 7k, 8k, the 9k mark at the top of the Cambie Street bridge, I can't yet see the Finish Line but Amelia is beside me telling me we're almost there.
The last k hurts, I feel a blister on my left foot, my ankle throbs and lungs burn.

We cross the line, together, and I almost weep. I am elated and relieved, proud, sore, hot and sweaty.

It may not be the fastest time, or the most graceful of runs. But it's mine. It took 3 years, 84 minutes and 1 second to get me over that line, kicking and screaming against myself. But I did it.

There are going to be a few more challenges over the next few months, that I know. That is life. But I learned some valuable lessons yesterday, cleared my mind and realised that I am my own worst enemy. But that I can be stronger than that, if I want.

And that every determination, however small it seems, can be so much more than what it appears.

Did you know?

Interesting video by Karl Fisch
(via)

Untitled

Having head CT's, sitting in hospital waiting rooms. Injections for contrast material. More jabs for those Hep bedfellows, MMR and tetanus. Leaving an old job and starting a new one. Waiting for results. Joining a gym. Falling for the wrong man. New haircut. Ray Lamontagne. Reading guidebooks and blogs and planning. Tattoos. The Irish Heather. Freedom. New babies. Twitter. Book Mooch. UBC Endowment Lands. Trying to slow down. Wishing, hoping, dreaming.

What have you been up to?

Visual DNA

I have a weakness for personality tests... and I adored this one!

Read my VisualDNA™ Get your own VisualDNA™

Kentish Town adieu, adieu

This time last year, I was packing up all my worldly belongings, dropping off bags of clothing at Oxfam and trying to say my goodbyes to the house on Islip Street and the characters with whom I had lived with for the last year.

Lovely, The Swiss, Tom and Chirac; the double bass that lived in the conservatory for early morning and late night jamming sessions, Chirac perched on the end of the table, housemates' incessant shagging and porn collections, the discovery of the upstairs lodger's 3 week old dead body and subsequent infestation, house parties and fireplay and Tom's parties that went on until all hours, my bedroom with its voyeuristic construction, The Swiss' collection of dusty videos, the conservatory with its attempt at a water feature, the oven that smoked, last call at the Oxford, The Pineapple, bad dates at the Vine, chess and Pimms o'clock on sunny Sunday afternoons, hangovers on the Heath. And throughout it all, music.

Chirac played bass, wrote screenplays his band has since opened for Amy Winehouse and Eryka Badu. Tom went to Camden gigs, his room plastered with music posters, and lent me CDs of bands I needed to hear, drumming his fingers along the tops of the cases. Lovely dragged me dancing at Ghetto and vibrant Soho nightclubs, burnt me discs and serenaded me with old New Order and house. Swiss played double bass, belting out 'Fever' in the mornings, his jazz and a love of 80's music.

Before all that, the Ex was forever bringing in new music. After him, subsequent housemates always had an ear for something new. Each one of them brought something to my music collection, rekindled love affairs with old bands, turned me onto something new. I never did know what I had until it was gone, when suddenly it was I who had to do the seeking.

And now I want new music, I need new music. My mind needs expanding. I am craving funky new beats and soulful melodies. I am craving a brand new soundtrack.

Friends are feeding my habit, Amelia brings me Jazzanova and Hotel coste, has me wanting to experiment with LCD Soundsystem and Broken Social Scene. Another friend Muse. A date with the cool motherfucker left me delirious as bands spilled out of his mouth: The Rapture, Tubeway Army, Analogue Set, AFX Twin, Out Hud.
Murmurings of Bloc Party, Radio Citizen, Slowdive, Chapterhouse, Black Dice.

And so I ask you to help me in this time of transition.
Post comments and suggestions. Sing me lullabies. Invite me to gigs. Throw open your music collections and let me in.

I need more. I want more!

Thank you for listening.

Brain Day

From: The Nurse
Sent: Tuesday, March 27, 2007 9:39 AM
To: Marquise, Lady Miss
Subject: How are you?

Are you doing ok? I think today is brain day, let me know how it goes. Remember to breathe, slowly.
Kisses
N x

PS: Made out like a school kid again, its like that Diet Pepsi commercial

*********************************************

Yes, today is Brain Day.

Brain Day highlights include being injected with some sort of iodine-esque contrast material through an IV, followed by numerous x-ray beams passed through my skull and brain at different angles.

Argh.

And I didn't even get to make out like a school kid last night. I miss that.